SVT - How the Performance Unit would be as your Sneaky Link
Note from author: As a matter of fact, this one has been written in literaly 2 hours, so please bare with me if you lose the plot, because lowkey I did too. 🫶🏻🫶🏻
HipHop Unit / Vocal Unit
Summary: Perfomance Unit as your sneaky link but they end up falling in love
Warnings: None, just my delusions 🤟🏻
1️⃣ Hoshi
“What if someone walks in?” you gasp, your words dissolving into breath as Hoshi’s lips trace a slow, dangerous path down your neck.
The practice room mirror is fogged from the heat of your bodies, fluorescent lights humming above you like they’re judging every reckless decision you’ve ever made. His reflection behind you is all sharp lines and dark eyes and intent.
“It’s going to be fine,” he murmurs, barely pausing as he brushes a strand of hair away from your collarbone, clearing his path like this is the most natural thing in the world.
You let out a shaky laugh. “‘This is not very ‘let’s keep it a secret’ of you.”
You grab his chin, forcing his face back up to your level.
His eyes are darker than usual. Hungrier. There is nothing careful about him right now. This is Hoshi, the one who doesn’t give a single damn if the door swings open and the entire building sees you pinned against the mirror, his hand already sliding beneath the waistband of your pants like he owns the right.
“Don’t try me,” he says, cocky grin tugging at his mouth before he kisses you again, hard, breath-stealing, like he’s daring the universe to interrupt him.
You and Hoshi are the most unlikely equation imaginable.
You: a 9–5 corporate employee with neatly pressed blouses and a calendar color-coded to perfection.
Him: an idol touring the world, living out of suitcases and practice rooms, chaos disguised as charm.
You didn’t fall for him at a fan meeting. You didn’t scream his name in a crowd.
You met because his dog escaped.
Latte bolted across the park one evening, leash dragging behind her like a flag of surrender. You were walking your own dog when she barreled into you, and you caught her on instinct. A man in a cap and mask came running after her, breathless and apologetic.
You had no idea who he was.
He, on the other hand, thought you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen under a flickering streetlamp.
What started as polite bows and shy ‘hellos’ turned into “coincidental” late-night walks. The broken streetlight in the corner of the park became yours. Summer settled over Seoul like a warm secret, and so did he.
Soon the polite distance disappeared.
The first time he kissed you, it was clumsy and rushed, both of you pretending it wasn’t a terrible idea. By the third time, it was desperate. By the fifth, it was habit.
Park benches turned into stolen moments pressed against trees. Your heart would race at every passing car, every distant footstep.
Hoshi was messy when you first met him, disorganized, chaotic, living in a whirlwind. You told yourself you were insane for even entertaining this. One photo from Dispatch and your stable, hard-earned corporate life could crumble. You couldn’t risk your job. Your reputation. Everything you worked for.
And yet.
As months passed, Hoshi slowly became Soonyoung around you.
The idol faded. The performer quieted.
Makeout sessions in the park evolved into late nights tangled in your sheets. Early mornings where he’d still be there, hair a mess, wearing one of your oversized t-shirts, feeding Latte from your kitchen like he belonged.
Studio visits when he was alone became routine. Not because he needed to see you.
Because he couldn’t stand not to.
Latte stopped being the excuse.
Now he looked for reasons not to leave.
You never defined it. Never sat down and gave it a name.
From the start, there was an unspoken understanding, this wouldn’t turn into a full relationship. He was on the brink of military enlistment. You were considering a transfer to Busan for work. There was a clock ticking over both your heads, loud and unavoidable.
A deadline.
Maybe that’s why everything started to blur.
Because when you know something will end, you hold it tighter.
Soonyoung was a gentleman in ways that hurt.
He never let you pay for dinner. Never let you walk home alone. Never allowed you to take random taxis after meeting him in suspicious corners of the city. He texted good morning. He called to say good night. He never made you question if there was someone else.
And yet neither of you dared to say what you were.
Sunday evening. Your bedroom bathed in golden light.
You’re tangled together under the covers, his fingers lazily combing through your hair, your head resting on his chest. Latte snores softly at the foot of the bed, as your dog was sprawled over the bedroom carpet.
“In a perfect world,” he says quietly, almost like he’s speaking to himself, “I would marry you, you know?”
Your entire body stills.
“What?” You lift your head, blinking up at him, suddenly wide awake. “Wow. Where is this coming from?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
He just looks at you.
Really looks at you.
Like he’s trying to memorize every detail, your lashes, the curve of your lips, the way your brows pinch when you’re confused. His gaze burns slow and deep, like he’s carving the moment into his memory for later. For when he won’t be here.
For when you won’t be his.
Then he leans down and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.
Because for the first time, the deadline doesn’t feel theoretical anymore.
It feels real.
And the worst part?
In a perfect world.
You would’ve said yes.
2️⃣ Jun
“Do you walk out first, or do I have to?”
You lean closer to the hallway mirror, carefully smudging your lip liner like the world outside that door isn’t loud, flashing, and dangerously curious. The bass from the stage vibrates faintly through the walls. Staff rush past. Stylists whisper. Managers pace.
And Jun is just standing there.
Leaning against the white wall like he owns it. Arms crossed. The fabric of his obscenely expensive suit stretching perfectly over his biceps. Calm. Unbothered. Watching you like you’re the only performance he cares about tonight.
“What?” you ask, catching his stare in the mirror. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Come here.”
He pushes off the wall without waiting for an answer. One second he’s across the hall, the next his hand is sliding around the small of your back, warm and firm, pulling you into the quiet space between him and the wall.
“Jun,” you hiss under your breath, panic flickering in your chest. “We are literally backstage at a very public show.”
“One kiss,” he says, already leaning down, already closing the distance. “And I’ll leave.”
He says it like it’s a compromise. Like he’s being generous.
You roll your eyes, but you comply. You always do.
The kiss is quick, but it’s not light. It never is with him. It lingers just long enough to make your heart trip over itself. Just long enough to remind you why this is such a bad idea.
You’re the first to pull away.
And you don’t look back when you walk down the hallway.
Dating as an idol is hard.
Dating another idol? Worse.
Having a sneaky link with another idol? That’s the final level before self-destruction.
You met Jun six months ago, right after your very public, very dissected breakup. Dispatch photos. Headlines. Think pieces. Fans picking sides. It had been exhausting.
And Jun had simply… been there.
Right place. Right time.
A joint brand endorsement in China. Same flight. Same schedule. Hotel rooms on the same floor. Midnight room service. One bottle of wine that turned into two.
You remember laughing too loudly in your hotel room, mascara slightly smudged from crying earlier that night over your ex. Jun sitting at the edge of the bed, tie loosened, watching you like you were something fragile he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re fine,” he had said softly.
You didn’t.
And somewhere between vulnerability and vodka, things got closer than either of you planned.
In the first few weeks, you told yourself it was just a rebound. You were hurt. He was convenient. It was physical. Easy.
You didn’t even feel guilty.
But a few weeks became a few months.
And somewhere along the way, you realized you weren’t the only one getting needy in this situationship.
The dangerous part about Jun is how good he is at pretending.
Nobody suspects him. He plays the quiet, gentle, slightly aloof card so well that sometimes even you start questioning yourself.
Because this is a man who can have you pinned against his dining room table at noon, whispering your name like it belongs to him… and then at 8 p.m., he’s at an afterparty making polite cheek-heart poses with the CEO of Maison Margiela, looking every bit like the composed, unattainable idol the public thinks he is.
It gives you whiplash.
Working in the same circles makes everything worse.
Award shows. Fashion events. Brand dinners.
You’ve mastered the art of not looking at him. Of keeping your distance. Of laughing politely when someone else stands a little too close to him.
But it gets complicated when your ex is in the same room.
And it’s worse for Jun.
Because how is a man supposed to act when he can’t show you’re his…and technically, you’re not?
Having Jun as your sneaky link also means unexpected chaos.
Like the random Saturday afternoon you decide to drop by his apartment.
He’d given you a spare key weeks ago, casually, like it meant nothing.
“For convenience,” he’d said.
You don’t text. You don’t call. You just let yourself in, humming softly, expecting an empty apartment and maybe Jun half-asleep on the couch.
Instead. You freeze.
His younger brother and his mother are sitting comfortably on the couch, tea cups in hand.
They both look at you.
You look at them.
And then your eyes slowly drift to the dining table.
Where Jun is sitting.
Shirtless.
Casually eating like this isn’t the most insane timing in human history.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he says smoothly, like you didn’t just walk into a family gathering. Like this is normal. Like you belong here.
He pulls out the chair next to him, patting it.
You can feel your soul leaving your body.
“Hey… hello,” you stammer, bowing awkwardly, nearly tripping over your own feet as you rush toward him. “Oh my God, I am so sorry. I should have called before coming.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says mid-chew, completely unfazed.
Completely.
Unfazed.
He reaches out, lightly patting your hair like you’re a nervous kitten, then pulls your chair closer to him so he can drape his arm casually over the back.
Casually.
As if his family isn’t watching this unfold in 4K.
As if he didn’t swear up and down that this was just “fun” and “nothing serious.”
His mother’s eyes flick between you and him.
His brother looks entertained.
And Jun?
Jun looks… satisfied.
Like he enjoys that you’re here. In his space. At his table.
Like maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t hate the idea of you fitting into his life a little too well.
And that’s the scariest part of all. Because sneaky links aren’t supposed to have spare keys.
They’re not supposed to meet the parents.
They’re not supposed to feel this dangerously close to becoming real.
3️⃣ Minghao
“Are you sure?”
Minghao’s hand pauses against your cheek, thumb brushing softly along your skin, while his other arm remains steady around your waist. You’re straddling his lap on the worn leather sofa in the studio, the faint smell of coffee and equipment dust hanging in the air. The dim lamp in the corner throws shadows across his face, sharpening the quiet worry in his eyes.
You roll yours.
“I swear, Minghao,” you mutter, leaning closer, “you have the worst fucking timing.”
And before he can spiral into another careful, overthought sentence, you press your lips to his.
That’s always been the difference between you.
Minghao hesitates. Calculates. Weighs the pros and cons like he’s mixing a track, adjusting levels, making sure nothing tips too far in one direction.
You?
You leap first and deal with the consequences later.
You’ve known him for three years, three long, creatively exhausting, late-night-filled years as his co-producer. Three years of sitting side by side in this same studio, your knees brushing under the desk. Three years of watching him push his hair back while he concentrates. Three years of pretending you didn’t notice how good he looked when he got passionate about a melody.
You had a crush on him almost immediately.
He was exactly your type, quiet but sharp, artistic, observant. The kind of man who didn’t need to be loud to command a room. And spending an ungodly amount of hours together? That didn’t help. Not when you’d share takeout at 2 a.m. Not when he’d lean over you to adjust something on your screen, his voice low in your ear.
From Minghao’s side, though, it was always friendly. Professional. Safe.
He was used to admiration. Used to subtle crushes orbiting around him. He never crossed that line. Never blurred it.
Until you did.
It started as teasing. A joke pushed too far. You leaning a little too close. Him looking at you a second too long. And one night, after too much wine and too much honesty, you cornered him with a question he couldn’t sidestep.
“Do you even find me attractive?”
He tried to dodge it. You didn’t let him.
And when he finally admitted, quietly, reluctantly, that yes, he did… something shifted.
Having Minghao as your sneaky link felt like discovering a secret room inside a house you thought you knew by heart.
Because the moment he had you beneath him, breathless, flushed, your fingers tangled in his shirt as you whispered his name like it meant something sacred, he changed.
The cautious, composed, gentlemanly Minghao dissolved.
In his place stood someone controlled in a different way. Confident. Intent. The kind of man who knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how it affected you.
He was still gentle.
But now there was edge.
He’d call you in the middle of the night without warning.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” His voice would be calm. Stern. No room for debate.
You’d squint at your phone, half-asleep. “I don’t remember asking you to come over.”
A pause.
“I can turn this car around right now, Y/n.”
He never raised his voice. He didn’t need to. The silence that followed did all the work for him.
“No, wait,” you’d say too quickly.
A faint exhale. Almost a smirk you could hear through the line.
“That’s what I thought.”
Click.
And you’d be wide awake after that.
Being his secret felt thrilling. Dangerous in a quiet way. Like you were both pretending this was simple when it clearly wasn’t.
Because sneaky links don’t send random flight tickets.
You woke up one morning to a confirmation email sitting innocently in your inbox.
Destination: Japan.
Departure: Tomorrow.
You stormed into the VIP lounge of the airport holding your phone up. “Why do I have to fly with you to Japan?”
Minghao, already dressed in an oversized hoodie and sunglasses like he was trying not to be recognized, barely looked up.
“Two weeks away is two weeks too long,” he replied simply, taking your hand and guiding you toward the boarding line as if this was the most logical thing in the world.
You blinked at him. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is to me.”
That was the problem.
The catch of not “catching feelings” for Minghao was that he never let you know where you stood.
He wasn’t reckless with words. He never promised anything. Never labeled it. Never said this was more.
But he also never let you drift too far.
He’d pull you close in crowded airports.
Text you to eat when you forgot.
Show up unannounced.
Stay longer than he had to.
And every time you thought you had him figured out, he’d tilt his head, look at you with that unreadable softness, and make you question everything.
He was cautious.
Except when it came to you.
4️⃣ Dino
“You sure we’re good?”
Chan’s voice cuts softly through the dim room as he pulls his pants up from the edge of your bed. The mattress dips where he sits. You’re curled into yourself beneath the comforter, knees tucked to your chest, cocooned in warmth while rain lashes violently against your apartment window.
It’s the kind of rain that makes everything feel lonelier.
“Yes,” you mumble, burrowing deeper into the sheets. “We’re very good.”
The words come easily. Too easily.
“Alright. I have to go.” He says it again, like he’s waiting for you to stop him. He reaches over to your nightstand, grabbing his phone, his watch, sliding it back onto his wrist with practiced efficiency. “My flight’s in like two hours.”
You stare at the ceiling.
“Where are you going now?” you ask, forcing a thin layer of interest into your voice. The question feels painfully cliché, like something strangers ask at airports.
“Chicago.” He shrugs into his jacket, the fabric stretching over his shoulders. “I’ll be back in like a week.”
“I didn’t ask,” you reply, offering him a cold, sarcastic smile from under the blanket.
He huffs a quiet laugh.
Chan, Dino to the world, but never to you, leans over the bed. His jacket pulls tight around his arms as he bends down, one hand bracing against the mattress. He stretches just far enough for his lips to brush yours in a quick, fleeting peck.
“Then don’t you dare text me asking when I’ll be back,” he murmurs.
And just like that, he’s gone.
The bedroom door clicks shut.
Silence swallows the space he leaves behind.
You and Chan have always been complicated.
Childhood friends from his dad’s dance studio. Two kids with scraped knees and big dreams, copying choreography in mirrored rooms that smelled like sweat and ambition. You grew up side by side, watching each other stumble and shine.
Years later, fate dragged you back into each other’s orbit in Seoul, rookies in the same brutal industry. You, a dancer fighting for your name in the credits. Him, an idol with a stage name and flashing lights.
Somewhere between rehearsals and late-night convenience store runs, the line blurred.
No one understands you the way someone does who survived the same childhood. The same pressure. The same loneliness.
And that’s how this… thing started.
Ten months of back and forth.
Ten months of pretending.
You both swear you don’t want a relationship. You both play it cool. You both insist it’s just physical.
And yet, every time the other walks out the door, it feels like something is being ripped out of your chest.
For Chan, it was strange at first.
He’s had relationships. Real ones. Defined ones. But he’s never done this, never had a sneaky link, never had someone who was everything and nothing at the same time.
He couldn’t kiss you in the practice room when the members were around.
He couldn’t take you to dinner with his parents.
He couldn’t leave a toothbrush at your place without it feeling like crossing a line neither of you agreed to draw.
Those things weren’t “allowed.”
But knowing every inch of your bare skin?
Memorizing the curve of your waist in the dark?
That was somehow fine.
He has seen you in ways no one else ever has. Versions of you even you haven’t met in the mirror.
And still, he has to pretend you’re just… casual.
The truth is, Chan is sentimental. Always has been.
There’s only so far he can go before it starts to hurt.
You’ve lost count of the arguments.
The times he snapped because you didn’t text him for three days, you said you needed space, but he heard you needed distance from him.
The nights you woke up to him at your door because jealousy ate through him after seeing you laugh too freely with another dancer.
You’re both terrible at being “just physical.”
Because beneath the sarcasm and the pride, you crave the same thing, that quiet, steady emotional safety you could easily give each other.
But saying it out loud would change everything.
And what if changing everything ruins it?
So now you lie alone in bed, rain still pounding against the glass, scrolling through old messages. You replay his voice notes over and over, listening to the way he says your name when he thinks you’re asleep on the other end of the call.
On the other side of the world, or at least on his way there, Chan sits in his first-class seat, pretending to scroll mindlessly. In reality, he’s flipping through the thousands of photos and blurry late-night videos of the two of you.
Your laugh frozen in pixels.
Your hand gripping his sleeve.
Your face pressed into his shoulder.
He pauses on one where you’re not looking at the camera, just at him.
He zooms in.
You’re smiling like he’s home.
The plane begins to taxi down the runway.
In your apartment, you type his name into your messages.
You don’t hit send.
At thirty thousand feet, his thumb hovers over your chat too.
Neither of you text.
Because you’re “very good,” right?
Very good at pretending you don’t miss each other the second the door closes.
SVT - How the Vocal Unit would be as your Sneaky Link
Note from author: You guys, I literally wrote this in the span of 3 weeks because winter scaries + corporate burnout + middles 20's anxiety was getting the best out of me. But ENJOY MY LOVELY MINIONS 🫶🏻🫶🏻
Performance Unit / HipHop Unit
Summary: Vocal Unit as your sneaky link but they end up falling in love
Warnings: None, just my delusions 🤟🏻
1️⃣ Jeonghan
You genuinely thought it would be brushed off.
A harmless confession, nothing more.
You’d been sweeping glitter off the salon floor when you casually told Subin, your boss, your friend, and unfortunately his sister, that you might have a tiny crush on her brother. A joke, really. A passing comment. The kind of thing younger sisters rolled their eyes at.
You did not expect it to reach him.
And you definitely did not expect that the next time Jeonghan stopped by the salon, he would lean against the reception desk like he owned the place and look at you as if he suddenly knew every thought you’d ever had about him.
“So,” he said, watching you paint a client’s nails, voice smooth and infuriatingly calm. “I heard you like me.”
You nearly smeared polish all over the poor woman’s fingers.
After that, he started coming by more often. On no real errands. Just “to say hi.” Just to “check on his sister.”
But his eyes were always on you.
It took two weeks.
Two weeks of lingering touches when he handed you coffee. Two weeks of him standing just a little too close in the narrow hallway. Two weeks of teasing smiles and knowing glances.
And then one night, long after closing, when you were supposed to be locking up the back room, the tension finally snapped.
The lights were dim. The air smelled faintly of acetone and vanilla lotion. His hands were on your waist before you even realized you’d stopped arguing.
“You’re really bad at pretending you don’t want me,” he murmured.
“You’re worse at pretending you don’t know,” you shot back.
That was the end of it.
Or the beginning.
Jeonghan was a tease in every sense of the word. He knew you had a crush on him, and he wore that knowledge like a crown. He would lean in close just to watch you lose your train of thought. He would compliment you only to take it back with a smirk.
He liked seeing you flustered.
He liked even more knowing he could.
“Are you sure you won’t cry over me if I suddenly disappear tomorrow?” he asked one night, sprawled shamelessly across your pink bedsheets, confidence dripping from every syllable.
You sat at your vanity, trying to untangle the absolute disaster he’d made of your hair.
“I think I’d survive,” you replied lightly, not giving him the satisfaction of turning around.
He had warned you from the start.
“I’m not looking to fall in love,” he’d said. “And this is already messy. You work for my sister.”
It was wrong. It was complicated. It was temporary.
At least that’s what he told himself.
But there was something about you that got under his skin.
Maybe it was the way your eyes darkened in candlelight.
Maybe it was the soft vanilla scent that clung to your sweaters.
Maybe it was how your hands were always warm when they slid into his.
He couldn’t pinpoint it.
He only knew that he was hooked.
And instead of admitting it, he turned it into a game.
Jeonghan thrived on competition, especially the silent kind. The kind where no one said the rules out loud, but both players understood them perfectly.
Whoever cared less, won.
So he ignored your texts when you sounded too sweet.
Cancelled plans last minute just to remind you he could.
FaceTimed his sister from loud dinners or parties when he knew you were working, making sure you overheard laughter, female laughter.
Dropped by your place just to leave an hour later with a casual, “I’ve got dinner with someone.”
It was a chess match.
A race to the finish line of indifference.
And for a while, it was almost fun.
Until you started playing the game better than he did.
The first time you cancelled on him, he felt it.
A strange, sharp drop in his chest. He’d actually been looking forward to seeing you that night. He had cleaned his apartment, actually cleaned it. Opened windows. Changed the sheets.
He stared at his phone longer than he should have after your “Sorry, something came up.”
The first time you came over for only thirty minutes, just enough to kiss him senseless and leave him breathless, and then grabbed your bag with a casual, “I can’t stay tonight,” he caught himself saying, “You could just sleep over.”
The words shocked him.
You raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you care?”
He didn’t have an answer.
That night, after you left, he lay awake staring at the ceiling, reevaluating every principle he’d ever proudly declared.
Then he started texting you in the mornings.
“Did you get home safe?”
“What are you doing today?”
“Want to grab dinner later?”
Small things.
Dangerous things.
From your side, you didn’t think much of it. You were used to his inconsistency. In your head, this was just another phase. In two weeks, he would get bored again. Pull away again. Make you feel silly again.
So you kept your distance. Stayed balanced. Refused to tip the scale.
But from his perspective?
He was slipping.
Suddenly, he didn’t want to win anymore.
He didn’t want to be the one who left first.
He didn’t want you walking home alone after closing the salon late at night.
He didn’t want you disappearing into the dark with a shrug and a “See you.”
He didn’t want to imagine you deciding one day that he wasn’t it for you.
The thought of that, of you choosing someone steadier, kinder, less afraid, made his chest tighten in a way he couldn’t tease away.
For the first time, Jeonghan didn’t want to be the one holding all the power.
He wanted to be the one you stayed for.
And that realization?
That terrified him more than losing ever did.
2️⃣ Joshua
Joshua was both the best and the worst decision you ever made, the kind that feels right in the moment and dangerous in hindsight.
One second you’re arguing over something ridiculous, whether his favourite indie song is actually good or just emotionally manipulative, and the next, your bra is sailing dramatically across the room like it, too, has given up pretending this is casual.
“Am I moving too fast?” Joshua murmurs, lips trailing from your neck downward, unhurried, deliberate, like he has all the time in the world.
You laugh softly, fingers tangling in his hair. “If anything, you’re too slow.”
That earns you that lazy, devastating smirk. The one that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Having Joshua as a sneaky link was a contradiction from the start.
You were the one who laid down the rules. Clear. Firm. Unshakable.
No relationship.
No public drama.
No falling in love.
You knew what his career came with, cameras, rumours, fans who dissected every glance. You had your own life, your own ambitions, and your own schedule that barely left room to breathe. You didn’t want the responsibility of carrying someone else’s heart. And you definitely didn’t want yours handled carelessly in return.
He agreed.
Too easily, in hindsight.
Because what he didn’t communicate were his own terms.
Joshua never did anything halfway.
He never once texted you at 2 a.m. asking you to sneak over. Not once. If anything, it was the opposite. If you ever sent a reckless, “You up?” in the middle of the night, he’d respond within minutes.
‘On my way.’
He’d show up freshly showered, hair still slightly damp from washing off practice, dressed comfortably but put-together, as if even your couch deserved his best version.
He never hovered.
Never ghosted.
Never made you question where you stood.
He existed in that dangerous, perfect middle ground, attentive without suffocating, warm without demanding.
And he kept reminding himself: this is not a relationship.
So he swallowed the way his chest tightened when you laughed at someone else’s joke.
Ignored how peaceful he felt falling asleep next to you.
Told himself it was just physical. Just convenient.
But by month three, “just convenient” started looking suspiciously like dating.
He began suggesting dinner outside instead of takeout in your apartment. Quiet places. Low lighting. Corners where he could sit beside you instead of across from you. He always reached for the bill before you could argue. Always opened the door. Always placed his hand at the small of your back when guiding you through a crowd.
And afterward, after heated, breathless makeout sessions in his blacked-out car, he always drove you home. Walked you to your door. Waited until you were safely inside before pulling away.
Still not a relationship.
By month five, the lines blurred so badly you stopped pretending you could see them.
He had a side of your closet now.
Not officially. It just… happened.
A hoodie here.
A spare pair of sweatpants there.
Then suddenly half his perfume collection was arranged neatly on your vanity like it belonged there. His gym clothes mysteriously populated your laundry basket.
You didn’t ask him to remove them.
He didn’t ask if he could leave them.
And then one day there was a cake on your kitchen counter.
“What’s this for?” you asked, staring at the neat frosting.
“180 days,” he said casually, as if commemorating half a year of knowing someone was completely normal for two people who weren’t dating.
Flowers started appearing for every small win at work. A successful presentation. A difficult client handled well. A promotion rumour.
Still not a relationship.
But when you went out with his friends and random girls leaned a little too close to him, laughed a little too loudly, something sharp twisted in your stomach. You smiled through it. You had no right to feel territorial.
Almost every time, Joshua’s hand would quietly find yours under the table. Fingers lacing. Thumb brushing slow circles against your skin.
Not claiming.
Just reminding.
And when men approached you in public, when someone let their gaze linger too long or leaned in to ask for your number, Joshua would go quiet. Not angry. Not dramatic.
Just silent.
His easy smile would disappear in seconds. His jaw would tighten. His posture would shift subtly closer to you.
He never said a word.
But he didn’t have to.
It took both of you longer than it should have to admit the obvious, you were falling in love in secrecy. Carefully. Quietly. At the exact same pace.
No grand confession.
No dramatic argument.
Just a slow, undeniable realization.
Maybe it was that morning.
You were standing in your bathroom, applying mascara, hair clipped back, humming absentmindedly. The apartment smelled faintly like his cologne and your coffee.
Joshua walked in behind you, holding a warm mug.
“Careful,” he murmured softly, pressing it into your hand before you could smudge your makeup.
Then he leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to your bare shoulder.
Not rushed.
Not heated.
Not playful.
Tender.
Your eyes met his in the mirror.
And in that quiet reflection, in the domestic softness of it all, something shifted.
This wasn’t sneaking anymore.
This wasn’t temporary.
This wasn’t casual.
The feelings had been there from the beginning, woven into every door he opened, every 2 a.m. drive, every flower, every lingering touch under the table.
You were never just a sneaky link.
And Joshua, despite agreeing to your rules so easily, had been loving you wholeheartedly the entire time.
The worst decision.
The best one.
And somehow, finally, the only one that made sense.
3️⃣ Seungkwan
“But what if you fall in love with me and then I’m stuck with a loser stalker?”
Seungkwan says it with dramatic horror, one hand loosely draped over the steering wheel as he merges onto the highway, the city lights stretching into golden lines ahead of you.
“You are such a loser,” you shoot back, a smile breaking across your face before you can stop it. A small, traitorous snort escapes you as you sink deeper into the passenger seat.
That earns you a laugh, bright, full, unmistakably him.
This was your routine. Four nights a week, sometimes five. After his late-night rehearsals and your closing shifts at the retail store, he’d pull up outside your job like clockwork. You’d slide into the passenger seat, exhausted and smelling faintly of perfume samples and cardboard boxes, and he’d drive you home, except “home” had slowly started meaning his place.
It all began in the most embarrassingly cliché way possible. Of course it did. Of course it was Seungkwan.
One late summer night, he was biking through the park on his electric bike, music blasting in his ears, completely in his own world, dramatic, probably lip-syncing like he was on stage. He didn’t see you stepping off the path.
You didn’t see him either.
The collision was chaotic. A flash of headlights. A yelp. The sound of metal skidding against pavement.
You walked away with a bruised knee.
He walked away with your phone number and, apparently, no intention of ever letting you forget he “almost killed you.”
“I could’ve been sued,” he likes to remind you.
“You could’ve watched where you were going,” you always counter.
What you don’t remember is exactly how you got from that night to this, to waking up in his bed four days out of the week, his sheets smelling like fabric softener and something distinctly him.
Somewhere between apologies and iced coffees.
Between “let me make it up to you” and “this doesn’t mean anything.”
“Do you want coffee, pretty girl?” he asks one morning, padding through the kitchen at 7 a.m., voice still rough with sleep. He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head as he passes.
You’re leaning over the cold kitchen island, half-awake, hair a mess. “No, it’s fine. I always grab coffee with my coworkers before my shift,” you mumble.
He hums in response, but there’s something in the way his hand lingers at your waist before he moves away.
The strange thing is, there were never any official rules.
Your friends always warned you about this. Friends with benefits comes with structure, they said. Boundaries. Clear lines. Strict conditions.
No sleepovers.
No daily check-ins.
No morning kisses.
You and Seungkwan seemed to treat that rulebook like it was optional, like an Olympic hurdle you both casually stepped over without even noticing.
It felt natural to text him midday.
‘Did you eat?’
‘Your rehearsal go okay?’
‘Don’t forget your umbrella, it’s supposed to rain.’
Small things. Innocent things.
But there was one rule.
One very specific, very deliberate boundary.
You were never allowed to say “I miss you.”
That was the line. The one both of you agreed would not be crossed.
Because missing someone meant needing them.
And needing someone meant feelings.
And feelings meant things could break.
You’ve held onto that rule surprisingly well. You’ve always been better at swallowing words than he has. Most of the time, you’re on the receiving end of his affection, his teasing, his playful complaints when you don’t stay the night, the way he pouts when you cancel plans.
He acts like it doesn’t mean anything.
And so do you.
But sometimes, late at night when you’re both lying on your sides facing each other, knees brushing under the blankets, there’s a shift in him.
He’ll reach up and tuck your hair behind your ear.
“You’re staring,” you whisper.
“So?” he whispers back.
There are moments where the words almost slip. You can see it in his throat, the swallow, the hesitation. Like he’s standing at the edge of something and deciding whether to jump.
And then he ruins it.
“Don’t get attached,” he says lightly, like it’s a joke. Like he didn’t just look at you as if you were the only thing in the room.
You roll your eyes, shove his shoulder.
“You’re the one picking me up four times a week.”
“That’s charity,” he scoffs. “I’m a generous person.”
But neither of you mention the way he memorizes your coffee order anyway.
Or how he keeps your favorite snacks stocked in his pantry.
Or how he leaves space in his closet that you’ve slowly started filling.
The rule still stands.
No “I miss you.”
Yet sometimes, when you step out of his car and he watches you walk toward your apartment building, he doesn’t drive away immediately.
And sometimes, when your phone lights up ten minutes later with a simple:
‘Text me when you’re inside.’
It feels suspiciously close to the words you’re both too stubborn, or too scared, to say.
4️⃣ DK
“You know,” Dokyeom murmured softly, his voice low and uncharacteristically serious, “I really don’t think this is going to work.”
His head was resting on your bare chest, ear pressed just over your heart like he was trying to memorize its rhythm. Your fingers were lazily combing through his hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp. The room was quiet, warm, heavy with the aftermath of tangled sheets and tangled limbs.
“Hm?” You blinked, pulled out of your thoughts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He lifted his head slowly, chin resting on your sternum so he could look at you properly. There was no teasing glint in his eyes this time. No playful exaggeration.
“I don’t think this ‘friends with benefits’ thing is going to work for me,” he repeated. “I’m getting freaking butterflies just from cuddling you.”
A lazy smile tugged at his lips, but it didn’t quite hide the truth underneath.
“You’re such a liar,” you scoffed lightly, flicking his forehead. “Drama king.”
You took it as a joke. You always did.
But Dokyeom wasn’t lying.
He was many things, loud, affectionate, occasionally ridiculous, but casual? He had never been that. Not once in his life.
You had known each other for a long time. Working in the internal office at HYBE meant you were constantly around artists and staff alike, always moving between departments, projects, schedules. You blended in easily, professional, calm, composed.
But to him, you never blended in.
He noticed you in the quiet moments. The way you chewed the end of your pen when you were focused. The way you nodded along in meetings even when you disagreed. The way you laughed harder with staff than you ever did around the idols.
He noticed how tired you looked during comeback season. How you always skipped dessert at company dinners. How you pushed your hair behind your ear when you were nervous.
He noticed everything.
So when he finally gathered the courage at the Christmas party, when the lights were warm and the champagne made him braver than usual, and approached you with that slightly awkward grin, it wasn’t impulsive.
It was long overdue.
And the rest of that night disappeared into his sheets.
You didn’t believe him when he said he was getting emotionally involved.
In your head, this was just something he probably said to any girl he grew close to. He was charming. Warm. Easy to fall for. Surely you weren’t special.
But for him, it wasn’t like that at all.
He had lost count of how many times he caught himself staring at you during lunch breaks, watching you animatedly explain some work crisis to a table full of staff and members, hands moving as you talked. He would sit there smiling at nothing, barely hearing the conversation, fighting the urge to reach across the table, cup your face, and kiss you right in front of everyone.
He wanted to. God, he wanted to.
He lost count of how many times he stood outside your office door when he was overwhelmed, after a rough recording session, after a disagreement, after one of those days when the pressure felt suffocating. His fist would hover inches from the door because he knew that if he walked in, if he saw you, he’d crumble. He’d sit on your couch and let you run your fingers through his hair and pretend it was just stress relief.
He lost count of how many times he swallowed his jealousy whole.
The male coworker who supposedly had a crush on you.
The teasing comments in the hallway.
The “Are you two dating?” jokes thrown carelessly into the air.
He would laugh along. Smile bright. Clap the guy on the back like it didn’t feel like someone was tightening a fist around his lungs.
Above everything else, he respected you.
That was the problem.
His feelings were loud, messy, and desperate to spill out, but his logic, his manners, his understanding of boundaries kept them contained.
So he never pushed.
He always left after a heated makeout session in your bed, even when every part of him wanted to stay and fall asleep tangled up with you.
He never asked to stay over unless you invited him first.
He never complained when you ghosted him for a day, even though he’d pass you in the company hallway hours later and pretend that his chest didn’t ache at how normal you acted.
He never kept tabs on you.
Never demanded explanations.
Never asked what he was to you.
He just took whatever you gave him and convinced himself it was enough.
But it wasn’t.
Because when he said he got butterflies from cuddling you, he meant it.
It wasn’t just the physical closeness. It was the way your fingers absentmindedly traced shapes on his shoulder. The way you sighed when you relaxed fully against him. The way you trusted him enough to close your eyes.
He didn’t want to be the guy you texted at midnight when you were bored.
He wanted to be the guy you called first when something good happened.
The one you sat next to at company dinners without hesitation.
The one who didn’t have to pretend.
Lying there on your chest, listening to your heartbeat, he realized something terrifying.
He wasn’t afraid of ruining the “friends with benefits” arrangement.
He was afraid of losing you entirely.
And for someone who had always been so bright, so expressive, so unafraid to love loudly…
The quiet way he was loving you now was slowly tearing him apart.
5️⃣ Woozi
“Do you want a ride home?”
Jihoon’s voice is casual, almost offhand, as he drags his hoodie over his head. The fabric lifts just enough for you to get one last, very distracting look at his toned stomach before it disappears under black cotton. It should be illegal, honestly, the way he pretends not to know what he’s doing.
“I’m fine,” you reply, half-distracted, patting down the studio couch cushions. “I’ll take a taxi.”
Your underwear has apparently decided to enter the witness protection program somewhere between the leather creases.
“Y/n.”
The tone shift makes you pause. He doesn’t say your name like that often, firm, steady, almost protective. You glance up.
He’s watching you now, hoodie on, hands on his hips. Serious.
“I know we said we don’t do lovey-dovey couple shit,” he says, pushing his hair back with a sigh. “But it’s 2 a.m., and I’d prefer you not getting into random cars at that time.”
He reaches for his keys on the desk, swinging them once in the air like punctuation.
And there it is. Not romance. Not attachment.
Just… care.
“Uuuu,” you tease, straightening up slowly. “Look at you, Jihoon. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you care about me.”
You close the space between you before he can roll his eyes. Your fingers curl lightly into his hoodie and you press a quick kiss to his lips, soft, fleeting, dangerous in its sweetness.
You don’t see it.
The way his mouth curves into the smallest smile after you turn away. The way it lingers. The way it stays with him long after he drops you home and drives back alone.
Jihoon is a busy man. A composer. A perfectionist. He built his life like he builds his music, meticulous, intentional, controlled.
He prides himself on his independence.
Long gym sessions where the only sound is his breathing and the weight plates clanking.
Weekends visiting his parents by the countryside or the sea, where the air is quiet and expectations are lower.
Random hobbies he picks up at 3 a.m., suddenly learning pottery, suddenly obsessing over vintage cameras, suddenly deciding he needs to master a new instrument by sunrise.
TV shows he binges alone because he “never has time” but somehow always makes it.
He thought he had it figured out.
Work. Discipline. Solitude.
Why complicate that?
And then there was Jeju.
A rare night at a resort hotel bar. You, already flushed from laughter and liquor. Him, in an unusually happy, loose mood, two bottles of something dangerously strong between you. The ocean wind sneaking through the terrace doors.
Morals? Gone.
Common sense? Out the window of his hotel room.
It was supposed to stay there. On that island. Sealed in salt air and bad decisions.
But the universe clearly thought that was hilarious.
Because suddenly you were everywhere.
In line at the local pharmacy, him buying bruise cream after an overzealous gym session, you picking up your acne prescription, bumping into each other like it was scripted.
At the corner ramen place, him hunched over a steaming bowl, sleeves rolled up, you walking in to grab takeout for your best friend. The eye contact across the tiny restaurant lasted just a second too long.
Running along the Han River, you on the phone with your mom, excitedly recounting your latest promotion. He sprints past you without noticing… then slows. Stops. Turns.
Jogging back toward you, slightly breathless.
“Are you kidding me?” he mutters, half to himself, like he thinks you’re a mirage.
From the start, he was clear about what he couldn’t offer.
No relationship.
No expectations.
No promises.
And you agreed. You nodded. You swore you wouldn’t push.
Even though you knew you were neck-deep after that first night in Jeju.
What you didn’t know, what you couldn’t have known, was that he was drowning too.
Jihoon lost count of how many times he typed your name into his phone at 3:17 a.m., stared at it, and deleted it.
Not because he needed you physically.
But because he wondered if you were awake.
If you were thinking about him.
If you were staring at your ceiling the same way he was, replaying moments you both pretended meant nothing.
He stayed at your place longer than he needed to. Always just a little longer. Because once you got sleepy, you’d curl into him instinctively, like velcro, like gravity, and he could pretend the cuddling was your idea.
That he wasn’t the one who wanted it.
He told himself he had it under control. It wouldn’t be the first time he buried feelings under work and logic. He was good at compartmentalizing. Excellent at denial.
Except now it’s five months later.
And you’re sitting in his lap at his studio desk.
His left hand rests on your hip, thumb tracing slow circles absentmindedly. His right hand cups your cheek, fingers warm against your skin. The studio lights are dim. The city outside is quiet.
“You know…” he murmurs.
“Hm?” You barely glance up from your phone.
He swallows.
For someone who commands rooms, who produces songs that make thousands feel things they can’t name, this feels terrifying.
“Can I take you on a date?”
The words tumble out awkwardly. Unpolished. Honest.
Your heartbeat stutters.
Because this, this is not a 2 a.m. ride home.
This is not a casual agreement.
This is not Jeju, or ramen, or accidental run-ins.
This is him stepping over the line he drew himself.
And for the first time since this messy, beautiful entanglement began… Jihoon looks nervous.
SVT - How The HipHop Unit would be as your Sneaky Link
Note from author: I SAID THAT I AM UNDECISSIVE AND I MIGHT COME BACK SO PLEASE DO NOT THROW ROCKS AT ME FOR IT. I HAD THIS IN THE PIPELINE AND I WORTE EVERYTHING AT 2 AM ON A THURSDAY NIGHT BECAUSE I SAW A MINGYU EDIT AND IT TRIGGERENT ME. I AM SORRY GUYS, I SWEAR I DO NOT WANT TO PLAY WITH YOUR FEELINGS 🫶🏻😭😭😭
Performance Unit / Vocal Unit
Summary: HipHop Unit as your sneaky link but they end up falling in love
Warnings: None, just my delusions 🤟🏻
1️⃣ S.Coups:
Ah, yes. Those muscles were never just for decoration.
You lost count of the number of times Cheol had tossed you across the mattress in the heat of it all, careless, breathless, grinning like a man who had no idea his own strength. There were nights you nearly collided with the wall, your laugh swallowed by his mouth before you could protest. He would always mutter a half-hearted, “Sorry, sorry,” only to drag you back by the waist like gravity itself answered to him.
It always began the same way.
A meaningless night out. One drink too many. Music too loud. His hand resting a second too long on your lower back.
Then the passenger seat of his car, windows fogging, your pulse hammering in your ears as much as in your throat. His lips at your jaw. His voice low and reckless.
“No feelings, Y/n,” Cheol would murmur between heavy breaths, forehead pressed to yours, as if saying it softly made it less sharp. “I really can’t commit to anything.”
And then his mouth would claim yours again before you could answer properly, before you could ask why his hands held you like you were already something more.
“Mhm,” was all you ever managed, your fingers curling into the fabric stretched over his back, nails digging into muscle through that thin, tight gym t-shirt. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you didn’t care.
That was phase one.
Booty calls at 2 a.m.
Random Ubers.
Blacked-out vans you never remembered ordering.
Sneaking out before sunrise, or sometimes not bothering to leave at all.
“You literally saw me this morning,” you laughed one evening, kicking off your shoes in the hallway of his apartment. The door had barely clicked shut before his eyes were devouring you. “Couldn’t be bothered to put on a shirt?”
He was leaning against the wall, shirtless, toned, hair messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times. He looked unfair. He always did.
“I don’t even know why I bother putting these boxers on,” he muttered, pushing off the wall and catching your wrist. In one motion he pulled you into him, mouth crashing against yours. “You’ll just take them off anyway.”
He was already tugging at the zipper of your jeans before the kiss even broke.
Nothing ever moved slowly in Cheol’s world. He lived in impulses. In heat. In want.
And he would be damned if he admitted how quickly “want” started turning into something dangerously close to “need”.
It showed in the small cracks.
“Why not? It’s Friday. You don’t work tomorrow.” His voice came through the phone, slightly distorted, slightly impatient. You could picture him pacing his living room, hand in his hair. “I can pick you up myself.”
“I can’t,” you sighed, adjusting the strap of your bag while waiting for your train ticket to load. “I told you, I’m going to Busan with friends. The train’s super early.”
Silence.
“What friends?” he asked finally, the words slower now. Tighter. “You never told me.”
“Yes, I did. Like five times.” Your tone sharpened despite yourself.
Another pause. You could almost hear his jaw clench.
“What am I supposed to do without you the whole weekend?”
You laughed, because that’s what you were supposed to do. Keep it light. Keep it casual. “I don’t know. Get a weekend replacement.”
It was a joke.
It was always a joke.
But he didn’t laugh.
And when you came back from Busan, sun-kissed and smiling, he kissed you like he was trying to erase the thought of anyone else even looking at you. Like he needed to remind himself, and maybe you, who you went home to at the end of the night.
It only got worse after that.
The week you were busy with work and couldn’t see him, he pretended not to care. Texts stayed dry. Calls got shorter. But when you finally stayed over again, he didn’t sleep.
You woke up once at 3 a.m. to find him staring at you.
“What?” you mumbled, half-asleep.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, brushing hair out of your face. “Go back to sleep.”
At some point, it became so bad that he invited you over just to cuddle. No rushed hands. No teasing. Just you tucked into his side while some movie played unnoticed on the screen.
He didn’t even try to kiss you.
And that scared you more than anything.
Because Cheol didn’t do slow. He didn’t do soft.
Yet here he was, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm like he was memorizing you.
It crept up on him quietly, the realization that the thought of you with someone else made his stomach twist. That imagining another man’s hands on you felt like losing something that was never officially his.
He told himself to relax.
It was casual.
It was supposed to be nothing.
Until it wasn’t.
Monday afternoon.
He came home earlier than usual, keys tossed into his usual corner, shoes kicked off carelessly. You were still there from the night before, sitting at his kitchen table in one of his hoodies, typing away on your laptop.
Domestic. Comfortable. Too comfortable.
He paused for a second, just watching you.
Then he walked over, leaned down, and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. The kind that lingered.
He sat across from you.
“Did you eat yet, babe?”
The word slipped out so naturally that it didn’t even sound wrong.
But the second it landed in the air, everything froze.
Your fingers stopped moving.
His breath caught.
You looked up slowly.
He looked like he’d just realized he stepped off a cliff.
“Oh shit.”
And for the first time since this whole reckless, breathless, no-strings arrangement began… neither of you laughed.
2️⃣ Wonwoo:
With Wonwoo, comfort always won over long-term investment.
He didn’t believe in building something complicated when something easy was already right there, warm, willing, and wrapped around him.
Which is how you ended up pressed against the foggy bathroom mirror at some stranger’s apartment party, your breath clouding the glass as much as the shower steam still lingering in the air. Your legs were locked around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, and his hands were gripping your hips, no, your ass, like you were the only stable thing in the room.
“Be quiet,” you whispered against his mouth, trying to suppress a laugh and a gasp at the same time. “Someone could hear us.”
“It’s not like you’re making it easy for me to stay quiet,” Wonwoo murmured back, smiling into the kiss before pushing closer, harder, like the risk itself was part of the thrill.
Wonwoo was the safest option for something unsafe.
No strings. No jealousy. No late-night emotional interrogations.
You couldn’t make it tonight?
“Cool. I’ll just hop on the game.”
You weren’t feeling well halfway through?
“That’s fine. I was planning to leave early anyway.”
You needed to blow off steam in the middle of the day?
“Give me twenty minutes.”
Everything was simple. Convenient. Effortless.
The sex was great.
The expectations were zero.
At least, that’s what both of you told yourselves.
Wonwoo never talked much about feelings. He knew that about himself. It wasn’t something he was proud of, just something he accepted. Emotions stayed locked somewhere deep in his chest, only slipping out in the quiet intensity between sheets and tangled limbs. It made it hard to tell when he was upset or just… hungry for you.
But there was one thing Wonwoo did exceptionally well.
He listened.
And when Wonwoo listened, he memorized.
By month four, he had your coffee order down to the exact milk ratio and syrup pump count. He scheduled it to be delivered every Wednesday morning because that was the day you started work extra early and never had time to stop at your usual cafe.
He knew that every odd week, Thursday nights were reserved for sauna and spa time with your sister. He never texted you then.
He knew you loved late-night walks when your brain wouldn’t shut up, so he would always “randomly” crave something from the convenience store at 2 a.m., dragging you outside in mismatched pajamas, messy bed hair, and t-shirts that smelled unmistakably like each other.
He paid attention.
More than someone who “didn’t care” ever should.
“You know, Won,” you muttered one morning, phone wedged between your ear and shoulder as you fumbled through your bag for your house keys. “It’s the first Wednesday in, like, three months that I didn’t get your coffee delivery.”
He let out a muffled laugh on the other end.
“That’s not true.”
You paused mid-rummage. “Huh?”
There was a brief silence. Then.
“You’re being really loud with that key bowl.”
You froze.
“Is it that loud you can hear it through the phone?” you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips.
“So loud,” he replied evenly, “that I can hear it through the door.”
Your brain short-circuited.
You shoved the door open, and there he was.
Standing in your hallway like he belonged there. Holding your coffee in one hand and a small pink-and-white birthday cake in the other.
“Special delivery for the birthday girl,” he said casually, like he hadn’t just rearranged your entire nervous system.
He set the cake down before you could even process it, one hand sliding to the back of your head to pull you into a messy, almost impatient kiss. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t perfectly timed.
It was real.
And maybe that’s when it started feeling different.
Wonwoo first got suspicious of his own feelings when he stopped racing for the door after spending a few hours in your bed. When leaving started to feel… inconvenient.
When your shower stopped feeling foreign because somehow half of his toiletries had migrated there. His razor. His face wash. That stupid expensive shampoo he swore he couldn’t live without.
When he realized he slept best at 2 a.m. on random Tuesdays, only if you were wrapped around him, your leg thrown over his, your breathing slow and even against his chest.
He noticed how quiet his apartment felt without you.
How loud his thoughts got.
It probably truly clicked for him one night on your couch.
You were mid-makeout, half-laughing, half-distracted because you were still in your corporate uniform. Blazer tossed somewhere on the floor. Pencil skirt hiked up just enough so you could sit comfortably in his lap, your hands tangled in his hair.
It was supposed to be the same as always.
Easy. Heated. Thoughtless.
But his hands didn’t move automatically this time. They lingered at your waist. Tightened.
He pulled back just enough to look at you.
You were flushed, lips swollen, eyes dazed.
And suddenly it didn’t feel casual anymore.
The words slipped out before he could catch them.
“Are we…” he started, voice lower than usual, almost uncertain. “Are we still pretending that this has no feelings attached?”
The room went still.
No party noise.
No late-night convenience store hum.
No easy escape route.
Just you.
And him.
And something that had quietly grown roots while neither of you was looking.
For the first time since this started, it didn’t feel simple.
And maybe that was the problem.
3️⃣ Mingyu:
Honestly? It would’ve been suspicious if it hadn’t happened.
Mingyu was a catch, everyone knew it. Half your friend group had mentioned it at least once, some subtly, some not at all subtle. And it wasn’t just the job. Or the status. Or the fame that followed him like a permanent spotlight.
It was the fact that he was devastatingly attractive and painfully aware of it.
Tall. Broad. Built like he’d been sculpted with too much time and intention. The kind of man who walked into a room and tilted its axis without even trying.
And yet, you didn’t fall for the face first.
You fell for the cockiness.
Not arrogance. Not quite.
That playful, teasing self-assurance that made him smirk like he knew exactly what effect he had on you, and enjoyed watching you pretend it didn’t.
“You’re staring,” Mingyu murmured one night, fingers sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, slowly helping you pull it over your head.
“Then stop giving me something good to stare at,” you shot back, letting him reach behind you for your bra clasp while your hands wandered shamelessly over his bare abs.
He laughed softly at that, low, pleased. He loved it when you pushed back.
The thing about Mingyu was that he was a flirt.
With everyone.
And that was half the problem.
You never quite knew whether he wanted to pin you against the nearest wall or if that was just how he treated every dancer in the crew. The lingering touches. The eye contact that lasted a beat too long. The casual compliments delivered like secrets.
That confusion? That tension?
It’s how you ended up in his bed.
But Mingyu, despite all that teasing bravado, was the most open-hearted man you’d ever met.
Two weeks.
That’s all it took for him to start smiling at your texts. You could hear it in his replies. Feel it in the way he answered faster. The way he’d double-text without shame.
He was the definition of wining and dining you. Not once did you leave his place after some impulsive make-out session without being fed. If you tried to sneak out early, he’d stop you with a soft frown.
“Wait. You didn’t eat properly.”
And suddenly he’d be in the kitchen, shirtless, hair messy, cooking something at 1 a.m. like it was a sacred duty. If you insisted on leaving, he’d pack leftovers into a container and shove it into your hands.
“For later,” he’d say casually.
But there was nothing casual about the way he watched you walk out the door.
The problem?
Mingyu got attached fast.
And it terrified him.
You noticed it first in public.
He stopped giving you attention during practice. Stopped teasing you in front of the others. Stopped letting his hand linger.
But you saw it.
The way his jaw flexed when another dancer placed their hands on your waist a little too long. The way he bit the inside of his cheek so hard, you were surprised he didn’t bleed.
Somehow, every time you joined dance practice, your legs mysteriously stopped working for the next three days.
Coincidence?
You doubted it.
Mingyu was discovering a side of himself he didn’t know existed, possessive, territorial, irrational.
He’d tell you everything was fine.
“No strings attached,” he’d say with that easy smile.
Meanwhile, he’d be at home pacing his living room because he declined your invitation to come over. He told himself he was playing the long game. Creating space. Keeping things cool.
Then he’d throw himself onto his couch and groan into a pillow because he missed you after exactly twelve minutes.
From your perspective?
He was acting normal.
Too normal.
This was Mingyu. He had options. Endless ones. It felt delusional to think there was something forming between you that he couldn’t get somewhere else, easier, simpler.
That was, until he developed an unexpected amount of audacity.
It started small.
Drinking from your water bottle during practice without asking. The dancers noticed. His members noticed. A few raised brows were exchanged.
Then there was the “Oh, you should come over tonight, Wonwoo’s coming for a short video game session.”
Wonwoo was, in fact, there.
For about twenty minutes.
Or the way Mingyu would obnoxiously call out in the company hallway, loud enough for everyone to hear:
“Did you like the pasta I made you last Monday?”
The first time he did that, you nearly tripped over your own feet.
He was testing the waters.
And you didn’t even know how to swim.
It didn’t truly hit you until the dinner.
“Everyone’s going,” he’d said casually. “All the dancers.”
You should’ve known.
The moment you walked into the restaurant and didn’t recognize a single familiar face from your crew, your stomach dropped.
Instead, it was his members. Sitting comfortably. Laughing. A few girls you could only assume were their partners.
It wasn’t a casual group outing.
It was intimate.
Intentional.
You sat down slowly, hyper-aware of the way Mingyu’s thigh pressed against yours under the table.
“Mingyu,” you whispered, leaning closer to him.
“Yeah?” He paused mid-sip, glass hovering in the air, eyes already on you.
“Why am I here?”
You held his gaze this time. No teasing. No deflection.
He didn’t look embarrassed.
He looked amused.
“Just testing something, babygirl,” he murmured, a sly smile tugging at his lips before he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your lips.
Testing something.
And when you glanced around the table again, you realized what it was.
He wasn’t hiding you.
He wasn’t keeping you casual.
He was seeing how you fit.
And the worst part?
You didn’t know if you were more terrified that he might pull away…
Or that you desperately hoped he wouldn’t.
4️⃣ Vernon:
“You are killing me here,” Vernon muttered against your mouth, the words barely formed as your fingers fumbled with the zipper of his jeans.
“You’re not making it easier with all this useless talking,” you shot back between kisses, breath hitching as his hands tightened around your waist.
Vernon was many things, but subtle wasn’t one of them.
You hadn’t even properly kissed yet, hadn’t even gotten past that first electric press of lips, before he laid everything out like a contract he needed you to sign.
“I don’t do relationships,” he said, voice steady but eyes anything but. “I’m not available around the clock. And don’t expect me to text you.”
His gaze searched yours with something wild and restrained at the same time. Hunger, yes, but also caution. Like he was daring you to flinch.
“Vernon?” you said.
“Yeah?”
“Can you just fucking kiss me, for God’s sake?”
That was all the permission he needed.
He crashed into you like he’d been holding back for years instead of seconds.
Two months.
Two months of late nights and early exits. Of reading the room instead of reading texts. Of reacting to his replies to your Instagram stories because that was the closest thing to a direct line you had.
You didn’t even have his number.
Booty calls came in the form of a fire emoji reacting to your mirror selfie. Or a casual “You out?” sent at 1:13 a.m.
And you went. Almost every time.
It wasn’t until month two that you finally graduated from Instagram to iMessage.
No buildup. No small talk.
Just a text from an unknown number:
‘Wanna come?’
That was it.
You stared at it for a full minute before your heart made the decision for you. Bag packed. Keys in hand. Engine running before you could talk yourself out of it.
You never stayed the night during those first four months.
And he never asked you to.
Vernon was efficient. Direct. Almost clinical in the way he kept things contained. He didn’t blur lines. Didn’t let silence feel like mystery, it just was what it was.
You always knew where you stood.
Nowhere permanent.
Until tour.
You knew it was coming. You’d always known he would leave eventually. It was part of the deal, don’t get attached to someone who lives in airports.
You expected a casual goodbye at best. Maybe a “See you when I’m back.” Maybe nothing at all.
You got nothing.
No explanation. No closure. Just distance.
Five days into tour and your phone stayed silent. You saw him post on his close friends story, random backstage clips, blurry hotel room ceilings, a half-finished cup of coffee. Proof he was alive. Proof he was fine.
But not a single message for you.
You told yourself you didn’t care.
You told yourself this was exactly what you signed up for.
Then, at 3:07 a.m., while you were deep in mindless scrolling, your Spotify notification lit up your screen.
Ver0807-09 added you to a shared playlist.
You blinked.
Maybe you were hallucinating from lack of sleep.
You opened it.
There was only one song.
Next to You – Bryson Tiller.
Your stomach dropped.
Your heart skipped so violently it felt like it stumbled over itself. The silence of your room suddenly felt too loud.
Three minutes later, your phone buzzed again.
‘Can I call please?’
Please.
Vernon didn’t say please.
You didn’t even wait for it to ring.
You called him.
The line connected after two rings.
“Hey,” you said softly.
There was a small pause. A breath. Then…
“Hey, stranger.”
His voice was tired. Rough around the edges. Like he hadn’t been sleeping much.
On the other side of the world, in a hotel room that didn’t feel like his, Vernon wasn’t confused about what was happening to him.
He knew exactly when it started.
It started the moment he chose not to say goodbye.
Because uninterested Vernon would’ve tied it up neatly. Would’ve told you it was fun while it lasted. Would’ve left you with something definitive so neither of you had to wonder.
But he didn’t.
He left without closing the door.
Because if there was no goodbye… then nothing ended.
For him, it stopped being “just a hookup” the day he caught himself wanting to text you at 2 p.m. for no reason. The day he saw something funny online and saved it, not for later scrolling, but for you.
It was when he started measuring time zones instead of just cities.
When he didn’t wash his grey hoodie because you wore it once and it still smelled like your perfume. He’d pick it up absentmindedly, press it to his face, and pretend he didn’t know why his chest tightened.
It was when hotel rooms felt emptier than usual.
When crowds didn’t distract him the way they used to.
When “I don’t do relationships” started sounding less like a rule and more like a lie he told himself to stay safe.
Back on the call, neither of you spoke for a moment.
“You added me to a playlist,” you finally said, trying to keep your voice steady.
“Yeah.”
“One song?”
Another pause.
“I couldn’t think of anything else that made sense.”
Your throat felt tight. “You could’ve just texted.”
“I didn’t know how,” he admitted quietly. “I’m not good at this.”
This.
Feelings.
Missing you.
The terrifying realization that somewhere between late-night texts and not staying over, you had become the only person he wanted next to him in a city full of thousands.
“You said you don’t do relationships,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“And you said not to expect texts.”
“I know.”
Silence stretched again, but this time it felt different. Not empty. Just full.
Full of everything he didn’t know how to say.
“I miss you,” he said finally, like it cost him something. Like he was handing you the last piece of his pride.
And suddenly the rules he’d set on that first night felt flimsy.
Because the man who didn’t do relationships was calling you at 3 a.m., from another country, asking please.
And for the first time since this started, you realized.
Maybe the scariest thing about Vernon wasn’t how detached he seemed.
Hi lovelies💞, a bit of a contradictory post compared to the last one, but after some time on and off from this app, I have decided that I won’t be continuing to write on this account. I’m not saying it is forever because I am unpredictable with my decisions, but at this point in my life, it’s not something that fulfills me anymore.
It was a short period of time that this account has been open but I had a lot of fun and talked to a bunch on amazing people. However as the time passed, alongside the fact that I am at a completely different stage in my life compared to last year, I just don’t enjoy it anymore.
I can get myself to write anything anymore and it has nothing to do with my appreciation for the groups, but mostly with the fact that my view on them has moved. Don’t get me wrong, I will still forever be into Kpop, your girl has won the BTS ticket war for this year. But fanfiction is not my prime anymore.
With that being said, I am sorry that I can’t fulfill all the requests that you have sent, maybe someday but not anytime soon.
With all the love in the world, see ya around!!!🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼
Hello my lovelies 💞💞💞 Hope that the new year is super fun and whimsical for all of you. This is my first time ever making an update on this account, but the amount of love that I have received here is INSANE, not even in my wildest dreams have I imaged this support.
2025 was such a crazy year for me, because I started posting here, and of boy was it a roller coaster….
One of my main takeaways from this year was that I ADORE writing, creating these fictive worlds and characters. However my true ENFP side, I like to take onto too many things at once and inevitably I burned myself out pretty bad in the end of the year. That is the reason why my content has not been “hitting” the same as per usual.
I want to highlight that this post is in NO way portraying the fact that I want to quit this account. I love what I’m creating here, and more is yet to come. But at my own terms
I will continue to take as many requests as I receive, because I like to be challenged with the creation process. But I will not have a strict schedule on my posts. I want to create because I feel inspired, not because I’m chasing a high from the feedback.
As a side note, I want to highlight that I do appreciate the feedback from the bottom of my heart. I reread comments and all the sweet messages, at least 10 times.
Thank you for all the love and support so far, and thank you to all the amazing people that I have formed friendships through here. And here it is to more delulu stories in 2026 as well.👯♀️
Note from author: Hello my loves and MERRY CHRISTMAS OMGGG!!! As promised the second part of my concert series. I gotta say that I got majorly side-tracked while writing this and please be kind because I literally scrapped and restarted these ones like five times. My brain was not braining lately. The good news is that in the new year we will have biweekly posts!!!!
Concert Argument:
Hyung Line
Summary: Maknae Line having an argument with you before/after the concert. And yes, it is always their fault because the girlies are always right 🫰🏻
Warnings: None, just my delusions 🤟🏻
1️⃣ Dokyeom:
“It’s been, like… three weeks, babe,” you say softly, voice thin as you fidget with a crumpled piece of paper you found on the bench beside you. You fold it once. Then again. “This just isn’t the kind of pre-holiday I imagined for us.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Dokyeom answers from his makeup chair, eyes glued to his phone as he scrolls through the concert’s song spreadsheet. His brow furrows. “I thought we weren’t doing Dar+ling,” he mutters, more to the room than to you.
That’s when something in you snaps, not loudly, not dramatically, but cleanly.
“Jesus, Dokyeom, do you hear yourself?” You stand up too fast, your boots scraping the floor. He turns toward you immediately, neck whipping around like he’s been waiting for impact. “I’m standing right here, talking to you, and you’re not even here. This…” you gesture vaguely between the two of you, “…this is exhausting.”
The words land hard. You see it instantly, the way his face drains, the way his shoulders stiffen like he’s bracing for something he didn’t expect to hurt this much.
“Babe, no.” He’s up in a second, crossing the space between you. But your hands are already raised, palms out, a barrier you didn’t consciously decide to build.
“No. I really am tired,” you say, voice shaking despite your effort to keep it steady. You try to step past him, but he reaches out, and you push his hands away. “You keep saying you’ll change. You keep saying you’re sorry, that it’ll get better. And I keep believing you. But this is my free time too, Dokyeom. This is my life too.”
You grab your purse and phone from the bench, movements sharp, almost rehearsed.
The room goes quiet.
It’s the first time in your relationship that he doesn’t chase your words with explanations, apologies, jokes, anything. He just stands there, silent, stunned.
“Have a good concert, guys,” you say over your shoulder, forcing your voice to sound polite as you glance at Minghao and Joshua, who look like they’ve merged into the wall on the opposite side of the room.
You close the door gently behind you. Too soft.
The concert feels wrong from the first beat.
For Dokyeom, everything is too loud and not loud enough at the same time. He’s never fought with you like that before, never been left mid-argument, never felt so painfully exposed. It’s as if every eye in the venue is trained on him, dissecting him under a microscope on what already feels like an impossibly unlucky day.
His chest aches with the knowledge that you were right. And the worst part, the part that eats at him relentlessly, is that he can’t run to you, can’t pull you into his arms and fix it before stepping onstage.
His voice cracks more than it ever has. During the ballads, his eyes burn, tears threatening no matter how hard he blinks them away. He keeps scanning the crowd, stupidly hopeful, as if one glimpse of you might steady his heartbeat.
You’re not there.
The moment the final bow ends, he yanks the mic pack off so roughly he’s sure he leaves a layer of skin behind with the adhesive.
“Can I get a pass to the backstage lodge?” he asks breathlessly, grabbing a white towel to wipe the sweat from his neck. “My girlfriend should still be there.”
The staff member barely hesitates before handing him a random pass and unlocking the door to the private viewing rooms. He takes off immediately.
He almost runs straight past you.
You’re heading toward the bathrooms when he stops short, turning so fast he nearly collides with you. His hands come up instinctively, gripping your arms to steady himself, and you.
“What are you…” you start, but the question dies when you see his face.
“I was looking for you,” he says, breathless, adrenaline still humming through him.
“I would hope so,” you reply, the sarcasm automatic, a shield more than an attack.
“I mean it.” His hands slide to your waist, tentative now. “I handled earlier terribly. That was rude. I wasn’t present, and I’m sorry.”
You don’t answer right away.
“I promise I’m here,” he continues, voice lower, more careful. “And I’m sorry. Please… let’s not argue like this anymore. I really want us to work.”
“It feels awful,” you say finally, searching his face, needing to know he’s actually listening, “to be in the same room with you and have no idea where your mind is.”
“I know.” He nods immediately. “And I’m sorry for that too. But if there’s one thing I never want you to doubt…” his grip tightens just slightly, grounding, “…it’s that you’re always on my mind. Even when I don’t want you to be.”
And this time, he doesn’t look away when he says it.
2️⃣ Mingyu:
Mingyu is a flirt. You knew that, he knew that, hell, even your grandma probably knew that. And usually, it wasn’t a problem. He knew his boundaries. Work stayed work, and home, you, was where his loyalty lived. That was the balance you trusted.
But sometimes, even solid things crack when pushed too often.
Like today.
T-minus four hours to the concert, and you were stuck in the press room with Mingyu, Minghao, and Joshua while they ran through a series of short interviews for local TV. You had resigned yourself to boredom, scrolling on your phone, half-listening, until the host started lingering a little too long.
Her hand rested on Mingyu’s arm far more than necessary, fingers squeezing after every joke he made. Each laugh she gave him lingered just a second too late. And Mingyu, whether unintentionally or not, kept meeting her eyes, smiling in that easy, charming way of his.
The worst part wasn’t even the touching.
It was the way you felt invisible.
By the time the interviews wrapped and the group headed toward the changing rooms, your patience was hanging by a thread. One comment. One look. One more second, and you were sure you’d snap.
“Someone’s being a little bit moody today,” Mingyu joked as he caught up from behind, poking at your sides playfully.
“Not in the mood,” you muttered, pushing open the door to the already humid changing room.
“Come on, babe, don’t be like that.” His arm draped easily over your shoulders, warm and familiar.
Normally, you would’ve leaned into it. Normally, it would’ve softened you.
But today, it felt like he wasn’t hearing you at all.
“Can you freaking be serious for one second?” you exploded, your voice louder than you intended. His smile dropped, slow, stunned, and suddenly you were painfully aware of the eyes around you. Staff. Members. Conversations cutting short. “Like, for real. You’re flirting with some random woman right in front of me, and now you want to be all handsy and sweet?”
“Hey…hey,” he said quickly, lowering his voice as his hands reached for yours, fingers fidgeting when you didn’t let him take them. “Don’t make this a bigger deal than it is. It’s work, baby. You know that.”
“No, Mingyu. Really.” Your throat tightened as frustration rose behind your eyes. “How much of this do you think I can take? ‘Work’ won’t always cover it.”
Before he could respond, before the tears could fall, you turned and walked out.
You nearly collided with at least two staff members as you stormed down the hallway, heading for the furthest bathroom you could find, the echo of your footsteps matching the chaos in your chest.
What you didn’t realize was how fast he followed.
You burst into the women’s bathroom and barely had time to breathe before the door swung open behind you.
“What the…” you turned, stopped short by his presence.
“Why are you running away in the middle of an argument?” he asked, breathless, his eyes instinctively scanning the room for other women. Empty. Just you.
“It wasn’t an argument,” you said, turning to the sink and scrubbing your hands harder than necessary.
“Yeah, it wasn’t,” he replied, stepping closer. “Because you left before I could say anything.” His voice softened. “Can you look at me when I talk to you?”
You shut off the water with a sharp thunk and finally faced him.
“I didn’t mean to cross a boundary,” he said, gripping the cold, wet edge of the sink like he needed something solid to hold onto.
“Yet you still did,” you replied flatly. “Right in my face.”
“Babe. Y/N.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration clear but controlled. “You know this is a persona I have to keep up with for some of these interviews. I swear to you, I would walk on that stage right now and scream that you’re my girlfriend and that I love you more than anything in this fucking world.”
“Mingyu…”
“No.” He met your eyes fully now. “It’s never been about me not wanting to put you out there. But if this is too much, a public relationship is going to be hard. I need you to know that.”
You didn’t answer. He wasn’t wrong, and you knew you were too emotional to fight logic with tears.
He exhaled deeply, stepping closer and gently cupping your cheeks, grounding you.
“I love you,” he said quietly. “Whether I’m Mingyu from Seventeen, Kim Mingyu behind closed doors, or anything in between. You have the same place in my heart, always.” His thumbs brushed softly against your skin. “You’re mine, no matter the persona. And I’m always yours.”
He stayed there, breathing with you, until the room felt less heavy.
3️⃣ Minghao:
“Where’s Y/n?” Jun asks as Minghao slips into the changing room, hood pulled low and music blasting through his headphones.
“She’s coming a bit later,” Minghao replies, dropping his duffle bag to the floor and tugging his headphones off.
It’s only half the truth. He doesn’t actually know when you’re coming, if you’re coming at all. For all he knows, you might not show up tonight.
Three days ago, the two of you had what people like to politely call a big fight. The kind that doesn’t start loud but ends that way. The kind that’s been building for months without either of you naming it.
You’d finally reached your limit, tired of being kept on the sidelines of his life, tired of finding things out last, tired of loving someone who seemed to keep you at arm’s length without meaning to. You snapped. He snapped back harder. And words that should’ve stayed buried came rushing out at the worst possible moment.
“If I wanted someone I had to report everything to,” Minghao had shouted, “I would’ve hired an assistant, not a fucking girlfriend.”
You’d stared at him like he’d slapped you.
“Wow. Real mature, Minghao,” you shot back, voice breaking. “Sorry for caring about what my boyfriend does when he disappears for a week and leaves me in the dark. If I bother you that much, then fine, do it all alone.”
Those were your last words before you walked out of his apartment at two in the morning, tears blurring your vision, hands shaking as you slammed the door behind you.
That was three days ago.
And since then, you hadn’t answered a single call. Not one text. Nothing.
He hated it.
Now the concert is three hours away, and Minghao feels restless in his own skin. The room feels louder without you, emptier somehow. You’re always there, quietly, steadily, never asking for credit, never demanding space. And it hits him, sharp and sudden, just how much your presence grounds him. How vital your unspoken support has always been.
“Is she stuck in traffic?” Hoshi asks, slipping up behind him and pulling him into a quick back hug. “She’s usually here by now.”
“I don’t know,” Minghao mutters. “I’ll call her.”
He steps out of the room, phone already in his hand. He doesn’t actually expect you to answer. He’s memorized the sound of his calls going to voicemail over the past three days. Really, he just needs air. Space. A moment to steady himself.
So when his phone vibrates in his pocket, he almost laughs, like the universe is playing a cruel joke.
It’s you.
“Hey,” he says, breathless, like he’s been running.
“Hey.” Your voice is soft on the other end, careful. Distant, but not cold.
“Why did you call?” he asks, then immediately regrets how it sounds. “I…I mean, I’m really glad you did.”
There’s a pause.
“I just wanted to say good luck,” you say quietly. “You’re going to be amazing.”
His chest tightens.
“Y/n…” Your name comes out like a confession. “I miss you.”
“No, you don’t,” you say, almost too quickly.
“Yes, I do,” he says without hesitation. “I miss you so much it hurts. And I was an asshole. I’m really, really sorry.”
“Minghao,” you sigh gently. “Let’s not do this right now.”
“What?” Panic creeps into his lungs. “Why not?”
“I’ll see you after, okay?” you say.
“I’ll come straight to your place,” he promises, clinging to the thought like a lifeline. “I swear.”
There’s another pause, longer this time.
“The door’s always open for you,” you finally say. Softer now. “Even when I wish it wasn’t.”
And then the line goes quiet.
4️⃣ Seungkwan:
“You’re overthinking this,” Seungkwan says, his voice cutting clean through the elevator’s low hum. Too clean. Too sharp. Like a blade slid where there was already a crack.
You don’t answer right away. The numbers crawl upward, painfully slow. The air feels too tight, too small for the way your chest keeps pulling inward.
“Maybe,” you finally say, “because it feels like you don’t want me here.”
The words leave you quieter than you meant them to, but your voice betrays you anyway. There’s a tremor you can’t fully smooth out, a fragile edge you were hoping he wouldn’t notice.
He notices.
He exhales hard, hand dragging over his face. Stress, exhaustion, pressure, everything piling up with nowhere to go. “Jesus, Y/n. Do we really need to do this right now?” He doesn’t look at you. “Stop doing my head in. I don’t have time for this.”
His voice rises despite himself. It echoes faintly against the elevator walls, louder than the space can absorb.
The doors slide open, but neither of you moves.
You look at him then.
And it’s not anger. It’s not accusation. It’s something far worse, hurt so bare it feels indecent to witness. Like he reached inside you, ripped something loose, and let it fall to the floor without even realizing what it was.
Seungkwan’s chest tightens instantly. He opens his mouth, ready to say something, anything, but you’ve already stepped past him, already walking away.
The doors close behind you with a soft, final sound.
That look never leaves him.
Five hours later, it’s still there.
The concert is long over. The crowd gone. The high burned out of his system. Seungkwan sits in the changing room, elbows resting on his knees, costume hanging off his shoulders like it weighs a hundred pounds. Laughter drifts in from down the hall, members talking, teasing, planning drinks, but he can’t bring himself to join them.
He already performed tonight.
Three hours of smiling until his cheeks hurt. Of joking, engaging, pouring his voice into songs meant to make people feel something real. All while knowing he’d been cruel to the one person who mattered most.
The irony sits heavy in his chest.
He keeps replaying it, your voice, your eyes, the way you didn’t fight him. That was the worst part. If you’d yelled, if you’d snapped back, he might’ve justified it. But you didn’t. You just… folded inward.
He knows you’re waiting for him. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere patient.
That knowledge makes it worse.
His phone lights up.
Please come to the car, it’s getting late.
No anger. No guilt-tripping. Just concern.
“How are you still here for me?” he mutters under his breath.
Shame coils tight around his ribs as he grabs his duffle bag. He throws out a few distracted goodbyes, barely registers the responses, and makes his way to the parking garage.
The car is already there.
You’re in the driver’s seat, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers tapping against the steering wheel in a stiff, repetitive rhythm. Not impatient, just anxious. Like you’re holding yourself together through motion alone.
He opens the door and slides into the passenger seat.
“Hey,” you say.
Your voice is neutral. Too neutral.
“Hey,” he replies. Then, after a beat, “You know, I can drive too.”
He shoves his bag into the backseat, trying to sound normal. Casual.
“It’s fine,” you say. “You’re tired.”
You reach for the gear shift.
His hand moves before his brain catches up, covering yours, stopping you mid-motion. The contact is light but urgent, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go.
“Y/n, don’t do that.”
Your head turns slowly. The darkness inside the car makes his face softer, but his eyes look wrecked. Red-rimmed. Exhausted.
“Do what?” you ask, though your voice is already guarded.
“Pretend,” he says quietly. “Pretend everything’s okay.” His throat tightens. “I was a dick to you.”
You force a small smile. Tight. Practiced. “It’s fine. Just concert nerves.”
The lie lands heavy between you.
He shakes his head, frustration flickering, not at you, but at himself. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t make it smaller so I don’t have to face it.” He runs a hand through his hair, fingers trembling. “That wasn’t nice of me.”
You try to pull your hand back, to put the car in drive, to escape the moment before it can cut any deeper, but he tightens his grip just enough to stop you. Then, more gently, he laces his fingers through yours and lowers your joined hands into his lap.
“No,” he says, firmer now. “Let me say this.”
Silence stretches. You can hear the faint echo of the garage. The ticking of the engine cooling.
“That’s not how I should treat you,” he continues. “I don’t care how stressed I am. I don’t care how tired. You didn’t deserve that.” His voice wavers, and he hates that it does, but he doesn’t stop. “I love you. And I should never be the reason you feel like you have to shrink. Or second-guess yourself. Or swallow your feelings just to keep the peace.”
Your jaw tightens.
“I never want to be the person who makes you close off,” he says, thumb brushing over your knuckles like he’s grounding himself. “You’re supposed to be safe with me. Always. Even when I mess up. Especially when I mess up.”
For a long moment, you don’t say anything.
The tension doesn’t disappear, but it shifts. Less sharp. More fragile. Like something bruised but still alive.
The car doesn’t move.
But for the first time all night, neither of you feels like you’re running anymore.
5️⃣ Vernon:
It’s officially Vernon’s first concert in three years where you’re there, but he isn’t with you.
Not really.
You and Vernon are on a break. Two weeks in. No calls. No late-night drives. No falling asleep tangled together. Just those careful, almost polite check-in texts between two people who aren’t ready to let go, but don’t quite know how to stay.
Why the break? Because Vernon has always struggled with two things: communicating his feelings, and understanding how much the way he communicates them matters. He feels deeply, he just doesn’t always know how to let it out before it turns into silence.
“WE ARE ON IN 3… 2… 1… SHOWTIME!”
The stage director’s voice cuts through everything as the platform lifts and the lights explode into blinding white.
“Showtime, baby,” Cheol mutters beside him, straightening his posture as if flipping a switch.
Vernon flips his too, but something’s off.
From the first song, it’s not a fun show. The lyrics hit harder than usual, like they’re aimed straight at his chest. The lights feel heavier, pressing down on him, somehow both too bright and not bright enough at the same time. He keeps losing his focus, his thoughts drifting somewhere they shouldn’t be.
Then he thinks he sees you.
Just a flash on the big screen. A face that looks like yours. His heart stutters, then scoffs at itself.
Get it together.
He tells himself it’s nothing, just his brain filling in gaps it shouldn’t. But then it happens again. And again.
By the third time, his breath catches.
That blue sweater.
The one he bought you. The one you always stole and never returned.
“I’m tripping… or did I just see Y/n in the lodges?” Vernon mutters, pulling out his in-ear and leaning toward Seungkwan.
Seungkwan barely hesitates. “Yeah, she’s here. I think Sofia’s with her too,” he replies before bouncing away across the stage.
That’s it. He’s gone.
The crowd blurs into noise. Thousands of faces dissolve into nothing. Somehow, the lights seem to land only on you, even though you’re nowhere near the stage. His eyes keep pulling in your direction, like his body knows before his mind can catch up.
Halfway through the show, Cheol shoots him a sharp look and mouths, Focus. This side.
Vernon nods, but the minutes stretch unbearably long. Each song feels like an hour. Each beat drags.
And then suddenly, there’s nothing left to count down.
The show ends.
Backstage, the noise fades into laughter and movement, and there you are. Standing near his dad, smiling, laughing at something he says like nothing in the world is wrong.
“Good concert, Vern,” Sofia says, pulling him into a quick hug.
He barely registers it.
His eyes are locked on you, hungry in a way that startles even him, like someone who’s been holding their breath for far too long.
“Hey,” you say softly, stepping closer. “It was really great seeing you on stage.”
You hug him, quick and polite, or at least that’s what you intend.
The second your skin touches his, something in him gives.
He melts into you, arms tightening instinctively, like his body remembers before his mind can stop it. He pulls back just enough to look at you, really look, then kisses you. No hesitation. No warning. Just need.
His thumb grazes your cheek, grounding himself.
“Well,” you breathe out, stunned but smiling faintly, “hello to you too.”
“I’ll do better,” he says immediately, the words tumbling out like they’ve been waiting. His eyes search your face, desperate and sincere. “I swear.”
“Vernon,” you ask gently, confusion threading through your voice, “what are you talking about?”
He exhales shakily. “Right now… I feel calm. I feel happy. Like I’m not suffocating, like I’m not constantly holding my breath.” His forehead rests against yours. “That’s what it feels like when I’m not with you…and I hate it.”
“Vernon…” you whisper, melting fully into his arms now.
“I’ll do better,” he repeats, quieter this time, steadier. “I’ll learn. I’ll open my mind, even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially then. I just… I don’t want to lose you because I didn’t know how to speak.”
6️⃣ Dino:
“I’m sorry,” Dino murmurs, fingers worrying at a stray scrap of tape clinging to the wall.
“It’s fine,” your voice drifts through the phone, soft, distant, and not convincing enough to ease the sting in his chest.
“It doesn’t feel like it is.” He presses his forehead against the cold wall, eyes squeezing shut.
“Let’s talk after the concert, ok?”
The line clicks dead before he can answer.
For a moment, he stays there, breathing, trying to swallow everything at once. Then he pushes himself off the wall and walks straight into the chaos of the styling pit. Backstage is loud, frantic, buzzing with pre-show nerves, and none of it helps settle the guilt twisting in his stomach. He’s never been good with conflict, the thought of you somewhere in the arena, upset and maybe not enjoying the night because of him, it gnaws at him worse than any performance anxiety ever could.
“Honestly… was I a dick?” he blurts, half to himself, half toward Woozi while he adjusts his in-ears.
“I don’t know, man. I do not pry into your stupid arguments with your partner,” Woozi snaps, still digging elbow-deep into his back pocket for his mic pack.
“You were kinda… off point,” DK adds carefully as he cups Dino’s face in both hands. Dino smacks his chest in protest, but there’s no heat behind it.
“Talk it out after,” Woozi cuts in, already squeezing past them toward the stage entrance.
Two hours later, mid-show, the roaming camera sweeps across the audience, and there you are. Just a flash. You, his mom’s arm wrapped around your waist, the two of you shouting lyrics and throwing your free hands in the air like nothing in the world could bother you.
Something in his chest cracks. He can’t tell if it’s breaking or fitting itself back together.
By the time crew members are swarming the backstage area, unhooking equipment and yelling over one another, Dino is barely listening. The second his mic pack is off, he’s gone, bolting out of the break room.
Woozi only sighs when Chan nearly vaults over a bundle of cable coils. “Go, Romeo,” he mutters.
“They’re in the waiting room!” a staff member shouts after him as he disappears down the hall.
He feels the adrenaline spike all over again when he pushes through the revolving door into the cool, over-lit waiting room. The white lights sting his tired eyes, but then he sees you, standing among the families and friends of the members, and everything else blurs out.
“Hey,” you say gently, your eyes scanning his face like you’re checking for cracks.
“Hi.” He gives a small, uncertain smile. “I’m… sorry?”
“For what?” You raise an eyebrow, all faux innocence.
“Come on, babe,” he sighs, stepping just close enough to show he wants comfort but still afraid he hasn’t earned it. His hand ghosts over the back of your head. “Did you enjoy the show?”
“I would’ve enjoyed it more if it didn’t take me forty minutes to stop being annoyed every time you showed up on the screen,” you say, trying to maintain your petty edge. But the small smile tugging at your lips betrays you.
And that, finally, is enough for him to breathe again.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” he teases, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. “Now… where’s my mom? I saw how much you were definitely not enjoying the show with her.”
can you make a maknae line ver of concert argument?
love you written
sorry if something is wrong, english is not my first language
Thanks so much babe💞💞
I know I promised that I will, and it is in the works. I just got crazy busy with my 9-5, but I promise I will deliver it by Christmas the latest 🫱🏼🫲🏽🫱🏼🫲🏽🫱🏼🫲🏽
Note from author: Back on my individual work for the boys. This is a sneak peek of something else that I have been working on for quite some time. Let me know what you guys thinkkkkkk.
This is a one-shot based on my already finished mini co-worker series:
Hyung Line // Maknae Line
Summary: Co-worker Situationship with Minghao
Warnings: None, just my delusions👀
“I think I should get a new laptop,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. “This one overheats every time I have to share my screen.”
Your nails strike the keyboard harder than necessary, a staccato rhythm born of irritation rather than urgency. The laptop hums beneath your palms, warm in a way that feels vaguely accusatory.
Minghao is slouched against your chair like he owns it, too casual, too comfortable. One hand rests lazily on the leather back support, fingers draped as if they belong there. The other braces him against your desk, boxing you in without quite touching you.
“Maybe ask if he wants to meet for lunch?” he says easily, his eyes scanning over the email you’re typing, already reading ahead as if it’s his to revise.
You pause mid-sentence. Slowly, deliberately, you look up at him.
“You know,” you say, voice flat, “I work in HR. I am not your assistant.”
He doesn’t move away.
If anything, he leans closer.
He’s dangerously close now, close enough that you can make out each individual eyelash, the faint curve where they meet his eyelid, the way his presence quietly rewrites the air between you. You’re suddenly very aware of how small your chair feels, how loud your breathing sounds in your own ears.
“Just send this one email,” he says softly. “And I’ll be gone.”
As he speaks, he tilts his head slightly, angling himself to look at you better, like he’s studying a reaction he already expects. His eyes curl into a small smirk, subtle, restrained, never quite reaching his lips. It’s the kind of expression that suggests he knows exactly how close he’s standing and has no intention of fixing it.
You exhale through your nose, the fight leaving you in a tired sigh.
“One email, Minghao,” you say, turning your attention back to the screen, pretending the heat rising to your face is coming from the laptop and not from him.
🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️
The office is unusually calm for a Monday, contrary to popular belief. That calm mostly exists because half the employees either work from home or quietly rebel against the most dreaded day of the week by not showing up at all. The lights hum softly, the coffee machine gurgles somewhere in the background, and for a moment, it almost feels like the building itself is still waking up.
“Good morning.”
A groggy voice comes from behind you.
“Hey, Mingyu,” you reply, still focused on digging through the drawer for a clean mug.
He drops onto one of the kitchen bar stools, elbows braced against the counter, eyes following you with the lazy curiosity of someone who regrets every life choice made after midnight.
“How was your weekend?”
“It was good,” you say, finally finding a mug and rinsing it in the sink. “But clearly, you had a rough one.” You add a small smile, half-teasing.
Mingyu groans, rubbing his hands down his face, careful not to disturb his overly gelled hair.
“I don’t know why I keep going to these last-minute parties on freaking Sundays.”
“Yeah,” you murmur. “I get that.”
You don’t, really. Or maybe you do, but your mind has already drifted somewhere else.
You smell him before you see him.
Woody, warm, faintly spicy, Minghao’s perfume reaches the open kitchen at least a full minute before he does. When he finally steps in, he looks exactly like he always does: tailored suit sitting perfectly on his frame, crisp white shirt, hair neatly combed, expression mildly unimpressed by the world at large.
“Good morning, man,” Mingyu says, slouching on the stool as much as his extra-slim-fit suit will allow.
“Morning,” Minghao replies, rolling up his sleeves before washing his hands at the sink.
“Rough one?”
“I don’t know how you’re so fresh,” Mingyu scoffs dryly. “You left the party after me.”
A party? On a Sunday? For him?
The thought lands heavier than it should.
Your eyes move to Minghao before you can stop them. You’ve always thought of the two of you as close, at least by work standards. He spends most of his office hours at your desk. You gossip, complain about coworkers, trade sarcastic commentary under your breath. You’ve told him about your annoying ex-boyfriend. You eat lunch together more often than not. There’s a rhythm to it, something familiar, something safe.
Minghao glances down at you. His eyes flicker, just briefly, but it’s enough.
Guilty.
“You went to a party?” you ask, drying the mug with a paper towel.
“Yeah,” he says. “Just a small get-together. Some mutual friends.” His voice is casual, but his eyes refuse to meet yours.
“Small?” Mingyu cuts in with a fake cough. “Like half the office was there. Even that pretty customer service girl who gives Minghao heart-eyes.”
He raises his eyebrows pointedly.
Something hollows out in your chest at that.
You turn toward the coffee machine, suddenly very invested in watching it fill your cup. If you focus hard enough, maybe you can make this moment pass faster. Maybe you can come up with a believable excuse to leave.
“Hey,” Minghao says softly. “How was your weekend?”
His hand rests on the small of your back, warm, familiar, grounding in a way that feels unfair right now. He’s trying to pull you back into the conversation, back into us, whatever that unspoken thing is.
But the coffee machine beeps right then, mercifully loud.
You grab the cup with calculated force and step away before he can say anything else.
“Sorry,” you say, offering a polite, practiced smile. “Busy day.”
And with that, you turn toward your office.
Minghao was never the type to be openly vulnerable. For someone who thrived on office gossip and always seemed to know what was going on before anyone else did, it took him an unexpectedly long time to let his guard down with you. And when he finally did, it was subtle, quiet enough that it almost felt accidental. It revealed a version of him you hadn’t known existed, one that didn’t quite match the man everyone else thought they knew.
Still, he never did it publicly. Never in ways that could be noticed or questioned. In meetings, he’d somehow always end up in the chair beside yours, knees angled just close enough to feel intentional. He lingered in your office when everyone else had gone home, leaning against the doorframe as if he had nowhere else to be. And there were the Teams messages, too many to count now, always brief, always casual, always enough to make your stomach twist.
“When you go to the bathroom, stop by.
I have to show you something.”
You knew better than to read into it. You had to. Minghao had been with the company for over four years. He was practically woven into its structure, best friends with half the board, universally liked, effortlessly magnetic. You’d heard the stories, too many of them: whispered crushes, awkward confessions, and girls who swore there was something different between them and him. He was always the main character.
And yet, somewhere between the muffled laughter spilling out of his office over some stupid meme and the lunches that stretched into long coffee breaks where you sometimes forgot to actually get the coffee, you’d started to believe there was something there. Something small but real. Maybe that’s why it hurt more than it should have to realize that whatever it was, whatever almost existed, it would never leave these walls.
By the time you glanced at the clock, it was already past 1 p.m.
Your screen was a mess of open tabs, venues, budgets, color palettes, Christmas party planning swallowing your attention whole. Or at least, it should have been. Instead, your appetite had vanished hours ago, buried under four straight hours of overthinking that stupid party Minghao had gone to the night before. You hadn’t even noticed the office door opening, or the way he greeted a few coworkers as he walked in.
“Hey. I was waiting for you in the kitchen.”
His hand was already on the back of your chair, turning it gently but insistently while you were still mid-sentence on your keyboard. The sudden shift pulled you back into your body, into the room.
“Oh, hey,” you said.
He frowned slightly. “Did you hear what I said?” His arms crossed over his chest. “I was waiting for you for, like, fifteen minutes.”
“Why?” The word came out sharper, drier, than you meant it to.
That earned you a pause, a look that flickered between confusion and something closer to concern.
“What do you mean, why?” he said slowly. “We always take lunch at 12:30.” He leaned against the wall, eyes fixed on you, like he was trying to read something you hadn’t said out loud.
“Right.” You dragged a hand through your hair. “Sorry. I got caught up with the Christmas party stuff.”
He pushed off the wall with a quiet sigh. “Okay, well, you need a break. Come on.”
“Actually,” you said quickly, not moving, “I think I’ll just eat at my desk.”
His voice dropped. “Is something wrong?” Careful. Low enough not to invite an audience.
“Nothing’s wrong,” you replied, forcing a smile that felt too tight to be convincing.
He studied your face for a long second, longer than necessary. Then he nodded, slow and deliberate. It might have looked accepting, if not for the way his jaw tightened, his tongue pressing against his cheek like he was holding something back.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the office.
🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️
On Tuesday, you worked from home.
You told your manager you were coming down with the flu. That part wasn’t entirely untrue, your body felt heavy, slow, like it was fighting something. But the real reason sat higher, tighter, lodged in your chest. You couldn’t bring yourself to see Minghao after yesterday. Not after the look he’d given you. Not after the way the moment had almost tipped into something neither of you had named.
At exactly 9:00 a.m., Teams chimed.
Minghao: morning, I stopped by to drop you a coffee but you were not there
Minghao: everything alright?
You stared at the screen longer than necessary, fingers hovering, pulse ticking in your ears.
Y/n: hi, sorry
Y/n: sick leave today
The typing dots appeared almost instantly, like he’d been waiting.
Minghao: oh. I’m sorry to hear that
Minghao: do you want me to drop by for lunch?
Minghao: or anything warm
Your stomach twisted. He was being kind. Worse, he was being attentive.
Y/n: I think it’s best for you not to come
A pause. Then…
Minghao: what is your problem for the past two days?
There was no warmth in that. Just precision.
You closed the chat instead of replying, like cutting the sound to a room you didn’t want to be in. You dove into your task list, clinging to structure. Numbers made sense. Emotions didn’t.
At 9:45, the silence cracked.
Minghao: Why are you ignoring me?
Minghao: Jesus, Y/n, what is this behaviour?
Minghao: what did I do?
You swallowed, jaw tightening, and kept working.
At 10:06:
Minghao: did you just decline my call?
Minghao: I know you’re not busy, I have your calendar access
That one stung. Authority wrapped in concern, sharp enough to cut.
At 10:17:
Minghao: can you please answer?
Minghao: Is this about the party?
Minghao: you know I hate the silent treatment
Minghao: please answer
And then…nothing.
The quiet afterward was worse. Too heavy. Too final. It made your skin prickle. You worked harder than you had all week, guilt driving you forward, hands moving on autopilot. Three assignments, three hours. No mistakes.
By 12:45, hunger finally pulled you back into your body. You were waiting for your lunch delivery when the doorbell rang. You opened the door without thinking.
Minghao stood there.
Suit immaculate. Expression tight, controlled, unmistakably pissed. Your lunch bag hung from one hand. His laptop from the other.
“What the hell are you doing here?” you blurted, gripping the door like it might steady you.
Then it hit you, you were in your old Minnie Mouse pajamas. The ones you’d had since you were a teenager. No makeup. Oily hair shoved back carelessly.
His eyes flicked over you. Slowly. Too slowly.
“Hello to you too,” he said, unimpressed, though something darker flashed beneath it.
“How did you get my address?” you asked, not moving.
“I asked HR.”
“That’s private information.”
“Not for the management board,” he replied instantly, tone clipped, almost defensive.
Silence fell between you, thick and electric. Your pulse thudded loud enough that you were sure he could hear it.
“Was that enough of a questionnaire,” he said finally, nodding toward the door you were still clinging to, “or am I supposed to hold your food until it’s cold and soggy?”
“I didn’t shower yet,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Weak. Honest. Embarrassing.
His expression softened, just a fraction.
“I can wait for you to shower,” he said, voice lower now. Controlled. “Inside.”
Before you could argue, he stepped past you.
He kicked off his shoes like he belonged there, moving through your apartment with infuriating ease. The food landed on the coffee table. He rounded the corner and sat at the dining table, opening his laptop like this was just another extension of work.
“I have a meeting for the next thirty minutes,” he said, adjusting his collar before finally looking at you again. His gaze lingered this time, on your bare face, your exposed vulnerability. “I assume you’ll be done by then.”
“Done with what?” you asked quietly.
“Done with whatever you need to do to stop hiding,” he said, then added, more pointedly, gesturing with one finger, “and to get rid of the pajamas and that hairstyle.”
There it was, authority sharpened by concern. Frustration wrapped tightly around something that felt dangerously close to care.
And for the first time, you wondered if ignoring him had been a mistake, or the moment everything finally crossed a line neither of you could step back from.
The bathroom door closes behind you with a soft click.
Too soft. Nothing in this apartment feels loud enough anymore.
The water heats slowly, steam beginning to crawl up the mirror as you lean against the sink, palms flat, breathing out through your nose. Your reflection looks smaller than usual. Exposed. Like you’ve been caught in something you didn’t realize you were hiding.
You turn the shower on fully and step in.
Outside, Minghao sits at your dining table, laptop open, camera off. His meeting fills one ear, but his attention keeps drifting, to the muted sound of running water, to the knowledge that you’re just a few walls away. Too close. Too personal.
This is inappropriate, he tells himself for the third time.
He straightens in his chair, adjusts his tone when he speaks. Calm. Measured. Managerial. It’s a role he knows well, one he slips into easily. But his jaw is tight, teeth pressed together harder than necessary.
He shouldn’t be here. He knows that.
And yet.
Every unanswered message from you had felt like a deliberate withdrawal, like you’d stepped just out of reach after standing far too close the night before. He hadn’t slept well. Hadn’t been able to stop replaying the way you’d looked at him, confused, flustered, vulnerable.
The water cuts off.
His fingers still on the keyboard pause.
Thirty minutes pass faster than expected. He closes his laptop with more force than necessary and exhales, running a hand through his hair. The apartment smells faintly like your shampoo now. Something warm. Familiar.
The bathroom door opens.
You step out, hair damp, wrapped in a towel that’s slightly too big. You look softer somehow. More real. Less defensive.
“You done interrogating the board?” you ask quietly.
He looks up.
And stops.
His gaze holds, not roaming, not disrespectful, but intent. Focused. Like he’s memorizing the moment against his will.
“Meeting’s over,” he says, voice steady. “Now it’s my turn.”
You cross your arms instinctively, towel tightening around you. “Your turn to do what?”
“To ask why you’ve been avoiding me,” he replies, standing. Slowly. Purposefully. “To find out why you lied to your manager. To understand why you shut me out instead of just talking to me.”
You swallow. “You don’t get to show up at my house and demand answers.”
“I didn’t come here to demand,” he says, closing the distance between you, not touching, but close enough that you feel his presence. “I came because something is wrong, and you won’t tell me what it is.”
“That’s not your responsibility.”
His jaw tightens. “It became my responsibility when you made it one.”
Silence hums between you, thick and alive.
“Was it the party?” he asks more quietly now. “Did I cross a line?”
You look away. “You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you don’t know,” you say, voice cracking just slightly. “Like you don’t notice the way you look at me. Or the way things feel when we’re alone.”
His breath hitches, barely, but you catch it.
“I notice,” he admits, low. “I just didn’t think you wanted me to.”
“That’s the problem,” you whisper. “I don’t know what I want. And you don’t give me room to figure it out.”
He steps back half a pace, as if the words physically struck him.
For the first time since he arrived, the authority slips.
“I wasn’t trying to corner you,” he says. “I was trying not to lose whatever this is.”
You finally look at him again. He looks torn, between control and something far more dangerous.
“I need time,” you say. “Not pressure. Not silence. Just… time.”
He nods slowly. “Then don’t disappear on me.”
“I won’t,” you promise. “But you can’t barge into my life like this every time you’re worried.”
A faint, tense smile pulls at his mouth. “You’re right.”
Another pause.
“I’ll wait outside while you get dressed,” he adds, already turning away. “Lunch is getting cold.”
As he steps back toward the door, he glances over his shoulder once more, not as your higher up, not as a man in control, but as someone standing dangerously close to caring too much.
And this time, you don’t look away.
He leaves before you’re fully dressed.
Not abruptly. Not coldly. But with a deliberateness that feels like restraint rather than retreat. The door closes behind him with the same soft click as the bathroom earlier, and somehow that feels worse than if it had slammed.
You eat lunch alone.
The food has gone lukewarm, but you barely notice. Your thoughts keep looping back to the way his voice had changed when he stopped being your co-worker for just a second. The way he’d stepped back when you asked for space, as if forcing himself to remember which lines still mattered.
You tell yourself that’s a good thing.
It doesn’t stop your chest from feeling tight.
🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️
The next morning, the office feels different.
Not quieter. Not louder. Just… aware.
When you step in, conversations don’t stop, but they shift. A few glances linger a fraction too long. Someone from finance gives you a look that’s curious rather than friendly. HR smiles like they know something you don’t.
Minghao is already there.
Of course he is.
He doesn’t look at you right away. He’s standing near the conference room, sleeves rolled up, speaking calmly to two board members. Professional. Composed. Untouchable.
You take your seat and open your laptop, telling yourself this is fine. That last night was handled. That boundaries were re-established.
At 9:12, a calendar notification pops up.
Private Check-In — Minghao Xu
Your stomach drops.
You don’t look up. You don’t accept it yet.
At 9:13, a message comes through.
Minghao: this is work-related
Minghao: please don’t overthink it
You almost laugh at that.
You accept.
The meeting room smells faintly like coffee and glass cleaner. He’s already seated when you walk in, posture straight, hands folded. He gestures for you to sit, then closes the door himself.
“Before we start,” he says, voice neutral, “I want to be clear about something.”
You brace.
“Yesterday should not have happened the way it did,” he continues. “I crossed a professional boundary.”
Your fingers curl slightly against your notebook.
“I won’t do that again,” he says firmly. “And I won’t allow it to affect your position here.”
That’s not what you expected.
“And?” you ask quietly.
“And,” he adds, softer now, “I won’t pretend I don’t care. But I will respect what you asked for.”
You look up at him then.
For a moment, the air shifts, charged, suspended.
“This check-in,” he says, pushing a document toward you, “is about a project allocation. Nothing else.”
You nod. Professional. Logical. Safe.
But when the meeting ends and you stand to leave, he speaks again.
“Y/n.”
You pause.
“If there ever comes a point,” he says carefully, choosing every word, “where you don’t need time anymore… I’d rather you tell me than disappear.”
It’s not a confession.
But it’s close enough that your breath catches.
“I will,” you say.
You mean it.
By Friday, the office has adjusted, but not forgotten.
You’re moved to a higher-visibility project. Officially because of performance. Unofficially, it feels like scrutiny. Minghao is stricter with you than before. Shorter emails. Fewer check-ins. He never stands too close.
And somehow, that hurts more than the tension ever did.
Until late one evening, when you’re both still there.
The office is mostly empty. City lights bleed through the windows. You’re packing up when you notice him watching you, not intensely, not openly. Just… quietly.
“You’re leaving early,” he says.
“It’s past nine,” you reply.
A beat.
“I meant compared to you,” he says, then catches himself. “I’ll lock up.”
You hesitate, then ask, “Are we okay?”
He considers the question longer than necessary.
“We’re being careful,” he says. “That’s not the same thing as okay.”
You nod.
As you walk away, he speaks again, so quietly you almost miss it.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, “this is the hardest thing I’ve done here.”
You don’t turn around.
It happens on a night that was never supposed to matter.
The building is nearly empty, lights dimmed automatically row by row as people leave. You’re still at your desk, staring at a file that stopped making sense twenty minutes ago. Your eyes burn. Your shoulders ache.
“You’re still here.”
You don’t need to look up to know it’s him.
“I could say the same,” you reply, closing your laptop with a soft click.
Minghao stands a few feet away, jacket draped over his arm, tie loosened. Tired, but composed. Always composed.
“You did well today,” he says, like it’s an afterthought.
“Thank you.”
Silence.
The kind that presses rather than stretches.
“You should go home,” he adds.
“So should you.”
He exhales, a small, humorless breath. “I can’t.”
That makes you look at him.
There’s something different in his expression, less guarded, more exposed. Like the careful balance he’s been maintaining all week is finally tipping.
“Minghao,” you say quietly, “what are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he moves closer, not invading your space, but close enough that you feel the heat of him. He stops himself there. You can tell it takes effort.
“I’ve been trying to do this right,” he says. “Every version of right I know.”
“And?”
“And I’m failing,” he admits, voice low. Honest. “Because every time you walk into a room, I have to remind myself what I’m not allowed to want.”
Your breath catches.
“That’s not fair,” you say. “You don’t get to say that and expect me to pretend I don’t feel it too.”
His jaw tightens. “Then tell me to stop.”
You don’t.
That’s the answer.
He reaches out, hesitates, and then drops his hand, fists clenching at his side.
“Last chance,” he murmurs. “If we cross this, it changes things.”
“I know.”
The space between you collapses.
It’s not rushed. Not frantic. It’s deliberate, his hand finding your wrist, grounding rather than claiming, giving you time to pull away. You don’t.
When he kisses you, it’s restrained, almost careful, like he’s holding back more than he’s allowing. Your fingers curl into his sleeve, the fabric warm beneath your touch, anchoring him there.
He pulls back first, forehead resting against yours, breath uneven.
“This doesn’t stay a secret forever,” he says. “And it doesn’t stay easy.”
“I don’t want easy,” you whisper. “I want honest.”
That does it.
His control finally slips, not completely, but enough. His hand cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek like it’s something precious. The second kiss is deeper, slower, heavy with everything unsaid.
When he steps back, it feels like gravity snapping back into place.
“We stop here,” he says, firm again. “For tonight.”
You nod, even though every part of you protests.
He opens the door for you, professional to the last second, but when you pass him, he leans in just enough to say.
“Go home safe.”
And you know, this is no longer something you can un-feel.
Note from author: I was overthinking this post, because in a very 'me' nature, I turned something that could have been my intro to smut into an angsty post. But you know what? Hell yeah, I ate with it as well, because I LIVE, BREATH AND LOVE ANGST. So enjoy girlie pops♥️
Summary: What is it like to have Mingyu as your situationship. Idol/Non-idol relationship
Warnings: None, just my delusions 🤟🏻
Having Mingyu as your situationship was like walking barefoot over hot coals in the middle of winter. The first step felt almost comforting, warm, grounding, necessary, but the longer you stood there, the more you burned, until the cold crept back in and you realized you had nowhere safe to step off.
That was exactly how it felt the night you locked eyes with Mingyu in the club.
You knew who he was immediately. It was impossible not to. You had passed two of his billboards on the way there, his face larger than life, staring down at you like some quiet omen. And you? You were a nobody. At least, not someone who was supposed to be standing in the same room as him.
He moved smoothly, so smoothly that you didn’t even notice when he made his way toward your section. One second you were laughing with friends, the next he was there, close, familiar, like he had always belonged beside you. Small talk turned into nothing talk, then into his hand lazily draped around your waist as he leaned in to ask stupid questions directly into your ear. Questions that didn’t matter, asked only as an excuse to stay close.
Hours melted together. Drinks stacked. The club lights blurred.
And suddenly, you were gripping the headboard of his expensive bed, the city humming somewhere far below, while he was grunting your name into your ear like it was already his to say.
Having Mingyu as your situationship meant your apartment slowly stopped feeling like home. Nights at his place doubled, tripled, until you were only going back to yours to grab clothes you’d fold haphazardly into a bag before rushing back to him. His apartment began to reflect you in small, quiet ways, two identical mugs left on the counter most mornings, coffee rings dried into the stone while you showered together. Your keys forgotten in the bowl by the door, mixed in with his. A phone charger permanently plugged in on the side of the bed you always took, even though you fell asleep naked every night, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady enough to convince you, just for a moment, that this was safe.
But having Mingyu as your situationship was never just sparkles and soft mornings.
Sometimes it was ugly. Sharp. Lonely.
There were nights it hit you all at once, that to the world, and maybe to him, you were just another girl. When your messages stayed on delivered for days. When you eventually gave in, showing up at his door anyway, pride abandoned somewhere on the sidewalk. When you had to scroll past endless video edits of him with other women, faces too close to his, smiles too familiar. When you had to swallow the truth and tell no one whose bed you were in, or how his arms felt around you in the dark.
And then there was that Sunday.
The Sunday after the club.
He sat you down, careful and deliberate, like he was reading from a script he didn’t want to memorize.
“I want to make it very clear,” he said, eyes fixed on yours, almost searching for something, hope, maybe regret. “I’m not looking for a relationship. Like… not at all.”
“Okay,” you said calmly, lifting your glass of water to your lips.
“Okay?” he repeated, uncertain.
“I hear you, Mingyu. I’m not here to beg you for a relationship just because we slept together,” you replied with a dry, practiced laugh.
That was your first lie.
Having Mingyu as your situationship meant learning how to lie by default. Not loudly, quietly. To protect yourself.
You lied when he said he was going out and couldn’t see you, telling him you were fine while your heart sat lodged in your throat the entire night, replaying possibilities you didn’t want answers to. You lied when you ran into him unexpectedly at a store opening, and he acted like he didn’t know you, smiling politely like a stranger. You told him it didn’t bother you, even though it shrank you down to something forgettable.
“You’re mad,” Mingyu said one night, fingers absentmindedly threading through your hair.
“I have no reason to be mad,” you replied, eyes glued to the TV.
“Y/n…” he sighed, and you didn’t even need to look at him to picture that lazy smile. “If you have no reason to be, then why are you?”
You didn’t answer. Because some truths didn’t have safe places to land.
Having Mingyu as your situationship also meant never really knowing his side of the story. You only knew what he gave you, and Mingyu was very good at keeping his feelings tucked away whenever they felt like an inconvenience.
By the second week, he found himself craving your presence. It took him three more weeks to realize it wasn’t just the intimacy he missed.
It crept up on him unexpectedly, when he drove past your office building on the way to a recording, the tall glass structure reflecting the sky while he knew you were somewhere inside. When he drank his afternoon coffee and couldn’t text you to come over, to sit in his lap the way you did on weekends and talk about absolutely nothing.
When he sat at dinner with the members and their partners, and suddenly wished he could turn to his left and see your gummy smile there, stealing food off his plate.
And when he wrote love songs.
That was the worst part.
Because no matter how hard he tried to keep his feelings in line, he couldn’t stop thinking about you, and you never even knew he was fighting that battle at all.
Note from author: Hello, my loves, I have gotten quite a few messages regarding a prompts list for my open requests, and I thought it would be fun to make a short list with a few prompts that I have gathered from different books, other stories, and TikToks 👀.
I gave a few pointers regarding how I would use these prompts, story wise.
Groups/People that I am open to writing for:
🎞️ BTS
🎞️ SEVENTEEN
🎞️ ATEEZ
🎞️ P1HARMONY
🎞️ GOT7
🎞️ KHH Artists
🎞️ EXO
🎞️ NCT
Warnings: These prompts are not mine, I have gathered them from the internet/books, and I do not take credit for the prompts themselves.🫶🏻
🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽
PROMPTS:
Every version of my future includes you. (angst/fluff)
I’d go through all the pain and failed relationships again if I knew you were at the end. (angst/big time yearn)
My spirit felt your gravity before my bones could understand the pull. (angst/piece of life)
The thought of you never collects dust. (impossible love/idol au)
In every lifetime, I have chosen you. (angst/fluff)
My soul ached for you, even before I met you. (angst/idol au)
Your presence rewrites the way my heart beats. (fluff/piece of life)
I only notice the seasons change from the clothes you wear. (fluff/piece of life)
I believe that if I were to die, and you were to walk near my grave, from the very depths of the earth, I would hear your footsteps. (angst/impossible love)
You live in the quiet corners of my mind, where even silence remembers your name. (idol au/angst)
My world is colored by the spectrum of your existence. (fluff/piece of life)
You don’t realize it, but I measure time by you now: before you, after you and everything I never knew I needed, in between. (idol au/fluff)
My soul craves the memories we have yet to create. (yearning/ impossible love/ idol au)
The deeper I fell, the more I wanted to treat your heart as if it were my own. (angst/impossible love)
I look at you, and I’m home. (fluff/piece of life)
You’re in my dreams, that’s why I sleep all the time. (yearning)
I will love you till the oceans run dry. (angst/fluff)
The moon is beautiful, isn’t it? (impossible love)
You make me feel like myself. (fluff)
In the future, if by some miracle you ever find yourself in the position to fall in love again, fall in love with me. (angst/piece of life/impossible love)
Break my heart, break my heart a thousand times if you like, it was only yours to break anyway. (angst/idol au/fluff)
I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. (fluff/idol au)
Whatever our souls are made of, hers and mine are the same. (angst/yearning/ idol au)
My heart is yours, please never give it back to me. (angst/fluff)
I could watch you watching paint dry, and I still wouldn’t be bored. (fluff/idol au)
Come home and shout at me. Come home and fight me. Come home and break my heart if you must. Just come home. (angst/piece of life)
She is half of my soul, as the poets say. (angst/drama)
I want to be the friend you fall hopelessly in love with. (angst)
I’m not a religious person, but sometimes I think God made you for me. (fluff)
There is my heart, and then there is you, and I’m not sure there is a difference. (angst/yearning/piece of life)
Note from author: Oh, woowww, another angsty/argument-related post??? 👀👀👀 Who would have thought???
On a more serious note, thank you babes for keeping up with me, I know that for the past few months I have been extremly bad at posting, but I am trying to get back to it, because I love it. Hope you will enjoy this one as much as I enjoyed writing it.♥️♥️
Summary: Hyung Line having an argument with you before the concert. And yes, it is always their fault because the girlies are always right 🫰🏻
Warnings: None, just my delusions 🤟🏻
1️⃣ S.Coups:
You and Cheol fought like every couple, but you two always managed to add a little extra heat. The slammed calls, the texts sharper than they needed to be, tiny sparks that sometimes lit up into something bigger when nerves were high.
Now he was backstage, minutes from opening night. The hum of the crowd pressed against the walls like a heartbeat. He’d done this a hundred times, but tonight the argument sat heavily on his shoulders. He’d called you ten times in the last two hours. No answer. Location off. His thoughts ran in tight circles.
A tech clipped the last cable into his in-ear pack. Out of the corner of his eye, movement. He turned, and there you were, leaning against a metal pillar, arms crossed, watching him.
“Babe…” It came out small, like he’d set it carefully on the floor.
You pushed off the pillar with a sigh that carried the whole fight and set it down between you. “Hey, petty boy.”
He almost smiled. Almost. The staff tried to gather his cables as he stepped toward you, dragging two of them like confused ducklings.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, voice low, eyes searching your face like it might vanish.
“I know,” you said softly, hand lifting to touch his cheek before you caught yourself. “You have to go.”
“I didn’t mean what I said,” he blurted. “Not like that. I was…tired. And scared. And then you hung up and…”
“You hung up first,” you said, but there was no venom in it. Just the fact of it.
His mouth twisted. “Right. I did. I panicked. I hate when you’re not here.”
“I turned my location off because I needed a minute,” you said. “Not because I was disappearing.”
He nodded too fast. “I know. I know now. I just…God, I spiralled. I kept thinking you were out there upset, and I put you there and…”
A stagehand waved from the wings, two minutes.
You put your palm flat on his chest. Felt his heart kick. “Cheol.”
He stilled.
“We’re not perfect,” you said. “But I’m here. I came.”
He swallowed. “Can we talk after? Really talk? Not…across a battlefield.”
“Yes,” you said. “After. No phones. No dramatic exits.”
A breath of a laugh broke out of him, surprised and grateful. “Deal.”
Another wave, one minute.
He leaned in, forehead touching yours. “I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter, like the apology belonged right between you and nowhere else.
“I know,” you repeated, and this time you let your hand find his jaw, thumb warm against the edge of his in-ear wire. “I’m mad, and I love you. Both can be true.”
His eyes softened. “I love you. I never doubt that part. I just…sometimes I don’t know how to hold it without squeezing too hard.”
“Then don’t squeeze,” you said. “Just hold.”
He let out a breath. The noise of the crowd swelled, a wave rolling toward shore.
“Go,” you said, giving his chest a gentle push. “Go do what you do. I’ll be right here when you come off.”
2️⃣ Jeonghan:
Ah, yes, petty fights if you’ve ever seen one. Not the door-slamming, plate-shattering kind with this one. Worse. The kind where he goes quiet. He doesn’t raise his voice, he just withdraws, face smooth as glass, and starves you of words until your own start curdling in your throat. And the worst part? He’s not blameless. He knows it. You know it. You’d spent the afternoon chasing him from room to room like a shadow begging its owner to turn around. Five hours ago, you finally gave up, snatched your keys, and walked out before you said something you couldn’t unsay.
Now, backstage, Jeonghan realizes he may have engineered his own undoing.
He’s a man of ritual and superstition. Every show, the same three things, exactly three sips of warm water; shoulder rolls, two forward, four back, and a text from you that reads, without fail, “I love you, you are the best.” Four years of concerts, and not one has started without that message.
Tonight, the cup is there. The shoulders roll. But his phone stays silent.
“Jeonghan, I’m telling you again,” his manager says, palm flat to his chest, stopping him mid-step. “You can’t go off now. You’re on in five.”
“Please,” Jeonghan says, trying to keep his voice even and failing. “I know she’s here. Just two minutes. I need to find her.”
“She’s not,” the manager replies, already glancing at the clock. “I checked the guest list twice. She didn’t check in. Shoes on. Now.”
Jeonghan exhales, the sound short and sharp. He swallows his third sip of water like it’s a dare, shoves his feet into his shoes, and snatches a mic from a staff member with a muttered “Thanks.”
On the lift, lights humming underneath, the arena thundering above like weather, he stares at the metal grate as if it might blink first.
“Stage face.” Joshua says lightly, squeezing the space between Jeonghan’s shoulder blades. “Whatever it is, park it for three hours.”
“I am really not in the mood for motivational speeches, man…,” Jeonghan mutters, not looking up.
The lift rises. The roar swells. The first note hits, and habit takes the wheel. Jeonghan smiles on cue, sings on pitch, moves cleanly through the choreography, but he’s moving through fog. The crowd is a blur of lightsticks and glittered signs. He hits mark after mark like the floor is telling him where to go.
Three songs in, “Rock with You” crackles in his ear, and the left catwalk calls him like it always does. He goes, feet finding the rhythm his heart can’t. He makes himself look, really look, into the crowd, scanning faces and posters and hands.
And there you are.
You’re pressed against the barrier with your best friend clinging to your elbow, hair a little messy like you ran here, eyes bright and stubborn. You’re jumping to be seen, a poster rattling in your grip. The letters are crooked, the marker is too light in places as if the ink gave up halfway through, and the message is ridiculous and perfect: “I love you, you are the best.”
His mouth opens on a silent laugh. His shoulders, rigid for hours, loosen like a knot finally working free. He stops dead on the catwalk, and for a split second, the world funnels down to you and a sign that was clearly made ten minutes ago on a piece of poster board stolen from someone’s convenience store.
Your eyes catch his, and the annoyance you’ve been feeding all evening dies without ceremony. He doesn’t need the text. He’s reading it twelve feet away.
He mouths, slow enough for you to catch it, ‘I love you more.’
3️⃣ Joshua:
Joshua wasn’t the kind of guy who yelled. Even when you were wrong, and he knew you knew it, he didn’t raise his voice. He just… left. Not with his feet. With his eyes. The room would still hold his body, but he’d be gone, somewhere colder, somewhere you couldn’t reach. That was the worst part of fighting with Joshua, the way his quiet could make you feel like the smallest person on the planet. And he knew it.
Two days since the stupid argument, two days of clipped texts and swallowed words, and the scene kept looping in his head as he sat under the bright bulbs of the makeup mirror. The artist dabbed eyeshadow along his lids, he barely blinked.
“With or without?” someone asked behind him.
“Huh?” Joshua snapped back to the room, blinking at his reflection.
“With or without the glasses,” Hoshi said louder, pointing at the sunglasses perched on Joshua’s head like a second thought.
“It’s pitch black outside,” Joshua muttered, twisting in his chair. “Why on earth would I wear sunglasses?”
“Goddamn, you still got your panties in a bunch?” Cheol drawled from the next chair, eyes never leaving his own mirror. He adjusted his in-ear monitors like they’d personally offended him.
“I’m fine,” Joshua said, too quickly.
“Mhm.” Cheol went back to smoothing a flyaway strand, the unimpressed kind of “mhm” that meant he didn’t believe a word.
The room kept moving without Joshua. Stylists darted past with lint rollers and garment bags, a stagehand counted down minutes in a steady, rising voice. Someone laughed too loud by the door. He tried to care about the set list, the timing, the blocking, but his mind kept snagging on the last thing he’d said to you, and the way your face had fallen right before you shut the door.
Forty minutes later, the real countdown started echoing through the hallways. Joshua stood, suddenly all fingers and panic. His shirt, for reasons known only to the shirt, refused to cooperate.
“I swear to God, if this…” He yanked the hem, careful and not careful all at once. The collar snagged his mic wire. “…stupid shirt…”
He wrestled it over his head and felt his carefully shellacked hairstyle protest. A warm hand landed lightly on his bicep.
“Stop,” you said.
He froze. When he lowered the shirt, you were right there. No mascara tracks, no storm left in your eyes, just a soft focus he hadn’t earned yet. You didn’t meet his gaze. You adjusted the mic pack, unfastened the top button with steady fingers, then slid the shirt over his shoulders so it didn’t disturb a single gelled strand.
“There,” you murmured, smoothing the fabric over his chest with a tight-lipped smile “, See you after the show.”
You turned on your heel, already leaving, already taking air with you. Two days of radio silence clawed at Joshua’s throat. He moved before his brain could talk him out of it, slipping into step beside you as staff scrambled around, calling cues and carrying headsets like life preservers.
“I’m sorry,” he said, breath catching as someone clipped his transmitter in place.
You didn’t slow. “I’m sorry too.”
“I was dumb.” Hands swept over him, powder here, tape there, and still he kept his eyes on you. “I hate it when I get like that. I know I… leave.”
“You don’t leave,” you said, finally glancing at him. “You vanish while standing right in front of me. It hurts.”
“I know.” He swallowed.
A stage manager hustled by, counting down, “Three minutes! Three!”, and then someone tugged at Joshua’s waistband to hide a wire. He caught your hand before it fell back to your side and held it, quick and secret.
He exhaled, the closest thing to relief he’d felt in forty-eight hours. “I love you,” he whispered, the words almost lost under the thud of bass through the floor.
“I love you too.” You gave him a tiny, conspiratorial wink, as if it were a shared joke that love could be this loud and this delicate at once.
“Final checks!” someone called. A makeup artist floated in with a sponge, reaching for his mouth.
“Wait,” Joshua said, catching the artist’s wrist with a gentle apology in his eyes. He turned back to you, cupped your face like he could anchor himself to something softer than adrenaline, and kissed you. Not a timid hallway peck, something sure and grounding.
He let you go, just far enough. He nodded to the makeup artist. “Okay. Now I’m ready.”
4️⃣ Jun:
“I need to take your phone, Jun.”
His manager’s hand was already outstretched, steady and impatient, waiting for him to drop it before stepping onto the stage.
Jun stared at the screen a second longer than he should have. Letting go felt harder than it usually did, harder than it ever had, especially when he still hadn’t heard from you. In a few seconds, he’d be logged off from the world for over four hours, cut off completely, and the silence scared him more than the crowd ever could.
You were usually backstage by now. A quick kiss for luck, a quiet smile just for him, a few painfully unfunny jokes shared with the others. Familiar things. Comforting things.
But tonight, you weren’t there. And worse, he didn’t even know when he’d see you next, not with the way the coming weeks were packed.
He knew how this looked. He knew he messed up.
It wasn’t intentional, not really. He’d landed hours earlier than planned and thought, stupidly, that he could surprise you. One good moment carved out of a chaotic schedule. But idol life didn’t leave room for nice plans. What was supposed to be an early return to Seoul for a last-minute podcast recording turned into you discovering, through the internet, of all things, that your boyfriend had lied about when he was coming home.
That was the part that hurt the most. Not the lie itself, but the way you found out.
And Jun knew better than anyone how much you hated that.
“I am so screwed,” he muttered as the stage elevator doors slid shut behind them.
“Could’ve been worse,” Minghao replied calmly.
Jun let out a helpless breath and leaned back against the metal rail. “She’s not even gonna talk to me after this,” he said. “It’s so fucking stupid.” His eyes fell shut like that might make it disappear.
“All you’re doing right now is making it worse,” Minghao said, eyes still on the script in his hands. “Your mood isn’t gonna magically fix itself like this. And you’ve still got a whole concert to get through.”
“I know, but it feels like I made her think I don’t care,” Jun said quietly, fingers fidgeting with the mic. “Do you know how much it hurt when I called her after filming and it went straight to voicemail?” His voice wavered despite himself. “Or when I got here and the driver told me she refused the pickup and told them to leave without her?”
For the first time, Minghao glanced up at him. “Apologize later,” he said simply. “Focus now.”
The elevator jolted, began its ascent, and suddenly the arena exploded, screams, light, sound crashing over him all at once. The world demanded everything from him, whether he was ready or not.
Time stretched painfully thin. Each song dragged, each transition felt heavier than the last. It was like the universe knew exactly what he was waiting for and decided to be cruel about it.
When the concert finally ended, Jun had never moved faster in his life.
He grabbed his phone the second he was allowed to, heart pounding as he unlocked it. Part of him expected the notification bar to be empty, just like when he’d left it hours ago. No messages. No calls. Nothing.
The other part of him, stupidly hopeful, prayed for anything.
His breath caught when he saw it.
A video.
From you.
It was a short clip of him onstage earlier, lights blazing behind him, a small pink heart added in the corner. His chest tightened so hard it almost hurt. He didn’t think, he just called you immediately.
It rang twice.
“Hello?” Your voice cut through the backstage noise, soft and familiar, and it nearly broke him.
“I’m so sorry,” Jun rushed out. “Y/n, I swear I’m the stupidest person on the planet, I’m so sorry, I can’t even…”
“Hey. Hey,” you interrupted gently, firm in that way you always were. “Breathe. You’re tripping over your own words.”
“I’m sorry, babe,” he said, resting his forehead against the cold, damp wall. “I thought I could surprise you, pick you up after filming. Everything ran over schedule, and I couldn’t get to you. I should’ve told you.”
“It was stupid,” you said quietly.
The silence that followed pressed down on him, heavy and unmistakable.
“I know,” he whispered, fingers tightening around his phone. “I’m really sorry. I wish I’d told you. Thank you for coming. I really wanted to see you.”
“I left early,” you said. He could hear the TV murmuring in the background. “Didn’t want to get stuck in traffic.”
“I really thought you wouldn’t,” he admitted.
There was a pause, then your voice softened.
“Come home, Jun.”
The tension in his chest finally loosened, warmth flooding in like relief he hadn’t dared to expect.
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” he said with a deep, shaky sigh.
5️⃣ Hoshi:
“If it’s so freaking stupid, then why did you even come?”
Hoshi’s voice slices through the waiting room, sharp enough to make the air stand still.
You’re sitting on one of those stiff wooden chairs, laptop open on your knees, the click-clack of backstage chaos muted now that the room has gone quiet. Hoshi stands by the door, already half in his sound-check outfit, hand gripping the handle like he’s holding himself back from saying more.
“Babe…” you whisper, pushing yourself up from the chair.
“No. Don’t ‘babe’ me.” His jaw tightens as he pulls the thin door halfway open. “I have a concert to finish. This is my job, Y/N.”
“I know,” you say, softer than intended, but he’s already put three long strides and a wall between you.
“No, you clearly don’t.” He lets out a dry laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be doing my head in about how annoying it is that you have to sit in ‘stupid random rooms’ while I’m freezing my ass off on stage.”
He doesn’t wait for your reply. He slips out, letting the door close behind him, taking every bit of warmth with him.
You blink, and suddenly the argument feels like it had exploded out of nowhere. Twenty minutes ago you were just venting, complaining about how your degree is eating every spare second and how you’re stuck studying anywhere you can. You weren’t attacking him. You were tired and overwhelmed, and he was the one person you thought you could unload on.
But you hadn’t read the room.
You knew he was stressed today, that’s why you’d come early, laptop and textbooks in tow. What you didn’t account for was how sensitive Soonyoung becomes when he’s anxious about a performance. One stray spark, and everything went up in flames.
Three hours pass before you admit he isn’t coming back. Not between rehearsals. Not between sets. Not even just to peek in. So you gather your things and slip out quietly to find a better spot before the concert starts.
Meanwhile, thirty minutes later, Hoshi finally comes back to his senses. He returns expecting you there, hunched over your laptop, hair falling in your face, looking up at him with that soft smile you always give him, even when you’re exhausted.
Instead, he finds an empty room.
An empty chair.
An empty space where you should be.
His stomach drops straight to the floor.
He realizes, fully and painfully, that he snapped at you for nothing. The epiphany had already hit halfway through sound check, but now the guilt settles in like ice. And if performing a four-hour show is hard while stressed, try doing it with a knot of shame sitting permanently in your throat.
Hoshi scans the crowd at least fifteen times during the concert. He double-checks the VIP box so often the cameras probably think he’s doing a bit. Each time he doesn’t find even the tiniest glimpse of you, another crack forms in his chest.
By the time the final encore ends and he steps off the backstage elevator, he’s running on autopilot. Sweat clings to him, clothes sticking to chilled skin. His heart is hammering, not from the choreography, but from dread.
The moment he pushes through the rolling door into the main hallway, his thoughts are racing at a hundred kilometers per hour, until his eyes land on you.
You’re standing there with his mother, laughing over something on your phone, face lit up with the kind of smile he’d convinced himself he’d ruined for the night.
“Thank God,” he breathes, barely audible, before he breaks into a full jog.
You don’t even have time to look up. Suddenly, you’re wrapped in a tight, sweaty embrace, pulled flush against him as he buries his face on top of your head.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, voice cracking, kissing your hair again and again, quick, frantic, apologetic. “I was so rude. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Babe, we’re okay,” you mumble into his chest, voice muffled by his damp shirt.
“Where were you?” he asks, loosening the hug just enough to see you but not enough to actually let go.
“I was in the box with your parents.” You cup his freezing cheeks with your warm hands. “God, Soonyoung, you’re ice cold.”
“You almost gave me a heart attack,” he says dramatically, lower lip jutting out. “I thought I’d died of a broken heart.”
“Actually,” you start, reaching for your phone, “my resident doctor said that’s…”
“Just shut up, idiot,” he laughs, lifting your chin with one cold hand and kissing you before you can finish.
6️⃣ Wonwoo:
You and Wonwoo had always fought the same way, your temper flaring fast and loud, his patience trying to match your pace, always half a step behind. It usually ended with you going quiet, a self-imposed silence you stretched for as long as you could manage. You knew it was childish. You knew it bordered on unfair. Sometimes it even left you wondering if you asked too much of his patience, if taking up that much emotional space made you difficult to love.
But this time, this time, it really was his fault. And you were allowed to be mad.
It was 7 p.m., halfway through their Seoul concert, and you were seated in the VIP box with family members and a few partners of the other members. The bass thumped through the stadium, the cheers rising and falling like waves, but you barely registered any of it. You stayed rooted to your chair, jaw tight, tongue pressing firmly into the inside of your cheek as if holding everything back physically might keep you from unravelling emotionally.
Two hours earlier, Wonwoo had said it, that he found it a bit pathetic that you still got so nervous. After all these years together, after countless shared meals and backstage hellos with the other girlfriends, you still hovered near him, still needed his presence as an anchor. You knew his words hadn’t come from malice. His intentions were clumsy, not cruel. But stress turned him blunt to the point of carelessness, and you had taken the full impact of that, again.
Across the stadium, Wonwoo stood under blinding lights, smiling wide as he moved in sync with the rest of the members. To anyone watching, he looked carefree, electric, fully in his element. But even as he laughed into the mic, he knew what waited for him once the music stopped. An apology. One he owed you badly.
“Why are you looking like that?” Cheol murmured through a smile, leaning in close enough that the audience wouldn’t notice.
“Not the moment,” Wonwoo muttered back, careful with his lips. He was painfully aware of the hundreds, maybe thousands, of eyes on them.
“Then stop acting like something’s wrong,” Cheol replied, patting his back before dancing off to the other side of the stage like nothing had happened.
By the time they reached their final goodbye, you weren’t in the VIP box anymore. You were backstage now, standing beside his dad and brother, bouquet in hand as tradition dictated. Your chest felt tight, like anticipation and frustration were tangled together somewhere beneath your ribs.
Less than five minutes later, he appeared.
Sweat clung to him, his hair falling messily onto his forehead, glasses slightly fogged from the sudden shift in temperature. He looked exactly like he always did after a show, exhausted, glowing, adrenaline still humming under his skin.
You expected the routine. A hug for his dad. Mingyu bursting in with a loud joke. A long, solid embrace with his brother. And then you, a quick kiss, familiar and grounding.
But he changed direction at the last second.
Before you could even process it, his arms were around your torso, still moving forward, making you stumble back a step or two with him. He looked down at you, eyes soft, almost apologetic, the kind of look you knew too well.
“I was rude,” he said quietly.
You scoffed under your breath. “Oh. So now you’re self-aware?”
“Stress got the best of me,” he replied, calm, steady. No defensiveness this time.
“Not an excuse,” you shot back, arms still hanging stiffly at your sides.
“I know.” His voice softened further. “But you know I love having you around. I call you when I’m at the grocery store, even when you’re literally waiting for me in bed.” He laughed shyly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Y/N. That was really dumb of me to say.”
He reached up, gently brushing your bangs behind your ear, his touch tentative, as if he was giving you room to pull away.
“I’ll have to think about it,” you said, even as you felt the walls you’d built starting to crumble, piece by piece.
“Come on,” he murmured, dipping his head slightly until his nose brushed yours. “I missed you.”
“That’s not fair,” you whispered, a lazy smile betraying you as his breath warmed your lips. “You’re not playing fair.”
“Mmm,” was all he answered before his lips finally met yours, slow, apologetic, and familiar. You tasted salt from his sweat, warmth from his skin, and the last traces of the pettiness that had filled the space between you just hours ago, dissolving completely.
7️⃣ Woozi:
Two stubborn people with matching egos and a tendency to misfire in communication are a recipe for unnecessary tension. Anyone who’s seen you and Woozi argue would say the same: it starts small, escalates fast, and somehow lasts way longer than it ever needed to.
Woozi has always been the type who can feel an argument brewing before you even open your mouth, someone who already knows the solution before the problem fully forms. He loves you with a kind of quiet certainty that threads through every part of his life.
But the past two weeks had stretched both of you thin. Him on tour across three time zones, you flying out for a conference, barely catching each other awake. Silence settled where the comfort used to be. And then that Dispatch article, him at dinner with a female co-star, which he had mentioned in passing, but you hadn’t truly heard because you were both exhausted. You blocked him in a moment of pride and irritation, and by the time he tried reaching out, he didn’t have the energy to push harder. Not then. Not while performing, traveling, barely sleeping.
Now it was the night of their encore show in Seoul. He knew you’d flown home last night, he saw the ring camera notification light up, and it gnawed at him that you still hadn’t unblocked him. He’d tried twice today to stop by your apartment, but both times, you weren’t home. The not knowing was eating him alive.
“If it makes you feel better…” Dino says around a mouthful of egg sandwich, “my girlfriend tried calling her too. Went straight to voicemail.”
“Yeah, she turned her phone off,” Woozi mutters, exhaling hard as he scrolls through Instagram without really seeing anything.
“I think this is the longest I’ve seen you two go without talking,” Joshua adds, sliding behind him and squeezing his shoulders in sympathy.
“Petty ass fight,” Woozi mumbles, eyes glued to his screen as if he stared long enough, you’d appear.
“Petty ass fight?”
Your voice cuts clean through the room. The whole group freezes, and Jihoon’s head snaps around so fast it looks painful.
There you stand, cold from the outside, warmer from anger, looking directly at him. And he can’t decide if he wants to run to you or brace for an explosion.
“That’s what you tell them?” you continue, stepping inside the threshold of the dressing room. “That we’re fighting because of some petty argument? Not because you went to dinner with another woman while I was out of town?”
Silence folds over the room like a blanket no one asked for.
Jihoon swallows. Hard.
“Let’s not do this here,” he says quietly, quiet but firm, and heads toward the hallway. You follow, footsteps sharp against the concrete.
The makeshift corridor beneath the stage is freezing, and every breath you take comes out visible. Jihoon stands a few feet away, hands balled in his pockets, eyes never leaving you.
“I missed you,” he says softly.
“Why did you stop by my place?” Your voice wavers, but your stare doesn’t. “My neighbours saw you there. Twice.”
“You’re my girlfriend, for fuck’s sake, Y/N.” He lets out a humourless laugh. “You blocked me like we’re in high school.”
“You went out to dinner with another woman, and I had to learn about it through Dispatch.” You step closer, jabbing a finger into his chest once, sharp, accusing. “That makes me feel like you’re treating us like some high school fling.”
Jihoon inhales, eyes flicking down for a moment. He knows this is the worst possible moment, right before a concert, right after weeks apart. He also knows he loves you more than he loves being right.
So he does the one thing guaranteed to break the spiral.
“You’re embarrassing yourself right now,” he murmurs, not cruel, just honest, and he gently removes his hands from his pockets, reaching for your wrists. One by one, he lifts your hands and places them around his waist, holding them there. Holding you there.
The closeness steals the fight right out of the air. His eyes roam your face like he’s relearning it, and suddenly you feel both exposed and wrapped up in something warm.
“You know I’m in love with you,” he says, forehead dipping toward yours, voice barely more than breath. “So don’t second-guess it again.”
He presses a soft kiss onto your cold lips, lingering.
I know you had stated that request are open… I was wanting to send one in. However, I wanted to ask if there are things that you aren’t comfortable and interested in writing? I note that many people aren’t always comfortable in writing certain things, so I wanted to ask what yours were! I also want to respect your boundaries and make sure that you aren’t uncomfortable. :) I don’t think my request are bad but, as I said, I wanted to check in with you about that.
Have an amazing day!
That is so sweet of you to ask. 💕
To be fair, I am pretty open to any type of request, but I got to say that I am not that good at smut, so I think this is the only type of category that, as for now, I am not necessarily that keen on. But I will definitely expand my skills into that as well in the future.
As you know me, I LOVEEE a good angst, yearning, and anything that would give you that hole-in-your-heart type of vibe, but I am leaning into "piece of life," and fluff works nowadays as well.
I am open to pretty much everything, and I hope that I can expand my palate a bit more in the near future.
Note from author: Back on track with being consistent with my new ways of writing. Thank you for the love on the first one, you guys are AMAZING. Enjoy this one while our boy is serving the country.💕
Summary: Headcanons on what is would be like to have Hoshi as your supportive boyfriend.
Having Hoshi as your boyfriend means that once your Asia tour gets announced, you practically have to wrestle him to stop him from buying barricade tickets for your own concert in Seoul.
“Babe, you’re being irrational,” you say, massaging your cleanser over the heavy eye makeup you’d been dying to take off the entire ride home.
“Hey…” he calls back, soft but determined, raising his voice slightly so it can compete with the sound of the water hitting his back in the steamy shower. “Everyone already knows we’re dating. It’s not like anyone will faint from shock when I show up to support my girlfriend.” His words come out in a blur as shampoo slides down his face, making him blink furiously.
“We literally have a whole box section for family and friends,” you remind him, splashing water onto your face.
“Right. And I guess you’ll seat me with the people you don’t care about,” he mutters in a wounded, sarcastic tone before dramatically turning his back to you. You roll your eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossible and in love,” he counters, voice echoing smugly from the steam.
Having Hoshi as your boyfriend means he’s not only your loudest supporter, but also your loudest critic.
“You need to stop looking at yourself in the mirror,” he calls out from his chair in the back of the practice room, sounding like a disgruntled coach.
“What did I say about unnecessary comments?” you shoot back, not even glancing at him as you walk toward the speaker station.
“I’m literally looking at you. That’s plenty,” he says, completely serious. “Maybe try focusing on hitting the actual moves instead of checking if you look cute doing them.”
You inhale sharply. You want to snap back, God, you want to, but you know if you start, he won’t let it go until sunrise.
Instead, you mutter, “One day you’re going to get kicked for saying stuff like that.”
“And one day you’ll thank me for it,” he replies without missing a beat.
Having Hoshi as your boyfriend means you will never hear the end of it when you complain about a bad practice or a rough live performance. Because even though he knows you hate it, he is always the first to give a very smug, very predictable “I told you so.”
“It’s so fucking annoying,” you groan, your voice muffled as you settle into his lap. He’s holding your face between his palms, squishing your cheeks like he’s trying to physically keep your emotions from spilling everywhere.
“Hey… it’s over now,” he says, wiping the tears that spill anyway. “So why are we still thinking about it?”
“Because I messed up,” you sigh, frustrated.
“And?” He tilts your face up. “You’re human. You think I don’t mess up? I just hide it better.”
You snort. “You do not hide it better.”
He grins. “See? You’re laughing already.
Having Hoshi as your boyfriend means he’s at the concert venue with you seven hours before showtime, stretching with you out on cold practice mats, walking the empty arena with you, helping adjust your in-ears for pre-check like it's his own performance on the line.
“I’m so nervous. I feel like I might actually vomit,” you whisper as you walk hand in hand between the rows of seats in the massive, echoing arena.
“Everyone here is coming because they love you and your work,” he says, lifting your hand to his lips. “There’s nothing to be scared of. If anything, you should be proud, like, obnoxiously proud.”
You laugh weakly. “You’ll still love me if I throw up on stage?”
“Absolutely not,” he deadpans.
Having Hoshi as your boyfriend means that the moment the concert ends, you’re sprinting backstage, and he’s sprinting toward you too, his parents right behind him with a huge bouquet. You barely make it within twenty centimetres before he sweeps you off your feet in a crushing hug.
“I. AM. SO. PROUD. OF. YOU.” he shouts, each word punctuated with a kiss on your cheek, your forehead, your temple. “You were incredible. I was practically exploding with pride.”
He finally sets you down, but his arms stay locked around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“Did you see?” you say breathlessly, grinning so hard it hurts. “I didn’t look at myself once while dancing.”
“I know.” He pauses, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your face. “And it’s fine if you ever do. Because I didn’t take my eyes off you for a single second.”
Silence please, one of my favorite authors has risen from the ashes like a phoenix 🙂↔️🙂↔️🙂↔️ God, you're back, I missed you 🙏🏻 I don't want to sound intense (impossible) BUT I MISSED READING YOU SO MUCH PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ANYMORE **crying**. Seriously, how nice to have you back darling 💕✨️
Not me literally disappearing for another month after you sent this 👀👀👀.
But I am HERE NOWWW, I promise this time.
Thank you for all the love. I pinky swear that I am fully back on focusing myself on these works again, because tell me why I was trying to gaslight my OWN. goddamn self into thinking that I should step back from writing???!!
Yeah, freaking stupid, buttt, we live and we learn
Note from author: As I come back from a small retirement, I decided that I want to try to focus on more individual works for the upcoming time, as I feel that I need to do something different.
Hope you guys will enjoy it, please bear with me as I try a few different things as we move forward.
And for the first time ever, I have open request for any works. ♥️
Summary: Headcanons on what is would be like to have Seungcheol as your ex-boyfriend.
Having Seungcheol as your ex-boyfriend means having the fight of your life, the kind where, besides reckless words, a few objects from the room tend to take flight as well.
“Stop fucking screaming,” you say, pressing your trembling hands over your teary eyes.
The kitchen falls into dead silence. You lean against the edge of the wooden table, your legs tangled awkwardly around the uncomfortable chair.
Cheol sits across from you, slumped on the cold marble tiles. His back rests against the too-expensive kitchen cabinets, arms crossed tightly over his chest.
“I’m fucking screaming because you never understand me,” he fires back, his voice cracking midway. He pushes himself off the counter with too much force, the sound of a mug shattering against the floor following him as he storms out of the room.
Having Seungcheol as your ex-boyfriend means that, even though you’re definitely not on speaking terms, he’s still the one carrying every last box into your new apartment after you finally move out.
“Do you want me to put this here or in the bathroom?” he asks, his fingers gripping the white cardboard box stuffed with your hair tools.
“You can just leave it there,” you reply quietly, pointing toward the empty spot on the floor beside you as you sort through a stack of books.
He exhales sharply. “Yeah, bullshit,” he mutters under his breath. “You can’t carry this crap on your own.”
Before you can respond, he’s already walking off toward the bathroom, the box still in his hands.
Having Seungcheol as your ex-boyfriend means you have no private life. He never really ends it, not completely. Somehow, you’re still his.
Did you go on a date? He knows. Of course he does. He found out through a friend of a friend of the guy you went out with.
And best believe that when you finally get home, the first notification lighting up your phone isn’t from the guy who just dropped you off, it’s from Cheol. A paragraph, too long, too emotional, too raw, him pouring his heart out through the haze of one too
many drinks.
Having Seungcheol as your ex-boyfriend means he can be in his car at two in the morning, halfway to a meaningless hookup, trying to drown you out of his mind, but the second your name flashes on his screen, everything stops.
You sound small and scared. “I… I need your help,” you whisper, your voice muffled through the speaker.
He doesn’t even think. “I’m coming right now,” he says, already spinning the wheel in the middle of the road, the screech of tires and angry honks chasing after him as he speeds toward you.
Having Seungcheol as your ex-boyfriend means that you still wear one of his old gym t-shirts to bed, not because you can’t let go, but because it’s soft and familiar, and it still smells faintly like him when you bury your face in the fabric. It makes you feel safe in a way that nothing else has since.
Meanwhile, on the other side of town, he still slides into bed on the left side of the double queen, your side, leaving the other half untouched, just as it’s been for the last four months since you walked out. Your pink pillowcase is still there, a little faded now, your green water bottle still sits on the nightstand, half full, and the bracelet he gave you on your third anniversary rests quietly in the marble bowl, gathering dust but never forgotten.
Having Seungcheol as your ex-boyfriend means being haunted by a single question: how do you ever find someone who will love you that completely again? Someone who looked at you like you hung the stars, and yet, knowing deep down that even though he was the love of your life, he wasn’t ready for the kind of love that lets you breathe. He loved you fiercely, but not freely. He never learned that loving you also meant sharing you with the world.
But in all honesty I hope you are doing well and taking care of yourself! Also, I hope you’re being kind to yourself.
:) have an amazing day or night (whatever it is when you see this)
Awww thank you so much!! I know I said like 3 weeks ago that I am back, but life happens and to be honest I really needed a mental break.
But now I am fully back, already working on some new things. As for upcoming things, I am already working on leaning towards more individual member works, to change the pallet a little bit.
But thank you love. It always makes me feel extra special when I get messages of this kind😂😂💞
germansingergirl
yousharknotpass
kianamaiart
pixelskylines
theartofmadeline