syn: Being TWICE’s unofficial “most popular couple” was funny at first. But when one variety show sends public speculation spiraling out of control, management forces you and Momo apart on camera, and suddenly the distance hurts a lot more than the jealousy ever did.
tags: possessive!hirai momo x fem!reader, idol au, 10th member!reader, secret relationship, established relationship, protective momo, angst with happy ending, hurt comfort
taglist (join here): @racinghost @katsattorney @belzanita @catswag22 @micaluvssoccer @swiftieortega13 @lethal-minds @yournextdooralien @ro2w @plqnetputellas @katscopic @eliyrx @randomperson868 @mochi-nugs @urwavvy @sp1key0 @needmeganskiendiel @aoeiurgnmddk @ctrlamira
a/n: first time writing for twice, so i had to start with my bias ofc. much love xx
The livestream starts the way it always does—half-organized chaos, voices overlapping, someone off-camera arguing about snacks while the rest try to act like everything is under control. The camera settles into place in the living room, soft lighting washing over the couch where you and Momo are already sitting a little too comfortably together.
Just… naturally close in a way that doesn’t need explaining anymore.
Your shoulder is pressed against hers, knees occasionally bumping when either of you shifts. Momo greets the camera with her usual bright energy—smiling, waving, playing it up for fans—but her hand is already there, lightly hooked into your sleeve like it forgot it had somewhere else to be.
Because you’re busy reading the chat, leaning forward with an amused grin as messages fly in faster than anyone can properly read.
“Why are there so many comments about me today?” you say, squinting at the screen. Then you laugh under your breath. “Oh my god—this one says, ‘You’re literally the reason I opened this livestream.’”
A couple members off-camera react instantly—someone yells something about ego, another voice tells you not to encourage them—but you’re already grinning like you’ve been handed entertainment for free.
And then, without thinking too much about it, you lean into it.
“Guys,” you say, turning slightly toward the camera, hand pressed lightly to your chest like you’re being personally victimized by the attention. “You only watch these because I’m attractive, right?”
It takes about half a second for the chat to completely detonate.
Messages flood in so fast the moderation can’t keep up. Someone screams off-camera. Someone else laughs so hard they nearly fall over. The energy in the room spikes instantly, loud and unfiltered and very, very aware of what you just said.
You lean back into the couch, satisfied, eyes still scanning the chaos you created like it’s mildly amusing background noise.
Momo’s fingers tighten slightly around your sleeve.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But enough for you to register immediately.
You don’t look at her right away. Instead, you let the moment sit for a beat, watching her out of the corner of your eye.
She’s still smiling at the camera. Still playing her part. But something about her expression has shifted—just subtly enough that it’s almost easy to miss if you don’t know her. Her gaze keeps flicking back to you between reactions, like she’s trying to stay present in the livestream while also tracking everything you’re doing at the same time.
You tilt your head slightly, like you’re thinking.
“What?” you ask innocently.
Momo doesn’t look at you immediately. “What what?”
“You are,” you say, leaning in just a little more, voice softening into something teasing. “You’re, like… suspiciously quiet.”
That finally pulls her attention fully to you.
Momo turns her head slowly, eyes narrowing—not in anger, not really, but in that familiar way she gets when she knows exactly what you’re doing and hates that it’s working.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” she says flatly.
You blink like you’re offended. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
But before you can even finish the sentence properly, she shifts closer and tugs you into her side—casual on the surface, but firm enough that it cuts off any space you were trying to create for drama.
“No,” Momo adds, voice even, eyes back on the camera like nothing happened. “I’m not.”
Your smile widens immediately.
Behind you, one of the members makes a loud, unfiltered sound of disbelief.
Another voice yells, “YOU’RE SO OBVIOUS.”
Someone else starts laughing like they’re about to cry.
The chat is already clipping the moment in real time, captions forming instantly: MOMO JEALOUS? MOMO POSSESSIVE? MOMO VS EVERYONE?
You glance down at her hand still gripping your sleeve, then back up at her calm face.
This is going to be a problem.
And you are absolutely going to make it worse.
Backstage before a music show, everything feels like controlled chaos in the way it always does—stylists rushing in and out, outfit pieces hanging on racks, someone yelling for hairpins, someone else rehearsing steps in the corner even though the stage isn’t for another hour. It’s noisy, familiar, and completely normal for TWICE.
And right in the middle of it, you’re standing with Momo near the dressing table, half-listening to a conversation while scrolling through your phone like you don’t already know this is going to spiral.
Sana walks in first, already smiling like she’s holding onto information she’s been waiting all day to release. She doesn’t even bother easing into it.
“So,” Sana says casually, dropping her bag onto the couch. “Y/N got asked for her number earlier.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Just long enough for everyone’s brain to register what she said.
“What?” she says immediately.
It’s not loud, but it’s instant. Sharp. Too fast to be casual. Her head turns so quickly toward Sana that even the stylist behind her pauses mid-motion.
“Oh? Why do you sound surprised?”
Momo doesn’t even blink. “By who?”
That one word lands like a switch flipping.
Nayeon physically doubles over laughing, hands braced on her knees like she might collapse. Jeongyeon lets out a long, exhausted sigh like she’s been here too many times before and is no longer emotionally equipped to deal with it.
“This is why you can’t go anywhere,” Jeongyeon says flatly, pointing vaguely between you and Momo like she’s referencing an ongoing public safety issue.
Dahyun is already laughing into her phone, clearly recording something she’s not going to let die quietly. “No, no, keep going, I need this for later,” she says under her breath.
Chaeyoung is leaning against the wall, watching Momo like she’s observing a live documentary. “She didn’t even hesitate,” she mutters, impressed.
Tzuyu just shakes her head slowly, expression somewhere between amused and resigned.
Meanwhile, Momo is still staring at Sana, waiting for an answer she already hates.
Sana tilts her head. “Why? Are you worried?”
“I’m not worried,” Momo says immediately.
You can practically hear the lie.
You, on the other hand, are standing there watching all of this unfold like it’s entertainment you didn’t even have to pay for. You glance at Momo, then back at Sana, then very deliberately hum like you’re thinking about it.
“Oh yeah,” you say lightly. “He was cute.”
Momo turns to you so fast she nearly knocks into the makeup table.
“Who was cute?” she asks.
Your expression stays perfectly innocent. “The guy who asked.”
Sana makes a noise like she’s about to lose her mind. “Oh my god.”
Jeongyeon is openly laughing now. “Yeah, okay, she’s doing it on purpose.”
“I’m not doing anything,” you say, shrugging.
Momo is staring at you like she’s trying to decide if she should be offended or just accept reality and move on. She clearly chooses neither.
Instead, she reaches for your wrist.
Like she’s done it a hundred times in rooms like this and stopped thinking about whether anyone’s watching.
She tugs you closer without looking away from you. “What did he say to you?”
“He asked a question,” you say, smiling faintly.
“It was a pretty normal question.”
Nayeon gasps dramatically. “She’s gaslighting her own girlfriend on camera levels of insane right now.”
“I’m not gaslighting anyone,” you say, laughing now.
But you don’t move away from Momo’s grip.
If anything, you lean into it slightly, like you’re letting her hold you there while you enjoy the reactions around you.
Sana watches the whole thing unfold like she’s watching a soap opera. “Honestly,” she says, “this is getting worse every day.”
“It is not getting worse,” Momo says instantly.
Jeongyeon raises an eyebrow. “You just grabbed her wrist in a room full of stylists because someone asked her a question.”
“…That’s not what happened.”
Dahyun, still filming, whispers loudly, “That’s exactly what happened.”
You laugh under your breath and glance toward another idol walking past the dressing area—someone from a different group who greets you politely. You brighten instantly, smiling a little more than necessary.
“Oh hey,” you say, lifting a hand in greeting. “You did really well last stage.”
It’s harmless. Normal industry interaction.
But you feel Momo’s hand tighten around your wrist again before you even finish the sentence.
Just enough to remind you she’s there.
You glance back at her, amused.
She’s still facing forward, expression neutral, but her thumb is now absentmindedly brushing against your skin like she forgot she was doing it.
Sana notices immediately and leans toward Nayeon. “She’s going to explode one day.”
“She already is,” Nayeon whispers back, still recording.
You turn your attention back to Momo, tilting your head slightly.
Momo doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she shifts closer, tugging you just enough that your shoulder bumps into hers. Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, she leans her head down and rests her chin on your shoulder.
Completely unbothered by the chaos around her.
“She’s doing it again,” Jeongyeon says, pointing like she’s narrating a wildlife documentary.
Sana grins. “Let her cook.”
You let out a small laugh, glancing down at Momo resting against you like she belongs there.
The dorm is louder than usual for a night where nothing is technically happening.
It starts with someone (Dahyun, obviously) saying, “Wait, you guys have to see this,” in the exact tone that guarantees peace is about to be destroyed. Within seconds, everyone is crowded around the living room TV, phones already mirrored, snacks forgotten on the table, the lights dimmed just enough to make the glow of the screen feel like a whole event.
You’re sitting on the couch with your legs tucked under you.
Momo is right next to you, not touching at first—key word: at first—but close enough that her knee keeps brushing yours every time she shifts. She’s pretending to scroll on her phone like she’s not interested, which is already how you know she’s absolutely interested.
Sana is the one who casts it to the TV.
“This is the fan edit compilation,” she announces, far too excited. “It’s been trending all day.”
Jeongyeon immediately groans. “We’re doing this again?”
And it’s already a mistake.
First clip: a slowed-down moment from a music show where Momo is looking at you from across the stage. The editor has zoomed in so far you can see the exact second her eyes shift from neutral to soft.
Momo looks at her like she already lost her in another life.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Nayeon bursts out laughing.
“Oh my god,” she says, pointing at the screen. “Why is it edited like a movie trailer?”
You’re already trying not to laugh, hand over your mouth.
Momo doesn’t react outwardly.
But her phone screen tilts slightly downward.
Second clip: backstage footage. You’re talking to another idol, smiling politely, nothing unusual. The camera cuts to Momo in the background watching you.
The editor has added dramatic music.
Either they’re dating or Momo is clinically insane.
Jeongyeon snorts. “I mean… they’re not wrong.”
“I’m right here,” Momo says flatly.
Nobody acknowledges that.
It’s a compilation of Momo pulling you closer in different settings—stage, interviews, backstage corridors. Each moment is slowed, zoomed, color-graded like a romance film.
Sana leans forward. “This is actually insane editing.”
Dahyun is already crying laughing. “Wait, wait, it gets better.”
The screen flashes again.
Now it’s just eye contact edits.
Heartbeat sound effect added for no reason whatsoever.
Momo never looks away first.
You cover your face fully now, shoulders shaking.
“Oh my god,” you manage through laughter. “Stop, this is too much.”
“It’s accurate though,” Sana says brightly.
Momo finally speaks again, still not looking directly at the TV. “It’s not accurate.”
The next edit is the worst one yet.
It’s a compilation labeled:
Momo being possessive for 8 minutes straight (unintentional confirmation)
It starts with her grabbing your wrist during a broadcast.
Then pulling you behind her backstage.
Then resting her head on your shoulder during a livestream.
Each moment is slowed slightly more than the last, like the editor is personally invested in your downfall.
Jeongyeon leans back on the couch. “This is why I say we need a company therapist.”
“I don’t need a therapist,” Momo says.
Dahyun clicks her tongue. “This one says—” she squints at her phone dramatically, “—‘Momo acts like a divorced husband who still thinks she owns the house.’”
You’re laughing so hard you have to lean forward, hands on your knees, trying not to fall off the couch. “No—no that’s insane—”
Sana is wheezing. Nayeon is wiping tears from her eyes. Chaeyoung is just shaking her head like she’s seen too much in life to be surprised anymore.
Even Tzuyu has that small, quiet smile she gets when things are absurd enough to bypass her usual calm.
Momo, meanwhile, has gone very still.
Her phone is now face-down on the table.
She’s staring at the TV like she’s considering legally disputing the entire internet.
“It’s not funny,” she says again, but this time it’s quieter.
But the problem is—it is funny.
Because the next clip is a zoomed-in moment of her staring at you mid-interview with an expression so openly soft it looks staged.
Sana points at the screen. “That one’s criminal.”
“That one’s edited,” Momo insists immediately.
Jeongyeon raises an eyebrow. “You think they edited your eyeballs?”
“They enhanced it,” Momo corrects.
Dahyun laughs harder. “Enhanced your feelings?”
“I don’t have feelings in edits,” she says.
You finally sit back up, still laughing, wiping at your eyes. You glance at her phone—just for a second—and catch it.
Like she’s pretending she’s not doing exactly what everyone is accusing her of doing.
You tilt your head slightly, still smiling.
“Are you reading them?” you ask quietly.
Momo doesn’t look at you immediately.
Sana leans over dramatically. “She is absolutely reading them.”
“I’m not,” Momo says again, but her thumb moves anyway.
You don’t say anything else.
Just lean back into the couch again, biting back another laugh as the next edit starts playing.
And somewhere between the chaos of laughter, teasing, and fan-made evidence of your entire relationship being unintentionally documented—Momo’s phone brightness dips slightly lower.
Like she’s trying to hide it.
Like everyone in this room doesn’t already know exactly what she’s doing.
The studio lights for the variety show feel harsher than usual—brighter, louder, more chaotic in that way where everything is designed to look effortless but clearly isn’t. The stage is set up in a circular layout, cameras already rolling as staff guide everyone into their positions. TWICE is seated together at first, but it doesn’t last long. It never does on these mixed-group episodes.
“Okay, today we have special guests!” the MC announces, voice booming through the set.
A round of applause fills the room as LE SSERAFIM walks in.
The energy immediately shifts.
They greet everyone politely, smiling, bowing, the kind of practiced professionalism that still manages to feel natural. You stand with your group, clapping along, and you can already feel the atmosphere tightening in a way that has nothing to do with cameras.
Because you feel it before you even look.
Not in a subtle way either.
It’s immediate. Locked in. Quietly focused like she’s trying to calculate every possible outcome of the next hour and disliking all of them equally.
You just follow the introductions, smiling when needed, clapping when expected. Everything is normal on the surface.
Then the MC starts assigning pair games.
“Alright! For today’s first segment, we’ll be pairing members across groups for the teamwork challenge!”
You already know where this is going before they even finish speaking.
The staff starts calling names.
And of course—of course—You get paired with her.
One of the LE SSERAFIM members steps forward. Yunjin. She’s charismatic in a way that doesn’t feel forced, the kind of presence that naturally pulls attention without trying too hard. Bright energy, easy smile, the type of person who makes variety shows feel like they’re actually fun instead of just work.
She bows slightly when she reaches you. “Nice to meet you!”
You return it easily. “Nice to meet you too.”
It stays normal for maybe ten seconds.
Not in a competitive, aggressive way. In a playful, teasing, variety-show-professional way. She laughs easily at your jokes, leans in when you explain something, mirrors your reactions like she’s matching your rhythm on purpose.
The production team definitely loves it.
You’re aware of it, of course—you’re not oblivious. It’s just part of the job, part of the energy you’re supposed to match.
You don’t even need to look directly to know.
She’s gone still in her seat.
No tapping fingers. No bouncing knee. No playful reactions to the MC. Just… watching.
Momo’s expression is calm.
The kind of calm that means something is actively being restrained behind it.
Her eyes flick from you to Yunjin standing beside you, then back again, like she’s trying to convince herself this is normal variety show behavior and failing on every loop.
The MC calls for the first mini-task.
You and Yunjin step forward.
She laughs lightly at something you say, bumping your shoulder playfully as you move into position. It’s harmless. Completely harmless.
But Momo’s jaw tightens anyway.
And instead of correcting it, instead of dialing anything back, something in you just… tilts.
A little smile pulls at your lips.
You don’t even fully think about it.
The fact that she’s watching.
The fact that she’s reacting.
The fact that she always reacts.
You glance back at Momo again mid-game.
This time, your smile widens slightly.
Not obvious enough for the cameras to flag it as anything unusual.
But enough for her to see.
And the moment she sees it—her expression changes.
Her eyes narrow slightly, like she’s trying to decide if you’re doing this on purpose.
Yunjin says something joking again, lightly nudging you as part of the game, and you laugh. Not exaggerated. Not fake.
Momo’s fingers curl subtly against her own palm.
Sana, sitting nearby, notices immediately. She leans slightly toward Nayeon and whispers something, clearly entertained. Nayeon follows Momo’s line of sight, takes one look at her face, and nearly breaks character laughing into her hand.
Jeongyeon sighs quietly. “Here we go.”
Tzuyu just watches, calm as ever, but there’s a faint hint of amusement in her expression.
Meanwhile, you continue the game like nothing is happening.
You answer questions. You move through the segment. You keep your tone light, professional, perfectly in control.
Except every so often—you look back.
And every time you do, Momo looks more irritated.
Not enough for the cameras to pin down.
But enough that anyone who knows her would recognize it instantly.
Possessive. Focused. Trying not to react and failing in real time.
The MC calls out another prompt, and your partner laughs again, stepping closer to you for the next part of the game. You adjust naturally, continuing the flow.
But when you glance back this time, Momo has shifted in her seat.
Expression unreadable now in a way that somehow feels louder than anything else in the room.
And then—you smile again.
Just that same small, amused curve of your lips like you’re watching something only you fully understand.
Momo exhales slowly through her nose, almost like she’s trying to physically restrain herself from reacting on camera.
Nayeon whispers, “Oh she’s mad mad.”
Jeongyeon mutters, “Why does she look like she’s about to file a complaint.”
Tzuyu quietly adds, “This is going to get worse.”
Because you don’t stop smiling.
Not until the segment ends and the MC calls for a break—and Momo is already standing before anyone else can even move.
The set is still buzzing—cameras repositioning, staff adjusting lighting, the MC chatting with guests while producers whisper into headsets. It should feel casual, but there’s a thread of tension now that wasn’t there before. Not loud enough for most people to name it, but definitely present.
You can feel it most clearly when you’re not even trying to look for it.
Momo is sitting a little too upright.
Not in her usual relaxed way. Not in her joking, playful way. It’s controlled. Focused. Like she’s actively managing her reactions instead of just existing in them.
You’re standing a few steps away with the LE SSERAFIM member you were paired with earlier. She’s still in good spirits, laughing lightly as she chats with you while waiting for the next segment cue.
But the moment another idol from the guest lineup walks past and casually joins the conversation, everything shifts again.
He’s polite at first—just stopping to say something friendly, the way staff do when they’re moving between segments. “You were really good earlier,” he says to you with a smile. “That game was funny.”
You smile back automatically. “Thanks, it was fun.”
Kazuha laughs beside you, adding something light, and the conversation stays easy for a few seconds.
Then the staff member looks at you again.
“You’re really good at reacting on camera,” he says, tone still casual. “It makes everything more entertaining.”
It’s harmless. A compliment. Something that would usually pass without issue.
But before you can respond—Momo appears.
Just steps into the edge of the conversation like she’s been there the entire time and simply decided to become visible again.
“Oh,” she says, tone smooth, almost too smooth. “We were talking about reactions?”
Even the other staff members nearby glance over.
The staff member blinks, slightly thrown. “Yeah, I just said she’s really good at—”
“I know,” Momo cuts in, still smiling faintly, but her eyes are locked on him now. “She’s been like that.”
But she’s close enough that her shoulder nearly brushes yours, like she didn’t fully plan where she stopped walking.
The staff laughs awkwardly, stepping back half a step. “Right, yeah. She’s really popular.”
“Yeah,” Momo says simply.
He leaves shortly after, clearly sensing the shift.
You watch him go, then slowly turn your head toward Momo.
She’s already looking forward again like nothing happened.
The next segment starts almost too quickly, like the show is trying to outrun whatever shift just happened.
The MC claps his hands together, voice bright again. “Alright! Time for our teamwork challenge!”
There’s a forced reset in energy—everyone straightens up, smiles back into place, cameras re-adjusting focus. You move automatically into position with your assigned pair again, rolling your shoulders slightly like you’re shaking off the tension from before.
You try to reset with it.
Yunjin is still easy to talk to, still light and friendly, and for a few seconds, it actually works. You laugh at something she says, step into position for the game, let the atmosphere carry you forward.
It almost feels normal again.
Then the MC announces the rules, and everyone is instructed to move into closer pairs for the next physical portion of the game—simple coordination, nothing serious, just timed movement and reaction tasks designed to be chaotic for camera.
You don’t think much of it.
Yunjin steps closer during the setup, laughing lightly as she adjusts her position beside you. “Is this okay?” she asks, already half in character for the game, clearly trying to make it entertaining.
You nod, smiling. “Yeah, we’re good.”
She laughs again, and in a casual, playful motion—clearly part of the variety show energy—she hooks her arm through yours.
It’s literally just for the game.
You don’t even have time to fully process it before the MC starts counting down.
You shift your weight slightly, preparing to move with her.
Out of nowhere, Momo is there.
Just appearing in your space like she decided distance was optional.
Her hand closes around your wrist.
Not harsh enough to hurt.
But absolutely unmistakable.
You’re pulled a half-step out of alignment mid-conversation, your body turning slightly as the momentum shifts. The idol’s arm slips away from yours in surprise, her expression flickering into confusion as the timing of the game collapses for a second.
Even the MC pauses mid-sentence.
The camera doesn’t know where to go.
The set feels like it collectively holds its breath.
You blink, caught completely off guard, looking up at Momo.
“What—” you start, but it doesn’t fully come out.
Momo is already looking at you.
Her grip is still there on your wrist, but she doesn’t pull again. She just… stops. Like she only just realizes she’s done it in front of everyone.
For a split second, her expression flickers.
The silence stretches just long enough for it to become noticeable.
Yunjin lets out a small, awkward laugh, clearly trying to recover the moment for the sake of the show. “Ah—sorry, I think I moved too fast,” she says quickly, stepping back and lifting her hands slightly like she’s smoothing it over.
The MC laughs a little too loudly. “Ahh, teamwork confusion! That’s what we like!”
But it’s enough to keep the segment alive.
You don’t move your wrist out of Momo’s hand immediately.
And for once, she doesn’t have a comeback ready.
She finally lets go—slowly, like she’s consciously making the decision to release you rather than being forced to.
Her hand drops to her side.
The space between you feels heavier than it should.
The game restarts, but something is already broken in the rhythm. The MC continues speaking, trying to push forward, but the energy on set has changed completely.
You step back into position with your partner, adjusting your posture like nothing happened.
But now you’re aware of everything.
The silence that didn’t used to be there.
Because she’s standing slightly behind you now, not touching, not speaking, but completely still in a way that feels louder than anything else in the room.
Even when the MC laughs again.
Even when the game resumes.
Even when everyone pretends it didn’t just happen—you can still feel it.
The moment she pulled you out of it.
And the second she realized she did it in front of everyone.
The second the cameras cut, everything changes like someone flipped a switch.
One moment you’re still in performance mode—lights, microphones, the MC’s voice bouncing off the set—and the next, it’s just noise without structure. Crew members move in practiced chaos, chairs scrape, someone laughs too loudly to reset the mood, and the MC keeps talking like nothing happened even though everyone felt it.
But you’re already moving.
You don’t wait for cues. You don’t wait for permission. You step off the set with quick, sharp movements, the kind that say you’re trying not to think too hard about what just happened.
And that somehow makes it worse.
The backstage hallway is dimmer, quieter, lined with cables, equipment cases, and the occasional staff member walking past with a headset on. The noise from the stage becomes muffled behind thick walls, like it belongs to a different world entirely.
You stop near a corner where it’s a little more open, turning around sharply.
Momo almost runs into you.
For a second, neither of you speak.
“What was that?” you ask.
Your voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. It lands anyway.
Momo exhales through her nose, like she already knows she’s about to lose this conversation but is too stubborn to step back from it. “What.”
“That,” you repeat, gesturing vaguely behind you, back toward the stage. “The pulling me out mid-game thing.”
Her expression tightens immediately.
“She was flirting with you the whole time,” Momo says, like that explains everything.
And for a second, you almost laugh, but it doesn’t come out right. It catches in your throat instead.
“It was for the show,” you say, slower now. Controlled. Trying not to let irritation slip through too early.
Momo shakes her head. “That doesn’t matter.”
“It kind of does,” you reply, sharper this time.
Not the kind you get on camera for dramatic effect.
The kind that sits between people when something is starting to crack.
Momo looks at you like she’s trying to decide whether she’s justified or just angry. Her hands flex slightly at her sides, like she’s holding herself back from doing something instinctive again.
“You were flirting back,” she says.
You stare at her for a second, like you’re trying to understand if she actually believes that or if she just said it because it sounded easier than everything else.
Then you let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.
Just sharp around the edges.
“Because that’s my job,” you say.
Momo doesn’t respond immediately, but her jaw tightens.
“You seemed pretty into it,” she says anyway.
And that—that’s what shifts everything.
Like a misstep on stairs you didn’t realize were uneven until you’re already falling forward.
The hallway feels quieter suddenly. Or maybe it always was, and you’re just noticing it now.
You look at her properly.
Just you, trying to process what she actually meant.
Your voice is quieter than before.
Momo doesn’t answer right away.
Maybe she realizes it late. Maybe she doesn’t. Either way, she stands there with her shoulders tense, chin slightly raised like she’s bracing for impact but refusing to soften first.
You nod slowly once, like something in your head just locked into place.
Momo’s brows knit slightly. “What does that mean?”
Instead, you take a step back.
But it changes the space instantly.
No touching. No closeness. No accidental brushing of shoulders or shared breathing space.
And for the first time all day, Momo doesn’t immediately close it.
You look at her for a second longer, then turn.
“Hey,” she calls after you, voice sharper now. “Where are you going?”
That’s what makes her follow a few steps automatically—then hesitate. Then stop again. Then move forward again like she’s arguing with herself while you keep walking.
“Wait,” she says again, less sharp this time. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
The hallway stretches longer than it should feel, staff passing occasionally but not interfering. Everyone is used to idol arguments that flare up and disappear within minutes. This doesn’t feel like one of those.
Momo slows down behind you.
You can hear her footsteps stop and start again, like she can’t decide whether pride or instinct is winning. She’s close enough that you know she’s still there, but far enough that she isn’t reaching for you anymore.
And that difference matters more than anything she said.
“You’re taking it too seriously,” she says finally, quieter now, like she’s trying to recalibrate.
That makes you pause for half a beat.
But you don’t turn around.
Because if you do, you’re not sure what expression will be on your face.
And that feels worse than walking away.
“I’m not,” you say, still facing forward.
Just done trying to explain.
Behind you, Momo exhales sharply.
You hear her shift her weight, like she takes one step forward, then stops herself.
Silence stretches between you in the hallway, broken only by distant production noise and footsteps from crew members further down the corridor.
Momo speaks again, but softer this time.
“I didn’t like how it looked.”
“I didn’t like her touching you like that.”
But it doesn’t fix the earlier sentence.
You finally stop walking, but you still don’t turn around.
For a second, neither of you speaks.
“…You don’t get to decide what I’m okay with on camera,” you say quietly.
But it’s final in a way that makes the air feel heavier.
Momo goes still behind you.
And that silence—that’s the first time all day it doesn’t feel funny, or edited, or something that will get clipped into a compilation later.
This time, Momo doesn’t follow immediately.
And when she finally speaks, it’s too quiet to be anything but honest.
But you’re already too far down the hallway to answer.
The first sign that something has shifted isn’t a conversation.
Not the kind you get backstage or between segments, but the kind that fills your phone screen before you even fully unlock it. Notifications stacking faster than you can read them. Names you don’t recognize tagging you in posts you didn’t ask to see.
At first, it’s normal fan content.
You’re sitting in the dorm common room when Sana quietly says, “Uh… guys?”
That alone is enough to make everyone look up.
She’s holding her phone a little too still.
Nayeon leans over immediately. “What is it?”
Sana doesn’t answer right away. She just turns the screen.
The title alone makes the room shift:
“Are we sure there isn’t something going on between Momo and [you]?”
Jeongyeon reads it once and exhales through her nose. “Oh no.”
Dahyun, already scrolling on her own phone, makes a sound like she’s seen something worse. “It’s not just one.”
Clips start appearing everywhere at once. Not just edited fan compilations anymore, but raw footage reposted by accounts (most likely staff leaks) with thousands of retweets.
Momo pulling you out mid-game.
Captioned: “Why did she react like that?”
Momo staring at you during the variety show, expression unreadable.
Momo interrupting your conversation backstage with another idol.
Her hand on your wrist. Again. And again. And again.
Different angles. Different days. Same pattern.
It stops being framed as cute.
It stops being framed as a ship.
It starts being framed as behavior.
You watch it all in silence.
Sana stops laughing at some point.
Nayeon puts her phone down first. “Okay… this is getting big.”
Jeongyeon scrolls further, jaw tightening slightly. “There are articles now.”
“Fans Notice Repeated Interactions Between TWICE Members and Guest Idols.”
“Is There Unusual Tension Between Certain Idols During Recent Broadcast?”
“Body Language Sparks Speculation Among Viewers.”
Still enough to feel like a spotlight turning toward something it shouldn’t.
Dahyun goes quieter. “Management is going to hate this.”
Because by the next morning, they already do.
The meeting room feels too small for how many people are inside it.
Management staff sit across from the members in a line that feels too formal for something that isn’t technically a disciplinary issue—but still somehow feels like one. The table between everyone is polished to the point of reflection, like it’s designed to make you aware of every expression you don’t manage well enough.
Beside you, Momo is the opposite of calm—but not in a loud way.
The manager clears his throat, sliding a tablet forward. “We need to address something that has started circulating from the last broadcast.”
You recognize them immediately.
The moment in the hallway that was never supposed to be seen.
Each clip is paired with comments underneath.
Breakdowns of “body language analysis” that feel too detailed for comfort.
The manager doesn’t exaggerate it. That somehow makes it worse.
“This is becoming a pattern viewers are noticing,” he continues. “We are getting questions from production teams and partner shows about… behavior consistency on camera.”
The manager continues, more carefully now. “At this stage, it’s not about intent. It’s about perception.”
He looks up. “We need adjustments moving forward. You will not be seated together during interviews or live segments for the time being. We will also adjust pairing arrangements for variety appearances.”
There’s a pause after that.
Not because you agree emotionally.
But because you understand what he’s saying.
Momo doesn’t respond immediately.
When she does, it’s smaller than usual. “How long?”
The manager hesitates. “Until things stabilize.”
That doesn’t answer anything.
Momo is staring at the table now.
Like the words landed harder than she expected, even though she’s the one who caused most of the moments being shown.
The manager continues, softer now. “We’re not saying you did anything wrong individually. But together, the public perception is becoming… difficult to manage.”
That somehow feels worse.
Because that’s the only thing you can do in this room.
But when you glance at Momo again, something shifts slightly in your chest.
Because she isn’t looking at anyone else.
Not even the clips anymore.
And her hands are clenched lightly together in her lap.
Not just what’s being said.
And that’s the part that sits wrong.
Because Momo has never been someone who reacts like this.
She just sits there, absorbing every word like she already knows she’s not winning this one.
The manager finishes speaking. “For now, we’ll implement the separation starting immediately. It’s temporary, but necessary.”
It’s not acceptance either.
It’s something in between.
And when the meeting finally ends, and everyone stands up slowly, you feel it before anything else.
The distance that didn’t exist yesterday.
The second interview is even more structured than the first.
Different day. Different studio. Different lighting setup. Cleaner schedule, tighter timing—everything designed to feel controlled, like nothing messy can slip through the cracks if the production is careful enough.
But the first thing you notice when you walk in is still the same problem.
There’s a row of chairs angled toward the MC, name cards placed neatly in front of each one. You find yours automatically, walking toward it with the kind of practiced calm that makes it look like you’re not thinking about anything at all.
Because the chair beside you is empty.
And across the set—far enough that it feels deliberate, close enough that it still registers every time you look up—Momo is being guided into her own seat with the rest of the lineup.
You sit down carefully, adjusting your posture, smoothing your outfit, all those small things that make you look like you’re fully present.
But your attention is already split.
The MC starts the segment, voice bright and rehearsed. “Welcome back to our special collaboration episode!”
You follow it like muscle memory.
Answer when prompted. Laugh when appropriate. Nod when the camera pans slightly in your direction.
But it’s all happening with a thin awareness at the back of your mind.
Momo isn’t looking at you.
She’s listening to the MC, posture upright, hands folded loosely in front of her. Professional. Controlled. Nothing unusual from the outside.
But you notice things now that you didn’t use to notice so sharply.
Like how she doesn’t lean slightly toward you when the MC says something funny.
Like how she doesn’t glance your way during pauses.
Like how her reactions are delayed by half a second, as if she’s thinking before she allows herself to respond.
The MC asks a question that involves the whole group.
Her voice is steady. Nothing off. Nothing that would raise suspicion on its own.
But when she finishes speaking, she doesn’t look at you.
That small internal pause you keep having to ignore.
You shift slightly in your seat without thinking.
Then stop yourself halfway through the movement.
Because there’s no reason for it anymore.
The MC laughs at something another guest says, and the group follows. You smile along, but your eyes flick sideways anyway.
Across the set, Momo is sitting exactly where she was placed.
Not adjusting toward you.
Not reacting to your presence the way she used to without thinking about it.
And the strangest part is how intentional it feels now.
Like everything she does is being filtered through awareness instead of instinct.
You look forward again quickly.
Questions about the show. About teamwork. About filming moments. Light topics. Safe topics. Nothing that should make the air feel heavy.
Because every gap between questions is filled with what isn’t happening.
No leaning slightly toward each other when something funny is said.
Just two separate people in the same space doing the same job.
At one point, the MC jokes about variety show moments, and the room laughs.
But your eyes still drift.
And when they do, you catch Momo already looking forward again, expression neutral, like she never looked at you at all.
The interview moves toward its final segment, a group question where everyone answers briefly one by one. You go through it smoothly, voice steady, hands relaxed even though your attention keeps slipping in ways you don’t let show.
When it’s Momo’s turn, she answers clearly. No hesitation. No awkwardness. No visible tension.
But again—no glance toward you afterward.
Not even the smallest one.
The MC wraps things up with a bright smile. “Thank you everyone for joining us today!”
The chairs shift as everyone prepares to stand.
This is usually where things blur into backstage noise, casual movement, small laughter on the way out.
But today, there’s a strange coordination to it.
No one moves toward anyone else.
You walk off first with your group.
And for once, even when your paths cross briefly behind the cameras, there’s no instinctive turning of heads.
Just distance maintained exactly the way it was planned.
Later, back at the dorm, the silence feels different again.
You’re sitting on the couch with your phone, half watching something, half pretending to be distracted enough that you’re not thinking about anything else.
But not the same rhythm anymore.
She sits a little farther than she used to without noticing, like her body has learned a new boundary it didn’t ask for.
At one point, you shift slightly on the couch—small, unconscious movement, the kind you would normally make without thinking.
Usually, that would be enough.
Usually, she would adjust instantly.
Not dramatically. Not noticeably.
But this time—she doesn’t move.
Look down at your phone again.
Then, without meaning to, you glance at her.
But her hands are in her lap, unmoving, like she’s actively keeping them from doing something they used to do without permission.
And you realize, slowly, that this is what the separation actually did.
Not just distance in interviews.
But the loss of something automatic.
Something neither of you had to think about before.
And now both of you are thinking about it constantly.
You don’t know exactly why you’re awake—maybe habit, maybe overthinking—but you step out into the common area anyway, expecting nothing.
Maybe the faint glow of a night lamp.
She’s sitting on the couch.
No phone in her hand. No headphones. No TV flicker. Nothing pulling her attention anywhere else. Just her, knees drawn up slightly, elbows resting loosely, staring at nothing in particular like she’s been sitting there for a while.
That alone makes you slow down.
Because it’s not like her.
You hesitate in the doorway for a second before stepping in quietly.
The floor creaks softly under your weight.
Momo hears it immediately.
There’s no surprise on her face. Just awareness. Like she knew you were going to show up eventually, but didn’t know when.
You don’t sit right away.
You just stand there for a second, taking her in.
She looks… tired in a way that isn’t physical.
Not exhausted from schedules or filming.
Finally, you sit at the opposite end of the couch—not far, but not close either. The space between you feels noticeable even though it shouldn’t.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
The silence isn’t uncomfortable exactly.
After a while, Momo exhales slowly through her nose.
“I know I made things harder,” she says.
Her voice is quieter than usual. Not weak—just stripped down. Honest in a way she doesn’t usually let herself be in front of anyone else.
You look at her immediately.
That hits differently than anything else today.
Because she’s not arguing.
Not trying to justify anything.
You shift slightly, your posture softening without you thinking about it.
“Momo…” you start, but she shakes her head once.
“I know,” she repeats, a little firmer this time, like she needs to finish the thought before she loses the courage to say it out loud. “I know I did.”
She leans back slightly against the couch, gaze dropping toward her hands.
“I just…” She stops, breath catching slightly like she’s choosing words carefully now. “I just wanted people to stop acting like you weren’t mine.”
The words land heavier than the silence before them.
Not possessive in the way it used to feel on camera.
Something more exposed underneath it.
You stare at her for a second.
Then the frustration you’ve been holding onto all day finally… loosens.
Just softens at the edges.
You shift closer without fully realizing it.
Just enough that the distance between you isn’t sharp anymore.
“You already have me,” you say quietly.
No extra weight. No performance. No frustration hiding underneath it.
Like she didn’t expect that to come so easily.
Her eyes flick up to you.
And for a second, she doesn’t respond.
Like she’s trying to hold onto the fact that you’re here in front of her and not across a set, not behind a camera, not separated by rules she can’t control anymore.
Then her shoulders drop a fraction.
“I know,” she says again, but softer now. Almost swallowed by the quiet room.
“I just forgot for a little.”
That’s the part that sits with you.
Like she was trying so hard to hold onto something that she stopped noticing she already had it.
You don’t answer right away.
Instead, you shift closer until the space between you is small enough that it doesn’t feel like separation anymore.
Doesn’t reach immediately either.
And this time, the silence between you doesn’t feel like distance.
It feels like something slowly settling back into place.
The awards show feels bigger than the others—brighter lights, louder applause, more cameras sweeping the room like nothing is allowed to go unnoticed. Everything is polished to perfection in a way that makes even breathing feel slightly rehearsed.
TWICE is seated near the center row, outfits coordinated but not matching, hands neatly folded when they need to be, clapping at the right times. You sit in your assigned seat, posture straight, face relaxed in that practiced “public calm” you’ve all learned over time.
And for once, there’s no empty seat beside you.
Not next to you in an obvious way anymore—management wouldn’t allow that—but close enough that you can feel her presence without looking. The separation is still technically in place, still officially enforced in interviews and segments, but award shows blur those lines just a little. Too many people, too many angles, too many moments where rules become harder to maintain perfectly.
You don’t look at her immediately.
You already know she’s there.
The event flows as expected—presenters stepping up, winners reacting, applause rolling through the crowd like waves. You play your part smoothly, clapping when necessary, smiling for cameras when they sweep past your section.
Until an MC from another group steps up for a segment and casually jokes while introducing presenters.
“And now we have someone very charming joining us on stage,” he says, smiling. “I think some people here might be a little distracted tonight.”
A light laugh spreads through the room.
A standard variety-style tease.
But then his eyes flick toward your row.
“Especially someone over there,” he adds, gesturing vaguely.
But the moment lands anyway.
You feel it instantly—eyes shifting subtly across your section, people pretending not to look while absolutely looking. Even members around you straighten slightly, sensing the shift in attention.
Like she’s registered it at the same time you have.
The MC continues joking, but your attention is no longer fully on him. Not because you’re uncomfortable—but because you can feel the room waiting for something.
But you can sense her still.
And for the first time in a while—nothing happens.
Just silence from her side.
The MC finishes his joke and moves on, laughing it off easily as the segment transitions.
You finally allow yourself a small breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
Hooking into the edge of your sleeve.
Your entire focus shifts instantly, but you don’t move your hands or react outwardly. You keep your expression neutral, eyes forward, like nothing has changed at all.
But your heart does something annoyingly immediate.
You don’t turn your head.
You already know Momo is sitting perfectly composed above the table—hands folded, face calm, eyes forward like she is the definition of professionalism.
But under the table—her fingers are holding onto you.
Like she’s reminding herself you’re there without making it visible to anyone else.
Your mouth twitches before you can stop it.
You shift your leg slightly, careful not to disturb anything on camera, and lean just a fraction closer without actually turning toward her.
A whisper slips out under your breath.
“Look at you acting professional.”
You don’t look at her when you say it.
But you feel her reaction anyway.
Then—Momo’s voice, just as quiet, just as controlled, answers without moving her head.
That almost makes you lose it.
You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing, keeping your expression neutral for the cameras sweeping the audience.
Then—her knee shifts slightly under the table.
Just subtle in execution.
You glance forward again, trying very hard to keep your face composed as your shoulders shake faintly with silent laughter.
Of course she couldn’t stop there.
Of course “professional” lasted exactly three seconds.
Momo doesn’t look at you, but her voice comes again—so quiet it’s nearly swallowed by the applause on stage.
You let out a silent laugh through your nose, quickly covering it with a cough-like motion so it doesn’t read on camera.
