Chapter Text
It was barely noon, and Hyungwon was already regretting his life choices.
“Again,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair as the track reset for the sixth time. The Bluetooth speaker in the corner crackled to life, pounding bass against the mirrored walls.
The boys groaned, shifting back into position. Fresh faces, expensive haircuts, brand-new matching sneakers—the whole group looked like they’d just walked out of a debut teaser shoot. Hyungwon watched them shuffle half-heartedly into formation, their egos barely fitting into the practice room.
“You’re still marking half the chorus,” he pointed out, eyes locked on Jihoon, the tallest member, who was currently flapping his arms like a malfunctioning traffic cop.
Jihoon gave him a sheepish smile. “I’m just saving my energy for the real thing, hyung.”
Hyungwon arched an eyebrow. “This is the real thing.”
“But it’s practice.”
“Exactly.” He clapped his hands once, sharp. “Which means you do it right here so you don’t screw it up later.”
That earned him a ripple of side-eyes and barely-muted sighs. Hyungwon pretended not to notice. He’d been hired as their debut choreographer, not their babysitter—but the lines blurred fast in this industry.
The problem wasn’t that they were bad kids. The problem was they were kids, period. Nineteen, twenty, maybe twenty-one if you squinted. Fresh out of trainee purgatory and already acting like they’d made it just because they’d signed a contract.
They hadn’t even dropped a single yet.
Hyungwon adjusted the fall of his hoodie over his hips, scanning the room as the song looped back to the beginning. The studio smelled like sweat and too much cologne—cheap body spray barely masking the tang of exhaustion. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, reflecting off mirrors smudged with fingerprints.
“Hyung,” Youngjae spoke up this time, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “That part where we drop to the floor—it’s kinda, like…” He hesitated, clearly trying to pick a diplomatic word.
Hyungwon tilted his head. “Like what?”
Youngjae scratched the back of his neck. “Kinda subby?”
Someone in the back snorted. Jihoon elbowed him, grinning.
Hyungwon sighed through his nose. “It’s not a sub move, it’s choreography.”
“Yeah, but Jihoon’s a dom,” Youngjae said, dead serious now. “Shouldn’t he have, like, a different pathway? Maybe a stand variation or something?”
“Are you debuting as a dom group or as a dance group?” Hyungwon shot back.
Silence.
Exactly.
He let it hang for a beat before softening his tone, just enough. “The concept is power. Not dom power, not sub power, not switch energy. Just power. You’re performers. You’re telling a story.”
Jihoon crossed his arms. “But Wonbin’s team got choreography that leaned into their dynamics.”
Hyungwon kept his face calm, even though internally he wanted to throw his clipboard across the room. “Wonbin’s team is doing a soft launch as an idol dom/sub group. That’s their brand. Your brand is performance dominance. Not actual dynamics.”
He’d said this three times already today.
No matter how much the entertainment industry had shifted over the last decade—no matter how normalized dom/sub/switch culture was now—there was still this weird gray zone in K-pop where rookies thought dynamics came with choreography presets.
Newsflash: They didn’t.
“I’m not asking you to drop into a scene,” Hyungwon continued, voice cool but polite. “I’m asking you to hit the floor on a musical cue. That’s it.”
More grumbling. A couple of them shot glances at their manager, who hovered awkwardly by the door, not stepping in.
Hyungwon rolled his neck out, feeling the pop of tension crack down his spine. He could handle bratty pushback. Hell, half his friends were brats professionally. But this?
This was just arrogance with no stamina to back it up.
If they’d actually had the technique to match the attitude, he wouldn’t have minded. There was nothing wrong with confidence. But half of them couldn’t remember the counts for the transition they’d learned yesterday, and now they wanted to rewrite the routine because it didn’t match their dynamic labels?
Give him a break.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. The Bluetooth speaker rattled out the chorus again, a swirl of kicks and drops timed perfectly to the beat. Except the boys were already lagging half a step behind, muttering corrections to each other instead of focusing.
“Stop,” Hyungwon called. He tapped the pause icon on his phone with one finger, forcing the room into silence. “Okay, reset. One more time from the top.”
Jihoon groaned under his breath. “Hyung—”
Hyungwon’s eyes flicked up, sharp enough to slice. “One more time,” he repeated. “Then I’ll simplify the drop. Not because it’s too subby. Because some of you aren’t landing it clean.”
That shut them up. For now.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, fighting the pinch of a headache settling in behind his eyes. His calves ached from crouching too long. His throat was dry. He was supposed to leave twenty minutes ago, but the manager had pulled him aside during break, whispering apologies and begging him to stay longer.
“Please, Hyungwon-ssi. Just a little more help. They’re new.”
Yeah, no shit, Hyungwon had thought. But he’d smiled anyway, because professionalism was a muscle memory by now.
His phone buzzed again. This time longer.
The group kept bickering behind him, voices overlapping.
Hyungwon tapped the side of his thigh with two fingers, eyes drifting to the clock above the mirrors.
Twelve minutes past when he said he’d leave.
He was going to need an extra coffee today. Probably two.
And if one more kid tried to tell him a dance move was “too subby,” he was going to choreograph them straight into the floor.
“Hyung—can we at least—”
The phone in his pocket vibrated again. Harder this time. Three times in a row, a buzz-buzz-buzz rhythm that wasn’t letting up.
Hyungwon didn’t flinch, but he thought about it.
“I said reset from the top,” he told them, thumbing the speaker back on. “Practice together. I’ll be right back.”
Before anyone could argue, he stepped out into the hallway, shutting the practice room door behind him with a soft click.
The second he pulled his phone out, the screen lit up: Yujin, his café manager. Hyungwon’s stomach sank a little. Yujin only called during his choreography gigs when something went sideways.
He slid his thumb across the call.
“Tell me it’s not about Minseo,” he said by way of greeting.
“Yeah, okay,” Yujin sighed, voice already frazzled. “It’s not about Minseo.”
“That’s suspicious.”
“Because it is about Minseo.”
Hyungwon leaned back against the hallway wall, the cool plaster grounding him for half a second. “She no-showed again?”
“That’s the fourth time this month.”
“Fifth, technically,” Yujin corrected, almost apologetic. “If you count the time she texted at 3 a.m. about a ‘family emergency’ and then tagged herself at Club Phoenix forty minutes later.”
Hyungwon scrubbed a hand over his face, palm dragging down his cheek. Of course.
He should’ve fired her weeks ago. But every time he cleared a day to deal with it, something else blew up—a supplier issue, a last-minute choreography job, a friend asking for a favor. His calendar was a graveyard of postponed tasks.
“She’s firing herself at this point.”
“Yeah, but I still have to do the paperwork.”
Yujin huffed. “Do you want me to cover today? I can stay the whole shift.”
“No, no—I wasn’t even supposed to come in today, remember? You’re good?”
“We’re covered,” she confirmed, but her tone was tight around the edges. “I just thought you should know.”
“Thanks for telling me.” His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose again. “I’ll handle it.”
“Good luck.”
“Don’t need luck,” he muttered, already pulling the phone away from his ear. “Need a time machine.”
The call ended with a soft beep. Hyungwon stood there for a second longer, eyes on nothing, brain already shifting into logistics mode.
When the café opened last year, he’d promised himself he’d keep things simple. Just a small spot in Yeonnam, nothing crazy. Something manageable between dance jobs.
At first, his schedule was scribbled in the Notes app. Quick reminders, calendar pings. Easy.
Then came the staff turnover.
The private bookings.
The catering add-ons.
The collabs with artists for pop-up events.
The loyalty punch card system that somehow broke the register for a week.
Now he had three apps to manage the café alone—one for scheduling, one for inventory, and one that basically just kept track of who pissed him off most recently.
Minseo had a permanent star next to her name. Not the good kind.
He flicked open his calendar, scrolling past blocks of color-coded hell. Choreography gigs in red. Café shifts in green. Random meetings in blue. His thumbs hovered, looking for a window to slot in interviews.
Nothing. Not unless he gave up sleeping.
Maybe he could do it next Wednesday. No—he had the girl group gig.
Thursday?
No, catering order pick-up.
Sunday?
Technically his day off, but who was he kidding?
He sighed, tapping the side of his phone against his leg in a steady rhythm.
Today was supposed to be easy. A half-day with the rookies, maybe grab lunch, spend the afternoon in his apartment doing absolutely nothing. That was the plan.
Instead, he was stuck dumbing down choreography for kids who thought floorwork was “too subby,” juggling café staff drama from the hallway, and wondering when exactly he’d become the person everyone called to fix things.
His phone buzzed again.
Group chat this time.
[Minhyuk 1:12 PM]
Let’s hang out sunday. Coffee run?
[Jooheon 1:12 PM]
Yeah let’s do coffee
[Changkyun 1:13 PM]
No schedule sunday, I’m down
]Kihyun 1:13 PM]
Can we go somewhere that doesn’t over-steam milk this time?
[Shownu 1:14 PM]
lol
Hyungwon’s mouth twitched. He tapped out a reply one-handed.
[Hyungwon 1:14 PM]
Sure
I’ll bring the coffee
You’re all banned from my café tho
[Minhyuk 1:14 PM]
Rude
[Jooheon 1:14 PM]
Wow
[Changkyun 1:15 PM]
Valid
[Kihyun 1:15 PM]
Understandable
He let the phone rest against his thigh for a second, letting the corner of his mouth lift just a little. Friends were good. Friends were easy.
People who didn’t make him adjust choreo for “dom energy” were even better.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket, pushed off the wall, and rolled his shoulders back as he walked toward the practice room door.
Time to face the kids again.
He was halfway back to the practice room when someone called out from down the hall.
“Hyungwon!”
He paused mid-step, blinking like his brain needed a buffer wheel to spin. His head was still crowded with choreography counts and café staffing disasters. It took a second to put the face to the voice.
Then it clicked.
“Jeonghan?” Hyungwon’s brow lifted, lips quirking just slightly. “What are you doing here? You get lost?”
Jeonghan jogged over, sneakers squeaking against the studio floor, a backpack slung lazily off one shoulder. His hoodie was unzipped halfway, and his hair stuck to his forehead in sweaty patches. Probably straight from another rehearsal. The entertainment circuit was small—especially the freelance dancer pool. You couldn’t swing a boom mic without hitting someone you knew from uni.
“Lost? Me?” Jeonghan grinned, bouncing on his heels like he was still stuck in warm-up mode. “Nah, GY started snatching up freelancers for the weekend live shows. I’m everywhere these days.”
Hyungwon let his arms fall loose at his sides, posture half-slouched, gaze scanning Jeonghan without really thinking about it. Familiar face, same chaotic energy. Always moving like his bones didn’t quite know how to stop.
“Still dancing or just collecting gigs for cardio?”
Jeonghan laughed, bright and breathless. “Bit of both. You good?”
“Define good.”
“Don’t start with me.”
“I’m always like this,” Hyungwon deadpanned, but his mouth twitched.
Jeonghan’s grin widened. “Still babysitting rookies?”
“Unfortunately.” Hyungwon glanced back at the closed practice room door, thumb tapping against his thigh like he was keeping time. “They think they’re TCN, but with half the skill and double the attitude.”
“Yikes.”
“They won’t stop asking me to change the choreography. Say it’s too… sub-coded.”
Jeonghan winced, scrunching his nose. “That old argument?”
“Mm.” Hyungwon shifted his weight to one hip, eyes flat but amused. “Apparently, dropping to the floor is a threat to their dom image.”
“That’s rich. Half of them are probably soft switches who can’t even pick a safe word.”
“I don’t ask. I just teach.”
“Yeah, but you know.”
Hyungwon huffed out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Trust me, if knowing helped, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Jeonghan nudged his arm, grinning like they were still back in the university dance studio, stretching on the floor between classes. “Come on, man, you’re good at this. Reality rearrangement. Make time slow down, make everyone look hot.”
“That’s called editing. Not choreography.”
“Same difference.”
Hyungwon rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. It was easier to let Jeonghan talk. His friend had always been a hurricane—words, gestures, motion, all happening at once.
“I actually came over here to find you,” Jeonghan added, shifting his backpack strap higher. “Are you free tomorrow?”
Hyungwon let his head fall back against the wall, eyes closing for exactly one second. “Jeonghan.”
“Don’t Jeonghan me yet. Hear me out.”
“I’m already tired.”
“You’re always tired.”
“Exactly.”
Jeonghan leaned in conspiratorially. “MusicBank taping. Sweetheart’s set. You know Sweetheart, right?”
“Pink and black? School uniforms? Bubblegum crush concept?” Hyungwon opened one eye. “Unfortunately.”
“Hey, they’re good.”
“They’re fine.”
“They need backup dancers.”
Hyungwon groaned quietly, the sound buried in his throat. “Jeonghan.”
“Come on.” Jeonghan grinned, eyes bright. “It’s easy choreo. They need tall guys for the visual balance. You’re their type.”
Hyungwon narrowed his eyes. “Tall?”
“Tall, hot, can actually dance.”
“I see you’re still running your mouth like cardio too.”
“I’m serious, Hyungwon. You’ll kill it.”
“I don’t know the routine.”
“You’ll learn it in rehearsal.”
“I have café stuff.”
“So delegate.”
Hyungwon dragged his tongue across the inside of his cheek, weighing the mental spreadsheet in his head. Wake up early, open the café, hope Minseo shows for once, squeeze in rehearsal, then do the live taping. Easy.
In theory.
He folded his arms. “What’s the pay?”
“Decent. And there’s a meal voucher.”
Hyungwon snorted. “Wow. A meal voucher. Say less.”
Jeonghan laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Come on, you miss performing.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Jeonghan’s grin softened just a fraction, eyes sharp under the teasing. “You’ve been choreographing so long, you forgot you like dancing too.”
Hyungwon hated how true that was.
Teaching meant standing still while other people moved. Performing meant being in his own body, not managing everyone else’s.
And yeah. He missed that.
“Fine,” he said, flicking his fingers toward Jeonghan like he was brushing lint off his hoodie. “Send me the details.”
“Knew you’d say yes.”
“I’m gonna regret it.”
“That’s life, baby.”
Hyungwon shook his head, smile creeping wider despite himself. His phone buzzed again—probably another café notification—but he ignored it for now.
The practice room door was still there, waiting, full of rookies ready to tell him why a head whip was too “switch-coded.”
He pushed off the wall and stretched his shoulders back, bones popping in quiet protest.
Jeonghan was still grinning. “See you tomorrow.”
“Mmhm.”
Back in the studio, the boys were arguing over whether they should change the hand angle on beat four because Jihoon said it looked “too submissive.”
Hyungwon clapped once, sharp enough to cut through the noise.
“Let’s go,” he said, eyes half-lidded, tone pure warning. “From the top. And if anyone mentions dynamics again, I’m choreographing you into the floor.”
By the time Hyungwon finally left the studio, it was almost midnight.
The kids had forgotten half the routine again. He’d dumbed it down three more times. And even after all of that, Jihoon still had the audacity to tell him it didn’t feel “dom-enough.”
Hyungwon didn’t scream into a pillow when he got home, but it was close.
He barely slept.
Now it was morning again, and his legs ached as he trudged up the block toward the café, keys jangling lazily in his pocket. His hoodie hung low over his eyes, and his black cap was tugged tight enough to shadow half his face. The early summer air was humid already, thick against his skin, but his limbs moved on autopilot.
Yeonnam was still quiet this time of day. The streets smelled like asphalt and leftover rain. A few scooters zipped past, delivery drivers starting their morning shift.
Hyungwon stopped in front of the café door, rubbing at his eye with the heel of his hand before fishing out the keys.
Pour Decisions
He’d picked the name as a joke originally, but it stuck. Now the name was printed on the awning in minimalist lettering, just pretentious enough for the neighborhood. The space was small—black brick walls, light wood counters, plants hanging in the windows. Too many plants, honestly. Yujin kept adding more.
The lock clicked open, and Hyungwon stepped inside, flicking on the lights.
Coffee and clean wood. That was the smell of his mornings.
He moved through the motions without thinking—bags of beans on the counter, cups stacked, fridge checked. He tied an apron around his waist but left it loose in the back, not bothering to tie the strings. His body was here. His brain was somewhere else.
Mainly on the fact that Sweetheart’s choreo video still hadn’t arrived.
Jeonghan had promised to send it last night. Or was it technically this morning? Either way—Hyungwon was going to have to go into rehearsal blind.
“Great,” he muttered, tapping at the espresso machine until it purred awake.
The front door jingled and Yujin walked in, phone in one hand, a clipboard in the other.
“You look like death,” she said, cheerfully.
“Thanks.”
She dropped her bag behind the counter. “Late night?”
“Don’t ask.”
“I’m gonna ask anyway.”
“Rookies,” he said simply, and that was enough.
Yujin grimaced. “Say no more.”
They moved in sync, restocking together, swapping out syrups, cleaning out the drip machine. The quiet rhythm of the shop before opening hour was one of the few times Hyungwon actually felt his brain slow down.
Except today wasn’t one of those days.
His phone buzzed again.
Minseo.
[Minseo 7:41AM]
Can’t come in today sorry
Hyungwon stared at the screen, blank-faced.
Fourth time this month.
He held the phone up, showing Yujin like a meme.
She sighed. “Fucking hell.”
“I asked her to come in today just to talk.”
“This now makes number 6,” Hyungwon said, deadpan. “Should I send her a loyalty card? Seventh absence is free.”
Yujin snorted, pulling her apron tighter. “At this point, she’s ghosting the job like it’s a bad date.”
“Mm.” He shoved the phone back into his pocket. “We’ll handle it later.”
“Are we actually gonna fire her this time or just keep manifesting?”
Hyungwon didn’t answer right away. He grabbed the syrup bottles, lined them up like chess pieces, and started wiping down the counter again even though it was already clean. His version of stress relief.
“I’ll figure it out,” he said finally.
Yujin leaned against the counter, glancing at the clock. “You’re not gonna have time to deal with that today.”
“I know.”
“You have to leave early for that backup gig, right?”
Hyungwon’s stomach tightened, but he kept his face neutral. “Yeah. My friend roped me into it.”
Yujin’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “You’re actually performing again?”
“Apparently.”
“That’s good.”
“Debatable.”
She gave him a look but didn’t push. That was why he liked her. Yujin knew when to back off. She was like Kihyun, if Kihyun came with an off-switch.
“Did you at least get the choreo?” she asked.
“Nope.” He popped a cup of vitamins into his mouth and chased it with a sip of cold brew. “Jeonghan said he’d send it last night.”
“And did he?”
“Take a guess.”
Yujin sighed. “So you’re gonna show up and wing it?”
“I’m gonna show up and nail it,” he corrected, lips quirking lazily.
There wasn’t much else to do. He’d been doing pickup gigs like this since college. Learn it fast, fake it better.
They finished prep together, flipping the sign to OPEN just as the first customer yanked the door.
Saturday mornings were always like this. Busy, loud, no time to breathe. Hyungwon usually stayed in the back office doing inventory, but Minseo’s absence meant he was stuck at the counter.
By 10:00AM, there was a line out the door.
The smell of espresso steamed up the windows, blending with the sharp bite of sanitizer and the sugary smell of syrups.
Hyungwon smiled at customers on autopilot, but his phone buzzed constantly in his apron pocket.
By the time Hyungwon finally peeled off his apron and slipped out the back door, his body felt like it had been rung out and left to dry.
Yeonnam was crowded now, the streets packed with couples holding hands and tourists taking selfies under the string lights near the park. Someone’s dog barked at a delivery scooter. Someone else spilled an iced latte on the sidewalk and pretended not to notice.
Hyungwon shoved his hands in his pockets and kept walking, legs moving on muscle memory.
He hadn’t finished half the things he needed to do. His to-do list was longer now than it was when he walked into the café that morning. Somehow, the simple math of that still pissed him off.
His phone buzzed against his thigh. More choreography inquiries. Another text from the rookie group’s manager asking if they could “tweak the vibe of the drop sequence.”
He didn’t reply.
The subway entrance loomed ahead, and Hyungwon ducked inside, tapping his card at the gate with the same detached focus he used for most of his life these days. His reflection flashed in the turnstile’s plexiglass—a baseball cap pulled low, hoodie loose over his frame, earbuds looped around his neck but not plugged in.
Too tired to care.
Too tired to stop.
The train platform smelled like metal and leftover bakery exhaust. People filed in on either side of him—some glued to their phones, some arguing softly about dinner plans, some just existing in the usual Seoul rush.
He stepped onto the train when it arrived, grabbing the overhead strap with one hand, his phone loose in the other.
The car swayed. So did his thoughts.
Across from him, a couple stood pressed together near the door. Casual but intimate. The taller one had his hand on the back of his partner’s neck. Thumb stroking slow circles. Not sexual, just steady.
Hyungwon let his eyes drift for a second too long, then looked away.
It wasn’t envy exactly. Just…something close.
It wasn’t like he was against hookups. Hookups were fine. Clean, efficient, no strings.
But lately, everything felt like noise.
He thought about pulling up his dynamic center app. He hadn’t booked a regulation session in months, and his sub side was starting to scratch at him in quiet moments—longer showers, tighter muscles, weird restlessness he couldn’t name.
He could book a session. The centers were good for that.
But they weren’t good for this.
The brattiness, the play, the part of him that didn’t slot neatly into a checkbox. That stuff needed time, comfort, chemistry. A scene that wasn’t clinical. Someone who’d actually get it.
Hyungwon’s fingers hovered over the app icon on his phone, but he didn’t open it.
Instead, he flipped over to his dating app out of habit.
The feed loaded slowly between subway stations, spinning wheel at the top like it was buffering his loneliness. Profiles scrolled past in a blur. Selfies. Pet pics. Bios that all sounded the same.
Dom. Looking for real connection, no flakes.
Switch. Vers open-minded, prefer cuddles after.
Sub. New to this! Teach me~
He thumbed past them, not really reading.
A message popped up from someone he’d matched with last week.
[Yerin 2:02 PM]
U still down to play sometime? :)
Hyungwon stared at it for a few seconds, then flicked his phone into sleep mode.
He wasn’t in the mood for polite negotiation scenes or domming just to kill time. And subbing with a stranger? Not tonight. Not when it felt like part of him was already worn thin.
The train jerked at his stop. Digital Media City. He stepped off without looking back, moving through the crowd with the same loose-shouldered grace he used on stage—head down, body light, eyes scanning the way ahead.
It wasn’t that he wanted a relationship. God, no. Relationships were work, and his life was already a three-ring circus. He didn’t have time to explain himself to someone new.
But sometimes, on days like this—after a morning of café bullshit and a week of rookies who didn’t listen and another night ahead of dancing for someone else’s music—
Sometimes he just wanted to stop performing.
Hyungwon adjusted the strap of his bag across his shoulder and picked up his pace. If he walked fast, he could still make call time without being late.
He took the escalator two steps at a time, legs burning but steady, weaving through the broadcast station crowds with practiced ease. Dancers, stylists, production staff—all crammed into the lobby like different flavors of exhaustion.
Hyungwon knew the drill. Live show tapings were always a mess.
He pulled his hoodie tighter as he slipped through security, flashing his name at the front desk. No one stopped him. They never did.
Backstage smelled like cheap hairspray and coffee gone cold. Makeup artists huddled near the green rooms, palettes out, brushes tucked behind their ears. A couple of stylists passed by, arms loaded with sequined stage outfits in garment bags.
Hyungwon found his way to the Sweetheart team’s green room without asking. He’d been in this building so many times over the years, he could do it blindfolded.
“Hyungwon!” Jeonghan waved him over from the corner, already in costume, collar tugged straight by a stylist as he balanced on one foot. “I thought you’d be later.”
“I am late.”
“Eh, you’re fine.” Jeonghan grinned, all bounce and no brakes. “Come on, change fast. They’re calling first run-through in ten.”
Hyungwon peeled off his hoodie and grabbed the costume hanging over the chair—a standard backup dancer fit. Black slacks, crisp white shirt, loosened school tie. Simple, clean lines. The girls were doing a crush-in-school-uniforms concept, and the background dancers were just there to orbit the aesthetic.
He slid into the outfit quickly, rolling his shoulders to settle the fabric. The shirt fit well, which was either luck or a testament to how often he did gigs like this.
Jeonghan leaned in as he buttoned the cuffs. “We’re on the outer diagonal for formations. Left side first chorus, right side final bridge.”
“I don’t know the choreo.”
“You will in five minutes.”
“That’s optimistic.”
“It’s true.” Jeonghan tossed him a teasing look. “You’re gonna pick it up faster than anyone else here. You always do.”
Hyungwon snorted but didn’t argue. His body was already slipping into dancer mode—shoulders loose, core engaged, feet adjusting his balance automatically.
A staff member with a clipboard popped into the room.
“Sweetheart, dancers, let’s move to the stage!”
Jeonghan grabbed Hyungwon’s wrist like a kid dragging his friend to recess. “Come on, let’s go.”
They jogged down the hall, sneakers skidding a little on the slick studio floors.
The main stage was bright even during rehearsal, LED panels flashing between sponsor ads. Sweetheart’s members were already lined up at center, mics in hand, chatting with the director. The girls were cute in that polished, marketable way—high ponytails, glossy lips, stage smiles ready to snap on the second the cameras rolled.
Hyungwon didn’t mind the concept. Honestly, the song was catchy in a loop-in-your-head-all-day kind of way. He respected good pop structure, even if he pretended not to.
“Positions!” the choreographer called.
They walked through the first run slowly—marking the steps, finding places. The routine wasn’t complicated. Mostly partner work, some framing sequences, a lot of arm angles and rhythm hits to accent the chorus.
Hyungwon picked it up on the first pass.
By the second, he had it memorized.
By the third, he wasn’t thinking about counts at all—his body just moved.
Weight shift. Pivot. Hand on hip. Step back, mirror the lead.
Easy.
His mind floated somewhere quiet, like it always did when he was actually dancing instead of teaching. No managing egos. No correcting form. Just breath, music, and motion.
After the third run, one of the stylists leaned over and whispered, “You should be an idol.”
Hyungwon blinked, half-smiling. “God, no.”
“You’re too handsome to be in the back,” she teased, fussing with the lapel of his shirt. “It’s distracting.”
“Good,” he murmured. “Keeps the camera away from my feet.”
That made her laugh.
Jeonghan elbowed him as they moved offstage for the camera check. “See? Even the staff knows you’re a problem.”
Hyungwon shook his head, lips curving just barely. He wasn’t the type to start conversations, but somehow, people always ended up talking to him anyway.
Maybe it was the face. Or maybe it was just that he never tried too hard.
Another staff member passed him a water bottle. One of Sweetheart’s members gave him a tiny wave as she walked by. He nodded back, casual.
They were resetting for the next act when Jeonghan clapped him on the back.
“Told you,” he said, eyes bright. “You’re a magnet.”
Hyungwon rolled his eyes but didn’t disagree.
The performance was over before Hyungwon even realized he’d started sweating.
Sweetheart’s set went smooth—three minutes of playful choreography, hand-offs between members, backup dancers orbiting just close enough to make the girls look powerful without pulling focus. Exactly the kind of polished chaos music shows lived for.
When the final chorus hit, Hyungwon dropped into formation on instinct, sharp and clean, angles tight. He hit the last beat with a smirk, eyes low, shoulders rolling just enough to match the concept.
The crowd cheered. Camera lights cut off.
Done.
Backstage, he peeled off the school tie and flexed his neck, feeling the familiar pop of vertebrae settling back into place.
“See?” Jeonghan jogged up beside him, grinning, breath just a little winded. “Told you you’d nail it.”
Hyungwon tugged at his collar, letting the air hit his throat. “Mm.”
“You’re annoying, you know that?”
“Frequently.”
Jeonghan laughed, tossing him a fresh towel from one of the staff bins. “Seriously, though. You killed it.”
Hyungwon scrubbed his face with the towel, the rough fabric grounding him for a second. His heart rate was already coming down. Sweat cooled on the back of his neck.
He didn’t realize how much he’d missed this until he was standing here, lungs stretched, body humming from movement. His legs ached, but in the right way this time.
Not exhaustion. Use.
There was a difference.
The hallway backstage was still buzzing—staff calling out set changes, Sweetheart’s manager thanking the crew, camera operators lugging equipment past makeup artists and stylists packing up their kits.
Someone from the production team sidled over to him.
“Hey, you do MVs too, right?”
Hyungwon blinked. “Sometimes.”
“We’re shooting next month for the new Nexus unit. Wanna join? Visual concept, lots of partner work.”
Hyungwon hesitated for exactly half a second before nodding. “Send me the info.”
“Cool. I’ll get your contact from Jeonghan.”
He barely had time to reply before another dancer clapped him on the back. “Dude, you should stop doing background. Your face is too distracting.”
Hyungwon rolled his eyes, but his mouth curved anyway. “What, you want me to wear a mask next time?”
“Honestly? Maybe.”
He slipped out of the stage clothes and back into his hoodie, stuffing the tie into his bag like a souvenir. His muscles still buzzed under his skin—post-performance adrenaline fading slow.
More gig offers came in before he even left the building.
A makeup artist handed him a business card on the way out. “You’re tall,” she said, eyes scanning him up and down. “And you actually listen to direction. If you ever want to do modeling, call me.”
“Mm.” He pocketed the card without breaking stride. “We’ll see.”
Jeonghan caught up to him at the exit, still riding the post-show high. “Dinner?”
Hyungwon checked his phone. It was already past nine. His stomach growled at the thought of actual food, but his bed was calling louder.
“Rain check,” he said, pulling his cap low. “I’ve got early stuff tomorrow.”
“You always have early stuff tomorrow.”
“Exactly.”
Jeonghan pouted dramatically but didn’t push. “Fine. But you’re doing the MV, right?”
“If the pay’s good.”
“Pay’s decent. And you’ll look hot.”
“Perfect,” Hyungwon muttered. “My two requirements.”
Jeonghan laughed, giving him a quick hug before heading toward the parking lot.
Hyungwon stepped out into the night air, letting his shoulders relax for the first time all day. Seoul’s skyline blinked in the distance, cranes and office lights layered behind the glare of convenience store signs.
His body felt good. Warm, used, stretched in all the right ways.
He liked this kind of tired. The physical kind. Not the mental kind he usually dragged home after choreography gigs or café management shifts.
But as he scrolled his phone again—notifications piling up, more bookings, more messages, more “you were so good tonight!” texts—there was still that weird hollow space in his chest.
The part that wanted something else.
He wasn’t even sure what.
By the time they’d dragged two tables together in the middle of his café, Hyungwon was already regretting letting them in.
“Seriously,” he said, leaning one hip against the counter, arms crossed, voice smooth but dry. “You’re lucky I’m not open on Sundays. You take up too much space and talk too loud.”
Minhyuk grinned at him, mid-chair rearrangement. “That’s called community, babe.”
“That’s called a fire hazard.”
Kihyun snorted, helping stack the chairs. “You say that like you didn’t text us first.”
“I texted to confirm,” Hyungwon corrected. “Not to invite chaos.”
“Same thing,” Shownu said, dropping a tray of pastries onto the table like he was setting up a picnic.
“It’s fine,” Wonho added, sliding into his seat and flexing his shoulders. “Chaos burns calories.”
“Yeah, you’d think that,” Hyungwon muttered, “but somehow all of you still manage to eat like you’re bulking.”
Wonho grinned. “I am bulking.”
“Yeah, and I’m buying the snacks.”
The door jingled then—right on schedule.
Minhyuk, Jooheon, and Changkyun pushed through together, late as always, loud and unapologetic.
“Oh look,” Kihyun said without looking up, “the late shift’s here.”
“We’re not late,” Jooheon announced, tossing his jacket onto a chair.
“You’re literally fifteen minutes late,” Hyungwon replied.
“Okay, but like—consistently.”
Minhyuk kicked a chair out for himself, eyes crinkling at the corners. “We’re setting the vibe.”
Changkyun dropped into the seat next to Wonho, hood up, phone already in his hand. “We had a good reason.”
“Let me guess,” Wonho said, leaning back. “Group sex?”
“Wow, you’re psychic,” Jooheon shot back, grinning.
“Bro, it’s not psychic if it’s every time,” Wonho teased.
“Some of us came here for coffee,” Kihyun muttered, pouring himself a cup. “Not for the polycule press tour.”
“You came here for coffee and to judge us,” Minhyuk said, stealing a scone off the tray. “Don’t play innocent.”
Hyungwon leaned against the counter, eyes half-lidded. “At this point, I should charge you rent.”
“You’re lucky I don’t charge you for emotional labor,” Kihyun shot back.
“I provide snacks. That’s a fair trade.”
“You are the snack, jagiya,” Jooheon added, flashing him a grin.
Hyungwon flicked a coffee stir stick at him. “Don’t call me that in front of Kihyun. He’ll think I’m getting soft.”
“I do,” Kihyun said flatly.
“He does not,” Jooheon whispered, fake conspiratorial.
Wonho leaned toward Changkyun, voice low. “This is like a soap opera but gayer.”
“It’s exhausting,” Changkyun whispered back, but he didn’t move away.
The jagiya thing had started as a joke ages ago—probably during one of those nights when they stayed out too late and argued over nothing until someone got petty. Now it was half a bit, half a habit, and neither of them seemed interested in stopping.
“Hey, I’m right here,” Minhyuk said, pretending to pout. “Jooheon’s dating me and Changkyun, but apparently he’s also married to Hyungwon.”
“Obviously,” Jooheon agreed, looping his arm over Changkyun’s shoulder while winking at Hyungwon. “Polyamory is about balance.”
Changkyun let his head drop to the table. “Please stop talking.”
“Don’t be shy, Kyun,” Minhyuk teased, ruffling his hair. “You love us.”
“I like you better when you’re asleep.”
Wonho laughed, stealing half of Minhyuk’s scone without asking. “See? This is why I do bodywork for subs. Less talking.”
Hyungwon shot him a look but let it slide. “That’s because you get paid for it.”
“I’d do it for free,” Wonho grinned. “But my therapist says boundaries are healthy.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
Wonho shrugged, unapologetic. “Hey. I’m consistent.”
The noise kept going, warm and messy. Seven people tangled together in jokes, inside references, and years of shared history.
Minhyuk and Jooheon leaned into each other, Minhyuk stealing bites off Jooheon’s plate while Jooheon protested like he didn’t secretly like it.
Changkyun stayed curled against Wonho’s side, hoodie up, head tilted like he was ignoring them—but Hyungwon noticed he hadn’t put his earbuds in.
Kihyun kept trading barbs with Minhyuk, all sharp edges and soft undertones. His foot stayed nudged under Hyungwon’s chair the whole time, like he’d forgotten to move it.
Shownu ate his muffin in slow, steady bites, watching the chaos with the same calm patience he brought to spotting someone at the gym.
Hyungwon leaned back, letting it all play out in front of him.
The coffee in his hand had gone cold.
He could’ve gotten up to pour himself a fresh cup. But that would mean leaving the table. And for now, sitting still felt easier.