Friends to lovers

by hunydo

Summary:

“Spicy?” Keonho asks.

“You can’t even handle spice,” Seonghyeon says, reaching for mild… then switching to medium because Keonho’s already picked it up. Their knuckles brush around the same packet. Neither acknowledges it.

“Rock-paper-scissors for who cooks?” Keonho offers.

“Loser washes,” Seonghyeon counters.

Notes:

Officially going to keep this a series
Long chapters
They’re too cute honestly

Chapter 1

The hallway outside Studio B smells like hairspray and rubber soles. Staff weave through with garment bags and clipboards; someone’s yelling for a light stand that never appears. CORTIS is running the chorus again in the glass box of mirrors—five shadows snapping into place, shirts sticking to their backs.

“Water,” Martin calls, and the formation breaks like a flock.

Seonghyeon drops to the floor first, back against the wall, breathing even, eyes on the ceiling tiles like he’s counting. Keonho jogs over and sinks down beside him, a little too close like always, sweat damp at his hairline and grin refusing to quit.

“Your turn to bully my footwork,” Keonho says, nudging his knee into Seonghyeon’s. “Be brutal.”

“You’re landing half a beat ahead when the snare hits,” Seonghyeon answers, handing over his bottle. “Feels rushed.”

Keonho takes a long sip, then squints. “Translation: chill.”

“Translation: listen,” Seonghyeon counters, lips tilting. It’s not a smile; it’s the idea of one.

Across the room, James is showing Juhoon a TikTok edit of their pre-chorus; Martin’s on speaker with the stylists about the jackets. The room hums with motion, but the pocket of floor by the wall goes quiet—just the small sounds of two people sharing breath, water, space.

“Switch seats with me,” Keonho says, leaning back until his shoulder bumps Seonghyeon’s. “The AC hits better here.”

“You literally sat there first.”

“Yeah, but I’m making a selfless offer.”

Seonghyeon gives him the side-eye that means I know what you’re doing and shifts anyway. The AC does hit better there. Keonho follows, of course, drops back into the new gap like he’s claiming a reserved spot.

They don’t touch on purpose. They never do. But the not-touching is so specific it may as well be choreography.

“Set again in two,” Martin claps, and the spell breaks. Keonho stands, rolls his shoulders, glances down.

“You good?”

“I’m good,” Seonghyeon says, and means it.

—

The van ride to the music show is chaos—bags in the aisle, portable steamer hissing, a fruit cup someone forgot open. Juhoon is DJ, cycling through demos; James is practicing English ad-libs under his breath. Martin’s group chat is popping off with stage timing updates.

Keonho taps the inside of his wrist. “Earbud?”

Seonghyeon pulls one out without looking and passes it over. They share a cable like always—habit, ritual, superstition. The song is a reference track with an empty verse; Keonho hums his idea soft, testing the pocket. Seonghyeon listens, head tilted.

“Too many syllables in the second line,” he says finally.

Keonho chews on that, eyes on the window. “What if I drop the ‘always’?”

“That’s the fix,” Seonghyeon says.

A beat. Keonho’s mouth curves. “Knew you’d say that.”

Seonghyeon doesn’t answer, but the corner of his hoodie lifts as his shoulder shifts closer to the shared wire.

From the front, James twists around. “Quiz time: whose mic got labeled ‘ㄱㅅㄱ’?”

“Yours,” Keonho answers, deadpan.

“Rude,” James says, laughing.

“True,” Juhoon adds.

Martin, without looking up: “We’re writing name tags in Sharpie when we get there. No more chaos.”

Keonho leans in, voice dropped for just them. “You’ll write mine?”

Seonghyeon keeps his eyes on the window. “You can write your own name.”

“Where’s the romance,” Keonho sighs, mock-dramatic, then sits back, pleased anyway.

It’s easy. It’s always been easy. That’s the problem.

—

Backstage is a maze of curtains and taped Xs. Staff heard them to standby; the five spread into their pre-show habits. Seonghyeon fixes his in-ear cable flat against his neck. Keonho steals a glance in the cracked mirror and then looks straight at Seonghyeon’s reflection instead.

“Stay with me on the first camera push,” he says. “If I speed up, yank me back with your eyes.”

“That’s not how physics works,” Seonghyeon says, but he’s already nodding.

“Thirty seconds,” a floor manager calls.

Keonho steps closer—close enough that, if they were different people, this would be a hug. He doesn’t touch. His voice is quiet. “Breathe.”

“You too,” Seonghyeon answers.

The VCR ends. The LED wall explodes to life. Five silhouettes rise and the music hits like a wave.

On the second chorus, Keonho does surge half a beat early, hunger dragging him forward. And just like always, Seonghyeon reels him in with one look—chin, eyes, a micro-nod. Keonho locks to him like a magnet, and the line snaps clean.

After, in the dark wing, they grin at each other without meaning to. It’s quick, small, invisible to everyone else. It feels like getting away with something.

—

They go live on Weverse after the performance. Keonho sits on the arm of the sofa, ankles crossed. Seonghyeon claims the floor below him, back against the couch, hoodie sleeves braced in his hands.

“‘Who choreographed the bridge?’” James reads.

“All of us,” Martin says. “But credit to our maknae twins for the partner timing.”

The chat rockets. 09 TWINS! they move like they share a brain eye contact kings

“Eye contact kings?” Juhoon echoes, amused.

Keonho leans down into frame. “We do look at each other a lot.”

“Because you rush,” Seonghyeon says before he can think. The comment section erupts. Keonho laughs, delighted.

“See?” James points. “Married.”

“Relax,” Martin says, failing to hide his smile.

Seonghyeon tucks his chin, a ghost of a smile in his mouth. He doesn’t look up, but he feels the warmth of Keonho’s gaze skating over the top of his hair like sunlight through blinds.

They end the live with a chorus of goodnights. The screen goes black. The room doesn’t.

Keonho hops off the armrest. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” Seonghyeon admits.

“Convenience store run,” Martin decrees. “Ten minutes. Hoodies, masks, go.”

—

The neon convenience store hums at midnight. Five hoods, five masks, five baskets. They split autopilot paths: Martin to protein bars, James to ice cream, Juhoon to everything. Keonho and Seonghyeon end up in the ramen aisle, staring at a wall of choices like it’s a test.

“Spicy?” Keonho asks.

“You can’t even handle spice,” Seonghyeon says, reaching for mild… then switching to medium because Keonho’s already picked it up. Their knuckles brush around the same packet. Neither acknowledges it.

“Rock-paper-scissors for who cooks?” Keonho offers.

“Loser washes,” Seonghyeon counters.

They play; Keonho loses with suspicious speed and looks pleased about it anyway.

Back at the dorm, the kitchen turns into a tiny stage—steam rising, chopsticks clacking, laughter echoing off tile. James steals egg slices; Juhoon narrates like a food show; Martin monitors sodium like a dad.

When bowls finally hit the table, Keonho sets one by Seonghyeon’s elbow, not looking at him when he does. “Yours.”

“Thanks,” Seonghyeon says, soft enough that the word barely makes air.

They eat. It’s nothing. It’s everything. Under the table, their knees bump once—accident, inevitability, both.

From the couch, Martin calls, “Early call time. Bed by one.”

“Copy,” they chorus.

Lights click off one by one. The city outside keeps breathing. In the narrow hallway to their rooms, Keonho slows. So does Seonghyeon. They hover in the puddle of light from the bathroom night lamp, shoulders almost aligned, the way people do when they want to say a thing and choose to save it for later.

“Good work today,” Keonho says.

“You too,” Seonghyeon answers.

A pause, a breath, a nearly. Then they peel away towards each of their beds, the quiet tug between them stretching like a wire—thin, gleaming, uncut.

—

The alarm hits before sunrise. Staff corral them into motion like sheepdogs, voices sharp against the dark. Hoodies, caps, carry-on bags slung half-zipped.

“Schedule’s stacked,” Martin reads from his phone as they shuffle into the elevator. “Music show, radio, fan call, then back to the studio.”

“Can we teleport instead?” James mutters, dragging his feet.

“Five seconds late to teleportation, you’d still get scolded,” Juhoon says, and James groans dramatically.

By the time they reach the van, dawn is a thin bruise across the sky. Seonghyeon slides into the last bench seat, pressing his cheek against the window’s cool glass. Keonho follows and drops beside him, thigh to thigh in the narrow space. It’s automatic—like water filling a gap.

James climbs in after and groans. “Why do they always sit together?”

“Because we’re efficient,” Keonho answers, leaning back with a grin.

Seonghyeon says nothing, just adjusts his hood. But his chest feels too aware of the proximity. Not bad—just… awake.

⸻

The van hums along the expressway. Martin reviews lyrics under his breath, Juhoon dozes, James plays some rhythm game on his phone with the sound way too loud.

Keonho tilts his head toward Seonghyeon, voice low enough to stay private:
“You’re quieter than usual.”

“I’m conserving energy.”

“You’re conserving moods.”

Seonghyeon cuts him a sideways look, dry. “Do you need me to entertain you?”

“Yeah,” Keonho says, immediate, playful. “Do something funny.”

“I’m not James.”

“Rude.” Keonho nudges his knee against Seonghyeon’s under the blanket pooled across their laps. A small thing. But the pressure lingers, neither moving away.

⸻

Backstage at the show, nerves coil tighter. Stylists flit around with combs, powder, safety pins. Martin calls for formation check; Juhoon stretches shoulders. James is buzzing with too much energy.

Keonho, already wired, leans against the counter beside Seonghyeon, watching staff adjust his mic belt. “Don’t look so serious. We’ve done this a hundred times.”

“I’m not serious. I’m focused.”

“Focused looks like you’re about to fight someone.”

“Maybe I am.”

That gets a laugh out of Keonho, quick and bright. He dips closer, chin almost brushing Seonghyeon’s shoulder. “Who, me?”

The stylist coughs politely, tugging the last strap in place. Seonghyeon’s ears heat. He turns slightly away. “You talk too much.”

“Correct,” Keonho agrees, shameless.

⸻

On stage, the cameras devour them. Every look, every sync, every drop of sweat is magnified.

Seonghyeon zones into muscle memory—beats, breaths, sharp lines. But there’s always Keonho in the corner of his vision, orbiting close during transitions, flashing that grin mid-chorus like a dare.

In the final pose, they end near each other, close enough for their shoulders to almost brush. The crowd screams. The lights blackout. The spell breaks.

Back in the wing, adrenaline buzzing, James slaps both their backs. “Good save on the third chorus—camera almost tripped me, but you guys covered.”

“Teamwork,” Keonho says. But his eyes dart once to Seonghyeon, quick and quiet.

⸻

Later, during a break in recording, the five cram into a waiting room with plastic chairs and lukewarm coffee.

Juhoon sprawls on the couch, scrolling. Martin reviews notes. James hums tunelessly while peeling the label off a water bottle.

Keonho and Seonghyeon share the small two-seater chair—because no one else wants to squeeze. Keonho sprawls, naturally, knees wide. Seonghyeon sits straight, trying to ignore the way their shoulders press together.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Keonho murmurs.

“I’m not tired.”

“You look like you’re buffering.”

Seonghyeon exhales, a near-laugh. “Maybe you just talk too much for my processor.”

“Maybe you like it,” Keonho shoots back, grin tugging at his mouth.

Seonghyeon doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to—the way his ears redden is enough to make Keonho’s smile soften, even as he leans back like he won something.

⸻

By the time they pile back into the van that night, the city lights smear across the glass in ribbons. James is knocked out, Juhoon half-asleep with headphones, Martin typing updates.

Keonho yawns, then lets his head tip sideways, bumping lightly onto Seonghyeon’s shoulder. “Five minutes. Wake me before we get there.”

Seonghyeon freezes for a moment—then doesn’t move. He keeps still, staring out at the streetlamps, pulse skittering.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

The van hums on. The night stretches, quiet and endless.

 

The morning starts with another round of rehearsals. Juhoon’s nagging everyone to drink water, James is half-stretching, half-annoying Martin, and the choreographer looks seconds away from quitting.

During one break, Seonghyeon sits against the mirror, scrolling silently through his phone. Keonho drops beside him, towel slung around his neck.

“You’re not drinking.”

“I will.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

Seonghyeon glances at him, unimpressed. “You timing me?”

“Obviously.” Keonho leans closer, too close, like he’s about to snatch the bottle right out of Seonghyeon’s hands. Their knees knock together, deliberate.

Seonghyeon shifts, but not away—more like he doesn’t know where to shift. “…You’re annoying.”

“You’d miss me if I stopped.”

Seonghyeon doesn’t answer, eyes fixed back on his phone. But his grip on it tightens, betraying the flutter in his chest.

⸻

Later that day — radio schedule.

The five of them squeeze around the table with mics. The DJ throws easy questions, jokes flow, James hams it up, Martin keeps things polished.

Then comes a game segment: finish the other member’s sentence.

Keonho and Seonghyeon are paired.

The sentence: “If I were stranded on an island, the one thing I’d need is…”

Keonho smirks before answering. “Seonghyeon.”

The DJ laughs, Martin claps, James whoops. Juhoon rolls his eyes.

Seonghyeon goes still for a beat, then forces out a dry, “…You’d starve.”

The room bursts again. But Keonho leans just close enough for only him to hear:
“Not if you’re there.”

Seonghyeon’s chest jumps. He doesn’t look at him the rest of the game.

⸻

That night — dorm living room.

Everyone else is distracted: James gaming, Martin FaceTiming family, Juhoon reading.

Keonho flops down beside Seonghyeon on the couch, close enough their arms brush.

“Still ignoring me?”

“I wasn’t.”

“You didn’t look at me once during the game.”

“…Because you’re loud.”

“That’s the point.” Keonho shifts, leaning just slightly forward, his face angled toward Seonghyeon’s. Not touching. Not even that close. But the suggestion of it hangs sharp in the air, enough to make Seonghyeon’s stomach flip.

“You ever wonder,” Keonho murmurs, “what would happen if I stopped joking?”

Seonghyeon blinks, throat dry. “No.”

Keonho smirks, leaning back like he never said it. “Liar.”

Across the room, James yells at his game, oblivious.

But on the couch, tension coils tight and unspoken, stretching between them like a held breath.

 

Schedules ran late. By the time they piled into the van, everyone was half-asleep, limbs overlapping with bags and jackets.

Seonghyeon ended up by the window, earphones in, head tilted back. Keonho slid in beside him — last seat, cramped, their shoulders pressed automatically.

For once, Keonho didn’t say anything. Just sat there, scrolling on his phone. Quiet.

Minutes stretched. The van hummed along the empty road.

Then, almost lazily, Keonho shifted his hand from his lap to the space between them. His pinky brushed against Seonghyeon’s. Not enough to be anything. Just there.

Seonghyeon glanced down. Didn’t move his hand. Didn’t pull away either.

Outside, streetlights passed in streaks of orange. Inside, silence.

It wasn’t hand-holding. It wasn’t even close. But the warmth of Keonho’s knuckle grazing his made Seonghyeon’s chest feel unsteady, restless.

When Seonghyeon finally glanced sideways, Keonho was pretending to doze, mouth curved in the faintest smirk.

⸻

Back at the dorm

Everyone stumbled into their rooms. Lights off.

Seonghyeon lay awake, replaying the van ride, over and over. That stupid pinky. That stupid smirk.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. And yet his chest still wouldn’t calm down.

Chapter 2

Summary:

“Wait, what is this—our routine now?” Seonghyeon teased, letting his hand slip into Keonho’s.

Keonho shrugged, playful grin in place. “Feels like it.” He gave Seonghyeon’s hand a small squeeze, the warmth already spreading through his fingers and up his arm

Notes:

A short update but enjoy !! If u guys have suggestions on where you’d want to take this fic out out the ideas in the comments !

The waiting room was noisy in the way it always was before a schedule — staff calling out times, makeup brushes clattering on tables, one member trying to nap despite the chaos.

Seonghyeon had claimed a spot on the couch, half-curled with his phone in hand. Not long after, the cushions dipped and Keonho slid in beside him, their thighs pressing together with no space left between.

“Always hiding in your corner,” Keonho muttered, glancing at the screen.

“I wasn’t hiding,” Seonghyeon replied, not looking up.

Keonho stretched an arm lazily across the back of the couch, brushing against Seonghyeon’s shoulder. He didn’t move it.

A few minutes passed like that — Seonghyeon scrolling, Keonho half-watching, half-dozing, the noise of the room fading into the background. Every so often, Keonho’s knee would shift and bump against Seonghyeon’s. Neither of them adjusted, like they were both pretending not to notice.

At one point, Keonho leaned closer, peering at Seonghyeon’s phone. His hair brushed Seonghyeon’s temple, his breath warm against his cheek. “What is that?” he asked casually.

“Nothing you’d care about,” Seonghyeon said, though he tilted the screen slightly so Keonho could see.

Keonho hummed, settling back again. But his hand, resting against the couch, shifted just enough that his knuckles grazed Seonghyeon’s arm. Barely there. Barely anything.

Seonghyeon didn’t move. His eyes stayed on his phone, but his pulse betrayed him, that same restless thrum from the van ride the night before.

Keonho’s lips curved into the faintest smirk, like he knew. But he didn’t say anything — just leaned back further, casual, letting the touch linger in silence.

From across the room, James glanced over, but only shook his head with a laugh at something Juhoon was saying. Nobody else noticed.

For Seonghyeon, though, the static in the air was impossible to ignore.

Schedules roll into the night. They pile into the studio to record harmonies, the sound engineer dimming the lights for atmosphere. One by one, the others finish their parts and sink into chairs with their phones.

Seonghyeon is still at the mic, headphones slipping slightly as he leans into the stand, voice soft as he tries to match the layering. When he finishes, he glances through the glass and finds Keonho watching—chin propped on his hand, expression unreadable but eyes sharp.

The moment lingers just a second too long. Enough to make Seonghyeon’s stomach twist.

When he comes out, Keonho is waiting with an open water bottle. “Good take,” he says, handing it over like it’s nothing.

Seonghyeon takes it, fingers brushing his, and it’s too easy to pretend it’s just normal. Too easy—except for the way Keonho’s smirk curves at the corner, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

———

The walk back from the van was colder than expected, the kind of chill that bit at your fingertips no matter how deep you shoved them into your jacket. The others walked ahead, talking loudly about food, laughter echoing against the empty street.

Keonho and Seonghyeon trailed a few steps behind, quieter. Seonghyeon’s hands were buried in his pockets, head ducked against the wind.

Keonho glanced at him once, then suddenly slid his own hand into Seonghyeon’s pocket, fingers brushing until they found his.

Seonghyeon startled, looking down, then up at him. “What are you doing?”

Keonho just grinned, eyes forward. “Sharing, my hands are freezing.”

The warmth spread quick, ridiculous compared to how cold the air was. Their shoulders bumped lightly as they walked, and after a beat, Seonghyeon let out a quiet laugh.

“Feels cramped,” he said, voice low, but he didn’t pull away.

“Better than cold,” Keonho replied easily.

For a moment they both laughed, the kind that came out half-held-back, more giggles than anything. It wasn’t the joke itself—it was the fact they were doing something that felt just slightly too close, too much, but neither of them wanted to stop.

Up ahead Martin yelled over his shoulder, “You two are always last—move faster!”

Keonho squeezed Seonghyeon’s hand once before pulling it free just as they reached the others. Seonghyeon shook his head, but the smile lingered on his face, impossible to hide.

By the time they got inside, the air was warmer, but Seonghyeon’s hands still felt like they were holding something.

———

The alarm had barely gone off before chaos erupted in the dorm. Everyone was scrambling—bags, shoes, water bottles—all while Keonho and Seonghyeon tried not to trip over each other in the hallway.

“Come on, we’re going to be late,” Seonghyeon groaned, tugging his bag over one shoulder. He paused at the doorway, realizing he’d forgotten his jacket. A cold gust of morning air hit him, making him shiver.

Keonho, noticing instantly, smirked. “Wanna hold my hand?”

Seonghyeon blinked, heat rising in his cheeks, and then both of them laughed—light, breathy, easy laughter, the kind that only happens when something feels absurdly natural.

“Wait, what is this—our routine now?” Seonghyeon teased, letting his hand slip into Keonho’s.

Keonho shrugged, playful grin in place. “Feels like it.” He gave Seonghyeon’s hand a small squeeze, the warmth already spreading through his fingers and up his arm.

The rest of the members were ahead, joking and carrying on like usual, but the two of them walked just a little slower, perfectly in sync. The cold didn’t matter so much anymore—Seonghyeon had his hand in Keonho’s, and Keonho had that small, quiet smirk that made everything feel easier.

“Seriously though,” Seonghyeon said, bumping shoulders lightly with him, “we’re walking all the way to the company in this chaos?”

Keonho laughed. “Guess we’re making memories.”

By the time they reached the company, both of them were a little flushed—not just from the walk, but from the comfortable closeness, the teasing ease of their new “routine.” Neither said anything about it, but when their hands lingered a second longer than necessary before finally letting go, both felt it—a quiet acknowledgment that whatever this was, it was theirs, and maybe it was exactly where they were supposed to be.

Chapter 3

Summary:

“You’ve worked hard,” Keonho murmured, voice low and steady. His hand rubbed lightly against Seonghyeon’s back. “Really. You’re doing so well.”

Notes:

progression..

The day’s schedule started with dance practice. The speakers boomed, the mirrors fogged, and sweat dripped down their temples. It was exhausting but familiar—the kind of grind they’d grown used to.

During a break, Seonghyeon sat down on the floor, catching his breath and fanning himself with his shirt. Keonho dropped down beside him, still buzzing with energy like he always did, leaning his head back against the mirror.

“You should’ve brought your jacket this morning,” Keonho said, still grinning from earlier.

Seonghyeon gave him a side glance, smirking faintly. “And miss out on holding your hand? Tragic.”

Keonho barked out a laugh, louder than intended. A couple of the members looked over, curious, but quickly went back to their own conversations. Keonho leaned closer, voice dropping so only Seonghyeon could hear.

“Careful—say stuff like that, and I’ll start thinking you like it.”

Seonghyeon rolled his eyes, cheeks warming despite himself. “You’re thinking too much.”

But when their eye contact lasted just a few seconds longer than needed and neither of them moved away, the air between them felt charged in a way that made his stomach flip, a small smile appearing on both faces.

——

Later, they all sat crammed around a table in the company cafeteria. The other members argued over food orders and traded side dishes like always, but under the table, Seonghyeon felt the brief brush of Keonho’s foot against his. He stopped halfway through a bite, then glanced up—Keonho was casually sipping his drink, like nothing had happened.

Seonghyeon shifted slightly, brushing his foot back against Keonho’s. Their eyes met for just a fraction of a second, enough to make his heart stumble in his chest.

“Eat your food,” Seonghyeon muttered, trying to hide the way his lips curled upward.

Keonho tilted his head, that familiar teasing smile tugging at his mouth. “I am.”

The conversation around them carried on, loud and distracting, but under the table, the quiet tension between the two of them grew.

By the end of the day, as they walked back to the dorm, Seonghyeon found himself waiting for it—for the inevitable brush of fingers, the little smirk, the warmth of a hand slipping into his. And when it happened, when Keonho casually reached over and laced their hands together like it was nothing, Seonghyeon only laughed, shaking his head.

“What is this, really?” he whispered.

Keonho shrugged, eyes forward but grip firm. “Our thing.”

And somehow, Seonghyeon didn’t mind at all

——

Seonghyeon padded out of his room with his hood up, hair a mess, searching for something to fill the emptiness in his stomach.

The light was already on in the kitchen. Keonho was standing at the counter, spoon in his mouth, finishing off a pudding cup like it was the most satisfying thing in the world.

“You too?” Keonho said around the spoon when he noticed him, grinning.

Seonghyeon raised a brow. “You’re eating dessert at midnight?”

“It’s called self-care,” Keonho said seriously, tossing the empty container into the trash. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Seonghyeon shook his head but couldn’t help a small laugh as he pulled instant noodles from the cupboard. “You’re hopeless.”

A few minutes later, they were sitting across from each other at the small table, steam curling from the ramen they decided to share. The quiet wasn’t awkward—it never was with Keonho—but it felt heavier than usual, pressing at the edges of their conversation.

“You eat like this every night?” Seonghyeon asked, blowing on his noodles.

“Only on the nights practice takes longer than usual,” Keonho said, then shrugged. “So basically, yeah.”

Seonghyeon chuckled, shaking his head. “No wonder you’re always raiding the snacks.”

“Snacks are fuel,” Keonho shot back, pointing his chopsticks at him. But then his grin softened, his gaze lingering. “But hey—you’ve been kind of quiet lately. You okay?”

Seonghyeon hesitated, chopsticks pausing. He wanted to say yes, to brush it off. But with Keonho watching him like that, it was harder. “I’m fine.”

“You always say that,” Keonho said, leaning back.

“And you always overthink,” Seonghyeon countered with a small smile.

Keonho tilted his head, unconvinced. “Maybe. But… you carry things. Quietly. And I notice.”

The words slipped under Seonghyeon’s guard. He didn’t meet his eyes, just stirred the noodles, then admitted quietly, “Sometimes it feels heavy. That’s all.”

Simple. Subtle. Enough.

Keonho didn’t push. Instead, he nudged the plate of leftover chicken toward him. “Then eat more. That’ll fix everything.”

Seonghyeon laughed, shaking his head. “You’re not funny.”

“Yeah, but I’m right,” Keonho said, smirking as if that settled it.

The heaviness eased, and they drifted into easier talk. Keonho told him how James’ snoring had gotten so bad last night that Juhoon threw a pillow at him. Seonghyeon nearly choked on a noodle when Keonho reenacted Juhoon’s angry whisper.

“And Martin reorganized the fridge again,” Keonho added, rolling his eyes. “By taste. Who does that?”

Seonghyeon’s laugh was soft but real. “That’s just..”

The minutes slipped by like that, light and warm, until the bowls were empty and the only sound left was the low hum of the fridge.

Seonghyeon carried the dishes to the sink, rinsing them automatically. That’s when he felt it—warmth at his back, hands gently resting against his sides as Keonho turned him around.

Before Seonghyeon could react, Keonho pulled him into a hug. Not playful, not teasing—just warm and solid. His head rested against Seonghyeon’s shoulder, breath brushing his neck.

“You’ve worked hard,” Keonho murmured, voice low and steady. His hand rubbed lightly against Seonghyeon’s back. “Really. You’re doing so well.”

For a second, Seonghyeon froze. He didn’t know where to put his arms, what to do with the sudden closeness. But then the words sank in, soft and grounding, and something in him loosened.

Slowly, he lifted his arms and hugged back, holding on just as tightly.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

They stayed like that, unhurried, the weight of the day slipping quietly away between them.

Chapter 4

Summary:

And that was it — no big joke, no smirk, just quiet warmth filling the small space of the backseat.

Notes:

very short chapter

Morning in the dorm was a blur of alarms, toothbrushes, and Martin complaining about being the last one in the shower again. By the time they tumbled downstairs, their manager was already waiting by the van, arms crossed, tapping his watch.

Everyone piled in, half-asleep and still pulling on hoodies. Seonghyeon slid into the back row, head tipped against the window, trying to keep his eyes open. Keonho dropped into the seat beside him, stretching his legs like he owned the space.

The van rumbled to life. Juhoon was already nodding off in the front, James scrolling on his phone, Martin humming to himself with earbuds in. The air felt soft, drowsy.

Seonghyeon sighed, rubbing at his sleeves. The glass was cold against his temple.

Without a word, Keonho’s hand shifted across the small gap between them, fingers brushing his. Slowly, deliberately, he slipped his hand over Seonghyeon’s and held on.

No one else noticed.

Seonghyeon glanced sideways, surprised. Keonho was staring straight ahead, face unreadable, like he hadn’t just done something that made Seonghyeon’s heart jump.

For a second, Seonghyeon considered pulling away. But the warmth settled into his chest, grounding him. He let their hands stay hidden between their legs, pressed together in the quiet.

Neither of them said anything. But when the van hit a bump in the road, and Keonho’s thumb instinctively tightened around his, Seonghyeon found himself smiling faintly at the window.

After a beat, Seonghyeon muttered, almost to himself, “We’re not walking today… why hold hands?”

Keonho whispered ,his thumb brushing Seonghyeon’s knuckles, tone soft and easy. “Better this way, right?”

“Mm,” Seonghyeon agreed again, letting his thumb graze Keonho’s once.

And that was it — no big joke, no smirk, just quiet warmth filling the small space of the backseat.

Seonghyeon remembered the hug from last night, how Keonho had wrapped his arms around him in the kitchen, resting his head on Seonghyeon’s shoulder. The short phrase “You’re doing so well”. At the time, he had thought of it as warm, comforting, just a casual acknowledgment. But now, riding in the van, Seonghyeon realized just how much those words had landed. It wasn’t just praise—it was care. Attention. Something he hadn’t consciously noticed he craved until that moment.

He glanced at Keonho, catching him looking forward, his expression calm as ever, and a small, unintentional warmth spread through Seonghyeon’s chest. He found himself holding the memory of that hug like a secret, feeling the weight of the words and the quiet strength behind them, he leaned just a little closer now, unconsciously mirroring that closeness.

Keonho, sensing the subtle shift, rested his other arm lightly against the back of Seonghyeon’s seat. His hand holding Seonghyeon’s squeezed gently, a quiet echo of the hug, grounding and familiar. Neither moved to break it; it felt natural, safe.

The hum of the van filled the quiet between them, their hands still entwined until…

“Hey, we’re here!” someone called from the front.

In an instant, Keonho and Seonghyeon pulled their hands away, pretending to adjust their bags like nothing had happened.

For a beat, the air between them was thick—not from embarrassment exactly, but from the sudden awareness of what had just been happening.

Wait… why did we even hide this? Seonghyeon thought, his mind racing. We’re just friends… right?

Keonho’s thoughts mirrored his, a little twist of amusement and curiosity settling in his chest. Friends. That’s all we are. But why do I want more..?

Neither spoke, the van continuing on, but both stole subtle glances at each other, caught in the quiet, awkward, yet warm realization that maybe their friendship had just… shifted

Chapter 5

Summary:

The silence stretched, heavy, until Keonho whispered, almost daring him:

“Say it to my face, then. Look me in the eye and tell me you’re fine.”

Notes:

A little angst to keep it dramatic ‼️

The van door slid open, and the rush of fans’ voices, camera shutters, and staff instructions cut through the quiet. Seonghyeon was the first to step out, shoulders squared, expression calm and unreadable as ever. To anyone watching, he looked the same as always—polished, steady, untouchable.

But his palms still buzzed. Like Keonho’s handprint hadn’t faded.

What am I doing? The thought hit hard, sharp. We’re in the same group. We’re just friends. That’s all. Nothing more. It can’t be more.

By the time they made it into the practice room, Seonghyeon had already decided: space. It was the only way. No more letting stupid things—like the warmth of Keonho’s hand, the sound of his voice last night, or the weight of that hug—blur the lines.

So when Keonho dropped down beside him on the floor with that easy grin, stretching his legs like he always did, Seonghyeon pushed himself up with a quiet, “I’m gonna grab some water,” and walked off.

During choreo, when Keonho tugged him closer into formation with a casual arm, Seonghyeon flinched back just enough for Keonho’s brow to furrow. At lunch, he wedged himself between other members, laughing at conversations that felt more like shields. And whenever Keonho brushed against him—an elbow, a sleeve, a playful nudge—he slipped away before it could linger.

It wasn’t obvious. Not harsh. Just enough distance to draw a line. But every time he did it, something tightened in his chest. If I let this keep going… I’ll ruin everything. The group. Him. Me. Better to kill it now before it grows into something I can’t control.

Across the room, Keonho noticed. He noticed everything.

At first, he let it slide. Seonghyeon was like this sometimes—withdrawn, unreadable. He figured maybe he was just tired. But when the little things stacked up—when Seonghyeon actually stepped aside in the hallway to avoid walking beside him—Keonho’s patience snapped into something sharper.

What the hell is this? His jaw clenched as he shoved his water bottle into his bag. One second we’re… whatever that was, holding hands in the van like it’s nothing, and now he won’t even look at me?

By the time they packed up, the air between them was taut, pulled thin.

⸻

The ride back to the dorm was dim and hushed. The other members slumped against windows, heads bobbing with sleep. The hum of the road filled the silence.

Keonho shifted, arm sliding along the seatback behind Seonghyeon. Slowly, his hand slipped down, brushing against Seonghyeon’s. For a moment, he thought it would stay—that Seonghyeon would let it.

But then Seonghyeon’s phone lit up, and he jerked his hand away, thumbs tapping nonsense just to have something to do. Keonho didn’t buy it. His jaw tightened, gaze fixed on the dark blur of the city outside.

⸻

Back at the dorm, laughter turned into yawns, then into silence as doors shut one by one. The living room lights dimmed.

Seonghyeon lay on the couch for a while, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen. His stomach grumbled. Finally, he pushed himself up, padding quietly across the room.

The kitchen was dark, empty. He opened the fridge, grabbed leftovers, and set them on the counter. The quiet was almost soothing.

Until a voice cut through it.

“You really gonna keep pretending?”

Seonghyeon froze, container slipping in his hands. He turned. Keonho was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, face unreadable in the low light.

“You scared me,” Seonghyeon muttered, setting the food down.

“Good,” Keonho shot back, stepping closer. “Maybe then you’ll stop running every time I get near you.”

The words weren’t loud, but they hit like a shove.

Seonghyeon opened his mouth, closed it again. The easiest answer sat on his tongue—I’m just tired. Same excuse. But Keonho’s stare made it clear he wouldn’t buy it. Not after last night. Not after the hug and the words that still sat heavy in Seonghyeon’s chest.

“You said you were having a hard time,” Keonho said, softer now. “So why push me away when I’m just trying to be here?”

The fridge hummed. The clock ticked faintly. Seonghyeon’s throat tightened. He wanted to tell him everything, but the words knotted up, stuck halfway.

“I… don’t know,” he whispered finally, voice barely audible.

Keonho let out a breath, something between frustration and worry. Then he stepped forward, slow but deliberate, until Seonghyeon’s back hit the counter.

He braced his hands against it, caging him in—not touching, not yet, but close enough that the air between them felt charged. His voice dropped, low and steady.

“I’m not asking for everything,” Keonho murmured. “Just don’t shut me out. Not you.”

Seonghyeon forced himself to meet his eyes for half a second, then dropped his gaze. His fingers gripped the counter’s edge so hard they hurt.

“I’m not shutting you out,” he said, but it came out thin, unconvincing. “I’m just… it’s heavy right now.” His voice wavered, barely holding steady.

Keonho leaned in closer, their foreheads almost brushing. “Bullshit. You said that yesterday too.”

“I meant it.”

“No, you didn’t.” His voice was firmer now, but not harsh. Just certain. “I know you too well.”

Seonghyeon swallowed, throat dry. The counter dug into his back. Keonho’s presence pressed in from the front, unavoidable.

The silence stretched, heavy, until Keonho whispered, almost daring him:

“Say it to my face, then. Look me in the eye and tell me you’re fine.”

Chapter 6

Summary:

Keonho ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “Just tell me then, why are you avoiding me, what’s this all about?”

Notes:

Tea time 🫢
I’m so glad u guys are all enjoying this ❤️❤️

Seonghyeon’s jaw clenched. His fingers dug into the counter until the plastic edge bit his skin. “I’m fine,” he forced out, but his voice cracked halfway through.

Keonho didn’t budge. His hand lifted slowly, fingers firm as they hooked under Seonghyeon’s chin, tilting his face upward. Seonghyeon resisted at first, jaw tight, but Keonho’s grip held steady. Their eyes finally met, sharp against reluctant.

“I said look me in the eyes.” Keonho murmured, low and unyielding.

Seonghyeon’s chest rose hard, his throat working before he finally snapped back, louder this time, “I said I’m fine!”

The words rang hollow in the small kitchen, too fast, too defensive. He shoved at Keonho’s chest then, breaking the contact. “Why do you even care? It’s none of your business.”

He pushed past, almost clearing the corner of the counter—but Keonho’s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist and yanking him back. The fridge vibrated at the impact as Seonghyeon’s back hit it, breath catching in his chest.

“It is my business,” Keonho said, voice sharp but not raised, the kind of tone that left no room for retreat. He crowded closer, one hand braced against the wall by Seonghyeon’s head, the other still locked around his wrist.

Seonghyeon twisted, breath uneven, refusing to meet Keonho’s eyes. His free hand pressed against Keonho’s chest, but it wasn’t enough to create space. His voice came out low, tight, laced with frustration.
“Stop acting like you know everything. You don’t get what it’s like in my head—what it costs just to keep it together every day. So don’t stand here and tell me you understand.” The words spilled fast, defensive, like he was building a wall as quickly as Keonho was breaking it down.

“We’re in the same group, Keonho. One wrong step and it’s not just me that goes down—it’s you, it’s everyone. So don’t stand here acting like this doesn’t matter.”

The words hung between them, heavier than either of them expected.

Keonho’s jaw tightened. His grip didn’t loosen. His chest rose and fell, slow, deliberate.

“So that’s it?” he said quietly, leaning in closer, his breath brushing against Seonghyeon’s temple. “You’d rather keep breaking yourself alone than risk letting me in?”

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Seonghyeon’s voice was low, sharp, but calm, like he was trying to make sense of everything himself. He refused to look at Keonho directly, but the weight behind the words made the other boy freeze.

Keonho ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “Just tell me then, why are you avoiding me, what’s this all about?”

Seonghyeon’s fists clenched at his sides. “Do you seriously not understand? You don’t even know, and somehow you’re just… doing whatever.”

Keonho’s shoulders stiffened, his patience fraying. “You think I like this confusion? You think I want it like this? I’m not the one avoiding everything!”

Seonghyeon’s lips pressed into a hard line. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and finally looked up, eyes serious and unwavering. His voice dropped, flat and bold:

“Do you like me?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unflinching. Keonho’s expression froze, jaw dropping slightly, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

Keonho’s breath stalled. For a second, all the noise in his head went silent. The fridge hummed, faint and steady, but everything else—the dorm, the world—felt muted.

Seonghyeon’s stare didn’t waver. His voice had been flat, almost cold, but Keonho could see the storm behind it. He wasn’t asking because he wanted the answer. He was asking because he needed it—because he didn’t know what to do with everything between them.

Keonho’s hand tightened on the counter, knuckles paling. “You’re really asking me that?” His tone was low, edged, but not mocking. More like disbelief, raw and unguarded.

Seonghyeon’s jaw shifted. “Just answer.”

The silence stretched, heavy, until Keonho stepped in closer, his shadow cutting across Seonghyeon. His eyes searched his face, the way he held himself so rigid, so stubborn, like one wrong move would crack him open.

“You think this is some kind of game to me?” Keonho’s voice dropped, sharp but controlled. “That I’d just… mess around, knowing what it could do to us? To the group?”

Seonghyeon pressed his back harder against the fridge. “Then why are you doing it?” His voice came out sharper than he meant, but steadier. “The hand-holding. The way you look at me. Last night. All of it. What is it, Keonho?”

Keonho’s chest rose with a long breath. “I don’t have the answer neat and perfect for you, Seonghyeon. I just know…” He leaned in slightly, enough that Seonghyeon had no choice but to feel the heat of him, “…that I can’t stand you shutting me out like I’m nothing.”

Seonghyeon’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His throat worked, words tangled in a knot he couldn’t loosen. The weight of Keonho’s gaze pinned him more than the corner did.

“Do you like me?” Seonghyeon repeated, quieter this time, but with that same unflinching edge.

Keonho’s hand lifted again, not rough but deliberate, catching under Seonghyeon’s chin. He forced his face up, their eyes locking. “What if I said yes?” His voice was steady now, serious in a way that left no room for playfulness.

Seonghyeon’s breath hitched—barely, but enough. His eyes flicked once, then steadied again, cold and unreadable on the surface. But his heart was hammering, loud against his ribs, as if it wanted to break through.

“You shouldn’t,” he whispered. “We can’t.”

Keonho’s jaw clenched. His grip on Seonghyeon’s chin didn’t soften, but his voice did. “You think I don’t know the risks? I’m not stupid. But I’m not pretending either. Not when it’s right in front of me.”

Seonghyeon shut his eyes for a second, trying to steady himself, but the words dug too deep. When he opened them again, the mask was slipping—just slightly, enough for Keonho to see.

“Then don’t look at me like that,” Seonghyeon muttered, softer now, almost pleading. “Don’t make it harder.”

For the first time all night, Keonho faltered. His grip loosened, fingers slipping away from Seonghyeon’s chin, though his eyes stayed locked on his. The fight drained just enough to leave something raw behind—confusion, frustration, want.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. The kitchen felt too small, too suffocating with everything unsaid pressing against the walls.

And yet, neither stepped away.

Chapter 7

Summary:

Don’t make it harder.
The words echoed back at him, sharp as the way Keonho had looked at him in that moment.

Notes:

LATE POST SORRY GUYS

The fridge hummed softly, the only sound in the kitchen. Seonghyeon’s shoulders were tense, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run. Keonho’s hand fell back to his side, fingers flexing once, like he didn’t know what to do with them.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. The air between them was heavy, thicker than it had ever been.

Seonghyeon’s eyes stayed fixed on the floor, avoiding him completely. His voice had already slipped once, cracked in ways he didn’t want Keonho to hear again. Saying don’t make it harder was as much to himself as it was to him.

Keonho stared at him, jaw clenched, trying to read him, trying to understand. His pulse still hammered in his ears from the way Seonghyeon had pushed back, the way he had cornered him and gotten nothing but walls in return.

Seconds stretched. A minute, maybe. Neither of them dared break the silence, but it grew louder with every beat of their hearts.

Finally, Seonghyeon straightened, slipping past him. His shoulder brushed against Keonho’s arm, light but final. He grabbed the leftover container he’d abandoned on the counter and shoved it back into the fridge without a word.

Keonho didn’t move to stop him this time. He just watched as Seonghyeon turned away, the faint sound of his retreating footsteps disappearing down the hall.

When the door to the room clicked shut, Keonho stayed where he was, leaning back against the counter. His head tipped back, eyes closing. His chest rose once in a sharp exhale, but no words came out.

The kitchen was quiet again, like nothing had happened. But the weight in the silence said otherwise.

For both of them, there was no going back

——

Seonghyeon shut the bedroom door behind him, leaning against it for a moment before he moved. The room was dark, save for the faint orange glow of the streetlight cutting through the blinds. Martin was already knocked out on his bed, sprawled face-down with his headphones still in, the faint buzz of music leaking through.

He crossed the room quickly, climbing under his blankets like he was trying to disappear. His hands gripped the edge of the duvet tight, pulling it up over his head.

The anger in his chest wouldn’t settle. He told himself he was mad at Keonho, but the truth pressed heavier: he was mad at himself. For slipping. For letting the lines blur. For feeling things he shouldn’t.

Don’t make it harder.
The words echoed back at him, sharp as the way Keonho had looked at him in that moment.

Seonghyeon squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t stop the sting. His breath came uneven, trembling against the fabric of the blanket. He pressed the duvet against his lips to keep it quiet, but the tears slipped anyway, hot against his skin.

The door creaked.

Seonghyeon froze, breath catching. He pulled the blanket tighter, as if it could hide the sound of his ragged breathing.

Soft footsteps crossed the room. The mattress on the other side dipped as someone sat down.

“Seonghyeon,” Keonho’s voice was low, cautious.

No response.

The silence dragged, broken only by the faint shudder of Seonghyeon’s breath. Keonho heard it — sharp, uneven, betraying everything he was trying to bury.

Without asking, Keonho shifted closer, the edge of his weight pressing into the mattress by Seonghyeon’s side. He didn’t pull the blanket away, didn’t push for words. Instead, his hand hovered for a second before settling gently on the mound of covers near Seonghyeon’s shoulder. A steady, grounding touch.

“You don’t have to talk,” Keonho murmured. His voice had none of the sharpness from earlier. Just quiet, careful warmth. “I can wait..as long as you want, I’ll always wait.”

Under the blanket, Seonghyeon bit down on his lip. His chest ached, torn between wanting to shove Keonho away again and wanting to lean into him completely.

The weight of Keonho’s hand stayed, steady. Present.

Seonghyeon curled further under the covers, turning his back to Keonho, though part of him ached at the distance he was forcing between them, the lump of the duvet pulled up to the top of his bed like a shield. Every shift of the blankets spoke louder than words—he didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to be seen.

Keonho froze for a long moment, taking in the tight curl of Seonghyeon’s shoulders, the slight tremble in his back. His chest ached, a mix of frustration and helplessness, and when he blinked, there were unintentional tears gleaming at the corners of his eyes.

He let out a slow, quiet sigh, the sound low and heavy, and stepped over to his own bed. Sitting down, he stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of everything between them pressing down like silence he couldn’t break.

Chapter 8

Summary:

But before he could, doubt and caution clawed back. He stepped back, swallowed, and turned away, retreating to the shadows of his own side of the room. The moment passed as quickly as it came.

Notes:

I love angst guys 😛

Keonho slid under his blanket, the fabric heavy against his shoulders, and turned deliberately toward the wall, leaving his back to Seonghyeon. He pressed his face into the mattress, as if hiding from the quiet weight of the room. The dim light from the street outside painted soft stripes across the floor, making the shadows in the corners stretch and shift. Everything felt suspended, frozen in the stillness of night. He could almost pretend that Seonghyeon had fallen asleep, that the slight rise and fall of the other boy’s back under the duvet was the calm proof of rest.

But the illusion offered no comfort. The tension coiled inside him, unrelenting, and slowly—almost painfully—a single tear slid from the corner of his eye, tracing a cold, wet line down his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it to stop, willing himself to hold it together—but the tears didn’t obey. Another followed. And another. They fell silently, invisible in the dark, leaving nothing but a faint dampness on the pillow and blanket beneath him.

Keonho’s fingers clawed into the fabric of his duvet, gripping it as though it could anchor him against the storm inside. He pressed himself further into the mattress, curling inward, trying to shrink, to disappear into the shadows and the quiet. His breaths came shallow, uneven, and he made no sound—he didn’t want to risk shattering the fragile stillness of the room, didn’t want anyone to see the cracks in him.

 

The darkness pressed in close, intimate and unrelenting, filling every corner he thought he could hide in. He didn’t reach out. He didn’t expect comfort. He just let the tears fall, letting the exhaustion from crying drain every last drop of strength from his body, surrendering to sleep.

——

Seonghyeon shifted restlessly under his covers, rolling from side to side, tugging at the blanket, muttering softly to himself as if trying to will sleep into coming. When that didn’t work, he sat up abruptly, shoulders stiff, legs bent towards his chest. His back pressed against the wall, he stared at his hands, twisting them together absently, his face flat and sullen. His eyes were red, swollen, stinging from crying, and he sniffed quietly. Every so often, his gaze flicked toward Keonho’s bed.

“Should I go to him? No… what if he doesn’t want me there?” The thought twisted inside him, making his chest tight and his stomach churn. “But maybe… maybe he does.” “Maybe he’s waiting for me to do something. Or maybe he doesn’t even notice.”

His fingers played around anxiously, restless, as if the motion could give him an answer. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do. I can’t just—no, I can’t just leave it like this… but if I go… what then? What if I make everything worse?”

The questions circled endlessly, leaving him paralyzed under the weight of his own uncertainty, and yet the pull toward Keonho’s bed stayed, relentless and undeniable. What he didn’t realize, not even for a second, was that Keonho had also spent the night breaking down, hidden beneath his own duvet, his silent tears tracing paths Keonho thought no one would ever see.

——

The floorboards creaked under the quiet weight of the room, each sound was amplified in the stillness.

Seonghyeon’s legs carried him quietly across the floor, bare feet brushing against the cold wood. He stopped at the edge of Keonho’s bed, staring down at the soft mound of blankets that hid him, the steady rhythm of his breathing pulling at something he didn’t want to admit. For a long moment, he hesitated, hand hovering over the duvet as if reaching for something he wasn’t sure he could take.

His chest tightened, and for a fleeting second, he imagined reaching out, letting his hand brush against Keonho’s arm, letting some of the unspoken tension dissolve.

But before he could, doubt and caution clawed back. He stepped back, swallowed, and turned away, retreating to the shadows of his own side of the room. The moment passed as quickly as it came.

Seonghyeon pressed his hands to his face, biting at his lips until the metallic taste stung, frustration coiling tight in his chest. His thoughts spilled over, relentless and chaotic: why hadn’t he stopped himself from saying things he didn’t mean, why hadn’t he just been braver, why had he let the tension spiral like this? He wanted it—all of it, the unspoken closeness, the messy beginnings, the fragile potential of something more between them—to work, and somewhere deep down, he promised himself he would make it work. He would fix this, somehow, no matter how many missteps it took.

Seonghyeon muttered under his breath, voice low and tight, almost like he was scolding himself. “If I like him… then I like him. So why the fuck can’t I just say it?” His hands curled into fists, pulling tight against his hair. “Why am I even fighting this? Why am I trying to stop this? I’d quit..quit being an idol..I’ll walk away from all of it if it means… if it means this could work between us. We’re young, but… this feels real. I’ll make it work, no matter what.” “I don’t care about anything else—if it has to be me, then I’ll figure it out.” The words spilled out in a rush, jagged and raw. Tears pricked at Seonghyeon’s eyes as he spoke, sliding down his cheeks in slow, stubborn streams. He didn’t sob—there was no wailing, just the raw edge of frustration and longing—but he wiped at them harshly with the back of his hand, as if scrubbing away the weakness he refused to show.