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He doesn’t move at first—just groans, buries his face deeper into the pillow, and mutters something incoherent about five more minutes.
Five becomes ten.
When he finally blinks one eye open, sunlight has already begun to slip through the thin dorm curtains, drawing soft lines across the floor.
From the bed opposite, Sanghyeon stirs. He lifts his head just enough to squint blearily at Leo and mumbles, “again? You’re up so early, hyung.”
Leo only lifts a hand in half-hearted acknowledgment, voice low and rough with sleep, “go sleep some more.”
Practice call time is in less than an hour.
Leo knows this. He should be getting ready—changing, stretching, running through the performance in his head.
Instead, he exhales, slow and resigned, and swings his legs over the side of the bed.
The air bites at his skin, the floor cool beneath his feet. He sits there for a moment, palms pressed against his knees, eyes still heavy with sleep.
With a quiet groan, he pushes himself up and crosses to the bathroom tucked beside the door of the room.
The tap squeaks faintly as he turns it on—cold water spills over his fingers before he splashes it against his face. The shock wakes him just enough.
He brushes his teeth with quick, practiced motions, staring at his reflection—hair a mess, eyes still fogged from sleep.
He looks every bit like someone who should crawl back under the blanket.
But he never does.
Leo glances toward the door—then, without much thought, steps out. Not to the shower, not to the cafeteria.
But to the room across the hall, up one narrow flight of stairs—the one that isn’t his.
By now, no one even bothers to ask where he’s going. It’s too early, and the sight of Leo half-awake and already wandering has become its own kind of morning ritual.
Someone mumbles something from the hall—maybe teasing, maybe just sleepy curiosity—but Leo only huffs a soft laugh and pushes open the door, careful not to let it click behind him.
“Good morning, hyung,” Chingyu passes by with a sleepy smile, before disappearing out into the hallway.
The room is dim, curtains still drawn. A faint line of dawn filters through the fabric, tracing the air with pale gold.
On the bed lies a small, motionless shape—blanket pulled high, hair a tousled halo spilling over the pillow, face turned toward the wall.
Sangwon.
Leo exhales softly, the sound almost a sigh, almost a laugh. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he can stop it.
Every morning, the same scene. Every morning, the same quiet frustration he never really minds.
He pads closer, the floor cool under his feet, and crouches beside the bed.
“Sangwon-ah,” he murmurs. No response.
“It’s already morning.”
Still nothing—just a faint, muffled groan that might mean go away.
Leaning on one hand, Leo reaches out and gives a gentle poke to his shoulder, “you’ll be late again.”
Another groan, deeper this time, buried in the pillow, “five minutes.”
He should say fine and leave, he really should.
But Leo doesn’t. He never does.
With a quiet sigh, Leo lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, careful not to tip the mattress. The springs still creak in protest, and Sangwon makes a small noise of complaint, curling up tighter beneath the covers.
“You said that yesterday,” Leo says, his voice has softened now, all sleep and fond exasperation, “and the day before that.”
Silence answers him.
Leo glances toward the curtained window. Morning light leaks around the edges, a slow promise of the day waiting to start.
For a moment, he considers yanking the blanket off entirely—but then Sangwon shifts, just slightly, rolling onto his back. His lashes cast faint shadows over his cheeks, lips parted in a quiet breath.
Peaceful.
Softer than Leo ever sees him when the cameras are on, when the world demands too much from them both.
Leo hesitates, then lifts a hand and brushes an unruly strand of hair away from Sangwon’s forehead. The gesture is light, almost automatic—something he’s done a hundred times before, something he never thinks too hard about.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “I know you’ll regret it if you’re late.”
Still nothing.
So he tries again, this time with the smallest flick of his fingers against Sangwon’s side—more of a tease than a nudge.
Sangwon jolts, a startled laugh bubbling out of him before he can stop it.
“Stop it,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.
Leo grins, warmth creeping into his tone, “that’s the point.”
The sound of Sangwon’s sleepy laughter lingers for a heartbeat before it fades back into the hush of the room.
And in that quiet, Leo feels something settle in his chest—soft and familiar, like the weight of a secret he never meant to keep.
It isn’t anything remarkable—just the same sleepy exchange they’ve had a hundred times before.
But there’s something about the rhythm of it, the way Sangwon’s voice softens when he speaks to him, that makes the morning feel lighter somehow.
Sangwon finally pushes himself upright, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. His hair sticks out in every direction, a halo of chaos around a face still blurred by sleep.
For a moment, he blinks at Leo as though trying to remember where he is. “You’re up early again,” Sangwon mumbles, his voice rough and soft all at once.
Leo leans back on his palms, a small, crooked grin tugging at his lips, “someone has to wake you.”
“But you’re worse than me at mornings.”
“Exactly,” Leo says, deadpan, “so you should be impressed.”
That earns him a smile—a small, lopsided thing that slips free before Sangwon can hide it.
They sit in the quiet that follows, the kind of silence that feels comfortable rather than empty.
Outside the walls, the dorm is beginning to wake. Footsteps in the hallway, noise of the other boys starting, the production crews’ voices rising and fading again.
But inside this room, the air feels suspended, soft and slow, as if the world hasn’t quite found them yet.
“Go wash up,” Leo says finally, rising to his feet, “I’ll wait.”
“You don’t have to.”
“You say that every day.”
Sangwon just smiles, that endeared little expression he only gives Leo, and swings his legs over the side of the bed.
His foot brushes against Leo’s knee as he stands—bare skin against warmth—and for some reason, Leo doesn’t move.
When Sangwon stumbles on a corner of the blanket, Leo catches his wrist before he can fall.
It’s instinctive. Effortless.
But the touch lingers just a fraction too long.
“Thanks,” Sangwon murmurs, eyes flicking up briefly.
“Don’t fall again.”
“You’d catch me.”
“Don’t test it.”
Leo’s tone is teasing, but the air between them hums quietly, charged with something that neither of them names.
Sangwon only shrugs, shaking his head, and disappears toward the bathroom.
Leo watches him go, the faint sound of running water following a moment later.
He sinks back onto the edge of the bed, rubbing at his eyes, pretending the weight in his chest is just exhaustion.
The mattress is still warm where Sangwon had been sitting.
Leo’s gaze lingers on the impression left behind, that small dent in the blanket that shouldn’t mean anything—and yet somehow does.
It’s strange, he thinks, how this has become a part of his mornings.
Waking up earlier than he ever has in his life, walking into another room like it’s routine, saying “wake up, Sangwon” like it’s something only he’s allowed to say.
A quiet laugh slips out, half a sigh.
“We’re going to be late to breakfast again,” he calls out, pushing himself to his feet.
From the bathroom, Sangwon’s voice drifts out over the running water—light, teasing, familiar.
“You always say that, and you still come here.”
Leo smiles to himself, low and unguarded, “I know.”
The dorm hums to life around them, the faint buzz of another day beginning.
But for a fleeting moment—between the splash of water and the hush of voices—there’s still a small, golden stillness that belongs only to them.
The cafeteria hums with the low noise of half-awake trainees—murmured conversation, the scrape of chairs, the faint hiss of the coffee machine that’s always too slow.
The air smells faintly of rice and miso soup, warm and grounding against the chill of early morning.
Leo and Sangwon sit at their usual corner table, trays side by side, knees brushing beneath the table’s edge. It isn’t intentional anymore, it’s just where they end up.
Sangwon stirs his drink lazily, watching the steam curl up and vanish. Across from him, Leo is still fighting a yawn, chin resting in his palm.
When Leo finally looks up, eyes still heavy with sleep, Sangwon can’t help laughing, “you’re the one who dragged me out of bed, and you look worse than I do.”
Leo’s mouth curves, slow and lopsided, “that’s because you make me wake up early.”
“I never told you to.”
“You didn’t stop me.”
Sangwon snorts, shaking his head, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips, “you’d just ignore me if I did.”
“True,” Leo says simply, lifting his spoon. He takes a sip of his soup, as if the conversation has settled into the kind of comfort that doesn’t need finishing.
It’s nothing special—just another quiet exchange in the middle of a busy morning—but somehow, the warmth of it lingers.
Their voices dip and rise around the low hum of the cafeteria, threading softly through the sound of trays, chairs, and sleepy chatter.
Half-whispered jokes, shared glances, laughter that bubbles up quietly enough not to draw attention.
But of course, it does anyway.
Across the room, someone calls out, “there they go again!”
“Wake-up system!” another trainee teases, and a few others join in, chuckling.
Sangwon only rolls his eyes, biting back a smile. Leo doesn’t even bother responding—just keeps eating, calm and unbothered, like he’s used to it by now.
Still, Sangwon catches the faint twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
He isn’t sure when it really started—this whole wake-up duty thing. Maybe sometime in the beginning of the second round, when rooms changed and mornings got harder.
It just happened.
Like a quiet rhythm that found its way back without either of them meaning to.
But if Sangwon thinks about it, it’s not new at all.
Leo’s been doing this for years, in one way or another.
Back when they first started training together—those cramped dorm days when alarms went off before sunrise and everyone fought for the bathroom—Leo would still somehow end up at his bedside, nudging him awake, pulling him into a hug and telling him to hurry so they wouldn’t be late.
Then later, when they moved into their shared apartment, it turned into habit—Leo knocking on his door in the mornings, hair a mess, coffee mug in hand, pretending it was just to check if Sangwon was alive.
And then Boys Planet happened.
Different rooms, different schedules, walls between them that weren’t there before.
For a while, Sangwon had to wake up alone. He’d gotten used to it—or thought he had.
Until one morning, Leo started showing up again. Quietly, casually, as though he’d never stopped.
Now it feels inevitable—part of the day’s pattern, something constant in a life where everything else keeps shifting.
And somehow, despite being the one who always sleeps in, Leo never once skipped it.
The thought makes something tighten—warm and a little unsteady—in Sangwon’s chest. He ducks his head, hiding behind a slow sip of coffee, pretending the heat on his face is just from the cup.
When he looks up again, Leo’s gaze is already on him—steady, unhurried, stripped of all the usual playfulness.
It’s the kind of look that makes Sangwon feel seen, as if his presence alone is what keeps the day from slipping apart.
“What?” Sangwon asks, aiming for lightness, but it comes out softer than he means.
“Nothing,” Leo shrugs, eyes still on him. “Just… you look awake now.”
Sangwon rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrays him. The smile won’t fade, no matter how hard he tries.
And if there’s a faint flush of color creeping up his cheeks, that’s nobody’s business but his own.
The noise of the cafeteria swells around them—chairs scraping, laughter breaking against the walls—but it all feels distant, blurred at the edges.
But in this moment, it’s just them at a corner table, sharing a small, ordinary morning that somehow feels like theirs alone.
The dorm is still caught in that fragile hour between night and morning—the air hushed, the light barely touching the curtains.
Somewhere down the hall, a few voices stir, but here, everything feels suspended.
Leo’s there again, crouched beside Sangwon’s bed.
The blanket has slipped low over Sangwon’s shoulder, the rise and fall of his breathing slow and even.
Leo doesn't even hesitate before reaching out, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric. He tugs gently, easing the blanket down just enough for the cold air to nudge him awake.
No response.
Leo exhales, smiling to himself. He hooks a hand gently under the edge of the blanket and pulls it back, careful not to startle him.
The air slips in, cool against warm skin. Still, Sangwon doesn’t move—only shifts slightly, a faint groan muffled into the pillow.
With a quiet laugh, Leo leans closer, one hand resting on Sangwon’s thigh. His thumb moves in small, absent circles through the fabric, coaxing him awake.
When that doesn’t work, he slides his hand up to tickle lightly at Sangwon’s stomach.
Sangwon’s head jerks, half-asleep and half-laughing, voice caught somewhere between a complaint and a giggle, “hyung—”
Across the room, Chingyu—half-dressed and bleary-eyed—snorts. “Just kiss him awake, hyung,” he drawls, voice too loud for this hour. “I’ll pretend I didn’t see anything.”
Leo huffs out a laugh, low and rough from sleep, “go get breakfast, kid.”
Chingyu grins, unfazed, “yes, hyung. Don’t be late too, lovebirds.” He disappears toward the door, still chuckling under his breath.
By the time Leo turns back, Sangwon’s already stirring—eyes blinking open, lashes fluttering as he blinks through the blur of sleep.
There’s a faint smile playing at his lips, small and unguarded, like he’s been caught somewhere between a dream and something softer.
“You again,” he mumbles, voice soft, edges blurred with warmth.
“Who else?” Leo says, his grin gentler now, less a joke and more a quiet confession.
Sangwon yawns, eyes fluttering closed again as he throws an arm out in Leo’s direction.
It’s a lazy gesture, half-invitation, half-instinct—but it hits Leo square in the chest. He can’t help the laugh that slips out, or the way something in him stutters at the sight.
He gives in easily, ducking forward into Sangwon’s open arms.
The hug is clumsy—half on the bed, half off—but somehow it fits.
Sangwon’s head finds its place against Leo’s shoulder, and Leo’s hand settles at the nape of his neck like muscle memory, like it’s been there a hundred mornings before.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
Then Sangwon’s breath evens out against his collarbone, warm and steady, threading back into sleep.
Leo laughs quietly, the sound caught somewhere between fondness and surrender. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, not meaning a word of it.
Between their soft laughter and the sleepy thrum of the hallway outside, it feels like the day hasn’t quite begun yet—like this, right here, belongs to them alone.
The sky outside the window is pale and blurred, the light barely touching the walls. The room smells faintly of detergent and instant coffee.
Sangwon drifts back onto his side, head pillowed on his arm, while Leo leans against the bedframe, fingers tapping idly against his knee as he hums under his breath.
The sound is soft, more breath than melody—something caught between a tune and a thought.
“What are you humming?” Sangwon asks, voice still thick with sleep.
“Something I heard yesterday,” Leo says. “Can’t get it out of my head.”
Sangwon hums in response, more vibration than sound.
They fall into an easy rhythm—short sentences, half-finished thoughts, quiet laughter that doesn’t need a reason.
They talk about everything and nothing—a performance idea Leo can’t stop thinking about, a dream Sangwon barely remembers, a snack one of the staff gave them that tasted weirdly like toothpaste.
The kind of conversation that only exists when the world is still half-asleep.
After a while, Sangwon tilts his head slightly, eyes half-lidded. “You always wake up for me,” he says, voice soft, still rough from sleep, “but not for yourself. Why?”
Leo pauses, lips parting like he’s caught off guard. Then, after a beat, his mouth curves into a small, crooked smile.
“Because you make waking up early worth it.”
He says it lightly—like a joke, like a throwaway line—but it lands differently. It lingers between them, quiet and real, the kind of honesty that doesn’t ask for an answer.
Sangwon doesn’t reply, not right away.
He just lets the silence settle, eyes finding Leo’s where the early light touches his face.
The dorm around them is waking up—voices, footsteps, the shuffle of another day beginning—but for this moment, it feels like they’re the only two people in the world still caught inside the hush.
The alarm doesn’t ring.
Or maybe it does, and Leo just sleeps right through it.
Practice had gone past midnight again—hours of repetition, of trainers’ clipped voices and aching muscles. By the time his team stumbled back to their rooms, there were barely three hours left before morning call.
Leo remembers tossing his phone beside the pillow, promising himself he’d wake up. He doesn’t remember falling asleep.
Morning comes quietly.
Somewhere down the hall, Sangwon stirs.
The room feels different—off in a way he can’t place at first. It takes a moment for his half-awake mind to catch up.
No quiet knock against the door. No low voice murmuring his name. No faint shuffle of slippers across the floor.
He blinks into the pale light seeping through the curtains, the silence pressing soft against his ears.
Then it hits him—something’s missing.
He sits up slowly, eyes narrowing in mild disbelief before a quiet laugh escapes him—small, breathy, disbelieving.
He pulls on a sweatshirt, pads down the hall, and climbs the narrow stairs. The other trainees are still asleep or shuffling groggily toward the cafeteria.
The room is dim, curtains barely drawn.
Sanghyeon lies motionless on his side of the room, turned toward the wall, breathing even and deep. The quiet settles like fog.
When Sangwon turns his head, his eyes find the other bed—and there’s Leo.
He’s a heap under the blanket, completely buried, only a mess of hair visible above the pillow. His phone is still buzzing faintly against the mattress, the alarm long ignored.
Sangwon exhales, a laugh catching somewhere in the sound as he gently pulls the blanket down.
He’s not even annoyed—just faintly amused, like he should’ve known this would happen at some point. The air in the room is still cool, faintly tinged with that citrus air freshener Sangwon gave Leo.
Leo’s completely asleep, the rise and fall of his breathing steady, unbothered.
For a second, Sangwon just looks at him—the way the morning light spills through the curtains and catches the curve of his cheek, the mess of his hair, the soft parting of his lips.
It feels strangely private, standing here watching him like this, like the world has forgotten to wake them both.
He sits carefully on the edge of the bed, mindful of the springs. “Your turn to wake up,” he says, voice low but steady, “hyung, your alarm’s going off.”
Leo’s brows pinch together, a quiet protest slipping out of him—more breath than voice, “don't wanna.”
Sangwon huffs out something that’s meant to be a sigh but edges closer to laughter, “hyung, come on.”
He reaches out without thinking, smoothing a thumb over the crease between Leo’s brows, a small, instinctive gesture, “you’ll be late.”
Another beat of silence—and then, a stir.
One eye cracks open, dark and unfocused at first, then softening when it lands on him. Leo’s smile starts slow, drowsy, almost shy around the edges.
“You missed me that much?” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
Sangwon tries for an eye roll, but the corners of his mouth betray him, “don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late,” Leo says, a little grin tugging higher.
He shifts lazily, tugging one side of the blanket open in a half-hearted invitation. It’s such a Leo thing to do—half teasing, half serious—that Sangwon can’t help the quiet laugh that escapes him.
“You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, swatting lightly at his shoulder.
Leo hums, already sinking back into the pillow, “you woke me up just to say that?”
“Get up. Seriously.”
“Five minutes.”
“Lee Leo.”
The name comes out softer than he means it to, his voice catching slightly on the edge.
Leo groans but finally moves, stretching in slow, uncoordinated motions until he pushes himself upright. The blanket slips down his shoulders, pooling at his waist.
His hair’s a mess, sticking up in half a dozen directions, and his eyes are still heavy with sleep—but when he looks up, there it is.
That small, unguarded curve of a smile Sangwon knows too well.
For a heartbeat, he forgets to say anything.
There’s something about Leo like this—barefaced and undone, the early light tracing over the slope of his cheek, the soft rasp still clinging to his voice—that feels impossibly far from the stage, from the noise, from everything that waits outside this room.
He looks so human it aches a little.
Sangwon’s throat tightens before he catches himself, forcing a wry smile. “You’re worse than I am,” he says, mostly to fill the space.
Leo’s laugh comes quiet and low, rumbling in his chest, “guess I need you to wake me up more often.”
It’s a throwaway line—light and easy—but it lands somewhere deep, warmth blooming slow and certain beneath Sangwon’s ribs.
He tells himself it’s nothing, just the morning, just the quiet.
But the thought lingers anyway.
And somehow, even in the blur of another long day waiting to start, it feels like something’s shifted. Like the rhythm of their mornings has simply turned itself over—still steady, still theirs.
Outside, the dorm is waking. Footsteps echo faintly down the hall, voices rise and fall, doors open and close.
But here, in this small, unhurried space, time seems to hesitate—hovering for one last moment between the warmth of sleep and the day ahead, as if it’s waiting just for them.
The afternoon hums low around them—air conditioning, distant chatter, the faint shuffle of trainees moving between practice rooms.
Break time never feels long enough.
Leo finds Sangwon curled up in a corner of his team's practice room, head tilted back, the collar of his hoodie slipping off one shoulder.
There’s an untouched bottle of water by his hand, a formation sheet crumpled beneath it. He must’ve meant to rest for just a minute.
Leo hesitates in the doorway.
Normally, this is when he’d call Sangwon’s name, poke at his side, grumble about how naps make him groggy before practice.
But this time, he doesn’t.
He crosses the room quietly and sits down beside him, the shift barely stirring the air.
For a while, Leo just watches—the slow rise and fall of Sangwon’s chest, the soft crease between his brows that even sleep doesn’t smooth out completely.
Then, without thinking, he starts to hum.
It’s his team’s performance song—low, unpolished, barely above a whisper. The melody fills the space between them, faint and steady, like a heartbeat.
Sangwon doesn’t wake, but he moves—just a small, unconscious shift—until his head finds Leo’s shoulder. The weight of it is light, familiar in a way that tugs something loose inside Leo’s chest.
He exhales, slow. The ache that blooms there isn’t sharp—it’s quiet, tender, the kind that sneaks up on you.
Sangwon’s hand rests open beside him, palm facing upward.
Leo stares at it for a long moment. He tells himself it’s nothing—just the way Sangwon fell asleep, just another small, unthinking detail in the thousands they share.
But his chest tightens anyway.
He hesitates, then lets his fingertips graze against Sangwon’s.
The contact is feather-light, almost uncertain. Then, slowly, he hooks their pinkies together—a gesture so small it could be mistaken for an accident.
But it isn’t.
Something in him exhales at the touch.
Maybe relief.
Maybe the ache of wanting something he can’t name aloud.
After a breath, Leo shifts his hand, turns it so their fingers slide together, palms meeting in the middle. The fit is too natural, too easy.
As though it's something his body already knows by heart.
And for a heartbeat, Leo almost pulls away—suddenly aware of the line he might be crossing, of how fragile this quiet is, of how much it could mean if he lets it.
But then Sangwon’s fingers tighten, just slightly. Not enough to startle him, just enough to keep him there.
To tell him, without words, it’s okay.
So Leo stays.
He sits still, their hands entwined, Sangwon’s head warm against his shoulder. The air hums faintly with the rhythm of the training building—distant laughter, a door closing somewhere, the soft whir of the air conditioning.
All of it feels far away.
Leo doesn’t know what this is, not really. Only that it feels like something beginning and ending all at once—too gentle to name, too real to ignore.
His chest aches with it, the kind of ache that feels both like comfort and consequence.
He knows now isn’t the time. Maybe it never will be.
But for this one still moment, it’s enough just to be here—just to feel it quietly.
Time drifts, careful not to touch them.
Leo tips his head back against the wall and hums the last line under his breath, the sound threading softly through the room.
Just him and Sangwon, and the quiet between.
Just their little bubble, holding still until they have to wake up and face the world again.