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Morning meetings were always awkward now—not uncomfortable, just… misaligned.
SEVENTEEN sat around a long dining table in their temporary basecamp, a place that tried very hard to feel neutral—white walls, folding chairs, a table borrowed from somewhere that smelled faintly of disinfectant.
They didn’t live together anymore, which meant every gathering came with a brief recalibration period: who looked more tired than last time, who forgot whose coffee order, who silently claimed which chair like an unspoken habit refusing to die. Coffee cups thudded onto the table. Someone complained about traffic. Someone else yawned without bothering to hide it.
Wonwoo sat where he always did—slightly withdrawn from the center, hoodie zipped up, shoulders sloped forward, hands folded in his lap. His low-energy mode was on. Fully. He nodded when spoken to, murmured agreement when necessary, and otherwise conserved oxygen like his life depended on it.
But if anyone had been paying closer attention, his jaw stayed tight longer than usual. His breathing is shallow. One hand kept pressing briefly against his upper abdomen before returning to stillness.
“Wonwoo, you okay with that schedule?” Seungcheol asked.
Wonwoo nodded. “Yeah.”
His voice came out a second too slow.
Jeonghan tilted his head, watching him for a moment longer than necessary, but said nothing.
Someone was talking about another shoot schedule. Someone else was arguing about call times. Wonwoo nodded. Again. And again.
Coffee was finished. No food yet.
Wonwoo shifted in his chair. Not restless—controlled. Like he was containing something, when Mingyu bumped the table while gesturing, Wonwoo flinched, fingers tightening against his sleeve.
Jun frowned. “Did you eat?”
Wonwoo shook his head. “Later.”
“Again?” Seungkwan muttered.
Breakfast arrived halfway through the discussion.
Plastic containers thudded onto the table. Steam rose. The room loosened immediately. Laughter picked up. Someone reached across the table too far. The meeting dissolved into noise and movement.
Wonwoo picked up his chopsticks. He lifted a bite of rice toward his mouth. Then, he stopped.
The smell hit first. Not strong—just enough.
His stomach clenched, a slow, deep pull that made his shoulders tense. He paused, chopsticks hovering, eyes unfocused for half a breath.
You’re fine, Wonwoo.
It wasn’t dramatic. Just… still. Chopsticks hovering. Elbow locked. Like his body had briefly forgotten the next instruction.
One second passed.
He tried again.
The moment the food reached closer, the sensation hit—sharp, sudden, crawling up from his stomach like a warning flare. Nausea. Heavy. Painful. Wrong.
He froze again.
He took a small bite.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
The nausea bloomed—not sharp yet, but heavy, spreading upward like heat under the skin. He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw set, trying not to react.
Across the table, Minghao noticed him stop eating.
“You good?” he asked quietly.
Wonwoo nodded. Once. He tried to sit through it. He really did.
Another wave rolled in—stronger. His throat tightened. His vision blurred at the edges. The pain sharpened, sudden enough to steal his breath.
Then, abruptly, he dropped the chopsticks back onto the table with a careless clatter.
“Won—?” Seungcheol started.
His left hand slammed down to brace himself as he stood, chair legs screeching backward. The room tilted violently. He swayed once, hard, and his right hand flew up to cover his mouth, palm pressing tight as it could physically hold everything in.
“What—?”
“Wonwoo?”
“Hey—?”
He didn’t answer.
He bolted.
Not even toward the bathroom—straight for the nearest sink, half-running, half-stumbling, nearly clipping the edge of the table as startled bodies jerked out of his way.
The sound hit first.
The first dry heave was brutal. Violent. Air is tearing out of his throat without mercy.
Everyone froze for exactly half a second.
“Hey—hey—hey—” Jeonghan was already moving.
Another retch tore out of Wonwoo, body folding forward, hands gripping the counter like it was the only solid thing left in the room.
“Okay, okay,” Seungcheol said, voice firm now. “Give him space.”
Concern cut through the noise—briefly.
Then panic kicked in. Then SEVENTEEN lost their collective mind.
“Why does this look like morning sickness?!” Seungkwan shouted, horrified. Already on his feet.
“Since when can guys get that?!” Dino added.
“Isn’t that only women?!” DK added, voice cracking with panic and excitement.
“WAIT—WONWOO—” Hoshi gasped. “Are you—are you pregnant?” Hoshi blurted out, scandalized and delighted.
Another violent retch echoed from the sink, too busy not dying to respond.
“WHO GOT YOU PREGNANT, WONNIE HYUNG?!” DK shouted.
Wonwoo was still bent over the sink, one hand gripping the edge so hard his knuckles had gone white, breathing shallow and uneven as another dry heave tore through him.
Behind him, the room had completely lost its mind.
And—
“You! Mingyu!” someone shouted, pointing without hesitation. “You’re always with him!”
Every head snapped toward Mingyu.
Mingyu, who was mid-bite, froze with a spoon halfway to his mouth.
“What—WHAT?!” He pointed at himself, choking. “WHY IS IT ME?!” Mingyu spun around, eyes wide.
Another dry heave cut through the room.
“Because it’s always you,” Jeonghan said flatly, handing Wonwoo water.
“HEY,” Mingyu protested immediately, hands up. “Don’t accuse me like that!”
“Then explain yourself,” Joshua said calmly.
Mingyu pointed at Wonwoo, then at himself. “Since when have I ever—done that deed—with Wonwoo hyung?!”
The room went dead silent for half a beat.
“…You mean sex?” Dino asked, genuinely trying to clarify.
“Yes!” Mingyu snapped. Then hesitated, glancing at Wonwoo. “Right? I mean—right, hyung?”
Wonwoo dry-heaved again in response, forehead nearly touching the cold metal of the sink.
“That doesn’t sound very convincing,” Seungkwan said.
“Are you sure?” DK added. “What if you were drunk?”
Mingyu’s eyes widened. “What—why would you even—”
“Well,” Jeonghan tilted his head, “you seem very sure it wasn’t you. So… who were you with last night?”
Mingyu choked. “WHY AM I BEING INVESTIGATED?!”
Then—
“Proof?” Woozi said.
The room fell silent.
Woozi, who had been sitting the entire time, stood up without expression and walked straight toward Mingyu.
“Hey—HEY—what are you doing—”
Too late.
Woozi grabbed the hem of Mingyu’s shirt and yanked it up, exposing the waistband of his underwear. He pointed at the logo.
“That belongs to Wonwoo, doesn’t it?”
The room exploded.
“WHAT—NO,” Mingyu shouted. “THIS IS CALVIN KLEIN!”
Woozi turned his head slightly, eyes shifting toward Wonwoo. “Does that count as Wonwoo’s?”
Mingyu panicked. “I’m wearing a clean one. Not one Wonwoo hyung wore. I’m the one who cleans our apartment.”
He turned desperately toward the sink. “Right, hyung?!”
Wonwoo gagged again, shoulders shaking.
“…That’s not a denial,” Seungkwan said solemnly.
“You’re insane,” Jun muttered. “Just because you’re a Calvin Klein ambassador.”
“YEAH,” Mingyu shot back reflexively. “I AM!”
“Why is that your defense?” Vernon asked, sincerely confused.
Woozi had already returned to his seat, as he’d just finished presenting evidence in court.
“Case closed,” he said flatly.
“Statistically, it tracks,” Minghao said calmly, arms crossed, eyes never leaving Mingyu, rubbing Wonwoo’s back in slow, steady motions.
“HOW DOES IT TRACK?!” Mingyu shouted back. “EXPLAIN THE MATH!”
“Stop—stop—this is not a biology lecture!” Seungkwan yelled, running a hand through his hair. “Wonwoo is dying.”
“I’m not—” Wonwoo tried to say, voice hoarse, immediately gagging again.
“I hate all of you!” Mingyu yelled.
Another dry heave shook Wonwoo’s frame. Nothing came up. Just pain. Burning.
Someone shoved a bottle of water into his hand. Someone else patted his back too hard. Someone knocked over a chair.
“This is how rumors start,” Vernon said thoughtfully, watching the chaos like an anthropologist observing a collapse.
“I didn’t do anything!” Mingyu insisted, spinning in place. “Why am I always the suspect?!”
“Because you look guilty by default,” Jeonghan replied mildly.
Another wave hit Wonwoo. He gripped the sink, knuckles white, shoulders shaking as his stomach convulsed uselessly. Nothing came up. Just pain. Burning. Breath ripped out of him again and again.
The noise level somehow increased.
“Do we call someone?!”
“Should we Google this?!”
“Can men lactate too?!”
“WHY WOULD YOU ASK THAT?!”
Minghao rubbed Wonwoo’s back, steady, grounding. “Breathe. Don’t fight it.”
Another dry heave. Nothing came up. Just pain.
“This isn’t funny anymore,” Jun said quietly, hovering near the sink.
“I didn’t do anything!” Mingyu protested weakly.
“Statistically, you’re still suspicious,” Minghao replied.
“EXPLAIN THE STATISTICS!”
“Stop yelling,” Seungcheol snapped. “He’s not okay.”
That finally shut them up.
Footsteps approached.
The manager appeared at the edge of the room, took one look at Wonwoo’s posture, the pallor of his face, the chaos radiating outward like a natural disaster, and sighed.
“He has gastritis,” the manager said flatly. “Stomach pain or upset stomach. He drank coffee on an empty stomach. Again.”
Wonwoo slumped slightly, the fight draining out of him.
Silence.
Two seconds of it.
“…So,” Hoshi said slowly, “not pregnant?”
“No,” the manager replied.
A beat.
“…Still feels like Mingyu’s fault somehow,” DK muttered.
“WHY,” Mingyu screamed, voice cracking, “AM I STILL INVOLVED?”
Wonwoo straightened slowly, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, eyes half-lidded and exhausted, voice rough.
“I’m throwing up,” he rasped. “Not rewriting biology.”
“…Well,” Hoshi said thoughtfully, “who knows. Biology changes sometimes.”
Jeonghan turned to him, flat. “You went to school for more than twelve years. For what?”
Hoshi blinked.
“Everyone who gets pregnant needs a uterus,” Jeonghan continued. “A uterus. Specifically.”
“Oh,” Hoshi said again. “Right.”
“…So,” DK raised a hand cautiously, “I’m not getting a nephew then?”
“No,” Seungcheol said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Mingyu buried his face in his hands. “I’m never living this down, am I?”
Wonwoo glanced at him, deadpan despite barely standing upright.
“That’s what you get,” he said weakly, “for talking about other people’s underwear.”
And somehow—despite the pain still twisting his stomach, despite the room still buzzing with nonsense—
Mingyu slumped into his chair. “I was emotionally prepared to sue.”
Wonwoo glanced at him, exhausted.
Seungkwan handed him water. “You good?”
Wonwoo nodded once. Weakly.
Jeonghan pressed a warm hand to his shoulder. “You should’ve said something.”
“Thought I could wait.” Wonwoo shrugged weakly.
“You never can.” Seungcheol sighed.
Mingyu pointed at him anyway. “I still feel traumatized.”
Wonwoo looked at him, dead tired, unimpressed.
“Next time,” he said, monotone, “I’ll warn you before my stomach ruins your reputation.”
Somehow, they laughed.
And somehow, they still made sure he ate first.
***
They made him sit.
Not gently—but insistently.
Wonwoo ended up on one of the folding chairs near the table, shoulders slumped, elbows resting on his knees. Someone shoved a small bowl of plain porridge in front of him. Someone else slid antacids beside it like contraband.
“Eat slowly,” Seungcheol said. Not a suggestion.
Wonwoo stared at the bowl.
The smell alone made his stomach twist again—not nausea this time, but pain. Sharp. Tight. Like his insides were shrinking in protest.
“I can’t,” he muttered.
“You have to,” Jeonghan replied, already tearing open the medicine packet. “Otherwise it’ll hurt worse.”
Wonwoo knew that.
That was the problem.
He scooped a small spoonful. His hand trembled—not visibly, but enough that Minghao noticed and reached out, steadying his wrist without a word.
Wonwoo swallowed. The pain hit almost immediately. Not explosive. Not dramatic. Just a deep, grinding ache that spread under his ribs, creeping upward, making his breath hitch.
He froze.
Eyes unfocused. Jaw clenched.
“…Okay,” Seungkwan said slowly, watching his face. “That was not the right reaction.”
Wonwoo shook his head once. “Give me a second.”
He leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, breathing shallow and controlled. Sweat gathered at his temples. The room felt too loud, too bright.
“See,” DK whispered, horrified, “this is why I never skip meals.”
“No one asked,” Mingyu muttered—then stopped when Wonwoo hissed quietly through his teeth.
Jeonghan crouched in front of him. “Where does it hurt?”
Wonwoo didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was thin. “Everywhere.”
“That bad?” Jun asked.
Wonwoo nodded.
Someone handed him the medicine. He took it with a sip of water.
Another mistake.
The liquid hit his empty stomach, and the pain spiked—white-hot, sudden enough that his shoulders jerked and a sharp breath tore out of him.
“—Ah.”
That was all he said. But it was enough.
“Okay, nope,” Seungcheol said immediately. “Lie down.”
“I’m fine,” Wonwoo protested weakly.
“You look like you’re about to fold in half,” Minghao replied, already guiding him toward the couch.
They lowered him carefully. Wonwoo curled instinctively onto his side, knees drawn up, one arm wrapped tight around his abdomen. His breathing stayed shallow, controlled—but every exhale shook.
For once, no one joked.
Even Mingyu hovered awkwardly, hands useless at his sides. “…So, uh. This is worse than the pregnancy thing, right?”
Wonwoo let out something that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t hurt. “Way worse. Maybe.”
“Hyung,” Dino said quietly, “why didn’t you say anything earlier?”
Wonwoo closed his eyes. “Thought it’d pass.”
Jeonghan snorted softly.
They sat there like that for a while.
Someone dimmed the lights. Someone else fetched a heating pad. Minghao stayed nearby, counting Wonwoo’s breaths under his own, slow and grounding.
After a few minutes, Wonwoo spoke again, barely audible.
“…Sorry.”
Seungcheol sighed. “For what?”
“For ruining breakfast.”
Seungcheol stared at him. “You think this is ruining breakfast?”
Mingyu crossed his arms. “I got accused of illegal reproduction. Breakfast was already dead.”
That earned a weak huff of breath from Wonwoo.
Progress.
Jeonghan tucked the heating pad more securely against his stomach. “Next time,” he said quietly, “you say something before your body does.”
Wonwoo didn’t argue.
He just nodded, eyes still closed, pain ebbing slowly—not gone, but manageable.
Around him, SEVENTEEN settled back into their strange, noisy orbit.
Still loud. Still stupid.
But closer than before.