Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One: Fractured Threads

The practice room buzzed with the fading echoes of music and heavy breaths as Boynextdoor concluded their late-night session. Jaehyun, clapped his hands to gather everyone’s attention.

“Good work, everyone. Stretch properly, and don’t forget to hydrate. We’ll run it again tomorrow at noon,” he said, his voice steady but encouraging.

Leehan groaned dramatically as he dropped onto the floor, draping himself over Woonhak, who was too busy scrolling on his phone to push him away. Riwoo snickered from his perch near the mirrors, tossing a towel at the two.

Amid the easy camaraderie, Sungho lingered at the edge of the practice room, towel slung around his shoulders. His eyes flitted briefly to Taesan, who leaned against the wall, sipping water with his usual air of detached coolness.

It had been over a year since the bond.

Two year since their debut, a whirlwind of performances, sleepless nights, and soaring achievements. More than a year since that one fateful day in the recording studio when Sungho’s scent of lavender and Taesan’s crisp cedar collided like a spark to dry tinder. The bond had snapped into place so fiercely it left them both reeling.

But the foundation for their current dynamic had been set long before that.

During their trainee years, before secondary genders came into play, they’d been inseparable. Taesan, younger but towering, had always looked up to Sungho, who was steady, reliable, and patient—a perfect older brother figure. But when they presented—Sungho as an omega, Taesan as an alpha—things shifted.

The easy friendship frayed.

Taesan pulled away. The once-natural connection between them became strained, punctuated by an awkwardness that only deepened with time.

And now, with the bond tying them together, it was unbearable.

“Sungho, you good?” Jaehyun’s voice broke through his thoughts.

Sungho blinked, realizing he’d been staring at Taesan too long. “Yeah, just tired.”

“You’ve been tired a lot lately,” Leehan chimed in, tossing Sungho a water bottle with a teasing grin. “Don’t burn yourself out, hyung.”

“I’m fine,” Sungho replied, forcing a smile as he caught the bottle.

“It’s common to be tired during busy schedule like these,” Taesan muttered, his voice cutting through the noise. He glanced at Leehan, “Let’s grab something to eat after this. You need to stop skipping meals.”

Leehan brightened. “You’re the best, Taesan. tteokbokki again?”

“Obviously,” Taesan replied, a rare smile tugging at his lips.

Sungho’s hand clenched around the water bottle. It wasn’t jealousy—at least that’s what he told himself. It was frustration. Frustration that Taesan, who barely spoke to him unless they are infront of the camera or absolutely necessary, could be so sweet and kind with Leehan.

“Alright, everyone out,” Jaehyun said, standing and stretching. “I don’t want to hear any complaints tomorrow about sore muscles.”

The members filtered out one by one, their laughter fading into the hallway. Sungho lingered behind, wiping his face with a towel as he stared blankly at his reflection.

---

The dorm was quiet when Sungho padded into the kitchen later that night, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He poured himself a cup of tea, the warmth a temporary comfort against the ache in his chest.

The bond tugged faintly at his consciousness, a cruel reminder of what tied him to someone who refused to meet him halfway.

Footsteps echoed softly, and Sungho tensed when Taesan walked in. His damp hair clung to his forehead, and he looked effortlessly put-together even in sweats.

“You’re still awake,” Taesan said, his tone neutral.

Sungho shrugged, staring into his mug. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Taesan grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, his movements deliberate and composed. He didn’t look at Sungho, but the silence between them was louder than any words.

“Do you hate me?” Sungho asked suddenly, his voice low but trembling.

Taesan froze mid-step. He turned slowly, his sharp gaze locking onto Sungho. “What?”

“You barely talk to me. You treat everyone else normally—even Leehan—but with me…” Sungho’s voice faltered. “You’re different.”

Taesan’s jaw tightened, his expression unreadable. “I don’t hate you.”

“Then why do you act like you do?” Sungho pressed, setting his mug down with more force than he intended. “Why do you pretend like this bond doesn’t exist?”

Taesan exhaled sharply, leaning against the counter. “Because I didn’t ask for this and i didn't want it either.”

“You think I do?” Sungho snapped, his frustration spilling over. “You think I want to feel this constant pull toward someone who barely acknowledges my existence?”

“It’s not about you—”

“Then what is it about?” Sungho interrupted, his voice rising. “You never even tried to talk to me after this happened and pretended as if everything was normal! You’re so kind to Leehan, so protective of him, but with me, it’s like I’m nothing!”

Taesan’s eyes flashed, his composure slipping. “Leehan has nothing to do with this.”

“Doesn’t he?” Sungho’s laugh was bitter. “You used to have feelings for him, didn’t you?”

Taesan flinched, his silence answering the question.

Sungho’s heart clenched, but he pushed on. “Is that why you can’t stand this bond? Because I’ll never be him?”

“That’s not it,” Taesan growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“Then what is it?” Sungho demanded, stepping closer. “What did I do that made you stop caring about me?”

Taesan’s expression hardened. “I didn’t stop caring. I just…I can’t see you the same way anymore. It’s difficult okay? We have talked about this before too. It’s better if we just maintain distance.”

The words struck like a dagger, leaving Sungho speechless.

He took a shaky step back, his voice barely above a whisper. “ Does maintaining distance means ignoring each other's existence. I thought we were friends once.”

Taesan didn’t respond.

The bond thrummed painfully in the silence, but Sungho didn’t wait for more. He turned and walked out, leaving Taesan alone in the kitchen, gripping the counter until his knuckles turned white.

The faint scent of lavender lingered, mocking him with every breath.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: Beneath the Surface

The group gathered in the living room for their weekly movie night, a tradition Jaehyun enforced to keep everyone grounded amidst their hectic schedules.

The dorm was alive with its usual chaos as movie night preparations unfolded. Jaehyun stood in the kitchen, debating whether microwaving popcorn counted as cooking, while Woonhak rummaged through the pantry in search of snacks.

“Hyung, do we really need three bowls of popcorn?” Woonhak asked, balancing bags of chips precariously in his arms.

Jaehyun smirked, turning dramatically with a bowl in each hand. “Do you doubt my hosting skills? Popcorn is the backbone of a movie night!”

“You’re the backbone of chaos,” Riwoo chimed in from the couch, lounging comfortably as he scrolled through his phone. “And by the way, I call the good seat.”

“You always call the good seat!” Woonhak whined, nearly dropping the snacks.

“It’s called seniority,” Riwoo replied lazily, a teasing grin on his face.

Leehan wandered in from his room, clutching a small bag of fish food. He looked around at the chaos before holding up the bag like a peace offering. “Can my fishes join the movie night?”

“Leehan,” Jaehyun began, pinching the bridge of his nose, “we’ve talked about this. Your fish don’t have Netflix accounts.”

“They like the colors on the screen,” Leehan said defensively, his eyes wide with innocence.

“Let it be hyung it's not like he can actually carry the entire tank there by himself,” Taesan said from the corner, where he was sketching something in his notebook. His deep voice was calm, but his words carried a playful edge. “Leehan’s got enough critics already.”

Jaehyun hummed, shoving the popcorn bowls into Woonhak’s arms. “Right. Also no throwing popcorns at each other during the movie. I don’t need popcorn crumbs everywhere.”

“You are the who start the whole throwing popcorn thing. Don't you dare lecture us.” Riwoo said while scowling at Jaehyun.

---

The six of them settled into their usual spots, a careful balance of camaraderie and chaos. Riwoo, of course, claimed the corner of the couch, stretching his legs out as if he owned the place. Sungho sat at the other end, his posture relaxed but his eyes occasionally flicking toward Taesan.

Taesan sat on the floor, leaning against the couch with his sketchpad beside him, pretending not to notice. Leehan sat cross-legged next to him. Jaehyun took the armchair, proudly announcing himself as the movie night king, while Woonhak flopped unceremoniously onto the floor, complaining about how he always ends up getting the floor.

“Alright,” Jaehyun said, holding the remote like a scepter. “Tonight’s movie is a classic. A tale of love, betrayal, a bit horror and—”

“Just press play,” Riwoo interrupted, earning a pillow to the face from Jaehyun.

As the movie began, the room filled with laughter, snarky commentary, and the occasional argument over plot points.

“Why would she go into the haunted house alone?” Woonhak asked, his voice incredulous.

“Because she’s dumb,” Riwoo answered without looking up. “Next question.”

“She’s brave,” Leehan countered, his tone surprisingly serious. “Maybe she wants to face her fears.”

“Or maybe she’s a fictional character who’s about to die,” Taesan said dryly, eliciting a chuckle from Sungho despite himself.

---

As the movie progressed, Sungho found his attention drifting. The bond with Taesan pulsed faintly in the background, a constant reminder of their unspoken connection. It wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t pleasant either—a low hum of unease that neither of them could fully ignore.

Taesan, for his part, kept his focus on the screen, though his body language betrayed his discomfort. He was too still, too controlled, as if trying to suppress something threatening to spill over.

The group’s laughter dimmed slightly as a particularly intense scene unfolded on-screen. A character made a heartfelt confession, their words raw and vulnerable.

“You know,” Jaehyun said, breaking the silence, “sometimes you just have to say what’s on your mind. Rip the Band-Aid off, you know?”

“That’s how you get into fights,” Riwoo replied, earning a laugh from Woonhak.

“Or maybe that’s how you fix things,” Jaehyun countered, his gaze flicking briefly between Sungho and Taesan.

The comment lingered in the air, unnoticed by most but sharp as a blade to those it was meant for.

---

After the Movie

As the credits rolled, Jaehyun stretched dramatically, declaring the night a success. “See? My movie choice was flawless.”

“It was okay,” Riwoo said, dodging another pillow.

The group began to disperse, all of them heading to their rooms. Sungho stayed behind, quietly gathering empty bowls and crumpled napkins.

Taesan was the last to leave, pausing in the doorway. “You don’t have to do all that alone,” he said, his voice low but steady.

Sungho glanced at him, surprised by the sudden offer. “It's fine,” he said curtly, turning back to the mess.

Taesan hesitated, then stepped forward, picking up a bowl. “I wasn’t asking.”

Sungho glanced at him, surprised by the stubbornness in his tone. He didn’t argue, though, letting Taesan help as they worked side by side in relative silence.

The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t entirely easy either. Every so often, their movements would synchronize—a shared reach for a cup, the brush of a shoulder—and the bond would pulse faintly between them, a reminder neither could escape.

After a while, Sungho spoke, his voice softer than usual. “You didn’t like the movie, did you?”

Taesan snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “It was fine. Predictable, but fine.”

“Riwoo’s commentary made it better.”

“Everything’s better with Riwoo hyung commentary,” Taesan agreed, and for a brief moment, the tension between them lessened.

But then Taesan shifted, leaning back against the counter as he looked at Sungho. His expression was unreadable, a mix of curiosity and something else—something guarded.

“This bond,” he began, his voice low, “does it ever… hurt you?”

The question caught Sungho off guard. He froze mid-motion, setting down the last bowl before turning to face Taesan fully. “What?”

“Just… curious,” Taesan said, avoiding his gaze. “It doesn’t hurt me. I was wondering if it’s different for you.”

Sungho’s lips pressed into a thin line, his chest tightening at the caring tone hidden beneath Taesan’s nonchalant tone. “No,” he said eventually. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s just… there.”

Taesan nodded, his expression unreadable. “Good.” and went back to his room after the cleaning was done.

Sungho stood alone in the kitchen, rinsing the last of the bowls. The faint sound of someone’s door closing echoed through the dorm, leaving him surrounded by silence. The movie had been a distraction—a momentary reprieve from the tension that always seemed to follow him like a shadow.

He sighed, drying his hands on a dish towel and staring at his reflection in the darkened window. His mind lingered on Taesan’s words. “Does it ever hurt you?”

It wasn’t the bond that hurt. Not really. It was the distance. The way Taesan acted like nothing tethered them together.

The creak of the floor behind him broke his thoughts. Sungho turned to find Jaehyun leaning casually against the doorway, his face softer than usual.

“You’re still up?” Jaehyun asked, crossing his arms.

“Could ask you the same thing,” Sungho replied, tossing the towel over his shoulder.

Jaehyun shrugged. “Wanted to check on you. You seemed... tense tonight.”

Sungho hesitated, unsure how much he wanted to reveal. Jaehyun was his closest confidant, but even he didn’t know the full extent of how the bond had unraveled Sungho’s once-steady sense of self.

“It’s nothing,” Sungho finally said, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”

Jaehyun raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You’re a terrible liar, you know.”

“I’ll survive.”

“You always say that,” Jaehyun said quietly, his gaze sharp but kind. “Maybe it’s time to stop just surviving and start dealing with it.”

Sungho sighed knowing jaehyun is right. “It’s not that simple.”

Jaehyun disappointed but didn’t push further. “Alright. But if you ever need to talk… I’m here.”

Sungho nodded, appreciating the offer even if he couldn’t take it.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: Silhouettes in the Shadows

The dorm was buzzing with activity early in the morning as the members prepared for their packed schedule. Sungho moved quietly in the kitchen, boiling water for tea while the others trickled in one by one. The soft hum of the kettle was the only sound as he placed mugs on the counter, carefully arranging them as if the order mattered.

“Hyung, good morning!” Woonhak chirped, stumbling into the kitchen, his hair still messy from sleep. He was rubbing his eyes, looking more like a lost puppy than the youngest member of their group.

“Morning,” Sungho replied with a soft smile, pushing a mug toward him. He couldn’t help but feel a flicker of warmth at the younger’s energy.

“Did you sleep okay?” Woonhak asked, taking the mug eagerly and blowing on it before sipping.

“I did,” Sungho lied smoothly, his expression calm. “You?”

“Like a baby,” Woonhak said proudly, grinning in a way that made Sungho chuckle softly.

The sound of footsteps signaled more arrivals. Jaehyun strolled in, already halfway through a conversation with Riwoo about some show they’d been watching. Leehan trailed after them, yawning and stretching his arms as if he hadn’t fully woken up yet. His presence filled the space effortlessly, his movements casual but commanding attention. Taesan was the last to join, composed as always, a stark contrast to the noise around him. He leaned against the counter, his coffee mug in hand, looking like he belonged to a different world entirely.

Jaehyun’s teasing voice cut through the chatter. “Riwoo, are you seriously wearing mismatched socks again? What are we, in kindergarten?”

“They’re a statement,” Riwoo shot back, grinning unapologetically.

“A statement of what?” Jaehyun snorted. “Your inability to do laundry?”

The group erupted in laughter, and even Taesan let out a low chuckle, his gaze briefly flickering toward Leehan as they exchanged amused glances. Sungho noticed it all—the ease of their interaction, the way Taesan seemed more present when Leehan was near. It wasn’t unusual, but sometimes, it felt heavier.

Sungho busied himself with clearing the counter, hoping no one would notice his quiet withdrawal. But as the others moved toward the living room, he caught a snippet of their conversation.

“Did you hear about the new fish I’m thinking of getting for the tank?” Leehan was saying excitedly to Taesan.

“No,” Taesan replied, his voice softer, more engaged. “What kind?”

“Something colorful, like a mandarin fish,” Leehan explained. “They’re supposed to be really peaceful.”

“Sounds nice,” Taesan said, a rare smile tugging at his lips.

Sungho’s chest tightened as he watched them leave the room together, their laughter fading into the background. The mug in his hand felt heavier than it should have.

---

The schedule was packed, and the group was constantly on the move. By late afternoon, they found themselves in the studio, filming a behind-the-scenes vlog for their fans. The theme was casual bonding, and the staff encouraged them to play games, answer questions, and just “be natural.”

Jaehyun, ever the leader, took charge immediately. “Let’s do teams,” he announced, holding up a stack of trivia cards. “Winners get the snacks, losers do aegyo for the camera.”

The room erupted in groans and laughter as everyone began splitting up. Jaehyun and Riwoo were quick to team up, their shared competitiveness making them a formidable pair. Woonhak latched onto Sungho like a koala, grinning at him as if to say they didn’t need anyone else. That left Taesan and Leehan as the final pair, a fact that didn’t escape Sungho’s notice.

“Perfect,” Jaehyun declared, shuffling the cards. “Let’s start!”

The game descended into chaos almost immediately. Jaehyun’s team was annoyingly efficient, with Riwoo shouting answers even when it wasn’t their turn. Woonhak, on the other hand, spent more time joking and messing around, leaving Sungho to carry their team.

“Hyung, what’s the capital of Austria?” Woonhak whispered loudly, clearly clueless.

“Vienna,” Sungho replied, his tone soft but steady. His answer earned a cheer from Woonhak, who clapped him on the back like they’d won the lottery.

Meanwhile, Taesan and Leehan were quietly dominating. Their teamwork was seamless—Leehan would offer subtle hints, and Taesan would answer almost immediately, his confidence unwavering. Their quiet efficiency stood in stark contrast to everyone else’s loud antics.

Sungho tried not to notice the way Leehan leaned closer to Taesan when he spoke, or the way Taesan’s rare smiles seemed reserved just for him. But the sight gnawed at him, the bond humming faintly in the back of his mind like a taunt.

By the time the game ended, Jaehyun’s team had predictably won, leaving Sungho’s team to face the dreaded punishment. Woonhak’s exaggerated aegyo drew loud cheers and playful jeers, but when it was Sungho’s turn, he could barely manage a shy wave. His gaze darted briefly to Taesan, who didn’t even look up.

---

The rest of the day passed in a blur of rehearsals and meetings. The group was preparing for an upcoming performance, which meant long hours of choreography, vocal practices, and endless tweaks to their routines.

During a short break, Leehan approached Taesan with a sheepish smile, holding up a tangled necklace. The delicate chain was knotted beyond recognition.

“Taesan, can you help with this?” Leehan asked, his voice laced with embarrassment. “I’ve been trying for ages, but it’s just getting worse.”

Taesan, who was sitting on the floor with his sketchpad, glanced up and took the necklace without hesitation. “Sure.”

Sungho, leaning against the wall across the room, watched silently as Taesan set his sketchpad aside. His long fingers worked methodically at the knots, his expression calm and focused.

“You’re way too good at this,” Leehan teased, crouching beside Taesan. “How are you not frustrated?”

“It’s not that hard if you’re careful,” Taesan replied, glancing up briefly with a faint smile.

Leehan laughed, his tone warm and light. Sungho’s grip on his water bottle tightened as he watched the scene unfold. It wasn’t just the act itself—it was the quiet intimacy of it, the ease with which they interacted. It felt like a spotlight on everything Sungho lacked.

When Taesan finally untangled the necklace and helped Leehan put it back, Leehan beamed. “You’re a lifesaver. Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Taesan replied patting Leehan’s hair in adoration, his tone soft in a way Sungho rarely heard.

---

Sungho left the room during the next break, his chest heavy with emotions he couldn’t name. He found a quiet corner near the vending machines and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes.

“What are you doing here? Playing hide and seek?” Jaehyun’s teasing voice broke through his thoughts.

Sungho opened his eyes to find the leader approaching with two cans of soda. Jaehyun handed him one, his expression mischievous.

“Not hiding,” Sungho mumbled, taking the soda. “Just… resting.”

“Sure, resting,” Jaehyun said, leaning casually against the wall beside him. “You’ve been looking like someone stole your dessert all day.”

Sungho gave a soft laugh despite himself. “Stop talking nonsense. I am fine.”

“Yeah, no, you’re not,” Jaehyun replied, cracking open his soda. “But that’s okay, because I’ve decided to cheer you up.”

“Oh?” Sungho raised an eyebrow, the corners of his lips twitching into a faint smile. “And how are you planning to do that?”

“By reminding you that Woonhak still thinks dinosaurs are alive in some secret government lab,” Jaehyun said, deadpan.

Sungho snorted, the unexpected comment breaking through his tension. “He doesn’t actually believe that.”

“He does,” Jaehyun insisted, his grin widening. “And Riwoo told him he’d take him dinosaur hunting next weekend.”

Sungho shook his head, his laughter coming easier now. “You guys are unbelievable.”

“True,” Jaehyun said pointing out, taking a sip of his soda. “But you’re smiling now, so my job is well done, I told you i could cheer you up.”

“ Yeah.. yeah...Thanks. Do you want me to rate you now or what?,” Sungho said jokingly rolling his head, but he's still always grateful of Jaehyun.

Jaehyun’s grin softened, and he nudged Sungho’s shoulder lightly. “Anytime. And i don't think rating is necessary we all know i am a 10 out of 10 the best one out there.” He said dramatically flipping his non existent long hairs.

He felt much better for the rest of the day as Jaehyun kept him engaged in trivial and even stupid things which helped him get distracted from his own emotions.

---

The sun had set by the time they returned to the dorm, the day’s exhaustion weighing heavily on all of them. Dinner was a group effort, though it mostly consisted of everyone yelling suggestions while Riwoo and Sungho did the actual cooking.

“Should we order chicken too?” Woonhak asked, leaning over the counter.

“You just want more food,” Riwoo teased, flipping a piece of meat in the pan.

“Obviously,” Woonhak said with a grin, earning a round of laughter.

Sungho lingered at the edges of the activity, his presence quiet but steady. He helped set the table, aligning chopsticks and bowls with careful precision. It was easier to focus on tasks than on the bubbling emotions threatening to surface.

By the time they sat down to eat, the atmosphere was light and playful. Jaehyun and Riwoo took turns teasing Woonhak, who protested loudly between bites of rice. Leehan joined in occasionally, his laughter soft and easy. Taesan, as usual, was more reserved, but there was a faint smile on his lips as he listened to the banter.

“Hyung,” Woonhak said suddenly, turning to Sungho with wide eyes. “You’ve barely eaten. Do you not like it?”

Sungho blinked, startled by the attention. “No, it’s good,” he said quickly, taking a bite to prove his point.

“See? He likes it,” Riwoo said, nudging Woonhak. “ And Stop
loitering and eat your food properly. So messy this kid”

The conversation shifted again, but Sungho felt the weight of Taesan’s gaze on him for a brief moment. When he glanced up, Taesan was already looking away, engaging in conversation with others pretending as if he wasn’t looking just a few moments ago.

---

After dinner, the group dispersed, some heading to the living room while others retreated to their rooms. Sungho found himself standing on the balcony, the cool night air brushing against his skin. The city lights stretched out before him, a quiet contrast to the noise inside.

He leaned against the railing, his thoughts swirling. The day had been a blur of emotions—frustration, annoyance, and something deeper he couldn’t quite name. His sighed with the weight of it all.

“Hyung.”

The soft voice startled him, and he turned to see Taesan standing in the doorway.

“Hey,” Sungho said, his voice quieter than usual.

Taesan stepped onto the balcony, closing the door behind him. He leaned against the railing beside Sungho, his presence calm but heavy with unspoken words.

“Something on your mind?” Taesan asked, his tone casual but edged with something he couldn’t pinpoint.

Sungho hesitated, his grip tightening on the railing. “No.”

“Really?” Taesan’s voice was cool, almost dismissive. “But you’ve been quiet all day.”

Sungho swallowed hard, the weight of the bond pressing against his chest. “It’s nothing,” he said softly, turning to face Taesan. “You don’t need to worry.”

Taesan’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t respond, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Taesan watched him closely for a moment before speaking again carefully. “You also skipped lunch today and your were all sulky.”

Sungho’s hands stilled, the statement hitting closer than he expected he was even suprised that taesan noticed . “Was I?”

“Yes,” Taesan said, his tone even. “Is something wrong?”

Sungho bit his lip, his chest tightening. He wanted to brush it off, to keep everything bottled up as usual. But the weight of the day—the weight of the past year—felt too heavy to ignore he was confused and surprised at the same time.

“Do you really want to know?,” he said contemplating.

"Today was tiring wasn’t it" he completed his thought aloud smiling though his voice wavered slightly.

Taesan frowned, his sharp eyes studying Sungho’s face. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Sungho let out a shaky laugh, his hands gripping the edge of the railing. “And you’re terrible at pretending to care.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Taesan’s expression hardened, his jaw tightening. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sungho turned to face him, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “It means I’m tired of this. Aren't you tired of pretending that you actually care?,” he said quietly, his voice trembling. “Tired of pretending everything’s fine when it’s not.”

“But you know what is even more funny, that we both don't know what we are supposed to do. Because what i want, you can't give me and what you want is not possible.” He continued even though his voice was betraying him shaking a little.

Taesan’s gaze faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered his tone harsher than earlier. “You’re reading too much into things and what is it exactly that you want?.”

“Am I really reading too much cause it doesn’t feel that way ?” Sungho’s voice cracked, and he looked away, blinking rapidly, he ignored his second question not wanting to confess or even make a comment on it.

The tension between them was palpable, the unspoken weight of their bond hanging heavily in the air. Taesan opened his mouth to respond to Sungho’s question but seemed to think better of it.

“Just go to sleep hyung you need rest.” He said almost nonchalant but the conflict clear in his eyes. In the end though, he left without another word, leaving Sungho alone with his thoughts.

---

Later that night, as the dorm settled into silence, Sungho lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The events of the day played over and over in his mind, each moment playing in his head. At this point he has made a habit to play the entire day in his head before going to bed gives him some kind of solace.

He thought of Taesan and Leehan, their easy closeness like a thread he could never quite grasp. He thought of Jaehyun and Riwoo’s teasing, Woonhak’s bright laughter, and the warmth of their shared moments. But most of all, he thought of the balcony—the quiet intensity of Taesan’s voice, the unspoken connection between them.

He closed his eyes, letting the sadness wash over him. He knew he couldn’t change Taesan’s feelings—knew he couldn’t make someone care the way he wanted them to. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

All he could do was endure, as he always had but he doesn't want to anymore he wants to take some kind of action to put an end to his suffering. He doesn't want to just play in the hand of the bond and fate just like that anymore.

Chapter Text

The backstage area was alive with noise—staff members moving between sets, cameras being adjusted, makeup artists adding final touches. The other members of Boynextdoor filled the space with their usual antics, their laughter ringing out like background music to Sungho’s quiet contemplation.

He sat on the edge of a worn-out couch, hands resting loosely on his lap, eyes distant. His fingers absently toyed with the hem of his sleeve—a subconscious attempt to ground himself. The bond’s presence was a dull ache, something he had grown used to ignoring, but today, it felt heavier.

Why does it have to be me?

He exhaled slowly, blinking at the bustling scene in front of him. Taesan stood near the mirror, laughing at something Leehan had said. The easy way they interacted, the way Leehan’s eyes shone when Taesan ruffled his hair, the way Taesan—cold, distant Taesan—let it happen without a second thought.

As if they were the ones who had always been meant to be.

Sungho wasn’t jealous. Not really. He had accepted long ago that whatever existed between him and Taesan was not friendship, not rivalry, not love—not anything at all. It was just a bond that never should have happened.

And yet, watching them, frustration curled deep inside him.

If things had been different—if the bond had happened with Leehan instead of him— would Taesan have been kinder? Softer? Would he have acknowledged it?

Would he have been happier?

Sungho clenched his fists against his thighs, swallowing the bitterness rising in his throat. It wasn’t just exhaustion from the schedule that was making him feel stretched thin. It was the weight of a connection that only ever pulled in one direction.

“What’s with you?”

A nudge to his shoulder pulled him out of his thoughts. Jaehyun had plopped down beside him, holding a water bottle hostage between his hands like it was some rare treasure.

When Sungho turned to look at him, Jaehyun wiggled his eyebrows. “You look like you’re either contemplating life’s greatest mysteries or mentally rehearsing your award speech. Which is it?”

Sungho blinked before letting out a small chuckle, his tense shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Neither.”

“Ah, so it’s the third option—secretly plotting to expose all of Woonhak’s embarrassing habits on national TV.” Jaehyun nodded sagely. “Good choice. If you need help, I have a list.”

Sungho huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Leave it to Jaehyun to make the world feel a little less suffocating.

Before he could respond, one of the directors clapped their hands, signaling them to get into position. The energy in the room shifted—members straightened up, slipping into their idol personas with the ease of time spent in front of cameras.

“Ready?” One of the staff members asked, scanning the group.

Sungho plastered on a smile, his voice coming out smooth and practiced. “Of course.”

And just like that, he tucked his emotions away, locking them behind a mask.

Time to act.

---

The studio was alive with the kind of energy only variety shows could create—bright lights, oversized props, hosts with booming voices.

Sungho sat on the edge of his seat, hands resting casually on his knees, a carefully crafted easygoing smile on his face. This was routine. This was part of the job.

And yet, no matter how hard he tried to lose himself in the moment, there was something pressing against his consciousness—a familiar, irritating weight he had learned to live with.

Across from him, on the opposing team, Taesan stood comfortably next to Leehan, laughing at something Riwoo said.

It had been like this for the entire show.

Every challenge, every interaction—Taesan and Sungho moved around each other like magnets flipped to the wrong side. Perfectly avoiding. Never colliding.

Sungho wasn’t sure if it was intentional or if it had just become second nature by now.

But either way, it stung.

---

The first game was a relay race—the kind of game that looked simple in theory but was destined for absolute disaster on a variety show.

Rules were easy:

1. Run while balancing a ping pong ball on a spoon.

2. Spin ten times before sprinting to the next checkpoint.

3. Solve a quick puzzle before passing the baton.

Woonhak vs. Taesan was the opening round.

The second the whistle blew, Woonhak immediately regretted his life choices.

"HYUNG, THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE!" he shouted, arms flailing wildly as he tried to keep his ping pong ball from rolling off the spoon.

Jaehyun, ever the menace, shouted from the sidelines. "RUN FASTER!"

"I CAN'T!"

Meanwhile, Taesan was already halfway across the track, perfectly balanced, barely breaking a sweat.

"Why does Taesan look like he's casually walking to a photoshoot while Woonhak looks like he's fighting for his life?" Riwoo said, making the staff burst into laughter.

"BECAUSE I AM!" Woonhak screamed.

Jaehyun collapsed laughing as Woonhak barely made it to the checkpoint, shoving the baton into Sungho’s hands.

"Hyung, PLEASE carry us," Woonhak panted.

Sungho took off at full speed, focusing only on the challenge—until he passed Taesan on the sidelines.

For the briefest second, their eyes met.

And for the first time all day, Sungho saw it—hesitation.

It was gone almost immediately, Taesan looking away as if the moment never happened.

But Sungho felt it.

And it pissed him off.

---

The next game was designed for pure humiliation.

Two people faced off, taking turns making ridiculous statements. The only rule? You had to respond with "Of course" no matter how absurd it was.

Jaehyun clapped his hands together, grinning. "Alright, next up—Sungho vs. Riwoo!"

The staff cheered as they sat across from each other.

Riwoo cracked his knuckles. "Hyung, of course you regret debuting with us, right?"

Sungho didn’t hesitate. "Of course."

The room exploded in laughter.

"HYUNG!" Woonhak gasped dramatically. "HOW COULD YOU?"

"Look at his face! He answered too fast!" Jaehyun cackled.

Sungho just smirked, leaning forward. "Riwoo, of course your dancing skills peaked in middle school, right?"

Riwoo gasped. "OF COURSE NOT!"

The whistle blew. "RIWOO LOSES!"

"NOOOO!"

Sungho grinned as Riwoo collapsed on the floor in fake devastation. For a brief moment, the weight in his chest lightened.

---

The host clapped their hands together. "Alright, let’s spice things up with some rapid-fire questions!"

The first few were harmless.

"Who’s the worst at waking up?" → Everyone pointed at Jaehyun

"Who’s the biggest eater?" → Riwoo and Woonhak started arguing immediately.

"Who’s the best at fanservice?" → Taesan, without hesitation, said “Me.”

Then, the host grinned mischievously.

"Taesan, who’s your favorite member?"

The studio erupted in dramatic reactions.

"OH, THAT'S A DANGEROUS QUESTION!" Jaehyun yelled.

"HYUNG, BE SMART ABOUT THIS," Woonhak warned.

Taesan, without even pausing, said—

"Leehan."

The room went WILD.

Leehan grinned smugly, crossing his arms. "I mean, obviously. We all knew that."

Then, as if he wasn’t already annoying enough, he added, "Taesan always taking care of me. Maybe I should start calling him my boyfriend."

The host gasped dramatically. "Ohhh, the romance! Maybe we’re witnessing the next legendary idol ship."

Sungho felt his chest tighten.

Not because it was serious. Not because he didn’t know it was a joke.

But because Taesan had said it so easily.

Like there was never another option.

Like it had never even been a question.

Before he could stop himself, he let out a quiet chuckle.

And then, when the host turned to him—

"Sungho, what about you?"

He should have said something simple. Something easy.

Instead, the words left his mouth before he could catch them—too sharp, too raw.

"Oh, I don’t have favorites."

A beat of silence.

Then—"I just go where I’m actually wanted."

The room paused for half a second.

Not enough for alarm. But enough for confusion.

Sungho realized it immediately.

Cameras. Airing. Thousands of fans watching.

He forced a laugh, waving his hand. "I’m joking, I’m joking!"

Jaehyun let out a short breath through his nose, smiling just enough to let Sungho know he understood exactly what he meant.

The host laughed it off. "Ah, you had us for a second! So, who’s your pick?"

Sungho flashed an easy smile. "Jaehyun, of course."

Jaehyun threw his arm around him dramatically. "FINALLY, some respect!"

The studio erupted in laughter again. The show moved on.

But as Sungho sat back in his seat, he caught something—

Taesan, completely still.

For just a fraction of a second, he had frozen.

Then, just as quickly, he masked it, looking away as if it had meant nothing at all.

---

The episode aired on a Friday night, the perfect time for fans to settle in with snacks, clip their favorite moments, and flood social media with reactions. Within hours, the internet was buzzing with excitement, memes and edits spreading like wildfire.

But amidst the chaos, one particular clip was gaining traction at an alarming speed.

The rapid-fire question game.

A ten-second moment, seemingly insignificant, now dissected under the full scrutiny of the fandom.

---

Twitter Explodes

@bndfanatic: “HELP Sungho’s delivery was so smooth LMAOO ‘I just go where I’m actually wanted’ ICONIC.”

@taesanswife: “It’s the way Taesan answered without hesitation and then Sungho just—wow. The comedic timing was GOLD.”

@sungstar123: “Wait… but was that actually a joke? He sounded kinda serious??? Look at his face??”

@kpoptea: “OKAY but does anyone else feel like the energy shifted for a sec? Even Taesan looked weird after that 😬.”

@leehanbestboi: “Can y’all stop reading into things? It’s a variety show, not a drama. Not everything has some deep meaning 💀.”

@bndthrowbacks: “Not to stir the pot but Sungho and Taesan used to be super close in debut days. What happened?”

@multi_stan: “Maybe the company keeps them apart for fanservice reasons. Their chemistry is CRAZY, they would be too powerful if they interacted more.”

@taesuneditz: “This is literally a fanfiction plot. Let’s not.”

The clip continued to circulate, the fanbase splitting into three camps:

1. The Casual Fans – “It was just a funny moment, move on.”

2. The Theorists – “Something definitely felt off there.”

3. The Realists – “This is not a romance novel, please touch grass.”

By the next morning, the company had noticed the spike in discussion.

---

At first, the managers brushed it off. It wasn’t a scandal, just fan speculation. But when the outlets and fanbase started subtly mentioning the "Sungho and Taesan tension clip," they decided to step in—quietly.

Instead of making it a big deal, they pulled Jaehyun aside.

“Keep an eye on things.” The manager spoke in a low, firm tone. “We don’t need unnecessary rumors. Just make sure there’s no actual issue within the group.”

Jaehyun didn’t react outwardly, just gave a small nod. “Got it.”

He understood the real message: If there’s a problem, fix it before it becomes one.

Later that day, after rehearsals, Jaehyun found Sungho leaning against the practice room mirrors, scrolling through his phone.

Without a word, he dropped onto the floor beside him, stretching his legs out lazily.

After a beat, he said, “If you’re gonna be sarcastic, at least make it funnier next time.”

Sungho blinked, looking up. Jaehyun’s tone was casual, but there was something underneath it.

Concern.

“Ah,” Sungho exhaled a short laugh. “Did the company send you?”

Jaehyun shrugged, picking at his shoelace. “I just happen to be nosy. It’s a skill.”

Sungho tilted his head back against the mirror, letting out a quiet sigh. “People really have too much expectation from me.”

Jaehyun was silent for a moment before he spoke, voice lighter this time. “I mean, you did sound kinda dramatic.”

“Did I?” Sungho mused, his lips curving up in a faint smile.

Jaehyun gave him a knowing look but didn’t push further. Instead, he nudged Sungho’s foot with his own. “Just don’t overthink it, yeah?”

Sungho nodded, though he wasn’t sure if he meant it.

---

That night, long after the dorm had settled into silence, Sungho lay in bed, phone screen illuminating his face.

The clip was everywhere.

Every time he scrolled, a new comment appeared.

One made him laugh bitterly.

@sunghosimp: “Taesan and Sungho would make such a great pair. Their visual chemistry is INSANE. It’s a pity the company doesn’t let them interact often.”

Ah.

So that’s what they thought?

That the company was keeping them apart?

He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. How ironic.

Another tweet caught his eye.

@throwbackbynd: “Remember when Taesan and Sungho used to be glued to each other during their debut days? They were so close in debut era. What happened???”

He clicked on the thread.

Fans had posted old clips—Sungho and Taesan laughing during practice, Taesan pulling Sungho into a side hug during a fresh debut VLive, the way they used to gravitate toward each other naturally.

Beneath it, replies were filled with theories.

“Maybe they just grew apart?”

“Nah, something definitely happened behind the scenes.”

“You guys are too dramatic. This isn’t a fanfiction.”

Sungho’s grip on his phone tightened slightly.

He hadn’t even realized people noticed.

That they remembered.

But the most ridiculous part of all of this?

The way Taesan barely reacted to any of it.

Sungho replayed the moment in his mind—the way Taesan didn’t flinch, didn’t laugh, didn’t acknowledge the shift.

Like it was nothing.

Like Sungho was nothing.

For the first time, an unfamiliar thought crept in.

He knows he is the only one hurting in this.

But had he spent all this time agonizing over something that Taesan had never even cared about?

His fingers hovered over his screen for a moment before he sighed and locked his phone, rolling onto his side.

His chest felt heavier than before.

Maybe it was time to stop expecting anything from Taesan at all.

Maybe it was time to let go. He laughs humorless as he tells himself that again as he does every night.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was filled with the usual sounds of clinking dishes, the hum of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter. Woonhak, still half-asleep, was whining dramatically about something Jaehyun had said, while Jaehyun—grinning like a devil—took every opportunity to tease him.

“Hyung, stop!” Woonhak whined, flailing his arms. “I’m not even awake yet, why are you attacking me?”

Jaehyun smirked, resting an elbow on the counter. “Attacking? I’m just trying to help you wake up. I heard yelling first thing in the morning boosts brain function.”

Woonhak scowled, rubbing his eyes. “Then why do you sound like you lost brain function?”

Riwoo, who was simultaneously cooking eggs and eating toast, choked on his bite, laughing.

Sungho, sitting at the dining table, sighed dramatically, shaking his head.

“Enough, children.” He rubbed his temples, voice dripping with exhaustion. “It’s too early for all this nonsense.”

Jaehyun turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Oh? Look at this. Our exhausted dad is speaking.”

“Dad?” Sungho deadpanned. “If I was really your dad, I would have left you at the convenience store years ago.”

Woonhak gasped. “HYUNG—”

The room burst into laughter, even Leehan, who was across the room feeding his fish, chuckled softly.

The atmosphere felt lighter. Not forced, not an act—just easy.

Sungho had woken up that morning feeling... different. Not miraculously healed, not suddenly over everything, but—better. Lighter.

Maybe because he had finally stopped expecting.

For months— an entire year, even—he had been waiting.

Waiting for Taesan to see him.
Waiting for their bond to mean something.
Waiting for something that was never going to come.

But now, for the first time, he wasn’t waiting. And that alone felt freeing.

Of course, the ache didn’t vanish overnight. The weight of it still lingered, but it wasn’t all-consuming anymore.

He could live with it.

He wasn’t going to let it dictate his every moment anymore.

And that’s why, today, he wants to smile more easily.
Joke around more naturally.
Speak without hesitation.

He wasn’t pretending to be fine. He was trying to be.

---

At the other end of the table, Taesan sat with his phone in one hand, eating his breakfast without much expression.

He wasn’t paying attention. Or at least, that’s what it looked like.

But he noticed.

Before, even when Sungho was quiet, there had always been an unspoken presence between them. A kind of awareness that never really disappeared.

But now, it wasn’t as obvious anymore.

Sungho wasn’t watching him carefully like before. He wasn’t lingering in the same spaces. He wasn’t reacting to Taesan’s movements, words, or expressions.

It wasn’t completely gone—Taesan could still feel it in small, almost imperceptible ways.

But it was fading. He told himself not to be too much bothered by it. This is a good thing if Sungho is lighter and feeling more happy.

---

“Leehan, are you eating or building a house?” Riwoo suddenly said, eyeing Leehan’s ridiculous plate of food.

Leehan, who had carefully arranged his breakfast into neat sections, looked up innocently. “What?”

“You have, like, three different types of toast.”

“They all taste different!” Leehan defended, clearly offended.

Woonhak, peering over, nodded. “Oh, yeah, this one has strawberry jam, that one has peanut butter, and… wait, what’s that last one?”

“Honey.”

Jaehyun snorted. “So you’re telling me you needed three separate toasts to experience all those flavors at the same time?”

Leehan shrugged. “It’s about balance.”

Taesan, sipping his coffee, sighed. “Leehan, just say you have commitment issues.”

Which was enough to get a laugh from everyone.

Leehan rolled his eyes but smiled. “I’m ignoring all of you.”

“You do that.” Sungho said while chuckling softly, leaning back in his chair.

---

Jaehyun, who had been watching the shift in dynamics all morning, grinned knowingly.

He leaned closer to Sungho, smirking. “Sungho-ah, are you in love or something? You’re glowing today.”

Sungho laughed, shoving him away.

“Maybe I just realized life is too short to be grumpy.”

The members chuckled, shaking their heads.

But Taesan didn’t laugh.

He just watched.

Sungho didn’t expect everything to change overnight.

He knew there would still be moments of weakness, of wondering, of questioning.

But this? This was a start.

And for now, that was enough.

---

Rehearsals had been long, but not unbearable.

Sungho wiped his sweat with a towel, rolling his shoulders as the members began gathering their things to head back to the dorm. Just as he was about to grab his bag, Jaehyun threw an arm around his shoulders.

“You’re coming with me.”

Sungho blinked. “Where?”

Jaehyun grinned, already leading him toward the exit. “Meeting a friend. Don’t worry, I promise he doesn’t bite.”

“That’s not the part I’m worried about.”

Jaehyun ignored him, dragging him through the hallway with ease. Sungho didn’t fight it too much—Jaehyun had his ways of pulling people into his pace, and sometimes, it was just easier to go along with it.

The company lounge was quiet at this hour, mostly occupied by trainees finishing late practice sessions or staff members wrapping up their work.

Near the back, by the large windows overlooking the city, someone was already waiting.

The moment they stepped in, the figure turned—grinning as soon as he spotted Jaehyun.

Shinyu.

Leader of TWS.
Handsome, confident, and effortlessly charismatic.

He stood up, meeting them halfway with an easy, natural energy.

“Jaehyun” he greeted, offering a casual fist bump. “Took you long enough.”

“Yeah, yeah, I was busy being amazing.” Jaehyun smirked flipping his non existent long hairs, bumping his fist back before gesturing toward Sungho. “I brought company.”

Shinyu’s gaze shifted to Sungho, warm and assessing.

“Sungho, right?” he said, offering a hand. “Good to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Sungho raised an eyebrow, shaking his hand. “You have? I didn’t realize I had a reputation.”

Shinyu chuckled, his grip firm but not overpowering. “Jaehyun talks about you a lot.”

Jaehyun rolled his eyes. “Don’t make it sound weird. I talk about all the members, not just him.”

Sungho glanced at Jaehyun in amusement. “I’m flattered, really. Should I be worried about what’s being said?”

“Only if you have embarrassing secrets,” Shinyu replied smoothly, before settling back in his seat.

Sungho huffed a quiet laugh.

Okay. So far, so good.

---

They ordered drinks—Jaehyun getting his usual iced Americano, while Shinyu and Sungho both went for tea.

As they settled in, the conversation flowed effortlessly.

Shinyu had a way of engaging people without being overbearing. His energy was calm but confident, his interest in others genuine rather than performative.

“So, Sungho, what do you do when you’re not stuck in a practice room?” Shinyu asked, tilting his head.

Sungho considered for a second. “Read. Watch movies. Annoy Woonhak. The usual.”

Shinyu laughed. “Ah, a Woonhak tormentor. You and Jihoon would get along.”

Jaehyun snorted. “Woonhak needs more tormentors. He’s too spoiled.”

Sungho smirked, leaning back in his seat. “I consider it a public service.”

Shinyu’s gaze flickered with amusement before he leaned forward slightly. “Okay, real question. What’s your favorite movie? Like, if you had to pick one to watch forever.”

Sungho paused, surprised.

It wasn’t a difficult question. But for some reason, he hadn’t expected Shinyu to ask something so specific.

He thought for a moment. “Probably something nostalgic. Maybe Spirited Away.”

Shinyu’s eyes lit up. “Solid choice. Ghibli movies hit different. I’m a Princess Mononoke guy myself.”

“A classic.” Sungho nodded approvingly.

“Do you watch a lot of animated movies? Or just the good ones?”

Sungho smirked. “Are you implying some are bad?”

“No, I’m implying some are... an experience.” Shinyu grinned. “Like those old 90s animated movies that traumatized an entire generation.”

Jaehyun groaned. “Don’t remind me. I’m still emotionally recovering from The Land Before Time.”

Sungho chuckled, relaxed and engaged.

He hadn’t realized how easy this was.

---

Shinyu Takes Interest in Sungho. He can tell that much.

Unlike Taesan—who either avoided Sungho entirely or kept his words at a safe, calculated distance— Shinyu had no such reservations.

He asked questions.
He listened.
He didn’t just nod absentmindedly—he actually reacted.

That is why he find it even more confusing. Why does keep on comparing Shinyu to Taesan? They are different, very different in fact.

Why is Taesan coming to his mind constantly.

He hates it.

“You’re a vocals-first guy, right? Do you write, too?”

Sungho hesitated before nodding. “A little. Mostly lyrics.”

“Nice. I dabble in composing, but I don’t think my lyrics are that good. Maybe I should steal you for a collab.”

Jaehyun snorted. “You’re already trying to recruit him?”

Shinyu shrugged, smirking. “What can I say? I have an eye for talent.”

Sungho just shook his head, amused.

Cause for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like he was trying too hard.

---

Jaehyun, ever observant, watched the exchange with mild curiosity.

It wasn’t just that Sungho was talking.

It was the fact that he was comfortable.

There was no hesitation, no tension—just a natural, easy flow.

This was different.

And Jaehyun found himself genuinely relieved.

---

As they wrapped up their drinks and prepared to head back, Shinyu turned to Sungho with an easy smile.

“We should talk more. It’s rare to find someone with good movie taste.”

Sungho raised an eyebrow. “And if I had said a bad movie?”

“I would’ve been forced to reevaluate our entire meeting.”

Sungho chuckled.

And just like that, he knew—

He wanted to keep in touch with Shinyu.

Not because he needed to.
Not because he was looking for something.
But because—for once—it felt like a choice.

And that?

That was new.

---

The next day, practice was grueling but productive. The members were drenched in sweat, catching their breath between runs of their routine, but there was a familiar rhythm to it—hard work followed by exhausted satisfaction.

Until the door opened.

The shift in atmosphere was immediate.

Heads turned.

Enter Shinyu.

He stood casually in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, exuding the same effortless charm that made him impossible to ignore. He was the kind of person who fit into any space without feeling out of place.

Jaehyun grinned, already stepping forward. “Look who decided to bless us with his presence.”

Shinyu grinned, stepping into the room with an easy air. “Figured I’d check in on my favorite group. Make sure you’re not slacking.”

The members chuckled.

Taesan stood off to the side, arms loosely crossed, expression carefully neutral.

He knew who Shinyu was.
Leader of TWS.
Jaehyun’s friend.

That part wasn’t surprising.

But what did catch him off guard was when Shinyu’s gaze skipped right past Jaehyun and landed directly on Sungho.

Taesan’s eyes narrowed.

When did that happen?

---

Shinyu greeted the group politely, and the members greeted him back just as easily.

Except for Taesan, who remained silent.

Then, Shinyu turned toward Jaehyun and Sungho.

“Lunch? You two free?” he asked, his gaze warm and expectant.

Jaehyun groaned dramatically, stretching his arms. “I wish. But I have to meet with manager hyung about schedules.”

Then, with a knowing smirk, he nudged Sungho.

“You should go. No use starving yourself just to suffer in here.”

Sungho hesitated.

He could feel the weight of multiple gazes on him. The group wasn’t paying close attention—except one.

Taesan.

But when Sungho glanced in his direction, Taesan wasn’t looking at him. Or at least, he pretended not to be.

Instead, he looked down at his phone, scrolling idly, as if he hadn’t heard a thing.

Sungho turned back to Shinyu, who was watching him expectantly.

He didn’t know why he felt hesitant.

Maybe because this was different.

But then, he saw how easily Shinyu smiled at him. How he wasn’t holding back or keeping distance—he was simply asking.

So Sungho exhaled, nodded, and grabbed his water bottle. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Shinyu’s grin widened.

Taesan gripped his phone a little too tightly.

---

The cafeteria was buzzing with energy, a mix of idols and trainees scattered at tables, some eating, some laughing, some too exhausted to do anything but sit in silence.

Shinyu and Sungho found a table near the windows, where the afternoon sun spilled golden light across their trays.

The conversation started casual, easy.

“So, did Jaehyun drag you into being his emotional support member, or was this a willing friendship?” Shinyu teased, picking up his chopsticks.

Sungho chuckled, stirring his rice absently. “A little of both, I think. Jaehyun collects people like stray cats.”

Shinyu grinned. “Sounds about right. He latched onto me before I even knew what was happening. Next thing I knew, he was stealing my fries and claiming we were best friends.”

Sungho laughed. “That sounds exactly like him. He probably talked your ear off, too.”

Shinyu nodded, smirking. “You have no idea. But to be fair, he mostly talked about you guys. He really cares about you all.

Sungho smiled, softer this time. “Yeah. He does.”

The conversation flowed.

They talked about music.

About training days.

About ridiculous industry expectations.

And somehow, about random things like which instant ramen flavor was superior.

Sungho found himself laughing more than he expected.

It wasn’t forced.
It wasn’t performative.
It was easy.

Shinyu was good at conversation, knowing exactly when to push and when to just listen.

And unlike some people—he didn’t make Sungho feel like he was walking on thin ice.

---

Across the room, another pair of eyes had been quietly searching.

Taesan had just entered with the rest of the members, his usual nonchalant demeanor perfectly intact.

But the moment he stepped into the cafeteria, his gaze immediately scanned the tables.

He didn’t even realize he was doing it—not until his eyes landed on him.

Sungho.

Sitting with Shinyu.

And for the first time in a long time, he looked—

Relaxed.
Engaged.
Comfortable.

Something Taesan hadn’t seen in a while.

Something he hadn’t been the cause of in even longer.

“Taesan,” Leehan’s voice nudged him back to reality.

He turned, blinking.

Leehan gave him a curious look, phone in hand. “What are you staring at?”

Taesan shifted his expression back to neutral, shaking his head.

“Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

And he knew it.

---

Over the next few weeks, a shift happened.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t forced. It just… happened.

Sungho and Shinyu fell into an easy rhythm, meeting whenever they had time—during lunch breaks, in between schedules, or just by coincidence in the company building.

And soon enough, it wasn’t just coincidence anymore.

“Come on, I found this new café near the company. You need to try it.”

Sungho raised an eyebrow, adjusting the strap of his practice bag. “Since when are you a café enthusiast?”

Shinyu grinned, already leading him toward the exit. “Since I realized you survive on caffeine and bad life choices.”

Sungho scoffed but followed without argument.

The café was cozy, modern, and smelled like fresh coffee beans and vanilla.

“Alright, what’s your order?” Shinyu asked as they approached the counter.

Sungho hummed, scanning the menu. “Something strong. I need to function.”

Shinyu smirked. “Ah, so you’re one of those.”

“One of what?”

“The type who think their personality is being sleep-deprived and surviving off caffeine.”

Sungho huffed a laugh, nudging him. “Shut up and order.”

Later, as they sat by the window, sipping their drinks, Shinyu casually slid a small packet of sugar toward Sungho.

Sungho blinked. “What’s this for?”

“You always pretend you like bitter coffee, but you make a face every time you drink it.”

Sungho scoffed, trying (and failing) to hide his amusement. “Observant.”

Shinyu smirked. “I have my moments.”

Another time, they went shopping together.

Sungho needed a new jacket, and Shinyu, being far too opinionated about fashion, insisted on helping.

“This one.” Shinyu pulled out a black leather jacket and held it up.

Sungho studied it before grabbing a similar one off the rack. “This one’s better. Less stiff.”

Shinyu blinked, then smirked. “Okay, I respect the taste.”

Sungho squinted at him. “ I think we have the same fashion sense?”

Shinyu shrugged. “It would explain why we both look great.”

Jaehyun, who had been watching from a few racks away, groaned loudly.

“Unbelievable. First, you steal my emotional support member, and now you’re forming a fashion alliance against me?”

Sungho rolled his eyes, grinning. “Jaehyun, you never had good fashion sense to begin with.”

“EXCUSE ME?”

Shinyu snorted. “Yeah, Sungho’s right. You dress like a retired dad on vacation.”

Jaehyun gasped in betrayal. “I HOPE BOTH OF YOU STEP IN A PUDDLE.”

Sungho and Shinyu high-fived.

---

When TWS had a comeback, and of course they have to film dance challenge collabs with other idols.

Shinyu, immediately asked Sungho.

They recorded

One with TWS’s new song, showing off sharp, clean choreography.

One with a random trendy dance, full of exaggerated moves and fake dramatic expressions.

And one where they just messed around, laughing through half of it.

When the behind-the-scenes footage was uploaded, fans of both groups noticed the easy chemistry between them.

On social media, the comments started rolling in.

@byndtwsforever: “WHY DO THEY LOOK SO GOOD TOGETHER??? Someone make them a duo NOW.”

@sungyu_nation: “Shinyu and Sungho are either besties or secretly married and I don’t know which.”

@kpoptea: “Sungho has never looked so comfortable with anyone outside his group before. This friendship is EVERYTHING.”

@multistan4life: “The way Shinyu and Sungho were laughing while filming the dance—HELLO???? That was adorable.”

---

Because of Sungho and Shinyu’s growing friendship, the two groups naturally started hanging out more often.

The Boynextdoor and TWS members often ran into each other in the company building, sometimes eating together, playing games, or just messing around in the practice rooms.

Everyone seemed to get along.

Except for Taesan and Dohoon.

Taesan would sit with them but remained quiet, only speaking when necessary.

Dohoon, on the other hand, wasn’t exactly cold, but he was oddly distant.

Whenever Sungho greeted him, he politely responded but never really engaged. If they happened to be in a conversation, Dohoon kept it brief.

At first, Sungho thought maybe he just wasn’t fond of him.

But then he started noticing the way Dohoon would avoid looking at him when Shinyu was nearby.

How he never had a problem chatting with others but suddenly shut down when Sungho was involved.

And it clicked.

It wasn’t that Dohoon disliked Sungho.

It was that he disliked the attention Shinyu was giving Sungho.

One day, while they were heading back from practice, Sungho decided to ask.

“Hey, is Dohoon... I don’t know, avoiding me?”

Shinyu blinked, caught off guard. “Huh? What do you mean?”

Sungho sighed. “I don’t think he likes me much. He always seems uncomfortable around me.”

Shinyu frowned, clearly thinking about it for the first time. “Really? I never noticed.”

“You wouldn't,” Sungho said, glancing at him meaningfully.

Shinyu raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sungho shrugged. “Just that sometimes people act differently around you than they do when you're not looking.”

Shinyu hummed, still looking puzzled. “Nah, Dohoon’s not the type to dislike people for no reason. He’s probably just shy.”

Sungho wasn’t convinced, but he let it go.

Shinyu didn’t know.

And Sungho wasn’t about to be the one to tell him.

---

It started with small things.

In the hallways, when Shinyu playfully ruffles Sungho’s hairs making him whine and giggle.

In the practice rooms, when they shared drinks without thinking twice.

Even at the dorm, when Taesan saw Sungho’s phone vibrate and Shinyu’s name pop up on the screen.

And now?

Now he was sitting at a table with his members, while across the cafeteria, Sungho and Shinyu were laughing over something.

Taesan wasn’t staring. Not really.

But his eyes kept flickering back.

Sungho was relaxed, engaged, at ease.

Not that Sungho hadn’t been happy before. But it was different.

It wasn’t the quiet happiness he sometimes had with Jaehyun.
It wasn’t the playful teasing he shared with Riwoo and Woonhak.

It was something else entirely.

Something Taesan couldn’t quite place.

Something he didn’t like.

And he was not sure why.

“Taesan, eat your food.”

Taesan blinked, looking up.

Riwoo was staring at him with a raised eyebrow, mouth half-full of rice.

“Huh?” Taesan muttered.

Riwoo gestured at his plate. “You’ve been stabbing your rice for, like, five minutes. Just eat it before it turns into mush.”

Taesan looked down.

His chopsticks had been absentmindedly pressing into the rice, breaking it apart without him even realizing.

He put them down.

“Not hungry.”

Riwoo snorted. “Yeah, sure. That’s why you’ve been staring into the void like some tragic movie lead.”

Taesan ignored him.

Instead, he picked up his drink, taking a slow sip as his gaze drifted back—just for a second.

Sungho was still laughing.

And Taesan’s grip on his cup tightening more than he intended.

Chapter Text

Something was changing.

It wasn’t obvious at first—not loud, not dramatic. But slowly, steadily, it was happening.

Shinyu had stopped hiding it.

His feelings. His interest.

It was in the way his glances lingered a second too long, in the way his teasing had softened, in the way his touches—a casual hand on Sungho’s shoulder, a playful nudge, the brush of fingers when handing him a drink— never felt rushed anymore.

They lingered.

And Sungho noticed.

He wasn’t clueless. He saw the way Shinyu looked at him, the way he leaned in a little closer than necessary when they talked.

And what’s worse?

He didn’t mind.

If anything, he let it happen.

Maybe it was selfish, but he didn’t care.

Because with Shinyu, he felt lighter.

Less like he was carrying something he had no choice in.
Less like he was bound to someone who didn’t want him.

And yet—

There were moments, fleeting but sharp, where his mind drifted elsewhere.

Where he caught himself missing Taesan.

Not the distance, not the tension— but something else.

Something quieter.

He missed the way Taesan used to check in on him.
The small moments—a passing question if he had eaten, a casual reminder to rest, even just a shared glance of understanding when the room was too loud.

But now?

Now there was nothing.

No stolen glances.
No brief conversations.
Not even the bare minimum of acknowledgment.

Taesan wasn’t just avoiding the bond now.

He was avoiding Sungho completely.

At first, Sungho thought he was imagining it.

But then—

Taesan refused to help him during their recording session.

Sungho had needed help with a vocal arrangement, something simple, something Taesan never would’ve turned him down for before.

But this time, Taesan had barely glanced at him.

“Ask Jaehyun, he knows the harmonies better.”

That was it.

Cold. Detached. Like Sungho was just anyone.

And Sungho didn’t know why it hurt.

Taesan never wanted this bond.

So why did it feel like he was suddenly punishing him for something?

And yet, every now and then—

Sungho would catch something.

A flicker of something in Taesan’s expression.

A split second of something that looked too much like hurt.

But that didn’t make sense.

Why would Taesan be hurt?

There was no reason for it.

And yet, the guilt crept in anyway.
The bond pulsed faintly in his veins, a constant reminder.

That no matter how much space he put between them—
Taesan was still there.

---

And then there was Dohoon.

Still polite.
Still kind.
Still careful.

But Sungho could see it.

The way his smile faltered every time Shinyu was near.
The way he laughed at a joke but looked away quickly when Shinyu’s attention shifted to Sungho.

And Sungho understood.

He had been there.
He had done that.

Watched someone he cared about look at someone else the way he wished they’d look at him.

Dohoon reminded him too much of himself.

And even though he felt guilty—

There was still a selfish part of him that wanted to hold onto this.

Because for once, someone was looking at him like that.

And for once, he didn’t feel like he had to beg for it.

---

Taesan wasn’t stupid.

He knew people were starting to notice.

It wasn’t like before—when he could ignore the bond, ignore the constant pull toward Sungho, ignore whatever it was that gnawed at his chest every time he looked at him.

Now? He couldn’t ignore anything.

Because Shinyu was everywhere.

It was in the way Shinyu casually draped an arm around Sungho’s shoulders during breaks, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

It was in the way Sungho leaned into it without hesitation.

It was in the way Sungho laughed at something Shinyu said, head tilted back, voice unguarded—a laugh Taesan hadn’t heard from him in a long time.

And Taesan?

Taesan stiffened every damn time.

His fingers curled into fists.
His jaw locked.
His body tensed involuntarily.

He forced himself to look away—but not before that flicker of annoyance, frustration, something, flashed across his face.

He didn’t like this.

He didn’t like any of this.

But it was fine.

It had to be fine.

Because this was good, right?

Sungho had someone.
Someone who actually wanted him.
Someone who was willing to admit it.

Taesan should be relieved. Happy, even.

But he wasn’t.

And that pissed him off even more.

Why did it bother him so much?

At first, he blamed the bond.

Yes—that had to be it.

That stupid, unfair thing tying them together. Of course it would make him feel possessive. Of course it would make him resent seeing Sungho with someone else.

Because the bond made it seem like Sungho belonged to him.

Except…

Neither of them ever accepted it.
Neither of them ever acknowledged it.

So it shouldn’t matter.

And yet, it did.

Taesan didn’t want to ignore Sungho.

He didn’t want to pretend he didn’t exist.

But he also knew—if he stayed around him for more than five minutes, he might say or do something he would regret.

He saw it.

That flicker of hurt in Sungho’s expression when he rejected him at the recording studio.

The way his eyes dimmed, just for a second, before he masked it with indifference.

And Taesan hated that.

He hated that he was the one causing it always.

He hated that he felt guilty for it.

He hated that he didn’t know why.

It wasn’t just him anymore.

The others had started noticing too.

And Leehan—being the closest to Taesan—was the first to call him out.

They were resting between rehearsals, the members scattered around the practice room, stretching or gulping down water.

Taesan was sitting near the mirrors, scrolling through his phone, pretending he wasn’t aware of what was happening across the room.

Sungho and Shinyu. Laughing about something. Too close again.

Taesan clicked his tongue, forcing himself to look at his phone instead.

Leehan dropped down next to him, casually sipping from his water bottle.

Then, after a beat—

"Taesan, do you have a problem with Sungho and Shinyu?"

Taesan didn’t even blink.

"Why would I?" His voice was flat, uninterested.

Leehan raised an eyebrow. "Because you look like you want to kill someone every time they’re together."

Taesan exhaled sharply through his nose, leaning his head back against the mirror.

"You’re imagining things."

Leehan smirked, shaking his head. "Sure."

Then he stood up, stretching his arms over his head.

But before walking away, he threw out one last remark—

"Just be careful. You’re being too obvious. Don’t explode one of these days."

Taesan didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

Because deep down—

He knew.

He was already at his breaking point.

---

The practice room was filled with the low hum of conversation, the steady rhythm of exhaustion settling into their bones after hours of relentless training.

Jaehyun and Woonhak were sprawled across the sofa, bickering about something ridiculous, their laughter breaking the quiet.

Riwoo was showing something on his phone to Leehan, both of them muttering in amusement as they scrolled.

And just a little distance from them, Sungho sat on the floor, his phone in his hands, fingers moving quickly as he typed.

Taesan barely spared him a glance.

He was too exhausted, too drenched in sweat, his damp hair sticking to his forehead as he leaned back against the sofa, arms spread out, his whole body melting into the cushions.

The routine had been brutal. He should be resting.

But then—

A knock on the practice room door.

The room barely reacted as it cracked open slightly, and a familiar head popped in.

Shinyu.

“Hey, am I interrupting?” His voice was casual, friendly, too at ease for someone stepping into another group’s space.

Taesan wanted to tell him yes.

That he was absolutely interrupting.

But before he could even process the irritation bubbling up in his chest, Sungho was already standing up.

“No, we’re on break. It’s fine.” His voice was light, almost eager.

The other members greeted Shinyu politely but without much interest, already used to his presence. They knew why he was here.

This had become a regular occurrence.

Shinyu lurking in their practice room.
Sungho leaving to meet him.

Even TWS members had stopped finding it odd that Sungho, Jaehyun, and Woonhak visited their practice room just as often.

It was normal now.

But that didn’t mean Taesan had to like it.

Taesan bit back his sigh as he pushed himself off the sofa, moving to the other side of the room.

As far away from them as possible.

But even there, his eyes followed their movements.

He told himself it wasn’t intentional.

But every time Shinyu leaned in close to whisper something to Sungho —every time Sungho laughed at something Shinyu said— Taesan felt it.

That sharp, unreasonable annoyance, like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

He wasn’t even sure why.

He was tired.

And yet, his exhaustion had been completely replaced by frustration.

Shinyu and Sungho were sitting close now.

Too close.

Sungho was leaning in slightly, listening to something Shinyu was saying, his eyes flickering with interest.

There was a beat. A moment that was too quiet.

Taesan watched them like a hawk.

Then, Shinyu turned to Sungho, smiling.

“You free later? I was thinking we could check out that new arcade.”

Sungho hesitated for a second, caught off guard.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

“Yeah. Sounds fun.”

And that was it.

Before he could even process the anger tightening in his chest, Taesan pushed himself up from his seat.

His voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

“Maybe if you actually focused on practice instead of following your boyfriend around, you wouldn’t be slacking off.”

The room froze.

Every single member stopped moving.

Jaehyun’s smile dropped instantly.

Leehan and Riwoo, who had been staring at the phone, slowly looked up in shock.

Sungho’s head snapped toward Taesan, his eyes wide with disbelief.

And Shinyu’s expression shifted instantly—his jaw tightening, his eyes darkening.

“Excuse me?” Shinyu’s voice was calm but laced with warning.

Taesan didn’t even spare him a glance.

His glare was locked on Sungho.

“You’ve been distracted. Too busy playing around with your new friend. Maybe you should remember why you’re here in the first place.”

Sungho felt something crack inside him.

He was used to Taesan’s coldness.

But this? This was something else.

“What’s your problem?” Sungho snapped, standing up now too.

Taesan let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head.

“My problem?” His voice was sharp, bitter.

Then, without hesitation, the words slipped out.

“My problem is that you’re bonded to me, but you’re acting like you’re free to do whatever you want.”

The Room Stops Moving

There was a gasp—Sungho wasn’t even sure who it came from.

But it didn’t matter.

Because at that moment—

It felt like all the air had been knocked out of his lungs.

Sungho was hurt, but more than that—he was in disbelief.

He wasn’t the only one.

The other members were still frozen in shock.

Taesan had never said it out loud before. Never acknowledged the bond in front of others.

But now—he had just thrown it out there like it was casual, like it was obvious, like it didn’t mean anything.

And then he made it worse.

Shinyu furrowed his brows.

“What bond?”

Taesan let out a short, bitter laugh at the question.

Half amused.
Half angry.
And filled with something else, too.

He still wasn’t looking at Shinyu. Like he wasn’t even worth answering.

Then, he turned back to Sungho, voice cutting.

“So he doesn’t know?”

His lips curled in something like amusement, but it was laced with something cruel.

“You haven’t told him yet that you’re bonded to me? That you belong to me?”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a statement.

A cold, mocking truth.

Taesan clicked his tongue, shaking his head.

“How long were you planning to keep it from him while you played him, huh?”

---

Sungho’s chest tightened painfully.

The bond pulsed, an ache deep in his veins.

He felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Taesan’s words— the way he said them, the way he threw them at him now, of all times— felt like a punch to the gut.

And he could see it—the shock in the other members' faces.

Because this wasn’t just about the bond anymore.

This wasn’t Taesan’s usual coldness.

Even when he had ignored Sungho, even when he had kept his distance—

He had never been cruel.

But now?

Now he was tearing him down in front of everyone.

And Sungho couldn’t understand why.

Why now?

Why like this?

This was what he had wanted.

For a year.

For so long, he had waited for Taesan to acknowledge it.

To acknowledge him.

But now?

It felt meaningless.

It didn’t sound like care.
It didn’t sound like anything real.

It sounded like a claim.

Like something Taesan only cared about now that Sungho was finally pulling away.

And that?

That was what hurt the most.

---

Sungho let out a sharp breath, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

He knew he was tearing up, knew his vision was blurring at the edges, but he refused to let himself break.

Not here.
Not now.
Not in front of Taesan.

But he needed to speak.

“You—” His voice wavered, but he forced himself to stay steady.

He stepped forward, closing the distance, his gaze locked onto Taesan like a blade.

“You don’t get to say that.” His words trembled but didn’t falter.

“Not after everything.”

For the first time that night—Taesan flinched.

It was quick, barely noticeable, but Sungho saw it.

He saw the way Taesan’s fingers twitched at his sides.

The way his lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something—anything.

But then Taesan recovered, his face smoothing into something cold.

“I’m just stating facts.”

His voice was sharp, unyielding.

“You’re bonded to me. And you’re acting like—”

Something inside Sungho completely snapped.

His hands clenched at his sides.

His throat felt tight, suffocating, like the weight of the past year was pressing down on him all at once.

He felt like hitting him.
Like crying all over him.

He wasn’t even sure anymore.

And that frustration, that pain, boiled over.

“Like what, Taesan?”

His voice rose, emotion overflowing, chest heaving as he stepped even closer.

“Like someone who finally stopped waiting for you to give a damn?”

Taesan staggered back slightly.

His mouth opened—but Sungho didn’t let him speak.

He wasn’t done.

He couldn’t stop.

“Do you even realize what you’re saying?”

His voice was louder now, raw and breaking.

“You ignored me for a year!”

“You treated me like a stranger while I—”

While I loved you.

The words almost spilled out.

But he stopped himself.

Because he couldn’t afford to say them.

His body felt too hot, too tight, too much.

---

He turned away, voice lower now.

“Forget it. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

And yet—

Even when he was at his breaking point,

Even when he felt like he might fall apart completely,

There was still a part of him—the stupid, naive part—that wished Taesan would hold him through it.

How pathetic.

How very, very pathetic.

Because even after everything—

His heart was still wishing for the same person who hurt him over and over again.

A presence shifted beside him, grounding him.

Shinyu.

His voice was calm but firm, unshaken.

“You’re way out of line, Taesan.”

A sharp contrast to the mess Sungho felt inside.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but this is not the way to talk.”

Taesan’s head snapped toward him.

And for the first time that night, he truly looked at Shinyu.

His eyes were burning with something unreadable.

"Exactly."

His voice was low, dangerous.

"You don't know what's happening."

He took a step forward, chest tightening, teeth clenched.

"So stay out of it."

And then, even sharper—

"This is our business, and we will sort it out."

"So kindly get lost."

The tension spiked to a dangerous level.

Shinyu’s jaw tightened, his stance unmoving.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

His voice was calm but firm.

“Not unless Sungho tells me to.”

Taesan’s fingers twitched.

His frustration, his anger—everything inside him—had reached a boiling point.

And Shinyu?

He was standing right in front of him, challenging him.

Neck to neck.

One more push— one more word, one more second— and one of them would have thrown the first punch.

But before that could happen—

Jaehyun moved first, stepping between them, gripping Shinyu’s arm.

Leehan did the same, grabbing Taesan and pulling him back.

“Enough.” Jaehyun’s voice was stern.

Leehan’s was softer, but just as firm.

“Taesan. Calm. Down.”

Taesan yanked himself out of Leehan’s grip, breathing heavily.

Sungho?

He just stood there.

Watching.

Feeling so, so lost.

He didn’t even know what was happening anymore.

---

Sungho was done waiting.

For the first time—Taesan was the one being left behind.

Sungho pushed past him, heading toward the door.

But Taesan was quick.

Before he could walk out, fingers closed around his wrist.

“Where are you going?”

Taesan’s voice wasn’t angry anymore.

It was something else.

Something almost desperate.

Sungho paused at the doorway.

He didn’t look back.

He just glared down at Taesan’s hand—before jerking his wrist away.

His voice was cold.

“Anywhere but here.”

And then, he was gone.

The tension in the air still crackled.

The members were still in shock.

Still processing.

Shinyu lingered for a second.

And then, he turned—giving Taesan one last look.

Not just disappointment.

Something more.

Something like pity.

Then, without another word, he left, following after Sungho.

And Taesan?

He just stood there, fists clenched, heart pounding, mind racing.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t even know how he was feeling.

His insides felt like they were crumbling.

And the realization hit him like a truck.

He had hurt Sungho.

Deeply.

Maybe beyond repair.

And just the thought of that?

It terrified him.

This wasn’t him.

He didn’t even understand what happened to him.

As the members left one by one—

Some disappointed.
Some too stunned to speak.
Some telling him to cool his mind.

He didn’t say a single word back.

And when they were all gone—

When he was finally alone—

Taesan let himself sink onto the floor.

His face fell into his hands.

Then, into his hair, gripping, pulling in frustration.

His mind was a mess.

His heart was worse.

He was afraid he had finally ruined everything.

Chapter Text

Sungho sprinted out of the practice room, barely aware of the way his breath hitched or how his vision blurred at the edges.

He didn’t know where he was going—he just needed to get out.

Away from Taesan.
Away from those words.
Away from the way his heart ached despite everything.

The moment he reached the open terrace garden area, he collapsed onto a chair with a thud.

His chest rose and fell unevenly, as if his body had forgotten how to breathe properly.

The night air was cool, but it did nothing to ease the heat rising in his chest.

He gritted his teeth, digging his nails into his palms.

He could feel it—the burn behind his eyes, the overwhelming pressure in his chest.

He wouldn’t cry.

Not here.
Not now.
Not because of Taesan.

---

Footsteps approached, but Sungho didn’t move.

Shinyu.

He didn’t say anything at first.

He just sat down beside him, close enough to be grounding but not overwhelming.

Then, after a beat—

A cold drink was pressed into Sungho’s hands.

“You don’t have to talk.”

Shinyu’s voice was low, steady.

“Let’s just… sit here.”

Sungho swallowed thickly.

He appreciated it.

But at the same time—

His mind was a mess.

He couldn’t even trust himself to reply because if he said even a single word,

He would break.

So he stayed silent.

Clutching the drink.

Feeling the weight of everything crash down on him all at once.

“You’re bonded to me, but you’re acting like you’re free to do whatever you want.”

It played over and over in his head, looping like a cruel song he couldn’t turn off.

Sungho gritted his teeth.

He should be furious.
He should be done.

But instead—

There was just this ache.

This deep, unbearable ache.

Because deep down—

There was still a part of him that wanted to know—

Did it mean something to Taesan?

Was it just anger?

Or was there something more?

Sungho let out a shaky breath, his fingers tightening around the can in his hands.

He was so hopeless.

So pathetic.

And it was his own fault.

No one else’s.

Because he let Taesan treat him like this.

He let himself love him.

He let himself wait.

And wait.

And wait.

---

Sungho tilted his head back, closing his eyes.

Why couldn’t he love someone like Shinyu?

Someone who was kind. Thoughtful. Gentle.

Shinyu said all the right things.
Shinyu made him feel wanted.
Shinyu treated him like he was worth something.

He was everything Sungho needed.

Sensible. Incredible.

Shinyu was the type of person who opened doors for him, remembered the little things, made him feel comfortable.

And yet—

Sungho’s chest still ached for something else.

For something frustrating and intoxicating.

For something that made him feel alive.

Sungho let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh.

Because the truth was—

Shinyu could be everything he needed, but he wasn’t what he wanted.

And wasn’t that just the cruelest joke?

---

Shinyu must have sensed something because he finally spoke again.

“Are you okay?”

Sungho forced himself to look up and keep the neutral face.

It felt wrong.

Like something fake and fragile.

But he nodded anyway.

“Yeah.”

And maybe if he lied enough, he’d start to believe it.

---

The dorm was suffocatingly quiet.

Too quiet.

Even Woonhak—usually the loudest of them all—hadn’t spoken since they returned.

It was a stark contrast to how their nights usually were. No laughter, no teasing, no lighthearted bickering.

Just heavy silence.

The only person missing was Sungho.

No one knew where he was, but maybe that was for the best.

Maybe Sungho needed space to breathe.
Space away from all of this.

And maybe, just maybe, Taesan wished he had that too.

Taesan stepped into the living room, and immediately—

All eyes were on him.

Jaehyun. Standing with his arms crossed, his usual warmth replaced with something colder.

Leehan. Seated, arms folded, jaw tight.

Riwoo. Leaning back against the couch, face unreadable, but his eyes sharp.

Woonhak. Visibly uncomfortable, fidgeting with his hands.

None of them spoke at first.

But the disappointment in their expressions was deafening.

Taesan sighed, already exhausted.

“If you’re all gonna lecture me, just get it over with.”

Jaehyun let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Oh, yeah? So you knew what you did was wrong. Good. Great start.”

“What the hell was that, Taesan?”

Taesan hesitated.

He didn’t know how to answer that.

So instead—he went for the easiest response.

“I don’t know.”

The room froze for a second.

Then—

“You don’t know? Don’t play dumb with us.”

Leehan’s voice was sharper than usual.

Even Woonhak— who never got involved in things like this—shifted uncomfortably, but didn’t speak.

Jaehyun’s gaze hardened.

“You really crossed the line today.”

Riwoo, who was usually neutral, let out a short laugh.

“You finally admit the bond in front of someone, and this is how you do it? By making it sound like a leash instead of a connection?”

Taesan clenched his jaw.

“It wasn’t like that.”

Leehan scoffed.

“It was exactly like that.”

Jaehyun took a step forward.

His voice wasn’t as sharp as before.

But it was firm. Unwavering.

“You’ve ignored the bond for a year, treated Sungho like he was nothing—”

He let the words settle.

“And the second he tries to move on, you act like he’s doing something wrong?”

Taesan opened his mouth—

But nothing came out.

Because what could he even say?

That he didn’t mean it that way?
That he wasn’t thinking?
That he doesn’t even understand why he said what he did?

Because he doesn’t.

And that terrifies him.

Jaehyun let out a long breath, shaking his head.

His tone softened, but the weight in his words remained.

“You should’ve just let him go, Taesan.”

A pause.

“Instead, you broke him in front of everyone.”

That sentence.

That sentence hit the hardest.

Taesan’s fingers curled into fists.

His heart thumped painfully in his chest.

Because for the first time since this whole mess started—

He realized just how much damage he had done.

---

No one pushed further.

Because they didn’t need to.

Taesan was already drowning in his own thoughts.

One by one, the members left the living room.

Leehan didn’t spare him another glance.

Riwoo gave him one last unreadable look before walking away.

Woonhak hesitated, looking like he wanted to say something—but then left without a word.

Jaehyun was the last to stay behind.

For a while, he didn’t say anything.

Then, after a long silence, he sat down beside Taesan.

Neither of them spoke.

The dorm was too quiet.

Finally—Jaehyun let out a sigh, putting a hand on Taesan’s shoulder.

His voice was lower, calmer.

“Think about it, Taesan. With a clear mind.”

And then, Jaehyun finally left too.

Leaving Taesan alone—

With nothing but his thoughts and regret.

---

The silence between them stretched long and heavy, only interrupted by the faint rustling of the trees and the distant hum of the city beyond the terrace garden.

Sungho had finally calmed down.

His breathing was steadier.
His hands no longer trembled.
His eyes were dry, though they still felt heavy.

The storm inside him hadn’t passed, but at least now it wasn’t swallowing him whole.

And then—

Shinyu finally spoke.

“So… that bond thing. It’s real, huh?”

Sungho’s body tensed immediately.

Then, after a long moment, he gave a small, stiff nod.

“Yeah.”

Shinyu studied him for a beat before asking,

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sungho exhaled slowly, his voice hollow when he answered.

“Because it doesn’t matter.”

Shinyu tilted his head slightly, as if trying to figure out if Sungho actually believed that.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he said,

“Doesn’t seem like it doesn’t matter.”

Sungho let out a short, bitter laugh.

“It only matters when Taesan decides it does.”

That was the truth of it, wasn’t it?

The bond never mattered until Taesan wanted it to.

And when he didn’t?

Sungho was left waiting in the shadows, pretending it didn’t hurt.

Shinyu hesitated.

Like he wanted to say something more, like he was choosing his words carefully.

“Do you still… want him?”

It sounded like he was going to say something else.

Like there was more he wanted to ask—but he didn’t.

Sungho’s grip on the drink in his hand tightened.

He didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know.

Or maybe he did—and he didn’t want to admit it.

He had always wanted Taesan.

That was the whole problem, wasn’t it?

But now—after everything—

Was that still true?

Could he still say it out loud?

Instead of answering, he just sighed, leaning back against the bench.

“Can we just… not talk about this right now?”

Shinyu held his gaze for a second before nodding.

“Alright. We won’t.”

A small smile tugged at his lips, though there was something gentle in his expression.

“Let’s do something else.”

Sungho raised a brow.

“Like what?”

Shinyu’s grin widened.

“Like taking your mind off things. C’mon, let’s go somewhere.”

Sungho hesitated.

He didn’t feel like going anywhere.

But…

He didn’t want to stay in his own head either.

So, after a moment—

He nodded.

Because right now, he didn’t want to think about Taesan anymore.

---

The bar was chic and elegant, the kind of place that looked like it belonged in a movie.

It wasn’t the type of bar Sungho had ever been to—it felt more like a five-star restaurant than a place to get drunk.

But Shinyu dragged him inside anyway, grinning like this was the best idea ever.

“Since you wanted to drink, this is the best place,” Shinyu declared as they slid into a booth.

Sungho huffed, shaking his head.

“You have expensive taste.”

“I like good things,” Shinyu said easily, throwing him a wink.

They ordered drinks, and while Shinyu kept the conversation light, Sungho mostly just nodded or shook his head in response.

Shinyu didn’t push.

He just… kept being there.

Kept talking. Kept smiling. Kept making sure Sungho didn’t feel alone.

And Sungho—

Felt guilty.

Because Shinyu was too nice.

And Taesan was right about one thing.

Sungho was leading Shinyu on.

He was letting him hold on to something that wasn’t real, knowing perfectly well he couldn’t give him what he wanted.

And considering there was someone out there who would love and cherish Shinyu more than he ever could…

He didn’t want to hold him back.

But he didn’t think he could say any of this sober.

So he kept drinking.

And after a while—

He was more than just a little tipsy.

---

Getting back outside was a challenge.

Shinyu had to steady him more than once, and Sungho tripped over absolutely nothing at least twice.

“Alright, lightweight, let’s sit for a bit,” Shinyu said, guiding him toward a quiet spot by the Han River.

They sat on a bench, the city lights reflecting on the water.

It was peaceful.

Quiet.

Sungho leaned against Shinyu’s shoulder, his body feeling too warm, too heavy.

Shinyu’s arm wrapped around him, holding him steady.

And that’s when Sungho whispered it.

“I wish it was you.”

His voice was soft. A little slurred.

Shinyu froze.

Sungho closed his eyes, letting the words spill out.

“Why couldn’t it be you?”

There was a pause.

A long one.

Then, Shinyu finally spoke.

“Sungho…”

Sungho hiccupped, his fingers gripping onto Shinyu’s sleeve.

“You’re so nice. So sweet. You say everything I need to hear. And when I’m with you, I don’t feel alone.”

Shinyu’s hold on him tightened slightly.

Sungho let out a small, breathy laugh.

“It should be enough, right? You’re enough. More than enough. But—”

His voice cracked.

He swallowed hard.

“It doesn’t feel the same.”

The confession hung between them.

Shinyu exhaled slowly, but his voice remained gentle.

“Maybe you just haven’t given me a chance yet.”

Sungho tilted his head up, blinking at him.

Shinyu smiled, but there was something sad in his eyes.

Something knowing.

“Maybe if you did, you’d realize I could make you happy too.”

Sungho felt his chest tighten.

Because he wanted to believe that.

He really, really did.

But his heart had never been his to give.

And Shinyu knew it too.

Still—

Shinyu didn’t let him go.

Not tonight.

Tonight, he just held onto him, letting Sungho rest against him.

Because even if he couldn’t have his heart—

He could still be the person Sungho needed right now.

And that, for now, was enough.

---

The dorm was silent. Still. Like the whole world had stopped moving—except for Taesan.

He was lying in bed, staring at his ceiling, completely awake.

His phone screen glowed in the dark.

A single text thread— his conversation with Sungho. Or rather, the lack of one. He had sent seven—no, eight messages.

Where are you?

Are you coming back soon?

Do you want me to pick you up?

Sungho, answer me.

All unread.

Taesan let out a slow breath, rubbing his hand over his face.

A year ago, they used to talk every day.A year ago, he would’ve known exactly where Sungho was.

And now—

He had no idea.

---

It was past midnight. The other members were asleep in their rooms.

But Taesan?

He was still awake. Still restless. Still pacing.

His legs carried him from the living room to the kitchen, to the hallway, then back again.

He thought about calling. But what would he even say? So instead—he just waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Then, the Door Opened.

Taesan froze. The handle turned, the door swinging open, and there he was.

Sungho.

Or more accurately—Sungho being half-carried into the dorm.

By Shinyu.

Sungho looked out of it. His steps were sluggish, his smile lazy, his eyes unfocused. He was tipsy. Maybe more than tipsy.

And Shinyu—

Shinyu had a firm grip on him, steadying him, supporting him. Sungho giggled softly, leaning into Shinyu’s side.

“You okay?” Shinyu asked, his voice gentle.

Sungho nodded, slurring slightly.

“M’fine. Just a little dizzy.”

Taesan’s jaw locked. His fingers dug into his palms. And the worst part?

Sungho and Shinyu didn’t even notice him at first.

Not until Shinyu’s gaze lifted—

And their eyes met.

Something shifted.

Shinyu, calm and composed, smirked. Not in a mocking way. But in a way that said—

I know exactly what you’re feeling.

And that?

That pissed Taesan off.

“What are you doing?”

Taesan’s voice was sharp. Sungho finally noticed him. His expression flickered—anger? No. Not exactly. More like… cute drunk irritation.

“What does it look like?” Sungho said, throwing an arm around Shinyu.

“I went out. Had a drink. Had fun.”

Taesan’s whole body tensed.

He wanted to rip Sungho away from Shinyu.

He wanted to push Shinyu out of the dorm and lock the door.

But he had already done enough damage today. So he swallowed it down.

“With him?” Taesan asked, his eyes flicking pointedly to Shinyu.

Sungho glared.

“Yes, with him. Because he actually gives a damn about me.”

Taesan flinched.

Before he could say something, Shinyu shifted slightly, placing a protective hand on Sungho’s back.

“Relax, Taesan. He’s fine. I made sure of it.”

Taesan let out a humorless laugh.

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Shinyu’s smirk didn’t waver.

“If by ‘this,’ you mean taking care of someone you never appreciated? Then yeah, I am.”

Taesan saw red. He stepped forward, blood boiling.

“You don’t know anything about us.”

Shinyu didn’t even blink.

“Oh, I know enough.”

Sungho suddenly swayed between them, looking half-asleep.

“Don’t fight,” he mumbled, voice slurred.

Shinyu chuckled.

“We’re not fighting.”

Taesan didn’t think he had ever hated someone more. Then, Shinyu turned to him. Smirked again. And said—

“He’s all yours now.”

Taesan didn’t respond. He just watched as Shinyu handed Sungho over.

Before leaving, Shinyu paused.

“Take care of him.”

A beat. Then—

“Or I could do better. You know that.”

And with that—he was gone.

Taesan barely had time to glare at the door before Sungho grabbed onto his sleeve. His fingers were clumsy, his grip loose.

He looked up, glass-eyed and unfocused.

“You’re so mean.”

Taesan blinked.

“What?”

Sungho swayed forward slightly.

“You hurt me today.”

Taesan stiffened.

Sungho let out a soft hiccup.

“And not just today. A lot of days. Too many days.”

Taesan felt something twist painfully in his chest. He instinctively steadied Sungho, guiding him toward his room.

Sungho stumbled onto his bed, pulling Taesan down with him.

Before Taesan could move away—

Sungho held onto him. Made him sit there.

“Why did you do that to me?”

Sungho’s voice was small. Vulnerable.

Taesan had no answer. But God—he wanted to apologize. He wanted to fix everything.

Instead, he hesitated—then grabbed Sungho’s hand. His voice was barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry. I really am.”

Sungho let out a small, hiccupping laugh.

“How many things are you sorry for?”

A pause.

“I should hate you. But I don’t. Isn’t that dumb?”

Then, without warning—

Sungho leaned forward. Rested his forehead against Taesan’s shoulder.

Taesan froze.

His heartbeat was too loud.

“You smell nice,” Sungho mumbled.

Then, he nuzzled in closer.

Taesan swallowed hard. He wasn’t the kind of person who did things like this. He wasn’t the type to hold people close. But this?

This, he realized—

He liked.

So, without thinking, he lowered his arms. And held Sungho closer.

Taesan guided Sungho gently, tucking him into bed.

Just as he pulled away—

Sungho reached out. Gripped Taesan’s wrist. His voice was barely above a whisper

“Don’t ignore me tomorrow, okay?”

Taesan felt something in his chest crack wide open. He nodded slightly, his hand instinctively running through Sungho’s hair.

“I won't.”

Sungho’s eyes fluttered closed.

And for the longest time—

Taesan just sat there. Watching him.

And this time—

He was the one being left behind.

Chapter Text

Sungho woke up to pain.

A throbbing headache pounded against his skull, the world feeling too bright, too loud, too much.

He groaned, burying his face into his pillow, his body heavy with exhaustion.

His mouth was dry, his limbs sluggish, and the lingering haze of alcohol clung to him like a bad memory.

Then—

A worse realization hit.

The Memories Come Crashing In

Sungho squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to push it away. But the memories didn’t listen.

The bar.

The drinks.

Shinyu’s warm, steady presence beside him.

The quiet, peaceful hum of the Han River.

His own voice, slurred but painfully clear.

"I wish it was you. Why couldn’t it be you?"

His ears turned red.

Oh, God.

Why did he have to get so drunk???

Why did he say that???

A wave of secondhand embarrassment crashed over him.

Sungho groaned loudly, flipping onto his stomach, shoving his face into his pillow.

"I hate myself."

He thought that was bad enough.

Until—

More memories rushed in.

Not just the bar.
Not just Shinyu.

But Taesan.

His stomach twisted painfully.

His own voice echoed in his mind.

"You hurt me today. And not just today. A lot of days. Too many days."

"I should hate you, but I don’t."

Sungho’s entire body tensed.

God.

He had actually said those things to Taesan.

Out loud.

To his face.

He wanted to die.

But that wasn’t even the worst part.

Because as much as his brain begged him to forget—

He remembered.

Taesan’s hands on him.

The way he had steadied him, held him.

The careful way he tucked him into bed.

The way Taesan had smelled—warm, familiar, safe.

Sungho’s fingers curled into his sheets.

He hated himself.

Hated that he was craving it again.

Hated that even now, after everything, his heart still reached for Taesan like a fool.

His chest felt too tight.

His thoughts spiraled, one after another.

Why did I have to drink so much?

Why did I have to say those things?

Why did I have to ask him not to ignore me?

A new wave of embarrassment hit.

“Don’t ignore me tomorrow, okay?”

How pathetic had he looked?

Sungho grabbed his pillow—and punched it.

Once. Twice. Three times.

“Stupid. Stupid.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

He was supposed to be moving on.

So why did it feel like his heart was still tangled with Taesan?

---

Sungho exhaled shakily, staring at the ceiling.

He needed to get up.

Needed to pull himself together.

But he stayed there, trapped in the aftermath of his own emotions. Because no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise—

One thing was painfully clear.

He hadn’t let go at all.

And worse?

He wasn’t sure if he ever could.

---

As Sungho stepped into the dining area, the scent of buttered toast and freshly brewed tea filled the space.

The rest of the members were already seated, casually eating their breakfast, the clinking of utensils against plates the only real sound breaking the quiet.

It was a normal morning, or at least that’s how it was being played.

The dorm wasn’t suffocatingly tense, no one was tiptoeing around the events of the previous night—but it wasn’t entirely easy either.

Jaehyun sat at the head of the table, stirring his coffee absentmindedly, pretending to listen as Woonhak animatedly described the convoluted plot of a drama he had read about online.

His hands flailed with every exaggerated detail, his enthusiasm barely contained as he complained about the main character's terrible decisions.

“So then the lead finds out that his best friend was actually his long-lost twin brother, but the twist is—get this—he still marries his twin’s ex-girlfriend,” Woonhak said, eyes wide with disbelief as he shoveled a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

Jaehyun, ever the dramatic one, gasped, slamming his palm onto the table in mock outrage.

“Absolutely disgusting. The betrayal. The audacity.”

He took a slow sip of his coffee, shaking his head. “And they aired this on national television?”

Riwoo, sitting across from them, barely glanced up from his phone as he reached for a piece of toast, casually adding, “Sounds like something Woonhak would write in his diary.”

Leehan chuckled under his breath at that.

Woonhak choked on his food, dramatically clutching his chest. "Excuse me? Do I look like I have time to write a diary?"

The banter was natural, easy, a clear decision by the group to not address what they were all thinking.

The room wasn’t cold, but there was an unspoken agreement not to poke at the tension still lingering beneath the surface.

Sungho hesitated in the doorway for a fraction of a second before stepping inside, willing himself to act as normal as the rest of them.

He could feel their eyes flicking toward him momentarily before they all returned to their food, keeping the peace.

He was grateful for it.

Then—his gaze landed on Taesan.

Unlike the others, Taesan wasn’t engaging in conversation, though his presence at the table wasn’t particularly stiff either.

He sat with his usual ease, scrolling through his phone lazily while occasionally reaching for his drink, his posture relaxed as if nothing had changed.

But Sungho noticed.

He noticed that for the first time in a long time, Taesan wasn’t ignoring him.

He wasn’t avoiding looking in Sungho’s direction, wasn’t treating him like he didn’t exist.

It was subtle, something no one else would notice unless they knew their history, but for Sungho, it was like stepping into a room where the air had shifted just enough to feel different.

He took his usual seat at the table, carefully avoiding looking at Taesan as he reached for a glass of water.

Before he could, however, a plate was placed in front of him—a simple serving of eggs and toast.

Without a word, a cup of warm tea was slid next to it.

Sungho blinked at the sight, his fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the table. He hadn’t reached for anything yet.

He hadn’t even spoken.

The others saw it too.

Jaehyun glanced between them briefly but didn’t say anything.

Leehan, stirring his coffee, didn’t even try to hide his knowing smirk before casually sipping his drink.

Sungho let out a soft breath, barely audible, before murmuring, “Thanks.”

Taesan didn’t respond. He simply nodded and continued scrolling through his phone.

Taesan didn’t initiate anything else, and Sungho didn’t either.

Their usual dynamic—where Taesan was cold and distant while Sungho lingered, searching for even the smallest acknowledgment—was suddenly reversed.

Now, Sungho was the one avoiding.

They didn’t speak to each other at all, their silence stretching between them, noticeable but not questioned.

Jaehyun, ever the observant one, caught Sungho’s eye from across the table.

He didn’t say anything, but his gaze held a quiet question.

Are you okay?

Sungho forced a small, barely-there smile.

I’m fine.

He had to be.

---

The echo of sneakers squeaking against polished studio floors filled the practice room, the sharp thud of bass rattling the mirrored walls.

The group had arrived at the company over an hour ago, and practice had started on time. But nothing about the energy in the room felt right.

They were working through one of their more intricate routines, the kind that demanded tight formations and seamless transitions, but it wasn’t coming together. Taesan, usually the embodiment of precision, was lagging on steps he could do in his sleep.

His timing was off, his spins too slow, footwork too sharp in all the wrong places. He looked composed from the outside, but his rhythm was jagged, disconnected.

Across from him, Sungho wasn’t doing much better. His lines were messy, arms too stiff, movements delayed like his body wasn’t fully awake. He was trying—anyone could see that—but he wasn’t there. His expression was focused, but it was the kind of focus that came from force, not instinct.

Jaehyun, standing at the front with arms crossed, let it play out for another half minute before snapping.

“Stop.”

The music cut. Silence followed. Everyone turned toward him.

Jaehyun clapped once, loud and sharp, the sound biting through the thick air. “Are you guys okay,” he asked, voice steady but clearly irritated, “or are we just wasting time now?”

Nobody answered.

Taesan wiped sweat off his neck with the back of his hand, eyes downcast. Sungho stared at the floor, his chest rising and falling quickly.

Jaehyun’s gaze moved slowly across the group, but it lingered on the two of them—just long enough for the message to land.

“We don’t have time to play around. Get it together. All of you. Again. From the top.”

No one argued.

The music restarted. The choreography began again.

Sungho straightened his spine, jaw clenched, pushing himself back into position.

He didn’t look at Taesan.
He hadn’t all morning.

His movements were tighter now, but not smoother. Controlled, but robotic.

Taesan nodded once, quiet and unreadable, then stepped into formation. His arms moved through the motions, but his energy felt… distant. Like he was dancing from the outside of his body instead of inside it.

When they paired off for the middle sequence—an intricate mirroring routine that relied heavily on trust and eye contact—the tension became impossible to ignore. They moved like strangers. Where they used to flow, they now hesitated. Where they used to lead and follow intuitively, they now second-guessed.

They didn’t meet each other’s eyes. Not once.

Leehan noticed. His gaze lingered on the two of them as they stumbled slightly out of sync on a spin that used to be effortless. He didn’t say anything, but the crease in his brows deepened.

Riwoo, next to him, caught the same thing. Woonhak seemed unsure whether he should say something or just keep his head down and keep dancing.

It wasn’t just awkward anymore. It was dragging the whole room down.

When the track ended, Jaehyun called for a break, waving them off with a frustrated sigh.

Ten minutes later, Taesan was toweling off his neck in the hallway when he heard footsteps behind him. He didn’t turn. He already knew who it was.

“You want to tell me what’s the problem?” Jaehyun asked, voice calm but pointed.

Taesan’s jaw flexed. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” Jaehyun said, standing beside him now. “Whatever this is between you and Sungho—figure it out. Fast. It’s not just your problem anymore.”

Taesan stayed quiet, but his knuckles whitened slightly around the towel in his hand.

Jaehyun didn’t press harder. He didn’t need to. His next words were simple. “Fix it. Do what you need to do. Just don’t let it keep messing with the team.”

He started to walk off, then paused, glancing over his shoulder with a final line that wasn’t spoken like a leader—but like a friend who knew exactly what had gone unsaid.

“You know this is on you, right?”

Taesan didn’t reply.

He didn’t need to.

He already knew.

---

The company lounge was dimly lit, mostly quiet except for the low hum of the vending machine in the corner. Sungho sat curled into one end of the couch, phone in hand, thumb slowly scrolling but not actually absorbing anything on the screen.

His mind wasn’t there—it hadn’t been all day.

Practice had ended an hour ago, but his heart was still heavy with the weight of the previous night. No matter how hard he tried to shake it, his thoughts kept returning to Taesan. The way he had looked at him. The gentleness in his touch. The rare openness in his voice.

“You hurt me today. And not just today. A lot of days. Too many days.”
“I should hate you, but I don’t.”

God. Why did he say that?

Sungho leaned his head back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut, jaw clenched. There was a dull ache inside him. A familiar one. It wasn’t just regret. It was something deeper. Something knotted.

He knew he shouldn’t feel guilty—not after everything Taesan had done. Not after being ignored, brushed off, left to deal with months of quiet coldness with no explanation. But still... that version of Taesan he saw last night—it had stirred something. A memory. A longing he thought he'd buried.

That version reminded him of the Taesan he used to crave. The Taesan who’d once looked at him like he mattered. But none of it changed what had happened. The wounds still hurt. And the ones inflicted by people you love? They hurt the most. They carve out pieces you don’t even realize you’re missing until it’s too late.

He didn’t notice he wasn’t alone until someone dropped onto the seat across from him, sliding in easily.

A snap sounded near his face.

“You alive?” Shinyu’s voice was light, teasing.

Sungho blinked, jerking out of his thoughts. He blinked at Shinyu, startled, then let out a tired chuckle. “Barely.”

Shinyu tilted his head, eyeing him with that mix of warmth and mischief he always carried. “You’ve been somewhere else all day.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Sungho put his phone face-down on the table.

Silence hung between them for a second. Shinyu didn’t fill it with jokes or noise. He just watched him for a moment, then asked quietly, “So… what are we doing, exactly?”

Sungho frowned, confused. “Huh?”

“You and me.”

The words hit like a direct shot. Sungho straightened a little. His pulse jumped. “I—Shinyu…”

“I’m not trying to push,” Shinyu said quickly, leaning back. His voice was gentle, but serious. “And I’m not asking for anything right this second. But I do want to know if this is… something. Or if I’m just helping you pass time.”

Sungho looked down at his hands. He wanted to give the right answer, but he didn’t even know what that was. The truth was, he didn’t want to hurt Shinyu. Not him. Not after everything he’d already put up with.

“I like being with you, Shinyu.” His voice was soft. Honest.

A small smile tugged at Shinyu’s lips. “I know you do.” But his eyes—there was something sad in them. “That’s not really an answer, though.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to promise anything,” Shinyu added, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But I need to know there’s a maybe. That I’m not just a stand-in for someone who already hurt you.”

Sungho winced at that.

“I’m not asking you to be ready. I just… I need to know if it’s worth waiting. If it’s me you’re seeing when you look at me. Not him.”

Sungho didn’t speak for a long moment. The words caught in his throat, tangled with guilt, fear, confusion. But when he looked up and saw the quiet pleading in Shinyu’s expression, something inside him softened.

He didn’t have certainty. But he had the desire not to lose this. Whatever it was.

Then, softly—almost like he was afraid of the answer—Shinyu said, “Give me a chance.”

Sungho’s breath caught.

“I’m not asking you to forget him,” Shinyu added, quieter now. “Just… let me try. Let me be something real. Even if it’s slow.”

Sungho didn’t know what went through his head then. Just that something loosened in his chest. And maybe it wasn’t the smartest decision, maybe he’d regret it later—but right now, it felt like the only thing he could do.

He nodded.

Shinyu smiled, eyes softening with something close to relief. And for the first time all day, Sungho felt a moment of quiet.

Not peace. Not yet. But something close.

---

Taesan wasn’t looking for a confrontation. He just wanted to talk.

He’d left the practice room after grabbing a bottle of water, his chest still tight from Jaehyun’s pointed words earlier. Sort it out. The message was clear. And the worst part was, he wasn’t wrong.

He hadn’t meant to drag anyone into this, least of all the group. And yet, here they were—offbeat, off-sync, off everything. Because of him. Because of them.

Taesan sighed and made his way down the hallway, eyes scanning doors, wondering if Sungho had gone back to the van. He didn’t expect to find him in the company lounge.

But he did.

Through the slightly ajar door, he caught a glimpse of Sungho’s profile—head down, phone resting on the table, body curled in like he was trying to disappear into himself.

For a second, Taesan just stood there, the weight in his chest growing heavier.

He took a step forward. Just one. He was going to walk in, maybe sit down, maybe—try.

But before he could, another figure appeared, sliding into the seat across from Sungho with easy familiarity.

Shinyu.

Taesan froze, one foot still hovering above the threshold. He should have walked away then. Should’ve turned around. Should’ve done anything other than what he did next.

But when he heard Sungho’s voice—low, tired, and different—he stayed.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He told himself that. But he didn’t move.

He heard Shinyu’s voice first, something about what are we doing, you and me. And then he heard Sungho’s answer.

“I like being with you, Shinyu."

The words didn’t register right away. Not fully. They just… hung there. Floating. Poisoning.

And then came the final blow:

“Give me a chance.”

It was like the air was sucked out of Taesan’s lungs. He felt something twist inside him—sharp and nauseating.

He stepped back, out of view, heart thudding too loud in his ears.

He didn’t understand why it hurt this much. He didn’t even have the right.

You have no claim on him. You lost that right. You were the one who let him go. Over and over again.

But the logic didn’t help. The pain didn’t care about logic. It just sat there in his chest like a boulder, pressing down harder and harder.

Taesan leaned against the wall just outside the lounge, his jaw tight, fingers curled into fists at his sides.

So that’s it?

Wasn’t that what he wanted? For Sungho to move on? For him to stop looking at Taesan with hope in his eyes? To stop waiting?

And yet...

“I like being with you.”

It shouldn’t sting. It shouldn’t feel like someone had reached inside and torn something out. But it did. And the worst part? He knew it wasn’t the bond. Not this time. This ache—this jealousy crawling beneath his skin, this bitter taste in his mouth, this raw, gutted feeling in his chest—it was all him.

Not some forced connection. Not some lingering tie. Just him.

And he hated it.

He hated the way Shinyu could make Sungho laugh. The way he talked to him like he deserved an answer, like he mattered. The way Sungho didn’t flinch around him, didn’t hesitate.

Taesan used to be that person.

Used to.

But now, all he could do was stand outside the door like some coward, listening to a conversation that wasn’t his, about someone he’d pushed away again and again.

He clenched his jaw, eyes burning, throat tight.

You have no one to blame but yourself.

And yet… he felt like he was losing something. Something vital. Something that had once fit in the spaces between his ribs, in the cracks of his silence, in the beat of his heart.

Something that was never his to lose in the first place.

He stayed there a moment longer, breathing shallowly, letting the ache settle like dust.

Then he turned and walked away. Quiet. Unseen.

Like he never wanted anything to begin with.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight spills into the dorm room in a soft golden hue, but it does nothing to chase away the heaviness lodged in Sungho’s chest.

He blinks himself awake slowly, eyes still heavy with sleep, body sore from rehearsals—but it’s something else that makes him feel off. A tight, restless pull under his skin. A quiet discomfort that’s been building for days now.

He exhales, sitting up in bed. His limbs feel sluggish, the weight of exhaustion lingering longer than it should.

But more than that—there’s a heat simmering low in his stomach. It’s close. His heat. He can already feel it creeping up, the warning signs flaring in his system like quiet alarms.

He groans softly and reaches for the small pill organizer on his nightstand.

The suppressant is still there. He’s been taking it religiously, always had. Ever since he presented as an omega, he never missed a dose.

But the problem with the suppressant was always the same—it dulled everything. Made him foggy. Slowed him down. Lowered his metabolism, his reflexes. And today’s the concert. They’ve trained for weeks. There’s no room for sluggishness, no margin for error.

Still, he pops the pill into his mouth, chasing it down with lukewarm water. He has no choice.

Not with Taesan around.

He can’t risk anything going wrong. Can’t afford to slip, not even once.

As he leans back against the headboard, the thought creeps in—quiet and sharp. I always thought I’d stop needing suppressants once I bonded.

That was the plan, wasn’t it? The dream. To have someone there during heats. Someone to scent him, soothe him. To hold him. To love him.

He chuckles bitterly under his breath. God, I was so naive.

That version of him—the younger, more hopeful version—feels like a stranger now. Someone who used to believe in things like fate and warmth and being chosen.

He pulls his knees up to his chest, resting his forehead there for a beat.

Shinyu’s name flits through his mind next. Sweet, patient Shinyu. The one who’s been there lately, showing up without expectations. Making him feel wanted again.

Sungho is grateful. He likes Shinyu. His presence, his steadiness, the quiet comfort he brings.

But even now, with Shinyu gently pulling him toward something new—he can’t shake the guilt that clings to his ribs like a second skin.

He doesn’t want to hurt him. He really doesn't.

I thought I was doing better.

I thought I was moving on.

But I underestimated how deep Taesan's grip runs.

His mind drifts back to practice yesterday. To the way Taesan kept glancing his way when he thought no one would notice. To how close they were during formations, yet so far emotionally.

Sungho still remembers how they used to move in perfect sync. How natural it once felt to be beside him.

Now it feels like a wound that keeps reopening.

First love is hard to forget, he thinks bitterly. Especially when it never really ended.

His phone lights up with a soft buzz. A text from Shinyu:

Good morning, sleepyhead. Don’t overthink today, okay? You’ll be amazing. Can’t wait to see you shine.

Sungho smiles faintly. The warmth in those words cuts through the fog a little—but the smile doesn’t last.

His thumb hovers over the keyboard for a second before he locks the screen again, setting the phone aside.

His gaze drifts to the framed photo on his nightstand—a candid from a fan meet. All the members squished into a group shot, bright smiles and playful poses.

His eyes, almost instinctively, find Taesan in the back corner. Half-blurred, mid-laugh. Like a ghost burned into the film.

No matter where I look, he thinks, swallowing hard, he’s still there.

He pulls the blanket off, dragging himself out of bed. There's no time to fall apart today. He’s got a concert to perform. A mask to wear.

Even if, deep down, everything still hurts.

---

By the time they reach the company building, the familiar nerves begin to settle in.

It’s concert day.

The energy in the air is different—charged, tense, full of anticipation. But beneath all that, Sungho feels it creeping up again: the heaviness in his limbs, the dull ache behind his eyes, and the sluggish pull of the suppressant weighing down every breath.

Still, he pushes through. They run through choreography, blocking, timing cues.

Sungho gives everything he has, ignoring the pressure mounting behind his temples, ignoring the slight tremble in his legs and the shortness of breath that makes his chest feel tighter with every turn.

His hands shake a little during the slower parts, but he keeps moving, keeps smiling when the staff looks their way.

But Taesan sees it.

He always does.

He notices the way Sungho’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes, how his cheeks are paler than usual, how his movements lack their usual fluidity.

Every detail sharpens into focus—like instinct. Like his body knows something’s wrong even if his mind is still trying to pretend it doesn’t care.

He doesn’t say anything. Just clenches his jaw and watches. What’s going on with you?

When the practice wraps up, the members scatter—some heading to the lounge, others finding a spot to cool down or check their phones.

Taesan hesitates for a moment, hovering near Sungho’s corner, waiting for the right moment to approach.

But he doesn’t get it.

The doors swing open and in walks Shinyu, followed by Jihoon and other members of TWS. Their entrance is loud and casual, full of laughter and good energy. Jihoon claps loudly as he approaches.

“Knock knock,” Jihoon grins, “we come bearing well-wishes and good luck charms.”

“Also, moral support,” Shinyu adds, eyes drifting subtly toward Sungho before catching himself.

Riwoo perks up. “Does moral support come with snacks?”

“Only if you give us the vip passes,” Youngjae smirks.

Leehan rolls his eyes. “You guys just came to steal front row seats, didn’t you?”

“Guilty,” Shinyu grins. “If there’s no backstage pass and VIP view, then what’s the point of being friends with you guys?”

Woonhak claps a hand on Jihoon’s shoulder. “You’re in luck, I’m putting you to work. You’re our water bottle carrier now.”

“Excuse me?” Jihoon laughs.

Sungho, who had been quietly sitting at the side stretching his legs, chuckles softly at the banter.

The room is bright for a moment—lightened by friendly teasing and familiar voices.

Taesan stands off to the side, arms crossed, watching.

Quiet.

Unmoving.

So is Dohoon.

He hasn’t said a word since they entered. He lingers near the edge of the group, eyes flicking often in the direction of Shinyu.

Shinyu, who now walks over and casually drops beside Sungho.

“You look pale,” he says gently, voice low. “Everything okay?”

Sungho lifts his head, startled for a second. Then lets out a dry laugh. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Sure it’s not nerves?” Shinyu teases, bumping his shoulder lightly against Sungho’s.

Sungho lets out a small huff of laughter. “Maybe. But I’m still bette4 than you on stage.”

“Oh, it’s like that now?” Shinyu grins. “Bold words for someone who nearly tripped over their mic stand last rehearsal.”

Sungho snorts, some of the tension in his body loosening at the joke. It’s small, but it’s there. A bit of ease returning to his posture.

Shinyu reaches up without thinking, brushing his fingers through Sungho’s fringe, fixing a stray strand that had gotten stuck to his forehead with sweat. His hand lingers a moment longer than it should. “There. Better.”

Sungho swallows and looks away, murmuring something Taesan can’t hear.

But Taesan is watching.

He’s been watching since the moment Shinyu walked in.

Every interaction.
Every soft smile.
Every inch of closeness.

And now—this. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, jaw tight. He looks away, tells himself it’s nothing, but his mind is spiraling.

Why now?

Why is it still this hard to watch him with someone else?

Why does it feel like he’s slipping further away by the second?

And across the room, Dohoon is feeling the same thing.

His gaze is locked on Shinyu too—on the way he touches Sungho’s hair, the soft expression on his face.

And it hits Dohoon hard. That small detail. That level of care. The way Shinyu looks at someone else the way Dohoon wants him to look at him.

He looks away quickly, staring down at his shoes, shoulders tense.

“Hey.”

Dohoon jumps slightly, turning to find Jaehyun standing beside him, arms folded loosely, brows raised in casual amusement.

“You look like you’re about to burst into flames,” Jaehyun says, nodding toward the other side of the room.

Dohoon stiffens. “What?”

“Relax. Not judging. Just... observing.” Jaehyun flashes a small grin. “It’s written all over your face.”

Dohoon rubs the back of his neck, trying to mask the flush rising to his ears. “I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. And I’m a backup dancer in your group.”

Dohoon actually laughs at that, caught off-guard. The tension eases for a second.

“See,” Jaehyun says, pleased with himself. “That’s better. Look, I don’t know you that well, but I’ve seen enough guys pine after someone without doing a damn thing about it.”

Dohoon sighs. “It’s complicated.”

“It always is. Doesn’t mean you stay quiet forever. Otherwise, someone else beats you to it.”

Dohoon glances back toward Sungho and Shinyu again—his smile faltering.

Jaehyun claps him gently on the shoulder. “Get to know me after the concert, yeah? I’ve got solid advice, bad jokes, and an excellent track record of calling people out on their dumb decisions.”

Dohoon chuckles softly. “Sounds like a threat.”

“More like a public service.”

As Jaehyun walks off, Dohoon stares at the group again. Still unsure. Still aching.

But at least now, he doesn't feel entirely alone in it.

And Taesan?

He’s still standing there. Still silent. Still watching Sungho smile at someone else—knowing exactly what he’s lost and too scared to admit why.

---

The practice room buzzed with light chatter and leftover adrenaline. Members of TWS and BND exchanged high-fives, teasing and tossing jokes between each other.

The mood was easy, upbeat.

Shinyu was sitting beside Sungho, laughing as he nudged his shoulder. “I swear, you’re going to forget all your moves mid-stage and just smile through it like a puppy.”

Sungho snorted. “That’s my secret. Charm over skill.”

Dohoon watched from a few feet away. He hadn’t said much since they entered. He tried not to look at Shinyu. He really did. But his eyes kept drifting. Not just to him, but to the way Shinyu’s fingers brushed Sungho’s sleeve when he leaned in. The way he looked at him like he was seeing something no one else could.

He tried to swallow it down. Just like always.

Jihoon cracked a joke about morning calls in the dorms, and someone else chimed in about who was the hardest to wake up.

That’s when Shinyu, too amused for his own good, added in:

“Trust me, no one sleeps as deep as Dohoon. One time, I crawled into his bed because I was freezing and he didn’t even flinch. Woke up wrapped around me like a damn koala.”

The room broke into laughter.

Even Jihoon doubled over, smacking his thigh. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Shinyu grinned, “I almost suffocated. Dude’s dangerous.”

Dohoon smile dropped.

He stared at the floor, heartbeat thudding in his ears. His cheeks burned—not from embarrassment, but something sharper more like shame.

That memory… it wasn’t funny to him. That night had been one of the few moments where he had been stressed and panicked things were difficult for but that night Shinyu came to him softly, whispering affirmation in his ears and telling him he couldn’t sleep either, curling into Dohoon’s warmth like they both needed each other.

Dohoon had barely breathed, afraid if he moved, the moment would end. He remembered how it felt to be held like that. Like he mattered.

Now it was a joke. Something to laugh about.

He stood abruptly, muttering, “I need the washroom.”

Nobody blinked at first, too busy laughing—except Jaehyun, who watched with a slight frown, Taesan who glanced at Shinyu, and Sungho, who noticed Dohoon’s shoulders tremble just slightly.

Shinyu’s smile dimmed. He stood up instinctively. “Wait—Dohoon—”

But Dohoon was already halfway down the hallway.

Shinyu muttered a quick excuse and followed.

---

The hallway was quiet, a stark contrast to the lively room behind them. Shinyu spotted Dohoon near the end, hand pressed against the wall, head bowed.

“Dohoon.”

Dohoon didn’t respond.

Shinyu reached out, gently taking hold of his wrist. “Hey. Are you okay?”

He didn’t expect the way Dohoon yanked away like his touch burned.

“Don’t.” Dohoon’s voice cracked. His eyes lifted, red and wet, furious and aching all at once. Maybe he was being sensitive, it wasn’t that big of a deal. He would have laughed it off any other day but at this moment he didn’t cared.

“Don’t touch me like that. Not when you just threw me under the bus for a laugh.”

“What? That wasn’t—” Shinyu took a step back, stunned. “I didn’t mean it like that. It was just a joke—”

“It wasn’t just a joke to me!” Dohoon’s voice rose, trembling. “That night—” He cut himself off, chest heaving. “That night meant something to me. You... you crawled into my bed like I was the only person you could run to. You held me like I was yours. And I let myself believe, just for a moment, that maybe I actually mattered to you.”

Shinyu stood frozen. He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t even thought that memory still lingered for Dohoon.

He looked at him now, properly looked—and saw it. The pain in his eyes. The hurt he’d buried under years of pretending.

“Dohoon…”

“You don’t get it,” Dohoon said, voice softer now, bitter. “You only come to me when you’re lonely. When they all leave you. You treat me like I’m a warm bed and soft hands and nothing else. And I take it—every single time—because I’m an idiot.”

He laughed once, harshly. “But the truth is, I can’t do it anymore, Shinyu. I can’t be your second choice. Your late-night comfort. Your secret. I feel too much and you feel nothing and it’s killing me.”

Shinyu’s heart twisted. He wasn’t heartless. But he’d never looked at it this way. Never let himself question what Dohoon might be feeling. He didn’t know what to say.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, finally.

“But you did,” Dohoon whispered. “And the worst part is, I’ll probably still let you come back to me when they all walk away again. And I hate that about myself.”

For a long moment, neither of them said anything.

Dohoon turned, wiping his face quickly. “I need space.”

Shinyu didn’t stop him this time. He just stood there, alone in the hallway, realizing for the first time that maybe he had taken something real and crushed it without meaning to. And it hurt more than he expected.

Because now he wasn’t sure if Dohoon would be there the next time he came running.

---

Backstage was alive with a pulse of its own. The muffled roar of the crowd beyond the heavy curtains sounded like a living thing—hungry, electric, impatient. Staff members rushed back and forth, checking mics, adjusting last-minute touches on wardrobe, whispering final cues.

The members of BND stood in a loose circle, each dealing with nerves in their own way. Jaehyun paced. Leehan stretched silently. Taesan rolled his shoulders, eyes scanning the room. Sungho sat at the edge of a case of sound equipment, elbows on knees, trying to breathe.

They had about 30 minutes before showtime.

“Can you hear them?” Woon whispered, eyes wide as the bass of the chanting crowd vibrated through the floor. “They’re already screaming.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Jaehyun muttered, though a smirk twitched at his lips.

Sungho tried to smile too, but it didn’t quite reach. His shirt clung to the back of his neck with sweat. His palms were damp.

He’d chalked it up to nerves—first major concert since their debut, adrenaline high—but this wasn’t like any anxiety he’d felt before. His heartbeat was erratic. His body was hot in a way that wasn’t just from the stage lights or warm-up drills.

You took your suppressant. It should be fine. You’ll be fine.

“Sungho,” Jaehyun called over, his voice sharp with concern. “You good?”

Sungho looked up, forced a quick nod. “Yeah. Just hyped.”

He didn’t need them worrying. Not today. Especially not Taesan.

But as if summoned by thought, he caught Taesan’s gaze across the room—quiet, unreadable, but focused entirely on him. Like he was seeing through the lies.

Sungho broke eye contact.

Pull it together. You trained for this. You’ve performed with a sprained ankle, a sore throat, on two hours of sleep. You can handle this. You have to.

He stood, stretching subtly, rolling his wrists, trying to summon energy from somewhere. His head buzzed. His legs felt heavy. But it would pass. He just had to get through the opening set. Once the adrenaline kicked in, his body would carry him.

He thought of the fans waiting, the lights, the music—how alive he usually felt on stage. Maybe that high would burn this heat haze away.

He closed his eyes for a second.

Just last the night. Then you can fall apart later.

“Positions in fifteen!” a crew member shouted, snapping the moment.

Taesan was still watching him. Sungho didn’t look back.

---

Lights. Music. Screams.

The stage pulsed beneath their feet, a living platform of beats and rhythm. The crowd was deafening—oceanic waves of cheers crashing into the arena as BND took command of the spotlight.

Choreography flowed with precision, their bodies moving in perfect sync, every step drilled into muscle memory. But Taesan wasn’t present.

Not really.

His body moved, but his mind—his eyes—kept straying.

To Sungho.

Under the blinding lights, sweat was expected, breathlessness even more so.

But something was off.

Sungho’s movements were just a fraction behind. His smiles were thinner. He staggered slightly during the bridge of the second song, recovering so fast the crowd didn’t notice—but Taesan did.

By the fourth song, Sungho’s chest was heaving in a way that wasn’t normal. His face, already pale before they’d gone on stage, now looked almost translucent under the flashing strobes. His lips parted like he was chasing air.

Taesan’s throat went dry.

Something’s wrong.

He didn’t let it show, kept dancing, singing, breathing through the routine—but inside, he was unraveling.

Every flicker of weakness from Sungho pulled at him like a wire wrapped tight around his ribs.

Then the first set ended.

They raced off-stage to the wings. Ten minutes to recover before Set Two. Staff swarmed them—water bottles, towels, makeup artists rushing in to touch up glistening faces.

The boys were breathing hard, some laughing in post-adrenaline haze.

Not Sungho.

He sat on a stool just off to the side, one hand gripping the edge like he was anchoring himself. His other hand trembled slightly on his thigh. His skin shimmered—not just with sweat, but with the unmistakable sheen of fever.

A makeup artist dabbed at his face. “Sungho-ssi, you’re a bit clammy—”

“I’m fine,” he whispered, voice too low.

Then—

He swayed.

The next second, his body crumpled forward like someone had cut his strings.

“Hyung!” Taesan’s voice ripped through the backstage noise, sharp and loud.

Everything froze.

Sungho hit the ground hard, his body folding in on itself.

Taesan dropped to his knees, not caring about the sweat, the stage, the performance. Nothing mattered. He reached him in seconds, hands already under Sungho’s shoulders, pulling him up, holding him close.

“Sungho. Hey—hey, stay with me. Look at me.”

His body was burning. Unnaturally hot. Unsteady breaths rasped from his parted lips, and his eyelids fluttered like he was fighting to stay conscious.

“Somebody do something!” Taesan barked, his voice cracking in panic.

Jaehyun jolted into motion. “Get the med kit! Now!”

A staff member sprinted away.

The manager came running too, voice strained. “You’ve got to be on stage in ten—”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Riwoo snapped, uncharacteristically sharp.

Leehan and Woonhak hovered nearby, fists clenched. The other members looked stunned, stuck between shock and helplessness.

Taesan didn’t hear any of it. His entire world had narrowed to the boy in his arms.

He pressed a palm to Sungho’s burning cheek.

And something… pulled.

It wasn’t physical, not exactly—but it was. A sensation that twisted deep in Taesan’s chest like someone had reached in and lit a fuse.

His vision blurred for a second. Not from panic. From something else entirely.

A rush. A bond. A burn. Like something long dormant had just snapped awake.

He stared down at Sungho, trembling. The fear was still there, icy and sharp—but underneath it was something raw.

It didn’t feel like worry.

It felt like losing everything.

Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd was deafening, lights flaring across the arena in bursts of red and gold. The stage was set, the fans were ready—but the formation was incomplete.

BOYNEXTDOOR stepped out with only five members. Taesan, Jaehyun, Woonhak, Riwoo, and Leehan took their positions, each of them trying to summon the energy and excitement they’d rehearsed for weeks.

But there was an unspoken heaviness between them. One space in the lineup remained empty. One voice, one presence—missing.

As the intro music faded and the crowd began to cheer in confusion, Jaehyun stepped forward to the mic. His voice was steady, but there was a tightness in it, a tremor just beneath the surface.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” he began, bowing slightly.

“We wanted to let you know before we begin… Sungho suddenly fell ill before the show. He’s currently receiving medical attention. He’s okay, but he won’t be joining us tonight.”

A wave of shocked gasps rippled through the crowd. Murmurs rose immediately—what happened? is he okay? why didn’t they cancel? Phones were lifted. Fans clutched lightsticks a little tighter.

But the show had to go on.

“We’ll still be performing tonight,” Jaehyun continued. “But the concert will be shorter than planned. We’ll give you everything we’ve got. For him.”

The music kicked in again. Lights shifted, and the five of them began to move.

Every beat, every choreographed step, felt heavier. Taesan was usually sharp onstage—precise, focused, in sync with the rhythm—but tonight, his head wasn’t entirely there.

He went through the motions, hitting every count, but his eyes kept flicking to the left. The spot Sungho should’ve been in.

His stomach churned. He could still feel the weight of Sungho’s body in his arms from earlier. Still hear the panic in his own voice as he’d screamed for staff.

Still see the way Sungho’s body had burned with fever, the look on his face before he collapsed.

The setlist was adjusted on the fly. A few numbers were cut, lines redistributed. Woonhak and Riwoo pushed extra hard to keep the mood up, smiling bright, hyping the crowd. Leehan kept looking toward Jaehyun between songs, as if grounding himself in something steady.

But backstage, between costume changes and water breaks, the energy was tense. No one laughed. No one spoke unless they had to.

Taesan sat on the edge of a crate, toweling the sweat off his face, his shirt clinging to his back.

He was trying not to lose it. Trying not to think about what might be happening at the hospital right now. His chest felt too tight.

Two hours passed. It felt like a lifetime.

They ended the show with a soft, stripped-down version of one of their ballads.

Jaehyun held the mic at the end, voice cracking just a little. “Thank you for understanding. Please send your love to Sungho.”

As they stepped offstage for the last time that night, none of them spoke.

Staff tried to usher them toward the dressing room for cooldown and cleanup, but Jaehyun simply shook his head.

“No time,” he said. “We’re going to the hospital.”

Still in sweat-soaked clothes, glitter and foundation smeared from exhaustion, they filed into the van, silence hanging like a curtain around them.

No one rested.

No one leaned back or closed their eyes.

Every one of them stared out the window, hearts pounding with the same thought

Please be okay.

---

The air in the hospital hallway was still. Artificial. Bright lights buzzed faintly overhead, a constant hum underscoring the silence that stretched between the five boys slumped across waiting room chairs.

They sat outside Room 212, where Sungho lay unconscious.

No one spoke. No one had the energy.

Taesan sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had turned white. Sweat still clung to his skin from the concert, half-dried beneath the collar of his shirt. His chest rose and fell in shallow, silent breaths.

His eyes stayed locked on the closed hospital room door.

He collapsed.

That image refused to let go. The memory of Sungho's body going slack mid-breath, knees giving out, head lolling back—Taesan had watched it in real time.

He’d been the first to move, faster than thought, instincts overtaking reason.

He still felt the weight of him. Still remembered the burn of Sungho’s skin beneath his hands.

And the other thing—the pull. Like a wire had snapped taut between them, humming, alive. Something old and buried deep inside had stirred the moment he touched him.

Taesan swallowed, jaw tight. Guilt twisted inside his chest.

He knew something was wrong. He can sense it.

He’d seen the signs—Sungho’s paleness, the way he staggered through the last choreo, the breathlessness he tried to hide. Taesan had watched, too afraid to confront it. He hadn’t said a word.

The door finally opened with a click. All five of them shot up at once.

A doctor stepped out, clipboard in hand, eyes tired behind his glasses.

“Who here is family?” he asked.

None of them moved.

“We’re his group members,” Jaehyun said quickly. “We live together. We’re… close.”

The doctor studied them, then sighed. “Alright. I’ll speak plainly. His condition is stable for now, while it's not serious for now but it won't take much time for it to get serious. He suffered a systemic crash—most likely caused by long-term suppressant use. His body’s started rejecting them.”

The air went colder.

“Suppressants aren’t meant to be used the way he has,” the doctor continued. “Over time, they wear the body down. Suppress key hormonal and neurological functions. He’s been pushing through the symptoms—headaches, fatigue, heat flashes—likely for weeks. Add in stress, lack of rest, and overexertion... and it triggered a full collapse.”

Then came the question.

“Where is his alpha?”

Silence.

Taesan felt the words slam into him like a punch. His fingers curled tighter. Every cell in his body screamed to speak. But he didn’t.

“We don’t know,” Jaehyun said quietly after a beat. “He never told us.”

The doctor nodded slowly, disapproval flashing behind his tired expression. “He’s bonded. His system is biologically linked to someone. Without that bond being acknowledged—especially during strain—it’s like an open wound that never heals. If his alpha doesn’t step in soon, this could happen again. Worse.”

The words echoed in Taesan’s skull.

If his alpha doesn’t step in soon…

He turned his face away, jaw clenched, throat raw.

And just like that—he was there again.

---

Flashback: Four Years Ago

It was raining that day. Taesan remembered it in pieces—the sound of thunder rolling in the distance, the sterile white of a hospital room, and his cousin sobbing into her hands.

Yuna. His older cousin. The one who used to sneak snacks into his backpack when he was in middle school. The one who used to sing him to sleep when his parents worked late. Strong. Kind. Loud when she was happy.

Now she was just—empty.

She sat curled in a chair by the window, tears streaking her cheeks, bruises blooming along her wrist.

“I didn’t choose him,” she’d said. Her voice cracked like glass. “This bond did. That’s the worst kind of prison.”

She’d loved someone else once. A quiet beta man named Junseo, who used to pick her up from practice and bring her hot tea during winter rehearsals.

But Junseo couldn’t fight the power of a bond she’d been forced into—an alpha who didn’t treat her right. Yuna's family had pressured her into accepting the bond, and she was too scared, too young, too tired to say no.

It killed her slowly. Her relationship crumbled. Her career followed. And then her health.

Taesan remembered standing in that room, just sixteen, watching the strongest person he knew become a ghost.

That was the day he decided.

Never.

He would never be trapped. Never lose his free will. Never become someone else’s possession because of biology or instinct. He would protect his freedom, his free will as well as the other persons even if it meant pushing someone away. Even if it hurt.

He made a vow.

---

Back to Present:

Now that vow echoed hollow in his chest.

Sungho lay just beyond that door, unconscious, fighting through pain he didn’t deserve. And Taesan could do nothing.

No—he chose to do nothing.

Because he was afraid.

Afraid of becoming like Yuna. Afraid of loving someone and not knowing if it was real. Afraid of losing control. But beneath the fear… something else throbbed louder now.

Taesan clenched his jaw so hard it ached.

He hated this bond. Hated how it made him feel helpless. But he hated even more what it was doing to Sungho.

He’d seen Sungho struggle, fight through pain with a smile, always pushing forward. And Taesan had stood by, silent.

Now he wasn’t sure silence was an option anymore.

His hand gripped the side of the chair. He looked up at the door again.

And he waited.

Not as an alpha.

Not even as a friend.

But as someone who was beginning to realize—

He have to make a choice.

---

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly as another hour passed. The others had left.

They hadn’t wanted to—Jaehyun was the last to cave, glancing between Taesan and the hospital bed with worry etched into his face—but they knew there was nothing more they could do tonight. The doctor had said Sungho was stable, no immediate danger, just rest and fluids and monitoring. So one by one, they’d slipped away, exhausted and worn down, murmuring promises to return first thing in the morning.

Taesan didn’t move from his chair.

He sat at Sungho’s side, still in the rumpled remains of his stage clothes, faint smudges of glitter along his collarbone, sweat dried against his skin. His body ached, but he didn’t notice.

All he could see was him.

Sungho lay still in the hospital bed, thinner than he remembered, cheeks pale beneath the dull blue-white glow of the bedside lamp.

His chest rose and fell in soft, even breaths. But everything about him looked—fragile. Like a breeze could break him.

He was fine this morning, Taesan thought, fingers flexing over his knees. He smiled at breakfast. Laughed at Woonhak’s stupid joke. Rehearsed like nothing was wrong.

But it had been wrong. All of it. The pieces were there—exhaustion in his eyes, the way he held his arms when no one was looking, the shakiness between sets. And Taesan had seen them.

He just hadn’t said a word.

Taesan reached out, slowly, carefully, and touched Sungho’s hand. His skin was warmer now—still too warm—but not burning like before. Taesan’s thumb brushed over the back of his knuckles, light and hesitant.

If I hadn’t been there...

The thought twisted deep into him. What if he hadn’t been backstage at that exact moment? What if he hadn’t seen him stumble? Would anyone else have known? Would they have noticed too late?

And then the other thought. The crueler one.

If I wasn’t bonded to him at all… maybe he would’ve been okay.

The weight of that sat on Taesan’s shoulders like a stone. If Sungho had never bonded to him, would he be happier? Would his body be stronger, unburdened by the silent tug that tied them together? Would he have someone—someone willing, someone brave—who could meet that bond without hesitation?

Someone better than him?

Taesan exhaled, soft and shaky, eyes still on Sungho’s sleeping face. He looked nothing like the boy who bantered in interviews or stood center stage with fire in his eyes. He looked small. Tired. Breakable.

I’m the one who ran.

I’m the one who couldn’t face it.

And he’s the one who’s paying for it.

His fingers curled around Sungho’s hand tighter, grounding himself in the warmth of that connection.

The room was quiet, machines humming softly in rhythm with the rise and fall of Sungho’s chest. Taesan leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper.

“…What am I supposed to do with you?” he asked.

It wasn’t a question meant to be answered.

Not really.

It was desperation—raw and tangled in guilt. It was the fear that he’d already made too many mistakes, and the truth that despite everything, he couldn’t walk away.

Not now. Not when the bond he’d tried so hard to ignore had screamed inside him the moment Sungho hit the floor.

Sungho stirred slightly, brow twitching as if caught in some distant dream, but he didn’t wake.

Taesan didn’t move either.

He leaned back in the chair, heavy with exhaustion, but he didn’t let go of Sungho’s hand. He couldn’t.

As the minutes turned to hours, he sat there silently, head eventually resting near their joined hands, sleep pulling him under.

Fingers still curled around Sungho’s.

As if he was afraid that letting go would make it all real.

---

The first thing Sungho registered was the dull beeping of a machine. The second was the dryness in his throat.

His eyes fluttered open, squinting against the sterile white of the hospital ceiling. He blinked slowly, mind hazy, body stiff. A throb pulsed through his limbs, deep and aching. He let out a soft whine, breath catching at the discomfort that washed over him in waves.

Then it all came rushing back.

The stage lights. The pounding in his head. His legs giving out.

And—

“Sungho!”

Taesan’s voice had pierced through the fog, panicked, sharp. That was the last thing he remembered before everything went black.

He blinked again and turned his head slightly, wincing.

There—right beside him, slouched in an uncomfortable hospital chair, still in yesterday’s clothes—was Taesan. Asleep. Or maybe too exhausted to stay awake any longer. His hand was still wrapped around Sungho’s.

Sungho’s breath hitched faintly.

He looked so tired. The edge of his cheek rested near their joined hands, his brows slightly furrowed even in sleep.

Sungho stared at their hands for a moment, heart stumbling. He didn’t move because he wanted to. He moved because his throat was burning.

He tried to gently pull his hand away—not to push Taesan away, just to reach the glass of water on the bedside table—but the small shift was enough to make Taesan stir.

Taesan’s head snapped up. “Sungho?”

His voice cracked. He immediately straightened, eyes wide with something caught between relief and alarm.

“You’re awake,” he breathed, and then, without thinking, he reached forward, cupping Sungho’s face. His thumb brushed under Sungho’s eye. “You’re awake.”

Sungho blinked at him. Still dazed.

“You have a fever—wait, let me—do you feel anything? Are you dizzy? Is your chest okay?” Taesan pressed his palm against Sungho’s forehead, brows knitted.

“…Water,” Sungho managed to croak out.

“Right.” Taesan fumbled for the glass, hurriedly pouring water from the jug. “Here, slowly.” He lifted the glass to Sungho’s lips, steadying it as he drank.

The water was cool. It hurt going down, but it helped. When Sungho pulled back, Taesan wiped the corner of his mouth with the hem of his sleeve.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Taesan said after a pause. The words were low. Honest.

Sungho wanted to say something in return—anything—but the knot in his throat wouldn’t budge. He just looked at him.

Taesan’s hand lingered for a second longer before pulling back. He sat down again, but closer now, his knee brushing the edge of the bed. The silence stretched.

“I didn’t think you’d stay,” Sungho finally whispered.

“I didn’t think I’d be able to leave.”

They both looked away at the same time.

Taesan cleared his throat. “You… don’t have to talk. I just—I wanted to make sure you were okay. You were burning up. You collapsed.”

Sungho nodded faintly. “I remember your voice.”

Another beat.

Taesan reached for the blanket, adjusting it over him. “You should rest more. You look—” he stopped himself. “Just rest.”

Some time passed like that—quiet, still, strange.

And then the door opened.

Jaehyun stepped in first, balancing two large paper bags. “Good morning, invalids.”

Riwoo followed, arms full of boxes. “We brought food. Don’t cry.”

Woonhak and Leehan trailed behind, grinning.

Sungho managed a weak smile as the room flooded with chatter and warmth.

“You still look like shit,” Leehan said cheerfully as he plopped down on the couch.

“I missed a performance, I earned that,” Sungho said hoarsely.

“Don’t even start,” Jaehyun warned. “You almost gave us all heart attacks.”

“We cut the show short, told the fans you got sick. Everyone was worried but understanding,” Riwoo said, unpacking containers onto the side table.

They handed Taesan a change of clothes, along with deodorant, hair ties, and a very specific brand of energy drink.

“You reek,” Woonhak told him lovingly.

Taesan rolled his eyes but took the stuff, mumbling thanks. The mood lightened. Sungho chuckled once—then winced at the motion.

They spent the next hour teasing and scolding him in turns, helping him eat small bites of porridge and fruit. Sungho’s color started returning bit by bit, and the tightness in Taesan’s chest eased just slightly.

Around 10, there was a knock on the door.

Jihoon stepped in first, polite but concerned, followed closely by Youngjae and Dohoon. Shinyu came last, eyes scanning the room until they locked on Sungho.

Taesan stood quietly in the corner. He didn’t move, didn’t say a word.

Shinyu’s gaze flicked to him—and narrowed.

There was tension immediately. Thick. Palpable.

Shinyu walked across the room, his footsteps deliberate. He stopped beside the bed. Taesan stepped back, retreating slightly, letting go of the space without resistance.

“Hey,” Shinyu said softly, crouching beside the bed.

Sungho’s smile came instantly, warm but tired. “You came.”

“Of course I did.” Shinyu reached out, adjusting the blanket on his lap. “You scared me.”

Taesan’s expression was unreadable.

“Is it still bad?” Shinyu asked.

Sungho shook his head. “Better now.”

Shinyu gently took his wrist, checking his pulse like he didn’t fully trust anyone else’s reassurance.

In the corner, Taesan watched. Silent. Hands in his pockets. Eyes dark with something he couldn’t name. He didn’t reacted though. He tried not to.

No one spoke of it—but everyone felt it.

The air had changed.

---

Dohoon sat alone on the cold metal bench outside the hospital building, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them.

The early morning breeze nipped at his skin, but he welcomed the bite. It grounded him.

The muted hum of traffic mixed with the distant rustling of leaves, but his mind was far away—stuck in that room upstairs, replaying the image over and over.

Shinyu, crouched at Sungho’s bedside, his voice low and gentle, eyes soft with fear and something else—something intimate. Something real. Dohoon had seen that look before. But never directed at him.

His chest ached in a quiet, dull way. A pain so familiar it almost felt expected.

He leaned back slightly, staring up at the gray sky, the dull light filtering through clouds that looked like they could crack open any second.

He had come outside because he couldn’t take it anymore. The tight space. The thick air. Shinyu’s voice. His hand on Sungho’s. The way he looked at him like he was the only thing that mattered.

It broke something in Dohoon. Something he wasn’t sure was ever whole to begin with.

Last night, when the news came in, Shinyu had panicked.

He was pacing the dorm floor, barely holding it together, grabbing his jacket with shaking hands. “I have to go—I can’t just sit here. I have to see him—”

Dohoon had stood there, watching him unravel. Waiting for him to stop and look at him.

He never did.

If it hadn’t been for Youngjae stepping in, pulling Shinyu back with reason, telling him he’d be useless to Sungho if he collapsed too—Shinyu would’ve left that second. Would’ve gone to Sungho in the middle of the night.

Would he have done that for me? Dohoon thought bitterly.

Would he have broken curfew, risked everything, for me?

His eyes stung.

He squeezed them shut, hard.

But he didn’t let the tears fall. He couldn’t. He had no right to cry over something that was never his.

He was always second.

Always the one left waiting, the one noticed only when the shine wore off someone else.

He exhaled shakily.

Then footsteps approached.

Dohoon didn’t turn until a paper cup was held out beside him.

He blinked.

Jaehyun stood there, a gentle look on his face, hoodie pulled up over his hair, hand still extended.

“Coffee,” Jaehyun said simply. “Well, it’s kind of awful vending machine stuff, but it’s warm.”

Dohoon stared for a moment. Then took the cup with a small nod. “Thanks.”

Jaehyun plopped down beside him without asking. He didn’t say much, just sipped from his own cup, gazing out at the parking lot like it held answers.

Silence stretched. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t easy either. But it was something.

“You guys always this dramatic?” Jaehyun asked lightly after a beat, his voice soft.

Dohoon snorted. “Only on days ending in Y.”

Jaehyun smiled faintly. “You looked like you needed air.”

Dohoon didn’t respond. Just stared down at the steaming drink in his hands.

Jaehyun didn’t push.

Instead, he kept the tone light, talking about the vending machine that ate Woonhak’s coins, the nurse who glared at Leehan for using his phone too loud, little things.

Dohoon gave quiet chuckles here and there, but said little else.

The silence that followed felt heavier.

And yet Jaehyun still didn’t pry. He just leaned back against the bench, foot tapping idly against the ground.

“You know,” Jaehyun said, finishing his drink, “I wouldn’t mind getting to know you better.”

Dohoon looked at him. Really looked.

And for a second, something in his chest didn’t hurt.

He didn’t reply. Just nodded once.

Jaehyun pushed off the bench, gave him a small salute, and walked back toward the entrance.

Dohoon sat alone a little longer, the warmth of the coffee slowly soaking into his hands.

And maybe, just maybe, something else had started to warm too.

---

The internet caught fire before noon.

It started with a blurry photo. Grainy, dim, clearly taken in haste—but unmistakable in its impact. Taesan on his knees, cradling an unconscious Sungho in his arms backstage, surrounded by chaos.

Staff blurred in motion. Jaehyun shouting at someone off-frame. The panic frozen mid-action.

The caption was simple.

“What happened to BND’s Sungho???”

Within minutes, it exploded across fan spaces. Twitter threads. Reddit forums. TikToks. Speculation was wildfire.

Some fans zoomed in, circling the raw panic on Taesan’s face.

“The way Taesan looks like he’s about to cry?? That’s not acting.”

“He was holding him like he was made of glass. This isn’t just bandmate behavior.”

Others focused on Sungho.

“He worked so hard for this concert. I hope he’s okay.”

“If he collapsed mid-concert, imagine how bad it must’ve been.”

“Please let him rest. Please don’t push them like this anymore.”

Soon, threads calling out KOZ Entertainment appeared.

“Three comebacks, one concert tour, and endless schedules? What do you THINK was gonna happen?”

“Boynextdoor deserves rest. All idols do.”

Of course, ship accounts flooded timelines with their own edits, dramatizing the blurry photo with slowed audio and emotional BGM.

The company scrambled into response mode. A brief statement followed:

“Member Sungho experienced a sudden health issue and is currently recovering under medical supervision. We ask for your understanding and support.”

Back at the Tws dorm, silence filled the space like smoke. Tired limbs. Clouded heads. No one had the energy to scroll anymore.

Dohoon lay on the couch, phone resting on his chest, staring at the blank ceiling. He hadn't checked the group chats. Or Twitter. He didn’t need to.

Then his phone buzzed with a single message.

Shinyu: Can we talk?

Dohoon sat up, eyes narrowed. His heart did something strange—stumbled a beat, then kept going. He hadn’t responded yet when the doorbell rang.

He froze.

Got up.

Opened the door.

Shinyu stood there, still in the same hoodie he’d worn to the hospital. His face was pale, eyes rimmed red. But more than that—there was something heavy about him.

Like the words inside him were pressing against his chest, waiting to be released.

Dohoon didn’t say anything.

Neither did Shinyu.

They just stood there for a second, the hallway still, the world quiet.

Then Shinyu spoke, voice low, rough.

“…I’m sorry.”

Dohoon swallowed.

He wasn’t sure if it was an apology for last night, for everything, or for showing up.

He stepped aside without a word, letting him in.

And the door clicked shut behind them.