Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The thing about Wooyoung was that he was always there. Loud, teasing, larger than life—his presence filled the space around him, buzzing with boundless energy. He was the one who threw himself into ridiculous dares, the one who turned every tense moment into a joke, the one who, no matter how exhausted, always seemed to have just one more dance move left in him.

So when he started fading, the others didn’t notice at first.

It was subtle. Small things.

Seonghwa was the first to see it, though he didn’t quite understand what he was seeing. During practice, Wooyoung still smiled, still joked, but he was quieter. His movements were sharp—too sharp, too controlled, like he was holding something back. He laughed at all the right moments but never quite reached the warmth behind it.

And he was always tired.

At first, it was easy to brush off. Their schedules were packed, the comeback was nearing, of course he was exhausted.

But then there were the late-night disappearances. Wooyoung slipping out of the dorm, always with an excuse. "Just an extra hour of practice," he’d say, flashing that easy grin, but when he came back, his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking.

Then there were the injuries.

Bruises that weren’t from choreography. A deep purple mark high on his arm, half-hidden beneath his sleeve. A raw scrape at his wrist. Seonghwa caught glimpses of them when Wooyoung forgot to cover them up, but every time he asked, Wooyoung would wave him off with some joke, some excuse that never quite felt right.

"Hyung, you should see the other guy," he said with a wink, shoving his sleeve down.

Seonghwa didn’t laugh.

Yeosang saw it too. Wooyoung had always been physical with his affection—clinging to San, draping himself over Hongjoong, grabbing Yeosang’s wrist just to pull him into some ridiculous joke. But now, he was pulling away. He still acted the same, still let San hold onto him, but his body was stiff, tense, as if he was bracing for something.

Then there was the weight loss.

Wooyoung had always been lean, but now his frame was sharper, his cheekbones more pronounced. At first, they thought it was from working out more, from diet restrictions for their comeback. But then San started paying attention.

Wooyoung barely touched his meals.

He’d push food around on his plate, take a few bites, then distract everyone before they could notice. But San did notice. He saw the way Wooyoung held his chopsticks loosely, like even lifting them was an effort. Saw the way his eyes darted to Hongjoong whenever the leader was in the room, as if he was afraid of being caught eating too much.

And then, one night, San caught him in the dorm bathroom.

The door was cracked open just enough, the dim glow of the light spilling into the hallway. San had been about to walk past, but something—instinct—made him stop. Peering in, he saw Wooyoung gripping the edge of the sink, shoulders trembling, his reflection pale and drawn.

San’s stomach twisted.

“Woo?” His voice was soft, hesitant.

Wooyoung’s head snapped up, eyes wide with something dangerously close to fear.

Then, in an instant, it was gone. That easy grin slid into place, too fast, too forced.

“Hey, what are you doing up?” Wooyoung asked, voice light, as if nothing was wrong. “Couldn’t sleep?”

San took a slow step forward. “You okay?”

Wooyoung’s smile didn’t falter. “Of course. Just tired.”

San didn’t believe him. Not for a second.

But what scared him the most wasn’t the exhaustion in Wooyoung’s eyes. It wasn’t the way his fingers trembled against the sink.

It was the way Wooyoung looked at him—like he was calculating something. Measuring the risk of telling the truth.

Deciding, deliberately, to lie.

San swallowed hard, his chest tight with something he didn’t quite understand.

“Okay,” he said finally, but the word felt bitter on his tongue.

And as Wooyoung clapped him on the shoulder, slipping past him as if the moment hadn’t just happened, San realized something terrifying.

Wooyoung was breaking.

And no one had noticed until now.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

San didn’t sleep that night.

Even after Wooyoung had disappeared into his room, humming a song under his breath like nothing was wrong, San lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Something gnawed at him—a slow, creeping dread.

By morning, it was worse.

Wooyoung was the last to stumble into the kitchen, looking like he hadn’t slept at all. His hoodie was too big, drowning his frame in fabric, but San wasn’t fooled. His collarbone jutted out more than before, his wrists thin where they peeked from the sleeves.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Yunho greeted, nudging him playfully.

Wooyoung forced a grin. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Late again.”

“Are you even awake?” Hongjoong teased, setting down his coffee.

Wooyoung chuckled, rubbing his eyes, but it didn’t feel real.

San watched as Wooyoung grabbed a single slice of toast and took a careful bite. Too careful. He was stalling, pretending to eat. San narrowed his eyes.

That’s when Seonghwa noticed too.

“Wooyoung.” His voice was gentle but firm. “You need to eat more than that.”

Wooyoung waved him off with a lazy smile. “I’m not that hungry.”

San clenched his jaw. Liar.

Seonghwa frowned. “You’ve barely eaten anything the past few days.”

Wooyoung’s smile didn’t slip, but something in his eyes shuttered. “I’ve just been busy. Not a big deal.”

But San knew how much Wooyoung loved food. He was always the one asking for late-night snacks, sneaking bites from everyone’s plates. The Wooyoung sitting in front of them now was pretending to be himself, going through the motions like a well-rehearsed script.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
And then practice started.

Wooyoung had always been a perfectionist, but this was different.

From the moment they stepped into the practice room, he was relentless. Every move was sharp, every step drilled with desperate precision. He was pushing—too much, too hard.

And he was paying for it.

San saw the way Wooyoung’s muscles shook when he thought no one was looking, the way he sucked in sharp breaths between counts, trying to hide it.

Hongjoong called for a break.

Everyone sprawled onto the floor, catching their breath, but Wooyoung didn’t stop. He went to the mirror, fixing his stance, running through the choreography again and again.

Yeosang spoke up. “Wooyoung. Sit down.”

“I’m fine,” Wooyoung called over his shoulder.

“Wooyoung.” This time, it was Seonghwa.

Wooyoung turned to face them with a half-smile. “Seriously, I—”

His legs buckled.

It happened fast—one second he was standing, the next, his body lurched sideways. San was moving before he even thought, catching Wooyoung just before he hit the floor.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, a sharp inhale. “Wooyoung?”

Wooyoung tensed against him, his breathing too shallow.

“I’m—” His voice wavered. He tried to push himself up, but his arms trembled violently.

San didn’t let go.

“Okay, no.” San’s voice was steady, but his heart was pounding. “You are not fine.”

The others crowded around.

Yeosang knelt beside him, eyes dark with concern. “What’s going on with you?”

“I just—” Wooyoung swallowed. He hated this. Hated being weak in front of them. “I think I just got dizzy—”

“Because you don’t eat,” San snapped.

Wooyoung flinched.

The room felt too quiet.

Then, Seonghwa moved. He reached for Wooyoung’s wrist and gently pushed back the sleeve of his hoodie.

Everyone sucked in a breath.

The bruises were ugly. Deep purple and yellowing splotches, lining his forearm like fingerprints. Like someone had grabbed him.

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa whispered, voice tight with barely contained anger.

Wooyoung yanked his hand back, pulling the sleeve down. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” San’s voice cracked. “You can barely stand, you’re covered in bruises, and you still expect us to believe it’s nothing?”

Wooyoung’s hands curled into fists. His lips parted, but no words came out.

Because there was no excuse that would sound real anymore.

They knew.

The air was thick with something unspoken, something dangerous.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Wooyoung started running out of excuses.

The moment in the practice room had shaken him—San catching him before he collapsed, the others hovering around him, eyes filled with concern and suspicion. He had managed to laugh it off, claim he was just dizzy from not sleeping well.

But now, they were watching him.

San’s eyes lingered too long, scanning him as if trying to solve a puzzle. Seonghwa was paying attention to his plate at meals, nudging food toward him when he thought Wooyoung wouldn’t notice. Yeosang, quiet but perceptive, was watching his every move.

And Wooyoung? He was exhausted.

The nights stretched longer, filled with extra training sessions, language lessons, grueling workouts that left his muscles screaming. If he wasn’t perfect, the whispers in his ear would turn sharp, the bruising grip on his arm would tighten.

"You don’t want to disappoint them, do you?"

"You need to work harder."

"If you let them notice, it’s your fault for making them worry."

So he didn’t let them notice.

He smiled, he laughed, he joked—he became the version of himself that they expected.

And he was falling apart at the seams.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The exhaustion came to a head a few nights later.

His body had been screaming for rest, but he couldn’t stop. Not when he had extra lessons, not when he was behind on the work expected of him.

So he pushed.

Until his body gave out.

It started with a headache. A dull, aching thing at the base of his skull that only got worse. His skin felt too hot, his limbs heavy. By the time he stumbled back to the dorms, he knew something was wrong.

But there were no sick days.

He curled up in bed, squeezing his eyes shut, willing the fever away. His hoodie stuck to his skin, drenched in sweat, but he didn’t have the energy to take it off.

He must have dozed off at some point, because the next thing he knew, someone was shaking him.

“Wooyoung.”

The voice was far away.

A hand pressed against his forehead, cool against the heat burning beneath his skin.

He blinked blearily. “M’fine…”

A scoff. “No, you’re not.”

His vision focused. San.

San, kneeling beside his bed, brow furrowed in concern.

“You’re burning up,” San murmured, worry clear in his voice. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Wooyoung swallowed, his throat raw. “Didn’t wanna… bother anyone.”

San’s expression darkened. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Before Wooyoung could protest, San was already standing, heading for the door. “Stay here, I’m getting Seonghwa.”

Panic flared in Wooyoung’s chest.

“No—” He tried to sit up too fast, but the room tilted.

San turned, catching his shoulders. “Wooyoung. You can’t even sit up without nearly face-planting.”

“I’ll be fine,” Wooyoung insisted, pushing weakly at San’s hands. “Just… let me sleep it off.”

San didn’t budge. His jaw tightened, his hands gripping Wooyoung’s arms like he was afraid to let go.

“You’re not fine,” San said, voice low, frustrated. “And I don’t know why you keep pretending you are.”

Wooyoung couldn’t answer.

Because what was he supposed to say? That if he admitted he was struggling, it would only get worse? That he couldn’t afford to be weak?

That someone was making sure he didn’t fall behind?

So he did what he always did.

He forced a weak, tired grin and whispered, “Don’t worry about me, Sannie.”

San didn’t smile back.

And as he watched San hesitate—watched the uncertainty flicker across his face—Wooyoung felt the first real tendrils of fear coil in his chest.

Because for all his efforts, for all his pretending…

They were getting too close to the truth.

And if they found out—

He wasn’t sure what would happen next.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

If Wooyoung thought he could brush off the fever incident, he was wrong.

San wasn’t the only one watching him anymore.

The others had started noticing everything.

Seonghwa had always been the caretaker of the group, the one who made sure everyone ate, drank enough water, and got proper rest. He could spot a problem before anyone else.

And right now? Wooyoung was a problem.

Seonghwa had been keeping track—Wooyoung’s plate was never empty, but it wasn’t because he was eating. It was because he was pretending. Pushing food around, taking a bite here and there, then sneaking bits onto other people’s plates when they weren’t paying attention.

But Seonghwa was paying attention.

So one night, after a long schedule, Seonghwa decided to test him.

He cooked.

A full meal—one of Wooyoung’s favorites. He set the table, humming to himself, making sure to pile extra onto Wooyoung’s plate.

When everyone sat down, Seonghwa kept his eyes trained on him.

At first, Wooyoung acted normal. Laughing, cracking jokes, teasing Jongho about his obsession with meat. But then, he hesitated—just for a second—before picking up his chopsticks.

Seonghwa watched as he took a bite.

Chewed slowly.

Then set his chopsticks down.

To soon.

Wooyoung leaned back, stretching. “Ah, that was good.”

Seonghwa narrowed his eyes. “You barely ate anything.”

Wooyoung blinked at him. “What? No, I—”

“Eat more,” Seonghwa said, voice even but firm.

The room went quiet.

Wooyoung chuckled. “Hyung, I’m full—”

“Eat.”

Wooyoung’s fingers curled under the table. His jaw clenched.

“I said I’m not hungry.”

The sharpness in his voice surprised even himself.

Seonghwa didn’t push, but he didn’t look away either. His gaze was steady, searching.

And Wooyoung felt exposed.

Because he could handle the worry, the casual concern. But this? This quiet knowing?

It made his skin crawel.

He stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. “I’m gonna go shower.”

And he was gone.

Seonghwa exhaled, leaning back in his seat.

Jongho, who had been watching the exchange in silence, finally spoke.

“That was weird.”

Seonghwa nodded slowly. “Yeah. It was.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hongjoong was the leader. He was used to stress, used to balancing schedules and keeping everyone in line. But lately, Wooyoung had been making his job impossible.

Hongjoong didn’t miss deadlines. He didn’t miss choreography changes. And he definitely didn’t let members push themselves past their limits.

But Wooyoung was slipping through his fingers.

And it was pissing him off.

It started during practice.

They had been running through the choreography for hours, perfecting the formations. Wooyoung had always been one of the strongest dancers, precise and expressive, but now—

He was lagging.

Missing beats. Coming in late.

And worst of all? He was pretending he wasn’t.

“Again,” Hongjoong called.

The music restarted.

Wooyoung’s movements were sharp, but they weren’t his. They were controlled, too controlled—like he was forcing his body to obey him.

And then—

He faltered.

A slight misstep, a fraction of a second too slow.

Hongjoong cut the music. “Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung tensed. “What?”

“Fix that last count. You keep slipping.”

“I’ll get it next time.”

Hongjoong crossed his arms. “We’re doing it now.”

Wooyoung exhaled sharply but nodded.

The music started again.

And this time, Wooyoung pushed too hard, trying to compensate. His foot twisted slightly on the landing.

Pain flickered across his face.

And Hongjoong saw it.

But Wooyoung didn’t stop. He clenched his jaw and powered through, even as his movements became stiffer, even as sweat dripped down his face.

Hongjoong clenched his teeth.

He let the song finish.

Then, quietly, he said, “Everyone, take ten.”

As the others grabbed water, Hongjoong walked up to Wooyoung, lowering his voice.

“What’s going on with you?”

Wooyoung grabbed a towel, rubbing at his face. “Nothing.”

Hongjoong’s patience was razor-thin. “That’s bullshit.”

Wooyoung tensed.

“You’ve been off for weeks,” Hongjoong continued. “And don’t say you’re just tired—we’re all tired. You’re exhausted, you’re barely keeping up, and now you’re messing up choreography that you never mess up.”

Wooyoung’s hands curled around the towel.

“I’m fine,” he bit out.

Hongjoong exhaled sharply. “Then act like it.”

Wooyoung flinched—just slightly.

Hongjoong didn’t miss it.

But before he could press further, Wooyoung turned on his heel and walked away, heading straight for his bag.

“Where are you going?”

Wooyoung slung the bag over his shoulder. “I need air.”

And then he was gone.

Hongjoong stared at the door long after it swung shut.

Something wasn’t right.

And for the first time, he wasn’t just frustrated.

He was worried.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

It happened in the middle of dance practice again.

They were running through a routine, fast-paced and intense. The room was hot, sweat dripping down their skin, lungs burning from exertion.

Wooyoung’s limbs felt like lead. His body was sluggish, his heartbeat erratic—too fast, too loud. His vision swam.

"Just get through one more round."

He forced himself to move, each step feeling like he was dragging himself through quicksand.

Then—

His knee buckled.

There was no stopping it this time. He hit the floor hard, catching himself on his forearms. Pain flared through his knees, but that wasn’t what made him panic.

It was the way the room spun.

“Wooyoung!”

Hands were on him instantly—Hongjoong’s, firm on his shoulder. San was crouched beside him, gripping his arm.

His chest was heaving, each breath too shallow. His head pounded.

“I’m fine,” he gasped, already trying to push himself up.

A sharp pain shot through his leg.

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound.

“Bullshit,” Hongjoong said, voice clipped. “You just went down in the middle of practice. What’s wrong?”

“Just tripped.” His voice came out too hoarse, too unconvincing.

San’s grip tightened. “That wasn’t a trip. You barely made it through the last song.”

Wooyoung forced a grin, shaking them off as he stood—too fast. The dizziness slammed into him like a freight train, his stomach twisting violently. His legs felt unsteady.

But he refused to fall again.

“I said I’m fine.” His voice was sharp now, defensive.

A tense silence stretched between them.

Hongjoong exhaled, rubbing his temples. “Take five. We’ll start again in a bit.”

Wooyoung nodded, moving toward the benches.

As he passed by Yeosang, a voice murmured low, just for him.

“You’re lying.”

He almost faltered.

But he kept walking.

____________________________________________________________________________

Yeosang wasn’t the type to push.

He noticed things, a lot of things, but he rarely spoke them aloud. He preferred watching, gathering information.

And lately, everything about Wooyoung felt wrong.

The weight loss. The bruises. The exhaustion.

Yeosang had seen the way Wooyoung had flinched when someone grabbed his wrist the other day—had seen the fear flicker across his face before he covered it up with a laugh.

So Yeosang waited.

One night, he found Wooyoung in the practice room. It was late—too late. Everyone else had gone to bed.

Yeosang didn’t say anything at first. He just leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching.

Wooyoung was struggling.

His movements were sluggish, his body swaying with fatigue. His breathing was uneven, and the dark circles under his eyes were worse than ever.

“You’re pushing too hard.”

Wooyoung jumped slightly, spinning around. He hadn’t realized Yeosang was there.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

Yeosang tilted his head. “You say that a lot.”

Wooyoung swallowed. “Because it’s true.”

Yeosang didn’t reply. He just kept staring, his gaze unreadable.

And Wooyoung couldn’t take it.

He turned back to the mirror, forcing himself to start the routine again.

Yeosang sighed. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

Wooyoung’s throat tightened.

He kept dancing.

Yeosang didn’t push.

But as he walked out of the practice room, he sent a single text.

Group Chat:

🐶 [Yeosang]: We need to talk. It’s about Wooyoung.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Wooyoung had always been a master of distraction.

For weeks, he had been carefully dodging questions, deflecting concerns, and hiding behind jokes. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how well he played the part—

They were closing in.

And he was running out of places to hide.

Mingi wasn’t the type to overthink things. He wasn’t as perceptive as Seonghwa or Yeosang, nor as confrontational as San or Hongjoong. But he had instincts, and right now?

His instincts were screaming.

It started during vocal practice.

They were in the studio, going over harmonies, when Wooyoung’s voice cracked.

Not in a normal, pushing-too-hard way. No—this was different. His breath hitched mid-note, his shoulders locking up as if even singing hurt.

Mingi frowned.

“You good?”

Wooyoung cleared his throat, shaking it off. “Yeah, just dry.”

But when he tried again, his voice wavered.

Hongjoong glanced up from his notepad. “Take a break, Woo.”

Wooyoung bristled. “I’m fine.”

Mingi’s stomach twisted.

He knew Wooyoung’s voice better than anyone. He knew the warmth, the control, the way he could twist a single note into something stunning.

And right now?

Wooyoung sounded wrong.

After practice, Mingi waited. Hung back as Wooyoung packed up his things, watching.

Then, as they were leaving, Mingi casually reached out—gripping Wooyoung’s shoulder.

Wooyoung flinched.

It was small. Barely there. But Mingi felt it.

His hand tightened slightly. “Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung swallowed, shrugging him off. “What?”

Mingi studied him for a long moment.

Wooyoung’s hoodie was loose, sleeves pulled low. But beneath the fabric, Mingi could see the tension in his posture, the stiffness in his movements.

Like he was in pain.

Mingi didn’t say anything.

But as Wooyoung walked ahead, Mingi’s fists clenched at his sides.

Something was very wrong.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Yunho had never doubted Wooyoung before.

They had been friends for too long, trusted each other too much.

But lately?

Lately, Wooyoung was hiding something. And Yunho hated it.

It hit him hardest during a casual hangout.

They had all piled into the dorm’s living room, exhausted from the day’s schedules, planning to watch a movie. Yunho had flopped onto the couch, expecting Wooyoung to do the same.

But Wooyoung hesitated.

He stood awkwardly near the edge of the room, shifting on his feet as if sitting down was suddenly a challenge.

Yunho frowned. “Woo?”

Wooyoung blinked. “Huh?”

“Sit.” Yunho patted the empty seat next to him.

Wooyoung let out a nervous laugh. “I was gonna grab water first.”

“Then sit after,” Jongho piped up, raising a brow. “Why are you acting weird?”

“I’m not.”

But then, when Wooyoung finally did sit, Yunho noticed how he lowered himself carefully, body stiff, as if he was bracing for pain.

And when he thought no one was looking—

He shifted like he couldn’t get comfortable.

Yunho’s stomach twisted.

Was he injured? No—if he was, he would’ve said something, right?

Yunho didn’t ask.

But as the movie played, he kept sneaking glances at Wooyoung, watching the way his shoulders tensed, the way he pressed into the armrest like he was avoiding pressure on his back.

And suddenly—

Yunho did doubt him.

Because Wooyoung wasn’t telling them everything.

And Yunho was starting to hate how many questions he had.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jongho had always trusted Wooyoung’s strength.

Even when he was playful, reckless, too loud for his own good—Wooyoung had never been weak.

But the person standing in front of him now?

This wasn’t the Wooyoung Jongho knew.

It hit him hardest during weight training.

Jongho had been waiting for this moment. He knew something was off, but he wanted proof—wanted evidence.

So, when Wooyoung entered the gym, Jongho acted normal.

He spotted him during squats. Counted his reps. Watched his form.

And what he saw?

Made his blood run cold.

Wooyoung was struggling.

Not in the way that came from regular exhaustion—no, this was different. His arms trembled too much, his grip too loose,his breath too shallow.

And when he moved to the bench press—

He barely lifted half his usual weight.

Jongho’s chest tightened.

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t right.

But Wooyoung didn’t stop. He kept pushing, kept going, as if forcing himself through sheer willpower.

Until his arms finally gave out.

The bar slipped—just for a second—but Jongho was already there. He grabbed it before it crashed down, heart pounding.

“What the hell was that?”

Wooyoung flinched at the sharpness in his voice. “I just—”

“You’re weaker.” Jongho cut him off, eyes narrowing. “You’re not eating enough, are you?”

Wooyoung’s lips parted. For a second, he looked terrified.

Then, just like that, the mask slipped back into place.

“I’m just tired,” Wooyoung said, forcing a grin.

Jongho stared at him.

A tense silence stretched between them.

And then, quietly, Jongho said,

“I don’t believe you.”

Wooyoung swallowed.

And for the first time in weeks, he had nothing to say.

____________________________________________________________________________________

They were all watching him now.

Seonghwa was tracking his meals. Hongjoong was noticing his mistakes. Yeosang was catching his flinches. Yunho was questioning his movements. Mingi was seeing the fear beneath his skin. Jongho had proof.

And Wooyoung?

He was running out of lies.

Because the walls were closing in.

And soon?

There would be nowhere left to run.

Wooyoung knew he was at his limit.

His body had been screaming for weeks, his mind trapped in a cycle of exhaustion, fear, and pushing through. But tonight—

Tonight, he was done.

It happened during rehearsal.

They had been running through the choreography for hours, the room too hot, his skin clammy, his head pounding. He had been slipping up all day, missing cues, reacting too slowly. He could feel the frustration in the air—Hongjoong’s tense posture, Jongho’s sharp glances, Yunho’s tight-lipped silence.

And then—

He fell.

Not a stumble. Not a misstep.

A full, crashing collapse.

His knees buckled mid-turn, his vision tunneling as the world tilted. He barely registered the sound of the music cutting off, the shuffle of feet as the members rushed toward him.

Someone caught his arms—Mingi? Yunho? He couldn’t tell.

His chest heaved. His body felt wrong.

“Wooyoung!”

The voices blurred together.

Too loud.

Too worried.

His pulse pounded in his ears. He tried to sit up, but his muscles wouldn’t obey.

Then—hands. On his shoulders, his back, his wrists—touching him.

And suddenly, he panicked.

“Don’t.” His voice cracked, weak, but urgent. “Don’t—just—”

His breathing was too fast now, shallow gasps that weren’t pulling in enough air.

San’s voice broke through first. “Hey—hey, Woo, breathe. Just breathe, okay?”

But Wooyoung couldn’t.

His chest was too tight, his lungs refusing to work.

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa said sharply, trying to keep his voice calm. “Look at me.”

Wooyoung’s fingers dug into the floor. He could feel the weight of their eyes on him, all of them, hovering, surrounding—too much.

Then, suddenly—

A warm hand took his.

Not forceful. Not grabbing.

Just holding.

Yeosang.

Wooyoung’s blurred vision snapped into focus, landing on the steady warmth of his best friend’s gaze.

“You’re safe,” Yeosang murmured. His grip was gentle, grounding. “You’re okay.”

Wooyoung’s throat constricted. His body betrayed him—a trembling inhale, a violent, shuddering gasp.

And just like that—

The dam broke.

A choked, wrecked sob tore out of him before he could stop it. His shoulders shook, hands gripping Yeosang’s like a
lifeline.

“I—” His voice failed. His walls—gone.

They all froze.

Wooyoung never cried.

Not like this.

Seonghwa knelt beside him, voice tight with barely concealed panic. “Wooyoung. What’s been happening to you?”

Wooyoung squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to break the illusion.

But he was already breaking.

And they already knew.

Mingi’s voice was quiet but devastatingly serious. “Someone’s hurting you, aren’t they?”

Wooyoung flinched.

And that was all it took.

San cursed under his breath, running a hand through his hair. Hongjoong’s jaw locked, his entire body rigid. Jongho inhaled sharply, fists clenching at his sides.

And Yeosang—

Yeosang just squeezed his hand. “Tell us.”

Wooyoung’s breath hitched. Everything hurt. His body, his heart, the weight of carrying this secret alone.

And finally—finally—he let it go.

His voice was a whisper, barely audible.

“It’s—one of the staff.”

A stunned silence rippled through the room.

Then—Hongjoong.

“Who.”

Not a question.

A demand.

Wooyoung sucked in a shaky breath. “I didn’t want you guys to know,” he choked out. “I didn’t want them to—hurt you, too.”

San’s eyes burned. “You think we care about that?” His voice was shaking. “Wooyoung, you—” He exhaled sharply, trying to control himself. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Wooyoung let out a broken laugh, self-deprecating. “Because I thought—I thought I could handle it.”

Yeosang’s grip on his hand tightened. “You shouldn’t have had to.”

Wooyoung’s throat ached. “I didn’t want to cause problems—”

Hongjoong stood up so fast the air in the room shifted. His entire body was vibrating with rage.

“I’ll kill them.” His voice was deadly quiet. “Whoever it is—they’re done.”

Seonghwa, always the calm one, was seething. “You’ve been suffering alone this whole time?”

Wooyoung’s breath staggered.

And then—

Suddenly, he was being pulled into a hug.

Warm arms wrapped around him, careful but unshakable.

San.

And then, another.

Yunho.

Then Yeosang. Then Mingi. Then Seonghwa, Jongho—all of them.

A pile of warmth, of steady hands and steady hearts.

Wooyoung shattered into them.

Tears he had held in for too long finally fell freely, soaking into San’s shoulder. His body trembled, wrung out, too weak to hold himself together anymore.

And he didn’t have to.

Not anymore.

Because they knew.

And they were never letting him go through this alone again.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

That night, Wooyoung slept.

Truly slept.

Not because the nightmares were gone. Not because the pain had disappeared.

But because for the first time—he wasn’t carrying it alone.

And outside his door, his members stayed awake.

Plotting. Planning. Making sure whoever hurt him would never get the chance again.

Hongjoong’s voice was ice. “We’re reporting this tomorrow.”

Seonghwa nodded. “We’ll go to management first. If they don’t listen—”

Jongho cracked his knuckles. “Then we make them listen.”

San exhaled slowly, looking toward Wooyoung’s door. His eyes burned with something dangerous.

“They’re not getting away with this.”

Chapter Text

Wooyoung woke up feeling hollow.

Not in the way he had before—not that deep, gnawing emptiness that had settled in his bones over the past few months.

This was different.

He felt wrung out. Exhausted, sore, as if his body had finally realized how much damage it had taken.

And worse—they knew.

He squeezed his eyes shut, the memory crashing back.

The practice room.
The collapse.
The moment his carefully built walls crumbled.
The way San had held onto him, like he was afraid to let go.
The way Hongjoong’s voice had turned deadly cold when he asked, Who.

Wooyoung curled in on himself, fingers gripping the blanket.

They’re angry.

That thought alone made his chest ache. He had tried so hard—so hard—to keep them out of it. To protect them.

But now?

There was no undoing last night.

A quiet knock at the door.

Wooyoung tensed automatically, his breath catching—but then he heard the voice.

Seonghwa.

“Wooyoung?” The door creaked open slightly, his voice soft, careful. “You awake?”

Wooyoung hesitated. He could pretend to be asleep. Could delay this conversation, push it off for just a little longer.

But what was the point?

They knew.

So instead, he swallowed and rasped out, “Yeah.”

The door opened fully, and Seonghwa stepped inside. He looked tired—his usual calm expression shadowed with something unreadable.

“Hey,” he murmured.

Wooyoung offered a weak smile. “Hey.”

Seonghwa sat on the edge of the bed, studying him for a moment. Not prying, not pushing—just watching.

Then—to Wooyoung’s absolute horror—his eyes burned.

Seonghwa didn’t cry often. He was their rock, the one who held them together. But right now, his jaw was tight, his fingers clenched in his lap, like he was physically restraining himself.

Wooyoung’s stomach twisted. “Hyung—”

Seonghwa exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I should’ve noticed.” His voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “We all should’ve noticed.”

Wooyoung froze.

Because no. No.

This was exactly what he had tried to avoid.

“Don’t do that,” Wooyoung rasped, sitting up despite the exhaustion in his limbs. “Please—don’t make this about you feeling guilty.”

Seonghwa’s breath hitched.

Wooyoung swallowed. “You weren’t supposed to know. I didn’t—I didn’t want this to be your problem.”

Seonghwa’s expression cracked. “You’re our problem, idiot.” His voice was thick with emotion. “You’re our family.”

Wooyoung looked away. “I just—I thought if I handled it myself—”

“That’s not handling it, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung flinched.

Because the voice that cut in wasn’t Seonghwa’s.

It was Hongjoong’s.

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his gaze unreadable.

And Wooyoung braced himself.

Because if there was one person who wouldn’t let this go—it was Hongjoong.

The leader stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. He didn’t sit, didn’t move closer—just stood there, jaw clenched like he was trying to keep himself steady.

Then, finally—

“Tell us everything.”

Wooyoung inhaled shakily. “Hyung—”

“I need to know,” Hongjoong interrupted. His voice was calm, but dangerous. “What they did. How long it’s been happening. Everything.”

Wooyoung’s chest tightened. “I—”

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa murmured. His voice was softer, but just as steady. “You don’t have to say everything now. But we need enough to stop it.”

Wooyoung’s throat burned.

Because they meant it.

They weren’t asking so they could pity him.

They were asking so they could end this.

He swallowed hard. “It started a few months ago,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “They said I needed to work harder. That I wasn’t—good enough.”

Seonghwa inhaled sharply.

Hongjoong’s fingers twitched. “And you believed them?”

Wooyoung laughed weakly. “Didn’t really have a choice.”

“Who?” Hongjoong’s voice was pure steel.

Wooyoung hesitated. He could feel the tension rising, the barely restrained anger in the room.

He whispered the name.

Hongjoong nodded once—and walked out of the room.

Wooyoung blinked. “Wait—”

Seonghwa sighed. “Yeah, I think he’s about to commit murder.”

“Hyung!” Wooyoung panicked, trying to push himself up.

Seonghwa gently pressed a hand to his shoulder. “Relax. He’s just going to get the others. We were going to management today anyway.”

Wooyoung froze.

“Wait, what?”

“You didn’t think we were just gonna let this go, did you?” Seonghwa asked softly.

Wooyoung stared at him. “But—but what if nothing happens?” His voice was small, unsure.

Seonghwa’s expression darkened. “Then we make something happen.”

And that’s when the door slammed open again.

San. Mingi. Yeosang. Yunho. Jongho.

All of them.

Standing in the doorway like an avenging army.

San’s eyes were red-rimmed, but determined. “Are we going?”

Hongjoong nodded. “We’re going.”

Mingi cracked his knuckles. “Good. Because I have some things to say.”

Wooyoung gaped at them. “You guys—you don’t have to—”

Yunho cut him off. “We’re not leaving you alone in this.”

Jongho nodded, voice steady. “Not now. Not ever.”

And suddenly—

Wooyoung’s eyes burned.

Because for the first time in months—

He wasn’t fighting alone.

He didn’t have to.

And no matter what happened next—

They were going to make sure he never went through this again.

________________________________________

The walk to the management office was silent.

Not because there was nothing to say.

But because the rage in the air was too thick to speak through.

Hongjoong led the way, his entire body tense, his jaw set like stone. Seonghwa walked beside him, expression unreadable—but his fingers curled into fists at his sides.

San was barely containing himself, his breaths sharp and uneven. Mingi’s usual lightheartedness was gone, his face dark with something dangerous.

Yeosang hadn’t said a word. But his silence was louder than any threat.

Yunho and Jongho flanked Wooyoung, close enough to block him from anyone’s view, close enough to make sure he didn’t have to do this alone.

And Wooyoung?

He felt nauseous.

Because this was real now.

There was no backing out. No pretending. No running.

They knew.

And now?

They were going to burn everything down for him.

The moment they stepped into the office, the air shifted.

The manager looked up, surprised. "Oh—do you all have a meeting scheduled?"

Hongjoong’s voice was cold. “No. But we’re having one anyway.”

The manager blinked, glancing between them. "Alright… What’s this about?"

Yeosang’s voice was sharp enough to cut. "You know what this is about."

The manager frowned. “If this is about schedules, we can—”

Wooyoung felt it before he saw it.

San’s body locked up beside him, his breath coming out ragged.

Then—

"Is it true?"

The room froze.

San’s voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t angry—yet.

But it was shaking.

And that was worse.

The manager's brows furrowed. “What?”

San took a single step forward. His hands trembled at his sides, his entire body vibrating with restraint.

“Is it true,” he repeated, low and deadly, “that you let one of your staff abuse Wooyoung?”

Wooyoung’s stomach dropped.

The manager’s face paled. "I—what? Where did you hear that?"

Jongho scoffed. "So you're not even denying it?"

Mingi let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "Wow. That was fast."

The manager straightened, eyes darting to Wooyoung. "Did you—tell them something?"

And suddenly, every single member shifted.

It was instinct.

A wall forming between Wooyoung and his abuser’s enabler.

Seonghwa’s voice was like ice. “You don’t talk to him.”

Hongjoong stepped forward. “You talk to us.”

The manager raised his hands defensively. "Let's not escalate things. If there’s been a misunderstanding—"

“Misunderstanding?” Yunho’s voice was sharp, disbelief crackling in his tone.

Hongjoong’s eyes darkened. "You're going to sit there and act like you didn't know?"

The manager sighed, rubbing his temples. “Look. If there was any pressure put on Wooyoung, it was just to help him improve—”

Wooyoung flinched.

And that was the final straw.

Because Seonghwa moved.

His chair scraped against the floor as he leaned forward, voice deadly calm.

“You mean when they starved him?”

Silence.

“You mean when they worked him to the point of collapse?”

More silence.

Seonghwa’s voice was shaking now. “Or do you mean when they left bruises on him?”

The manager swallowed. "I—I didn't know about any of that—"

"You let it happen." Yeosang’s voice was quiet, but sharp enough to cut.

The manager shifted uncomfortably. “Look, I understand this is upsetting, but if we take this public—”

And suddenly—Hongjoong laughed.

A cold, humorless laugh that sent chills down Wooyoung’s spine.

“Oh, don’t worry.” Hongjoong tilted his head, his smile sharp as glass.

“We’re already planning to take this public.”

The manager stiffened. “You can’t be serious.”

San snapped.

“You think we’re going to let you sweep this under the rug?” His voice cracked, his hands shaking. “You think we’re just going to let you—let you—”

He cut himself off, chest heaving.

And Wooyoung, tired, broken, but still standing, finally spoke.

“We’re not asking,” he said quietly.

The room went silent.

The manager looked at him—really looked at him. The bruises still fading on his skin. The exhaustion weighing down his frame. The members standing like shields around him.

And for the first time, he looked nervous.

Hongjoong leaned forward, voice calm, controlled, and terrifying.

“You have two choices,” he said. “One—we report this, it becomes a scandal, and your name gets dragged through hell.”

The manager swallowed.

“Or two—you fire them. Immediately.” Hongjoong’s gaze was razor-sharp. “And you make sure this never happens again.”

The manager hesitated.

Then—he sighed. “Fine.”

San let out a shaky breath.

“We’ll handle it internally,” the manager continued. “They’ll be terminated.”

"Not good enough," Seonghwa snapped. "We want it in writing."

"And," Yeosang added, "we want to be assured Wooyoung will be kept away from anyone else like them."

The manager nodded slowly. "We'll draft something up."

And just like that—

It was over.

Or at least—the worst of it.

______________________________________________________

They walked out of the office together.

For the first time in months, the weight on Wooyoung’s chest wasn’t crushing him.

Mingi let out a long breath. "Holy shit."

Yunho rubbed at his face. "I think I almost punched them."

"You wouldn't have been the only one," Jongho muttered.

Seonghwa sighed. "It's done."

But Wooyoung—Wooyoung couldn’t move.

His legs shook.

And suddenly—San was there.

Warm arms, pulling him in. A steady chest to lean on.

“We’ve got you,” San murmured against his hair.

And Wooyoung—

For the first time in so long—

Let himself believe it.

Recovery wasn’t immediate.

It wasn’t a single conversation, a single night of comfort, or a simple fix.

Because the thing was—Wooyoung didn’t know how to stop.

He didn’t know how to rest. How to let himself need things.

And the members?

They didn’t know how to reach him when he was like this.
___________________________________

It started with meals.

At first, they thought he’d start eating again now that the pressure was gone. That once he knew he was safe, once he knew they were watching—he’d get better.

But Wooyoung didn’t realize he wasn’t eating.

Not until someone put a plate in front of him and said, Eat.

And by then, the habit had already set in.

“I’m not hungry,” he would say, brushing it off with an easy smile.

And at first, they tried to be gentle.

“Just eat a little,” Seonghwa would coax, voice patient.

But Wooyoung would shake his head, barely looking at the food.

And then San started noticing.

Noticing how Wooyoung froze when he reached for a bite, his hand hesitating just a second too long.

Noticing how he counted—not out loud, not obviously, but with the slightest twitch of his fingers.

Noticing how he stopped eating completely if anyone mentioned weight, bodies, or food restrictions.

So San stopped asking.

And he started telling.

“You have to eat.”

Wooyoung sighed, pushing his plate away. “Later.”

San’s patience snapped. “There is no later.”

Wooyoung looked up then, startled.

San wasn’t smiling.

And neither was Seonghwa, nor Yeosang, nor Hongjoong—none of them.

“Stop acting like this isn’t a problem,” San said, voice sharp with frustration. “You’re hurting yourself.”

Wooyoung flinched.

The room went still.

And that’s when they realized.

He didn’t think he was doing anything wrong.

This wasn’t just skipping meals. This wasn’t just exhaustion.

This was habit.

This was damage.

And it was going to take more than a few meals to fix.

________________________________________________

Wooyoung never came home on time anymore.

At first, they thought he just needed space—needed time to process everything.

But then, it became a pattern.

His bed was often empty in the mornings. He missed meals, disappeared between schedules, stayed out too late.

He was always in one of three places.

The practice room.

The gym.

The recording studio.

And no matter how exhausted he was, he wouldn’t stop.

The first time they had to physically drag him out of the practice room, it was Mingi and Yunho who found him.

It was past midnight. The company building was practically deserted.

Wooyoung was still dancing.

Not rehearsing—not polishing, not practicing for a comeback.

Just pushing.

Over and over again, the same moves, the same mistakes, the same self-punishment.

Mingi stood in the doorway, watching for a long moment, something heavy settling in his chest.

Yunho exhaled. “This is getting bad.”

Mingi didn’t answer.

He just walked forward and stopped the music.

Wooyoung’s body lurched to a stop, chest heaving. “What the hell?”

Mingi stared at him. “It’s time to go home.”

Wooyoung scowled, reaching for the speaker. “I’m not done.”

Yunho’s patience cracked.

“You were done two hours ago.” His voice wasn’t angry, but exhausted. “You need to stop.”

Wooyoung clenched his jaw. “I’ll stop when I’m better.”

And that—that was when Mingi grabbed him.

Not hard, not angry—but firm.

“No,” Mingi said quietly. “You’ll stop now.”

Wooyoung’s body tensed.

Yunho exhaled sharply, stepping closer. “This isn’t helping you, Woo. It’s just hurting you more.”

Wooyoung’s throat tightened.

Because the worst part?

He knew they were right.

But stopping felt worse than staying.

Stopping meant thinking.

Stopping meant feeling.

So instead of answering, he just looked away.

Mingi sighed. “Come on,” he said, voice softer now. “Let’s go home.”

And this time—Wooyoung let them lead him away.

But the next night?

He was back again.

And the next.

And the next.

Until finally—

Hongjoong took his keycard.

“You’re banned from late-night practices,” Hongjoong said flatly, tucking the key into his pocket. “Try again, and we’re hiding your gym pass too.”

Wooyoung gaped. “You can’t do that.”

Yeosang leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “We can.”

Jongho nodded. “And we are.”

And that’s how stage one of the intervention began.

________________________________________________

Wooyoung had always been the most physical in the group.

But now?

Now he flinched.

It wasn’t obvious. Not always.

But it was there.

Yeosang noticed first.

Wooyoung used to cling to him. Used to loop their arms together, drape himself across his back, pull him in close.

Now—

Wooyoung still let him get close.

But it wasn’t the same.

Because Yeosang saw the split-second hesitation.

The way Wooyoung braced himself.

And worst of all?

The way he avoided touch when he thought no one was looking.

Yeosang hated it.

So one night, as they sat on the couch, Yeosang made the first move.

He reached out—carefully, slowly—and took Wooyoung’s hand.

Wooyoung stilled.

Yeosang held on anyway. Didn’t squeeze, didn’t force, just held.

And slowly—so slowly—

Wooyoung exhaled.

And didn’t pull away.

It was a start.

_______________________________________________________

Healing wasn’t linear.

Some days, Wooyoung felt almost normal. Like he could laugh and joke without it feeling forced, like his body didn’t ache under the weight of exhaustion.

Other days, he woke up and felt like a ghost. Like his body wasn’t his own. Like he was still stuck in those months of pushing, starving, hurting.

But now?

Now, when he woke up lost in the past, someone was always there to pull him back.

__________________________________________

Wooyoung sat at the kitchen table, staring at his plate.

It was a good day. He was trying. He had eaten a few bites.

But now, his stomach churned. The old voices whispered, the ones that had told him to control, restrict, be better.

And they were loud.

He didn’t realize how long he had been sitting there until Jongho’s voice cut through the static.

“You’re overthinking again.”

Wooyoung blinked, looking up.

Jongho was sitting across from him, arms crossed, watching closely.

Wooyoung forced a smirk. “Since when do you watch me eat?”

Jongho didn’t smile back.

“Since I realized you wouldn’t do it on your own.”

Wooyoung swallowed. “I—”

“You don’t have to finish everything,” Jongho said, softer now. “But just eat a little more, okay?”

Wooyoung hesitated.

Then, slowly, he picked up his chopsticks.

Jongho didn’t look away, didn’t push—just sat there, silent, steady.

And somehow?

That made it easier.

So he ate.

Not much.

But more than before.

______________________________________

It had become a pattern.

The members had to drag him out of the practice room at night.

If they left him alone for too long, he’d slip away—back to the studio, back to the gym, back into old habits.

Tonight, it was Yunho who caught him.

It was late. The dorm was quiet. And when Yunho woke up for water, Wooyoung’s bed was empty.

Again.

With a sigh, he grabbed a hoodie and headed for the practice room.

And, as expected—

Wooyoung was there.

Dancing alone, again and again, his breath ragged, sweat dripping down his face.

Yunho leaned against the doorway. “What’s the excuse this time?”

Wooyoung startled, nearly tripping over his own feet. “I—what are you doing here?”

Yunho lifted a brow. “What am I doing here? The better question is, why are you here?”

Wooyoung exhaled heavily. “I just needed to fix something.”

“Fix what?”

Wooyoung hesitated.

And that was the problem.

Because he didn’t know.

He wasn’t practicing for a performance. Wasn’t fixing choreography. Wasn’t training for anything specific.

He was just punishing himself.

“Joongie took your pass, how are you even here?”

“Hongie, left his pass in his jacket pocket, please don’t tell him?”

Yunho sighed, stepping forward.

“Come on,” he said gently, holding out a hand. “Let’s go home.”

Wooyoung hesitated.

Then, slowly, carefully, Yunho reached out—

And squeezed his wrist.

Not hard. Not forceful. Just there.

And suddenly, Wooyoung felt so, so tired.

The weight of his own body, the exhaustion dragging at his limbs, the ache in his muscles—he felt all of it.

And Yunho was still waiting.

So, this time—

Wooyoung took his hand.

And let himself be led home.

____________________________________

It was a small thing.

But the first time Wooyoung initiated touch again, it almost made San cry.

They had been playing games, sitting in a loose circle on the floor, bickering over who was cheating.

And without thinking—

Wooyoung leaned his head against Yeosang’s shoulder.

Yeosang froze.

Everyone froze.

Because he hadn’t done that in months.

Wooyoung felt them all staring and blinked. “What?”

San swallowed hard. “Nothing,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

Yeosang, though, just smiled.

And gently, he leaned back into him.

______________________________

They had almost forgotten what Wooyoung’s real smile looked like.

Not the forced one. Not the brave face he had been putting on for them.

But the real one.

The one that crinkled his eyes.

The one that lit up the entire room.

And when it finally happened—

It was because of Mingi.

They were sitting in the living room, watching a terrible movie together, when Mingi—completely serious—turned to Wooyoung and said:

“I think I could beat a goose in a fight.”

The room went silent.

Wooyoung blinked at him. “A what?”

“A goose,” Mingi repeated, thoughtful. “Like. One-on-one. I think I could take it.”

Yeosang sighed. “We’re not doing this again.”

Jongho groaned. “You barely won against that squirrel last time.”

Mingi huffed. “That squirrel was a menace.”

And then—

Wooyoung laughed.

Loud, sudden, real.

And everyone stared.

Because for the first time in so, so long—

His shoulders weren’t tense. His eyes weren’t haunted.

And his smile—

It was real.

Mingi’s eyes widened. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Wooyoung asked, still giggling.

Mingi pointed at him. “You’re happy!”

Wooyoung rolled his eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

But Yunho was already grinning. San looked teary-eyed. Hongjoong let out a slow breath, relieved.

And Seonghwa?

Seonghwa just reached out, patting Wooyoung’s head gently.

“Welcome back,” he murmured.

Wooyoung’s chest tightened.

___________________________________________

Months had passed.

Seasons had changed.

And Wooyoung was still here.

There were still bad days. Days where he woke up and felt small, where the weight of everything still clung to his bones.

But there were good days now, too.

And today?

Today was a good day.

_________________________________________

Breakfast used to be a battle.

At first, someone had to remind him—place food in front of him, watch to make sure he ate.

But now?

Now he was in the kitchen first.

When San walked in, still groggy from sleep, he stopped short.

Wooyoung was at the stove, humming under his breath, making eggs.

For himself.

And for the first time in months—no one had to ask him to.

San blinked.

Then, before he could stop himself, he wrapped Wooyoung in a hug from behind.

Wooyoung laughed, elbowing him. “Dude, I have a pan.”

“I don’t care.”

And he didn’t.

Because this—this was something they had fought so, so hard for.

San pressed his forehead against Wooyoung’s shoulder, voice quiet. “I’m proud of you.”

Wooyoung stilled for half a second.

Then—softly, almost shyly—

He whispered, “Thanks.”

And kept cooking.

__________________________________________

The first time Wooyoung chose to stop practicing on his own, Yunho almost burst into tears.

They had been at the company, running through choreography, when Hongjoong called for a break.

Wooyoung took a deep breath—and sat down.

Yunho froze.

Because before? He wouldn’t have.

Before, he would have stayed behind, would have kept pushing, kept breaking himself to be enough.

But now?

Now, he sat next to Yeosang, stretching his arms out, relaxed.

And when Yunho stared at him, Wooyoung raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Yunho shook his head, voice thick. “Nothing. Just… happy you’re here.”

Wooyoung’s gaze softened.

“I’m happy I’m here, too.”

And the best part?

He meant it.

__________________________________________________

Late nights in the practice room used to be a given.

If Wooyoung wasn’t home by midnight, someone had to go get him.

But tonight?

Tonight, he was home first.

Seonghwa found him in the living room, curled up under a blanket, watching a drama on his phone.

Not practicing.

Not overworking.

Not punishing himself.

Just… existing.

Seonghwa sat next to him. “You’re home early.”

Wooyoung shrugged. “Figured I should get some sleep.”

Seonghwa blinked.

Then he smiled.

And carefully, like he was testing the waters, he ruffled Wooyoung’s hair.

Wooyoung pouted. “Hyung.”

Seonghwa chuckled. “What?”

Wooyoung huffed—but leaned into the touch.

And Seonghwa almost cried.

Because this—this was what he had missed most.

_________________________________

One night, after a schedule, Wooyoung jumped onto Mingi’s back out of nowhere.

Mingi squawked. “DUDE—”

But Wooyoung just laughed. “Miss me?”

Mingi nearly dropped him. “Where did this come from?!”

The other members turned immediately, eyes wide.

Because it had been so long.

So long since Wooyoung did this. Since he grabbed onto them, pulled them in, let himself be close.

San looked teary-eyed. “Oh my god, he’s back.”

Jongho smirked. “You gonna start clinging to us again?”

Wooyoung grinned. “Yeah.”

And he meant it.

Because he had spent so long shrinking away. So long hiding.

But now?

Now, he was letting himself be held again.

And when Mingi groaned and carried him anyway, Wooyoung laughed.

And it was real.

_______________________________________________

That night, as Wooyoung stood on the dorm’s balcony, he thought about everything.

How far he had come.

How much further he still had to go.

And how, for the first time—he wasn’t afraid of the road ahead.

Because now?

Now, he wasn’t walking it alone.

A soft voice broke his thoughts.

“You okay?”

He turned—Yeosang.

Wooyoung smiled.

And this time, it wasn’t forced. It wasn’t hiding anything.

It was just… his.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think I am.”

Yeosang studied him for a long moment.

Then—he smiled too.

And as they stood there, quiet, together—

Wooyoung knew.

He was going to be okay.

Not tomorrow. Not all at once.

But someday.

And for now?

That was enough.