Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Changkyun arrived before anyone else.

Not because he had to, and not because anyone expected it of him, no one really paid attention to where he was, most of the time, but because he liked the stillness. Before the city started humming. Before the studio floors filled with rushed footsteps and vocal warmups and coffee orders shouted down the hall. Here, at half past seven, the building breathed differently. He could hear his own footsteps echo. He liked that.

He set his thermos down beside the mixing console in NeulWave and began the quiet ritual of powering everything on: lights first, then monitors, then session recovery. The room blinked awake in slow pulses, LEDs glowing soft blue along the panels. It felt like exhaling.

He opened the file he’d been working on overnight, final mix for a rookie girl group’s lead single. The group was new, barely on the edge of public consciousness, but they cared. They listened. The vocals weren’t flawless, but there was heart in them. Changkyun had already run a pass on the mid-range compression and had just finished clearing the buildup under the chorus. There were still some issues with the way the pre-chorus snapped into the drop, but that could wait until after he rechecked the stereo spread on the bridge.

It wasn’t glamorous work, but it mattered. Every clean mix got him closer to the kind of credit line that stuck. He didn’t mind taking contracts for mid-tier companies. There was space to try things. Room to be trusted.

A notification buzzed at the corner of his screen, automated, from his calendar app. The day after tomorrow night: Dynamic Center, Sub Care Session, Room 3A.

Changkyun clicked it away and leaned back in his chair, exhaling slow through his nose.

It wasn’t something he talked about, even though the centers were normal, necessary, even, for unbonded dynamics. Not everyone had a pack. Not everyone had a Dom. Some people needed that time carved out to recalibrate, to fall into space for a little while without shame or performance. He’d learned early how to manage himself, quietly, efficiently. He went every two weeks. Never skipped. Never stayed longer than scheduled. Just enough to stay level. Just enough to keep the ache from becoming something worse.

He didn’t need much. A little praise, a little grounding. Sometimes just being seen.

His fingers hovered over the mouse again, but the door behind him opened with a soft click before he could press play.

The head engineer stepped in mid-call, nodding once in greeting. “Hold on," He muttered into the mic, then pulled it down and turned to Changkyun. “You still on Crimson’s track?”

Changkyun gave a small nod. “Finishing the stereo check. Want it now?”

“Push it an hour. We’ve got a change. Starship’s sending over Monsta X.”

Changkyun blinked. “Monsta X?”

The engineer nodded. “One of their regulars dropped off the project mid-session. They’ve got a mini dropping next week and no time left. They need cleanup, vocals, stems, maybe some alignment. High-pressure work. Forty-eight-hour deadline.”

He hesitated, watching Changkyun closely. “You good with that?”

Changkyun’s stomach flipped, but he kept his voice even. “Yes. Of course.”

“You’re assisting. Stay sharp. Don’t get chatty. If Kihyun gives you shit, take it. He’s got the most pull and the least patience. Just do your job and do it clean.”

The engineer lifted the mic back to his mouth, muttering something about booth availability as he stepped out again.

For a moment, Changkyun sat frozen.

Monsta X.

He wasn’t a rookie. He knew the industry well enough to understand what a job like this could mean. No, his name wouldn’t go on the record officially, not yet, but if he played it right, if he didn’t screw it up, the studio might start mentioning him when bigger names came knocking.

He swallowed, stood, and began checking the routing from scratch. Fresh layout. No risk of bleed. Clear levels. The studio clock read 8:37 a.m. That gave him twenty-three minutes.

He reset the monitoring feed and pulled up a blank project folder, wiping the nervous heat from his palms against his jeans. It was fine. It was just another session. He’d done dozens.

At 9:01, the door opened again.

Changkyun didn’t turn around right away. The voices reached him first, layered, half-overlapping, the kind of easy conversation that only comes from people who’ve been talking over each other for years. There was no performance in it. Just motion. Familiarity.

He saved the session, tapped the booth line to test levels, and then looked up.

Shownu entered first, broad-shouldered, quiet, a kind of presence that didn’t need volume to make space. Jooheon followed, hands in his hoodie pockets, nodding at something Wonho said as they moved inside. Hyungwon trailed after, headphones still slung around his neck, hoodie up and sunglasses on despite the indoor lighting. Minhyuk nearly ran into him at the door, bouncing on his toes and making a loud noise of complaint that no one acknowledged. Kihyun was last, arms crossed, scanning the room like he was already halfway through rewriting the entire workflow in his head.

The studio felt smaller with them in it, not crowded, exactly, but heavier. Like the oxygen carried too much sound.

Changkyun stood as they filtered in, offering a polite nod. “Studio’s prepped. Booth is clean. Monitoring’s open.”

No one responded right away, not rudely, just absorbed.

Jooheon moved toward the workstation, eyes already narrowing at the project screen. “What’re we running through today, tracking alignment or cleanup?”

“Both," Said Wonho, dropping his bag near the couch. “They said stems were out of order. I’ll handle the comp. We’ll need a clean pass before we send anything to Starship.”

“I’ll adjust the gain chain before you touch anything," Jooheon added.

“I’m literally right here," Wonho muttered.

Hyungwon slumped into the armchair in the corner like gravity had been after him all morning. Minhyuk flopped down on the studio couch with the casual authority of someone who knew no one would make him move. Shownu stayed standing, watching the layout with the calm attentiveness of someone who didn’t need to speak to be obeyed.

Kihyun wandered near the console, though he didn’t touch anything. “The third chorus still sounds thin on the downbeat," He said to no one in particular.

“We haven’t even pulled the stems yet," Jooheon said without looking up.

“It sounded thin in the car.”

“Noted.”

Minhyuk leaned forward, already unwrapping a granola bar he must have smuggled in. “Can we talk about how every studio looks the same and yet they all smell different? What is that?”

“It’s not the studio," Hyungwon said, not opening his eyes. “It’s you.”

Wonho was already pulling files from a USB. “You brought boiled eggs in your jacket pocket last week. You don’t get to complain about smells anymore.”

“They were wrapped! And they were for sharing!”

“No one asked for pocket eggs, Minhyuk," Jooheon said, finally smiling.

Changkyun kept quiet through all of it, working in the background. Routing the booth, double-checking latency offsets. They weren’t ignoring him, not exactly, they just didn’t need him involved. They had their own rhythm. They filled the space with it, overlapping commentary and wordless shifts in position that seemed chaotic on the surface but landed in perfect time.

It reminded him of something his mentor once said: “Real packs don’t always look organized. But you’ll know when they are, because no one ever collides.”

No one collided here. Even the teasing had shape.

Minhyuk had already started humming the wrong song under his breath. Wonho hummed harmony without comment. Jooheon tapped a pattern on the table that might’ve been frustration or focus. Shownu said nothing, but the way the others occasionally glanced at him told Changkyun everything he needed to know about who the center of the room really was.

Kihyun caught him watching, just for a second.

Not in any meaningful way, just a flick of eye contact as he passed behind the console. But Changkyun still felt it in his chest. Not sharp. Not warm. Just… measured.

“You good with fast edits?” Jooheon asked, eyes narrowing at him across the screen.

“Yes," Changkyun said immediately. “I can run comp passes and monitor peak spacing.”

Jooheon raised an eyebrow, but not unkindly. “Alright. Just don’t overprocess. Last assistant we had tried to drown everything in de-essers. Felt like we were singing through static.”

Changkyun nodded. “I keep it clean. Surgical, not defensive.”

That earned the faintest twitch of a smile before Jooheon turned back to the mix.

“You’ll fit fine," Wonho said, leaning over the console beside him, voice low enough that only Changkyun could really hear it. “We don’t bite unless you ask nicely.”

Minhyuk, from the couch: “I bite preemptively.”

“I believe that," Hyungwon muttered.

“I want it on record that I’m charming.”

“You are on record," Shownu said mildly, nodding toward the booth mic still live.

Minhyuk gasped like someone had just insulted his bloodline.

Changkyun let a small, real smile curl at the corner of his mouth. Then he pushed it down and focused on the screen.

Jooheon passed him a set of notes handwritten on a torn scrap of lyric paper, only half-legible but precise in structure. Changkyun scanned it, nodded once, and started inputting the edit markers. No one told him to, he just recognized the pacing Jooheon wanted, the breath beats folded into phrasing that hadn’t yet touched tape.

That was what he liked about this kind of work. If you listened closely enough, really listened, you could hear what someone needed before they said it. Timing. Softness. Cutoff points. All embedded in the way a line curved through silence.

In that sense, producing wasn’t that different from submission. It was about reading space. Anticipating needs. Being useful without taking up too much room.

He kept his head down, followed the cues, and said very little.

Across the room, Hyungwon and Minhyuk had devolved into some kind of half-voiced bickering over syllable phrasing, arms gesturing like they were trying to convince a jury. Kihyun hadn’t intervened, though his jaw was set like he was counting to ten internally. Wonho watched with one brow arched but no real concern.

“You’re both wrong," Jooheon muttered.

Hyungwon made a noise of offense so dramatic it echoed.

“You sing it, then," He said, throwing a pillow half-heartedly in Jooheon’s direction. “See how easy it is with your crispy rapper lungs.”

“Crispy?” Minhyuk choked. “You can’t just, crispy?”

“I stand by it," Hyungwon said flatly.

Wonho was laughing now, full and warm, as he passed behind the desk to plug in a second drive. “Can we save the slander until after lunch? I’m not responsible for anyone’s egos until I’ve had something deep-fried.”

“You weren’t responsible before lunch," Kihyun said.

That earned a chorus of he’s not wrong murmurs, and the tension thinned slightly.

Changkyun observed the rhythm with quiet focus. It wasn’t performative. They knew how to push each other’s buttons, yes, but they also knew where the limits were. No one flinched at raised voices. No one looked around for permission to speak. If anything, the mess was part of the structure.

They teased because they trusted. Argued because they could. It wasn’t chaos, it was choreography.

And he, quiet, careful, external, was not part of that dance.

He adjusted EQ levels as Jooheon began looping harmonies. His eyes flicked across the screen, counting breaths and checking clip thresholds, but his focus was fracturing around the edges. Not enough to risk mistakes, never that, but enough to feel it in his body. The strain behind his temples. The way his back stayed too straight, even in the padded chair.

He wasn’t tired, not really.

He was trying too hard not to be seen trying.

He reset the click markers, exhaled, and,

“Don’t you think the third line’s too close?” Kihyun asked suddenly, cutting through the sound like a wire snap. “It’s crowding the phrase.”

Jooheon didn’t look up. “It’s tight, but it sits fine when you soften the bridge. Trust the harmony.”

“I don’t trust the harmony," Kihyun said. “It’s too, clean. No tension.”

“Tension’s in the transition, not the note," Wonho said, gentler. “It lands better if you let it breathe.”

Hyungwon muttered something about metaphors and fragile masculinity that made Minhyuk snort water through his nose.

“I’m just saying," Kihyun huffed, half under his breath, “not every note needs to be fated. Some of them just need to be in key.”

There was a flicker of something in the silence after that. Not sharp, just quiet. Fast.

Wonho’s gaze lingered on Kihyun a second longer than necessary. Shownu shifted, but didn’t speak. Minhyuk looked toward the door like he was thinking about leaving, not seriously, just reflexively.

The moment passed.

But it stuck to Changkyun like static.

Fated.

He didn’t say anything.

The session continued.

The longer they worked, the more Changkyun saw of them, not just in how they moved, but in what they didn’t say.

Shownu rarely spoke first, but everyone listened when he did. He had a stillness that carried weight, and the others adjusted around it without question. When Hyungwon started lagging during a take, it was Shownu who handed him water. When Minhyuk got too loud, Shownu looked at him, just once, and the volume dropped without a word.

Wonho handled the warmth. He offered snacks without comment, fixed collars without being asked, and leaned into people’s space like it was instinct. His hands were steady, always guiding without pressure.

Jooheon balanced the group sonically, but also emotionally. He never raised his voice, but he noticed everything. The way his eyes flicked toward Minhyuk when the teasing hit too hard. The way he passed Hyungwon a phone charger during an argument without pausing the track.

Minhyuk brought the chaos, but Changkyun noticed how it was placed. Strategic. Disarming. He turned rising tension into noise, noise into laughter, and laughed loudest when it worked.

Hyungwon was harder to read. Detached, yes, but aware. Changkyun caught his eyes once during a longer render buffer, and Hyungwon just tilted his head slightly. Like he was cataloging. Like he’d already made his decision.

Kihyun, well. Kihyun was sharpness incarnate. Not cruel. Not cold. Just pointed. He didn’t waste attention, and he didn’t hand it out freely. When he offered a note, it landed with finality.

He hadn’t spoken to Changkyun directly since the first ten minutes of the session.

Not that Changkyun needed him to. He wasn’t here for praise. He was here to do the job.

Even if something in him, something low, quiet, not quite nameable, wanted to be noticed.

By the time they wrapped, the session clock had ticked past nine hours.

Changkyun had barely moved from his chair except to check cabling or reroute the monitor feed. His back ached, and his right hand kept clenching and unclenching without permission. He’d run on less before. He’d run on worse. But the room’s rhythm was exhausting in a different way.

It wasn’t the work. It was the watching.

Holding himself at a careful angle, never too visible, never too eager. Listening without inserting. Noticing everything and saying nothing.

It was what he was good at.

Still, when Jooheon clicked the final marker closed and leaned back with a groan, Changkyun’s shoulders dropped without conscious permission.

“That’s a wrap," Jooheon said, and for the first time all day, he sounded almost satisfied.

Shownu stood, rotating one shoulder. “We’ll run playback with the execs tomorrow.”

“We’re still tweaking the bridge," Kihyun pointed out.

“They can tweak it after we sleep," Wonho muttered.

“I can’t believe I lived through that harmony war," Minhyuk sighed, lying fully horizontal across the couch. “Please tell me someone’s ordering dinner.”

“We just finished a nine-hour session and your first thought is food?” Hyungwon asked.

“That wasn’t my first thought," Minhyuk said. “It was just the loudest.”

Someone laughed. Wonho, maybe.

The session room shifted. Not completely, but something softened. The tension in the air cracked just enough to let in a little warmth.

Jooheon unplugged his hard drive and nodded toward Changkyun. “You’re good, by the way. Fast hands.”

“Thanks," Changkyun said quietly, checking his levels one last time. “I’ll clean the session folders tonight. Prep for comp work.”

Wonho stretched and gave him a real smile this time, small but direct. “We’ll see you tomorrow, right? For the playback meeting?”

“Yes," Changkyun said. “Same time?”

“Yeah," Shownu confirmed. “You did good.”

It was the most anyone had said to him all day in full sentences. He didn’t know what to do with it.

One by one, the members began moving toward the door, grabbing coats, slinging bags over shoulders, bumping shoulders as they went.

Minhyuk passed first, humming something tuneless under his breath, and reached out without hesitation. Changkyun stood quickly and shook his hand, brief, warm, easy.

Hyungwon followed, hands in his sleeves, face unreadable. He didn’t say anything, just held his hand out lazily. The shake was light. Almost indifferent.

Wonho’s grip was firm, grounding. He squeezed just slightly before letting go.

Jooheon’s was shorter. A nod paired with it. No flourish.

Shownu offered his hand last before Kihyun, pausing just long enough to meet Changkyun’s eyes. There was something measured there. Something like approval.

And then—

Kihyun.

He’d been quiet during the wind-down. No critiques. No last-minute adjustments. He moved slowly, bag over one shoulder, unreadable in that way that didn’t feel intentional, just… closed.

He stopped in front of Changkyun.

For a moment, nothing.

Then he reached out.

Changkyun took his hand.

The contact was light. Just palm to palm. Just skin.

And then—

Stillness.

His breath caught.

The sound in the room dropped out, not gone, not silent, just beneath him.

A pulse. A heat that wasn’t heat. A sharpness, not pain, but clarity.

And then—

He knew.

Not how. Not why. Just—

Knew.

Soulmate.

The word landed like a skipped heartbeat.

Kihyun blinked. Let go.

Said nothing.

Turned and walked out.

The door shut behind them with a soft click.

Changkyun stood still. Hand open. Chest tight. Eyes wide.

And then, slowly, carefully, he closed his fingers into a fist.

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut.

The silence left behind wasn’t empty. It was full. Dense with everything that had just happened and everything that hadn’t.

Changkyun stared at his hand.

It looked the same. Still his hand. Still the same faint callus at the base of his middle finger from too many nights adjusting mic arms. But it felt like it had weight now. Like something had sunk into it. Settled. Claimed it.

Not pain. Not heat. Just… stillness. A quiet that started in his palm and moved inward, like someone had reached into his chest and pressed pause on whatever part of him was always clenching.

He blinked slowly.

Then curled his fingers into a loose fist.

He knew what this was.

Soulmate.

The word didn’t feel fragile. It didn’t shake. It sat still in the center of his body. Solid. Real.

His heart started to beat again, faster now, but not panicked. Excited. He exhaled, breath catching a little at the end.

He had a soulmate.

He had a soulmate.

It had happened. Just like that. A touch. A look. The kind of thing you don’t even register at first because it feels too simple, too soft, too fast to be real. But he knew.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his thigh, trying to hold the shape of the moment in place.

Kihyun hadn’t reacted. Not really. Just turned. Walked out.

But maybe he didn’t feel it the same way.

Some people didn’t.

Some soulbonds activated unevenly, quiet on one side, overwhelming on the other. Or delayed. Or resisted. Changkyun had read enough, heard enough, hoped enough to know it didn’t have to land like a movie scene.

It could be quiet. Unspoken. Lingering.

Maybe Kihyun was just… confused. Or cautious. He had to have felt something. Even if it wasn’t clear yet. Even if it didn’t make sense right away.

Kihyun didn’t seem like someone who rushed anything. The kind of person who’d process, privately, before saying a word. Control first. Reaction second. That tracked.

Changkyun laughed once, quiet and sharp, and rubbed his face.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew what most people thought of soulmates, especially bonded packs, especially Doms with power and position. But that didn’t change what this meant.

This meant,

No more Dynamic Center appointments. No more filling out forms with his designation in a checkbox and pretending the term “sub” didn’t make someone across the desk raise an eyebrow.

No more sterile waiting rooms and scheduled vulnerability. No more lying on a mat under fluorescent lights while someone practiced saying good boy like it wasn’t personal.

This was real.

This was his.

A soulmate. A Dom soulmate.

And not just anyone.

Kihyun.

Precise, self-contained, impossible-to-impress Kihyun. Who’d spent the entire session quietly commanding the room without ever raising his voice. Who held tension like a thread wrapped around his fingers, pulled just tight enough to keep everyone else in rhythm.

Kihyun, who hadn’t looked at him twice but had felt like gravity when he did.

Changkyun swallowed. The back of his throat felt dry.

It wasn’t about the idol thing. He didn’t care about fame. He wasn’t starstruck. But watching them, Monsta X, move through that studio had been like watching something living and breathing with six limbs and one heart.

They weren’t just bonded. They were connected.

They didn’t talk about it openly, not today, but it showed in everything. The way Shownu shifted conversations with a look. The way Minhyuk turned arguments into noise so no one else had to break. The way Wonho handed out touch like oxygen. The way Jooheon carried quiet, invisible weight.

And Kihyun, at the center of it all, tying sharpness into order.

What if they all had soulmates? Maybe not with each other, but maybe.

Maybe Minhyuk and Hyungwon were bonded. They had that bristling edge that looked like resistance but felt like gravity. Maybe Jooheon and Wonho. That kind of closeness didn’t just happen.

What if this was it?

What if Changkyun was the last piece?

He let the thought rise, bright and reckless.

Maybe this was the beginning of something. Something that had already been waiting for him.

The bond didn’t feel demanding. It felt fitting. Like a socket finally taking a plug. Like a sentence finishing itself. Like the breath you didn’t know you were holding until someone hands it back to you.

He closed his hand again, just to feel the warmth still there.

He wanted to tell someone. Not for validation. Just to say it out loud. To hear the shape of the word on his own tongue.

Soulmate.

He smiled, small and secret and stupid.

This was the start of everything.

Changkyun was still sitting there, one hand flat on the console, the other cradling the memory of a touch, when the studio door creaked open again.

He startled slightly. Not guilty, not afraid, just pulled too far inward to register noise until it reached him.

“Hey," Came a familiar voice. “Still breathing?”

Changkyun turned. “Yeah. Just… saving files.”

The head engineer leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. Tall, slope-shouldered, early forties with a radio host’s voice and a permanent expression like he was unimpressed with most things but not disappointed in you, unless you gave him reason.

Jungho or just Boss, depending on how badly they needed something, wasn’t loud, but in the studio world, his name carried weight. He’d worked with everyone. And for some reason, he’d decided to take Changkyun seriously.

Jungho walked in slowly, surveying the scatter of open tracks and empty tea cups.

“They burn the place down?”

“No," Changkyun said, smiling faintly. “They were good.”

“Mm.” Jungho dropped into the rolling chair beside him with a quiet sigh. “Which is studio code for ‘they were intense but professional and I didn’t cry.’”

Changkyun huffed a laugh.

“How long were they here?”

“Just over nine hours.”

Jungho let out a low whistle. “Jesus. I’ve done war with less prep time.”

He turned to Changkyun. “How’d it go? Clean session?”

Changkyun nodded, eyes still distant. “They were good. Intense, but good.”

“That’s them.” Jungho stretched, cracking a shoulder. “They move like a single organism when they’re locked in. You just have to stay out of their way.”

Changkyun didn’t answer right away.

Jungho narrowed his eyes slightly. “Something happened.”

Changkyun opened his mouth. Then closed it.

Jungho didn’t push. Just waited.

“I think I bonded," Changkyun said softly. “Soulbonded.”

That got a blink. Just one. Jungho wasn’t easily surprised, but he didn’t shrug this off either.

“With one of them?”

Changkyun nodded.

A slow beat passed.

“Shit," Jungho muttered.

“Yeah.”

“Do they know?”

“I don’t think so.” A pause. “Or… maybe he does. It’s hard to tell.”

Jungho leaned back in the chair, watching him closely now. “How do you feel about it?”

Changkyun let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest for years.

“I feel…” He paused. Tried again. “It’s like… the second it happened, something in me stopped bracing. Like I didn’t even realize I was holding on until the tension left.”

Jungho nodded. Quiet. Not judging.

“It felt like finally being allowed to breathe," Changkyun continued. “Like, I’ve been managing everything, my drop cycles, my regulation, all of it, for so long. The Dynamic Center helps, sure, but it’s just maintenance, you know? Scheduled grounding, controlled vulnerability. But this…”

He swallowed. “This felt like belonging. Real, instinct-deep… safe.”

Jungho scratched the back of his neck. “You’re not wrong. Bonds can do that. Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

Jungho didn’t answer right away. He glanced at the console, then back at Changkyun. “Look, I’m not here to ruin your buzz, kid. It’s a hell of a thing, finding your bond. Especially with someone who might actually be a good match for you.”

“Might?”

Jungho smirked. “Let’s just say… they’re complicated.”

Changkyun tilted his head. “You’ve worked with them before?”

“A few times, yeah. Back when they were still figuring each other out.” Jungho leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It’s a strong pack. Tight. They self-regulate better than most I’ve seen. But that strength comes with… resistance.”

“Resistance?”

“To change," Jungho said simply. “To outsiders. To anything that feels like it might knock the balance off.”

Changkyun nodded slowly. He could see that. Feel it, even. The rhythm they moved in, closed-circuit. Every member had a role. An orbit.

Jungho stretched again, exhaling through his nose. “Still. They’ve got a good thing going. Shownu holds the center. Quiet dom type. Wonho’s the emotional core, even if he plays it casual. Minhyuk’s chaos, switch, definitely, but he's sharp. Knows how to throw energy where it’s needed. Hyungwon’s a sub, but don’t let that fool you, he's the slow burn kind. Needs attention like air but only when he decides he deserves it. Jooheon’s a sub too. Carries things he won’t name. And Kihyun—"

He stopped himself.

“Kihyun?”

Jungho met his gaze. “Kihyun’s the kind of dom who needs control to breathe. If the bond hit him, he’s probably still trying to file it under unacceptable emotional variables.”

That made Changkyun laugh, unexpectedly. “That sounds… right.”

“He’s not a bad guy," Jungho added. “Just, rigid. Takes a while to process things he didn’t plan for.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment. Then:

“You’re not thinking this is going to fix everything, are you?”

Changkyun shook his head. “No. I just… I’ve wanted this. For so long. Not just a bond. This. A place. A pack.”

“I know.”

Jungho’s face softened.

“Go home," Jungho said, standing and stretching with a wince. “You’ve got more of them tomorrow.”

Changkyun blinked up at him like he’d forgotten what time was. He glanced at the clock, almost midnight.

“Right," He said, gathering his things. “Playback meeting. Ten a.m.?”

“Sharp," Jungho said, moving toward the door. “And eat something that isn’t studio coffee.”

“I make no promises.”

“Kid," Jungho said, turning halfway. “You look like someone kicked your serotonin into overdrive. Enjoy it. Just don’t forget to sleep.”

Changkyun gave a quick nod and ducked his head to hide the smile that wouldn’t stop curling up behind his teeth.

The train home was mostly empty. He stood the whole way, one hand on the metal rail, barely feeling the sway of the car beneath him. His mind wouldn’t settle. He replayed the moment over and over, Kihyun’s hand, the weightless silence that followed, the deep knowing still humming under his skin.

It was like a new frequency had opened inside him. He couldn’t hear it yet, not fully. But it was there.

His apartment greeted him with its usual stale air and peeling plaster. The hallway light flickered if you looked at it wrong. The bathroom sink never stopped dripping. And the radiator clicked like it was chewing on its own teeth.

But he barely noticed.

He set his keys down on the chipped windowsill and peeled out of his hoodie, letting it drop onto the one chair that didn’t wobble. The mattress creaked when he sat. Thin. Springs bruising through. A few hours ago, it might have felt like the full weight of his life pressing down.

Now it just felt like a placeholder.

Because he wouldn’t be here forever.

The bond changed things.

He didn’t need to rush it, he knew that, but eventually, he’d be somewhere else. Somewhere with them. A shared space. Real warmth. Not just blankets and lightbulbs, but people who regulated each other in the dark.

He lay back against the pillow, closed his eyes, and let himself feel it, unfiltered and quiet and huge.

Tomorrow, he thought.

Tomorrow, things would begin.

The studio was already humming when he arrived.

Ten minutes early. Just enough time to check levels and make sure the monitors hadn’t glitched overnight. Jungho was in a meeting with someone from corporate. Changkyun kept his head down, grateful for the solitude.

Then the door opened, and the shift was instant.

They filed in like they had the day before: casual, efficient, orbiting around each other in a pattern that never quite repeated but never broke.

Shownu nodded in greeting. Minhyuk yawned loudly and dropped onto the couch like it owed him rent. Hyungwon followed with his hoodie up, sunglasses perched uselessly in his hair. Wonho offered a soft “Morning," then unzipped his bag and started plugging things in. Jooheon passed him with a polite nod, no smile, no real pause.

Kihyun came in last.

He didn’t look at Changkyun at all.

Changkyun kept himself busy with the console, fingers moving over controls that didn’t need adjusting. He risked a glance, just a glance, hoping for—

Nothing.

He tried again later. Subtle things.

When Minhyuk made a joke about the conference room coffee tasting like regret, Changkyun offered a quiet laugh. No one responded.

When he held open the door to the sound booth, Hyungwon stepped through without a word. Kihyun brushed past a moment later, no eye contact, no pause.

By mid-afternoon, the ache had started to grow.

Not sharp. Not yet. Just tight.

A wrong note held too long.

During a short break, he tried again.

Kihyun was standing near the window, scrolling something on his phone. Alone.

Changkyun approached, slow. Not close enough to crowd, just enough to open a channel.

“Hey," He said, voice quiet. “Just wanted to check in. About yesterday—"

Kihyun looked up. His eyes flicked over him once, unreadable.

Then back to his phone.

“I don’t have time for this.”

The words landed like frost.

He didn’t even sound angry. Just… distant. Cold enough to end the conversation without ever starting it.

Changkyun stood there for a beat too long, unsure what to do with his hands.

Then stepped back.

He spent the rest of the meeting focused entirely on the screen.

He didn’t speak unless asked.

When it wrapped, Shownu glanced over. “We’re heading back to the dorm. Might go over some of the alt mixes.”

“Oh," Changkyun said. “You want me to send—"

“Come by," Wonho said. “We’ll run it in the common room.”

Changkyun’s heart lifted so fast it almost startled him.

“Yeah," He said, nodding quickly. “Of course. I can do that.”

They were still figuring it out. That’s what this was.

Kihyun must have told them. Or maybe the bond had spread subtly, instinctually, sometimes it happened that way. Pack bonds rippled outward. It made sense.

They weren’t ignoring him.

They were adjusting.

And they wanted him to come over.

It meant something.

It had to.

The dorm was warmer than he expected.

Not the temperature, though the air carried the low, steady hum of a running heater, but the feeling of it. Like the whole apartment had been exhaling in sync for hours, and he was just now stepping into the breath.

He’d barely taken his shoes off when Minhyuk waved him in. “Get in here, newbie. Wonho ordered enough food to feed three other idol groups.”

“You said order extra," Wonho called from the living room, where he was unpacking takeout containers across a low table already cluttered with paper cups, open laptop chargers, and one sock that had clearly lost its battle with the washing machine.

“I said reasonable extra!” Minhyuk shouted, flopping backward onto the floor with the drama of someone fainting in a play.

“Which is why I ignored you," Wonho replied calmly, passing a sealed container to Jooheon, who accepted it with a grunt and a grateful nod.

Changkyun stepped into the space like he was afraid to make too much noise. His eyes flicked over everything, cushions with indents, tangled phone cords, the faint scent of cologne and heat and shared lives. This wasn’t a dorm. It was a den.

A pack lived here.

Hyungwon was curled on the far end of the couch, legs folded like a cat, scrolling absently on his phone with his hood up. Shownu moved around the space in quiet arcs, collecting water bottles, closing drawers. He didn’t raise his voice, but the others shifted around him like orbit. Calm and constant.

Minhyuk kicked at Hyungwon’s foot. “If you sleep through dinner again, I’m eating your rice.”

“You eat my rice and I’m putting hot sauce in your moisturizer," Hyungwon murmured.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You underestimate my pettiness.”

Changkyun smiled before he could stop himself.

The banter wasn’t biting. It was affectionate, loose and practiced and entirely unguarded. Everyone moved with that strange, easy choreography again. No tension. Just tension release. Like their bodies knew where to land without thinking.

He sat cross-legged near the edge of the table, careful not to take up too much space. When Shownu passed him a bowl without comment, he nodded in thanks. When Jooheon offered him chopsticks, he accepted them with both hands.

The conversation stayed light, tour prep, song order, fan reactions. But they asked for his input, too.

“We might re-track ‘Apex’” Jooheon said, mouth full. “It’s missing something at the bridge.”

“Layered harmony could fill it out," Changkyun offered. “Push a second build under the lead vocal instead of widening the synth.”

Wonho looked up. “That could work. Keeps the lead clean without losing lift.”

“Yeah," Minhyuk said, gesturing with his spoon. “Less crash, more climb.”

Changkyun’s heart fluttered.

He bit back a smile and focused on his food, trying not to look too thrilled. But his chest was buzzing, full of something warm and wild and impossible to name.

They were all so open with each other. Casual in the way only bonded packs could be, like every limb in the room belonged to the same body.

Changkyun barely touched his food. He didn’t need to eat.

He was full on the feeling.

Even if they weren’t touching him, they weren’t pushing him away.

He laughed when Minhyuk started arguing with Hyungwon over playlist order, offered an idea when Jooheon asked how best to mix a layered harmony, and smiled so hard it hurt when Wonho nudged a can of cider toward him with two fingers and said, “Drink something, you look like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin.”

They noticed him.

Not just professionally.

They noticed him.

Across the room, Hyungwon shifted, dragging his foot into Minhyuk’s lap like it belonged there. Minhyuk swatted at it once, then started massaging it without comment.

Jooheon had migrated to the floor beside Shownu and was now half-curled at his side, head tipped against his thigh. Shownu didn’t acknowledge it, just rested a hand lightly on his shoulder, thumb moving in slow circles against the fabric of his hoodie.

Wonho was refilling drinks, brushing crumbs off Kihyun’s laptop without being asked.

And Kihyun, Kihyun was the only one still holding distance. He sat at the end of the table, posture straight, expression calm. He hadn’t spoken much, but he didn’t look annoyed. Just… thoughtful.

Changkyun watched it all with wide, hungry eyes.

This wasn’t just a group. This was a pack. A system.

He could see their dynamics now. In every nudge, every unspoken shift.

Minhyuk bratted like he wanted to be caught. Jooheon dropped hard and fast when he was tired. Hyungwon provoked until someone put hands on him, gently, firmly, with weight.

And Shownu, Wonho, Kihyun, they managed it all like clockwork.

And Changkyun—

God. He ached for it.

Not just the physical part. The structure. The regulation. The way care wasn’t a performance, it was part of the language.

He could be part of this. The bond was real. It had to mean something.

He was good at reading people. Reading rooms. Every line of body language here told him he was close.

They were keeping it professional, sure, but it wasn’t just about work anymore. This was how packs did it. Slow integration. Surface-level comfort before deeper trust. They were letting him in, bit by bit, testing the rhythm. Getting him used to how they moved together.

Every time they asked for his input, every subtle glance in his direction, it wasn’t accidental. It was intentional.

After dinner, Minhyuk stretched like a cat and rolled directly onto Hyungwon’s chest. “If you die of food poisoning, it’s your own fault.”

“I’m dying of you," Hyungwon replied, adjusting the blanket around both of them without opening his eyes.

Wonho was humming quietly, syncing something to his phone. Jooheon shifted into Shownu’s side like a magnet finally giving in to its pull. Shownu reached over and adjusted the blanket without looking up.

Changkyun’s chest ached with want.

He’d never seen anything so gentle.

The meal drifted to an end. The laughter dulled into soft murmurs. At some point, someone turned the music down.

Then Kihyun stood.

“We need to talk.”

The room stilled.

Minhyuk blinked. Jooheon sat up slightly. Hyungwon sighed and pulled his hood farther over his eyes, like he didn’t want to deal with whatever was coming.

Kihyun didn’t look at anyone but Changkyun.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t frown. He just… spoke.

“We know about the soulbond.”

The words dropped into the room like a pin in water, no splash, but everything rippled.

Changkyun’s heart soared.

They knew.

Of course they knew.

And now—

Kihyun’s gaze didn’t shift. His tone didn’t soften.

“We’re not interested.”

The silence that followed wasn’t shocked.

It was settled.

Like they’d already said it a hundred times without words.

And this was just the first time Changkyun was hearing it out loud.

Chapter Text

No one moved at first.

Changkyun sat where he was, back straight, legs folded neatly beneath him, hands resting against his knees like he was still catching up to the conversation. But this, this was the conversation he’d been waiting for, wasn’t it?

The one where they acknowledged what he already knew. The one where it all began to make sense.

Then Shownu sighed. It wasn’t harsh or annoyed, just long. Tired. Like he was stepping into something he’d rather not touch.

“We wanted to talk about the bond,” he said gently.

Changkyun nodded. Just once. He didn’t trust his voice yet. Didn’t trust the thrum in his chest that was already rising with cautious hope.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,”  Wonho added. His voice was soft. Too soft. “We know this wasn’t something you asked for.”

That should have been a comfort.

It wasn’t.

“We’ve all felt it now,”  Jooheon said. “Or, well, he has.” His eyes flicked briefly toward Kihyun, then back down. “It’s real.”

He paused. His throat worked once.

“But that doesn’t mean we want it.”

Something in Changkyun’s stomach shifted sideways.

The words didn’t land, they caught. Snagged on something inside him. They felt wrong. Bent at the edges. Mistranslated from a language he hadn’t studied.

“We’re not angry,” Minhyuk said, quieter than usual. “It’s just… you’ve got this look in your eyes.”

“What look?” Changkyun asked with that same careful expression.

“Like you thinks this is going to fix something,” Minhyuk murmured, not unkind. “Like he thinks this bond is the beginning of a new story, not a problem we have to solve.”

Wonho’s head dipped. He didn’t argue.

“It’s not personal," Jooheon added. “But it feels like you showed up expecting something. Like fate owes you a seat at the table.”

Changkyun shook his head. It was small. A denial that barely reached his shoulders.

“No, no, I didn’t—"

“You don’t have to explain," Shownu said quickly. “We get it. You’re young. You believe in it.”

That was the part that landed.

Young.

You believe in it.

Like belief was something fragile. Something embarrassing. Like hope was a secondhand shirt he hadn’t realized didn’t fit anymore.

“We’re not saying the bond isn’t real," Hyungwon said, lazily flipping over a couch cushion like he was bored. “Just that real doesn’t mean welcome.”

Wonho winced. “Don’t say it like that.”

“What? It’s true," Hyungwon said, shrugging. “He’s not a bad person. He’s just… not built for this. You bring someone like him in, everything shifts. It has to.”

They weren’t angry.

That was what made it worse.

They weren’t yelling. No one was throwing things or storming out. No one even raised their voice.

But every sentence cracked something open in him. Not sharply. Just… slowly.

They weren’t rejecting him because he’d done something wrong. They were rejecting him because they pitied him.

Because they looked at him and saw someone who didn’t understand how the world really worked.

Someone who thought soulmates meant something.

And Kihyun—

Kihyun hadn’t spoken. Not once.

He sat on the arm of the couch, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes on the floor.

Changkyun let himself look at him. Just once.

And what he saw wasn’t anger. It wasn’t fear.

It was distance. Cold and clinical.

Like Kihyun couldn’t even look at him without losing something he wasn’t willing to give.

It wasn’t the silence that broke him.

It was how normal everything still felt.

The couch creaked when someone shifted. A can hissed as Minhyuk opened another drink. The room was warm, cluttered, lived-in. The lights were soft.

And they were looking at him like none of it mattered.

Like the bond didn’t matter.

Like he didn’t.

Changkyun swallowed. His voice was slow to find him, thick at the edges.

“Then why did you invite me here?”

They all looked up.

Wonho’s expression softened. “Because we thought—"

“No," Changkyun said, louder than he meant to. “If you were just going to tell me this, why, why bring me here at all? Why talk to me? Why, act like you were letting me in?”

He wasn’t yelling. Not really.

But the hurt had started to show through the cracks in his chest, and he didn’t know how to hold it in.

“We weren’t trying to be cruel," Shownu said. Calm. Steady. Final.

“But you knew," Changkyun said, voice breaking slightly. “You knew when I walked in. You knew during dinner. You’ve known.”

No one argued.

Minhyuk looked away.

Jooheon crossed his arms, jaw set.

“I’m not trying to force anything," Changkyun said. “I know this isn’t ideal. I know I’m not, you didn’t choose this. But I didn’t either. So why does it feel like I’m being punished for it?”

Wonho sighed, like the weight of it was settling behind his ribs.

“We’re not punishing you," he said. “We’re just choosing not to change everything we’ve built.”

“But I never asked you to," Changkyun whispered.

“That’s the problem," Hyungwon said. “You don’t have to ask. The bond asks for you.”

No one spoke after that.

Changkyun’s pulse was thunder in his ears.

They didn’t hate him.

That would have been easier.

They just… didn’t want him.

“Is it me?” he asked, voice almost too quiet. “Did I… do something wrong?”

No one answered right away.

The silence pressed at his ribs.

“I’m not trying to cause anything. I didn’t ask for this either, I swear. I know how it looks. But I’ve been alone for a long time. I’ve done everything right. I’ve followed the protocols. I go to the Center every two weeks. I regulate. I don’t—"

He stopped. Swallowed. His throat burned.

“I don’t ask for much.”

Still, no one moved.

“I wasn’t trying to take anything from you," he whispered. “I just thought… maybe this was finally it.”

Wonho’s expression flickered. But he didn’t speak.

“You don’t know what it’s like," Changkyun said. “To go to a stranger in a quiet room and pretend that it helps. To get back on the train afterward like it was just another appointment. To sit in your apartment and tell yourself that you’re fine, even when your body knows you’re not.”

His voice cracked. But he didn’t stop.

“I’ve been waiting. For years. Just to belong somewhere.”

Kihyun shifted.

It was barely a motion. But Changkyun saw it.

“I didn’t think it would be you," he said, looking at him. “But the second it happened, it felt… right. It felt like breathing, finally. Like I didn’t have to hold myself so tightly anymore.”

He stepped forward, just slightly.

“I wasn’t going to demand anything. I just wanted a chance. Just a little space to try. I’m not here to break anything," he said into the silence. “I just, don’t know what else to do anymore.”

Jooheon stood. His eyes were dark, sharp with something too big to name.

“You think you’re the only one who’s tired?” he asked. “You think we haven’t given enough already?”

Changkyun flinched like he’d been struck.

“I didn’t mean—"

Jooheon’s voice was shaking now, not with rage, but grief. “You look at us like this is a gift. Like we’re something you get to open. But we’re barely holding together some days. You don’t even see it.”

“I do see it," Changkyun said, quietly. “That’s why I wanted to be here.”

“You don’t belong here," Jooheon said. “You never did.”

And this time, no one corrected him.

Changkyun didn’t remember standing. He didn’t remember the moment when sitting still stopped being possible, when the silence stretched so tight across his chest that he had to move or break.

“Is it me?” he asked, voice thin, shaking. “Did I do something wrong?”

No one answered.

He looked at Wonho, then Shownu. Then finally, stupidly, helplessly, at Kihyun.

Still nothing.

He kept going anyway. What else was there?

“I’m not trying to take anything from you. I didn’t come here thinking I’d… replace anyone. I didn’t even expect this. But I felt it. The bond. I know it was real.”

Jooheon exhaled hard through his nose. “We all felt it.”

“Then why are you acting like it means nothing?”

“Because it doesn’t mean enough," Minhyuk snapped. “Not to us.”

“That’s not how soulbonds work—"

Minhyuk’s mouth twisted into something cruel. “Oh? Did you get your certification in pack psychology at twenty-three?”

“That’s enough," Wonho muttered.

“No," Jooheon barked, stepping forward. “Let him hear it. He wants to act like we owe him something, like fate handed him a free pass into our lives, and he doesn’t get why we’re not clapping for him.”

Changkyun flinched. “I’m not—"

“You are," Jooheon said. “You’re clinging to it like it’s the only thing you’ve got. And that’s not our problem.”

“I’ve been alone for years," Changkyun said. “I’ve done everything I was supposed to do. Center check-ins. Self-regulation. I’ve waited, and waited, and told myself maybe one day, and now that it’s finally here—"

“It’s not yours," Minhyuk said. “That’s what you don’t get. The bond happened. Sure. But that doesn’t mean we want you.”

Something in Changkyun’s face faltered.

Wonho looked down.

Even Shownu’s posture wavered.

But no one interrupted.

“I didn’t think it would be Kihyun," Changkyun said, voice softer now, fraying at the edges. “But when it happened, when it clicked, I thought… maybe this was it. Maybe I could finally stop waiting.”

Kihyun stood.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t even look at him.

Just walked out of the room and shut the door.

The click felt like a slam.

Jooheon let out a sharp breath and turned his back. “Jesus.”

Changkyun swallowed hard. “I didn’t ask for this. But I want to try. I’m not here to ruin anything.”

“You don’t have to," Jooheon said. “Just existing like this is enough.”

That one landed like a slap.

“You want to make this about us being heartless?” he went on. “Fine. But we’ve done this before. We let someone in, and it damn near broke everything. You think we’re gonna risk that again for a bond we didn’t even want?”

“You don’t get it," Changkyun said. “You don’t know what it’s like. To live on the outside and have the door finally open, just a little, and then watch someone slam it shut again.”

“No," Jooheon said. “You don’t get it. Because the door? Was never open.”

The silence that followed wasn't still. It pulsed, low and unstable, the kind of quiet that only exists after something breaks.

Minhyuk left. No words. No glance. Just the soft thud of his footsteps against the floor, followed by the quiet click of his door shutting behind him.

Hyungwon pushed off the couch with a sigh, muttering something about checking on Kihyun as he passed by. He didn’t wait for anyone to respond.

Jooheon lingered longer. Just long enough to look like he might say something else, something final, or cutting, or maybe even kind, but in the end, he just shook his head and walked away, his shoulders tight with something unsaid.

Wonho stood in the corner of the room, still holding a half-full cup. His fingers tapped against it absently, like he couldn’t decide whether to set it down or grip it tighter. When he looked at Changkyun, his expression was unreadable, not cruel, not cold. Just... tired. There was something soft in his eyes. Maybe pity. Maybe regret. But he didn’t speak either.

He walked out, leaving the room hollow in his wake.

Only Shownu remained.

The space felt too wide now, the air too thin. Changkyun stood there, motionless, arms hanging heavy at his sides. He could feel the pressure building behind his eyes, the warning tingle of tears that hadn’t yet fallen. His throat tightened. He tried to swallow it back down.

It didn’t work.

He pressed the heel of his palm to one eye, hard. If he could just breathe for a second, maybe it would pass. Maybe he could still salvage what little dignity he had left.

Shownu’s voice was quiet when it came. “You don’t have to go right now.”

Changkyun didn’t answer. Didn’t look up.

“Because you’re not okay," Shownu said.

There was no edge to it. No softness, either. Just a calm truth spoken aloud.

Changkyun’s voice scraped raw on the way out. “Why are you being nice to me?”

“I’m not being nice," Shownu replied. “I’m just not going to lie about what I see.”

“I’m fine," Changkyun said quickly. Too quickly. His voice cracked halfway through.

“Then sit down. Rest.”

“I’m leaving.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I can’t stay.”

That landed like a closing door.

Shownu nodded once. He didn’t argue. Didn’t block his way. Just watched, quiet and unmoving, as Changkyun bent to grab his bag with shaking hands and slung it over his shoulder like armor.

He didn’t say goodbye.

And Changkyun didn’t look back.

The train ride was fluorescent and cold.

Changkyun stood near the door, one hand gripping the pole beside him. The movement of the car rocked him slightly with every stop, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were static. His chest ached with something dull and endless.

He tried to replay the conversation in his head, what he said, what they didn’t, but everything blurred. His memories felt like someone else’s life, half-muted and poorly lit.

At some point, he realized he was gripping the metal bar too tightly. He let go and curled his hands into fists.

By the time he reached his station, his face was dry again.

No one cried on a Wednesday night train.

He took the stairs up to street level one at a time. His legs ached with exhaustion he didn’t remember earning. The block was dark when he turned onto his street, just the glow of a few windows, the buzz of a flickering light over the entryway.

His apartment door came into view.

So did the envelope.

Taped just below the knob, bright white against the dull brown of the wood.

He froze.

The paper fluttered slightly in the draft of the stairwell, as if it knew it was being watched.

He pulled it free.

Unfolded it with numb fingers.

NOTICE OF LEASE TERMINATION.

Due to building sale, tenant is required to vacate the unit within 7 days of notice receipt.

No exceptions.

There was no apology. No explanation.

Just seven days.

Just one more place he didn’t belong.

Chapter Text

He texts Jungho before the sun even rises.

hey not feeling great gonna stay home today sorry

No punctuation. No explanation. He stares at the message for longer than necessary, thumb hovering like maybe it’ll say more if he waits. It doesn’t. He presses send.

Jungho replies two minutes later.

Okay. Rest.

That’s it. No questions. No suspicion. Just quiet acknowledgment, which somehow makes it worse. Because now Changkyun has the entire day to do absolutely nothing, and no one’s expecting him anywhere.

He lies on his mattress for another hour. Doesn’t move. Just breathes.

The curtain doesn’t block much light, but he doesn’t shift it. Doesn’t need to see the sky to know it’s clear. Cool spring, good mixing weather. He should be in NeulWave right now, drinking weak coffee and tuning out the buzz of idle banter. He should be building something that sounds like more than he feels.

Instead, he’s here. In a room that smells faintly of laundry soap and cheap vinyl flooring. Alone.

The silence makes his ears ring.

Eventually, he gets up and pulls his laptop onto his legs. It’s fully charged, one of the only things in his life that is.

He opens the browser, types in “Seoul one-room lease listings," and clicks enter.

The first ad that pops up shows a bright white box of a room, barely larger than his own. No window. The bathroom is separated from the sink by a folding partition that looks like it might fall over if you breathe too hard.

The monthly rent is two hundred thousand won more than he can afford.

The second listing is worse. The third doesn’t allow “non-married cohabitation.” The fourth requires key money equal to his entire savings account and the return of his soul.

He clicks through twelve more. A headache starts behind his eyes, but he keeps going. Half of them are scams. A quarter have shower heads installed directly above the toilet. All of them have rent listed “negotiable," Which in real estate terms means “prepare to bleed.”

By the time he hits listing thirty, he’s slumped so low his spine might snap. His stomach grumbles. He ignores it.

There’s a part of him, small, stubborn, deeply ashamed, that clicks open another tab. Types in “Gwangju KTX schedule.” The site loads slow. He stares at it anyway.

Home is a three-hour train ride away. Four, if you hit bad connections. His mom still messages every other Sunday. His old room probably still has the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. He could leave. Just pack up and go. Reset.

The thought makes his throat tighten.

Because Gwangju is warm, but it’s not forward. It’s not producing credits and studio nights and unspoken praise from A&R execs who barely remember your name but remember your mixes. It’s not a label guy nodding quietly when you save a session no one else could crack. It’s not a chance.

And Monsta X, God, Monsta X.

He could have had something with them. He still might. Maybe. Not the bond, but the work. The work was real. He’d done good work. That mattered.

His hands hover over the keys for a long time.

In one tab: train tickets.

In the other: a color-coded session schedule for Studio C, still loading.

He closes the laptop without choosing.

Outside, the day had crept past noon without asking permission. His apartment was too quiet, and his limbs were too heavy. He didn’t remember standing. He just remembered the next thing: swiping his Center card at the front desk and blinking at the receptionist when she asked if he’d like a cup of tea while he waited.

He didn’t say yes. But he didn’t say no, either.

The Dynamic Center always smelled the same, like eucalyptus and sterilized calm. He’d started coming here during university. Back when he first recognized the hollow ache in his chest for what it was: dynamic dysregulation. Submission without a Dom. Full-sub needs with no outlet. Touch-hungry. Attention-starved. Holding his own leash because no one else would.

He checked in at the tablet. Waited in silence.

When they called his name, he followed a staffer down the softly carpeted hallway, past the regulation rooms with one-way glass. He was assigned to 3A today. One of the small ones. Low couch. Folded blanket. Wall panel with gentle gradient lighting and climate controls.

Inside, a regulation Dom waited. Mid-thirties. Plain clothes. Warm eyes that didn’t quite reach.

He didn’t introduce himself, most of them didn’t, but he gestured for Changkyun to sit, and started with a quiet, “We’ll run a baseline first. Sound okay?”

Changkyun nodded.

Vitals were taken, pulse, stress markers, hydration. A soft band clipped to the inside of his wrist read his dynamic levels in real time. It blinked yellow.

“Two-point-three below stable," the Dom said, tapping it. “We’ll ease in slow.”

Changkyun didn’t respond.

The Dom didn’t push.

He sat across from him and let the room settle. Waited until the silence turned pliable.

“Breathe in through your nose for four. Out for six.”

Changkyun obeyed.

His limbs already knew the pattern. This was muscle memory. Not comfort.

The Dom’s voice was gentle but firm. Praise laced into every command like thread pulled through fabric.

“That’s good. You’re doing well. Just like that.”

Changkyun dropped his gaze to the floor. Didn’t blink.

He could feel the beginning of it, the float. The soft weightlessness that came when someone else held the framework of your body for you. A subtle shift. A small give. The beginnings of subspace.

Another instruction: “Shoulders down. That’s it.”

Another praise: “Very good. You respond beautifully.”

And maybe he did.

But it tasted bitter in his throat.

This wasn’t what it was supposed to be. This wasn’t the quiet burn of being wanted. It wasn’t someone learning his tells, his triggers, his patterns. It wasn’t someone choosing him.

It was a schedule. A system. A stranger who said all the right things because they had to.

He obeyed anyway.

By the time he was eased down to the mat, he was pliant. Blinking slow. Body humming with the mechanical afterglow of borrowed regulation.

The Dom crouched beside him. “You’re okay," He said. “I’ve got you.”

Changkyun’s chest tensed.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t thank him.

Because nothing about this was his.

It just was.

After twenty-three minutes, the Dom helped him sit upright. Offered a bottle of water and a folded towel.

“You’re regulating well," He said. “But it’s not holding as long.”

Changkyun shrugged.

“You could request an extension," the Dom offered. “Or ask for a bonded contact. You’re eligible.”

“No," Changkyun said. “This is fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m used to it.”

That was the truth.

He’d gotten used to a lot of things.

The studio lights were already on when Changkyun arrived the next morning.

He hovered just outside the door to NeulWave for a moment, pressing his fingertips to the cool edge of the frame. His head was clear in the clinical sense, regulated, steady, but his limbs still felt distant, like they’d gotten used to being handled by someone else.

He’d barely slept. Three hours, maybe four. His dreams had been noise and pressure, train cars passing too fast, the taste of something sweet turning metallic.

He stepped inside quietly, like maybe the air would be different. Like maybe the space would feel clean again.

It didn’t.

Jungho was hunched over the console, sleeves pushed to his elbows, mid-sip of what looked like a very bad vending machine latte. He didn’t look up right away.

“Hey," Changkyun said.

Jungho made a noise of acknowledgment. “Didn’t think I’d see you today.”

“Didn’t think I’d come," Changkyun admitted, dropping his bag by the second chair.

Jungho nodded, still focused on the screen. “That bad?”

He wasn’t asking about the bond.

Changkyun exhaled. “I’m fine.”

They worked in silence for a while.

Jungho didn’t hover, didn’t push. He just filled the room with the kind of energy that asked nothing from you unless you gave it first. That was what made him good at this job, his ability to be present without being loud. To teach without making you feel like a student. Sometimes that was all Changkyun needed. Someone steady.

He was adjusting vocal automation on the second verse when Jungho spoke again, voice easy, like it was just another plugin note.

“You sleep at all last night?”

Changkyun didn’t look up. “Enough.”

“Your version of enough, or human version?”

He smiled faintly. “Mine.”

Jungho grunted. “Figured.”

Another pause.

Then: “You ever go out for dinner? Or is it just microwave stuff and sadness in there?”

That pulled a quiet laugh from him, short, sharp. “Why? You taking me out?”

“Maybe. You ever had actual kimchi jjigae or just the kind that tastes like a hangover?”

“Depends," Changkyun said, deadpan. “Do you count convenience store stew as actual food?”

Jungho winced. “I count that as a cry for help.”

They both smiled, but only one of them meant it.

Jungho leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely. “Look, I’m not trying to pry. But I’ve been around long enough to know the look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says your life’s on fire and you’re still telling people you’re just ‘a little warm.’”

Changkyun tried to deflect with another smile, but it didn’t stick. His eyes dropped to the floor.

“I’m fine," He said.

Jungho let the silence stretch for a few beats. Then he shifted forward.

“Can I ask you something?”

Changkyun nodded, slow.

“Are you okay where you’re living?”

That landed too cleanly. Too close.

He hesitated.

Jungho saw it. He didn’t press. Just waited.

And maybe it was the way he waited, quiet, patient, not expecting the truth but leaving room for it, that made Changkyun finally say it.

“My lease got terminated.”

Jungho’s face didn’t change much, but something settled behind his eyes.

“When?”

“Few days ago.”

“How long do you have?”

“Less than a week.”

Jungho leaned forward, hands clasped. “Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to make it your problem.”

“It’s not a problem," Jungho said, voice low. “It’s just something we’re gonna fix.”

“Jungho—"

“You need to stay in Seoul. You need to stay in the studio. And you need someone to look out for you until you stop trying to shoulder shit you weren’t built to carry alone.”

Changkyun looked away.

It was too much. Too generous. Too fast.

Jungho stood without fanfare and grabbed his phone from the counter.

“I’m calling Starship," He said.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“They’re not gonna—"

“They’re gonna do what I tell them," Jungho said. “Because they need you right now more than you need them.”

Changkyun blinked.

Jungho was already dialing.

It took less than ten minutes.

When he returned, he tossed his phone onto the console and crossed his arms again.

“So," He said. “Here’s the deal.”

Changkyun waited.

“Monsta X hasn’t been syncing with any of the other producers Starship’s tried since their regular left. Too slow, too scattered. But the sessions you’ve touched?” Jungho shook his head, impressed. “Best progress they’ve made under pressure. Cleanest files. Fastest turnaround. It’s only been a few days, and they’re already pushing to lock you in.”

Changkyun’s stomach twisted.

“They want me on the rest of the album?”

Jungho gave him a look. “Starship does. This was their call.”

That landed heavier than expected.

“They’ve already sent over the draft contract for long-term collaboration. But they know you’re about to be without a place to live, and the timeline’s tight.”

“…So what’s the offer?”

“Monsta X ‘s dorm has a spare room. They want you to move in. Temporarily. Just until you find something more permanent.”

Changkyun blinked and then looked away.

“They don’t want me there.”

Jungho didn’t argue. Just sighed. Sat on the edge of the console like he was about to say something and wasn’t sure if he should.

“I know the bond complicates this," He said quietly. “Especially with one of them.”

Changkyun closed his eyes. “Can we not—"

“Okay," Jungho said, hands raised. “We don’t have to. I just… I know this isn’t easy. I know this isn’t the solution you wanted. But it’s the one we’ve got.”

Silence stretched between them.

Jungho stood again, voice lower now. “They don’t have to want you there. But they will hear you. And maybe that’s enough. For now.”

Changkyun nodded.

Because what else could he do?

Chapter Text

The Starship staffer’s knock was too polite for the tension it carried.

Changkyun stood half a step behind her, duffel slung over one shoulder, backpack weighing on the other. He kept his face neutral. Back straight. Nothing in his posture said, I don’t belong here.

He didn’t look at the door.

He could feel it. That low, hum-thick pull behind his ribs. The kind that never fully settled since the bond. The Dynamic Center had taken the edge off, but not the root. There was still that strange tightness in his throat, like submission wanted to rise uninvited, not because he was being dominated, but because his body was asking to be seen. Held. Included.

He ignored it.

The lock clicked.

The door opened.

Six faces waited on the other side.

Or, not waited, greeted. If you could call it that.

Kihyun didn’t meet his eyes. Minhyuk visibly rolled his. Hyungwon didn’t even bother hiding his scowl. Jooheon muttered something under his breath and stepped aside like the air had gone stale.

Wonho was the first to speak. “You’re here.”

It wasn’t welcoming. Just factual.

Changkyun gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

The staffer, Jisoo, he thought, though she hadn’t reintroduced herself, brightened artificially. “We really appreciate your flexibility. I know this isn’t ideal, but we just want everyone comfortable and ready for the next studio round.”

Silence.

Hyungwon arched an eyebrow. “Define ‘comfortable.’”

“Right," Jisoo said quickly. “Let’s get your room sorted, Changkyun-ssi.”

She stepped past the threshold, forcing the rest of the group to shuffle back. Changkyun followed her in, ignoring the way every movement felt like walking into a wall of static. He kept his gaze low. Shoulders steady. He didn’t look for Kihyun again.

The dorm was quiet. Tidy. Lived-in. He could feel the heat of familiarity between the members, the kind of closeness that didn’t have to speak itself aloud. Someone’s shoes were kicked off in the hall without aligning. A half-folded blanket draped over the couch. Shared space. Shared rules.

He was already wrong in the frame.

Jisoo stopped at a door at the far end of the hallway and smiled again. “It’s small, but clean. Spare room. We had the bed frame moved in this morning.”

“Thanks," Changkyun said. His voice didn’t shake.

The room was barely wide enough for a single bed and a plastic shelf. No desk. No closet. One window with the blinds drawn half-mast, broken slat catching the light wrong. It smelled like dust and lemon cleaner.

Jisoo set down the bag she’d carried and turned to him with an encouraging nod. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

From the hallway: a scoff.

Minhyuk’s voice. “How about a better plan.”

“Min," Wonho muttered.

Changkyun didn’t flinch.

Jisoo’s smile tightened at the corners. “Everyone’s just adjusting. No one’s blaming you.”

That was a lie.

He gave her a small nod anyway. “It’s fine.”

She hesitated, maybe debating whether to say more, then stepped back into the hallway.

He stayed still.

“You guys need anything else?” she called.

Jooheon: “Yeah. A new company.”

More laughter than necessary.

Jisoo left with an awkward wave.

The door shut behind her.

Changkyun sat on the edge of the bed and didn’t move for a full minute. His hands were shaking, but not visibly. Just enough that he could feel it in the bones. The backpack was still on his shoulders.

He pulled it off slowly, let it drop beside him, and leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees. His forehead touched his palms.

He wasn’t going to cry.

He was here to work.

He would be the best damn producer they’d ever had. Clean mixes. Flawless sessions. Minimal contact. No drama. They didn’t have to want him. They just had to use him.

The ache behind his eyes throbbed once. Twice. Then settled, a dull weight at the base of his skull.

He told himself it was just the light. Or the stress. Or not enough sleep.

He didn’t think about the bond.

He wasn’t going to.

The first few hours passed in the quiet rhythm of someone refusing to be a problem.

Changkyun unpacked in complete silence, stacking his audio gear neatly along the one clear edge of the wall. He laid out his cables like altar pieces. His laptop went in the far corner, angled just so. When he stood back, the room still looked temporary. Not lived in. But maybe that was for the best.

He kept his door open.

He wasn’t hiding.

By late afternoon, the air in the dorm had shifted. Someone was cooking, garlic, maybe soy paste, and someone else had music playing low from their phone. The hallway smelled like shared routines and sounded like belonging.

Changkyun stayed in his room until he was invited out.

It was Shownu, knocking twice against the frame.

“Dinner.”

Changkyun followed him into the living room, where takeout containers lined the table in an uneven spread. Everyone was already sitting. There were only six seats.

Wonho shifted to make room for a stool.

No one spoke.

The meal unfolded in clatters and half-muttered inside jokes. Hyungwon complained about the photographer from last week’s promo shoot. Minhyuk launched into a story about losing his phone inside his laundry basket. Kihyun corrected him three times before sighing and giving up.

No one asked Changkyun anything.

He ate quietly. Took only one helping. Didn’t reach for seconds.

Halfway through, someone asked what time the studio block started tomorrow. Jooheon answered without looking up. “Ten. Just us and Jungho. Changkyun’ll already be there, probably recalibrating the air.”

The table laughed. Not cruel. Not sharp. Just around him.

Changkyun smiled politely.

He didn’t reply.

Later, after the food was cleared, he retreated back to his room with a half-finished bottle of water and a spreadsheet for tomorrow’s vocal cuts.

The hallway dimmed. The laughter kept going without him.

He tried not to listen. But the walls were thin.

“...just sitting there," Minhyuk’s voice said. “Like a little robot.”

“I don’t think he blinked for thirty minutes," Hyungwon added.

“Does he ever, like, talk?”

“Not unless it’s about compressors.”

Another round of laughter.

Changkyun lowered the brightness on his screen and stared at the grid of audio markers like they could protect him. He wasn’t angry. Not really. Just,

Tired.

The kind of tired that didn’t reach your bones. Just lived under the skin. Quiet. Constant. Unwelcome.

He thought about saying something. About walking into the living room and reminding them he was a person. But what would that fix?

They didn’t want him.

He exhaled through his nose, long and even.

No one had raised their voice at him today. No one had snapped. That counted as a win.

Still, there’d been a moment during dinner when Kihyun had set down his chopsticks a little too hard, and the sound had made Changkyun’s shoulders twitch. Not because he was afraid, but because somewhere inside him, something had pulled tight, ready to drop. Ready to obey.

He’d breathed through it. Clenched his hands under the table until the urge passed.

Just residual regulation. Nothing serious.

He told himself that again as he laid on his side, facing the wall, and waited for the lights in the dorm to go out.

The next morning, Changkyun was the first one awake.

He slipped into the kitchen barefoot, careful not to let the floorboards creak. The only sound was the low hum of the fridge and the buzz of his own headache, slow and dull behind his eyes like a second heartbeat.

He made himself instant coffee and drank it over the sink.

It tasted like burnt water.

He didn’t linger.

By the time the others filtered out of their rooms, one by one, half-dressed and blinking sleep from their eyes, he’d already packed his laptop, printed a backup schedule, and rethreaded the loose cable in the living room that had been catching on the corner of the baseboard.

No one noticed.

Or if they did, no one said anything.

Minhyuk shuffled past him with a yawn and a raised brow. “You sleep in your laptop, or are you just naturally that stiff?”

“Both," Changkyun said, mouth twitching into something that looked like a smile.

Minhyuk didn’t laugh. Just rolled his eyes and kept walking.

At the studio, it got worse.

Kihyun was tense during his takes, more than usual. Not sharp enough to derail the session, but enough to make the air feel thin. Every time Changkyun gave direction, he saw the barely-restrained reaction behind Kihyun’s eyes, like don’t tell me what to do was chewing on his tongue.

He kept his voice neutral. Precise. Never authoritative. Just present.

“Let’s take that again from the pre-chorus. You clipped on the word ‘fire.’”

Kihyun didn’t look at him.

Did it anyway.

Jungho watched it all from the side of the room, arms folded. He didn’t interfere. But his eyes were careful.

After the session, Changkyun offered to stay behind and clean up the patch bay, free up time for the others to get back to rehearsal.

Jooheon paused by the door. “What, trying to earn your rent now?”

It hit like a jab, even if the tone was casual.

“Just trying to be useful," Changkyun said.

“You’re not our intern.”

“No," He said quietly. “I’m your producer.”

Jooheon snorted but didn’t answer. The door clicked shut behind him.

That night, Changkyun stayed up late editing in at the kitchen table headphones in, posture curled tight around his laptop like a shield.

Hyungwon walked past with a yawn, heading for the kitchen.

“Still playing engineer cosplay?” he said on his way by.

Changkyun didn’t respond. Didn’t flinch. Just kept his eyes on the screen.

He wasn’t sure if Hyungwon meant for him to hear it.

But he did.

And it echoed anyway.

The dorm was dim and quiet by midnight. Laughter had come and gone, footsteps faded, one bedroom door at a time clicking shut behind them.

Changkyun hadn’t moved from the kitchen table.

His laptop cast a dull blue glow over the wood grain, screen filled with EQ curves and vocal layers. But his eyes hadn’t focused on them in fifteen minutes.

The hum in his skull had returned, low and pulsing.

He wasn’t tired. He was just… worn. Rubbed thin. Like every smile, every neutral answer, had taken something from him he couldn’t quite name.

He reached for his cup and found it empty. Again.

The silence was heavy. Not peaceful. Just full of everything unsaid.

He stood.

Moved slowly to the sink. Rinsed the cup. Towel dried it.

Then turned around,

And nearly collided with Wonho.

“Oh," He said, startled.

Wonho blinked, equally surprised. His hair was mussed from sleep. Hoodie loose at the collar.

“I thought you were asleep," He said.

“Working," Changkyun replied, too fast. “Just needed water.”

Wonho didn’t say anything for a second. Then he stepped around him to fill the kettle.

“I was gonna make tea," He said simply. “You want some?”

Changkyun hesitated. “You don’t have to—"

“I didn’t ask if I had to," Wonho said, voice soft. “I asked if you wanted it.”

That stopped him.

His throat felt tight for no reason.

“…Sure.”

They stood in silence while the kettle warmed.

Wonho leaned against the counter, arms crossed, gaze low. Not watching. Just there.

When the water boiled, he made two cups, one green, one barley, and handed Changkyun the barley one without asking his preference.

They sat at the table. Not close. Not far.

Steam curled from the mugs like breath.

“You’re doing a good job, you know," Wonho said eventually. “In the studio.”

Changkyun looked up too fast.

The compliment didn’t make him feel better.

It made him feel like something had cracked behind his ribs.

“Thanks," He said.

It came out smaller than he meant.

Wonho glanced at him, just once, just briefly. Then looked away again.

They didn’t say anything else.

Ten minutes later, Wonho pushed his mug to the center of the table, stood, and stretched.

“Try to get some sleep," He said gently.

Changkyun nodded.

He didn’t move until the hallway light clicked off behind him.

The mug in front of him had cooled.

He touched the side of it like it might still be warm.

But it wasn’t.

Chapter Text

Changkyun tried not to watch.

But it was hard not to notice the way Hyungwon looped an arm around Minhyuk’s waist when he passed behind him. Or the way Jooheon leaned against Kihyun during late-night movie reruns, no explanation needed. Sometimes Shownu would just tap two fingers to the back of Wonho’s neck and the whole room would shift, subtle and unspoken.

That was the difference.

For them, submission wasn’t performance. It was home.

And Changkyun?

Changkyun slept in a borrowed room where no one knocked, worked ten hours a day for a group that still hadn’t called him by name without attaching a task to it, and answered praise like it was a form of currency he couldn’t afford to spend.

Tonight, he’d just finished a round of vocal edits when there was a knock on his door.

Not urgent. Just two soft raps.

He opened it to find Shownu standing there in sweats and a hoodie, looking vaguely apologetic.

“Hey," He said. “Just a heads-up. Don’t come out tonight.”

Changkyun blinked. “What?”

“We’re doing sub spacing. Living room session.”

“Oh.”

He stepped back instinctively, nodding. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll stay out of the way.”

Shownu didn’t clarify. Just nodded once and walked away.

The door clicked shut.

Changkyun sat down on the edge of the bed, laptop forgotten on the floor beside him.

Sub spacing. Right.

He should’ve seen it coming. The tension in the dorm had shifted earlier, lighter somehow, looser at the edges. That always happened before a dynamic session. The subs moved more freely, doms took up more space, and there was a charged quiet between them that felt less like discomfort and more like... anticipation.

It made his skin itch.

He tried putting on his headphones.

Didn’t help.

The wall was too thin.

He could hear it all, soft at first, like breathing through fabric. The shuffling of limbs. A quiet command. A tease. A laugh that curved into a moan.

Then—

“Good. Just like that.”

A praise, low and warm. Jooheon, probably. The sound of someone exhaling into it like a prayer.

Then Hyungwon, too loud on purpose, dragging someone into a bratty back-and-forth that ended in a sharp sound and a surprised, breathless laugh.

The pace shifted. Someone gave in. Someone else didn’t.

Every word filtered through drywall and longing.

Changkyun laid back, eyes closed, one arm draped over his forehead.

He wasn’t aroused. Not exactly.

He just wanted something. Contact. A voice in his ear that wasn’t an order. Someone to say stay, and mean it.

It wasn’t about the bond. Not really.

Just the absence.

His chest ached. His head pulsed softly behind his temples. It had started earlier, just a little tightness. He blamed it on staring at his screen too long.

But now?

It felt like he was holding something in. Something that should have had an outlet, a structure, a hand to lean into. And instead, it was just coiled under his skin, waiting for nothing.

Eventually, the noises quieted. Laughter turned into soft words, soft words into moans and then moans into silence.

He didn’t fall asleep.

He just lay there.

Still.

And completely alone.

The center was quiet when he arrived.

Mid-afternoon, mid-week. No other clients in the waiting room. Just the soft ping of a wall-mounted clock and the familiar, bitter scent of eucalyptus and antiseptic.

Changkyun didn’t sit.

He paced once, twice, then stood near the check-in tablet, pretending to scroll through something on his phone. He didn’t need regulation. Not really. He’d been fine. Maybe tired. Maybe… a little off. But last night wasn’t about him. It wasn’t even about the bond. It was just—

Noise. He was reacting to noise.

He blinked slowly.

When they called his name, he followed a quiet-faced tech down the hallway into one of the smaller regulation rooms. 3B. No couch this time, just mats, a neutral wall gradient, and a softly humming diffuser in the corner.

The regulation Dom was unfamiliar.

Late forties, calm voice, very little eye contact. She didn’t offer her name. Just a nod. A brief glance at his file.

“You’re a regular," She noted. “Two-week check-ins.”

“Yeah.”

“No extended drop history. No touch-triggered panic. No overdue markers.”

“I’m fine," He said automatically.

She looked at him.

He said nothing else.

“Vitals first," She said.

He held out his wrist.

The band hummed to life.

Silence.

She frowned.

“You’re down two and a half points from baseline.”

His stomach tensed. “That’s within normal fluctuation.”

“For some people," She said evenly. “Not for you.”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re fatigued," She went on. “Your cortisol’s elevated. Submissive markers are... overactive.”

“I’ve been working a lot.”

“That’s not an explanation. That’s a trigger.”

He stayed quiet.

She adjusted the band again, then handed him a bottle of water.

“You’re not destabilizing," She said finally. “But you are slipping out of your regulatory zone.”

He opened the bottle. Took a sip.

“We’ll run a standard cycle today," She continued. “But I want to talk to you about options.”

“Options.”

“Your profile suggests you haven’t explored full-time service or contract partnerships.”

“I’m not interested.”

“You haven’t submitted for bonded pairing. Public or private.”

“I said I’m not interested.”

A pause.

Her voice gentled. “You don’t have to bond. But you do need consistency. A regulated Dom. A dynamic anchor. Something.”

He stared at the floor.

“I’ve been managing fine.”

“For now," She said.

The session moved forward. Routine. Calibrated. Professional.

He dropped faster than usual. Didn’t mean to. Just… slipped. His muscles had been bracing for it all week, and now they melted too easily.

The Dom praised him softly. Adjusted his posture. Called him steady. Called him good.

And every word landed like a sigh he couldn’t afford to exhale.

It didn’t feel like intimacy.

It felt like patching drywall with wet paper.

When the session ended, he sat up slow. Rubbed at his eyes.

The Dom didn’t touch him.

“Your next check-in is in two weeks," She said. “I’d recommend coming sooner.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Think faster.”

He nodded. Didn’t meet her gaze.

Outside, the air smelled too clean.

He sat on a bench across the street and watched the cars pass.

His phone buzzed once, calendar notification.

MONSTA X DEPARTS: 3-MONTH TOUR

He closed the screen. Shoved the phone back in his pocket.

And let the world keep moving without him.

The night before departure, the dorm felt too full.

Changkyun stayed out of the way, again. Packed himself into the corner of the kitchen with his thermos and a quiet rhythm to keep his hands moving. He wiped down surfaces that didn’t need cleaning. Checked the coffee machine for filters they wouldn’t even use on tour.

The rest of the dorm buzzed.

Someone was blasting a packing playlist, bright synths, high energy, and the rooms pulsed with movement. Zippers. Laughter. A few low arguments about missing chargers and whose shoes had mysteriously migrated under the couch.

The pack had momentum.

And Changkyun? He was still.

When he passed through the hallway, Jooheon brushed by him carrying two open duffel bags. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t make eye contact.

He didn’t need to.

Later, when the suitcases were lined up near the door, Minhyuk slumped dramatically onto the living room couch with a groan.

“If I have to zip one more thing, I’m going to set myself on fire.”

“No fire in the dorm," Shownu said without looking up from his checklist.

Hyungwon stretched out beside him. “Three months. You think anything will be left when we get back?”

“The rice will have evolved," Kihyun muttered, balancing a travel pouch in his lap.

Wonho laughed. “The couch will gain sentience.”

Minhyuk grinned and kicked at Hyungwon’s shin. “Or maybe, if we’re really lucky, this whole situation will have resolved itself.”

Changkyun froze.

Just for a second.

Long enough to register the silence that followed.

Long enough to realize no one corrected him.

He kept walking. Past the couch, past the laughter, past whatever look Shownu might’ve given him.

He had a hard drive to back up.

The next morning, the dorm emptied fast.

The mood was high. Hugs were traded. Teasing resumed. Kihyun snapped at someone for forgetting extra throat lozenges, and Jooheon swore they were in his bag, and Wonho stole a granola bar for the road.

Changkyun stood near the door and nodded when he was nodded at.

He didn’t try to be part of it.

He just kept track of keys and closed doors behind them.

And when the final set of footsteps echoed out down the hall, he stood alone in the entryway with one sock pushed halfway off his heel and nothing but quiet left to hold onto.

The dorm was quieter than it had ever been.

No music. No muffled arguments from the living room. No scent of Shownu’s coffee or the faint citrus of Wonho’s hair product. Just the hum of the fridge and the low creak of the floors, sighing with the absence.

Changkyun ate cereal over the sink. Not because he wanted it, but because it gave him something to chew. Something to do with his hands. He didn’t turn on the lights.

By mid-morning, he’d already reorganized the backup drives, finished final edits for a client two tiers below the Monsta X account, and started a new session template from scratch.

He didn’t check his phone once.

Until it rang.

Unknown number. Starship extension.

He blinked, thumb hovering over the decline button.

Then sighed, and answered.

“Im Changkyun?”

“This is him.”

“This is Do Yena from Starship. Sorry to call you directly. We’ve got a situation.”

He tensed. “What kind of situation?”

“Are you available to travel today?”

His heart stuttered. “What?”

“The group’s sound engineer, Park Sunho, collapsed this morning during final rehearsal prep. He’s in emergency care. We’re down a man less than twenty-four hours before the first show.”

“Is he okay?”

“Severe dehydration and exhaustion. They’re keeping him overnight for observation. He won’t be cleared to fly for at least a week.”

Changkyun gripped the edge of the counter.

“I’m not—" he started. Then stopped.

“You’re the only one pre-cleared for international travel under their contract," She continued. “You know the setlist. You’ve worked with the vocal stacks. You’re familiar with their system and their temperaments.”

A pause.

“You’re not just the best option right now. You’re the only option.”

His throat was dry.

“Okay," He said quietly. “I’ll go.”

“The flight is at 1:40. I’ll send a car in two hours. Be packed.”

The line went dead.

The suitcase was still by the door in his bedroom.

He hadn’t meant to leave it there. It was half-full, emergency gear, cables, a spare mic he never used. He zipped it the rest of the way, stood it upright.

Paused.

He was wearing sweatpants. No socks.

No one was here to see him off.

He changed in the bathroom. Button-down. Dark jeans. Put product in his hair even though no one had asked him to. Even though no one was going to thank him for coming.

The pack had left without looking back.

Now he was chasing after them.

Still—he grabbed his laptop, threw it into his bag, and waited for the sound of tires outside.

And when the driver buzzed in, he didn’t hesitate.

He was going.

Whether they liked it or not.

Chapter Text

The window seat wasn’t comfortable, but it was his.

Changkyun shifted his weight again, back pressing into the stiff curve of the seat, knees angled away from the sleeping stranger beside him. The flight had only been in the air an hour, but it already felt like liminal time, soft-edged, suspended. The kind of space where everything got quieter inside, even if nothing outside really changed.

Tokyo was just under two hours away. Technically, he should’ve been reviewing the setlist updates or scrubbing through the rehearsal files again, just to be sure.

Instead, his laptop was closed. His in-flight drink untouched.

He stared out the window at nothing.

It was easier than thinking.

The cabin was dim, hushed into a kind of artificial calm. A baby cried three rows back. Someone coughed. The cart rattled by, but no one woke. The flight attendant offered him a wrapped cookie, which he took without comment and immediately forgot in his seat pocket.

He was tired.

Not sleep-deprived tired, he’d managed a few hours the night before, curled up with his pillow clutched like it might ask him to stay. No, this was the kind of tired that came from too much trying. Too much holding it in. A slow leak behind the ribs that never quite ran dry.

He blinked down at his hands.

They were still.

Maybe that was the strangest part of all this: how calm his body was. How still his hands stayed, even after everything. The rejection. The silence. The way the group had left without so much as a backward glance. The sound of Minhyuk’s voice, light and careless, maybe when we get back, he’ll be gone.

Maybe that was the part he kept turning over, gently and wordlessly, like a bruise you couldn’t stop testing.

They wanted him gone.

But here he was. Flying after them anyway.

He should’ve been angry. And somewhere, underneath it all, he was. But that wasn’t what rose first when he thought of seeing them again. What rose was the panic. That tight, sick twist of not knowing what face to wear. What tone to speak in. How to exist in a room where he wasn’t allowed to be soft.

The bond still hummed in him, low and distant, like tinnitus behind the bones. Easy to ignore if he didn’t think about it. But it made his reactions strange, sometimes. Small things. The pull of his gaze when Kihyun walked into a room. The instinct to defer, even when nothing had been said. The way his mouth always wanted to shape yes before he even knew what was being asked.

He didn’t like that part. Not because it felt wrong, but because it didn’t.

He hadn’t meant to form expectations. Soulmates didn’t mean everything. Didn’t guarantee love, or safety, or a place in someone’s world. But in the quiet space between rehearsal and rejection, he’d let himself imagine, just once, that it could mean enough.

He didn’t want to think about that anymore.

He shifted again and leaned his forehead against the cool of the window. Outside was endless scattered clouds like smoke. His reflection wavered faintly in the glass, blurred and soft around the edges.

He didn’t look like someone vital.

Just… a guy on a flight. Eyes tired. Shirt wrinkled at the collar. Carrying everything he hadn’t said in the curl of his spine.

He wanted to be useful.

He wanted to do a good job.

He wanted someone to notice when he left the room.

When the captain announced the descent, Changkyun blinked himself out of the fog and reached for his bag. His headset was packed at the top, tucked in beside his labeled cables and carefully prepped device profiles. Everything had been triple-checked before the flight.

He was ready.

Whether they wanted him or not, he was ready.

Immigration was a blur. The baggage claim, worse.

By the time Changkyun made it through the terminal and into the waiting car, he’d already missed 5 calls and three texts from Yena: GO GO GO.

The driver didn’t speak. Just nodded, slammed the trunk, and peeled out of the lot like Tokyo traffic was a personal offense. Changkyun braced his palm against the door and tried not to think about how his carry-on probably wasn’t buckled in.

By the time they pulled into the Dome’s back lot, the clock read 17:46. Sound check had ended an hour ago. Crowd was already filing in. And the moment the car door opened, he was swallowed whole by the kind of chaos that only existed backstage at a sold-out arena.

Staff with clipboards. Staff with radios. Staff without a single brain cell left to spare.

“Who the hell parked a van in loading zone three?”

“I need that pitch correction profile yesterday, where’s the tech?”

“There’s a smudge on Minhyuk’s in-ear monitor and he says it’s going to kill his high notes, fix it!”

Changkyun stepped into the flood of voices and blinking comms like he’d never left.

“Producer Im?” someone called, panic-etched.

“Still me," He said, adjusting his backpack strap.

“Thank God.” The staffer looked ready to collapse. “Do you, are you, have you worked a show this size before?”

Changkyun blinked at them. “Didn’t know I needed to bring a résumé on a lanyard.”

“No, sorry, I just, Sunho usually—"

“Yeah," He said, already walking. “I’m not Sunho. I don’t need to be.”

He made it to the live booth in under two minutes, scanned the setup, and immediately started unplugging.

“This is the booth," Someone shouted over the din, waving at a console already glowing too hot.

“Who rigged the vocal limiter this way?” he muttered, not really asking.

One of the assistant engineers behind him flinched. “We were trying to compensate for the delay—"

“With distortion on Jooheon’s channel?”

“I, it wasn’t supposed to—"

Changkyun didn’t even look up. He scanned the layout once and felt something tighten in his chest.

Not panic.

Focus.

Everything else fell away.

The limiter was wrong. The monitoring feed was choked with bleed. Half the mix was routed through a profile Sunho had clearly abandoned mid-adjustment.

“Who’s been riding the compression on channel three?” he asked, not looking up.

A junior tech winced behind him. “We tried balancing for Jooheon’s top layer. It wasn’t holding.”

“So you buried it in mud? Bold strategy.”

“Look, I know it’s not perfect—"

“It’s not even bad," Changkyun said mildly. “It’s cowardly.”

The guy, who looked no older than twenty, looked like he might cry.

Changkyun softened, just barely.

“It’s okay. I’ll fix it.”

He started rewiring the route manually, bypassed the faulty limiter, adjusted for the venue’s bass reverb, and pulled up the vocal chain he’d rebuilt from memory just before the flight. He didn’t need time. He needed control. And this, this was the one place he still had it.

He glanced at the in-ear feed for Minhyuk’s mic, adjusted the upper mids, and flagged the EQ for a small real-time boost in the second chorus. Kihyun’s stack was too clean, so he added a shimmer effect to round out the bridge. Nothing flashy. Just clarity. He layered in the tiniest wet reverb on Jooheon’s lower thirds and unlinked the chorus compression from the main vocal channel entirely.

It was work. But it was his.

“You, uh," the logistics manager said from behind him, “don’t mess around.”

Changkyun smirked. “Only with people who deserve it.”

The manager chuckled, adjusting their clipboard. “Sunho trained you?”

“No," Changkyun said, still typing. “Just a fan of fixing things people should’ve done right the first time.”

That earned a full laugh. “We were told you were capable. They didn’t mention sharp-tongued.”

He shrugged. “I’m more polite when things don’t sound like garbage.”

It wasn’t a boast. Just a fact.

The manager didn’t ask why he was here.

Didn’t bring up Monsta X. Didn’t give him a single reason to feel like he didn’t belong.

And honestly? That was the nicest thing anyone had done for him in weeks.

By the time the lights went down, Changkyun had re-mapped the primary mix paths, synced the in-ear fallback, and built an emergency backup on a drive no one else even knew existed.

The stadium buzzed with pre-show electricity. Floor lights strobed. Crowd roar swelled like a tide.

He stayed tucked into the booth, half-shielded by an equipment rack, and triple-checked the levels.

No one had seen him. No one knew he was here.

That made it easier.

For now, he was just a sound engineer.

And for a little while, maybe the length of a setlist, or a heartbeat stretched too long, he could almost pretend that was enough.

The lights dropped.

Not all at once, just enough to signal it, to make the crowd surge like breath catching in a throat. A low roll of synth crawled up from the floor speakers, thick and pulsing, and the fans, thousands of them, screamed.

Changkyun exhaled through his nose. One hand on the fader, the other resting lightly over his touchpad. The booth buzzed at his fingertips, alive with potential.

He’d worked concerts before. But not like this. Not with a group whose voices he could trace from memory. Not with music that still lived under his skin.

A spotlight slammed down centerstage. Minhyuk appeared first, stepping into it like it owed him rent. Clean, cocky, and grinning like he owned the room.

Then Hyungwon. Lazy swagger, bored eyes, but his mic was up, prepped, perfectly in place. Changkyun nudged the delay just half a millisecond.

Wonho and Shownu next, syncing breath, mirrored presence. He adjusted the low-mid EQ on their tandem verse, and the sound bloomed fuller in his headset.

And then—

Kihyun.

Center. Chin lifted. Mic already at his mouth.

The crowd screamed like it was instinct. A tidal wave of lightsticks and noise.

Changkyun didn’t blink. He didn’t need to. His fingers moved automatically, tightening the filter on the upper register, giving Kihyun’s vocals just enough edge to ride the room without pushing.

God, he sounded good.

They sounded good.

The stage came alive, a living thing of color and heat, choreography burning through beats that hit like thunder. Changkyun tracked every cue, drop, swell, falsetto lift, rap transition, like his body already knew them better than his brain.

Jooheon missed a timing cue on the first chorus, just a hair. Changkyun ducked the compression to smooth the snap. Didn’t even think about it.

He didn’t need to be seen to be effective.

He didn’t need to be welcome to do this right.

Still, something tugged at him.

Watching them on stage like this, laughing into verses, passing energy between each other with looks and touch and shared history, it made something inside him ache. Not with jealousy. Not even longing.

Just distance.

He was here, making it happen. He was the reason it sounded as clean and powerful and real as it did.

But he wasn’t part of it.

He never had been.

Still— he couldn’t look away.

Hyungwon caught a lyric wrong on verse two and cracked a grin before leaning into it, making it a joke. Minhyuk threw an arm over his shoulder during the recovery line and the crowd lost it.

Wonho backed Shownu during the dance break like muscle meeting grace, and Changkyun knew without thinking to boost their floor mics for the stomp impact, even before they landed it in unison.

Jooheon and Kihyun hit the harmony in the bridge. The blend was tighter than rehearsal had ever managed, and Changkyun’s breath caught.

They were so in sync.

Kihyun leaned just enough into the edge of his voice to sharpen the harmony, and Jooheon softened his own delivery like instinct. Not deferential, collaborative. A sub learning how to fill space without needing permission. The kind of trust that didn’t need to be spoken to be heard.

Shownu stood just behind them, his presence quiet but anchoring. Not drawing attention, but holding the stage like it couldn’t breathe without him. Even when he wasn’t moving, his authority was felt, an axis the rest of them spun around.

Minhyuk bounced between them with kinetic energy, flirting with the crowd, stealing attention only to hand it back in the next breath. Switch to the core. Grinning like he was above the power games and then melting under one sharp look from Shownu.

Hyungwon played brat effortlessly. Dragging his mic hand slow, mouth parted just enough, gaze flicking through the crowd like he was only half invested. But when Wonho moved in, close, too close, Hyungwon folded, eyes dipping, shoulders relaxing like gravity had finally remembered him.

And Wonho, God. There was something about the way he moved, sure and unhurried, that made everything else on stage feel like noise. His dominance was never loud. Just steady. Known. Every member responded to it in some way, Minhyuk with teasing, Hyungwon with provocation, Kihyun with silence.

They had rules. Rituals. Invisible cues passed between them that no one else could name. But Changkyun read it. Not as an outsider. As someone who understood.

Not as someone included.

Just someone who saw.

It was good.

God, it was so good.

And he loved it.

Even with the ache. Even with everything he wasn’t. This was a sound he would never get tired of sculpting. This was music that meant something. Not just to the fans. Not just to the company. To him.

Because for three minutes and fifty-two seconds at a time, this was where he got to feel like he mattered.

The final chorus hit. Confetti exploded from the rafters. The crowd screamed louder. And Changkyun leveled the balance with a single flick of his wrist.

It was perfect.

And none of them knew he was here.

The after-show dinner was more of a blur than the show itself.

Most of the staff, techs, stylists, translators, filed into a private floor of a midrange hotel downtown, laughter already blooming in their voices. The air was thick with heat and spent adrenaline. Ramen, beer, grilled skewers passed around with half-dropped chopsticks and stories retold too loudly. Everyone was giddy. Everyone was exhausted.

Changkyun sat near the end of the table, still wearing his venue pass. He wasn’t trying to be invisible. Just… adjacent. A nod here, a soft joke there. Nothing that would demand attention.

He didn’t expect the group to show.

He thought they’d eat separately, like idols usually did. Quietly. Pack-centered. Private.

But just after midnight, the elevator doors slid open, and all six of them stepped into the room.

Loud. Laughing. Bright with post-show light.

Changkyun froze, hand still around his glass.

They hadn’t seen him yet.

Kihyun moved first, weaving between chairs toward the head of the table where staff had already cleared a space. Jooheon followed, head thrown back in a dramatic retelling of something Minhyuk had said on stage. Wonho trailed with a bag of cough drops. Shownu gave a quiet nod to a producer seated nearby.

And then Hyungwon’s eyes landed on him.

He didn’t blink.

Just stopped walking mid-stride, something in his body going still.

“Seriously, it was—"

Minhyuk cut off as he turned to follow Hyungwon’s gaze. And then it spread, realization like a slow, cold wave crawling down a line of dominoes.

Jooheon’s smile dropped. Kihyun’s spine stiffened. Wonho, behind them, let out a breath too soft to carry, but Changkyun still felt it.

No one said anything right away.

Then Jooheon spoke, quiet, sharp.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

Around the table, heads turned. Confused glances flicked between them, half the staff didn’t even know Changkyun lived with the group, and fewer still had any clue why the temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees. He was just the sound tech. Wasn’t he?

Changkyun kept his expression even. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

A junior manager, bless her soul, stepped in like she hadn’t just walked into a minefield. “He’s here for the soundboard. Emergency cover. Starship sent him last minute after Sunho collapsed.”

Wonho’s jaw tightened. “They didn’t tell us.”

“They didn’t ask you," Changkyun said, voice level.

Not defensive. Just… true.

Kihyun’s arms were crossed now. He hadn’t moved, but the tension radiated from him like static. Jooheon looked like he might stand.

“We were very clear," Minhyuk muttered.

“And I’m not here for you," Changkyun said, still calm. “I’m here for the show.”

The manager looked between them, nervous. “He saved the set. Everything ran clean.”

“It always runs clean," Hyungwon said flatly.

“And I’ll keep it that way," Changkyun said. “As long as I’m needed.”

He stood, quietly, pushing his chair back. He didn’t slam anything. Didn’t storm.

But he was tired. So tired.

He didn’t wait for their approval. Or their permission.

Just walked toward the elevator, pulled his badge from around his neck, and tucked it in his back pocket.

They could keep their distance.

He’d keep the show running.

Chapter Text

Berlin was colder than all the other cities had been.

Not in temperature, though the breeze off the Spree bit sharper at night, but in tone. Grey skies. Sharp shadows. Even the hotel’s luxury felt muted: glass walls, exposed fixtures, neutral palettes that whispered wealth without warmth.

It had been nearly three weeks since Tokyo.

Three weeks of back-to-back tour stops, packed flights, endless hotel rooms that all smelled vaguely like industrial laundry detergent. They’d been through Manila, Singapore, and Zurich. Changkyun had stopped keeping track. He only knew the timezone by the ache behind his eyes.

Everything was running like clockwork. On the surface.

No major tech issues. No missed cues. No drama. He showed up. Did his job. Disappeared again.

The group didn’t speak to him much, just like at the dorm.

He hadn’t spoken to Kihyun once since Tokyo. Hyungwon only nodded when they passed in the hallway. Jooheon didn’t even do that. Shownu stayed polite. Minhyuk, sharp as ever, all smirk and sidelong glances, mostly ignored him unless it was to hand off a mic or a charger.

Wonho was the only one who offered anything softer. A spare tea packet. A thank you, sometimes. Once, he’d held the door open longer than necessary when Changkyun’s hands were full. It wasn’t much. But it was more than nothing.

And nothing was what Changkyun had gotten used to.

He didn’t ask to join their van rides. He stayed out of their green rooms. He walked behind the group when they moved together, eyes on the ground, ears tuned to every vocal register but never the words.

He was doing fine.

Except, he wasn’t.

It started with a headache. Dull, behind his right eye. Then it spread, down his neck, into his shoulders. A constant tension. Like he was holding something in without knowing where to put it.

He hadn’t had time to schedule another regulation session. Not since Seoul.

He’d told himself it was fine. That he didn’t need it. That he could hold out until they landed somewhere longer than forty-eight hours. Until the schedule gave him a little room to breathe.

Now, it was a promise he kept pushing ahead of him like luggage with a broken wheel.

He’d looked up centers in London, knew they had one with English-speaking regulation Doms, clean reputation, no pressure for full pairings. He figured he could make it work between legs. Or maybe push it until the U.S. dates. Somewhere the language wouldn’t be another weight on his back.

Just a session. Just to reset..

But the weight in his chest didn’t listen. The pressure was building. Not painful. Not dangerous. Just... tight.

Like something inside him was trying to breathe.

The Dom at the Center had warned him. “You’re functional, not stable," She’d said, not unkindly. “Subspace isn’t a luxury. It’s a reset.”

He hadn’t argued.

And then he hadn’t listened.

He showered longer now. Let the water burn against his back until his shoulders ached in a way that felt almost earned. He slept curled around extra pillows like they were made to keep him upright.

He didn’t cry. Not really.

But sometimes, when no one was looking, he breathed in too slow and felt like maybe something would crack.

Still— he was doing his job.

The mix in Berlin was flawless. The transitions ran clean. He’d adjusted the new track layering on the fly and no one noticed the panic in his hands when the baseline wavered during rehearsal.

That night, after the show, he packed his gear with the same precision as always. Taped down the excess cords, confirmed his drive backups, and texted Yena to confirm the green room delivery of his final pass.

He should’ve gone back to the hotel.

But a stagehand, a friendly guy from lighting, had caught him by the exit, grinning.

“You coming out tonight? Drinks with the crew. Half the band’s going.”

Changkyun had opened his mouth to say no. Had meant to.

But something in his chest shifted.

He was tired of empty rooms.

So he smiled, small. Said, “Sure.”

The bar was tucked under street level, one of those half-hidden Berlin spots with no name on the door, just a slab of matte-black paint and a bouncer who barely glanced at IDs. Inside, the air was warm with bodies and too many overlapping conversations. Vintage neon signs buzzed lazily in the corners. The walls were plastered in mismatched posters, and the booths were sunken, velvet-lined, half-lit by the kind of sconces that made everyone look a little better than they felt.

Changkyun hovered near the end of the bar, drink in hand. Not quite nursing it, not quite drinking it. Just holding on. Like it gave him an excuse to stay quiet.

He wasn’t drunk. Not even close. But everything felt a little heavier in his limbs tonight. The kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from work. Just… from being.

A booth near the back was packed with their crew. Sound, lights, makeup, translators, sprawled out with drinks and finger food, laughing like the tour wasn’t eating them alive. They made it look easy, this joy. This belonging.

He didn’t join them.

He hovered at the edge. Always at the edge.

Across the room, he caught sight of Monsta X, just four of them tonight. No Kihyun. No Jooheon.

They’d taken over the low table by the bar’s fireplace.

Wonho was leaned forward, elbows on the table, talking to a stylist in soft tones that Changkyun couldn’t hear but could feel. His hands moved slowly when he spoke, deliberate. Careful. Like he’d learned not to be misunderstood and was still unlearning the fear that came with it. He smiled often, but it never stretched too far. The kind of smile that didn’t offer more than it meant to.

Next to him, Minhyuk was holding court.

He was loud. Not obnoxiously, but enough to draw eyes. He had a drink in one hand, nonalcoholic, Changkyun remembered, because Minhyuk never drank, and the other was in motion, gesturing wildly as he told some story that made the makeup assistant beside him wheeze with laughter. He teased the staff without cruelty, flirted without pressure, told jokes that danced just close enough to inappropriate before he pivoted and offered his drink to someone else.

He was electric. Untouchable.

And none of it looked real.

There was a tightness in the way he kept glancing around, making sure the laughter landed. Like he was watching the room for applause no one was clapping.

Hyungwon sat half-curled in the corner, long legs crossed at the ankle, nursing something dark in a highball glass. He barely spoke. Just raised an eyebrow here, offered a dry aside there. His presence was spectral, beautiful, sharp-edged, and impossible to pin down. Every so often, someone would try to engage him. He’d tilt his head, give them a perfectly sculpted smile, and return to watching the room with the detached interest of someone grading a performance.

But he missed nothing.

When someone knocked into a passing waitress, Hyungwon caught the tray mid-fall without blinking. Set it down. Didn’t say a word.

And then there was Shownu.

Sitting back. Watching. Saying almost nothing.

But he was there.

In every pause, in every laugh, in every shift in posture, Shownu was the one anchoring the table. He didn’t fill silence. He made it safe. People leaned toward him without realizing they were doing it. The staff on either side of him never hesitated to speak, because they knew he’d listen. He laughed, rarely, but when he did, it landed. Quiet. Honest.

Changkyun watched them, not out of jealousy.

Out of longing.

They weren’t perfect. Not even close. But they fit.

He wanted to fit, too.

His shoulder bumped someone walking by, and he mumbled a quick apology. The drink in his hand had gone warm. He should’ve ordered water. Or nothing at all.

Instead, he stayed where he was. Just a few feet away.

Not part of them.

But still orbiting.

“Mind if I sit?”

The voice came smooth and unhurried, a little louder than the music, and unmistakably in English.

Changkyun turned just enough to see the man hovering near his side, tall, maybe early thirties, with a neatly pressed button-down and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He wasn’t sloppy. Didn’t reek of alcohol or sweat. But something about him felt deliberate. Calculated, even.

“I’m fine," Changkyun answered, also in English. Polite. Firm. Enough to signal this wasn’t an invitation.

The man smiled wider. “Didn’t ask if you were.”

He slid onto the barstool next to him before Changkyun could protest.

“I’ve been trying to figure you out," He said, taking a slow sip of his beer. “You’ve got that quiet thing going on. Still. Self-contained. Most people fidget in places like this, but not you.”

Changkyun didn’t look at him. “Just tired.”

“I’ll bet," the man said, voice dropping just a touch. “Long night?”

“Working.”

“Hmm," the man mused, like he already knew that and was just playing along. “With the group?”

Changkyun glanced at him, just for a second.

That was enough.

The man grinned. “Bingo.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice pitched low beneath the chatter around them. “Which one are you with?”

“I’m not," Changkyun said, too fast.

“Right. Of course.” There was amusement in his tone now. “You’re not with anyone. Just working. Just... hovering at the edge of the room like you don’t know where to stand.”

Changkyun’s jaw tightened.

The man kept talking. “That’s the thing about types like you. You don’t even realize how obvious it is. The way you hold yourself. The way you stay quiet. You’re waiting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are," He said, voice softening, like he was offering a kindness. “And that’s okay. It’s sweet.”

Changkyun’s stomach twisted.

His grip on the glass tightened.

He wanted to move. Say something. Shut it down.

But it had been weeks since anyone had spoken to him like this. Weeks since anyone had looked at him and seen what he was, what he tried so hard to keep tucked away.

The man tilted his head, studying him.

“You know what gives you away?” he asked, tone almost curious. “You haven’t said no. Not once. You’re just sitting there. Letting me talk.”

“I didn’t ask you to," Changkyun said. His voice cracked in the middle, just slightly.

The man’s smile widened. “Exactly.”

Changkyun’s heart pounded behind his ribs. His cheeks were hot. The bar felt suddenly too loud, too dim, too tight around the edges.

He shifted in his seat, trying to inch away without drawing attention. But the man was already leaning closer.

“Don’t worry," He said, barely above a whisper. “I’m not gonna touch you.”

His eyes dragged lazily down Changkyun’s form.

“Unless you want me to.”

Changkyun’s breath hitched.

The man’s eyes glittered.

“Bet you’d be a real good boy if someone gave you the chance.”

It landed like a punch.

Not loud. Not harsh.

But precise.

The words sank in like heat through his chest, blooming down his spine.

He wasn’t ready.

It wasn’t the first time someone had said it. But it had never landed like this.

Not after three weeks of silence.

Not after starving for something he wouldn’t name.

His spine went straight, too straight. His breath caught in his throat. And his fingers spasmed around the glass like he needed something, anything, to ground him.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t move.

But something shifted in the air around him, something deep. A signal that didn’t need sound. Something primal, unmistakable, and sharp enough that it echoed beyond his own body.

He hadn’t had regulation in weeks. He hadn’t dropped in even longer. And this, this wasn’t regulation. This wasn’t safe. This was a stranger with a mouthful of charm and a gaze that lingered a few seconds too long.

Still, his body reacted.

His posture shifted, shoulders tightening, spine lengthening. His fingers flexed against the glass like he needed something to anchor him. And God, he ached. Not just emotionally. Physically. Somewhere low and urgent and heavy, like a knot waiting to come undone.

The man’s smile sharpened, just slightly. Like he could see it.

“Yeah," He said, voice almost fond. “That’s the look.”

Changkyun's chest pulled tight. His breath stuttered. His gaze dropped, reflexive, automatic.

He didn't drop. Not fully.

But he was close.

A beat passed. Then two.

And from across the bar, the laughter stopped.

He couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe right, either. Not fast, not slow. Just shallow little inhales that scraped at the roof of his mouth like he’d swallowed static.

The man had said it so casually. Like a joke. Like something he'd been entitled to say.

Good boy.

Two words. That was all. And yet Changkyun’s entire body had listened, gone tight and still and ready, like someone had flipped a switch he’d been guarding with everything he had left.

And now he was stuck.

Muscles locked. Pulse thudding like a snare drum beneath his skin.

He couldn’t even bring himself to look up. Not at the man. Not at the rest of the bar.

He kept his eyes on the glass. Watching his fingers tremble against the side of it. Willing them to stop. Willing himself to not react anymore.

Because this wasn’t right.

He knew that.

He knew.

Subspace wasn’t supposed to feel like shame.

He wanted to tell himself to stand up. To walk away. To shut it all down with a single sharp look. But his body wasn’t responding. It was frozen in that strange, awful in-between, craving something it didn’t trust.

He didn’t notice the silence behind him until it stayed.

The low hum of familiar voices, Minhyuk’s bright cadence, Hyungwon’s dry snark, the soft rhythm of Shownu’s chuckle, gone. Replaced by something heavier.

A pause. A shift in pressure.

And then someone moved.

He didn’t see Wonho coming. Just felt it, space displaced, warmth at his side, the sound of a body stepping between him and the man like a door had quietly slammed shut.

“You need to walk away.”

Wonho’s voice was calm. Not raised. But there was something final in it. Something Changkyun had never heard before, at least not directed at anyone but a misbehaving mic stand.

The man beside him huffed. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me," Wonho said. Not even turning his head.

A hand brushed Changkyun’s lower back, Hyungwon’s, light and precise, just enough pressure to say you’re not alone without demanding anything from him. Then another shadow flanked his other side.

Minhyuk.

And even without looking, Changkyun knew the expression he was wearing. That tight-lipped smirk. The gleam in his eyes that came just before something unkind slipped out like silk.

He wanted to look. Wanted to see what was happening.

But he couldn’t make his neck move.

He was stuck in his body. Burning under his skin.

“You think just because he didn’t say no, it means yes?” Hyungwon asked, quiet and clear.

Changkyun flinched.

He wanted to tell them it wasn’t like that. That he should’ve said something. That he hadn’t meant for it to go that far.

That he didn’t want them to have to do this.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Minhyuk stepped closer. “Leave.”

That one word held no emotion. Not threat. Not rage. Just weight. Like the snap of a locked case.

The man hesitated, until Shownu’s voice cut in, low and level.

“Leave.”

And that was the end of it.

The man backed off with a raised hand, grumbling something under his breath. And then he was gone.

The moment didn’t leave with him.

Changkyun stayed exactly where he was. Still seated. Still small. Still so humiliated he could barely feel his own face.

He didn’t want to look at any of them.

He didn’t want to see the pity. Or worse, the irritation. The sense that he’d made things messy again.

But then someone crouched into his field of vision.

Wonho.

Close. Not too close. Arms on his knees, shoulders relaxed, expression open.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, barely above the music.

Changkyun nodded. Barely. His throat clicked.

“Can you walk?”

Another nod. Smaller.

Wonho didn’t touch him. Just rose to his feet and turned, murmuring something to the others.

And then they moved.

No one grabbed him. No one fussed. But Hyungwon stood to his left. Minhyuk to his right. Wonho just ahead. Shownu somewhere behind.

A perimeter. Quiet and deliberate.

They didn’t speak as they crossed the room. Just made space.

Outside, the cold hit like a slap. Changkyun sucked in a breath too sharp. Hyungwon caught his elbow briefly to steady him. Let go the second he was upright.

The walk to the hotel wasn’t long. But every step felt like it stretched.

No one asked if he was okay again.

No one apologized for stepping in.

No one said anything at all.

But they stayed.

At the elevator, Minhyuk handed him his hotel keycard without a word. How he’d even gotten it, Changkyun didn’t know.

In the hallway, Wonho lingered until the door opened.

“You’ll be alright?” he asked, finally.

Changkyun nodded, throat thick.

Wonho looked like he wanted to say more.

But in the end, all he did was offer a quiet, “Next time… tell someone, yeah?”

Changkyun closed the door behind him with shaking hands.

The silence in the room was deafening.

But it was the first time in weeks it didn’t feel like a punishment.

Chapter Text

The first few cities after Berlin blurred by.

Changkyun thought it might’ve been Frankfurt. Or Prague. He wasn’t sure. The setlists didn’t change. The backdrops shifted, but the venues all smelled the same, sweat, fog machines, hotel coffee, and hairspray.

He didn’t talk about what happened at the bar. No one brought it up.

He went back to staying late at soundcheck and avoiding shared vans whenever possible. Back to one-word answers, quiet presence, and focused work. His badge still said “Producer Assistant – Tech," and that was what he was going to be. Nothing more.

And still—

Something had shifted.

It was in the way Minhyuk didn’t cut him off when he spoke now. In the way Hyungwon met his eyes in the hallway instead of looking through him. The way Shownu had nodded at him during mic check, not a casual acknowledgment, but a real one. Like he saw him.

It terrified him.

Because if they saw him, they could stop pretending he didn’t matter. And if they stopped pretending,

He didn’t know what would come next.

He still felt the imprint of the moment on his skin, like an old bruise. Nothing hurt exactly. But something inside him felt off.

The ache behind his ribs had spread, more like pressure now than pain. His sleep had gone weird, shallow and twitchy. He’d nearly dropped a power cable that morning when his hands wouldn't stop trembling.

He told himself it was stress. Tour. Jet lag.

But it wasn’t.

It was regulation.

Or lack of it.

He hadn’t been to a center since Seoul.

He was planning to book in London. That’s what he kept telling himself. A proper English-speaking center. A Dom who wouldn’t fumble through a language barrier like they would’ve had in the other cities. Who’d understand what he needed without making it feel clinical or condescending.

He’d looked it up already. Had the number saved. Just hadn’t called.

Not yet.

He was sitting in the venue’s side lounge after the day’s soundcheck, nursing a paper cup of instant ramyeon, when Wonho dropped down into the seat beside him.

It was quiet enough that he heard the chair creak before he looked up.

“Hey," Wonho said.

Changkyun nodded once. “Hey.”

Wonho didn’t look like he was here to chat. He didn’t fidget or smile. Just sipped from his own drink and let the silence settle.

It was… almost peaceful.

And then he said, voice low, “You regulated yet?”

Changkyun blinked. “Sorry?”

“Since Berlin.”

His stomach tightened. He looked down at his soup. “I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Changkyun’s fingers curled tighter around the cup. “I’ve been busy.”

Wonho hummed, noncommittal. He didn’t press.

“I’m going to," Changkyun added. “In London. I already found a place.”

Wonho nodded slowly. “Good.”

Silence again. This one sharper.

“Thanks for asking," Changkyun said after a beat, quieter than he meant to.

Wonho gave a small nod. Not quite a smile, but something close. Then he stood, reached into his pocket, and dropped a wrapped protein bar on the table in front of him.

“Eat that before rehearsal. You look like you haven’t had anything solid in twelve hours.”

And then he walked off.

Changkyun stared after him for a long time.

He didn’t open the bar. But he didn’t throw it away, either.

The next city was Vienna.

Everything there was a little too beautiful. Gold trim on every building. Soft-angled sunlight. Even the venue had velvet-backed chairs in the dressing room.

Changkyun didn’t belong in places like that. He felt it in his posture, in the way he still double-checked the soundboard screws even after setup was done, in the way his name never came up in the setlists but he heard his own voice every time a track ran clean.

He’d gotten used to the silence.

So it threw him when Minhyuk sat next to him in the green room, dropped a bag of gummies in his lap, and said, “You chew when you’re stressed. I figured this was cheaper than you biting through your lip.”

Changkyun blinked. “I— what?”

Minhyuk popped a candy into his mouth like he hadn’t just said something wildly observant and then turned toward the mirror to fix his hair.

“I’m not stressed," Changkyun muttered.

“You’re always stressed," Minhyuk said around a grin. “You wear it like cologne.”

He said it like a tease. But not a cruel one. There was a weird warmth in it. Familiar, maybe.

Changkyun didn’t respond. Just stared at the gummies like they might explode.

Later, during rehearsal, Shownu waved him over, not with urgency, but with purpose.

“The timing on the last track’s a little off," He said. “Can you run the stems again from your side?”

Changkyun did. No problem. Standard.

But when it finished, Shownu nodded and said, “Good catch on the bass compression earlier, by the way.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You cleaned it up without anyone asking.”

“Oh.” Changkyun’s ears felt hot. “Yeah. I mean, I noticed the drop wasn’t hitting right.”

“Right," Shownu said simply. “Smart fix.”

And then he turned back to choreo like it wasn’t the first real praise Changkyun had gotten from anyone but Jungho in months.

After rehearsal, Hyungwon passed him in the hallway, twirling a mic pack between his fingers.

“You’re walking funny," He said.

Changkyun glanced down. “I’m— what?”

Hyungwon tilted his head, gaze trailing down his spine like he was doing calculus. “You always hold tension in your hips. You shuffle when you’re overtired.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Sure.” He popped the ‘r’ and smirked. “Let me know if you fall over. I’ll at least try to catch you.”

Changkyun wasn’t sure if it was flirting, teasing, or a very deadpan way of saying please take care of yourself, but whatever it was— it left his brain short-circuiting for the next ten minutes.

These weren’t grand gestures.

They weren’t even consistent.

But they kept happening.

Minhyuk tossing him a water bottle without looking. Hyungwon nudging him with a foot during break call and raising an eyebrow like, say something interesting, or at least stop looking like roadkill. Shownu asking if the monitor volume was working for him, not just the group.

Wonho left a vitamin pack on his chair that morning. No note. No comment.

And Changkyun didn’t know how to receive any of it.

He still got the cold shoulders from Kihyun and Jooheon. Still had entire meals where no one sat beside him. Still walked into rooms where conversations stopped and never started again.

But something was shifting.

Or maybe he was.

And it scared the hell out of him.

Barcelona was bright in a way that made Changkyun feel like he was squinting through his whole day.

The venue was slick and airy, all light wood and glass walls. The sound tech on-site had been friendly, quick to offer a hand or a spare cable without comment, and for once, load-in hadn’t turned into a disaster. Still, something in his chest sat crooked. Like he’d slept on the wrong side of his ribs.

He tried to ignore it.

He’d gotten good at that.

Changkyun kept his hoodie on during setup. Not because he was cold, he wasn’t, but because he needed something to hold him together. A layer of armor against a group that still wasn’t sure whether he was a mistake or a threat.

He was tightening cables by the side of the stage when he heard Minhyuk’s laugh from the green room. Loud and real, none of that cutting edge it used to carry.

He paused. Just for a second.

Then he heard it again, Hyungwon’s voice, drawling something impossible to make out, followed by what sounded like a barked cough of laughter. His.

He didn’t remember laughing.

The cable slipped slightly in his grip.

He adjusted it and kept going.

A little later, he passed by catering. Wonho was crouched in front of a cooler, fishing for something. Jooheon stood nearby, scrolling on his phone.

Wonho looked up when Changkyun walked past and said, “Yo, grab one of those waters. You’re gonna forget later.”

Changkyun hesitated.

Wonho held his gaze. “Seriously. You look like you’re made of salt and spite today.”

It was said so casually. So kindly.

He grabbed the bottle and nodded. “Thanks.”

“Anytime," Wonho said, already turning back to the cooler.

He didn’t see Jooheon’s expression. But he felt it.

The tight pause. The little breath Jooheon let out, like he was trying very hard not to say something.

Later, during vocal warm-ups, Changkyun stood near the edge of the booth, taking levels. Kihyun came in last.

He didn't look at him. Didn't even glance.

After vocal warm-ups ended, Minhyuk popped into the booth mid-mix and leaned over his shoulder, peering at the waveform like he could read it.

“You missed lunch again," He said, not looking at him.

Changkyun blinked. “I—what?”

“You do that thing when you haven’t eaten. The—" Minhyuk mimicked a tight mouth, jaw clenched. “Hungry gremlin face.”

Changkyun huffed, embarrassed. “I was busy—"

“Here," Minhyuk said, pulling something from his hoodie pocket. A protein snack, half-melted, slightly crumpled. “Eat before you ruin your blood sugar and pass out mid-reverb.”

He took it. Quietly. Still unsure if this was a joke or not.

Minhyuk didn’t clarify. Just clapped him once on the shoulder and sauntered out.

He didn’t hear the door reopen behind him.

But he felt the silence shift.

A moment later, Jooheon’s voice cut in, sharp and low from the back of the booth.

“What is this? Charity now?”

Changkyun turned, startled.

Jooheon stood just inside the threshold, arms crossed, eyebrows low. His expression wasn’t blank, it was furious in that simmering way that made the room feel colder.

Minhyuk glanced back at him, calm as ever. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“You don’t even like him.”

Minhyuk tilted his head. “And?”

“And now you’re pretending to care?”

There was something more in his tone, bitterness layered beneath the edge, like a wound had reopened without warning.

Minhyuk didn’t rise to it. He shrugged. “Maybe he’s not as annoying as you are.”

It was a joke. A light one.

But Jooheon didn’t laugh.

He stared at Changkyun, hard.

“You really think this means something?” he asked, quiet but direct.

Changkyun didn’t answer. Didn’t even know what he was being asked.

Jooheon scoffed and stormed out.

Minhyuk didn’t follow.

He just sat back on the edge of the console and sighed. “That was... a lot.”

Changkyun’s hands were still clenched in his lap.

Later, during soundcheck, Changkyun stood near the edge of the booth.

He didn't look at him. Didn't even glance.

But when Hyungwon leaned against the console next to Changkyun and offered him a handful of snacks from his jacket pocket, Kihyun’s shoulders went stiff.

He didn’t say anything until the check ended.

And then, under his breath as he passed behind them: “Didn’t realize this was a social club now.”

It wasn’t loud enough to confront. But it was loud enough to sting.

Hyungwon’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t answer. Just tilted his head toward the booth glass like he hadn’t heard it.

It stung more than it should have.

And again, no one said anything.

Changkyun didn’t ask questions.

He just kept his head down and adjusted the mic levels.

He just stayed exactly where he was, spine straight, hands loose at his sides, trying not to let any of it show. Trying not to feel the way his chest had tightened, just a little too much to breathe normally.

When no one was looking, he stepped quietly out of the sound booth, turned the corner, and sat down hard against the wall.

It was quieter here.

Quieter, but not easier.

He folded his arms over his knees and rested his forehead there, letting the weight of it all settle, heavy, dull, unspoken.

He didn’t cry.

He sat in the hallway outside the dressing rooms, back pressed to the cool painted wall, legs pulled in like he was trying to make himself smaller. His hands were steady now. That was something. He stared down at his own fingers, watching them flex in slow rhythm like it might mean he still had control over something.

He hadn’t eaten the protein bar.

It was still in his pocket. Warmed from hours of body heat, slightly crushed.

He hadn’t thrown it away either.

The show was starting soon. The team was already doing final checks, but no one had come looking for him. They knew he’d be where he always was, tucked in the wings of the venue, behind the soundboard, or sitting in the shadows pretending like that was where he was meant to be.

His throat was dry. His head was buzzing, just under the skin.

He was so tired of trying to understand which version of himself he was supposed to be.

The door to the green room clicked open down the hall. He didn’t look up.

Footsteps moved closer.

Not fast. Not hesitant either.

Just steady.

When Shownu rounded the corner, he didn’t say anything. Just took one look at where Changkyun was curled, half-lit, half-shadow, and eased down beside him, knees bent, arms resting on top of them.

No fanfare. No pity. Just presence.

Changkyun didn’t speak.

Neither did Shownu.

They sat there in silence for a long time. Long enough that the sound of the venue warming up, the echo of a bass note through the floorboards, the faint murmur of a crowd gathering, became background noise.

And then, finally, Shownu said, “You’re not the problem.”

It was quiet. Not a declaration. Just a fact, handed gently into the space between them.

Changkyun didn’t answer.

He didn’t trust his voice.

He didn’t trust what he’d say if he tried to speak, how desperate or broken it might sound.

He blinked hard and kept his eyes on the wall across from them.

Shownu didn’t ask for anything more.

Didn’t press, didn’t offer advice, didn’t dig for the pieces he wasn’t ready to show.

He just stayed.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

London felt like a bruise.

Gray skies hung low and constant, pressing against the windows of the van like a threat. The air was damp enough to cling to the edges of his sleeves, thick in his lungs no matter how many times he swallowed. He liked the city, technically, liked the language, the quiet rhythm of the roads, the clean signage, but it all felt too distant right now. Like a world he could see but not touch.

They arrived at the venue late. Delayed flight, traffic at the airport, a round of equipment that hadn’t cleared customs until the last possible second. Everyone was tired, hungry, tense. Changkyun kept his head down, nodding where appropriate, scanning the checklist in his hands without really reading it.

He’d meant to eat breakfast.

He’d meant to hydrate.

But the moment they’d hit the greenroom, someone had needed something, Minhyuk asking if the lighting plots had changed, Jooheon muttering about a monitor being off by a hair, Shownu motioning for a gain readjustment from across the stage. And that was fine. That was good. It gave him something to do.

He didn’t need much, just clarity. A list. A rhythm. He could still function on muscle memory if nothing else.

During soundcheck, the tension in the room frayed just a little too far.

Hyungwon was the first to slip.

Not in a dramatic way, no explosion, no thrown mic, not even a complaint, but his timing was off. His mouth moved slightly too late during a harmonized run, and then again during choreo. One of the backing vocal cues didn’t trigger when it should’ve, and his expression didn’t change, but Changkyun saw the way his jaw clenched.

Saw how he moved just a fraction slower in the next run-through. How he kept rolling his shoulder like it wouldn’t sit right.

They were halfway through the third song when he turned away from the formation and muttered something to no one in particular.

It wasn’t loud enough to catch.

But it was loud enough that Wonho frowned.

“You okay?”

Hyungwon waved him off.

Minhyuk glanced over. So did Shownu.

No one pressed.

The track started again.

Changkyun adjusted the level on Hyungwon’s in-ear monitor. Slightly, subtly. Enough to bring the lead vocal closer to center.

Then he backed away from the board.

He tucked his hands into his hoodie pocket and made himself small behind the scaffolding, out of the direct line of sight, but close enough to keep watching. The hum of the monitors throbbed faintly in his teeth. Hyungwon didn’t stumble again, but he didn’t quite settle, either. The mic stayed a breath too far from his mouth. His timing on the bridge came in late. His eyes flicked once to the side of the stage, quick and hollow, like he was searching for something and already knew it wouldn’t be there.

No one said anything.

They just ran the set again.

The weight in the room never let up.

The soundcheck ended with less of a cue and more of a collective exhale, staff drifting off to the wings, Minhyuk muttering about lighting changes, Shownu calling out something to a tech without waiting for confirmation. Jooheon tossed his mic onto a stool a little too hard. Kihyun was already halfway to the exit, head down, jaw set.

Hyungwon didn’t move.

He stayed on stage, hands at his sides, staring down at the tape-marked floor like it had asked him a question he couldn’t answer.

Changkyun didn’t approach.

He watched.

And for a flicker of a second, he let himself imagine a different version of the moment, one where he was allowed to close that distance without hesitation. Where touch didn’t feel dangerous. Where he could reach for someone and not feel like he was trying to trespass into something sacred.

The second passed.

He slipped into the wings, hands still in his pockets, and disappeared down the corridor leading to the crew hall.

Only when he was out of sight did he let out the breath he’d been holding for three songs.

The green room was too quiet.

Hyungwon had a very specific kind of silence, elegant, pointed, threaded through with layers you couldn’t see until you stepped in the wrong direction and hit one. Today, though, it was the kind of silence that ached. It sat in the room like a dropped dish that no one had cleaned up, all sharp edges and expectation.

Changkyun kept his eyes on the cables he was untangling. He didn’t want to interfere.

Minhyuk was pacing, flipping through a setlist, back bent like it physically hurt to read the paper. Wonho stood near the door, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh. Shownu was kneeling beside a backup case, rummaging through earpieces that definitely didn’t need to be checked again.

And Hyungwon?

Hyungwon was sprawled across the couch like a warning sign. Legs stretched out, arms folded, head tilted back against the wall. He looked relaxed. He didn’t move when someone walked by. But every word out of his mouth landed like it had been sharpened beforehand.

“Wow," He said dryly when Jooheon walked in late. “So glad the main event has arrived. We can all breathe now.”

No one laughed.

Jooheon didn’t even look at him.

A moment later, when Minhyuk tried to crack a joke about the fans screaming too early during preshow checks, Hyungwon said, “Maybe they’re just desperate for something exciting. Can’t blame them.”

This time, even Minhyuk didn’t try to deflect. He just sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Wonho leaned down toward Shownu, voice low. “We need to space him.”

“We don’t have time," Shownu muttered back. “Doors are open. They’re calling ten minutes to stage.”

“You think he’s gonna hold up like this?”

Shownu didn’t answer.

They both knew the answer.

Wonho exchanged a look with Shownu, then gestured subtly toward the hallway. Within moments, most of the doms were slipping out, probably to sort costumes, maybe to get space. It left the room quieter, but not better.

Changkyun watched all of it from the floor, sitting cross-legged near the spare mic packs, looping cords around his palm with more precision than necessary. He wasn’t part of this. He knew that. They weren’t looking to him. No one ever did.

But Hyungwon looked miserable.

More than that, he looked untethered.

His brattiness wasn’t performative. It wasn’t playful. It was starting to spiral.

And Changkyun couldn’t space him. Couldn’t give him what he really needed. But he couldn’t sit here and do nothing, either.

So he stood up quietly, walked over to the drinks table, and grabbed a cold bottle of water.

He twisted the cap off and walked across the room, slow, steady, like he was just doing a job.

Hyungwon didn’t move when he approached.

Changkyun didn’t ask permission. Just offered the bottle, held out in one hand, not too close.

“Hydrate," He said, voice neutral.

Hyungwon looked at him like he was about to say something scathing. His mouth opened.

Then shut.

He took the bottle.

Changkyun sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of him, not close, just near enough to make it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.

“You don’t have to talk," He said.

Hyungwon didn’t.

He drank half the bottle, exhaled like it physically hurt, and leaned his head back again.

After a while, Changkyun said softly, “You don’t have to be funny all the time.”

Hyungwon snorted. “You think I’m funny?”

“Sometimes," He said. “But not right now.”

Another pause. Another silence.

Not sharp, this time. Just tired.

The door opened again. Changkyun looked up and saw the others filing back in, Minhyuk in costume, adjusting a belt, Shownu still holding two earpieces in his fist, Wonho close behind.

They saw him.

They saw Hyungwon, too. Not fixed. Not fine. But breathing easier than he had ten minutes ago.

Their eyes flicked from the couch to the water bottle to Changkyun, who was still sitting right there like he belonged.

He stood up quickly before anyone could say anything.

“Good luck out there," He muttered, already walking toward the side door.

No one stopped him.

Hyungwon didn’t thank him.

When the show wrapped, most of the crew peeled off in pairs, some to strike the stage, some to catch the crew bus back to the hotel.

Changkyun had been headed that way too, until someone from staff pointed him toward the passenger van already waiting by the stage door.

“They’re going that way. Faster," She said kindly. “You’ve earned the early ride.”

He hesitated.

She was already waving him forward, headset pressed to her ear, attention gone.

By the time he reached the van there wasn’t really a choice.

So he climbed in.

The ride back to the hotel should’ve been silent.

It wanted to be silent.

The van’s interior was dim and cold, air conditioning set too low, condensation clinging to the windows like breath held too long. Changkyun sat in the back corner seat, pressed up against the curve of the door, hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie like that might help him disappear.

Hyungwon took the middle row.

The other members filtered in after the show, wrung out, tired, a little shell-shocked from how close the set had come to crumbling. When they saw Changkyun already sitting there, curled into the far corner like luggage that had been misplaced, no one said anything. But the shift was immediate. Jooheon didn’t sit in his usual seat. Kihyun barely glanced his way. Minhyuk’s mouth twitched like he was about to say something, then didn’t. The silence had shape now, and Changkyun could feel himself pressed up hard against the edge of it.  Inside the pack, the tension was thick enough to choke on.

And Hyungwon? Hyungwon was floating on top of it like he couldn’t even feel it.

“Isn’t tour great?” he said brightly, head lolling against the seat like he was drunk on the aftermath. “All the new cities, the fresh trauma. Really builds character.”

Minhyuk made a sound in the back of his throat, half a laugh, half a warning.

Hyungwon ignored it.

“We should invite Changkyun up to the room," He added, voice all sugar and static. “Bet he’d love to watch a nice pack session up close. Wouldn’t you, Changkyun?”

Changkyun didn’t answer.

He didn’t move.

Kihyun tensed visibly, gaze fixed out the window.

Hyungwon grinned. “Oh right. Can’t do that. Wouldn’t want to upset Kihyun’s iron will. Must be hard, having a soulmate you can’t control.”

The silence in the van dropped a full degree colder.

Wonho shifted, clearly about to say something, but Hyungwon cut him off with a sigh.

“No, no, it’s fine. We’re all fine. I’m fine.” His voice dipped low, melodic. Mocking. “Just a little tired. Little bratty. Little ignored.”

Jooheon exhaled hard. “Hyungwon, drop it.”

Hyungwon blinked at him, sweet and wide-eyed. “Oh? You mad again, Jooheon? You’ve been mad since this tour. Since before the tour, really. It's like our favorite hobby now, pretending we’re mad at him when really we’re all just scared.”

No one spoke.

“Or is it guilt?” he continued, kicking his feet slightly like a child. “You know, for pretending we didn’t see him falling apart. Not until it got inconvenient.”

Minhyuk muttered something under his breath. Shownu’s hand twitched on the armrest. No one looked at Changkyun.

“Me too, by the way," Hyungwon added casually. “I’m guilty too. I’ve been so nice to him lately. It’s almost embarrassing.”

He turned slightly in his seat, gaze flicking back to the corner.

“You okay back there, Changkyun?” he asked, tone syrupy and sharp at once. “Still believe in soulmates?”

The van stopped in front of the hotel.

The silence held like glass.

Then Shownu stood. “Hyungwon. Let’s go.”

Hyungwon smiled like he’d won a prize. “Finally.”

The others followed, some silent, some barely breathing. Wonho placed a hand between Hyungwon’s shoulder blades as they crossed the lobby, steady and firm.

But Hyungwon turned, just before they entered the elevator, and called out one last time.

“Changkyun! You coming up with us?”

His laugh echoed long after the doors slid shut.

Changkyun stood frozen in the marble lobby. A few crew members passed him on the way in, chatting quietly about room keys, charging cables, dinner plans. None of them looked twice at him.

A few minutes passed.

Then one of the members, Wonho, maybe, stepped back out of the elevator alcove. He approached slowly, hands in his jacket pockets, head slightly bowed.

“Hey," He said softly. “That wasn’t fair.”

Changkyun shook his head. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not," He replied. “Sometimes tour messes with people. Hyungwon’s not, he doesn’t mean it like that.”

“I said it’s fine.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. Just hollow.

Wonho opened his mouth like he might say something else. Then shut it again.

“Goodnight, Changkyun.”

“Yeah," He said. “You too.”

He didn’t move until the lobby was empty again.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, an automatic reminder from the Dynamic Center, confirming his late-night regulation appointment just across the Thames.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then tapped cancel.

He knew it was stupid. He knew no one was going to call him to their hotel room. That if they wanted him, they would’ve said something.

But still.

He stayed dressed.

He left his phone volume on.

Just in case.

Chapter Text

He didn’t sleep that night.

Not really.

He lay on top of the hotel duvet, fully clothed, eyes open to the ceiling until they blurred. At some point, the room grew cold enough that his fingertips went numb, but he didn’t move to fix it. Just stayed there, still and brittle, like a glass someone had forgotten to pick up after the toast.

By morning, the knot in his chest had settled into something heavier. Not pain. Not even sadness. Just weight.

The van incident never came up again.

No one apologized. No one explained. And maybe that was the worst part, that it all folded back into routine without a ripple. Like nothing had cracked. Like no one had flinched.

So Changkyun did the only thing he knew how to do.

He got up. He packed. He boarded the flight to L.A. like his skin didn’t itch with the residue of Hyungwon’s voice, like he hadn’t skipped his regulation appointment just to stay visible in case someone changed their mind.

And by the time the plane touched down, he’d buried it deep enough to walk off smiling.

The air in the States felt drier. Less smog, maybe. Less heat pressed into your skin the way Seoul or Bangkok or even Berlin had done. But it also felt wider, somehow. Louder. Like even the silence took up more space.

Changkyun stepped off the bus and blinked against the light. Morning in Los Angeles. Blue sky smeared too sharp across the edges. The hotel glass towered behind them, faceless and clean. Palms dotted the horizon like props.

Someone laughed behind him, Minhyuk, maybe. Or Jooheon. He couldn’t tell.

They were already moving.

He adjusted the strap of his laptop bag, stepped forward, and kept pace.

 Detroit. It was the fourth city in seven days. Third venue with failing wiring. Second night in a row he hadn’t really slept. Not that it showed. His shirt was pressed, hair neat, gear packed to spec. No one looked twice at him.

Except Shownu, maybe.

Changkyun felt it in his peripheral awareness, the quiet track of Shownu’s eyes. Not suspicion. Not concern. Just… observation. Like he was counting how long it took him to lift his suitcase. Like he was keeping time with something other than the schedule.

But he didn’t say anything.

The rest of the day moved on, restless and bright.

The venue was a cavern of concrete and harsh echoes. Soundcheck was hell. The monitors kept spitting static, and the in-ears were mismatched, someone on tech had mislabeled the cases. Changkyun fixed it quietly, crouched near the rack with a flashlight between his teeth and sweat clinging to his back. No one asked if he needed help.

He didn’t expect them to.

He moved like a ghost through the greenroom between sets, taking inventory, double-checking comms, rebalancing track markers for the final mix. He wasn’t technically staff, but no one cared anymore. If something broke, he fixed it. If someone needed something, he found it. His badge wasn’t laminated, but his presence was carved into the workflow by now.

He worked until his breath felt shallow and far away.

The clock blinked past 4 p.m. when he finally stopped to sit in a side hallway, half-shadowed, door cracked for airflow. His hands trembled faintly. Low blood sugar, probably. He hadn’t eaten since landing. The craft services table had bagels and fruit, untouched.

He pressed his thumb to his sternum. Breathed in, slow.

You’re fine.

You’re still upright.

Just keep going.

Footsteps approached.

He didn’t move.

A shadow passed across the doorway, then stepped back.

“Hey.”

Wonho.

Changkyun turned, careful not to move too fast. “Yeah?”

“You good?” Wonho asked, not gently, but not sharp, either.

“Just taking five.”

Wonho nodded once. Then hesitated. “You look kind of pale.”

Changkyun shrugged. “Didn’t sleep great on the plane.”

“Didn’t sleep at all, you mean.”

He didn’t answer.

Wonho didn’t push. Just looked at him for a moment, then nodded again, slower this time.

“I’ll bring you something. Eat it even if you don’t want it.”

He didn’t wait for agreement, just turned and walked back down the hall.

Changkyun stayed where he was, head tipped back against the cool plaster. Eyes closed.

His body felt distant. Not numb. Just… behind a pane of glass. He could hear it asking for something. Not food. Not rest. Something deeper. Anchored. That feeling he’d been chasing in the dark of the Center back in Seoul, in the too-quiet room in London he never made it to.

Structure. Touch. Instruction. The scaffolding he wasn’t allowed to want.

He curled his fingers slowly into a fist. Opened them again.

He was fine.

Just one more city. Then another. Then another. Then home.

The ache would keep. It always had.

The rehearsal space smelled like gaffer tape and stale Gatorade. Air conditioning too loud, overhead lights flickering slightly in the back row. Someone’s water bottle clattered to the floor mid-run-through, but no one stopped the count.

Changkyun sat behind the sound console, headphones half-on, click track pulsing in one ear like a second heartbeat. His fingers hovered over the levels without really adjusting them. Everything looked right. But the sound felt… wrong. Flat in places. Too bright in others. Or maybe it wasn’t the sound. Maybe it was just him.

His eyes burned.

The past three nights blurred into a single unsteady blur, flights and edits, schedule adjustments and city names that barely stayed in memory long enough to mean anything. He’d skipped dinner again. Skipped lunch without meaning to. Coffee and energy drinks had replaced entire food groups. And the ache that used to whisper at the base of his spine now sat behind his ribs like a live wire.

He should have gone to the Center in London.

He hadn’t rescheduled.

And now the noise in his head wouldn’t stop building.

Minhyuk's voice pulled him back.

"Hold the transition," he called to the others, stepping off the rehearsal platform with the loose-limbed bounce of someone hiding exhaustion behind practiced energy. "Jooheon’s timing’s off."

"It's not my timing," Jooheon muttered. "The backing track jumped."

"Okay, then your jump was late. Point still stands."

Hyungwon laughed softly, sitting down on the edge of the stage. "We’re falling apart in real time. Documentary-worthy."

Changkyun stood, too fast. The room tilted. He caught the edge of the console without making a sound.

He felt eyes on him.

Then Minhyuk’s voice again, quieter now. “Hey.”

Changkyun turned.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” he lied automatically. “Just need to check something in the booth.”

Minhyuk tilted his head. “Booth’s empty. Backup audio isn’t till after lunch.”

Shit. Right. He nodded anyway. “Just— wanted to confirm levels.”

Minhyuk stepped closer. Not invasive. Just enough to close the space. His gaze flicked over Changkyun’s face, and whatever he saw made the mischief drain from his expression.

“You look like hell,” he said softly.

Changkyun huffed a sound that might have been a laugh. “Thanks.”

“I’m not joking.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

A pause stretched between them. Minhyuk’s voice dropped low, serious in a way Changkyun rarely heard from him.

“When’s the last time you went under?”

Changkyun didn’t answer.

“That long, huh.”

He looked away. The rehearsal noise had faded into something tinny and far-off.

“I’ve been busy,” he said finally.

Minhyuk nodded, but didn’t look convinced. “You’re a sub. Not a machine.”

“I’m managing.”

“No, you’re holding.”

There was no heat in his voice. Just knowledge. Just the kind of quiet empathy that came from someone who’d done the same thing one too many times.

Minhyuk exhaled slowly. “You don’t have to tell me, but I’ve been where you are. Before I learned how to listen to it. Before someone stopped me long enough to make me.”

Changkyun stayed still. Too still.

Minhyuk took one step closer, then crouched slightly so they were eye-level.

“Just because you can hold doesn’t mean you should. You push too long, and eventually your body decides for you.”

That landed. A dull pulse in the center of his chest. Like a drumbeat from far away.

Minhyuk didn’t touch him, didn’t pressure.

He just said, quietly, “Don’t wait for the crash. Please.”

Then he straightened, gave a soft nudge to his shoulder, more gesture than contact, and walked back toward the others with an easy stretch of his arms and a joke about Shownu’s dance face.

The scene resumed like nothing had happened.

But Changkyun stayed where he was for a beat too long, still listening to that single sentence on loop.

Don’t wait for the crash.

The sound room was too cold.

Changkyun didn’t say anything, of course. He just curled his fingers tighter around the bottom edge of the console, knuckles white against plastic, and kept his posture perfect. Breath shallow. Shoulders square.

The speakers buzzed faintly. Track twelve. Vocal alignment.

“Layer five’s lagging,” Jooheon said from behind him, arms crossed, tone clipped.

Changkyun blinked at the screen.

The vocals were aligned. He’d run them twice. There was no lag.

He dragged the track back, played it again. Watched the cursor move in perfect time.

Except—

No.

Jooheon was right.

The timing was off by barely a millisecond. Just enough that the trailing consonant blurred at the seam. Something Changkyun should have caught. Would have caught.

He zoomed in, adjusted the marker, tried not to flinch at the sudden sting behind his eyes.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Fixed.”

Jooheon didn’t respond. Just stood there a little too long before finally walking off toward the lounge area.

Changkyun exhaled slow through his nose, fingers hovering over the keyboard. His hands weren’t shaking exactly, but they felt… off. Like they didn’t belong to him. Like the nerves were skipping signal.

He reached for his water bottle. Missed the cap the first time.

Don’t wait for the crash, Minhyuk had said.

Too late.

He took a slow sip, trying to steady himself.

The room had emptied a bit, Minhyuk and Wonho had gone to meet with staging, and Hyungwon had vanished sometime after lunch muttering about fluorescent lighting and capitalist fatigue.

Which left only,  “You’re not blending.”

Changkyun startled.

Kihyun stood just inside the doorway. Hands in his pockets. Expression unreadable.

Changkyun straightened. “Sorry?”

Kihyun stepped closer. “Your edits. They’re not tracking like they usually do. There’s no movement in them.”

“I ran three passes,” Changkyun said, too fast. “Phrasing’s clean, compression’s stable—"

“That’s not what I said.”

He stopped.

Kihyun tilted his head slightly. “They’re correct. But they’re not alive.”

The words shouldn’t have landed like they did. But something in them, something in him, hit too close to the bone. It wasn’t just about the mix. It was about him. His voice. His presence. The version of himself he kept presenting, polished and invisible and exact.

And maybe, maybe that was what stung most.

That Kihyun could hear it.

Still.

Even after everything.

Even now.

Changkyun didn’t know what to say, so he said the only thing that felt safe.

“I’ll fix it.”

Kihyun didn’t respond. Just looked at him.

And that look, quiet, steady, no heat behind it, somehow felt worse than if he’d been angry.

“You look like shit,” Kihyun said finally.

Changkyun huffed something like a laugh. “Noted.”

“You’re not sleeping.”

“No.”

“You’re not regulating.”

“I’m managing.”

Kihyun’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. More like disbelief, worn thin.

“You think if you hold it together long enough, we’ll let you in,” he said. “But that’s not how it works.”

That—hurt.

Not because it was wrong.

But because it wasn’t.

Still, Changkyun bristled.

He turned to face him fully now, throat tight but voice steady. “Is that what you think this is? That I’m falling apart because I want you to like me?”

Kihyun didn’t answer.

“I’m not doing this for acceptance,” Changkyun said. “I’m doing it because it’s my job. Because it has to be good. Because if it’s not good, it’s not enough.”

A pause stretched. Too taut.

“And if I’m not enough,” he added, voice quieter now, “then none of this makes sense.”

Kihyun looked at him. Really looked at him.

The way he had in the studio the day they met.

And for one awful second, Changkyun felt the bond tug. Not hard. Not hot. Just… present.

Low, quiet, impossible.

“Is that what you’re trying to do?” Kihyun asked, voice low. “Make it make sense?”

Changkyun didn’t answer.

He didn’t have one.

But his silence said everything.

Kihyun sighed, almost to himself. “You’re burning through yourself like it’s currency.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

His voice wasn’t sharp. It was— exhausted. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like a warning. It felt like regret.

“I know what it looks like,” Changkyun said, softer now. “But I’m not waiting for permission. I’m not standing outside the door with my hands out.”

“No,” Kihyun said. “You’re standing outside with your hands full of everything you think we’ll find valuable. Like if you hand us enough, we won’t look too closely at the rest of you.”

A slow, sinking kind of truth.

And Changkyun, tired, raw, still standing, didn’t know how to deny it.

So he didn’t.

He just looked down at the console, blinking hard, and said, “Maybe but why stop now.”

Kihyun didn’t respond.

Not in words.

Just stood there long enough that the silence felt shaped by his presence.

Then he turned. Walked out.

And the door didn’t slam, but the air felt heavier when it shut.

Changkyun stayed standing.

And somewhere inside him, something frayed a little more.

By the time the concert ended, Changkyun’s head was ringing.

Not from the music. Not even from the crowd.

It was like the echo had taken up residence inside his skull, thin and sharp and endless. Every light backstage bled too bright. Every movement left a smear in his vision. He bent to unplug a floor mic and nearly overbalanced.

He didn’t realize he’d started sweating until a staff member touched his shoulder and flinched.

“Hey, are you okay? You look a little pale.”

Changkyun blinked slowly. Tried to answer. Missed the timing.

The staffer hesitated. “Let me— hang on. I’ll have someone else close out your cues. You should ride back with the guys. Get off your feet.”

Before he could argue, someone was already waving the Monsta X van forward.

He climbed in silently.

The interior was dim and chilled, same as always. It smelled like aftershave and vitamin drinks and the last five cities. The seat leather pressed cold through his hoodie.

He didn’t care that it was the pack van.

Didn’t care that the others would notice.

Didn’t care about anything but keeping still.

He tugged his hood up and slid on his headphones, not playing anything, just shielding noise. He curled his knees up and pressed the side of his head against the window.

His stomach rolled again.

It wasn’t motion sickness. It wasn’t anxiety.

It was collapse. Slow. Cumulative. Cellular.

The van door slid open and footsteps filled the quiet.

Minhyuk first, humming something off-key.

Hyungwon behind him, muttering about the towels at the venue being made of sandpaper.

Jooheon, silent but watchful.

Shownu, always last, always steady.

Wonho said something low as he passed, Changkyun didn’t catch the words. Just the tone. Gentle. Careful.

Kihyun didn’t speak at all. But Changkyun felt the change in air pressure when he entered. The shift in how the others moved, subtly spacing themselves without disrupting formation.

The van pulled away.

No one commented on Changkyun’s presence. But the silence bent around him differently now. Thicker. Warmer.

He knew they were watching.

Even Jooheon.

Even Kihyun.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t move. He just kept breathing through the nausea, one shallow inhale at a time.

The city lights of Detroit strobed against the tinted glass. Every stoplight dragged. His hands wouldn’t unclench.

He told himself: Just get to the hotel. Just lie down. You’ll sleep. You’ll wake up and feel fine.

The van stopped.

Doors slid open.

The others filed out, stretching, yawning, still chatting in low voices.

Changkyun didn’t move.

Someone lingered. A shadow paused beside him.

“You good?” came a voice, maybe Wonho, maybe Minhyuk. He didn’t register it clearly.

“I’m fine,” he said. Or thought he did. His mouth felt wrong. “Don’t touch me.”

A beat of hesitation.

Then retreat.

The hotel lobby blurred past in a wave of warmth and motion. He kept his head down. Walked straight to the elevator. The pack gathered around him like orbit. He didn’t acknowledge them.

Just hit the button for the eighth floor and stared at it like it might save him.

The doors slid shut.

Silence.

Then: floor one.

His stomach flipped.

Floor two.

His ears buzzed.

Floor three.

Someone shifted. Jooheon, maybe. The sound of shuffling fabric made him wince.

Floor four.

He felt eyes on him. Not curious. Not cruel.

Worried.

Why are they worried? he thought, almost bitter. They don’t even want me.

Floor five.

His knees locked.

Floor six.

The ringing turned to static.

Floor seven.

His mouth was dry. The elevator felt like it was tipping sideways.

And then—

Ding.

Eighth floor.

The doors opened.

He didn’t move.

His body wouldn’t obey.

His foot twitched like it wanted to step forward, but his limbs were disconnected from command. His breath came short and shallow. His hands were numb. The hallway blurred at the edges like it was behind glass.

Someone moved behind him.

And then—

“Changkyun?” Kihyun’s voice. Quiet. Tentative. Not angry.

A hand touched his arm.

Bare skin.

It was the first time since the studio. Since the bond.

The second it happened, the air punched out of his lungs.

Not figuratively.

Literally.

He gasped, sharp and broken, and doubled forward.

The world tilted.

Everything inside him slammed open.

The weight he’d been carrying for weeks, months, snapped like a taut wire finally giving out. It didn’t ease. It didn’t fade. It ripped. All at once. Like floodgates breaking. Like sound shattering.

The elevator didn’t exist anymore.

Nothing existed but falling.

Down. Down. Down.

His body didn’t drop slowly into subspace, it crashed. Headlong. No buffer. No breath.

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t think.

Everything was too much.

Every voice. Every light. Every thread of fabric against his skin.

His knees gave out.

Someone caught him.

He didn’t know who.

Voices blurred into distant echoes, concern, command, someone saying his name, but it didn’t matter. The words didn’t reach him.

His mind had already gone under.

Weightless.

Wordless.

Gone.

Chapter Text

The floor never caught him.

Or maybe it did.

Or maybe there was no floor, just arms. Just warmth. Just the sound of someone breathing too close and the vague sense of forward motion.

Changkyun’s body floated, but heavy. Like he’d been wrapped in wool and sunk in water.

His limbs wouldn’t answer. His mouth wouldn’t open. His eyes closed, maybe. Maybe open. Light filtered through his lashes like fogged glass.

Too much.

Too much sound. Too much space. Too many edges.

But the hands—

The hands were careful.

Firm. Supportive. Not demanding. No pressure, no pull.

Just… held.

A voice. Low. Not sharp. Familiar.

“We need to move him.”

Another voice, further away. “He’s nonverbal. Maybe full dissociation.”

“Should we call someone? Emergency service?”

A pause.

“He’s safe right now.”

“Safe how?”

“Because he’s not fighting.”

That voice— Wonho?

Changkyun’s head lolled against something solid. Fabric. Scented faintly of cedar, sweat, and something grounding. The elevator? No. Hallway. They were walking.

Doors opened.

The air shifted.

And suddenly, the world felt different.

Not louder. Just… deeper.

The room smelled warm. Thick with lived-in scent, pack scent. Comfort layered into the walls. Familiar colognes. Skin. Detergent. Even the carpet underfoot felt softer. Padded.

And then— he was lowered.

Onto a mattress.

Wide. Yielding. A bed big enough to hold.

The covers rustled beneath him, thick and heavy, like they were made to carry weight. Multiple figures moved around him, their shadows slow and careful.

Someone tugged his shoes off. Someone else peeled back his hoodie. No rush. No invasion. Every motion slow enough to retreat from, if he’d wanted to.

But he didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Didn’t even have the pieces to remember how.

He wasn’t there.

Not fully.

Just floating.

And then—

Words again. Quiet.

“If we leave him alone, he’ll spiral.”

“He hasn’t regulated in weeks. Months maybe. That’s not a drift, that’s a drop.”

“We need to help him space.”

“That’s not our call.”

“What’s the alternative? We put him in his room and hope he doesn’t subdrop before breakfast?”

Silence.

Then: “We can’t leave him.”

The bed shifted. Someone climbed in beside him cautiously. The weight dipped and rebalanced. A warm body settled nearby, but not on him. Just… close.

Another person followed.

Then another.

A slow orbit forming around him. No one touching directly. Just offering warmth. Presence.

Not claiming. Not assuming.

Just there.

He wasn’t thinking.

Not really.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, his body read the data.

Safe.

Contained.

Home?

No. Not yet.

But not alone.

The mattress exhaled as one more body joined. Someone touched the blanket near his hand. Not his hand, just near. An offering. A pulse in the dark.

A voice, Kihyun’s maybe, spoke again. Not to him. About him.

“He needs regulation. Not connection.”

And then quieter still:

“But if he needs me… I’ll stay.”

Somewhere in the dark, a hand brushed his arm.

Not skin. Fabric-covered. Careful.

Not a command, an offering.

Changkyun didn’t respond.

He wasn’t sure he could.

But he felt it.

Heard the breath catch in someone’s throat. The way the room shifted, sofa cushions rustling, a creak of the mattress, the warm hush of a body leaning in without touching.

Then another hand. Near his ankle this time. He twitched.

The touch withdrew immediately.

Silence followed. Long. Listening.

And then—

Shownu.

His voice, low and unhurried, cut through the quiet like steady tide.

“Breathe in.”

A pause.

“Now out.”

He wasn’t touching. He wasn’t guiding physically. He was structuring the moment. Giving it shape.

“Again. In… and out.”

There was something in his voice unshakeable. Like gravity had chosen a name and it was Shownu.

Changkyun’s chest obeyed without thinking. Shallow. Shaky. But obeying.

“Good,” Shownu said. No smile in his voice. Just fact.

The mattress shifted again.

Wonho this time, Changkyun could feel the warmth before he heard the voice. That gentle hush, like cotton soaked in honey.

“You’re doing so well,” Wonho murmured. “You don’t have to move. We’ve got you.”

A hand hovered just above his wrist.

“You don’t have to do anything. You’re allowed to rest now.”

Praise. Permission. Presence.

Something inside Changkyun trembled. Not fear. Not pain.

Just— response.

They didn’t press.

They stayed close.

Jooheon didn’t speak at all.

But Changkyun could feel him, stationed near his feet, unmoving. Anchored. Solid.

Not touching. Not watching. Guarding.

Every so often, Changkyun’s body pulsed with something too sharp, heat under the skin, shame curling behind his ribs, and he felt it crest…

…but it never broke.

Because someone, always someone, breathed near him at just the right time. A quiet murmur. A grounding word. The kind of stillness only a pack could hold.

“He’s been managing himself for so long, he doesn’t know how to be managed.”

The words weren’t for Changkyun. Not really.

But they still hit.

He blinked once, slow and thick, and a single tear slipped sideways into his hairline.

No one moved to wipe it.

But someone, a warm presence behind him, leaned just slightly closer.

Wonho again, maybe.

“Then we’ll teach him,” he said gently.

Kihyun didn’t respond.

But he stayed.

Changkyun’s body didn’t feel like his anymore.

He could feel things, soft fabric beneath him, the dip and shift of the bed as others moved, but nothing connected. Everything registered as sensation without shape, touch without meaning.

Somewhere nearby, the air changed.

A hand brushed his sleeve. Not his skin, just the fabric. Not pressure, just weight. A warm palm, steady and silent, resting there like a placeholder for something he couldn’t yet reach.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t respond, either.

But he noticed.

Then: breath. Slow. Measured,

Wonho moved again, closer now. He tucked something around Changkyun’s side, another blanket, maybe. Or his own body. The heat was immediate. Enveloping.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he murmured. “We want you here. Even like this. Especially like this.”

Still, Changkyun didn’t rise.

But he breathed deeper.

And that was everything.

Wonho’s hand shifted, slow and practiced, curling gently into the space where neck met skull. His fingers combed through Changkyun’s hair in light, methodical strokes, again and again, like a meditation.

“You’re doing so well,” he said, breath warm against the side of his face. “That’s it. Let yourself rest.”

At his back, Shownu adjusted, sitting upright, his spine firm against the headboard. One of his knees brushed Changkyun’s through the blankets. Not to move him. Not to crowd.

Just to be there.

Then a broad hand settled on the small of his back.

Not pressing. Just resting.

“You’re not floating,” Shownu said. His voice was quiet steel. “You’re supported.”

His palm didn’t move. Didn’t seek response.

It simply gave weight.

Structure.

A new shape joined them near the foot of the bed. A ripple of energy, playful, controlled, impossible to miss.

Minhyuk.

“Wrapped up like a burrito,” he murmured, adjusting the heavy blanket until it curved around Changkyun’s hip.

His hand ghosted over the blanket. Settled against Changkyun’s shin.

“Gonna keep me guessing, huh?” he whispered, low enough that it wasn’t for the others. “You one of those quiet service types? Or are you hiding teeth?”

Changkyun didn’t respond.

But he didn’t pull away.

Minhyuk grinned.

“He’s listening,” he said to the room. “Bet he’s got that brat-patience, waits till your guard’s down, then pushes.”

From across the mattress, Hyungwon made a soft noise.

“Mm. My favorite kind.”

And then he flopped, elegant as a falling coat, onto the far side of the bed. One long limb draped lazily over the blanket, not quite touching Changkyun.

His wrist brushed the fabric near his shoulder.

“Don’t get used to this,” he murmured, voice languid, eyes half-lidded. “We’re usually much worse.”

And then— quieter.

“But you do look kind of pretty like this.”

He let his head tilt against Changkyun’s shoulder.

“Not that I’m into ruined little sub disasters or anything.”

No one responded. But the silence allowed it. Not because they agreed, but because it worked.

Because Changkyun didn’t flinch.

Jooheon was still at the foot of the bed, quiet, legs folded, watching. He hadn’t spoken since they laid Changkyun down, but his presence never dipped.

There was something grounding in his silence.

Like a ritual. Like a vow.

Every few minutes, Changkyun’s breath hitched, too shallow, too tight, and Jooheon’s eyes would flick up. Not to correct. Just to track.

And every time, he stayed still.

He wasn’t performing care.

He was holding it.

The weight of all that presence, layered and quiet and real, should have been enough.

It almost was.

Until—

A shudder.

Deep in Changkyun’s ribs.

A shift in his chest. His hands, hidden beneath the blanket, began to twitch.

“Shownu,” Wonho said softly, alert.

His strokes through Changkyun’s hair slowed.

“He’s shaking.”

And then it came, the second tremor. Stronger this time. His shoulders curled in as if bracing for something that never landed.

Shownu’s hand pressed slightly firmer at his back. “You’re safe,” he said. “You’re not falling.”

But Changkyun was.

His breath came too fast now. The blanket that had grounded him five minutes ago now felt too light, too loose, like the air had grown thinner.

He wasn’t just dropping.

He was slipping away.

Panic rose, but not from him.

From the pack.

“He’s drifting again,” Minhyuk said, sharp. “Something’s not landing.”

“He’s not responding to voice cues anymore,” Wonho murmured. “We need something else.”

“Maybe too much noise?” Jooheon offered quietly from the foot of the bed. “Or not enough?”

“We could try pressure, blankets, heat pads, weighted wrap—"

“No,” Shownu cut in. “He needs more than weight. He needs containment. He’s looking for boundaries.”

“And what if we guess wrong?” Hyungwon snapped, suddenly serious. “If we give him the wrong stimulus right now, we break him.”

A long silence.

“We can call a regulation service,” Wonho said, voice low. “Have someone certified—"

“There’s no time,” Minhyuk said. “He’s crashing fast.”

Kihyun hadn’t moved.

But he was watching.

Still. Silent. Listening.

And then— finally…

“I’ve got him.”

Not loud.

Not asking.

Just truth.

The others turned. Minhyuk sat back on his heels, blinking. Wonho’s hand slid from Changkyun’s hair, lingering one beat too long. Even Shownu, always steady, paused.

“You sure?” Wonho asked. “We don’t even know his style yet—"

“I do,” Kihyun said simply.

Hyungwon raised an eyebrow. “You’ve barely looked at him in weeks.”

Kihyun didn’t flinch. “I don’t have to look. I feel it.”

A breath. A beat. Then he added, quieter:

“We’re soulmates.”

That landed like weight in the room.

Minhyuk’s jaw tightened. “That doesn’t mean you know what you’re doing.”

“It means I know what he needs.”

Silence.

Not agreement. Not resistance.

Just the wide-eyed, instinctive pause that comes when someone speaks with too much certainty to argue.

Kihyun stepped to the edge of the bed.

“I’m going to bind him.”

No one stopped him.

But no one moved either.

Even Hyungwon looked almost reverent now. Like he was watching something he shouldn’t be allowed to see.

Kihyun crouched beside the bed, slow and precise.

He didn’t speak again until he was close, one knee to the mattress, one palm resting gently, carefully, on Changkyun’s chest. Palm down, over the sternum, not pressing. Just marking space.

His voice dropped to a whisper, pitched only for the room.

“He needs to know where his body ends.”

And then—

“I’m going to bind you,” he said aloud, voice steady and sure. “Over your clothes. Nothing tight. Nothing restrictive. Just pressure. Form.”

A pause.

No protest.

No movement.

“I need you to feel where you begin again,” Kihyun said. “So I’m going to draw the line for you.”

He reached into the duffel near the bedside. Unzipped it. Pulled out a length of soft rope, dark blue, smooth with use. Not coarse. Not knotted. Safe.

No one spoke.

Because this wasn’t performance.

This was sacred.

Kihyun moved slowly. Deliberately.

First: Changkyun’s wrist.

He wrapped over the hoodie sleeve, once, twice, a third time. No tension. Just pressure. Then he tied it gently to the side strap of the bedframe. Not restraining, just anchoring. An invitation to stop floating.

“Here,” Kihyun said, soft now. “This is your left.”

Another coil, this time at the ankle. Bound lightly to the base of the bed. The rope traced across his shin like a line drawn in ink.

“And here’s your right.”

The rest of the rope wound across his torso. A loose chest harness, nothing tight, nothing binding. Just the sensation of touch. Of shape. Of being held in place.

Kihyun finished by tucking the final end of the rope beneath one of the loops at Changkyun’s collarbone.

Then he rested his hand against the knot.

“Breathe.”

A long silence.

And then— Changkyun obeyed.

His chest expanded. Shallow, but real.

The moment air filled his lungs, something shifted in the room.

A soundless hum.

Not auditory.

Not visible.

But felt.

The others didn’t name it. Didn’t flinch.

But the bond, silent since the studio, stirred.

Not claiming. Not forcing.

Just a hum of contact.

Kihyun.

Changkyun’s fingers twitched.

Kihyun didn’t smile. Didn’t soften.

He simply adjusted the chest rope with one last careful tug and said, quiet but firm:

“You’re here.”

Another breath.

The weight in Changkyun’s limbs dulled. Not gone, but held.

Kihyun leaned in, his voice close to Changkyun’s ear now.

“Whatever happens next, you’re not leaving this space without someone holding the line.”

Another breath.

Tears slid sideways from Changkyun’s lashes, but this time, they weren’t sharp.

They were release.

Because someone had finally named the thing he couldn’t ask for.

Not rescue.

Not touch.

Just a place to stop falling.

The rope held.

Kihyun’s final knot rested just below his collarbone, tucked over his shirt, loose, non-threatening, but anchored. Every loop reminded Changkyun of his shape. Every pass over his chest told him he still had a body. A boundary. A name.

He floated, but not away.

He floated inside himself.

And someone, he didn’t know who, sighed softly and said, “There he is.”

The air had changed.

Not frantic. Not afraid.

Just warm.

Present.

Someone whispered, “His breathing’s evened out.”

Someone else: “He’s not shaking anymore.”

He wasn’t.

But he was exhausted.

Every muscle gone soft. Every limb weighted like stone. He could feel the rope’s press across his sternum, the mattress under his shoulder blades, the warmth of bodies nearby.

A new voice spoke, gentle, slightly chiding.

“Has he eaten today?”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncertain. It was horrified.

“No,” Wonho said, already standing. “Not before the show. He skipped catering.”

“Shit,” Minhyuk muttered. “No wonder he crashed that hard.”

“I’ll order room service,” Jooheon said, already pulling out his phone.

While the others moved, someone shifted closer to the bed. The rope shifted gently with the motion.

And then—

“Let’s sit him up.”

Shownu. Calm. Commanding. No hesitation.

He slid an arm behind Changkyun’s shoulders, another beneath his knees, and lifted with the kind of ease that didn’t ask for permission, it simply promised safety.

Wonho was there in the next second, folding down pillows, pulling back the blanket, making space with quiet efficiency. Together, they maneuvered Changkyun upright.

He sagged immediately, but neither of them let go.

Then Shownu sat down on the bed himself, legs spread slightly for balance.

“Here.”

He didn’t ask.

He guided.

And Changkyun went, boneless and quiet, into his lap.

His head tipped forward, cheek against Shownu’s chest. The steady rise and fall of breath against his ear. One of Shownu’s arms wrapped across his midsection. The other cupped the back of his head.

Held.

Contained.

Home.

The door opened, Jooheon returned to the bed, tray in hand.

Wonho unpacked it onto the low table: rice porridge, steamed egg, a bottle of electrolyte water, a few protein bites, and a plastic spoon.

“He might not be able to hold anything,” someone murmured.

“He doesn’t need to.”

Wonho brought the bowl over, knelt in front of Shownu, and dipped the spoon carefully into the porridge.

“Can you eat, baby?” he asked softly.

No response.

Just the faintest twitch of Changkyun’s eyebrows.

Wonho raised the spoon to his lips.

“Let’s try just one bite.”

The scent hit first, warm, mild, comforting.

And then—

The spoon pressed lightly to his bottom lip. It wasn’t even hunger. It was reflex. He opened.

Swallowed.

Another bite.

Another.

Wonho murmured with each one.

“You’re doing so well.”

“There’s our good boy.”

“Taking care of yourself now. That’s right.”

The words didn’t slide off him. They sank.

Each one landed in his chest like a drop of heat into snow, slow, quiet, melting something that had stayed frozen for far too long.

“Good boy,” someone else echoed, Minhyuk or maybe Shownu. “Such a good boy, letting us help.”

And then—

A sound.

Barely a whisper.

“...good...boy...?”

The spoon paused midair.

Wonho’s gaze snapped up.

“Yes,” he said, instantly. “You’re a good boy.”

Changkyun blinked slowly. His lips parted again, even without the spoon.

“They... think... I’m...?”

Shownu tightened his arm just slightly. His palm cradled the back of Changkyun’s neck.

“We know you are,” he said.

Changkyun made a soft, stunned sound. Like a gasp that didn’t know what it was.

And then he started to cry.

Not loud.

Not panicked.

Just tears, falling without force. The kind that come when there’s nothing left to hold back.

Wonho placed the spoon down gently. Reached forward to wipe one cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“Oh, baby,” he said.

Minhyuk sat down beside them, one hand resting on Changkyun’s knee. “You don’t have to earn that here.”

“You already did,” Hyungwon added, for once without irony.

Even Kihyun’s voice softened, low from the edge of the bed.

“You don’t have to break to deserve care.”

Changkyun’s throat worked. His breath caught.

And then, quiet, fragile, amazed—

“...they think I’m a good boy…”

Jooheon pressed a cup of water into his hand, guiding it up gently.

“Not just think,” he said. “We know.”

Eventually, the porridge was gone.

Not all of it, but enough. Enough to count. Enough to mean he was still here.

Someone took the empty bowl. Someone else adjusted the blanket. A third smoothed the edge of rope across his chest, tucking the knot just a little closer to his heart.

He didn’t speak again.

Didn’t need to.

His breath had slowed to a rhythm that felt real. Not forced. Not fragile. Just his.

Shownu hadn’t moved.

Still cradling him.

Still steady.

Wonho shifted up beside them, resting one hand across Changkyun’s blanketed thigh.

“You can sleep,” he whispered. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

Minhyuk was curled on the far end of the bed, arms crossed behind his head, eyes half-lidded but watching.

“Pretty sure he’s already halfway there.”

“He deserves to be,” Hyungwon murmured, draped like silk over the corner cushions, long legs tucked up under him.

Even Jooheon had stretched out now, not asleep, but settled. Guard duty relinquished for comfort.

Kihyun remained where he’d bound him.

He hadn’t spoken in a while.

But his eyes hadn’t left Changkyun once.

The bond thrummed quietly under the surface, low and even, like background music you didn’t realize you’d missed until it returned.

Changkyun didn’t move.

Didn’t shift.

He simply let his head rest heavier against Shownu’s chest. Let the warmth of the room press into his skin like a second heartbeat.

The rope held.

The pack held.

And for the first time in months, maybe years, he felt something more than exhaustion.

He felt wanted.

Not for his talent.

Not for his usefulness.

Just… because he was here.

He exhaled.

And finally, he slept.

Chapter Text

When Changkyun woke, the rope was gone.

Not completely, just unwound, laid beside him on the bed like a shedded skin. Still knotted, still warm from his body. But not holding anymore.

Someone had untied him while he slept.

He wasn’t sure how long ago.

The room was quiet now. Dimly lit. The lamps had been turned low, the curtains pulled partway shut. It was morning, or close to it.

He was still on the pack hotel bed. Still under the thick wool blanket, one leg tucked awkwardly beneath a second one. His hoodie felt loose, sleeves twisted from movement. His hair was a mess.

And someone had left a water bottle by his pillow.

The quiet wasn’t tense. It wasn’t even cold.

But it wasn’t full anymore.

Just… waiting.

He pushed himself up slowly. Every muscle ached, but not in a bad way, more like he’d been wrung out, rinsed clean. His brain still floated somewhere underwater, but his body was starting to catch up.

He didn’t know what to do with his hands.

He didn’t know if he should stay.

When he shifted his weight toward the edge of the bed, someone stirred on the far side of the room.

“Morning.”

Wonho.

He was sitting on one of the long couches, hoodie pulled over his head, eyes still bleary with sleep. His voice was hoarse but kind.

“You’re up.”

“Yeah,” Changkyun croaked.

He reached for the water. The bottle clicked as he unscrewed the cap.

“You feeling okay?” Wonho asked.

Changkyun hesitated. “I think so.”

Wonho nodded slowly. “Good. You dropped hard.”

A pause.

“You scared us.”

That landed too quickly in his chest. He looked down. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Wonho said gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. But it wasn’t grounding, either.

It was the kind of quiet you get when someone wants to say more but doesn’t know how.

And then the bathroom door opened.

Jooheon stepped out, towel around his neck, hair wet and skin flushed from a shower. He blinked once when he saw Changkyun sitting up.

“Hey.”

His voice wasn’t clipped. Not harsh. But it wasn’t warm, either.

Just acknowledgment.

Changkyun nodded. “Hey.”

Jooheon grabbed a hoodie from a nearby chair and didn’t say anything else. He didn’t look angry. Just… preoccupied. Closed off.

And Changkyun felt the shift immediately.

Last night, he thought, we were all breathing together. Now I can’t even read the room.

Minhyuk wandered in next, muttering about coffee filters and hotel breakfast. Hyungwon groaned something about time zones. Even Shownu emerged eventually, calm as ever, offering him a quiet nod of recognition before settling on the couch beside Wonho.

Kihyun didn’t appear.

But Changkyun felt him somewhere nearby. Like a current under the floorboards.

They didn’t ignore him.

They didn’t exclude him.

But they didn’t invite him, either.

No one asked if he wanted breakfast. No one told him to stay. No one asked what he needed.

And maybe they didn’t know how.

Maybe they thought they’d already given it.

You don’t have to do anything, Wonho had said. We want you here. Especially like this.

But that was then.

This was daylight.

The rules were different now.

He sat very still, cradling the water bottle in both hands. His body hurt, but his chest hurt worse.

He hadn’t expected anything.

Not after how this started.

But a small, stupid part of him still wished someone would look at him like they had last night.

Even just for a moment.

The van ride to the venue was quiet.

Not the tight, uncomfortable kind of quiet. This was just travel silence: headphones in, heads down, everyone half-awake and pretending the day hadn’t started yet.

But Changkyun felt every second of it.

He sat near the back, pressed into the window seat, laptop balanced on his thighs. His fingers moved automatically across the keyboard, adjusting setlists, updating notes, prepping click-track files. The usual.

No one said anything when he climbed into the van. No one made him move. Minhyuk even gave him a small smile when he shuffled past. It was real. Quick, but real.

Still, the silence stretched long between them.

Shownu sat up front. Wonho in the middle row with Hyungwon, who was curled against the window like a sleep-deprived cryptid. Jooheon had a hoodie pulled over his face. Kihyun wore sunglasses and didn’t speak.

No one looked at him.

Not in the way they had last night.

And maybe that was fine.

Maybe it was normal.

But his body remembered the press of Shownu’s arm. The rope across his chest. The way Wonho had said you’re doing so well like it meant something.

Now they were silent.

Now they were tired.

Now they were six people in a van and one who didn’t know if he was supposed to be here.

The venue was a small theater, converted art deco, all gold trim and creaky floorboards. The greenroom smelled like old fabric and too much citrus cleaner. Crew buzzed in and out with wires, tech tablets, and set notes. The usual chaos.

Changkyun unpacked his gear in silence.

Jooheon stood next to him briefly while adjusting his in-ear case. He didn’t say anything, just offered a quiet, “You good?” before walking off.

It wasn’t unfriendly.

But it felt like a step sideways.

You good?

Not you okay? Not do you need anything?

Just…good?

Like the only part that mattered now was whether Changkyun was functional again.

Kihyun passed him once in the hallway, eyes unreadable behind his glasses.

They didn’t speak.

Soundcheck came and went. Uneventful.

Wonho stopped by once to ask if Changkyun had eaten. He said yes, even though it wasn’t true. Wonho didn’t press. Just nodded and left a granola bar near the console anyway.

Small kindnesses. Left like offerings. As if they could soothe something that hadn’t been named.

Later, between rehearsals, the group sat in a side room eating takeout, plastic chopsticks, sauce packets, rice containers half open. Changkyun lingered near the door.

He didn’t know if he was supposed to join.

No one told him not to.

But no one waved him over, either.

And he knew that asking would change something. Would shift the balance in a way that felt too sharp.

So he stayed near the hallway.

Watched.

Waited.

Until Minhyuk looked up and said, “There’s an extra container if you want it.”

It was just rice and chicken and too much sauce. But it landed like permission.

He stepped closer. Sat down on the floor by the far wall, cross-legged, out of the way.

Hyungwon handed him a water bottle without looking. Shownu passed him a napkin.

No one said anything else.

The meal passed in quiet talk, tour logistics, something funny Jooheon had seen on Twitter, Minhyuk arguing with Hyungwon about the best way to fold a hotel towel.

They weren’t excluding him.

But they weren’t with him, either.

And somewhere deep in his chest, a quiet ache started to bloom.

Because this, this space between, felt worse than being pushed out.

At least when they were cruel, he knew where he stood.

Now?

Now he didn’t know if he’d been let in...

...or just pulled inside for the night.

The post-meal lull stretched long.

Someone turned on music. Hyungwon lay on the floor with his arm over his eyes. Minhyuk had vanished into a conversation with the stage crew. Kihyun sat across the room scribbling notes in a tiny grid-lined notebook.

Changkyun hovered near the trash pile, takeout boxes, chopsticks, crumpled napkins, a few half-finished drink cans.

No one had asked him to clean up.

But no one else was moving.

So he started gathering things.

He didn’t do it loudly. Didn’t make it obvious. Just started stacking empty boxes, folding napkins, scooping up sauce packets with a paper towel wrapped around his hand.

It’s nothing, he told himself. Just helping.

Still, it made his chest feel better. Like doing something might anchor him again.

He carried the trash to the bin. Returned for the drinks. Gathered the chopsticks into a clean pile.

Then he crouched to wipe down the table.

It wasn’t until he looked up that he realized someone was watching.

Jooheon.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, head tilted slightly, not confused. Not even annoyed.

Just watching.

Their eyes met.

Changkyun froze.

He hadn’t meant to, hadn’t wanted to be seen doing this.

He expected silence. Or worse, a look away. But instead,

“You always clean when you’re anxious?”

It wasn’t mocking.

It wasn’t cruel.

But it still hit like a bruise.

Changkyun straightened. “No.”

Jooheon raised an eyebrow.

Changkyun looked away. “I mean, yeah. Maybe. Sometimes.”

A pause.

“You don’t have to,” Jooheon said.

“I know.”

Another pause.

“You didn’t eat.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

Jooheon didn’t push.

But he didn’t leave, either.

And that, more than anything, made Changkyun feel off balance. Like the ground was soft beneath his feet and no one had warned him.

Before he could retreat, someone else spoke from behind.

“He responds to task structure.”

Shownu.

He was standing in the doorway, one hand on the frame, face unreadable.

Everyone looked up.

Wonho blinked. “What?”

“Earlier,” Shownu said. “When we were spacing him. He followed commands without hesitation. Even when he couldn’t speak.”

No one argued.

But no one affirmed it, either.

Not yet.

Minhyuk appeared from the hallway. “So what, you want to test him?”

“No,” Shownu said. “I want to see if structure helps him feel stable.”

Silence settled around the room.

And then—

“I don’t need anything,” Changkyun said quickly.

It was automatic.

Too quick.

Jooheon stood. “No one said you did.”

His tone wasn’t harsh. But something about it felt final. Like the moment had passed. Like they'd closed a door before he even knew it was open.

And suddenly, Changkyun felt stupid.

He turned away, back to the table, to the scraps of cleanup still in his hands, and realized they were already gone.

His fingers tightened around the napkin.

Not because he was angry.

Because he was ashamed.

Because he had let himself think, just for a second, that maybe this meant something.

And now?

Now the silence was back.

They had a brief break between rehearsals and interviews.

Ten minutes. Enough time to breathe. Not enough time to process.

Changkyun wandered into the hallway by the dressing rooms, unsure where else to be. He hovered beside the wall, arms crossed, watching the stagehands switch out mic packs and cables. No one noticed him. No one asked if he needed anything.

He liked it better that way.

Better than the glances. The half-formed kindness. The tight-lipped silence of people who used to hate you and now didn’t know how to not.

A door clicked open behind him.

Kihyun stepped out of a side room, black shirt, towel around his neck, hair damp from the shower. His sunglasses were gone. His eyes were sharp. Awake.

He stopped when he saw Changkyun.

Neither of them moved.

Then Kihyun spoke, voice neutral. “You’re supposed to be in the B room.”

“I’m not scheduled for this block,” Changkyun said, quieter than he meant to.

Kihyun tilted his head. “You’re always scheduled.”

“I asked to swap me out for editing. I figured it’d be easier.”

A pause.

“Easier for who?”

Changkyun flinched. Not visibly. But something inside him went still.

Kihyun exhaled through his nose and stepped past him. Not close. But not far enough to ignore.

And then— after a moment, without looking back, he said, “You did good yesterday.”

Changkyun blinked.

He turned, heart too loud in his ears. “What?”

“The spacing,” Kihyun said. Still not looking at him. “You did good. You held. Even when it was rough.”

Changkyun didn’t speak.

He didn’t know what to say.

Because Kihyun wasn’t warm. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t inviting him in.

But he had seen him.

And that, that mattered.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

Kihyun paused.

And then— soft. Almost imperceptible.

“I always notice.”

It should’ve been enough.

It should’ve meant something.

But Kihyun didn’t wait.

He walked away.

Left him standing there with a compliment so sharp it could’ve been a cut.

And Changkyun, heart thudding, throat tight, realized that being noticed wasn’t the same as being kept.

Chapter Text

The morning after Atlanta was a haze of alarms, coffee, and stage tape.

Someone knocked on Changkyun’s hotel door at 6:15 a.m., long before call time. He woke up on top of the covers, hoodie twisted, headphones still hanging around his neck. His mouth tasted like silence and his muscles ached like regret.

The knock came again.

“Kyun?” Minhyuk’s voice, muffled. “Lobby in thirty.”

“Got it,” he croaked, not sure if Minhyuk could hear him.

Didn’t matter.

They all moved like that now, half gestures, vague check-ins. Just enough contact to say we saw you. Never enough to say we wanted you to come along.

He took the hotel toothbrush from the plastic wrapper and scrubbed the silence off his tongue.

The van was cold.

The driver had the air cranked too high, condensation bleeding across the windows in lazy streaks. Changkyun slid into the back corner again, pressed against the door like luggage that hadn’t been claimed.

Wonho passed him a sealed bottle of lemon water without looking.

Minhyuk was laughing about something with Hyungwon, some meme, probably. Jooheon was already halfway asleep, head tipped against the window, mouth slightly open. Kihyun scrolled through something on his phone, expression blank.

They didn’t ignore him.

But they didn’t greet him, either.

The silence was familiar now. Not warm. But worn-in, like the inside of a winter jacket that never quite dried.

He cracked the seal on the lemon water and drank too fast.

His stomach didn’t thank him.

The venue in Nashville was newer than Atlanta, sleek, concrete-lined. Staff badges everywhere. Everything just a little too clean.

They moved through it like muscle memory.

Drop bags.

Check in.

Soundcheck at three. Press block at four-thirty. Group dinner somewhere in the middle.

Changkyun kept to his lane.

He took notes. Adjusted mic balance. Repacked cables after the assistant grip team left a box open. No one told him to. He just couldn’t not.

It felt good to have a task.

It felt better than sitting in the greenroom trying not to hope someone might talk to him.

“Hey,” Jooheon said once, pausing beside him as he ran a loop of the VCR transition. “The bass reverb’s still bleeding. You hear it?”

“Yeah,” Changkyun replied, already fixing it.

Jooheon nodded. “Cool.”

That was it.

He didn’t stay.

Didn’t ask how he was.

Didn’t flinch, either.

Changkyun tried not to think about it.

Backstage, just before check-in, Shownu caught him near the stairwell. Everyone else had gone to change or find caffeine.

“You slept okay?”

The question was casual, not forced.

But it still startled him.

“I— yeah,” Changkyun said. “I did.”

“You ate?”

“I will.”

Shownu raised an eyebrow.

“I had a bar,” Changkyun added quickly. “Minhyuk gave me one.”

That was mostly true.

It was from the greenroom snack table. But Minhyuk had made a joke about protein-to-carb ratio while chewing his own, so it kind of counted.

Shownu nodded slowly.

“Let us know if you need more.”

He clapped a hand on Changkyun’s shoulder, light, steady.

Then walked off.

Like it was nothing.

Like he hadn’t just made Changkyun’s chest ache with a single sentence.

Later, between rehearsals, Changkyun found himself alone at the corner of the loading dock, laptop open, loops running in his ears, tweaking one of the pre-show cues. He liked this corner. The concrete wall dulled the noise. No one ever stayed long enough to ask what he was doing.

Except—

Hyungwon appeared, holding two coffees.

He handed one over without speaking.

Changkyun took it automatically. “Thanks.”

Hyungwon sat on a flight case beside him and took a slow sip. “They used whole milk. I asked.”

Changkyun blinked. “I—oh. Thanks.”

“You don’t like cold foam either,” Hyungwon added casually, eyes on the far wall. “I remember.”

He didn’t say why.

Didn’t say because we’ve been watching you or because you matter now.

He just sipped his own drink and swung his leg lightly against the side of the case like they were old friends who never had to explain anything.

It should’ve helped.

But it didn’t.

Not really.

Because it was a kind moment, and it meant something, and he didn’t know what.

The dressing room that night was full of static.

Not literal, just energy. Movement. Prep. Someone yelling about hairspray. A stylist trying to zip Hyungwon’s jacket without stabbing him. Minhyuk dancing to nothing while taping his earpiece cord down.

Changkyun stood off to the side, watching his laptop buffer, waiting for a glitch that never came.

Kihyun was near the mirrors, adjusting his collar.

Their eyes met once in the glass.

Kihyun didn’t look away.

But he didn’t look toward him either.

Just that steady, unreadable gaze, like he was trying to memorize Changkyun without getting caught.

Changkyun held it for as long as he could.

Then broke.

Dinner was at a private back room in a trendy Korean-American fusion place someone from the label had recommended.

They were seated around two long tables pushed together, pack at one end, crew at the other. Dim lighting, slick concrete floors, too many Edison bulbs. The kind of place where the food was plated like art and the acoustics made everyone lean closer just to be heard.

Changkyun stood in the doorway for a beat too long.

Everyone else had already found spots, Minhyuk wedged between two stylists, Hyungwon and Jooheon across from each other mid–sauce debate, Shownu quietly adjusting a napkin someone had folded wrong. Kihyun sat at the far end, corner seat, one leg crossed over the other, eyes on the menu like it had personally offended him.

There was an empty seat next to the visual director near the middle of the table, across from the lighting tech and one of the backup dancers. Another open spot at the far end, between Jooheon and Wonho.

Two seats.

Two lives.

The staff side or the pack side.

No one said anything.

And for one long second, he couldn’t breathe.

He started toward the crew spot.

Then Wonho looked up.

“You sitting?”

The words were soft. Easy.

But they held weight.

A few heads turned.

Jooheon’s gaze flicked up and then back to his drink. Kihyun didn’t move.

But Wonho shifted slightly, pushing his water glass closer to the middle. Making space.

It was invitation.

Maybe.

Changkyun’s feet moved before he could think.

He slid into the open seat between Wonho and Jooheon, spine too straight, hands tight in his lap.

“Did you order?” Wonho asked.

“No.”

“You want me to ask for something for you?”

“I can do it.”

But he didn’t.

The food came in waves, shared plates, sizzling dishes, little side bowls clustered like offerings. The conversation rose and dipped with it, topics bouncing from favorite condiments to the group’s worst travel injuries.

Changkyun listened.

He laughed in the right places.

He passed a plate when someone reached.

But he didn’t feel there.

At one point, Hyungwon offered him a spoonful of something off his plate with a vague, “You’ll like this,” and Changkyun accepted it without thinking. The food was good. Creamy. Spiced. He swallowed and nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

Hyungwon turned away before he even finished the sentence.

Minhyuk was laughing about something, maybe an old memory, maybe nothing at all. Shownu was listening quietly, nodding. Even Jooheon seemed relaxed now, leaning into the conversation like the edge of him had softened.

Kihyun, across the table, was halfway through his drink. His eyes flicked up once. Landed on Changkyun. Held.

Just long enough to sting.

Changkyun dropped his gaze.

By the end of the meal, his chest felt too full.

Not from food.

From the ache of almost.

Almost welcomed. Almost remembered. Almost part of the story.

But never asked.

He kept waiting for someone to name the thing they weren’t talking about.

To say you’re in, or you’re one of us, or we’re sorry.

But the food disappeared.

The drinks were cleared.

The server brought the check to the manager.

And no one said anything.

In the lobby of the hotel later, Minhyuk nudged him on the way to the elevators. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You looked a little spaced out at dinner.”

Changkyun smiled. “Just tired.”

“You sure?”

He nodded. “I’m good.”

Minhyuk gave him a long look, like he almost didn’t believe him. Then just said, “Okay,” and stepped into the elevator with the others.

Changkyun stayed behind.

He didn’t know why.

The hallway was empty.

The lights were low.

But his chest wouldn’t unclench.

And when the elevator doors closed, he realized, no one had said goodnight.

The hotel gym was empty.

Changkyun didn’t know how he ended up there.

He wasn’t dressed for it, just hoodie and jeans, phone in one pocket, hotel slippers on his feet. But the glass walls and ambient light made it feel less like a room and more like a pause. A place no one would come looking for him. A place he could exist without being useful or in the way.

He sat on the floor near the far corner, back against the cool glass, and stared at the outline of the city through the window. Neon bleeding into rain-dark streets. Something buzzed overhead, maybe the ceiling fan. The hum of the building felt louder than it should.

His phone was still in his hand.

No messages.

He scrolled, deleted a few drafts he wasn’t proud of, text messages he’d never send. Thanks for dinner. I’m okay, by the way. You don’t have to be so careful around me.

He was halfway through typing a question to Jungho, hey, you still up?, when the door clicked open behind him.

Footsteps padded softly against the rubber flooring.

He didn’t look up until the shadow passed in front of him.

Wonho.

Sweatpants, hair damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He carried a water bottle in one hand and two granola bars in the other.

“I figured I’d find you here,” Wonho said.

Changkyun blinked. “Why?”

Wonho sat down next to him, cross-legged. “You disappear when you’re overwhelmed.”

He opened one of the bars and handed it over.

Changkyun hesitated.

Then took it.

The wrapper crinkled loudly in the quiet.

Wonho bit into his own bar, chewing slowly. He didn’t look at Changkyun when he spoke next.

“You’ve been doing better.”

A beat.

“You’re taking care of yourself. Talking less.”

Changkyun looked down. “I wasn’t aware that talking less was a sign of doing well.”

Wonho didn’t smile. But his voice stayed warm. “I meant you’re not flinching anymore.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that.

Because it was true.

But it didn’t feel like praise.

It felt like inventory.

Wonho leaned back on his palms and tilted his head toward the window. “Dinner wasn’t great, huh?”

“It was fine.”

“Fine’s not good.”

“Did you want me to lie?”

Wonho huffed a breath. “No. I just... you looked like you wanted to be anywhere else.”

“I didn’t,” Changkyun said too quickly.

Wonho glanced at him.

He bit the inside of his cheek. “Okay. Maybe I did.”

They lapsed into silence.

The kind that made you aware of every blink, every breath.

“Minhyuk said you looked sad.”

Changkyun turned his head. “And what did you say?”

“I said of course he did,” Wonho replied softly. “He always looks a little sad now.”

That shouldn’t have landed like a slap.

But it did.

Because it wasn’t cruel.

It was pity.

Wonho meant it kindly. Like a friend. Like someone who wanted to understand.

But all Changkyun heard was:

You’ve become someone we feel bad for.

He didn’t say anything.

Just unwrapped the granola bar and took a small bite.

It tasted like cardboard.

Later, when they stood, Wonho clapped a hand lightly to the back of his neck and squeezed, familiar, steady.

“Get some rest,” he said.

“You too.”

They walked back toward the elevator together.

But at the split, when the elevator dinged for Changkyun’s floor and he left the elevator, Wonho didn’t say goodnight.

Didn’t say I’m glad you’re here or You’re doing okay.

Just nodded once.

And let the elevator door close.

It was late.

The kind of late where the hotel had gone quiet: no more ice machines, no more doors opening down the hall, just the steady hum of ventilation and the soft weight of night pressing against the windows.

Changkyun sat on the edge of his bed, bouncing his knee.

He hadn’t even taken off his shoes.

Dinner had settled like lead in his stomach. His throat ached with the words he hadn’t said. With all the almosts that were starting to feel like a pattern instead of a phase.

He was tired.

Of wondering.

Of second-guessing every glance, every silence, every small kindness that never went further than the moment it was offered.

They weren’t cruel anymore.

But they weren’t clear either.

And maybe that was worse.

This is a two-way street, he thought, dragging a hand down his face. If I want something to change, I need to say something. Do something.

Maybe it wouldn’t fix anything.

But at least he’d know.

At least he could say he tried.

He stood up.

Grabbed his keycard. Tugged his hoodie on over his head, fingers trembling only slightly at the hem. He wasn’t dressed for a confrontation. But this wasn’t war, it was clarity.

He would go to their floor. Knock on someone’s door. Ask for a minute. Say I don’t know what I am to you, but I want to understand.

The elevator was slow. Each floor drop made his stomach tighten.

When the doors opened on the pack’s hallway, it was quiet.

Still.

He started walking.

But then—

Voices.

Low. Not arguing. Just… talking.

He paused at the bend in the hallway. The vending alcove was just out of sight.

He recognized the voices immediately.

Kihyun.

Jooheon.

The two who hadn’t touched him since that night.

The two who still held him at arm’s length even when the rest of the pack had started inching closer.

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop.

He just… didn’t want to interrupt.

He told himself he’d wait until they were done. Then keep going.

Then the words landed.

“He’s trying too hard,” Kihyun was saying, voice quiet but clipped. “It’s like he thinks if he performs perfectly, we’ll let him in.”

“He just wants to be useful,” Jooheon replied, softer. “I don’t think it’s fake.”

“That’s not the point,” Kihyun said. “It’s still pressure. It’s still a bond we didn’t ask for.”

Changkyun’s stomach dropped.

His feet stayed rooted.

Jooheon didn’t argue.

Didn’t push back.

He just exhaled. “It’s not his fault, though.”

“No,” Kihyun said. “But that doesn’t make it less real. We can’t let him in just because he’s trying. You know what that leads to.”

Jooheon was quiet.

And then—

“He’s just a soulmate, Kihyun.”

The words landed like a slap.

Not angry.

Not cruel.

Just… tired.

And honest.

“Exactly,” Kihyun said.

That was it.

No cruelty.

No malice.

Just the bare truth of it, spoken where they thought no one would hear.

Changkyun backed up slowly.

Didn’t breathe until he hit the wall beside the elevator.

He didn’t wait for it to arrive.

He turned.

Took the stairs.

Two at a time, then three. Door swinging hard behind him as he reentered the service hallway one floor down.

His heart felt like it didn’t belong to his body anymore.

Like it was someone else’s organ, beating just to make noise.

Back in his room, he didn’t turn on the light.

He stood for a long moment at the foot of the bed.

Then he sat.

Hands in his lap.

Phone face-down on the table.

He wasn’t even mad.

That was the worst part.

He just felt stupid.

For thinking it might mean something.

For trying to be brave.

For believing that care, even fleeting, could become something permanent.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the hotel window looked like it had nothing left to say.

Changkyun stood in front of it, hoodie sleeves bunched in his fists, chin tipped just high enough to catch the pale wash of dawn creeping over Nashville. The skyline was flat and half-hearted, all boxy rooftops and blinking lights. A few birds crossed the glass, black silhouettes against a sky that didn’t care what had happened last night.

Neither did the hotel clock.

It blinked 6:43.

Still early.

The others wouldn’t be up yet, not until seven at the earliest. Probably later. Minhyuk would hit snooze twice. Jooheon would fight with his hoodie in the dark. Kihyun would be the first to speak, voice clipped and alert. Like none of them had spent the night talking about what didn’t need to be said.

Changkyun hadn’t slept.

Not really.

He’d drifted in and out, light, bitter sleep that felt more like blinking slowly than dreaming. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard it again.

He’s just a soulmate.

We know what that means.

Not said with cruelty.

Worse. Said with certainty.

Said by the two people who had never touched him once since the bond activated. Who hadn’t lifted a hand to help even when he couldn’t stand.

And maybe that was the clearest answer of all.

So he made a decision.

No drama. No panic.

Just this:

He wasn’t going back to the dorm.

Not after tour. Not after this.

He would go home.

Or, whatever home meant now.

Back to Seoul. Back to the studio. Back to something he could name.

Back to being useful.

He let the curtain fall shut.

Packing didn’t take long.

He hadn’t unpacked much in the first place. His suitcase was still mostly zipped. A few shirts hung in the closet, all in a row, white, black, grey. Like if he kept his wardrobe simple enough, it might make him easier to keep.

He folded the hoodie he’d worn to dinner.

Then unfolded it again.

Pressed his thumb into the spot where someone, Hyungwon, maybe, had leaned against him during the ride back.

Then folded it tighter.

The zipper clinked as he closed his suitcase. He winced at the sound, too loud in the quiet. His hands were cold.

He took the stairs.

Not because the elevator was broken, but because it felt better to walk. More deliberate. He didn’t want to risk bumping into anyone, Minhyuk coming back from the vending machine, or Wonho with his hair damp from a too-early shower.

He reached the lobby without seeing a soul.

The front desk clerk looked up when he approached, blinking like she hadn’t expected guests this early.

“Checking out?”

“Yeah,” he said.

She asked for his room number. He gave it. She asked if he needed help with luggage. He shook his head.

The system beeped as she confirmed the checkout.

“You’re all set,” she said. “Safe travels.”

He nodded.

“Thanks.”

It didn’t sound like his voice.

Outside, the morning was damp.

Not raining. Just humid enough that his hoodie clung to his shoulders. The van wasn’t scheduled for another hour, but he walked past the line of parked cars like he was looking for something.

He didn’t go to the venue.

Didn’t wait for call time.

Instead, he sent a message to the tour manager:

hey, woke up feeling off. might be coming down with something. better i head back early and not risk spreading it. everything’s already set through the last shows so the booth should be covered. i’ll keep my phone on.

It wasn’t a lie, exactly.

Just not the kind of sickness anyone could diagnose.

He watched the message deliver.

No reply yet. Not that he expected one.

He opened the ride app.

The car arrived twelve minutes later, silver, nondescript, cool air humming from the vents.

He didn’t look back at the hotel.

Didn’t check if anyone was watching from above.

He just closed the door, buckled his seatbelt, and let the silence carry him away.

He was going to Seoul.

The dorm was dark when he arrived.

Not nighttime dark, just that thick midday stillness, where all the lights were off and the windows only let in whatever they couldn’t keep out. Rain, mostly. A soft spatter on the glass that sounded like static turned low.

Changkyun stepped inside without flipping the switch.

He didn’t need it.

He knew this place by feel.

The hallway smelled the same: detergent, shampoo, something faintly citrus buried under too many days of not being aired out. Someone had left a hoodie on the back of the couch. A takeout receipt was curled on the coffee table. The edge of a towel peeked from under a bathroom door.

It looked lived-in.

It just didn’t look like his.

He slipped off his shoes and carried his bag through the hallway like he was trying not to wake anyone.

No one was home.

No one would be for another four days. Two cities. One final show.

Plenty of time.

He shut the bedroom door behind him.

Packing was easy.

He wasn’t taking much.

Some of his things were still in his suitcase from tour. The rest he folded methodically: two drawers of shirts, a few pairs of pants, a hoodie that hadn’t been washed since Busan. He rolled his socks like muscle memory. Collected his charger from the power strip by the bed.

He moved slowly.

Not to delay.

Just because there wasn’t any rush anymore.

The bed wasn’t made. One corner of the blanket had slipped to the floor, maybe from the last night he’d actually slept here. He didn’t remember. He picked it up anyway. Smoothed it without thinking.

He didn’t leave a note.

Not because he was angry.

Just because there was nothing left to say that wouldn’t sound like a plea.

And he was done pleading.

He left quietly.

Zipped his bag. Locked the door. Didn’t look around one last time.

The hallway outside was empty.

The elevator took too long, so he took the stairs again. Four flights. One landing at a time.

Outside, the rain had picked up.

He didn’t have an umbrella.

Didn’t care.

He walked to the subway station with his hood pulled up and his headphones in, no music playing. The city blurred past him in wet silver and grey.

The studio smelled like warm plastic and stale coffee.

Familiar. Unchanged.

The front door clicked shut behind him with a sound that felt like punctuation.

He stood there for a moment, just breathing.

No texts.

No calls.

The pack would still think he was resting. Regulating. Maybe sulking. Maybe sick.

Maybe, if he was lucky, they wouldn’t think of him at all.

That would make this easier.

He dropped his bag in the corner and reached for the desk chair.

The seat creaked beneath him, just slightly.

The screens were still on from the last session he’d prepped before the tour started. Waveforms hovering. A snare loop blinking like it had waited for him.

I’m here, he thought, dragging his fingers across the trackpad. I’m still useful.

He clicked open a project.

The speakers hummed to life.

The mix was thin. He’d fix that.

He had time now.

He didn’t mean to fall asleep.

Not the first night. Not really.

He’d just closed his eyes for a second, head tipped back against the booth’s fabric wall, knees pulled up to his chest in the mixing chair. The project was still open on the screen. Levels frozen mid-adjustment. A vocal take paused on a breath.

When he blinked awake, the sun was up.

His neck ached. His contacts burned.

His phone had one unread message from Jungho.

everything okay? no pressure, just checking.

He stared at it for a full minute before replying.

yeah. just needed some space.

Jungho didn’t text back.

The second night, he brought a change of clothes.

The third, he stopped pretending he had anywhere else to be.

He made the studio feel like somewhere between a workspace and a shelter, blanket over the couch, hoodie hung by the door, water bottles lined up in a neat little row by the keyboard.

He didn’t think of it as hiding.

He thought of it as being practical.

He didn’t leave trash around. Didn’t disrupt anyone else’s schedule. Didn’t make a sound when people passed the glass-walled hallway.

When Jungho finally dropped by two days later, he looked tired but unsurprised.

“Hey,” he said, stepping into the booth. “You’re still here.”

Changkyun turned from the screen, blinking hard. “I— yeah. Sorry. I’ll clean up.”

“You don’t have to,” Jungho said gently. “Just wasn’t sure if you’d gone back to the dorm.”

A pause.

“I haven’t.”

Jungho nodded once. “Okay.”

He didn’t ask why.

Just sat on the edge of the spare rolling chair and looked at the monitor like it might offer a better answer than Changkyun could.

“You working on the mix for FORUS?”

Changkyun nodded. “Yeah. The midrange was still muddy.”

Jungho leaned forward, squinted at the EQ graph. “Looks cleaner now.”

Another pause.

“You sleep here last night?”

Changkyun’s hands froze on the keyboard.

“I’m just staying late,” he said too quickly.

Jungho didn’t react.

Didn’t argue.

Just tilted his head.

Changkyun looked back at the screen, throat tight. “It’s fine. I like it here.”

“I know you do.”

The silence stretched thin between them.

Jungho waited.

Not like he expected anything.

Just like he’d keep holding the silence until Changkyun couldn’t anymore.

And finally—

“I left,” Changkyun whispered.

Jungho looked at him.

“I was supposed to stay two more cities. Finish out the tour.” His voice caught, cracked at the edges. “But I couldn’t. I, couldn’t keep pretending they wanted me there.”

Jungho’s brow furrowed, soft with concern.

“I thought it was getting better,” Changkyun said. “There were moments, you know? Just little things. Someone passing me water. Letting me sit next to them. And then—"

He stopped.

Swallowed hard.

“Then I heard them talking.”

Jungho didn’t say a word.

“They said I was just a soulmate. That they couldn’t let me in.”

His hands clenched around the arms of the chair.

“I thought, I thought maybe if I worked hard enough, if I was helpful, if I kept my head down and didn’t ask for anything…”

His voice cracked.

And this time, he didn’t stop it.

“I just wanted to belong.”

Jungho stood up.

Crossed the space slowly. Knelt beside the chair.

He didn’t touch him.

Just looked up and said, “You do.”

Changkyun laughed, a small, broken sound that barely qualified.

“Not to them.”

“To me,” Jungho said. “And to the music. To this work. To the version of you that shows up even when no one asks you to.”

Changkyun’s vision blurred.

He didn’t wipe his eyes.

Didn’t try to stop it.

The tears came quiet and hot, dripping down his cheeks without any real force.

Jungho didn’t move.

Didn’t fix it.

Just stayed.

And in that stillness, something uncoiled in Changkyun’s chest, something he hadn’t realized he’d been holding since the moment the bond lit up and nothing happened in return.

The Dynamic Center was colder than he remembered.

Not in temperature, though the lobby was definitely over-air-conditioned, but in texture. In sound. The receptionist at the desk smiled too widely. The lighting was too white.

He kept his head down while checking in.

The regulation room was clean. Clinical.

Nothing wrong with it.

There was a soft mat, weighted blankets, a rack of tools you could request from the wall, ropes, collars, fidget objects, scent oils, even a safe shock cuff if you wanted.

Changkyun sat cross-legged on the mat, hoodie sleeves pulled over his palms, staring at the menu of options.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know what helped.

It was that he didn’t know if anything would help if it wasn’t coming from them.

He picked a grounding routine at random, rope compression and audio focus, and submitted the request.

A regulation dom arrived seven minutes later.

Mid-forties. Soft eyes. The kind of trained kindness that had clearly helped a lot of people.

“Hi Changkyun,” she said gently. “I’ll be your facilitator today. Is this your first time regulating with rope?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“You okay if I touch your shoulders while we talk?”

He nodded.

She didn’t say anything about the delay in his answer.

Didn’t ask what kind of sub he was, or what kind of doms he responded to. Just wrapped the rope gently around his upper arms, cross-hatched in soft coils, tension light but constant.

“You’re safe here,” she said, as she began the wrap. “You’re not being watched. You’re not being judged. You don’t have to earn anything.”

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t even breathe deeper.

Just let her work in silence while a gentle binaural track played through the speakers above them, soft percussion, ocean pulses, the occasional chime like a breathing bell.

It was nice.

He could admit that.

The rope was warm where it crossed his chest.

The rhythm of it felt steady.

And still—

It wasn’t enough.

Not because she wasn’t good at her job. She was. Her touch was firm. Her voice was kind. She was everything a sub was supposed to feel safe with.

But she wasn’t them.

She didn’t know how he curled tighter under pressure. How he turned his head toward praise without realizing it. How his whole body stilled the second a dom voice dropped just half a register.

She didn’t know that he needed to be useful before he could even feel worthy.

And when she said “good job,” it sounded like a checkbox, not a revelation.

After the session, she helped him unbind slowly.

Asked if he wanted tea.

He said no.

She offered aftercare options. Offered to call a handler or arrange for a cab. Offered to stay.

He said, “I’m fine.”

The lie tasted familiar in his mouth.

Like an old splinter you stop trying to pull out.

The train ride back to the studio was quiet.

Too quiet.

The weight in his chest hadn’t gone away. It had just... shifted.

Less sharp now.

More permanent.

Something he’d learn to carry, maybe. Like his headphones. Like the bond.

He pulled out his phone on the walk back.

Checked for texts without meaning to.

There were none.

He turned on airplane mode and didn’t turn it off again for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

The studio had no windows. It was one of the things Changkyun liked best about it. No clocks. No natural light. Just the soft hum of machinery and the constant glow of monitors, neon against his skin like a second kind of silence.

His world had collapsed into hours, file names, click tracks, mastering notes, rerecorded layers. He ate when he remembered. Slept in small shifts, usually with headphones on. Talked only when someone else started the conversation. Mostly, he worked. Because if he stopped, he might have to feel something. And he didn’t have time for that right now.

The first email came the day after the Dynamic Center.

[SUBJECT: MIX REVISIT REQUEST—  MONSTA X TOUR END CLOSER]

Hi Changkyun,

The guys were wondering if you’d be open to adjusting the balance on the finale track. It’s already solid, but they’re interested in a warmer blend.

Let us know if you're available. They’d love to work with you on the new EP.

Best,

Chan

Tour Production Manager

He didn’t reply.

Two hours later, a follow-up came in from a studio tech. Then a DM from a secondary email account. Then the texts started. First from Chan again. Then from a number he didn’t recognize at first.

Heard you’re back in Seoul.

Can we talk?

This is Wonho btw

He turned his phone face-down. Didn’t silence it. Just stopped looking.

He got to the studio early the next morning. Opened an old loop he hadn’t touched since before Europe. The beat wasn’t great, too bright, too clean, but there was something nice about the shape of it. Like a forgotten drawer. He started adjusting EQ while drinking yesterday’s coffee. Didn’t speak. Didn’t check his messages.

That’s when Tae from the front desk knocked gently on the booth door.

“Hey, sorry, uh, you got a minute?”

Changkyun pulled one side of the headphones off. “Yeah?”

Tae stepped inside, hands shoved in his pockets. “So, I wasn’t supposed to say anything, but I think they thought you were still out of town.”

“What?”

“Monsta X,” Tae said, like the name tasted weird. “They called the office. Said they’re prepping for a new album and want to bring you on for pre-mix and session management. They asked if you were available.”

Changkyun stared at him.

Tae shifted. “I told them I’d check. You want me to say you’re booked?”

A long pause. Then: “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

Changkyun nodded. “Yeah. I’m not interested.”

Tae didn’t ask why. Just gave a small, sympathetic shrug and backed out of the room. The door clicked shut behind him.

Back at the console, the beat looped again. Clean. Predictable. Nothing sharp in it. No lyrics. No static. Just repetition.

Changkyun tapped his spacebar. Stopped the track.

The silence that followed felt heavier than it should. Like it had been waiting.

He tried not to check his phone.

He really did.

But even with notifications off and the screen flipped face-down, he could feel it there. Vibrating once. Then again. Then a third time, longer, like someone had switched to a voice note.

He didn’t play it.

Didn’t open the messages.

But he recognized the number this time.

Kihyun.

The contact was still saved from that first week, back when everything was still new enough to be possible. When they’d exchanged numbers in silence, not sure what to call each other yet.

The voice note stayed unplayed.

So did the three that came after.

He dragged the project window back into focus. There was still time before the new group came in, a rookie quartet signed to a sister label, fresh off their debut. Their sound was clean, polished. Not his usual flavor, but he could work with it. He’d prepped their stems, watched their MVs, scribbled notes in the margins.

Still, something about the mix wouldn’t land.

The vocals sat too high. The kick felt thin, even after EQ. No matter how he layered the synth bed, it kept sounding like demo material, good, not great. Nothing wrong with it, technically. Just no heat.

He played it through again. Then again. Then muted the entire lead channel and stared at the waveform like it might confess something if he squinted hard enough.

It didn’t.

The door clicked open behind him.

“Hey,” said Mina, one of the A&R reps. “They’re ready. You good?”

“Yeah,” he said automatically. “I’m ready.”

He wasn’t.

The group was sweet. Nervous in the way new groups always were, too polite, too practiced. One of them bowed every time they finished a take. Another apologized for existing when she hit a wrong note.

Changkyun kept it professional. Headphones on. Feedback clear. Eyes on the board.

But the moment they left, he slumped forward and dropped his head into his hands.

His brain was buzzing, but not in the right way. There was no satisfaction, no post-session high. Just static.

He tried listening back to their final vocal stack.

Still flat.

Like he’d left something in the other room and didn’t know what.

His phone buzzed again when he pulled it from his hoodie pocket on the way to the breakroom.

This time, it wasn’t a number.

It was a name.

[Minhyuk]

We heard you’re working with other artists. That’s great, Kyunnie.

We still want you. You know that, right?

He stared at the message for a long time.

Didn’t type.

Didn’t delete it either.

Just locked the screen again and went to make tea he wouldn’t drink.

By the time he got back to the booth, another message had arrived.

[Jooheon]

Just tell us if you’re okay. Please.

And then, not long after.

[Wonho]

Kihyun’s not sleeping.

Please just talk to us.

The studio couch had molded to his shape.

Changkyun knew that wasn’t how couches worked, but it felt like it, like the cushions had memorized the way he curled into them at 3 a.m., hoodie tucked over his face, laptop balanced on his chest until it slid off.

Jungho found him like that more often now.

Didn’t always say anything. Sometimes just walked past, eyes full of quiet judgment, and let him pretend not to notice.

But today he didn’t pass.

Today he stopped.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

Changkyun cracked one eye open. “Doing what?”

“This.” Jungho gestured at the couch. At the mess. At the empty tea cup on the floor and the headphones wrapped around his wrist like a tether. “Sleeping here. Avoiding everything. Pretending this is just about work.”

“I’m not—"

“Yes, you are.”

Changkyun sat up slowly, hoodie slipping off his head. “I’m fine.”

Jungho crouched in front of him, elbows on his knees. “No, you’re functioning. That’s different.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Jungho’s voice softened. “You’re allowed to be not okay.”

“I know.”

“You’re allowed to miss them.”

Changkyun looked down at his hands.

They didn’t feel like his today.

“I don’t—" He hesitated. “I don’t even know what I miss.”

Jungho didn’t press.

So he spoke again, quieter. “They spaced me, you know.”

Jungho blinked. “What?”

“That night. In the hotel.” He stared at the far wall like it might open up and explain things. “I was crashing, and they… helped. All of them. Kihyun too.”

Jungho didn’t say anything.

“They carried me. Anchored me. Said things I didn’t think anyone would ever say to me.” His throat tightened. “I didn’t know care could feel like that.”

Still no reply.

“Wonho’s hands are, he touches like you’re made of something soft. Not fragile. Just… worth holding.” A pause. “And Shownu, he doesn’t have to say anything. You just know you’re safe.”

He swallowed hard.

“And even Kihyun, he… He knew what I needed before I did. The rope. The rhythm of it. He didn’t ask permission. But he waited until I gave it.”

Jungho’s voice was low. “Sounds like it mattered.”

“It did.” His voice cracked. “It does. And I can’t stop thinking about it. I keep going back to it like, like maybe if I remember it right, it’ll mean they didn’t mean what they said.”

Jungho didn’t move.

“They made me feel like I was theirs,” Changkyun whispered. “And then they reminded me I wasn’t.”

Silence settled again. But softer this time.

“I want to forgive them,” he said. “I want to want to forgive them. But every time I remember how Kihyun looked at me the next morning, like it never happened, I feel like a fucking idiot.”

“You’re not,” Jungho said.

“I stayed dressed one night, when they were spacing, the others.”  he said suddenly, bitter. “I didn’t even take off my shoes. I thought maybe someone would call me. Maybe they’d want me back upstairs.”

Jungho’s expression didn’t change. But something in his shoulders shifted.

“And I hate them for not doing it. And I hate myself for hoping.”

The couch creaked as he leaned back again.

His eyes burned.

He didn’t wipe them.

“I’m tired of wanting things I can’t ask for.”

Jungho stood up slowly walking to the door. “Then maybe it’s time to find out if you really can’t.”

Changkyun looked up.

He didn’t ask what that meant.

Didn’t have to.

He didn’t mean to see them.

It was just bad timing. Bad luck. Or maybe the universe liked jokes too much.

He was at the studio late again, trying to finish a mix that didn’t want to be finished, some indie soloist with a breathy voice and not enough midrange. He’d been riding the low-end balance for hours, hands stiff from too much mouse-clicking, ears numb to the difference between decent and done.

He needed air.

Just a walk. Just five minutes outside before his brain turned to paste. The elevator down to the lobby was slow, and the front desk was empty, and the vending machine near the side entrance had eaten his last 500 won coin without delivering anything in return.

So he turned the corner, barely thinking, only to freeze halfway down the hallway.

They were here.

He could see them through the glass wall of Studio A. The pack. All of them.

Minhyuk was leaning against the far console, gesturing too dramatically for whatever point he was making. Shownu stood beside him with arms folded, nodding along like a human yes-button. Jooheon sat in the booth with a pencil behind one ear, head bobbing to the track in his headphones. Wonho, smiling. Kihyun, focused. Hyungwon, laughing, mouth open, eyes crinkled like it was easy.

Like everything was fine.

His body locked up.

He hadn’t seen them since he left. Not in real life. Not like this.

Not in their element.

And they didn’t see him.

He could have turned around.

He should have.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, caught between two breaths, watching through the glass like he was on the wrong side of a memory.

It hurt more than he thought it would.

Not like a punch. Not sharp.

Just… slow. Dull. A weight in his ribs that settled and stayed.

He watched Kihyun lean in to adjust a mic stand, face tilted, eyes narrowed in that way he always did when the details mattered. Watched Wonho pass a bottle of water to someone without even looking, like his body just knew what others needed. Watched Minhyuk toss a joke at Hyungwon and saw Shownu, stone-still Shownu, fight the ghost of a smile.

It looked the same.

It was the same.

And that was the worst part.

Because it meant they were still them.

Which meant that nothing had changed.

Which meant he was the only thing missing.

He backed away before they could see him.

Didn’t run.

Just walked.

One step at a time. Out the hallway. Past the vending machines. Down the stairs.

His hands were shaking.

He told himself it was nothing. Just nerves. Just adrenaline.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything.

But his chest was too full. His eyes burned. And somewhere deep in his gut, something old and stupid cracked open again.

But seeing them, just seeing them, had undone him like a switch being flipped.

And he hated it.

Hated how fast he folded.

How fast everything hurt again.

He leaned against the wall in the stairwell, palms flat to the concrete, and breathed like he was trying not to drown.

Chapter Text

Changkyun didn’t expect anyone that morning.

The studio was quiet, too early for clients, too late for the overnight engineers. He had his usual tea cooling beside the console, a stale protein bar half-eaten, and his laptop open to a session he hadn’t touched in two hours.

He hadn’t slept. Again.

He was still wearing yesterday’s hoodie.

When the knock came, he didn’t look up right away. Thought it might be Jungho, back from whatever errand he’d said he was running. Probably left his charger behind again.

“Door’s open,” Changkyun called.

No one came in.

The knock came again.

Sharper this time.

He sighed and stood, rolling his neck, stretching the stiffness out of his shoulders. “You forget your key, hyung?”

He swung the door open with one hand, already moving to turn back,

And froze.

Wonho stood in the doorway.

Behind him, Jooheon. Then Minhyuk. Kihyun. Shownu. Hyungwon.

All of them.

No makeup. No masks.

Just tired faces, street clothes, and something fragile held between them.

Changkyun didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

“Hi,” Wonho said, like it wasn’t the first thing they’d rehearsed three times in the van downstairs. “Can we come in?”

The question hit like an echo.

He blinked.

“I—" His voice cracked. “Why are you here?”

“We just need to talk,” Jooheon said. “Not long. We just— please.”

“We’re not here to fight,” Minhyuk added quickly. “Or to make you forgive us.”

“We’re not asking for anything,” Shownu said, steady and quiet. “Just… time.”

He couldn’t look at Kihyun. Couldn’t risk it.

His hand stayed on the doorknob like it might hold him up.

“I’m working.”

“We know,” Hyungwon said. “We waited.”

That landed like a bruise.

He stepped aside before he could talk himself out of it.

The studio wasn’t meant for guests.

There was only one couch, and it was cluttered with blankets, chargers, empty tea mugs. Someone, Jooheon probably, noticed first. He didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered.

Minhyuk sat on the edge of the table instead. Hyungwon leaned against the far wall, arms crossed. Kihyun stood, tense and unmoving, in the corner closest to the exit.

They looked too big for the room.

Too real.

Too here.

Changkyun stayed near the console, arms folded tight across his chest.

“You’ve been living here?” Wonho asked, gently.

“I’m…”

“You’re not denying it.”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t know how to without falling apart.

Wonho exhaled slowly. “Okay. You don’t have to explain.”

Kihyun shifted like he was going to speak, but stopped.

Instead, it was Shownu who stepped forward, voice even.

“We talked about it. All of us.”

“Please,” Wonho said. “Just come to the dorm later today.”

“You don’t have to stay,” Minhyuk added. “Just… hear us out.”

“You don’t even have to talk,” Hyungwon said, a little softer. “You can just listen. Or don’t. But please— come.”

Kihyun hadn’t spoken.

But he was watching.

Too closely.

Like he wanted to say something but didn’t think he’d earned the right.

And maybe he hadn’t.

Changkyun’s throat felt dry.

His fingers curled tight around the booth door.

“You don’t have to decide anything,” Minhyuk replied. “Just come. We have rehearsal today, but can you please come at around 6pm?”

Changkyun didn’t say anything to them just quickly, ushered them out the room and shut the door behind them.

He didn’t know why he agreed.

Maybe it was the way Wonho had looked at him. Or the way Shownu didn’t speak over anyone, just stood there like he would wait as long as it took. Maybe it was Minhyuk’s voice, too fast and too soft, like he was afraid to be told no.

Or maybe it was just that he needed to know if this ache in his chest, the one that hadn’t eased since Detroit, was worth keeping. Or worth finally letting go.

He told himself he was going for closure. To prove he could see them again and feel nothing. To gut the last scraps of hope still clinging like dust to his ribs.

He took the train in silence. Walked up the same stairs, stood outside the same door. His hands were cold. His jaw ached from clenching it. He didn’t knock.

Inside, the dorm looked the same.

Too warm. Too lived-in. Too loud with the absence of what he used to think it might become.

They were all there, clustered around the living room like a jury who hadn’t agreed on the verdict. Minhyuk sat perched on the edge of the armrest, jiggling his knee. Jooheon leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, face drawn. Wonho had his hands clasped like he was trying not to fidget. Kihyun’s posture was stiff. Hyungwon stood apart, looking like he wanted to pace but was forcing himself not to. Shownu stood at the back, quiet, watching him.

No one spoke right away.

Changkyun stood near the doorway, arms crossed. Didn’t sit. Didn’t move past the edge of the room.

He said nothing.

Eventually, Minhyuk cracked. “We didn’t know you were gone until the hotel manager said your room was empty. Like, properly empty. Clean. No clothes. Nothing.”

Hyungwon muttered, “Tae from the studio said you were back. That was the first anyone even knew where you were.”

Jooheon rubbed a hand over his face. “We didn’t know. We didn’t know, okay?”

“It was the last two cities,” Minhyuk added, voice thinner. “You could’ve stayed, and, yeah, we get why you didn’t. But still. You were just gone.”

“We didn’t say goodbye,” Hyungwon said. “We didn’t even look at you.”

Wonho’s voice was low. “You didn’t answer anything. We tried text, email, studio requests—"

“We know we fucked up,” Minhyuk interrupted, too loud. “I don’t even know what we’re supposed to say. There’s no version of this where we don’t sound like assholes.”

“You don’t need to say it like we’re being attacked,” Jooheon muttered.

“I am attacking us,” Minhyuk snapped.

Kihyun, still sitting rigidly, spoke without lifting his eyes. “We were cruel. Not intentionally—" He cut himself off. “Actually, maybe intentionally. Doesn’t matter. The outcome’s the same.”

Wonho exhaled sharply. “We acted like you didn’t matter.”

“You did,” Shownu said, quiet but firm. “You still do. That’s not, what happened wasn’t about you not being enough.”

“You were good,” Minhyuk said. “You were too good. That was part of the problem. You didn’t even give us a reason to push back, and we still—" He shook his head. “We weren’t ready. We weren’t... safe for you.”

“No one’s saying we were,” Hyungwon said, though it sounded more like he was reminding himself.

“We talked about it after,” Jooheon said. “After Detroit. After you collapsed. We thought maybe you’d stay, maybe that was... something changing. But we didn’t know how to handle it.”

Kihyun’s voice cut in. “You were gone.”

The words hung sharp in the air.

No one followed them.

No one needed to.

The silence stretched. Too full. Too heavy.

Changkyun didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Just kept his arms crossed and his expression flat.

Inside, his chest was twisting.

They didn’t know what he’d heard. Didn’t know he’d stood outside that hallway while Kihyun said he was just a soulmate. That Jooheon hadn’t disagreed.

That he’d stayed dressed that night, waiting, stupidly, hopefully, for a knock that never came.

So now they were guessing.

Feeling around in the dark, hoping they’d bump into the right thing to apologize for.

They meant it. That much was clear. They were sorry.

But they were sorry for the symptoms. Not the wound.

And he couldn’t fix that for them.

Not this time.

They’d all tried, in their own way. Half-apologies, aborted sentences, guilt in jagged pieces. No one had asked what it felt like to be him in all of it. What it meant to offer up something as terrifying as a soul bond, silent, skin to skin, and receive nothing in return but a polite look and averted eyes.

Changkyun didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Just stood still, arms crossed, waiting for it to be over.

They looked at him. Looked at each other. Looked away.

And then, quiet, barely more than a breath:

“Why.”

One word.

It landed like a dropped stone.

Minhyuk froze. Jooheon’s shoulders twitched. Wonho went very still.

Finally, after a moment too long, Wonho spoke. “Because someone hurt us.”

Kihyun’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“It wasn’t recent,” Jooheon said. “Before the tours. Before most of this.” He looked down. “I had a bond with someone. It hit hard. I thought, I thought it was everything. That kind of high, that... rush when you touch someone and feel it.” He exhaled, long and slow. “He was in the industry. Claimed he wanted to be private, to be careful. Said he had my back.”

Minhyuk shifted like he wanted to speak, but didn’t.

Jooheon continued, voice flat now. “He stayed at the dorm. Slept in my bed. Knew everything about our schedules. Our tracks. Our boundaries. He said he loved me.”

“He leaked things,” Wonho said, low.

“Songs,” Jooheon confirmed. “Conversations. Photos. There was a clip of a session, private, raw, not even a final cut. He passed it off to someone who passed it off to someone else, and suddenly it was everywhere. Nothing we could scrub clean.”

“He said he didn’t mean to,” Minhyuk muttered.

“He did,” Hyungwon said. “He meant to.”

“We weren’t watching closely,” Shownu said. “That’s on us.”

“No, it’s on me,” Jooheon said. “I brought him in. I believed him.”

The quiet that followed was sharper this time.

Kihyun rubbed his hands together like he was trying to scrape something off them. “After that, we stopped letting people get close. Not officially, not as a rule, but, we all felt it. Something just... shut down.”

“We got good at ignoring things,” Hyungwon said. “When they felt too big.”

“We thought it was safer,” Minhyuk added.

It wasn’t an excuse.

It didn’t sound like one.

No one commented.

No one had to.

“I think we got used to... living around things,” Jooheon said. “Not dealing with them. Just folding them into the rhythm and hoping they’d dull down.”

“And you didn’t,” Kihyun said suddenly. “You didn’t dull down.”

His tone wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t warm either.

“You came in and you were just... you. Quiet. Kind. Present. And we didn’t know what to do with that. So we—"

“Fucked it up,” Minhyuk muttered.

“Didn’t look at it,” Hyungwon said at the same time.

“Froze,” Shownu said, simple and true.

Wonho shook his head, slowly. “We didn’t know what it meant. That feeling. That bond. Not with someone already here. Already in our space.”

“We should have asked,” Minhyuk said. “We should’ve... done something.”

“We did nothing,” Jooheon said. “And worse.”

Changkyun’s eyes stayed fixed on the middle of the coffee table. He hadn’t moved. Not once. And still, inside him, everything was shaking.

Because this had nothing to do with him. Not really.

He had been handed a closed door and a lock forged from someone else’s betrayal.

And they’d never once asked if he had his own.

He didn’t speak right away.

He sat with it. With their guilt. Their voices, shaky and half-spilled. Their regret turned inward. He let it all settle like ash in his chest. Too much of it sounded like pain. But not pain for him, for them. For what they lost. What they feared. What they remembered.

Not once did anyone say what it must’ve felt like to be him.

Not once did anyone ask.

His hands were clenched so tight in his lap his fingernails were digging into his palms. His eyes were wet and burning and he didn’t wipe them.

He stood.

That was enough to pull every gaze toward him again, six sets of eyes, already wide, already wary.

“Don’t,” he said before anyone could move. “Don’t come near me.”

Wonho’s mouth opened like he was about to say his name.

Changkyun cut him off. “I listened to all of that. I gave you that much. And now you’re going to listen to me.”

The silence turned sharp.

“You had a bad experience,” he said, voice shaking. “You let someone in and they hurt you. I’m sorry for that. I mean it. But you didn’t heal from it. You didn’t deal with it. You just decided no one else would get close enough to do the same.”

“Changkyun—" Minhyuk started.

“No,” he snapped. “No. Don’t make this gentle. Don’t soften it. You made a decision about me the second that bond lit up. You didn’t even know me.”

“We panicked—" Jooheon tried.

“And then you kept panicking,” Changkyun said, his voice rising. “Even when I was breaking myself trying to prove I was worth staying for. Even when I was giving you everything I had. Even when I collapsed in front of you and still tried to pretend I was fine.”

Hyungwon opened his mouth, but Changkyun didn’t give him the chance.

“You treated me like I was dangerous. Like I was temporary. Like if you got too close, you’d get burned. But you were the ones with fire in your hands, not me. You kept me at arm’s length for months, months, and then what? One night of kindness and I’m supposed to think it meant something?”

“You were never just—" Wonho began.

“You didn’t trust me,” Changkyun said, quieter now. “That’s what it is. That’s what it’s always been. You saw me. You felt the bond. And still, you didn’t trust me enough to ask who I was. You just assumed I’d hurt you because someone else did.”

Kihyun stood up then. Not close. Just barely off the couch. “We didn’t know what to do. It was easier to push you away than to risk—"

“Risk what?” Changkyun’s voice cracked. “That I’d love you? That I’d stay? That I’d need you? You already decided I was guilty, and I never even got the chance to plead my fucking case.”

No one spoke.

The only sound was his own breathing, shaky and raw.

“I heard you,” he said, looking at Kihyun now. “That night. In the hallway.”

Kihyun froze.

“You said, ‘He’s just a soulmate.’ Like that meant nothing. Like I was nothing. And Jooheon, you didn’t say a word. You just stood there.”

Jooheon’s lips parted. “I didn’t mean—"

“I know you didn’t mean it. That’s what makes it worse.” He laughed bitterly. “You didn’t mean it, and you still said it. Like my feelings were collateral damage.”

There were tears on his face now. Hot and fast.

He didn’t wipe them.

Wonho stepped forward, but Changkyun stepped back.

“I said don’t touch me.”

“Please,” Kihyun said, voice cracking for the first time. “Please, don’t go.”

Changkyun laughed, broken and hollow. “Now you want me.”

“We need you,” Minhyuk said.

“We choose you,” Hyungwon added.

“You don’t even know me,” he snapped.

Kihyun was trembling now. “I do. I do. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left you behind. I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder. I’m sorry I—"

“I don’t forgive you.”

The words dropped like a stone in water.

No one breathed.

Changkyun looked around the room. “You say you want me. You say you choose me. But I don’t think you understand what you’re asking. You want the bond now that it’s convenient. But when I needed you, when I was falling apart and trying to hold myself together with spit and duct tape, you weren’t there.”

Jooheon took a shaky breath. “Can’t we, can’t we try again?”

He looked at them. All of them.

He turned.

No one followed.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And then there was silence again, but this one was different.

This one was the sound of something breaking.

Chapter Text

The door had closed behind him weeks ago.

It didn’t slam. It didn’t echo. Just clicked shut, neat and final, like punctuation at the end of something he hadn’t wanted to write.

They hadn’t followed.

He’d walked down the stairs alone. Past the elevator. Past the lobby where they used to wait for rides together. Past the memory of Kihyun’s voice cracking on please. He didn’t look back. Not once.

And they kept their word.

No one chased him. No one texted. No one showed up outside the studio. Whatever Monsta X had been building toward that night, it stopped when he walked away. And he hated that too. That they respected his choice. That they did what he asked. That they let him leave like it didn’t destroy them.

That maybe it didn’t.

So now: weeks later. New space. New keys. No comfort.

The apartment was small. One room, really. Studio layout, peeling wallpaper, a single mattress shoved into the corner beneath a window that didn’t shut properly. The kind of place you could clean in an hour and still feel like something was missing. The radiator hissed like it resented being asked to do its job, and the water in the shower never stayed hot for more than ten minutes. The light in the bathroom flickered sometimes when it rained. It was drafty in the evenings, smelled faintly like the last tenant's laundry detergent, and the ceiling had a hairline crack he kept meaning to stop staring at. But it was his. No one else’s towel on the rack. No hoodie left behind on the arm of the couch. No scent of someone else’s shampoo bleeding into the steam. Just him. Just stillness. For the first few nights, it felt like a kind of freedom, coarse and lonely, but clean. Now it just felt like waiting for something that wasn’t coming.

Work was harder than it should have been. He still went in, still opened his projects, still made polite conversation when necessary. But the tracks wouldn’t land right. The highs rang too sharp, the lows refused to settle. His sessions were cluttered with revisions that only made things worse, like brushing over a smudge with water and watching it bloom. Every mix sounded like it had something missing, like the core had been scooped out and filled with silence instead. He’d stare at the waveforms for hours, numb to his own ears, and every time he tried to fix it, he only buried the flaw deeper. Jungho stopped asking if he was okay. After the third week, he didn’t even knock before dropping off paperwork. Just left it on the desk with a small nod, the way people do when they’ve decided not to push anymore. The studio was professional enough to keep its distance. So was everyone else.

And the thing was, Monsta X had kept their word. They hadn’t reached out. Not once. Not a text. Not a DM. Not a polite studio ping disguised as work. Nothing. For the first time in months, they’d done exactly what he asked.

So why did it feel like grief?

The apartment was worst at night. The silence here wasn’t the same as the silence in the studio. That had been white noise, equipment humming, cables buzzing, something to fill the spaces. Here, the silence was sharp. It scraped at the inside of his chest. He’d sit on the floor with his back against the mattress, legs drawn in, staring at the small ring of light the stovetop made when it cooled, and try not to remember how Hyungwon always curled up like a cat in shared hotel rooms, how Jooheon always made too much rice and acted surprised when people ate it, how Minhyuk used to fill the quiet with trivia he probably made up on the spot. Try not to remember how Shownu would stand at the door like a question until you gave him an answer. Try not to remember how Kihyun said his name in Detroit like it meant something.

It had meant something. In the moment. He was sure of it. In the heat of Kihyun’s hand against his chest, the way his voice softened, the way he called him ours without even seeming to realize he’d said it aloud. But that was before the hallway. Before the cold words. Before the silence that followed. It didn’t matter what he’d felt anymore. It hadn’t been enough to change anything.

And that, more than anything, was what kept him up some nights. Not anger. Not heartbreak. But the fact that somewhere, deep inside, he still wanted to forgive them. Still felt the shape of that night in his bones. Still dreamed about the weight of Shownu’s hand between his shoulder blades, or the feel of rope pressing him to the earth like it meant he was finally allowed to rest. And he hated it. Hated that the wanting hadn’t gone away. Hated that it made him feel weak. Hated that the idea of going back still lived somewhere in him, small and pathetic and stubborn.

But forgiving them now, letting them back in, felt like a betrayal. Not just of himself, but of the part of him that survived it. The version of him that stayed dressed, stayed silent, stayed waiting for a knock that never came. If he forgave too easily, what would it say about the months he spent being invisible? About the part of him that had to be broken before they saw him?

So he stayed. Quiet. Angry. Tired. Still too tender, still too wrecked, still too far from the warmth he remembered. And when the wind hissed through the loose window seals and he wrapped himself tighter in the blanket he stole from the studio, he told himself he was healing. Told himself space was good. Told himself this ache would dull eventually.

But some nights, the silence felt like a mouth he’d forgotten how to fill. And every time he closed his eyes, he heard six voices in the dark, calling him good, and couldn’t decide if that memory was what saved him or what ruined him.

His phone dinged around 9 a.m.

He didn’t check it right away, just rolled over on the mattress, blinked blearily at the peeling wall, and pressed his face into the pillow until the cold patch disappeared. The buzzing came again, softer the second time. A reminder: Dynamic Center appointment. 9:30 p.m. He’d booked it last week, during a wave of guilt or maybe optimism, hard to tell the difference these days. For a moment, he thought about canceling. Then he thought about how hard it had been to breathe the night before. About the fatigue dragging his limbs down like anchors. About the heat that bloomed in his chest for no reason and left just as fast, like static from a storm you couldn’t see.

He got up.

The train was half-empty by the time he boarded. Yellow lighting. Stale air. A mother shushing her toddler in the corner seat while a high schooler behind him played a game too loud through their headphones. Changkyun didn’t mind the noise. Lately, it helped. Something about other people’s lives running on autopilot while his refused to start.

They called his name. Took him into one of the regulation rooms, soft lights, neutral colors, the usual decor built for comfort without intimacy. The dom was already there, seated in the corner with a tablet in hand, mid-thirties maybe, calm and polished in the way all public doms were. Trained smiles. Gentle cadence. Efficient empathy.

“Changkyun?” she said softly, standing. “You ready?”

He nodded, then stepped into the center of the room.

She didn’t rush. Didn’t loom. Just took her time with the basics: setting verbal markers, asking for permission to touch, offering a hand rather than a command. She said, “Let’s just try to drop a little, yeah?” and Changkyun nodded again, automatic. Obedient. He kneeled on the regulation mat and closed his eyes, waiting for the switch to flip.

It came. Sort of.

Her voice was low and even, the rhythm familiar, carefully shaped around phrasing that should’ve comforted him: You’re doing so well... just breathe... nothing you need to hold anymore... you’re safe here. But something didn’t settle. The words floated around him instead of into him. The praise sat oddly on his skin, like wearing someone else’s shirt. Good boy didn’t feel like a truth, it felt like a sticker peeling off at the edges. Even the rope, smooth, synthetic, laid across his wrists in soft, practiced loops, felt too neat. Too sterile. It itched. Not physically. Just wrong.

He dropped, technically. His breath slowed. His limbs softened. The blood stopped pounding in his ears. But it was empty. He was hovering just beneath the surface of himself, caught between habit and absence. No gravity. No anchor. No pulse of connection behind her voice to keep him tethered. Just routine.

When it ended, she gave him a warm towel and a quiet nod. “You did really well,” she said. “Let’s do a reading now, see where we’re landing tonight.”

He sat still, let them place the sensory patches on the back of his neck, the inside of his wrists, his solar plexus. She asked how long it had been since his last regulation. He said a week. She blinked. Asked again. He repeated himself. She didn’t say anything then, just tapped on her tablet, scrolled through his records, made a small sound in the back of her throat like she wasn’t surprised, just disappointed.

“Have you been feeling unusually tired?” she asked after a moment, fingers still moving across the screen.

He nodded.

“Headaches? Temperature swings? Difficulty sleeping, even after spacing?”

“Yes,” he said. And then— after a pause, “All of it.”

She looked at him then. Not unkind. But steady. “You’re presenting early signs of dynamic neglect.”

The words didn’t land right away. His brain filed them under impossible, not me, must be someone else. He blinked. “But I’ve been coming here more than usual.”

She nodded. “I see that. But the regulation isn’t taking.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, and he hated how flat his voice sounded. Not scared. Just tired.

“Your body isn’t holding the spacing. You’re reverting within a day or two. And when we recalibrate your levels, they’re lower than they were last time. That means your baseline is dropping.”

“But it’s not supposed to,” he said, because that was the one thing he’d counted on, that if he just kept showing up, kept spacing, kept doing the right things, eventually the ache would dull, the static would fade, and he’d feel like himself again.

“I know,” she said. “But it is.”

He swallowed hard. Tried to think. Couldn’t.

The attendant looked at him carefully. “I’m not saying this to scare you. But I do want to be honest. A center can only do so much. Our job is to supplement. To help maintain balance. But what you’re presenting, this level of destabilization, it’s not something we’re built to treat long-term. You need more structure. A relationship dynamic. A dom, ideally someone bonded to you who can adjust in real time.”

“I don’t—" he started, then stopped.

“You don’t have one,” she finished gently. “I know. That’s not uncommon. But if you know someone who can provide regular care, even temporary, you need to start thinking about that. We can give you another week, maybe two, before your levels put you at risk of systemic drop.”

“I’ve dropped before,” he said, quiet.

“Not like this,” she said. “Not if it keeps degrading.”

He nodded once, almost mechanically.

She offered him a list. Public doms, private agencies, match-up services. He didn’t take it. Just stared at it until she lowered her hand.

The session finished in silence. She ran the calibration again, adjusted the sensory mapping, tried a new rhythm for the spacing. It helped for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Enough to lift the weight from his spine, ease the pressure behind his eyes. But it didn’t settle. Not the way it should. Not the way it used to.

When he left, the wind outside cut sharp down the street. The sky was yellowing with city light. His limbs felt better, but the hollowness inside him hadn’t moved. It was the worst kind of pain: the kind you can’t name, because it doesn’t belong to a single part of the body. Just floats there. Heavy and unsolvable.

He kept walking. Past the subway. Past the convenience store. Back to the apartment with the cracked ceiling and the unwashed dishes in the sink. Back to the silence. Back to the knowing.

He wasn’t getting better.

And the only people who could help were the last people in the world he could ask.

The studio was cold. Not in temperature, but in tone, lights dimmed halfway down, monitors humming softly, cables coiled too neatly along the walls. It felt like a stage set someone had forgotten to strike. Changkyun sat curled in the corner of the mixing room, legs folded underneath him, hoodie sleeves bunched over his hands. He hadn’t opened the session yet. Just stared at the blank screen and let the silence stretch. His fingers itched to work. His brain said no.

Jungho knocked once, then stepped inside without waiting for a response. He always did that, never asked, never assumed privacy, but also never brought anything in with him that wasn’t necessary. No judgment. No clipboard. Just a mug of something warm and a quiet look that said, I’ve seen worse.

“You been here long?” he asked, handing over the cup.

Changkyun shrugged. “Couple hours.”

Jungho glanced at the untouched keyboard. “You working?”

“Trying.”

A pause.

And then— soft: “You regulating?”

Another shrug. Smaller this time. “Went to the Center yesterday.”

“Help?”

Changkyun didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

Jungho leaned back against the console and folded his arms. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“You know what I mean.”

He did. He did, and he was so tired of hearing it.

Jungho waited. He was good at that. At letting space fill without pressure. Eventually, Changkyun broke.

“I don’t get it,” he said, voice low. “I’m doing everything I’m supposed to. I’m going to the Center more than I ever have. I’m trying to work. I’m eating, sleeping, sort of. And it still feels like something’s missing. Like I’m bleeding out and can’t find the wound.”

Jungho didn’t say anything.

“And I hate that I know what it is,” Changkyun added. “I hate that I know exactly what’s wrong and I still can’t fix it.”

Jungho raised an eyebrow.

“I miss them,” he said. “I miss... the feeling. But I can’t go back. I can’t. After everything they did, everything they said, how could I forgive that? How could I stand in a room with them and not think about all the times they left me out, looked through me, acted like I wasn’t real?”

Jungho nodded slowly. “So don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t forgive them.”

The words hit like a slap, but not cruel. Not dismissive. Just honest.

Changkyun blinked.

Jungho looked at him evenly. “If that’s what you need to survive, then don’t. If forgiving them means erasing something important, then don’t do it.”

“But—" he started, then stopped. “Then why does it feel like I’m punishing myself?”

Jungho exhaled, quiet. “Because forgiveness isn’t about what they did. It’s about what you carry. You’re not angry because they hurt you, you’re angry because you still care. And that’s the part you haven’t made peace with yet.”

“I don’t want to care,” Changkyun said, sharp.

“I know.”

“They don’t deserve it.”

“Probably not.”

“And Kihyun—" His throat caught. “He’s supposed to be my soulmate. He’s the one who felt it first. And he left me behind like it meant nothing.”

Jungho’s voice softened. “So maybe the real question isn’t whether or not to forgive them. Maybe it’s whether or not you can forgive yourself for still wanting them.”

The room felt too quiet after that. The screen in front of him stayed black. His mug cooled between his hands.

He didn’t say anything else.

Jungho didn’t push. Just nodded once and slipped out of the room, door clicking shut behind him.

A few hours later, Changkyun left the building. He needed air. Movement. Something to pull him out of his own head.

He didn’t expect to pass the auditorium.

Didn’t expect to hear the low thrum of bass filtering through the corridor walls.

Didn’t expect the flicker of light under the stage door or the way his feet moved toward it before he gave them permission.

He kept his head down. Slipped into the back row, quiet and unseen.

And there they were.

Monsta X on stage.

Mid-rehearsal, maybe. Or soundcheck. He couldn’t tell. They looked real. Solid. The way they always had when performing, like everything made sense as long as they were in motion together. He watched Minhyuk laugh at something Hyungwon said. Watched Jooheon bob his head to the beat, lips moving around lyrics he didn’t even have to think about. Watched Shownu count off the next set with a tilt of his chin. Watched Wonho stretch one arm overhead, eyes closed like the music was a kind of prayer.

Watched Kihyun.

He didn’t sing, not in that moment. Just stood near the front, head slightly bowed, fingers flexing at his sides like he was working something out silently. And Changkyun felt it. That tug. That wrong-wired, too-deep feeling that split through his chest like the first intake of breath after surfacing from a dream.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

Just stood there in the dark, trying not to remember how it felt to be seen.

He didn’t plan it. Didn’t think this is the day or this is the hour. There wasn’t a moment of resolve. Just movement. He left the studio late, later than he should have, coat half-zipped, mind fogged with edits he couldn’t quite land. The walk to the subway was cold. His headphones were dead. The city pressed around him in ways that used to make him feel hidden. Now it just made him feel alone.

He didn’t get off at his usual stop.

Didn’t notice until he was already on the platform, the wrong one, and the doors were closing behind him. His body had made the choice without asking. Or maybe not a choice. Maybe just gravity.

He stood in front of their building for almost ten minutes before ringing up.

No code. No name. Just a pulse in his hand and the sound of the buzzer unlocking something old.

The elevator ride was quiet. He didn’t look at the numbers. Didn’t look at himself in the mirrored wall. He just stood still, hands buried deep in his pockets, shoulders pulled in, like maybe he could shrink this moment into something smaller than it was.

The hallway looked the same. Carpet still worn in the center. A plant half-dead on the windowsill. The same air freshener plugged into the wall that Minhyuk used to complain about, said it smelled like heartbreak and bleach.

He knocked.

No dramatic pause. No slow exhale. Just the soft rap of his knuckles, barely louder than a thought.

When the door opened, it wasn’t one of them, it was all of them.

Wonho at the front, the first to move. Shownu standing just behind him, steady as ever. Minhyuk frozen mid-step. Jooheon by the wall, like he’d been pacing. Hyungwon near the couch, eyes unreadable. Kihyun in the back, barely breathing.

The silence held.

Not hostile. Not welcoming.

Just thick with everything that hadn’t been said.

“I’m not here to forgive you,” Changkyun said, voice quiet but steady. “Not yet.”

No one tried to speak.

“I don’t know if I ever will.”

Minhyuk’s fingers twitched against his side, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I’m still angry. I’m still hurt. I still don’t know if you see me.”

Kihyun’s throat moved like he wanted to speak but couldn’t yet find the words.

“I’m not here because of the bond,” Changkyun continued. “I’m not here because fate says I should be.”

“We know,” Shownu said. Just that. Just enough.

Changkyun stood in the doorway, the weight of their eyes on him, like a dozen small hands pressing at once. It didn’t hurt. It just felt real. More real than anything had in weeks.

“I’m here,” he said finally, “because I’m choosing to be.”

That was all.

Wonho stepped back. Minhyuk made space without being asked. Jooheon’s posture shifted, less defensive now. Hyungwon sat slowly, like he didn’t want to startle the moment. Shownu nodded once. Kihyun looked at him like he was afraid to breathe.

And Changkyun, heart hammering, hands cold, stepped inside.

Chapter Text

It was quiet in the dorm again.

Not the brittle silence of resentment or avoidance, just a kind of stillness. Like everyone was holding their breath but not because they were scared anymore. Because they didn’t want to break whatever this was. This new, fragile rhythm that hadn’t quite settled into trust but had stopped spinning like a wheel stuck in the mud.

Changkyun had been staying there again for three nights. No one made a big deal about it. His things were still in the corner of Shownu’s room. No one asked when he was moving them back into a permanent space. The bed was made every morning. Someone kept leaving fresh towels outside the bathroom door.

It was late when they brought it up.

He was curled on the couch, laptop closed, a blanket draped over his knees. Wonho sat across from him, Shownu just behind. Kihyun leaned against the kitchen counter like he’d been hovering for a while. Hyungwon was half-asleep in the oversized armchair. Jooheon had his headphones on but wasn’t actually playing anything.

“We wanted to talk,” Shownu said. His tone was steady. Not commanding. Just serious.

Changkyun sat up slightly. “Okay.”

“You haven’t spaced properly since…” Shownu glanced at Kihyun, who looked away. “Since last time.”

“I’ve been okay.”

“You’ve been surviving,” Wonho said gently. “That’s not the same.”

There was a beat of silence.

“We want to offer,” Shownu continued. “To help you regulate again.”

Changkyun blinked. “Spacing?”

“Yes. With us. If you want.”

There was a tightness in his chest, reflexive. He curled one hand around the edge of the blanket.

“Not like before,” Minhyuk added quickly, appearing from the hallway with his usual timing, always when it mattered. “No crashing. No surprises. Just… what you need. On your terms.”

Changkyun exhaled. Slow. “You mean like before in the hotel. Non-sexual?”

Wonho’s eyes softened. “It can be. If that’s what you want.”

“But it doesn’t have to be,” Kihyun added, precise. “We’re open to… more. If you are.”

That made the air feel warmer. Not heavier. Just closer.

Minhyuk dropped onto the couch arm beside him. “We’re not asking for everything. Just honesty. Consent. A yes or a no.”

He looked around the room. Six faces, all watching, but not crowding. They were giving him space even in how they waited. Shownu’s stillness. Wonho’s calm. Kihyun’s tension trying not to show. Jooheon, quiet but alert. Hyungwon, who hadn’t said anything, just peeled one eye open and said, “Please say yes. I’m so overdue, I might spontaneously combust.”

That startled a laugh out of him. Just a breath, but real.

“I didn’t know you needed it too.”

Hyungwon shrugged. “Subspace waits for no one. And Jooheon’s running on fumes. Right?”

Jooheon didn’t answer, but he nodded.

“So… it’s not just me?” Changkyun asked. There was something boyish in the way he said it, like he was still afraid of being singled out. Like being needed was easier to accept if he wasn’t the only one.

“No,” Shownu said quietly. “It’s not just you.”

Changkyun glanced down at his hands. Picked at a loose thread in the blanket. Then looked back up.

“I want it,” he said. “All of it. The regulation. The… intimacy.”

Wonho smiled, slow and warm. “Okay.”

“You’re sure?” Shownu asked.

He nodded. “I don’t think I would’ve said yes last week. But I trust you now. I want to try.”

Hyungwon made a pleased noise from his chair. “Hell yeah. Group spacing. I’m not gonna be the only one whimpering this time.”

Kihyun didn’t smile. But he did reach over and turn off the kitchen light like it meant something. Like they were setting the stage.

“We’ll go slow,” he said.

“I want that too,” Changkyun said. And his voice didn’t shake when he said it.

They didn’t rush.

That was the first thing Changkyun noticed. No orders barked. No abrupt gestures. Just movement, steady and deliberate, like the whole room had agreed to exhale at once.

Shownu was the first to stand. He didn’t say anything, didn’t give a speech. Just crossed the room and flipped the dimmer switch until the lights fell soft and amber-gold. The tension in the air didn’t disappear, but it changed. Tilted. Thickened into something weighty but welcome.

Wonho followed next. He pulled the low table to the edge of the room and began laying out things with quiet reverence: a folded fleece blanket, a bottle of water, a small cloth pouch Changkyun didn’t recognize until he saw the hint of smooth black rope peeking from the top. He placed it gently in the center like an offering. No one touched it yet.

Minhyuk disappeared down the hall and came back with clean towels and a wide, soft-brushed floor mat they used for group naps during long rehearsals. He smacked Hyungwon’s thigh as he passed and said, “Move your bony ass,” and Hyungwon just groaned and dragged himself upright with an exaggerated sigh, already half-smiling.

Kihyun moved like he was keeping himself in check. No sharp corners. No clipped words. Just precision. He lit a candle, sandalwood and sage, the kind that filled a space without overpowering it, and set it on the dresser. Then he unspooled the rope slowly, letting it fall into neat coils across his lap as he knelt beside the mat. His hands were steady, but his eyes kept drifting back to Changkyun.

Jooheon took off his hoodie. Quietly. Without fanfare. He folded it and placed it carefully on the back of the couch, then stood near Wonho like he wasn’t sure where to go yet, but wanted to be ready when someone told him.

Changkyun sat still for a moment longer, letting himself absorb the weight of what was unfolding around him. The room had transformed. The furniture pushed back. The music low and instrumental now, something ambient with a soft pulsing rhythm that felt like breath. Everything was warmer. Everything was slower.

He rose slowly, barefoot. No one touched him yet. They waited.

“You okay?” Shownu asked, voice low.

He nodded.

“You still want this?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Kihyun murmured, almost to himself.

Hyungwon came to sit beside him, their shoulders brushing. “It’s okay to be nervous,” he said. “Sometimes the anticipation is worse than the spacing.”

“Are you?” Changkyun asked, surprised.

“Nervous? No. I’m starving.” Hyungwon leaned into him slightly, head tilting like he was already slipping sideways into a softer state. “Spacing with others is the best kind. You don’t have to carry all the attention. You just let it happen.”

Changkyun swallowed. “And you’re okay with me being here?”

Hyungwon looked at him, almost confused. “I want you here.”

That shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did. But it settled somewhere deep. Somewhere sore.

Wonho knelt in front of them both, his hands resting loosely on his thighs. “You’re not the only one who needs this, Changkyun. You’re not a guest in this space. You’re part of it.”

He nodded again. Softer now.

Minhyuk threw a pillow at Jooheon. “Hey. Come kneel.”

Jooheon moved slowly, deliberately. Not from hesitation, but from care. He came to the mat and sat on his heels near the edge, eyes cast downward but not hidden. There was a small flush on his cheeks already, like just being witnessed had started his descent. He looked up once, at Shownu, then Wonho, then lowered his gaze again.

“I’m ready,” he said. Quiet, but sure.

Kihyun shifted his hands on the rope.

Hyungwon smiled like he’d just come home.

Changkyun inhaled deeply.

And this time, when he exhaled, he let go of the part of himself still holding back.

“Alright,” Shownu said softly, voice a low anchor in the candle-warmed air. “Come here.”

No title. No bark. Just that calm, unshakeable steadiness. It sent a ripple through the room, like a stone dropped into still water, and the three subs moved without needing to be told twice.

Changkyun stood first, and when his knees met the mat, the floor didn’t feel like flooring anymore. It felt held. Hyungwon knelt beside him with the grace of someone practiced, already settling into breath. Jooheon came last, slow and sweet, his eyes drifting closed for a second like just kneeling had opened a door inside him.

“Spine tall,” Shownu said, stepping in front of them. “Hands on thighs.”

They obeyed. Not because they had to. Because they could.

Wonho was the first to move forward. He dropped to his knees directly behind Changkyun and smoothed a palm up his back, warm and firm and grounding.

“Look at you,” he murmured, not to embarrass, but to acknowledge. His other hand came up, cupped the back of Changkyun’s neck, thumb stroking the fine hair at the nape. “Just like that. You’re already doing so well.”

Changkyun’s breath hitched. He couldn’t help it. The praise didn’t hit like a compliment, it hit like oxygen.

Wonho tugged gently, and Changkyun leaned back until his weight rested against him. A lap offered. A body to lean on. Wonho folded him in, arms loose but sure, and kept murmuring soft encouragements: “That’s it. Easy now. Just breathe. You’re safe here.”

Hyungwon let out a tiny, involuntary sound.

Minhyuk clocked it immediately. He leaned over, hand bracing on his own knee, and smirked at Hyungwon without even trying to hide it. “Already squirming?” he said, tone pure tease. “We haven’t even touched you yet.”

Hyungwon flushed but didn’t look away. “Shut up.”

“That’s not very polite,” Minhyuk said lightly, brushing his fingers along the inside of Hyungwon’s forearm. “You know what happens to rude boys.”

Hyungwon inhaled sharply and shivered all over.

Minhyuk leaned in like he was going to say something wicked, then didn’t. Just flicked Hyungwon’s knee instead and sat back on his heels with a satisfied grin.

Kihyun didn’t speak at all.

He didn’t need to.

He knelt beside the low table again and began laying out his rope the way someone else might prepare a meal or tune an instrument. Precise. Focused. Reverent. Each motion slow, intentional. The way he ran the coils through his fingers, measuring, untwisting, straightening, was practically indecent. The texture of it, the weight, the sound of it sliding softly over itself, it pulled the room tighter without a single word.

Changkyun couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t look away.

When Kihyun finally glanced up, it was like he knew.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. Just held Changkyun’s gaze and tugged one end of the rope through a loop with a sound like a sigh.

Beside him, Jooheon’s eyes had fluttered shut again. His hands were twitching slightly on his thighs, like part of him wanted to move but didn’t dare without permission. He tilted subtly toward the center of the room, toward the source of heat. Of attention.

Shownu stepped forward then, expression unreadable but somehow deeply kind. He moved like he was stepping into something sacred. His hand hovered just above Jooheon’s shoulder, not quite touching.

“Color?”

“Green,” Jooheon breathed.

“Good.”

He moved to Hyungwon. “Color?”

“Green,” whispered back.

Then to Changkyun, his tone even gentler. “Yours?”

“Green,” he said. A little hoarse, but sure.

Shownu nodded once, and then, only then, he touched them.

Not to take. Not to possess.

Just to begin.

The room felt smaller now.

Not cramped, closer. Like the walls had drawn in just enough to hold them all together. Breath and body and quiet sound. The soft rustle of rope. The low rasp of fabric shifting. A whisper of skin on skin.

Wonho was the first to move again, because of course he was. His touch always asked before it took. His fingers skimmed up under Changkyun’s shirt, slow and warm, tracing the curve of his spine like a map he already knew by heart.

“This okay?” he murmured, voice tucked behind Changkyun’s ear.

Changkyun nodded. Then remembered. “Yes,” he whispered. “Please.”

The shirt came off with care, drawn up inch by inch until Changkyun had to lift his arms, and even that small act made him feel known. He half-expected the usual rush of embarrassment, skin exposed, breath shallow, but it didn’t come. The way Wonho looked at him didn’t leave space for shame.

“You’re beautiful,” he said simply, and kissed his shoulder.

Minhyuk, meanwhile, had his eyes on Hyungwon.

“Arms up, baby,” he said with a grin, fingers already hooked into the hem of Hyungwon’s hoodie.

Hyungwon narrowed his eyes in challenge. “Make me.”

“Oh?” Minhyuk laughed, delighted. “Is that how it’s gonna be?”

He pounced, not rough, just quick, and Hyungwon shrieked half a laugh, half a gasp, trying to twist away even as he was already losing. Minhyuk wrestled the hoodie up in a practiced move, then softened instantly, catching Hyungwon against his chest as he kissed down the newly bare line of his back.

“Still squirming,” he murmured into the dip of Hyungwon’s spine. “Told you.”

Hyungwon shivered in his arms, the fight draining into something looser. He didn’t try to run again.

Across the mat, Shownu had crouched beside Jooheon and was pressing a long, grounding palm to the center of his back.

“Can you help me with something?” he asked, voice low and even.

Jooheon blinked up at him, eyes already glassy. “Y-Yeah.”

“Pass me that oil,” Shownu said, nodding toward the table.

Jooheon moved slowly, carefully. His fingers trembled slightly as he picked up the bottle and held it out.

“Thank you,” Shownu said as he took it. “That’s perfect. You’re already helping.”

The words landed like weightless praise, subtle but deep. Jooheon’s whole body loosened an inch.

“You’ve done so well already,” Shownu added, brushing his knuckles down Jooheon’s arm.

In the background, Kihyun had not stopped moving. He didn’t speak, still, but his hands had found Changkyun’s calves, smoothing up from ankle to knee, then down again in rhythmic strokes. When he reached the waistband of Changkyun’s sweatpants, he paused, thumb resting lightly on bare hip.

“Okay?” he asked, eyes finally lifting.

Changkyun met them. “Okay.”

The fabric was eased down slowly, peeled away like something sacred. Wonho helped, pressing kisses to each inch of skin as it was revealed, hipbone, thigh, the soft inside of a knee. When the pants were fully off, Kihyun folded them neatly and set them aside.

Now Changkyun was kneeling in nothing but his briefs, and somehow that felt safer than being clothed.

He felt like an offering. Not demanded. Given.

Kihyun ran his palms up the backs of his thighs, then back down. “Still green?”

“Green,” Changkyun whispered.

Wonho kissed the top of his spine in response.

The pack moved like a current, fluid, interconnected. Shownu began working warm oil into Jooheon’s shoulders. Minhyuk had Hyungwon half-limp in his arms now, murmuring filth against his throat while he kneaded up his sides. Kihyun uncoiled his rope, tracing a loop along the arch of Changkyun’s foot just to watch him shiver.

They weren’t building toward a goal.

They were deepening. Layer by layer. Each touch grounding. Each word a lifeline.

And none of them alone.

The space between the three subs narrowed until it didn’t feel like space at all, just heat and breath and the feeling of belonging.

By the time the rope touched skin, none of them were thinking in full sentences anymore.

Minhyuk had Hyungwon flat on his back now, long limbs tangled over one of his thighs, breath catching on every pass of Minhyuk’s hand down his chest.

“You know you can let go,” Minhyuk murmured, dragging fingers just beneath the waistband of Hyungwon’s briefs. “But you don’t want to yet, do you?”

Hyungwon shook his head, lips parted. “N-No.”

Minhyuk grinned. “Good. Stay right there for me, then. All that need, you can hold it. Pretty boy like you, I bet you like suffering a little.”

Hyungwon whimpered and arched into him.

Minhyuk just pressed him down again, gentle and firm, and leaned in to kiss behind his ear, slow and filthy.

Across the mat, Jooheon was still kneeling where Shownu had placed him, thighs already trembling with the effort of staying still. His hands had been idle, until Kihyun nodded toward the bundle of rope.

“Can you bring that to me?” he asked, voice low and even.

Jooheon blinked up. “Yeah,” he breathed, and crawled to get it.

He passed the bundle over with both hands, eyes dropping. Kihyun accepted it with a small, rare smile.

“Well done.”

From behind, Wonho leaned over Jooheon and kissed the back of his neck.

“So helpful,” he murmured, running his hands down Jooheon’s sides. “Such a good boy.”

The praise made Jooheon’s whole body shiver.

Wonho kissed lower, lower, along the curve of his spine, then between his legs, where he began to stroke him open with unhurried care. “There you go,” he whispered. “You’re already so close.”

And Jooheon was, could feel it like a thread humming under his skin, but he was still upright, still holding position, because Shownu had set him here and hadn’t told him to move.

When Shownu finally stepped forward and cupped Jooheon’s jaw, the heat behind his eyes said everything.

“Open,” he said.

Jooheon did.

And when he wrapped his lips around Shownu’s cock, Wonho’s hand didn’t stop moving. If anything, it got slower. Deeper. Each stroke a wave that crashed and pulled back, never letting him lose himself completely.

“Good boy,” Wonho kept whispering. “Keep going. You’re doing so well.”

Nearby, Changkyun was still kneeling, dazed and pliant in Kihyun’s hands.

The rope was touching him now, not tight, not restrictive, but deliberate. Kihyun bound his thighs loosely, one loop after another, fingers brushing inside each tender crease. He wasn’t trying to pin him. He was framing him, exposing him to his own sensitivity, making it impossible not to feel.

“There,” Kihyun said softly. “Now you’ll feel everything.”

Changkyun moaned without meaning to, and Kihyun didn’t stop him. Just smoothed the rope flat again and let his thumb graze the inside of his thigh.

Minhyuk caught the sound and looked up briefly from where he was still tormenting Hyungwon.

“Look at you,” he purred. “You like watching, don’t you?”

Changkyun flushed, breath catching.

“Don’t worry,” Minhyuk said, licking a stripe up Hyungwon’s neck. “You’ll get your turn.”

And Hyungwon, god, Hyungwon, was clinging now, one hand in Minhyuk’s hair, the other digging into his own thigh to keep from coming too soon. Every time Minhyuk touched him, it was like he learned him again. His rhythm perfect, his pressure cruel.

“Still holding it?” Minhyuk asked.

Hyungwon nodded, desperate.

“Good,” he said, and did nothing but kiss his stomach and wait.

Their pleasure wasn’t a race. It wasn’t even performance.

It was ritual.

Each movement intentional. Each moment a prayer of skin and heat and breath. Each Dom drawing their sub deeper, not just into sensation, but into connection.

No one was being used.

They were being held.

Changkyun didn’t know when his breathing had changed, only that every inhale came shallow now, and every exhale was sound.

The rope was doing things to him, even without moving. With every touch, Kihyun rewrote the shape of his body. Loops curled soft and firm around his thighs, around his hips. Every time Kihyun dragged a palm across the weave, it thrummed, a vibration that echoed deeper than muscle. His hands never strayed far, never rushed. And yet every stroke was unbearable.

“I think you’re starting to like this,” Kihyun said, fingers ghosting between Changkyun’s legs.

Changkyun whimpered. His hips arched reflexively, only for Kihyun to press him back into stillness.

“Ah. Stay just like that. You’re beautiful like this,” Kihyun murmured. “So easy to praise when you let yourself be seen.”

“See?” Wonho’s voice was honey-sweet from behind. He was seated now, with Jooheon draped sideways across his lap, warm and pliant and blinking through the haze. “You’re not the only one. Look at how good Jooheon did.”

Jooheon flushed, burying his face against Wonho’s shoulder. His chest still rose and fell in shivers. He’d come hard, beautifully, with Shownu's hand around him and Wonho murmuring yes, just like that, baby, let it go into his neck. And now, Wonho rocked him gently, soothing him with praise while running slow fingers through his damp hair.

“You were perfect,” he said. “You gave it all up like you knew we’d take care of you.”

Jooheon didn’t answer. He just tucked in closer and sighed like he belonged there.

On the other side of the mat, Minhyuk had Hyungwon spread across a plush cushion, his hands loosely bound above his head, his chest bare and flushed.

“You’re so close,” Minhyuk said, dragging his knuckles up the length of Hyungwon’s thigh. “And still holding back. Why?”

Hyungwon shook his head. “Don’t, don’t wanna go without permission.”

Minhyuk’s smile turned razor-soft. “Good boy.”

He leaned down and kissed the curve of Hyungwon’s hip, then bit just above it, drawing a helpless whine.

“You want it?” Minhyuk asked, licking over the sting.

“Y-yes.”

“You need it?”

“Yes, yes, please, I—"

Minhyuk wrapped one hand around Hyungwon’s throat, not tight, just enough to hold his chin still.

“Then beg prettier.”

Hyungwon gasped, head falling back. “Pl— Please, I need to come, I need, I can’t—"

“You can. And you will, when I let you.”

And he still didn’t touch him. Not where it would end anything.

Instead, he bent to lick across Hyungwon’s ribs, teeth scraping ribs and hipbones while Hyungwon writhed in his binds, trembling and desperate.

In the center of it all, Shownu crouched beside Changkyun now, one broad hand anchoring him low, the other bracing against the mat.

“You’re doing so well,” he said, voice deep and steady. “Let us take you there. You don’t have to rush.”

He nodded to Kihyun, who let his fingers drift down, finally stroking, slow, unbearable.

Changkyun made a wrecked sound and reached for Shownu blindly.

“Oh, love,” Shownu murmured, catching his hand, threading their fingers. “It’s alright. You don’t have to hide anymore.”

Kihyun’s fingers circled him, teasing with precision, just enough to make him arch, but never enough to fall.

“You feel it?” Kihyun asked, lips close to his ear. “That ache building up?”

Changkyun nodded helplessly.

“Good. We’re going to keep you right there. Not yet, baby. Not yet.”

And through it all, across heat, tension, and touch, the room itself held them. The pack moved around each other like breath and bone, each one aware of the others, tuned to their rhythm, each sub guided toward surrender not as a prize, but as a gift.

He was trembling now.

Every stroke pushed Changkyun closer to the edge. Every pause dragged him back from it. Kihyun hadn’t touched him directly in minutes, not really. He only guided, his voice a leash, his hands adjusting rope, testing pressure, keeping everything just shy of enough.

“Shh,” Kihyun murmured when Changkyun whimpered again. “You’re doing so well. But not yet.”

Wonho still cradled Jooheon in his lap, petting lazy fingers through his curls. But when Kihyun looked over, there was understanding in Wonho’s eyes. He shifted Jooheon gently. A brush of lips to temple, a quiet “go ahead, baby,” and Jooheon slipped free, still blissed and shaky but present, ready.

“Come here,” Kihyun said softly, tilting his head toward Changkyun.

Jooheon crawled over on hands and knees, eyes glazed but obedient.

“You remember how he likes to be touched?”

Jooheon nodded, glancing once to Changkyun, then back to Kihyun.

“Good. Then stroke him for me. Not too fast. Watch his thighs. He’ll start to shake.”

Changkyun let out a helpless sound, half gasp, half sob, as Jooheon settled between his legs, one hand cradling, the other wrapping around him. Warm, familiar. Not teasing now, just touch, just motion, just yes in every slow glide of Jooheon’s palm.

Kihyun stayed close. One hand braced at Changkyun’s sternum. The other smoothed over the ropes cinching his thighs. He didn’t touch his cock. He didn’t have to. The restraint itself was enough to make every breath feel like friction.

Changkyun’s hips lifted, seeking more. His voice broke open.

“Kihyun— please— please—"

Kihyun bent low, his mouth at Changkyun’s temple. “Use your word.”

Changkyun blinked, unfocused. “Wh-what?”

“Your word. If you want it, say it.”

Jooheon’s hand didn’t stop. It kept stroking, so careful, so devoted.

Changkyun shook. The rope bit in. His whole body was flush with sensation, saturated with it. He couldn’t think anymore.

“Please,” he breathed. Then again, higher, cracked—"Please.”

Kihyun smiled, small and devastating. “There it is.”

He nodded once to Jooheon.

“Let him come.”

Jooheon’s hand shifted minutely, just enough to push him over.

Changkyun shattered.

It wasn’t a release. It was a collapse, a flood. He came with a sound like a sob, his entire body seizing, then melting, undone beneath Kihyun’s hands and Jooheon’s touch. The rope held him firm. The praise surrounded him. The air in his lungs vanished, replaced by something warm and golden and bottomless.

Kihyun caught him before he sagged. “Breathe. That’s it.”

Jooheon stilled his hand, then slowly eased away, kissing the inside of Changkyun’s thigh in passing before tucking back against Wonho’s side.

Changkyun drifted, dazed and pliant, his mind floating several feet behind his body.

Hyungwon, still trembling in Minhyuk’s lap, looked over at him with wide, awestruck eyes. He whispered, “You okay?”

Changkyun nodded, barely.

He was better than okay.

He was gone.

Changkyun’s body went quiet.

Not limp, not unconscious, just quiet, in that rare way bodies get when every system has surrendered to stillness. His head lolled gently where the rope held him upright, breath soft as silk. A tiny tremor ran through his thighs, but it was the last of the storm, not the start of it.

Kihyun exhaled through his nose. Let his fingers smooth down the inside of Changkyun’s wrist, to the dip of his elbow, to the base of the knot now resting warm against skin. He was gone.

“Stay here,” he murmured to him, not a command, not even an instruction. A benediction.

And then, to the room: “He’s under.”

A quiet ripple of awareness passed between the Doms. Not alarm, something reverent. A kind of gravity.

Wonho, slow and smiling, cupped the back of Jooheon’s head. “Time for us to catch up.”

Jooheon, still panting from the climax he’d already been given earlier, blinked sluggishly. He was tucked into Shownu’s lap now, one hand tangled loosely in the rope trailing from Changkyun’s thigh, the other resting along his own chest. Wonho’s touch stroked down his belly, then back between his legs, just enough to make him flinch.

His whole body stuttered, caught between heat and overload.

“Too much?” Shownu asked gently.

Jooheon shook his head without thinking. “N-no. Just, just don’t stop.”

Wonho chuckled low. “Brave boy.”

And he didn’t stop. Not for a second. His touch was insistent, skilled, and cruel in its patience. Jooheon squirmed, moaned, gasped out little helpless sounds, but never pulled away. He leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut, mouth slack with effort.

Kihyun stayed by Changkyun’s side, adjusting nothing, saying nothing, but watching. He hadn’t stepped back from control. He didn’t have to. The pack moved as if his thoughts had already reached them.

Across the room, Hyungwon had gone still, but not quiet.

He’d been edged for what felt like hours, Minhyuk working him with fingers and mouth, hands around his hips, breath in his ear, every command disguised as a tease. “So sensitive,” he’d murmured as Hyungwon writhed. “So close again, huh? Look at you begging for it, you slutty thing.”

But Minhyuk hadn’t broken the cycle. Every time Hyungwon approached the edge, he was pulled back, only to be taken right to it again. By now, he was trembling. His whole body leaned back against Minhyuk’s chest, mouth parted, throat working through unspoken pleas.

“Please,” Hyungwon whispered now. His voice was barely there. “Minhyuk. Please, I can’t—"

“You can.” Minhyuk bit the edge of his shoulder lightly. “One more. This time, you get to fall.”

And he let him.

He didn’t speed up. He just stayed, fingers moving in steady rhythm, one hand braced under Hyungwon’s chest to keep him held. And Hyungwon came undone like a house with no foundation. No noise this time. Just a full-body fold, like something structural had given out. He melted into Minhyuk’s hold, twitching once, then sighing out all the breath he’d been holding since the moment Kihyun had first knelt down with rope.

Minhyuk whispered into his hair. “There he is. That’s my pretty boy.”

Still holding Hyungwon like a lover, Minhyuk looked to Kihyun, who gave a nod of approval. “Bring him.”

Minhyuk moved carefully, never jostling, never letting Hyungwon’s skin leave his. He gathered him close and crossed the room, settling beside the nest of blankets where Changkyun now floated, unmoving, still trussed in rope that didn’t restrain but cradled.

Hyungwon’s legs bumped lightly against Changkyun’s. He blinked at the contact, dazed and blinking. “Kyunnie?”

Changkyun didn’t answer.

But Minhyuk smiled. “That’s right, baby. He’s here. You both did so well.”

He tucked Hyungwon down beside him, looping an arm under his neck, letting their shoulders press.

“Hold him for a while,” Minhyuk said. “He’s warm.”

Hyungwon made a small noise. Not agreement, not understanding, just a sound of contentment, like the release of tension from a long-held breath. His fingers found the edge of Changkyun’s rope and rested there.

Jooheon gasped.

Wonho had brought him over slowly, never letting the stimulation cease. Now Shownu braced him against his chest, one hand rubbing over his sternum while the other steadied his hips, and Wonho knelt between his knees, touching him with exacting care. It wasn’t about speed or friction anymore. It was about pressure, sensation layered atop sensation, with nowhere to escape it.

Jooheon whimpered. “I— I already—"

“I know,” Wonho said, voice like silk pulled taut. “You’re doing so well.”

He pressed one last circle against the base of Jooheon’s cock, and that was it.

Jooheon sobbed out a breath and came again, shuddering through it, nearly silent, but collapsing all the same. The overstimulation broke something in him, something quiet and vital, and he sagged fully into Shownu’s arms. His eyes didn’t close. They just lost focus.

Wonho kissed his cheek. “Breathe.”

Jooheon did. Shaky, high in his chest, but he breathed. His head turned and dropped onto Hyungwon’s shoulder without hesitation, and one hand reached blindly across the tangle of limbs until his fingers brushed Changkyun’s.

Three subs, curled like petals around one another.

Kihyun stepped back once to see them, Changkyun bound in breathless silence, Hyungwon soft and open, Jooheon blinking up in wide-eyed awe. All of them touching.

“Perfect,” he murmured.

And just like that, the symphony stilled. Not silent, but quiet. Sustained. The moment held, no longer climbing but floating.

The heat still clung to skin, sweat-slicked and soft, pulse echoing low in the joints. The air was thick with breath, not gasps anymore, but the quiet kind, weightless inhales, slow exhales, all of it drawn from somewhere deeper than lungs.

Changkyun floated.

Not in water. Not in air.

In warmth. In sound. In the shape of hands that hadn’t left him.

Rope still cradled his chest, his thighs, the flex of his waist. Not tight anymore. Just there, like a net catching gravity before it could steal him. He couldn’t feel the floor under him, not really. Couldn’t feel the outline of his own limbs, except where touch defined them, Hyungwon’s breath at his nape, Jooheon’s palm brushing the back of his hand.

Time didn’t exist here.

Nothing moved, but everything felt.

Warm. Gentle. Real.

Something in him, something small and lonely and old, tried to lift its head, to make sense of what was happening, to name it, to put it in a cage.

But he was too far under.

Too safe to resist it.

Someone, Minhyuk, maybe, shifted at the edge of the pile, adjusting a blanket over them. The motion was slow, practiced. A touch without weight. A whisper against the edge of Changkyun’s awareness. He couldn’t speak, didn’t want to. But he knew what it meant.

Stay. Rest. You’re not done being held yet.

Hyungwon sighed against him, long and low. His thigh draped over Changkyun’s, loose and unbothered. His arm curled instinctively around Jooheon’s waist. Jooheon, still trembling faintly from his third orgasm, leaned in closer and let their foreheads brush.

No one said a word.

Not one sound from the Doms who surrounded them, Wonho crouched nearby, Shownu sitting strong and still with his hand resting lightly on Jooheon’s back. Kihyun in front, watching like the storm hadn’t yet left him.

But he wasn’t issuing orders anymore. Just… guarding.

Like a sentinel, like a god at the gate of a temple, holding back the world.

And inside that stillness, that pause between thunder and aftermath, Changkyun found something he hadn’t even known he was missing.

A silence that didn’t feel like absence.

A hush that held him.

No need to reach. No need to prove. No voice in his head saying hurry up, get up, give more.

Only this.

This gravity of care. This weightless tether.

This we.

His fingers twitched, not in search of freedom, but reassurance. Jooheon tightened his grip. Hyungwon murmured something soft and wordless.

Kihyun’s voice, when it finally came, was barely above a hum.

“Don’t move yet.”

The room didn’t breathe, but the people in it did.

Low and layered, their rhythms overlapped like tide over tide. Nothing sharp. Nothing asked. Only bodies, woven together, sweat-warm and boneless, tangled in a silence that had weight to it. As if the world outside had gone temporarily quiet, unwilling to intrude.

Changkyun blinked slowly. Or maybe he just felt like blinking, his lashes heavy, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, the world a blur of heat and color. There was a shoulder under his cheek. A thigh beneath his knees. The firm hold of arms at his back, though he didn’t know whose. Didn’t need to know.

It could be any of them.

It could be all of them.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had held him like this and meant it. Not a hug, not a pat on the back, not the passing grip of friendship. But this, this quiet, shared gravity. The kind that said stay here, just like this, you don’t have to go back to being alone yet.

Hyungwon’s hand moved gently, almost absently, in a slow circle at the small of his back. It wasn’t even really a touch. Just… motion. A reassurance.

Jooheon made a small, sleepy sound beside them. Not quite a whimper, not quite a word. His body, usually so tightly leashed, had melted. He sprawled halfway across Hyungwon’s side, his legs tangled with Changkyun’s, his cheek pressed to the curve of Minhyuk’s stomach. Minhyuk, who had gone quiet, too, fingers stroking Jooheon’s hair with almost reverent calm.

No one needed to be anything right now.

The rope still wrapped around Changkyun's skin pulsed gently with each heartbeat, a phantom sensation, pressure without force. He could feel where Kihyun had tied him. Not just physically, but emotionally, each knot a point of contact, each coil a whispered vow. You’re here. You’re mine. You are held.

And then— then, the sound he hadn’t realized he was waiting for.

Wonho’s voice, low and affectionate, a murmur so warm it might’ve been the room itself speaking.

“You’re good boys,” he said, not to any one of them. To all of them. To the space between their breathing. “So good. So sweet like this.”

A tremble passed through Jooheon.

Hyungwon let out a breath, like he’d been holding it the whole time.

And Changkyun…

He didn’t cry.

But his chest ached, in that quiet, aching way that comes only when someone’s finally touched the part of you that never thought it would be seen.

Kihyun’s voice came again, not quite words, just sound. A low hum. He wasn’t touching Changkyun now, hadn’t moved an inch, but somehow, Changkyun could feel him anyway. Like gravity. Like tide.

His anchor.

There was nothing to do. Nowhere to be. No performance left to give.

And in that breathless hush, no one moved.

Because they didn’t need to.

Because, just for this moment, this soft and weightless after, the pack was whole.

And that was enough.

It began with water.

Cool fingers pressing a bottle to parted lips, gentle and insistent, as if to say, Come back to yourself, but take your time. Changkyun sipped because it was offered. Not because he wanted to. Not yet. His body still hummed like a struck bell, nerves strung out and trembling, his breath catching as if he were still being touched.

But he wasn’t. Not like that.

Now, the touch came differently.

A warm cloth passed down the slope of his spine. The press of a palm cupping the back of his neck. A clean towel swaddling him without ceremony, just care. Kihyun worked with a kind of focused reverence, binding rope gently loosened, but not all at once. He left some coils in place for now, those that seemed to hold Changkyun steady. Anchored. Each movement was slow, measured, as if Kihyun were tuning an instrument by feel.

“You did so well,” he murmured, brushing sweat-matted hair from Changkyun’s forehead. “You were perfect.”

And Changkyun… he couldn’t speak. But the way his chest hitched, the way he leaned into that praise— it said everything.

Hyungwon let out a breath like a sigh and buried his face against Minhyuk’s shoulder. Minhyuk, still shirtless but wrapped in a blanket now, murmured nonsense into his hair—affectionate little nothings and praise like petals: You’re such a pretty thing. My beautiful boy. You gave so much. You’re here now. You’re safe.

He kissed Hyungwon’s temple between phrases, the movements almost automatic. A rhythm carved from long familiarity. But he didn’t keep Hyungwon to himself. He glanced over, found Jooheon’s gaze, and held out an arm.

And Jooheon, pliant and dazed from overstimulation, crawled into the space like it was always meant for him. No words. Just trust.

Wonho passed around cloths and snacks, cut fruit, peeled and cool, little protein bars broken in halves. Not too much at once. He crouched beside Jooheon first, coaxing him to nibble, stroking his cheek with the back of his fingers when Jooheon chewed slowly, almost confused.

“You’re here, baby,” he whispered. “You came back. Let me take care of you, yeah?”

Jooheon nodded like a child would, eyes heavy-lidded, body limp against Minhyuk’s side now. He didn’t need to make sense yet. No one asked him to.

Hyungwon took the slice of melon from Minhyuk’s fingers and offered it to Changkyun. Their eyes met, hazy and soft. No teasing this time. Just mutual quiet. Changkyun opened his mouth, and Hyungwon fed him with a trembling gentleness that made Minhyuk briefly press a kiss to the corner of his smile.

Shownu moved between them all—checking limbs, adjusting blankets, brushing damp hair back from foreheads. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. His presence alone was grounding. He pulled a larger blanket over the pile of tangled limbs and settled with his back against the couch, broad arms curving protectively around whoever leaned closest.

Kihyun knelt beside Changkyun again once everything else had settled. He cleaned between his thighs, still gentle but thorough, then helped him shift into a fresh robe. Not rushed. Not clinical. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with being seen.

“You with me, sweetheart?” he asked softly.

Changkyun nodded. Barely. Then added a whisper, wrecked and hoarse: “Yeah.”

“You’re amazing,” Kihyun said, his voice low and sure. “You’re ours. And you’re safe.”

And that word—ours— landed like a weightless kiss against the bruised hush of his mind. Not a command. Not a claim.

Just a promise.

Around them, the room breathed again. Everyone moving slowly, drifting closer. Subs folded into one another like petals layered under rain. Doms stroked hair, pressed kisses to shoulders, murmured praise that echoed low like heartbeat.

It was the ritual after the ritual.

The ceremony of return.

Not everyone needed words to get there.

But no one went alone.

They drifted like that for a while, the aftercare not a phase but a rhythm, subs passed gently from one Dom to another, blankets exchanged, cool cloths pressed to temples, snacks offered by hand. No one rushed. No one withdrew.

Water bottles were uncapped and held to lips.

Jooheon let Minhyuk feed him little pieces of fruit, quiet and drowsy, occasionally licking the juice off his fingers.

Hyungwon let Wonho towel the sweat from his hair, his long limbs too heavy to move.

Changkyun was seated in Kihyun’s lap, legs pulled over Shownu’s, his hands loose and open, not quite ready to speak. He was trembling faintly, but not in distress. His eyes were damp.

“Easy,” Shownu said, rubbing slow circles into his calves. “You’re still floating. That’s alright.”

“Come back slow,” Kihyun murmured against his crown. “We’re right here.”

And they were.

That was the thing.

The Doms weren’t just tending their own. They were tending each other’s. They were tending each other. Wonho leaned over to brush hair from Kihyun’s eyes. Shownu squeezed Minhyuk’s shoulder on his way past. Kihyun handed a clean cloth to Wonho with a look that said thank you and something quieter behind it.

The afterglow wasn’t just physical. It was communal.

And wrapped up in the center of it, the three subs lay soft and adored, their hands brushing, their breathing in sync again.

It wasn’t over yet.

But it didn’t have to be.

Because this—this—was the part no one had ever shown Changkyun before.

What came after being good.

What it meant to be cared for.

And he… he was starting to believe it.

Just a little.

The room smelled like skin and sweat, like linen and breath, like the warm sweetness of fruit half-eaten and forgotten in favor of each other.

Time slowed.

No one rushed to leave, but gravity softened. The magnetic pull of dom to sub, sub to sub, all of it loosened into something more diffuse, affection without structure. Need had been answered. Want had been met.

Now came the ache of fullness.

Jooheon curled tighter into Shownu’s lap, his body gone heavy with contentment. His second orgasm had left him raw-edged and blinking slow, like light through syrup. Wonho pressed a kiss to his hair, then reached for a water bottle to tilt toward Hyungwon, who lay boneless against Minhyuk’s chest.

Hyungwon drank without lifting his head, mouth parted like a baby bird. Minhyuk stroked his back in lazy spirals.

Kihyun hadn’t left Changkyun’s side. He didn’t look like he planned to.

Changkyun was quieter than before. Less dazed now, more present, but softened around the edges, like cloth after rain. The rope still circled his thighs in loose, deliberate bands. Not for restraint. Not anymore. Just… to feel. He ran his fingers over the knots absently, grounding himself in texture.

“You okay?” Kihyun asked, brushing his knuckles down the side of his face.

“Yeah,” Changkyun murmured. “Just… slow.”

Kihyun smiled, and it wasn’t sharp. “Slow is good.”

He leaned in and kissed him— not deep, not demanding. Just long enough to say: You’re wanted. You’re here. Still.

Changkyun leaned back into the couch, exhaling. Somewhere across the room, Minhyuk chuckled sleepily as Hyungwon tried, and failed, to roll off him.

“Where’re you going?” Minhyuk asked, mock-affronted.

“Mm… melting,” Hyungwon mumbled. “Gonna become soup.”

“Sexy soup,” Jooheon muttered, voice muffled by Shownu’s thigh.

That earned a few hoarse laughs, a quiet ripple of amusement that didn’t last long but felt earned. The kind of joke that only made sense inside this circle, in this room, after this night.

Shownu stood eventually, shifting Jooheon gently into the nearest nest of blankets. His shirt was half on, half off, collar damp. He stretched, slow and catlike, and then moved toward the dimmer controls, softening the lights further. One corner of the room glowed low and golden now, casting shadows that looked more like halos than echoes.

Wonho cleaned up a bit, gathering used cloths, straightening the snack tray. Not because he had to. Just to keep the quiet sacred.

Someone yawned. Someone else echoed it.

But no one moved to leave.

Instead, a new pile began to form, less structured than before. Hyungwon tucked his head into Jooheon’s shoulder this time. Minhyuk folded himself behind both of them. Shownu lay down close but didn’t touch, a quiet perimeter of safety.

Kihyun wrapped Changkyun in a softer robe, then let him recline across his lap, combing fingers through sweat-damp hair.

“Still floating?” he asked.

“Just… heavy,” Changkyun said. “Like I came back, but gravity’s a little off.”

“Yeah,” Kihyun murmured. “It’s like that sometimes.”

He kissed his temple and whispered something too quiet for the others to hear. Changkyun didn’t respond with words, but the way he sighed, that bone-deep, fluttering exhale, was answer enough.

The pack didn’t speak much after that. Not because they had nothing to say.

But because silence had finally become safe.

The first thing Changkyun noticed was the smell of food.

Something warm and buttery, with the faint hiss of eggs in a pan and the sharper lift of green onion in oil. The second thing was the weight of the blanket, soft and thick and familiar, like something dug out of the communal laundry baskets for nights just like this.

The third was warmth.

Not just from the blanket or the ambient heat of the room, but from the bodies around him, quiet, steady, breathing. Somewhere against his side, Jooheon was half-curled, a line of solid comfort. Hyungwon was draped over both of them like a thrown scarf, all long limbs and soft exhales. Beyond that, he could hear the shuffle of movement, the low clink of dishes, the murmur of voices in the kitchen.

It was still early, the dorm dim with morning light. The kind that filtered in slow and golden through the thin curtains, catching in the air like dust. No one had turned on the overheads, just the warm glow from the under-cabinet lights, making the kitchen feel far away and close all at once.

He stayed still a little longer, not quite ready to move.

“You think he’s awake?” came Minhyuk’s voice, a little too loud for morning but not unkind. “I bet he’s awake. I bet he’s pretending.”

“I bet he’s regretting everything,” Kihyun muttered. There was the scrape of a spoon on ceramic. “Because you are the first thing he hears.”

“I’m a delight.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m a versatile menace,” Minhyuk said, sing-song. “Multi-classed. In fact—" a dramatic pause, “—I think next time I’m subbing. I want the full treatment. Suspended like a chandelier. Let’s make me into art.”

Wonho made a sound like he was trying not to laugh. “You’d last five minutes.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t last six.”

Changkyun blinked up at the ceiling, the corners of his mouth tugging faintly.

“You’re a switch alright,” Kihyun said, flat.

“I’m the switch. I’m the blueprint. I contain multitudes.”

There was a brief crash of dishes. Shownu, deadpan: “Your multitudes need to stop breaking mugs.”

“Rude.”

Changkyun sat up slowly, tugging the blanket with him as he went. His muscles ached in that satisfying, well-used way. He wasn’t sore yet, but he would be. Everything was loose, softened. Inside and out.

Nobody turned to stare when he moved. That mattered more than he could explain. Jooheon cracked one eye open beside him, gave a low hum of acknowledgment, then flopped face-first back into the pillow. Hyungwon made a noise like a ghost and refused to move at all.

“Changkyun,” Wonho said, quieter this time. “Tea or coffee?”

“Tea,” he rasped, voice still hoarse. “Thanks.”

“There’s miyeok guk too,” Kihyun added, not looking up from the cutting board. “And sweet potatoes. And eggs. We made… too much.”

Minhyuk: “You made too much.”

“I always make too much,” Kihyun said, slicing apple into wedges. “You people are unpredictable.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You feed us like we’re tiny woodland creatures in a Studio Ghibli movie.”

“That’s because if I don’t, you die.”

Laughter rolled from the kitchen, not loud, just easy. Familiar.

Hyungwon peeled himself off Jooheon with a tragic groan and staggered toward the table wrapped in a blanket like a bitter grandma. Minhyuk immediately gave him a half-chewed toast crust in greeting. Hyungwon accepted it without blinking and shoved the entire thing in his mouth.

“You’re all disgusting,” Kihyun said fondly, passing him a real plate.

Jooheon shuffled in a few seconds later, hair everywhere, hoodie half-on. He slumped into the seat beside Hyungwon and immediately let his head drop onto the other’s shoulder. Neither moved.

Shownu set down a plate in front of Changkyun with gentle hands. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”

Changkyun nodded, still waking up. He let the warmth of the broth touch his fingers before lifting the bowl, held it close for a beat. Let the scent of seaweed and beef settle him. Let the quiet ease of this morning fill the space between breaths.

He ate slowly. Minhyuk narrated every bite like a sportscaster. Someone fed Hyungwon directly with chopsticks. Someone else spilled a bit of yogurt and didn’t care enough to wipe it. Feet bumped under the table. Shoulders pressed close. At some point, Jooheon rested his cheek on the tabletop and started softly humming a melody no one recognized but all of them listened to.

There were jokes about their own exhaustion. More about Minhyuk being tied up. A quiet debate over whether or not anyone remembered to water the plants yesterday. Someone had. Probably.

Changkyun didn’t say much.

He didn’t need to.

He sat in the middle of it all, tucked between the people who had brought him into something he still didn’t quite know how to name, and let the moment stretch on around him, lazy, golden, full of the kind of stillness that didn’t mean absence, but presence.

Everything soft.

Everything whole.

Changkyun sat with it. Let it hold him.

The warmth of the morning clung to his skin like steam, slow and quiet, curling through his chest in slow loops. Around him, the table buzzed, Minhyuk flicking bits of rice at Jooheon, Shownu shaking his head in exasperated fondness, Kihyun pretending not to smile as he stole the crispiest edge of omelet off Hyungwon’s plate. Wonho poured more tea without asking. A peeled clementine ended up in his hands, segment by segment, passed over by Hyungwon like a peace offering.

No one asked him to speak.

He didn’t need to.

He sat in the middle of it all, tucked between the people who had brought him into something he still didn’t quite know how to name, and let the moment stretch on around him, lazy, golden, full of the kind of stillness that didn’t mean absence, but presence.

It would’ve been easy, maybe, to mistake this for forgiveness.

But that wasn’t what this was.

Forgiveness hadn’t come yet. The ache of before still lingered, too raw to smooth over with soft hands and full bellies. They hadn’t asked for it. And he hadn’t offered.

Still— he was here.

They were, too.

And that, more than anything, was what mattered: this choosing. Not obligation. Not fate. Not even the bond.

Trust.

He trusted them. That was the difference. That was what made all of this possible.

They hadn’t earned it with one night, or a single perfect apology. They’d earned it slowly, by watching, by listening, by touching him like he was real and not fragile, like he was something already whole instead of something broken to be fixed.

They didn’t flinch away from his silence. They didn’t punish him for the distance he still needed. They just… stayed.

He loved them for it.

Not because of the bond. Not because of sweetness or softness or the way they'd wrecked him and rebuilt him with every stroke, every word.

He loved them because he trusted them.

Because they held the trust he offered with both hands and didn't let it drop.

Because here, in the stillness after everything, with his body sore and his mind quiet and his tea gone cold, he could breathe.

And he was wanted.

That, for now, was more than enough.

Chapter Text

The studio had no windows, but still, Changkyun could feel the hour pass.

The soft, granular hush of a Tuesday morning bled in through the vents, the sound of traffic shifting into daytime rhythms, muffled birdsong somewhere beyond the insulation. The city moving around him, not noticing him, not needing to. He liked that. He liked being a fixture no one noticed: the quiet in the walls, the click of a plugin settling into place, a vocal sample feathered so gently into the mix it felt like breath.

He sipped his coffee, over-steeped and burnt, a little chalky with powdered creamer, and didn’t reach for the muffin beside it. Still wrapped in its waxy paper, it sat untouched next to the keyboard, soaking up the scent of cheap espresso and vinyl foam.

He’d stayed late last night, finishing the final pass on the demo Hyungwon had asked for. They hadn’t given him a deadline, not really. But it felt good to hand it over. To show up with something crisp and meticulous. To be useful without needing to be reminded.

Now, in the liminal quiet between delivery and feedback, there was nothing to do but wait. So he did.

Headphones on. Timeline scrubbed. Loop engaged.

He worked with the same kind of reverence people used in temples. Slow movements. Focus like worship. As if each decibel was a prayer offered to some god he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore, but still needed, anyway.

Even when he was alone, he wasn’t. Evidence of the pack curled into every corner like they couldn’t help leaving parts of themselves behind. There was the navy hoodie draped on the back of his chair, stretched at the cuffs and faintly smelling of someone else’s shampoo. There was a protein bar half-eaten on the shelf he didn’t touch, next to a water bottle that wasn’t his. A row of sticky notes lined the edge of his second monitor—bright, crooked, each one in a different handwriting. “Eat something, please,” one said. “You’re doing so good,” said another, a little drawing of a bear beneath it. Kihyun’s read: “File-saving is not optional.”

He smiled at that, barely, and let his gaze wander. The corner corkboard was littered with snapshots: one of Shownu, asleep on the couch with a magazine over his face. One of Minhyuk mid-air, caught in a blur of laughter and chaos. Another of Hyungwon with a pencil tucked behind his ear, pretending to be serious. And in the middle of it all, him, arms thrown over Jooheon’s shoulder, eyes squinting against some joke. There were so many photos now. So many moments he hadn’t realized they were collecting until he turned around one day and saw a history already built.

The music on the screen looped again, four bars, then restart. He didn’t pause it. Didn’t move to adjust anything. The song could wait. The moment didn’t need improving.

This was his space. But more than that, more than the soundproof walls and scatter of equipment, more than the comfort of routine and the calm that came with creating, this was his life. His real one. It had taken time to settle into that truth. To believe that this studio, this warmth, this belonging, wasn’t a dream pressed between tour stops. He wasn’t just passing through anymore.

They had left marks on him. Some he still carried like bruises, deep and tender. But others had turned into something quieter, something like roots.

And he stayed.

The notification buzzed against the desk a second before the door creaked open.

He glanced over, not startled, not annoyed, just mildly curious, and found Hyungwon leaning sideways into the room like he’d only just remembered how doors worked. His hair was damp, stuck in flattened ridges on one side like he’d napped through a typhoon and hadn’t bothered to brush it out. He looked entirely unbothered by this fact, as usual. In his hand, he held up a plastic bag of something greasy-smelling and probably delicious. In the other, his phone lit up with the message he’d just sent, the one Changkyun hadn’t yet checked.

“I’m staging a rescue,” Hyungwon announced, half in a yawn. “Put the computer down.”

Changkyun blinked at him. “I’m not even doing anything.”

“Exactly.” Hyungwon let himself into the room fully now, shuffling closer, the bag swinging gently from his fingers. “Which means you’re in danger of doing something. And on our only free afternoon this month, no less. You’re being kidnapped. Against your will.”

Changkyun let out a soft huff, leaning back in his chair. “That’s not how kidnapping works.”

“You say that, but your track history of leaving this room voluntarily says otherwise.”

He rolled his eyes, but it was warm, the kind of ribbing that softened around the edges. “Did someone send you, or are you doing this out of the kindness of your heart?”

“Both.” Hyungwon nudged his foot against the base of the chair. “We missed you at breakfast. Minhyuk said if I didn’t get you out of here, he was gonna send Jooheon, and Jooheon would’ve definitely started unplugging things.”

That earned a low laugh. He looked back at his monitor, still looping, still waiting, and then, just for a moment, at the door behind Hyungwon. Not out of longing, but calculation. Timing. Permission.

“I should ask Jungho first,” he said eventually, already reaching for his phone.

Hyungwon sighed dramatically. “Producer instincts. Can’t believe you’re responsible.”

“Tragic, I know.”

But the text came back quickly, three dots, then: Go. Be a person for a few hours.

Changkyun set the phone down. He closed the project file, saved everything twice, and stood.

Hyungwon, satisfied, held out the food like a prize. “See? Look how good freedom smells.”

“Oil and MSG?”

“Exactly. Let’s go before Minhyuk comes looking. He’s in a mood today. Very dangerous.”

Changkyun rolled his eyes again, but he was smiling now, hoodie sleeves tugged down to his knuckles as they stepped out into the light of the hallway. The door shut behind him with a quiet finality, one he didn’t resist.

He didn’t need to. The work would still be here tomorrow.

So would he.

The dorm was chaos. Which was to say— it was fine.

Hyungwon had been right. Minhyuk was absolutely in a mood today, buzzing around the living room like a bee without a flower, all dramatic flourishes and flailing limbs. He flitted from surface to surface, half-chirping instructions no one followed, full-body sighing when the throw pillows on the couch didn’t sit at exactly the right angle. He reorganized a stack of DVDs, loudly declared they didn’t even have a DVD player anymore, and then threatened to throw them out unless someone stopped him. No one did. He pouted. The DVDs stayed.

The coffee table was a war zone of snacks and wires and someone’s half-finished sketchbook. A folded pile of laundry sat abandoned on the armchair like a ghost of good intentions, likely Kihyun’s, since he’d vanished into the kitchen on a suspiciously long tea-making mission and hadn’t come back. Shownu, apron tied too tight over his black hoodie, had bravely claimed kitchen rights despite the long and well-documented history of his culinary crimes.

“Someone stop him,” Jooheon whispered, half-laughing, as he rifled through the fridge for something edible. “Please. I want to live.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Shownu replied without turning.

“You lit rice on fire last month.”

“That was the rice’s fault.”

“It exploded.”

Changkyun stood half-shadowed in the entryway, his hand loosely curled around the hem of someone else’s hoodie sleeve, probably Jooheon’s, maybe his own. It still smelled like someone else’s detergent and felt like warmth. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The moment stretched around him, open and loud and full. It hit like a song halfway through the verse, something known, something lived-in, something he didn’t have to brace against.

They were all here.

All of them. And him, too.

For the first time in weeks, none of them were mid-rehearsal or on a shoot or trapped in a van hurtling toward the next engagement. The calendars aligned like some rare planetary event, and so here they were: no stylists, no managers, no call sheets or alarms. Just the seven of them, home.

The air was thick with mismatched music from a speaker someone forgot to pause, punctuated by arguing over whether the laundry detergent was “mountain breeze” or “ocean escape” and whether either of those things actually existed. Minhyuk’s voice rose above the rest, swearing someone had shrunk his jeans. Kihyun reappeared eventually with a tray of mismatched mugs, scolding Minhyuk for leaving socks on the floor while handing Jooheon tea he didn’t ask for. Hyungwon emerged from the bathroom with his hair finally dry and flopped dramatically onto the couch, groaning about his spine like he was pushing seventy.

They moved around each other now with quiet fluency. With practiced ease.

It wasn’t always graceful. Someone forgot to charge the vacuum again. Someone else (probably Shownu) kept leaving water glasses in every room. There was a weird smell in the corner that no one wanted to investigate. But the rhythm was there. Like a song learned slowly, through repetition and wrong notes, until suddenly, it just fit.

Changkyun let himself be tugged deeper into it. Someone brushed past him, fingers catching lightly on his wrist. No pressure. No command. Just presence. An invitation. He followed, and no one looked twice when he curled into the couch, legs tucked under him, head dropping back with a soft exhale.

Minhyuk was draped across Kihyun’s lap in a way that dared someone to comment. Kihyun, exasperated but indulgent, let it happen. Jooheon stretched out with his feet on the table, one hand idly tossing popcorn into his mouth and the other flinging rogue kernels toward Hyungwon, who dodged with half-closed eyes and no real energy. Shownu reentered with a plate of something questionably edible and a hopeful look, and they all groaned.

“Why do you keep doing this to us?” Minhyuk cried.

“It’s character-building,” Shownu said.

“Character-building?” Jooheon echoed. “We’re grown men.”

“Exactly.”

It was ridiculous. Loud. Messy. Endlessly interrupting itself.

And it was good.

They didn’t ask for permission anymore. Not to touch, not to laugh, not to let their affection be obvious and unfiltered. It wove through the room in small, physical ways, knees knocking, feet overlapping, shoulders leaned into with the lazy familiarity of people who had earned each other’s closeness.

Teasing bloomed easily now. So did silence. They could be quiet together without it meaning distance.

It wasn’t perfect. Shownu overcooked the chicken again. Someone spilled something sticky under the table. Hyungwon tripped over a charger cable and brought Minhyuk down in a slow-motion collapse that somehow ended in laughter instead of injury. Someone cursed. Someone else wiped up the mess with the wrong towel and got scolded. But no one snapped. No one recoiled. The air never turned sharp.

They were still learning each other. Still figuring out what it meant, what it could be, this pack they’d become, soft and strange and just barely getting started.

But whatever it was—

It was real.

And for now, it was enough.

Dinner was a compromise, like most things were now.

No one wanted to cook after the chaos of lunch, and no one trusted Shownu to try again, not after the fire alarm incident, so takeout it was. The debate was long and dramatic and deeply unserious, beginning with a rock-paper-scissors match that spiraled into interpretive dance and ended with Minhyuk flinging himself onto the floor and declaring starvation in protest.

“You said you’d die if we didn’t get jjajangmyeon,” Jooheon said, poking him with his toe. “You literally said die. And now you’re voting for chicken?”

“I contain multitudes,” Minhyuk muttered from the floor.

“You contain bullshit,” Hyungwon said.

They ordered both. And then some.

Boxes arrived in waves, cardboard and foil containers steaming and fragrant, passed hand to hand and opened with reverent groans. Soy garlic wings, galbi jjim, three kinds of kimchi, rice bowls heavy enough to knock someone out if thrown. Someone over-tipped the delivery guy, and someone else forgot plates. No one cared. Kihyun scavenged napkins from the kitchen while Shownu tried and failed to organize the chaos into something resembling a table spread.

“It’s not that hard,” Kihyun said, hands on his hips, watching Shownu place chopsticks in a perfectly even line across the lid of a box. “You’re not arranging a shrine.”

“He’s setting the vibe,” Jooheon defended, tugging his sleeves up to his elbows. “Leave him alone. That mandu deserves ceremony.”

Changkyun, sitting cross-legged on a floor cushion with a tray balanced in his lap, grinned into his drink. He was wedged between Shownu and Jooheon, warm, steady pressure on either side, and hadn’t moved for ten minutes, not since Hyungwon dropped a folded hoodie behind his back like a makeshift cushion and Shownu told him, quietly, you don’t have to do anything right now. Just stay.

He was fine with staying.

The living room was glowing with lamplight, soft yellow bleeding over the scuffed floorboards and the messy sprawl of legs and elbows and shared bowls. The television played something no one was watching, some show with loud background music and dramatic voice overs. Someone had opened a window; night air drifted in, cutting through the scent of soy sauce and spice. The curtain fluttered.

“I swear if anyone double dips I’ll throw hands,” Kihyun warned, brandishing his chopsticks like a weapon.

“You say that every time,” Jooheon said, mouth full.

“And I mean it every time.”

Hyungwon leaned sideways and tried to reach across the table for the last piece of tteokbokki, only to be intercepted by Minhyuk, who grabbed it with his fingers and shoved it into his mouth whole.

“You bastard—"

“You hesitated,” Minhyuk said, smug.

“You used your hands,” Kihyun shrieked.

“I washed them!” Minhyuk cried, mid-chew.

“You licked your phone five minutes ago!”

“It was one time!”

“Licking your phone is never justified,” Hyungwon said solemnly.

“I dropped a sour candy on it, what was I supposed to do— just let it go?”

Shownu, ever the peacemaker, reached over and gently pushed the mandu platter closer to Hyungwon. “There’s still this.”

“I wanted the rice cake,” Hyungwon muttered, but he accepted the mandu anyway. Kihyun threw a napkin at Minhyuk and kept muttering about hygiene and house rules.

Changkyun’s face hurt from smiling.

Minhyuk, unbothered and borderline glowing, let the teasing swirl around him like static. His whole posture was shifting, shoulders sloping, arms folded loose around a throw pillow. He was full, warm, surrounded, and for once, not performing.

Without preamble, he scooted across the floor and curled up against Kihyun, laying his head in the dom’s lap with a soft, wordless sigh.

Kihyun looked down at him.

Minhyuk blinked slowly, half-lidded, and said, “Okay if I stay here?”

Kihyun’s mouth twitched, but the hand that went to Minhyuk’s hair was gentle. “As long as you don’t drool.”

“I make no promises.”

“You’ll wash the pillow if you do.”

“Mm,” Minhyuk hummed, already drifting.

The banter kept going, softer now, diffuse as steam, but Changkyun only half-heard it. His gaze kept catching on the shape of Minhyuk’s body, the easy way he settled, the way Kihyun adjusted his posture without thinking to give Minhyuk a better angle. There was no grand shift. No command. Just a permission offered and accepted. A quiet need, answered without question.

Minhyuk wasn’t dropping, not really. He didn’t want to. But the mood curved inward anyway, his energy pulling close, folding under, and the room followed his lead.

Changkyun sipped his beer slowly. Jooheon passed him a chicken wing without comment, wiped his fingers on a napkin, then stole a sip from his glass. Hyungwon gave up arguing and leaned sideways until his shoulder knocked into Changkyun’s, where he stayed, eyes half-closed.

“You’re warm,” Hyungwon mumbled.

“Then get a blanket.”

“You’re the blanket.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Hyungwon grinned.

Kihyun fed Minhyuk a piece of galbi with a practiced flick of chopsticks, and Shownu gently rearranged empty containers to clear space for dessert that no one had bought but someone would probably Baemin in thirty minutes. Their limbs tangled without intention, without awareness. The pile shifted and reshaped. Familiar friction. Domestic gravity.

It had taken time, months of slow work, hard conversations, tears in stairwells, trust rebuilt inch by inch, but they moved around each other now with the ease of people who knew how to stay.

They were not perfect. Someone would forget the laundry again. Someone would say the wrong thing. But when the moment came, they would stay. They had chosen this, mess and all.

And Changkyun… he didn’t have to remind himself to believe it anymore.

He took another bite of rice, the kind someone else had mixed for him, and let himself be full.

The dishes could wait.

At some point, maybe, someone would get up and start cleaning. Maybe they’d wander into the kitchen, grumble about how long rice took to scrub off plates, put on music just loud enough to dance to and not loud enough to wake anyone who’d drifted off. Maybe later, someone would find Minhyuk asleep inside the pantry, looking for snacks and forgetting what he was doing halfway through. Maybe. But not yet.

Not while the floor was warm with bodies and breath and the low hum of the television. Not while the night pressed soft against the windows and the lamps glowed low like candlelight, casting everything in amber. Not while they were still here, together, tangled, breathing easy.

The pile had migrated, as it always did. From the dinner table to the living room floor, from blankets to couch to cushions to wherever limbs landed first. It was a kind of beautiful chaos, half blankets, half people, one person’s hoodie tangled in another’s socked foot, somebody’s phone wedged under a cushion. Nobody moved to fix it. Nobody needed to.

Someone had drawn the curtains. Someone had dimmed the lights. Shownu, probably, or maybe Kihyun, fussing as always about “too much blue light before bed.” Now the only brightness came from the flicker of the TV screen, where an old comfort movie played with terrible dubbing and inexplicable plot turns. Half the pack had seen it a dozen times. Shownu had already asked three different times why the female lead wouldn’t just tell the truth. He said it every time, and every time someone gave him a different answer.

“Because then we wouldn’t have a third act,” Kihyun said now, from his perch against the couch arm, tucked under a navy blanket with a hole near the hem. His voice was low with amusement, his legs stretched toward the little floor heater that clicked occasionally like a metronome.

“She had so many chances,” Shownu insisted, baffled as ever.

“And she chose drama,” Hyungwon drawled from somewhere behind a pillow. He had stretched himself diagonally across the rug like a dying Victorian orphan, one bare ankle sticking out from a nest of cushions. “Respect.”

“Not everything is about drama,” Shownu muttered, but his eyes stayed fixed on the screen, still deeply invested.

“You’re watching a movie where she fake-marries a royal to win back her ex,” Jooheon said, not even opening his eyes. He was curled between Shownu and Minhyuk, legs tucked under a shared blanket, voice muffled in fabric. “It’s literally about drama.”

Minhyuk snorted. “You know what’s dramatic? Falling off a yacht and pretending you have amnesia so your ex-boyfriend feels bad.”

“That was romantic,” Shownu said.

“No, that was insurance fraud,” Kihyun deadpanned, and someone, Changkyun, maybe, or Hyungwon, let out a laugh so soft it barely stirred the air.

It was the kind of laughter that curled instead of cutting. The kind that lived low in the ribs. That hummed instead of buzzed. The kind that said I’m safe. I’m here. I’m held.

And Changkyun, he didn’t join in, not with words. But he didn’t need to.

He was warm. Quiet. Loosened in ways he didn’t always notice until it was too late to pull back. He sat with his back against the couch, legs folded under a blanket, a pillow tucked between his hip and Hyungwon’s foot. His body felt pleasantly weightless. The good kind of floaty. Like he could drift down into the floorboards and be content there.

His eyes blinked slow. His breath came even. His shoulders weren’t clenched for once, and nobody was looking at him too closely. Not to test, not to guess. Just… letting him be.

Then the gravity of the room shifted.

It was quiet, so quiet he almost didn’t notice it, but his body did. His skin registered it before his mind did. A familiar cadence. A presence like a second rhythm in his chest.

Kihyun sat down behind him.

No announcement. No grand entrance. Just a slow, soft lowering of weight and warmth. The rustle of fleece, the faintest scent of lavender detergent and something a little sharp underneath it, something that always meant Kihyun.

He didn’t reach for him right away. Just sat close enough for the offer to be there.

And Changkyun leaned back.

He didn’t overthink it. Didn’t talk himself out of it. Didn’t make himself small or second-guess or rehearse how to be wanted. He just… went.

Kihyun caught him like it was easy. Like it was nothing. Like it had always been waiting.

The top of Changkyun’s head tucked perfectly under his chin. Kihyun wrapped his arms around him, not tight, not claiming. Just there. Present. Anchored. Real.

Someone handed them a pillow wordlessly. Kihyun adjusted their blanket without speaking. It was all seamless. Natural. Like this had always been an option, and tonight, finally, it just happened to be chosen.

“You good?” Kihyun murmured against his hair.

Changkyun nodded. Small, but sure.

“You sure?”

Another nod. Then: “Yeah. I’m good.”

Kihyun’s hand found the soft curve of his waist beneath the blanket, resting there. Not gripping. Not restraining. Just holding. A point of contact to keep him tethered.

Around them, the movie drifted into its final act. The protagonist confessed. The prince got punched. Someone’s fake accent slipped for the fifth time, and Hyungwon whispered “Oscar-worthy” under his breath.

No one asked Changkyun to speak. No one asked for anything.

And maybe that was the most startling thing. The way they didn’t expect performance anymore. Didn’t demand a version of him that fit a role. He could exist exactly like this, soft, still, unguarded, and the world wouldn’t shatter around him. Nobody flinched from the way he melted. Nobody mocked the way he leaned.

Because he was wanted. Fully. Deeply. Without condition or fate.

Not because the bond said so.

Not because they had to.

But because he was his, sharp edges, silence, all. Because he was theirs.

It wouldn’t always be like this. There would be messy days. Arguments. Hesitations. All the cracks they hadn’t fixed yet. But the care was real. The effort was real. The choice was real.

And tonight, that was enough.

It was enough to be full, and warm, and wanted.

Enough to fall asleep surrounded by the people fate had tethered him to, but who had, each in their own time and way, chosen him back.