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Chapter Text

Jeongin stood on the far left of the practice room, sneakers squeaking lightly on the polished floor, hands tucked into his hoodie sleeves as he watched the others with wide, uncertain eyes. He was the youngest, everyone knew it, felt it, even when no one said it aloud.

The survival show was only just beginning, but already the tension crackled in the air like static, the kind you felt in your hair, in your fingertips, before a storm.

He watched as Bang Chan paced, eyes locked on the speaker's voice from the training center hallway. It was Park Jin-young, JYP himself, laying out the stakes: a survival show with a twist. Not trainees against each other, but a test of the team. Chan had chosen them, every single one of them. Jeongin didn’t know why he had been picked, not really, he still stumbled over choreo, still hesitated in his vocals, still second-guessed himself before opening his mouth to speak. But Chan had looked him in the eyes one day in the studio and said, "I saw something in you on that Halloween stage. Your confidence. Your charm. I want to debut with you."

And Jeongin, breath caught in his throat, had only nodded. The first evaluation was brutal, they had only just performed "Hellevator" when Park Jin-young's critique came down like cold rain, the key was too high, some members lacked energy, some were at risk. Jeongin heard his name called with a numb kind of clarity, he was in danger of being cut; so were Felix and Minho.

Later that night, when the dorm lights had dimmed and the others were trying to sleep, Jeongin sat on the floor beside his bed, heart pounding so hard it felt like a second pulse in his ears. He didn't cry, not then. Instead, he just sat there, gripping his knees, wondering if he had ever belonged here to begin with. Then came a quiet knock, Chan, he didn’t say much, just walked over and sat beside him.

"You did well today," Chan murmured, Jeongin shook his head. "No, really," Chan said more firmly, turning to look at him. "You kept going. You kept pushing. That matters. And you're not alone, okay? I'm not giving up on you."

Those words embedded themselves into Jeongin's chest like something permanent, he didn’t say thank you, he couldn’t. His throat was too tight. But Chan didn’t need it, he just bumped Jeongin’s shoulder gently, like a brother, like a leader, like something more than either.

They lost Minho.

Then Felix.

The dorm felt emptier with each loss, laughter a little quieter, footsteps a little slower. Even Chan, who always wore strength like a second skin, looked exhausted. Jeongin once passed by the studio late one night and saw him asleep on the couch, face pressed into the cushions, laptop open with unfinished lyrics glowing softly. He wanted to walk away but he didn’t. Instead, he grabbed a blanket and draped it over Chan’s shoulders. It was the smallest act, he doubted Chan even noticed, but it made Jeongin feel steadier.

He would hold on. For Chan. For all of them.

The show went on, they trained harder, longer. Busking evaluations. Vocal challenges. YG battles. Every week a new mountain.Sometimes, Jeongin felt like a ghost in the mirror of his own life, like he was watching someone else struggle. But Chan never looked at him that way, every time he stumbled, Chan reached out, every time he hesitated, Chan waited. He didn't need to shout or push, his presence was enough. It said: I see you. I'm still here.

Jeongin found strength in that, and when Minho and Felix were brought back for the final episode, when all nine stood on stage and sang "Hellevator" again, this time together, Jeongin knew this was no longer a dream; it was a promise fulfilled.

March 25, 2018, they debuted. Stray Kids.

Nine kids who had once only shared a dorm now shared a future, Jeongin had never felt prouder in his life. Even as he stood at the edge of the stage, microphone still warm in his hand, heart still racing, he found Chan in the crowd of their members and felt everything click into place. This is it, he thought. This is where I start becoming who I am. 

They officially debuted with I am NOT, and everything shifted. The dorms became a whirlwind of schedules, lessons, recording sessions, and rehearsals. Interviews, fan signs, photoshoots. The chaos was overwhelming, but also electrifying. Jeongin, still only 17, soaked it all in, he was constantly learning, constantly adjusting, and yet, Chan never let him feel small, not once. From making sure Jeongin’s mic pack was secure before performances to sneaking an extra snack into his bag before a long day, Chan remained a steady, quiet presence in the storm.

At night, when the dorms were dim and the rest of the group knocked out cold, Jeongin would sometimes hear soft strums of a guitar from the living room. Chan, in his usual corner, lost in melodies. Creating something out of nothing. Sometimes Jeongin joined him, just sat nearby with his knees hugged to his chest, listening, letting the calm settle in.

“Do you ever stop?” he once asked Chan softly.

Chan looked over, tired but fond. “Not when I have this much to protect.”

The “I Am” trilogy carved out a path for them, I am NOT, I am WHO, I am YOU, a journey of identity that mirrored what they were all figuring out in real time. The weight of expectations pressed down, every comeback meant more eyes, more pressure. The questions shifted from “Who are they?” to “What will they do next?”

Chan felt it more than most. He’d stay behind in the studio even after the others left, tinkering with beats, vocal tracks, harmonies. He needed everything to be perfect. And Jeongin saw how that perfectionism chipped away at him sometimes.

“Hyung,” Jeongin said one night in 2019, voice quiet but firm, “it’s okay to rest.”

Chan blinked up from his laptop, surprised. “I’m fine, Innie.”

“You say that even when you’re not.” Jeongin paused. “You can let someone else take care of you too, you know.”

But could he? He already lost one of the members, not that he would prefer to force him to stay, but still, the lost was big in his heart, and the only way to deal with it was with work and more work, to be perfect, to be enough. Chan didn’t say anything. But the next morning, Jeongin found him curled up on the couch, his laptop closed, coffee mug untouched. For once, he’d let himself sleep.

Then came 2020, the pandemic halted everything, plans, tours, the rhythm of their lives. The dorms turned into a liminal space, somewhere between home and cage. Jeongin tried not to let it wear him down, but the quiet got to him sometimes. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful, just hollow. And yet, Chan’s Room continued, those livestreams became a lifeline, not just for STAYs, but for the members too.

“You keep everyone together,” Jeongin told him once, chin on his knees as they shared a late dinner. “Even when everything’s falling apart.”

Chan smiled, tired but warm. “I’m just trying not to let anyone feel alone.”

Jeongin didn’t say it then, but sometimes, he felt alone too. Not because of the members, not even because of the distance from his family; but because there was something inside him that ached whenever he looked at Chan. Something he couldn’t quite name.

The years went on; Stray Kids soared, God’s Menu, Back Door, Thunderous, MANIAC, each era adding to their legacy. They won Kingdom, charted on Billboard, shattered expectations. And Jeongin, once the quiet youngest, found his own place within the group, his vocals matured, his stage presence sharpened, his confidence grew. But no matter how much he grew, Chan still looked at him like he was someone to care for.

“You’re not a baby anymore,” Chan said one day after a concert, ruffling his hair out of habit.

“Maybe not,” Jeongin said, looking at him too long, “but maybe I liked it when you treated me like one.” The silence that followed buzzed with something unfamiliar. A kind of tension that wasn’t discomfort, but something more dangerous.

By 2023, Stray Kids were legends in the making, they walked the Met Gala red carpet, accepted global awards, made history again and again. And yet… amidst all that noise, Jeongin found himself craving something quieter. Not the crowds. Not the lights. But the stillness he found when it was just the two of them.

That’s why when the group made the decision to move into couple apartments in 2024, Jeongin panicked a little, he didn’t want to lose the warmth of shared spaces, the comfort of late-night banter in the kitchen, the quiet security of knowing someone was just a wall away. He didn’t say it out loud, but Chan must’ve sensed it.

“Wanna live with me?” he asked one day, casual but not really.

Jeongin stared at him. “Seriously?”

Chan shrugged. “Yeah. I mean… I missed the time when we used to live together.” Jeongin tried not to let his heart stutter.

The new apartment was modern and quiet, more space than either of them were used to. They set it up quickly, shared tasks, bickered over decor (Jeongin vetoed Chan’s idea of putting studio monitors in the living room), and fell into a new rhythm with surprising ease.

Morning routines blurred into studio sessions. They made late-night convenience store runs in hoodies and masks, bought too many snacks, and curled up on the couch to binge old anime. It was domestic and easy, a little dangerous, because now, Jeongin couldn’t ignore how close they were. Not just physically, but emotionally; the way Chan trusted him so easily, the way he’d vent about a tough day or a failed mix and look to Jeongin for comfort. Not as the leader, not even as a hyung. Just as a person. And Jeongin found himself wanting more, more moments like these, more softness and skin. More of the quiet, careful way Chan said his name.

One night, after a particularly draining day of practice, Jeongin wandered into the living room to find Chan asleep on the floor, arms spread out, one leg draped over a cushion, the TV was still playing, half-muted. Jeongin just stood there for a moment, heart aching for reasons he didn’t want to name. Then, gently, he knelt beside Chan and pulled the blanket over him.

“Hyung,” he whispered. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

As if in response, Chan’s fingers twitched in his sleep, reaching for something, reaching for him. Jeongin didn’t move, didn’t dare. He sat there in the half-light, watching Chan breathe, wondering if the ache in his chest was love or something even more complicated.

Chapter Text

Jeongin woke up before the sun most days now, not because he had to, but because it meant he had a moment to himself, to sit by the kitchen window, sip on warm tea, and pretend he wasn’t slowly falling in love with his roommate. Bang Chan, who somehow made being human look like an act of grace. Bang Chan, who still walked like he carried the weight of eight lives on his shoulders. Bang Chan, who slept like the world only stopped spinning when he allowed it to.

Jeongin didn’t know when exactly it had started. Maybe sometime in 2020, when Chan hugged him a little too tightly after a live stage; or maybe in 2021, when Jeongin caught himself looking at Chan’s hands while they worked at the studio; or maybe it had always been there, soft, slow, inevitable. All he knew now was that it felt dangerous to breathe too deeply when Chan was around, and they were always around each other lately.

Their apartment was... cozy. Not small, not large, just enough to feel safe. The walls were decorated with memories, tour posters, pictures of the group. A badly drawn portrait Felix had gifted them as a joke (“Why do I have four eyes?” “Because you see everything, Chan,” Felix had laughed). Some paints from Hyunjin. A small whiteboard on the fridge kept a rotating list of groceries, emojis, and inside jokes.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs. And Jeongin cherished every corner of it, even the creaky floorboard near Chan’s room, even the leaky faucet he promised to fix but never did; because it meant Chan was there, because this wasn’t just a home, It was a life.

It started with small things. A hand brushing against his in the hallway. An overly long stare across the dining table. The way Chan's voice softened when it was just the two of them, like he didn’t need to pretend to be okay anymore, like maybe he trusted Jeongin to see the cracks. And Jeongin did see them. The sleepless nights. The quiet sighs. The way Chan would lean into the back of the couch and stare at the ceiling, lost in thoughts that he never shared. But sometimes, he almost did.

“I don’t think I’ve ever really let myself be still,” Chan had murmured once, eyes distant.

“Maybe now you can,” Jeongin offered.

Chan didn’t reply, but the next night he asked Jeongin to join him on the floor, no distractions, just silence and music and proximity. That night, their shoulders brushed, neither moved away.

Some days were loud, interviews, rehearsals, recording schedules, fittings, meetings. Other days, like today, were quiet.

Jeongin had the day off. He spent it sprawled on the living room floor, surrounded by sketchbooks and old photo albums. Chan’s photos back when they were just trainees, still kids with dreams so big they nearly choked on them. He smiled at one, Jeongin at sixteen, mid-laugh, flour on his cheeks from their first group cooking night.

“Why do I look like I just lost a food fight?” Jeongin mumbled.

“Because you did,” Chan said from the kitchen doorway, holding two mugs, Jeongin hadn’t even heard him come in. “Here,” Chan offered one mug. “Chamomile. I figured you were in that kind of mood.”

Jeongin’s throat tightened. “You always know.”

Chan shrugged, lips quirking into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You’re easy to read.”

“But you’re not,” Jeongin replied, more serious than he meant to be.

Chan looked at him for a long moment. Then sat down beside him, close enough that their knees touched. “I try,” he said quietly. “I really do.”

“I know,” Jeongin said. And he meant it.

That night, Jeongin couldn’t sleep, it wasn’t uncommon, his brain liked to race at 2 AM. Sometimes he texted Seungmin or doom-scrolled through fan edits. Sometimes he wandered into the kitchen for cereal he never actually ate. Tonight, though, he found himself knocking softly on Chan’s door.

“Hyung?”

A pause. Then, “Yeah?”

“Can I come in?”

The door creaked open, and Chan was there, hair messy, hoodie half-zipped, eyes tired but open. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

Jeongin nodded. “You too?”

Chan laughed under his breath. “Have I ever?”

They sat on the floor again. The air between them was heavy with things they weren’t saying. “I’ve been thinking,” Jeongin said after a while, voice low. “About... how much everything’s changed. Us. The group. This.”

Chan’s eyes flickered toward him. “You regret any of it?”

“No,” Jeongin said quickly. “Never. But sometimes I miss the beginning. When we didn’t know what we were doing but did it anyway.”

Chan smiled faintly. “Yeah. Back then it was just... instinct.”

“And now?” Jeongin asked.

Chan hesitated. “Now, I think too much.”

“About what?”

“You,” Chan answered before he could stop himself. Then, too fast, he added, “—you all. The team. The future.”

But Jeongin heard the pause, the slip, the one word left hanging like a heartbeat.

You.

The next day, nothing changed, and yet, everything felt different. Jeongin caught himself looking at Chan’s mouth when he spoke. Chan lingered in the doorway a little too long before leaving for practice. The air between them grew taut, tender, like a string stretched to the edge of breaking, but neither said anything, because there was still fear; Fear of ruining something sacred, fear of being wrong, fear of not being enough. 

And so they waited, watched, and hoped.

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet when Chan got home, not the kind of quiet that echoed with loneliness, but the kind that held a steady breath. A pair of shoes by the door, a light on in the kitchen. The faint sound of water running. All of it said, someone’s here. Someone’s home. Chan stood in the entryway for a moment longer than he should have, his hand still resting on the doorknob, letting the soft hum of the evening sink into his skin. He told himself he was just tired. Just taking a second to breathe, but the truth, the one he never let surface, was more precarious than that.

He just liked knowing Jeongin was here; it wasn’t supposed to mean anything, it wasn’t supposed to be anything. Asking Jeongin to move in was a practical decision, born from late-night talks and laughter in dressing rooms, from shared takeout and lingering glances that no one else noticed, or at least pretended not to. Chan had told himself it made sense. They all were choosing a partner, sharing with him would be easy, the oldest and the youngest, the leader and the maknae, easy. But things that make sense don’t usually sit like fire behind your ribs.

He dropped his keys into the bowl by the door and forced his legs to move, one step at a time, until he reached the kitchen, Jeongin was washing dishes, sleeves rolled up, hair damp from a shower. He looked up when he heard Chan and smiled, that same smile that always pulled at the stitching in Chan’s chest. The smile that started off shy years ago, all nerves and soft edges, but now carried the quiet confidence of a man who had grown into himself.

“Hey, hyung,” Jeongin said, voice gentle.

“Hey,” Chan replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I was already using the kitchen. Just made sense to clean up.”

There it was again, that word, sense, it had made sense to ask him, it made sense to live together. But none of this; none of this, was ever about logic.

Chan grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water, watching Jeongin from the corner of his eye. There was a familiarity between them now, calm and domestic. The kind that felt daring in its comfort. It made Chan imagine things, things he shouldn’t. He’d always been good at self-control. Years of training, of swallowing feelings and tightening the leash on his desires. Leader first. Brother second. Person last. But with Jeongin…

It was harder to remember who he was supposed to be. He drank the water, said something about work, tried to make the conversation as mundane as possible. Anything to keep from slipping. Because if he let himself look too long, remember too much, he'd start unraveling. He’d start thinking about the first time he saw Jeongin perform, baby-faced but bright-eyed, a spark of raw potential that hit him square in the chest. He’d start thinking about late nights in practice rooms, Jeongin’s voice cracking as he pushed through hours of dance training, tears falling but never quitting. About the time Jeongin had fallen asleep on his shoulder on a van ride back from a shoot, head tucked against his neck like it belonged there. He’d start thinking about now, about this apartment, this space, this nearness.

And he couldn’t afford to, so he kept the walls up, maintained the distance; just enough to not let anything slip. “Did you eat already?” Chan asked, turning the glass in his hand.

Jeongin nodded. “Left you some in the fridge. The curry.”

“Thanks. You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

That stopped Chan in his tracks, just for a second, the way Jeongin said it, no hesitation, no bashfulness. Just honesty. Chan felt his chest twist. “I’ll heat it up later,” he mumbled.

He knew Jeongin didn’t mean anything by it. That was the worst part. The worst part was how easy it was to read into everything, to want everything, when Jeongin was just being Jeongin. Kind. Thoughtful. Warm.

He finished his water, rinsed the glass, and set it down beside the sink. “I’m gonna go shower,” he said.

Jeongin just smiled again. “Okay, hyung.”

Chan walked down the hallway, closing the bathroom door behind him with a quiet sigh. He braced both hands on the counter and looked at himself in the mirror. “You’re fine,” he muttered. “You’re fine. You can handle this.”

He had to, because whatever this was, this need, this yearning, it didn’t belong to him. Not really. Jeongin was young. Still figuring things out. Still chasing the sky. And Chan? Chan had already chosen his role. The protector. The leader. The one who bore the weight.

He’d asked Jeongin to move in because it made sense. That’s what he kept telling himself. Over and over. But sense didn’t keep him warm at night. It didn’t stop the ache of wanting something he knew he couldn’t have. Not without breaking everything they’d built. Not without breaking Jeongin.

It was almost midnight when Chan found himself lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, the soft buzz of the air conditioner the only sound in the room. He should’ve gone to bed an hour ago. But sleep felt impossible lately, especially in the stillness, when his thoughts had nowhere to hide. The door to Jeongin’s room was closed, a sliver of warm light leaking out underneath. Chan wondered what he was doing. Scrolling through his phone? playing? Already asleep?

He wondered if Jeongin thought about him like this, in quiet moments, if he ever noticed the tension between them. Or if it was just Chan, twisted up in a longing that had nowhere to go. He thought of the time they stayed up too late binge-watching old dramas on the floor, Jeongin curled up under a blanket, head resting just barely against Chan’s thigh. He hadn’t moved for an hour, afraid to break the moment. His fingers had ached with the urge to brush through Jeongin’s hair. He thought of winter mornings, Jeongin in oversized hoodies, yawning into his coffee mug like he’d just stepped out of a dream. Of laughter in the studio when Jeongin got the high note right after four failed takes. Of how he always looked at Chan after a long day, like he was something safe. 

He thought of that night, the one he pretended to forget, when Jeongin had knocked softly on his door and asked, “Can I come in?” They just sat beside each other on the floor, close enough to share the silence, but the air had been thick with something Chan didn’t dare name. Jeongin had looked at him like he wanted to say something more, and Chan had looked away before he could see it; that was his rule. Don’t look too long. Don’t listen too hard. Don’t hope.

Because if he let himself hope, he’d fall, and Chan had never been the one allowed to fall.

He rubbed his hands over his face and sat up with a frustrated sigh. There was no use pretending anymore, not to himself. He had asked Jeongin to move in because he couldn’t stand the distance. Not anymore. Because watching from the sidelines hurt more than keeping him close. He’d told himself it was about convenience. But it had always been about proximity. About the chance to be near, even if it meant keeping every feeling locked behind his teeth. It was a selfish decision dressed up in selflessness.

And Jeongin… Jeongin was still so soft. Still so full of trust. Still the boy who had looked at Chan in 2017 and believed in him before anyone else did. The boy who’d cried when they won their first award, who still offered his leftovers to hyungs before eating. The boy who once said, “You always make things feel safe, hyung,” without realizing that Chan had never felt safe a day in his life, except maybe in that moment.

And now that boy was a man. And he was sleeping just a few feet away. And Chan was in love with him, but that love had no place to land. No permission. No roadmap. Only rules he had written for himself years ago: Don’t cross the line. Don’t ruin what you protect. Don’t take what isn’t freely given.

So instead, he sat on the couch in the dark, remembering things he couldn’t say out loud. The first time Jeongin had called him “Chan-hyung” with a laugh in his voice. The first time Jeongin had fallen asleep on his shoulder.  The first time Jeongin had come back from a long schedule and hugged him like home.

Moments. Fragments. Evidence of something unspoken. He clung to them like lifelines, enough to survive on, but never enough to ask for more. Because asking would mean risking everything, and Chan had already lost too much in his life to gamble what he had with Jeongin.

When he finally went to bed, the apartment was silent again. He paused outside Jeongin’s door, fingers brushing the frame. He didn’t knock, didn’t open it. Just stood there, feeling the weight of what he wanted, and knowing he’d never ask for it. Instead, he whispered, too soft to be heard, “Goodnight, Innie.”

Then walked away, because that’s what love looked like, sometimes, keeping your distance, staying silent; and loving someone enough to never let them know.

Chapter Text

Jeongin didn’t expect the silence to feel so full. He sat on the edge of the couch, mug in hand, watching the steam curl up into the dim light of the living room. Chan was in his room, the soft hum of production software barely leaking through the wall. Jeongin could still hear it, though. He always could, the rhythm of Chan’s presence, even when it wasn’t in the room with him.

When he first moved in, he thought they’d talk more. Thought they’d fill the quiet with laughter, music, and late-night takeout the way they used to in the dorms. But this was different, not just because it was the two of them now, or because the silence stretched longer in a smaller space. It was the way Chan had changed, or maybe, the way he hadn’t.

Jeongin pulled his knees to his chest and rested his chin on them, he remembered that night clearly, the one when Chan asked him to move in. It had been raining, the kind of night where the world felt like it was pressing in from all sides. They were at the company building, late, both of them coming off a long day of schedules and meetings. Jeongin had joked about missing dinner again, and Chan, usually the one brushing things off, had just looked at him with something softer than his usual smile.

“Hyung,” Jeongin had asked. “Are you okay?”

And Chan had hesitated. That was when he said it. The offer. The idea that maybe, they didn’t have to keep walking back to separate places. That maybe, things would feel less heavy if they could carry the weight together. At the time, it felt simple. Natural.

But now, Jeongin wasn’t sure. There was a line between them, he could feel it in the way Chan handed him coffee without their fingers touching, in how he always stayed up a little longer than Jeongin. He thought he knew everything about Chan, but this version, this gentle, distant version who smiled without reaching his eyes, made Jeongin feel like he was learning a language he used to be fluent in but had somehow forgotten the grammar of.

The floor creaked, Jeongin’s head turned as Chan’s door opened. Chan stepped out, hoodie loose around his shoulders, hair tousled like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times. His gaze flicked over, paused when he saw Jeongin still awake.

“You’re up late,” Chan said, voice low.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Jeongin replied, wrapping both hands around his mug. “You?”

Chan shrugged, crossing the room to grab a bottle of water. “Just working on a demo.”

Jeongin didn’t respond right away. He watched the way Chan leaned against the counter, the shadows under his eyes, the careful distance he kept, even now.

“Hyung,” Jeongin started, the word catching a little in his throat. “Why did you want me to move with you?”

Chan’s back stiffened, only for a moment, but Jeongin noticed. “Because I thought you’d be more comfortable here,” Chan said eventually. “You’ve been through a lot this year. I figured… I could be someone steady. If you needed that.”

Jeongin tilted his head. “Just that?”

Chan smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Isn’t that enough?”

No. But he didn’t say it. Instead, Jeongin stood, crossing to put his empty mug in the sink. Their shoulders brushed, barely, and still, Chan didn’t move.

“You always look tired lately,” Jeongin said quietly. “You don’t have to take care of everyone all the time.”

“I’m not,” Chan replied, too fast.

“You are,” Jeongin said, softer now, braver. “Even me.”

Chan met his eyes then. And for a second, just a second, Jeongin saw it. That something. The thing he’d been trying not to name. But like all fragile things, it vanished quickly. Chan stepped back, opening the fridge, masking whatever had almost broken through.

“I’m okay, Jeongin,” he said, gentle and distant all at once. “Go get some rest.”

Jeongin nodded slowly. He walked back toward the hallway, heart a little heavier than before. He didn’t know what this was. What they were. But it was something.

The next morning, Jeongin woke to the smell of coffee and the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic. Chan was already in the kitchen, hoodie sleeves pushed up, humming something half-formed, a melody Jeongin didn’t recognize but somehow already felt familiar. It was the kind of moment that used to pass unnoticed in the dorms. But here, in this apartment that felt both too big and too small, it meant something.

“Morning,” Chan said, without turning around.

Jeongin rubbed his eyes. “You’re up early.”

“Didn’t sleep much.” Of course he hadn’t.

Jeongin walked over, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. “New song?”

Chan nodded. “Yeah. Don’t know what it is yet. Just… something in my head.”

Jeongin hesitated. “Can I hear it?”

Chan glanced at him, quick, unreadable, before nodding. “Later. It’s still messy.”

Jeongin wanted to say I don’t care. Wanted to say everything you make is good. But instead, he leaned against the counter and watched Chan stir honey into his coffee like it was a ritual. precise, practiced, careful.

“Hyung,” he said again, softer this time. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

Chan’s smile was thin. “I know.” But he didn’t.

He talked around things, never through them; gave just enough to keep people close, but never enough to let them in. Jeongin had spent years memorizing his tells, the shift in tone, the way he avoided eye contact when he was lying for someone else’s comfort. That wall was always there, but now that Jeongin lived on the other side of it, the silence felt personal.

Later that night, Jeongin stood at chan’s door, hand raised but not knocking; he could hear Chan inside, headphones on, voice soft, layered with harmonies that wrapped around each other like a secret. Jeongin didn’t know what pulled him closer, maybe it was the sound of Chan’s voice, raw, unfiltered; maybe it was the ache in his chest that hadn’t gone away since last night; or maybe it was just time.

He knocked once. A pause. Then: “Yeah?” Jeongin pushed the door open. Chan looked up from his laptop, surprised but not startled. “Hey.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Jeongin said. “Again.”

Chan gestured toward the couch in the corner. “Come in.”

Jeongin crossed the room and sat, folding his legs underneath him. The music was still playing, quieter now. “It’s pretty,” he said after a moment. “Your song.”

Chan’s mouth twitched. “It’s not finished.”

Jeongin watched him, trying to find the right words. “Do you ever get tired of pretending?” Chan looked up, Jeongin swallowed. “You always act like you’re fine, like nothing gets to you. But I see it. When you think no one’s looking.”

Chan’s face shifted, not quite a frown, but something close. “I’m not pretending.”

Jeongin didn’t look away. “Yeah, you are.”

They sat in the silence that followed, not awkward, but heavy, charged. Finally, Chan spoke. “If I stop pretending, I might say things I shouldn’t.”

Jeongin’s heart skipped. “Like what?”

Chan’s jaw tightened. “Things that don’t belong to me.”

Jeongin stood then, slowly, and walked over to where Chan sat. He crouched beside him, close enough to feel the warmth of his arm. “You always take care of everyone else,” he said. “Let someone take care of you for once.” Chan didn’t move. “I mean it,” Jeongin whispered. “Whatever it is you think you can’t say… maybe I already know.”

Chan’s eyes met his; and for the first time, Jeongin saw it, all of it; the longing, the restraint, the unbearable tenderness he’d felt in quiet moments but had never dared to name.

Chan looked away first. “You should get some sleep,” he said. But this time, his voice cracked, just a little.

Jeongin stood, not pushing. Not yet. “I’m here,” he said. “When you’re ready.” And he left the door open behind him.

Chapter Text

The Milan heat was different. It clung to Chan’s skin like memory, sunk deep into his bones even when they were supposed to be resting. Even now, hours after their schedules had wrapped, after the talker footage was shot and their stylists had finally stopped fussing with their hair, Chan could still feel it, the buzz under his skin. He sat at the edge of the hotel bed, scrolling through takes on his phone, he should’ve been asleep. They were flying to London in the morning, and the others had gone quiet hours ago, each door down the hall finally shutting one by one. He could still hear the hum of traffic outside the balcony window. Still see the reflection of studio lights lingering in his head. Behind it all, Jeongin’s laugh played on loop.

Earlier that evening, the whole group had gone out to film a late-night SKZ-Talker segment. Something casual, just dinner and jokes, a vineyard scene under the soft light of the city. Their manager had found a quiet location, and for a few hours, it felt like the world had shrunk into just the eight of them again.

Felix had pulled out his camera, and Hyunjin was already pretending to faint from the heat. Jeongin was halfway through mocking Changbin’s fake Italian accent when Chan had looked up and felt it, the shift. That feeling again. The one he tried so hard to ignore. Jeongin’s eyes were crinkled in a smile, his shirt slightly oversized, and Chan had looked away before the ache could settle too deeply, before it could show.

“Hyung.” The voice pulled him back to the present.

He turned, Jeongin stood in the doorway of the shared suite, dressed down in shorts and a plain black tee, hair damp from a recent shower. His presence, even in silence, filled the room too easily.

“You’re not sleeping?” Jeongin asked.

Chan shook his head, locking his phone. “Just… reviewing some things.”

Jeongin stepped inside, hesitating at first like he didn’t want to impose, then dropping into the armchair by the window like it was the most natural thing in the world. Chan’s heart did something traitorous.

“Seungmin’s out,” Jeongin said. “Said he needed air. Probably dragging Hyunjin into a café again.”

Chan smiled faintly. “Sounds about right.”

They sat in a silence that was starting to feel like its own language. Jeongin leaned his head against the back of the chair. “Today was nice.”

“Yeah.”

“I missed this,” he added after a beat. “Us. Together. Like this.” Chan looked over at him, tried to measure the weight of those words. He didn’t respond, not directly, Jeongin looked at him. “You’ve been distant again.”

There it was, Chan looked down at his hands. “Just tired.” Jeongin hummed, like he didn’t believe it but wouldn’t push, not tonight. 

Still, the air was thick with unspoken things, the way Jeongin’s knee was angled toward him, the way his voice softened only around Chan, like it belonged there, the way he never stopped looking; like he was waiting, like he knew.

Chan thought about the night they first moved in together. The echo of Jeongin’s footsteps down the hallway. The way he’d smiled, awkward and unsure, boxes in hand, eyes bright despite everything they weren’t saying. He remembered thinking, this is a mistake. Not because he didn’t want it, but because he did. Because it was too easy, the way they fit, the way Jeongin laughed at his terrible midnight cooking or crashed next to him on the couch after a long day without even asking.

It had started as comfort, it was becoming something else.

“Hyung,” Jeongin said, pulling him back again, Chan looked up. “Do you ever feel like…” He trailed off, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Like something’s changing, but you don’t know what to do about it?”

Chan’s breath caught; a beat passed. He answered carefully. “All the time.”

Jeongin nodded, like he understood, but didn’t say more. Chan stood then, needing the motion, needing the distance. He crossed to the desk and fiddled with a water bottle that didn’t need adjusting. “You should sleep,” he said softly. “Tomorrow’s going to be long.”

“I know.”

Still, Jeongin didn’t move, Chan didn’t look back. He couldn’t afford to, not when it felt this close to slipping, not when one word, one look, one touch might unmake the careful walls he’d built. Because even though he wanted, God, he wanted, this wasn’t a line he was allowed to cross.

He heard the quiet shift of Jeongin standing, the rustle of the chair, the soft footfalls across the carpet. “Good night, hyung,” Jeongin said, and this time his voice was almost a whisper.

Chan didn’t turn around. “Good night, Innie.”

He waited until the door clicked shut before he let himself exhale, and even then, it wasn’t enough.

The plane to London was quiet. They'd left Milan just after noon, most of them passed out before takeoff. Seungmin had his hoodie pulled over his head like a shield. Hyunjin had melted into the window seat, a mouth slightly parted in sleep, limbs tangled with a blanket someone definitely stole from the hotel. Felix had his headphones on, nodding faintly to whatever demo he was revisiting.

Chan hadn’t slept, not for more than fifteen minutes. And when he had, it was Jeongin’s voice echoing through the haze. Jeongin's smile. Jeongin’s silence the night before, and how loud it still felt now.

He shifted in his seat and glanced across the aisle. Jeongin was awake. Their eyes met and Jeongin didn’t look away; Chan did. 

The problem with feelings was that they didn’t wait for you to be ready, they bloomed in the in-between. In the brush of shoulders, in the echo of a shared laugh, in the warmth of a hand passed too close, a glance held too long. 

Chan felt it now more than ever. Jeongin wasn’t a boy anymore, he hadn’t been for a long time, he was sharp edges and soft eyes, fire wrapped in calm. He carried his years quietly, more grown than anyone gave him credit for. And Chan had watched him grow, he’d watched Jeongin become someone who saw everything, someone who saw him. And still stayed. That made it harder. So much harder. 

London was a blur; they landed, dropped their bags, and were whisked off to the next event before the jetlag could even set in.

I-Days, Hyde Park, Apple Music, rehearsals, meals that barely counted as meals, and laughter that kept them going anyway. It was chaos wrapped in glitter, and Chan loved it, even when it drained him.

What he didn’t love was how easily Jeongin kept finding his way to him; standing beside him on set, leaning in during group interviews; the soft press of his arm when they squeezed into the back of a van, legs brushing in the dark. It wasn’t on purpose, Chan knew that; And still, still. 

They had one night off before BST, a miracle. Half the team was passed out at the hotel. Seungmin and Hyunjin were FaceTiming Minho to complain about London tap water. Changbin and Han were ordering enough Uber Eats to feed a small village. And Jeongin? Jeongin knocked on Chan’s door.

“Can I come in?”

Chan hesitated only a second before nodding. “Of course.”

They didn’t say much at first. Jeongin made himself at home, dropped onto the bed with a groan and pulled a pillow over his face. “Why are hotel beds always too soft?” he mumbled.

Chan laughed, sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed. “You complain no matter what.”

“Yeah,” Jeongin said, voice muffled. “But you still let me sleep in your room sometimes.”

Chan looked at him, and then looked away. “You were always a bad sleeper,” he said instead.

“I sleep fine with you.”

The words weren’t meant to land as hard as they did, but they did. Chan didn’t answer, he couldn’t. Not when Jeongin sat up then, pillow falling to his lap, eyes too honest in the dim light.

“Hyung.”

“Yeah?”

Jeongin hesitated. “You don’t have to keep pushing me away.”

Chan swallowed. “It’s not like that.”

Jeongin raised a brow. “Isn’t it?”

Chan stood, needing distance again, the only weapon he had left. He moved toward the window, watching the city blink beneath them. “I’m your leader,” he said quietly. “It’s my job to protect you.”

Jeongin's voice was soft, but clear. “From what?”

Chan closed his eyes, from me. From everything I feel. From the way I want you. From the way I’d ruin both of us if I gave in. He didn’t say it out loud, he just said, “From anything that could hurt.”

And Jeongin, gentle as ever, didn’t argue; he just sat there in silence, like he knew. Like he understood the shape of Chan’s restraint.

Eventually, he stood too, he stepped closer, not close enough to touch, not quite. But close enough to be felt.

“You don’t have to be afraid of what’s already here,” he said.

Chan finally looked at him, and in Jeongin’s eyes, he saw everything he couldn’t have. Everything he wanted anyway. So he did the only thing he knew how to do, he smiled. “Good night, Innie.”

Jeongin’s expression flickered, hurt, maybe, but he covered it quickly. “Good night, hyung.” And then he left.

Chan sat alone after that, hands curled in his lap, the city glowing cold behind the glass. He thought about all the lines he’d drawn. All the walls he’d built. And how Jeongin, just by being himself, had started to dismantle them. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep pretending, but for tonight, he would.

Because loving Jeongin was easy; but letting him know? 

That was the part that might break him.

Chapter Text

The strange thing about being home was how unfamiliar it felt at first. After weeks of hotels and airports, even his own bed felt too still, too soft, like it was waiting for him to breathe the right way before it became his again. Jeongin sat on the edge of it, shoulders hunched forward, scrolling aimlessly through his phone even though he wasn’t watching anything. He could still hear Chan’s voice in his head.

"Good night, Innie."

Like nothing had happened, like everything hadn’t happened.

The return to Seoul had been a blur, just like the days leading up to it. Interviews, rehearsals, new content being filmed before they could even unpack their bags. The rush of schedules was always easier to manage when his mind was empty. It wasn’t empty now. If anything, it was worse. Because now there was room to feel again, room to remember the way Chan had looked at him, like he wanted something but couldn’t bear to want it out loud. And Jeongin? Jeongin had spent the whole flight pretending to sleep because looking at Chan too long made his chest ache.

It was unfair, it was maddening. He was so tired of pretending.

Minho found him the next morning, standing at 6:12 AM like a ghost in the dance studio.“You look like a haunted Victorian child,” Minho said, voice thick with sleep.

Jeongin blinked. “Thanks.”

“You good?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Minho didn’t press. He just took his bottle of water and looked at him. Jeongin stared at the ground like it held answers. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said finally. “With… stuff.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Stuff?”

Jeongin didn’t meet his eyes. “With him.”

He didn’t have to say who, Minho nodded slowly. “You don’t have to know everything.”

“I know how I feel,” Jeongin said, sharper than he meant to. “That’s the problem.”

Minho didn’t flinch. “So tell him.”

Jeongin laughed, bitter and quiet. “It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing ever is.”

“But he—” Jeongin bit down on the words, hard. “He’s not ready. Or he doesn’t want me. Or both.”

Minho was quiet for a beat. “You ever think he’s just scared?”

“I’m scared too.”

Minho gave him a look that was almost kind. “Then maybe one of you has to stop being scared first.”

Jeongin thought about that all day, through dance rehearsals, vocal practice, content meetings; through the endless carousel of preparation for their comeback and Chicago. The noise helped. The chaos helped. What didn’t help was Chan, because Chan kept being kind, too kind. He brought Jeongin coffee without asking. Laughed at all his jokes, even the bad ones. Placed a hand on his shoulder when they reviewed stage blocking and left it there a second too long. Smiled at him across the room like he meant it. And that would’ve been fine, if Jeongin hadn’t seen him smile that same smile at the new stylist earlier.

It was nothing, he knew it was nothing, but it lit something sharp and hot in his chest anyway, jealousy, he realized, ugly and real, and it scared him. Not because it was there, but because it made him want to act.

That night, Jeongin didn’t wait for Chan to find him, he knocked on Chan’s door instead. The older boy looked surprised, but not unhappy. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Jeongin said, stepping inside without waiting. “You busy?”

Chan blinked. “No, not really.”

“Good.”

Jeongin sat on the edge of the couch, legs crossed, fingers tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie. He was still in makeup. Still dressed from a shoot they’d finished an hour ago. He hadn’t even taken off his mic pack yet.

Chan sat down across from him, tentative. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Jeongin lied. Then corrected himself: “No.”

Chan frowned. “What happened?”

Jeongin looked at him, really looked, and realized he couldn’t keep carrying it alone. “Do you like me?” he asked, voice low and steady.

Chan froze, the silence that followed was unbearable, loud in a way only rejection could be. “I mean—” Jeongin shook his head. “Not as your member. Not as the guy you trained. Not as your family. I mean—”

“Yes.” It was barely a whisper.

Jeongin stopped breathing. Chan’s hands were clasped so tight in his lap they were white at the knuckles. “Then why won’t you let me do anything about it?”

Chan looked at him with something like heartbreak in his eyes. “Because I don’t want to be the reason you regret anything.”

The silence was different now, less like rejection, more like fear. Chan’s hands were shaking, just barely, but Jeongin saw it. The tremor in his fingers. The breath he held like he didn’t trust himself to speak again.

Jeongin felt something tighten behind his ribs. “I wouldn’t regret you,” he said.

Chan looked at him then, really looked, and Jeongin saw the wall behind his eyes falter. “But what if I regret me?” Chan whispered.

That was it, wasn’t it? Not a lack of wanting, not a lack of feeling, just guilt. Old, heavy guilt. The kind Chan carried like a second skin, the weight of responsibility, of being the leader, the protector, the one who should know better. Jeongin sat back against the couch cushion, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders just enough to stop shaking. His voice was softer now.

“You didn’t ask to feel this either,” he said. “Same as me.”

“I’m older.”

“So?”

“I trained you.”

“Seven years ago.”

“I’m still your hyung.”

Jeongin sighed. “You’re also the person I think about when I can’t sleep. The person I look for in a crowded room. The person I want. That doesn’t stop just because you think you’re supposed to be above it.” Chan stared at him, stunned. “I’m not a kid anymore,” Jeongin added, quieter. “And you don’t have to punish yourself for wanting things.”

For a moment, Jeongin thought maybe that would be enough, that maybe Chan would let himself fall, just a little. But instead, Chan leaned forward and reached for Jeongin’s hand, held it gently, too gently. “I don’t want to lose what we already have,” Chan said. “Even if that means wanting more in silence.”

The next few days passed like walking on a wire, they didn’t speak of it again, not directly. But the air between them had changed, charged and tense, like the static before a storm. Jeongin could feel it in every lingering glance. Every pause before Chan pulled away. And maybe Jeongin should’ve let it go, should’ve stepped back. Played safe. Respected the wall Chan had rebuilt. But he couldn’t, not after hearing “yes.” Not after knowing the truth.

It came to a head the day before they left for Chicago. The room was chaos, bags half-packed, content being filmed, Seungmin chasing Hyunjin around the living room with a water bottle, but Jeongin wasn’t watching them; he was watching Chan, and more importantly, he was watching her, the same stylist from earlier in the week, laughing softly as she adjusted the hem of Chan’s shirt. Too long of a touch. Too soft of a smile. It wasn’t jealousy, this time. It was something deeper, resolve.

Jeongin walked up, casual, smiling. “Hyung,” he said. “Can I steal you for a second?”

Chan looked up, startled. “Uh—yeah. Sure.”

He followed Jeongin down the hall to the back room where their tour cases were stacked in various stages of being zipped shut, Jeongin shut the door behind them, Chan gave him a wary look. “Everything okay?”

“No,” Jeongin said. “But I’m done pretending it is.” He stepped closer. Not enough to cross a line, but close enough to test it. Chan didn’t move. “I don’t need you to confess anything,” Jeongin said. “I don’t need a relationship. Or labels. Or even answers.” Chan’s brows furrowed, confused. “I just need to know you’re here with me,” Jeongin said. “Even if it’s hard. Even if we have to wait. Even if it’s messy.”

Chan’s expression softened, wounded and full of something unspeakably tender. “I’m here but not in the way you want,” he said, almost like a vow.

Jeongin nodded. “That’s fine, I can work with that.”

They left for Chicago the next morning, the airport was chaos, as usual, cameras flashing, fans screaming, security rushing them through the terminal in coordinated sweeps. But Jeongin barely noticed, because Chan was in front of him, not touching, not speaking. But there. And when their eyes met as they boarded the plane, Jeongin saw it:

A crack in the wall.

A promise that hadn’t been spoken out loud, but lived in the way Chan looked at him.

Chapter Text

Chicago buzzed beneath them like an electrical current. The city skyline blurred behind tinted van windows, but even the glass couldn’t keep the world out. Cameras flashed from every direction, fans’ voices pierced the thick August air, and Chan felt like he was being seen in a hundred pieces, but not one of them was real. Not the version of him smiling for cameras. Not the leader who had it all together. Not the man who kept glancing to the side, looking for Jeongin, even when he swore he wouldn’t. He was tired, not just body-tired, soul-tired. 

They’d barely landed before schedules kicked in again. Rehearsals. Interviews. Sound checks. And always, always, Jeongin just a few steps behind. Or beside. Or in front, if Chan wasn’t careful. He’d made a silent deal with himself on the plane: Keep it professional. Don’t touch. Don’t linger. Don’t let it slip.

But the moment he saw Jeongin again at the hotel, fresh-faced, black cap low over his eyes, bags under them anyway from the long flight, Chan’s heart had stuttered. Just once. Just enough to remind him that he was still too close to the edge. 

He kept his distance; let the others take the attention. Let Hyunjin toss an arm around Jeongin’s shoulder in the elevator. Let Han pull him into a dumb joke during soundcheck. Let Seungmin rib him for how cool he looked in rehearsals. Chan stayed behind, let himself be background noise. It was easier that way, safer; but safe didn’t stop the ache.

Lollapalooza was chaos, the kind that electrified every nerve, the kind Chan lived for. Their call time was early. Chan ran on little sleep, the weight of jetlag and responsibility dragging behind him like a second skin, but it didn’t matter, not when the stage lights hit. Not when the beat dropped and the sea of fans screamed like they were being set free. He lost himself in the music, let the rhythm swallow him, let his body move the way it always had, precise, practiced, passionate. But even there, Jeongin was fire at the corner of his vision, a spark that kept flaring brighter, no matter how hard he looked away. Jeongin was glowing; alive in the way only performance made him, and when their eyes met across the stage, just for a second, Chan felt something inside him fracture again. He smiled, like it didn’t matter, like he wasn’t falling apart.

After the show, the hotel was quiet, too quiet, the adrenaline had worn off. The others were either passed out or ordering room service. And Chan… couldn’t sleep. He paced, stared at the ceiling, tried editing a demo and gave up halfway through. The silence pressed in, thick and heavy. He should’ve gone to the studio room they’d set up in the hotel suite. He should’ve at least tried to be productive. Instead, he kept replaying moments from earlier. The way Jeongin had smiled at him backstage, soft and tired. The way his fingers had brushed Chan’s wrist when they were handed water bottles. The way he’d stood closer than he needed to during group photos, shoulder just barely grazing Chan’s. It was nothing. It was everything.

A knock broke the silence, light, hesitant. Chan’s heart knew before his mind did, he opened the door and Jeongin stood there, hoodie too big, hair slightly damp from a post-show shower, and eyes so open it made Chan’s breath catch.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Jeongin said simply.

Chan didn’t answer, just stepped aside. He shouldn’t have let him in. The hotel room felt smaller with Jeongin in it, or maybe it was just that Chan was too aware of him, how close he sat, how quiet he was, how his presence filled the space like gravity. They didn’t say much at first, just the hum of the city through the window. A muted laugh from another room down the hall. Jeongin looked tired. But not just physically. Worn down in that way only emotional weight could do.

“I didn’t come here to make things harder,” Jeongin said at last, voice low. “I just… didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

Chan swallowed hard. “You’re not alone.”

“Sometimes it feels like I am,” Jeongin said, gaze dropping. “When you keep avoiding me.”

Chan shut his eyes. “I’m not—”

“You are.”

It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t accusing. Just… honest. And it hurt more because of that. Chan forced himself to look at him. “I’m trying to protect you.”

Jeongin tilted his head. “From what?”

“From me,” Chan whispered.

There was a beat of silence. “I never asked you to.”

“I know,” Chan said. “But I need to.”

Jeongin leaned back on the couch, stretching out his legs, shoulders tense. “Do you think I’m that fragile?”

“No,” Chan said. “I think I am.” That startled a quiet laugh out of Jeongin. Not unkind. Not amused. Just… sad. “I don’t know how to do this,” Chan admitted, voice cracking. “To feel this much and not break something.”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

Jeongin looked at him for a long moment. Then said, softly, “You already are.”

Chan wanted to reach for him, wanted to say something, anything, to fix the ache between them. But instead, he said, “You should sleep.”

Jeongin didn’t argue, just nodded once, pushed himself off the couch, and headed toward the door; and just before he left, he turned back. “I’m not asking you to stop being scared,” he said. “I’m just asking you not to run.”

Then he was gone, and Chan stood there, heart in his throat, wondering how long he could keep running before he lost him entirely. Chan didn’t go back to the apartment when they returned to Seoul, he told himself it was about schedules, about convenience, about needing to check in at the studio first anyway. But the truth sat heavy in his chest; he couldn’t face Jeongin. Not yet.

The JYP building felt familiar in that uncanny way all late nights in the studio did, sterile, silent, steeped in memory. Chan moved through it like a ghost, hoodie pulled up, mask on, hands stuffed deep in his pockets like he was trying to keep himself from unraveling. He turned the lights down low in his favorite room, opened a file he wouldn’t touch; sat there, headphones on, looping half-mixed demos he couldn’t focus on. He’d spent years here, building things. Songs. Sounds. The group. The future. 

But now he couldn’t build anything because everything in him was tangled in Jeongin; Jeongin, who had come to him without demands, who never asked for more than what Chan could give, but who still wanted him anyway; Jeongin, who had grown up right in front of his eyes, who’d become someone strong and sure and painfully beautiful; Jeongin, who had looked at him in a Chicago hotel room like he already knew the ending and had chosen to stay anyway.

Chan didn’t know how to be that brave. He didn’t realize Changbin had come in until he heard the sound of the door shutting behind him.

“You’re not sleeping again, huh.”

Chan didn’t turn around. “Shouldn’t you be resting too?”

Changbin snorted, moving into the room and dropping onto the couch with the kind of casual weight that only came with years of friendship. “Yeah, well. I was, until someone ghosted all of us after we landed.”

Chan sighed. “I needed space.”

“You needed to hide.”

Chan froze, Changbin didn’t say it cruelly, there was no judgment in his voice. Just the truth, handed to him gently. Chan took off his headphones slowly. “I’m not hiding. I’m just trying not to mess anything up.”

There was a beat of silence before Changbin said, “Hyung, we’ve all been in the same group for seven years. We see things.” Chan’s throat tightened, Changbin continued, quieter now. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. How your eyes soften. How you light up without even realizing it. I’ve seen him too, how he watches you like you hung the stars.” Chan dropped his gaze to the floor. “You orbit each other,” Changbin said simply. “You always have.”

“I shouldn’t,” Chan said, voice strained. “I’m supposed to protect him.”

“You think you’re protecting him by pretending you don’t care?”

“I do care,” Chan snapped.

“Then show him.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Chan’s hands curled into fists. “Because if I do… and something goes wrong… it’ll ruin everything. The group. The trust. Him. I’ll be the reason.”

“Or maybe,” Changbin said softly, “you’ll be the reason he feels safe. Seen. Loved.” Chan’s breath caught. “Hyung,” Changbin added. “You don’t have to punish yourself forever for wanting something good.”

Chan didn’t respond, couldn’t, his heart was too full. His fear, too loud. But deep down, something in him cracked, something that had been locked tight for too long. 

He finally went home the next night, the apartment was dark, quiet. Jeongin’s shoes were by the door. Chan hesitated in the entryway, heart pounding like he’d stepped into someone else’s world. But no, this was his too. The space they shared. The place that had become more than just a crash pad between schedules. A home. A maybe.

He moved quietly through the apartment, paused outside Jeongin’s door; his hand hovered just inches above it, then dropped. He didn’t knock, didn’t know if he was brave enough yet.

Days passed in a blur of rehearsals and meetings. The DominATE world tour loomed ahead, their biggest yet, and still, Chan found himself checking rooms for Jeongin. Not talking. Not reaching. But watching. Always watching.

Jeongin was quieter than usual, not cold, not withdrawn. Just… waiting, giving Chan the space he asked for. And somehow, that hurt more than anger ever could.

One night, after practice, Chan stayed behind, the others filtered out slowly, laughing, exhausted, ready for rest. Jeongin was the last to leave, he passed Chan at the mirror wall, where Chan was pretending to stretch but mostly just staring at his reflection like it might give him answers. Their eyes met, Jeongin gave him a small smile, not bright, not sad, just soft.

 “Goodnight, hyung.”

Chan wanted to say something, anything. But all that came out was, “Night.”

The door shut behind him with a quiet finality, that night, Chan didn’t sleep. He kept picturing Jeongin’s smile. The way his voice sounded when he said goodnight. The way he’d looked at Chan like he didn’t expect anything anymore, like he’d stopped hoping. And that terrified Chan more than anything else.

The next morning, Chan found him in the kitchen, Jeongin was half-asleep, hair a mess, in an oversize shirt, fumbled with the coffee machine; Chan just stood there for a moment, watching him, wanting to freeze time, wanting to say I miss you without breaking something. Jeongin looked up, met his eyes. Neither of them said anything. But Chan didn’t look away this time, didn’t run.

And in that quiet, something shifted, a promise made without words; that maybe, just maybe, he’d stop running soon.

Chapter Text

Jeongin woke to the sound of the front door clicking shut. It was still dark outside, Seoul’s skyline drowsy and pale through the window blinds, but the quiet thump of shoes being taken off, of a bag sliding to the floor in the entryway, was unmistakable; Chan was home.

The ache that had settled behind Jeongin’s ribs since Chicago twisted into something sharp, not relief, not quite. He stayed in bed, unmoving. Eyes open, breath slow, listening. Chan didn’t come into the room, didn’t peek in to check if he was asleep, didn’t even turn on the lights in the hallway. Instead, he heard the soft click of Chan’s door shutting, and then nothing. Jeongin curled onto his side, staring at the space beside him in the dark.

The days after that passed like a montage he couldn’t quite place himself in; rehearsals for the World Tour kicked into full force. Hours of choreography, vocal warmups, camera blocking. Stylist fittings. Backstage planning. Movement drills. Repetition after repetition until even his dreams looked like setlists. Jeongin threw himself into it, heart and all, let it consume him; because when he wasn’t dancing, singing, performing, he was thinking. Thinking about the moment in Chicago. Thinking about the look in Chan’s eyes as he said he didn’t want to lie. Thinking about the silence after. The way his hyung left without another word.

They hadn’t talked about it since. Hadn’t even shared more than a few necessary words, technical, professional, neutral.

“You good?” Chan would ask before a take.

“Yeah,” Jeongin would reply, even if he wasn’t.

Everything else was muscle memory now, the dance between closeness and space, the polite distance that had become a wall. Except Jeongin couldn’t stop staring at it, couldn’t stop feeling it. He was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with rehearsals. 

It was just past midnight when Jeongin walked through the apartment door and heard soft guitar through the studio wall, Chan was home again, back to his usual rhythms. Music until late, quiet footsteps, closed doors. Jeongin didn’t know what he was expecting, some kind of shift maybe; a conversation, a breakdown. Anything that would at least name what hung between them. Instead, it was like everything had rewound, like never happened, like that moment was just one of those dreams you wake up from and pretend meant nothing. He hated it, and more than that, he hated himself for letting it hurt this much.

The third night back, he found himself on the balcony. It was past two a.m. The city was asleep, lights like stars scattered far too low, and Jeongin was barefoot, hoodie pulled over his head, skin prickling from the breeze; he didn’t hear the door open behind him, didn’t realize he was no longer alone until a voice broke the quiet.

“You’re gonna get sick.”

Jeongin didn’t turn around. “Why do you care?” he asked.

Silence. Then, “You know why.”

He finally looked over his shoulder, Chan was leaning against the frame of the door, hair messy, hoodie too big, barefoot like him. He looked tired, not from the schedule, from this.

“This is worse than silence, you know,” Jeongin said softly.

“What is?”

“This in-between thing you’re doing. Being here but not really here. Looking at me like I matter but acting like I don’t.”

Chan’s jaw tensed. “You do matter.”

“Then stop pretending I imagined everything.”

A long pause, one that carried seven years of weight in it. Jeongin didn’t expect an answer, he’d stopped expecting anything. He turned back to the skyline. After a moment, he heard Chan sigh, then step away. The door clicked shut again. 

He didn’t sleep that night.

Three days before opening night of the tour, something finally snapped. They were in the practice room, running through the transition between “Chk Chk Boom” and “S-class.” Jeongin missed a step, minor, barely noticeable, but he knew. So did Chan.

“Start again,” Chan said, voice even. “From the top.”

Everyone was exhausted. No one said anything, but the air shifted. Jeongin bit his tongue and got into position. They ran it again, he missed a note in the chorus, pitch slightly off, breath half a second behind.

“Again.”

This time, Han spoke up. “Hyung, maybe we should—”

“Again,” Chan repeated.

Jeongin’s heart was pounding, not from the routine, from the anger creeping up his throat like wildfire. He didn’t move.

“I said—”

“Do you even see me anymore?” Jeongin snapped. The room went still, Chan’s mouth opened, then closed. Eyes wide. “I show up. I perform. I say all the right things. And you look through me.”

“Jeongin—”

“I’m here,” he said. “And I’m tired of pretending like that doesn’t mean anything.”

Chan’s expression fractured, something between guilt and panic and longing. The others awkwardly began stepping out of the room, giving them space. Only then did Chan speak.

“I never stopped seeing you.”

Jeongin shook his head. “Then stop acting like I’m a mistake you’re trying not to make.” And with that, he left.

He didn’t go home that night, he needed air, needed distance. Because the closer he got to Chan, the more it felt like drowning; and he wasn’t sure how many more times he could come up for air.

Jeongin stayed at the minsung dorm that night. The spare room was stuffy and the sheets weren’t his, but at least the air didn’t hum with everything he couldn’t say out loud.

Minho didn’t ask questions. He just handed him a cup of warm barley tea and nodded toward the room with a quiet, “Lock the door if you want.”

Jeongin didn’t sleep much. Instead, he replayed everything, Chicago, the dorm, the balcony, rehearsal. Over and over, until his memories felt like cuts on loop. Because it wasn’t just that Chan wouldn’t let himself feel anything. It was that he would, for a second, and then vanish behind guilt again. Like what they had, whatever it was, was a burden, a mistake, something that should be carried alone. But Jeongin was done carrying his part of it in silence.

When he saw Chan the next day, it was as if nothing had happened. The leader version of him was fully activated, headphones on, clipboard in hand, giving feedback, adjusting light cues, nodding at stage managers. And Jeongin hated him for that, just a little; hated how easily Chan slipped into a role to avoid being vulnerable. How he used professionalism like a shield. 

Jeongin didn’t speak to him once.

On the day of the KSPO Dome rehearsal walkthrough, Jeongin was stretching near the wings when someone sat beside him; Chan. Neither of them said anything for a moment. The sound techs were adjusting mics on stage. The crew moved around them, but it felt like a bubble had formed, just big enough for the two of them.

“You’re not a mistake,” Chan said finally, Jeongin turned to look at him. “You said I act like you are,” Chan continued, voice low, hands clasped between his knees. “You’re not.” Jeongin didn’t interrupt. “I just don’t know how to want something that might ruin everything I’ve spent my whole life building,” Chan whispered. “And I don’t know how to want you without fearing that.”

Jeongin stared at him. “You think I’m asking you to throw it all away?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Chan admitted. “I think I’m asking myself if I can survive it if I do.”

The ache Jeongin had been holding back pressed tight against his chest. “I’m not asking you to confess anything,” he said, echoing his previous words. “I’m not asking for labels, or drama, or even for us to be anything but what we already are. I just need to know you feel it too.”

Chan closed his eyes. “I do,” he said. “Every second of the day.”

“Then show me,” Jeongin said, soft but firm. “In whatever way you can. Or I’ll stop waiting.”

Chan looked at him then, really looked, and the heartbreak in his eyes made Jeongin’s throat close. “I don’t want to lose what we already have,” Chan whispered. “Even if that means wanting more in silence.”

Jeongin reached for his hand. “Then I’ll hold the silence with you. But I need you to stay close. I need to feel you here.”

Chan’s fingers tightened around his, barely. But enough.

That night, back at the apartment, Jeongin didn’t expect anything, he didn’t wait up, didn’t knock on Chan’s door or linger in the hallway. He just crawled into bed and let exhaustion drag him under.

Somewhere past three a.m., the mattress shifted; Jeongin blinked into the darkness, disoriented, until he felt the weight beside him, Chan, lying on top of the covers, fully clothed, body curled toward him, not touching, but there. Jeongin didn’t say anything, just let his hand drift across the space between them until it brushed against Chan’s wrist. Fingertips met skin, a small, quiet press. And when Chan didn’t pull away, Jeongin exhaled slowly and closed his eyes.

The day of their first Seoul show arrived with fan chants already echoing in the arena, hours before they stepped on stage. Jeongin stood backstage in full outfit, mic in place, heart thundering. Beside him, Chan adjusted his in-ears, looked over, and gave a soft, almost imperceptible nod.

And Jeongin nodded back. Whatever they were, whatever they weren’t, it was still them. And it always would be.

Chapter Text

The first show in Seoul passed in a blur of lights, screams, and sweat, and still, the loudest thing Chan heard was Jeongin’s voice echoing in his head. "That doesn’t stop just because you think you’re supposed to be above it.”

Now, hours later, he lay on top of the covers of Jeongin’s bed, not sleeping. Not touching. Just existing near the one person who made him feel both whole and fractured at the same time. Jeongin's fingers had found his wrist, just barely, just enough to make Chan's breath catch, he hadn't pulled away, he couldn't. He told himself he’d leave soon, but when the steady rhythm of breathing settled next to him, he stayed, eyes open, mind racing; he'd never felt more like a coward.

Morning came with chaos, as it always did during comeback season and tour prep. Staff bustled in and out, stylists barking touch-up orders, the air thick with hairspray and urgency. Chan was already in the greenroom when Jeongin arrived, quietly slipping into his chair across the room. Their eyes met through the mirror, Chan gave a small nod, Jeongin returned it, unreadable. That should’ve eased something in him, but it didn’t. If anything, it made the ache worse.

They performed the second and third shows in Seoul like machines. Choreography drilled to muscle memory. Fan chants so loud they blurred into the beat. Chan did what he always did, led, stabilized, overthought every second of the set. But Jeongin… Jeongin moved like he had something to prove. There was a fire in his gaze every time he turned toward Chan, something close to defiance. But still, he never crossed the line, never touched him on stage unless the choreography demanded it, never spoke more than necessary in dressing rooms, never looked too long, not when others were watching.

Chan felt every moment of restraint like a wound. It wasn’t until a few days later, back at the apartment, that it cracked. He came home late, the door to Jeongin’s room was closed, light off, quiet. Relief and disappointment warred in his chest, he wanted to knock, to say something, anything. Instead, he went to his own room. Again.

The small, cluttered space had always been his sanctuary. But lately, even that felt hollow. The music wasn’t helping, nothing came out the way he wanted it to. Every melody felt like a missed chance, every lyric tried too hard not to say what he really meant. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. His phone buzzed once, group chat ping, a meme from Han, something ridiculous about rehearsals, he didn’t answer. But a few minutes later, another message came through from Changbin.

“Still at the studio?”
“Come get food.”

Chan hesitated. Then sighed.

They sat across from each other in a booth at a tiny restaurant that had been theirs since pre-debut days. No fans. No staff. Just greasy food and late-night honesty. Changbin let his chopsticks rest in the bowl and leaned back with a sigh. The fluorescent light above their table flickered once, then stilled.

“You look like hell,” he said simply.

Chan let out a soft breath. “Thanks.”

They sat in silence for another few minutes, the clatter of dishes and soft hum of conversation filling in the space where words should be. Then Changbin said, “You used to be better at pretending.” Chan blinked at him. “At hiding it. All of it. But now, you look like you’re running from something that already caught you.”

Chan’s throat tightened, he didn’t reply, didn’t move. “I’m not asking you to explain,” Changbin said, voice quiet but firm. “But don’t lie to me and say it’s nothing.”

Chan stared at his half-eaten bowl. “I’m not lying.”

“No. You’re just swallowing it every day until it eats you alive.” The words landed too easily, too accurately; Chan looked away. “I know what it’s like to carry something alone for so long that it becomes part of your spine,” Changbin continued. “But you don’t have to.”

Chan’s voice was rough when it came. “It’s not just mine to carry.”

“I know. And that’s why it matters.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, quietly, almost like a confession, Chan said, “He lets me stay close.” Changbin looked over, waiting. “But not too close. Like he knows I’ll run.”

“Would you?”

Chan’s answer came slower than it should have. “I think I already did.”

Changbin nodded, eyes soft. “Then maybe it’s time to stop.”

Backstage on the final night of the Seoul shows, Chan stood with his mic in hand, the cheers of STAY echoing like a living heartbeat against the concrete walls. The others were changing, packing, buzzing from adrenaline, but Chan lingered in the hallway, staring at a spot on the floor as if it held answers he hadn’t earned yet.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Minho said, brushing past him on the way to the dressing room.

Chan didn’t answer. It wasn’t just tonight. It was every night, every in-between moment since Jeongin had looked at him and said, “Even if it’s hard. Even if we have to wait. Even if it’s messy.”

That moment lived under Chan’s skin now, carved into him like a brand, and Jeongin; Jeongin had kept his word, he hadn’t asked for more, hadn’t pressed or pushed or even hovered too close, he just was. In every shared space. In every rehearsal. On every stage.

He never demanded more than Chan could give, but his presence still felt like gravity, and Chan was so, so tired of pretending he couldn’t feel the pull.

By September 3rd, schedules had resumed with sharp teeth and short breath.Video shoots, behind-the-scenes content, meetings, calls, recordings, endless planning for the next leg of the tour. Chan stayed busy, he stayed exhausted; and yet, some nights, like this one, he found himself alone in the studio, a file open on the screen and a beat looping endlessly in the background, one Jeongin’s voice hadn’t touched yet. Because Chan couldn’t write about him, not directly, not without bleeding.

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, letting the instrumental wash over him, hollow and slow. His phone buzzed.

[00:17] Innie: Got home safe. Don’t stay up too late, hyung.

A beat. Then another buzz.

[00:18] Innie: I mean it. Sleep.

Chan stared at the texts until the screen dimmed, he didn’t reply, but he didn’t close the file either. Jeongin sat on the couch with a cup of tea, legs pulled up, hair wet from a shower. The glow of the TV flickered across his face, but he wasn’t really watching.

Chan hesitated at the doorway, Jeongin looked up, and for a moment, Chan thought he might say something, invite him over, ask him to sit, to stay, to talk. But he just smiled, small, careful, like he didn’t want to scare him off. Chan turned and walked to his room, heart punching hollow in his chest.

Then they celebrated Han’s and Felix’ birthday. They had cake and chaos and noise and Chan took photos with everyone like nothing was wrong. But Jeongin’s laugh was softer that day, less free, less full, and Chan felt it like a bruise. Jeongin leaned against the wall beside him in the hallway, sipping iced coffee from a paper cup, eyes rimmed with tiredness.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

Chan nodded. “You?”

Jeongin smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Living.”

Chan didn’t know what to do with that answer, so he said nothing at all. They stood there, silent in their closeness, in the space where words had run out and still meant everything.

By mid-September, the group splintered for travel again. Hyunjin flew to Milan on the 19th, Jeongin the day after. Chan stayed behind with the others, preparing for the Singapore leg of the tour. He should’ve been relieved, space was good, space was safe. But that night, in the studio, when Chan clicked open a file of Jeongin’s demo vocals for a future song, he couldn’t bring himself to press play. 

Instead, he closed his eyes, and admitted, at least in that room, alone,  I miss him.

When Jeongin returned to Seoul, nothing had changed on the outside. They greeted each other like teammates. Shared meals like bandmates. Laughed like friends. But inside, Chan was unraveling. Not from something new. But from everything he’d tried to lock away. And it all came to a head on the night before they flew to Singapore.

He found Jeongin alone in the kitchen, packing snacks into his carry-on with surgical precision. Chan leaned against the doorframe, watched him quietly.

“You always bring too much,” he said finally.

Jeongin didn’t look up. “And you always forget to eat.”

Chan smiled, but it didn’t last. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Jeongin froze, then he turned, softly, carefully. “You don’t have to know.”

Chan’s throat closed. “I just—” He stopped. “I feel like I’m breaking.”

“Then let yourself break,” Jeongin said. “You don’t have to carry me and yourself and the weight of the world all the time.”

Chan looked at him, eyes searching. “I’m scared,” he confessed.

“I know,” Jeongin replied.

And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t step away; he stepped forward, and wrapped his arms around Chan, not asking for anything. Just giving.

And Chan let himself stay there, just for a minute, just for now.

Chapter Text

The hotel in Singapore smelled like lemongrass and cool marble, Jeongin stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a bottle of water half-finished in his hand, watching the city lights blur past the glass. Behind him, the room was dim, the distant hum of air conditioning filling the silence. His bag was still zipped, still upright by the door. He hadn’t unpacked yet, hadn’t wanted to, not when Chan was just two floors up, not when the heat still clung to his skin, and his thoughts were too loud to sleep.

The past few weeks had peeled something open inside him. He didn’t know what to call it, this feeling like his chest was too full and too hollow at once. The backstage glances. The charged quiet in hallways. That night in the apartment, when Chan had looked at him like he might fall apart and Jeongin had stepped forward instead of back. That night hadn’t left him, not even now, across countries, time zones, and stages.

He heard the knock before he saw him. Chan stood in the doorway, hoodie unzipped, hair slightly damp like he’d just showered. His eyes were tired, but not in the way they usually were. It wasn’t exhaustion from lack of sleep, it was something else, something older.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Chan asked.

Jeongin shook his head, Chan stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, he didn’t need one. They didn’t talk for a while, just stood in silence while the city blinked behind the glass.

When Chan finally spoke, his voice was low. “The shows are getting harder.”

Jeongin turned toward him, brows furrowing. “Your body?”

Chan shook his head. “No. Not like that. Just… I don’t know. It feels different this time. Heavier.”

Jeongin didn’t have to ask what he meant; he felt it too. They had thousands of fans cheering their names every night. Camera flashes. Vlogs. Endless energy. But between all of it, Jeongin kept looking for something else. Something only one person could give him. And he hated that he needed it this badly. That he wanted Chan to look at him the way he did in Seoul, soft, searching, like Jeongin was something he didn’t know how to name but couldn’t stop reaching for.

“Are you okay?” Chan asked suddenly.

Jeongin blinked. “You came to my room to ask if I’m okay?”

Chan looked away, embarrassed. “Not just that. I just… didn’t want to be alone.”

Jeongin’s heart twisted, he opened his mouth to say something, anything, but what came out instead was, “Then don’t be.”

There was a long pause, Chan took a step closer. Then another. They weren’t touching, but Jeongin could feel the gravity of him, that same unspoken tension that had lived between them for months, maybe years, he didn’t even know anymore.

“Sometimes,” Jeongin said softly, “I wish you’d stop thinking so hard.” Chan tilted his head. “You’re always in your own head,” Jeongin continued. “You analyze every breath like it’ll break someone. But not everything will. Not everything has to.”

Chan let out a soft breath. “It’s not that easy.”

“I know,” Jeongin said. “But maybe it could be. If you let it.”

Chan looked at him, really looked, like he was trying to memorize the shape of the moment; Jeongin wished he would do more than look, he didn’t. Instead, he walked over to the couch, sat down, and leaned back, head resting against the cushions. Jeongin sat beside him, knees almost touching. The silence returned, but it wasn’t empty. It was humming. Warm.

“Do you ever think about what we’ll be doing five years from now?” Chan asked suddenly.

Jeongin blinked at the question. “All the time,” he admitted.

Chan looked at him. “And?”

“I don’t know. I just… hope it’s still us.”

Chan’s eyes darkened slightly. “Even if it’s not this?”

Jeongin’s breath caught, Chan had never said anything like that before, he didn’t answer, because if he did, he was afraid the truth would fall out too fast. That he wanted more, that “this” wasn’t enough, not when Chan held him like that, looked at him like that, and then pulled away the next day.

Jeongin’s fingers curled into the couch cushion. “I’m tired,” he said, voice lower now. “Not just from the tour.”

Chan’s gaze softened. “I know.”

And that was the worst part, he did know, he always did, but knowing never changed anything; Jeongin closed his eyes, let his head tip back against the couch. A moment later, he felt Chan shift beside him, felt the warmth of a hand settle gently on top of his own, not moving, just there; and Jeongin held onto it like a lifeline, even if it wasn’t enough, even if tomorrow, everything would be different again.

The air in the room had gone still, Chan’s fingers didn’t move, but Jeongin could feel the warmth of them settling deep into his skin, like something permanent. Like the kind of touch you remember long after it’s gone. They sat like that for minutes, maybe hours. Jeongin couldn’t tell, time bent strangely around Chan, always had.

At some point, he whispered, “Do you wish things were different?”

Chan didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, “I don’t know how to wish for that.”

Jeongin opened his eyes, tilted his head toward him. “Why not?”

“Because it feels selfish,” Chan said. “Wanting more. Wanting you.” The words landed like a spark in Jeongin’s chest, Chan didn’t even seem to realize what he’d said until the silence pressed in. “I mean—” he started, suddenly fumbling. “I didn’t—”

Jeongin didn’t let him take it back. “You want me?”

Chan froze, and slowly, slowly, nodded. Jeongin’s breath shook. “I’ve been wanting you,” he whispered, “for a long time.”

Chan didn’t speak, didn’t move. But the look in his eyes cracked something open, Jeongin felt it; felt the way the world shifted, how the air thickened between them with everything they hadn’t said. He wanted to close the distance, wanted to kiss him, just once, and see if it felt like all the moments they’d shared, if it felt like home. But he didn’t, because something in Chan’s shoulders was still tense, still afraid. So instead, Jeongin leaned forward just enough to rest his forehead against Chan’s. Just that, close enough to feel his breath, close enough to tremble.

“I don’t want to keep pretending,” Jeongin murmured. “But I’ll wait. If you need me to. Just… don’t shut me out anymore.”

Chan nodded, eyes squeezed shut, he was shaking too. They stayed like that until the city dimmed and the sky outside began to lighten. It was past four when Chan finally stood. He looked down at Jeongin, then pulled the blanket from the bed and gently draped it over him on the couch.

“You should rest.”

Jeongin caught his hand before he could step away. “Stay.”

Chan hesitated, then he sat back down, not beside him this time, but behind him, pulling Jeongin into his arms, tucking his chin over his shoulder. Protective. Careful. Jeongin didn’t move, didn’t breathe; h just closed his eyes and let himself feel it, everything he’d wanted and not dared to name. It wasn’t a confession, it wasn’t a promise. But it was more than nothing, and for now, that was enough.

The flight back to Seoul felt quieter than usual. They’d made it through another leg of the tour. The team was already talking about Melbourne and Sydney, planning content releases and vlogs. Chan’s birthday had come and gone, the staff throwing a small celebration at the hotel. Jeongin had given him a gift, simple, quiet, something only Chan would understand. He hadn’t asked for anything in return, he never did. But some nights, when the lights were off and the world faded, Jeongin remembered the warmth of Chan’s arms and wondered how long he could live off moments like that. Because they weren’t just friends anymore, not really. And they weren’t lovers, not yet. They were something in-between, something fragile and aching and real.

As the days passed, Jeongin kept his head down during rehearsals. Focused on the music. Let the adrenaline carry him through the exhaustion. But at night, his thoughts drifted, to that hotel couch, to whispered confessions, to what came next; and whether Chan would ever let himself stop running.

Chapter Text

The familiar sound of cicadas filled the evening air, buzzing lazily beneath the fading hum of stadium lights. Chan had grown up with that sound. The sticky warmth of the Australian spring, the dry air brushing against his skin, the low call of magpies in the distance, things he hadn’t realized he missed until he stood still long enough to notice.

They were back in Sydney, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t just a leader or an idol. He was Christopher, Chris, Channie, when his mom tugged him into a hug that still made him feel like he was ten years old and too thin for his age. Her arms wrapped around him the moment he stepped off the side of the stage after soundcheck, all eyes and smile and that quiet steadiness he used to cling to before sleep.

“You look tired, love,” she said, brushing sweat-damp hair off his forehead.

He laughed softly, adjusting the towel around his neck. “I’m fine, Mum.”

“You always say that.”

Felix’s mom was there too, a few feet away, hugging her son tightly with tears already in her eyes. They were a small group today, both families sitting together in a section reserved just for them. Chan had asked for it that way, not too many people, not too much pressure. Just the ones who mattered most, and Hannah.

“Oi, superstar,” she called, grinning as she looped an arm around his shoulder. “Don’t go getting a big head just because you’re famous now.”

Chan snorted. “I’ve been famous for a while, you’re late.”

“And you’re still shorter than me when I wear boots, so nothing’s changed.”

Lucas giggled from beside them, clutching a lightstick almost the size of his head. “Chris, your hair is weird.”

“It’s blonde,” Chan said, feigning offense. “Blonde is cool.”

“It looks like spaghetti,” Lucas insisted.

Hannah howled with laughter, nearly doubling over. Chan shook his head with mock exasperation, pulling Lucas into a side hug and ruffling his curls.

“I missed you, pest.”

“I missed you more.”

The ache in Chan’s chest tightened a little. It always did, in moments like this. Home was so far away now, but it still lived in the smiles of his siblings, in the sound of his mother’s voice, in the quiet that settled between heartbeats when he was with them.

They ate dinner as a group that night, the members and their families crowded around a long table at a quiet restaurant by the water. It was noisy, chaotic, exactly the kind of atmosphere Chan had forgotten he needed. Felix’s dad told stories with big hand gestures, his sister filmed everything with gleaming eyes and a quick wit that made even Changbin blush. Seungmin tried to keep the peace, but Hannah was already launching a full-on roast of Chan, recounting his pre-debut days with theatrical flair.

“He used to lock himself in the studio and write the most emo lyrics,” she said, waving a chopstick. “Like, ‘My tears are thunder and the silence is pain’ or some dramatic crap like that.”

“I did not,” Chan groaned, slumping against the table. “That’s a total exaggeration.”

“Are you sure?” Jeongin chimed in, mouth twitching like he was barely containing his laughter.

Chan shot him a betrayed look. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Jeongin just raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just here to observe.”

But there was something in his eyes, something fond, soft; it made Chan’s stomach twist.

Later, when they spilled out onto the sidewalk in clusters, full and warm and glowing from laughter, his mother lingered beside him.

“It’s good to see you like this,” she said, slipping her arm through his.

“Like what?”

“Happy. Relaxed. Open.”

Chan didn’t respond right away. The word happy always felt too big, too uncertain. But relaxed? Maybe. Open? That was harder to claim.

“I’m trying,” he admitted.

She hummed, a knowing sound. “I can tell. You always carry so much, Chris. You always have.”

Chan kept his gaze forward, watching Lucas chase after a pigeon with Han and Lee Know close behind. “I’ve just been thinking about everything lately,” he said. “About the group. The tour. The future. How fast everything’s moving.”

His mother smiled gently. “It was always going to move fast. You’ve been chasing the stars since you were a boy.”

“And I left you to do it.”

“You didn’t leave us, sweetheart. You followed your dream. And we let you go because we love you.” That hit harder than he expected. “Sometimes,” she continued, “love means letting someone go. Even if it hurts.”

He didn’t say anything, couldn’t. Not when her words echoed too closely to the thoughts he’d been trying to drown since they left Seoul. Jeongin, always Jeongin. Was holding on to him love? Or was letting go the only way to prove it?

The hotel room was quiet; Felix had left to spend the night with his family after the dinner, most of the members had turned in early, and Chan didn’t blame them, tomorrow would be another long day. But he couldn’t sleep. Not yet. Not with everything pressing down on him like it always did in the silence. He sat on the floor by the window, legs stretched out in front of him, a bottle of water sweating in his palm. The view outside was the familiar sprawl of Sydney at night, city lights blinking against the dark, the outline of the harbor faint in the distance.

It had been a good day, one of the rare ones that didn’t ache, and still, something inside him twisted. The weight of his mother’s words still lingered. Sometimes love means letting someone go. But what if you didn’t want to? What if you couldn’t?

There was a knock at the door. Not loud, not urgent, just enough to pull him out of the spiral, Chan stood, slow and tired, and opened it. Jeongin was there, wearing a simple hoodie, hair still damp from a shower, barefoot and quiet.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey,” Chan echoed, moving aside to let him in.

They didn’t speak at first. Jeongin walked in like he belonged there, because he did. Sat at the edge of the bed, fingers curling over the blanket. Chan sat back down by the window, not facing him, just letting the silence stretch.

“I could hear you pacing,” Jeongin said eventually.

“Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.” Another silence, Jeongin sighed, low and quiet. “Your mom’s great.”

“She is,” Chan agreed, his voice raw.

“She loves you a lot.”

“Yeah.” He hesitated. “She taught me how to let go.” Jeongin looked at him now,  but didn’t interrupt, Chan’s voice dropped. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

The quiet between them tightened, Jeongin stood and walked over, not fast, not slow, deliberate, measured, careful, always. He sat beside Chan on the floor, their knees just barely touching.

“You don’t have to let go of me,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Not if you don’t want to.” Chan swallowed hard. “But if you ever do,” Jeongin added, “just tell me. Don’t disappear. Don’t run away.”

“I’m not trying to run.”

“I know. You’re trying to protect me. Like you always do.” He reached over, fingers brushing against Chan’s wrist, not holding, not gripping. Just there. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

“I know,” Chan murmured. “But sometimes I wish you were. It would make this easier.”

Jeongin laughed, breathless. “It’s not supposed to be easy.”

“No,” Chan agreed. “It’s not.”

They sat like that for a while, quiet, close, warm in a way that didn’t need words. The city blinked around them, and somewhere, the weight on Chan’s chest lessened, just a little, just enough to breathe. 

Eventually, Jeongin leaned against him, head on his shoulder, and Chan let himself lean back, not all the way, but enough; enough to feel him there; enough to remember that even if the world asked for too much, too many miles, too many sacrifices, too many silences, they still had moments like this, soft, fleeting; but real, and for tonight, that was sufficient.

Chapter Text

The group chat was chaos.

“I.N MY MAN 😤🔥” – Han
“goddamn maknae went and ruined everyone’s lives” – Felix
“WHO GAVE YOU PERMISSION” – Seungmin
“actually that was me lol” – Changbin
“yeah we need to talk about this, what happened to my baby bread????? 😭😭😭” – Hyunjin
“this is art. you’re art.” – Minho

Jeongin scrolled through the messages, face hidden behind his hoodie, earbuds in but no music playing. His heart thudded with something between disbelief and pride. Not just because the song had dropped, but because of how the members reacted; because they heard it. They saw him, not just the maknae, not just the smile, not just the soft-spoken, eager-to-please Jeongin. But him. He hadn’t expected anyone to react like this. Especially not him. And when Jeongin walked into the greenroom, freshly showered and still towel-drying his hair, Chan had already seen it. The screen was dark, his jaw tense, eyes locked on some faraway thought.

Jeongin froze in the doorway. “You watched it.”

Chan looked up slowly. His voice, when it came, was hoarse.“Yeah.”

That was it, just that one syllable. But Jeongin had known him long enough to read the spaces between words. The press of his lips, the way he gripped the edge of the couch like the world had tilted.

“Okay,” Jeongin said, quieter. “What did you think?”

Chan didn’t answer right away. Then, with a faint, broken laugh, he said, “I feel like I’m losing control.”

It wasn’t what Jeongin expected, but maybe it was. Because even now, Chan still looked at him sometimes like he was sixteen, still the kid with a silly cut and wide eyes who followed him around with blind trust. But he wasn’t that boy anymore, and the song had been his way of saying it out loud.

Back in Seoul, the days blurred. Their comeback was in full swing, promotions, interviews, rehearsals packed tight between tour stops. Their bags barely touched the floor before they were being repacked for Manila. Still, in the cracks between chaos, Jeongin felt it, the shift; not just in how the others treated him, though that was there too.

Changbin had clapped him on the back with rare sincerity after a live broadcast. Seungmin had ruffled his hair only to stop halfway through, nodding thoughtfully like he was reevaluating a theory. Felix had leaned his head on Jeongin’s shoulder during a group dinner and murmured, “You’re really something, y’know?”

But it was Chan, it was always Chan. He didn’t say much, but he looked, he watched, like the distance between them was a tightrope, and Chan was walking it with bare feet, breath held.

That night, Jeongin found him on the balcony, the sky was clear, Seoul glittering beneath them. The breeze carried the faint hum of traffic, the quiet weight of the hour.

“You okay?” Jeongin asked, stepping outside.

Chan didn’t turn. “Yeah.”

Liar. Jeongin came to stand beside him, hands in his jacket pockets, watching the city. He waited. Gave him space to speak or not.

Eventually, Chan did. “You were incredible,” he said. Barely audible. “The song. The performance. Everything.”

Jeongin’s chest ached. “Thank you.”

“You’re not a kid anymore.”

“I haven’t been for a while.”

Chan’s hand gripped the railing, knuckles white. “I know. I just didn’t want to see it.”

And there it was, the truth, unvarnished and raw. Jeongin turned to him slowly. “Why not?”

Chan’s eyes met his then, tired, wide, full of grief and something else. Something desperate. “Because I don’t know what to do with this. With you.”

Jeongin stepped closer. “I do.”

Jeongin didn’t rush it, he could have. God knew his heart was pounding like it wanted to break out of his chest, like it had been waiting for this moment longer than either of them wanted to admit. But he didn’t move fast, just stood there, steady. Close enough to touch, close enough to be real.

“I do,” he repeated, softer now.

Chan didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away either, and that was everything. 

Jeongin reached up, slowly, gently; his fingers brushed Chan’s cheek, light as breath, like asking a question without words. He felt the tension there, the unspoken grief, the fight Chan had been waging with himself for months.

“You don’t have to know what this is,” Jeongin whispered. “You just have to feel it.”

Chan’s eyes fluttered closed. “What if I mess it up?”

“Then we’ll fix it,” Jeongin said. “Together.”

A beat of silence passed. Then another. When Chan opened his eyes again, they were shining. “I want to kiss you,” he said, almost like an apology. “But I’m terrified.”

Jeongin’s breath caught. “Why?”

“Because if I do, I don’t think I’ll be able to pretend anymore.”

He said it like a confession, like a curse. But Jeongin smiled, even as his eyes burned. “Good.”

And then, finally, Chan leaned forward, it wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet, earnest, a trembling kind of soft. Their lips met like a breath, like an exhale, like the first time you realize you’re safe after holding it in for too long, and Jeongin felt it all. Every unsaid word. Every silence they’d tiptoed around. Every lingering look and almost-touch and aching pause between hotel doors and backstage shadows. He felt it in the way Chan kissed him like he was terrified he’d disappear, like he was something precious, like he meant something.

They pulled apart slowly, foreheads resting together. Chan’s hands were on Jeongin’s waist now. Jeongin’s fingers curled at the base of Chan’s neck, thumb brushing lightly over the soft hair there.

“Are we really doing this?” Chan asked, voice shaking.

Jeongin smiled. “I think we already are.”

Chan let out a breath that sounded like surrender. Like maybe, for once, he was letting himself fall, and Jeongin was right there to catch him. They didn’t talk much after that, words weren’t necessary. The bed was small, but they didn’t need space, just each other. Jeongin lay curled into Chan’s side, one of Chan’s hands tracing idle shapes into his back. They didn’t sleep. Not right away. They just stayed like that, touching, breathing, being.

And for once, the world didn’t ask them for anything. There were no flights to catch, no stages to conquer, no masks to wear, just the sound of their hearts, beating close, soft, steady. Like maybe this was the beginning of something; or maybe it had started a long time ago, and they’d just now caught up to it.

Jeongin woke up with the sun warming his face and Chan’s arm still wrapped around his waist, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like a kid. He felt like someone who was loved, and he was ready to stop pretending otherwise.

Chapter Text

Chan had always known the weight of wanting. It lived in the backs of his eyes, curled up in the space between duty and desire. He’d carried it for years, in long nights at the studio, in held breath backstage, in the ache of choosing silence again and again because love, in his world, was often a thing you weren’t allowed to want. But then Jeongin kissed him, no, then he kissed Jeongin. Like it meant something. Like it meant everything.

And now, as he sat in the back of the van in their way to the airport, the memory ghosted across his lips with the force of a wave. Jeongin was beside him, half-asleep with his hood pulled low and his arm brushing against Chan’s. No one else seemed to notice, too groggy with the early call time and their endless rehearsals. But Chan felt everything, the way Jeongin’s fingers had curled into the back of his neck the night before; the way they hadn’t talked about it, not really. And yet, it hung in the air like a thread between them, taut and fragile and shimmering with possibility.

He should’ve said something by now. Asked what this meant for them; but every time he looked at Jeongin, words failed. Not because he didn’t have them, but because he didn’t want to ruin what this was. This strange, tender newness that had only ever existed in glances and hesitations. So he let it be.

The Macau shows were intense. The arena felt endless, the crowd louder than gravity. Chan moved through each set like his body was borrowed, fueled by adrenaline and sweat and the electric pulse of STAYs screaming his name. But every time he turned his head, Jeongin was there, sometimes close enough to brush past him between formations; sometimes looking at him like he was the only person on stage; sometimes smiling in that way he did, half-defiant, half-sweet, like he knew exactly what he did to Chan. It drove him crazy. In the best and worst ways.

Backstage, Jeongin passed him a water bottle and bumped his shoulder like they were just teammates, brothers, friends. But his fingers lingered when he handed it off. Just a second too long, just enough.

Later that night, after the first show, Chan collapsed into his hotel bed with half his hoodie off and no energy to finish pulling it the rest of the way. A knock on the adjoining door made his heart skip, it opened slowly, and Jeongin peeked in, hair damp, hoodie already halfway over his face.

“You decent?” he asked with a smirk.

Chan made a vague noise and sat up. “Barely.”

Jeongin slipped inside, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it. For a moment, neither of them said anything. Just the sound of traffic outside, the air conditioning humming low. Then Jeongin crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, close, too close; never close enough.

“You okay?” he asked.

Chan swallowed. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Jeongin looked at him, like he was peeling back all the walls Chan still hadn’t figured out how to stop building. “You’ve been quiet.”

“You’ve been busy,” Chan deflected.

A small smile tugged at Jeongin’s mouth. “That’s not why.”

Chan didn’t answer, instead, he reached out and laced their fingers together, slow, careful, like the first time. Jeongin let him, no words, just warmth, just this.

Jeongin stayed for a while, long enough for them to end up shoulder to shoulder, backs against the headboard, legs stretched out under the covers like they’d done it a hundred times before. They watched some random drama on low volume. Talked a little about the concert. About how Hyunjin almost missed his cue because of a wardrobe glitch, how the Macau crowd had been so loud they could barely hear the in-ears.

Nothing about the kiss. Nothing about the fact that Jeongin was in Chan’s bed, wearing one of Chan’s old T-shirts, legs brushing his like it was normal. But then again, maybe it was; maybe this was just… them now. Something more, something unnamed and yet entirely theirs.

At some point, Jeongin dozed off with his head on Chan’s shoulder. And Chan lay there, not daring to move, as the weight of it, of him, settled into every crack of his heart.

The next morning, Chan woke up alone, but his shirt still smelled like Jeongin, and the extra pillow still held the shape of his head, and that, somehow, was enough.

The next few days passed in a blur Track unveil after track unveil. Airport calls. FNS rehearsals. The buzz of Japan in December wrapping around them like static. Chan hardly had time to breathe, let alone think. But Jeongin was always there, just on the edge of everything, passing him coffee on the van; laughing at something Minho said but still looking only at Chan. Brushing his fingers lightly across Chan’s back during lineup checks, like a whisper. Like a reminder. They hadn’t talked about it, still, but it lived in the spaces between them now. In the looks that lingered. The silences that felt full instead of empty. The weight of knowing, really knowing what they both felt. And that knowledge… scared Chan.

Because he could barely look at Jeongin without wanting, not just physically, though that, too. But the deeper kind. The terrifying kind. The kind that kept him awake at night wondering how long this could last before the world got in the way. Before he ruined it, before he had to choose between what he wanted and what was safe.

 “Railway drops tonight,” Hyunjin reminded him as they filed off stage, sweat still clinging to their temples.

Chan nodded, dazed. “Right.”

He barely heard the rest of the chatter, because Jeongin was walking beside him, just a little behind, eyes on the floor like he was deep in his own thoughts. Chan reached back, just for a second. Fingers brushing Jeongin’s, not holding, not grabbing, just touching. And Jeongin looked up, met his eyes, and smiled, small, real. Chan’s heart clenched.

The stadium lights were brutal. The adrenaline overwhelming. But Jeongin’s eyes found him every time they crossed the stage. At one point during the final, the members grouped together, arms around each other’s shoulders. The crowd was screaming, lights flashing. Chan could barely think.

And then Jeongin leaned into his side, voice low: “You looked happy tonight.”

Chan glanced down, breath catching. “Because I was.”

Jeongin’s smile was faint, soft. They didn’t say anything else. They didn’t need to.

That night in the hotel, Jeongin didn’t come over. But Chan lay in bed staring at the ceiling, heart pounding like a drumline, not with fear, with knowing that this was real. They didn’t have to define it, didn’t have to shout it into the world. It wasn’t official. It wasn’t safe. But it was theirs. And maybe, for now, that was enough.

He closed his eyes and let the thought settle in: They didn’t need labels, they just needed each other.

Chapter Text

Jeongin didn’t mean to watch Railway by himself. He’d planned to watch it like the rest of the members, crowded together in someone’s hotel room after rehearsals, limbs tangled on the bed, faces lit up by the glare of a phone screen as they cheered and teased and paused every three seconds to scream about Chan’s jawline. But Jeongin had opened the link early. He didn’t even realize he was doing it until the title flashed on the screen and the opening chords started. He was on his own, in the bathroom of their hotel suite, still half-dressed from the show earlier that night, makeup wiped off in a haze of exhaustion. It had been a long day. Another country. Another arena. Another round of pretending he was fine when he kept catching Chan’s eyes on him and not knowing what to do with it.

The video was haunting, not in the eerie, horror-movie sense. But in the way something gets under your skin and doesn’t leave. In the way it makes you feel things you weren’t ready to feel, ache, yearning, confusion, and that dizzy kind of want that left Jeongin breathless before the first chorus even hit. Chan looked… undeniable, all sharp eyes and controlled chaos, stalking through shadow with blood-red light on his skin. A vampire, maybe. Or something worse. Not monstrous, though. No, he looked like temptation given form. Like something that should be dangerous but felt safe because it was him.

His voice, low, seductive, slid through the first verse like silk: “Tunnel vision got my eyes on you / Tracking every single line and every move…”

Jeongin barely realized he was leaning closer to the screen until his nose nearly touched the glass. The lyrics weren’t soft, not this time. They were desperate, headlong, a breathless chase toward something unnamed. Toward someone. It was lust and love and the kind of hunger that came from needing more than someone was ready to give. And God, it sounded like him, it sounded like Chan, and it sounded like them.

By the time the chorus hit, “Yeah, this train never sleeps / Brace yourself, take a seat / Don’t you care about the casualties…”, Jeongin’s pulse was a drumbeat in his throat. Not because the production was intense (though it was), or because the vocals were brilliant (they always were), but because of what Chan was saying underneath it all.

There was longing buried in the beat. There was fear in the metaphor. A runaway train, no breaks, a single ticket, no turning back. Jeongin didn’t think it was just about love. Or chasing dreams. He thought maybe it was about the moment after. After you’d already fallen. After you’d realized the person you wanted might destroy you. And deciding to stay on the ride anyway.

He closed his eyes and let it wash over him, every word carving new lines into his chest.

“Baby, I feel our heartbeats / Shaking, trembling…”

He was shaking, too, not just because Chan’s voice was like sin in the dark. Not just because the performance was seductive and moody and just this side of devastating, But because it hurt. Because no matter how many people would watch this video and call it cool, sexy, mysterious, Jeongin knew it was also Chan telling the world he was scared; scared of losing himself, scared of love, scared of them. And Jeongin wanted to reach through the screen and touch him. Remind him that he wasn’t alone on that train. That whatever came next, whatever storm or crash or derailment, he’d stay.

He wanted to say: “You’re not the only one trembling.”

But he didn’t say it, couldn’t; because the next day, Chan was the same, soft, steady, kind, present. But distant, too.

The kiss they’d shared might as well have been a dream. Because Chan didn’t talk about it, didn’t bring it up, didn’t act like it had happened. And maybe that was worse than being pushed away; because how was Jeongin supposed to ask for more if he couldn’t even name what they had?

He watched Railway again that night, alone in the dark of their hotel room. And again the next morning before soundcheck. And again after the show, while still in his stage makeup, heart still beating a little too fast. He sat on the edge of the bed, pressing his fingers to his lips, remembering how it felt when Chan kissed him. Remembering the way his hands had trembled. Remembering how warm he’d been. He remembered wanting to fall. He still did.

The next few days passed in a blur of planes, stages, and back-to-back rehearsals. December was always packed, but this time it felt relentless, day after day of movement, of chaos, of too little sleep and too many eyes, and somehow, in the middle of it, Jeongin kept thinking about that video.

Railway wasn’t just a one-time ache anymore. It lived in him. The lyrics looped in his head at night. The visuals, the shadows, the sweat, the way Chan looked into the camera like he had nothing left to lose, kept him wide awake even when his body begged for rest. And when Chan was near, it was worse. He didn’t mean to stare. Didn’t mean to feel everything so loudly. But Chan had always been beautiful in his own quiet way, and now that Jeongin had seen him, had kissed him, wanted him, it was like trying to walk through life half-dreaming, half-starving, and pretending he wasn’t.

He caught himself watching the way Chan’s hands moved when he produced. The way he sat on the floor of the practice room, legs folded, mouth turned down in concentration. The way he tipped his head back when he laughed too hard at something Hyunjin said. The way he looked at Jeongin sometimes, soft, lingering, like he might be saying something with his eyes that he wasn’t ready to say with his mouth. And Jeongin wanted to believe in that look. But then there’d be distance again. The cautious way Chan would step back when their shoulders brushed too long. The way he never let them end up alone in a dressing room anymore. The way he’d start saying something, “Can I—” or “Last week, about—” and then change his mind halfway through.

It was like watching someone try to stand still on a moving train.

He knew Chan cared. Knew it in every small thing, the steady hand on his back before a show, the extra bottle of water left on his makeup table, the way he waited up for Jeongin to get back from personal schedules just to ask how his day went. That was love, wasn’t it? Or close enough to touch. But Jeongin didn’t just want care; he wanted more, he wanted to press Chan to the hotel wall and kiss him until the tension melted. He wanted to slip his fingers under the hem of Chan’s hoodie and feel bare skin, warm and real and his. He wanted to whisper his name in the dark, again and again, until Chan stopped pretending it didn’t mean everything, and sometimes; sometimes he almost did.

Like two nights after their show, when Chan had been exhausted and quiet all day, rubbing the back of his neck between interviews, barely touching his food at dinner. Jeongin had followed him back to the room and waited, letting the silence stretch out between them like a dare. Then Chan had looked up at him, and that look, like he was seconds away from giving in. Like maybe he’d been waiting too. But then someone knocked on the door, Minho, asking about a schedule change, and the moment passed. Like always.

So Jeongin stayed quiet, like always, and tried not to resent the train for never stopping.

Chapter Text

It was strange, watching yourself come undone in public, not in a scandal or a mistake or even a quiet, private breakdown. But in a three-minute video posted online at midnight. “Railway” wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t even a cry for help. It was just a piece of him, offered quietly, like a secret he didn’t expect anyone to understand. 

And still, Jeongin had. Chan could see it in the way he looked at him now. In the silence that hung between them in the dorm’s common room while the others buzzed around packing for Hong Kong. The rest of the group was loud, rummaging through closets, comparing snacks, someone shouting from the bathroom about missing toothpaste. But Jeongin just sat on the couch, eyes flickering to Chan every few seconds, like he was waiting, not for a talk. Not even for a decision. Just… waiting.

For him.

Chan didn’t know when it had shifted. When the weight of Jeongin’s presence stopped feeling like a soft ache and started feeling like gravity. He didn’t remember how many times he’d stopped himself from reaching out. Or how often he'd caught Jeongin doing the same. But he remembered what it felt like when they kissed. How quiet the world had gone when Jeongin’s hand curled at the back of his neck. How soft it had felt to finally not run. He remembered everything. And still, he’d pulled away. Still, he’d woken up the next day and gone back to the version of himself that knew how to stay just far enough away to keep things safe.

Because safety had rules. Boundaries. Lines he wasn’t supposed to cross. Not with Jeongin. Not when the world was watching. Not when they were still working, still being filmed, still promoting, still pretending everything was always okay. But safety didn’t feel like safety anymore. Not when every time Jeongin looked at him, it felt like a question he wasn’t answering. Because Chan wasn’t sure he knew anymore. What safety meant. What caution had earned him, other than longer nights and tighter knots in his chest. 

He was tired of being careful.

The night that they got back, Chan stayed at the dorm and Jeongin stayed too. No words were exchanged. Just glances. A shared blanket across the couch. Chan's laptop open between them, playing something neither of them were really watching.

When the screen dimmed, and the video stopped buffering, Chan didn’t move to fix it. He turned, instead, and found Jeongin already looking at him, eyes soft, shoulders relaxed; like he’d decided, sometime in the silence, that he was done pretending too.

“Did you mean it?” Jeongin asked eventually, voice barely above a whisper. “All of it?”

Chan knew what he meant. He just nodded. Slow.  “I did.”

Jeongin let out a breath, like he’d been holding it for days, and then, he leaned in, not fast, not bold. Just certain.

Like the decision had already been made a long time ago, and now they were just catching up to it.

Chan’s heart was loud in his chest. So loud it felt like the train from the song, rattling its way through every rule he’d set for himself, don’t get too close, don’t let it show, don’t make it real. 

But none of that mattered when Jeongin’s hand found his jaw and tilted it up, like he was searching for something just behind his eyes. None of it mattered when his thumb brushed softly over the curve of Chan’s cheek, like he was afraid to break whatever fragile thing had settled between them. 

And then he kissed him. Soft. Warm. Like a secret they’d both already told but were finally brave enough to say out loud. And Chan didn’t stop it. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t run. Because the voice in his head, the one that always screamed be careful, had gone quiet for the first time in weeks.

All he could hear was this. The sound of their breath between kisses. The quiet hum of Jeongin’s hand sliding into his hair. The rustle of the blanket slipping to the floor. Just them. Just now. Just do it.

Chan should have pulled away. Not because he didn’t want it. But because he did, too much. That was the danger of it; not the kiss itself, but what followed. The way his hand curved instinctively over Jeongin’s hip, pulling him in. The way Jeongin’s weight shifted as he climbed into his lap, straddling him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like they’d done this before. Like they’d do it again.

The blanket fell somewhere beside them, half-crumpled on the floor. One of Chan’s knees hit the low table as he shifted, but he didn’t care. Jeongin was warm and solid and right there. Every hesitation Chan had clung to over the past month was burning away at the edges, like newsprint touched by fire, curling and blackening until there was nothing left but the truth underneath.

And the truth was this: He wanted him. Wanted the weight of Jeongin in his arms. Wanted the way he kissed like it was the first time and the last time, all at once. Wanted to believe, even just for tonight, that they could have this and still survive it.

When Jeongin’s mouth left his, Chan chased it, just a breath of space between them, and ended up kissing the corner of his jaw instead, slow and open-mouthed. He didn’t stop there.

Down his neck. Over his collarbone. Jeongin’s hands curled into the back of his hoodie.

“Chan...” It was barely a whisper. But it undid something in him. Something tight. Something tired.

He leaned his forehead against Jeongin’s chest and just breathed for a second. The world felt quieter like this. Realer.

“Are you sure?” Chan asked.

Not because he needed to be cautious, but because he wanted Jeongin to have the choice. To say yes again, here, now.

Jeongin nodded. “I’ve been sure.” He swallowed. “I just didn’t know if you were.” Chan’s chest ached. “I’m tired of being afraid of something that already exists,” Jeongin said, softer now, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. “It’s not like this feeling started because we kissed. It’s always been there, hasn’t it?”

Chan closed his eyes, it had. 

The timeline was blurry, he couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when admiration turned into affection, when affection turned into longing. But it had happened. Quietly. Deeply. Somewhere between hotel nights, shared water bottles, late-night studio visits. Between Jeongin’s patience and his bravery. His loyalty. His voice. His eyes.

Chan had fallen. Whether or not he meant to. 

He pulled Jeongin in again, this time slower. The kind of kiss that said, I hear you. That said, Yes. That said, I’ve wanted this too.

There was nothing frantic about the way they held each other. Nothing rushed. Just a quiet surrender, hands moving in slow patterns, lips brushing again and again. Breaths caught and shared and lost in the space between.

Jeongin didn’t ask for more than what Chan gave. Didn’t push. Didn’t rush. He just stayed, and that felt like the bravest thing of all.

Later, when Jeongin had fallen asleep on his shoulder and the rest of the dorm was long silent, Chan tilted his head down and watched him for a moment. His mouth was slightly open. One hand curled under Chan’s hoodie, still pressed to his stomach. Like his body was refusing to let go even in sleep. Chan’s throat tightened. Because this wasn’t lust. It wasn’t just desire or proximity or one too many late nights, it was something older, deeper.

It was Jeongin.

And Chan had no idea what would happen tomorrow. Whether he’d retreat again. Whether they could keep holding this fragile thread between their fingers without it snapping under pressure. But for now, just for tonight, he let himself stay.

Chapter Text

The sunlight cut through the blinds in soft, faded lines, striping the floor like a slow-moving clock. Jeongin blinked up at the ceiling. Then closed his eyes again. His body felt... wrong. Or maybe too right. Heavy in places it usually wasn’t, light in others. As if his skin hadn’t figured out how to settle yet. Like it still remembered the shape of Chan’s hands. The warmth of his breath, low and ragged against Jeongin’s neck. The tremble in his voice when he whispered his name.

The quiet wasn’t peaceful, not when his thoughts were this loud, not when every inhale tasted like memory. He’d gone back to his own room after, not because he wanted to, God, no, but because something in Chan’s face had made him pause. It wasn’t regret. Not exactly. But it wasn’t peace, either. It was… distance. And Jeongin had spent too many nights chasing after Chan’s walls to mistake them for something they weren’t.

So he had kissed him one last time, slow and soft like goodbye, and whispered, “Good night.” And Chan had whispered it back.

Now the morning felt like a test he wasn’t prepared for, he pushed the blanket back and sat up slowly. His body ached, but not in a painful way. He ran a hand through his hair, glanced at the clock, past nine. Late, for them. But they didn’t have to be anywhere until noon. Meetings, fittings, some social content shoot. Just enough to force normalcy back into his bloodstream.

He grabbed his phone off the nightstand, expecting chaos. Instead, the group chat was quiet. Minho had sent a video of Hyunjin trying to fit three protein bars into his mouth at once. Seungmin responded with a picture of his sock drawer and the caption: “How is this my life.” Felix had reacted with three crying emojis and one sparkly heart. No one mentioned him, no one mentioned Chan. It was almost insulting, the way the world hadn’t cracked open. He slipped out into the hall, padded across the kitchen to get water. The apartment was quiet, too quiet. He glanced toward Chan’s door, it was shut, of course it was.

Jeongin stood there for a long minute, glass in hand, heart thudding against his ribs like it didn’t know what came next. Should he knock? Pretend nothing happened? Go back to bed and wait for a signal he wasn’t sure would come? He hated this part, hated that it always felt like he wanted more than he was allowed to ask for.

Last night, Chan hadn’t stopped him. He’d kissed back like he needed it, held him like it hurt not to. Like there was something buried so deep inside him it had to surface or else it’d drown them both. And Jeongin had taken all of it, every look, every breath, every touch, because how could he not?

He just didn’t know if Chan regretted it now, didn’t know if he’d say it was a mistake, or worse, pretend it didn’t happen at all.

The water was cold, sharp on his tongue; he didn’t finish it, instead, he put the glass in the sink and turned toward the window, watching the city blink into day, same streets, same sky, same clouds breaking apart like nothing had shifted at all, but it had.

Jeongin felt it everywhere, he was still staring when the sound of a door creaked behind him. 

Chan.

Jeongin didn’t move, didn’t know how, soft footsteps padded toward the kitchen. Not hesitant, but careful. Then a pause.

Then, “Morning.”

Jeongin’s fingers curled slightly at his sides, he turned slowly, let himself look. Chan looked like he hadn’t slept much, hair pushed back haphazardly, hoodie wrinkled like he’d laid in bed too long and still didn’t find rest. Eyes warm and unreadable all at once.

“Hey,” Jeongin said, voice quiet.

Chan didn’t look away. “You okay?”

That was the problem, wasn’t it? Jeongin gave a small, almost-smile. “Are you?”

Chan exhaled through his nose. Not a laugh. Not a sigh. Just... something stuck between. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “Still figuring it out.”

Jeongin nodded. The ache was quiet now, not gone, but dulled by the honesty. “Okay,” he said.

And then, for the first time that morning, Chan stepped forward, just once, just enough. Not an apology, not a kiss, but close enough that their shoulders brushed when he passed to get his own glass from the cabinet, the kind of closeness that meant, I’m not running yet.

Jeongin didn’t know what it meant beyond that, but maybe that was enough for now. The kitchen light flickered slightly, the kind of bulb that needed replacing but no one had touched in weeks. Jeongin leaned against the counter as Chan filled his glass, silent between them. It wasn’t a bad silence. Just… delicate. Jeongin didn’t know what he was allowed to say. If last night was a thing they could name, or if it only existed in the dark where no one had to look at it too hard.

He almost didn’t notice when Chan spoke. “You hungry?”

Jeongin blinked. “What?”

“Breakfast. Or something like it. We’ve got time.” Chan didn’t look at him when he said it, just opened a cabinet and pulled out a half-eaten box of cereal. “I think there’s yogurt in the fridge. Might not be expired.”

Jeongin felt his heart pull in two directions, one half wanted to press him, ask what last night meant, demand clarity, something real, something defined; the other half, smaller but stronger, knew if he pushed too soon, he might lose the fragile thread that still existed between them.

So he nodded. “I’ll check the yogurt.”

They moved like roommates, like best friends, like nothing had changed. And still, it had. 

He remembered too vividly the way Chan had sounded when he said his name, low and reverent like he’d waited too long to say it like that. The way their hands had gripped like they were falling and didn’t care where they landed. The way Chan had whispered, “Stay,” as Jeongin almost left, like the world might end if he took another step away. They didn’t talk about it, not over breakfast, not during the car ride to the company building, not when Minho joined them, groaning about having to “look pretty for content again.”, not even when Seungmin narrowed his eyes at Jeongin and said, “You okay?” with the kind of voice that made it very clear he knew something.

Jeongin just smiled. “Yeah. Just tired.”

It wasn’t a lie, it wasn’t the truth, either.

The studio was loud. Lights, crew, cameras. Outfits prepped and handed off. Felix wore something mesh that made Jeongin forget his own name for a second. Changbin offered him protein powder in a water bottle and called it breakfast. Hyunjin was already halfway through hair and makeup, scrolling through photos of his cats. Normal. So aggressively normal Jeongin could almost forget the way Chan had touched him last night like he couldn’t help it. Almost. Until their eyes met across the room.

Chan was half in costume, black shirt unbuttoned enough to show the smooth line of his collarbones, silver chain catching the light. His makeup hadn’t been done yet, but Jeongin could already see it, how his cheekbones would look sharper with contour, how the gloss they always added to his lips would make him look just a little bit too kissable. Jeongin’s mouth went dry, Chan’s eyes softened, he didn’t smile, nut he didn’t look away; and for a moment, Jeongin could feel it again, that pull between them, magnetic and impossible, like gravity had changed its mind and wanted to start fresh. Then a stylist stepped between them and the moment was gone.

Later, when the shoot wrapped and they were walking back toward the van, Chan dropped back beside him, close, but not touching.

“You heading out with the others?” Chan asked.

Jeongin shrugged. “Unless you need me for something?”

It wasn’t meant to be bold, but it landed that way, Chan glanced over, his mouth curved, barely. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Come home with me.”

And just like that, Jeongin couldn’t breathe.

The apartment was dim when they got back, they didn’t turn on many lights, didn’t need to. It wasn’t awkward, it wasn’t clear either. Chan dropped his bag in the hallway, shrugged off his jacket, and padded toward the couch, Jeongin followed. They didn’t talk much, didn’t have to. A music show was playing on mute, Jeongin sat with his legs tucked under him, Chan sat beside him, careful and quiet, like he didn’t want to startle anything. 

At some point, Jeongin reached for the blanket on the armrest, pulled it over both of them, close, warmer, he let his head drop on Chan’s shoulder, let himself breathe him in. Chan didn’t pull away, didn’t shift, didn’t make a sound except the small exhale that always came when his walls cracked. Jeongin’s hand slid under the blanket, found Chan’s, intertwined. Chan held back for a second, then curled his fingers in. 

Not quite a promise, but not denial either. And Jeongin, against the soft sound of a commercial break and the slow hum of Seoul traffic outside, finally let himself believe; maybe this wasn’t a mistake. Maybe it didn’t have to be figured out all at once. Maybe, in this moment, it was just sufficient to be here.

Chapter Text

The neon glow above the bowling lanes buzzed faintly, flickering like it couldn’t quite keep up with the noise of eight voices colliding. Pins cracked and clattered at the far end of the polished wood, Hyunjin letting out a sharp whoop that echoed off the high ceiling.

“Strike!” he shouted, spinning dramatically, nearly smacking Minho in the chest with his outstretched arm.

Minho caught his wrist without looking up from his phone. “Congrats. You managed to roll a ball in a straight line. Truly groundbreaking.”

Hyunjin scowled, Seungmin laughed under his breath, and Felix clapped as if it were the most impressive feat of the night. Jeongin sat perched on the vinyl bench a few seats down, fingers worrying at the cuff of his sweatshirt, eyes tracking the scoreboard. His turn was next, but his smile gave him away, smaller than Hyunjin’s flash, warmer than Seungmin’s smirk. Chan, two places over, noticed it before the pins reset. Something about the curve of it tugged at him, the way Jeongin’s lips pressed together like he was holding in more than he let out. It wasn’t the kind of grin he wore for cameras. This one had a secret threaded through it.

“Jeongin-ah, you’re up,” Changbin called, nudging him with his knee.

Jeongin startled slightly, then hopped up, grabbing the same ball he’d been using all night, its purple shell dull under the overhead lights. He lined himself up at the lane, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. Chan found himself leaning forward a little, elbows on his knees, watching too closely for something as ordinary as bowling. The ball rolled, straight and quick, but two pins stayed stubborn at the corner. Jeongin groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked back.

“You’re cursed,” Seungmin said simply, deadpan enough to make the others laugh.

“Better cursed than boring,” Jeongin shot back, cheeks flushing but eyes bright. He dropped onto the bench again, this time beside Chan without hesitation, shoulder brushing his for the briefest second.

Chan’s chest tightened at the contact. Not obvious. Not prolonged. Just enough. The game wound on, loud and easy, the kind of night that felt designed for memory. Cameras caught the chaos, staff laughed at their bickering, the world spun the way it always did. Still, under the noise, Chan felt the edge of something sharper humming. Because tonight wasn’t just another SKZ Code. It was the night before Jeongin’s birthday, and secrets had been carefully tucked into the schedule.

Minho checked his watch between turns, exchanging looks with Seungmin and Felix like a silent countdown was unfolding. Hyunjin kept pulling his phone out like he couldn’t help himself, then sliding it back into his pocket when Jeongin glanced over. Chan wasn’t subtle either. He’d been caught staring once, twice. Maybe more. He masked it with sips of water, with too-loud reactions to Felix guttering a ball, with an exaggerated stretch of his arms that made Hyunjin snort.

But when staff gave the signal, when the game wound to a pause, the lights dimmed slightly. Music started low through the speakers. Jeongin blinked, confused, glancing around.

“What—? Did we pay extra for mood lighting?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Just watch,” Felix grinned, bouncing slightly on his heels.

The track playing wasn’t one of theirs. Not exactly. At first it sounded like an instrumental, something new. Jeongin leaned forward, brow furrowed, listening. Then the first voice came through, soft, careful. Minho’s.

“Happy birthday, maknae. Don’t stay up too late scrolling again.”

Jeongin’s head snapped up, eyes wide. The others laughed. Then Seungmin’s voice. Then Hyunjin’s, teasing and affectionate. Felix’s bright lilt. Changbin’s rougher warmth. Each line layered over the music, stitched together into something messy and heartfelt.

And last, Chan’s. 

“Sir, I’m Chan. As my roommate and younger brother, thank you so much for always taking care of me and the sweet messages. Happy birthday.”

The room felt smaller all at once, sound pressing in. Jeongin’s hands stilled in his lap, knuckles pale where he gripped the fabric of his pants. His face betrayed him, shock, disbelief, and then something softer, deeper. His lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t catch the words. When the track ended, silence stretched, thick and expectant. Then Jeongin laughed. Not polished, not staged. A sharp burst that cracked into something lighter, almost overwhelmed. His ears turned pink as he pulled at his sweatshirt cuffs, shaking his head.

“You guys—seriously?” His voice cracked slightly. “This is so embarrassing.”

Hyunjin threw an arm around him. “You love it.”

“Maybe.” His grin betrayed him, wide and flushed.

The cake appeared then, small but crowded with candles, frosting slightly smudged from the box. Seungmin carried it like it might break in half if he moved too quickly. The singing was off-key, loud, ridiculous. Minho dragged the tempo down on purpose, Felix’s voice cracked halfway through. But Jeongin’s smile didn’t falter once. He leaned over the cake, closed his eyes briefly, and blew the candles out in one steady breath.

Chan didn’t clap. Not at first. He just watched, memorizing the way Jeongin’s cheeks puffed, the way he bit his lip after, as if holding onto the wish a little longer. When the noise swelled again, Chan joined in, clapping along, grinning too wide so no one would look too closely. Jeongin caught his eye anyway. Just for a second. Just long enough.

By the time the cameras shut off and staff called it a wrap, the energy in the room had thinned into something softer. Wrappers from snacks littered the tables, half-empty water bottles rolled under chairs, and Hyunjin was insisting he deserved “MVP” for his strike streak.

“You missed three times in a row before that,” Seungmin deadpanned, tugging on his hoodie.

“Selective memory,” Hyunjin replied without shame, flicking his hair out of his eyes.

Felix was still buzzing, arm looped around Jeongin’s shoulders as he scrolled through photos on his phone. “Look at this one, you’re glowing. Birthday boy aesthetic.”

Jeongin groaned, half hiding his face in Felix’s sleeve. “Delete it.”

“Never,” Felix said cheerfully, tightening the hug.

Chan busied himself with packing up, slipping balls back into racks, stacking empty cups. Not because it needed to be done, staff were already on it, but because it gave his hands something to do while his chest felt too full. When he glanced up, Jeongin was watching him. Not openly, not enough for the others to notice. Just a flick of his eyes, quick and weighted. Chan held the look for a beat, then dropped it, sliding his phone into his pocket.

Outside, the cold slapped sharp across their cheeks. Their breath curled white in the air as they fell into groups for the walk back. Hyunjin and Felix darted ahead, laughing about some inside joke, Changbin trailing after them with his hood pulled up. Minho and Seungmin hung back a little, deep in quiet conversation. That left Chan and Jeongin in the middle, side by side. The street was slick from an earlier drizzle, light from storefronts casting fractured reflections under their sneakers. Cars hissed past, headlights sweeping briefly over their faces.

Jeongin shoved his hands into his pockets. “Thanks for… you know. The message. And everything.”

Chan glanced at him. “Of course. It’s your birthday.”

“Almost,” Jeongin corrected, smiling faintly. His breath fogged in the air, caught in the glow of a streetlamp. “Still feels weird. Everyone making such a big deal.”

“You’re the youngest,” Chan said simply. “We’re supposed to make a big deal.”

Jeongin huffed a laugh, then kicked lightly at a stray pebble on the pavement. It skittered ahead, bouncing unevenly. “Yeah. Guess so.”

Silence laced between them again, not heavy, not empty. Just waiting. Chan felt Jeongin’s hand brush his once, twice, deliberate in its almost-accidental rhythm. His own fingers twitched, aching to close the distance, but the others were only a few steps ahead. So he let it hang there, charged and careful.

By the time they reached the dorm, Minho had already corralled Hyunjin and Felix toward his apartment, muttering something about noise complaints. Seungmin disappeared with a short wave, Changbin trailing behind him. Doors shut. Laughter dimmed. The hallway fell quiet.

Chan and Jeongin slipped into their own place, warmth blooming as the heater clicked on. They toed off their shoes, jackets draped over the entry bench, the domestic routine grounding after the chaos. Jeongin lingered near the couch, pulling the blanket from the armrest like muscle memory. He dropped onto the cushions, legs folding under him, face half-hidden behind the fabric. Chan hesitated in the kitchen doorway, watching. The TV remote lay on the coffee table, light from the street bleeding pale across the floor. Something about the picture felt fragile, like if he moved too quickly it might shatter.

So he crossed the room slow, lowering himself beside Jeongin. The blanket shifted to cover them both without a word. For a while, neither spoke. The hum of the heater filled the space, along with the faint whir of a car outside, the rhythmic creak of pipes in the wall. Chan’s arm brushed Jeongin’s when he adjusted the blanket. Warm skin against warm skin, simple and unremarkable, except it wasn’t. Jeongin leaned sideways then, tentative, head finding Chan’s shoulder. Not heavy, not asking. Just there.

Chan exhaled, long and quiet. His fingers flexed against his thigh, then moved, slow, until they found Jeongin’s hand beneath the blanket. Their palms pressed, tentative, then curled together. Neither of them looked down. Neither said anything. The weight of Jeongin against him was steady, heartbeat syncing slow with his own. It wasn’t the rush of last night, the frantic press of mouths and hands. It was quieter, maybe deeper for it. After a long stretch, Jeongin spoke, voice low enough it almost got lost under the hum of the heater.

“I’m glad tonight’s just us.”

Chan turned his head slightly, enough to catch the curve of Jeongin’s cheek against his shoulder, the dark sweep of lashes. He swallowed the knot in his throat. “Me too.”

The words scraped out rough, stripped of polish. He didn’t try to fix them. They stayed like that, bodies leaned close, breaths slowing in rhythm, blanket tangled around their legs. The room seemed to fold in on itself, noise and light pressing out until only this remained: warmth, the shape of a promise they hadn’t named, and the quiet certainty of not wanting the moment to end.

Jeongin woke to the faint buzz of his phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up in intervals, message after message flooding in, staff, friends, cousins back in Busan, fans already awake in every corner of the world. The clock read 9:12 a.m. February 8. He blinked hard, groaning softly as he pulled the blanket tighter around himself. The air in the room was cold, the kind of winter chill that clung even through the heating. His body wanted to stay curled, safe in the cocoon, but a knock at the door broke the illusion.

“Innie, you awake?” Felix’s voice, bright even muffled through wood.

Jeongin rubbed his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Come out. We got breakfast.”

That was enough to pull him upright, hair sticking in wild directions, sweatshirt twisted at the hem. He shoved his phone into his pocket and padded barefoot down the hall. The kitchen was chaos, bagels spilling from paper bags, cartons of juice, a pile of tangerines, leftover cake balanced precariously on the counter. Hyunjin was arranging strawberries on a plate like it was some five-star brunch, Minho pretending to critique the symmetry. Changbin already had cream cheese smeared across his cheek.

“Happy birthday!” Felix practically bounced as he set down a tray of pancakes.

The chorus came, loud and layered, each member’s tone clashing in the best way. Jeongin felt heat rise to his face before he could hide it.

“Sit,” Minho commanded, pointing to the chair at the end of the table. “It’s your throne today.”

Jeongin obeyed, shaking his head, but the grin never left his lips. The food kept piling, Hyunjin sliding him the prettiest pancake, Felix fussing with orange juice levels, Seungmin shoving a wrapped box into his lap.

“Don’t open it now,” Seungmin warned, smirking. “You’ll cry.”

“I won’t cry,” Jeongin said automatically, though his chest already felt tight.

Breakfast stretched long, loud, familiar. Teasing threaded through every bite, laughter spilling out until the walls seemed to shake. It wasn’t fancy, wasn’t elaborate, but it didn’t need to be. Every glance, every small act. the way Changbin refilled his plate without asking, the way Minho slipped him an envelope with bus money like it was still trainee days, the way Hyunjin kissed his hairline in passing, anchored him deeper in the moment. And beneath it all, Chan’s presence. Quiet, steady. Not the loudest voice, not the brightest laugh, but always there. Making sure the heater stayed on. Making sure the candles on the leftover cake lit even though they were too short. His eyes catching Jeongin’s across the table, softening just slightly before darting away again.

By the time the kitchen cleared, members scattering for showers, calls, schedules, the mess was monumental. Jeongin offered to help clean, but Chan waved him off.

“It’s your birthday,” he said simply, stacking plates.

Jeongin lingered anyway, trailing behind him to the sink. The water ran hot, steam curling up. Chan rinsed one dish, set it aside, then another. Jeongin leaned against the counter, watching the steady rhythm. “They really went all out.”

“They love you,” Chan replied, not looking up. “It’s easy.” Something in Jeongin’s throat caught at that. He turned his head, staring out the window instead, where the city gleamed pale in the winter light. 

Later, after the dorm buzz dulled again, Jeongin ended up back on the couch, legs stretched, a blanket pulled over him. His phone wouldn’t stop vibrating, fansites, hashtags, videos of the birthday song already trending. He scrolled, cheeks burning at some of the edits, the affection too large to hold. Chan emerged from the hallway, hair damp, hoodie slung loose. He dropped onto the opposite end of the couch, stretching his legs out until they brushed Jeongin’s under the blanket.

“Overwhelmed?” he asked, voice casual, but his eyes gave him away.

Jeongin exhaled, thumb hovering over his phone screen. “Maybe. It’s… a lot.”

Chan nodded, gaze lingering before he leaned back. “Take a break. The world can wait.”

Jeongin set the phone face-down on the table. The silence after the buzz stopped felt louder than the noise itself. They sat like that, quiet pressing in, until Jeongin shifted, pulling the blanket tighter around both of them. His foot nudged Chan’s under the fabric, tentative, like testing boundaries. Chan didn’t move away.

“Thanks,” Jeongin said softly, eyes fixed on the faint city lights bleeding through the curtains. “For last night. For today. Just… all of it.”

Chan’s throat worked. He turned his head, really looking at him. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I want to.” Jeongin’s voice cracked, quiet but certain.

Chan didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached under the blanket, fingers brushing Jeongin’s knuckles until they curled together again. The warmth there was grounding, not explosive like the first kiss, not frantic like the night after. Just steady.

“You deserve it,” Chan murmured finally.

Jeongin’s chest ached, in that way that felt too full rather than empty. He leaned sideways until his head found Chan’s shoulder again, slower this time, less hesitant. Chan didn’t flinch. The muted hum of the city filled the room. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a confession or a promise. It was just them, pressed close under a blanket, hearts pacing themselves into rhythm.

And Jeongin thought, if birthdays were meant for wishes, maybe this was his. Not fireworks. Not answers. Just the quiet certainty of being here, now, and the fragile hope that it might stretch longer than tonight.

Chapter Text

The cold February air bit through the windows of the practice room, but Jeongin barely noticed. Sweat clung to the back of his neck, his chest heaving with the rhythm of their latest run-through. The music echoed off the mirrored walls, their reflections sharp and fractured, a blur of movement and breath. He was tired. Physically, yes, knees aching, calves tight, but it wasn’t just that. His mind spun, caught somewhere between the dizzying pace of their schedule and the quiet moments with Chan he wished could stretch infinitely longer.

Today was another rehearsal for the fan meeting, three days packed with performances, laughter, and nerves. The setlist sprawled across the floor in ink and sticky notes, and the air was alive with a restless, electric kind of pressure. Chan moved across the stage with a calm confidence that both comforted and unsettled Jeongin. He was watching more than the choreography; he was watching Chan’s face, the way his jaw tightened when counting beats under his breath, the way his eyes softened when members nailed a tough transition. Sweat shone at his temples, strands of hair falling loose, and when he smiled, just briefly, it sent something sharp through Jeongin’s chest.

He wanted to be close. Closer than rehearsing, closer than the brief brushes backstage. Close in a way that wasn’t bound by choreography or stage lighting. The music cut. Silence rang in its place. Chan’s gaze found his across the mirrored floor. For a second, it was just them, and Jeongin could almost hear the unspoken words between them. Later, the look promised. Later, when the world isn’t watching.

Rehearsals bled into interviews, interviews into shoots, shoots into restless sleep before they woke and did it again. Fan meetings were circled in red on every calendar, demanding precision, polish, perfection.

“Again, from the top,” Chan said, voice rough but steady, even as his shirt clung with sweat.

“Hyung, my legs are going to fall off,” Hyunjin whined, sprawling dramatically onto the practice room floor.

“You said that an hour ago,” Seungmin deadpanned, not even glancing up as he scrolled through the setlist. “They’re still attached.”

Hyunjin groaned louder, covering his face with his arm. “Cruel. Heartless. Uncaring.”

“Get up,” Minho muttered, nudging Hyunjin’s side with his foot. “If you can complain, you can dance.”

The bickering drew laughter from Felix, who bounded over to pull Hyunjin up with a grin. “Come on, let’s finish strong. Then bubble tea after?”

That perked Hyunjin up immediately. “Okay, fine. But you’re paying.”

The room buzzed with that familiar mix of exhaustion and affection, a rhythm Jeongin had grown used to. The members teased, argued, encouraged, their voices layering over one another until it was a kind of music itself. And always, at the center, Chan. Not barking orders, not detached, just steady. Counting under his breath, clapping to keep tempo, giving quiet nods when someone hit the right beat.

The first time the photos from the Fendi event dropped, Jeongin had been crammed in the van between Felix and Hyunjin, scrolling through his phone while the others dozed.

“Ohhh, look at our leader,” Hyunjin crowed, leaning across him to shove the screen closer. “Model vibes. CEO vibes. Husband vibes.”

“Stop,” Chan muttered, pulling the phone away, but his ears burned at the word.

Felix peered over with a grin. “No, he’s right. You look so sharp, hyung. Like a whole different person.”

Chan groaned. “Don’t start…”

But Jeongin’s chest tightened as he scrolled, pride and something heavier tangling inside him. Desire, admiration, the aching hope that whatever world Chan was stepping into, Jeongin could be part of it.

Later that night, after rehearsal ended and the dorm quieted, Jeongin hovered over his messages, thumb poised above the keyboard. Finally, he typed:

You looked really good today. Congrats, hyung.

Simple. Safe. The reply came a minute later.

Thanks, Innie. Means a lot.

A tiny heart emoji blinked after it. Nothing more. But Jeongin found himself staring at it long after the screen dimmed.

The arena buzzed with excitement on the first day. Fans filled every row, lightsticks glowing like constellations, voices rising in a wave of love that hit like a tidal force the moment they stepped on stage. Backstage, the energy was chaotic. Hyunjin paced in circles, muttering lyrics under his breath, while Changbin triple-checked the setlist taped to the wall. Minho lounged on a folding chair like he had all the time in the world, ignoring Felix’s attempts to fix the folds of his outfit.

“Stop moving,” Felix scolded, tugging the fabric straight.

“I’m not moving,” Minho replied, tilting his head back with infuriating calm.

“You blinked,” Felix shot back, making Hyunjin laugh so hard he nearly tripped over a mic stand.

Jeongin sat quietly at the edge, mic pack already clipped, fingers drumming against his knee. The noise wrapped around him, familiar and grounding, but his eyes kept drifting to where Chan stood with a staff member, nodding along as last-minute adjustments were explained.

“You’re up for So Good tonight,” Hyunjin teased, brushing past and giving Chan a dramatic wink.

Chan rolled his eyes but smiled. “Guess I’ll just try not to embarrass you.”

But when the music started, and Chan stepped into the spotlight, Jeongin forgot how to breathe. His voice wrapped around the lyrics, smooth and aching, his movements sharp then fluid, commanding and vulnerable all at once. The crowd screamed, wave after wave, and Jeongin watched from the wings, pulse hammering, every fiber of him straining forward as if he could close the distance by sheer force of will.

When Chan came offstage, sweat-damp and glowing, their paths crossed in the narrow corridor. Jeongin offered a towel, hand brushing against his. Chan’s fingers curled around his for just a second longer than necessary. Their eyes met. No words.

Later, during Hyunjin’s cover of Railway, Jeongin felt the press of a hand at his back, steadying him when the crowd’s roar surged too loud. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

The three fan meeting days blurred together in color and sound: Felix grinning as he teased fans in multiple languages, Minho deadpanning answers that somehow made the crowd laugh louder, Changbin nearly tripping on a prop and turning it into a joke mid-performance. And through it all, Chan and Jeongin. The briefest touches: hands brushing behind a stage curtain, a soft word of encouragement whispered before the lights came up, the weight of Chan’s hand at his back when adrenaline made his breathing short.

Jeongin wasn’t sure how much Chan was willing to give, how close he’d let Jeongin come before pulling away again. But in those seconds, the hesitation melted, replaced by something warmer, urgent.

After the final fan meeting, the dorm was heavy with exhaustion. Jackets were draped across couches, bags half-unpacked, laughter dimmed to murmurs as members collapsed into their rooms.

Felix poked his head into the living room, hair still glitter-dusted. “Innie, cake tomorrow, yeah? Don’t think you’re off the hook just because your birthday passed.”

Jeongin laughed softly, nodding. “Okay, hyung.”

“Not hyung,” Felix corrected with a grin. “Bestie.”

When he disappeared, the quiet settled in again, heavy but soft. Jeongin pulled a blanket over his lap, body aching, mind restless. Chan entered quietly, hair damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up. He dropped onto the couch beside Jeongin with a sigh that seemed to shake the room.

“You alive?” Jeongin teased softly.

“Barely,” Chan admitted, eyes closing, head falling back.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty, never empty, but fragile.

Jeongin’s hand shifted under the blanket, brushing against Chan’s. His voice broke the quiet, low and careful. “I don’t want to lose this.”

Chan’s eyes opened. He turned his head, gaze heavy, unreadable. Then his fingers found Jeongin’s, squeezing lightly, grounding him. “You won’t.”

The words landed like a promise, though neither of them said the word aloud.

Later, when the noise of the day finally faded and Jeongin lay alone in his room, the quiet pressed in around him. He stared at the ceiling, replaying Chan’s touch, his reassurance. He remembered their first kiss, trembling and uncertain, the tenderness wrapped in it like a vow. He remembered the subtle ways Chan had leaned on him during rehearsals, the soft moments backstage.

There were days Jeongin wished it could be simpler, that Chan wouldn’t pull away, that every touch meant the same thing. But then, in those stolen breaths, he knew it wasn’t just fleeting. Chan was trying. And for now, that was enough. Jeongin traced the memories like a map, from their first tentative closeness to tonight’s quiet promise. His chest rose and fell, breath steadying.

Because maybe this; this rhythm of rushing days and fragile nights, of stolen moments threaded between the noise, wasn’t just survival. Maybe it was the beginning of something that felt like breathing.

Chapter Text

It was getting harder to pretend that everything between them was the same. Chan still moved through the days as he always had, up early, sorting through schedules, jumping between rehearsals and recordings and meetings, but his mind, his body, felt unmoored. Like a satellite pulled too close to the planet it was meant to orbit from a distance.  He kept waiting for the guilt to catch up to him. But it didn’t.

Instead, something far more dangerous settled in its place: comfort. There were no big conversations. No messy declarations. But there was something in the way Jeongin started waiting up for him at night again. Something in the way Chan stopped pretending he didn’t know which mugs Jeongin liked best. Something in the soft intimacy of shared silences.

It wasn’t official. It wasn’t anything, but it was everything, too.

They were recording one afternoon when it happened again; just a moment, a shift, one of those things no one else would notice unless they were looking for it. Jeongin reached past Chan for a bottle of water, and their hands brushed. Their eyes met, and Chan’s brain, always so good at analyzing and cataloging, forgot every single line he’d just read.

"Hyung?” Jeongin asked, lips curling with the faintest hint of a smile. Teasing, but soft. Familiar.

Chan swallowed. “Sorry. Lost my place.”

Jeongin’s gaze lingered a little too long. Neither of them moved away.

Later that night, when the apartment was still and dark, Chan lay awake in bed with his hand over his chest like he could press down hard enough to quiet his thoughts.

He could still feel Jeongin’s laugh against his shoulder from dinner. Still hear the way he'd said "You always do that," when Chan had unconsciously leaned in too close.

What are we?

The question had been circling him for days, like a storm just outside the window. He could feel the answer trying to take shape, could feel it in the way Jeongin looked at him when he thought Chan wasn’t paying attention. In the way Chan craved every second they had alone, but saying it would make it real; and making it real… might ruin everything.

So he didn’t say it. Not even to himself.

Instead, he whispered into the quiet room, like a prayer. “Just a little longer.”

Chan didn’t mean to fall asleep on the studio couch. He told himself he was only going to sit down for a minute, just to close his eyes, just until the vocal layers exported. But then there was warmth pressing against his side, the soft sound of breathing not his own, and he woke to Jeongin’s hoodie sleeve tucked under his cheek, the other boy sitting beside him, phone in hand, headphones around his neck.

“You should’ve gone home,” Chan said, voice low and rough with sleep.

“I did.” Jeongin shrugged, not looking up. “Then I came back.”

Chan sat up slowly. He wanted to ask why, but the answer hung between them already. They stayed there like that for a while. The air in the studio was warm with exhaustion and something else that Chan didn’t dare name.

Eventually, Jeongin broke the silence, eyes flicking to him in the low light. “You always say we’re fine as long as we don’t cross the line.” A beat. “But I think we did.”

Chan’s breath caught. “Yeah.”

Jeongin’s voice was softer now. “So what does that mean?”

Chan stared at the console. At the blinking lights. At the track they were supposed to finish today that now felt a million miles away. “It means I don’t want to stop,” he said before he could take it back.

He regretted it instantly. Not because it wasn’t true, but because of what truth demanded. Jeongin didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile, either. He just looked at Chan like he could see right through him.

“Then don’t,” he said.

Back at the apartment, the world felt smaller, quieter. Chan stood in the hallway outside his bedroom, the ache in his chest louder than any excuse he could come up with. Jeongin’s door was slightly open, light spilling through in a narrow strip, golden and warm. One step. Then another. He didn’t knock. Didn’t ask. He just pushed the door open, heart thrumming in his chest like a warning.

Jeongin was sitting on the bed in sweats and a hoodie, legs crossed, phone forgotten on the comforter beside him. His expression didn’t change when he saw Chan, he just leaned back against the headboard and said, “You okay?”

Chan didn’t answer, he crossed the room. Sat on the edge of the bed. Let his forehead fall into his hands.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” he admitted, voice muffled.

“I do,” Jeongin said, gentle but unwavering.

Chan turned to look at him, and something in his chest cracked open at the sight. It was terrifying. how easily Jeongin could undo him without even trying. How badly Chan wanted to fall into the space between what they were and what they might become.

“Is this going to break everything?” Chan whispered.

Jeongin looked at him, calm and clear-eyed. “Only if we pretend it isn’t happening.”

And that was it, there was no grand declaration, no perfect moment. Just a quiet understanding, anchored in months of tension, trust, and touch, that maybe what they were building didn’t need a name just yet.

Maybe it was enough to let it be real, to stop holding back, to stay in the room instead of running.

Later that night, with the world asleep and Jeongin pressed into his side, Chan traced slow, steady lines across the younger boy’s shoulder. His heart beat calm for the first time in days.

He still didn’t know what this was, but he knew it mattered.

Chapter Text

March came in like a wave. Not a gentle, rolling kind. A cold, chest-hitting one that left you blinking salt from your eyes, wondering when you last caught your breath. From the outside, it was perfect. Every city was louder than the last, every stage thundered beneath their feet. Latin America embraced them with a kind of wild love that made Jeongin feel like his lungs might burst from it. But underneath that, beneath the screams and soundchecks and fanlights, he was cracking open, one smile at a time.

The performances were different now. Not the songs, they knew those backwards, but the way they looked at each other, moved around each other. Especially the duets. He and Changbin had done Burnin' Tires for the first time in Santiago, the whole group scrapping solo stages for paired-up ones. It was meant to be a show of unity. But Jeongin had caught himself searching for Chan every time, wondering if he was watching. Wondering what face he was making.

Most days, Chan was unreadable. And then some days… he wasn’t. Jeongin could still feel the echo of Chan’s fingertips from just a week ago. The quiet of sharing a bed again. The way Chan had curled in close in the cold. How Jeongin had laid awake after, warm under the blankets but freezing inside, because that moment felt like a promise and a question in one.

But since then? Since they landed in Chile, it had all turned to fog again. They didn’t talk about what they were. They never did, and that was the problem.

The first night of Santiago had gone well. The fans were wild, the air thick with adrenaline and humid joy. Everyone was glowing, flushed, soaked in sweat and pride. Backstage, it had been a blur of high-fives and loud laughter. And then he saw her; she was someone from the staff, Jeongin didn’t even know her name, but she touched Chan’s arm when she spoke to him, and he smiled. That soft, tilted smile he saved for people he liked. Jeongin hadn’t meant to stare. He hadn’t meant to care, but there it was again: that feeling like a lit match against his ribs. He tried to ignore it through the post-show shower, the ride back, the fake laughter at Seungmin’s dumb joke. But the image of her hand on Chan’s sleeve clung to him, sticky and bitter.

He didn’t say anything when they got back to the hotel. Just walked in first and tossed his jacket over the armchair, heading straight for the minibar to grab a bottle of water he didn’t even want. The silence felt sharp. Chan didn’t fill it.

“You good?” Chan asked eventually, tugging off his hoodie.

Jeongin twisted the bottle cap until it squeaked, then let it fall on the counter. “Sure.”

Chan squinted. “You don’t sound good.”

“I’m tired,” Jeongin said. It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either. 

Chan stepped closer. “You didn’t eat much after the show. Are you okay?”

Jeongin finally looked up. “Why do you always ask that like you don’t already know?”

The words came out colder than he meant. But he didn’t pull them back. Chan blinked. “What do you mean?”

Jeongin’s heart thudded against his ribs, this was the moment, this was the crack. “You know exactly what I mean.”

Chan opened his mouth, then closed it again. His brows furrowed. “Jeongin…”

“I’m tired,” Jeongin said again, stepping away. “But not from the shows.” He turned fully, shoulders tense. “I’m tired of this. Of us. Or whatever this is supposed to be.” Chan didn’t move. “I’m tired of guessing if today is a day you’ll look at me like you mean it or pretend like nothing’s happening. I’m tired of wondering if I’ll ruin everything just by wanting something real.”

There it was. Everything, all at once; the air between them went still. Chan wasn’t saying anything, and Jeongin couldn’t stand it.

“Say something,” he demanded, voice tight with frustration. “If you want me to stop—if this is just some game to you—just say it. I’ll stop.”

Chan finally moved, but slowly. Like he was walking through water. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. His jaw worked before he spoke.
“It’s not a game.”

Jeongin’s breath caught. “Then what is it?” he asked, almost pleading now. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like anything I can hold onto.”

Chan looked exhausted. Not stage-tired, emotionally rung out. “You think I don’t want to hold onto it too?”

“Do you?” Jeongin snapped. “Because most of the time, it feels like you’re pushing me away the second I get close. You’ll kiss me like it means everything and then not talk to me for two days. You’ll stay up watching me sleep and then act like we’re just roommates at breakfast. You’ll let me love you—” He broke off, chest heaving, voice ragged. “But only halfway.”

The silence that followed cracked something open between them, Chan looked like he’d been punched. “I’m scared,” he said softly. And that? That was the most honest thing he’d said in months.

“I know,” Jeongin whispered. “I know you are. But I’m not asking for you to stop being scared overnight. I’m just asking for you to try.”

Chan sat down on the edge of the bed like his knees gave out. “I don’t know how to do this without hurting someone. Without putting everything we’ve worked for at risk. The team. The fans. You.”

Jeongin sat beside him. Not touching, but close enough to feel the gravity. “You’re hurting me anyway,” he said gently.

Chan’s hands twisted together in his lap. “I know. I just… I keep thinking maybe if I don’t name it, it’ll stay small. Manageable. Safe.”

Jeongin turned to look at him. “And is it working?”

Chan looked up. Met his eyes. Shook his head. “No.”

They didn’t solve it all that night, there were no promises, no declarations. Just the slow thaw of honesty. Of sitting in the truth and letting it be uncomfortable.

Later, when they finally curled under the blankets in silence, it was Jeongin who reached out first. Just a hand on Chan’s chest. Just the rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his palm. Chan didn’t pull away, he covered Jeongin’s hand with his own, held it there.

In the morning, the world would come rushing back. Another flight. Another city. Another show. But for now, Jeongin let himself breathe in the quiet.

Maybe nothing was certain. Maybe they were still halfway between fear and freedom.

Maybe, they were just not mean to be.

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be easier after the fight; not fixed, Chan hadn’t expected miracles, but at least clearer. They’d said the quiet part out loud. He’d said he was scared. Jeongin had told him he was hurting. And still… nothing changed.

Maybe that was the problem.

Rio’s humid heat clung to him like regret. The stadium was buzzing, fans who’d waited years to see them, screaming themselves hoarse in a language he still didn’t understand, singing along like it was second nature. It should have filled him. It used to. Now, it just made the silence louder.

Jeongin hadn’t spoken to him outside of rehearsals and stage formations since that night, he shared rooms with Han. With Minho. Even once with Seungmin, who usually avoided roommates like the plague. Always someone else. Always a buffer between them.

Chan hadn’t said a word about it, he couldn’t. Not with the tour tearing through cities like a storm. Not when the stage demanded every part of him. Not when his chest was already full of too many things he didn’t know how to name. He caught glimpses of Jeongin in hotel lobbies and dressing rooms, in mirrors backstage. Laughed with him in front of staff. Took selfies and did fanservice like nothing was wrong; but everything was wrong. Because Jeongin wouldn’t meet his eyes for more than a second. Because he flinched when Chan brushed past him. Because the space between them had never felt wider.

Chan had tried. He really had. Shared playlists with Jeongin over text. Left vitamin packs in his dressing room. Set a cup of tea near his mic before soundcheck like he used to. But nothing seemed to reach him. And now, even the music wasn’t enough to drown it out.

He fumbled a line during “Domino” in São Paulo. Barely recovered the breath before the next verse. His in-ear was glitching and someone on staff had mixed up the cue order. The heat was unbearable. Every step felt like walking through mud.

But worst of all, Jeongin didn’t look at him once. They were performing for people and still, all Chan could feel was the absence. The second the encore ended, he bolted. Straight past the green room, past the shouting staff. Into the dark, empty hallway where no one could see him fall apart. He leaned against the cold cement wall and let his head fall back. This wasn’t working, none of it was working. He was the leader. He was supposed to hold it together. To show strength and confidence and perfect timing. To be the one who never cracked first.

But here he was. Cracking; and he wasn’t even sure why anymore. Was it Jeongin? The fans fighting online about which city was louder, more passionate, more important?

Or maybe it was just... all of it, too much, all at once. The worst part wasn’t Jeongin avoiding him. It was how good he’d gotten at it. How effortlessly he could slip into group photos beside Felix or loop his arm around Hyunjin. How he’d laugh during dinner with the others like nothing was wrong. Like Chan wasn’t sitting just two seats away, silently unraveling thread by thread; and when their eyes did meet, briefly, accidentally, it wasn’t anger Chan saw anymore. It was caution. Hurt. A kind of quiet that came after the storm.

And Chan didn’t know how to fix it, he didn’t even know where to begin.

By the time they reached Lima, he was running on fumes. The show went quite well; they had a minor accident during Domino that caused fans that were on pit to fell one over the other, reason why the members decided to take a break so they could get a better organization between the fans. Backstage was chaos too. One of the dancers twisted their ankle during the transition of one of the song; the sound was awful and someone dropped a monitor. The staff were stretched thin. Tensions were high. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, a girl backstage reached out to adjust the mic pack on his back. She was just doing her job, but she smiled, and he smiled back automatically, on autopilot, like he always did under stage lights and scrutiny. What he didn’t notice was Jeongin standing a few feet away, watching. He caught the tail end of the look. Just a flash of it. Eyes shuttering. Shoulders tensing. Jeongin turned and walked away.

The distance became unbearable by Mexico. Chan knocked once on Jeongin’s hotel room door between soundcheck and call time. No one answered.

Later, he saw Han slip out of the same room, laughing. When Chan asked if they could switch for the final night, just one night, Han shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Innie.”

He didn’t, because that was the thing about this slow unraveling, Chan didn’t know how much of it he had permission to fix. How much of it Jeongin even wanted him to fix.

He just knew he missed him, God, he missed him, not the maknae, not the roomate. Him. The way he tucked his socks into his shoes. The way he always sang under his breath in the hallway. The way he used to fall asleep with his hand curled against Chan’s chest like he didn’t know how to rest anywhere else. And now? Now Chan barely existed in his orbit.

They flew back to Seoul on April 16. The others collapsed into their own dorms and dark rooms and comfort food. Jeongin didn’t go back to his room, choosing to stay with Seungmin instead. Chan sat alone on the couch with a half-empty water bottle and the weight of everything he’d been avoiding. He didn’t know when the leader mask stopped being armor and started being a cage. Didn’t know when Jeongin’s absence became louder than the fans, louder than the cheers, louder than the music he’d once believed would save him.

But here he was, exhausted, lonely; and more unsure than he’d ever been in his life.

Chapter Text

Seoul felt quieter than he remembered, maybe because the world had been loud for so long, plane engines, stadium roars, hotel elevators, the echo of thousands chanting his name. Maybe because he’d spent the last few weeks filling every empty second with sound so he wouldn’t have to think too hard, feel too much, but now the quiet was back, and it was deafening. 

Jeongin didn’t go home after they landed, Chan hadn’t said anything when he left the airport with Seungmin instead. Just a nod, a too-neutral “get some rest.” Jeongin had mumbled something like you too but couldn’t make himself look him in the eye. Couldn’t face the weight behind them. Couldn’t face the feeling that if he looked too long, he might crumble. So he followed Seungmin to the other dorm. Collapsed onto the couch before even making it to the guest futon. Seungmin didn’t ask any questions, he just handed him a bottled banana milk, turned on a cartoon rerun, and left the room after a while without saying a word. That was the thing about Seungmin, he always knew when someone needed space. And when that space was really just a shield for something worse.

It wasn’t until the next morning, when Jeongin was still wrapped in the same blanket from the night before, rubbing at sleep-stung eyes and avoiding his phone, that Seungmin finally spoke.

“You going back today?”

Jeongin flinched. “Back where?”

Seungmin gave him a look. “Your apartment. Your room.”

Room. Not home. Never home, not anymore, not with how empty it felt. Jeongin shrugged. “Maybe later.”

Seungmin didn’t say anything for a while, just sipped from his mug and leaned against the kitchen counter. “You know you can’t stay here forever, right?”

Jeongin forced a weak smile. “I thought you liked having me around.”

“I do,” Seungmin said easily. “You’re cleaner than Felix and don’t steal my socks. But that’s not what I meant.” He looked at Jeongin for a long time. Not prying, not accusatory. Just, patient. “I’m not trying to push you,” he added after a beat. “I just— You and Chan… you’ve always had your own gravity. Even when you’re not talking, you’re still orbiting each other.”

Jeongin looked away, throat tight. “Not anymore.”

“That’s not true.” He didn’t answer. Seungmin sighed and set his mug down. “Listen. I’m not gonna pretend I know everything that’s going on. And I’m not taking sides. But watching you both avoid each other these past few weeks has been—hard. For all of us. For you most of all.”

“I wasn’t avoiding him,” Jeongin muttered, already defensive.

“You were,” Seungmin said, gently but firmly. “And it’s okay that you were. You’re allowed to protect yourself. But don’t lie about why you did it.”

Jeongin opened his mouth, closed it again. Because what was he supposed to say? That it hurt too much to be near him? That every time Chan looked at him with those careful eyes, like he was still holding his breath, it made Jeongin want to scream? That sharing a hotel room after what they’d said, what they didn’t say, felt like trying to fall asleep inside a broken song? That he’d watched Chan smile at a stranger backstage and felt his whole chest splinter? He hadn’t known he was still that fragile. That something as simple as a glance could still wreck him.

“I just needed space,” he said finally.

Seungmin nodded. “You still need it?”

Jeongin hesitated, he wasn’t sure. Space felt safe. Clean. Predictable. But it also felt like hell, because he still missed Chan like air. Still heard his voice in the back of his mind, whispering apologies that never reached his lips. Still remembered how it felt to fall asleep with his hand on Chan’s chest, how steady that heartbeat used to make him feel. Now he didn’t know what he was holding onto, maybe nothing, maybe that was all they were ever going to be, leader and maknae, roommates, teammates with too many unspoken things between them. A history they couldn’t change. A future they couldn’t claim.

“I don’t know,” Jeongin whispered. Seungmin just nodded again. Like he understood, and maybe he did.

It was almost midnight when Jeongin finally went back. The apartment looked the same. It always did. Same neatly stacked shoes by the door. Same ambient glow from the light strip under the kitchen counter. Same silence, but the air felt heavier. He kicked off his sneakers quietly and didn’t call out. Didn’t need to. Chan’s door was closed, the strip of light underneath it telling him he was still awake. Jeongin stood in the hallway longer than necessary. His suitcase sat by the wall where he dropped it. His fingers tightened around the strap of his overnight bag. He could go to his room. Lock the door. Pretend like nothing had happened. Pretend like the past month had just been a blur of stages and jet lag. But that would be a lie, and he was tired of lying.

He knocked once on Chan’s door. No answer. But he heard the music pause. Barely a breath later, the door creaked open. Chan didn’t say anything, just stood there, in a hoodie and sweatpants, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. His hair was a mess. His eyes worse. But it wasn’t exhaustion that made Jeongin’s chest ache. It was how carefully Chan looked at him. Like he was afraid to move too fast. Like he didn’t trust the moment to be real.

Jeongin looked down. “Can I come in?” Chan stepped aside without a word, the room was warm. Lived in. Familiar. Jeongin sat on the edge of the bed, careful to keep his hands in his lap. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Chan sat across from him, back to the desk. “You don’t have to be.”

“I do.” Jeongin looked up. “I was angry. And scared. And I didn’t know how to talk about any of it, so I ran. I thought distance would help, but—”

“It didn’t,” Chan finished, voice barely above a whisper.

Jeongin shook his head. “No.”

They sat in silence. Not the brittle kind that hurt to hold. Just quiet. Honest. Heavy with the things neither had said on the road. “I missed you,” Chan said finally.

It broke something open in Jeongin. His throat burned. “I saw you smiling at her. Backstage. And I knew it was nothing. I knew. But it still felt like…” He trailed off, ashamed. “Like I didn’t have the right to be hurt.”

“You do,” Chan said. “You always have.”

Jeongin blinked fast. “But what are we?”

Chan exhaled slowly. Ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”

“That’s the problem.”

“I know.”

“It’s like…” Jeongin’s voice cracked, but he didn’t stop. “Every time I think we’re building something, you pull away. And I don’t know if it’s because you’re scared or because you don’t want me the way I want you.”

“I do,” Chan said, fierce and raw. “I do, Innie. I just— I’m scared that wanting you means hurting the group. That if we fall apart, everything else will too.”

Jeongin looked at him, heart aching. “So what? We just stay in this in-between forever?”

Chan didn’t answer right away. He looked like he wanted to say a hundred things. Maybe he did. But all he said was, “I’m trying.”

Jeongin nodded. “I know but trying is not enough.” There was another pause. And then slowly, carefully, Jeongin reached for his hand. Chan didn’t pull away. “I’m tired,” Jeongin said softly. “Of pretending I’m fine with just being your roommate. Of acting like the only thing we are is leader and maknae.”

“We’re more than that,” Chan whispered.

Jeongin met his eyes. “Then let’s be more.” A long breath. A squeeze of fingers. A silent promise.

Maybe they still didn’t have the right words. Maybe they never would. But in that moment, barefoot in a quiet room, hearts worn thin but still beating for each other, it was enough, at least for now.

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet, not silent like it had been for the past month, empty silence, hollow and stiff around the edges. This was something else. Softer. Still uncertain, but not cold. The kind of quiet that followed rain, or the last chord of a song held in the air a few seconds longer than it needed to be. Jeongin hadn’t let go of his hand. They sat there for a while, not speaking, not moving. Fingers tangled between them like it meant something, and maybe it did. Maybe this was what more looked like when you didn’t know how to name it, when you were still afraid of what it could break. The desk lamp hummed faintly in the corner. Outside, somewhere far off, a car door slammed, followed by muffled laughter that faded into the street. The city didn’t pause for them, but here, in this half-lit room, it felt like time bent around their small stillness.

Chan couldn’t remember the last time he’d exhaled without feeling that familiar weight pressing against his ribs. Even now, it lingered, lighter than before, but still present. Still shaped like responsibility, like fear, like Jeongin’s words echoing in his chest.

Let’s be more.

He wanted to say yes. Had already said it without saying it, in the way he opened the door, in the way he hadn’t let go. But the questions were already forming in the back of his mind, as sharp and stubborn as the ache in his shoulders after every show. What did more mean when the world was always watching? When every blink, every breath could be turned into headlines? When the group depended on him to keep lines clean and borders unblurred, and nothing about this, nothing about them, was tidy?

His gaze stayed fixed on their hands. Jeongin’s thumb brushed against his knuckle absentmindedly, slow, steady. Like it belonged there. God, he’d missed that. He’d missed the way Jeongin used to lean against him without thinking, as if proximity was instinct. He missed the brightness of his laugh, the kind that tipped his head back and caught everyone else in its orbit. He missed being noticed, not just as a leader but as someone who forgot to eat, who stayed hunched too long over his laptop until his neck locked, who sometimes needed someone to tug him away from a screen. Jeongin saw him. Even now, when Chan wasn’t sure he liked what there was to see.

The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, not brittle, but taut with something unnamed. Chan forced his voice out, low. “You should sleep.”

Jeongin’s head tilted, eyes catching his in the half-light. His tone was soft but pointed. “So should you.”

Chan let a faint smile tug at his lips. “You first.”

“I’ll stay here, if that’s okay,” Jeongin said, shifting slightly closer, the words quiet but certain.

There was a time when that would’ve startled him, made him tense, pull back. But tonight, Chan just nodded. He lifted the blanket without a word, letting Jeongin crawl under it beside him, socks still on, hair still damp from the shower he’d taken at Seungmin’s. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t reach. Didn’t press. Because for the first time in weeks, Jeongin was close, and he wasn’t running. The lamp stayed on. Neither of them moved to turn it off. The light painted thin shadows across the wall, across the slope of Jeongin’s cheek as he lay there, close enough that Chan could see the faint scar above his brow, the one from that music video shoot in freezing rain.

Jeongin’s voice broke the quiet, careful. “I kept thinking… maybe it would be easier if we just let go.”

Chan’s throat tightened. “Would it?”

“No.” Jeongin’s gaze didn’t waver. “But I thought maybe you wanted me to.”

“I didn’t.”

A beat. Then, quieter: “I know that now.”

The words slid between them like a release valve. Jeongin shifted onto his side, facing him fully, and Chan let his eyes trace the small details: the darker smudges under Jeongin’s eyes, the tension in his jaw that hadn’t eased even in rest. He looked older than he had a year ago, more certain, more guarded. Chan had helped build that confidence, had also been the one to fracture it.

“Do you think this can work?” Jeongin asked suddenly, and Chan knew he wasn’t talking about tonight. Or the apartment. Or even the group. He was asking about them.

“I don’t know,” Chan admitted, honesty heavy in his chest. “But I want to try.”

Jeongin’s eyes softened at that, but his nod was brief, controlled, as if agreeing too easily might break something delicate. Then, slow and tentative, he leaned in until his forehead rested against Chan’s shoulder. Chan closed his eyes, let himself feel the warm weight of breath near his collarbone, the steady pulse that wasn’t his own. It was enough. Just that. Just this.

They didn’t talk about the month of silence on tour, or the way Jeongin had crumbled watching him smile at someone else backstage. They didn’t talk about the way Chan had pretended not to notice the distance widening between them until it was a canyon. Not yet. This was the quiet between notes. The breath before the next verse. And for the first time in too long, Chan let himself believe they might hold it. The blanket had shifted when Jeongin moved closer, slipping down to pool around their waists. Chan tugged it back up absentmindedly, careful not to jostle him too much, though his hand brushed Jeongin’s wrist as he did. That tiny contact, barely there, still sent a jolt through his chest.

“You’re always cold,” Chan murmured, not sure why he said it.

Jeongin’s lips tugged faintly, not quite a smile. “You always forget the heater.”

“Hey,” Chan muttered, but it came out softer than he intended. “I don’t forget. I just… get distracted.”

“By your laptop.”

“By work.”

“Same thing.” Jeongin shifted again, just enough that his knee pressed lightly against Chan’s thigh beneath the blanket. He didn’t move it away. “You don’t even notice when your hands go numb.”

Chan huffed, the sound somewhere between exasperation and fondness. “That’s why I have you nagging me, isn’t it?”

Jeongin finally smiled, small but real, and the sight loosened something tight in Chan’s ribs. Silence pressed in again, not sharp but fragile, as though one wrong word could shatter it. Chan let his eyes flicker over Jeongin’s face—half in shadow, half washed in the lamp’s warm light. He looked tired, yes, but there was also something raw, unguarded in the way his lashes trembled against his cheeks, the way his mouth opened like he might say something but then closed again.

Chan couldn’t take it anymore. “Innie,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Jeongin looked up at him. “Yeah?”

The word stuck in Chan’s throat. I missed you. I need you. I’m sorry for everything I didn’t say. But all that came out was, “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

Jeongin’s brow furrowed. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” Chan said immediately, the word too quick, too desperate. His chest burned with the truth of it. “No, I don’t. I just… don’t want you to feel like you have to be here.”

“I’m here because I want to be.” Jeongin’s tone was steady, though his fingers twitched slightly where they rested near Chan’s. “I wouldn’t force myself to sit in your room in the middle of the night if I didn’t.”

Chan swallowed, throat tight. “I don’t always know what you want.”

“That’s because you don’t ask,” Jeongin shot back, sharper than he probably meant. His shoulders tightened under the blanket, but he didn’t look away. “You just assume. Or you stay quiet. And then I’m the one left guessing.”

The words landed like a sting, not because they were cruel, but because they were true. Chan’s chest tightened, shame heavy in his stomach. He forced himself not to look down, not to retreat into the safety of silence again. “You’re right,” he admitted, voice low. “I do that. I’ve been doing that for months.”

Jeongin’s jaw worked like he was chewing on more words, but then he sighed, long and uneven. “Why?”

Chan’s throat felt raw. “Because I’m scared if I say the wrong thing, I’ll lose you.”

The admission hung heavy between them. The hum of the lamp seemed louder. Jeongin blinked, eyes softer now, though confusion threaded through them. “You thought silence was better?”

Chan winced. “I thought… maybe if I didn’t say it, it couldn’t break.”

“But it did,” Jeongin said quietly. “We broke anyway.”

Chan let his head fall back against the wall, eyes shut. He breathed in slowly, the faint scent of Jeongin’s shampoo, minty, clean, reaching him. “I know.”

For a while neither of them spoke. Their breathing filled the room, uneven but in rhythm, two heartbeats stumbling toward each other.

Jeongin was the one who broke the quiet this time. “When I saw you with her… backstage…” His voice caught. He bit his lip hard enough to leave a mark. “I hated myself for being jealous. For feeling like I didn’t matter to you.”

Chan opened his eyes, sat forward slightly. “You mattered. You always did. That smile… it wasn’t what you thought. It was—” He broke off, frustrated with how flimsy explanations sounded. “It wasn’t her. It’s never been her. It’s you.”

Jeongin stared at him, unreadable. “Then why did it feel like you didn’t even see me?”

The words sliced. Chan forced himself not to look away. “Because I was trying too hard not to show what I felt for you. Because if I did, if anyone noticed—”

Jeongin interrupted, sharp. “If anyone noticed, then what? We implode? The group ends? You lose your title as perfect leader?”

Chan flinched. Jeongin’s expression softened immediately, regret flashing across his face. “Sorry. That was—”

“No,” Chan said quickly, shaking his head. “Don’t apologize. You’re right. That’s exactly what I’ve been afraid of.”

Jeongin’s voice dropped. “Do you really think we’d fall apart just because of this? Because of us?”

Chan hesitated. Every worst-case scenario he’d run through at three in the morning clawed at his throat. The headlines. The betrayal in fans’ eyes. The weight of eight other lives depending on him not to be reckless.

“I don’t know,” Chan admitted finally. His voice was hoarse. “But I can’t risk it. I can’t risk you.”

Jeongin stared at him for a long time, eyes glassy, mouth set. Then, softly: “You risk me every time you stay quiet.” The words hit harder than any accusation. Chan’s chest caved around them. Jeongin shifted closer then, slow, hesitant. Their knees brushed more firmly now, no space left between. “Hyung,” he murmured, the title carrying more weight than usual, all history and care knotted in it. “I don’t want perfect. I don’t need you to have answers. I just need you to try with me.”

Chan’s throat tightened, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “I’m scared, Innie.”

Jeongin’s fingers brushed over his under the blanket, tentative but certain. “Me too. But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”

The room seemed to shrink around them, air heavy with unsaid things. Chan let his hand turn, palm up, catching Jeongin’s fingers properly this time. Their hands fit, messy, uneven, but fit. They stayed like that for a while, breathing through it, shoulders brushing, warmth building in small increments.

At some point Jeongin shifted to lean back against the wall beside him, their arms pressed from elbow to wrist. “Do you remember the trainee dorms?” Jeongin asked suddenly, voice quieter now.

Chan blinked, thrown by the change. “What about them?”

“How you used to fall asleep at your desk. Every night. And I’d wake up to the sound of your laptop fan.” Jeongin’s mouth quirked faintly. “I used to get so annoyed.”

Chan laughed softly despite himself. “You used to kick my chair to shut me up.”

“I did,” Jeongin said, almost fond. “And then you’d apologize in the morning like it was my fault for being cranky.”

Chan shook his head, smiling faintly. “I just didn’t want you to hate me.”

“I didn’t,” Jeongin said, tone so simple, so sure, it made Chan’s chest ache. “I never did.” Their laughter faded, leaving something quieter behind. “I don’t want to go back to that,” Jeongin admitted after a beat, voice low. “To being strangers in the same space. To pretending like none of this is real. I can’t.”

“You won’t have to,” Chan whispered.

Jeongin turned to him, searching his face. “Promise?”

The word carved deep. Chan wanted to give it. Wanted to pour out yes, always, no matter what. But promises were fragile. He’d broken too many already by holding back, by hiding. Instead, he squeezed Jeongin’s hand tighter, grounding himself in the warmth of his skin. “I’ll do everything I can.”

Jeongin seemed to accept that, though his eyes lingered on him like he was memorizing the words, testing their weight. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick with unshed tears, with the pulse of something tentative and alive. Chan realized then that Jeongin was closer than he’d thought, breath brushing his cheek when he shifted. Their foreheads bumped lightly, an accident, maybe, but neither pulled back.

“Innie,” Chan said again, softer this time, half a plea. Jeongin hummed in acknowledgment. “Stay,” Chan murmured, voice raw. “Just… stay.”

“I already said I would,” Jeongin whispered. And this time, Chan believed him.

The night stretched on in quiet waves. Neither of them spoke much after that, didn’t need to. The weight of words already said, finally laid bare, was enough. Somewhere between the lull of silence and the steady warmth at his side, Chan’s body began to ease, tension unwinding muscle by muscle. Jeongin shifted, settling against him more fully. Not clinging, not tentative, just there, a presence both grounding and steady. Their joined hands rested lightly between them, fingers lax but still entwined. Chan let his thumb drift in small, unconscious circles across Jeongin’s knuckles. It was clumsy comfort, but Jeongin didn’t pull away. The clock ticked somewhere beyond the curtain’s shadow. Chan’s eyes grew heavy, heavier. He fought it at first, too aware, too afraid of breaking this fragile moment, but exhaustion won in increments. Breath slowed, shoulders softened. His last clear thought before slipping under was how strange it felt to finally rest, not alone with his fears, but tethered to someone who refused to let go.

Morning came like a whisper. Jeongin stirred first, body sluggish but mind alert. He blinked against the dim light filtering in through the curtains, the room softened into half-tones of gray and gold. For a moment he wasn’t sure what woke him, until the faint, steady rhythm pressed into his back registered. Chan’s breathing. Chan’s heartbeat. Jeongin stilled, absorbing it, the rare warmth of a night not spent turning over the same thoughts, the quiet weight of fingers that had only loosened when sleep claimed them. His own palm was still faintly warm from it. Nothing had been fixed overnight. He knew that. The tour, the noise, the miles of stages waiting for them, none of that had paused. But something had shifted. Like the axis tilted just enough for a little more light to seep in.

He turned carefully, trying not to wake him. But Chan stirred anyway, lids fluttering open. His voice rasped, low and rough with sleep: “Mornin’.”

Jeongin offered a faint smile. “You slept.”

A soft grunt of acknowledgment, followed by a stretch that made his hoodie ride up slightly. “Didn’t think I would.”

“You needed it.” Chan hummed, the sound somewhere between agreement and disbelief, and let his head fall back against the wall. The quiet lingered, but not the brittle kind of before. This one was gentler.

When Jeongin finally sat up, stretching until his spine cracked, Chan mirrored him with a groan. “Do we have anything today?” Jeongin asked, reaching for his phone.

“Free until rehearsals,” Chan said. “Management pushed everything back a few days. Said we needed to breathe after Latin America.”

Jeongin scrolled through the notifications flooding his screen. “Then Japan is next.”

“Yeah. After that, North America.” Chan’s hand raked through his hair, making it stick up even worse.

“A whole month,” Jeongin murmured, half to himself. “Then Canada. Then Europe.”

The weight of it sat heavy in his stomach. City after city, timezone after timezone, like a tidal wave waiting to crash.

“So no real break until…”

“August, maybe,” Chan said. His voice was quiet, resigned. “I know it’s a lot.”

“It always is,” Jeongin answered softly.

The air stilled again, filled with all the things touring cost them, not just energy, not just sleep, but pieces of themselves they had to fight to hold onto. Jeongin turned, eyes steady. “Do you think we’ll be okay?”

Chan’s gaze met his. Tired, honest. “I don’t know. But I want to be.”

The words weren’t a promise. But they were truer than any polished reassurance. And that, right now, was enough. “I guess,” Jeongin said, lips tugging faintly, “we’ll just have to try.”

“One day at a time.”

Jeongin smiled, eyes crinkling. “That sounds like something Seungmin would say.”

Chan laughed under his breath, rubbing at his face. “God, don’t tell him. We’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Too late. I’m texting him right now.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Still here though.” Jeongin locked his phone, the tease softening into something steadier.

Chan’s eyes lingered on him, memorizing. “I know. And I’m grateful.”

Their hands found each other again without thought, resting together on the blanket like it was the most natural thing in the world. The kitchen smelled like coffee and toasted bread. Steam curled lazily from the kettle as Jeongin poured water into two mugs, his bare feet planted against cool tile. Morning light spilled unevenly across the counter, making everything softer, smaller, as if the world outside hadn’t quite decided to begin yet. Chan padded in, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands, hair still sticking up at wild angles. His eyes were heavy, but his presence filled the room the way it always did. Not as leader, not as the man who commanded stadiums, just Chan. Just Hyung.

“I made yours weak. Like you like it.” Jeongin slid a mug across.

Chan accepted it with a faint huff. “Because I’m a child.”

“You said it, not me.” Their fingers brushed in the exchange, lingering a moment longer than necessary. Neither moved away, they settled at the table, the hum of the refrigerator and soft clink of mugs the only background noise.

“So,” Chan began carefully, “about the tour…” Jeongin glanced up, waiting. “I meant what I said last night,” Chan continued slowly. “About wanting more. I just… don’t know what ‘more’ looks like right now.”

Jeongin let the words sit. Then nodded. “Neither do I.”

Relief and regret flickered across Chan’s face. But before he could say anything else, Jeongin added, “I know what I don’t want.”

Chan’s head lifted. “Yeah?”

“I don’t want to spend another leg pretending you’re just my roommate.” His voice was even, steady. “I’m not asking for anything dramatic. I just want to know we’re trying. That we’re real. Even if we’re figuring it out as we go.”

Chan swallowed, voice rough. “You are. Real, I mean.”

Jeongin’s throat tightened. “Then let’s stop treating this like a secret.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy with possibility, with fear, with something that could bloom if they let it. “You’re not scared?” Chan asked quietly.

“Terrified,” Jeongin admitted, lips quirking faintly. “But it’s scarier pretending I don’t care. Watching you disappear into yourself again.”

Chan’s fingers tightened around the mug. He looked down, then back up, eyes sharp with something vulnerable. “I didn’t know how to reach you.”

“I know,” Jeongin said softly. “But I needed you to try anyway.”

“I’ll try harder.” Chan’s voice was firm now. “Not just when it’s easy. Even when it’s messy. Even when I don’t have the words.”

Something in Jeongin’s chest unclenched. “Okay.”

They let the quiet return, but this one was intentional, full. Not the absence of speech, but the presence of something new, fragile but alive. Then Chan tried for levity. “So… should we tell the rest you’re staying with me the whole tour, or…?”

Jeongin nearly choked on his tea. “Hyung—!”

“Kidding.” Chan’s grin was unguarded, eyes crinkling. “Mostly.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Jeongin muttered, though his lips tugged upward.

“Right. Slow.”

“Slow,” Jeongin echoed.

But when they stood to rinse the mugs, Chan’s hand brushed his lower back. Not in fear. Not in secrecy. Just steady; and when Jeongin leaned into it, just slightly, Chan didn’t flinch. They had no promises. No labels. No map for what came next, but they had mornings like this. And honesty. And each other. For now, it was enough. And maybe, just maybe, it would carry them through whatever came next.

Chapter Text

The apartment looked different at night. Shadows stretched long across the floorboards, and it felt smaller with suitcases open across the floor like mouths waiting to be filled. The quiet wasn’t heavy, not like it used to be; it was restless, humming with the low thud of zippers and the rustle of clothes spilling folded and refolded. The air smelled faintly of detergent and the instant noodles they’d eaten too quickly hours before.

Chan knelt beside his luggage on the rug, folding and stacking shirts in neat squares with slow precision. His focus was sharper than it needed to be, as if the fabric might judge him otherwise, every crease lined like he was solving a puzzle that would fall apart if he got it wrong. Across the room, Jeongin wasn’t nearly as composed, he wrestled a hoodie into submission, stuffing it into his suitcase with none of the same care. His suitcase looked like it had exploded, shirts sleeves spilling over the edge, a tangle of cables threatening to slip out the side pocket like stubborn roots.

“You’re going to regret packing like that,” Chan said without looking up.

Innie’s answer was muffled through clenched teeth. “I’ll fix it later.”

“You won’t.”

A beat. Then a sigh. “...Yeah, probably not.” Innie glanced up “We’re just going to unpack everything at the hotel anyway,” He said as if it was all the answer needed.

Chan muttered something under his breath, tugging at a sweatshirt like it had personally wronged him. “Yeah, but I don’t want it to wrinkle before we get there.”

Jeongin snorted. “Half your stuff is already wrinkled.”

Chan shot him a look, tired, but soft at the edges. The kind of look that asked for patience without saying it out loud.

The room filled with the small, ordinary noises of preparation. The sound of zippers, the faint scrape of hangers, and the steady thump of Chan shifting across the floor filled the room, tape tearing from a roll, the clink of a charger hitting the nightstand. Somewhere outside, scooters buzzing by, a dog barking two streets over, a car door slammed, muffled through the window. The city, carried on, still alive, but inside it felt like the world had shrunk to the size of their apartment, it had shrunk to clothes, cables, and the space between them.

Chan leaned back on his heels, running a hand through his hair. “You think the others will notice?”

Jeongin didn’t look up from folding. “Notice what?”

“You know.” Chan gestured vaguely between them, like the words wouldn’t fit in his mouth.

Jeongin’s hands stilled on a pair of jeans. He thought of the morning, the warmth of sharing a blanket, the quiet between breaths, the honesty that had slipped past both of them when they were too tired to keep it in. His chest tightened. “They’re not blind,” he said finally.

Chan groaned softly, dropping his head back against the mattress, and exhaled, half a laugh. “Yeah. Felix will be unbearable. He’s got that look whenever he knows something I don’t, and that knowing smile, like he’s holding a secret. He won’t even say anything, just… glow at us until I break.”

Jeongin mouth twitched, and he allowed himself a small smile. “He’ll probably hug you too long at the airport but he won’t say anything directly. He’ll just… beam at us. Too much. Until it gets uncomfortable.”

“That’s normal Felix.”

“This will be worse.”

They both laughed, quiet and quick. The kind of laugh that lightened the air for a moment.

“And Han—” Chan groaned, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes. “He’ll write a song about it before breakfast.” He sighed, "and not any kind of song, he is going to write a whole ballad about it,” Chan added, eyes closed. “By the time we’re back from Japan, he’ll have two demos and at least one chorus that makes me want to crawl under a table.”

Jeongin’s smile widened. “Seungmin will act like he’s disgusted, he will roll his eyes every time you breathe too close to me,” Jeongin said, and now he couldn’t hide his smile. “He’ll act like it’s annoying, but he’ll secretly keep track of who trips over their words first.”

Chan groaned again, dragging his hoodie sleeves over his face. “Hyunjin’s going to make it worse, isn’t he?”

“He will give some long speech about fate and soulmates in front of everyone. Loudly. And then get emotional about it.”

“Of course.”

“Changbin will pretend not to care,” Jeongin added, “but he’ll be nosy as hell, he’ll ask a million questions when no one’s around. He’s too curious.”

They both paused, the unspoken name hovering in the air.

“Yeah, and Minho,” Chan said at last, careful, sitting up straighter.

Jeongin’s tone was flat, but his eyes softened. “Minho already knows, he always does. He doesn’t miss anything.”

The silence after wasn’t sharp or uncomfortable. It settled between them like another suitcase on the floor, heavy but not unbearable. It was threaded with a strange relief, like saying the names out loud made it less terrifying. The group wasn’t just background noise, they were family. And family meant being seen, whether they were ready for it or not. 

Chan reached blindly for his phone, scrolling for a moment before hesitating. “Can I show you something?”

Jeongin raised a brow but nodded. He set down the shirt in his lap and leaned back, bracing his hands on the floor. Chan plugged in his earbuds, then thought better of it and played the track aloud. A low beat filled the room, soft at first, the kind of rhythm meant to build. Layered harmonies wove through, unfinished but warm. His laptop screen glowed faintly, a skeleton project file spread open with too many tracks labeled idea_3_finalmaybe and newdemo2.

“It’s not done,” Chan said quickly, words tumbling out. “Just pieces I’ve been messing with. For later.”

Jeongin tilted his head, listening. The melody was fragile in its simplicity, like it hadn’t decided what it wanted to be yet. But underneath was a heartbeat steady and sure. He let the silence stretch until the track looped back to the start.

“You made this?” Chan gave him a look. “Right,” Jeongin said softly, lips quirking. “Stupid question.”

“Be honest,” Chan pressed. “Is it… anything?”

Jeongin leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the glow of the laptop screen. “It feels like something. Like… the beginning of something you don’t want to let go of.”

Chan swallowed hard. “That’s… exactly what I wanted it to be.”

Neither of them moved while the track played again, soft and imperfect in the quiet of their apartment. The suitcases, the mess, the long day ahead, it all blurred at the edges. When the song looped a third time, Jeongin shifted closer, enough that his shoulder brushed Chan’s. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Chan let out a shaky breath, turning off his phone. The silence returned, not empty but full, carrying the weight of the unfinished song and everything between them.

Chan shut his suitcase with more force than necessary, then sat on top of it until the zipper gave in. He stayed perched there, staring at his hands. “I don’t know if I can give you what you want.”

Jeongin didn’t answer right away. He set aside the last folded shirt and zipped his own bag with slow precision. Then he sat back, mirroring Chan’s posture. “I don’t want perfect,” he said. “I just want real.”

Chan’s shoulders slumped, the tension leaking out of him in pieces. He turned his head, meeting Jeongin’s gaze across the mess of luggage and scattered belongings. There was no heat in the look, no plea for reassurance, just raw, quiet acknowledgment.

“You make it sound simple,” Chan murmured.

“Maybe it is,” Jeongin replied, voice steady.

They stayed like that, facing each other in the dim lamplight, the weight of their bags a reminder that everything would change again in less than twelve hours.

Eventually, Jeongin stood, brushing imaginary dust from his palms. “We should try to sleep. Long day tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Chan murmured. But neither of them moved. Chan's voice was barely above a whisper. “Stay here tonight?”

Jeongin paused, then sat back down, not on his bed, not in his space, but on the floor beside Chan, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, surrounded by packed bags and the faint echo of a melody that felt like theirs alone. The contact was small, almost nothing. But it was enough. The night stretched quiet around them, filled with the low hum of the city, the steady rhythm of their breathing, and the unspoken truth that tomorrow, everything would be louder, faster, harder.

But tonight, it was just them and it was enough.

Chapter Text

The plane touched down in Japan just after sunrise, the tarmac slick with rain and the windows fogged over from the shift in humidity. Chan blinked against the light filtering through his sleep mask, muscles stiff from the awkward angle he’d managed to curl into. Across the aisle, Jeongin was awake, hoodie drawn over his head, one earbud in. He was staring out the window, unmoving, a little puffy-eyed but calm in a way that made something quiet settle in Chan’s chest. They hadn’t said much on the flight. Didn’t need to. After that morning, tea, honesty, soft brushes of fingers against skin, it felt like they’d built something invisible between them. Not fragile. Just new. They were still figuring out how to exist in the same space now. Not just as hyung and maknae, or leader and youngest, but something warmer. Closer.

Chan wasn’t sure what to call it, he wasn’t sure he needed to.

The first show in Shizuoka hit like lightning, the crowd was loud. Loud enough to shake the floor beneath his feet, loud enough to fill the space inside him that had gone hollow over the winter. They performed like their lives depended on it, sweat clinging to their spines, adrenaline too thick to name, it felt good, more than good.

By the time they collapsed backstage, lungs still burning, Chan found himself smiling without having to think about it.

“Hyung.” He looked up.

Jeongin stood in the doorway, water bottle in hand, cheeks flushed from the heat of the lights. He didn’t say anything else. Just looked at Chan, like he was making sure he was still there. Like the music hadn’t washed him away, Chan gave a small nod, Jeongin smiled and walked on. That night, they didn’t talk about it. Chan fell asleep to the sound of Jeongin’s soft breathing from the other bed in their hotel room. Not too far. Not too close. Just… there.

By the second show, the nerves were gone. The routines were muscle memory now, but the energy never dulled. Fans screamed louder, their voices lifting the weight Chan didn’t know he was still carrying, and every time he glanced to stage right, Jeongin was there, laughing, glowing, alive in a way that made Chan feel almost human again.

It wasn’t perfect. Jeongin still slept with his back to him sometimes. Still disappeared for hours between call times, earbuds in, thoughts somewhere far away. But when he came back, he always did so softer. He always said good night. That meant something.

Between the second and third shows, they flew back to Seoul for just a few days. It felt like time didn’t exist. One minute they were waving goodbye to Japanese fans, the next they were sitting in makeup chairs filming another episode. Chan watched Jeongin from across the set, he was laughing with Seungmin, biting back a grin, eyes darting toward the camera, then toward Chan, he looked happy.

Chan tried not to stare too long. That night, back in their apartment, Jeongin tossed his overnight bag into the corner and sank onto the couch without a word. Chan followed a beat later, microwave popcorn in one hand, two bottles of water in the other.

“What is this?” Jeongin asked as Chan hit play on some random nature documentary.

“Background noise,” Chan replied, throwing a blanket over both of them. “Shut up and watch the whales.” Jeongin snorted but didn’t pull away when their shoulders touched. 

The 22nd came fast. Too fast. Seattle was next. Then San Francisco. Then the rest of North America and Europe would come barreling after, unstoppable. In the chaos of packing, Chan found himself staring at his open suitcase, hands stilled mid-fold. The shirts blurred together. The weight in his chest didn’t. This was their life. Hotels and flights and stages and strangers. Back-to-back cities. Sleepless nights. Eyes always on them. No room for mistakes. No room for them. Or so it had felt, until now.

Jeongin passed by his door with a travel pillow slung around his neck, hair damp from the shower. He paused when he saw Chan. “Need help?”

Chan blinked. “With packing?”

“With everything,” Jeongin said softly.

A pause. A breath. Then, “Yeah. I think I do.”

Jeongin smiled, small and real. “Okay. Let’s start with the socks.”

The flight to Seattle was long, but familiar, they’d done this before. Over and over. Plane, hotel, rehearsal, show, repeat. The rhythm should have felt monotonous by now, but with Jeongin next to him, legs brushing, head tilted against the window, it didn’t. It felt new. It felt like them. They checked into the hotel late at night, the city already asleep beneath soft gray clouds. Jeongin was quiet again, but it wasn’t the kind of quiet that meant distance. Just tired. Just processing. Chan understood. He was doing the same.

They ordered food they barely touched. Watched ten minutes of a movie before giving up. And when Jeongin moved to his bed, pulling the covers up to his chin, Chan hesitated. “Do you want—?”

Jeongin opened his eyes. “Yeah.” 

Just that, so Chan slid in beside him, careful, like he still wasn’t sure if he belonged there. But Jeongin didn’t flinch. He shifted closer. Warm. Certain. They lay like that for a long time, not touching. Not speaking. Just breathing in the same space.

Eventually, Jeongin whispered, “Are we doing this?”

Chan’s heart skipped. “Doing what?”

“This,” Jeongin said, a small laugh in his throat. “Whatever this is.”

Chan stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know what to call it.”

“Me neither.”

“But I want it.”

Jeongin was quiet for a moment. Then, “Me too.”

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t empty, it was full of everything they weren’t saying. “I keep thinking,” Chan said finally, “that if we give it a name… it becomes something real. Something we can lose.”

Jeongin didn’t move. “So what if we don’t name it?”

“Then what are we?”

Jeongin’s fingers brushed his wrist under the blanket. “We’re here. Together. Isn’t that enough?”

Chan wanted to say yes. Wanted to believe that being in the same bed, the same city, the same story could be enough. That they didn’t need to define it. But he was still Bang Chan. Leader. Provider. Protector. And Jeongin was still Jeongin. Young. Brilliant. Free. Could they be more without hurting something else? Could they want this and still protect the group? Could he?

He didn’t know. But when Jeongin shifted closer and whispered, “Sleep,” Chan let himself lean into the warmth. Just a little. Just for tonight.

The Seattle show was a blur, the fans were wild. The lights too bright. The sound of their name echoing off the stadium walls made something raw pulse beneath Chan’s skin. He pushed harder than he meant to. Let his voice fray around the edges. Let the adrenaline bleed into something reckless. He was tired. But he felt alive, and when he caught Jeongin’s eye during the final bow, Jeongin, sweaty and smiling and flushed with pride, he felt something else too. Home.

Backstage, Jeongin found him before anyone else could. “You okay?” he asked, water bottle extended.

Chan nodded, still catching his breath. “Yeah.”

Jeongin looked at him for a long moment. Then said quietly, “I saw you tonight.”

Chan blinked. “Yeah, I mean—”

“No,” Jeongin interrupted. “I saw you.” He said it like it meant more than performance. Like he’d seen through him. The strain. The weight. The fight between the man and the mask. Chan looked away, throat tight. “I know you’re trying,” Jeongin said gently. “So am I.”

Chan swallowed hard. “Is it enough?”

“It is,” Jeongin said. “If we let it be.”

May kept moving, SKZ-Talker, another sleepless flight, this time to San Francisco. Then the next stage. Then the next. And the one after that. But something had shifted. Between them, the silence wasn’t heavy anymore. It wasn’t full of things unsaid. It was companionable. Safe. They didn’t always talk about what they were. Didn’t label it. Didn’t define the boundaries. But Chan caught the glances. The small touches. The way Jeongin started brushing his teeth in Chan’s bathroom even in different cities. The way he waited for Chan in hotel lobbies, headphones in, patience written all over him, it was all quiet confirmation, they were building something, carefully, secretly, but not in shame.

On the night before their San Francisco show, Chan stood by the window of their hotel room, watching the city flicker below. Behind him, Jeongin was stretched across one of the twin beds, thumbing through photos from the show on his phone. They didn’t say what they were, but when Jeongin crawled into Chan’s bed that night and curled close under the covers, Chan held him like he was allowed to, like it wasn’t a secret anymore; and Jeongin didn’t pull away.

They still had no promises. No label. No road map. But they had this room. This tour. This moment. And for the moment, that was sufficient. Even if they were still afraid to say it out loud.

Chapter Text

He could still hear the crowd if he closed his eyes, not the screams, exactly, more like the feeling of it. That strange, all-consuming hum that settled under his skin after every show. Sometimes it took hours to shake off. Sometimes days. But tonight, it was different. Tonight, it faded fast. Maybe because he was too tired to hold onto it. Maybe because the dressing room lights were too bright, the afterglow too quiet. Or maybe it was the way Felix moved, careful. Slow. Like something hurt worse than he let on.

“Hyung,” Jeongin had said, frowning as Felix leaned into the couch with a wince. “You okay?”

Felix had smiled too easily. “Just sore.”

But sore didn’t make people sit like that. Didn’t make Minho hover near the door, pretending not to look concerned. Didn’t make Chan go quiet, his fingers curling tight around his water bottle as he watched Felix stretch his back again. Jeongin stayed close. Not obvious, not smothering. Just… close. The way they all did when something was wrong. Later, after the post-show chaos died down, Jeongin found himself sprawled on the hotel carpet, face buried in a pillow, groaning dramatically.

“I’m never dancing again,” he mumbled.

“Don’t be soft,” Hyunjin said from somewhere above him. “You’re the youngest. You bounce back.”

Jeongin rolled over just to glare at him. “You’re like, just one year older than me but look at you, your joints are probably already cracking.”

“Rude.”

“True.”

Hyunjin snorted. “Whatever. My technique is flawless.”

“Your pirouette nearly took out a mic.”

“Art is sacrifice.”

“I’m sacrificing my will to live.”

A laugh from across the room, Chan, of course. Sitting on the edge of the bed, legs still bouncing, like he didn’t just perform for three hours straight. Like he hadn’t spent the whole day managing interviews, rehearsals, and every crisis in between.Jeongin caught his eye, just for a second. Just long enough for the tired in Chan’s smile to soften into something warmer.

Later still, when most of the members had disappeared, Minho dragging Felix into the next room to check on his posture, Hyunjin following with a tub of Tiger Balm and a very fake medical degree, Jeongin stayed behind. Chan was still up, bent over the small table with a bottle of water and his laptop open to their next schedule.

“Hey,” Jeongin said softly.

Chan looked up. “Everyone else gone?”

Jeongin nodded, toeing off his shoes. “I think Seungmin passed out mid-sentence. Might be dead.”

“Should we check?”

“Let’s wait till morning.”

Chan smiled again. “Cruel.”

“I learned from the best.”

He sat at the edge of the bed, the space between them smaller than usual. Not quite touching. Not quite distant. Somewhere in the middle, where they lived now, apparently.

“I was thinking,” Jeongin said after a beat, voice quieter. “About… us.”

Chan didn’t move, but something in his shoulders tensed. Just barely. “Not in a bad way,” Jeongin added quickly. “Just… do you think we should talk to the others?”

That made Chan blink. “They already know something,” Jeongin said, lips quirking. “They’ve known, hyung. Probably before we did.”

Chan let out a soft breath. “Yeah.”

Jeongin looked down at his hands. “I just… I don’t want it to be weird. Or secret. Or something we’re afraid of.”

A pause. Then the sound of the chair scraping as Chan stood. He crossed the room slowly, sat beside him on the bed. Not touching. Not yet. Just close.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Chan said. “I never was.” Jeongin met his eyes. “I was afraid of what loving you might cost,” Chan continued. “Of what it could break. What it might mean for the team.” Jeongin’s throat tightened. “But it’s not a secret anymore,” Chan said, voice gentler. “It’s just… us. And I don’t think they’ll be surprised.”

“They might actually be relieved,” Jeongin said, half a laugh. “Maybe now Minho will stop glaring every time I pine like a drama character.”

Chan chuckled. “He did threaten to lock us in a closet once.”

“Once?”

“Okay, more than once.” Silence again, but this time it felt different.

Jeongin leaned in first, shoulder brushing Chan’s, and this time, Chan didn’t move away. Just turned slightly. Reached for his hand. Laced their fingers together, and there, in the soft stillness of their room, with the city lights muted behind the curtains and the ache of the show still in their muscles, Jeongin leaned in and kissed him, slow, careful, certain. Not like it was the first time. But like it mattered. Like they weren’t pretending anymore. The kiss was short, gentle and warm, a quiet punctuation to a day that had been anything but. But when Jeongin pulled back, Chan didn’t let go. Their hands stayed tangled between them, resting on the blanket. Chan’s thumb traced a slow line along the side of Jeongin’s hand, like he was memorizing the moment.

Jeongin exhaled, head tipping to rest against Chan’s shoulder. “You’re really bad at hiding things, you know.”

Chan hummed. “You’re one to talk.”

He smiled against the fabric of Chan’s shirt. “Yeah, well. I think we’re past pretending.”

Chan’s shoulder dipped in a subtle nod. “We should tell them. Properly.”

Jeongin looked up. “You want to?”

“I think we owe them that much. We’ve asked for so much of their trust over the years. And they’ve given it. Over and over.” He paused. “They deserve honesty.”

Jeongin nodded, quieter now. “It doesn’t have to be a big thing.”

“No,” Chan agreed. “Just a real one.”

For a while, they didn’t speak. The room had dimmed, only the glow from the bedside lamp painting them in soft gold. Far off, someone laughed in the hallway, Changbin or Hyunjin, probably, but it felt far away, like the outside world didn’t quite exist inside these walls. Eventually, Jeongin stirred. “Do you think Felix will be okay?”

Chan sighed. “He’s stubborn. But yeah, I think so. Minho’s on it. He’s already booked an extra physio session for tomorrow. And if it gets worse, we’ll reassess.”

Jeongin bit his lip. “He was hurting tonight. I could see it.”

“I know,” Chan said, his voice a little rougher. “I hate that. I hate that we can’t pause everything and just let him rest. Let all of us rest.”

“But we keep going.”

“Because we love it.”

Jeongin nodded slowly. “And each other.”

At that, Chan turned slightly, looked at him with something so open in his eyes Jeongin felt his breath catch. “Yeah,” Chan said softly. “That, most of all.”

Felix ended up knocking on their door a little past midnight, looking sheepish in an oversized hoodie and slippers. “Sorry,” he said when Chan opened it, “Minho’s asleep and I can’t reach my own feet.”

Jeongin, half-curled in bed, blinked. “You need help with the muscle patch?”

Felix grinned weakly. “If you don’t mind.”

Chan stepped aside and motioned him in, already rummaging through the hotel med kit. “Turn around. Shirt up.”

“You could at least take me to dinner first.”

Chan rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Jeongin snorted and got up, pulling on a hoodie. “Want me to do it?”

Felix hesitated, then nodded. “You’ve got gentler hands than Chan, anyway.”

“Hey!”

“I said what I said.”

Jeongin laughed and guided Felix to the edge of the bed. His back was tight, muscles bunching under the lightest pressure. Even just pressing the patch into place made him flinch. “Hyung…”

“I’m okay. Just… sore.”

“Lie down,” Jeongin said gently. “I’ll do a proper massage.”

“Are you certified?”

“Watched six YouTube videos.”

Chan snorted behind them but didn’t intervene, just watched with quiet approval as Jeongin worked slow circles into the tension in Felix’s lower back. “You should charge for this,” Felix murmured after a few minutes, clearly more relaxed. “Feels like heaven.”

“Don’t flirt with me when my boyfriend’s in the room,” Jeongin said absently.

Silence. Then Chan’s quiet voice. “You just called me—”

Jeongin’s hands paused. His face went red. “I mean—I wasn’t thinking—I just—”

Felix looked up and grinned. “Oh, finally.”

“Hyung!” Jeongin shoved lightly at his shoulder.

Felix groaned. “Ow. Injured person here.”

Chan was smiling. Not teasing, not flustered. Just soft. “You didn’t imagine it, Innie. You can say it.”

Jeongin bit his lip. “I just didn’t mean to say it out loud.”

Felix sat up carefully, groaning again. “You should say it. Makes my suffering feel worth it.”

Jeongin groaned and flopped back on the bed. “This is the worst night of my life.”

Chan chuckled and nudged his leg. “You’ll survive.”

Later, after Felix returned to his room with fresh muscle tape and a hot pack tucked under his arm, Jeongin lay back down beside Chan in the dark. His heart was still beating a little fast. “I meant it,” he said quietly.

Chan didn’t ask what, just reached over and pulled him closer, lips brushing his temple. “I know.”

And Jeongin, tired, loved, terrified, brave, let himself believe it. Tomorrow they’d fly to L.A. After that, more shows. More schedules. More pressure and people and rooms that were never fully private.

But tonight, he had this. Soft sheets. A warm hand in his. A promise they hadn’t spoken, but didn’t need to. He smiled into the quiet.

Whatever came next, they’d face it together.

Chapter Text

There was something ridiculous about trying to define anything in June, every day felt like three packed into one, soundcheck and makeup, meetings and interviews, moments of soaring adrenaline followed by aching silence in hotel rooms that blurred into one another. June was relentless,  loud, breathless, full; and somehow, in the middle of it all, Chan was in a relationship, or something like a relationship. He hadn’t said the word aloud. Not even to himself. But the look in Jeongin’s eyes every time they crossed paths backstage, soft and steady like gravity, told him they were past the point of denying it. The others knew now. They’d told them together. It wasn’t a grand announcement, just a quiet conversation in the corner of their shared space, away from staff and cameras. No one looked surprised. Minho smirked knowingly. Changbin beamed like he’d won a bet. Seungmin muttered something about finally. No one asked for details. No one made it weird. It just was. And Chan had never loved them more than in that moment.

They had lunch with Hannah in L.A. the day after the show. Jeongin was quiet at first, polite in the way he always got when he didn’t know how much of himself he was allowed to show. But Hannah didn’t miss a beat. She clocked the glances, the way Chan’s hand lingered near Jeongin’s on the table, the way Jeongin leaned in when he laughed. She didn’t ask outright, but when she hugged Chan goodbye, she whispered, “He’s good for you.” Chan had blinked at her, stunned. “You’re allowed to be happy,” she added.

He thought about that on the flight to Arlington. And again during their water fights on stage, Jeongin’s laughter echoing through the stadium. The way he squinted under the lights, soaked and breathless, completely alive. Chan caught himself staring more than once. They were happy. Or trying to be. In snatched moments backstage, in split-second glances between verses, in the way Jeongin curled into his side during long van rides, not caring who saw. But still, the word sat heavy in his chest. Boyfriend. It felt too bright. Too fragile. Like glass held up to the sun. He hadn’t said it. Not to Jeongin. Not even to himself. Because naming something meant making it real. And real things could break.

Atlanta was a blur of sticky air and hard stages. The kind of heat that stuck to your spine no matter how many cold towels the staff handed you. Jeongin lost his voice halfway through the encore. Still hit the choreo like it owed him money. Still turned to Chan after every set with that same breathless grin that knocked the air out of his lungs; and Chan, idiot that he was, kept pretending he was fine. It wasn’t like they were hiding. Not really. But it also wasn’t like they had the freedom to be anything else. Not yet.

He wanted to kiss him after shows. Wanted to touch the space between Jeongin’s shoulder blades where he always carried tension. Wanted to whisper you were amazing into his skin, let him fall asleep with a hand in his hair; instead, he patted Jeongin’s shoulder when the lights went down and walked two steps behind him in public. Some nights, it was enough. Some nights, it split him in half.

Orlando was chaos in slow motion. The air was thick enough to drink. Minho dumped two entire buckets of water on the crowd, grinning like a maniac, and Chan, caught between worry and adrenaline, shouted into his mic, “They’re my kids, but I don’t care. Drench them!”

The audience roared. The boys gave away every water bottle they had.

Jeongin collapsed into Chan’s side after the final bow, flushed and sweating. “I think my shoes are full of water.”

Chan laughed. “I think we all are.”

He wanted to say, Let me help you dry off. He wanted to say, Come to my room tonight.

Instead, he handed Jeongin a towel and walked him to his door like they were just two teammates at the end of a long day, like his heart wasn’t echoing with every step.

By the time they reached New York, things were starting to crack. The first night at Citi Field was magic. The second, they had to delay the show for nearly an hour due to rain. Chan’s parents were in the audience. So was Hyunjin’s. Everyone was soaked. Tired. Wired. Chan caught sight of his mom from the stage, hands up, drenched and cheering. She waved like she used to at school performances when he was ten.

Jeongin found him afterward in the hallway, his hair still wet, his eyes soft. “Your mom waved at me,” he said. “She smiled.”

“She likes you,” Chan murmured before he could stop himself.

Jeongin raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Chan nodded. “She told me once. Said you’ve always looked at me like I was worth something.”

There was a beat of silence, a weight to it. Jeongin stepped in. Not too close. But close enough to make it hard to breathe. “That’s because you are.”

Chan didn’t kiss him. Couldn’t. But his fingers brushed Jeongin’s, just once, before he pulled away.

Washington, D.C. almost broke him. The heat was unbearable. A full-blown wave across the city. Seungmin and Felix got sick halfway through the set, and Chan was furious, at the venue, at security, at himself. They ended the show early. Fans were fainting. His members were drained. There hadn’t been enough water handed out, so the boys gave away their own. Tossed bottles into the crowd like lifelines. 

Back at the hotel, they went live. Chan apologized to Stays, promised they’d return. Later, Jeongin sat next to him in silence, scrolling through mentions and messages. His hand grazed Chan’s knee. Anchoring him.

“You did everything you could,” he whispered.

Chan didn’t answer. Just leaned back and let his head fall against the couch. Jeongin stayed.

He stayed in Chicago, too. Chan’s parents were at that show. So were Hyunjin’s and Felix’s. The entire first row looked like a family reunion. Chan thought his heart would break open during “Haven.” Thought the lump in his throat would never go away when he caught Jeongin looking at him like that again, open, sure, all-in. They didn’t talk about the future. Not exactly. But one night, somewhere between exhaustion and soft breathing, Jeongin whispered, “Do you think we’ll always have to hide?”

Chan didn’t know, so he pulled Jeongin closer and said, “Not forever.”

Toronto was the last stop before a rare two-day break, and Chan felt it in his bones. The stadium was massive, shiny and new and, honestly, a little eerie. Surrounded by nothing but open lots and industrial sprawl, like it had been dropped in the middle of nowhere. He joked about it during the show.

“This place is so empty outside,” he said into the mic, grinning as fans laughed. “Where are we? Canada? Or an alien base?”

Laughter again. Then cheers. Then Jeongin bumped into his side, teasing, “You’re just upset your coffee order took twenty minutes.”

Chan grinned at him, all teeth and fondness, even if inside, something ached. Something always did lately. The show itself was electric. There was a moment when Chan looked out and saw fans screaming, crying, dancing. Felt all the noise rush through him like blood. Pure energy. Pure life. And before he knew it, his body was moving before his mind could catch up. He jumped off the stage. Vaulted over the barrier. Security blinked too late. Fans gasped and screamed, not in panic but disbelief, as Chan ran across the stadium floor, arms out, laughing like he was a teenager again. One of the staff chased him, a blur in black. He didn’t care. He didn’t even think. He just ran.

Jeongin’s voice rang in his ear through the in-ears: “Hyung, what the hell are you doing?”

Chan only laughed harder. When he finally climbed back up, panting, drenched, and grinning like a fool, the crowd lost its mind. After the encore, backstage was chaos.

“You could’ve died,” Seungmin groaned, towel over his head.

Felix looked awed. “You were like Spider-Man but Aussie.”

Jeongin cornered him quietly near the water coolers, eyes wide and soft. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Chan said. And he was, but it wasn’t the run that had his heart racing.

It was Jeongin. The way he looked at him afterward. Like Chan had just proven something. Not to the world. But to himself. That night, back at the hotel, everyone was too tired to hang out, too hyped to sleep. A perfect kind of in-between.

Chan opened his hotel door to find Jeongin already inside, curled on the couch in one of his hoodies. He didn’t ask how he got the key. Didn’t care. He crossed the room and dropped beside him, close but not too close. For a while, they said nothing.

Then Jeongin murmured, “You looked free out there tonight.”

Chan didn’t answer right away. Just leaned back, head resting against the couch cushion, body humming. “Maybe I was,” he finally said.

Jeongin turned to look at him. His eyes held a hundred questions. None of them spoken. But Chan knew. Do you want this? Are we still pretending this isn’t real?

“I keep thinking,” Chan whispered, “that if we name it… it might become too heavy.”

Jeongin’s hand found his. Warm. Sure. “Maybe not naming it lets it stay soft.”

Chan turned toward him, slowly. The room was dark, save for the city lights filtering through the curtain. He didn’t kiss him right away. He looked. Really looked. At the boy he’d grown up with. The man who had grown into something sacred. Who had waited and pushed and given him space to figure out what the hell this feeling was.

Then he leaned in and pressed their lips together. Soft. Like breath. Like yes. When they pulled apart, Jeongin whispered, “Even if we don’t call it anything… I know what it is.”

Chan closed his eyes. Let the warmth wash over him. Let himself believe, for a moment, that maybe he didn’t have to run anymore.

That maybe love didn’t need a name to be real.

Chapter Text

The return to Seoul was quieter than any of them expected; ten days wasn’t long enough to unpack properly, but it was still enough to make their own beds feel foreign again after weeks of hotel rooms. By the time the North America shows were behind them, the rush of adrenaline had given way to something softer, the kind of tired that made even the simplest domestic moments feel precious.

It was during this break, when Seungmin’s song dropped, the release had been quiet, the melody looping from speakers in the living room while the members drifted in and out, each reacting in their own way. Jeongin stood in the doorway for a while, watching Chan listen. The older man was leaning back on the couch, head tipped slightly, eyes fixed on the floor as though the words in the song were written there. There was something about the stillness in him that didn’t quite fit with the easy pride he’d shown in front of the cameras earlier.

The lyrics weren’t vague; they carried the ache of separation, the regret of goodbyes that had come too soon. The small details felt so personal that Jeongin almost felt like an intruder for listening. When the song faded out, Jeongin crossed the room and sat down beside him. “It’s beautiful,” he said quietly. “But… it feels like there’s a lot of you in it too.”

Chan’s mouth twitched, somewhere between a smile and a sigh. “Maybe more than I planned.”

Jeongin didn’t press, just waited. And after a long pause, Chan spoke again, voice low, the edges softened in a way that meant this wasn’t the kind of story he told often. “You know that I was thirteen when I moved here,” he began. “Didn’t know the language well. Didn’t know anyone. I thought I’d talk to my family about it all, but… I didn’t want them to worry. So I kept quiet. Even when it was hard.” The living room felt smaller somehow, as if the air itself was holding its breath. “Seven years as a trainee,” Chan went on, his gaze fixed somewhere past Jeongin’s shoulder. “I watched friends leave. Groups debut before me. Every time, I told myself my turn would come. But there were nights I wasn’t sure.”

Jeongin had never heard him talk about it like this, not in fragments, not as passing anecdotes, but as a whole truth laid out between them. 

“Meeting Jisung… that’s when things started to change. And when Changbin joined… 3RACHA was… it was mine. Ours. The first thing that made me feel like I was really building something.” Jeongin’s hand twitched against his leg, wanting to reach for him, to offer something in return for all that vulnerability. “Stray Kids…” Chan’s voice softened further. “It’s not just a group to me. You are the family I got to choose. And the thought of losing that, even for a second, scares me more than anything.”

The words lingered, heavy and real, Jeongin didn’t fill the silence this time; he simply let it settle, staying close enough that Chan would know he didn’t have to carry all of it alone anymore. Jeongin didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until Chan leaned back into the couch cushions, the weight of his own confession leaving him quieter than before. The sound of the city outside their windows, car horns, the occasional rumble of a bus, felt distant, as if the room itself had sealed them off from the rest of the world. For a long moment, they just sat there, Chan with his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely, gaze drawn to a point on the floor. Jeongin, watching him, let the silence stretch, not awkward, but grounding.

“I wish I’d known you then,” Jeongin said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Back when it was hard. I wish I could’ve… been there for you.”

Chan’s head turned, his eyes catching Jeongin’s in a way that made Jeongin’s chest tighten. “You were just a little kid back then, and you’re here now. That matters more than anything.” It wasn’t just the words, it was the way Chan said them, like they were enough to anchor him in place.

The couch wasn’t wide, but Chan still shifted closer, their knees brushing. Jeongin’s fingers itched with the urge to close the gap completely, but he kept them curled in his lap, knowing that sometimes the smallest contact could hold the most meaning. Outside, the sun had dipped low enough to wash the room in gold. The shadows softened, the air in the apartment turning warmer, heavier.

“You think about the next stops?” Jeongin asked, if only to keep them here, in this moment that felt too fragile to break.

Chan’s mouth curved faintly. “I think about it all the time. The flights, the setlists, the hotels. But mostly… I think about making it through all of it with everyone still okay.” His eyes lingered on Jeongin a little too long before he added, “With you still okay.”

The words hit with a weight Jeongin didn’t know how to put into something lighthearted, so he didn’t try. Instead, he let himself lean sideways until his shoulder pressed against Chan’s. It was a quiet answer, but it was enough. Chan didn’t move away, if anything, he angled toward him, the warmth of his arm seeping through the thin fabric of Jeongin’s shirt. The silence returned, but it wasn’t the kind that asked to be broken. It was the kind that held them both steady, the kind that let Jeongin feel the rhythm of Chan’s breathing and know, without question, that they were here, together, for as long as this moment lasted.

When Chan finally shifted, it was only to turn his head, his cheek brushing against Jeongin’s hair in a touch so subtle it could’ve been mistaken for an accident. But it wasn’t; Jeongin felt the smallest smile tug at his mouth as he tilted his chin up just enough to meet Chan halfway. The kiss was soft, unhurried, the kind that didn’t ask for more because it already carried everything it needed. When they parted, Chan didn’t speak; he just rested his forehead against Jeongin’s for a breath, maybe two, before leaning back and letting the quiet return but it didn’t last long.

Chan’s fingers brushed along Jeongin’s jaw, tentative at first, as though giving him time to pull away. When he didn’t, when Jeongin only leaned into the touch, Chan’s other hand slid to his waist, drawing him closer. The kiss that followed lingered, deepened, built itself from something soft into something carrying weight, need, and the ache of months of restraint. Jeongin’s hands moved restlessly, memorizing every line beneath Chan’s shirt, sliding up his back and pressing into his shoulder blades as if anchoring him in place. Chan kissed him like he was learning him by heart, slow but unrelenting, until neither could tell where one ended and the other began.

When Chan shifted forward, Jeongin didn’t hesitate. His fingers hooked into the fabric of Chan’s shirt, holding tight. They barely broke the kiss as Chan rose, one arm firm around Jeongin’s back, the other cradling his face, carrying him toward the bedroom like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

The mattress dipped under Jeongin’s weight. He sat there, breath uneven, gazing up at Chan in the low light. For a moment, Chan just stood there, chest rising and falling, eyes locked on Jeongin’s like he could see through every layer to his soul. It was almost too much, the way Chan looked at him, as if there was no part of him unworthy of love. When Chan leaned in again, the kiss landed softer, then drifted to the corner of Jeongin’s mouth, his jaw, down the column of his throat. Wet, lingering kisses made Jeongin’s breath catch, his fingers curling in the fabric at Chan’s sides. Each press of Chan’s lips felt deliberate, a wordless confession mapped out across his skin.

Clothes slipped away slowly, like neither of them could bear to keep the barrier but weren’t ready to rush it either. Fingers shook, whether from nerves or want, Jeongin couldn’t tell, but neither of them pulled away. When their eyes met again, everything stilled. The rush, the heat, even the sound of their breathing paused in that single shared moment.

“You’re sure?” Chan’s voice was low, steady but careful. “We can stop.”

Jeongin shook his head, voice breaking on the plea. “Please. Love me. Please.” Something in Chan’s expression softened, as though the last wall between them finally gave way, they moved together without thought, only instinct, following the pull that had been there for so long. Every touch, every brush of skin was unhurried yet full, heavy with the kind of love that didn’t need words. Soft sounds filled the room, quiet moans, sharp breaths, the slide of hands over warm skin. Jeongin’s nails left faint marks down Chan’s back, while Chan’s mouth trailed open kisses over every inch he could reach. It wasn’t just heat, it was grounding, a promise in the way they held on, in the way neither let go.

At some point, Chan intertwined their hands, squeezing as his forehead dropped to Jeongin’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked between breaths.

“Perfectly fine,” Jeongin whispered. “I love you.”

Chan’s voice strained, eyes closing as he held tighter. “I love you too, sweetheart.” Their eyes met again, lust, desire, and an overwhelming abundance of love passing between them without a single word. Chan kissed him deeply, and the kiss grew heated, their breathing turning ragged. Each movement, each sound, pulled them further under until the rest of the world ceased to exist.

“You’re so perfect,” Chan breathed, sweat beading along his temple. “I love you, Innie. All of you. Every single part.”

Jeongin’s eyes were glossy, emotions threatening to spill over, but he didn’t interrupt. He simply held onto Chan, feeling each deliberate movement, how Chan took his time, how he made sure Jeongin felt treasured in every second. The pressure built slowly, an unbearable sweetness that made Jeongin cling tighter. His arms wound around Chan’s neck, his breath stuttering at the deep, velvety moans spilling into his ear.

“Come with me, Innie,” Chan murmured before kissing him again. As if the words were all they needed, their bodies tensed together. Jeongin’s release came with a gasp, pulling Chan along with him, and still they didn’t let go. They rode the wave until the tremors eased, until the only sound left was their uneven breathing. Chan rested on his elbows, cupping Jeongin’s face and pressing soft kisses to his lips. Both of them were flushed, hair a mess, skin warm and damp. Chan lowered his head to Jeongin’s shoulder, catching his breath as Jeongin’s fingers threaded into his hair.

“That… was amazing, Chris,” Jeongin murmured.

“You’re the amazing one, Innie.”

“I love you so much,” Jeongin said quietly, his cheeks coloring.

“I love you more,” Chan replied without hesitation. “You’re everything to me. I know this is complicated, but I’ve fallen deeply for you. And I don’t ever want to let you go.”

Jeongin smiled shyly. “You’ve had me for a while.”

“I do,” Chan whispered, “and I’m never letting you go.”

They stayed wrapped in each other’s arms, fingertips tracing lazy patterns over skin, unwilling to break the closeness. Eventually, they drifted into sleep, tangled together in the warmth of a love neither of them had to question anymore.

Chapter Text

The first thing Chan noticed when he woke was the weight beside him, not heavy but the soft, steady presence of someone breathing in sync with him, the quiet rise and fall against the sheets. His eyes blinked open to the pale wash of morning light filtering through the curtains, and there he was. Jeongin. Still asleep. His hair was a mess, dark strands falling over his forehead. His lashes were long enough to cast shadows against his cheeks, and his lips, soft and faintly parted, still held the memory of last night. Chan lay there longer than he should have, just looking. It felt almost dangerous, this level of peace. Like he could memorize Jeongin in the morning light and it still wouldn’t be enough.

When Jeongin stirred, his eyes half-open, there was a soft, sleepy smile, small but unguarded. Chan couldn’t help it. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple, breathing him in.

“You’re staring,” Jeongin murmured, voice still rough with sleep.

“Maybe,” Chan whispered back, grinning. “You look too perfect like this.”

They stayed in bed longer than either would admit, touches small and constant, fingers brushing along arms, a hand on a hip, a knee pressed against the other’s leg. Even when they finally got up, the closeness didn’t fade. Breakfast was simple, scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee, but Chan couldn’t remember the last time a morning had felt this full. Jeongin moved around the kitchen in one of Chan’s hoodies, the sleeves too long, and every time their hands met while passing something across the counter, neither of them pulled away immediately. They sat together at the small table, knees knocking under the surface, exchanging looks that carried too much to put into words. Jeongin laughed at something Chan said, and Chan swore it was the kind of sound he could get addicted to.

It wasn’t that they couldn’t keep distance, it was that they didn’t want to. Not now. Not after last night.

After breakfast, neither of them moved to clean the dishes right away, Jeongin stayed seated, his chin propped on one hand as he watched Chan sip his coffee, the corner of his mouth curled up in that faint, knowing smile.

“What?” Chan asked, setting the mug down.

“Nothing,” Jeongin said, though his eyes glimmered with quiet amusement. “Just… you look happy.”

Chan’s chest tightened. “I am.”

It came out softer than he intended, but Jeongin didn’t tease him for it. He only reached across the table, fingers brushing Chan’s hand before resting there, palm warm against his. Chan turned his hand so their fingers could slot together, the simple touch grounding him more than anything else. Eventually, they stood, but the space between them stayed nonexistent. While rinsing dishes, Jeongin leaned against Chan’s side like it was the most natural thing in the world. Chan found himself pressing a kiss to the top of his head before he even thought about it, and Jeongin didn’t move away, just leaned into him a little more. They ended up on the couch after, the morning stretching into late hours without either noticing. Chan had meant to put on some music, maybe catch up on messages, but Jeongin had curled into him, head on his shoulder, and that was the end of that plan. It wasn’t the kind of silence that needed to be filled. It was comfortable, layered with the echoes of last night, soft breaths, slow touches, the feel of skin under his palms.

At one point, Jeongin tilted his head up, studying him. “We have rehearsal later,” he murmured.

“I know,” Chan said, brushing a hand through Jeongin’s hair. “We’ll go.”

But neither of them moved. The idea of stepping outside, of letting the world back in, felt almost impossible. Here, in this small cocoon of warmth and leftover sunlight, they were untouchable. Chan caught himself thinking, hoping, that maybe they could keep it that way for just a little longer.

By the time they finally left the apartment, the sun was already dipping toward late afternoon, streaking the sky in warm gold. Chan felt it on his skin the whole walk to the van, Jeongin’s hand brushing his, the ghost of his shoulder against Chan’s arm every time they fell into step. They didn’t talk about last night. They didn’t need to. It was there in every glance, every slight curve of Jeongin’s lips when Chan looked his way. The ride to the company was quiet. Minho was scrolling through his phone in the back, Hyunjin half-dozing against the window. Chan sat in the row behind the driver, Jeongin beside him. Their knees bumped once, twice, until Chan gave up pretending it was accidental and just let them stay that way.

At the rehearsal space, the familiar noise swallowed them, staff moving equipment, the low hum of amps, Felix laughing at something Han said. Chan felt the weight of eyes, though no one commented. He caught Changbin watching them from across the room, his gaze flicking between Chan and Jeongin with an unreadable expression before he went back to adjusting his in-ear monitors. They ran through the setlist, voices blending, sweat building under the bright practice lights. Chan tried to focus on the music, the choreography, the way the group moved as one. But whenever Jeongin’s voice hit a certain note beside him, or when his hand brushed past Chan’s in a formation shift, it pulled him back into that private place from earlier, the one only they knew existed.

During a water break, Jeongin leaned close, his voice low enough for only Chan to hear. “You’re staring.”

Chan’s lips twitched. “Am I?”

Jeongin didn’t answer, just took a long sip from his bottle and walked away, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Chan had to drag his eyes back to his own spot on the floor before the others noticed how badly he was slipping.

By the end of rehearsal, his body ached in the familiar way, but there was a different kind of exhaustion under his skin too, a mix of wanting to keep this closeness hidden and wanting to hold it in the open for everyone to see. They didn’t talk about it in the van ride home, didn’t plan anything.

That night, the apartment was quiet. Dinner was simple, leftover jjigae, rice, a few side dishes they barely touched because they kept getting distracted by each other’s presence. Every time Jeongin leaned over the table to refill Chan’s bowl, Chan’s eyes followed him; every time Chan reached across to hand him something, their fingers brushed and stayed just a second too long. After the dishes were washed and the lights in the living room dimmed, they ended up in Chan’s room without even speaking about it; it wasn’t about last night anymore, at least not in the same way. This was slower, softer. Jeongin lay with his head on Chan’s chest, the steady rhythm of Chan’s heartbeat filling the quiet. Chan’s arm curved protectively around him, his thumb tracing idle patterns against the small of Jeongin’s back.

“You’re gonna fall asleep like this,” Chan murmured.

Jeongin’s voice was already thick with drowsiness. “Mm… maybe I want to.”

Chan pressed his lips to the crown of his head, letting them linger there. He didn’t think about tomorrow’s rehearsals, or the looming flights, or the fact that every hour they spent like this was an hour they had to guard from the rest of the world. He just breathed Jeongin in, memorizing the weight of him, the warmth, the way their bodies fit together like there had never been another way to rest. When Jeongin finally drifted off, Chan stayed awake a little longer, holding him closer, as if he could keep him here just by wanting it enough.

Tomorrow, the world would keep moving, but for tonight, in this bed, nothing else existed but them.

Chapter Text

It had been almost a year since the tour began, and Jeongin could feel it in his bones. Not in a bad way, he’d adapted to the constant flights, the rotating hotel rooms, the swell of a crowd’s roar vibrating through his chest, but in a way that made him look at the calendar differently. Amsterdam was first, the start of the European leg, and the weight of “last” hung over everything they did. The Arena was a sea of lightsticks, the kind of energy that hit him before he even stepped on stage. Beside him, Chan did his usual last-minute mic check, his shoulders tense but his face calm for the staff hovering nearby.

It was strange, how Jeongin could feel the smallest shift in him now, a slight curl in his fingers when they brushed past each other backstage; the way Chan’s eyes lingered a fraction too long in the mirror when Jeongin adjusted his in-ear. Little things no one else seemed to notice, not the managers rushing them through call times, not the stylists fixing stray hairs. The members noticed, sure, but they’d long since stopped hiding their knowing smirks. They were careful, they had to be. A hotel room door closing too quietly, an excuse about reviewing setlists late at night, a polite distance when staff were watching, yet Jeongin could still feel Chan’s presence even when they weren’t touching. It was in the way his gaze skimmed over Jeongin during rehearsals, in the way his voice dipped when he told him “good job” after a particularly clean high note.

Tonight, though, Jeongin caught something else in that gaze.

They were lined up in the wings, waiting for their cue to run on stage. He felt the heat of Chan’s eyes before he saw them, and when he glanced over, there it was, an edge beneath the softness. Possessiveness, sharp and sudden. Jeongin followed the line of his sight and realized it landed on a staff member, one of the local coordinators, leaning a little too close while fixing Jeongin’s mic pack. The man was only doing his job, but Chan’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Jeongin bit back a smile, letting the corner of his mouth curl just enough for Chan to catch it. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. The crowd’s roar hit them like a wave, and they sprinted out into the lights, both of them slipping back into the practiced roles that had carried them across continents; but somewhere under the bassline and the choreography, Jeongin carried the knowledge of that look, of the way Chan, for all his careful professionalism, still couldn’t quite hide when something tugged at him too hard.

The adrenaline from the stage still clung to him like static, buzzing in his fingertips even after the final bow. Sweat cooled on the back of his neck as they moved through the narrow corridor toward the dressing rooms, the echo of their footsteps drowned out by staff chatter and the muffled roar of fans outside.

Chan was ahead of him, accepting a water bottle from one of the coordinators, his laugh easy and polite. But Jeongin could still see it, the faint shadow of that earlier look, the way it sat behind his eyes even when his mouth curved in practiced gratitude. They were ushered into the dressing room, the noise replaced by the hum of the air conditioning and the shuffle of stylists moving in with makeup wipes and towels. Jeongin dropped into a chair, letting someone tug at the Velcro on his mic belt. Chan lingered near the door, talking to a manager, but his gaze flickered toward Jeongin every few seconds, like a tether he couldn’t quite cut.

When the staff from before passed behind Jeongin to drop something on the counter, Chan’s voice cut across the room, not loud, not sharp, but low and sure enough to draw the man’s attention.

“Careful with the equipment,” he said, eyes on the table where the spare transmitters were lined up. “We’ll need them in perfect condition tomorrow.”

The staffer nodded and slipped out, and only then did Chan’s gaze land directly on Jeongin. It was brief, barely a second, but enough to send a flicker of warmth curling in Jeongin’s chest; he looked away first, busying himself with peeling the tape from his cheek. But he could feel it, the unspoken thing humming between them, sharper now that the stage lights were gone.

They didn’t talk about it as they changed, as they filed out toward the waiting vans. But when Chan ended up in the same one, sliding into the seat beside him without a word, Jeongin didn’t move over to make more space. He let their shoulders touch, just enough for the contact to stay hidden under the thin layer of darkness inside the van. It wasn’t possession exactly, not the way people might think. It was something quieter, more dangerous; and Jeongin, heart still thudding from the show, wasn’t sure he wanted it to be anything else. The ride to the hotel passed in a blur of city lights and soft engine hum. Most of the others had nodded off, their exhaustion finally catching up with them. Jeongin’s gaze stayed fixed on the window, though he was aware, painfully so, of every small shift in the seat beside him, the way Chan’s arm would brush his own when the van took a turn.

By the time they reached the hotel, the lobby was quiet, and before Jeongin could even register his own key card, Chan’s hand was there, a light touch to his wrist. Not a tug, just enough to guide him toward the elevator at the far end, away from the cluster of other members heading to their rooms. They didn’t speak until the elevator doors slid shut. The silence was thick, but not uncomfortable, weighted with all the things that had gone unsaid since before the show.

Chan glanced at him then, that same look from earlier softened but still unmistakable. “You good?”

Jeongin nodded, though his voice felt caught somewhere in his throat. “Yeah.”

The elevator chimed. Chan’s room was on a higher floor, and Jeongin followed without being asked. The hallway was dim, carpet muffling their steps. Once inside, the quiet became almost startling, no city noise, no footsteps, just the faint hum of the air-con and the sound of his own heartbeat. Chan tossed his cap onto the desk, shrugging out of his jacket. Jeongin stood there for a moment, unsure whether to move closer or keep the fragile distance they’d been dancing around all night. But then Chan closed the gap himself, fingertips grazing Jeongin’s arm, his voice low.

“You did well today.”

It wasn’t about the performance, not entirely. Jeongin could hear it in the way his tone dipped, how the words lingered. He smiled, small and almost shy despite everything. “So did you.”

Somewhere between that exchange and the pull of gravity between them, Jeongin found himself leaning into the touch. Chan’s hand settled at the back of his neck, not pulling him in, not yet, just there, warm and steady.

For a moment, they simply stood like that. Breathing in sync. Letting the tension ease not by breaking it, but by holding it close; and when Chan finally drew him into a hug, Jeongin went without resistance. No cameras, no lights, no reason to hide. Just the quiet after a storm, and the sure weight of someone who hadn’t let go all night. He felt Chan’s breath against his hair, slow and measured, as if keeping himself from saying something he’d regret, or something he couldn’t take back. Jeongin’s fingers curled lightly in the back of his shirt, holding on in the same way, unwilling to test what would happen if he let go, neither of them moved for a long time. The world could wait. Tomorrow could wait.

For tonight, it was enough to stand here, heart to heart, knowing that whatever this was… it had been his all along.

Chapter Text

By the time they landed in Frankfurt, Jeongin had become painfully aware of just how skilled Chan was at walking that razor-thin line between subtle affection and complete professionalism. On the plane, Chan had leaned forward in his seat to adjust Jeongin’s blanket, knuckles brushing his knee for just a heartbeat too long, his eyes dropping to make sure Jeongin’s seatbelt was fastened properly. To anyone else, it would’ve looked like a leader taking care of his youngest member. But Jeongin knew better. He could feel every silent word in the smallest touch.

Still, they didn’t talk about it, not here. Not when cameras could be pulled out at any second, not when stylists and managers hovered, not when they had to be Bang Chan and I.N instead of just Channie and Innie.

The show that night was a rush, 45,000 people screaming under the floodlights, the air thick with energy. Jeongin’s heart always pounded during the final, watching Chan command the stage like he was born to be there. But tonight, there was something different in the way Chan’s gaze found him between phrases, in the way he lingered on him when they bowed together. Backstage, Jeongin caught the subtle change. Chan was quieter, shoulders a little tighter.

When they finally slipped into the van heading back to the hotel, Chan ended up in the seat beside him. No one questioned it.

“You seemed pretty interested in that fan today,” Chan murmured, his voice just for Jeongin’s ears.

Jeongin tilted his head, fighting a smile. “She just asked for a picture.”

Chan’s hand rested on Jeongin’s thigh under the thin blanket they shared, innocent enough to any observer, but his fingers pressed just enough for Jeongin to feel the heat in his skin.

“I know,” Chan said after a beat, eyes on the city lights passing outside. “Just… couldn’t help noticing.”

Jeongin didn’t reply right away. He just leaned into Chan’s shoulder, letting the contact speak for him.

By the time they reached the hotel, the mood had shifted again. The others scattered to their rooms, and Chan caught Jeongin’s wrist gently before he could follow.

“Come to mine,” Chan said, soft enough that it could’ve been mistaken for nothing at all.

Jeongin’s pulse kicked up instantly, not from surprise, but from the way Chan’s thumb stayed pressed to the inside of his wrist, like a question and a promise all at once. He followed him without a word.

The elevator ride was silent, the kind of silence that wasn’t awkward but thick with something unspoken. They didn’t rush. The hallway stretched long and quiet, muted carpet swallowing the sound of their footsteps. By the time Chan unlocked his door, Jeongin could feel the steady hum of his own heartbeat in his ears.

Inside, the room was dim except for the amber city glow slipping through the curtains. Frankfurt shimmered in the distance, cranes and rooftops silhouetted against the night.  When the door clicked shut behind them, Jeongin expected Chan to speak first. Instead, Chan moved to the desk and began rummaging through his bag—pulling out a shirt, tossing it onto the bed, checking his phone like he hadn’t just pulled Jeongin out of the hallway with a request that felt like a secret. Chan sank onto the edge of the bed, his posture looser now, like the weight he carried on stage had finally slipped off his shoulders.

Jeongin stayed standing for a moment, just looking at him. “You were amazing tonight,” he said quietly.

Chan huffed a soft laugh, glancing up. “So were you.” His eyes lingered, sweeping over Jeongin like he was taking in every detail he hadn’t been able to touch earlier.

The space between them didn’t last long. Jeongin stepped forward until Chan’s knees brushed against his thighs, and then Chan’s hands were at his hips, warm and grounding. It wasn’t hungry; it was slower, almost careful, as if both of them were too aware of how little time they’d get before morning.

They didn’t talk about anything that would drag the air down. Instead, they let their conversation be made of quiet touches, Chan’s palm finding the curve of Jeongin’s jaw, Jeongin’s fingers curling into the back of Chan’s neck, the press of their foreheads together with the city still glowing outside.

The night passed in fragments, soft laughter muffled against pillows, whispered words that would fade by sunrise, and a closeness neither of them could risk in daylight.

When Jeongin finally drifted off, it was with Chan’s arm snug around his waist, the low thrum of his heartbeat at Jeongin’s back, and the certainty that tomorrow would bring the same impossible balance between what they were allowed to show and what they could never hide.

Chapter Text

By the time they touched down in London, Chan could feel the tour rhythm starting to catch up to him, the endless loop of stages, airports, hotel rooms, and just enough sleep to do it all over again. But this city was different.

The schedule for the next two days left them a morning free, an anomaly on tour, and Chan knew exactly who he wanted to spend it with. He didn’t make it a big thing. Just knocked on Jeongin’s hotel door a little after breakfast and said, “Wanna see a bit of the city today?”

Jeongin didn’t hesitate. Cap, mask, the quiet armor they all wore outside, and they were out the side entrance before anyone could redirect them into another round of press photos. They walked, past brick terraces and narrow side streets, the kind of rainy morning that made the whole city look like an old photograph. Chan led the way toward the Thames, stopping for takeaway coffee from a corner shop with steamed-up windows. They ended up at Tower Bridge, leaning on the railing while the wind tugged at their sleeves. To anyone else, they could’ve been just two friends killing time. To Chan, it was a small miracle, the way Jeongin’s shoulder brushed his every so often, the sound of his laugh muffled through his mask.

From there, they wandered into a bookshop that smelled faintly of dust and rain. Jeongin flipped through the pages of a photography book, his hair falling into his eyes, and Chan caught himself thinking that he could stand there forever. He bought the book without a word and slipped it into Jeongin’s hands as they left.

“For later,” he said, keeping his voice light.

Jeongin glanced at him, eyes crinkling above his mask, and didn’t argue. By the time they made it back to the venue, Chan’s phone was full of photos, the kind they’d never post, but couldn’t quite delete either.

By the time they were back at the venue, the rest of the members were already milling around the dressing room, changing into rehearsal clothes and snacking on whatever catering had shown up.

“Where were you two?” Hyunjin asked, not accusing, just curious.

“Walk,” Chan said simply, setting his coffee down. “Just enjoying the view.”

It was true, just not all of it. Soundcheck came and went. London fans were loud, filling the arena with cheers that echoed against the metal rafters. But even with all the noise, Chan’s mind kept skipping back to the quiet between Tower Bridge and the bookshop, the way Jeongin had stood just close enough that Chan could feel his warmth through layers of fabric. The first night’s show was electric. London always was. They ran on adrenaline, on the rush of tens of thousands of voices singing their lyrics back at them. Yet in the seconds between songs, when Chan glanced toward Jeongin across the stage, there was that same unspoken thread tying them together, steady and certain beneath the chaos.

Afterward, back in the dressing room, the group was buzzing, adrenaline, sweat, post-show hunger.

“Pizza?” Felix suggested, already pulling on his jacket.

The plan scattered quickly into subgroups. A few wanted food, a couple wanted showers and bed. Chan found himself beside Jeongin again, automatically falling into step as they made their way to the hotel. The London night was cool, just enough breeze to lift the edges of Jeongin’s hood. Streetlamps threw pools of gold across the pavement. Neither of them said much until they were inside, shoes off, hoodies draped over chairs.

“You tired?” Chan asked, leaning on the doorframe of Jeongin’s room.

“A little.” Jeongin hesitated, then added, “But not enough to sleep yet.”

So Chan stayed. They didn’t put on a movie or music, just sat on the bed, sharing the remains of a chocolate bar Jeongin had bought earlier. Their knees touched. Every so often, Jeongin’s shoulder would press lightly into his, like the bridge that morning, like the bookshop. As the hours stretched and the world outside stayed quiet, Chan knew he’d remember this day the same way he remembered all their almost-moments, the ones that never needed a name to matter.

The second London show felt even bigger than the first. The energy was different, sharper, brighter, almost giddy. Maybe it was the crowd, maybe it was the knowledge that they’d be leaving tomorrow, or maybe it was just the carryover from yesterday’s unspoken closeness. Soundcheck rolled into makeup and costume, and then the lights dropped and the roar of the crowd swallowed everything. London was on fire tonight, their chants hitting like a second heartbeat. From his spot at center, Chan let himself get swept into it. He hit every move, let the music take him, let his voice ride the wave of noise until the edges blurred. Between songs, when they gathered at the front of the stage to talk to fans, Jeongin was beside him again, laughing at a sign in the crowd, leaning in just close enough for Chan to feel the brush of his sleeve.

It was nothing anyone else would notice. It was everything to Chan. The show ended in a rush of confetti and flashing lights, the eight of them taking their final bow, sweat-soaked and grinning. Backstage was chaos,  hugs, high-fives, staff running around with water bottles and towels.

“You killed it,” Chan told Jeongin quietly as they made their way down the hall toward their dressing room.

“We did,” Jeongin said, and there was a glint in his eyes that had nothing to do with the stage lights.

They showered, packed, and ended up back in Chan’s room this time, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a couple of takeaway boxes between them. The others were still out celebrating or winding down in their own ways. Here, it was just them, the distant hum of the city filtering through the window. They didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to. The silence between them was warm, threaded with the steady comfort of knowing exactly where the other was without having to look. When Jeongin finally stood to go, Chan felt that familiar pull in his chest, the one he’d been carrying since yesterday morning on Tower Bridge.

“Night,” Jeongin said softly, hand on the door.

“Night,” Chan echoed.

The door clicked shut, and Chan sat there for a long moment, the smell of rain from outside drifting in. London had been loud and bright and unrelenting, but in the spaces between, it had given them something quieter. Something worth keeping.

Chapter Text

The city felt alive in a way Jeongin hadn’t expected. Even in the morning, the streets shimmered in the heat, sunlight bouncing off the pale walls of buildings that seemed to hum with history. Seungmin had a vague plan that mostly involved food, Felix had a camera slung around his neck, and Jeongin… he was just along for the ride. They ducked into a shaded alley lined with tiny boutiques, Felix stopping every few steps to take pictures of the cobblestones or the flower boxes hanging from balconies. Seungmin disappeared into a bookstore and came out twenty minutes later holding two paperbacks, shaking his head at Felix’s mock-complaints about “extra luggage weight.”

Jeongin bought a cap from a small clothing shop, the kind with hand-stitched lettering that made it feel like it belonged to the city. He also found a set of bracelets from a street vendor, one for himself, one for someone else. They stopped for cold drinks at a café where the air smelled faintly of espresso and baked bread, sitting at an outdoor table under a wide umbrella. The café’s awning flapped gently in the warm breeze, the shade just enough to take the edge off the summer heat. Felix was scrolling through the pictures he’d taken so far, turning his camera so Seungmin and Jeongin could see.

“Okay, but this one’s my favorite,” Felix said, tapping the screen. It was a shot of an old man leaning out of a second-floor window, watering a plant with the tiniest metal watering can Jeongin had ever seen.

“That’s cute,” Jeongin admitted. “Looks like something from a movie.”

“Madrid kind of feels like a movie,” Seungmin said, sipping his iced coffee. “Everything looks old but also… lived in. I like that.”

Felix nodded. “I like how everyone’s so slow here. Like no one’s rushing anywhere. If we did that in Seoul, people would yell at us.”

Jeongin grinned. “I like how the streets twist. You think you’re going straight, and suddenly you’re in some little square with a fountain and three cafés. It’s like the city keeps showing you secret spots.”

They compared their favorite things, the heat, the colors, the smell of fresh bread from every other street, and then Felix, with that too-innocent smile, set his cup down and leaned forward.

“So…” he began, stretching the word. “How’s it going with you and Chan-hyung?”

Jeongin blinked. “What do you mean?”

Seungmin raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Don’t play dumb. You two have been… different lately.”

Jeongin laughed, shaking his head. “Different how?”

“Like…” Felix pretended to think. “Like you’re in one of those drama montages. Lots of lingering looks. Subtle hand touches. You know, the whole ‘we’re totally fine but also maybe in a honeymoon phase’ thing.”

Jeongin snorted, trying, and failing, to hide his smile. “Honeymoon phase? Really?”

“Am I wrong?” Felix asked, smirking over the rim of his glass.

Jeongin stirred the ice in his drink, still smiling. “I mean… it just feels good right now. Like… unreal-good. We’re busy all the time, but it doesn’t feel heavy. It’s just… easy.”

Felix’s grin softened into something more genuine. “That’s nice. You deserve that.”

Jeongin didn’t say anything for a moment, just let the hum of the city and the easy chatter wrap around him. The whole moment, sunlight, laughter, the clink of glasses, felt like something he’d want to remember. Jeongin let the conversation flow between the three of them, Seungmin’s dry humor, Felix’s soft laugh, content just to watch people pass by, the heat slowing everyone’s pace. By the time they made it back to the hotel, the sun was still high, the streets buzzing in the late afternoon warmth.

Meanwhile, Chan’s day had been the opposite kind of quiet. He stayed in, laptop open, headphones on, sifting through loops and melodies until the hours blurred. The air conditioning hummed low in the background while he tapped out beats, muttering to himself about transitions and layering. There was a comfort in this, in shaping something from nothing, in chasing the thread of a sound until it clicked into place. Changbin knocked on his door just after noon, gym bag over his shoulder.

“Still glued to that chair?”

“Give me ten minutes,” Chan said, saving his work.

The gym was nearly empty when they arrived, sunlight streaming through the tall windows. They started with warm-ups, moving easily into sets, spotting each other like they’d done a hundred times. Between reps, they talked, about the London shows, about how Madrid’s stadium would sound tomorrow night, about song ideas and the possibility of weaving them into the next comeback. At one point, Changbin mentioned something about needing to make time for life outside work, and Chan laughed, half agreeing, half dodging the weight of the comment. They ended the session drenched in sweat, both of them carrying the kind of quiet satisfaction that came from pushing themselves. They stayed on the bench for a while, letting their breathing even out, towels draped over their shoulders, water bottles cooling their palms. The gym was quiet except for the low hum of the fans and the muted thud of someone dropping weights a few stations over.

Changbin took a long drink, then glanced sideways at him with a small smirk. “You’ve been different lately.”

Chan raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

“Not in a bad way,” Changbin said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Just… softer. You smile more. You’re more patient. Even your texts have gotten cuter.”

Chan huffed a laugh. “Texts?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know,” Changbin shot back, grinning. “Little emojis. Random ‘good morning’ messages. You’re basically a romcom lead now.”

Chan shook his head, wiping sweat from his forehead with the edge of his towel. “You’re imagining things.”

“Nope,” Changbin said easily. “I think Jeongin’s good for you. No one outside the group would notice; it’s not like you’re suddenly holding hands in public...but the rest of us? We see it. The way you look at him, the way you listen to him… It’s different.”

Chan didn’t answer right away. He took a sip of water, letting the comment settle. Changbin wasn’t wrong, but hearing it out loud made the truth feel sharper. “I guess,” Chan said finally, his voice softer. “It just… feels right. I didn’t expect it to, but it does.”

Changbin’s smile shifted into something warmer, more knowing. “Then don’t overthink it. Just let it be what it is.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the sound of the fans filling the space between them. Outside, the sunlight shifted, spilling a brighter beam across the gym floor, and Chan felt the kind of quiet clarity he only got in moments like this, sweat cooling, body tired, mind a little lighter. By evening, the city outside their windows had shifted into gold. Jeongin was in his room, unpacking his small haul from the day. Chan was back at his desk, headphones around his neck, fingers resting on the keys without pressing down.The quiet was broken by soft footsteps, and before Chan could glance over, hands covered his eyes. A puff of warm air ghosted over the side of his neck, making him jolt and squirm in his chair.

“Innie—” he laughed, reaching up to pry the hands away, tugging his headphones off in the same motion.

Jeongin leaned down just as Chan turned around, smiling wide. “Hi,” he said simply, then stole a quick peck.

Chan blinked, still grinning. “Hi?”

“I missed you,” Jeongin replied, like it was the most natural thing in the world, before kissing him again, longer this time.

Laughing, Chan slid his hands to Jeongin’s hips, holding him there. “I missed you too.”

“Good,” Jeongin said, then reached into his pocket. “I got you something.” He pulled out a thin bracelet made of braided thread, the colors muted but warm. “From a street vendor. There’s a matching one for me.”

Chan’s eyebrows lifted as Jeongin slid it over his wrist. “You’re spoiling me.”

“It was, like, five euros.” Jeongin smirked, but there was a softness in his gaze.

They stayed close like that, talking quietly about their day, Jeongin describing the winding streets, the little shops, Felix nearly buying an entire rack of sunglasses; Chan telling him about the gym session with Changbin, the song idea that had started taking shape in his head. The world outside was still glowing, Madrid’s evening light spilling across the floor. Inside their room, it felt like time had slowed, just enough for them to be exactly here, exactly like this. 

Later, after Jeongin had wandered back to Seungmin’s room for dinner, Chan stayed at his desk a while longer, absently turning the bracelet on his wrist. The threads were slightly uneven, the knots imperfect in a way that made them feel more real. Across the hall, Jeongin sat cross-legged on the floor beside Seungmin’s bed, laughing at something on the TV while picking at takeout. Between bites, his gaze kept drifting to his own wrist, thumb brushing over the matching bracelet. Chan glanced toward the closed door, thinking about the look on Jeongin’s face when he’d given it to him, the way his smile had curved, the quiet warmth in his voice.

Outside, Madrid buzzed faintly through the open window, the city breathing in summer air. Tomorrow would be loud again, stadium lights, roaring crowds, the rush of it all. But for now, the room held onto that small, golden quiet, the kind that made Chan think he could carry it with him anywhere.

Chapter Text

The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, coaxing the members from sleep. In Minho’s room, the aroma of fresh coffee and sizzling eggs mingled with bursts of laughter and the clatter of plates. The members decided to spend some time together before going to the venue and nothing much better than having breakfast all together, to remember old times when they were living in just one tiny dorm. Jeongin chatted quietly with Felix about a store they’d spotted yesterday, while Chan checked the things for the show one last time, earbuds in but eyes flickering over the screen.

“Ready for round… what, fifty?” Han teased, spoon halfway to his mouth. “At this rate, we’re going to have the stamina of marathon runners.”

“Or just a bunch of caffeine addicts,” Changbin shot back, grinning.

“Speak for yourself,” Minho said with mock offense. “I’m fueled by sheer talent.”

“Sure, Minho,” Felix said, smirking, “but talent doesn’t keep your energy up when you’re dancing your lungs out.”

The members chuckled, the easy rhythm of teasing weaving between them as they finished breakfast. Soon, they piled into the van, bags tossed in the back and music humming through the speakers.

“Jeongin, you ready to show everyone how to steal the spotlight again?” Chan called from the front seat.

Jeongin flashed a grin, sliding into his seat beside Seungmin. “You know it. But I might need some backup if Changbin decides to challenge me on the choreography again.”

Changbin laughed loudly from the middle row. “Challenge accepted. Prepare to eat my dust, maknae.”

Felix rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “If only you could move that fast after last night’s late-night snacks.”

Hyunjin elbowed Felix gently. “Hey, midnight cravings are part of the creative process.”

“Creative or just hungry?” Han asked, eyebrows raised.

The van filled with playful jabs and laughter as the cityscape blurred past the windows. Outside, the Madrid streets awakened fully, the hum of vendors setting up, early fans trickling toward the stadium, and the faint scent of fresh pastries carried on the breeze.

Chan’s voice softened slightly as he glanced at his dongsaengs. “Let’s make this one count, team. Every show is our chance to connect.”

Seungmin nodded. “And we’ve got each other’s backs, like always.”

Jeongin reached out, bumping his shoulder lightly against Seungmin’s. “No matter what, we do this together.”

The van rolled on toward the venue, filled with a steady buzz of energy and the unspoken promise of another unforgettable night. Stepping out, Chan stretched his arms, taking in the familiar backstage chaos. Staff bustled past with clipboards and headsets, backup dancers warmed up in corners, and technicians hurried by, carrying equipment or tuning soundboards.

“Feels good to be here,” Seungmin said, eyes scanning the setup. “The energy’s already electric.”

Jeongin nodded, taking a deep breath. “I love this part—the calm before the storm.”

Changbin jogged over from a group of dancers. “Ready to wreck the stage?” he asked, flashing a grin.

“Always,” Felix replied, spinning a water bottle in his hand.

The members made their way toward the stage entrance, passing crew who offered nods and thumbs-ups. Lights blinked on the rigging, and the faint beat of their opening track pulsed softly as the soundcheck began. One by one, they took their places on stage, voices warming up, footsteps falling into the practiced rhythm of choreography. Chan exchanged quick glances with Jeongin, a silent communication passing between them amid the focused intensity. Backstage, the atmosphere hummed with purpose and anticipation. Stylists hovered nearby, ready with makeup palettes and hair tools. A steady stream of assistants darted between the dressing rooms and the stage. After the soundcheck wrapped, the members returned to the sanctuary of their dressing rooms. Mirrors lined with bulbs reflected their faces as makeup artists touched up flawless skin, and hairstylists adjusted every strand with care.

Chan sat patiently as a stylist brushed through his hair, his eyes occasionally flickering to Jeongin, who was laughing quietly with Han over a shared joke. The weight of the day’s work settled around them, but the unspoken company kept spirits high. Outfits hung neatly on racks sleek, bold, ready to transform them from tired travelers into the performers the world adored. As the final touches were applied, the group exchanged smiles and nods, each ready to step back into the spotlight and give everything they had. The members gathered in a loose circle, the hum of the crowd outside barely audible but power-driven through the walls. Chan cleared his throat, his usual calm presence filling the space.

“Everyone,” he began, voice steady but warm, “this is almost the end of the tour, only four more shows; this moment—we’ve worked so hard to get here. I just want to say thank you. For pushing through, for every late night and early morning. For being the family we promised to be.”

Jeongin smiled softly, eyes bright. “We’ve come so far.”

Hyunjin nodded, adding, “And we’re just getting started.”

Chan looked around the room, catching each member’s gaze. “Let’s make tonight count. Not just for the fans, but for us. For every moment that brought us here.” A chorus of affirmations followed, a mix of laughter and quiet resolve. 

The stage lights hit them like a wave as they stepped out, the roar of all the voices crashing over the stadium. The crowd was alive, singing, cheering, moving with every beat. The energy was magnetic, pulling them into a performance that felt less like work and more like celebration. Jeongin’s grin was infectious as he spun across the stage, Chan’s commanding presence anchoring the group. Every note, every move, every moment was electric. After the final encore, the stadium echoed with applause and chants that seemed to carry on forever. Backstage, the group exhaled together, laughter bubbling as they shed their stage personas and slipped into comfortable exhaustion.

Chan clapped a hand on Jeongin’s shoulder. “We did good,” he said simply.

“Best night yet,” Jeongin agreed, eyes shining with happiness.

They knew there were more cities to come, more shows to give, but tonight; tonight was theirs. Back at the hotel, the group trickled into the cozy of their rooms, the buzz of the concert fading into a comfortable calm. The lights were dimmed low, casting soft shadows that seemed to wrap around them like a warm embrace. Plates of food were set out, simple but thoughtfully prepared, while quiet music hummed in the background. Jeongin caught Chan’s eye across the room and smiled, that familiar warmth spreading through his chest. They exchanged subtle glances and shy grins, the kind only they could share amid the familiar chaos. Around them, the others chatted about the show, teasing and laughing, but between Jeongin and Chan, there was a peaceful silence filled with unspoken promises. They savored the quiet moments, hands occasionally brushing, hearts quietly syncing in the safety of these four walls.

Tonight, the world outside could wait. Tomorrow, they’d wake early, ready for the next adventure in Paris, but for now, it was just this, dinner, soft smiles, and the sweet comfort of being together.

The evening wound down with the entire group squeezed into Chan’s room, blankets and cushions scattered everywhere. Someone had suggested a game to shake off the day’s exhaustion, and soon they were gathered around a low table, snacks within reach and laughter already bubbling.

“Alright, who’s ready to lose spectacularly?” Han grinned, shuffling the cards.

“I’m just here to watch the chaos,” Felix said, already eyeing the others with mock suspicion.

Chan smirked, dealing the first round. “Don’t get too comfortable, rookie.”

Jeongin elbowed Chan gently. “Be nice, Chris. Or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what?” Chan challenged, raising an eyebrow.

“Send you on a solo karaoke mission after this,” Jeongin teased, causing a chorus of groans and laughs.

Seungmin rolled his eyes. “As if that’s a punishment.”

Changbin grinned. “Depends on the song choice.”

“Guys, focus!” Chan declared. “This is serious business.”

As the game went on, jokes flew fast and teasing turned playful. At one point, Han made a particularly sneaky move, prompting Chan to fake glare.

“You’re dead, man.”

“Big talk for someone about to lose again,” Han fired back.

Jeongin laughed, reaching over to nudge Chan’s side. “See? All this competitiveness is why you love us.”

Chan pretended to groan but smiled anyway. “Yeah, yeah. Love you guys.”

The room filled with warmth, not just from the close quarters but from the easy space they’d built, the kind that felt like home no matter where they were. As the night stretched on, the game blurred into half-hearted attempts and silly dares, but none of them minded. Tonight was theirs, a little pocket of joy before the world called them back. The night was winding down, the lively energy slowly softening as one by one, the members began to gather their things.

“I should get going,” Seungmin said, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Early flight tomorrow.”

“Yeah, me too,” Felix added, stretching. “Need to be sharp for Saint Denis.”

Han grinned, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. “Alright, I’m calling it a night. Don’t party too hard without me.”

Changbin nodded, heading toward the door. “Same here.”

One by one, the room emptied, leaving only Chan and Jeongin, the quiet hum of the city faint beyond the window. Jeongin started to rise, but Chan’s hand caught his wrist gently.

“Wait,” Chan said softly, voice low and a little unsure. “Stay with me tonight?”

Jeongin’s eyes softened. He didn’t need to think twice. “Okay.”

They settled onto the bed together, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting warm shadows. Jeongin curled up close, and Chan wrapped an arm around him, pulling him near.

“It’s nice,” Chan murmured after a moment. “Just being here, with you. No schedules, no noise.”

Jeongin smiled, resting his head against Chan’s chest. “Yeah, feels like the world quieted down for a bit.”

They talked in whispers, about small things, silly things, moments from the day that made them laugh. The easy rhythm of their voices, the steady beat of Chan’s heart under Jeongin’s ear, it all felt like a gentle promise.

As sleep tugged at their eyelids, Jeongin whispered, “I’m glad I stayed.”

Chan smiled against his hair. “Me too, Innie. Me too.”

And in the quiet stillness of the night, they fell asleep tangled together, a quiet warmth holding them close until morning.

Chapter Text

The morning came too quickly, the soft light filtering through the curtains painted the room in pale gold, warm but insistent. Chan stirred first, the weight of the day already pressing faintly at the edges of his mind. Beside him, Jeongin shifted, eyes still closed, his hair a little messy from sleep. For a moment, Chan just watched him, memorizing the calm before the day pulled them both back into motion. They moved quietly, not out of awkwardness, but because the early hour felt sacred. A few shared smiles, a sleepy brush of shoulders as they gathered their things, and then it was time to leave the cocoon of the night behind. By the time they stepped into the hotel lobby, the rest of the members were already gathered, luggage lined up, staff moving with practiced efficiency. Felix was sipping on a to-go coffee that looked too big for his hands, Han was half-draped over Seungmin’s shoulder with his hood up, and Changbin was scrolling through his phone while mumbling something about gym routines.

“Morning, sleepyheads,” Hyunjin teased when he saw them.

“Speak for yourself,” Jeongin said with a yawn, tugging his hoodie tighter.

The van ride to the airport was quiet at first, a low hum of conversation filling the space. But by the time they were airborne in the plane bound for Paris, the energy shifted. They were all more awake now, joking and tossing comments across the aisle, their laughter soft but warm. Still, Chan felt that familiar pull, one part of him soaking in the rare lightness of these moments, the other already thinking about what was waiting. The Paris shows, the looming final stretch of the tour, and then the intense dive into Karma promotions. His laptop sat in his bag under the seat, a constant reminder that his work never really stopped.

Jeongin, seated beside him, seemed quieter than usual. Not withdrawn exactly, he still smiled when someone made a joke, still leaned over to point something out through the small plane window, but there was a distance there, Chan didn’t miss it. When their hands brushed on the armrest, neither moved away, but neither made it obvious, just enough contact to anchor them without drawing eyes, it was the kind of fragile balance they’d been living in, a glass bubble they couldn’t afford to have anyone stare at too long. The flight passed in that in-between space, not entirely private, not entirely public, and soon, Paris stretched out below them, the silver Seine winding like a ribbon through the city, as the wheels touched down, Jeongin glanced at him. It was small, barely there, but the look said enough: We’re still here. Still us. For now.

Chan gave a small nod, holding onto that thought as the engines roared and the bubble around them thinned just a little more. Paris greeted them with sunlight spilling over pale stone buildings, the air holding that mix of warmth and breeze that felt almost like the city was trying to charm them; the drive from the airport to the hotel passed in a blur of tree-lined boulevards and the occasional Eiffel Tower peek in the distance. The mood was lighter than it had been in weeks, no interviews, no schedule until the shows, just free time and the freedom to breathe.

“Alright,” Chan announced once they’d checked in, gathering the group in the lobby. “Use your free days wisely. Rest, explore, eat too much bread. Just… don’t get lost.”

Han raised a hand. “Do we have a curfew, Dad?”

“No,” Chan said, already turning toward the elevators. “But if you get stranded in the middle of Paris, don’t call me.”

Han grinned, satisfied with the loophole. “Got it. Minho, you heard him—we’re free men.”

“Mm,” Minho replied with the smallest smirk. “Coffee first.”

That’s how Jeongin found himself tagging along with them, he hadn’t planned it, not exactly, Han had thrown an arm over his shoulders in the elevator and casually asked if he wanted to join. It had sounded innocent enough, until they were halfway through their croissants at a tucked-away café and he realized he’d fallen into the role of accidental third wheel. Minho was leaned in, eyes crinkling as Han said something low enough that Jeongin couldn’t catch, both of them laughing like they’d been in on the joke for years. Every now and then one would glance at him, toss a comment his way to make sure he was still included, but it was clear there was a rhythm between them that he was just orbiting. Jeongin sipped his coffee, feigning distraction with the street outside. He didn’t mind, not really, he liked seeing the others happy, but there was a little twist in his chest he couldn’t name. Back at the hotel later that day, he ran into Hyunjin and Changbin in the hallway, both dressed like they were heading out.

“Where are you going?” Jeongin asked.

“Bakery run,” Changbin said, already pulling him along. “You’re coming with.”

Hyunjin grinned. “We need someone to carry the extra bags.”

“Wow,” Jeongin muttered, but he followed anyway. This outing was louder, more chaotic; Changbin ordering too much on purpose, Hyunjin insisting they take “just one more” picture in front of every random mural they found. Somewhere between teasing Changbin for getting powdered sugar on his shirt and laughing at Hyunjin’s failed attempt to translate the menu, Jeongin felt that bubble of quiet from the night before drift back, but it didn’t last long. Back in his own room, showered and stretched out on the bed, he could hear faint movement in the hallway, Chan’s voice, steady and low, giving instructions to staff on the phone. He sounded tired in a way Jeongin could picture even without seeing his face. The weight of leader duties and comeback prep was creeping back in, wrapping around Chan’s shoulders like a familiar, heavy coat. Jeongin turned on his side, staring at the wall. That fragile sense of stillness they’d had in Madrid… it was still here, but thinner. A glass bubble, delicate and whole, for now. And he couldn’t stop wondering how long it would take before someone’s eyes lingered too long and the crack began.

The days before the first Paris show blurred into a mix of wandering and waiting.The group split into smaller groups, some chasing museums and photo spots, others content with cafés and hotel couches. Jeongin found himself in both camps, sometimes roaming the cobblestoned streets with Felix, sometimes sharing quiet mornings in the lobby with Hyunjin over too-sweet coffee. From the outside, everything felt easy. They laughed, they teased, they shared pastries until the table looked like a bakery display. But under it all, Jeongin could feel the shift in Chan. He was there, technically, always nearby, always answering if someone called, but his mind seemed elsewhere. Even when they were out as a full group for dinner, his phone was face-down on the table but his eyes were still distant, like he was holding a setlist in his head and mentally rearranging it.

At one point, Felix leaned over to Jeongin with a small smile. “He’s in producer mode again.”

Jeongin followed his gaze across the table to where Chan was nodding at something Han was saying but not quite engaging. “Yeah,” Jeongin murmured, though the word felt heavier than it should.

Later, when they were all sprawled out in one of the larger hotel rooms playing cards, the warmth of the group wrapped around Jeongin like a blanket. Han was making outrageous bets with Hyunjin, Minho was quietly but effectively taking everyone’s snacks, and Changbin was insisting they were all cheating. It was the kind of noise Jeongin loved, their own little chaos, contained in four walls. Chan joined them for a while, sitting cross-legged on the floor and even laughing at one of Han’s ridiculous impressions, but after half an hour he slipped away with a murmured “I’ll be back.”

He didn’t come back. When Jeongin passed Chan’s room later that night, the light under the door was still on, faint music spilling out. He thought about knocking, just to… what? Remind him to sleep? Offer to keep him company? Instead, he walked on, telling himself it wasn’t the right time. By the day before the show, the tension had grown invisible roots. It wasn’t an argument or a misunderstanding, it was just absence. Every moment Jeongin caught himself looking for Chan, Chan was already somewhere else: a meeting, a phone call, a half-finished track open on his laptop. But when they were all together, eating in the hotel restaurant, wandering through a street market, laughing in the van, it was as if none of it existed. The warmth stayed. The jokes kept coming. The bubble still held. It just wasn’t as thick as it used to be.

Show day came early, the hotel corridors buzzed with half-zipped bags and voices bouncing between rooms. Felix was already halfway to vibrating, coffee cup in hand, hopping from foot to foot while he talked about how today was the day, how the Paris crowd was going to “absolutely explode.”

“I’m calling it now,” he said, grinning as he paced beside Minho in the breakfast room. “They’re going to be louder than Madrid. Louder.”

“Impossible,” Minho said without looking up from his toast. “Madrid’s crowd was terrifying.”

“Terrifying in a good way!” Han added, waving his fork. “Like… if I had to choose how to go, trampled by screaming fans is in my top five.”

Hyunjin groaned, covering his face. “You need new hobbies.”

The laughter rolled easily around the table, warm and familiar, even as Chan sat at the end, hands wrapped around his mug. He smiled when someone caught his eye, but Jeongin could see the weight in the slope of his shoulders. Talk shifted to what they’d do once they were back in Korea after Rome, lazy days, favorite restaurants, maybe even a group trip to the coast if schedules aligned.

“Two days in the studio, minimum,” Han teased, nodding toward Chan.

Chan rolled his eyes, but it didn’t quite reach them. “Three,” he said, but the joke felt half-true.

The ride to the stadium was alive with a different kind of energy. Felix pressed his face to the window, commenting on every street artist and café they passed. Hyunjin filmed them for a vlog segment, making Minho and Changbin reenact their failed attempt at ordering in French the day before. Jeongin laughed with the rest of them, but his gaze kept drifting across the seats to where Chan sat with his headphones on, not fully withdrawn, but not in it either. Every time their eyes met, Chan would give a small smile, quick and soft, before looking away. The stadium appeared ahead, its wide arc catching the morning light. Cheers were already echoing faintly from somewhere inside. And just like that, the day was set in motion. The noise, the adrenaline, the rush, they were about to be swallowed whole by it. But even with all the movement, all the voices around him, Jeongin couldn’t shake the feeling that the space between him and Chan was somehow growing wider.

Backstage was a steady hum of movement and chatter, the kind of rhythm they’d grown so used to it almost felt like home. Staff weaved past with armfuls of in-ears and microphones. Backup dancers warmed up in clusters, the thud of bass from the soundcheck still hanging in the air. Felix was bouncing again, eyes wide as he peeked through the curtain toward the stadium bowl. “They’re already screaming,” he said, almost whispering like he didn’t want to jinx it. “We haven’t even gone out yet.”

“Maybe they’re screaming because you’re so loud,” Minho deadpanned, adjusting his earpiece.

Changbin grinned, sliding into the space between them. “Or maybe it’s for me.”

Han scoffed. “Sure, and I’m secretly the president of France.”

Hyunjin had his phone out again, catching the exchange on video before panning to Chan, who was quietly conferring with a staff member about the set list adjustments. His voice was calm, his hands moving in small gestures, but the crease between his brows never left. Jeongin drifted closer, lingering just out of the conversation. He wanted to say something, anything, to pull Chan back into the warmth of the group buzz, but before he could, Chan caught his eye and gave him a faint smile, the kind that said later. Minutes melted away in the blur of makeup checks, hair spray, and outfit changes, the faint rumble of the crowd outside turned into a deafening roar as the lights dimmed. They huddled just before the stage entrance, the eight of them shoulder to shoulder.

Chan’s voice carried over the noise. “Alright, this is Paris. Let’s make it one they’ll remember. No matter what happens, have fun. And don’t hold back—you guys never do.”

Felix let out an overdramatic “Captain!” and saluted, earning a laugh that broke some of the tension. Then the cue came, and they were off, running into a wall of sound so loud it shook in their bones. The night was a blur of bright lights, chants, and the synchronized chaos that only came from years of moving as one. Every high note, every shout, every glance to the side found a member smiling back. And for a while, even with everything pressing on him, Chan smiled too.

When the final note rang and the stage lights cut, they stumbled backstage in a haze of sweat and laughter, still breathless. Felix fell dramatically onto the couch, Minho poured water over his head, and Han was already replaying the funniest mistakes into his phone. Chan dropped into a chair, towel over his shoulders, and Jeongin passed him a bottle of water. Their fingers brushed, briefly, lightly, but it was enough to make Chan glance up. The moment lasted only a heartbeat before someone called for a group photo, pulling them both back into the noise.

By the time they made it back to the hotel, the night air in Paris was cool enough to bite at the sweat still clinging to their skin. The van ride had been filled with leftover adrenaline, Han replaying clips from the concert, Felix swearing the crowd was the loudest yet, Hyunjin humming one of their encore tracks under his breath. But in the quiet of the lobby, with their footsteps echoing off the marble floor, the noise began to drain away. They exchanged tired “good nights” at the elevator, members peeling off floor by floor until it was just Chan and Jeongin stepping out together. Neither spoke as they walked down the hall.

Inside his room, Chan set his bag down and leaned against the desk, rubbing at the back of his neck. He could still hear the ringing in his ears, the phantom echo of thousands of voices shouting their name. Tomorrow, it would be the same, another show, another crowd, more screaming. And after that, Rome. The pace didn’t stop. A knock at the door pulled him out of his thoughts. Jeongin stood there, hair still damp from his shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. “Just… wanted to say good night,” he said, tone light but eyes searching.

Chan hesitated for a moment too long before replying, “Good night, Innie.” His voice was soft, but there was something unspoken underneath, an ache he didn’t have the energy to untangle tonight.

Jeongin smiled, faint and quick, before backing toward his own door. “Sleep well, hyung.”

The door clicked shut, and Chan was left alone with the hum of the air conditioner and the weight in his chest. The show had been incredible, the kind of night they’d all remember, but the space between them still felt wider than it should.

Tomorrow would come fast. Another stage, another smile, another layer to hold in place.

Chapter Text

The air in Paris felt heavy with both accomplishment and fatigue. The second show had left the members exhilarated, but the energy came with its cost, tired legs, throats sore from screaming, and minds buzzing with adrenaline that refused to quiet down. Back at the hotel, the group moved quietly through the corridors, some heading straight to showers, others collapsing into the soft embrace of their beds, the faint glow of city lights spilling in through the curtains. Jeongin lingered, the remnants of the night still alive in his chest, Seungmin had suggested they have a quick dinner together, away from the noise, and now, with takeout boxes between them and their phones streaming to the fans, they laughed softly at the comments flooding in from Stays around the world.

“You think they notice how tired we are?” Seungmin asked, sipping his water.

Jeongin grinned, brushing a loose strand of hair from his eyes. “Maybe… or maybe they just see how happy we look. Even when we’re dying inside.”

“Even dying inside,” Seungmin repeated, chuckling. “Sounds like my Monday mornings.”

The two of them traded stories, quietly teasing, the light-heartedness of the moment grounding Jeongin. Yet, even in this calm, he could feel Chan’s absence pressing in, not physically, but emotionally. The older’s mind was elsewhere, tangled in schedules, the looming release of their comeback, the endless responsibilities that came with leading the group. Jeongin’s mind flicked toward Chan’s door; behind it, he imagined the meticulous planning, the late-night arrangements, the stress pressing on him in ways Jeongin couldn’t reach. He wanted to go and knock, wanted to be there, but he knew some battles were fought in silence.

“I miss him,” Jeongin murmured to Seungmin, who only nodded knowingly, scrolling through the fan comments.

“You’ll see him soon,” Seungmin said softly. “Tomorrow we’re on the move again. Rome. Last stop of the tour. You’ll have him around soon enough.”

Jeongin leaned back against the headboard, taking in the quiet hum of the city outside, the laughter and typing of fans on the live chat filling the room like soft echoes. The warmth of the moment was a comfort, but the tension simmered just below the surface, a reminder of the whirlwind that awaited them: the flight, the setup in Rome, the final performance, and the ever-present pressure Chan carried so silently. They finished their food, laughing at the occasional absurd fan comment, before tidying up. The lights dimmed, and Jeongin tucked himself under the blankets, phone set aside, letting the quiet settle around him. For now, it was enough, soft smiles, lingering warmth, and the fragile, fleeting calm before the storm of Rome.

The morning light filtered softly through the hotel curtains, catching on the pale walls and dusting the room in gold. The city outside was quiet compared to the chaos of the previous night, but inside the hotel, the Stray Kids’ suite buzzed with quiet energy, bags were zipped, snacks packed, and schedules double-checked. Chan moved among the group, checking on timings, confirming arrangements with the staff, the sharp edge of his attention betraying the weight pressing on him. Every step, every small decision felt magnified now, amplified by the knowledge that the tour was nearing its end and the new comeback loomed like a distant storm. Jeongin trailed behind, tugging his jacket on, feeling hollow despite the laughter and chatter of the others. He caught glimpses of Chan’s face as the leader spoke to the manager, the stress lined in his jaw, the eyes flicking anxiously toward the plane. It wasn’t anger or frustration aimed at anyone, just the relentless pull of responsibility, but Jeongin couldn’t help the tiny pang of emptiness that twisted in his chest.

“Do you think we packed everything?” Felix asked, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

“Probably forgot at least three things,” Han said, grinning, trying to lighten the mood as they moved toward the plane. “But hey, it’s a tour. Nothing ever goes perfectly.”

Jeongin followed, slipping between Seungmin and Minho, pretending to laugh at a joke about airline food. But beneath the surface, he felt the distance stretching thin, a quiet ache for a presence he couldn’t fully claim at the moment. Chan moved efficiently, checking phones, schedules, making sure the flight was stocked, every movement betraying his tension. As they climbed into it, the familiar hum of engines and the soft clatter of seatbelts being clicked into place created an oddly comforting cocoon. The other members chatted easily, planning sightseeing, joking about the French food waiting for them, and discussing choreography tweaks, their voices carrying warmth. But Chan sat rigidly, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the charts, his mind juggling soundchecks, hotel arrangements, and deadlines for the upcoming comeback. Every glance he stole toward Jeongin brought a flicker of longing, quickly pushed aside by the pressing weight of his duties. Jeongin slid into the seat beside him, fingers brushing against the older’s as he reached for the armrest. Chan didn’t immediately react, but when he did, his hand covered Jeongin’s, a fleeting squeeze before returning to the clipboard.

“You okay?” Jeongin asked softly, careful not to disturb the fragile bubble of professionalism Chan had built around himself.

“I will be,” Chan replied, voice low and even, but his jaw tightened just slightly. “Just… a lot to manage today.”

Jeongin nodded, staring out the window at the clouds that trailed beneath them, feeling a quiet emptiness settle in. He knew the pressure Chan carried, he always had, but now, with the knowledge of what they shared, it felt sharper, more isolating. He wanted to reach out, to pull Chan close and ease the tension, but the bubble of duties and schedules remained, leaving him suspended in the liminal space between intimacy and distance. The flight pressed on in comfortable silence, punctuated by the distant laughter and chatter of the other members, the hum of the plane’s engines, and the constant, invisible weight pressing on Chan. Rome awaited them, the final stage, the culmination of months of work, and the crescendo of the tour, but beneath the surface, both of them carried separate storms. For Chan, it was responsibility and fear that his choices might unravel the delicate balance he’d fought to maintain. For Jeongin, it was a quiet, aching longing to hold onto a connection that seemed too fragile for the pressures surrounding them. As the plane sliced through the clouds, Paris fading beneath them, both of them sat in their private orbit, physically side by side, yet suspended in their own thoughts, waiting for the city of Rome to greet them, for the tour’s final curtain to rise, and for whatever fragile moments remained for them to hold onto.

The plane began its descent toward Rome, the sprawling city gradually stretching beneath them in golden afternoon light. Jeongin’s fingers drummed lightly against his seat, restless, trying to shake the hollow sensation that had been shadowing him, he glanced toward Chan, who sat hunched over, reviewing notes and documents, his jaw tight and eyes sharp with calculation.

“Hyung…” Jeongin began tentatively, leaning closer. “Do you want to go for a walk when we land? Maybe see a little of the city before the show?”

Chan didn’t even look up at first, eyes scanning the papers in front of him. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, clipped, far sharper than he intended, but the weight of the tour and the looming comeback left no room for softness. “Jeongin, we don’t have time for that. Rome isn’t going to wait, and neither is everything else that needs to be ready for tomorrow. Just, focus on the room when we get there, okay?”

Jeongin flinched slightly, the words harsher than he expected. He opened his mouth to reply, but Chan’s eyes didn’t meet his again, and he fell silent, retreating into the small, frustrated bubble that now separated them. By the time they reached the hotel, the other members were already unpacking or planning a brief outing. Jeongin sighed quietly and followed Changbin’s suggestion to explore the streets with him, hoping the motion would shake off the tension still lingering from the plane.

The city was alive with late afternoon crowds, laughter spilling from cafés, the aroma of fresh bread and espresso drifting through narrow streets. Changbin navigated through alleyways, pointing out little shops and telling stories from past visits. Jeongin smiled half-heartedly, but it was a fragile mask, his thoughts kept drifting back to Chan and the cold edge in his voice. As they turned a corner, Felix appeared in the distance, hands full of small shopping bags. Jeongin’s steps slowed when he noticed Chan just ahead, his posture relaxed in a way that seemed almost impossible given the stress he carried. He was leaning slightly against a shop window, examining a pair of headphones, his brows furrowed in concentration. Felix stood beside him, laughing softly, gesturing animatedly at some small gadget in his hands.

Jeongin paused, watching the interaction. “So… now you have time for this?” he muttered quietly, half to himself, half in disbelief.

Chan’s head flicked up, catching sight of him. There was a flicker of guilt, but the stress still lingered in the tight line of his jaw. “I—It’s just a quick stop,” he said, voice tense. “You weren’t going to stay cooped up forever, right?”

Jeongin forced a smile, but his chest tightened. “I wasn’t expecting this, that’s all. You were really busy—on the plane, back at the hotel. I just…” He trailed off, not wanting to argue in front of the others.

Chan stepped closer, lowering his voice, the weight of the tour evident in every word. “Jeongin… I’m trying to manage everything, the last show, the comeback prep, there’s a lot riding on this. It’s not about you. I just… can’t split my focus right now.”

Jeongin nodded slowly, though the ache in his chest remained. He caught Felix’s glance but ignored it, choosing instead to follow them inside the shop, pretending to browse while his mind churned with frustration and longing. Every small step, every distracted glance, every fleeting smile stoked the quiet tension that had been building since Paris. The city outside could wait, they didn’t have much time, but the storm of responsibilities and emotions inside Chan seemed impossible to escape. As they left the shop, the streets of Rome glowing under the early evening light, Jeongin walked slightly behind Chan, hands tucked into his pockets, tracing the cracks in the pavement. The looming show, the final act of the tour, pressed heavily on both their minds, leaving a fragile bubble between them that neither could easily breach. Even in this city, full of history and beauty, Jeongin couldn’t shake the sense that the distance was growing, and that every moment they had together was somehow slipping away, unnoticed beneath the weight of everything else waiting for Chan’s attention.

The morning light spilled across the Roman skyline, golden and warm, but it did little to ease the tension that had settled between Chan and Jeongin. Breakfast was a quiet affair in the hotel room. Most of the members chatted cheerfully, laughter bouncing across the polished tables. Felix and Han argued over which pastries were better, Seungmin quietly sipping espresso and making small comments, Changbin scrolling through last-minute notes for stage cues. Jeongin nibbled on his toast, eyes occasionally flicking toward Chan, who was unusually tense, shoulders stiff, fingers tapping against the edge of the table.

“I’m telling you, Rome has the best gelato,” Han said, smirking at Felix. “You guys are missing out if you don’t try it after the show.”

“Mm, maybe later,” Chan murmured, almost distractedly, still scanning his phone. His voice was low, professional, but the undercurrent of stress made it feel sharp to Jeongin.

“Hyung, you’re like… not even eating,” Felix teased. “Are you okay?”

Chan glanced up briefly, offering a small, tight-lipped smile. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just focused.”

Jeongin felt a familiar pang in his chest. Focused. Busy. Important. Words that always seemed to push them apart when all he wanted was a little attention, a little softness. The ride to the stadium was a chaotic mix of music, chatter, and the occasional shout from Han or Felix. Jeongin tried to laugh along, interjecting with jokes or comments about Rome’s streets whizzing past outside the van windows, but he couldn’t shake the thread of quiet distance between him and Chan. Even seated beside him, the leader seemed far away, absorbed in mental checklists, stage timings, and the mounting pressure of their comeback.

Felix leaned over, nudging Jeongin. “You okay, Innie? You’ve been staring into space the whole ride.”

“I’m fine,” Jeongin said, forcing a smile. He looked toward Chan, who glanced briefly in his direction, eyes meeting his for only a moment before darting back to the notebook in his lap.

The stadium loomed ahead, massive and gleaming under the afternoon sun. Fans were already lining up, waving banners and shouting chants that made the van vibrate with energy. The excitement was palpable, but for Jeongin, the thrill was tangled with unease, Chan’s tension radiated like heat from a fire, and he felt the fragile thread connecting them pull taut. Backstage, the warm buzz of activity filled the air. Staff and backup dancers moved quickly, rehearsing cues, checking mics, adjusting costumes. Jeongin moved among them, offering smiles and greetings, but always with one eye on Chan, who was quietly reviewing setlists and speaking in clipped tones with the staff. Even in this energetic chaos, Jeongin could feel the distance, the careful mask of professionalism that Chan wore like armor.

“Ready for this?” Seungmin asked, clapping him lightly on the shoulder.

“Yeah,” Jeongin said, but the word felt hollow even to him. He knew the show would be incredible, he had no doubt, but the warmth he’d felt in the quiet moments with Chan was now overshadowed by the looming pressure, the knowledge that tomorrow’s show, and the one after in Rome, would demand everything from them both.

And in the corner of his mind, a quiet thought nagged, Rome would be the last, the final performance of the tour, and yet, the thread of closeness he craved with Chan felt thinner than ever. The stadium roared as the lights dimmed, the crowd’s energy a tangible pulse through the floor beneath them. The tour’s final show in Rome was here, and every member of Stray Kids moved with the kind of precision and passion that only months of shared experience could produce. Chan led them onto the stage, voice and body commanding the space as always, yet there was a subtle tightness in his shoulders, a barely-there tension in the way he scanned the crowd for cues. Jeongin, beside him, felt it immediately, the restrained energy that kept him a fraction removed, even as they performed in perfect unison. The music hit, heavy and alive, and for a moment, all else faded. Lights swept across the stadium, fans screaming in waves of sound, hands reaching out as if to pull the members closer. Each song carried weight, each movement precise yet infused with joy, Felix bounced near the front, Han shouted over the chorus, Seungmin and Changbin held their positions with practiced intensity. Jeongin let himself get lost in the music, matching every beat, every step, but still, his gaze flickered constantly toward Chan.

By the final song, the energy had become electric. Sweat-dampened hair clung to their faces, lungs burned from singing, feet ached from the choreography, but no one faltered. They gave everything they had, leaving it all on the stage. When the last note faded, the crowd erupted, a wall of sound that seemed endless, demanding encore after encore of bows and waves. Backstage afterward, the roar of applause still echoing faintly, the members dispersed for quick drinks, towels, and brief stretches. The adrenaline from the performance lingered, but Chan’s focus had already shifted to the checklist for tomorrow’s return to Korea and the looming comeback. Jeongin followed him, trying to offer a light smile, a “we did it,” but Chan’s responses were clipped, distracted, eyes darting toward his phone or notes.

“I can’t believe this is over,” Felix said, collapsing into a chair nearby, grinning. “Rome was insane. Can you believe it?”

“Yeah,” Han agreed, still catching his breath. “We went out with a bang.”

Seungmin nudged Jeongin. “Hey, don’t look so serious. You had fun, right?”

Jeongin nodded, but his gaze kept returning to Chan, who now stood slightly apart, reviewing a schedule on his tablet. There was warmth in the room, laughter spilling from corners, but Jeongin felt the gap between them stretch just a little wider.

Changbin’s voice cut through, lightly teasing. “You’ve been really quiet tonight, Chan. Don’t tell me the end-of-tour blues hit you already.”

Chan’s jaw tightened slightly, and he didn’t answer right away. Jeongin’s stomach twisted, sensing that the comment had landed on a raw nerve. Finally, Chan gave a short nod, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Just focused,” he muttered. The words weren’t sharp, but the tone carried a weight that silenced the group for a brief moment. Jeongin felt a pang of guilt and longing at once. He wanted to cross the room, to brush a hand along Chan’s arm or press a light kiss to his shoulder, but he hesitated, unsure if it would break through the professional armor Chan had pulled tightly around himself. As the other members dispersed to their rooms, Felix joking about grabbing gelato, Han teasing about a post-show ritual, Jeongin lingered near Chan, silently offering presence. Chan finally looked up, eyes meeting his, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just the two of them, words unspoken, emotions raw and heavy with the tension of what had been given on stage, and what had yet to be shared in private. Tomorrow, there would be another flight, this time back home. But tonight, Rome held them in a fragile, unspoken moment, charged with pride, exhaustion, and the quiet ache of distance even in proximity.

The hotel room in Rome felt smaller than it should have, the quiet too loud. Jeongin followed Chan inside, carrying the tension from the flight, the airport, the streets of Paris and Rome, and the weight of all the shows they’d done. Every step they’d taken in the past few days seemed to have warped the closeness they’d built in Madrid into something fragile, almost brittle. Jeongin paused, watching Chan’s back as he moved toward the desk, sighing tiredly. The air between them was thick.

“Not now, Innie,” Chan exhaled, finally looking over his shoulder with exhaustion lining his features. “I need to finish some stuff for the comeback.”

Jeongin’s heart sank but he wasn’t surprised. Work had always been Chan’s shield, but it hurt all the same. “I just don’t understand. I know you’re busy, I don’t want to bother… I just…” His voice wavered, a knot forming in his throat as tears threatened to spill. “…Hyung… Channie… why? I don’t know how to take your changes of mood.”

Chan spun around, frustration clear. “Jeongin, I can’t deal with this right now. I thought we were clear on something. There’s a reason we don’t use a label, why we don’t define this… we were fine with what we had. So why now are you so obsessed with calling me your boyfriend, spending time with me?” His words were sharp, almost harsh, though his chest heaved with the tension he carried. “We’re working. We have a lot to do to make Stray Kids the greatest band. This is our dream; this is why I work nonstop. I thought you understood. I thought we were on the same page. So please… don’t define this relationship. I like you, yes, but I don’t know about love. I like you. That’s it. The difference between a dotted line and a solid one, you know the vibe I’m talking about?”

Chan’s voice softened a little as he stepped closer, taking Jeongin’s face gently in his hands. “If you want to cross the line, go ahead—but I won’t. Right now, this feels better. No pressure. Fewer scars this way. I give it a shot, then step back. That’s the truth. Sincerity. No games. Even if we get close, we step back. Let’s not jump to conclusions too fast. Yeah, I like you, but I don’t wanna love.”

Jeongin’s lips trembled as tears streamed down his cheeks. “So that’s it for me? Just… something in between? I told you… if this was a game, I’d rather you walk away. You knew my feelings. I thought…” He chuckled sadly, wiping at his face. “…Even if I act like it’s fine, I can’t lie. This longing, this regret—it’s unbearable. I’ve lost my mind. I didn’t realize. I can’t breathe when I’m not with you. What did I have so much faith in to do that? I’ve really lost it.”

Chan’s hands wrapped around Jeongin’s, pulling him close in a hug that carried the weight of unspoken apologies and worry. “Innie, baby, that’s not what I mean. I don’t want to end this. I hope it goes on, eternally. Let’s just… not label it. Just you and me. I want you. I like you. I can’t give more than this right now, but it’s everything I have. You know that.”

Jeongin exhaled, trying to steady his voice. “I guess it’s my fault for not knowing my place, letting you drift. I hate myself for feeling this much regret, but I can’t control it. I miss you. You’ve grown so distant… I guess I’ll have to live with the pain of not being able to forget you. I love you, Chan… but maybe we’ve already said everything we needed to. Maybe it’s my fault for holding onto this… for seeing a version of you I want, even while still seeing you.”

Chan closed his eyes, grief and guilt pressing against his chest. He didn’t know what to say; he only knew he couldn’t undo the hurt he’d caused. Jeongin, unable to bear the heaviness any longer, stepped back and left, retreating to his own room. 

On his way, he ran into Hyunjin, who noticed the strain on his face. “Are you okay?” Hyunjin asked gently.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jeongin whispered, nearly choking on the words as he entered his room, closing the door with a soft click, ignoring Hyunjin’s calls.

Back in his own room, Chan lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, racked with guilt. How could he have hurt his precious maknae like that? His mind scrambled, grasping at broken memories of Jeongin’s tears, his soft voice, his pleading. Even holding onto one fragment of that closeness, all Chan could remember were the heartbreak-filled eyes of the boy he adored. Rome felt silent outside, but inside Chan’s chest, a storm raged. And tomorrow, there would be another flight, this time back to Korea. The end of the tour felt closer than ever, and Chan couldn’t shake the fear that in trying to protect everything he’d worked for, he might lose the one thing that mattered most.

Chapter Text

The plane touched down in Seoul with the familiar thrum of engines vibrating through the cabin, but for Jeongin, the noise barely registered. His head was heavy, eyes red and puffy from a night spent tossing, turning, and trying in vain to make sense of the argument with Chan. The other members chattered quietly, luggage rattling as they gathered their things, but Jeongin sat stiffly, his gaze fixed on the city lights outside the window.

Seungmin, ever the observant one, slid into the seat beside him, gently nudging his shoulder. “Hey… you okay?” he asked softly.

“I’m fine,” Jeongin muttered, barely turning his head. His voice was tight, clipped; he didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to give anyone the weight of his pain.

Seungmin didn’t press, only rested a hand lightly over Jeongin’s, a quiet anchor. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” he said, eyes kind. “I just… want you to know I’m here.”

Jeongin swallowed, the lump in his throat tightening. He wanted to believe Seungmin, to let himself relax even a little, but the memory of Chan’s words, the raw edge in his voice, the hurt in his heart, kept him frozen. “I said I’m fine,” he murmured again, more for himself than anyone else.

By the time they reached the company, Jeongin moved with a deliberate distance, keeping himself as far from Chan as possible. The others followed behind, catching glimpses of the tension radiating off him, and exchanged silent glances. Hyunjin tried to make a small joke, but Jeongin didn’t even crack a smile.

Meanwhile, Chan stood at the front of the group, luggage in hand, shoulders slumped with fatigue. The words he’d said last night felt like a weight pressing down on him, heavy and unshakable. He wanted to apologize, to reach for Jeongin and erase the sting, but the mountain of work waiting for him and the exhaustion from the tour left him paralyzed.

Changbin sidled up to him, curious and cautious. “Hey… something happen with Innie?” he asked gently.

Chan shook his head, voice tight. “Just… a little fight,” he replied, deliberately neutral. He didn’t want to admit the depth of his guilt, the fear that he might have broken the one person he cared for more than anything.

As the members dispersed back to their places to drop off luggage and refresh, Jeongin refused any proximity to Chan, retreating to Seungmin and Felix’ places instead. Chan, in his own studio, sat at his desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard, but he didn’t type. Every thought returned to Jeongin’s tearful eyes, his voice wavering, the hurt he couldn’t undo. The weight of responsibility, for the group, the comeback, the tour, and for Jeongin pressed down, leaving him exhausted in every sense of the word. The room seemed to hum around them, the quiet too loud, the tension between them like a taut string neither wanted to pluck.

The apartment felt too quiet, the hum of the city outside barely cutting through the stillness. Jeongin sat on the couch between Felix and Seungmin, shoulders hunched, fingers twisting the hem of his shirt. The moment he walked in, the weight of everything; the words, the distance, the fight, hit him fully.

Seungmin perched beside him, careful not to crowd him, while Felix flopped onto the armrest. “Innie… you don’t have to keep it all inside,” Seungmin said gently. “You can tell us. You know that, right?”

Jeongin shook his head, voice barely audible. “I… I don’t want to make it worse.”

Felix leaned forward, eyebrows knitted. “Worse than what? You’ve been crying alone, Innie. That’s already worse.”

The words cracked something open. Jeongin blinked rapidly, trying to swallow the lump in his throat, but it wouldn’t go down. He felt heat prick at his eyes, and finally, the tears he’d held back since the argument with Chan spilled freely. “I… I just… I can’t…” he choked out, burying his face in his hands. “I don’t know what I did wrong, or why… why he… he… changed so fast!”

Seungmin slid a steady hand onto his back, rubbing soothing circles. “Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong, Innie. He’s stressed, the tour, the comeback, Chan’s under so much pressure.”

Felix nodded, trying to lighten the mood without diminishing Jeongin’s feelings. “Yeah, he’s a mess under that perfect leader face, trust me. But you… you’re allowed to feel hurt too.”

Jeongin hiccupped, a shaky breath escaping him. “I… I just… I miss him. I miss how it was, and now… it’s like he’s a stranger.”

Seungmin squeezed his shoulder. “I get it. I know you do. But maybe… maybe it’s not that he’s a stranger, just that he’s… tangled up in everything else. It’s not about you.”

Felix reached over and plucked a loose strand of hair from Jeongin’s forehead, smiling softly. “And we’re here. You’ve got us, at least. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

Jeongin exhaled shakily, resting his head against Seungmin’s shoulder. The warmth of their support wrapped around him, a fragile shield against the ache inside. “I… I don’t want to feel like this… alone.”

“You’re not,” Seungmin murmured, voice steady, patient. “We’ve got you, Innie. And… we’ll figure this out. Together.”

For the first time since the fight, Jeongin allowed himself to breathe, to feel the comfort of being held and heard. The tears still fell, but the weight wasn’t as heavy now, not with Seungmin and Felix there, bridging the space that Chan had left. Outside, Seoul carried on, unaware of the quiet storm inside the apartment. Inside, three of them sat close, sharing the silent promise that Jeongin wouldn’t face this alone. Not tonight.

Chan’s studio was dim, lit only by the soft glow of monitors and the thin streaks of sunlight creeping past the blinds. The clatter of keyboards and the low hum of speakers filled the room, but no matter how many loops he layered or how carefully he adjusted levels, his mind kept drifting back to Jeongin. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Guilt gnawed at him, sharper than any deadline or track problem ever could. The words he’d said in Rome… he hadn’t meant to hurt Jeongin. Not like that. Not ever. But he’d been too focused on the comeback, on the tour, on keeping everything moving perfectly forward, and in the process, he’d let the one person who mattered most slip a little out of reach.

“Chan,” Changbin’s voice broke through the room, cautious but firm. “You’ve been sitting here for hours. You okay?”

Chan flinched slightly, spinning toward him, then forcing a tight smile. “Yeah… just finishing up some things for the comeback. You know how it is.”

Changbin exchanged a look with Han, who had quietly followed, leaning against the doorframe. “We know how it is,” Han said gently. “But you also need to breathe, Hyung. You’ve been… tense. And it’s not just the music.”

Chan’s fingers drummed on the desk. “I know. I just… there’s so much to do. And I can’t afford mistakes, not now. Not with the new tracks, the staging, everything for the comeback.”

Changbin walked closer, resting a hand on Chan’s shoulder. “You’ve got all that, yeah, but you’re also… human. You can’t keep holding everything in and expect it to be fine. I’ve seen you with Innie. Don’t push him—and yourself—away because you’re scared or stressed.”

Chan swallowed hard, leaning into the hand on his shoulder for just a second before sitting straighter. “I know. I just… I don’t want to lose him, Changbin. But if I stop, if I don’t keep moving, the comeback… the group… everything I’ve worked for…” His voice faltered, the weight of responsibility pressing on him.

Han crossed the room and set a hand on Chan’s other shoulder. “And you think pushing him away now is protecting him? Chris… you’re just hurting yourself more. And him too. We can’t fix everything, but you can’t let guilt and work drown you.”

Chan closed his eyes briefly, a sigh escaping. “I just… I don’t want to mess this up. Not the group, not the comeback… not us.”

Changbin gave a small, firm nod. “Then maybe start by talking to him. Not after everything blows up. Just… be honest. You’re not alone, Chris. You’ve got all of us, and you’ve got him. You just have to… let yourself.”

Chan stared at the floor for a long moment, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease slightly, replaced with that familiar knot of longing and worry. “Yeah… yeah, I know.” He rubbed his face and glanced at the empty chair beside him, imagining Jeongin sitting there. “I just… I have to figure out how.”

Han gave a supportive smile. “One step at a time. You’ll figure it out.”

Changbin clapped him lightly on the back. “Now go take a breather, man. You’ve been cooped up here too long. Maybe some fresh air will help you sort out that chaos in your head.”

Chan nodded, the tension in his chest easing just a little. He turned back to the monitors, letting the music play, but his mind was no longer entirely on the tracks. Somewhere out there, Jeongin was waiting. And he had to figure out how to fix the distance before it got any wider.

The apartment was quiet when Chan opened the door. The familiar hum of the air conditioning, the soft creak of the floor under his feet, everything was exactly as it should have been, except for one thing. Jeongin wasn’t here. Chan paused in the doorway, letting the weight of the silence settle around him. His chest tightened, and he ran a hand through his hair. He walked through the apartment, checking the living room, the kitchen, the small nook where Jeongin sometimes curled up with his phone. Empty, not a trace of the maknae. Chan sank onto the couch, head in his hands. If only he hadn’t been so harsh in Rome. If only he hadn’t let frustration and stress spill over, if only he had chosen words more carefully… maybe Jeongin would be here. Maybe he would be leaning against the doorframe when Chan came in, a tired but radiant smile on his face, eyes sparkling that foxy way that always made Chan’s chest squeeze with something he didn’t even know how to name.

The silence pressed on him, heavy, almost accusing. Chan felt the sting of his own words, the bitter taste of regret filling his mouth. He was the only one responsible for this distance. He had let the work, the pressure, and the need to control everything crush the fragile connection he had with Jeongin, and now the apartment felt like a hollow echo of what could have been. He leaned back, letting the cushions swallow him as the thought of Jeongin, so patient, so soft, so full of warmth, flooded his mind. The memories from Madrid and the brief happiness they’d shared felt impossibly far away now, slipping through his fingers like sand.

Meanwhile, Jeongin curled into the corner of Seungmin and Felix’s couch, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them as if they could hold the ache inside him. The room was dim, the soft hum of the city outside filtering through the window, but the familiar warmth of the apartment couldn’t chase away the cold pit in his stomach. He hadn’t wanted to be here, but the words from Rome played over and over in his mind, a bitter echo he couldn’t shake. “I like you… but I don’t wanna love.” The memory of Chan’s face, exhausted and tense, trying to explain why they couldn’t define what they had, twisted in his chest like a knife.

Jeongin pressed his face against the cushions, his fingers clutching at the fabric as if it could somehow bring Chan closer. He knew he was being irrational, knew that work and the comeback had been heavy on Chan’s shoulders, but the distance, the sharpness in his hyung’s voice, the way he’d shut him out… it hurt more than he could bear. Seungmin sat nearby, glancing at him every now and then, a quiet anchor, but Jeongin couldn’t bring himself to talk. How could he explain this jumble of longing, frustration, and heartbreak without making it sound like blame? Felix had gone to their room hours ago, leaving Seungmin to silently watch over him. Jeongin let himself drift into thoughts he usually avoided. Could there even be a future for them? Could they ever balance this delicate, unspoken arrangement with what he wanted, what Chan wanted, and the lives they were building in the chaos of Stray Kids’ world? Every memory of the previous months, every small happiness with Chan, felt fragile now, like glass teetering on the edge of a table. He imagined mornings when they’d wake up together, simple touches and quiet laughter, and then nights like this, lonely, heavy, and filled with words that couldn’t be taken back. Was the joy worth the inevitable ache? The question gnawed at him relentlessly, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Jeongin closed his eyes, hugging his knees tighter, wishing he could press pause on everything, the tour, the work, the unspoken rules they’d set for themselves. He wanted Chan, needed him, but he was left with uncertainty, with the echo of promises unfulfilled, and the knowledge that no one else could bridge this gap for him; and as he finally lay back, staring at the ceiling, the bitter truth settled in: he had no answers, only a quiet, aching hope that maybe, somehow, they could find their way back to each other. But tonight, the taste was sharp, and the room felt impossibly empty.

“I’m the one who made this… I’m the one who pushed him away,” he whispered to the empty room. “If only I could take it back… if only I could see that smile again.”

The thought of Jeongin’s absence, the quiet and the empty apartment, made his chest tighten until it felt like it might break. Chan closed his eyes, swallowing hard, trying to hold back the weight of his guilt. Sleep wouldn’t come easily tonight, and he knew it. Not when the maknae he cared about more than anyone else in the world was somewhere out there, probably thinking about the same fight, probably hurting because of him. The apartment was still, but Chan’s mind was anything but. He traced the edges of the coffee table with his fingers, imagined Jeongin’s laughter echoing in the room, the warmth of his presence. And in the quiet, he promised himself: he would fix this. Somehow. He would find a way to reach Jeongin, to make it right, even if it took everything he had.

Because the thought of Jeongin not being here, not smiling at him, was unbearable. And that ache in his chest… he knew it would not fade until he had him back.

Chapter Text

The apartment was too quiet when Jeongin pushed the door open, he had half-expected, half-prayed that Chan wouldn’t be there, that the leader would have buried himself in the studio again, surrounded by glowing screens and unfinished tracks; but no, the first thing he saw was Chan on the couch, curled forward with his elbows on his knees, a silent figure staring at nothing. Jeongin froze for a moment, keys still in his hand, his chest tightened, breath catching against the sharpness of memory, Rome, the fight, the words he hadn’t been able to stop replaying. Chan looked up, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, guilt carved into every line of his face, for a heartbeat, neither of them spoke, the air heavy and fragile, as if the smallest movement would shatter it. Jeongin swallowed and forced his gaze away, he set his bag down quietly, deliberately, and moved past the couch without slowing. He could feel Chan’s eyes on him with every step, a silent plea pressing into his back.

“Innie…” Chan’s voice cracked, soft and desperate. “Can we—can we talk?”

Jeongin stopped near his bedroom door, his hand hovering on the knob, he didn’t turn, his throat felt tight, his chest aching, but he forced the words out, low and bitter. “I don’t want to hear you right now, hyung.”

Silence fell again, heavier this time, echoing through the small apartment like a closing door, Chan didn’t answer. When Jeongin finally looked over his shoulder, he caught the expression on Chan’s face, shattered, like the words had cut deeper than any blade; Jeongin ducked into his room before he could see more, he pressed his back against the door once it was shut, blinking hard against the sting in his eyes. On the other side of the wall, Chan sat motionless on the couch, heart breaking in slow, quiet pieces. He had wanted to make things better, to start fixing what he had broken, but now it felt impossible; the same refrain looped in his mind, merciless and familiar: I ruined it. I always ruin everything. 

Jeongin closed his eyes, willing the tears back. The room was dark except for the faint glow seeping under the door, the muted hum of the city outside barely reaching him. He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling as if it might offer answers, or at least silence the ache crawling through his chest. He had wanted to be strong, to keep the distance that his heart insisted on. He had told himself he was done, done chasing warmth that only left him cold, done waiting for words that always came out sharp instead of soft. And yet, even now, even after everything, all he could feel was the hollow space inside him where Chan usually was.

The apartment felt wrong without Chan’s presence pressed gently against him, wrong without the quiet comfort of a smile meant just for him, the grounding weight of a hand on his shoulder. He missed it, he missed him. The need wrapped itself around his ribs, suffocating, no matter how hard he tried to deny it. But then Rome returned like a wound splitting open, those words, delivered in a voice Jeongin had trusted more than any other, echoed with cruel clarity. Words meant to push him away, to remind him that he was asking for too much, that he was nothing but a burden Chan didn’t need. His eyes burned, his throat closing. How could he want someone so badly and hate himself for it at the same time? How could he miss the same person who had cut him so deeply? He pulled the blanket up over his head, curling inward until the air felt hot and too thin, he pressed his face into the pillow, muffling the sound of a choked breath that escaped despite his efforts. His chest hurt with every beat, a bitter reminder of what he longed for but couldn’t touch.

Outside, he thought he heard the faint shuffle of movement in the living room, the weight of someone shifting on the couch, his heart lurched before he forced it still again; no, he wouldn’t get up, he couldn’t. Because even if he walked out there, even if he saw Chan’s broken eyes searching for him in the dark, what then? The words from Rome would still be between them, a chasm he didn’t know how to cross; so, he stayed hidden in the cocoon of his blanket, torn between aching for the one he loved most and recoiling from the hurt he wasn’t sure he could survive again. And sleep, when it finally came, was restless, heavy with dreams of things he could never have.

The apartment was still, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the old clock on the wall. Chan sat on the edge of the couch long after the others had gone quiet, elbows resting on his knees, his hands tangled together so tightly his knuckles ached. He had told himself he would stay there until sleep claimed him, that he wouldn’t risk making things worse. But the sound drew him up before he even realized he was moving, bare feet dragging across the floor, he padded toward the short hallway. The light from the living room thinned until he was standing in front of Jeongin’s door, the wood between them like a wall he couldn’t climb. At first, he thought he had imagined it. The soft, uneven sounds, like breath catching, like someone trying and failing to be quiet, but then it came again, muffled and sharp all at once, and Chan’s chest cracked open, Jeongin was crying. Chan pressed his palm to the cool surface of the door, though he didn’t dare knock. His throat burned with everything he wanted to say, apologies he hadn’t managed to voice, confessions he had buried too deep. He wanted to tell Jeongin that he hadn’t meant it, that every harsh word in Rome had been born from fear and exhaustion, not truth. That he didn’t see Jeongin as a game, that he never could. But what good were words when he had already broken the trust behind them? He stayed there, frozen, as if he could hold Jeongin’s pain through the door. His heart felt hollow, as though the sound had carved him out from the inside, he could almost picture it, Jeongin curled in his bed, clutching at himself the way he used to clutch at Chan when the weight of the world pressed too hard. Only now, Chan wasn’t allowed to be the one to hold him.

“Sorry,” he whispered, but so low it didn’t travel past his lips. The guilt clawed deeper, until the weight was unbearable, with a breath that shook, he let his hand fall and turned away, walking the few steps to his own room. The silence that followed him felt louder than Jeongin’s muffled cries.

He lay down without changing, staring into the darkness. Sleep didn’t come easily; every time he closed his eyes, the sound echoed again, ripping through him, he wished he could take it back, all of it, he wished he had never let his fear twist into cruelty; but wishes didn’t change the truth. And tonight, the truth was that the person he loved most in the world was crying because of him. The night stretched endlessly, and when morning finally crept through the blinds, it brought no relief. Chan hadn’t really slept, his eyes burned, his head heavy with the kind of exhaustion that came from too much thinking and too little rest. Still, he pushed himself up, moving through the motions of the morning with hands that felt heavier than usual. He busied himself in the kitchen, pulling out pans and ingredients almost on instinct, it was muscle memory more than anything else, the sound of eggs hitting the pan, the warmth of the stove, the scent of toasted bread, he clung to the routine like it could keep him grounded. He even added the small touches he knew Jeongin loved: the way he seasoned the eggs, the little side dish Jeongin always reached for first.

By the time the food was ready, Chan set the table carefully, almost nervously, like maybe if everything was laid out just right, Jeongin might look at him the way he used to, might smile again. The bedroom door opened a while later. Jeongin stepped out, hair still a mess from sleep, or maybe from tossing all night, but his face was pale, eyes rimmed in red. Chan’s chest tightened.

“Innie—” he started softly, but the younger didn’t meet his gaze.

Jeongin glanced at the table, at the breakfast made for him, and then moved straight past it; his bag was already slung over his shoulder, and he was out the door before Chan could even try again. The silence he left behind was deafening, Chan sank into the chair by the untouched food, pressing his hands over his face. The ache in his chest deepened, because he couldn’t blame Jeongin for it, not when he was the one who had caused the wound in the first place.

Later, at the company, the same tension followed them like a shadow, Jeongin threw himself into practice with a sharp focus that bordered on punishing, every move precise but harsh around the edges; Chan watched from the back, too drained to join, too guilty to step away, he wanted to talk, but Jeongin’s walls were up higher than ever. The other members noticed, of course, Seungmin’s worried glances lingered too long, Felix kept biting his lip like he wanted to say something but didn’t know if he should, and even Hyunjin and Minho kept their usual comments quieter, subdued. Changbin and Han shared a look from across the room, the kind that said everything without a word: Should we step in? Or stay out of it? No one did. The group moved through the motions of practice, the air heavier with every beat of the music. Each of them could feel the rift, but none dared to push at it, not when the edges were sharp enough to cut. And through it all, Chan stood there, watching Jeongin dance like he was trying to outpace his pain, wishing he knew how to make it right.

Practice ended the way it always did, with sweat, heavy breaths, and a strained kind of silence, but the air never lightened. The members dispersed slowly, each slipping out with hesitant looks over their shoulders, like they were leaving a storm behind and hoping it wouldn’t break while they were gone. Jeongin lingered only long enough to grab his water bottle before making his way toward the studio to the recording booths, he had lines to re-record for one of the tracks; work didn’t stop just because his heart hurt. Chan followed him quietly, hands shoved deep into his pockets, head down as though he was just another shadow. But the moment Jeongin stepped into his studio, Chan slipped in after him and closed the door. The familiar comfort of the room wrapped around them, the dim lights, the faint hum of the monitors, the stacks of notes and equipment, it had always been a safe place. Tonight, it felt suffocating. Jeongin stand up in the booth, headphones in hand, but Chan didn’t press play, he stayed standing by the console, watching him with eyes that were already tired from too much regret.

“Innie,” Chan started softly, voice careful, almost pleading, “before we record—can we talk?”

Jeongin froze, fingers curling tighter around the headphones. He didn’t look up. “We’re here to work, hyung. That’s the only thing that matters right now.”

The words hit harder than they should have, like a door slammed in his face. Chan’s throat tightened, but he forced his voice steady. “Work matters, yeah. But so do you. So do we.”

Jeongin’s jaw clenched, he turned his face toward the booth glass, away from Chan’s gaze. “Don’t. Please, don’t.” For a second, Chan considered letting it go, burying it under professionalism like Jeongin wanted, but the thought of going another day without trying, without at least being heard, hollowed him out. He stepped to the door, turned the lock with a quiet click. The sound made Jeongin finally look at him, eyes widening in disbelief. “Hyung—”

“We’re not leaving this room until you listen,” Chan said, voice firmer than he felt, though his chest ached with every word. “I can’t keep pretending like nothing happened. Not with you.”

The silence that followed was sharp, heavy, filled with the rapid beat of two hearts that didn’t know how to meet in the middle anymore; Jeongin’s lips parted like he wanted to argue, but no sound came out, his eyes burned, anger and hurt and something else twisting together. And Chan just stood there, every muscle tense, waiting, praying, that maybe this time, Jeongin would let him in. The lock’s echo hadn’t faded when Jeongin’s voice cracked the silence. “You don’t get to do this, hyung.” His eyes were sharp, but his voice shook, trembling under the weight of everything he’d been holding back. “You don’t get to shut me out for weeks and then trap me here like this.”

Chan’s throat tightened. “I’m not shutting you out. I’m trying to—”

“To what?” Jeongin cut him off, pushing the headphones onto the console with a thud. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “To fix things? To pretend you care now? You can’t just… choose when to be close to me.”

Chan’s chest heaved. He wanted to step forward, to reach for him, but his feet wouldn’t move. “I never stopped caring, Innie. I just—I didn’t know how to balance everything. The group, the comeback, you—”

“Don’t.” Jeongin’s voice wavered, but he stood his ground, eyes glistening under the studio’s dim lights. “Don’t tell me this is about work. You already told me what this was in Rome, remember?”

Chan froze, his stomach dropped, Jeongin’s words came sharp, each one slicing through the fragile space between them. “You said you couldn’t deal with it. That you didn’t want to define us. That you just liked me—nothing more. You said, ‘I don’t wanna love.’” His lips trembled, tears threatening as he laughed bitterly. “Do you know what that did to me? Hearing that? Do you even care what it felt like?”

Chan closed his eyes, the memory hitting him like a punch to the chest, his own voice, tired and desperate, saying things he thought would protect them both. Instead, it had shattered Jeongin. “I was scared,” Chan whispered, his voice cracking. “I thought… if I drew that line, I could keep you safe. Keep us safe. From the pressure, from the expectations, from me.”

Jeongin shook his head. “Don’t make this about safety, hyung. You hurt me because it was easier for you. Because hiding behind work and excuses was safer than telling me the truth.” His tears slipped free, and his voice dropped, softer, aching. “And the truth is… you don’t feel the same, do you?” 

Chan’s body went rigid, his heart pounded so hard it hurt, Changbin’s words echoed in his head, you can’t keep holding everything in… don’t push him away because you’re scared. “I do,” Chan said, the words falling out like they’d been waiting for years, his hands trembled as he finally stepped forward. “I do, Innie. More than I should. More than I ever let myself say out loud.”

Jeongin’s breath caught, his whole body trembling. “Then why… why do you keep making me feel like I’m nothing more than a distraction? Why do you say you like me but act like I’m a problem to solve?”

Chan’s hands curled at his sides, aching to reach out, his voice was raw, stripped of every mask he’d worn. “Because if I let myself love you the way I want to—if I let myself show you everything I feel—I’m terrified I’ll ruin us. Ruin you. Ruin Stray Kids.”

For the first time, Jeongin faltered, his walls cracked, his anger tangled with grief and longing. “Hyung…”

Chan stepped closer, just close enough to feel the warmth of Jeongin’s presence, his eyes burned, but he didn’t look away. “I know I said I don’t want love. But the truth is—I’ve been in love with you this whole time. And I don’t know how to stop.”

The room went still, heavy with the confession neither of them could take back, Jeongin’s tears fell freely now, but for the first time, he didn’t turn away. Silence lingered after Chan’s last words, a silence so loud he thought it might split him in two. His arms went around Jeongin, his chest pressed close enough to feel every uneven breath, every tremor that ran through the younger’s body. He didn’t loosen his hold, didn’t dare, not when Jeongin hadn’t pulled away yet. Jeongin’s fingers clutched at the back of Chan’s shirt like he didn’t know whether to push him away or keep him there. His breaths came ragged, his face still damp, pressed against Chan’s shoulder. 

Chan exhaled shakily, tilting his head so his lips brushed against Jeongin’s hair without meaning to. Stay, please, stay. The words were right there, clawing at the back of his throat, but he swallowed them down, afraid of breaking the fragile thread holding them together. “Innie,” he whispered instead, his voice hoarse. “I’m sorry. I’m… so sorry.”

Jeongin trembled, pulling back just enough for their eyes to meet. His lashes were wet, his eyes red, but still shining, still beautiful, still breaking Chan apart. For a second, neither of them moved, the air between them felt heavy, charged, as if one small shift could tilt everything off its axis. Chan’s thumb brushed against Jeongin’s cheek without thinking, wiping away a tear that hadn’t fallen yet. Jeongin leaned into the touch almost imperceptibly, like instinct, before catching himself and looking away, his lips parting as though words hovered there but refused to come out. The silence stretched, Chan’s chest tightened, the pull between them undeniable, dangerous, his gaze fell to Jeongin’s lips for just a breath too long, his heart racing with the possibility, until Jeongin shifted, breaking the line of tension with a quiet sigh. They didn’t speak. They just stayed there, Chan’s arms still around him, Jeongin’s weight still resting against his chest, the quiet filling the space like a confession neither of them could give voice to. And for a fleeting moment, it felt like enough.

But only for now.

Chapter Text

After Chan’s confession, Jeongin deals with the aftermath and his feelings, confused he finds refugee in his best friend who left him with more thoughts than before. The studio was too quiet once Chan let go, Jeongin had stood there, breathing in the echo of words that refused to settle, words that tangled inside him like sharp wire, I’ve been in love with you this whole time, the confession replayed mercilessly, every syllable pulling at the wound Rome had carved open. He should have felt lighter, relieved, maybe, he had wanted to hear those words for so long, but all he could feel was raw, like the skin after a cut, stinging at the smallest touch.

On the way home, he didn’t speak, the silence between them was thick, but not the same silence as before; this one carried weight, carried possibility, carried the unbearable ache of something too fragile to name, Chan didn’t push, didn’t force, he just walked a step behind, his presence steady like he was afraid to lose Jeongin to the shadows if he drifted too far; that night, Jeongin lay awake long after the other had gone quiet, he replayed every moment, the way Chan’s arms had felt around him, the tremor in his voice when he said sorry, the almost-kiss that never came, his heart betrayed him with how much it wanted to lean into all of it, how much it wanted to believe, but another voice rose louder, cruel and sharp: What if he breaks you again?

When morning came, he buried it all the only way he knew how, routine. Practice became a kind of punishment, his body ached, lungs burned, sweat stung his eyes, but he kept going, kept pushing, until Seungmin asked if he was okay and Hyunjin tried to joke him out of his storm. He brushed them off with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The schedule filled every hour, but even exhaustion couldn’t drown out Chan’s words. They slipped through anyway, in the smallest of moments, a water bottle waiting for him, already chilled, a hand steadying his back after a harsh landing during rehearsal; the way Chan’s gaze softened whenever their eyes met across the room, no matter how quickly Jeongin looked away. He hated that he noticed, hated that he wanted to; because each gesture was another thread tying him back to someone he wasn’t sure he could trust anymore, each look was a reminder of the warmth he still ached for, even as he told himself to stay cold, and every time Chan reached for him in these quiet ways, Jeongin felt his own walls strain under the weight of wanting to believe, wanting to let him back in. But then Rome returned like a bruise pressed too hard, the memory of Chan’s voice saying I don’t wanna love still echoing sharp and final. Jeongin clenched his jaw, turned his focus back to the mirror, to the choreography, to the music that demanded more from him than his heart could give, if he kept moving, maybe he wouldn’t shatter under the truth that lived in the silence between them: He still loved Chan and it terrified him.

By the time practice ended, Jeongin’s muscles screamed in protest, sweat soaked his shirt, strands of hair clinging damp to his forehead, but he didn’t slow down until the music finally cut.

“Good work today,” Minho said, clapping a hand lightly on his shoulder, the others echoed with tired affirmations, laughter breaking out as Felix nearly tripped over his own shoelaces, Jeongin smiled faintly, automatic, then reached for his bag, a bottle of water was already there, the cap loosened, condensation beading down the side like it had been waiting for him. He knew who had left it; Jeongin froze for a beat before taking it, not daring to look across the room, still, he felt the weight of Chan’s gaze, steady and quiet. When their eyes brushed for the briefest second, his chest ached so sharply he had to look away.

Later, back at the company cafeteria, the members filled their trays with their usual combinations, Changbin piling his with extra meat, Seungmin scolding Hyunjin for ignoring vegetables again; Jeongin sat at the end, head bent low, barely tasting the food. When he glanced up, a small packet of honey landed beside his tray, he blinked.

“You like it with your tea, right?” Chan’s voice was low, casual, almost careful, as if one wrong word might shatter the fragile air between them, he didn’t linger for an answer, just returned to his seat like nothing happened. Jeongin stared at the honey for a long moment, fingers twitching to tear it open. Instead, he tucked it into his pocket, hidden but warm against his palm.

That night, back at the apartment, Jeongin retreated to his room quickly, hoping the door would shield him from the silence that always pressed heavier when Chan was near, but as he set his bag down, he noticed a small folded blanket on the chair by his desk, his blanket, the one he’d left on the couch days ago; it smelled faintly of laundry soap, neatly folded the way Chan always did things. Jeongin sat down on the edge of his bed, staring at it, his throat tightened, the ache in his chest pulsing with every soft gesture Chan had left in his path. They were so small, so simple, water, honey, a folded blanket, but each one cracked through his defenses more than any apology could. Because they weren’t just habits, they were him. And Jeongin hated how much he missed him, even when he was right there.

The next morning carried a strange quiet with it, not the heavy, suffocating silence of days before, but something thinner, fragile, as if one wrong word could tear it apart. Jeongin moved through his routine on autopilot, shower, hoodie, cap pulled low, his body functioning while his mind replayed every second of the night before. Chan’s voice, hoarse and raw, still clung to him: I’ve been in love with you this whole time. The weight of it hadn’t lifted, if anything, it pressed heavier on his chest the more he tried not to think about it. By the time Seungmin texted asking if he wanted to grab coffee, Jeongin said yes before he could talk himself out of it, maybe he needed air, maybe he just needed someone who wasn’t part of the storm. They ended up at a small café near the company, tucked into a corner booth where no one would bother them, Seungmin ordered black coffee, Jeongin something sweeter, more comforting. For a while, neither spoke, just the soft hum of other customers, the clink of mugs, the world moving normally while his felt anything but.

“You look like you didn’t sleep,” Seungmin finally said, blunt but not unkind, stirring his coffee slowly.

Jeongin huffed a humorless laugh. “Didn’t.” He stared into the swirl of cream in his cup, fingers tightening around the ceramic. “My head’s too full.”

Seungmin studied him for a moment, the way only he could, quietly, carefully, like he was reading between Jeongin’s breaths. “This about Chan-hyung?”

The name alone made Jeongin flinch, he didn’t answer right away, just took a sip of his drink, letting the sweetness burn his throat. But the words were there, waiting, and with Seungmin’s steady gaze on him, they spilled out before he could swallow them down.

“We talked. Finally.” His voice came low, rough around the edges. “Or… he talked, I guess. I don’t even know what to do with what he said.”

Seungmin leaned back, his expression giving nothing away. “What did he say?”

Jeongin’s grip tightened on his cup, knuckles pale. “That he’s been in love with me this whole time.” The words sounded foreign out loud, unreal, like repeating them would make them less sharp, less overwhelming.

Seungmin didn’t react with surprise, maybe he’d seen it coming, maybe they all had. Instead, he exhaled softly, tilting his head. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“It’s—” Jeongin’s voice cracked, frustration bleeding in. “It’s everything I wanted to hear. For years. But it’s also… too late, Min. He told me in Rome that he didn’t want this. That he didn’t want love. That I was just… something he couldn’t afford to feel too much about. Do you know what that did to me?” His throat tightened, eyes stinging. “And now suddenly he’s in love with me?” Seungmin stayed quiet, letting the words hang between them. Jeongin laughed bitterly, pressing a hand against his temple. “I don’t even know if I can believe him. I want to. God, I want to. But what if it’s just another thing he says to protect the group, to protect himself? What if it’s not real?”

Seungmin tapped his fingers against his cup, thoughtful. “Hyung’s an idiot,” he said finally, matter-of-fact. “But he’s not a liar.” Jeongin blinked at him, caught off guard. Seungmin shrugged. “He’s scared, yeah. He overthinks everything until he convinces himself he’s doing the right thing by pushing people away. But lying? Especially to you? That’s not him.” The words sank in, heavy and unsettling, because part of Jeongin knew they were true. He’d felt it last night, in Chan’s voice, in the way his arms shook when he finally held him, it hadn’t sounded like a performance, it had sounded like the truth. Still, the ache in his chest didn’t ease. Seungmin watched him a moment longer before sighing, softer this time. “You don’t have to figure it all out today. Or tomorrow. But maybe… don’t shut the door just yet. At least not until you’re sure of what you want.”

Jeongin sat back, staring out the café window, the world outside blurred and moving. His chest hurt, but Seungmin’s words lingered like a small anchor in the storm. Maybe he didn’t have an answer yet, but for the first time, he wondered if it was okay not to. Seungmin reached out, not to touch, but to anchor the words. “I’m not telling you to forgive him overnight. I’m saying… don’t throw away the chance to let him prove he means it. Hyung’s not perfect. None of us are. But if there’s one thing I’m sure about, it’s that he’s never looked at anyone the way he looks at you.” Jeongin’s breath hitched, the words cutting deeper than he expected. He wanted to argue, but his throat burned too much to form a reply. “Just… think about it,” Seungmin added, his voice softening even more. “Don’t decide it’s over when it’s clear you both still want the same thing. Give him the chance to show you he’s worth trusting again.” Jeongin blinked hard, staring down into his cup again. His hands shook slightly as he curled them around the warmth. He didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. But Seungmin didn’t press. He just sat there, quiet, steady, the way he always was, leaving the space open for Jeongin to step into when he was ready.

That night, Jeongin lay awake in his room, staring at the ceiling. The city outside hummed faintly, muffled by the walls, but it felt too quiet inside his chest. Seungmin’s voice kept echoing, threading through the silence no matter how hard he tried to push it away. Doesn’t it matter that he finally said it? He hated how the words stuck. How they curled around the parts of him that still longed for Chan despite everything. He told himself it didn’t change anything, because what was one confession compared to months of being kept at arm’s length? But then he remembered Chan’s eyes in the studio, wide and desperate, and the way his voice had broken like he’d been holding the truth in for years. His throat tightened. He turned onto his side, pulling the blanket up, like that could shut out the ache of missing him. Missing the quiet comfort of Chan’s presence, the warmth of his laugh, the safety he used to feel without even thinking about it, and yet, beneath the bitterness, there was something else, an almost unbearable pull toward the possibility that maybe Seungmin was right. Maybe Chan deserved the chance to prove it wasn’t too late.

Jeongin squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling shakily. “Stupid,” he whispered into the dark, as if saying it out loud might make it true, but the word didn’t stop the longing, didn’t stop the fragile thread of hope that had worked its way into his chest and refused to let go. He hated it, he needed it, both at once. So he lay there, caught between the sharp sting of betrayal and the quiet, terrifying thought of what it would mean to try again, and though he didn’t want to admit it, Seungmin’s words had already planted themselves in the cracks of his heart, stubborn as roots pushing through stone.

When sleep finally came, it was restless, heavy with dreams he couldn’t hold onto. But underneath it all, one truth lingered: no matter how much he tried to deny it, he wasn’t ready to let Chan go. Not yet.

Chapter Text

The hum of the fridge was the only sound in the apartment when Chan came out of his room. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes still heavy, but his mind had already been awake for hours. Sleep hadn’t stuck, too many thoughts circling, too many words replaying in his head. He thought about what Changbin had told him weeks ago, blunt and cutting but true: “If you keep hiding behind excuses, you’re going to lose him. Just show up, hyung. Even if you don’t have the perfect words—be there.”

Han had said something similar too, in his quieter way. “He doesn’t need you to solve it all. He just needs to know you’re not going to run away again.”

Those words had lodged themselves deep, and for once, instead of ignoring them or burying them under work, Chan tried to hold onto them, tried to let them guide him. He moved slowly around the kitchen, pulling out mugs, making coffee even though he wasn’t sure if Jeongin would drink it. The younger’s door stayed shut, silent, but the weight of his presence was still there, and Chan found himself lingering by the counter longer than he needed to, just in case Jeongin came out. It was awkward, this waiting, this not knowing how to act. He felt clumsy in his own home, like one wrong move might send Jeongin retreating even further. Still, he stayed. Still, he brewed the coffee, let the smell drift through the apartment, and hoped it would be enough of a reminder that he was here. Not hiding in the studio. Not drowning himself in endless takes and edits. Just here.

When Jeongin finally emerged, hair messy, eyes tired, Chan’s chest tightened at the sight. He wanted to say something; good morning, did you sleep okay, anything; but the words stuck, tangled in fear and guilt. Instead, he nudged the second mug toward the edge of the counter, closer to Jeongin’s reach. “I, uh… made coffee.” His voice was softer than he intended, almost unsure. Jeongin paused, gaze flickering to the cup before sliding away just as quickly. He didn’t take it. He didn’t snap, either. Just moved past, quiet and guarded, toward the door. Chan swallowed the sting, forcing himself not to retreat into silence like he always did. Be there. Changbin’s words pressed into his chest, steadying him.

“Innie,” he tried again, more careful this time. “If you—if you need anything… I’m here, okay?” Jeongin didn’t look back, but his steps faltered, only for a second, before he slipped on his shoes and left. Chan exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping, but he didn’t let himself spiral this time, awkward, strained, painful as it was, he’d managed to stay. Managed to try, and maybe that was all he could do for now, keep showing up, keep holding the door open, until Jeongin decided whether or not he wanted to walk through it. So Chan sat with his untouched coffee, the silence pressing in again. But for the first time in weeks, he let himself believe that silence didn’t have to last forever.

By the time Chan arrived at the company, the others were already scattered around the practice room, stretching, talking, scrolling through their phones. Jeongin was on the far side, tying his shoes, focused in a way that built walls even in the middle of a crowd. Chan hesitated in the doorway, fingers tightening around his water bottle; he thought about turning back, about hiding in the studio until it was time to practice, but Han’s voice echoed sharp in his head: Don’t run away again.

So he stepped inside. “Morning,” he said, too casual, and a little too late, Hyunjin looked up and waved, Felix grinned. Jeongin didn’t react, but Chan caught the way his shoulders went stiff. He crossed the room anyway, lowering himself onto the floor with the rest of them. His body moved on instinct, going through warm-ups, but his attention kept flicking toward Jeongin. He wanted to bridge the distance, but he didn’t know how without breaking something delicate.

During rehearsal, when the choreographer stopped them to go over a section, Chan found himself drifting closer. “Hey,” he said, voice low, just enough for Jeongin to hear. “Your timing on that part looked good.” Jeongin blinked at him, as if caught off guard by the compliment. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away either, just adjusted his stance, waiting for the music to start again. It wasn’t much, but Chan clung to it. Later, when they broke for water, Chan noticed Jeongin’s bottle was still unopened, forgotten near the mirrors. Normally, he wouldn’t think twice. But today, he grabbed it before Jeongin could realize, holding it out. “Here,” he said. Jeongin’s eyes flicked to the bottle, then to him. A pause. He took it without a word. The silence stretched, heavy, until Changbin cut in with a too-bright laugh about something on his phone. The others chimed in, voices filling the space like they were trying to smooth out the edges. Chan caught the way Seungmin glanced between him and Jeongin, brow faintly furrowed, but he didn’t interfere.

They were all careful, Chan realized, careful not to push, not to pry, like they’d agreed without saying it out loud: let them figure it out on their own. When practice ended, Jeongin slipped out first, as always. Chan’s chest ached watching him go, but this time, he didn’t let himself sit frozen in the empty room. He followed, at a distance, quiet steps that weren’t meant to chase but simply to keep up. It felt clumsy, almost pathetic, but for Chan it was everything: a choice not to run, not to drown in guilt, but to stay close. Even if Jeongin didn’t notice, even if Jeongin wasn’t ready to let him in again.

By the time evening rolled around, Chan’s nerves were frayed but his hands were steady. Cooking always steadied him, he stood in their small kitchen, sleeves rolled up, moving with quiet focus as the scent of garlic and soy filled the air. It wasn’t anything fancy, just the kind of meal Jeongin always reached for after long days, something warm and familiar, something that said I remembered. He set the table with more care than necessary, then waited.

When the front door finally opened, Chan’s chest tightened. Jeongin stepped inside, hair damp from a quick shower at the company, his bag hanging off one shoulder. He froze for a second, eyes flicking to the table.

“You cooked,” he said, not quite a question, not quite flat.

Chan rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Thought… maybe you’d be hungry.”

For a heartbeat, Jeongin looked like he might retreat straight to his room. Chan braced himself for the sound of a door shutting, but then Jeongin let out a soft breath, almost like surrender, and slipped off his bag. “Smells good,” he murmured, sliding into one of the chairs.

Relief loosened something in Chan’s chest. He sat across from him, trying not to watch too closely as Jeongin took the first bite. When Jeongin hummed under his breath, just barely, Chan’s lips curved before he could stop himself. They ate mostly in silence, but it wasn’t the heavy, punishing kind that had been following them since Rome. It was quieter, gentler. The clink of chopsticks, the faint sound of traffic outside. Every so often, Jeongin glanced up, catching Chan’s eyes before looking back down again.

Halfway through, Chan cleared his throat. “I, uh… I wanted to say—”

“Don’t.” Jeongin’s voice was soft but firm. He set his chopsticks down, fingers curling against the edge of the table. “Not tonight.”

Chan swallowed hard. The words stung, but the way Jeongin stayed, sat here, eating food he’d made, meant more than any argument. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Not tonight.”

They finished the meal with that fragile agreement hanging between them. When Jeongin finally stood, gathering his dishes to rinse in the sink, Chan watched him with something close to awe. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet. But it was a step. And for the first time in weeks, Chan let himself believe they could still find their way back.

Chapter Text

The studio was colder than Jeongin expected, all polished lights and sharp cameras waiting like unblinking eyes. He tugged at the sleeve of his jacket as their stylist adjusted the hem, her voice low and quick in his ear. Around them, the air buzzed with the usual chaos, hair dryers humming, the faint click of makeup cases snapping shut, staff calling out reminders as if the show wouldn’t run without them holding everything together. Jeongin caught sight of Chan across the room, laughing too softly with one of the coordinators, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in that awkward way he did when he wasn’t sure what to say. It was nothing, really, just Chan being polite, careful, but Jeongin still felt something shift inside him. That ache again, always there, always reminding.

Their manager clapped his hands once, pulling the members into a half-circle. “Alright, listen up. They’re going to ask about the new title track, the inspiration behind the concept, and some light questions about the filming. Keep answers short and sharp—don’t drift. Got it?” The group nodded, some more distractedly than others as stylists darted in to fix last touches. “Also,” the manager continued, eyes flicking over the lineup, “they might throw in a personal question or two, downtime, that kind of thing. Stay professional, keep it playful, don’t feed them anything you don’t want out there. Got it?” A murmur of assent rippled through the group.

Jeongin shifted his weight, trying to focus, but his gaze slid back to Chan without meaning to. His hyung was standing tall, but Jeongin could see the small signs only he knew to look for: the slight tension in Chan’s shoulders, the careful way he adjusted his sleeve, the way his mouth pressed thin before he forced it into a smile. He was trying, Jeongin realized, not just in the group, but with him. He was trying to stay open, to linger, even if it was clumsy. Jeongin should’ve felt warmth at that. Instead, all he felt was the hollow thrum of something unnamed, pulsing heavier as the thought of the interview pressed closer.

By the time the staff ushered them onto the set, the group slipped easily into their practiced rhythm: bright smiles, polite bows, the kind of presence that looked effortless but always cost something. Jeongin sat at the far end of the couch, lights burning hot above them, the cameras blinking awake. The host, a young man not much older than Chan, leaned forward in his seat across from them, all charm and easy laughter. His energy was infectious, drawing the members into a playful back-and-forth as they introduced themselves one by one.

“Stray Kids!” the host cheered, clapping once. “It’s so good to have you back. Congratulations on the new album—it’s already breaking records again!” A chorus of thanks followed, Changbin and Hyunjin tossing in jokes that made the audience staff laugh. Jeongin smiled too, automatic, but his chest was already wound too tight, he could feel it starting, the pull of nerves, of being seen too closely. It didn’t help that the host’s eyes kept drifting toward Chan. "And of course,” the host said, grin turning teasing, “we can’t not talk about the leader. Bang Chan-ssi, you’ve been praised endlessly for holding the team together. But tell me—who’s holding you together, hmm? Don’t say the fans; that’s the easy answer.”

The members broke into laughter and groans, shoving each other’s shoulders as if they weren’t all just as curious about how Chan would wiggle his way out. Han even leaned into Hyunjin with a dramatic, “Ohhh, here it comes,” while Seungmin muttered, “Dangerous question.”

Chan flushed, laughing under his breath. “Ah, hyung, you’re going to get me in trouble—”

“Come on,” the host pressed, leaning closer across the table. “There has to be someone. Maybe someone we all know? Or not?”

“Yeah, who is it?” Hyunjin chimed in with a mischievous smile, the others jumping at the chance to tease.

The moment felt light to everyone else, to Jeongin, it felt unbearable. His nails dug into the seam of his pants as he forced a smile, laughter bubbling in his throat but coming out hollow; because Chan’s blush wasn’t just embarrassment, it was real. Real and warm, the kind of warmth Jeongin missed more than he wanted to admit. And the host was leaning so close, eyes sparkling like he’d found a secret that belonged only to him. Jeongin’s stomach twisted, something sharp blooming where his chest should’ve been. Jeongin laughed when everyone else did, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He knew it, could feel the falseness tight in his jaw. Still, he tilted his head, playing along with the group dynamic because that was the only safe choice, always safe, but his chest was burning.

The host’s teasing kept circling back, always nudging Chan into the spotlight. A compliment about his leadership; a joke about his accent; another sly grin when Chan tried to deflect with a sheepish “It’s not just me, we all…” and the others jumped in to cover. It should’ve been fine, it was fine. That’s what Jeongin told himself as his heel tapped anxiously against the floor. He should’ve been happy, proud, even, seeing how naturally people gravitated toward Chan, how the room seemed to brighten whenever he opened his mouth. That was Chan, that was what made him their leader. But then the host leaned forward again, close enough that Chan instinctively leaned back with a laugh, and Jeongin’s breath caught sharp in his throat. Something ugly curled in his stomach. He hated how fast it hit, how hot; how it drowned out the reasoned voice in his head that whispered You don’t get to feel this, not after everything, not when you’re still angry. And maybe that was the worst part, he was still angry. Still bruised by Rome, by words that tasted bitter no matter how much softer Chan had been since. He wasn’t ready to forgive. Not fully. But then why did the idea of someone else leaning in feel unbearable?

His gaze kept pulling toward Chan, even when he tried to force it elsewhere, toward Minho smirking at the whole scene, Han laughing too loud, Seungmin biting the inside of his cheek to hide his amusement. None of it helped, because Chan was right there, caught between embarrassment and charm, shoulders stiff but eyes warm, always warm. Jeongin swallowed hard, his palms felt damp; the longer the teasing dragged on, the tighter his chest drew, until he thought if he didn’t do something, anything, he might come undone on live broadcast. He should stay quiet, he knew he should, but his body leaned forward before his mind could stop it, mouth parting on a word he hadn’t even decided yet. The host leaned toward Chan again, a grin tugging at his lips. “So, you’re saying you don’t see yourself as the role model? Even though everyone here clearly looks to you?”

Chan ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck in that shy way that only made the teasing worse. “I mean—someone has to keep things running, right? But I think it’s more about all of us together. I just… do my part.”

The members laughed, but Jeongin felt something coil tighter in his chest. The way the host’s eyes lingered on Chan, the easy charm in the back-and-forth, it made the heat rise to his face before he could stop it. And then, before he even realized he’d opened his mouth, words slipped out. “Hyung just likes to pretend he’s humble,” Jeongin said, tone light, almost playful. Almost. “He knows he’s the center of attention.” The comment earned an immediate burst of laughter from the host and the members.

Han clapped his hands, leaning into Jeongin with a grin. “Ooooh, maknae exposing him on live TV!” Chan looked up, startled, his lips parting as if to answer, but then he closed them again, only managing a stiff chuckle. The sound was thinner than usual.

The host picked it right up, delighted. “Ah, so the youngest is calling out the oldest, huh? Do you think he enjoys the spotlight too much?” Jeongin forced a smile, leaning into the joke though his heartbeat pounded in his ears.

“Well… maybe not too much. Just enough. He’s good at it, so why not?” His voice had an edge of sharpness that only someone listening too closely would notice, and his eyes flickered to Chan for the briefest second before darting away.

The members rolled with it easily, Seungmin added a dry, “You should see him at home, it’s worse,” which set Felix giggling beside him. Hyunjin leaned dramatically across Changbin, whispering into the mic like a secret: “He practices speeches in the mirror.” The studio erupted, the host nearly doubling over in laughter.

The whole mood lifted into chaotic energy, perfect for TV. But Jeongin stayed oddly still, his hand tightening around his cue card, watching Chan out of the corner of his eye. His leader was smiling, laughing along, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. And Jeongin knew, he’d drawn blood, even if no one else saw it. The cameras clicked off, the bright studio lights dimming to the usual fluorescent hum. The laughter and chatter that had filled the room moments ago now fell into a muted, uneasy quiet. The host waved cheerfully as he stepped away, leaving the members to gather their things. Chan’s fingers lingered on the edge of the desk, gripping it a little too tightly. He exhaled slowly, letting his shoulders sag, and for the first time since the interview started, his eyes flicked toward Jeongin.

Jeongin was leaning against the wall, hands stuffed in his pockets, pretending to scroll through his phone, but Chan could see the tension in the set of his jaw, the tightness around his eyes. The playful banter, the jokes meant to amuse, had left a residue, subtle but sharp, like a knife he couldn’t quite remove. Chan swallowed, the guilt pressing hard in his chest. He wanted to reach out, to touch Jeongin’s arm, to explain that none of it was meant to hurt, that the teasing wasn’t worth the tension it had caused, but the words stuck in his throat.

“Hyung…” Jeongin’s voice broke slightly, soft enough that only Chan could hear. He looked up, caught in the act of scanning his phone. “You—didn’t have to play along like that. I know you didn’t mean anything… but still.”

Chan nodded, voice low, barely above a whisper. “I know, I’m sorry. I just… I wanted to keep things smooth, for the broadcast. I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think about me,” Jeongin cut in gently, not angry, just, honest. He finally met Chan’s gaze, the hurt there tempered by something else, something warmer, lingering. “You always try to make everything easier for everyone else first.” Chan’s chest tightened, the familiar ache settling in. He opened his mouth, then closed it, taking a deep breath. Instead, he let himself linger, standing there beside Jeongin, just present, letting the silence speak for him. No jokes, no deflection, just him and the weight of what he felt.

Jeongin exhaled slowly, letting his shoulders drop. The tension in his hands eased just a fraction. He didn’t say it, but the way he leaned slightly closer, the brief softening in his gaze, told Chan enough. It wasn’t forgiveness, not fully. Not yet. But it was closer than it had been in weeks. Chan’s lips twitched in a small, tentative smile. He didn’t touch Jeongin, not yet, but the look he gave him said the same thing his words couldn’t: I see you. I’m here. I’m not leaving. And for now, that fragile truce was enough.

Chapter Text

The ride back to the apartment was heavy with unspoken words, the city lights streaming past the windows like fragmented thoughts Chan couldn’t yet order. He kept his hands folded tightly in his lap, tracing invisible patterns over his knees, glancing at Jeongin more times than he could count. Jeongin’s fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the edge of the seat, but he didn’t speak. The quiet wasn’t tense, exactly, it was weighted, fragile, each heartbeat loud against the hum of the car. Chan’s chest ached with a mix of fear and longing. He wanted to reach over, take Jeongin’s hand, apologize properly, not with hurried words or clumsy attempts at charm, but in a way that showed the depth of his regret. The fight in Rome had lingered like a shadow, a reminder that he had failed, that he had let his pride and fear hurt the person he loved most. Every tap of Jeongin’s fingers against the seat felt like a silent accusation, a quiet echo of what Chan had already condemned himself for countless times.

When they finally stepped into the apartment, the familiar sight of their shared space pressed against him in a tangible way. The couch where arguments had echoed, the small kitchen where he had tried and failed to offer comfort, the faint smell of lingering coffee, it all seemed to call him out, to demand he face the consequences of his mistakes. Jeongin paused at the door, shoulders stiff, eyes sweeping the apartment like he were measuring how much he could safely occupy without triggering old wounds. Chan swallowed, voice low, tentative, the weight of weeks of regret pressing on every syllable. “Do you… want to sit?” He nodded toward the living room. Jeongin’s shrug was slight, almost imperceptible, but it was enough. He settled on the edge of the couch, not meeting Chan’s gaze, yet refusing to retreat. That, more than anything, felt like a fragile victory to Chan.

Chan exhaled slowly, letting his weight sink into the floorboards of the familiar apartment, the quiet pressing against him like a mirror reflecting all the moments he’d failed Jeongin. He wanted to kneel, to beg forgiveness, to spill everything that churned in his chest in one trembling confession, but instead, he forced himself to move slowly, deliberately, giving the space its own rhythm, letting the air between them speak first. “I… I’m sorry,” he began, voice breaking softly, thick with the tremor of weeks of guilt. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have let things go that far. Back at Rome… and after. I hurt you, and I—” His words stumbled, stopped, and started again, as if each syllable carried the weight of all the apologies he hadn’t said before. “I didn’t think, and I didn’t… I wasn’t careful. I should’ve been. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

Jeongin’s hands curled lightly around the seam of the couch, knuckles pale against the fabric. He didn’t reply immediately, and Chan understood—he had no right to demand words, no right to demand forgiveness. All he could offer was presence, sincerity, and the kind of deliberate effort that might, over time, rebuild the cracks he had created. Chan swallowed hard, his throat tight, eyes flicking to Jeongin’s downcast face. He leaned forward slightly, just enough that his shoulder brushed against the younger’s. It wasn’t forceful; it was tentative, an almost imperceptible anchor of proximity meant to say, I’m here. I’m not leaving again. “I’ve been… running,” he admitted, voice raw, “running from my own mistakes, from my own fear of losing you. I thought… I thought if I didn’t say everything, if I didn’t confront it, I could fix it later. But the truth is, I made it worse. I made you feel alone. And I—God, I hate that I did that. I hate that I let myself hurt you.”

A soft sigh escaped Jeongin, almost inaudible, and Chan’s heart clenched at the sound. It wasn’t anger; it was something heavier, something quieter, a wariness shaped by weeks of pain. That he had even stayed in the same room without retreating spoke volumes. Chan’s chest throbbed with both relief and renewed guilt, he wanted to erase every hurt he had caused, to fold time over on itself, to make the moments that had cut so deep disappear entirely. “I can’t…” Chan continued, voice barely above a whisper, “I can’t undo what I’ve done. But I can… I can be better. I want to be better. For you. For us. I know I don’t get to demand that you… that you forgive me, or even that you feel anything right now. But I need you to know that I see you, Innie. I see everything I’ve done, and I want to spend every second trying to make it right.”

Jeongin’s eyes flicked up, meeting Chan’s briefly, just enough to catch the vulnerability etched into every line of his face. It wasn’t a surrender, not yet, it was acknowledgment, the first thread of connection after so many weeks of distance. That alone, Chan realized, was monumental. He let the words settle, paused, giving Jeongin space to respond, or not, allowing the silence to become a bridge rather than a barrier. He shifted again, moving closer with careful, almost reverent steps, each motion deliberate. “I’ve been… afraid,” he confessed, voice cracking slightly under the weight of truth. “Afraid of messing up, of saying the wrong thing, of pushing you away even more. And maybe… maybe that fear made me forget what’s important. You. You are important. You’ve always been important, and I—God, I should have shown you sooner.”

The confession hung in the air, thick and palpable. Chan’s fingers twitched, wanting to reach for Jeongin, to bridge the space with contact, but he stopped, remembering the delicate nature of trust being rebuilt. Instead, he rested his hand on his own knee, leaning slightly forward so his presence was undeniable, a quiet insistence of care and regret. “I want to be someone who doesn’t just show up when it’s easy, or when it’s convenient. I want to be here—really here, every day, even when it’s messy, even when it’s uncomfortable. I… I love you, Innie. I’ve loved you for so long, and every day I spend running from that love has been a day I’ve hurt you instead of helping you feel safe.”

The words spilled out in a rush, trembling and imperfect, but laden with every ounce of honesty he could muster. He could feel the weight in his chest lifting slightly with each confession, as though admitting it aloud made it more tangible, more real, and perhaps, just perhaps, capable of being healed. Jeongin’s gaze softened imperceptibly, his lips pressing into a thin line as he absorbed the torrent of emotion pouring from Chan. He didn’t speak, but his presence, the way he stayed on the couch instead of retreating, spoke louder than words. Chan’s chest ached with both hope and fear; every heartbeat was a reminder of the fragility of what they were trying to rebuild.

“I know…” Chan continued, voice quieting, almost reverent, “I know I can’t just erase the past. I can’t take back the pain I caused you, the nights you spent feeling alone while I hid behind excuses. But I want… I want to spend every day proving to you that I can be better. That I will be better. And I… I will do it, Innie. I swear I will. I don’t want to lose you again. Not to mistakes, not to fear, not to me.” The rawness in his words, the tremor in his voice, seemed to hang in the air like a fragile thread. Jeongin shifted slightly, his hand brushing the armrest near Chan’s, almost unconsciously. The contact was brief, subtle, yet enough to send a shiver of relief through Chan’s chest. He exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain slightly, allowing himself to just… be there, fully present, fully vulnerable, for the first time in what felt like months. “I’ve missed this,” Chan admitted, voice soft, almost breaking again. “Just… being near you without pretending I’m fine, without pretending nothing’s wrong. I’ve missed… all of it, Innie. The way we laughed, the way we argued, the way we… existed together. I’ve been a coward, and I’m sorry. Truly, from the bottom of my heart, I am.”

The weight of the apology hung between them, dense and heavy, yet somehow cleansing. Jeongin’s eyes flicked to Chan, searching, measuring, tentative, but there was no anger now, only a fragile openness, the barest hint of trust slowly seeping back into the space between them. Chan exhaled again, slower this time, letting himself relax into the presence of the younger man he had hurt so profoundly. He inched closer, not forcing contact, but letting proximity become its own quiet act of penance. His hand hovered near Jeongin’s, trembling slightly, before resting lightly on the couch near him, a gesture that was both tentative and intentional. It was his way of showing, without demanding, that he could stay, that he would stay.

The apartment settled into a hush, soft and weighted with emotion. Chan could feel the tension in Jeongin’s body easing slightly, the walls around him cracking just enough to let a sliver of warmth in. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Chan allowed himself to imagine a future where he didn’t have to run, where he could face his mistakes, where he could be present without fear. Chan remained near Jeongin for a long moment, letting the silence speak for him, letting the weight of his presence act as both apology and promise. Finally, he exhaled, shaking his head slightly as if to dispel the remnants of fear that clung to him. “I… I thought maybe… if I made dinner, we could… you know, just… sit together. I don’t want to force it, Innie. I just… I want to show you I can do small things right. That I can take care of you, even after everything.”

Jeongin blinked, shifting slightly, unsure how to respond. The vulnerability in Chan’s voice, the raw edges of his regret, tugged at him in a way that was almost unbearable. His chest felt tight, but not from anger. From longing. From the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, Chan was really trying this time. “You don’t have to,” Jeongin murmured finally, voice low, uncertain. “I mean… I could’ve eaten on my own. I didn’t—” He paused, frowning, caught in the struggle between caution and the pull of desire. “—I didn’t expect you to… make dinner.”

Chan offered a small, almost self-deprecating smile. “I know. And maybe it’s silly. But I wanted to. I want to… I want to do things right this time. Even if it’s just cooking a meal, even if it’s small. I want you to feel… safe with me. I want to show you I’m serious about… about making it right.”

Jeongin’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, and he nodded, still cautious but giving the smallest thread of permission. “Okay… then… let’s eat together.”

The words were simple, but for Chan, they felt monumental. Relief and anxiety collided in his chest as he moved toward the kitchen, hands trembling slightly despite his effort to steady them. He started pulling out ingredients, his movements deliberate, thinking through every step, every seasoning, every little habit Jeongin liked. Chan chopped vegetables with careful precision, his mind half on the food and half on Jeongin leaning against the counter, watching him with a mixture of curiosity and hesitation. Every glance felt like a test, a gauge of whether his efforts were being received as they were meant, sincere, deliberate, penitent.

“I… I know I can’t fix everything at once,” Chan said softly, more to himself than to Jeongin. “But I can start with the small things. I can… I can be present. I can try to make you feel safe, even if I mess up along the way.”

Jeongin’s expression softened imperceptibly. He didn’t move closer, but he stayed, and that in itself was enough to help Chan’s spirits and deepen the guilt he still carried. He stirred the sauce slowly, tasting and adjusting, thinking of every time he had failed Jeongin before, of every harsh word, every careless action, every moment he had taken for granted. And with each movement, he silently vowed that he would never let himself cause that hurt again.

“You know,” Jeongin said finally, voice quiet, “it’s… nice that you’re trying. I can… see it. And I… I appreciate it.”

Chan’s heart clenched at the words. “Appreciate it?” he repeated softly, almost disbelieving, a tremor in his voice. “You… you mean that? You’re not… just saying it?”

Jeongin met his gaze for the briefest moment, and Chan could see the truth in his eyes, the delicate acknowledgment of effort, the cautious trust beginning to form. “I mean it,” he said finally, voice low, deliberate. “It… matters that you’re trying. That you’re… not running. That you’re… here.”

The affirmation, small as it was, sent a rush through Chan’s chest. He exhaled, letting a fraction of the tension drain away, and continued cooking with renewed purpose, each chop of the knife and stir of the pan a quiet act of penance, an offering of care and dedication. When the meal was ready, he plated it carefully, arranging it in a way that felt intimate and deliberate without being showy. He set one plate on the counter near Jeongin, then gestured toward the couch. “Here,” he said softly. “Sit. I’ll eat too. Together.”

Jeongin hesitated for a moment, then slid onto the couch, settling beside the man he had been hurt by but now began to trust again. Chan sat carefully beside him, leaving just enough space to respect boundaries, yet close enough that their knees brushed gently. The subtle contact made his chest tighten, a mixture of hope, nervousness, and the lingering guilt of past mistakes. They ate in near silence at first, the rhythm of chewing and the occasional clink of utensils forming a quiet cadence. Chan stole glances at Jeongin, noting the way he held the fork, the small rise and fall of his shoulders, the way his eyes occasionally flicked toward him. Every detail was etched into Chan’s mind, a reminder of the person he had hurt, but also of the one he desperately wanted to protect and cherish.

“I…” Chan began softly, hesitant. “I’m glad you stayed. That you’re… here. With me.”

Jeongin’s gaze met his briefly, and Chan saw the faint blush coloring his cheeks, a subtle, careful warmth that mirrored his own. “I… I’m glad too,” he murmured, voice quiet. “It’s… it’s different. But… good.”

The word hung between them, fragile and delicate, yet laden with meaning. Chan reached out almost imperceptibly, resting his hand near Jeongin’s on the couch armrest. It was a gesture of care, tentative but intentional. Jeongin’s fingers twitched slightly, brushing lightly against his, a fleeting contact that carried more weight than words ever could. Chan’s chest tightened with the sensation, and he let himself linger, just close enough to let Jeongin feel the sincerity and remorse in his presence. He didn’t push, didn’t demand anything, he simply existed beside him, a quiet, deliberate anchor, letting the younger man see that he was fully committed to making amends, to being there without running, without hiding.

“I missed this,” Chan whispered softly, voice rough with emotion. “Being… near you without pretending everything’s fine. I’ve missed… all of it. And I… I don’t want to lose it again. I don’t want to lose you again.” Jeongin’s hand shifted slightly, brushing more deliberately against Chan’s. He didn’t pull away, didn’t retreat, he stayed, and that small act of acceptance, of tentative trust, sent a surge of relief and hope through Chan’s chest. “I… I know it won’t be perfect,” Chan continued, voice low, almost reverent. “I know I have a lot to prove. But I… I want to spend every day showing you I can be better. That I can be someone you can trust, someone who won’t hurt you again. I… I want to be the one you can lean on, Innie. If you’ll let me.”

Jeongin’s lips pressed into a thin, tentative line, and he nodded slightly, a subtle acknowledgment that the thread of trust between them was slowly being rewoven. It wasn’t full forgiveness, not yet, it was a step, a careful, deliberate opening of the heart. Chan exhaled slowly, letting the tension ease fractionally, and leaned in just slightly, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to Jeongin’s temple. The younger’s breath hitched, and he tilted his head slightly into the touch. The gesture was small, subtle, yet monumental, a delicate promise that Chan was committed, not just in words, but in every action, to making things right. They sat together in that fragile, quiet intimacy, letting presence and patience speak for them. No words were needed, each glance, each subtle brush of fingers, each careful, deliberate movement conveyed what words could not. And for Chan, it was enough. It was hope. It was the beginning of redemption, one small, painstaking step at a time.

Chan cleared the plates slowly, trying not to let the nervous energy he carried all evening spill over. He washed each dish deliberately, letting the warm water run over his hands as he thought about the fragile thread of trust he was trying to weave back with Jeongin. “You don’t… have to do that,” Jeongin’s voice came softly from the couch, barely above a whisper, pulling Chan from his thoughts.

Chan froze mid-motion, water running over the plate. He glanced over his shoulder. Jeongin was leaning back, arms folded loosely, his gaze hesitant but attentive. “I know,” Chan said carefully, “but I want to. I… I want to show you I can do all you need from me, not just words.”

Jeongin blinked, frowning slightly, then gave a small nod. “You’re… really trying, huh?”

Chan felt his chest tighten at the words. “I am,” he admitted, voice low, almost shaking. “I know I hurt you. More than I realized until… until I saw how far apart we’d drifted. And I… I hate that I did. I can’t take it back, Innie, and I cannot fix it, I can't take back the things I said and how much I hurt you; but I can… try to be better, every day, in any way.” A long pause followed. Chan could feel the tension in the apartment, thick but pliable now, like clay that could be reshaped with care. He carefully set the last plate on the counter, drying his hands slowly, deliberately. Then he turned fully toward Jeongin. “I don’t want us to go back to… that place. Where I’m scared, and you’re hurt. I want to… be here. Fully. For you. For us.”

Jeongin’s fingers twitched at his sides, and he looked down briefly before meeting Chan’s eyes again. “I… I can see that, but I'm not sure if we can go back,” he said softly.

Chan exhaled, guilt mingling into a knot in his chest. “It matters to me, Innie. More than I can say. Every day I think about how I can make it right. How I can… be better. And not just for the big moments. For the small ones. For every day we have together, I know that what I did it's terrible and I don't want to go back to that, I want to be better, for you.”

The younger shifted slightly, leaning forward as if weighing his words. “I… I don’t know what I expect all at anymore. I just… I need to feel it. You know, that it’s real, that you are not gonna change your mind tomorrow again.”

Chan nodded, leaning just a fraction closer. “I know. And I want you to feel it. I want you to see me trying. And failing, maybe, sometimes. But never giving up. Never… pushing you away when you need me close.” A soft silence settled. Chan could feel Jeongin’s gaze on him, cautious but warming. He swallowed hard. “I… I’ve been scared, Innie,” he admitted, voice low. “Scared that my mistakes would… that they’d cost us. That I’d hurt you so badly that you couldn’t forgive me. And maybe… maybe I still am scared. But that fear… doesn’t get to decide anymore. Not when it comes to you.”

Jeongin’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he nodded slowly. “I can… see that. I can see you’re really trying. And… it’s… helping. Just… having you here but I don't know if that is enough to erase all the pain.”

Chan’s chest tightened with relief, but also with a pang of shame at how long it had taken him to see it clearly. “I’ll do whatever it takes, Innie. I’ll stay, I’ll wait, I’ll try every day. And I… I’ll let you see me… all of me. Even the parts I’m scared of. Even the ones I don’t like in myself.”

Jeongin’s eyes softened, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. “I… I want that. But I’ll need… time. I know I need time.”

“I know,” Chan said immediately, voice gentle. “And you’ll have it. I’ll give it to you. As much as you need. And if I falter, I’ll… I’ll try again. I’ll keep trying until you don’t have to worry anymore. Until you can trust me fully again.”

Jeongin shifted slightly, letting a hand rest on his knee. “I… I think I can start… trusting again. Little by little.”

Chan’s throat tightened. “Little by little is perfect. That’s how we’ll do it. Step by step, Innie. Every day, a little closer. A little… more open. And I’ll be here for every step, even when it’s awkward. Even when it’s hard.” The younger’s gaze flicked down at their hands, which rested near each other on the couch. Chan reached out slowly, letting his fingertips brush against Jeongin’s, deliberate but careful. Jeongin didn’t pull away. He let the gesture linger, and Chan’s heart surged at the subtle acceptance. “I’ve… missed this,” Chan whispered, barely audible, voice trembling. “Being near you. Feeling you close without… without distance. And I… I don’t want to go back to the way it was. Ever.”

Jeongin’s lips twitched into the smallest of smiles, hesitant but real. “I… I want that too,” he said softly.

Chan’s hand moved slightly, brushing the back of Jeongin’s hand with his thumb. “Then… then we’ll start, here, now. Right here, no running, no walls, no pretending. Just… us. Trying.”

The words hung between them, soft but weighty, like a promise. Chan could feel the tension in his chest ease just slightly, replaced with a delicate mixture of hope, fear, and longing. He leaned in just slightly, letting their knees touch more deliberately under the small table, their shared warmth a silent acknowledgment of trust beginning to rebuild. Jeongin tilted his head subtly, almost imperceptibly, into the contact, and Chan felt a rush of relief and tenderness. He wanted to say more, to confess everything he’d felt in the past weeks, all the regrets and desires, but he held back. This was not the time for grand confessions. This was the time for presence, for patience, for letting actions speak louder than words.

“I… I’ll stay,” Chan murmured softly, more to himself than to Jeongin, letting the declaration serve as both reassurance and commitment. “I’ll stay. And I’ll keep trying. Even when it’s messy. Even when it’s… scary. I won’t run anymore.”

Jeongin’s hand twitched slightly, brushing more deliberately against Chan’s. The contact was fleeting but deliberate, and Chan’s chest tightened with both longing and relief. He wanted to close the distance fully, to erase the weeks of hurt and hesitation, but he resisted. They were building something delicate and real. He had to honor that, respect the fragile trust they were cultivating. Chan shifted a little closer, letting his shoulder brush gently against Jeongin’s. “I… I know it won’t be all happiness,” he whispered, “and I know I’ll make mistakes. But I… I want to do this, with you. Even in the small, quiet moments. Even when… we don’t have words. I’ll be here. I promise.”

Jeongin’s gaze softened, a quiet understanding passing between them. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. The acknowledgment was in the lingering brush of their hands, the careful closeness, the shared rhythm of their breaths. Chan exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain, letting the weight of regret and guilt lighten just a fraction. He leaned back slightly, resting an arm on the couch behind Jeongin, creating a subtle, protective boundary without pressure. Just presence. Just being there.

“Thank you,” Jeongin whispered finally, voice low, almost inaudible. “For… staying. For trying. For… everything.”

Chan felt the words like a balm on his heart. “Thank you… for letting me. For trusting me, even a little. For… being here with me.”

They stayed like that for a while, no rush, no pressure, just the quiet intimacy of presence. Chan’s chest ached with both longing and relief, but he allowed it, letting the emotions settle into a quiet, steady warmth. He knew this was only the beginning. There would be days of doubt, moments of fear, and times when words and actions would falter. But for now, he was here. Fully. Present. Committed. And for the first time in weeks, Chan allowed himself to believe that maybe… just maybe, they could start anew, step by step, hand in hand, in the fragile glow of trust they were building together.

Chan lingered on the couch a moment longer, letting the warmth of Jeongin’s presence seep into him. He could feel the pulse of the room, the soft hum of the fridge in the kitchen, the faint creak of the building settling, but it all paled against the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat, loud in his chest, loud in his awareness of the fragile thread of connection now stretching between them.  “I’m so sorry,” Chan’s voice cracked, small but fierce in its sincerity. “I should’ve—should’ve been here. Not half-heartedly, not just when it was convenient. I should’ve… tried harder from the start. I should’ve listened. I should’ve… known that my fear wasn’t yours to bear.” A long pause settled. Chan’s gaze never wavered from Jeongin, drinking in every detail of his expression, the slight crease in his brow, the tentative softness in his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged just a little when he exhaled. Chan’s chest tightened at the thought that this had been his fault, that he had allowed the walls between them to grow so high. “I don’t just want to say I’m sorry,” he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I want to… make it right. Not in a grand, perfect gesture. Not in some dramatic way. But in the day-to-day. In every little thing I do. I want you to see that I really regret all the things I did, all the things I said.”

Jeongin shifted slightly, his gaze softening, the tension in his body easing just a fraction. “I… I can see that, Chan,” he murmured.

Chan exhaled, a sharp mix of relief and guilt tightening his chest. “I hope you do,” he said, almost desperately. “Because I… I can’t bear the thought of ever pushing you away again, I… I want to be here for you, fully. Not just when it’s easy, not just when it’s safe. I want to be here even when it’s hard, even when I’m scared.” Jeongin’s lips pressed into a thin line, thoughtful, and Chan saw the subtle nod he gave, barely perceptible but enough to make Chan’s heart surge. “I… I’ve let you shoulder so much,” Chan said, his voice trembling. “And I… I hate that. I hate that I let my own walls, my own stupid, selfish fear, make you feel alone. I don’t want that anymore. I don’t want to hurt you. Not by accident, not by thoughtlessness, not ever.”

“I’m… I’m asking you,” Chan continued, voice raw, “to let me stay. Let me make it up to you, step by step. Let me prove that I can… be the person you need, the person you deserve. I’m not perfect. I’ll stumble. I’ll falter. But I swear… I’ll never stop trying.”

Jeongin’s eyes flicked down at their hands, the faintest trace of vulnerability in his expression. “I… I want to believe that,” he admitted quietly.

Chan’s chest clenched with relief and remorse. “I’ll make it easy to believe,” he said softly, letting his voice carry both the weight of his regret and the earnestness of his intent. “With… everything I do. I’ll show you, Innie. Every day, every moment I get with you. I’ll show you I mean it. I’ll show you that I can… be here.” A silence followed, heavy but not oppressive. Chan let it hang, letting the quiet itself become part of the conversation, part of the unspoken reassurance he wanted to give. He could feel the subtle shift in the room, the way Jeongin’s posture had relaxed just slightly, the faint softening of the gaze, the almost imperceptible exhale that seemed to carry away some of the weight between them.

“I… I’m scared too,” Chan admitted finally, voice barely more than a whisper. “Scared that I’ll mess up. Scared that I’ll say the wrong thing or… hurt you again. But I’d rather be scared and here with you than… not be here at all.” Chan felt something in his chest unclench, a tension he hadn’t realized had been knotted there for weeks. Relief, hope, and a lingering, quiet longing swirled together. He leaned back slightly, letting his arm rest along the back of the couch, close enough to offer comfort but careful not to overstep. “I’ll stay,” Chan murmured, more to himself than to Jeongin, a promise he repeated silently like a prayer. “I’ll stay. And I’ll try every day, every moment I have. I won’t run. I promise.”

The room grew still, the only sound the soft hum of the city outside the window, the faint click of the radiator, and the quiet rhythm of their shared breaths. Chan let his gaze linger on Jeongin, committing every line, every flicker of expression to memory. He wanted to carry this moment with him, to hold it close, to let it anchor the fragile steps they were taking back toward each other. Chan leaned back slightly, letting the weight of the evening settle. His heart was still tight with longing, with regret, with hope, but it was lighter than it had been. He had said the words, he had shown his intent, and he had stayed. He had lingered. And that… that was the first real step toward the trust he hoped to rebuild, toward the love he was finally willing to name in his heart, even if only tentatively, even if only in whispers and small touches.

The apartment felt quieter now, but not empty. It held the echo of apologies, the trace of lingering touches, the warmth of presence. And Chan allowed himself to breathe, to rest, to hope. He would face the days ahead with intention, with care, with humility. And he would do it all with Jeongin by his side, fragile and tentative as their newfound closeness might be.

Chapter Text

Jeongin sank back into the couch cushions, letting the warmth of Chan’s lips linger on his temple like an imprint he could still feel long after the contact had ended. The apartment felt softer now, lighter, less heavy than it had been in weeks. Yet, the quiet pressed against him, amplifying each thought, every unspoken feeling. His fingers curled and uncurling in his lap became a rhythm, a subtle attempt to organize the chaos in his chest. He couldn’t deny the truth, Chan had stayed, he hadn’t pulled away, he hadn’t fled when the air had thickened with tension. He had lingered, he had let him stay close, without demanding, without overreaching. And the kiss, so small, so hesitant, almost teasing in its delicacy, had set something stirring inside Jeongin, restless, unsure, but undeniable. Why did it feel like everything could be possible, and yet still feel impossibly fragile?

He swallowed hard, letting the knot of nerves tighten at the back of his throat. The temptation to speak, to reach out, to confess pieces of himself, was overwhelming, yet the words caught halfway, lodged between his heart and his lips. He wasn’t ready to give everything, not fully, not yet; but the half-light of their closeness, this in-between space, where trust had begun to creep forward, was both intoxicating and terrifying. The brush of their knees against each other drew a sharp inhale from him. It wasn’t purposeful, not entirely, but it was enough; Jeongin could feel Chan’s awareness in every subtle movement, the quiet patience that radiated from him. A presence that didn’t push, didn’t demand, but invited, slowly, carefully, the walls he had built around himself began to tremble at the edges.

“You… you don’t have to be careful with me,” Jeongin whispered, almost to himself. The words felt strange in his mouth, foreign, as if admitting them aloud made them sharper, heavier. “I… I don’t want to keep pretending I can handle this on my own.” The confession hung between them, fragile, uneven, unpolished; but it was real. The pulse in his chest hammered in sync with the rising hope that maybe, just maybe, Chan would understand. 

Chan’s hand rested near him again, brushing against the side of his hip, tentative, almost shy, but deliberate in a way that made Jeongin’s chest ache. His breath hitched, the walls he had so carefully maintained around himself softening imperceptibly. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t want to push Chan away, he wanted to let him stay. Maybe that was the first step toward something neither of them could name yet, but both of them were already feeling, a quiet, shared gravity that pulled them closer. Jeongin leaned back slightly, letting his body settle against the couch, close enough that the warmth radiating from Chan brushed against his arm. He noticed every subtle movement, the way Chan adjusted, the quiet tension in his shoulders, the slow exhale that seemed to anchor him. It was maddening and comforting all at once, the pull of someone so near yet carefully restrained.

The apartment smelled faintly of the dinner they had shared hours before, subtle hints of spices and warmth that reminded Jeongin of care and effort. He traced the edge of the armrest with a fingertip, eyes flicking toward Chan’s profile. The way his jaw flexed as he focused, the soft tilt of his shoulders, it was deliberate, intentional. Every micro-movement was a message: I’m here. I’m not leaving. “You didn’t have to do dinner,” Jeongin muttered, voice low, almost teasing. But the weight beneath the words betrayed the half-smile he couldn’t quite hold back. “I could’ve eaten on my own.”

Chan’s eyes softened at him, lips tugging slightly at the corners in that familiar way he always did when he wanted to reassure without overexplaining. “I know. But I wanted to,” he said quietly, each word deliberate. “I wanted you to stay. For more than just the food.” Jeongin’s chest tightened; he wanted to scoff, to push it away, to downplay the meaning, but he didn’t. Instead, he let their knees brush again, a fraction longer this time, letting the small, deliberate acknowledgment hang between them, weightless yet significant.

The quiet stretched on, yet it was not empty. It brimmed with all the words they hadn’t said: the apologies, the regrets, the unspoken confessions. All the tension, all the care, all the fragile trust, condensed into this shared, silent space. Jeongin leaned in, a fraction, almost imperceptibly, as if the air itself were capable of holding a truth he couldn’t yet speak aloud. The only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional shift of their bodies against the couch cushions. Jeongin’s hands rested in his lap, but he wasn’t touching anything. He couldn’t, his mind was already tangled, moving faster than his fingers could follow. Every glance at Chan seemed to ignite another layer of thought, another swell of feeling.

Chan had said the words, he had admitted, quietly, deliberately, that he wanted Jeongin, not in some abstract, distant way, but here, now, present and tangible. Jeongin’s chest tightened at the memory of it, a slow, pressing ache that stretched across his ribs. It was terrifying how much relief and longing could coexist in a single breath. He let his gaze drift over Chan’s face, the way the apartment light softened the edges of his jaw and traced the slope of his cheekbones. It was comforting, grounding, but it was also sharp, stirring something dangerous in him, a yearning that he wasn’t supposed to feel, at least not this strongly, not so soon.

Jeongin’s mind wandered back to all the nights he had spent alone here, the quiet filled with his own doubts and imagined failures. The distance he had cultivated between them, the careful walls he had erected, it had all been in service of survival, or so he told himself. And yet, in that moment, leaning slightly closer to Chan, feeling the subtle warmth radiating across the couch cushion, he realized that those walls had also been prison bars. He had been protecting himself, yes, but at what cost? How many nights had he swallowed his own needs, his own feelings, just to keep from breaking under the weight of fear? And now, sitting here, he realized that the fear hadn’t protected him at all, it had only delayed the inevitable, made the longing sharper, more insistent.

The brush of Chan’s knee against his was deliberate this time, a subtle assertion of presence, and Jeongin’s breath hitched at the contact. It was a question, a statement, and a reassurance all at once. He wanted to lean in, to close the distance that remained between them, but he paused. There was a fragility in this moment, a delicacy that required care, he couldn’t rush it. His hands curled around the fabric of the couch, grounding himself as he wrestled with the surge of emotions, love, fear, hope, relief, they were all tangled together, impossible to separate, yet each one screamed with its own insistence. He wanted Chan, more than he had dared admit, even to himself; but he also wanted to move carefully, to honor the delicate rhythm they were creating in this shared silence.

“I… I don’t know if I’m ready to let go completely,” he whispered, almost inaudibly, as if saying it out loud made it more real, more dangerous. He wasn’t speaking to Chan, not entirely, but to the weight pressing in his chest, to the trembling coil of vulnerability he had carried for weeks. “But I… I don’t want to stay half-hidden anymore either.”

Chan shifted slightly beside him, a subtle movement that made Jeongin’s pulse tighten. The gentle brush of Chan’s hand along his side, so soft it could have been accidental, anchored him. It was the reminder that he wasn’t alone in this, that the boundaries they had once clung to were beginning to dissolve. Jeongin thought about the distance that had existed between them, the quiet hesitations, the careful boundaries, the pauses that spoke louder than any words. Each one had been a shield, a protection against the vulnerability of wanting someone too much, of risking getting hurt again, of exposing his own flaws. But now, he saw those boundaries for what they were: fragile, temporary, necessary only until trust could grow. And trust, he realized, wasn’t given, it was built, moment by moment, in the small gestures, the lingering touches, the deliberate patience. He shifted again, letting his shoulder brush slightly against Chan’s, testing the waters of closeness without breaking the fragile equilibrium, Chan didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned just a fraction, an unspoken invitation, a careful reassurance. Jeongin’s chest tightened further, a mix of anticipation and nervous delight.

For the first time in days, maybe weeks, Jeongin allowed himself to imagine what it could feel like to be fully open with Chan again, to stop hiding behind walls and half-measures. It wasn’t a complete surrender, he was still cautious, still measured, still hurting, but it was a beginning. A crack in the armor that allowed warmth to seep in, that allowed the possibility of connection to take root. He thought about all the small moments that had led them here: the dinners, the nights together, the laughter that had felt more intimate than he wanted to admit, Rome, the fight, their distance. Each memory, each shared look, each deliberate silence had been a step sometimes forward, sometimes backward, a signal that Chan was willing to meet him in this fragile space.

Jeongin’s fingers twitched as he contemplated the pull he felt, the magnetic draw toward Chan. Desire was one thing, he realized, but trust, real trust, was something entirely different. It required patience, vulnerability, and a willingness to risk heartbreak, again, that was the scariest part, was it worth it risking getting hurt again? And yet, for the first time in a long while, he felt a spark of courage, a tiny flame of hope that maybe the risk was worth it.

He let his head tilt slightly, closer to Chan, not touching, not yet, but close enough that the air between them seemed charged. It was a careful dance, a delicate balance between yearning and restraint, and he felt the weight of it in every fiber of his body. The quiet stretched, but it was no longer oppressive. It was full, rich with unspoken understanding, with possibilities, with the gentle rhythm of hearts slowly aligning. Jeongin felt a subtle shift within himself, a readiness to stay present, to lean into the warmth without fear, to let the small moments accumulate into something larger, something real. He could feel Chan’s steady breathing beside him, the quiet patience in every measured movement. And in that presence, that gentle, deliberate care, Jeongin realized he was no longer resisting, not entirely, not yet fully, but enough to want to explore, to want to trust, to want to see where this fragile connection could lead. It was terrifying, yes; and exhilarating, and painfully, achingly beautiful.

The quiet stretched long after Chan had said goodnight.

The apartment lights were dimmed to a soft amber glow, shadows settling into corners, tracing over the contours of furniture like slow-moving ghosts. Jeongin stood in the hallway for a while, staring at the closed door that led to Chan’s room. It wasn’t locked, Chan never locked it, but Jeongin knew better than to test the boundary tonight. They had already crossed so many invisible lines, built and rebuilt so many walls, that even this silence felt sacred. He could still feel the warmth of the couch on the back of his legs, the imprint of where Chan had been sitting beside him. His skin buzzed faintly, like static, remnants of every small touch, every brush of knees, every hesitant exchange of breath. His heart hadn’t yet calmed down; it kept pounding unevenly, trapped somewhere between comfort and panic, longing and restraint.

When he finally moved toward his room, he did so quietly, each step measured. The soft creak of the floorboards sounded too loud, the whisper of fabric as he pulled off his sweatshirt too intimate. He wasn’t used to the silence feeling this alive. It wasn’t empty, not tonight. It was full of what lingered between them, full of words left hanging and the weight of everything unsaid. He sat at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers pressing against his temples. He could still hear Chan’s voice in his head, low, trembling, honest in a way that left nowhere to hide. “I was scared, Innie. I thought I was protecting you, but I was only pushing you away.”

The memory struck deep, a slow ache that spread through his chest. Chan’s voice had cracked when he said it. For someone so composed, so endlessly responsible, that crack had meant something. It was the kind of vulnerability Jeongin had once begged for, back when every conversation felt like a guessing game, back when Chan’s insecurities hid behind silence and half-answers; and tonight, he had finally given him what he’d wanted, truth, a raw, unguarded truth that didn’t fix everything but made it harder to stay angry. Jeongin drew in a slow breath and let it out through parted lips. His mind wouldn’t quiet down. It kept replaying flashes, the hesitant smile, the soft look in Chan’s eyes, the dinner, the laughter that had almost sounded normal. And underneath it all, that quiet confession: I wanted you to stay. For more than just the food. Why did those words hurt and heal at the same time?

He ran his hand through his hair and fell back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling. The dim light from the street outside filtered through the blinds in thin, uneven lines, cutting across his skin like faint reminders of the half-light they were both stuck in. Not darkness, not daylight, just something in between, where everything looked softer, and yet nothing was truly clear. He turned his head toward the door, the apartment was silent again, but he imagined he could still hear the faint sound of Chan moving in his room, the rustle of fabric, the creak of the bed frame. It was strange how much he missed his presence even after spending the entire evening beside him. He thought about the fight in Rome again, the shouting that had spilled in Chan's hotel room, the exhaustion that had blurred everything, the coldness that followed. He remembered Chan’s face, pale under the fluorescent lights, the tightness in his jaw as he tried to explain himself, and the way Jeongin had walked away, because it wasn’t just about the fight; it was about all the times before that. All the moments when Chan had withdrawn, too consumed by his fears to reach out. The way he’d shut Jeongin out when things got heavy, hiding behind the weight of his own guilt, leaving Jeongin to wonder if he’d done something wrong.

Jeongin squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing against the lump that formed in his throat. He wasn’t sure if he could go through that again; because it wasn’t just heartbreak; it was erosion. The slow, invisible kind that wore him down piece by piece, until he wasn’t sure where his hope ended and his exhaustion began.

He knew Chan was trying now, really trying, and that meant something. It wasn’t performative; it wasn’t a desperate plea for forgiveness. It was quiet, deliberate effort, staying, listening, cooking dinner, speaking softly instead of defending himself. But was that enough? Could it undo the nights Jeongin had spent staring at unread messages, the words he’d never sent because he was afraid of being ignored again? He turned onto his side, curling slightly, pulling the blanket up though the room wasn’t cold. The familiar scent of detergent mixed faintly with something that lingered, maybe from when Chan had helped fold laundry, the thought made his chest ache again, but this time, it was softer.

Jeongin had never been good at forgiving easily; not because he was vindictive, but because he loved deeply, and when he was hurt, it left marks that didn’t fade fast. He remembered the way Chan had looked after their fight, eyes dim, hands shaking slightly as he reached out, and Jeongin had stepped back. That image had followed him ever since. Now, the question pressed against him like a weight he couldn’t escape: If Chan fell back into old patterns again, would he survive it this time?

The answer scared him, because he didn’t know. He had spent the past days building distance, convincing himself that he was better off detached. But tonight had reminded him how easily the walls crumbled. One quiet dinner, one small smile, one hand resting near his hip, and suddenly the ache came flooding back like it had been waiting for permission. He wanted to believe Chan could change, he wanted to believe that love, what they had, fragile as it was, was worth salvaging. But what if it wasn’t enough? What if trying again only meant falling harder the next time he failed to hold on?

His breath trembled as he turned onto his back again. He stared up at the faint patterns on the ceiling, his thoughts looping endlessly between longing and doubt. It wasn’t just about forgiveness anymore, it was about trust, about the quiet, unseen things that made relationships work, the daily presence, the simple reliability of someone staying even when it’s uncomfortable. And Chan had broken that once, maybe more than once if he really thought about it; he had walked away emotionally, retreating into himself until Jeongin had felt like a ghost in his own relationship, or whatever situationship they had. Now, though, he’d seen something new in him. A softness, a persistence that didn’t demand forgiveness but simply asked for time. Jeongin sighed. Time. Maybe that was the only thing they could offer each other right now. 

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what tomorrow might look like. Would things feel awkward again? Would Chan retreat into his room, second-guessing every word? Or would he come out, make coffee, act as if this tentative peace could last? The thought of it made Jeongin’s lips twitch into a small, tired smile. Chan had always been predictable in the most endearing ways, overthinking, apologizing too much, pretending to be fine when he clearly wasn’t; and maybe that predictability was the very thing Jeongin missed the most.

Still, there was fear. It lingered at the edges of his thoughts, quiet but constant; he was scared that if he let himself fall again, the ground wouldn’t be there to catch him this time. Scared that he’d open up, only to find Chan pulling away again when things got too real; scared that forgiveness would make him vulnerable to the same pain. But alongside that fear, something else was growing, a quiet, reluctant tenderness; because despite everything, when Chan had leaned in tonight, close enough for Jeongin to feel the tremor in his breath, there had been no hesitation in his eyes, only sincerity, only love. And Jeongin had felt it, in the way Chan looked at him like he was still worth reaching for, even after all the hurt, all the silence. That look had undone something in him.

He pressed his face into his pillow, trying to muffle the sound of his sigh. He wished feelings were simpler, that love didn’t have to wrestle with fear like this. That forgiveness didn’t feel like stepping barefoot into a place you once got burned. He stayed like that for a long time, listening to the faint city noise outside the window, the distant hum of cars, the occasional gust of wind brushing against the glass. Slowly, the rhythm of it eased him, enough for his thoughts to lose shape. When his eyes finally grew heavy, the last thing he thought of was Chan’s hand brushing against his side, that small, steady gesture of care that had felt like a promise. Not of perfection, not even of certainty, but of effort. 

Morning came softly, pale light seeped through the blinds, thin and golden, cutting faintly across the room in uneven lines. Jeongin blinked against it, half-aware, his body still heavy with the drowsiness of a night that hadn’t given him much rest. For a long moment, he didn’t move. He lay still beneath the sheets, staring at the ceiling, his mind caught somewhere between dream and memory. The silence in the apartment felt different now. Not sharp, not suffocating like it had been the week before. It was still, but not empty, a calm that held something new beneath it, a quiet shift he could feel even before he opened his eyes fully.

He breathed in slowly, the faint scent of coffee drifted through the air; distant, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to tell him Chan was already awake. That small realization made his stomach twist, not in fear, but in something more complicated, anticipation. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, trying to shake off the haze, but the remnants of last night clung to him. The memory of Chan’s voice, his careful touch, the warmth of his presence beside him, it all came back in flashes, vivid and disarming. It didn’t feel like a dream, it felt real; and that scared him.

Jeongin sat up slowly, the sheets falling around his waist in soft folds. His hair was messy, sticking up at odd angles, and he reached for his phone on the nightstand more out of habit than intent. The screen lit up: a few unread messages from the group chat, a reminder he’d ignored last night, and one small note pinned at the top of the screen that made him frown, he hadn’t seen it before.

When he turned his gaze toward his desk, he noticed it, an actual handwritten note resting atop a folded hoodie and a small plastic bag. He frowned softly, blinking. When…?

He got up, padding barefoot across the wooden floor. The hoodie was familiar, his, one he’d left at Felix and Seungmin’s apartment days ago when he’d been staying there, avoiding Chan after the tour ended. The bag had some skincare, a couple of notebooks, and a keychain Felix had borrowed. Everything neatly packed, folded, typical Felix. Jeongin picked up the note, recognizing the handwriting instantly, rounded letters, slightly tilted to the right, the i’s dotted with little loops like Felix always did when he was writing fast.

Hey Innie,

Sorry for barging in while you were already asleep. You looked dead tired, so I didn’t want to wake you. I brought the stuff you left at ours (you and Seungmin owe me boba, btw).

Hope you’re okay. I mean it.

Don’t overthink things too much tonight, yeah? Just… rest. You both deserve a bit of quiet.

Love you, stay warm.

—Lix 🧸

Jeongin stared at the paper for a long time, his lips parting slightly. The note was simple, but it hit harder than it should’ve. Felix had always had that gentle way of cutting through the noise without prying. He’d seen Jeongin through the worst of the silence these past weeks, when he refused to talk about what happened, when he’d spent nights curled on their couch, pretending to be fine. Felix hadn’t pushed, hadn’t forced him to talk. He’d just been there, quiet, steady, the kind of friend who offered warmth without expectation; and now this, just a small reminder that he was still watching out for him, even from across buildings.

Jeongin’s fingers brushed over the corner of the note. The warmth that had been seeded last night spread again, slow but insistent, curling in his chest. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed this, this simple kindness, this gentle normalcy. The way his world, once full of noise and tension, was beginning to soften again. He folded the note carefully and placed it on the desk. His reflection in the window caught his attention then, the faint shadows under his eyes, the tousled hair, the lingering traces of restlessness. He looked tired, yes, but there was something else there too, something lighter.

Maybe it was the afterglow of everything that had been said last night, the fragile beginnings of understanding; or maybe it was the way Chan’s voice still echoed somewhere in the back of his mind, gentle, honest, promising effort instead of excuses. “I’m not running away this time.”

Jeongin exhaled slowly, he didn’t know if he believed that yet, not completely, but part of him wanted to; wanted to trust that this wasn’t another fragile beginning doomed to collapse under the weight of old fears. He gathered the folded hoodie and the small bag, setting them neatly in his closet before pulling on a loose T-shirt. The air felt cooler this morning, crisp against his skin, and he hesitated before leaving his room. For a moment, he simply stood there, hand resting on the doorknob, listening.

The faint clink of a mug reached his ears first. Then the gentle hiss of the coffee maker, a chair shifting, Chan’s quiet hum under his breath, familiar, low, a habit he’d never quite broken when he thought no one was listening. Something in Jeongin’s chest fluttered, unsteady.

It was strange, the idea of seeing him again so soon, just hours after everything that had happened. The night had felt suspended in time, an exception, a fragile peace built under low light and soft voices. Morning made it real again, morning demanded that they face each other not as two people caught in a moment, but as two people trying to rebuild. He pressed his lips together, inhaled deeply, and finally turned the doorknob.

Chapter Text

Chan sat on the edge of his bed, the apartment silent now except for the faint hum of the air conditioner. The weight of the evening pressed against him differently than it had before. Jeongin’s presence lingered in every corner, the subtle warmth of the couch where they’d sat, the faint scent of his shampoo in the kitchen air, the way the younger’s hands had brushed against his in small, deliberate gestures. He ran a hand over his face, blinking against the swirl of emotions. Relief, hope, fear, desire, they all tangled in a messy knot he hadn’t anticipated, he’d stayed, he’d lingered. He hadn’t pulled away, and that tiny, soft kiss had sent something tipping in him, something he hadn’t dared admit aloud even to himself.

Chan’s chest tightened. He wanted to lean back into the couch, to chase the warmth of Jeongin’s proximity, to stay tethered to him, but his mind immediately slammed the brakes; naming it, that was the problem; to call it love, to give it a word, was to expose it to all the risks he’d been trying to shield them both from. To name it was to make it real, and making it real was terrifying. He ran his fingers along the edge of the nightstand, counting silent breaths, thinking about the weeks of half-light they’d lived in, the near misses, the careful distance, the unspoken truths. He’d protected Jeongin, yes, but at what cost? How many times had he shut the door to prevent himself from feeling something that had only grown stronger?

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. “Hey… you still up?”

Chan looked up to see Felix leaning in, a small, curious smile on his face. “Sorry, just came to bring some stuff for Jeongin that he forgot in our apartment… Are you okay?” Felix asked, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him.

Chan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted, voice low. “It’s just—tonight, everything felt… close. Closer than it has in weeks. And it’s terrifying. Because if I let myself… I want him more than I’ve wanted anyone. And I’ve been scared to… to say it, even in my own head.”

Felix nodded, sitting beside him on the bed. “You’re not alone in that,” he said softly. “Wanting someone isn’t wrong. It’s scary, yeah—but it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. You’ve already let him in a little. That’s a start. You don’t have to have it all figured out, Chan. Just… be here. Be honest, even if it’s messy.”

Chan’s gaze fell to his hands, trembling slightly. “I’ve been hiding behind work, behind excuses, behind everything… and I don’t want to do that anymore. But naming it, saying it out loud, it feels like the moment everything could break. I’m terrified I’ll ruin us. Ruin him.”

Felix reached out, resting a hand briefly over Chan’s. “Or it could be the moment you finally start fixing things,” he said gently. “You’re already trying, aren’t you? You stayed tonight. You didn’t run. You let him see you… and that’s huge.”

Chan swallowed, the words resonating deeper than he expected. “It is huge,” he admitted. “It’s just… I want him so badly, Felix. And I don’t know if I can ever say it properly without fear getting in the way.”

Felix gave a small, reassuring smile. “Then start small. Stay, let him feel you. Let yourself feel him. The rest… can wait. Naming it is terrifying, yeah, but you’re already taking the first steps, you know deep in your heart you already chose.” Chan nodded slowly, feeling the tension in his chest ease just slightly. He could still feel the pull of fear, but Felix’s words anchored him. For the first time in a long while, he let himself imagine a future where he didn’t run, where he could let Jeongin see all of him, even if the words weren’t there yet. And with that, he leaned back on the bed, closing his eyes, holding the possibility close, fragile and terrifying, but alive. 

Chan woke the next morning with the city light spilling across the apartment floor, soft and muted. Even the air felt different now, carrying the memory of last night’s small, fragile connection. He lay in bed for a few quiet moments, thinking about Felix’s words, the way he had reminded him that staying, being present, was already a step forward. By the time Jeongin shuffled into the kitchen, hair mussed and shoulders slouched in that familiar morning posture, Chan had already poured two cups of coffee. He set one down on the counter with a soft smile, watching as Jeongin blinked at him, still half-asleep.

“Morning,” Chan said, voice careful, deliberate. “I made coffee.”

Jeongin gave a small, crooked smile, rubbing at his eyes. “Thanks.”

It was such a simple gesture, yet it felt monumental. Chan’s heart tightened in a way that was both sweet and terrifying. He stayed near, letting the proximity be enough, offering presence without demanding it. Throughout the day, Chan found himself lingering more, just a hand brushing Jeongin’s shoulder as they passed in the hallway, a gentle touch on the small of his back as he passed him a folder of lyrics, a shared glance during rehearsal that lasted a beat too long. Every act was small, deliberate, careful, but intentional. He wanted Jeongin to feel him there, fully, without forcing him, without breaking the fragile trust they were rebuilding.

At practice, Chan sat beside Jeongin when possible, leaning just slightly closer than necessary, letting the warmth of his body be a quiet presence. Jeongin caught his gaze once, a faint blush coloring his cheeks before he looked away, and Chan’s chest squeezed with both longing and relief. Even when the other members teased them playfully during warm-ups, Chan kept an eye on Jeongin, a quiet awareness that spoke louder than words. Every laugh, every shared smile, every brush of hands under the pretense of passing a pen or a water bottle became its own language, a deliberate, careful intimacy built from small gestures.

Later, when practice ended and the group gathered their things, Chan lingered near Jeongin, letting the younger move first toward the exit. “Wait,” Chan said softly, placing a hand on his arm. Jeongin froze, meeting his eyes with a mixture of wariness and curiosity. “Dinner?” Chan offered, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I thought… maybe we could eat together again. If you want.”

Jeongin hesitated, then nodded slowly, a subtle shift in his posture signaling acceptance. “Yeah… okay,” he said, voice low, careful, but warmer than it had been in weeks. Chan’s chest eased slightly, relief flooding him even as nerves buzzed at the thought of being so close again. He didn’t force conversation during the short walk back to the apartment; he let it be quiet, letting the comfort of each other’s presence speak in its own way. Once inside, Chan set about preparing something simple but thoughtful, a nod to the comfort and care of last night. As Jeongin watched, Chan moved with quiet intent, each gesture a message: I see you. I’m here. I’m staying.

When he finally looked up, Jeongin was leaning against the counter, watching him with an expression Chan couldn’t quite read, hope, caution, longing, all mingled together. Chan smiled softly, a little awkwardly. “You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “Just… stay.”

Jeongin’s lips twitched into a small, hesitant smile. “I’m… staying,” he replied.

Later, when the plates were set and they sat on the couch again, Chan allowed himself a little more closeness than before, letting his hand rest lightly against Jeongin’s, brushing a thumb along his fingers without pressure. Jeongin didn’t pull away. He let the gesture linger, subtle and deliberate, a shared rhythm between them; and when Chan leaned in, gently pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to Jeongin’s temple, the younger’s breath hitched, and he tilted his head slightly into the touch. It was small, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but for Chan, it was monumental. A quiet promise, a careful step forward, and a shared acknowledgment that they were beginning to find their way together again.

The kiss broke, leaving Chan resting his forehead against Jeongin’s. They didn’t need words, presence and patience spoke for both of them. And in that small, deliberate intimacy, Chan allowed himself to hope. Not fully, not without fear, but enough to keep trying.

Chapter Text

Jeongin leaned against the apartment wall, arms crossed, watching Chan move around the kitchen with that careful, deliberate attention that always made his chest tighten. It should have been simple, just dinner, just another quiet night together, but Jeongin couldn’t ignore the way his stomach fluttered every time Chan’s hand brushed against his, or how his heart had skipped at the soft kiss to his temple earlier. He shifted on his feet, trying to settle the swirl of emotions inside him. Frustration, longing, fear, they all pressed at once, and Jeongin realized he was tired. Tired of the half-light, tired of pretending that the small, careful steps weren’t tearing him up inside. He wanted more, wanted it all, and he couldn’t stop himself from craving it.

When Chan finally turned toward him, holding a plate with a small, tentative smile, Jeongin felt the dam inside him give way just slightly. He swallowed hard, words pressing at the tip of his tongue. “Chan…” His voice was low, hesitant, but the tremor in it betrayed the urgency. “I can’t… I can’t keep doing this. This half-measure, this waiting, this…” He trailed off, gaze flicking to the floor before meeting Chan’s eyes, searching, pleading.

Chan set the plate down, stepping closer, sensing the tension radiating off him. “Innie…?”

“I can’t keep pretending I can handle a little at a time,” Jeongin said, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Every time you touch me, every time you stay close, it… it drives me crazy, Chan. I can’t… I can’t breathe right unless you know—unless I tell you how much I need you.” Chan’s chest tightened, and for a heartbeat, he froze. The air between them grew heavy, thick with unspoken longing, the kind they’d skirted around for weeks. Jeongin stepped closer, the raw honesty in his voice shaking him with its intensity. “I want all of it. I want you, Chan. Not just your presence, not just a fleeting touch or a soft kiss. I want… everything. And I can’t keep pretending that I can wait while you figure it out, or while I tiptoe around your fear. I’m done with this. I want everything, us, right now, even if it terrifies me.”

Chan’s breath hitched, eyes wide, heart hammering. He wanted to speak, to say something, but the words caught in his throat. He could feel the weight of Jeongin’s confession, the raw intensity of it, and for the first time, he let himself truly take it in. “I…” Chan started, voice barely above a whisper, then faltered, his usual restraint slipping. His hands rose slightly, almost as if reaching out to hold Jeongin, but not fully daring. “I… I don’t know if I can… I’ve been so scared of saying it, of naming it, of… everything. But hearing you, feeling you like this, it makes me…” His voice trailed off, trembling with unspoken emotion.

Jeongin’s gaze softened, and he took another step closer, daring to close the distance. “You don’t have to say it,” he said gently, voice raw but tender. “Just… be here, stay. Let me feel you. Let me know that you want me too.” Chan’s chest rose and fell rapidly, and slowly, carefully, he closed the gap, letting his hands hover near Jeongin’s arms before finally resting them lightly, deliberately, against him. The contact was electrifying, grounding, terrifying. And in that moment, the world narrowed to the space between them, the unspoken acknowledgment that they were both ready to stop running, to stop hiding. Jeongin’s lips parted, and he leaned forward slightly, heart pounding in his chest. “I… I don’t care if it’s messy,” he whispered. “I just… I need you, Chan. I need us. Can you… can you be here with me?”

Chan swallowed, the fear still fluttering in his chest, but the pull of longing, of need, of love, stronger than ever. “Yes,” he murmured, voice trembling. “I’m here. I’ll stay. I won’t run.” Jeongin let out a shaky breath, relief and desire mixing together. The dam had finally broken, and for the first time in weeks, he felt the possibility of everything, no more half-light, no more hiding. Just them.

The apartment felt smaller, warmer somehow, as if the air itself had shifted to match the tension and anticipation between them. Jeongin’s words still hung in the space, vibrating against Chan’s chest in a way that made it impossible to ignore. Chan’s hands remained lightly on Jeongin’s arms, deliberate but gentle, as if testing the waters. He could feel the rapid rise and fall of Jeongin’s chest beneath his fingers, the way the younger’s gaze softened yet held a raw edge of urgency. Every instinct in Chan screamed to lean in, to close the distance completely, but he held himself back just enough to let Jeongin feel the choice wasn’t one-sided.

“I… I’ve been so scared,” Chan admitted, voice low, almost a whisper, “scared of ruining us, scared of… everything. But I can’t—can’t hide from this anymore. Not from you, not from me.”

Jeongin’s breath hitched at the words, his hands brushing lightly against Chan’s chest, a subtle, testing motion. “Then don’t,” he murmured, almost desperately. “Don’t hide. I want… all of you. Every little part.”

The words, raw and insistent, cracked something deep inside Chan. He leaned in, brushing a hand gently along Jeongin’s jaw, letting his thumb trace the line of his cheek. Jeongin tilted his face into the touch, eyes half-lidded, lips slightly parted, letting the silence stretch between them as both measured the risk, the weight of what they were about to do. Slowly, deliberately, Chan lowered his lips to Jeongin’s, a soft, tentative brush at first. The kiss was careful, almost testing, but the response he felt was immediate, a warmth, a tremor, a quiet urgency that mirrored his own. Jeongin’s hands found Chan’s sides, pressing gently, as if pulling him closer without words, without demanding anything but presence. Chan’s other hand rose to the small of Jeongin’s back, anchoring him, grounding him in a way that made every pulse in his chest ache with desire and relief. They lingered there, lips barely moving at first, learning the rhythm again, rediscovering a closeness that had been missing for weeks.

When Jeongin finally deepened the kiss, it wasn’t frantic, it was necessary. Careful, deliberate, a mixture of longing and restraint, like they were both testing the waters of trust and desire simultaneously. Chan’s hands trembled slightly, not from hesitation, but from the overwhelming pull of feeling Jeongin fully, letting go of the fear that had held him back for so long. After a few heartbeats, they pulled slightly apart, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling. Jeongin let out a shaky laugh, soft and almost incredulous. “I was… I was waiting for this,” he whispered, voice low but charged. “I didn’t think it would feel… like this.”

Chan smiled, a mixture of relief and awe, pressing his forehead more firmly against Jeongin’s. “Me too,” he murmured. “I… I was scared. But I can’t hide anymore. I don’t want to hide from you. From this.”

Jeongin’s hand slid to the back of Chan’s neck, fingers threading through his hair, holding him close. “Then don’t,” he breathed. “Just… stay. Don’t pull away, not now, not ever.”

Chan’s lips brushed against Jeongin’s temple in a lingering, gentle kiss, before finally capturing his mouth again in a soft, more certain kiss. It was a kiss that spoke of promises and longing, of trust and the thrill of giving in without fear. Slowly, deliberately, they let the world shrink around them until nothing existed but the warmth, the closeness, the undeniable pull that had been simmering for weeks. As they pulled back slightly, foreheads still touching, Chan whispered, “We’ll take it slow… but we don’t have to hide anymore.”

Jeongin nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “No more hiding,” he agreed, and the weight of those words, spoken aloud and shared, felt like the beginning of something real, something whole.

For the first time in weeks, they let themselves just be together, presence and closeness speaking louder than hesitation or fear, finally crossing the line from tentative steps into shared, unguarded intimacy.

Chapter Text

The quiet lingered in the apartment long after their lips had parted. Chan’s forehead rested gently against Jeongin’s, the two of them breathing the same thin air, letting the silence carry what words still felt too fragile to name. For the first time in weeks, there was no wall between them, no careful retreat, no half-steps designed to protect what had already been cracked open. Chan could feel it in Jeongin’s touch, in the steady weight of his hand at the back of his neck, in the way his chest rose and fell against his own. It was all there: trust, longing, relief. And for once, he didn’t run from it.

That night, everything shifted, slowly at first, then all at once, their touches turned unguarded, less tentative. Their kisses, no longer afraid of being too much, stretched into something that carried the weight of all the weeks they’d spent holding back. The hours blurred into warmth, Jeongin’s voice low against his skin, Chan’s laughter breaking free in quiet bursts, the unspoken rhythm of two people finally choosing not to retreat.

By the time sleep found them, they were tangled together in a way that felt both new and achingly familiar. Jeongin’s hand curled at Chan’s chest, his face tucked into the hollow of his shoulder. Chan held him close through the night, one arm slung around his waist, his own fears softened by the simple fact that Jeongin didn’t let go.

When morning came, Chan stirred first. The pale light crept across the room, brushing against the tangle of sheets, against Jeongin’s hair falling softly across his cheek; for a moment, Chan simply lay there, his chest tight with the weight of realization. He had chosen him, not in some grand declaration, not with promises about the future or words he wasn’t ready to speak, but in the quiet, steady way of staying. Staying in Jeongin’s arms. Staying in the warmth of everything they’d finally allowed themselves to feel.

Jeongin shifted slightly in his sleep, pressing closer, and the small unconscious movement broke something open in Chan’s chest. He closed his eyes, pressing a lingering kiss to Jeongin’s hairline. The world outside would never be simple, too many eyes, too many questions, too much risk. But here, in this small room, in this fragile morning light, it was real, messy, undefined, but real. And as Chan lay there, holding Jeongin close, he realized it was enough. The smell of coffee filled the apartment, rich and grounding, blending with the faint sizzle from the pan on the stove. Chan moved carefully around the small kitchen, still in the same sweats from the night before, sleeves pushed up as he worked. Every sound, the clink of a spoon against ceramic, the low hum from the refrigerator, seemed louder in the quiet, as if the air itself had been altered by what they’d shared.

Jeongin appeared a few minutes later, hair mussed, shirt hanging loose on his shoulders. He leaned against the counter without saying anything, eyes heavy with sleep but softer than Chan had seen in weeks. For a moment, Chan thought about pretending it was just another morning. But Jeongin’s gaze lingered on him too long, too steady, and the truth of last night pressed between them.

“You made eggs,” Jeongin murmured, his voice hoarse with sleep.

Chan glanced up, offering a half-smile. “Yeah. Thought you’d be hungry.”

Jeongin slid into a chair at the small table, fingers brushing over the rim of the mug Chan set in front of him. Their hands touched, brief, accidental, and neither of them pulled away quickly enough to pretend it didn’t matter. They ate in quiet for a while, the scrape of forks against plates filling the space. It wasn’t uncomfortable, not exactly, just weighted, like every silence carried the memory of the night before. It was Jeongin who broke it first. “Last night…” He trailed off, setting his fork down carefully as though even the clatter might shatter something fragile. His eyes lifted to Chan’s, searching. “It wasn’t a mistake, right?”

The question landed heavy, low in Chan’s chest; he swallowed hard, setting down his own fork before speaking. “No,” he said quietly. His voice didn’t waver. “It wasn’t a mistake.”

Something loosened in Jeongin’s expression, though his shoulders stayed tense, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to believe it. He leaned back in his chair, his thumb rubbing absently over the edge of the mug. “But it’s complicated,” Jeongin added after a pause, almost to himself. “It always will be.”

Chan’s throat tightened. He nodded, pushing through the fear that always rose when the future loomed too close. “Yeah. It is. But… that doesn’t mean I don’t want it.” He looked at Jeongin directly, eyes steady despite the hammering of his chest. “I want you. Even if I’m terrible at showing it sometimes.”

The words hung between them, unguarded, honest. Jeongin blinked, caught off guard by the rawness. For a second, his jaw tensed like he wanted to argue, to push back, but instead, he exhaled slowly, gaze dropping to his plate. “I don’t know if I can forget Rome,” Jeongin admitted, voice low. “But… I don’t want to keep fighting you, hyung. I’m tired of feeling like I have to.”

Chan’s chest ached, but there was relief threaded through the ache. He reached across the table, letting his hand rest palm-up between them. He didn’t force it, didn’t press, just left the space open. Jeongin hesitated only a moment before his fingers slid into Chan’s, a quiet acceptance, the warmth of his touch was grounding, anchoring them both. They sat like that, hands clasped, not needing to fill the silence with more. The world outside would demand definitions, clarity, maybe even decisions. But here, in the soft morning light, with the weight of eggs cooling on their plates and coffee growing cold, it was enough to admit what they both knew, that they were still here, still choosing, even if the road ahead was uncertain. They lingered longer at the table than they meant to, fingers still linked loosely between empty plates. The coffee had gone cold, the eggs untouched, but neither of them moved to clear away the dishes. The silence was different now, not heavy, not suffocating; it was the kind of quiet that let them breathe. 

Eventually, Jeongin shifted, letting go of Chan’s hand with a small squeeze. “We should get ready,” he murmured, though his voice carried no urgency.

“Yeah,” Chan replied, but his chest felt lighter.

Back in his room, he stared at his reflection for a long moment as he pulled on a clean shirt. There was still exhaustion around his eyes, guilt stitched into the lines of his face, but there was something else too; something steadier. He didn’t feel fixed, didn’t even feel whole, but last night and this morning had cracked something open, enough to breathe again. When they left the apartment together, the small details felt louder, the way Jeongin walked close enough that their shoulders brushed now and then, the unspoken rhythm between them as they fell into step side by side. At the company, the usual chaos of practice and meetings swallowed them quickly. Stylists fussed, managers barked out schedules, and members drifted in and out of the practice room. Yet through it all, something between Chan and Jeongin had shifted. It was in the way Chan lingered when Jeongin spoke, not just nodding but actually listening. In the way Jeongin didn’t flinch from his gaze anymore, even if his expression carried shadows of caution. They still weren’t easy, there were pauses, hesitations, words left unsaid, but there was no sharp edge cutting between them now.

Felix was the first to notice, midway through rehearsal, he caught Chan’s eye across the room, his expression curious, almost knowing; he didn’t say anything, just offered a small smile that tightened Chan’s throat. Seungmin noticed too, though less subtle, during a break, he dropped onto the bench beside Jeongin, sipping water as his eyes flicked between him and Chan. “You two seem… less unbearable today,” he muttered, just loud enough for both of them to hear.

Jeongin rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched. “Maybe you’re just in a good mood.” Seungmin’s hum carried more weight than the words themselves, but he didn’t press.

By the time evening came, Chan felt the exhaustion in his muscles but not the same kind that had haunted him for weeks. This was the ache of hours spent dancing, of sweat drying too fast on his skin, of familiar effort; but beneath it was something steadier, a thread of relief that hadn’t existed before.

On the ride back, Jeongin sat by the window, headphones in but not playing anything. Chan knew because he could hear the faint hum of the van’s engine and nothing else. Their eyes met in the glass reflection, quick and unguarded; Jeongin didn’t look away this time, it was enough, not forgiveness, not yet. But something real, something they could carry forward.

That night, as they slipped back into the apartment, the space felt less like a battlefield and more like home. And though neither said it out loud, both of them understood, today had been different. Today had been the first step.

Chapter Text

The apartment didn’t feel as heavy anymore, it wasn’t lighter exactly, not free of the things they hadn’t said, but the air wasn’t thick with silence either. Jeongin noticed it the next morning, the way his chest didn’t knot quite as tight when he walked into the kitchen and saw Chan already there, making coffee.

“Morning,” Chan had said, his voice quiet but not careful, not like he was walking on glass.

Jeongin answered without hesitation this time. “Morning.”

It was such a small thing, but it lingered. Over the next days, those small things stacked up, Chan waiting for him at the elevator instead of heading down alone, Jeongin nudging a bottle of water into his hand after practice without being asked, the brush of shoulders as they moved around each other at the table. They didn’t call it anything, but it lived in the spaces between them, fragile and real.

The world outside didn’t slow for them. Schedules pressed on, music shows in Seoul, early morning radio interviews, rehearsals that stretched late into the night. Cameras followed their every move, fans’ cheers filled the air, and still they found themselves pulled back toward each other like magnets. Sometimes it was sweet, like the moment before a broadcast when Chan quietly adjusted Jeongin’s collar while the stylist’s back was turned; the touch lingered longer than necessary, and Jeongin felt the heat rise in his cheeks. Sometimes it was terrifying, like when Jeongin caught himself watching Chan too closely during an interview, laughter softening the lines of his face. The thought slipped in sharp and uninvited: What if someone else sees this? What if they already know?

The sweetness and the fear tangled together until he couldn’t tell them apart. Their first trip abroad after everything was to Japan, a short flight and a handful of packed days. The routine was familiar, airport cameras, fans waiting at arrivals, managers ushering them quickly into vans, but Jeongin felt the difference in the smallest details. Chan’s hand brushing his lower back as they moved through a crowd. The way Chan sought him out in a sea of staff and members, their eyes meeting just long enough for reassurance.

It was dangerous, Jeongin thought, how easily he could grow used to this. How much he wanted to. On the flight back, seated side by side, Chan’s arm brushed against his with every slight movement. Jeongin kept his eyes fixed on the window, heart thudding, knowing that the smallest shift could give him away. He didn’t pull away. Neither did Chan. And that, Jeongin realized, was the first step. He had always thought of himself as careful. He was the one who measured his words, who carried the unspoken responsibility of being the youngest without ever demanding it. He learned early that restraint was safer than impulse, that silence was often easier than confession.

But now, with Chan, restraint felt like a thread stretched too tight, threatening to snap every time they were in the same room. It wasn’t just at the apartment, where the quiet comfort between them had begun to feel like something steadier, almost domestic. It followed them into schedules, into every interview and rehearsal, into the heat of stage lights and the exhaustion after. During one music show, he caught himself leaning toward Chan’s laugh, almost instinctively, like his body had decided for him. The cameras were everywhere, fans waiting for clips to dissect frame by frame. Jeongin pulled back at the last second, disguising it with a sip of water, but the sting of it stayed. How much longer can I keep this balanced?

He wanted more, that was the truth he couldn’t push away anymore. He wanted the nights when Chan cooked dinner for him and the quiet mornings when their hands brushed reaching for mugs; he wanted to let himself lean in when Chan adjusted his collar, to not always stop himself just before it became too obvious. But wanting more meant risking everything, their careers, the group, the family they had built from scratch. One misstep and all of it could unravel. He could still hear Seungmin’s voice in his head from weeks ago, that gentle, maddening logic: Maybe you should let him try. Maybe you should give him a chance. But giving Chan a chance meant giving himself away. Jeongin exhaled softly, closing his eyes. Between wanting and fear, he hovered in the middle, caught in the ache of almost. And for now, he told himself, almost would have to be enough.

The van to the next promotion stop felt unusually cramped, even for the familiar close quarters the members were used to. Jeongin sat near Hyunjin, the younger’s head resting against the window, eyes half-closed, listening to music, but always aware. It wasn’t long before Hyunjin shifted, leaning slightly toward him with a smirk that only one of the group could pull off without seeming invasive.

“You’ve got that look,” Hyunjin said softly, voice low enough that only Jeongin could hear. “The one that says… you’re trying not to smile too much, but failing.”

Jeongin froze slightly, instinctively tugging his hoodie tighter. “I—what look?” he mumbled, his voice almost comical in its awkwardness.

“That look,” Hyunjin repeated, nudging his shoulder lightly, “that one. The one that screams you’re thinking about him, all of him, and probably forgetting everyone else exists.” Jeongin’s chest tightened. How does he always know? He tried to hide it, letting his gaze drift out the window, tracing the lights of Seoul as they blurred past. But Hyunjin leaned closer, his tone teasing, gentle, knowing. “You don’t have to hide it, you know,” Hyunjin whispered. “I can see it. Everyone notices, Innie. Even the smallest things—how you look at him, how you wait for him to laugh, how you catch his hand without thinking. It’s… beautiful, really.”

Jeongin’s ears burned. Beautiful? He shook his head slightly, muttering, “I’m not… I’m not thinking like that.”

“Sure,” Hyunjin said, clearly unconvinced, his grin softening into something warmer. “You don’t have to say anything out loud, but you should at least… let yourself feel it. Don’t cage it up. Not him, not you.”

Jeongin swallowed, the words settling heavier than he expected. Hyunjin wasn’t wrong. He was feeling it; every stolen glance at Chan across the practice room, every brush of hands under the pretense of passing a pen, every quiet, deliberate touch, it all meant something. More than he’d allowed himself to admit. Later, at the rehearsal studio, the energy between him and Chan was subtle but undeniable. Chan lingered a moment too long while showing him a line in the choreography, their fingers brushing. Jeongin felt the warmth spiral through him before he forced a casual smile.

“See?” Hyunjin’s voice echoed in his head, faint but clear. Everyone notices.

Even Felix shot a small, knowing smile when Jeongin passed him water, Chan hovering nearby, their shoulders brushing just slightly longer than necessary. The others didn’t comment, but the unspoken acknowledgment was there, threading between them like electricity. Jeongin felt caught in the sweetness and the fear simultaneously. Sweetness in the way Chan’s presence anchored him, in the small ways their closeness made the hectic schedule feel less overwhelming. Fear in the fragility of it all, the idea that any misstep, any wrong glance in the wrong direction, could make this all vanish. Yet the pull, the desire to hold onto what they were building, was stronger than the fear. He found himself laughing at Chan’s jokes more freely, letting his shoulder press a fraction closer when the other members weren’t looking, enjoying the subtle reassurance of their proximity.

By the time they left the studio, Jeongin’s heart felt lighter, though still tense. He stole a glance at Chan, catching him returning the look, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Something fragile had shifted, something no longer confined to stolen touches and hesitant glances. They were… here. And even if the world outside couldn’t see it, even if it wasn’t defined in anyone else’s eyes, in that moment, Jeongin allowed himself to feel it fully. This is real, he thought. Messy, uncertain, terrifying… but real.

The airplane hummed steadily as they crossed over to Tokyo for their next promotion, the group’s chatter blending with the faint whir of the engines. Jeongin sat next to Chan, legs barely touching, but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off him. Every now and then, Chan’s hand brushed against his thigh, a fleeting contact that made his pulse tighten despite the crowded cabin. Jeongin swallowed, trying to focus on the view outside the window, but his gaze kept slipping back to Chan. The fear of exposure was there, nagging and insistent, what if someone noticed, what if they misunderstood, but it was drowned out by the certainty that he didn’t want to hide anymore.

During the press briefings in Tokyo, the dynamic between them was subtle but palpable. Chan would lightly touch Jeongin’s back when guiding him through the studio, or let a hand linger at the small of his waist while they posed for photos. The other members exchanged knowing glances, quiet smirks, but didn’t comment aloud. Jeongin’s heart raced every time, half with excitement, half with nervousness.

When a local host teased them about how well they got along, Jeongin felt the old instinct to pull back creeping up. But then Chan caught his eye, a soft, reassuring smile grounding him. Jeongin realized he didn’t want to retreat. He wanted this closeness, even if it was messy, even if it wasn’t public knowledge yet. Later, in the quiet of the hotel room, Jeongin and Chan finally had a moment away from cameras and staff. The city lights spilled across the floor, painting their apartment-style room in warm tones. Jeongin sat on the edge of the bed, Chan kneeling beside him, fingers brushing against his hair in that deliberate, patient way that always made his chest tighten.

“I—” Jeongin started, voice low, almost trembling. “I don’t want to hide. Not anymore. Even with everyone watching… I don’t care. I just…” He exhaled, letting the words falter as Chan leaned closer, letting their foreheads touch.

“I know,” Chan whispered, thumb brushing along the line of his jaw. “I’m here. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Jeongin’s hands found Chan’s, squeezing lightly. The city’s noise felt distant, irrelevant. For the first time since Rome, he let himself trust that being together didn’t have to be hidden, didn’t have to be defined perfectly by anyone else. Even in the whirlwind of interviews, rehearsals, and photo shoots, Jeongin carried that weight with him, the awareness that Chan was by his side, that they were navigating this new closeness together. It was messy, uncertain, terrifying… and utterly real.

That night, as they prepared to sleep, Jeongin rested against Chan’s shoulder, small smiles shared between them, fingers entwined under the sheets. The fear of the world’s eyes faded just enough to let him savor the quiet intimacy of simply being. For the first time, he felt the edges of half-light disappear. And even if the world didn’t yet see them, for Jeongin and Chan, that was enough. They were together.

Chapter Text

Chan sat in the quiet of the apartment, the morning sun spilling across the floor and catching the edges of Jeongin’s hair as he stirred beside him. It was still early, the city outside barely awake, and for the first time in weeks, Chan felt a calm he hadn’t known he could allow himself. He didn’t need to check schedules, review rehearsal notes, or brace for moments of hesitation. Jeongin was here; they were together. The weight of the night lingered in the air, warmth shared in whispered words, the careful, deliberate closeness that had finally become theirs. Chan’s hands rested lightly on Jeongin’s, thumb brushing against his fingers, a silent reminder that he had chosen this, chosen him. For so long, Chan had feared that naming it, letting himself fall fully, would break everything, their group, their routines, the careful balance of their lives. But sitting there, feeling Jeongin breathe beside him, he realized that fear had been only part of the story. Choosing Jeongin didn’t mean giving up everything else. It didn’t mean abandoning the dream they’d built from the ground up. It meant holding onto both, fragile and imperfect, and trusting that they could coexist.

When Jeongin’s eyes opened, sleepy and soft, they met Chan’s gaze without hesitation. There was a flicker of amusement, a quiet teasing glint that made Chan’s chest tighten. “Morning,” Jeongin murmured, voice still rough from sleep.

“Morning,” Chan replied, smiling, letting the word carry all the warmth and reassurance he could muster. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Jeongin’s temple, lingering just long enough for the younger to tilt his head into it. The gesture wasn’t grand, but it held everything: care, promise, and the steady pulse of certainty that they were no longer tiptoeing around what they felt.

They moved through the morning slowly, deliberately, as if the rest of the world could wait. Breakfast was simple, quiet; their hands brushed over cups of coffee, shoulders occasionally touching as they leaned across the small table. Even in these ordinary moments, Chan felt a thrill of relief and contentment. He could be close to Jeongin, share the smallest intimacies, and it was enough. It had to be enough, because this, this messy, undefined, thrilling closeness, was real.

Later, when the rest of the group gathered for a quick rehearsal before heading to the broadcast studio, Chan noticed the subtle shifts in everyone’s attention. Seungmin handed him a folder with a small, knowing smile, Felix lingered near enough to offer a playful nudge, and Hyunjin’s teasing grin hit him like a soft warning: someone could see everything. Chan didn’t flinch. Not this time. He caught Jeongin’s eye across the room, a quick, shared glance that carried all the weight of their unspoken promises.

During rehearsal, every deliberate touch, Chan adjusting Jeongin’s posture for a line, brushing against his side when passing through the tight space, felt electric, grounding, and unafraid. They were cautious, yes, but the restraint was no longer born of fear. It was born of understanding: they were navigating this together, with care, with intent. Chan leaned back against the wall during a brief break, arms crossed, watching Jeongin laugh with Felix at some minor mistake in the choreography. His chest tightened, a mixture of pride and longing curling inside him. This closeness, this shared space, wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs. It was messy, fragile, and real. For the first time in years, Chan let himself believe that he could have it all: the music, the dream, the group, and Jeongin. That choosing someone didn’t mean losing everything else. It meant choosing everything, together. And sitting there, feeling the warmth of Jeongin’s presence even from a few feet away, Chan realized he wouldn’t trade this for anything.

The morning stretched, sunlight spilling across their rehearsal space and into their hearts. And for the first time, the world outside didn’t feel like a threat, it was just the backdrop to a story they were writing together, one careful, deliberate, beautiful step at a time.

The hum of the airplane engines was almost comforting, a steady rhythm beneath the quiet chatter of the other members as they prepared for another overseas promotion. Chan sat by the window, watching the clouds stretch into the pale morning light, but his attention wasn’t on the view. It was on Jeongin, who had settled beside him, headphones in, sketching something absentmindedly in his notebook. There was something grounding about simply being near him, the familiar warmth of his shoulder brushing Chan’s side, the soft curve of his hand moving over the page. It reminded Chan how fragile and urgent this new closeness was. Every stolen glance, every unspoken gesture, carried weight. They weren’t “public”, they weren’t defined in the eyes of the world, but in their universe, it was enough.

Chan reflected on the past weeks: the small, deliberate touches, the soft mornings, the quiet dinners. Everything had led to this: a subtle courage, a willingness to risk exposure for the sake of honesty between them. He thought about their rehearsals in Seoul, the way he could feel Jeongin’s gaze on him even in a room full of people, the quick brush of fingers as if asking, silently, Are you here with me? And every time, Chan had answered, Yes.

Even in public, the shift was noticeable, though subtle. A hand lingering on a shoulder a fraction longer, shared smiles that lasted just a heartbeat too long, a deliberate touch that others could interpret as nothing, or maybe, as everything. Chan felt the tension between wanting to be seen and the instinct to protect what they had. The group noticed, too, in ways that didn’t need words. A quiet glance from Seungmin, Felix offering a reassuring grin, Hyunjin smirking knowingly, all of them had seen it, and all of them respected it. At one point during a promotional photoshoot, the stylist adjusted Chan’s collar, and he caught Jeongin’s eyes flick to him for just a moment before he turned away. Chan felt a rush of warmth, a mix of pride and protectiveness. He wanted to tell Jeongin that it was safe, that it was okay to feel and show, even here, even with cameras and strangers. But instead, he let his hand brush Jeongin’s side as he passed him the props, a small, deliberate anchor, letting him know, without words, that he was present, steady, and entirely committed.

Chan thought about what it meant to choose Jeongin fully. Not just in stolen moments at home, but in the everyday, chaotic, exhausting reality of their world. He realized that choosing him didn’t erase the pressures of being idols, didn’t make the scrutiny disappear. What it did was something more important: it gave both of them a shared foundation, a quiet certainty they could carry into every crowded studio, every plane ride, every stage.

Later that evening, in the quiet of the hotel room after rehearsals, Chan watched Jeongin settle onto the couch, stretching his legs out, hair mussed from the day’s activity. He felt the pull again, the mix of desire, tenderness, and a quiet ache to simply hold him. He leaned back in the armchair, tracing patterns on the edge of the cushion with his fingers, thinking about the small but steady reassurance of the group. They hadn’t needed to intervene or comment. Their acceptance, their unspoken support, made this closeness feel less like a risk and more like a shared, protected space.

“I was thinking,” Chan finally said, voice low, letting the quiet carry between them. “About how… fragile this is. About how easy it could be to overthink, to… second-guess ourselves.”

Jeongin looked up, eyes bright, attentive. “Yeah?”

Chan nodded, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “But then I remember… we’re not alone in this. The others… they see us. They don’t need to know everything, but the way they… let us exist like this, quietly supporting us, it matters. It makes me feel like… maybe we can really do this. Maybe we can be together and still keep everything else, not have to choose one or the other.”

Jeongin’s lips curved into a small, tentative smile, and he reached over, letting his fingers brush Chan’s hand. “We’re… really doing this, huh?”

“We are,” Chan said, letting himself relax for the first time in weeks. “Messy, complicated, terrifying, but… real. And that’s enough. For us.”

The city outside the hotel window glimmered in the fading light, but inside, their world felt intimate, anchored by shared breaths, quiet touches, and a confidence they were slowly learning to carry. Chan felt a shift deep inside him, a release of years of hesitation, a letting go of the walls he’d built around his heart. Choosing Jeongin didn’t mean losing the dream. It meant letting himself have both. As they sat together in that quiet moment, Chan’s gaze softened. The world could wait. For now, it was enough to be here, beside him, and know that the first steps of being truly together, messy, undefined, and completely theirs, were unfolding one heartbeat at a time.

The evening in Tokyo had a softness that the days of promotions and rehearsals hadn’t. The city lights twinkled like scattered stars outside their hotel window, but Chan had something else in mind for Jeongin, a quiet evening just for the two of them, away from schedules, cameras, and the constant hum of the world.

He led Jeongin down a narrow, lantern-lit street, the air crisp and fragrant with the scent of night-blooming flowers from small roadside stalls. Jeongin’s hand found Chan’s almost instinctively, fingers interlacing without hesitation, a silent acknowledgment that this; this space, this moment, was theirs alone.

“I… didn’t expect this,” Jeongin murmured, a soft smile tugging at his lips. There was warmth in his tone, a mixture of awe and trust, and it made Chan’s chest tighten.

“You deserve it,” Chan replied, his voice low, deliberate. “I wanted… us to have tonight. Just us, no half-light, no hesitation.”

They arrived at a small, secluded restaurant tucked between the bustling streets. The soft glow of candles illuminated the space, casting gentle shadows across the wooden tables. Chan had reserved the corner by the window, giving them a quiet view of the city while ensuring they wouldn’t be disturbed. As they settled into their seats, Chan watched Jeongin, the curve of his jaw, the way his eyes reflected the candlelight, the subtle way he was already leaning slightly closer, drawn to Chan without realizing it. The thought made him smile, and when Jeongin caught his gaze, he returned it with a mixture of teasing and tenderness. The dinner was simple, a carefully chosen menu of dishes Chan knew Jeongin loved, but it was the attention between them that made it extraordinary. Every shared glance, every gentle touch as they passed plates, spoke volumes. Chan’s thumb brushed Jeongin’s hand across the table, a lingering contact that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with connection. After the last bite and a quiet toast, Chan reached across the table, taking both of Jeongin’s hands in his. The restaurant’s warm light framed him, but in that moment, all Chan saw was Jeongin.

“Innie,” Chan began, voice barely above a whisper, yet firm with certainty, “I… I’ve spent so long hesitating, afraid of what it means to… to truly let this be real. Afraid of what it could do to us, to the group, to everything we’ve built.” He paused, searching Jeongin’s eyes, letting the truth hang between them. “But tonight… I don’t want to hesitate anymore. I don’t want half-light. I don’t want fear. I just want you. All of you.”

Jeongin’s breath hitched slightly, eyes glistening, fingers tightening around Chan’s. “Chan…”

“I mean it,” Chan continued, leaning closer, the warmth of his presence radiating across the table. “I want us, Innie. Not just moments, not just closeness when no one is watching. I want… every part of this, every day, every small touch, every laugh, every look. I want to be with you, fully, without holding back.” Jeongin’s lips trembled into a soft smile, tears threatening to spill, but he didn’t speak, he didn’t need to. Chan could see it in his eyes, in the way his hands were clasped around his, in the subtle leaning forward, as if pulled by the gravity of the words Chan had just spoken. Taking a slow, deliberate breath, Chan asked the question he’d carried in his chest for weeks, finally freeing it from fear. “Innie… will you be my boyfriend?”

The words hung, fragile and deliberate, and Jeongin’s smile broke into a radiant, unguarded beam. “Yes,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Yes, Chan. I’ve been waiting for this too.”

Relief and joy flooded through Chan, his chest aching with the intensity of it all. He reached across the table, tilting Jeongin’s face toward him, and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips, soft, tender, but full of certainty. When they parted, foreheads resting together, the world outside the restaurant felt distant, irrelevant. For the first time, Chan allowed himself to let go completely, not just of fear, but of all the doubts and walls he had carried. He could see it in Jeongin’s eyes, in the warmth radiating from him, that this was theirs. Messy, uncertain, and entirely real.

“I love you,” Chan murmured against his forehead, letting the words settle in the quiet intimacy around them. “All of you, Innie. And I don’t want to hide it, not now, not ever.”

Jeongin’s hands cupped his face, eyes shining with equal intensity. “I love you too,” he breathed. “I’ve always… I’ve always wanted this with you.”

They lingered in that moment, letting the city’s glow, the candlelight, and the quiet hum of life around them become a backdrop to something profoundly theirs. No schedules, no expectations, no half-measures, just two hearts choosing each other, openly, fully, without fear. And in that choice, Chan finally understood: love didn’t have to come at the cost of their dreams. It didn’t have to be hidden. For the first time in years, he could have both: Jeongin, and everything else they had worked for.

The rest of the evening unfolded in a gentle, intoxicating intimacy. Hands brushed as they walked back to the hotel, small touches lingering longer than necessary. Words were sparse, but every glance, every brush of fingers, carried meaning; tonight, they had each other, fully. As they returned to the room, Chan pulled Jeongin close, pressing a soft kiss to his temple before letting them collapse together on the bed, wrapped in quiet warmth. For the first time, there were no hesitations, no doubts. They were together. Fully, irrevocably, beautifully. And for Chan, that was everything.

Chapter Text

Morning light spilled through the hotel curtains, soft and warm, brushing over Jeongin’s face as he stirred awake. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he didn’t wake with tension knotted in his chest or thoughts racing ahead to schedules, rehearsals, or the careful dance of half-hidden feelings. He woke with Chan beside him, the weight of their closeness settling like a calm, steady pulse. Jeongin turned slightly, blinking against the light, and found Chan watching him, quiet and serene, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It wasn’t teasing, it wasn’t fleeting, it was steady, certain. The kind of look that said everything without needing words.

“Morning,” Jeongin murmured, his voice still rough from sleep, stretching his hand out across the bed.

“Morning,” Chan replied, letting his hand fall into Jeongin’s, thumb brushing gently along his knuckles. The simple touch carried the intimacy of weeks of quiet closeness, of mornings spent leaning into each other, and nights that had slowly unraveled the walls around them.

They stayed like that for a long moment, hands intertwined, foreheads nearly touching. No one else mattered, no cameras, no schedules, no pressures. Just the space they’d carved for themselves in the middle of chaos. Jeongin felt something in his chest ease, a tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying. Breakfast was quiet, almost domestic in its simplicity. They moved around each other with an easy familiarity, brushing shoulders over the small table, laughing softly when one reached for the same cup of coffee. Each gesture carried layers of meaning, affection, reassurance, and a shared understanding that they didn’t have to hide anymore. Jeongin watched Chan pour a little milk into his coffee, the concentration on his face so familiar, so grounding. He wanted to reach across the table, let his fingers brush Chan’s, but the gesture came naturally anyway. Their hands met briefly, lingering, a silent confirmation that they were both here, fully, without pretense or fear.

The world outside existed, as it always did, airports, rehearsals, interviews, fans, but in the quiet of the morning, Jeongin realized that for the first time, it felt distant. He and Chan could exist fully in the same space without walls, without fear, without half-light. The closeness they’d been building wasn’t fragile; it was alive, breathing, steady.

Later, as the group gathered to prepare for the day’s promotions, Jeongin felt the familiar pulse of nervous excitement. Chan was beside him, hand brushing his side as they moved through the studio, subtle enough that only Jeongin noticed. The other members glanced between them, a quiet acknowledgment of the shift, but they didn’t interfere. Their support was unspoken, protective, allowing Jeongin to feel safe in the space he and Chan had created.

During rehearsal, every shared look, every slight touch of shoulder or arm, felt deliberate and grounding. Jeongin caught Chan’s eye across the room, a flash of warmth and reassurance that needed no words. The nervous flutter that usually came with public closeness was replaced with certainty. They weren’t hiding from each other anymore; they were here, present, and together.

In a brief pause, Jeongin leaned slightly toward Chan, murmuring softly, “It’s… nice. Being able to just… exist like this.”

Chan’s lips curved into that familiar, reassuring smile. “Yeah,” he said, voice low but steady. “It feels… right. No walls, no pretending. Just… us.”

Jeongin’s chest tightened with the sweetness of it, the quiet intimacy of simply being. He had imagined this moment countless times, but the reality, soft, real, tangible, surpassed any fantasy. He let himself relax, trusting the rhythm of their closeness, the subtle anchors of hands and glances, knowing that for the first time, they weren’t just surviving these moments, they were choosing them, together. As the rehearsal lights flickered on and the music began, Jeongin felt a steady warmth spread through him. Every laugh shared, every accidental brush of hands, every glance that lingered a heartbeat too long, it all built something solid, fragile but unbreakable. And in the middle of the chaos of schedules, cameras, and crowds, he realized: this was the life he wanted, this was the closeness he could finally hold without fear.

Beside him, Chan matched his pace, a quiet presence that filled the space around him with reassurance. Jeongin let himself lean just a fraction closer, catching his hand in the small of his back when he passed. A tiny gesture, invisible to anyone else, but monumental to them. For the first time, Jeongin let himself believe it: they had created a world together, small and private, threaded through the madness of their lives. Messy, imperfect, public and private all at once, but entirely theirs. And in that realization, a peaceful, tender joy settled into his chest.

They were here. They were together. Fully, unafraid, and real.

The days of the tour blurred into a rhythm, a gentle pulse of performances, interviews, and travel that might have once left Jeongin exhausted and anxious. But now, with Chan beside him, every repetition, every plane ride, every hotel room felt steadier, warmer, more anchored. On the flight between cities, Jeongin sat next to Chan, shoulders brushing, hands occasionally meeting in that quiet, deliberate way they had perfected. There were no stolen glances or furtive touches anymore, there was no need. Their closeness had become an ordinary, beautiful part of the day. He could rest his head on Chan’s shoulder without fear, laugh at a joke without hiding it, or reach across and squeeze his hand just because he wanted to.

During rehearsals, the other members noticed without needing to be told. Seungmin would glance at them with a soft smile, Felix nudged them playfully when they lingered too long over a shared joke, and Hyunjin, ever the romantic, smirked knowingly but never intruded. Even in a room full of people, Jeongin felt a quiet bubble of safety surrounding them, a space where their affection could exist without fear, without scrutiny.

Backstage before a performance in Seoul, Jeongin found himself perched on a small couch, Chan kneeling beside him, brushing imaginary lint from his shirt. It was an ordinary gesture, one that would have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but to Jeongin it carried all the weight of the past months: the trust, the patience, the small steps they had taken to reach this point.

“I feel… different now,” Jeongin admitted softly, letting the words spill out. “Not just because of us, but… because I’m not scared anymore. Not really.”

Chan’s hand found his, thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles. “I know,” he said, voice low and certain. “Me neither. We don’t have to hide, Innie. We don’t have to worry about pretending or holding back. We just… are.” And they were. Fully. Calmly. Beautifully.

On stage, under the bright lights, Jeongin realized how much this closeness had settled into the rhythm of their lives. He could perform, laugh, and move alongside the other members while feeling Chan’s presence grounding him. Every shared glance, every brush of hands while transitioning from one formation to another, was no longer a risk but a reassurance. They could exist fully in this world, together, without losing themselves. During a quiet evening in a hotel room between shows, the two of them curled up on the couch, the hum of the city outside the window a gentle backdrop. Chan’s arm draped around his shoulders, holding him close, and Jeongin let himself sink into the warmth without hesitation.

“I never thought it could feel like this,” Jeongin murmured, voice soft, almost awed. “Like… completely safe and right.

Chan’s fingers threaded through his hair, brushing lightly at the nape of his neck. “It’s because we built it together,” he said. “Every step, every choice, every little moment that led us here. We didn’t rush. We didn’t force it. And now… look at us.”

Jeongin tilted his head into Chan’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. It felt like a promise, quiet and unwavering. “I love you,” he whispered, the words warm and certain.

“I love you too,” Chan replied, lips brushing the top of his head. “Completely. No half-measures. No second-guessing. All of it. All of you.”

They lingered there, hours slipping by unnoticed, talking softly about small things, the next day’s rehearsal, a joke from earlier, a new song they liked, but always circling back to the same truth: they had each other, and that was enough.

Later, as they prepared to sleep, Jeongin felt a profound sense of peace settle over him. For the first time, he didn’t worry about the world outside, about schedules or public scrutiny. It didn’t matter. Their love existed fully, quietly, firmly, in the space they shared. Messy or perfect, loud or quiet, it was theirs, and it was enough. Jeongin drifted to sleep wrapped in Chan’s arms, the steady warmth a lullaby of certainty. And in that moment, he realized: they had made it. All the hesitation, the fear, the careful steps, it had led to this. To mornings and nights where nothing had to be hidden, where every touch and glance spoke of trust, of devotion, of home.

For Chan and Jeongin, the world could continue spinning around them, chaotic and bright, but inside their shared space, everything had fallen into place. They were together. Fully. Completely. Beautifully.

Chapter Text

Chan woke to the quiet hum of the city below, the sunlight filtering softly through the hotel curtains and painting warm streaks across the room. He felt Jeongin shift beside him, a gentle exhale of sleep, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel the familiar tightness of worry pressing at his chest. There was only warmth, and the steady, undeniable presence of the boy who had become his center. He watched Jeongin’s eyelashes flutter as the younger stirred awake, the curve of his lips just barely turning up in a half-smile. Chan’s chest eased, a lightness he hadn’t known he could allow himself washing over him. Everything didn’t have to be perfect, didn’t have to be neatly solved. They had made a choice. That was enough.

“Morning,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from Jeongin’s forehead.

“Morning,” came the sleepy reply, soft and certain in its simplicity. Their fingers found each other across the sheets, interlacing naturally, without hesitation, and Chan felt the familiar hum of belonging ripple through him.

He let himself linger there, tracing the outline of Jeongin’s hand with his thumb, taking stock of this new quiet, a rhythm they had built together in the middle of chaos. Months of hesitation, of stolen moments, of nearly-but-not-quite had led to this. They were here, together.

Breakfast was quiet, almost unremarkable, but each small touch carried weight. A brush of shoulders, a shared laugh, hands brushing over a mug, everything was imbued with the depth of what had been chosen, what had been fought for. Chan watched Jeongin move around the small table, the familiar ease of his presence calming every jitter in Chan’s chest. Later, as the group gathered for rehearsals, Chan noticed the subtle, quiet ways the other members supported them. Seungmin’s glance, soft and approving. Felix’s playful nudge. Hyunjin’s ever-knowing smirk. They didn’t interfere, didn’t comment, but their tacit acceptance wrapped Chan in reassurance. They weren’t alone. Not in the world, not in their closeness.

During rehearsals, in the quick exchanges of choreography, in shared notes or side-by-side practice, Chan felt the pulse of their partnership: deliberate, careful, and full of trust. He could adjust Jeongin’s posture, brush against him passing through tight spaces, lean in to guide a move, and it all felt natural, grounding. There was no pretense, no half-light. Just presence, just them. In quiet moments backstage, Chan allowed himself reflection. The journey had been messy, full of half-steps and unspoken questions, but it had brought them here. To hands that found each other without asking, to shared laughter that didn’t need explanation, to a comfort that made the rest of the world seem both distant and irrelevant.

“I never thought it could feel like this,” Chan whispered later, as they curled up on the couch in a hotel room after a long day of rehearsals. Jeongin leaned against him, warm and steady, fingers brushing softly over his hand.

Chan pressed a soft kiss to the top of Jeongin’s head. “Neither did I,” he murmured. “But it does. And it’s ours.”

The truth settled over him, fragile and beautiful: it wasn’t about solving everything, wasn’t about having every moment planned or every worry erased. It was about choosing, every day, to be present, to be close, to be together, even in the unknown. That choice carried more weight than any certainty ever could. Chan closed his eyes, letting the soft rhythm of Jeongin’s breathing against his chest anchor him. The world outside could continue spinning—crowds, cameras, schedules, flights, and stages, but in this quiet, in this shared space, they had found their own small, unshakable orbit. And that was enough, for now, for always. He rested his cheek against Jeongin’s hair, breathing him in, feeling the weight of the past months lift with the simplicity of being here, choosing each other, again and again. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t complete. But it was real. And sometimes, real was all that mattered.

Chan let a soft smile curve his lips, the kind that came from relief, from joy, from hope. They had chosen. And in the quiet of that moment, with Jeongin pressed close and the city humming softly beyond the window, Chan felt certain of one thing: whatever came next, they would face it together.

The hotel lounge was alive with chatter and laughter as the group gathered after a long day of rehearsals and interviews. The golden light of late afternoon filtered through the windows, catching the edges of their laughter and making the space feel warmer than it really was. Chan watched as Jeongin settled onto the couch, slipping into that familiar, easy posture, the one that always made Chan’s chest tighten just a little. Without thinking, Chan slid onto the couch behind him, wrapping his arms gently around Jeongin’s waist, resting his chin on the younger’s shoulder. The contact was subtle, tender, but deliberate, a quiet anchor in the midst of the group’s energetic noise.

Jeongin let out a small, soft laugh, tilting his head slightly into Chan’s chest. “You’re so… warm,” he murmured, voice muffled against Chan’s collar.

“And you’re so easy to hold,” Chan replied, brushing a hand down Jeongin’s arm. His lips brushed the top of Jeongin’s head briefly, and the younger sighed softly, letting the warmth settle in.

It didn’t go unnoticed. Seungmin leaned back in his chair, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, that’s… convenient,” he said, voice playful, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Felix snorted, nudging Hyunjin, who smirked knowingly. “Finally. Took you long enough,” Hyunjin said, voice dripping amusement. “I could see this coming a mile away. You’re practically glued together.”

“Yeah, look at you two,” Felix added, pointing at them like a proud spectator. “Sitting there all lovey-dovey while the rest of us try to function!”

Jeongin’s cheeks flushed pink, and he instinctively leaned forward, hiding his face in Chan’s neck. “Stop… stop talking,” he muttered, voice muffled and shy.

Chan chuckled softly, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Jeongin’s head, pretending to shush him. “There, there,” he murmured. “Don’t mind them.”

The members, of course, were having none of it. Seungmin grinned wider. “Too late! We see everything!”

Hyunjin leaned forward dramatically. “It’s not just ‘everything,’ Seungmin. It’s romantic everything. The whole scene!”

Felix laughed so hard he almost fell off his chair. “Oh my god, Innie’s hiding! Look at him! Chan, what did you do to him?”

Chan pressed himself a little closer against Jeongin, lips brushing the side of his neck this time, trying to quiet them, or maybe just to playfully aggravate them. Jeongin let out a small squeak, burrowing further into the safety of Chan’s embrace. “It’s useless,” Chan admitted with a grin. “They’re not going to shut up.”

Jeongin’s small laugh vibrated against his chest. “I… I don’t care,” he murmured, voice muffled but warm. “Just… stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Chan said, tightening the embrace slightly, tilting his chin so he could rest it lightly on Jeongin’s shoulder. “They can talk, tease, scream, whatever. You’re mine, Innie. And I’m yours. That’s what matters.”

Seungmin whistled loudly, mock-dramatic. “Wow, smooth. You two are so in love it’s ridiculous.”

Hyunjin added, leaning back with a grin, “Yeah, ridiculous but… perfect.”

Even Felix, still laughing, nodded in agreement. “Exactly. Absolute chaos, but also… the sweetest chaos ever.”

Jeongin hid deeper into Chan’s neck, letting himself melt into the warmth and security of the embrace. The teasing of the others became background noise, lighthearted and loud, but no longer intrusive. Their laughter wove around the two of them, not breaking the intimacy but somehow framing it, marking it as theirs in the middle of everything. Chan pressed one more kiss to Jeongin’s hair, soft and deliberate. “See? You’re safe. I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Always.”

Jeongin let out a long, contented sigh, feeling the weight of months, fear, hesitation, doubt, finally ease completely. “I know,” he murmured. “I trust you.”

“And I’ll never stop being here,” Chan said, voice low and steady, letting the words settle in the quiet between laughter and teasing. “No walls. No hiding. Just… us.”

The group continued talking, teasing, laughing, but for Chan and Jeongin, the world had softened around them. There was no rush, no pressure, no half-light. Just warmth, just the quiet certainty of being together. Chan tilted his head, letting his cheek rest against Jeongin’s, feeling the steady, familiar heartbeat beneath his fingers. He didn’t need to solve everything, didn’t need to plan the next step or figure out the future entirely. This, right now, was enough.

He pressed a final, soft kiss to Jeongin’s temple, smiling against his skin. “We made it,” he murmured.

Jeongin peeked up briefly from his hiding place, eyes shining, and whispered back, “Yeah… we really did.” And in that chaotic, teasing, laughter-filled lounge, with their friends around them and the world outside still moving fast, Chan and Jeongin sat together, fully present, fully chosen, and utterly, beautifully home.

The night had settled quietly over the city, the lights outside the hotel window blurred into a gentle wash of gold and silver. The group had returned from a long day of rehearsals and promotions, laughter still echoing faintly down the hall as they drifted toward their rooms. Chan and Jeongin lingered in their shared space, the room warm with soft lamplight, the hum of the city below muted and distant. Jeongin sat cross-legged on the bed, sketchbook abandoned at his side, hair falling loose around his face. Chan leaned back against the headboard, one arm draped across the younger’s shoulders, fingers idly tracing patterns on his arm. The closeness was easy now, unforced, a quiet rhythm that had settled over them after weeks of careful steps and tentative touches. Chan watched him for a long moment, the curve of his jaw, the soft rise and fall of his breathing. He realized how much of himself he had carried carefully, walls built from habit, fear, and a long history of responsibility. And now, all of it softened in the warmth of this space, in the trust and laughter and quiet of being simply together.

“You ever think about the first time we…” Jeongin began, voice soft, hesitant, as if afraid to finish.

Chan turned slightly, pressing a kiss to the top of Jeongin’s head. “…Yes,” he murmured, letting the word carry the weight of everything. “…I think about it all the time.”

Jeongin rested his head against Chan’s chest, listening to the steady pulse beneath his hand. “It’s weird… how normal it feels now,” he whispered, eyes half-closed, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Like… this closeness, it’s just… right.”

“It is,” Chan agreed, voice low and tender. “And maybe that’s what matters most. Not the schedules, not the cameras, not even the world outside. Just… us being us. Choosing each other, every day.”

They stayed like that, quiet, letting the night fill the spaces around them. Outside, the city moved on, planes took off, fans cheered, lights glimmered, but inside, time seemed to slow, the constant rush softened into something almost sacred. Chan tilted his head, letting his lips brush Jeongin’s temple. “I don’t know what tomorrow will bring,” he admitted, voice barely audible. “There will be chaos, there will be moments we can’t control. But… I know this—us—this, I can hold onto. Always.”

Jeongin lifted his face just enough to look at him, eyes shining softly in the lamplight. “Then we keep choosing,” he whispered. “Even when it’s messy, even when it’s hard. We keep choosing.”

Chan smiled, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from Jeongin’s face. “Always,” he said. “Because it’s us. It’s real. And that… is enough.”

The night deepened, wrapping around them like a soft blanket. Chan rested his cheek against Jeongin’s head, arms holding him close but not tight, letting him breathe, letting him exist fully. Outside the window, the city sparkled, a reminder of a world that was big, loud, and unpredictable.

Inside, the space they had carved together was quiet, tender, and theirs. They didn’t have all the answers, didn’t know exactly where the next tour stop would take them, or what challenges tomorrow might bring. But it didn’t matter. The choice had been made, the first deliberate, unwavering choice to be together. And that was enough.

Chan pressed one last kiss to Jeongin’s hair, a soft, lingering promise. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Every step, together.”

Jeongin let out a soft sigh, settling closer, murmuring, “Together.” And in that simple, unhurried moment, with the city lights casting gentle shadows across the room, the story didn’t need an ending. It was enough that it was theirs, messy, imperfect, hopeful, and whole.

The world outside kept turning. But inside, they were home.

Chapter Text

The city still glittered from the night before. Seoul’s skyline shimmered like someone had shaken a snow globe full of lights and refused to let it settle. Even the air felt charged, leftover electricity from the countdown, from the screaming crowd, from the collective breath of thousands who had wished for something new at the stroke of midnight. Chan stood on the balcony of the hotel suite, hoodie zipped up to his chin, hair still damp from the shower. Down below, traffic hummed faintly through the cold, steady as a pulse. He lifted his phone, thumb hovering over a message he’d already written and deleted three times.

Inside, laughter spilled from the other room, Hyunjin arguing with Felix over the last tangerine from the fruit basket, Seungmin humming a line of melody under his breath. Normal chaos, the kind that grounded him. But the moment he stepped outside, the world shrank to silence. He liked the in-between of nights like this: the show over, the adrenaline fading, the year newborn and fragile. He leaned his forearms on the railing and exhaled, watching his breath cloud the air. His mind replayed fragments from the stage, confetti falling like snow, Jeongin’s voice cutting clear through the noise, the way the youngest had glanced back at him during the encore with that small, unguarded smile. That smile had a way of undoing him, quietly and without warning.

A soft knock pulled him from his thoughts. The balcony door slid open, and Jeongin stepped out, wrapped in a grey blanket like some cozy ghost. His hair was still a little messy, his skin glowing faintly from the shower. “You disappeared,” Jeongin said, voice low, carrying that rasp it got when he was tired.

“Didn’t disappear,” Chan replied, smiling a little. “Just needed air.”

Jeongin came to stand beside him, the blanket trailing over the floor like mist. For a while, neither spoke. The city filled the silence for them. “You always come out after the big shows,” Jeongin murmured eventually. “Last year too. I remember you standing by the window at the dorm, watching the fireworks.”

Chan shrugged, the motion lazy. “Guess I like to make sure the world’s still there after all the noise.”

Jeongin’s laugh was soft. “It is. And so am I.”

That answer, simple, almost careless, landed somewhere deep in Chan’s chest. He turned his head slightly, enough to see the younger’s profile. There was a faint bruise on his neck from a mic strap, a tiny cut at his knuckle from rehearsals. Little human marks that fame never erased.

“Did you enjoy the show?” Chan asked, mostly to keep his voice steady.

Jeongin nodded. “Yeah. It felt… big, but light. Like everything finally lined up right. You looked happy too.”

“I was.” He hesitated. “I am.”

Jeongin’s mouth curved at that, small and knowing. “You always say that like it’s a confession.”

“Maybe it is.” Silence again. Not awkward, never that. Just full, like a held breath neither wanted to release. The blanket shifted as Jeongin moved closer, looping part of it around Chan’s shoulders without asking. It smelled faintly of laundry powder and peppermint shampoo. When Chan’s fingers brushed Jeongin’s under the shared fabric, the contact felt almost fragile.

“Everyone’s watching a movie inside,” Jeongin said quietly. “But it’s boring. Too much talking, not enough explosions.”

“Tragic,” Chan murmured.

“You could come in,” Jeongin continued, tilting his head, eyes glinting with teasing warmth. “Or we could just stay here.”

Chan’s reply was simple: “Let’s stay.”

Jeongin leaned his shoulder against his, their reflection caught faintly in the glass door, two figures wrapped together, haloed by the dim glow of the room behind them. Minutes passed like that. The sound of the city faded into the slow rhythm of their breathing. Somewhere inside, someone laughed loudly, Felix, probably. A door clicked shut. The night folded in tighter.

Jeongin spoke first. “Do you ever think about what comes next? After all this?”

Chan’s throat worked before he answered. “Every day.”

“And?”

“And I always come back to now.”

Jeongin smiled, eyes soft, gaze turned toward the endless stretch of lights. “That’s very you.”

Chan huffed a quiet laugh. “Is that good?”

“It’s real.”

The clock on the nightstand inside blinked 2:47 a.m. Somewhere, the first snow of the year had started to fall, light and uncertain, like it didn’t want to disturb the peace. Chan tilted his head back, eyes tracing the sky. “You know what I wish for this year?”

Jeongin glanced at him. “What?”

“That we don’t rush through it. That we let it be slow.”

Jeongin considered that, his breath fogging in the air between them. “Then we’ll have to practice being slow.”

“That a challenge?”

“Maybe.”

Chan turned, his smile half-hidden in the dim light. “I’m good with practice.”

Jeongin laughed under his breath, that soft, familiar sound that always made the world feel slightly more in focus. He reached up, tugged the hood of Chan’s sweatshirt over his head, smoothing it into place like an unspoken promise. Then he whispered, “Happy New Year, Chris.”

Chan’s chest tightened at the name. He didn’t answer right away, just reached out, caught Jeongin’s hand, and pressed his thumb to the younger’s pulse point. The beat there was steady, alive. “Happy New Year, Innie.” The words lingered in the air like smoke, neither of them moved to go inside. The city could keep its noise. Here, the new year began quietly, with warmth shared beneath a blanket, breath clouding into the cold, and the steady hum of two hearts remembering how to rest.

Spring came late that year; by the time cherry blossoms had started to scatter across the sidewalks of Tokyo, the tour was already halfway done. Hotels blurred into one another, same carpet smell, same hum of vending machines in the hallway, same narrow beds and blackout curtains. Still, Chan kept count. He had a notebook for everything: setlists, vocal tweaks, snippets of melody. But tucked near the back, there were other notes, the ones that didn’t belong to the stage.

Innie fell asleep during soundcheck break again.
He said the crowd’s energy felt different tonight, softer, like home.
He smiled at me before “Leave” started. I nearly forgot to breathe.

It wasn’t love written in grand gestures, it was love disguised as routine. After each show, when the others spilled out for food or laughter or a rush of noise, Jeongin often found him still in the dressing room, guitar in hand, fingers moving absently over chords that didn’t belong to any song yet.

“You’re doing it again,” Jeongin said one night in Singapore, leaning in the doorway.

“Doing what?”

“Writing songs you’ll never play.”

Chan looked up, a half-smile forming. “You never know. Maybe they’re just waiting for the right voice.”

Jeongin crossed the room and perched on the table beside him, close enough that their knees brushed. “You mean my voice.”

Chan didn’t deny it. “Maybe.”

The younger hummed, pleased, before reaching over to strum a single lazy chord. “Then let’s not wait forever.”

That became their quiet ritual: fifteen stolen minutes after soundcheck, a half-tuned guitar between them, the air thick with the sweetness of unspoken things. Sometimes Jeongin sang nonsense syllables just to hear what they sounded like against the strings. Sometimes Chan only listened, head bowed, eyes half-closed, memorizing the sound like oxygen. 

In Manila, Felix caught Chan leaving Jeongin’s room at sunrise, hair a mess, eyes soft in the pale light. He said nothing, just offered a sleepy grin and a whispered, “Hyung, you look happy.” And Chan, for once, didn’t feel the need to deny it.

Time moved differently on tour, measured in flights and echoes, in nights that blurred into applause. They played stadiums that roared like living creatures, lights that burned brighter than logic should allow. But afterward, in the backstage corridors or quiet hotel hallways, the noise always thinned until it was just the two of them again.

One evening in Osaka, after a show that left his voice raw, Chan found Jeongin sitting alone by the window of the suite, still in his stage clothes, headphones hanging around his neck. He was watching the city pulse below, trains sliding like veins through neon arteries. “Tired?” Chan asked gently.

“Not really,” Jeongin said. “Just… listening.”

“To what?”

“Everything.” He turned, eyes distant but soft. “It’s strange. When we’re up there, I can hear everything, the crowd, the beats, your voice. And when it’s over, there’s this… silence that feels too big.”

Chan crossed the room and sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. “You get used to it.”

“I don’t want to.” That answer landed with quiet weight. Chan didn’t respond right away. He just rested his hand on Jeongin’s knee, not to comfort, but to anchor.

“Then don’t,” he said finally. “Just let it be what it is. Loud, then quiet. Always changing.”

Jeongin leaned into the touch. “You talk like you’re writing a song.”

“Maybe I am.”

Jeongin smiled faintly. “Then I’ll listen.” The city outside flickered like a heartbeat. Somewhere down the street, someone shouted in drunken joy, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the hum of traffic. Jeongin reached out, fingertips brushing Chan’s wrist. “When this tour’s over,” he said softly, “let’s go somewhere quiet. No cameras, no schedules.”

“Where?”

“Doesn’t matter. Just somewhere with stars.”

Chan nodded. “Then that’s the plan.” They didn’t need to say more. The promise was enough, fragile, unspoken, but real. And yet, even as the months stretched ahead, Chan knew that moments like these would always live in the spaces between; between cities, between shows, between who the world thought they were and who they became when the lights finally went out.

The tour ended in late summer; there was no grand finale, but a lot of fireworks bursting in the sky; and with the end of the tour a slow fade of sound, the last chord hanging in the air like a breath they weren’t ready to release. Backstage, the air was thick with the smell of sweat and confetti and everything they had poured into months of motion. Jeongin stood there, watching the empty stage long after everyone else had gone. The floor was littered with paper hearts and lightstick debris, the remnants of thousands of voices still echoing somewhere in the walls.

Chan came up beside him quietly, hair damp, towel slung around his neck. He followed Jeongin’s gaze and smiled, not big, not loud, just soft and knowing. “You okay?”

Jeongin nodded, but his eyes stayed fixed on the stage. “I don’t know how to come down from this.”

“You don’t,” Chan said, gentle. “You just... learn how to live in between.”

The words landed like truth, simple, steady. They flew home two days later. Seoul was warm, thick with late August air that clung to the skin. The apartment felt too still at first, like a place that had forgotten its own rhythm. For weeks, they had slept in hotel beds, lived out of suitcases, breathed recycled airplane air. Now, the quiet felt almost unreal. Jeongin unpacked slowly. Folded shirts. Scattered Polaroids. Ticket stubs he’d tucked away like secret relics. On the balcony, Chan watered the plants that had somehow survived their absence, humming under his breath.

When Jeongin stepped out, Chan handed him a mug, tea, sweet and steaming. “You still want that trip?”

Jeongin blinked, surprised. “You mean the stars?”

Chan nodded. “The stars.” And so, two nights later, they drove.

The city lights shrank behind them until the road turned black and quiet. Mountains rose in soft silhouettes against the sky, and the air grew cooler, cleaner. They stopped at a small cabin by a lake, the kind of place where the air smelled of pine and water and something ancient. It was late when they arrived, but neither wanted to sleep. Instead, they walked down to the water’s edge, the night alive with crickets and the low rustle of trees. The stars were clearer than either remembered, sharp, unblinking, impossibly close.

“Looks like someone spilled diamonds,” Jeongin said softly.

Chan chuckled. “You sound like Felix.”

“Felix would say it louder,” Jeongin murmured, smiling.

They sat on the dock, feet dangling just above the surface. The lake reflected the sky, two universes folded into one. Chan leaned back on his hands, eyes half-closed, breathing in the quiet. “I used to look up at the stars when things got too heavy,” he said. “Before debut. Before everything.”

Jeongin glanced at him. “And now?”

“Now,” Chan said, turning his head, “I look beside me.” The words hit like warmth. Jeongin looked away, biting back a shy smile, but his hand found Chan’s anyway. Their fingers threaded together easily, naturally, as if they’d been made to fit. They stayed that way for a long time, not speaking, just existing in parallel. The night stretched wide around them, the world reduced to moonlight and skin and the sound of two heartbeats trying to find the same rhythm.

Later, when the chill crept in, they went inside. The cabin was small, one room, wooden walls that creaked softly with the wind. Jeongin curled up on the couch while Chan lit the small fireplace, the flames catching with a sigh.

“You always take care of everything,” Jeongin said sleepily.

Chan smiled without looking up. “Someone has to.”

Jeongin’s voice softened. “You don’t always have to be the one holding everything together.”

The firelight flickered across Chan’s face, catching in the gold of his eyes. “I know.”

“Do you?”

Chan looked at him then, really looked. “When it’s you,” he said quietly, “I can let go.”

Jeongin’s breath caught, and for a moment, silence filled the space between them like gravity. Then he shifted, crossed the small distance, and pressed his forehead to Chan’s. “Then let go,” he whispered.

So Chan did, not in any dramatic way; no tears, no sudden collapse, but in the simple act of breathing, of leaning into warmth without needing to protect it. The fire crackled softly. Outside, the lake held the stars steady, unmoving. They fell asleep like that, tangled, unguarded, the night folding around them like a secret.

Morning came slow. Sunlight spilled through the window, pale and patient. Jeongin woke first, blinking against the light. Chan was still asleep, his arm heavy around Jeongin’s waist, his breathing deep and even. For a while, Jeongin just watched him, the small furrow between his brows, the way his fingers twitched as if still chasing a melody in dreams. There was something beautiful in that stillness. Not perfect, never perfect, but whole.

He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from Chan’s forehead. “You’re terrible at resting,” he whispered.

Chan stirred, half-smiling even before his eyes opened. “Not when you’re here.”

They spent the day doing nothing. Breakfast on the porch. Quiet laughter. A walk through tall grass that reached their knees. The world shrank to the sound of their steps and the rustle of wind through trees. At some point, Jeongin found a camera buried in his bag. He snapped pictures of everything, the crooked porch steps, Chan’s half-finished coffee, the sky reflected in the lake.

“You’re going to run out of film,” Chan teased.

Jeongin shrugged. “Good. Then I’ll have to remember the rest myself.”

That night, they lay on the dock again, wrapped in the same old blanket, the stars still spilling across the sky. “Do you ever think about what comes next?” Jeongin asked softly.

Chan took a long time to answer. “All the time.”

“And?”

He sighed, his breath fogging in the cool air. “We keep going. Music. Life. Maybe new storms. But I think... if we can keep finding moments like this, quiet ones, then we’ll be okay.”

Jeongin nodded. “Even if it’s just moments?”

“Especially if it’s just moments.”

The lake shimmered faintly, the moon dipping lower toward the horizon. “Do you ever wish the world would stop?” Jeongin asked suddenly.

Chan smiled. “It doesn’t need to. It just needs to slow down long enough for us to catch it.”

They sat in silence after that, comfortable, certain. It wasn’t the kind of ending stories usually promised. There were still tours ahead, still days when exhaustion would bite, when words would go unsaid, when fear would find its way back in. But there would also be mornings like this one, nights like that one, and a thousand quiet in-betweens where love could breathe freely. Because love wasn’t the destination. It was the map.

Later, as dawn began to stain the sky in faint pink, Jeongin turned his head. “Do you think,” he murmured, “that one day we’ll look back on all this and think, that was when the world was ours?”

Chan smiled, eyes still on the rising light. “I think we already are.”

The lake caught the first shimmer of sun, scattering it across the water like broken gold. The world was still there, loud, vast, uncertain, waiting just beyond the mountains. But for now, in this fleeting, golden moment, it felt entirely theirs. And maybe that was enough, maybe it always had been.

When the wind brushed past, carrying the faint echo of laughter, it sounded like music. The kind that never quite ends, it just fades into memory, soft and alive, waiting to be heard again. 

The world kept turning, the stars kept burning; and somewhere between the noise and the quiet, between what was promised and what was real, they found a truth that stayed:

That even for a moment, when the world was theirs; it was enough.