Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bassline hit Felix before the music did.

It thudded through the concrete walls, up the stairwell, into the soles of his polished boots. Each step down rattled like a warning, as if the underground itself wanted to shake him clean out of his comfort zone.

He hesitated at the bottom. The air changed here—thick with heat, damp with bodies pressed too close, sharp with cigarette smoke that snuck past the bouncers outside. The floor stuck slightly underfoot, syrupy with spilled beer, and the low ceiling dripped with condensation.

Felix had been in glittering venues, had walked red carpets that pulsed with flashbulbs, had stood in front of cameras worth more than this entire building. None of it prepared him for the crush of a basement packed shoulder to shoulder with strangers in leather jackets and ripped tights, hair sprayed into wild colors, eyeliner smudged from the humidity.

He was overdressed. Too clean, too precise—silk shirt buttoned high, blazer cut razor-sharp, boots shining like they belonged on a runway instead of a sticky floor. The crowd didn’t exactly part for him, but it rippled with side-eyes, little glances that clocked him immediately as an outsider.

And yet, he let Seungmin drag him further in.

“You’re frowning,” Seungmin said, monotone as ever.

“I’m not frowning,” Felix muttered.

“You are. You do it whenever you’re out of your comfort zone. Like, say, now.”

Felix slipped his hands into his pockets, trying not to touch anything he didn’t have to. “I could’ve just met him over dinner, you know.”

“Yeah, but then you wouldn’t experience the full package.” Seungmin’s mouth twitched—his version of a grin.

Felix raised a brow. “By full package you mean—?”

“Music. Crowd. Sweat. All the things that make Jisung hot.”

Felix wrinkled his nose. “I’ll take your word for it.”

That was when Jeongin appeared on Felix’s other side, holding his phone like he was already livestreaming this moment to the group chat. “You’re gonna eat your words. Seungmin’s boyfriend is actually talented. And attractive. Shocking, right?”

Felix shot him a look. “Don’t you have clothes to steam?”

“Already did. You’re welcome, by the way—you look rich enough to buy this whole building and burn it down.”

Before Felix could retort, the lights cut. 

The basement plunged into darkness.

A roar split the air, rising sharp and frenzied, rattling in Felix’s ribs. Lights flickered to life—cheap strobes, too bright for a second, then cutting low again like the room was holding its breath.

The first figure strode out, guitar slung across his back, hair falling into his eyes. He grinned, wide and reckless, the kind of smile that dared you to follow him anywhere. He leaned into the mic, voice curling playful and sharp around a single “Let’s go!”—and the crowd screamed like they’d been waiting just for him.

“That’s Jisung,” Seungmin leaned close to murmur, voice low but proud, almost smug.

Felix flicked him a glance. The name mattered—Seungmin had been cagey for months, never once confirming or denying the mystery boyfriend. The way his eyes softened as he watched said more than words ever could.

But before he could respond, another figure took his place at the keys. Taller, shoulders loose with practiced swagger, settling onto the stool with an ease that said he’d done this a thousand times. Fingers brushed the keys and a quick cascade of sound slipped out, smooth and confident, sending the crowd into a new wave of cheers.

Then the drummer burst out, climbing onto his stool like he couldn’t wait another second. Shorter, all compact energy, grin flashing under the lights. He clicked his sticks together, fast, sharp, until the whole crowd was stomping in rhythm with him. The floor shook with every count.

And then—

The bassist.

He walked in last, unhurried, like the stage had been waiting for him. Lights caught in the short dark cut of his hair, in the silver chain snug against his throat. His tank clung damp to his chest, the strap of his bass sliding into place as naturally as breath. He didn’t play right away—he tested the strings, one low note, then dropped another one so deep Felix swore it pulled the air straight out of his lungs.

Felix froze.

He couldn’t stop watching—the flex of his arms, the sway of his hips with the rhythm, the curve of his mouth as he leaned toward the mic. Raw, alive, every movement loose with confidence.

Exactly his type.

Seungmin didn’t even look at him. He didn’t have to.

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, just loud enough for Felix to hear over the roar.

Felix blinked, still staring. “What?”

“You’re staring.” A sigh. “Of course it had to be him.”

The first chords hit, sharp and bright from Jisung’s guitar, his voice cutting through like it had teeth. Playful one moment, ragged the next—each lyric pitched like he was taunting the crowd into screaming louder.

Seungmin didn’t take his eyes off him. His lips quirked upward, a rare softness there. Felix almost smiled—he’d never seen his best friend look at anyone like that.

But then his gaze was pulled elsewhere.

The keys slid in, smooth and clever, twining around the guitar line like smoke. The keyboardist barely looked down, fingers skating across the instrument with careless confidence. When the lights strobed, his grin flashed sharp, one hand raised to hype the crowd without missing a note.

The drummer hit next, all energy, arms a blur. Every strike of the snare shook the floor, every cymbal crash ricocheted through Felix’s chest. He was laughing between beats, wild and alive, egging the others on with the kind of joy that turned the noise into something bigger.

And then—always, inevitably—Felix’s eyes dragged back to the bassist.

It was the way he moved. Unhurried, almost lazy, yet every note was deliberate, heavy, anchoring the others. He tilted the bass low on his hips, fingers running the strings with a confidence that made it look obscene. Head dipped, jaw taut, veins in his neck straining when he leaned into the mic for backing vocals.

Every time he did, Felix’s stomach dropped.

The chain at his throat caught the lights, his tank clung tighter as sweat darkened it, and his hair stuck damp across his forehead. He shifted his weight, body rolling with the rhythm, and Felix swore the bass wasn’t the only thing vibrating through him.

And then—worse—those sharp eyes kept cutting back to the crowd. Not scanning, not idly looking. Searching.

Every time, Felix felt them catch on him. Hold him. Pin him in place until he was the one who had to look away.

His fingers curled into fists inside his pockets, heart stuttering. He could hear Jeongin shrieking lyrics beside him, Seungmin clapping along under his breath, but the music was too loud, the bassist was too much.

Beautiful, in the rawest way. Dangerous. Exactly what Felix shouldn’t want.

He swallowed hard, throat dry, and forced himself to glance at Seungmin.

His best friend was staring at him. Flat expression, unimpressed, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was holding back the words.

Sure enough, the second Felix met his eyes, Seungmin leaned in and sighed.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s what I thought.”

The last song unfurled like a storm, every note thrumming against the walls until the basement felt ready to split at the seams. The crowd was a living organism by then—sweat and sound and smoke tangled in a mess that made Felix dizzy if he thought about it too long.

His gaze should have wandered, maybe to the drummer’s manic grin or the way the keyboardist leaned into his mic with a taunt of a harmony. He even caught Jisung, Seungmin’s boyfriend, thrashing his guitar like he was wringing it for blood, voice pitched raw enough to scrape bone.

But Felix’s attention never really moved.

It stayed locked on him.

The bassist. The way his shoulders hunched low over his instrument, hips rolling with the rhythm like it was a private joke, hair plastered damp across his forehead. He wasn’t showy, not like Jisung, not like the others. His charisma lived in the quiet dominance of holding the spine of every song, letting the others crash and burn around him while he kept everything alive.

And then it happened again. Mid-song, mid-riff—his eyes found Felix.

Not a glance. Not a lazy sweep of the crowd. A direct lock, heavy enough that Felix forgot to breathe.

The grin that tugged at the bassist’s mouth was slow, deliberate, as if he knew what it was doing to him. Felix’s fingers twitched at his sides, the weight of the stare crawling down his skin until his entire body wanted to move—closer, reckless, indecent. For one wild second, he imagined dragging him down right there onstage, pressing him against an amp, and tasting that sweat-slick smirk until the music swallowed them both.

But composure mattered. And Lee Felix had mastered composure like a second skin.

He blinked, ripped his gaze away, smoothed the line of his shirt. Velvet, not leather. Poise, not chaos.

The song hit its final swell. Cymbals shattered, the keys glittered wild, Jisung’s guitar screamed, and the bass shook like the floor itself was alive. The noise peaked, then crashed out all at once, leaving the roar of applause to fill the vacuum.

Jisung bounded forward, practically shining despite the sweat dripping down his jaw. He leaned into the mic, breathless and grinning.

“Thank you, Seoul!” he shouted, the crowd screaming back louder than the amps. “We are—” He raised his guitar high over his head, holding the moment like a crown. “CREED!”

The name boomed through the room, echoed by chants from the pit. Someone threw a half-empty cup toward the stage, beer spraying in a glittering arc. Jisung dodged it like a pro, laughing into the mic.

“Nice try, asshole!” he jeered, earning another wave of cheers. “Before we wrap this up, show some love for the boys—”

He pointed first toward the keyboardist, who leaned into the mic with a cocky grin, fingers still tapping out a tease of notes. The crowd whooped back.

“On keys, BANG CHAN!” Jisung paused dramatically, letting the name ring out, the cheers swelling.

He swung next to the drummer, who twirled a stick in one hand and tossed it into the crowd with a wild laugh. The room went feral.

“On drums, SEO CHANGBIN!” Another wave of noise.

“And the man who keeps us alive on bass, HWANG HYUNJIIIIN!” Jisung turned toward the other side of the stage.

The bassist barely acknowledged the attention, just dipped his head with that same infuriating smirk, fingers brushing over the strings one last time to send a low hum through the amps.

The sound rumbled straight into Felix’s stomach.

“And you’ve got me—Han Jisung, main vocal and guitar!” He thrashed one final riff for punctuation before throwing both arms open, soaking in the adoration. “We’re CREED. You’ve been fucking amazing tonight.”

The crowd screamed back, a chaotic chorus of chants and whistles and shouts of their names. Jisung pointed randomly into the pit, laughing.

“You—yeah, you in the leather! Don’t think I didn’t see you trying to copy my moves. Not bad, but you need more hip.” The audience howled as Jisung shimmied exaggeratedly, guitar sliding dangerously low on his thighs. “Practice and maybe I’ll let you sub in next time.”

Hyunjin leaned into his mic. “That’s a lie, he’s a control freak.”

“Shut up, you missed a whole verse!” Jisung shot back, earning laughter from the crowd, who clearly lived for this messy back-and-forth.

Chan cut in, banging a single beat. “We’re getting kicked out if you don’t wrap it!”

“Fine, fine.” Jisung rolled his eyes but turned back to the audience, suddenly sincere. “Seriously—thank you. Underground shows don’t live without people like you showing up, screaming your lungs out. We’ll see you next time. Get home safe, don’t get arrested, and remember—” He grinned, voice lifting. “Louder is always better!”

The crowd lost its collective mind one last time, the sound deafening enough to rattle Felix’s ribs.

And just like that, the lights dimmed, the stage emptied, and the band disappeared into the back.

Felix exhaled, only now realizing how tight his chest had been wound. The smoke hung heavy, the room buzzing with the chatter of people already plotting their next drink, but it all felt muffled around him.

Seungmin, meanwhile, was grinning like a dog in heat.

“Come on,” he said, tugging at Felix’s wrist.

Felix blinked. “Where?”

“Backstage.” Seungmin’s tone was smug. “Perks of dating the star of the show.”

Jeongin perked up instantly, phone already halfway out of his pocket. “We’re going backstage? Oh, Minho hyung's gonna love this.”

Felix shot him a look. “You’re really going to snitch to my cousin?”

Jeongin grinned. “Snitch? I call it live reporting.”

Before Felix could argue, Seungmin had already bulldozed through the thinning crowd, dragging both of them with the stubborn efficiency only he had. They slipped behind the side curtain, down a narrow corridor that smelled of spilled beer and electrical wires, the hum of the crowd fading behind them.

The greenroom wasn’t glamorous. A couple folding chairs, amps stacked in the corners, condensation dripping down bottles on a makeshift table. The kind of place Felix would’ve sneered at if not for the adrenaline still buzzing in his veins.

And waiting inside—laughing, buzzing, wild with leftover energy—were the boys of CREED.

The door banged open before Felix could adjust. The greenroom was small, cramped, and humid with leftover stage sweat, but it pulsed with the same restless energy as the show.

Changbin was sprawled across a chair, still tapping his sticks against his thighs in restless bursts. Chan fiddled with cables on the floor, humming like his brain couldn’t turn the music off. And Hyunjin—leaning against the far wall, bass already propped to the side, hair damp and curling at the edges—looked like he hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“Minnie!”

The shout snapped Felix’s attention back. Jisung abandoned his guitar mid-wipe-down and practically launched himself across the room. His grin was so wide it might split his face.

To Felix’s shock, Seungmin didn’t dodge. Didn’t scowl. He just braced himself and let Jisung wrap him up, arms slung around his shoulders in a sweaty, graceless hug.

Felix blinked. What the hell?

Kim Seungmin—famously allergic to physical affection, the guy who once slapped Jeongin’s hand away for brushing his arm too long—was standing there in full acceptance while Jisung nuzzled into his hair like a golden retriever on caffeine.

Felix’s jaw fell open. Jeongin elbowed him gleefully.

“You’re witnessing history, hyung.”

Jisung finally turned his grin toward Felix, though he stayed firmly attached to Seungmin’s side. “So you’re the Lee Felix. High-class best friend I keep hearing about.”

Felix arched a brow, lips curling dry. “And you’re the rockstar who somehow snatched my best friend. Bold of you.”

“Guilty as charged,” Jisung laughed, triumphant, pulling Seungmin closer until Seungmin muttered something that sounded suspiciously like stop embarrassing me.

Introductions tumbled after that. Chan looked up from his cables long enough to wave, his smile bright but measured. “I’m Chan—keys. Ignore Jisung, he’s only tolerable on stage.”

“Lies,” Jisung shot back immediately.

“Facts,” Changbin chimed in, spinning a drumstick between his fingers. “Changbin. Drums. Don’t worry, I only break things when I’m paid to.”

Felix smirked. “Good to know.”

And then—last, inevitable—Seungmin gestured toward the bassist. “And that’s—”

“I know,” Felix cut in, eyes snapping across the room.

Hyunjin was already watching him.

The smirk was there again, lazy and sharp, mouth curved like he’d been expecting this. His gaze slid down Felix in a slow, deliberate sweep before crawling back up to meet his eyes.

“Oh?” His voice was a low drawl, sarcastic in a way that dared Felix to bite back. “Recognize me from somewhere? Or just from earlier—when you couldn’t stop staring?”

The words landed like sparks in a powder room.

Felix’s pulse stuttered, but his mouth was quicker. He tilted his chin, letting his tone drip cool and dismissive. “Funny. I was thinking the same about you.”

Hyunjin’s smirk deepened. “Maybe I was staring.” A step closer, the distance shrinking. “Didn’t think you’d notice.”

Felix held steady, though his fingers curled in his pockets. “Didn’t think you’d break character long enough to risk it.”

For a beat, silence ruled. Not awkward—electric.

Chan cleared his throat, trying and failing to mask a grin. Changbin mouthed a dramatic ooooh.

From the corner, Jeongin had his phone out again, thumb flying as he captioned the secret video: Hyung, your cousin is about to commit life-ruining choices.

Felix didn’t break eye contact. Neither did Hyunjin. The room might as well have fallen away.

The silence cracked first with Changbin, who slapped his thigh and let out a laugh so loud it rattled the bottles on the table.

“Holy shit, this is better than cable,” he crowed. “Do that again. Stare at each other more. Maybe kiss, I’ll grab popcorn.”

Felix finally blinked, tearing his eyes away long enough to roll them. “You’re insufferable.”

“Thank you,” Changbin said, grinning like he’d just won a medal.

Hyunjin, though, didn’t move. Still leaned back against the wall, still wearing that damn smirk. His eyes lingered like he was cataloging every twitch Felix made, every tiny falter in his composure.

It made Felix want to dig his nails into his palms. Or worse—close the space between them just to see if that mouth tasted as arrogant as it looked.

Jisung, oblivious or maybe just reckless, piped up with glee. “Oh my god, Seungmin, look at them. They’re flirting.”

“We are not,” Felix snapped, a beat too fast.

“Right,” Hyunjin drawled, voice low and amused. “Just a little mutual… admiration.”

Felix’s jaw tensed. “Admiration usually doesn’t look like a staredown mid-set.”

“Depends on the set,” Hyunjin countered smoothly. “Or the person.”

Chan buried his face in his hands. “Please. We just played a great show, don’t let it end with public horniness.”

That sent Jisung into a fit of laughter, nearly knocking Seungmin off-balance as he clung tighter. “He’s right, though! You saw it too, Min—your best friend was eye-fucking Hyunjin from the crowd.”

Seungmin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why do I bring any of you near each other?”

Jeongin, meanwhile, had tears in his eyes from muffled laughter. His phone vibrated as Minho’s reply popped up: If he does anything stupid, film it. I want evidence for the inevitable trial.

Hyunjin finally pushed off the wall, slow and deliberate. He didn’t close the distance, but the air shifted with the movement, heavier somehow.

“Well,” he murmured, head tilted, eyes flicking once more down Felix like a challenge, “if he was staring… can’t say I blame him.”

Felix’s heartbeat kicked so hard it hurt. But he kept his mouth curved in a razor-thin smile. “Careful. Velvet tears easy, remember?”

Hyunjin’s smirk sharpened. “Guess we’ll see how durable you really are.”

The others groaned in unison—half disgust, half delight.

“God, I hate it here,” Seungmin muttered, but he hooked his arm through Felix’s and tugged him firmly toward the door. “We’re leaving before someone makes this worse.”

“Too late!” Jisung called after them, laughter chasing Felix out of the room.

Changbin leaned close to Chan as they went. “They’re gonna combust, right?”

“Give it a week,” Chan said confidently, “Two, tops.”

Chapter Text

The stage was chaos.

It always was—thick air, hot with sweat and smoke, bass from the speakers rattling teeth, the crowd pressing too close. Hyunjin thrived in it. He knew how to drown in the noise, ride the vibration of the bass through his bones until it felt like the strings were veins and he was pumping the sound straight into the room.

On nights like this, the crowd blurred into one mass: a tidal wave of raised arms, thrashing hair, drinks sloshing onto floors sticky with who-knows-what. He didn’t bother trying to pick out faces. That was Jisung’s job, grinning and winking at the front row. Hyunjin? He played. He held the line steady, sharp, grounding the band with every heavy note.

He liked it that way. He didn’t need distractions.

But sometimes—rarely—something cut through the blur.

Tonight, it was him.

He’d noticed early on—near the center, sharp posture that didn’t match the chaos around him. Blond hair catching the light like spun gold, skin too smooth for the grit of this basement. 

Velvet in a sea of leather.

At first, Hyunjin dismissed him as another pretty rich boy slumming it for thrills. He’d seen plenty. They came, they stared, they left with their designer shoes sticky from spilled beer.

Except this one wasn’t leaving.

Even from where he stood, Hyunjin could see it: posture precise, head tilted slightly back, eyes never wavering. Not flinching when the pit shoved, not gagging at the sour stench of beer. 

He stood still, eyes fixed—and fixed on Hyunjin.

The first time their gazes met, Hyunjin nearly looked away out of instinct. But the weight of those eyes held him, cool and burning at once. He smirked instead, letting his fingers drag longer across the strings, deliberate. If you’re gonna stare, might as well give you something to choke on.

It worked. And god, the way those bambi eyes widened—like he’d been caught. Like he wanted more.

Hyunjin played harder after that, every slide of his fingers exaggerated, every roll of his hips deliberate. He swore he could feel the stranger’s gaze following, tracing him like a touch. It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just another face in the crowd.

So why did it feel like a challenge?

By the final song, the lock of their eyes was no accident. Hyunjin made sure of it, biting back a grin when the stranger’s composure cracked just enough to show heat underneath. He played harder, faster, almost reckless, and the crowd ate it up—but his attention stayed fixed on one person only.

When the set ended, he was high on adrenaline, sweat dripping down his neck, lungs heaving. And he knew without looking that the stranger was still there.

Backstage, the high from performing still crackled in his veins. Changbin and Chan argued, Jisung beamed like a sun at Seungmin—Seungmin, of all people, letting himself be hugged without protest. That alone was worth a headline.

But Hyunjin’s attention went elsewhere.

The stranger had followed Seungmin and his other friend, who introduced himself as Jeongin, inside. He looked even more out of place here—shirt flawless, posture sculpted, but eyes sharp and mouth quick when Jisung teased him. Not fragile. Not boring.

And then Seungmin gestured toward Hyunjin.

Hyunjin had been ready with sarcasm. A quick jab, a smirk, maybe a careless dismissal. But the stranger beat him to it.

“I know,” he’d said.

And Hyunjin’s smirk sharpened. Oh, he liked this already.

The back-and-forth that followed shouldn’t have rattled him. He was good at this—sarcasm, cocky drawls, pulling people off balance. But the way the stranger—Felix, he’d heard someone say—met him word for word, never blinking, never backing down… it got under his skin.

The stare down. The jabs. Velvet that bit back.

Hyunjin hadn’t expected his pulse to kick like that, hadn’t expected the itch in his fingers to reach out and tug him closer.

By the time Seungmin dragged Felix toward the door, Hyunjin was leaning against the wall again, hiding the curl of satisfaction at the corner of his mouth.

Because Felix had looked back.

Just once, quick, sharp, but enough.

Enough to confirm that whatever this was—it wasn’t ending here.

It had been three days since the blond.

Three days of restless fingers on idle strings, of replaying the same smirk in his head when he should’ve been focused on riffs. Three days of hearing Jisung snicker under his breath, the bastard clearly knowing something was up but never saying it outright.

Now, they were back in the same basement venue, the air already thick with heat and smoke before the crowd had even been let in.

Hyunjin leaned against the battered couch backstage, bass across his lap. Changbin was drumming a restless pattern on the armrest with two sticks, Chan half-asleep with his hood up, and Jisung—obviously—on his phone.

“You look like you’re waiting for someone,” Jisung said without looking up.

“I’m not,” Hyunjin shot back too quickly.

That earned him one of Jisung’s smug little grins, the kind that meant trouble was coming. “Sure. Totally not. Just like you totally weren’t staring down that model Seungmin dragged in last time.”

Hyunjin plucked a lazy note on his bass, letting the string growl. “Wasn’t staring. Just checking if he could handle looking at me without fainting.”

Changbin barked a laugh. “Bro, the guy’s face screamed he wanted to jump you right there. If anyone was gonna faint, it was him.”

Hyunjin rolled his eyes, but heat crawled up his neck anyway.

And then Jisung hummed, sing-song, “Well, lucky for you, looks like you’ll get to test that theory again.”

Hyunjin’s head snapped up before he could stop himself.

The door had cracked open, Seungmin slipping inside with Jeongin at his heels, both of them too smug for comfort. But Hyunjin’s gaze went past them immediately—because there he was again.

Felix.

This time, the blond was gone. His hair had been dyed a shocking pink, tied back into a ponytail that swayed when he moved. His outfit was all sharp contrasts—black crop top hugging his frame, leather pants gleaming under the dim lights, boots that clicked sharp against the floor.

Velvet, sure—but velvet with teeth.

Hyunjin’s pulse thumped once, loud. He quickly shifted his gaze back to his bass, pretending to check a tuning peg. Jisung’s snicker from the couch didn’t help.

By the time they hit the stage, Hyunjin was already wound too tight.

The crowd surged as the lights dimmed, Jisung soaking up the noise with his usual reckless grin, Chan’s keys swelling, Changbin hammering the drums with enough force to shake the floor. Hyunjin slung his bass low, letting it rest heavy against his hip.

And then he saw him.

Felix wasn’t tucked in the back this time. He was front and center, hair glowing neon under the stage lights, posture loose, confident. He knew he was being seen. Hell, he wanted to be.

Hyunjin felt his mouth twitch into a grin before the first riff even dropped.

From then on, it was all performance—but sharpened, exaggerated, aimed. Every sway of his hips calculated, every flick of his wrist timed just a little too slow, just enough to catch the light. He dragged his tongue over his bottom lip at one point just to see what would happen.

And Felix did not disappoint. His eyes tracked every move.

Hyunjin thrived on it. The way Felix leaned an elbow on the stage edge, chin propped like he was watching for sport. The way his mouth twitched into half-smiles, half-smirks.

Then, halfway through the set—Felix heckled.

It wasn’t even cruel. Just loud enough to cut through, timed perfectly between lyrics:

“Bet you can’t make that bass moan louder than me!”

The crowd erupted into laughter, a mix of cheers and whistles. Jisung almost missed a chord from laughing, Changbin shouted something gleeful mid-beat, and Hyunjin—Hyunjin just looked straight down.

Straight at him.

Felix grinned up, eyes sparkling, teeth flashing.

Hyunjin let the silence stretch one beat too long, then dragged his bass strap lower with a deliberate roll of his shoulders. Bass slung almost indecent now, strings growling low as he bent over them.

The roar from the crowd nearly split his eardrums, but it was Felix’s expression that stuck—the slight tilt of his head, the unbothered grin, the flare of satisfaction.

Hyunjin’s grin turned feral.

He lived for this. For the challenge, for the way Felix wasn’t cowed but pushing him harder. For the crackle of tension threaded through every glance.

By the time the set ended, sweat dripping down his jaw and pulse hammering, Hyunjin knew one thing for sure.

Felix wasn’t going anywhere.

And neither was he.

Chapter Text

Lee Felix knew how to be seen.

It was part of the job, sure, but for him it was second nature. The cameras at Haus Nowhere’s new flagship in Seoul adored him the way the runway lights always had—catching his sharp cheekbones, his long lines, the way his smile could look both angelic and untouchable depending on which brand needed it. Tonight, it was three of them. Three logos stitched across his image, three contracts that made his face and body a curated canvas for luxury.

He moved through the crowd like water, each handshake, each kiss on the cheek practiced and polished. His cousin Minho trailed somewhere behind, his presence equal parts manager, shadow, and overly watchful cat. Jeongin, meanwhile, hovered at his side, sharp eyes taking mental notes on what angle of Felix’s suit photographed best.

The opening had been a success. Felix looked every bit the part: the golden boy of international modeling—Gentle Monster's darling, ATiiSSU's muse, Tamburins' ambassador. He smiled when he had to, laughed when the champagne demanded it, signed his name across endless glossy books with perfect handwriting.

And yet—he was restless.

It wasn’t the event. He’d done hundreds like this. It was something that had happened nights before, in a basement that reeked of beer and sweat, where the air felt alive enough to scorch his lungs.

Him.

Felix was half-turning toward the exit when Minho caught him by the elbow, tugging him into a corner out of earshot of the reporters.

“You going to tell me why Jeongin just said you’ve been asking about some band?” Minho’s voice was low, dry, carrying that manager edge that made Felix feel fifteen again.

Felix’s eyes flicked to Jeongin, who had the audacity to grin like the cat that ate the canary. “Traitor,” Felix muttered under his breath.

Jeongin just shrugged. “Better him than the tabloids.”

“It’s nothing,” Felix said smoothly, tossing his hair back the way he did on shoots when they wanted disinterest. “Seungmin’s boyfriend plays in a band. I went to support him. That’s all.”

Minho’s stare was unimpressed. “And yet Jeongin says you’ve been distracted all week.”

Felix scoffed lightly. “I’m fine. Really.”

But the thing about Minho was that he didn’t need Felix to admit anything. He could read it in his posture, in the way Felix’s phone burned a little too long in his pocket.

Later, when they were finally in the car back to the apartment, Felix thumbed his phone open under the low glow of the streetlights. His fingers hovered for only a moment before he typed.

🐣: when’s creed’s next show?

It took less than a minute for Seungmin to reply.

🐶: wow. couldn’t even last a week.

Felix rolled his eyes, smirking despite himself. His thumbs moved fast.

🐣: relax, i’m just appreciating the music.
🐣: your boyfriend is a good guitarist, who knew?

The typing dots blinked, disappeared, blinked again.

🐶: right. and i go to fashion week for the lighting design.

Felix snorted, biting down on his lip to keep from laughing out loud in front of Minho.

🐣: hey, i’m branching out. cultural enrichment. consider it personal growth.
🐣: besides, you should be flattered i’m showing this much support for your boyfriend.

🐶: support looks a lot like thirst from here.

Felix grinned into the glow of the screen, leaning his head back against the car seat.

🐣: you’re delusional. i’m just a fan.

🐶: sure. keep telling yourself that. addict.

Felix locked his phone before Minho could glance over, pulse thrumming harder than it had all evening. Jeongin, across from him, caught the expression anyway, one brow raising in silent judgment. Felix ignored him, gaze flicking back to the city rushing past the windows.

The venue was smaller than the glittering halls Felix was used to, but it had a pull. The crowd pressed close, lights dim and restless. The kind of place where sound didn’t just stay in your ears but crawled across your skin.

And there, tucked among the bodies, Felix felt his pulse quicken as the band came onstage.

He knew he was obvious. He wanted to be obvious.

Tonight, his hair was pink, tied back in a ponytail that caught the lights. His crop top clung sharp, his leather pants gleamed, his boots planted him firm at the barricade. If Hyunjin wanted to stare again, he’d give him something to worthy to stare at.

The room throbbed with anticipation, the kind of low hum that made Felix’s skin prickle before a single note even played. He liked it, the charge of it. It was the opposite of the pristine hush of fashion shows and luxury galas, where everything was curated to within an inch of its life. Here, sweat and smoke coiled in the air, sticky and alive.

When the band walked out, the crowd roared like they’d been starved. Jisung strutted forward with his guitar slung across his body, grinning like he owned the earth. Chan slid behind his keyboard with practiced ease, Changbin cracked his sticks together in a countdown.

And then Hyunjin stepped into the light.

Felix’s throat went dry.

The bassist’s hair was damp already, dark under the lights, short enough that sweat caught at his nape. His bass hung low against his frame, strap pulled tight, the instrument an extension of his body. Every motion looked unbothered, fluid, but deliberate in ways Felix couldn’t stop tracking.

He hadn’t changed his style. And still—he looked like a brand new problem.

Felix shifted forward until his boots pressed against the barricade, one hand curled casually around the rail. He knew he stood out. Pink hair tied up, crop top clinging, leather catching every light. He hadn’t come here to blend in.

The first riff hit, and the bass line punched Felix straight in the chest.

He couldn’t look away. Not when Hyunjin leaned into the mic stand to share harmony with Jisung, not when he tilted back with the weight of a riff, not when he smirked down at the crowd like he knew exactly how lethal he looked. And every so often—those eyes slid right to Felix.

Lingering.

Longer than necessary.

Felix’s pulse jumped each time, heat curling in his stomach. He hated how obvious it made him feel, how stripped bare under a single stare. So when the moment came—between verses, the crowd catching its breath—he did the first reckless thing that popped into his head.

He heckled.

“Bet you can’t make that bass moan louder than me!”

The words tore out sharp, riding his accent just enough to cut through. And when the entire crowd exploded—cheers, laughter, whistles—Felix’s grin widened.

It wasn’t just about the attention. It was about the way Hyunjin froze.

For one heartbeat, the bassist went still, grip tightening around the neck of his instrument. His eyes snapped down, straight to Felix, sharp as a blade.

Felix tilted his head, smug, daring him to bite.

And Hyunjin did.

One slow roll of his shoulders, one tug on the strap, and the bass slid lower, indecently low. Then his fingers moved—slow, heavy, coaxing a growl from the strings so deep it vibrated up Felix’s arm through the barricade.

The crowd howled. Jisung stumbled over a lyric from laughing, Changbin threw in a crash of cymbals like a drumline salute, Chan glanced over with raised brows.

Felix didn’t look away. He wanted Hyunjin to see the grin tugging at his mouth, the spark in his eyes. He wanted him to know he’d won this round. But when Hyunjin’s mouth curved, feral and sharp, Felix felt the win flip right back into his chest, hot and dangerous.

He had no idea what song they were even playing anymore. All he knew was the stare, the tension stretching across the room until it snapped.

By the end of the set, Felix was wrecked in the best way. His pulse thudded uneven, his smirk barely holding, his composure hanging on by a thread.

Hyunjin had played for the crowd.

But he’d also played for him.

And Felix was addicted.

Chapter Text

The adrenaline of a set always clung to Hyunjin like smoke, crawling under his skin, keeping his pulse half a beat too quick. Tonight though, it wasn’t just the music thrumming in his veins. It was him.

Pink hair. Crop top. Leather pants that did things to Hyunjin’s imagination he had no business admitting. And that mouth—sharp enough to throw a heckle that made the whole basement howl.

Hyunjin had spent the rest of the set swinging between irritation and arousal, every bassline heavier because Felix had dared him to make it moan. He had. He’d dragged the sound right out, shameless and dirty, just to prove a point. But the way Felix stared back—like he wanted to be dragged along with it—Hyunjin hadn’t been able to shake it.

So when the encore died, when the cheers blurred into background static, when the guys were already slipping offstage toward the back, Hyunjin didn’t follow. He headed for the bar.

And there he was.

Felix lounged on a barstool like it was a throne, pink ponytail glowing under the neon beer sign, a glass sweating in his hand. Jeongin perched beside him, chattering about something, but his eyes flicked up at Hyunjin approaching. Wide, knowing.

Then—like the little menace he was—Jeongin grinned, mumbled a “gonna check something real quick”, and vanished into the crowd.

Leaving Felix. Alone.

Hyunjin slid onto the stool next to him, bass calluses rough against the counter as he leaned an elbow. “Didn’t peg you as a dive bar regular.”

Felix didn’t even glance over. Just tipped his glass, ice clinking, before taking another slow sip. “Didn’t peg you as someone who’d leave his adoring fans behind to bother a stranger.”

His voice was lazy, teasing, but his eyes—when they finally flicked sideways—burned.

Hyunjin caught the drink first. Clear liquid, cubes clinking. Tequila. Straight.

He blinked. “Tequila? No lime, no sugar rim, no umbrella sticking out the top?”

That finally earned a laugh. Bright, unexpected, tugging Hyunjin closer without meaning to. Felix swirled the glass like it was wine, smirk tugging at his glossed mouth. “Shocking, right? The delicate porcelain doll of Paris Fashion Week takes her liquor neat.”

“Her liquor,” Hyunjin echoed, lips curving despite himself. “That what you are?”

Felix turned toward him then, full body, one elbow braced on the counter, chin tipped high. “Depends. Do you think you can handle porcelain when it shatters?”

The words should’ve been dramatic. They weren’t. They were bratty. A challenge dressed in velvet, and Hyunjin felt it straight in his gut, sharp and low.

He exhaled, slow. “Not what I expected.”

Felix’s smile widened. “There’s more you don’t know about me.”

That tone—cocky, playful, daring—landed like a punch between Hyunjin’s legs. He shifted on the stool, grateful for the bar’s dim light, for the swell of conversation around them. Nobody could hear the way Felix’s voice scraped down his spine. Nobody could see the way he was already hard just from a few words.

Felix leaned closer, like he knew. Like he’d caught the twitch of Hyunjin’s jaw, the faint flex of his hand against his thigh. “What’s wrong, rockstar? You only like boys who smile pretty and stay quiet?”

Hyunjin barked a laugh before he could stop it, quick and rough. He turned, met those eyes full-on. “Pretty sure you’re incapable of staying quiet.”

“And yet here you are,” Felix murmured, grin small, sharp. “Still sitting next to me.”

They stared at each other too long. Felix’s lashes lowered as he dragged his straw across the rim of his glass. Hyunjin tracked the motion like it mattered, like the bar had narrowed down to nothing but that mouth.

Every nerve in him screamed to close the distance, to grab the brat by his ponytail and find out if he’d taste like tequila and trouble.

Instead, he let his smile go lazy. “Careful, porcelain. Keep poking like that, and you might find out what I do with glass when it breaks.”

Felix’s smirk went molten, and Hyunjin knew he was fucked.

Hyunjin’s flat was a mess.

Not catastrophic—just the kind of chaos that built when you stumbled in at three a.m. too wired to care and too tired to fix it. A hoodie half on the couch, empty takeaway containers on the counter, his bass leaning like a soldier by the wall. The air still smelled faintly of cigarette smoke from the bar, the echo of crowd noise buzzing faintly in his ears.

But none of that was what kept him up.

It was him.

Pink ponytail. Crop top. Tequila neat, of all things. And that laugh—sharp, bratty, slipping under Hyunjin’s skin like it owned space there.

Felix had been a surprise. Not the pristine, pampered socialite Hyunjin had written him off as. Not just another pretty boy whose name showed up on billboards while his assistants ironed the wrinkles out of his life. Felix had teeth. Felix talked back. Felix could banter—sass for sass, wit for wit, like it was foreplay, like it was fun.

Hyunjin had gone home with a bass still thrumming through his fingers and the memory of Felix’s smirk stamped into his brain.

And that should’ve been the end of it. A distraction. A funny story. This rich kid at the bar tried to get mouthy with me, can you believe it?

Except—he couldn’t let it go.

Somewhere between the second beer and the unmade bed, Hyunjin found himself on the couch with his laptop cracked open, typing in a name he already knew by heart.

Lee Felix.

The search results slapped him in the face. Magazine covers stacked like dominos. Editorial shoots for brands Hyunjin couldn’t even afford to pronounce. Spread after spread of angles too perfect, features too sharp, that jawline practically criminal. He scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled—Felix in couture, Felix drenched in sequins and lace, Felix looking like a prince straight out of a baroque painting. And then another—Felix in something sheer, gender blurred until it didn’t matter, beauty carved androgynous, dangerous.

Hyunjin leaned back, hand over his mouth, not sure if he wanted to laugh or swear.

Because damn it, the brat was beautiful.

Not just hot. Not just pretty. Beautiful in a way that felt unfair, like the world had picked him out to be a weapon against people with weak constitutions.

Hyunjin clicked on a video before he could stop himself. A slick Samsung ad, high gloss, every frame curated. Felix walked through neon light like he owned the city, gaze steady, mouth parting to speak—

And Hyunjin froze.

Because that wasn’t the voice he’d expected.

Deep. Rumbled low in the chest, wrapped in a thick Australian accent that hit Hyunjin’s ears like velvet dragged across grit. A voice that didn’t match porcelain, didn’t match magazines. It matched the boy at the bar with tequila on his tongue and mischief in his eyes.

“Fuck,” Hyunjin muttered, dragging a hand over his face.

He replayed it. Twice. Three times. Every yeah and future is yours sinking deeper. The more it looped, the more it hooked into him—curiosity warping into something rawer, hungrier.

By the fifth replay, Hyunjin shut the laptop with a snap. Leaned his head back. Swore at the ceiling.

Felix was dangerous.

And Hyunjin was already caught.

He tried to sleep after that. Tossed, turned, gave up when the sun began to seep pale over the skyline. The bass in the corner called to him like an itch, but when he picked it up and tried to play, his fingers betrayed him—sliding over familiar strings only to stutter when he thought about how Felix had heckled, bet you can’t make that bass moan louder than me.

Every riff turned into an echo of that line. Every slide sounded like a dare.

By the time rehearsal rolled around, he was wrecked. Dark circles half-hidden under sunglasses, unruly hair tucked underneath a beanie. The guys were used to seeing him like this—burned out, fried from a show night—but this was different. His head wasn’t in the music.

“Hyunjin,” Chan said finally, pausing mid-keyboard run, “if you drop the bassline one more time, I’m filing a formal complaint.”

Hyunjin flipped him off without looking up.

Changbin drummed his sticks against his knees, squinting. “What’s up with you? You’re playing like you’ve got someone’s phone number scribbled in your head instead of the sheet music.”

That got a laugh out of Jisung, perched with his guitar. “Don’t tell me—our Hyunjin has a crush. Who’s the unlucky victim?”

Hyunjin rolled his eyes, muttered something noncommittal, tried to refocus. But the way Felix’s grin kept flashing in his head—the way he’d leaned forward at the bar like he knew exactly what he was doing—made it impossible to keep his usual cool mask in place.

Jisung narrowed his eyes, the way only someone who knew him too well could. “Oh shit. Don't tell me.. it's Felix, isn’t it?”

Hyunjin stiffened. Which was apparently all the confirmation Jisung needed, because he broke into the smuggest grin known to man.

“Felix,” Changbin repeated, leaning back. “Wait—Seungmin's best friend? The model from last time?”

Chan snorted. “Rockstar and supermodel. What is this, a Netflix drama?”

Hyunjin scowled, heat prickling at the back of his neck. “Can we not?”

But the damage was done. Jisung started humming a wedding march under his breath, Changbin banged the rhythm out on the drums, and Chan just shook his head, amused.

Hyunjin tightened his grip on his bass. Tried to drown them all out.

But the truth was, he couldn’t even drown Felix out of himself.

Even with the strings humming under his fingers, all he could hear was that low Australian voice and the sound of laughter against ice in a glass.

Chapter Text

The Burberry Café opening was the kind of event Felix could attend in his sleep.

Cameras flashing, champagne passed in flutes so thin they looked like they’d crack if you breathed wrong, a curated playlist of ambient London beats. The walls draped in tartan prints, the floor plan dotted with Seoul’s glitterati—actors, models, influencers, every guest list regular pretending they’d come for fashion and not for each other.

For Felix, it was familiar. Routine. He had done three of these in as many weeks—HERA Beauty in Seoul, a LV dinner in Paris, a Tommy Hilfiger gala in New York. His cousin Minho said it was part of the job, maintaining presence, keeping his face in circulation like it was currency.

Tonight, though, wasn’t about him.

It was about Seungmin. His best friend, looking criminally good in a slim check Burberry suit as the brand’s newest ambassador. Felix had never been more proud, never clapped louder when the cameras turned their way. He meant it when he said it later, arm thrown over Seungmin’s shoulder at the photo wall: “You’re the star tonight. I’m just the cheerleader.”

Seungmin rolled his eyes, but his smile betrayed him.

The cocktails came after, the crowd melting into a softer hum of chatter and piano jazz. Felix found himself at the bar with Jeongin snapping candids nearby, while Seungmin disappeared into the swirl with his boyfriend.

His boyfriend.

Felix still wasn’t used to that—his stoic, anti-skinship, sarcasm-for-breakfast best friend wrapped around Jisung like they were born glued at the hip. Seungmin glowed in a way he didn’t even know how to describe. And Felix, half amused and half sappy, kept his champagne glass lifted in silent toast every time he spotted them laughing together in a corner.

He wasn’t expecting more company.

Which was why, when Seungmin returned to the bar with Jisung in tow—and another figure at their side—Felix nearly dropped his glass.

Hyunjin.

Of course.

He wasn’t in ripped jeans or some careless leather jacket this time. He wasn’t a bass-slinging menace under strobe lights. He was—Felix’s throat went dry—every inch a fantasy.

Short hair brushed up, sharp against his jaw. A suit of deep red velvet, cut to his frame like temptation itself. No shirt. Just a matching red vest underneath, open enough to hint at skin, at collarbones sculpted and gleaming under the café’s soft light. He walked into that space as though Burberry had stitched the suit just for him, as though velvet belonged to his bones.

Felix’s knees buckled. Literally. He had to shift his weight onto the barstool to keep from swaying.

It wasn’t fair.

He’d expected to see him again, of course—bands like CREED didn’t exactly vanish after two shows—but he hadn’t expected this. Not Hyunjin transfigured into something straight out of a magazine spread, not Hyunjin looking like he’d stepped effortlessly into Felix’s world and fit.

Felix forced himself to sip from his glass, to blink past the sudden rush of heat in his chest. Play it cool. The model, the ambassador, the image of composure. He’d walked red carpets with billionaires on his arm, endured dinner with fashion editors who could break a career with a frown. He could handle one bassist in velvet.

Except—Hyunjin’s eyes found him across the bar.

Held.

And Felix felt that look all the way to his gut.

Felix tipped back his glass, champagne burning down his throat, and set it back onto the counter just as Hyunjin slid in beside him. Same as last time. Same lazy swagger. Same infuriating air like nothing could touch him.

“Well,” Felix said, lips quirking, “look who ditched backstage for the bar again. Gonna make it a habit?”

Hyunjin leaned against the counter, elbow resting easy, body all lines of velvet and heat. “Depends. You planning on heckling me again next show?”

Felix snorted into his drink. “Depends. You planning on missing half your notes again?”

That earned him a flash of teeth, sharp and fast, and Felix couldn’t help it—he smiled back.

The rhythm fell into place too easily. Quips thrown like darts, smirks traded like contraband, every jab a little sharper than necessary but neither backing off. They’d circle, strike, laugh, drink, repeat. And under it all, the hum of enjoyment, the thrill of finally finding someone who could give as good as they got.

The champagne loosened his tongue, and Felix let it. By the third glass, he was leaning closer, his laugh tipping bratty, voice dipping into innuendo without apology.

“You keep looking at me like that, Hwang,” Felix murmured, swirling ice in his glass, “people are gonna think you’re obsessed.”

Hyunjin raised his brows, calm as ever. “And if I am?”

Felix blinked, caught mid-smirk, before recovering with a scoff. “Please. You’d crumble in two seconds if I actually tested you.”

Hyunjin didn’t flinch. Didn’t even crack. Just tilted his head, velvet brushing his collarbone, eyes steady like he was already winning some game Felix hadn’t realized they were playing.

And it was infuriating.

Because Felix was used to his bratty side throwing people off-balance—rattling them, making them stumble, exposing just how easily they wanted him. But Hyunjin? He held it. Cool, maddeningly unshaken, like Felix’s sparks only made him more entertained.

And God help him, Felix wanted him. Wanted to push harder, see how long that composure would hold. Wanted to shatter it with his hands, his mouth, anything.

For the first time, Felix admitted it to himself: he wanted this man in front of him. Badly.

He hadn’t planned to come.

Cocktail events weren’t his thing—too glossy, too curated, full of people who thought his ripped jeans were ironic and not just the only pair he owned. But Jisung had begged, Seungmin had promised it would be chill, and Chan had said something about “networking” that sounded suspiciously like free food. So he’d let himself get shoved into a suit.

Not just any suit. Red velvet, chosen by Jisung who said, “You’ll look like temptation and that’s your whole brand, shut up and wear it.” Hyunjin had rolled his eyes, but when he’d caught his reflection, he hadn’t disagreed.

What he didn’t expect to see was him.

Lee Felix.

All in white—sharp tailoring, collar cut so low it was basically an invitation, pink hair braided on one side like some unearthly prince. He looked untouchable, pristine, carved to shine under cameras. And yet—Hyunjin couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop remembering tequila on his lips, the way he’d heckled him like a dare in the middle of a show, the same deep Australian voice that had been haunting his dreams every night.

So when the music dipped and he spotted him at the bar, Hyunjin knew there wasn’t anywhere else he could possibly go.

He cut straight to him. Same as last time. Because apparently that was their pattern now: him choosing Felix over backstage, Felix choosing hard liquor over cocktails. And then—banter like fireworks.

The brat shone through fast. Felix tossing words like bait, each line a dare wrapped in satin. And Hyunjin? He kept cool, too cool, all because he wanted to see how far Felix would go and realized nothing he said could shake him.

But beneath the velvet calm, something was clawing hard.

The way Felix leaned closer, grin sharp, eyes glinting with that dangerous play. The way his accent curled around words, low and thick, like he knew exactly how it wrecked him. The way his mouth wrapped around the rim of the glass like—

Hyunjin exhaled slow, grounding himself. But it didn’t matter.

Because the truth had already carved itself in.

He wanted Felix. 

Not in passing. Not in pieces.

He wanted Felix for himself.

The evening spun around them—champagne laughter, cameras flashing, the low thrum of industry chatter—but Felix and Hyunjin had collapsed their world down to a bar stool and a glass rim. They were orbit locked, orbit drunk, trading words sharp enough to draw blood and grins that made it all sting sweeter.

It should’ve been a dangerous game, but neither looked away.

“Christ,” a voice cut through, dry as martini vermouth.

Felix turned to see Seungmin standing with a glass of white wine, Jisung practically glued to his side, the rockstar boy clinging like he’d been welded there. And the real kicker? Seungmin—Seungmin, who once shoved Felix off a couch for sitting too close—was letting him.

“Do you two ever shut up?” Seungmin continued, eyebrow arching at Felix and Hyunjin in turn. “It’s like watching horny twelve-year-olds who just discovered banter.”

Felix’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me? Horny? I’m class.”

“Yeah,” Seungmin deadpanned, sipping, “class that’s been throwing eyes across the bar like darts for the last twenty minutes.”

Jisung laughed against his shoulder, muffled, tipsy affection written all over him. “Babe, leave them alone—they’re entertaining. Like free TV.”

“Don’t encourage them.”

Felix flipped Seungmin off with the delicacy of a LV model adjusting his cufflinks. Hyunjin snorted, velvet shoulder shaking.

Before Felix could land another barb, Jeongin breezed in like a whirlwind of cologne and mischief, already tugging at Felix’s wrist. “Lix hyung, hate to ruin your foreplay, but work calls. Minho hyung's texting my phone in all caps and it’s not cute. Something about a fitting, tomorrow morning, ungodly hour, both of us.”

Felix groaned, head tipping back. “The man is allergic to letting me breathe.”

“Mm, you’d die without him,” Jeongin sing-songed, then to Seungmin: “I’m stealing your best friend now. Keep it PG, you two,” wiggling his eyebrows on Jisung who was still practically draped to Seungmin's side.

“Don’t worry,” Jisung threw back, grinning like the menace that he is, “I always keep it PG.”

Hyunjin raised one brow, slow, deliberate, and Felix felt heat curl at his neck. He ignored it. He grabbed a napkin, scrawled something fast before pressing it flat against Hyunjin’s velvet-clad chest. Right over the vest.

Numbers scrawled in ink, neat but bold.

He leaned in close enough for Hyunjin to catch the scent of his cologne, low enough for no one else to hear.

“Text me,” Felix murmured, lips ghosting a smile, “or something dirtier.”

Then he was gone, swept into Jeongin’s orbit, pink braid flashing once through the crowd before disappearing entirely.

Hyunjin looked down. White napkin against red velvet, numbers like a dare.

His mouth curved slow.

The night had gotten a lot more interesting.

Chapter Text

Hyunjin dropped his keys on the counter, velvet jacket folded carefully over the back of a chair. He should’ve been exhausted—two shows this week, one suit-and-cocktails event he had no business attending—but his head buzzed.

Because of a napkin.

It sat there on the table, white square against dark wood, digits staring back at him like a taunt. Felix had pressed it to his chest like a claim, eyes glinting, lips curling with that little twist that promised he’d never let Hyunjin live it down.

Text me. Or something dirtier.

Hyunjin dragged a hand down his face, groaning into his palm. He wasn’t some rookie bassist getting flustered over a number, but this—this wasn’t normal. Felix wasn’t normal. He was chaos in pink braids, laughter that stung, a brat wrapped in Tamburins cologne.

For ten full minutes, Hyunjin just sat there, thumb hovering over his phone, debating. If he texted first, he’d look eager. Too eager. The cool edge he’d been clinging to since the first night in that basement club would shatter.

But if he waited—

Buzz.

His phone lit up. Unknown number.

did u frame it yet

Hyunjin blinked. Then again. Then laughed, sharp and disbelieving, dropping onto the couch with his phone in hand.

Don’t flatter yourself.
It’s just a napkin.

The reply came instantly.

sure sure. you keep napkins from everyone who slips u their number huh

Hyunjin’s grin tugged wider, helpless. He leaned back, thumbs moving before his brain caught up.

Only the ones who yell about bass guitars moaning louder than them in public.

There was a pause. Three dots. Disappeared. Three dots again.

Then—

oh so u were listening.

Hyunjin’s blood ran hotter. He shouldn’t let this brat get under his skin. Shouldn’t let him win. But Felix had already wedged himself there, and Hyunjin couldn’t bring himself to push him out.

Hard not to.
You were begging for attention.

Another pause. Then, bold as ever:

maybe i just wanted yours

Hyunjin’s stomach swooped. He closed his eyes, biting back a groan. Felix was going to be the death of him.

And God help him, he was starting to want it.

Where’d you even get my number anyway?

A pause. Then—

wouldn’t u like to know ;)

Hyunjin groaned, dragging a hand through his hair.

Yeah. I would.
Unless stalking is your hobby now.

Felix’s reply nearly made him choke:

jealous?

Hyunjin bit back a curse, teeth pressing into his lip. His fingers flew.

Of what? That you harass other people with your napkins?

ofc not. napkins are just for u. special treatment.

Hyunjin swore under his breath, slumping deeper into the couch. His brain supplied images he had no business entertaining: Felix leaning across the bar, smirk curling, slipping napkins into pockets, into collars, into—

He exhaled hard and typed:

You’re impatient.

i know what i want.

And what’s that?

Three dots. Then—

right now? tequila.
and maybe watching u squirm.

Hyunjin barked a laugh, sharp in the silence.

You think I’m squirming?

oh no honey i know u are. bet ur glaring at ur screen rn like i just handed u my shopping list

Hyunjin did glare, but only because Felix was right.

He hesitated, then gave in:

You’re ridiculous.

Felix replied instantly.

and ur still texting me. so what does that make u? ;)

Felix sprawled sideways on his bed, pink braid half undone, phone glowing against the dark. The smirk hadn’t left his face all night. Every time Hyunjin tried to come off as cool, Felix could feel the heat beneath it—like embers trying not to catch fire. He wanted to blow on them until they did.

His screen lit up again.

You’re ridiculous.

Felix grinned, typing back before he could stop himself.

and ur still texting me. so what does that make u? ;)

He tossed his phone onto the pillow, rolling onto his stomach. The buzz came quicker than expected.

Trouble.

Felix’s grin widened, heart thrumming harder than he’d admit.

He was mid-type—good. i like trouble—when the bedroom door creaked.

“Why are you still awake?”

Minho leaned against the frame, arms crossed. Manager, cousin, professional buzzkill. His eyes narrowed, scanning Felix’s too-bright screen, the way he scrambled just a little too fast to lock it.

“You’re smiling at your phone,” Minho said flatly. “That means one of two things. Either you’re reading a meme Jeongin made at my expense… or you’re talking to someone I should be worried about.”

Felix propped his chin on his hand, voice lazy. “Or maybe I’m sexting. You ever think of that?”

Minho didn’t blink. “Exactly why I should be worried.”

Felix rolled onto his back with a laugh, hiding the way his pulse still raced from Hyunjin’s last text. He twirled his phone in one hand, too casual. “Relax, hyung. Just a friend.”

“Mm.” Minho’s suspicion didn’t lift. “Friends don’t make you hide your screen like that.”

Felix smirked, eyes closing. “Maybe you just don’t know me well enough.”

Minho sighed, muttering something about self-destructive taste before leaving.

Felix waited until the door clicked shut. Then unlocked his phone.

Trouble.

Felix typed slow, deliberate.

then maybe ure exactly what i’m looking for.

He hit send. Fell back against the pillows. And for the first time in weeks, sleep didn’t come easy.

The city outside Hyunjin’s window was asleep, but his flat wasn’t quiet. Not really. Not with his head replaying the same line over and over.

then maybe ur exactly what i’m looking for

The words sat there on his phone, white text in a grey bubble, so simple and so dangerous. He’d read it once. Twice. Ten times. The glow of the screen burned itself into his retinas, and even when he locked the phone, he could still see it imprinted behind his eyelids.

Hyunjin lay sprawled across his bed, one arm thrown over his eyes, bass-calloused fingers drumming against his chest like they were trying to keep up with his pulse. He’d dealt with his share of attention—fans, flings, the kind of one-night messes that blurred together into cigarette smoke and sweat-stained sheets. But this wasn’t that.

Felix wasn’t that.

Felix was the brat with pink braids who knew how to weaponize a smirk, who slipped napkins into velvet vests like it was a royal decree. The same Felix who wore Burberry like second skin, who looked at Hyunjin onstage and heckled him until he wanted to ruin the show just to answer back.

Hyunjin groaned, rolling onto his side, eyes fixed on the phone lying an inch away on the nightstand. All he’d have to do was reach. Just one swipe and his thumbs could be moving again, volleying back with something sharp, something dirtier. Felix would bite immediately—Hyunjin knew it, could feel it.

But that would mean giving up the upper hand.

And Hyunjin had been trying so damn hard to stay cool, to keep his footing, to pretend Felix wasn’t already crawling under his skin like this.

The problem was—Felix was.

His voice echoed from that Samsung ad Hyunjin had watched on loop earlier this week, Australian lilt thick, low, dipping into Hyunjin’s spine like bass reverb. His face from every magazine cover, every runway shot—shifting between ethereal prince and androgynous rebel. He was all contradictions, and Hyunjin wanted every single version, wanted to see what they looked like stripped down, raw, undone.

Hyunjin turned again, face buried in the pillow, muffling a groan. He hated this. Hated how restless it made him feel, how his body was already answering questions his brain was too stubborn to admit.

Because the truth was this: Felix had walked into his life like an itch he couldn’t scratch, and now he was taunting him with late-night texts that made Hyunjin burn.

Another buzz rattled against the wood. Hyunjin’s head jerked up before he could stop himself.

still awake? ;)

Of course.

Hyunjin reached. Unlocked. Typed back before he could think better of it.

You’re insufferable.
Go to sleep.

Seconds later—

can’t. thinking abt u ;)

Hyunjin swore under his breath, dropping the phone onto his chest, palm dragging down his face again. The smirk on Felix’s side was so obvious he could practically see it through the text.

And for the first time in a long time, Hyunjin felt out of his depth. Not in control. Not untouched.

He wanted Felix.

He wanted him bad.

And the worst part was—Felix knew it.

Felix was stretched out across his sheets, one ankle hooked lazily over the other, phone propped above his face. His room smelled faintly of bergamot and fabric softener, the kind of curated calm that usually lulled him out within minutes. Not tonight.

Not when Hyunjin had been typing back.

Felix scrolled, reread, scrolled again, grinning so hard his cheeks ached. He could picture it too clearly—Hyunjin somewhere across the river, sprawled out in some dark little flat, jaw tight, probably cursing into his pillow because a few texts had him all wound up.

Felix loved it. Thrived on it.

He wiggled further under the sheets, pink braid loose across his collarbone. The phone buzzed again.

You’re insufferable.
Go to sleep.

Felix’s grin widened, teeth catching his lip. He typed slow, deliberate, every word a push:

can’t. thinking abt u ;)

He didn’t even have to imagine Hyunjin’s reaction; he knew. The bassist would run a hand down his face, roll onto his side, mutter something filthy under his breath like Felix wasn’t three steps ahead.

Felix tossed the phone onto his pillow, burying his face against the fabric. The smirk softened there, replaced by something smaller, quieter. Because beneath the game—the teasing, the napkin stunt, the bratty smirks—was the truth he hadn’t said out loud yet.

He wanted Hyunjin.

Not just the bassist onstage, slinging his guitar low, smirking like sin. Not just the man in velvet suits who looked like he’d been dragged straight out of Felix’s fantasies. He wanted the whole messy, contradictory package—the sarcasm, the cool detachment, the way Hyunjin’s eyes betrayed him when Felix landed a hit.

Felix rolled onto his stomach, cheek pressed to his arm, phone buzzing faintly beside him. He didn’t look at it right away. He wanted Hyunjin to wait this time. To wonder.

He closed his eyes, pulse still skipping.

And for the first time in a long time, Felix wasn’t thinking about runways or campaigns or Minho breathing down his neck about his image.

He was thinking about Hyunjin.

And God help him—he wanted him bad.

Chapter Text

Felix still couldn’t believe he’d been conned into this.

A double date.

Of all things, Seungmin had to hit him with that invitation? Well, technically, it hadn’t even been Seungmin.

He replayed the scene in his head for the tenth time as his driver wove through Saturday traffic: Seungmin, deadpan as always, leaning against Felix’s kitchen counter like he owned the place. “Lotte World. Saturday. Be ready at noon.”

Felix had choked on his iced americano. “I’m sorry, what?”

But his best friend had just stared at him, unflinching. “Jisung invited you. I agreed. Minho hyung cleared your schedule. It’s happening.”

Felix had slammed his cup down, spluttering. “You went through my cousin? Behind my back?”

From the couch, Jisung had perked up like a devil in human skin. “Don’t sound so dramatic. Your manager said you’ve been working too much. This is a break. Fun. Rides, food, candy. You know—life.”

Felix had jabbed a finger at Seungmin, betrayal etched in every line of his face. “And you agreed to this madness?”

Seungmin, cool as stone, only sipped his coffee. “You’ll live.”

Felix groaned so loud it echoed. “Unbelievable. My own best friend sold me out.”

Jisung’s grin had been positively radiant. “You’ll thank us later.”

So now here Felix was—stepping out of his car in ripped jeans and brown Doc Martens, flannel shirt hanging loose and only buttoned halfway (the humidity made anything else criminal), LV cap tugged low, studs glittering faintly at his ears. He adjusted his collar, checked his reflection in the glass doors, and muttered to himself, “It’s just Lotte World. It’s just one afternoon.”

Then he spotted them by the entrance.

And promptly forgot how to walk.

Seungmin and Jisung were easy to pick out—Jisung practically bouncing on his heels like a five-year-old hopped up on sugar, Seungmin dragged along with the resigned air of a man enduring cruel and unusual punishment. That part was expected.

What wasn’t expected was Hyunjin.

Hyunjin, standing tall in a white-and-red Beatles shirt that clung like a second skin, biceps out on full display. Black jeans slung dangerously low, Calvin Klein band peeking every time he shifted. Thin-framed glasses sliding down his nose, multiple earrings glinting when he turned his head. A Cartier watch and necklace that screamed casual luxury, and—because the man apparently thrived on theatrics—a black tweed Ivy cap.

Felix stopped dead. His pulse tripped over itself.

He looked at his own outfit again—red-and-black flannel, ripped jeans, boots. They matched.

“No. Absolutely not,” Felix muttered, tugging at his cap like it would shield him from cosmic cruelty.

“Lix?” Seungmin called, spotting him.

Felix dragged himself forward with all the enthusiasm of someone walking into a trap. His eyes narrowed at Hyunjin, who’d already caught sight of him and, of course, was smirking like he’d orchestrated the whole thing.

“We look like a pair of coordinated dolls,” Felix accused as soon as he was within range.

Hyunjin adjusted his glasses lazily. “What can I say? Great minds think alike.”

Felix snorted, heat creeping to his ears. “If this is your great mind at work, then I actually feel sorry for it.”

“Yeah?” Hyunjin’s smirk sharpened. “Pretty sure yours didn’t complain when you left the house looking like my color palette.”

Felix gaped for a second—had he really just——before snapping his jaw shut. “Shut it.”

“Oh, he’s flustered,” Jisung sing-songed from Seungmin’s side, practically vibrating with glee. “Minnie, look—they’re matching already!”

Seungmin muttered, “Kill me now.”

Felix elbowed him lightly, earning only a glare. “Don’t pretend you don’t love this.”

Seungmin’s only reply was to sigh like the world had personally wronged him. Jisung beamed brighter, clinging to his arm.

The park unfolded into chaos and color. Jisung was a tyrant of joy, dragging them from ride to ride with zero remorse, Seungmin trailing behind with a patience born only from love. Felix kept close mostly to make sure Seungmin didn’t actually throttle his boyfriend in public.

But also because Hyunjin kept drifting near.

Not close enough to be obvious, but close enough—shoulders brushing in line, his sleeve warm when they both leaned on the railing for churros, his cologne drifting faintly every time the wind shifted.

Felix, brat that he was, couldn’t resist testing boundaries.

He nodded at Hyunjin’s wrist while tearing into his churro. “Didn’t know you owned Cartier. Thought your vibe was more… thrift-store chic.”

Hyunjin didn’t miss a beat, biting into his own churro with maddening calm. “Didn’t know you owned anything with rips that weren’t pre-staged. Thought your vibe was more…” He let his gaze slide—slow, deliberate—down Felix’s half-open shirt. “…pristine.”

Felix coughed, almost choking on fried dough. “Shut up.”

Hyunjin’s laugh was low, smug, and way too satisfied.

“See?” Jisung announced around a mouthful of cotton candy, “I told you they flirt like middle schoolers.”

“Twelve-year-olds,” Seungmin corrected flatly. “Horny twelve-year-olds.”

Felix rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw stars, but he didn’t argue. Not when Hyunjin’s smirk was still curling at the edge of his vision. Not when, beneath the banter, he could feel that strange, dangerous tug all over again.

And damn it, if he wasn’t starting to enjoy every second of it.

Lotte World really did feel like stepping into a fever dream. Neon lights, shrieks from roller coasters, the faint smell of fried food curling through the air—Felix half-wanted to complain about the crowds, the noise, the sheer chaos of it all, but the other half of him was strangely… relaxed. It was ridiculous, but even with Jisung’s hyper energy bouncing them from ride to ride, and Seungmin’s sighs of the damned trailing right behind, Felix found himself loosening up.

It didn’t hurt that Hyunjin was never far. Always orbiting. Always there.

They lost an hour to bumper cars, where Jisung made it his personal mission to ram Seungmin every five seconds. Felix, laughing until his stomach ached, ended up being Hyunjin’s target instead, the bassist crashing into his car with a smug grin before steering away like it was nothing.

“Dickhead!” Felix had yelled across the arena.

“Drive better!” Hyunjin shot back, dimples flashing.

Even Seungmin had cracked a reluctant smile at that one.

From there, it was carousel selfies, churro breaks, and Jisung dragging Seungmin onto a kiddie spinning teacup ride that looked like it shaved ten years off his patience. Felix nearly cried laughing at Seungmin’s face afterward, which only worsened when Hyunjin leaned down to murmur, “That’s gonna be us if you let him rope you in.”

“Not a chance,” Felix whispered back, pretending he wasn’t shivering from how close Hyunjin’s breath skimmed his ear.

It was Jisung who pointed them toward the haunted house. His grin was feral, like a child planning arson. “Let’s go. Loser screams first has to buy dinner.”

Felix groaned immediately. “Seriously? Haunted houses are boring. Plastic skeletons and bad lighting—wow, terrifying.”

Jisung gasped in mock horror. “Translation: you’re scared.”

“I am not—”

“Maybe you are,” Hyunjin cut in smoothly, tucking his hands into his jeans pocket, smirk sharper than the fake scythes hanging at the entrance.

Felix spun toward him, scandalized. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Hyunjin drawled. “Big talk, but maybe you’re the type to close your eyes the whole way through.”

Felix’s mouth dropped open. His hands even flailed, that’s how personally attacked he felt. “I don’t close my eyes—”

“Guess we’ll see,” Hyunjin interrupted, grin curling like a cat with cream.

Seungmin deadpanned, “You two can go together, then. Jisung, we’re going first.”

And just like that, Felix found himself shoved toward the black curtain entrance with Hyunjin at his side, a smug bastard radiating amusement.

Inside, it was pitch-dark save for red flickering lights that cast everything in hellish shadows. Felix tried walking like he wasn’t tense, like his shoulders weren’t rigid under the loose plaid, but the truth was—maybe he wasn’t the bravest in these things. He hated not knowing where the next scare came from. He hated the build-up, the anticipation.

Hyunjin, naturally, looked like he was strolling through a grocery aisle.

When a fake corpse swung out from the ceiling with a loud clatter, Felix nearly leapt a foot. His arm brushed Hyunjin’s, and he forced himself to scoff. “Wow. So scary. Totally shook.”

“Your voice cracked,” Hyunjin pointed out, laughing softly.

“It did not—”

And then it happened. A creature in a mask lunged from the shadows with a guttural screech, and Felix—Felix actually yelped, stumbling straight into Hyunjin’s side. His hand clutched at the other man’s shirt before he could stop himself, face pressed embarrassingly close to the curve of Hyunjin’s shoulder.

Hyunjin froze, then broke into laughter so rich and unrestrained that it echoed through the narrow corridors.

“Don’t—” Felix tried, cheeks blazing. “Don’t you dare laugh—”

Hyunjin’s arm came up, steadying him casually as though Felix hadn’t just leapt like a terrified rabbit. “You nearly climbed me,” he managed between wheezes.

Felix shoved him away, ears hot enough to fry an egg. “Shut up.”

But his heart was racing for an entirely different reason now. Not because of the jumpscare, but because of that sound—the way Hyunjin’s laughter vibrated in the dark, unguarded and warm, spilling out of him like Felix had never heard before.

And worse, Felix caught himself wanting it again.

He turned away quickly, scowling as if the floor had offended him. “I hate this place.”

Hyunjin’s grin lingered in the dim light, infuriating and devastating all at once. “Sure you do.”

Felix stormed forward, determined to ignore the way his ears were still burning.

The haunted house spat them back out into the neon-lit park, Felix muttering curses under his breath and Hyunjin still chuckling like he’d just been given the best gift of his week.

Jisung, of course, was waiting. “So? Who screamed?”

Felix puffed his chest out. “Not me.”

“Not what I heard,” Hyunjin said, smirk curling slow.

Felix rounded on him. “You are such a—”

“Lover boy,” Jisung finished brightly, clinging to Seungmin’s arm. “See, Minnie? They’re basically married already.”

Seungmin looked seconds away from walking into traffic. “I regret this entire day.”

Felix made a mental note to buy him a bottle of good tequila later as thanks for enduring Jisung and Hyunjin at the same time.

The afternoon blurred into a mess of rides and games.

Jisung destroyed them all at ring toss and then kissed Seungmin’s cheek like he’d just won Olympic gold. Felix gagged audibly. Hyunjin only watched, one eyebrow raised, before murmuring, “Jealous?”

Felix scoffed so loud it echoed. “Of what, stuffed Pikachu?”

“Of being kissed for winning one,” Hyunjin corrected, voice maddeningly even.

Felix nearly dropped his soda. “You—shut up.”

Even when they split up for food—Seungmin finally dragging Jisung to get something other than sugar—Hyunjin lingered, trailing Felix through food stalls with that infuriatingly calm aura.

Felix jabbed his chopsticks at him over steaming tteokbokki. “Do you ever stop smirking?”

“Do you ever stop biting?” Hyunjin countered, eyes flicking deliberately to Felix’s lip ring before lifting back to his eyes.

Felix almost choked. “You—”

Hyunjin plucked a piece of rice cake from Felix’s container and popped it into his mouth. “Thanks.”

Felix stared at him, scandalized. “That was mine.”

Hyunjin licked sauce from his thumb, unbothered. “Didn’t hear you say no.”

Felix swore under his breath in two languages.

By the time evening rolled around, neon lights glittering brighter against the Seoul skyline, Jisung was already tugging Seungmin toward the Ferris wheel. “Come on, it’s the perfect ending!”

Seungmin muttered, “Or the perfect death.” But he let himself be dragged anyway.

Felix tried to follow them—safety in numbers—but Jisung shot him a look over his shoulder, devil incarnate. “You two take the next cart.”

Felix froze. “What—no. I’m not—”

The attendant shut the gate behind Seungmin and Jisung with a cheery smile.

Which left Hyunjin and Felix standing there alone, cart doors swinging open like fate had a personal vendetta.

Hyunjin tipped his head toward it, expression maddeningly neutral. “After you.”

Felix muttered something unholy under his breath but climbed in, plopping onto the cushioned bench with as much attitude as he could muster. Hyunjin followed, long legs folding effortlessly, body taking up more space than should be legal.

The cart jolted upward.

The city unfolded beneath them, Seoul glittering like spilled jewels. Felix leaned back, arms crossed, trying to ignore how small the space felt with Hyunjin this close.

“Still scared?” Hyunjin asked, voice low, teasing.

“Of this? Please,” Felix scoffed, though his pulse was betraying him.

Hyunjin’s smirk was barely there, more a twitch of lips as his gaze wandered—out to the skyline, then back to Felix. “You talk big for someone who nearly climbed me earlier.”

Felix’s ears burned. “That was—shut up.”

Silence hummed between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Felix found himself sneaking glances—the glasses slipping down Hyunjin’s nose, the soft glow of neon painting his jawline, the way he leaned back like he owned the entire night.

“Stop staring,” Hyunjin murmured without looking.

Felix jolted. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

Felix huffed, shoving his cap lower. “You’re insufferable.”

But Hyunjin only chuckled, that warm, low sound curling straight into Felix’s chest. And damn it, for all his grumbling, Felix realized—sitting here above the city, bratty banter tangled between them—that he wouldn’t mind getting stuck in this cart for a long, long time.

Chapter Text

Hyunjin sank onto his couch, bass propped lazily against the wall. The apartment smelled faintly of leftover coffee, leather, and the lingering musk of late-night adrenaline. He couldn’t shake the day, or rather, the person who had dominated it.

He ran a hand over his face, jaw tense. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything—especially not like this. He’d seen plenty of beautiful people. He’d shared the stage with guys whose faces could sell out arenas. He’d touched and tasted and flirted and moved through life with walls up, a steel cord for every heartbeat that threatened to go soft.

But Felix.

Damn Felix.

The brat in plaid and Doc Martens had embedded himself so thoroughly in Hyunjin’s brain it was like he’d left fingerprints on every synapse. He couldn’t get the image out: that sharp smile that went from smug to genuinely delighted without warning, the flare of pink hair in sunlight, the way he had teetered on fear in the haunted house only to plummet into Hyunjin’s arms with no hesitation at all.

He cursed the way Felix switches from bratty to an adorable mess whenever Hyunjin managed to take the upper hand. Those grumbles were not supposed to do anything to him, and yet…

There it was. That twist, that twinge, that pull. That damnable pull he always ran from and somehow had surrendered to in one afternoon.

And Hyunjin hated it.

Because he wasn’t supposed to be feeling it. He wasn’t supposed to want anything beyond banter and bite, beyond a brat to toy with when the night got boring. But there Felix was, getting under his skin like an infection he couldn’t shake.

So Hyunjin did what he always did when feelings started pressing too close to the bone. He picked up his pen.

Hours bled into dawn as words spilled across a crumpled notebook page. Lines about fire and velvet, laughter in the dark, bruised skies and pink hair in neon light. He scrawled metaphors until his wrist ached, tore through drafts until ink smudged across his palms.

It wasn’t a love song, not exactly. Too sharp for that, too jagged. But it wasn’t not one, either.

When he brought it to rehearsal the next day, he hesitated, tossing the paper onto the table.

Jisung’s grin split his face immediately. “Ohhh. This sounds different. Not your usual doom-and-gloom poet stuff.”

Changbin leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, smirk aimed like a dart. “This sounds suspiciously like someone’s been inspired. By a certain… walking blond menace, maybe?”

Chan, ever the diplomat, raised an eyebrow. “It does sound like you wrote it for someone.”

Hyunjin’s chest went tight, and he snatched the paper back with a muttered, “Don’t flatter yourselves. It’s not about anyone. Just words.”

“Mmhm,” Jisung hummed, voice dripping disbelief. “Totally not about a brat who jumps at fake skeletons and wears flannel halfway open.”

Hyunjin glared but deep down, he knew—they were right. He couldn’t get that image out of his mind, especially not with the brat sliding into his texts again, poking at him, escalating the tension he couldn’t resist.

And now, as he stared at his phone, thumbs poised over the screen, he realized it wasn’t just lyrics or melodies keeping him awake. It was Felix.

The brat. The menace. The impossible, infuriating, intoxicating mess of a man who had already taken more of him than he would ever admit.

Hyunjin’s phone buzzed, and he didn’t need to look to know who it was. His chest tightened slightly even before he unlocked it.

Heard a certain bassist wrote a song. Word around the playground is… it’s about someone I know ;)

Hyunjin blinked. Damn it. Jisung must’ve shared it with Seungmin and, somehow, it had trickled back. He swore under his breath, thumbs hovering over the screen.

Felix followed up almost instantly, relentless:

I can only hope it’s about someone who jumps into yours arms when ghosts attack. Or else you’re boring me.

Hyunjin blinked, fingers tightening on the phone. This brat. He had literally texted to provoke him, and Hyunjin knew it. That sharp little edge in Felix’s words, the challenge, the dare—it was all there, perfectly designed to make him react.

So of course, Hyunjin fired back:

 You heard? Great. Now I have to curse your name in five different languages.

Oh, please do. I like my name cursed. Adds drama. But also… flattering?

Hyunjin growled softly, ignoring the way his stomach did that weird flutter thing.

Flattering? Maybe if you weren’t such a brat.

Brat? Me? Please. I’m adorable. Just ask Jisung, he witnessed firsthand.

Hyunjin snorted, rolling his eyes even though no one could see.

You mean he witnessed you screaming at fake skeletons and then diving into my arms like some scared little… human missile?

That was a test. You handled it well. Barely avoided me swearing at you. Consider it training.

Hyunjin pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering curses he couldn’t post. Of course this brat was going to escalate it, even via text.

You’re impossible. Seriously. 

Oh, I bet you're enjoying it. Admit it. You like the brat giving you trouble.

Hyunjin’s thumb hovered over the send button, lips pressed into a thin line. He cursed again.

Fine. Maybe. Happy now?

Ecstatic. But you’re also a scaredy-cat. Haunted house says it all.

Hyunjin’s eyes widened, then narrowed.

I am not—

Oh, come on. Admit it, bass-man. You were tense. Pink ears and all. Don’t pretend you weren’t aware of my hands too close for comfort.

Hyunjin groaned, throwing his head back against the couch.

You’re insufferable. Texting me like this. Doing… whatever this is.

Insufferable? Maybe. But you love it. And don’t even try saying you don’t. I’ve seen your smirk when I push your buttons.

Hyunjin pinched the bridge of his nose, growling under his breath. He should be angry. He was angry. Angry at how this man could worm under his skin without touching him. Angry at the laughter still echoing in his head. Angry at how he couldn’t erase that image of pink hair and bratty eyes.

Hyunjin pressed his face into his palm, muttering every curse in his vocabulary.

This is war, you little menace.

Then let’s see who wins. I hope you’re ready to lose.

The rehearsal space buzzed with its usual energy: amps humming, cables snaking like black vines across the floor, and faint smells of coffee and stale sweat lingering in corners. Hyunjin was tuning his bass, fingers absently running over the strings, mind half on the upcoming set list, half bracing for the chaos he knew was coming.

Because Seungmin had said something about bringing a “surprise guest.”

And Hyunjin, seasoned as he was at band drama, knew exactly who that would be.

Felix.

He felt his stomach tighten just imagining the brat in full force—pink hair styled in that sleek, untouchable way that somehow looked effortless; an expensive jacket thrown over casual wear that would be illegal if it weren’t so high fashion; that damn confidence radiating off him like heat.

And then Seungmin walked in, Felix at his side, hand wrapped around his best friend’s like they owned the rehearsal floor. Seungmin immediately went for Jisung—predictable, focused, protective—and Hyunjin braced for the verbal volley he knew would erupt as soon as Felix saw him.

Only… Felix didn’t look at him. Not right away.

Hyunjin froze mid-strum.

The blond menace swept past him, scanning the room like he was judging it for flaws only he could detect, then—his lips twitching slightly—sat casually next to Chan and Changbin, huddled in a corner over their demos. He leaned in, elbows resting on his knees, speaking to them as if the world didn’t exist outside of their little bubble. Laughing at every joke Changbin made, leaning just enough toward Chan when they showed him sheet music, completely oblivious—or so it seemed—to the world beyond their immediate circle.

Hyunjin’s jaw dropped.

The brat—the one who delighted in driving him insane—was actively pretending Hyunjin didn’t exist. And yet, every subtle motion, every small tilt of the head, every laugh seemed designed to prod him anyway.

Changbin, ever the observant one, noticed immediately. His eyes flicked between Hyunjin’s rigid stance and Felix, a wicked grin spreading across his face. The kind that said, this is going to be fun.

He swung an arm around Felix’s shoulders lightly, a protective, teasing move, and Felix, bratty as ever, leaned right in—close enough to brush against Hyunjin’s side if he wanted, but not yet giving him the satisfaction.

Hyunjin’s last thread of patience snapped.

“Break,” he barked, voice sharper than intended. He strode across the rehearsal floor, grabbed Felix’s wrist, and yanked him out of the buzzing room before anyone could process it. The brat’s laugh followed him, high and infuriating, echoing off the walls like a teasing bell.

He shoved open one of the dressing rooms, slamming the door behind them. Felix leaned casually against the counter, smirking like he had planned every single step of this little rebellion.

“Jealous?” Felix asked, voice dripping with mock innocence, head tilted just enough to drive Hyunjin mad.

Hyunjin gritted his teeth, heart thudding in a rhythm he refused to admit.

This wasn’t the pristine, untouchable face from magazines, the polished, high-class images he’d scrolled through online. This Felix—right here in front of him, unguarded, bratty, alive—was completely different, and entirely destabilizing.

“What do you want?” Hyunjin dared, voice low, careful, trying to maintain authority, though every fiber of him screamed otherwise.

Felix’s grin widened, sharp and teasing. “Take me on a date,” he said simply, like it was the most natural request in the world.

Hyunjin blinked. The words hung between them, heavier than any riff, more intense than any stage banter. And in that moment, he realized just how utterly dangerous, irresistible, and impossibly alive Felix was.

Hyunjin’s jaw tightened again, but he couldn’t help the small, grudging smirk creeping across his face.

“Fine,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “We’ll see if you survive it.”

Felix’s laugh echoed—soft, victorious, and teasing—and Hyunjin already knew this was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

Felix should’ve seen it coming.

Hyunjin had declared war the moment he hit “send” on that text—the taunting, smug kind of war that practically begged for a response. And Felix, being himself (a menace by birthright, as Seungmin liked to remind him), wasn’t about to just let it slide. No. He doubled down. If Hyunjin wanted a game, Felix would bring the whole damn board.

So when Seungmin dragged him along to Creed’s rehearsal, Felix put his plan into motion. He made a point of not looking at Hyunjin at first, which was already a feat because the man’s presence always hit like a bassline in his ribcage. Instead, Felix veered straight for the corner where Chan and Changbin were bent over their demos. He dropped onto the seat beside them as if he belonged there, tossed out a few comments, laughed a little louder than necessary when Changbin cracked a joke. He even leaned in closer when Chan showed him their sheet music, pretending to squint at the scrawled notes, playing it casual.

All while ignoring the heat burning at the edge of his vision—Hyunjin watching him.

Felix could practically feel it, like static across his skin.

War declared. Game on.

Of course, Seungmin noticed. Seungmin always noticed.

“What’s your deal with him?” he muttered without even glancing up from his phone, tone dry as dust.

Felix whipped his head around, offended. “What?”

“You’re being obvious,” Seungmin said, still scrolling. Then he finally looked up, arching a brow in that way that made Felix want to throttle him. “Too obvious. I thought you were better at this.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Felix said quickly, maybe too quickly. He threw in a laugh that he hoped sounded breezy, but it came out tight and sharp.

Seungmin just sighed. “Sure. You’re just suddenly best friends with Chan and Changbin, conveniently when Hyunjin’s five feet away, looking like he’s ready to strangle someone with his guitar strap.” He pocketed his phone, deadpan sharpening to smug. “Honestly, you’re insufferable. Just kiss already and save me the headache.”

Felix choked, nearly inhaling his own tongue. He shoved Seungmin’s arm with a scandalized hiss. “You’re insane.”

Seungmin only shrugged, lips twitching. “Takes one to know one.”

Felix tried to dismiss it, but the words burrowed into his head, sticking like a burr. And then Hyunjin had grabbed him—dragged him out of the room, into a dressing space where the air practically crackled between them—and had the audacity to look him dead in the eye and ask what he wanted.

Felix still wasn’t sure what possessed him in that moment. But the grin had slid onto his face, sharp and reckless, and the words had left his mouth before he could stop them.

Take me on a date.

And Hyunjin, maddeningly, hadn’t even flinched.

The problem? Seungmin, traitor that he was, had apparently run straight to Minho with the news.

Felix found himself cornered in the living room the next day, Minho sitting on the couch with the calm, terrifying energy of someone about to conduct an interrogation. Jeongin sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, scrolling through his phone with all the subtlety of a spy waiting to record evidence.

“So,” Minho started, voice deceptively mild, “you’re going on a date.”

Felix froze mid-step. “…Am I?”

Minho’s stare could’ve split atoms. “Don’t play dumb. Seungmin told me.”

“Remind me to kill him later.” Felix muttered, dropping onto the couch opposite his cousin. “It’s not—okay, fine. Yes. Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Minho leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze sharp enough to cut. “Felix. You’re not just some guy sneaking out of class to kiss someone behind the gym. You’re you. People watch you. They twist everything into headlines. One wrong move, and suddenly it’s not just your personal life on the line—it’s your contracts. Your image. Do you understand that?”

“I know.” Felix’s voice came out sharper than intended. He scrubbed a hand through his pink hair, heart thrumming with frustration. “I know, hyung. I’m not stupid. But this isn’t about any of that. It’s just—” He trailed off, searching, fumbling. “It’s just… him.”

Something flickered in Minho’s expression, a tiny shift that betrayed his surprise. He leaned back slowly, studying his cousin like he was trying to read the subtext. Felix avoided his gaze, suddenly wishing he’d kept his mouth shut.

The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable, until Jeongin exploded.

“Okay, both of you, shut up.” He shoved his phone into his pocket and bounced to his feet, pointing dramatically at Felix. “He’s going on a date, and I’m styling him.”

Felix blinked. “…What?”

“You heard me.” Jeongin crossed his arms, chin tilting high like a general issuing orders. “You’re not walking into this thing looking like a clueless intern who wandered into a Louis Vuitton event. No, you’re going in looking lethal. Dangerous. The kind of man who makes Hyunjin drop his bass on stage.”

Felix groaned, face dropping into his hands. “Oh my God, Jeongin—”

“Don’t ‘oh my God’ me.” Jeongin smacked his arm and then began pacing, already calculating out loud. “We’re talking sleek, tailored, maybe a flash of skin because you’re bratty like that. Accessories bold enough to make a point but not scream try-hard. Something that says I woke up like this, when we all know I spent three hours perfecting it.”

Minho pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jeongin, you’re not helping.”

“Oh, I’m helping.” Jeongin looked thrilled, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’m going to make sure Hyunjin regrets every second he ever spent pretending to be cool around Felix. He’s going to combust.”

Felix peeked at him through his fingers, exasperated but… also a little giddy. Because beneath the teasing, beneath Minho’s stern warning, beneath Jeongin’s chaos—there was a truth he couldn’t ignore.

Hyunjin had said yes.

And Felix wasn’t sure if he was walking into a disaster or into something that could change everything.

But God, he couldn’t wait to find out.

Jeongin was a menace with a vision.

Within an hour, Felix’s bedroom looked like a Louis Vuitton stockroom had exploded. Jackets draped over his desk chair, shirts slung across the bed, jewelry boxes cracked open on the floor. Felix had been shoved in and out of at least seven outfits, each more ridiculous than the last.

“This one makes you look like you’re going to a funeral for your sugar daddy,” Jeongin muttered, tugging at the sleeve of a velvet blazer before yanking it off Felix’s shoulders. “Nope. Next.”

Felix scowled, arms crossed as Jeongin rummaged through the next pile. “You’re acting like you’re the one going on this date.”

“Correction,” Jeongin shot back, eyes glittering. “I’m the reason your date is going to faint the second he sees you. You’re welcome.”

Behind them, Minho leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold like someone who had already aged ten years. “I can’t believe I let Seungmin drag you into this.”

“Technically,” Felix said sweetly, “you let me get dragged into this. Blame yourself.”

Minho glared. Jeongin cackled.

The next outfit was a crime Jeongin insisted on: a mesh shirt with leather trousers. Felix refused. The one after that was too much gold, like he was auditioning for a role as a disco ball. By the fifth round, Felix threw himself face-first onto the bed, groaning into the sheets.

“I’m done. I’m not doing this anymore. Hyunjin can date me in sweatpants.”

Jeongin froze. Then he gasped, clutching his chest like Felix had just stabbed him. “You dare—you dare—say that to me?” He scrambled onto the bed, grabbed Felix’s wrist, and yanked. “Get up. You’re not embarrassing me like this.”

“I’m not trying to impress him—”

“Yes, you are,” Jeongin interrupted. “And you’re going to do it right.”

Minho finally sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. You have ten more minutes, Jeongin. Then I’m pulling Felix out before you accidentally set him on fire.”

That was when Jeongin found it.

The black Louis Vuitton suit. Sleek, tailored to perfection, sharp lines hugging Felix’s frame like a second skin. Jeongin shoved it into his arms with all the reverence of a priest presenting a holy relic. “Put. This. On.”

Felix rolled his eyes but obeyed. And when he stepped out of the bathroom, rolling the sleeves to show a flash of wrist, the room fell silent.

The wet-look pink hair—styled just messy enough to look intentional—glistened under the light. The collar sat open, not too much but enough. The Louis Vuitton high jewelry Jeongin clasped around his neck and wrists gleamed like armor.

For the first time that night, Minho didn’t say a word.

Jeongin grinned like he’d just won a war. “Oh, he’s cooked. Hyunjin’s not surviving this.”

Felix glanced at the mirror, lips quirking up as heat crept into his cheeks. He hated to admit it, but Jeongin was right. He looked lethal.

Dangerous.

Exactly the way he wanted Hyunjin to see him.

Felix wasn’t ready.

He thought he was ready—Jeongin had spent hours transforming him into a weapon disguised as a model, Minho had grilled him like he was heading off to war, and Felix had spent the last half hour pacing the living room like a cat in a too-small cage. He was prepared for Hyunjin to show up, smirk cockily, maybe toss a sarcastic line.

What he wasn’t prepared for was this.

The knock came, sharp and certain. Felix’s pulse spiked. Minho opened the door first, because of course he did, and there stood Hyunjin… looking like sin wrapped in silk.

All black. Suit tailored within an inch of its life, not a single shirt beneath the jacket, chest bare and collarbones gleaming under the low light of the hallway. Shoes polished to a mirror sheen. A bouquet of blue roses in one hand like he’d stepped out of a fashion editorial.

Jeongin let out a sharp inhale. “Is that—oh my God. Is that Versace?”

Hyunjin blinked, then grinned slow. “Caught me.”

“Versace suit. No shirt. Blue roses.” Jeongin shook his head, whistling low. “You’re not just pulling up to a date, you’re declaring war.”

Minho, still standing in the doorway, narrowed his eyes. “War on what, exactly?”

“On self-control,” Felix muttered under his breath, which thankfully no one caught.

Hyunjin finally looked past them, and when his eyes landed on Felix—standing there in black Louis Vuitton, sleeves rolled, jewelry catching the light, hair slicked back wet and pink—his smile faltered for half a second. Just half. But Felix caught it.

It shot through him like a live wire.

Minho, ever the protector, cleared his throat. “So you’re Hyunjin.” His tone was flat, heavy, and laced with that quiet cousin-manager judgment Felix knew all too well.

Hyunjin just inclined his head, calm as water. “That’s me.” He held out the bouquet, gaze flicking briefly back to Felix. “These are for him.”

Felix’s throat went tight. Blue roses. Who even thought of that? Not white, not red, but blue—rare, deliberate, impossible. He stepped forward, careful fingers brushing Hyunjin’s as he took them. Just a second longer than necessary. Enough to feel warmth. Enough to feel it echo somewhere low in his spine.

“Thanks,” he murmured, quieter than he meant.

Jeongin grinned like a devil behind him. “Yup. He’s cooked.”

Felix shot him a glare sharp enough to peel paint, but it only made Jeongin beam wider. Minho, meanwhile, hadn’t moved from the doorframe, expression unreadable, weighing Hyunjin like he was a chess piece he hadn’t decided whether to allow on the board.

They didn’t linger long. Hyunjin jingled keys in his free hand, tone light. “Shall we?”

Felix followed him out, ignoring Minho’s stare scorching between his shoulder blades. The hallway air felt cooler, sharper, carrying the scent of roses and cologne as Hyunjin led him down the steps.

Then Felix stopped dead.

Parked at the curb under the streetlight was a black Audi R8, sleek and gleaming like a panther at rest. The kind of car that turned heads, even in Seoul where flash was common.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Felix breathed, blinking at the sharp lines of the hood.

Hyunjin turned, smirk sliding onto his mouth like it belonged there. “What?”

“You. A dirty bassist with short hair and too many earrings—driving this?” Felix gestured helplessly at the car. “You’re supposed to have a beat-up van with spray paint on the doors, not a goddamn supercar.”

Hyunjin leaned against the hood, lazy as a king on his throne, keys twirling around his finger. “There’s more you don't know about me.”

Felix froze, breath catching.

That was what he’d said to him, weeks ago, in that smoky bar—the first time he’d let something slip beneath the polished veneer.

Now Hyunjin was handing it back to him.

Felix swallowed hard, roses tight in his grip. He should’ve rolled his eyes. He should’ve fired back some bratty line, snapped the tension before it snapped him. But all he could do was stare, pulse hammering in his ears, wondering just how much more there was to discover—and how far he was willing to go to find out.

The Audi R8 purred beneath him like some living thing, the kind that belonged in glossy commercials with slow-motion shots of city lights and leather interiors. Felix sank into the passenger seat, bouquet of blue roses clutched loosely in his lap, and tried not to gape. Of course Hyunjin drove something like this. Of course he pulled up in all-black, no shirt under his suit, like he was auditioning for the devil’s personal chauffeur.

Jeongin had clocked the brand in two seconds. Minho had judged him with a single eyebrow raise. And Felix? Felix just tried not to melt.

“You’re seriously full of surprises,” he muttered, adjusting the flowers so they didn’t look like they were about to wilt from his grip.

Hyunjin slid the car into gear with that lazy elegance that made everything feel like a performance. “You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

Felix let a slow grin spread across his face. “Didn’t say it was bad. Just… predictable people are boring. Didn’t think you had layers.” He tilted his head, pink hair brushing his cheek as he glanced over. “Guess I underestimated you.”

Hyunjin’s mouth curved, but his eyes stayed on the road. “Careful. Sounds almost like a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Felix fired back instantly, resting his elbow against the door, voice smooth and casual. “I could still tell people you’re a poser who hides a midlife-crisis car in his garage.”

That got Hyunjin’s head snapping toward him for a second, incredulous laugh caught in his throat. Felix leaned back, satisfied, the city lights painting him in streaks of red and gold like the world itself was applauding his win.

Hyunjin recovered quick, of course. “So ignoring me at rehearsal was your master plan? Drive me insane until I pulled you into a room?”

Felix made a show of adjusting his ring, bored, lips quirking. “Worked, didn’t it?”

He didn’t miss the way Hyunjin’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel, or the way his jaw flexed just enough to betray that he was holding something back. Felix basked in it. The brat in him couldn’t help it—teasing Hyunjin was addictive. Like poking a match into dry tinder just to see how fast it flared.

“Unbelievable,” Hyunjin muttered, low under his breath.

Felix hummed, leaning in slightly, voice dropping soft but sharp. “You really don’t know what to do with me, do you?”

The car slowed at a red light, tension stretching taut in the small cabin. Hyunjin turned his head, gaze cutting into him, dark and intense. Anyone else would’ve shrunk under it. Felix only smiled, tilting his chin up like a challenge, like he was daring Hyunjin to push.

“Better figure it out,” Felix added, feigning nonchalance as he picked at the petals of a rose, though his pulse hammered. “I’m not the patient type.”

Chapter Text

The Audi rolled to a stop, sleek against the polished entrance of the Shilla Seoul. Felix craned his neck, blinking at the golden glow spilling from the lobby. The valet opened his door and suddenly he was standing in front of La Yeon.

Felix actually laughed, short and incredulous, brushing a hand through his pink hair. “What the actual hell.”

Hyunjin rounded the car, handing off his keys with practiced ease, bouquet of blue roses now cradled casually in Felix’s arms like a prop. He glanced up at the glowing sign above them, then back at Felix, lips quirking. “What? Not good enough for you?”

“Not good enough?” Felix sputtered, gesturing broadly at the understated elegance of the hotel, the kind of place Minho or his management usually reserved for brand exec dinners or magazine editors. “This is Michelin three stars, not a midnight ramen joint.”

“Glad you noticed,” Hyunjin said smoothly, hand brushing against Felix’s lower back as he guided him inside. Too casual. Too steady. Felix stiffened and covered it with a scoff, clutching the roses tighter.

The restaurant was all clean lines, floor-to-ceiling windows that framed Seoul’s night skyline like a painting. The kind of place where everyone spoke a little softer, moved a little slower, as if afraid to disturb the perfection.

Felix, though, was busy staring at Hyunjin.

Because the rocker didn’t look even a little out of place. Didn’t hesitate when the maître d’ approached. Didn’t blink as he gave the reservation under his name, voice low and calm. Even his walk through the dining room carried that unshakable confidence, black suit draped open to his chest like he was born to belong in two worlds—the neon chaos of a stage and the velvet hush of a luxury restaurant.

Felix sank into his seat across from him, dazed. “You’ve done this before.”

Hyunjin adjusted his cuff, meeting his eyes with infuriating calm. “Once or twice.”

“Once or twice my ass,” Felix muttered. His bratty armor reared up, refusing to let Hyunjin see the awe brewing in his chest. “You’re ordering like some chaebol heir trying to impress his in-laws.”

Hyunjin’s smirk flickered as he flagged down the sommelier. “You’re enjoying yourself too much imagining that.”

Felix tilted his head, grin sharp. “Maybe. Depends if the in-laws approve.”

And then Hyunjin went and did it—rattled off their meal selections with the ease of someone who knew exactly how to balance flavors, finishing with a wine pairing that made the sommelier nod in approval. He didn’t even open the menu.

Felix blinked. “You’re not supposed to be this… this—”

“Competent?” Hyunjin supplied, leaning back.

“Normal,” Felix corrected, though his voice wavered, because normal wasn’t the right word at all. Not when Hyunjin sat across from him like sin wrapped in velvet, perfectly at ease in a space Felix never expected him to own.

Hyunjin only lifted his glass of water, studying Felix over the rim with maddening patience. Like he had all the time in the world to let Felix tie himself in knots.

Felix narrowed his eyes, biting into his lower lip before leaning forward, elbows against the table. “You keep doing that.”

Hyunjin arched a brow. “Doing what?”

“That thing where you act like you’ve got me figured out.” Felix’s grin stretched wide, voice dropping low. “Hate to break it to you, bass boy, but I’m a lot harder to pin down than you think.”

Hyunjin didn’t flinch. Didn’t even smirk. Just let the silence stretch, gaze holding steady like a dare.

And Felix, brat to the bone, basked in the spark crackling under his skin.

Felix dabbed at his mouth with the linen napkin, though really, there wasn’t anything to wipe away. He just needed his hands busy, something to do that wasn’t staring at the man across from him. The flavors of La Yeon still lingered—rich, delicate, impossibly layered—and he couldn’t help the way his shoulders had loosened over the course of the meal. 

Hyunjin, of course, sat perfectly at ease in his all-black suit, lounging back like he owned the place. He didn’t fidget, didn’t pretend at manners—he didn’t need to. The bastard looked like a spread in GQ Korea without even trying.

Felix tipped his glass, letting the last of the wine swirl before he swallowed it down. His throat felt warmer than it should. “That was…” He faltered, words scattering, caught between sincerity and sarcasm. “Honestly? Didn’t expect this level from you.”

Hyunjin’s brow quirked, slow and deliberate. “Good?”

“Good enough,” Felix said, rolling his shoulders like he was brushing the weight off. “I almost forgive you for being cocky about it.”

That was when the smirk appeared—sharp, dangerous, the kind that had no business being legal. “Almost.”

Felix narrowed his eyes, lips twitching. “Don’t push your luck, bass boy.”

Hyunjin leaned in, elbows against the table, gaze steady. His voice was calm, not raised, but the effect landed anyway. “We’re not done yet.”

Felix’s brain immediately supplied a dozen scenarios, each one progressively filthier, and his laugh burst out too quick, too high. “Oh, so that’s how it is. You lure me here, spoil me with a Michelin-star meal, and now you’re gonna suggest dessert in your room?”

No reaction. No twitch, no deflection. Hyunjin simply stood, smoothing his jacket into place, and offered his hand. “Come on.”

Felix blinked, mouth parting before he snapped it shut. “You do realize when you say things like that without context, people assume—”

“Let them,” Hyunjin cut in, already walking toward the elevator.

Felix trailed after, bouquet of blue roses still in his grip like an ironic weapon, muttering under his breath. But when the elevator doors closed, he let himself lean just close enough for his shoulder to brush Hyunjin’s arm. No response, not even a blink. Felix smirked into the mirrored wall. Infuriating.

The hotel room unlocked with a soft beep, door swinging open to understated luxury—cream walls, gold light, and a bed that might as well have been an ambush in disguise. Felix whistled low, propping himself against the wall with a grin.

“Well,” he said, gaze sliding deliberately to the bed, “you work fast.”

Hyunjin didn’t even look at him. He went to the desk, grabbed a sleek black bag, and handed it over with maddening composure. “Change.”

Felix stared at the bag like it might bite him. “This better not be what I think it is.”

“Open it.”

He did, tugging at the ribbon until the flap fell open. Out slid a denim jacket, crisp white shirt, and perfectly tailored jeans—new season, Louis Vuitton, straight off the runway. Felix’s breath caught in his throat.

“You—” He looked from the clothes to Hyunjin, back again. “You brought me a whole look?”

Hyunjin’s shrug was criminally casual. “Didn’t think you’d want to stay in that suit for the next part.”

“The next part?” Felix repeated, voice climbing an octave. He recovered fast, lips curling. “So it really is a costume change for round two. Didn’t peg you for a roleplay guy, but hey, I’m adaptable.”

That earned a snort, the tiniest huff of laughter, which Felix mentally catalogued as a win. “You’re relentless,” Hyunjin muttered.

“And you’re avoiding the question,” Felix shot back, jacket now pressed against his chest. “How the hell do you even know my size?”

Hyunjin leaned against the desk, folding his arms. His gaze moved—lazy, deliberate—from Felix’s shoulders down, unapologetic in its sweep. “Guess I got lucky.”

Felix’s ears burned, heat crawling down his neck. He hid it with a scoff, rolling his eyes like the brat he knew Hyunjin already pegged him to be. “Sure. You just happen to ‘guess’ perfectly. Don’t try me.”

Hyunjin only gave him that half-smile, unreadable, and Felix realized his only option was retreat. He slipped into the bathroom, muttering loud enough for Hyunjin to hear: “If you’re dressing me up like a doll, I’m expecting dinner and dessert.”

The mirror reflected someone else back at him minutes later—denim hugging just right, white shirt soft against his skin, jacket cutting sharp lines over his shoulders. He wet his pink hair back, slicked it to emphasize the jawline he usually softened with curls, and when he stepped out, Hyunjin was waiting.

And Hyunjin had changed too. Black Chrome Hearts sweatshirt, black jeans, beanie tugged low. Effortless. Dark. The kind of casual that whispered money without ever trying.

Felix leaned on the doorframe, grin sharp enough to cut. “So what are we, matching outfits now? You dressing me just so we could coordinate? Couple-core?”

Hyunjin’s smirk deepened as he pocketed his keys. “Don’t tempt me.”

And Felix’s chest twisted. Shit. Because he wasn’t sure if Hyunjin was joking.

The Audi was a predator on Seoul’s late-night streets, sleek and low, its black body devouring every neon reflection that slid across its surface. Felix leaned back in the passenger seat, Louis Vuitton denim jacket creasing just so, the silver hardware catching glints of passing light. His hair—wet, pink, sharp—dripped attitude, and the rolled-up cuffs on his pants exposed just enough ankle for the world to know he’d dressed to kill.

And yet—next to Hyunjin, all in black, no shirt beneath his jacket at dinner, now drowned in Chrome Hearts and the kind of quiet confidence that couldn’t be taught—Felix felt like maybe, just maybe, he was the one being dressed down instead of up.

He crossed his arms, pointed his chin at the bag still tucked at his feet. “So. Tell me. What was the point of dragging me to the Shilla, feeding me like royalty, then bolting the second I was starting to think you weren’t entirely hopeless?”

Hyunjin didn’t even flinch. One hand on the wheel, the other loose against the gearshift, his voice steady as smoke. “Because I wanted to.”

Felix blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He let out a sharp laugh, disbelieving, watching the way passing streetlights carved Hyunjin’s jawline into something unreal. “You’re infuriating, you know that?”

Hyunjin only hummed, low and amused, eyes still pinned to the road. “And yet you’re here.”

Felix kicked the inside of the door lightly, biting back a grin. God, the arrogance. The worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

When the car finally slid into a narrow alley pulsing faintly with bass, Felix’s brows shot up. The building tucked between garish neon karaoke signs was the kind of place you’d walk right past unless you knew better—brick walls, black windows, one single door lit by a faint red bulb.

“You’re kidding.” Felix turned toward him. “From Shilla to…this?”

“Mm.” Hyunjin’s mouth curled as he shifted into park. “What’s the problem?”

Felix scoffed. “Problem is you’re impossible to read. What even is this? Your secret lair?”

Hyunjin shrugged like he hadn’t just upended Felix’s entire sense of expectation. “Part of my world.”

The bouncer nodded them in without a word, and suddenly Felix was drenched in dim light and heavy sound. Smoke curled in the corners, laughter rising over clinking glasses, bodies moving to a beat too low for polite company. It smelled of cologne, whiskey, and cigarette smoke—foreign and magnetic.

Felix trailed behind Hyunjin, trying not to stare as heads turned. Of course they did. The bastard didn’t just enter a room—he shifted it. Even in a sweatshirt and beanie, he radiated that stage-born charisma, the kind people could smell on the air.

And sure enough, two girls broke from the bar, tentative smiles on their faces, clutching napkins and phones.

“Hyunjin-ssi? From Creed?” one of them asked, half shy, half giddy.

Hyunjin’s mouth softened—Felix clocked it immediately. That wasn’t the smirk he gave onstage. This one was gentler, boyish almost. He took the napkin, signed his name with a quick flourish, and passed it back.

Felix leaned against the nearest column, arms folded tight, smirk fixed sharp enough to cut glass. He told himself he wasn’t watching too closely, but his eyes stayed pinned anyway.

And then—one of them reached, fingers brushing over Hyunjin’s arm as she took back her napkin. Quick. Casual. Innocent.

Felix’s jaw clenched before he even realized. It was subtle, nothing dramatic, but the burn in his chest was instant and ugly. That wasn’t bratty irritation. That was jealousy—raw, uninvited, and inconvenient as hell.

Hyunjin didn’t so much as blink. Just let the girls float back into the crowd, shoulders still loose, eyes calm, expression unreadable. Felix wanted to scream at him for being so goddamn composed.

When Hyunjin finally turned back toward him, Felix dropped his smirk like a blade. “Should I be charging them for touching what isn’t theirs?”

The bassist’s gaze cut to him, sharp and deliberate. For the briefest second, Felix thought he saw something flicker—interest, amusement, maybe both.

“Careful,” Hyunjin murmured, voice low enough to thread beneath the music. “You almost sound possessive.”

Felix’s pulse jumped, traitorous. His mouth ran anyway. “Maybe I am.”

Hyunjin tilted his head, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth before he turned away, leading them deeper into the club. Cool. Unbothered. Like he hadn’t just detonated Felix’s chest cavity with a single sentence.

Felix trailed after him, denim crisp, jewelry catching the low light, bratty façade cracking just enough for him to wonder—quietly, dangerously—what else Hyunjin could unravel if he really wanted to.

The club was slick with shadows, basslines pulsing through the floor like a heartbeat, the kind that made conversation feel like a secret. Felix leaned against the bar, pink hair catching the strobes in flashes of rose gold, denim brushing against leather as the crowd pressed and swayed.

Hyunjin didn’t bother with words at first. He just leaned an elbow against the counter, dark and infuriatingly composed, black beanie tugged low so only the sharp cut of his jaw and the glint of earrings caught the light. When the bartender came over, Hyunjin ordered like he’d done this a thousand times—quiet, steady, no hesitation.

One whiskey on the rocks.
One tequila on the rocks.

The glasses slid across the polished surface.

Felix frowned at his. Tequila. Not the sugary cocktails strangers usually shoved at him, not champagne like people assumed he lived on. No—this. The exact drink Hyunjin had caught him with the first night they spoke, the one that had tipped their whole banter sideways.

Felix’s lips twitched. “Tequila, huh? You’ve been paying attention.”

Hyunjin clinked his own glass lightly against Felix’s. “I don’t forget things worth remembering.”

The burn went down smooth, all fire and salt and defiance. Felix set the glass down harder than necessary, the rim kissing the wood with a satisfying thud. His throat was hot, chest warmer, but the heat wasn’t all alcohol.

He smirked, tilting his head. “What now, rockstar? You gonna sit there and measure how fast I drink?”

Hyunjin took a slow sip of whiskey, eyes unreadable over the rim. “Depends. You planning to give me something worth measuring?”

Felix barked a laugh, sharp and bratty, leaning just close enough to let his perfume ghost the air between them. “Cute. You’re not half as cool as you think.”

“Good thing I don’t care what you think,” Hyunjin replied, voice smooth as smoke, though his gaze didn’t drift once.

Felix hated—hated—how that steadiness made his chest squeeze. So he did the only thing he knew worked: he moved.

He slid off the stool in one practiced motion, shirt riding just enough, boots thudding against the floor. “If you wanna play like that…” He didn’t bother finishing. He just tossed the words over his shoulder like glitter, already cutting through the press of bodies.

The dance floor swallowed him whole.

The air was heat and strobe-light static, bass rattling ribs. Felix let it take him, hips rolling sharp to the beat, arms loose, chest arching with every sway. He bent and turned, slow when the rhythm snapped, fast when it cracked open. His flannel slipped open wider with each twist, skin flashing pale under violet lights.

He danced like a provocation. Like an answer. Like a dare.

And because he knew—because he felt it—Felix turned, just once, through the smoke and neon.

Hyunjin was still at the bar, glass in hand, but his stare was a chain yanking Felix to the surface. It pinned him in place, heavy and hot, like the crowd didn’t exist at all.

Felix grinned, slow and wicked, teeth catching the corner of his lip. He tilted his chin, a half-dare, half-invitation, before spinning away, letting the lights claim him again. His body snapped to the rhythm, sharper now, more deliberate—because every move was for him, for that man at the bar.

The smirk lingered on Felix’s mouth as the crowd closed around him, swallowing the space between them. If Hyunjin wanted to play it cool, Felix would make sure he burned.

And when the track dropped, Felix lifted his hands above his head, rolling his hips with unbothered precision, smirk painted on his face like he’d already won.

Chapter Text

Felix had been winning. At least, that’s what he told himself.

The crowd swallowed him like an ocean, his body rolling and twisting with practiced ease, every flick of his hips and snap of his arms bait meant for the dark figure still perched at the bar. He could feel the stare on him—could taste it, sharp and electric.

But when the crowd shifted, a ripple moving like a current, Felix realized too late that the bastard had moved.

Hyunjin was no longer at the bar.

He was here.

Felix froze for a heartbeat when their eyes locked, a spark cutting straight through the strobe and smoke. And then Hyunjin stepped in, slow but certain, slipping through dancers like gravity bent for him alone.

The moment Hyunjin reached him, the air thinned. Felix had seen him command a stage, bass slung low, smirk like a weapon. He hadn’t expected this. The way Hyunjin’s body moved, fluid and unhurried, a language all its own. Not sharp like Felix’s teasing lines but sinuous, deliberate, heavy with intent.

When Hyunjin swayed in close, rolling his shoulders, sliding into the rhythm like he owned it—Felix forgot to breathe.

“You—” Felix started, voice snatched by the bass. “—you can dance?”

Hyunjin smirked, that infuriating curve of his mouth illuminated briefly by a flash of neon. He didn’t answer with words. He just leaned in, hips brushing against Felix’s with the rhythm, their bodies fitting almost too well.

Felix’s pulse tripped. His skin burned where they touched, even fleetingly, shirt clinging to his back under the heat. He told himself it was just the music, the tequila, the adrenaline—but when Hyunjin spun back and pulled him along with a hand ghosting dangerously low at his waist, Felix’s mind stuttered with one very unhelpful thought.

Like they were made for this. Like they were made for each other.

Felix bit his lip hard, chasing composure, but it crumbled when Hyunjin leaned in, close enough that Felix caught the whiskey on his breath. His lips brushed Felix’s ear, not quite a whisper, not quite a tease.

“Still think you’re winning?”

Felix shivered. And hated it. And wanted more.

And then they were moving again, caught in a rhythm that belonged to no one else, a push and pull that had them colliding like the bass had been written for them. Felix forgot the crowd existed. Forgot the club. Forgot everything except the way Hyunjin’s chest brushed his, the flex of his thighs in time with the beat, the heat of his gaze dragging him closer, closer.

Their mouths hovered, suspended in the narrowest breath of space. Felix’s lips parted before he could stop them, breath catching sharp. He could see every dark fleck in Hyunjin’s eyes, the sheen of sweat on his temple, the smirk threatening to soften into something else.

It would take nothing. Just one tilt, one reckless heartbeat—

And then someone bumped into them, laughter spilling as the stranger slipped past, shattering the spell.

Hyunjin only leaned back half an inch, smirk curling sharper now, but his eyes—those eyes—burned like they knew exactly what almost happened.

Felix exhaled hard, chest heaving, lips tingling with the ghost of something stolen away. He wanted to curse. He wanted to laugh. Mostly, he wanted to grab that smug bastard and finish what the universe had just interrupted.

Felix had assumed the night was over.

After the chaos of the bar, after the almost-kiss that still throbbed like static on his lips, he thought Hyunjin would call it, drive him back, let them both stew in silence. A clean exit. Curtain drop.

But Hyunjin never played by the script Felix had drafted in his head.

The Audi hummed smooth through empty streets, neon bleeding across the glass, the city pulling its glittering blanket tighter around itself. Felix slouched in the passenger seat, head tipped against the window, pretending not to glance at Hyunjin’s profile every few seconds—jaw sharp, hair falling soft into his face, one hand loose on the wheel like he’d been born with it.

When the car finally slowed, Felix frowned. This wasn’t the way home. Not even close.

The river opened up in front of them like a stage curtain parting, wide and dark, with the lights of Seoul scattered across its surface in a trembling reflection. Hyunjin pulled into a spot like he owned it, killed the engine, and leaned back with maddening calm.

Felix raised a brow. “What’s your deal now? Don’t tell me this is the part where you confess your undying love, because honestly? Way too predictable.”

Hyunjin didn’t even crack. Just glanced at him, lips twitching, and shrugged. “Relax, Lix. Thought a late-night walk wouldn’t hurt.”

The nickname hit like a sucker punch.

Felix’s chest stuttered before his brain could catch up, and suddenly the window glass wasn’t nearly cool enough against his cheek. Lix. Casual, unthinking. Like it belonged in Hyunjin’s mouth. He fought to school his expression, to keep the inevitable curl of a smirk plastered on his face instead of showing just how hard that one syllable knocked him off balance.

“Whatever,” he muttered, shoving the heat down. “Lead the way, bass boy.”

Hyunjin opened his door without another word, and the cool autumn air slipped in, tugging Felix out after him. His boots hit the pavement, crunching softly as they fell into step side by side.

The river glimmered under the city’s glow, water rippling with the hush of something eternal, a heartbeat older than either of them. Felix stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, unsure if the cold air or Hyunjin’s silence was more dangerous.

Then Hyunjin’s head tilted, catching on something. Felix followed his gaze and nearly laughed out loud.

A squat little food cart, its sign barely hanging on, stood under a dim streetlamp. The ahjumma inside was fanning smoke from a tray of roasted potatoes, her face flushed from the heat.

“Don’t you dare,” Felix muttered, already sensing it.

Too late. Hyunjin’s entire face split open with the kind of grin Felix had never seen outside of staged photos. Dimples digging deep, eyes scrunching as he called out a cheerful greeting. The ahjumma lit up in return, smacking his arm fondly, chiding him for not visiting more, then thrust a foil packet of steaming-hot potatoes into his hands.

Felix… froze.

Because this wasn’t the Hyunjin he knew. Not the smug rockstar who smirked like he owned the air people breathed. This was someone softer. Someone who bowed his head a little, laughed without caring, shoulders shaking easy as the ahjumma teased him. Someone whose dimples appeared like they weren’t a weapon, but a truth.

And Felix was staring. He knew he was staring, but couldn’t stop. When Hyunjin turned back, catching his eyes, Felix felt his stomach drop.

“What?” Hyunjin asked, tearing open the foil packet with his rings glinting under the streetlight.

Felix cleared his throat, biting back the truth. “…nothing. Just didn’t expect to see you making besties with potato lady.”

Hyunjin chuckled, breaking one of the potatoes in half and handing it over. “She’s been here for years. My go-to spot when I need time for myself.”

Felix blinked, caught off guard by the honesty dropped so casually. The steam curled between them, the potato burning hot against his palms, but it was the words that warmed sharper.

Hyunjin had a place like this. A piece of the city that belonged to him. A secret carved out of the chaos where he could just… be.

Something twisted sharp in Felix’s chest, and he hated—no, loved—how much he wanted to know more.

He bit into the potato, wincing at the heat. “So, what, you’re a rockstar by day and… soft boy potato prince by night?”

Hyunjin laughed, and the sound vibrated right through him, low and rich, scattering Felix’s thoughts like fireworks.

Felix pulled his cap lower, pretending the flush in his ears was from the steam, not the way Hyunjin’s dimples flashed again.

They walked along the riverside, foil packet of roasted potatoes between them like some fragile peace treaty. The night had thinned; fewer cars on the bridge above, just the soft slap of water against stone and the crackle of tinfoil every time one of them reached in.

Felix tried not to look like he was stealing glances. Tried not to notice how Hyunjin’s shoulders seemed broader under that black sweatshirt, or how the beanie framed his face, shadows playing across his jaw. Tried not to think about the word still echoing like a dare in his head.

Lix.

He’d never liked nicknames much—always felt like some magazine trick, a way to package him neater. But in Hyunjin’s voice, it wasn’t neat at all. It was messy, reckless, too intimate. Like Hyunjin had cracked open a door Felix didn’t even know he’d kept locked.

Hyunjin’s voice broke through his spiraling.

“So,” he said, casual but cutting, “how’s the date treating you?”

Felix blinked, potato halfway to his mouth. “Come again?”

“The date.” Hyunjin smirked, shoving another piece of potato into his mouth like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just detonated a word that sent Felix’s chest lurching. “You know. Shilla. Blue roses. World-class dinner. Tequila at the club. Potatoes by the river. The whole shebang.”

Felix scoffed, tossing his hair back with all the dramatic flair he could summon. “Date? This is what you call a date? Bit tragic, don’t you think? You drag me through cliché central like some budget drama.”

Hyunjin only hummed, unbothered. “And yet you’re still here.”

That smugness. Felix wanted to punch him and kiss him in the same breath.

He clicked his tongue, feigning disdain. “I stayed because you bribed me with carbs. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Mm.” Hyunjin chewed thoughtfully, eyes glinting under the streetlights. “You’re really bad at lying, you know that?”

Felix nearly choked on his potato. He turned, ready with a retort sharp enough to slice, but Hyunjin was already watching him, that maddening calm plastered on his face. Cool as ever. Too cool.

And Felix—god help him—felt the swoon hit. Hard.

The bastard had just handed him roses, dressed like sin in a black suit, and was now casually strolling the Han River feeding him roasted potatoes like it was the most normal thing in the world. Who did that? Who got to be both rockstar and soft boy potato prince at the same time?

He wasn’t supposed to like it. Wasn’t supposed to like him.

So Felix did what Felix always did—wrapped his messy heart in bratty armor.

“You know,” he drawled, licking salt from his thumb just to watch Hyunjin’s eyes flick there, “for a guy who thinks he’s smooth, you’re a bit obvious. What’s next, you gonna ask me to hold hands under the moonlight?”

Hyunjin didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just leaned the tiniest fraction closer, his voice low enough that Felix felt it under his skin.

“Would you say yes if I did?”

Felix’s heart stuttered. His brain screamed at him to look away, to roll his eyes, to deflect—but his mouth was too busy curving into a smirk that felt dangerously like surrender.

“Guess you’ll have to try harder to find out, Rockstar.”

And there it was—the glimpse, the slip, the truth shining through the bratty veneer. Because for the first time, Felix wasn’t sure he wanted to win this game.

The walk back to the car was quieter, though not heavy. The kind of quiet that hummed between them like static, filled with too many unsaid things. Felix shoved his hands into his pockets, fiddled with his rings, tried not to look like he was replaying every word, every glance, every laugh from the past few hours.

Hyunjin didn’t push conversation. Just walked at his side, easy strides, occasionally bumping their shoulders together like it was an accident. It wasn’t. Felix knew it.

The Audi purred awake with a touch, sleek black against the glow of the street lamps. Felix slid into the passenger seat, the leather swallowing him up, smelling faintly of smoke and bergamot and something that had to be Hyunjin.

He kept his gaze on the window during the drive, city lights blurring gold and white. Anything to keep from staring at the man behind the wheel, sharp jaw backlit by neon, fingers drumming against the steering wheel like he was composing a song only he could hear.

When they pulled up to Felix’s building, reality hit harder than expected. The night had to end somewhere.

Felix unbuckled, clutching the foil packet of leftover potatoes like a souvenir. “Well. That was—” He stopped himself before the word nice could escape. Nice was too soft. Too telling. Too dangerous. “—entertaining.”

Hyunjin leaned on the wheel with one elbow, smirk tugging at his lips. “Entertaining. High praise, coming from you.”

Felix rolled his eyes, already reaching for the door handle. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

And then—just as he was stepping out—Hyunjin moved.

A hand reached across the console, fingers brushing against Felix’s temple, tucking a loose strand of pink hair behind his ear. The touch was featherlight, but it landed like a lightning strike, freezing Felix mid-step.

Hyunjin’s thumb lingered for half a second too long, his voice low and unhurried. “Pink suits you.”

Felix forgot how to breathe.

By the time he turned—ready to fire back some cutting retort, anything to ground himself—the door had clicked shut. The Audi pulled away, taillights streaking red against the night.

Felix stood there on the curb, jaw slack, foil packet dangling in his hand, heart pounding so loud he swore the whole block could hear it.

All for one stupid touch.

All for one stupid compliment.

He hated how badly he already wanted more.

Chapter Text

Hyunjin wasn’t supposed to say yes.

It should’ve ended as another round of their ridiculous game—Felix tossing bait like confetti, Hyunjin catching it, batting it back, both of them pretending this wasn’t spiraling into something sharper. But when Felix leaned in with that sly grin and said, take me on a date, Hyunjin didn’t even pause. He’d agreed on instinct, the word sliding out of his mouth like it was waiting there.

Maybe that was the first mistake.

Because once he said yes, the dare became real. And Hyunjin didn’t half-ass dares.

Planning the date wasn’t difficult—he had resources, more than he liked admitting. Privilege had shadowed every part of his life, from the driver waiting at the curb to the staff who memorized his family’s orders before he even walked into a restaurant. He’d spent years trying to shrug it off, pushing back against the suffocating ease of wealth. Music had been his escape. A band, rehearsals in musty basements, nights where sweat and sound were all that mattered—those had saved him from becoming another polished heir locked in marble halls.

But Felix had asked for a date, and something in Hyunjin refused to give him anything less than spectacle.

The blue roses had been a deliberate choice—rare, striking, impossible not to look at. He still remembered the way Felix blinked when he saw them, the quick, betraying hitch in his breath before the brat mask slid back on. Minho’s judging stare had been expected. Jeongin’s playful chirp about Versace had been amusing. But it was Felix’s jaw slackening that Hyunjin tucked away, like a private victory.

Then the car.

The Audi R8 had been sitting idle for weeks, hidden in a garage like a dirty secret. Hyunjin hadn’t touched it in months, preferring late-night subway rides or the anonymity of his feet on pavement. Pulling up in it had been a calculated move, one meant to tilt Felix off balance again. And judging by the way Felix’s voice had pitched, the way he’d jabbed about clichés only for Hyunjin to echo Felix’s own words—there’s more you don’t know about me—the move had landed.

La Yeon had been deliberate, too. Hyunjin could’ve chosen a hole-in-the-wall place, something that screamed casual rebellion, but he wanted to watch Felix wrestle with expectations. Would the model keep that mask on in a Michelin-starred dining room? Or would he let something real slip through the cracks?

The way Felix’s eyes had widened, the soft sound he made when the first plates were laid down—it was better than Hyunjin expected. He’d filed it away in his mind like a song lyric he didn’t want to forget.

And then the club.

The outfit change had been the bait. The denim jacket, the perfect fit—he’d known exactly what he was doing. Felix looked at him like he’d been handed a crown, even if he covered it up with sarcasm.

The club, though—that’s where the script burned.

Hyunjin had expected Felix to tease, maybe even show off a little. What he hadn’t expected was the way their bodies locked into rhythm, like they were built to fit. Felix was reckless fire on the dance floor, daring Hyunjin to close the gap, to kiss him, to lose. And for a moment—just one beat—Hyunjin almost did.

But he didn’t. That wasn’t the game. Not yet.

So he shifted gears. Han River, a quieter stage. It hadn’t been in the plan, but watching Felix munch roasted potatoes with wide eyes, watching him blink at Hyunjin laughing with the ahjumma—it felt… necessary. Felix kept staring, caught off guard by a side of Hyunjin he hadn’t predicted. That alone was worth the detour.

The nickname had slipped out—Lix. Hyunjin hadn’t meant to use it, but the reaction was immediate. Felix froze, pink brushing his ears, sarcasm stuttering for half a second. Hyunjin filed that away too.

He replayed the whole evening as he drove Felix home, each memory looping like a riff. The roses. The car. The restaurant. The tequila. The almost-kiss. The brat who kept baiting him, and the cracks in that brat’s armor Hyunjin found himself obsessed with.

The final moment replayed clearest of all. Pulling up outside Felix’s building, watching him fumble for composure, Hyunjin had reached across without thinking. Tucked a strand of pink hair behind his ear, let his thumb brush just enough to make Felix freeze.

“Pink suits you.”

The way Felix’s jaw had dropped—it had been the cherry on top of the night. Proof that he could disarm him just as easily as Felix disarmed him.

It hadn’t been romance. He kept telling himself that. It was strategy. A move in their back-and-forth. Another way to remind Felix: two can play this game.

Still—he couldn’t deny it anymore.

He liked the challenge.

And Lee Felix was proving to be one hell of a challenge.

Hyunjin barely made it past the front door before his phone started buzzing like it had caught fire. He kicked off his boots, dropped his keys on the counter, and flopped face-first onto the couch, groaning into a cushion. He didn’t need to check the screen to know what it was.

CREED’s group chat had only one rule: if someone slipped, everyone dogpiled. And apparently, tonight, he was the designated sacrifice.

The buzzing didn’t stop. Ten, fifteen, twenty notifications in the span of a minute. He gave in, rolling over and unlocking his phone. The screen lit up with exactly what he expected:

🐷🐰: 🕵️‍♂️ sooooooo how was the “not-date”?
🐹: [attached: a meme of a raccoon holding a bouquet] this you?
🐺: 👀 spill hyune

Hyunjin sighed, dragging a hand over his face. He should’ve known Seungmin would’ve fed Jisung some kind of intel, and Jisung? That kid couldn’t keep secrets if his life depended on it. Which meant by the time Hyunjin opened the thread, the whole band already had their popcorn out.

🥟: it wasn’t a date.
🐷🐰: lmaoooooo ok jan
🐹: bro u pulled up in a suit. with. roses. 💀💀💀
🐺: not to mention the song

That made Hyunjin pause. His stomach dropped—not in panic, but irritation. He sat up, scowling at the screen.

🥟: what song.
🐺: the one you brought last week. the one with the suspiciously romantic chord progression 👀
🐷🐰: “walking disaster w freckles” is so subtle of u btw
🐹: hyunjin i am BEGGING u to at least lie better

Hyunjin threw his head back with a groan. Of course this was happening. One impulsive lyric session—scribbling out lines at 3 AM because Felix’s laugh wouldn’t leave his skull—and suddenly it was the band’s favorite chew toy.

🥟: it’s not about him.
🐺: right right right
🐺: anyway good news / bad news

Hyunjin narrowed his eyes. This was how Chan always started his traps.

🥟: …
🐺: good news: the song got green lit ✅ it’s going on the next setlist.
🐺: bad news (for you): i’m telling felix.

Hyunjin almost dropped his phone. His pulse jumped.

🥟: you wouldn’t.
🐺: oh i would 😌
🐷🐰: do it do it do it do it
🐹: felix deserves to know that he's a muse 🥺

Hyunjin covered his face with one hand. He could practically hear their laughter echoing through the city, three idiots in three different apartments, all living for his suffering.

But instead of irritation tightening his chest, a smirk spread across his face.

Of course Chan would pull this. Of course the band would circle like vultures. And maybe—just maybe—that was fine. Because if Felix thought he was the only one capable of playing this game, maybe it was time Hyunjin stopped reacting and started controlling the board.

He scrolled out of the group chat, ignoring the fresh notifications piling in. Opened a new thread. Felix’s name blinking at the top. Their texts from last night sat there like an open dare, Felix’s bratty innuendos still staring back at him.

But this time, Hyunjin didn’t take the bait. Didn’t wait for Felix to make the first move. No roses. No backhanded banter. Just something sharp, clean, impossible to ignore.

Hyunjin: Friday. 8 PM. Be ready.

No smiley. No explanation. No begging. Just a statement.

He tossed the phone onto the coffee table and leaned back, smirk still tugging at his mouth. He knew Felix well enough now—curiosity would eat him alive. He’d cave, because Felix Lee didn’t know how to let a mystery dangle without trying to unravel it.

And for the first time since this push-and-pull began, Hyunjin wasn’t following Felix’s lead. He wasn’t dancing around the brat’s games.

This time, he was setting the stage himself.

And he couldn’t wait to see how the blond would handle it.

Hyunjin didn’t even bother checking if Felix replied. He left the message hanging there like a gauntlet thrown on the floor, shoved his phone face down, and stretched out on the couch with a sharp exhale.

For the first time in weeks, he felt like he had the upper hand.

Felix had been steering this entire thing since the beginning. The brat had a way of worming into Hyunjin’s head without asking for permission—his voice stuck in Hyunjin’s ears, his pink hair flashing behind Hyunjin’s eyelids at 3 AM, his laughter replaying louder than any demo track. Even when they weren’t together, Felix’s presence lingered, a phantom tugging at Hyunjin’s nerves.

Hyunjin had always known he was reckless, but he wasn’t stupid. He could tell what was happening. The line between “challenge” and “addiction” was already blurring—and that was dangerous.

So he did what he always did when things started to spin too close to his chest. He shifted the focus. He planned.

Friday.

He let the word roll in his head like a bassline, steady, inevitable. He wasn’t going to wait around for Felix’s next bratty play. This time, he was setting the rhythm, controlling the stage.

His mind wandered to the logistics. He could play it safe, something low-key, private. Felix was a supermodel—paparazzi were everywhere, waiting for a slip. But then again, Hyunjin wasn’t interested in safe. He wasn’t the type to tiptoe around spectacle. If Felix wanted games, Hyunjin would hand him the whole damn casino.

Still, he couldn’t just wing it. Not with Felix. The blond was too sharp, too quick, the kind who would tear apart any plan with a sly grin if he sensed hesitation. Hyunjin needed the date to hit the sweet spot between reckless and calculated.

He tugged his hair back, pacing across his apartment. His gaze caught on his bass leaning against the wall, the notebook lying open on the coffee table with half-scribbled lyrics. He thought about Felix again, unhelpfully, about the way he looked at Han River when he thought nobody was watching, like the world had just cracked open for him.

Hyunjin scoffed, shaking it off. Not the point.

The point was control.

The point was proving he could do more than react to Felix’s smirks and bratty one-liners.

The point was reminding Felix that Hyunjin wasn’t just some bassist with good hair and unlucky timing—he was someone who could knock Felix Lee, Mr. Untouchable Supermodel, right off his pedestal if he wanted to.

He smirked, imagining Felix’s face when Friday arrived. Surprise was half the thrill.

Maybe he’d go sleek again—something sharp, tailored. Maybe all black, something that screamed dangerous instead of polished. He could already hear Felix’s sarcastic little comments, already picture the way he’d mask his awe with a bratty jab.

And Hyunjin would just let him talk. Let him dig his own grave with that clever mouth. Because this time, Felix wasn’t going to get the last word.

His phone buzzed on the table. Hyunjin didn’t check it. He didn’t need to. He knew Felix would bite. Curiosity would eat him alive until Friday came.

Hyunjin leaned against the wall, arms folded, the smirk still tugging at his lips.

For the first time, it didn’t feel like he was chasing Felix’s fire.

It felt like he was holding the match.

Chapter Text

Felix woke up the next morning and instantly regretted it.

The date—if that’s what it even was—unspooled in his head like a highlight reel he couldn’t pause. The roses. The car. The five-star dinner like he was in a k-drama. The outfit change that made him want to roll his eyes and swoon at the same time. The almost kiss at the bar, the walk by the Han River, Hyunjin laughing with the ahjumma like he wasn’t a brooding rockstar but some boy-next-door with dimples. And then—of all things—Hyunjin calling him Lix.

Felix groaned, dragging a pillow over his face. He was supposed to have the upper hand here. This was supposed to be a game. Why the hell was he lying in bed grinning like a teenager with his first crush?

Of course, the universe didn’t give him time to wallow. His phone buzzed violently against the nightstand.

The Council of Chaos group chat was already on fire.

🐶: rise n shine, sunshine boy ☀️
🦊: did u sleep well after ur date 🥰
🐶: [screenshot attached] caught in 4k staring at him like he’s the last potato on earth

Felix shot upright. “You didn’t—”

Another buzz.

🦊: so u admit it was a date 👀
🐶: 👆 confession right there
🦊: tell us EVERYTHING rn or i’ll start a rumor u held hands

Felix’s thumbs flew across the keyboard.

🐥: first of all, y’all are MENACES
🐥: second of all, it wasn’t a date
🐥: third of all, i wasn’t staring 🙄

Three dots blinked.

🐶: he called u Lix, didn’t he?

Felix’s jaw dropped. “How the hell—”

🦊: OMG HE DID BAHAHAHA
🐶: ur blushing rn i just know it

Felix hurled his phone onto the mattress like it was radioactive. They were insufferable. Absolutely insufferable.

And yet, his chest was warm. Stupidly warm.

But if Seungmin and Jeongin were bad, Minho was worse.

Felix padded into the kitchen only to find his cousin waiting like a cat who’d cornered its prey. Arms crossed, mug in hand, eyes narrowed into slits.

“So,” Minho said, in that calm, terrifying voice. “How was your date?”

Felix froze with a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. “It wasn’t a date.”

Minho’s brow arched. “Hyunjin showed up at the building in a Versace suit, handed you roses, and drove you off in a black Audi R8. If that’s not a date, then what is it?”

Felix sputtered, heat crawling up his neck. “We… ate potatoes,” he muttered, instantly regretting the words.

Minho blinked. Once. Twice. “Potatoes.”

“Yes?” Felix squeaked.

A long silence stretched. Minho finally sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like Felix was single-handedly shortening his lifespan. “You are going to kill me one day.”

Then, without missing a beat, he switched gears. “Schedule check. Tamburins campaign shoot today at eleven, Vogue Korea meeting tomorrow at two, and don’t forget to send final notes for your Valentino spread. We also need to review your social media posts—branding wants more effortless candid shots. So for once, try not to look like you’re plotting someone’s downfall in every picture.”

Felix rolled his eyes, reclaiming his toast with exaggerated dignity. “Yes, manager-nim,” he drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Because this was the cycle. Minho the protective cousin, then Minho the manager. And Felix played his part. Dutiful, composed, Supermodel Lee Felix. The brat with pink hair vanished into the professional.

Hours later, he was at the studio, back in his element.

Tamburins’ new campaign, “SUNSHINE,” was built entirely around him. Soft golden backdrops, glowing skin, radiance bottled into every shot. Felix smiled for the camera, leaned into poses, let himself become the brand’s vision. He was the sun they wanted him to be—warm, untouchable, luminous.

The shoot wrapped with applause and bows. Felix exhaled, finally peeling off the last outfit when the PR manager appeared at his side with a sleek black box.

“A small gift for our sunshine,” she said warmly.

Inside: the black Dion Lee bone marle long sleeve top, perfectly fitted leather pants, his name practically stitched into the seams.

Felix’s lips curved into a slow smirk. Because waiting unread in his messages was Hyunjin’s text:

Hyunjin: Friday. 8 PM. Be ready.

Felix trailed a hand across the new clothes, laughter bubbling up his chest. For once, Hyunjin was the one inviting.

And Felix already knew the answer.

He was going. And he was going to look devastating while doing it.

The Dion Lee top fit like sin, clinging in all the right places, leather pants sharp enough to slice, and Felix’s pink hair slicked back into a bun that whispered sleek confidence. He checked himself one last time in the mirror before Jeongin whistled from the couch.

“You’re not walking into a photoshoot, hyung,” Jeongin teased, eyes glinting with mischief.

Felix only smirked, sliding his rings into place. “I can’t help it if I’m the photoshoot.”

Seungmin leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, gaze sweeping up and down Felix’s outfit with surgical precision. “Subtle,” he deadpanned. “Really low-key. Nobody will notice you at all.”

Felix rolled his eyes, tugging at the hem of his top. “It’s a club, not a library. You could stand to dress up too.”

Seungmin arched an eyebrow, tugging at the hem of his own fitted black turtleneck and blazer. “Unlike you, I don’t need to impress anyone. My boyfriend’s already mine.” His eyes sharpened, landing squarely on Felix. “Can’t say the same about you, though.”

Jeongin snorted so hard he nearly choked. “God, you two are worse than my parents.”

Felix shoved him lightly on the shoulder, refusing to let Seungmin’s jab land. “Please. I don’t need to impress anyone. But if a certain someone happens to choke on his whiskey when he sees me, that’s not my problem.”

Seungmin gave him a look that screamed sure, Jan. Jeongin’s laughter only made Felix’s smirk stretch wider.

The club was buzzing, lights low and heavy, music pulsing like a second heartbeat. The moment Felix walked through the doors, heads turned. Whispers followed. The cameras of strangers lingered on his silhouette.

Felix soaked it in like champagne. Shoulders straight, stride lazy but precise, the aura of a man who knew every eye belonged to him. Jeongin stuck close on one side, Seungmin on the other, both of them watching as the room practically bent toward him.

And then CREED entered.

Felix’s breath stuttered. Just for a second.

Hyunjin was a walking sin in black leather—jacket brushing past his hips, tank clinging to a body Felix already knew too well in flashes and guesses, leather pants sitting low on his frame. His hair was brushed up just enough to look effortless, like he hadn’t spent half an hour perfecting it. The bastard looked like every forbidden thought Felix had ever sworn not to entertain.

And of course, Hyunjin’s eyes found him. Instantly.

Felix’s smirk curved sharp and deliberate, his silent declaration: I dressed for you too, and I know you noticed.

Jeongin, the little devil, leaned closer with a grin that spelled trouble. “You two should just get a room before you set this place on fire.”

Seungmin made a strangled noise that was half-laugh, half-groan, his gaze flicking from Felix to Hyunjin and back again. “Honestly, it’s like watching two horny middle-schoolers pretending they hate each other.”

Felix ignored them both, tilting his head just enough that Hyunjin could see the gleam of his earrings under the club lights. The bassist didn’t flinch, didn’t break. But Felix caught it—the faint hitch in his posture, the fraction of a second his gaze dipped down and back up again.

And then, as if the universe had queued it perfectly, Jisung’s voice cut through the chatter from the stage.

“Alright, Seoul, are you ready for something new tonight?” he drawled, grin wide enough to split his face. “We’re kicking things off with a track from our brand-new EP. First time live. You lucky bastards get the premiere.”

The crowd roared. Felix’s smirk sharpened like a blade.

He already knew. Seungmin had slipped him the intel days ago, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. And now, watching Hyunjin hold his bass like a weapon, eyes burning hotter than the stage lights, Felix thought one dangerous thing:

Game on.

Friday night was ritual.

The low hum of amps warming up. Changbin banging out a rhythm with his sticks against anything within reach—snare, empty beer bottles, even Chan’s shoulder if he was close enough. Jisung tuning his guitar half-seriously, half-singing off-key into the mic just to annoy everyone. And Chan, patient to a fault, double-checking their setlist while muttering under his breath like a dad herding three overgrown children.

Hyunjin rolled his shoulders, bass strap snug against his chest, leather creaking as he adjusted it. His reflection in the side mirror of a stacked amp gave him the once-over—brushed-up hair, black leather jacket, tank clinging just enough, pants cut to sit low on his hips. All black, clean lines, sharp edges. Exactly the kind of picture Felix would expect.

And that was the point.

“You’re unusually dressed to kill tonight,” Changbin teased, eyeing him with the grin of someone who knew too much.

“Always am,” Hyunjin shot back, plucking a bassline just to shut him up.

Jisung leaned in, whispering theatrically loud, “No, but really. He’s trying to impress someone.” His eyes darted to Chan, who didn’t even look up from his notes.

Chan only hummed, smirk tugging the corner of his lips. “Don’t start. We all know who.”

Hyunjin ignored them. He had practice ignoring them. The ribbing had only gotten worse since the band unanimously green-lit his “not-a-love-song” for the EP. Every rehearsal, every text thread, every coffee run—they circled back like vultures. But he kept his face blank, the easy half-smile plastered in place.

“Places,” Chan called, and the noise of the backstage shifted into something tighter, sharper. CREED filed onto the stage.

The room roared alive. Usual spot, usual crowd—underground faithfuls pressed close to the stage, neon lights spilling over leather jackets, cheap beer in hand. A scene Hyunjin had played a hundred times before.

But tonight, his pulse kicked harder.

Because out there, somewhere between the crowd’s noise and the low thrum of his bass, was Felix.

Hyunjin didn’t have to search long. He felt it before he saw it—that pull, that static.

And then there he was.

Front row, dead center. Felix Lee in a Dion Lee long sleeve cut like it was designed just to cling to his shoulders, leather pants matching his own, pink hair pulled back in a bun that showed the cut of his jaw. Jeongin flanked one side, Seungmin on the other, both already muttering to each other. But Felix—Felix wasn’t saying a damn thing.

He was looking right at him. Not the stage. Not the band. Him.

Hyunjin almost missed his cue. Almost. His fingers twitched once before muscle memory carried the bassline forward, steady as a heartbeat. He kept his face carved in stone, the practiced calm he wore like second skin. But inside, something shifted sharp and hot.

Because Felix wasn’t just watching. He was smirking. The kind of smirk that said I dressed for you too, and I know you noticed.

The kind that dared Hyunjin to slip.

Jisung’s voice cracked through the speakers, charming the crowd with his usual banter. Cheers erupted.

Hyunjin’s grip tightened on the neck of his bass. His song. His not-a-love-song.

And from the corner of his eye, Felix’s smirk widened, like he already knew.

Hyunjin inhaled slow, counted the beat, let the music take him. He didn’t falter. Wouldn’t. But his chest was tight with the kind of tension that had nothing to do with nerves.

Because Felix Lee was in the crowd again, dressed in black and fire, and he was staring at Hyunjin like the whole performance was just for him.

And maybe—for tonight—it was.

Chapter Text

CREED had always been chaos wrapped in genius, a storm no one could predict. That was the thing—audiences never came just for music. They came for the freedom, the raw, unfiltered way the band could drag you into their pulse and make you live there.

It wasn’t about a genre. Never had been. With Chan, Changbin, Jisung, and him all writing, the sound shifted depending on whose emotions had bled hardest onto the page. Sometimes it was sharp and political, Changbin spitting verses like knives. Sometimes it was Chan’s nostalgia turned anthems, heartbreak ballads ripped from the marrow. Sometimes it was Jisung’s chaos—wired, witty, built to burn the night down.

And tonight? Tonight, it was his.

Hyunjin’s song.

There was nothing subtle about it. Innuendo layered on innuendo, poetically dressed but naked in its intent, each line woven to bite. The bassline rolled low and heavy under his hands, a heartbeat he could bend at will. And above it all, Jisung’s voice laced through the crowd, sweet and sharp as liquor.

“I’m going crazy now, out of control, I’m staying up all night again…”

The words were his, but coming from Jisung, they hit like confession.

Hyunjin looked up.

And there he was.

Felix.

Front and center, somehow glowing despite the shadows of the club, Dion Lee clinging to his body like sin had been tailored. Pink hair tied back, ears glittering, lips curled into that insufferable smirk that Hyunjin had started to dream about.

The moment the lyric hit, Hyunjin’s gaze locked onto him like a trigger pulled. No hesitation. No mercy. He sang it straight at him.

For the briefest flicker—half a second, no more—Felix’s mask cracked. His smirk stuttered, his eyes widened, his breath visibly hitched. And then, just as quick, the walls slammed back up, his chin tilting higher, mouth twisting smug like he hadn’t slipped at all.

But Hyunjin saw. He always saw.

And that single hitch was enough gasoline to set him ablaze.

His fingers pressed harder into the strings, the bassline grinding lower, filthier. The crowd screamed louder, drunk on the fever of it all, but Hyunjin wasn’t playing for them anymore. He was playing for him.

Felix.

Felix, swallowing hard, throat bobbing as though every note was sinking straight down his spine.

Felix, lips parted on a silent gasp he thought no one could see.

Felix, standing there like prey pretending to be predator, burning under a spotlight he hadn’t asked for but couldn’t escape.

Every lyric after was a knife sharpened and hurled straight across the stage. And every reaction—every twitch, every flicker of Felix’s eyes, every stubborn smirk thrown back at him—Hyunjin drank it down like proof that this was working. That Felix wasn’t as unbothered as he wanted to seem.

That Felix was unraveling.

He’d thought he was prepared. Truly. By now, Felix had seen CREED enough times to know what they could do—how they could grip a crowd by the throat and make them beg for more. He’d thought himself immune to it, ready to watch like any other show.

But he wasn’t prepared for this.

The bassline rolled like thunder, the lyrics landing heavy, unashamed, raw with intent. It wasn’t just a song—it was confession disguised as poetry. Heat disguised as art. And Felix could feel every single line digging under his skin, scraping, demanding.

Then he felt it.

The weight of Hyunjin’s eyes.

He shouldn’t have looked up, but he did—and it was over.

Hyunjin was staring, fixed and unyielding, eyes cutting straight through the pulsing lights, the haze of the club, straight into him.

“I’m going crazy now, out of control, I’m staying up all night again…”

The words landed, and Felix’s body betrayed him. His smirk faltered, his chest seized, his breath caught.

It was a split-second crack, but he knew. He knew Hyunjin had seen it, because the bastard leaned harder into the strings, the sound dirtier, heavier, his entire body playing like the song was meant to consume Felix alone.

Felix forced the mask back on. Rolled his shoulders, tilted his chin, let a lazy smirk crawl back onto his face. He could almost hear his own thoughts spitting back at him—don’t let him see you break, don’t give him that victory.

But his pulse was a hammer in his ears.

Because he had broken.

Even if just for a heartbeat, he had broken, and Hyunjin knew.

And the more Felix watched, the worse it got. The way Hyunjin’s body moved with his bass, the sweat sliding down his temple, the cocky smirk he kept throwing back. Felix felt cornered, heat crawling to his ears, blood rushing low and dangerous.

His lips parted, unbidden, his tongue wetting them as if that could cool the burn. It didn’t.

Instead, his smirk shifted, slower now. Less shield, more dare. He tilted his head, caught Hyunjin’s gaze full-on, and let it linger. A signal. A taunt. A promise.

And the thought struck him hard, reckless, inevitable:

God help me, I want him.

The crowd was still screaming, chants echoing like aftershocks even as the house lights flickered up, but Felix wasn’t hearing any of it. CREED had just burned the place down with their new setlist—hell, it was one of the most electrifying shows he’d ever seen live—but his brain had room for exactly one thought.

Hyunjin.

Hyunjin in a black leather tank that clung indecently, the kind of fit that was a war crime for anyone else but on him looked like sin incarnate. Hyunjin with his bass hanging low, his body moving like the music poured straight through him. Hyunjin’s voice tangling with Jisung’s as he threw barbed lines into the air, his gaze locked on Felix like no one else existed.

And Felix had the nerve to feel it. Right there in the middle of the crowd, every time Hyunjin’s eyes found him, it felt like someone was dragging nails down his skin in the best possible way.

Felix hadn’t even had time to come down from it before Seungmin’s hand clamped around his wrist.

“Come on,” his best friend said, tugging him through the throng like a soldier on a mission.

“Where—”

“Backstage,” Seungmin shot back, not even glancing at him.

Jeongin trailed them with the kind of smirk that made Felix want to throw something at him. The younger’s silence was worse than anything—too knowing, too smug, like he was watching the world’s juiciest drama unfold.

Felix could’ve protested. Should’ve. But he didn’t. Not when every cell in his body was still buzzing from that look Hyunjin had given him on stage. So he let Seungmin drag him past security, through the black curtain, into the belly of CREED’s world.

The greenroom was chaos—equipment stacked high, sweat and adrenaline clinging to the air. Chan was doubled over laughing at something Changbin muttered, Jisung was scrubbing his hair with a towel, and Hyunjin—

Hyunjin was leaning against a speaker case, bass still strapped low, one hand braced lazily on the edge. His head was tilted back, throat on display, his chest rising and falling in deep, satisfied pulls of breath. Felix’s lungs forgot how to work for a second.

And then, like gravity had a personal vendetta, Hyunjin’s gaze slid sideways. Found him. Stuck.

The shift was immediate. Palpable. Like someone had turned down the volume on the entire room just so the tension could hum louder between them.

And apparently, everyone else noticed.

Because in the next thirty seconds, the universe conspired.

Jeongin clapped his hands like a director cutting a scene. “Right. Changbin hyung. Emergency. Your fits tonight were… let’s call them tragic.”

“Excuse me?” Changbin barked, half laughing, half offended.

“They were tragic. Chan hyung, too,” Jeongin repeated smoothly, already herding them toward the racks shoved against the wall. “Lucky for you, I’m here. Styling services. Free. You’re welcome.”

Chan blinked. “Now?”

“Yes, now,” Jeongin said, already tugging at the hem of Changbin’s shirt. “Don’t argue. You’ll thank me later.”

Across the room, Seungmin caught Jisung’s eye, raised a brow, and sighed like he was sacrificing himself for the greater good. “We need to talk.”

Jisung, still half in his towel, frowned. “About what?”

“Doesn’t matter.” And with that, Seungmin latched onto his arm and started dragging.

“What the—hey!” Jisung’s protests echoed off the hall as they disappeared, Seungmin unbothered.

And just like that—

It was only him.

And Hyunjin.

Felix suddenly didn’t know whether to thank his friends for bailing—or kill them on sight.

The silence that followed was loaded, heavy enough to pin Felix in place. He could hear the faint hum of the amps cooling, the distant roar of the crowd bleeding through the walls, but it all faded under the weight of Hyunjin finally straightening, that gaze still pinned to him like a spotlight.

Felix’s pulse tripped, traitorous. His stomach flipped. His throat went dry. And because he refused—refused—to let Hyunjin see him unravel, he tilted his chin, smirk tugging at his lips.

“Well,” he drawled, cocky in the way only sheer panic could fuel, “seems like we’ve been… set up.”

Hyunjin’s mouth curved slow, dangerous, a smirk that didn’t need words. The kind of smirk that said exactly, without saying a damn thing.

He didn’t move—just leaned back against the speaker case, cool as ice, while Felix stood there buzzing with adrenaline and tequila heat. The calmness was infuriating—like Hyunjin hadn’t just sung lyrics dripping with innuendo while looking directly at him.

Felix let his tongue sharpen. “So,” he started, voice sweet but pointed, “about that little masterpiece you dropped tonight—was I supposed to clap extra hard, or were you expecting roses thrown at your feet?”

The corner of Hyunjin’s mouth lifted, slow, deliberate. The kind of smirk that said he’d already won before the game began.

“Funny,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Because I could’ve sworn you weren’t clapping at all. Too busy staring at me like you’d forgotten how to breathe.”

The words landed low in Felix’s stomach, unfair and hot. He wanted to deny it, to scoff in Hyunjin’s face, but he knew denial would only sharpen that grin. So he settled for a scoff anyway, arms folding tight across his chest as if that could hold him together.

“Dream on. It was just another CREED song. What’s new?”

Hyunjin leaned in, just slightly, just enough that Felix’s eyes betrayed him and tracked the motion. Leather creaked when he shifted, voice dipping low. “What’s new,” he echoed, softer now, “is that you reacted.” His gaze dragged, unhurried, stopping at Felix’s mouth. “And I saw it, Lix. Every second of it.”

The nickname nearly undid him. Lix. Too intimate, too soft, like hands pressing against his skin without touching. Felix’s ears went hot; his tongue scrambled for something sharp enough to mask the way his pulse was clawing at his throat.

Maybe he did smirk a little. Maybe he leaned into the fire willingly.

“Maybe I did react,” he said, voice quiet but cutting. A challenge instead of a confession. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

Hyunjin didn’t flinch. Didn’t break eye contact. He just smirked harder, maddeningly calm, like he was fine watching Felix set himself on fire.

And that was it. That restraint. That control.

Felix snapped.

He moved forward before he could think twice, crashing his mouth against Hyunjin’s. The kiss wasn’t sweet; it was a collision, messy and desperate, teeth clashing before they found rhythm. Felix’s hands curled into the leather jacket, dragging him closer, daring him to drop the act, to feel this as much as he did.

For a second, the world tilted. The noise, the crowd, the stage—all gone. Just the taste of whiskey and heat, the rush of lips pressing harder, and the terrifying realization that he’d just lit something neither of them could put out.

Chapter Text

For a split second, Hyunjin thought Felix was bluffing again—another bratty smirk, another empty threat. But then Felix surged forward, lips colliding with his in a kiss that stole the breath from his lungs.

Hyunjin froze only long enough to register the shock before instinct won out. He kissed back.

And God, Felix tasted like tequila and fire. His mouth was warm, insistent, almost too much—and yet not enough. Hyunjin angled his head, chasing deeper, letting the edge of his teeth scrape against Felix’s lower lip just to hear that sharp inhale. Felix yanked at his leather jacket, knuckles white where they gripped the lapels, tugging him closer until their chests collided.

Hyunjin’s hand found the knot of Felix’s bun, fingers slipping into pink strands that had already loosened from the chaos of the night. The texture of it was silk against his skin, and when he tugged—just enough to tilt Felix’s head back—Felix let out a sound halfway between a gasp and a growl. It vibrated against Hyunjin’s mouth, shot straight down his spine, and he knew instantly it would replay in his head later, uninvited, on loop.

The kiss wasn’t graceful. It was clumsy, desperate, all heat and collision, but the mess of it only made it feel truer. Teeth bumped. Breath mingled—hot, quick, ragged. Hyunjin could feel the thud of Felix’s heartbeat where their bodies pressed together, almost matching the erratic rhythm of his own. The room smelled faintly of sweat, cologne, and the lingering burn of alcohol, but beneath it all was Felix—heady, dizzying, addictive.

Every second stretched, elastic and endless. Hyunjin forgot the world outside the narrow space of Felix’s mouth, the pull of his hands, the sharp drag of nails briefly raking over leather. He sank into it, into him, as if the ground beneath them had shifted.

And then Felix broke away.

It was abrupt, violent almost, like ripping skin from flame. Hyunjin stumbled a step forward, chasing before he caught himself. Felix’s lips were swollen, glistening, his breathing harsh as though the kiss had taken something out of him. His eyes were wide, flickering panic and defiance all at once, like a wild thing caught in the wrong cage.

And then—just like that—he bolted. Pink hair flashing, boots pounding the floor, the backstage door slamming in his wake.

Hyunjin stood in the quiet that followed, chest still heaving, air thick with the ghost of Felix’s touch. His lips tingled, raw and burning. He lifted a hand to them, thumb tracing the dampness left behind, and let out a low laugh. Soft. Disbelieving. Almost dangerous.

Because it hit him then—clear as the ache in his chest.

He wanted more.

And somehow, he knew Felix had just lit a fuse neither of them could put out.

The door slammed open again. Not Felix this time. Louder. Messier.

CREED.

“Yo, where’s the blond menace?” Jisung’s voice was already half a laugh as he swung into the room, hair still damp from sweat, eyes darting around like Felix might be perched on a table waiting to heckle him.

Hyunjin stiffened, but it was Changbin who clocked him first. Always did. The man’s gaze swept once, twice—Hyunjin’s mussed hair, the tilt of his jacket, the undeniable flush still staining his mouth. His eyes narrowed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Changbin groaned, voice equal parts exasperation and warning. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Hyunjin said smoothly, too smoothly, which was the problem.

Chan tossed a towel at him. It hit his chest and slid to the floor, ignored. “Yeah, right. Felix just sprinted out of here like his ass was on fire, and you’re standing there looking like you lost a fight with a bottle of lip gloss.”

Jisung snorted, doubling over at his own mental image. “Oh my God, you kissed him. Didn’t you? Please tell me you did.”

"He kissed me first," Hyunjin corrected, smirking like it's a normal Friday night.

The silence that came after was so loud that a falling guitar pick (Jisung's) can easily be heard.

Jisung's eyes widened comically and cackled, triumphant. Changbin dragged both hands down his face like he’d aged ten years in two minutes. “You’ve officially lost it. Do you even hear yourself? That’s Lee Felix. As in headlines. As in scandal. As in ‘Hyunjin, congratulations, you just set yourself on fire in public.’”

Hyunjin arched a brow, forcing his smirk back into place. “Relax.”

“Relax?!” Changbin’s voice cracked upward, caught between fury and disbelief. “You’re playing with fire!”

Hyunjin’s eyes darkened. “And?”

That shut them up for a beat. The room buzzed with the sound of their own breathing, of the muffled roar of the crowd still outside.

Chan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze heavy but measured. “It’s not just the press, Jinnie. He’s not… like the others. If you’re messing around—”

“I’m not,” Hyunjin snapped, maybe too quickly. He hated how defensive it sounded, like they’d pulled the thought straight from his chest before he’d even sorted it himself.

Jisung whistled low, dragging the note out like a melody. “Ohhh. He’s serious. Damn. Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

Hyunjin shot him a glare sharp enough to slice, but Jisung only grinned wider, hands raised in mock surrender.

Changbin threw himself onto the couch, muttering like a parent watching their kid touch a stove. “Unbelievable. I’m telling you, one day you’re gonna wake up with the whole building burned down around you and act surprised.”

Hyunjin ignored him. Or tried to. His jaw worked, shoulders rolling as if to shake off the weight of their words. But his lips still tingled. His chest still thrummed with Felix’s laugh, Felix’s taste, Felix’s heat.

Finally, he exhaled, voice low, almost a growl. “Maybe I am playing with fire.” His smirk curled slow, deliberate, dangerous. “But you’ve all forgotten something.”

He looked up, eyes glinting like the spark of a lighter.

“I don’t mind the burn.”

The silence broke with a chorus of groans.

“God, he’s impossible.”
“Someone stop him before he ruins us all.”
“Honestly? I’m rooting for Felix.”

And Jisung, gleeful as ever, leaned back with a grin that screamed trouble. “Guess we’re about to see how long it takes before the fire spreads.”

He didn’t think. He just moved.

The taste of Hyunjin was still on his lips—whiskey and something darker, sharper, like he’d bitten down on trouble itself. His chest was a drum, his ribs barely containing the frantic rhythm as he shoved the greenroom door open and spilled into the hall.

“Yah! Where do you think you’re going?” Seungmin’s voice cracked across the corridor like a whip.

Felix didn’t turn back. Couldn’t. If he looked at Seungmin, he’d crumble. If he looked at Hyunjin, he’d crawl back in.

“Felix!” Jisung this time, singsong and merciless. “Don’t run away now, we just got to the good part!” His laughter echoed like taillights disappearing in the dark.

Felix’s boots hit the linoleum too loud, each step a ricochet down the empty stretch of hall. A blur of black hair whipped at the edge of his vision—Jeongin, trying to catch up, sneakers squeaking, voice tight with concern.

“Hyung, wait! Just—just slow down!”

Felix pushed harder. His lungs burned, his throat thick, but adrenaline had already taken the wheel. He rounded the corner, nearly collided with a stagehand balancing cables, muttered a strangled apology that came out more like a gasp. His cap sat crooked on his head, pink hair damp against his temples.

He wanted out. Out of the building, out of the noise, out of the spiraling chaos inside his chest.

And then finally—the exit.

The door slammed shut behind him with a hollow boom, cutting off Jeongin’s voice, cutting off the muffled bass still thundering inside. The night air hit him like glass: sharp, cold, alive. He bent forward, palms on his knees, sucking it in like he’d just finished a sprint.

Seoul stretched out in front of him, neon bleeding into the damp pavement, headlights cutting thin ribbons through the dark. The smell of fried food from a nearby stand tangled with the bite of autumn wind, grounding him for a beat, then scattering him all over again.

Because no matter how far he ran, the memory stayed.

Hyunjin’s mouth. The weight of his hands, the deliberate way he kissed back like he knew. Like he’d been waiting. Like Felix was already his.

Felix’s stomach twisted. A laugh—half bitter, half hysterical—slipped from him, fogging in the cold air. What the hell was he doing? What the hell were they doing?

This wasn’t part of the plan. Hell, he didn’t even have a plan, just a growing obsession with a bassist who knew exactly how to press his buttons until all his defenses shattered.

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and walked. Fast. Past the street corner, past the cluster of taxis idling for late-night fares, past everything familiar. He didn’t care where his feet were dragging him; anywhere was better than standing still with that kiss replaying like a song stuck on loop.

Somewhere behind him, Jeongin’s voice faded. Somewhere inside, Seungmin was probably gnawing his nails into stubs. Somewhere, Hyunjin was smirking, certain of the chaos he’d unleashed.

Felix clenched his jaw and kept walking, pink hair catching the wind like a flare.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. Didn’t know that tonight, in the shadows across the street, a camera lens had already found him, already caught the afterglow of a kiss he couldn’t stop thinking about.

All he knew was this: he hadn’t escaped anything. If anything, he’d just stepped deeper into the fire.

Chapter Text

The first thing Felix felt was pain.

Not the sharp, clean kind, but the dull, throbbing ache that pulsed behind his eyes like a bass drum turned up too loud. He groaned and rolled onto his back, the ceiling of his apartment tilting like it had a grudge against him. His mouth was dry, his tongue coated with the aftertaste of last night’s terrible decision—cheap whiskey, drunk alone, chased with too many thoughts he hadn’t wanted to face sober.

And still, beneath it all, the kiss lingered.

The ghost of it sat heavy on his lips, sweeter than the liquor, sharper than the headache. Hyunjin’s mouth, Hyunjin’s hands, the way the room had tilted not from alcohol but from something much more dangerous. Felix pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes as if he could rub the memory out. He couldn’t.

The slam of his bedroom door crashing open nearly sent him flying.

“Get up,” Minho barked, voice sharper than sunlight through the blinds.

Felix cracked one eye open. His cousin stood framed in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows scrunched so deep they could cut glass. Even half-dazed, Felix recognized the posture—it wasn’t just family Minho standing there. It was manager Minho.

“It’s—” Felix fumbled for his phone, but it wasn’t in reach. He reached instead for the blanket, pulling it higher over his chest. “—too early for this.”

“It’s not early enough,” Minho snapped. He stormed inside, snatched the blanket in one clean motion, and tossed it to the floor. “Check your phone. Now.”

Felix squinted against the glare, dragging himself upright. His head protested with every move. He found his phone face down on the nightstand, screen lighting up with a buzz as though it had been waiting for this exact moment.

One swipe. One tap. And his stomach dropped.

There it was. A headline splashed across the notorious gossip site, the kind that thrived on scandal and shadows:

“Supermodel Lee Felix Spotted Leaving Bar Alone—Disheveled, Distracted, Dangerous?”

The photo was worse. Blurry but brutal, catching him mid-step outside the club. Cap askew, hair sticking damp to his temples, lips bitten raw like a man who had just kissed someone senseless. Which he had.

Felix’s fingers tightened around the phone until his knuckles ached.

Minho’s voice cut in, flat but scathing: “Care to explain why the entire country just woke up to this?”

Felix forced a swallow, his throat thick. “It’s—just a picture. People go out all the time. Drink all the time. It’s not—”

“Not a big deal?” Minho’s laugh was sharp, humorless. He stepped closer, arms still folded tight. “It’s a massive deal when your face is worth millions in campaigns and contracts. When every brand you represent is combing through gossip sites for a hint of scandal. You think Louis Vuitton wants their golden boy plastered under that headline?”

Felix’s jaw clenched. His cousin’s words stung more because they weren’t wrong.

“I’m not saying you don’t deserve your privacy,” Minho pressed on, softer but no less firm. “You do. God knows you do. But privacy ends when it’s weaponized against you in public. That picture isn’t private anymore. It’s ammo.”

The ache in Felix’s chest deepened. He hated this—the reminder that his life wasn’t fully his own, that even a single stumble out of a bar could turn into a wildfire online.

Minho’s gaze sharpened, cutting through him. “So tell me. What’s going on?”

Felix looked away. The wall was safer than Minho’s eyes. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Yeah,” Felix forced out, voice brittle. “It’s—just a game. That’s all. I know what I’m doing.”

A beat of silence stretched between them. Felix risked a glance up. Minho’s expression flickered—somewhere between disbelief, disappointment, and a weary kind of protectiveness that cut deeper than his words ever could.

“A game,” Minho repeated slowly, as though testing the taste of it. His mouth twisted. “If that’s what you’re calling it, fine. But games have winners and losers, Felix. And right now, you look like you’re already losing.”

The words landed heavier than the headache. Felix’s phone buzzed again in his hand, another notification, another headline being spun out of the single captured image. He wanted to fling it across the room, crawl back under the blanket, rewind to before the kiss, before the fire.

But even as guilt curdled in his stomach, the ghost of Hyunjin’s lips lingered. Too vivid. Too addictive.

Felix dragged his fingers through his hair, tugging at the roots until his scalp ached. Minho hadn’t moved—still a shadow at the foot of his bed, arms folded, waiting for an answer Felix wasn’t ready to give.

“Look, hyung,” Felix finally muttered, voice rough from sleep and whiskey, “it was one night. A little too much to drink. It won’t happen again.”

Minho’s gaze sharpened, like he could see through every flimsy layer of defense Felix threw up. “You’re sure about that?”

Felix nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Positive.”

“Because I know that look,” Minho said, softer now, his tone shifting from manager to cousin. “It’s the same one you had when you started modeling at seventeen. When you swore you were just doing it for fun, and then suddenly you were flying to Paris every other week. You dive headfirst into things, Lix. You don’t know how to go halfway.”

Felix’s throat tightened. He hated how easily Minho could read him, how the truth always slipped under his cousin’s skin no matter how hard he tried to mask it.

Minho sighed, unfolding his arms. “I’m not here to clip your wings. I just don’t want to see you burn out—or worse, burn yourself down—because you didn’t put the brakes on in time.”

Something in Felix’s chest cracked at that. Minho never said things lightly. And he was right—Felix could already feel the ground tilting under him, faster and faster, every time Hyunjin so much as looked his way.

It’s just a game, Felix repeated silently, like a mantra. He could still taste the kiss, could still feel Hyunjin’s hand at the back of his neck. He shook his head hard, forcing it away.

“It stops here,” Felix said aloud, steadier this time. His hands fisted in the sheets. “Whatever this is—I’m done before it gets too much.”

Minho studied him for a long beat, then finally gave a short nod. “Good.” His voice gentled, cousin again. “You’ve worked too hard to let someone else pull the rug out from under you.”

Felix gave a weak laugh, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Guess I’ll just… chalk it up as another headline.”

But when Minho left, door clicking softly shut behind him, Felix sank back onto the bed and pressed his palms to his face.

Because deep down, he knew he was lying. Not to Minho—he’d always been too sharp to fool. But to himself.

If Hyunjin so much as crooked a finger, Felix wasn’t sure he’d be able to walk away.

Weeks. It had been four weeks and three days to be exact since the kiss, and Felix had gone full radio silence.

Hyunjin wouldn’t admit that it got under his skin. Wouldn't admit that he did count the days. Not to the band, not even to himself. But the absence was loud—like a missing note in a chord, throwing off the whole song no matter how many times you tried to play through it. He’d gotten used to the blond menace showing up where he wasn’t supposed to be—leaning against the studio door with that smug smile, stirring up banter mid-rehearsal, smirking from the side of a stage he didn’t belong on. Felix had slipped into his world like background noise you only noticed once it was gone.

And now? Gone. Just like that.

Felix didn’t show up to rehearsals anymore. No familiar flash of pink hair lingering at the edge of the studio, no sly smirk tossed his way during smoke breaks. Even during shows, when Hyunjin would scan the crowd out of habit, there was no sign of him. Just faceless strangers, screaming in the dark.

When Jisung asked Seungmin once, casually, why the blond had vanished, Seungmin only shrugged, eyes on his phone. “Busy.”

That was it. One word. Nothing else. And Hyunjin, eavesdropping from across the practice room, clenched his jaw. Busy. Right.

Hyunjin told himself he didn’t care. That it was better this way. Felix wasn’t supposed to be orbiting him anyway. He had his runways, his cameras, his carefully crafted life, and Hyunjin had—this. Music. Freedom. Noise.

But still, his fingers hovered over his phone more than once. He’d typed out messages, half-insults and half-admissions: You ghosting me? Don’t tell me you’re scared. Guess you’re too busy looking pretty on billboards to answer. Sometimes he didn’t even bother to hit send. The few he did? Left on read.

It crawled under his skin. He wasn’t going to say he missed Felix, no, that wasn’t it. He was just… used to him. That was all.

That excuse kept ringing hollow.

Hyunjin found himself checking his phone too often. Lighting another cigarette when he didn't even smoke. Picking up his bass and losing track halfway through a riff. Something gnawed at him, and he hated the fact that it had Lee Felix’s face.

It was in the middle of that restless limbo when Jisung strolled into rehearsal one afternoon with his usual grin. “Guess what,” he sing-songed.

Changbin groaned. “If this is about another weird cat video, I swear—”

“Nope.” Jisung flopped onto the couch like he owned the place. “We just got invited to open a fashion event.”

That made Chan look up from his laptop. “A fashion event?” He frowned. “That’s not exactly our crowd, Sung.”

“Yeah, we’re more… sweat-soaked clubs and questionable sound systems,” Hyunjin muttered, twirling his pick between his fingers.

Changbin leaned back, skeptical. “Feels like a setup. Who the hell thought of us for this?”

Jisung’s smirk widened. “Seungmin.”

Hyunjin’s brows shot up. “…Seungmin?”

“Yep. Theme’s ‘rockstar’ and they wanted the real thing. Seungmin said we’d fit the vibe.”

Hyunjin narrowed his eyes. Something about that didn’t sit right. Seungmin wasn’t exactly CREED’s biggest cheerleader—maybe Jisung's—so why throw them into the world of runways and flashbulbs? It was too clean, too curated. Too far from the grit that made their music breathe.

Still, a gig was a gig. They’d play, they’d own it, and they’d leave. No strings attached.

Hyunjin didn’t know, couldn’t know, that Seungmin’s little recommendation had teeth. That the event didn’t just have a theme. It had a centerpiece.

Chapter Text

Setlists were usually CREED’s version of trench warfare.

Chan liked order—clean arcs, planned dynamics, songs balanced like a perfectly measured chemical formula. Changbin liked chaos—open heavy, stay heavy, go harder. Jisung liked being unpredictable—he thrived on keeping both the audience and his bandmates guessing. And Hyunjin—well, Hyunjin just wanted to play whatever got under people’s skin. But today, in the cramped greenroom of the Balmain fashion house, they were oddly aligned.

“Start strong,” Chan said, scrolling through the notes on his laptop. “Hook them from the first beat. Then something more melodic midway. Short set, sharp edges. This isn’t a festival.”

“Close with the single,” Changbin added without looking up, already tapping out rhythms against his thigh like his body refused to sit still.

And then Jisung, lounging like the brat he was, lifted his hand as if he were delivering prophecy. "We’re including Hyunjin’s song.”

Hyunjin’s head snapped up. “We are not.”

“Yes, we are,” Jisung countered, eyes gleaming with that dangerous sparkle that meant he’d already won. “It’s literally perfect. Poetic, raw, a little dangerous. If Balmain wanted rockstar as a theme, your song is the definition.”

Changbin barked a laugh. “Perfect? Half the lyrics sound like you’re eye-fucking someone onstage.”

“Not my problem,” Jisung said breezily. “I just sing what I’m given. You wrote it, you deal with it.”

Chan, traitor that he was, actually nodded. “He’s right. It’s one of our strongest tracks. It stays.”

Hyunjin sank back into his chair, jaw tight. He didn’t argue further—not because he agreed, but because he knew the tide had already pulled against him. CREED was stubborn; once a decision took root, it stuck.

Fine. Let them throw his song into a room full of glossy cameras and couture. He’d play it. He’d play it with everything he had. But if the lyrics hit too close, if people started guessing what wasn’t meant to be said out loud—well, that wasn’t his fault.

The event itself felt like stepping through a portal.

The Balmain venue was nothing like the dim clubs or festival stages they were used to. Here, marble floors gleamed like mirrors. Chandeliers spilled light in molten streams. Velvet ropes marked out runways that stretched like rivers under the glow of spotlights. Everything smelled faintly of perfume, champagne, and power.

And apparently, Hyunjin fit.

“Excuse me, this way,” a staffer said, gesturing at him with a professional smile. She thought he was one of the models.

Jisung nearly folded in half laughing. “Oh my god. Hyunjin the model. Someone call Vogue.”

Changbin smacked his arm. “Don’t encourage him. His ego’s already skyscraper-high.”

Hyunjin just rolled his eyes, though a corner of his mouth almost twitched. He knew he had the frame, the face, the posture—it wasn’t news. But here, surrounded by people who actually did this for a living, he wasn’t sure whether the comparison felt like flattery or a dare.

His gaze swept the room. The stage gleamed at the far end of the runway, instruments polished to catch the light. This wasn’t their world—too clean, too pristine, too perfectly staged. But the contrast thrilled something restless inside him. CREED didn’t blend in here. They’d cut through.

That was when Seungmin appeared, crisp in tailored black, every word sharp and polite. Polished to the last detail, black suit sharp enough to cut. And right behind him, Jisung popped up straighter on the couch, suddenly all teeth.

“Well, well,” Jisung drawled, eyes raking down Seungmin with undisguised appreciation. “Did Balmain dress you, too?”

“Professional obligation,” Seungmin answered smoothly, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

Jisung leaned closer. “Mm. Sure. But for the record? I’m not complaining.”

Changbin groaned. “Get a room.”

Hyunjin smirked into his palm. Even Chan cracked a grin.

But Seungmin, ever the unbothered one, only redirected the conversation, gaze flicking over the band like he was marking grades. “Balmain prepared something for each of you. Custom-fitted outfits. Think of it as… immersion.”

Jisung perked up immediately. “Designer clothes for free? Say less.”

Chan looked wary. “We’re not props.”

“Of course not,” Seungmin said smoothly. “Think of it as collaboration. Besides”—his smile sharpened—“you might as well enjoy the event.”

Hyunjin’s eyes narrowed. There was something in Seungmin’s tone, too careful, too knowing. A thread of a plan woven underneath. But before Hyunjin could press, Seungmin had already turned, greeting another staff member, slipping out of reach like smoke.

When the house lights dropped, the room inhaled as one.

Spotlights snapped awake, carving molten lines across the stage. CREED slid into place, instruments gleaming under the wash of white-gold. The first crash of Changbin’s drums rolled through the marble hall like thunder, Chan’s keys cutting in sharp, Jisung’s voice already a blade of fire. Hyunjin’s bass thrummed deep in his chest, steady, anchoring.

They didn’t just play. They cracked the pristine veneer of Balmain wide open. Expensive perfume and champagne fizz dissolved into pure, raw sound. The runway transformed, not into a place for clothes, but for pulse, for heat.

And then—movement at the far end.

The first model stepped out.

Except it wasn’t just a model.

Hyunjin’s head jerked up, strings vibrating under his fingers. Soft pink hair caught in the floodlight like spun fire, each strand lit as though it carried its own halo. The walk was lethal—measured, magnetic, the kind that hooked every gaze and held it captive. The outfit sculpted lines Hyunjin recognized even from a distance: the curve of shoulders, the deliberate sway of hips, the sharp confidence that didn’t need the stage, but claimed it anyway.

Lee Felix.

The name crashed through him, louder than the bass in his hands.

For one staggering second, Hyunjin nearly missed his cue—his fingers slipped, sound buzzing too raw—but he forced it back, jaw locking tight.

Because Felix wasn’t just here.

Felix was opening.

Felix was the spectacle.

And Hyunjin, mid-stage, mid-song, realized that the night had just been rewritten.

The weeks after the headline blurred into one endless carousel of flashes, lenses, and carefully curated smiles. Felix knew how to switch gears when the world demanded it: wake up, sit for makeup, pose, smile, walk, repeat. He buried himself in work, in the rhythm that had built him into who he was, trying to convince himself that this was all he needed.

And yet—every time the cameras dimmed, when the lights weren’t blinding and the applause wasn’t ringing, his mind betrayed him. A phantom bassline thrummed somewhere in the back of his skull. Sharp eyes, a wicked smirk, and a kiss that still burned its way across his mouth replayed like a broken loop.

Hyunjin.

It was ridiculous. He told himself that. Over and over. It had been a game—his game. A dare, a tease, a brat’s play against a bassist too arrogant for his own good. That was all it ever was supposed to be.

So why did his fingers itch every time he unlocked his phone, hovering over the chat window like it might burn him if he pressed send? Why did he feel like a piece of him was missing from the stage of his daily routine?

He bit it back. He held himself still. If it was a game, then he wasn’t going to be the first one to break the silence.

It was Minho who yanked him out of the spiral. 

One morning, his cousin strode into the apartment like a storm in black Gucci, tablet in hand. “Balmain. Fashion event. You’re the opening and the closing.” His voice had that manager tone, clipped and efficient, though Felix caught the familiar flicker of family concern underneath.

Felix hummed like it was nothing, but when Minho tapped the theme into the screen for him to see—Rockstar—his chest tightened.

Of course the first image that came to mind was Hyunjin. Black leather, bass slung low, eyes daring the world to try and look away.

He cursed himself for it.

And apparently, he wasn’t as discreet as he thought, because the very next second, Seungmin leaned against the doorway, smirk carved sharp across his face. “Thinking about someone already?”

Felix threw a pillow at him. Seungmin dodged easily.

By the time the event day arrived, Felix had shoved the thought into the furthest corner of his mind. He had a job to do: open the show, close the show, embody Balmain’s vision. The rest was noise.

At least, that was the plan—until he caught sight of movement across the venue while the final rehearsals were underway.

CREED.

They entered together, all black leather and dangerous energy, walking like they didn’t just belong in the space but owned it. Staff whispered as they passed—something about them being the guest band, about how the whole lineup looked like they’d stepped out of Olympus. Felix’s heart stuttered hard, too loud in his chest, and he hated that he instantly knew who they were talking about when one stylist sighed, “Especially the one with short hair…”

He didn’t need to look. He already knew. But he did anyway.

And there he was. Hyunjin.

Every inch of him razor-sharp and devastating—brushed-up hair, black leather jacket clinging to his frame like sin, the bass case slung over his shoulder like a weapon.

Seungmin, stationed at his side, noticed too. Of course he did. His smirk curved wider, teeth flashing like he’d won some private game. Felix elbowed him hard, eyes forward, pretending he wasn’t unraveling.

Then the house lights dimmed. The runway went gold under the spotlight’s blaze.

And Felix—Lee Felix, supermodel, Balmain’s chosen star—stepped out onto the marble, first stride deliberate, heartbeat in sync with the opening crash of CREED’s music.

His gaze locked onto the stage. Onto him.

Hyunjin.

And for one suspended breath, it felt less like an event and more like collision course written in neon.

Chapter Text

The stage was theirs, but Hyunjin’s eyes kept drifting elsewhere.

Bass strapped low, fingers moving across strings with muscle memory carved from endless nights of rehearsals, he should’ve been absorbed in the music. This was what he lived for—spotlights, roaring sound, the kind of audience that drank every note like fire. And yet.

His focus snagged on one figure moving down the runway.

Felix.

Draped in Balmain like it was made for him alone, strides sharp and unyielding, chin tilted at that perfect angle that screamed both defiance and allure. The crowd clapped for the collection, the lights bathed all the models equally, but Hyunjin could see it—how the air shifted when Felix walked, how the room seemed to bend around his orbit. Out of all of them, he was the one who shone.

It wasn’t just the clothes. It was the way he carried them. Like he didn’t just wear the brand—he embodied it. Gold lights caught in the pink of his hair, tied back neat but still reckless at the edges, and for one suspended breath Hyunjin forgot he was supposed to keep time with the drummer.

Then it happened.

A glance. Quick, sharp, fleeting—gone almost before Hyunjin could catch it. Felix’s eyes cut toward him, just for a second, before sliding back into that professional mask, into the rhythm of the runway. Too fast for anyone else to notice. Too fast to mean anything.

But Hyunjin noticed. He always did.

His grip on the bass neck tightened, anchoring him, playing through the heat curling in his chest. He told himself it was nothing. Coincidence. A stray look in the blur of a show. But the air between them felt charged, even across the distance, even with hundreds of people watching.

Hyunjin followed Felix’s walk, every line, every tilt of his shoulders, every cut of light along his jaw. The other models blurred into background noise. Felix was the one in focus. And Hyunjin understood then, with an ache buried under his ribs, why the industry called him untouchable. Why designers bent rules for him. Why magazines crowned him over and over. It wasn’t just beauty. It was presence. It was control.

And standing there, half hidden by stage smoke with a bass pressed to his chest, Hyunjin found himself thinking—not for the first time—no wonder he drives me insane.

The set rolled forward. CREED burned through the middle of their performance, Chan’s falsettos balancing Jisung’s smooth edges, Changbin driving the beat forward like a hammer. The crowd—fashion elites in suits and dresses, half of whom probably hadn’t stepped foot in a mosh pit in their lives—leaned into them anyway, pulled in by the gravity of sound.

Then came the finale.

Jisung glanced back at Hyunjin, a little smirk curling at the corner of his mouth as he announced the last track. The song. His song.

The first notes spilled out, sharp and restless, threaded with innuendo and hunger. Hyunjin could feel his bandmates grinning behind their instruments—teasing without words. He shut them out, focused forward.

Because Felix was back.

Closing the show, clad in a different look this time—black cut close to his frame, studs flashing like constellations against the runway lights. Every stride was slower, heavier, the perfect counter to the swell of the music. He walked like he knew the world was his. Like he knew all eyes were on him.

Like he knew Hyunjin was watching.

And then it wasn’t subtle anymore.

Hyunjin’s line hit the air, “I’m going crazy now, out of control, I’m staying up all night again,” and Felix looked up. Direct. Deliberate. That smirk ghosted across his mouth like a private secret, there and gone before anyone else could catch it.

Hyunjin’s chest tightened. His fingers almost slipped on the strings.

Because in that moment—the final chords rising around them, the crowd caught in awe—it didn’t feel like a show anymore. It felt like a dare.

And Felix, bathed in light at the end of the runway, was daring him right back.

The last chord rang out, distorted and heavy, bleeding into the roar of applause. Stage lights flared one final time, blinding and golden, and Felix—God, Felix—stood still at the very end of the runway.

Every model before him had turned back, crisp and perfect in their cues. Felix didn’t. He lingered. Just long enough. Just enough for Hyunjin to feel it in his throat, a pulse climbing higher than it should.

And then the lights cut.

Darkness swallowed the runway, leaving only the echo of footsteps behind the curtain. Creed’s instruments hummed with feedback before silence claimed them, too. Hyunjin ripped the bass strap from his shoulder, breath catching in ways he didn’t want to name.

Felix was gone.

Like smoke through his fingers—there one second, unreachable the next.

Changbin slapped his back, laughing something about “Did you almost drop your bass, Romeo?” Jisung piled on with a sing-song “He was looking at youuu~.” Hyunjin shoved past both of them, muttering curses under his breath.

But the truth stayed. Sharp. Inescapable.

That glance had been real. That smirk had been meant for him.

And now, with the stage empty and the crowd already moving on, Hyunjin was the one left buzzing. Nerves twitching in his hands, chest too tight, every thought bending back toward the blond menace who had no right to look at him like that under runway lights.

Felix had vanished backstage.

And Hyunjin, whether he admitted it or not, wanted to follow.

The afterparty throbbed like it had its own pulse, the bassline vibrating through velvet walls, spilling into champagne flutes and the laughter that rose too easily in corners of the room. Cameras flashed, perfumes layered the air thick as smoke, and everything gleamed—gold, leather, glass, and heat.

CREED slipped into it like a storm in slow motion. Chan carried himself like a general off-duty, fitted leather jacket zipped just enough to sharpen his silhouette. Changbin leaned into denim and metal, solid and unshakable, a grin tucked between his shoulders and the crowd’s stares. Jisung glittered with chains and that signature smirk, a magnet the cameras couldn’t resist. And Hyunjin—Hyunjin wore black like a second skin, boots echoing on marble, hair damp at the temples from sweat that hadn’t yet cooled, every gaze he brushed across lingering longer than it should.

It wasn’t just about the music anymore. The band had become a spectacle. Headlines waiting to be written. Gasps waiting to be fed.

And yet—Hyunjin’s eyes weren’t on the crowd.

They were hunting. Searching for the itch at the back of his ribs that had been clawing at him since the set ended.

Then he saw him.

Felix.

And the room tilted.

Pink hair braided and tied halfway back, catching light like spun candy fire. A leather jacket stretched across his shoulders, mesh shirt glinting just enough to make every whispered word around him falter. His leather pants clung like a second skin, and yet it wasn’t the clothes that undid Hyunjin—it was the poise. The way Felix stood in the center of the room, smile easy, gestures practiced, the kind of presence that pulled people in. Models leaned closer, photographers angled their shots, strangers orbited.

But to Hyunjin, it felt wrong. Off. Different.

This wasn’t the Felix he knew—the Felix who poked and prodded, the one who smirked through teasing texts, the one who kissed like setting fire to patience and then bolted like he’d stolen something.

This Felix was… untouchable. Polished. Unfamiliar.

And Hyunjin hated it.

His fingers tightened around his glass, condensation slick against his palm. He told himself to stay where he was, to let the crowd claim him, to pretend none of it mattered. But every instinct betrayed him, pulse quickening, stomach tightening, throat burning with something he couldn’t name.

So, against sense and survival, he moved.

Through the swell of chatter and perfume, past half-whispered comments and curious stares, he cut toward the center of the room where Felix stood—laughing at someone’s words, pink braid catching the light like a signal flare.

Every step beat louder than the bass, louder than the voices, louder than the doubt screaming at him to stop.

And still, Hyunjin kept walking.

Felix noticed him before he even reached the circle. Of course he did. Those sharp fox eyes flicked, caught him, lingered just a beat too long before the smirk curved back in place. Not a welcoming one—not exactly—but one that said: You came to play, didn’t you?

The people around Felix shifted instinctively when Hyunjin slipped in, conversation faltering like someone had dragged a match across the room. Hyunjin didn’t bother with apologies. He stepped into Felix’s orbit, close enough for the leather of his jacket to brush against Felix’s sleeve, close enough to smell the faint trace of cologne underneath the bar’s perfume haze.

“You clean up well,” Hyunjin said, tone casual, though his pulse was anything but.

Felix tilted his head, braid swinging lightly against his shoulder, lips pulling wider. “I always do,” he shot back, that accent wrapping the words in honey and challenge both.

It was almost cruel—how different he looked in this setting. Lit like a gemstone, untouchable, untamed. And yet when he looked at Hyunjin, something softer flashed through, too quick for anyone else to catch.

“You looked comfortable on stage,” Felix added, voice sly, eyes dancing. “Almost like you belonged there.”

Hyunjin huffed a laugh. “Almost?”

Felix shrugged, pretending to sip his drink though Hyunjin could see his knuckles whiten on the glass. “I mean, you fooled a lot of people. Even the staff were whispering about the pretty bassist who should’ve been walking the runway.”

“Jealous?” Hyunjin countered, leaning closer, heat sparking between them like static.

Felix’s laugh was sharp, quick. “Please. If I wanted the runway, I’d take it.”

There it was—that edge, that arrogance laced with insecurity he wore like armor. Hyunjin saw it for what it was. Saw him beneath the polish.

And maybe that’s what made his next step reckless. He lowered his head slightly, voice dipping so only Felix could hear over the noise.

“You looked at me.”

Felix’s smirk faltered. Barely. A blink, a twitch at the corner of his mouth, before the mask returned. “Maybe the lights were too bright.”

Hyunjin didn’t move back. “Maybe you didn’t want to look away.”

For a heartbeat, the air between them held taut—crowd buzzing around them, laughter spilling from every corner, but neither of them moved. Felix’s eyes locked on his, pink braid catching light, breath just a touch sharper than before.

Then Felix’s smile sharpened, daring again. “Careful, Hwang. You keep saying things like that, and people might think you actually mean it.”

Hyunjin’s lips curved into a slow smirk. “Maybe I do.”

And for the first time that night, Felix broke eye contact, looking down into his glass like it held answers, throat working as he swallowed.

Hyunjin knew then—beneath the polish, beneath the untouchable shine—Felix was rattled.

And he liked it.

“Maybe I do.”

The words hit harder than the bassline thrumming through the afterparty floor. Felix’s brain short-circuited for half a second, heat prickling at the back of his neck like he’d just stepped under a spotlight. He’s joking, he told himself. He has to be joking. It’s Hyunjin. Everything’s a game with him.

But the way Hyunjin looked at him—steady, unwavering, dark eyes glinting like he’d just laid down a card that could win or ruin the whole round—didn’t feel like a joke at all.

Felix parted his lips, a quip ready to fire back, but—

“Felix!”

The familiar, bright voice cut through, and then Jung Wooyoung was suddenly there, all sharp angles and gleaming charm in a tailored Balmain suit. Another supermodel, another industry darling. Wooyoung had that kind of presence that could flip a room upside down with one smile, and right now, that smile was directed solely at Felix.

“Congratulations, mate. You killed it out there,” Wooyoung said, slipping in effortlessly between Felix and Hyunjin, close enough that his cologne—a crisp, citrus bite—mingled with Felix’s own. His hand brushed Felix’s arm when he leaned in, casual but lingering just enough to send a ripple through the air.

Felix grinned back automatically, their friendship an easy rhythm. “You were watching?”

“Of course I was watching. Who else am I supposed to cheer for?” Wooyoung’s tone was teasing, loaded in that way everyone in their world recognized.

Felix smiled, because with Wooyoung it was always easy. Harmless. He was a flirt by nature, a spark in human form—but nothing more. Not to Felix.

And yet—

He felt Hyunjin.

Still. Quiet. Heavy. A presence just behind his shoulder, silent enough to scream. Felix didn’t need to look to know the bassist’s jaw had ticked tight, his fingers curled just so around his glass, eyes pinned sharp and unblinking.

Wooyoung filled the air effortlessly, words spilling about upcoming Paris dinners and shoot schedules. Felix nodded along, lips curved, but his skin prickled every time Wooyoung brushed his arm. Not from the touch, but from the weight of the silence shadowing it.

Then, finally—Hyunjin broke it.

“So.” His voice cut low, even, dipped in something that hooked and held. “Aren't you going to introduce me, Lix?”

Felix stilled. The nickname cracked sharp through him, hotter than the room, sharper than the champagne. His pulse stuttered against his throat, betraying him in a way his face refused to.

Wooyoung blinked, eyebrows lifting in surprise. His gaze flicked toward Hyunjin, skimming the leather jacket, the sharp lines, the sheer presence. “And you are?”

Felix cleared his throat, smirk slipping back into place like armor. “This is Hyunjin. He’s… one of the members of CREED.”

Recognition sparked instantly across Wooyoung’s face. “Ahh—your set tonight was unreal. I’ve heard the buzz, but live? Different league. You’ve got a grit no one else is pulling off right now.”

Hyunjin’s head tilted in acknowledgment, a small movement, sharp. His eyes never once left Felix. “Glad you liked it.”

“And you two know each other?” Wooyoung asked, curious now, his gaze sliding between them.

Felix hesitated—just a beat too long. His smirk was still there, painted steady, but when he finally said, “We’re… friends,” it felt thin, brittle.

Hyunjin snorted. Quiet. Low. A sound sharp enough to cut straight through the air between them.

Felix’s skin flushed hot. He wanted to elbow him, to shut him up, to—god, something. But all he could do was hold the grin on his face, heart hammering far too loud for someone who’d just declared it was nothing more than friendship.

Because Hyunjin had made the word friends sound like the biggest lie in the room.

The silence from Hyunjin lingered even after his snort, heavy and deliberate. Felix swore he could feel it on his skin, brushing like the ghost of fingertips down his spine.

Wooyoung, sharp as ever, caught it instantly. His eyes glimmered, and instead of backing off, he leaned in closer, a mischievous tilt curling his mouth.

“Friends, huh?” Wooyoung drawled, eyes flicking between the two of them with a predator’s curiosity. “That’s cute.” He leaned closer, bold as anything, his breath ghosting Felix’s ear. “But I’ll be honest—I’ve never been good at just staying friends with someone who looks like you.”

Hyunjin’s grip on his glass tightened, knuckles whitening. Felix felt the weight of that stare even as Wooyoung’s arm draped heavy around his shoulders.

Felix tilted his head, smile sharp, bratty, the kind that always got him in trouble. “Oh? And what makes you think I’d want more?”

Wooyoung didn’t miss a beat. “Because you’re smiling while saying that,” he countered, grinning wolfishly. His fingers brushed Felix’s braid, tugging it lightly as if testing boundaries. “And because I’ve seen the way people look at you tonight. Can’t blame them. You’re addictive.”

Felix laughed, tossing his head back in mock-exasperation. “You’re impossible, Woo.” His tone was airy, but there was that gleam in his eyes—rebellious, deliberate, provoking. He could feel Hyunjin stiffen beside him, could hear the subtle clink of his glass being set down with too much control.

And just when it felt like the air would snap—

“Wow.”

Jeongin’s voice sliced in, smug and gleeful. The stylist appeared out of nowhere with a drink in hand, his timing impeccable as always. His sharp eyes took in the scene in one glance—the arm around Felix, the storm brewing in Hyunjin’s expression—and his lips curled into a snicker. “This is better than any drama I’ve streamed in months.”

Felix seized the lifeline instantly. With a cheeky grin and a shake of Wooyoung’s arm off his shoulders, he slipped free. “Don’t start, Jeongin,” he tossed over his shoulder, already weaving into the crowd. “I’m getting another drink.”

But Hyunjin was already moving, setting his glass down with deliberate calm before following, eyes locked on the retreating pink braid like it was a fuse sparking across the room.

Chapter Text

Hyunjin didn’t need to think—his body just moved.

The crowd pressed in on every side, glittering gowns and sharp suits, glasses raised in laughter, bass thumping low beneath it all. None of it mattered. His eyes tracked only one thing: the flash of pink braids weaving ahead, half-hidden in the shimmer of sequins and smoke.

Felix moved fast, shoulders brushing past strangers, laughter catching at his lips as if he could shake off what had just unfolded. But Hyunjin knew better. He recognized the quick tilt of Felix’s head, the way his spine was too straight, too deliberate. The blond was running, not walking.

And Hyunjin was done letting him run.

He pushed past a pair of models, muttered something curt when someone tried to stop him, until finally—Felix ducked into a quieter alcove off the main hall. Velvet curtains muted the sound of the party, the bassline dropping to a hum that vibrated faintly against the walls. It was darker here, shadows crawling, candlelight licking at the edges of polished glass.

Felix had just turned when Hyunjin caught him.

One arm shot out, palm braced against the wall by Felix’s head. The other closed gently but firmly around his wrist, stopping him mid-step. The air between them snapped taut, charged, their breaths colliding.

“Hyunjin—” Felix started, but his voice faltered when Hyunjin braced a hand against the wall beside him, caging him in.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The party roared on just a few feet away, but here, in this narrow slice of dark, it felt like the world had shrunk to the thrum of Felix’s pulse and the simmer in Hyunjin’s veins.

“You’re really something,” Hyunjin murmured, eyes dragging over every detail: the faint sheen on Felix’s collarbone from the heat of the room, the way his mesh shirt clung to his skin, the spark in his gaze daring him to come closer. “You think I didn't notice? The way you talked to him. The way you looked. All right in front of me.”

Felix smirked, bratty mask sliding into place with practiced ease. “What, jealous? Didn’t realize bass boy got territorial.”

Hyunjin huffed out a laugh, low and sharp, leaning closer until Felix’s back pressed harder against the wall. “Jealous? No. Entertained? Absolutely.” His gaze dropped briefly to Felix’s lips before snapping back to his eyes. “You like to play dangerous, don’t you?”

Felix tilted his chin up, defiance etched into every line of his body even as his chest rose quicker than usual. “It’s just fun. You don’t look like the type who handles fun very well.”

That earned another laugh, this one softer, edged with something else—something that curled and burned in Hyunjin’s chest. His thumb brushed the inside of Felix’s wrist, barely there but enough to feel the rapid thrum beneath. “You’d be surprised what I can handle.”

Felix’s smirk deepened, but there was a flicker—brief, almost imperceptible—of something less steady in his eyes. He tried to mask it with more bite, teeth bared in the form of words. “Since when did you start taking me so seriously anyway?”

Hyunjin didn’t flinch. Didn’t break. His voice was steady, threading the air between them like a confession and a claim all at once. “Since the moment you kissed me.”

The words landed heavy, making Felix’s breath hitch before he snapped the armor back on. He scoffed, lips curving sharp. “Mm, bold claim, bass boy. You sound a little obsessed. Should I be flattered… or worried?”

Hyunjin smirked, a slow drag of satisfaction curling at the corner of his mouth. He let the silence stretch, watching Felix squirm just slightly, then tilted his head. “You’re forgetting something,” he said, voice low, deliberate. “You started this. But you're not the one ending it.”

Felix’s brows shot up, the bratty gleam sparking again as he tried to seize control. “Big words. And what exactly do you mean by that?”

Hyunjin leaned in, close enough that Felix could feel the whisper of his breath against his cheek, close enough that his cologne—smoky with a bite of cedar—wrapped around him like a tether. His voice dropped to a promise, not a threat. “I mean you better get ready. Because I’ll make damn sure you won’t think of anything else—anyone else—but me.”

Felix blinked, his smirk faltering, brat façade flickering just enough for Hyunjin to catch it—the crack, the slip. The win.

And Hyunjin didn’t press further. Didn’t steal the kiss he wanted. Instead, he stepped back just slightly, granting Felix breath but not distance, not release.

The promise lingered in the narrow space between them, heavier than touch, sharper than teeth. Felix scoffed, pushing off the wall as if he hadn’t been rattled, as if Hyunjin’s words hadn’t sunk under his skin. But the way his hands trembled slightly as he shoved them into his pockets betrayed him.

Hyunjin let him go with only a smirk. Not chasing. Not yet.

Because this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. 

He slipped back into the afterparty like nothing had happened, sliding through the crowd with his jacket still hanging just right, expression schooled into easy indifference. But the moment he returned to their corner, Chan’s eyes narrowed.

“You look like you just did something reckless,” Chan muttered over the rim of his glass, leader intuition sharper than a blade.

“I’m telling you,” Jisung piped in before Hyunjin could answer, half-laughing, half-exasperated, “Felix just walked by me in the hall looking like he saw God and lost the argument. What the hell did you do?”

Hyunjin shrugged, sliding into his chair, reaching for the glass he’d abandoned earlier. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” Changbin leaned back, arms crossed, smirk too knowing. “That’s your I did something and I’m not gonna say it face.”

Jisung smacked the table, eyes wide. “Oh my god, you cornered him, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

Hyunjin tipped the glass to his lips, unbothered. “Define cornered.”

Changbin let out a bark of laughter. “Exactly what I thought.”

“You’re insane,” Jisung groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “Do you even realize what you’re doing? He’s not like—like the others you get tangled up with. He’ll eat you alive.”

“Or worse,” Changbin muttered, smirking. “You’ll end up caring.”

Hyunjin set the glass down, eyes glinting. “Relax. It’s a game.”

Chan leaned in, voice quieter but sharper than the rest, cutting through the banter like a blade. “And what if he’s not playing?”

The smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, then reassembled itself. “Then that’s his problem.”

But Hyunjin knew they didn’t buy it. Hell, he barely bought it himself.

The rest of the band got pulled into some conversation with a PR rep, leaving Hyunjin half-listening, half-scanning the room. The afterparty glittered—sequined dresses, tailored suits, laughter spilling over the thrum of bass-heavy remixes.

And there he was.

Felix, halfway across the room, drink in hand, pink braid catching the light as he tilted his head in conversation with someone. His smile was sharp, his posture lazy, but Hyunjin knew better. He could read the tension in his shoulders, the flick of his eyes toward the exit every few minutes, the restless tap of his finger against his glass.

He looked different here—more polished, more untouchable—yet Hyunjin couldn’t unsee the version pressed against the hallway wall, breath shaky and façade cracking. Two sides of the same coin, both dangerous, both infuriatingly magnetic.

And when Felix laughed at something his companion said, head tipping back, throat bared under the glint of the lights, Hyunjin’s grip on his glass tightened.

He told himself it was still just a game. Just a challenge.

But from across the crowded room, he couldn’t look away.

The city always felt different after nights like these. Felix knew the streets of Seoul well, but rolling back to his flat in the afterglow of a runway—leather jacket still carrying the musk of cigarette smoke and spilt champagne—made the city hum at a different pitch. Every neon sign seemed brighter, every breeze sharper, every shadow heavier with memory.

He dropped his keys onto the entry table and exhaled, shoulders sagging under the weight of the night. The flat was dim, golden spill from the hallway lamp catching against the glass frames on the wall. The silence rang too loud after hours of bass and chatter.

Felix tugged the braid loose from his hair, fingers clumsy from exhaustion and something else. The whole night replayed itself in relentless loops—the crowd’s roar when he stepped out under the runway lights, Wooyoung’s easy laugh close to his ear, Hyunjin’s voice low and dangerous in that hallway.

"Because I’ll make damn sure you won’t think of anything else—anyone else—but me.”

The words wouldn’t stop circling, each replay sharper, as if he hadn’t already been dizzy enough when Hyunjin had said them. Felix scowled at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, cheeks still faintly flushed. “Stupid,” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure who he meant—Hyunjin or himself.

His phone buzzed where he’d thrown it on the counter. Minho’s name lit up the screen. Felix swiped the call on speaker, tugging his mesh shirt over his head with one hand.

“You’ve got another offer,” Minho’s voice came, blunt as always. “Milan this time. They want you for their winter campaign. Direct booking. No audition.”

Felix froze halfway through tossing the shirt in the laundry basket. “What?”

“You heard me. You killed it tonight.”

Felix swallowed, throat suddenly dry. Another deal. Another city. Another chance to step further into the world he’d clawed his way toward. It should’ve thrilled him. Instead, his mind flashed to Hyunjin, the look in his eyes when he’d pinned Felix against the wall, the way he’d smirked like he owned the floor they stood on.

He forced a laugh, scratching at the back of his neck. “Guess I should start brushing up my Italian.”

Minho hummed. He could always tell when Felix was dodging. But thankfully, he didn’t press. “We’ll talk details in the morning. Rest. Don’t do anything stupid.”

The line clicked dead.

Felix stood there, phone still in hand, pulse racing for reasons that had nothing to do with Milan.

By the time Jeongin and Seungmin let themselves in, Felix was sprawled on the couch with a blanket and a glass of water, pretending he hadn’t been brooding in the silence.

“Wow,” Jeongin said the second he saw him, flopping into the armchair. “Our little star survived.”

Seungmin tossed a look sharp enough to cut as he set down the takeout bag he’d brought. “Survived? He thrived. Did you not see the way people were tripping over themselves to talk to him? Felix, you’re officially a menace.”

Felix rolled his eyes, tugging the blanket higher over his chest. “Yeah, yeah. I walked a runway. Big deal.”

Jeongin’s grin spread wide, sharklike. “Oh, it’s a big deal. Especially the part where Wooyoung came over to talk to you. In front of Hyunjin.”

Felix stiffened, which was all the confirmation they needed.

Seungmin raised a brow, voice dripping with mock-sweetness. “So… are we going to talk about how Hyunjin nearly burned a hole through Wooyoung’s skull with his eyes? Or how you mysteriously disappeared with him right after?”

Felix scoffed, reaching for his glass with hands that shook just enough to betray him. “You two are insufferable.”

“Uh-huh,” Jeongin sing-songed, leaning forward like a cat who’d cornered a mouse. “And what exactly happened in that hallway?”

“Nothing.” Felix’s reply was too quick, too defensive.

Seungmin’s smirk sharpened into something colder, something menace-shaped instead of best-friend-shaped. “If it was nothing, then why do you look like you’re still feeling it?”

Felix froze, the water glass half-lifted. His pulse skipped.

Jeongin blinked, caught off guard by the edge in Seungmin’s tone, but recovered with a snicker. “Oh, that’s good. He’s blushing. He’s actually blushing.”

Felix groaned, dragging the blanket over his head like armor. “I hate you both.”

But Seungmin’s words clung heavier than Jeongin’s teasing. Still feeling it. He hated that Seungmin was right. Hated that the burn of Hyunjin’s gaze hadn’t left him, that the memory of the bassist’s smirk refused to fade.

And under the suffocating blanket, hidden from their knowing smirks, he pressed his fingers against his lips like he could erase the echo that still lingered there.

Chapter Text

The studio smelled like rosewater and powder foundation, all sharp lights and sharper camera clicks. Felix had been posing for HERA’s new line for what felt like hours, skin misted, lips glossed, angles on demand. The team fussed around him like a hive, one stylist tugging at the collar of his silk shirt, another powdering the bridge of his nose.

It was routine. Easy, in theory. Work had always been Felix’s anchor—one pose, one flash, one perfect frame at a time. But today his thoughts kept wandering to last night’s banter with Seungmin and Jeongin, to Hyunjin’s voice threading its way into his head like an unwanted chorus.

"Because I’ll make damn sure you won’t think of anything else—anyone else—but me.”

The words had clung like perfume, and no amount of foundation or flashbulbs could scrub them off.

“Break time,” the photographer finally called. Felix sagged in the chair they wheeled over for him, tugging his hair tie loose and massaging his scalp. His muscles ached in that bone-deep way shoots always left him, but he didn’t complain. This was what he did. Who he was.

Then the studio door creaked.

Heads turned as a delivery boy stepped inside, arms cradling something massive. Murmurs swelled when they caught sight of the bouquet—impossibly rich blue roses, lush petals spilling over like velvet flames.

“For Lee Felix,” the delivery boy announced, bowing awkwardly before depositing them directly into Felix’s lap.

The weight knocked into him, heavy and fragrant. Felix’s throat went dry. His fingers hovered on the ribbon, like touching it would make the room tilt. Because he knew. Of course he knew.

He hadn’t even plucked the card free when his phone buzzed on the table beside him.

One message.

So… did the right shade of blue find you yet? Or do I need to send a whole garden? 🌹💙

Felix swore under his breath, flipping the phone face-down like it might explode. His pulse was hammering too fast, stomach tight in a way that had nothing to do with modeling diet restrictions. He really did it. He actually—

The card confirmed it. Just two words scrawled in a messy hand he recognized instantly: Enjoy, Lix.

He pressed the roses back into the table like they were burning through his thighs.

By the time Seungmin strolled in, iced Americano in hand and his manager’s lanyard swinging, Felix was wound tight enough to snap.

“You,” Felix snapped, jabbing a finger so hard that the coffee nearly sloshed. “You absolute snitch.”

Seungmin blinked, all blank-eyed innocence. “Good morning to you too.”

“Don’t even—don’t. How the hell did Hyunjin know my schedule? Flowers. Blue roses. At this set.” Felix shoved the bouquet at his chest like damning evidence. “Explain.”

Seungmin glanced down, unimpressed. “They’re nice.”

“Nice? I look like I’m auditioning for The Bachelor. I’ll be eliminated before the first rose ceremony.”

Across the room, Jeongin snickered from where he was scrolling on a stool. “Honestly? You kinda do.”

Felix shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass before spinning back to Seungmin. “It was you. You told him. Who else even has my schedule? This is confidential manager-level information.”

Seungmin calmly sipped his coffee, eyes as flat as ever. “Maybe he asked someone else.”

“There is no one else, Minnie. You’re literally the gatekeeper.”

A smirk tugged at Seungmin’s mouth, betraying him. “You’re welcome, then. He wanted to make sure you didn’t forget him.”

Felix made a strangled noise, burying his face in his hands. “I hate both of you.”

“Sure you do,” Seungmin said mildly, setting the bouquet back on the counter like it wasn’t radioactive. “But you didn’t throw them away.”

Jeongin cackled. “He’s got you there.”

Felix groaned louder, the roses staring at him like they’d grown eyes. And the worst part? He knew Hyunjin was probably smirking somewhere, waiting for his reply.

Felix stared at the card again, chewing at his lip until he finally caved and snatched his phone. His thumbs flew.

blue roses. again? you running out of ideas already?

It only took a few seconds. Hyunjin’s name lit up like a match.

Funny. That’s not what your face said the first time I gave them to you.

Felix’s pulse stuttered. He sat up straighter, typing fast.

i don’t know what face you’re talking about.
must’ve imagined it.

Three dots. Then:

Mm. I don’t imagine things, Lix. Especially not you.
You looked like you wanted to keep them forever.

Felix’s jaw clenched. He had kept them, pressed between sketchbook pages where no one could see. But Hyunjin didn’t need to know that.

delusional

Persistent.
And better at reading you than you want to admit.

Felix huffed, thumbs hammering harder.

you think sending flowers makes you smooth?
please

A pause. Then, like Hyunjin had been waiting for the exact opening:

Not just flowers. Your flowers.
The kind that make everyone else jealous because they weren’t the one who gave them.

Felix’s stomach dipped, heat crawling up the back of his neck.

you're annoying.

And you’re smiling. Don’t deny it.

Felix tossed his phone onto the counter like it was radioactive, but his lips were, in fact, curved exactly the way Hyunjin claimed.

Felix should’ve known the first delivery was only the beginning.

The bouquet had barely settled into a corner of his flat when the next gift arrived two days later, hand-delivered to the Tamburins set where Felix had been posing under blinding lights since dawn. A sleek black bag was dropped into his dressing room with his name engraved on the tag in heavy script.

Inside: a box of Swiss chocolates, gold-foiled corners catching the light, a bottle of his favorite tequila wrapped in tissue, and—tucked neatly at the top—another single blue rose.

Felix laughed under his breath, low and sharp. “Unbelievable.”

The tequila glinted like it knew exactly what trouble it was promising. Felix fished out his phone, thumbs quick.

what’s this? you tryna get me drunk?

The reply came so fast he wondered if Hyunjin had been waiting for it.

Yes.
But not without me there.

Felix’s ears burned. He nearly dropped the phone, muttering curses in his accent-thick whisper. He typed back with more force than necessary.

you're not even showing up. you think this is cute?

No.
I think it's driving you mad in the best way

Felix shoved the bag under his chair, ignoring how his chest felt too tight to breathe properly.

The third gift came three days later—this time at his flat, delivered in a cream-colored box tied with a silk ribbon that smelled faintly of cologne and something sharper, something him. Felix peeled it open only to blink at the label.

Louis Vuitton.

He pulled out the outfit piece by piece: tailored trousers, crisp white shirt, blazer with gold stitching on the lapel. It was immaculate, deliberate, and so very on brand. Too on brand.

Felix scowled, typing immediately.

I’m literally their ambassador. what’s the point of giving me LV like it’s new?

The three dots appeared, paused, vanished, reappeared. Then:

Supporting the ambassador.
Is it working?

Felix choked on air. His reflection in the mirror mocked him—pink hair mussed from sleep, lips parted like he’d been caught.

it’s ridiculous.

And yet you’re smiling.

Felix slammed the lid of the box closed as if that would muffle his heartbeat.

The fourth came on a rainy Thursday, slipped into his bag by a smirking Seungmin who claimed innocence a little too loudly. A small battered notebook, the spine fraying, pages worn soft.

Felix sat at his kitchen table later that night, flipping through it with hesitant fingers. His breath caught. Lyrics, rough lines, messy ink sketches sprawled across the pages in Hyunjin’s unmistakable hand. Some were crossed out, some circled, some half-finished—fragments of him caught in paper.

Felix’s throat tightened. He texted before he could stop himself.

you didn’t.

I did.

this is cheating.

Everything’s fair when you’re trying to win.

Felix snapped the book shut and pressed it to his chest, like if he held it close enough the words might stop vibrating in his bones. His lips tugged into a helpless, quiet smile.

He didn’t even notice Seungmin leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. “You’re doomed,” his best friend said, flat as ever.

Felix hurled a cushion at him. “Shut up.”

But the truth lingered anyway. Because the more the gifts came, the less Felix could decide if this was supposed to make him furious or flustered. Irritation, swoon—two edges of the same blade, and Hyunjin kept pressing him right into the middle.

And damn it if Felix didn’t almost like it.

Felix hadn’t even realized how long he’d been scrolling until the glow of his phone screen started making his eyes ache. He was sprawled across his couch, pink hair falling loose from the bun, thumb moving out of habit more than intent. Memes, fashion gossip, cat videos—background noise to his overstimulated brain.

Then a thumbnail stopped him cold.

CREED — Exclusive Interview: The Band Everyone’s Talking About.

“Oh, hell no,” Felix muttered. But his finger was already tapping the video.

The frame lit up with the four of them in split screens, dim stage lighting doing nothing to hide the fact that every single one looked unfairly good. Changbin in a bomber jacket, Chan half-distracted but handsome as ever, Jisung grinning like chaos in human form—

And Hyunjin.

Hyunjin in a simple black shirt, chains glinting at his collarbone, hair pushed back just enough to frame his face. Sharp jawline, lips quirked like he knew exactly what kind of havoc he was wreaking on unsuspecting viewers. Felix sucked in a breath before he could stop himself, hating how his chest betrayed him.

Get a grip, he scolded, pressing his tongue to his cheek.

The interviewer leaned forward. “CREED’s lyrics are getting a lot of attention lately. Each song feels like a different universe. How does the writing process usually go?”

Changbin chuckled first. “Depends on the mood. Sometimes one of us walks in with a full track, sometimes it’s just a line scribbled on a napkin.”

Jisung waved. “I write best at 3 a.m. when my brain’s fried and my snack supply is dangerously low.”

Chan rubbed his temple, smirking. “And I’m usually the one who has to clean it all up and make it sound coherent.”

The interviewer laughed, turning to Hyunjin. “And you?”

Hyunjin tilted his head, eyes glinting like he was choosing trouble. “Me? I usually write when something—or someone—gets under my skin. It’s easier when the muse is… distracting.” Then looked directly at the camera. “Half the time, I don’t even have to try. They just… make me crazy without realizing it.”

The smirk that followed wasn’t subtle.

Felix’s breath hitched, heat crawling up his neck. No. Nope. Absolutely not. He pressed his palm against his sternum like he could shove the racing out of his heart. Hyunjin hadn’t said his name, hadn’t even hinted—at least not to anyone else. But Felix knew. He knew exactly where that pointed grin had landed. Straight across the city, right into his living room, slicing through his defenses like glass.

Changbin’s cackle echoed in his earbuds. Jisung was practically doubled over, howling with “ohhh I see you!” Chan pinched the bridge of his nose like he wanted to vanish off-screen.

Felix barely heard them. His pulse was loud, his skin prickled. His bratty armor tried to click into place but kept slipping, leaving behind that annoying, unbearable fluttering.

“Insufferable bastard,” Felix muttered to the empty room, shoving both hands into his hair. “Broadcasting like that—unbelievable. Utterly—” He cut himself off with a groan, because the truth was worse: he couldn’t stop replaying it. The cadence of Hyunjin’s words. The glint in his eyes. That smirk.

He needed air. Or a punching bag. Or—

He was already calling Seungmin.

The line clicked open. “Hello?” Seungmin’s tone was calm, too calm.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” Felix snapped, pacing a hole into the carpet.

There was silence, then a very loaded, very suspicious “…Who?”

“Jisung,” Felix spat. “Where is he?!”

A pause, followed by the sound of someone choking back laughter. Seungmin. Of course. “So you did see the interview,” he said smoothly, and Felix swore he could hear the smirk through the receiver.

Felix gritted his teeth. “Don’t start.”

But Seungmin wasn’t merciful. “Funny, though. You’re calling me to ask where Jisung is. Not the bassist who declared his love nationwide.” His voice dipped into teasing, sharp as a knife. “What, planning to storm the interview set and throw hands? Or… maybe throw yourself at him?”

Felix’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?!”

“Just asking.” Seungmin’s chuckle was low, smug. “Your slip is showing, Lixie.”

Felix groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

And Felix, with the ghost of Hyunjin’s smirk still haunting his mind, couldn’t even argue.

Chapter Text

Felix wasn’t expecting company.

It was one of his rare, blessedly free afternoons, the kind that begged for coffee and silence. He’d slipped into his favorite café, the one with warm lighting that washed the walls in honey, where the low hum of chatter never got too loud and the scent of roasted beans clung to the air like a comfort blanket. His usual table was tucked against the window, half-hidden by trailing vines in a planter. Safe. Familiar.

He’d just settled in with an iced americano, thumb lazily scrolling through his phone, when the barista appeared with a plate.

“Strawberry cheesecake for you,” the man said, cheerful.

Felix blinked up. “Oh—sorry, I didn’t order that.”

The barista only tipped his head, lips quirking. “Compliments of the gentleman behind you.”

Felix’s brows knit. He turned in his seat, and his breath promptly caught.

There he was. Hyunjin. Leaning with careless grace against the counter, all long limbs and understated black clothes, red baseball cap turned backwards. The smirk tugging at his mouth was proof enough he’d been waiting for Felix to notice.

Felix’s heart betrayed him with a sharp kick against his ribs. He coughed, straightened, forced his expression into something bratty and unimpressed. “What,” he drawled as Hyunjin approached, “are you stalking me now?”

Hyunjin snorted, sliding into the opposite chair without asking, like it was always meant for him. “Stalking? Don’t flatter yourself.” His tone was light, but his eyes burned with that same focused spark that always made Felix squirm. “I live here.” He leaned back, stretching his legs out until one brushed Felix’s under the table. 

Felix’s brows shot up. “Here?”

Hyunjin gestured lazily out the café windows toward the sleek high-rise apartments lining the upscale street. “Next door. Building across from the gallery.”

Felix blinked. Twice. “This café is on one of the most expensive streets in Seoul.” His voice pitched higher than he meant it to. “You just—live here?”

Hyunjin only shrugged, sliding a forkful of cheesecake across the table toward Felix. “Is it really that shocking?”

Felix stared at him, at the infuriatingly nonchalant set of his shoulders, then down at the neat triangle of strawberry cheesecake gleaming in the golden light. He reached for it before his brain could protest. His fork sank into soft cream, the tang of strawberries sharp against his tongue, and for one dangerous second he forgot to breathe.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, chewing quickly to cover the sudden thump of his pulse.

Hyunjin’s grin widened. “And yet here you are, eating my gift.”

Felix froze. “Gifts,” he corrected sharply, setting his fork down with a click. His eyes narrowed. “Plural. You’ve been sending things for days.”

“Have I?” Hyunjin’s gaze was all innocence, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

Felix’s lips pressed thin. “Don’t play dumb. Flowers at Hera. Chocolate and tequila. The Louis Vuitton set. And the notebook.” His tone sharpened, though the notebook sat warm in his mind, stubbornly soft. “What’s your game?”

Hyunjin’s eyes softened just slightly, enough to unbalance him. “Game?” he echoed, voice low. “What makes you think it’s anything but… genuine?”

Felix’s brat armor wavered. He reached for his drink just to keep his hands busy, cold condensation slick against his fingers. “Because nothing you do is ever simple,” he shot back, too quick, too defensive.

Hyunjin only hummed, resting his chin against his hand, watching Felix squirm across the table like the easiest entertainment in the world.

And Felix hated—hated—that a part of him wanted to believe it wasn’t a game at all.

Felix scooped another forkful of cheesecake just to busy his hands. The strawberry glaze clung sweet against his tongue, but it did little to drown out the way Hyunjin’s gaze pressed in—steady, amused, like he had all the time in the world to wait Felix out.

“You’re really something, you know that?” Felix muttered, pushing at the crumbs with his fork.

Hyunjin arched a brow. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”

“Depends,” Felix said, a flash of his grin showing through. “Are you planning to keep sending me gifts until my apartment looks like a florist-slash-convenience-store-slash-designer showroom?”

Hyunjin leaned back in his chair, lazy elegance draped across his frame, but his eyes were razor-sharp. “Not if you’d rather I deliver them in person.”

Felix scoffed, muttering under his breath, “Unbelievable.”

But Hyunjin only leaned forward again, gaze catching Felix’s like a net. “Then let’s test how believable I can be,” he said, voice low and even. “Go out with me. Again.”

The fork slipped from Felix’s fingers and clinked against the plate. He blinked at Hyunjin, brain skipping a beat. “Another date?” he repeated, tone pitched higher than intended. “What’s it gonna be this time—dinner in the clouds? A yacht party? Don’t tell me you’re renting out the Han River for a picnic.”

Hyunjin laughed, soft but cutting, the kind that curled under Felix’s skin. “You sound nervous.”

Felix forced a smirk, bratty armor snapping into place. “I sound practical. First time you drag me into a Michelin-star dinner out of nowhere, then you send flowers and chocolates like some chaebol Romeo. Forgive me if I brace for whiplash.”

Hyunjin’s grin widened, sharp edges glinting through the calm. “If it’s with me,” he said, voice dropping lower, silk with steel stitched in, “maybe the whiplash is worth it.”

Felix’s chest clenched, sharp and sudden, the cheesecake turning to dust on his tongue. He fiddled with his fork, refusing to look up, pretending the weight pressing down on him wasn’t Hyunjin’s gaze.

Felix left the café with his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, strawberry still lingering on his tongue. The late afternoon air was crisp, streetlights flickering on one by one as the city shifted gears from day to night. He half expected Hyunjin to stay inside, to let him walk off the tension that had crackled between them at the table.

But of course, footsteps fell in behind him. Long strides, unhurried.

Felix glanced sideways. “You following me now?”

Hyunjin’s mouth twitched, not quite a grin. “Walking in the same direction.”

Felix rolled his eyes, but he didn’t speed up. Didn’t shake him off either. They slipped into rhythm without meaning to, their shoulders brushing every so often when the sidewalk narrowed.

The bass player looked absurdly at ease, hands in the pockets of his coat, hair catching in the breeze. It was that infuriating calm of his—the same man who could set a stage on fire and walk away like it never scorched him.

“You know,” Hyunjin said lightly, voice dipping with amusement, “if someone sees us, we’ll end up on headlines tomorrow.”

Felix scoffed, tugging his hood lower. “And you’re not scared? Isn’t that… scandal material?”

Hyunjin turned his head, watching him with something that felt too sharp, too certain. “Scandal? Media twists everything. They always will.” His shrug was careless, but his tone held weight, deliberate. “But the people who matter—the ones who actually care about the band—they’ll know the truth. They always do.”

Felix blinked, the words lodging deeper than he wanted to admit. For Hyunjin, freedom seemed so simple, worn like another leather jacket he could shrug on and off. Felix, meanwhile, had spent years learning how to edit himself: smile just right, posture flawless, feelings hidden under glossy spreads and runway walks.

Something twisted in his chest—longing, sharp and uninvited.

“You make it sound easy,” he muttered finally. “To not care. To just… exist like that.” He let out a bitter laugh. “I wish I had that kind of freedom.”

Hyunjin’s gaze cut sideways, sharp in the glow of the streetlights. “Maybe you should try it.”

Felix scoffed, trying to mask the way his stomach flipped. “And how, exactly, am I supposed to do that?”

Hyunjin’s smirk curved, slow and deliberate. “Simple. Another date with me.”

Felix whipped his head toward him, eyes wide. “That's your solution? Persistent much?”

“Worked the first time, didn’t it?” Hyunjin countered smoothly. “You looked freer that night than I’ve ever seen you.”

Felix’s jaw worked, a retort ready on his tongue, but it stuck there. Because the worst part was—he remembered. The dance, the late night walk, steaming roasted potatoes, the way the night peeled something loose inside him he hadn’t realized was knotted so tight.

And damn him, Hyunjin knew it too.

Schedules were usually Minho’s kingdom, not Felix’s. The calendar was sacred, written in pen as if time itself answered to him. Meetings, fittings, shoots, rehearsals—all slotted into place with a ruthless neatness Felix never dared disturb. He was the talent; Minho was the order. It worked that way.

Which was why Minho’s brow furrowed the second Felix spoke.

“You want me to do what?”

The pen in his cousin’s hand hovered mid-scratch, ink glistening, then stilled. His chair creaked as he leaned back, eyes narrowing in a way that made Felix’s stomach pinch.

Felix leaned against the kitchen counter, pretending at ease. He could feel the marble edge pressing sharp into his hipbone, grounding him. His fingers picked at the hem of his oversized sweatshirt, tugging loose threads. “Clear the week before Milan. No shoots, no endorsements, no press. Nothing.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to hum.

Minho set the pen down, spine straight. “You’ve never asked me to move anything before. Not once.” His tone was calm, almost too calm, which was worse than shouting. “So—why now?”

Felix inhaled, tried not to squirm under the weight of that look. Minho had a way of staring at him that felt like peeling layers off until nothing was left but truth. Felix hated it, hated how exposed he felt. He tried for a shrug, tossing the words out like they didn’t matter. “I have… somewhere to be.”

“Somewhere,” Minho repeated flatly, as if testing the shape of it. His cousin's eyes stayed soft, but the manager in him sharpened. “Care to elaborate?”

Felix’s throat went dry. He fiddled with his phone on the counter, tilting it between his palms like it might shield him. “With Hyunjin.”

The name dropped into the room like a pin on glass. Minho’s eyebrows rose—just a flicker of surprise before suspicion leveled everything again.

“I thought it was just a game,” Minho said slowly. “That’s what you told me.”

Felix felt the sting of that. His own words thrown back, brittle now. He wanted to repeat them, shove them forward like a barricade. Instead, his voice faltered on the truth he couldn’t quite bury. “We’re friends. Nothing more.”

“Friends,” Minho echoed, drawing the syllables out like he was measuring their weight. He studied Felix across the table, eyes unreadable in that manager way he had. But then his gaze softened, cousin peeking through. “Friends don’t usually make you ask me to rearrange an entire week.”

Felix’s chest tightened. He tried to laugh, but it came out thin, hollow. “Maybe I just needed a break.”

Minho didn’t smile. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. His manager voice slipped in, calm but unshakable. “You deserve one. You work harder than anyone I know. But if this thing—this friendship—is going to spill into headlines again, you need to be careful. Not just for the brand.” His gaze pinned Felix in place. “For yourself.”

Felix swallowed, the words landing sharper than they should. Minho never raised his voice, never dramatized. He didn’t need to. His precision cut cleaner than anger ever could.

“I’ll handle it,” Felix said, quieter than he meant to.

Minho’s lips pressed into a thin line, neither smile nor frown. He nodded once, clipped, letting the subject go—for now. But Felix knew the conversation wasn’t over. Not really.

The clock ticked in the corner. The planner lay open between them, squares and scribbles mapping out a life Felix was supposed to be living. He traced one box with his eyes, the neat handwriting, the order of it all. Friends, he had said. Friends.

The word still echoed, sounding both too much and not enough.

Chapter Text

Hyunjin hadn’t exactly planned on becoming the kind of guy who ordered gifts like clockwork. It just… happened. First the roses, then the chocolate, the tequila, the designer fit, the notebook. Each one had felt like an answer to something Felix hadn’t even asked. A rhythm he couldn’t stop once it started.

The problem was, his band noticed.

“Hyune, you’re glowing,” Jisung said one night after rehearsal, leaning on his guitar like it was a witness stand. “Like, post-delivery-service glow. It’s disgusting.”

“I’m fine,” Hyunjin deadpanned, tossing his towel at him.

Changbin, never one to let things go, chimed in with his arms crossed like an elder ready to judge. “No, you’re not. You’ve got that look. The one people get before they start writing ballads nobody asked for.”

Hyunjin scowled. “I’m not—”

“You are,” they said in perfect chorus, as if the band practiced their interventions as much as their sets.

Even Chan, who usually played Switzerland, gave him a once-over. “They’re right. You’re… softer lately. Not in a bad way. Just… different.”

Hyunjin rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. “It’s not like that. I’m not deep in anything. We’re just—”

“—you’re already in deep,” Jisung cut in, sing-song, like he couldn’t resist.

It was Seungmin, though, who stilled the room. Seungmin, perched on the amp like a cat pretending indifference but watching everything. His smirk was there, sure, but so was the edge beneath it.

“You’re free to fool around all you want,” Seungmin said casually, but his tone threaded with warning. “But don’t play with him if you’re not serious. He’s not—” his eyes flickered, sharp, “—the type you get to hurt without consequences.”

Hyunjin stilled, towel dangling from his fingers. For a second, his heart hammered hard enough he thought the whole room could hear it. But then Seungmin hopped down from the amp, brushing past him with a clap to the shoulder like the words hadn’t cut him open.

The conversation ended there, but it stayed lodged in Hyunjin’s ribs, heavy as stone.

The café had smelled of burnt espresso and sugar that clung stubbornly to the air, but Hyunjin barely tasted anything—every nerve of his body was tuned to Felix. The way Felix arched a brow at him like he was an inconvenience, the bratty little smirk pulling at his mouth even when he pretended not to care. Hyunjin wanted to bottle that expression, memorize it, devour it.

When they spilled out onto the sidewalk, the night hummed with traffic and faint neon glow. Felix walked half a step ahead, his hair catching in the streetlight, and Hyunjin followed—not close enough to crowd, but not far enough to let him go either.

Felix threw him that sharp little jab: “Aren’t you scared of scandals?”

Hyunjin only shrugged, shouldering it off with ease he didn’t fully feel. “But the people who matter—the ones who actually care about the band—they’ll know the truth. They always do.”

And there it was—the flicker across Felix’s face. Something soft, something cracked open. Hyunjin’s chest tightened at the sight of it, because he understood. He understood what it meant to carry an image on your back like armor, to wish for the luxury of freedom.

When Felix muttered that he wished he had the same freedom, Hyunjin’s heart thudded hard. He let himself grin, just enough to hide the quake underneath. “Then try it,” he said lightly, eyes locked onto Felix’s. “Go on a date with me.”

Felix bristled, brat-armor rising sharp and gleaming. He teased, pushed back, tried to twist the game into his hands again. But Hyunjin saw it—the pulse in his throat, the slip of nerves he couldn’t mask.

The streetlight hummed. Felix’s steps faltered. And Hyunjin, reckless and steady all at once, let the moment hang—like a string pulled taut between them, ready to snap into something neither of them could take back.

He didn’t say it aloud, but the promise burned clear in his chest: this time, he wasn’t letting Felix slip away.

Felix didn’t know when he lost the argument with himself. Maybe it was on that sidewalk, Hyunjin’s words—then try it, with me—still echoing in his ears days later like some stubborn refrain. Or maybe it was when he’d opened his mouth, almost without thinking, and said yes.

The second the word left his lips, he wanted to take it back. A yes meant change. A yes meant risk. And Lee Felix, professional at controlling narratives, at curating images for cameras, didn’t gamble with things he couldn’t win.

But then he thought about Hyunjin’s smirk. About the way his voice dipped low, promising, daring, like he was already certain Felix would fold.

So Felix folded.

Of course, Minho didn’t buy it when Felix asked for time off. His cousin-manager gave him the full raised-eyebrow treatment when Felix mumbled something vague about needing to be “somewhere.”

“Where?” Minho pressed, tone sharp but steady.

Felix hesitated a beat too long, then muttered, “With Hyunjin.”

There was silence. The kind of silence heavy enough to crush excuses flat.

Minho sighed, thumb tapping against his phone before he finally said, “Fine. I’ll clear it.” His eyes, though, stayed trained on Felix, sharp as glass. “But be careful. Don’t let him turn your head too far, okay?”

Felix didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because for the first time in too long, his chest fizzed with something reckless, something dangerously close to excitement.

That was, until Hyunjin’s text arrived:

Meet me at the airport.

Felix stared at the screen, blinking, then groaned into his pillow. The airport? For a date? Who in their right mind—

Apparently, Hwang Hyunjin.

He nearly turned around three times on the way there. Nearly called Minho, nearly told the driver to head back. But stubbornness dragged him forward, cap pulled low, sunglasses swallowing half his face as he slipped through Incheon’s glass-and-steel labyrinth.

Every flash of a camera made his gut clench. Every pair of eyes he felt on him was another headline waiting to happen. He told himself it was fine, that no one would bother looking twice—he was just another man in an oversized hoodie, suitcase rattling quietly behind him. Just another traveler.

Except his pulse betrayed him, tripping faster the closer he got to the departure halls. Because he knew who he was meeting. And he knew what seeing him always did.

And then he saw him.

Hyunjin, waiting by the corner of the terminal like it was the most natural thing in the world. His airport fashion was infuriatingly understated: dark cap pulled low, long coat draped with the kind of elegance people paid stylists for, boots scuffed just enough to look effortless. He looked like a rockstar hiding in plain sight, like the kind of person who’d walk into your life and detonate it without blinking.

Felix’s stomach flipped. He swallowed hard, tried to smother the flicker of warmth sparking in his chest, and settled on his default weapon: sarcasm.

“You’ve officially lost it,” Felix muttered as he approached, dragging his suitcase with a little more force than necessary. “Who the hell meets at an airport for a date?”

Hyunjin straightened, lips twitching. “People with taste.”

Felix’s jaw tightened. “You’re unbelievable.”

But then Hyunjin casually hooked a hand around his elbow and steered him away from the boarding gates. Felix dug in his heels. “Hyunjin—what are you—this is not the gate—”

Hyunjin didn’t even break stride, smirk deepening as he tugged Felix along. Past security. Down a quieter corridor. And then the world tilted.

The glass doors hissed open and cold wind rushed in, whipping at Felix’s hoodie. On the tarmac before him, a sleek white private jet gleamed under the sunlight, engines humming low like it was already waiting for them.

Felix stopped dead. His sunglasses slid a fraction down his nose, and for once he didn’t bother fixing them.

“No way,” he breathed. “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

Hyunjin’s laugh carried easily over the low roar of turbines. “What, a plane?” He tilted his head, smirk settling in place. “Good eye.”

Felix gaped. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious.” Hyunjin’s tone was annoyingly even, like this was nothing. Like this wasn’t insane. “Pilot’s a family friend of Chan hyung’s. I just asked for a favor.” His eyes flicked, deliberate, over Felix’s travel clothes. “Wouldn’t want a national treasure stuffed into coach, would we?”

Heat rushed Felix’s face. He yanked his sunglasses back into place, hating how transparent he felt under Hyunjin’s gaze. “You’re insane.”

“Probably,” Hyunjin said, already striding up the steps of the plane. His coat flared behind him like a cape, boots ringing against the metal. At the top, he turned, looking down at Felix with every ounce of arrogance in his bones. “Come on, Lix. Don’t keep the sky waiting.”

Felix gripped the handle of his suitcase so tightly his knuckles ached. He should turn back. He should walk away.

Instead, he took a step forward.

And another.

And another, until the steps groaned beneath his weight and Hyunjin’s smirk was the only horizon that mattered.

The cabin smelled faintly of leather and jet fuel, a strange mix of luxury and machinery. Felix ducked inside, sunglasses slipping lower as his gaze skimmed the polished wood panels, the cream-colored seats wide enough to swallow a man whole, and the champagne already chilling in crystal glasses like this was normal. Like flying private was nothing more than catching a cab.

It wasn’t new to him—he’d been on jets like this plenty, flown to Milan, Paris, New York with Minho breathing down his neck and Jeongin fussing over his face. He knew the sound of a turbine kicking up, the weight of altitude pressing on his ears, the blur of clouds sweeping beneath his window.

But this? With Hyunjin? A grimy bassist who made crowds lose their minds with shredded chords and eyeliner smeared under neon lights? That was another thing entirely.

Felix dropped into one of the wide leather seats, arms crossed tight, his suitcase shoved half under the table. His voice came out steadier than he felt.

“Okay,” he said, staring across at Hyunjin who was already sprawled into his seat like the plane had been made for him. “Who really are you?”

Hyunjin tilted his head, cap shadowing his eyes. “I told you—pilot’s a family friend of Chan hyung. I asked for a favor.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Felix muttered. His nails tapped against his sleeve, his throat too tight with questions he couldn’t untangle fast enough. “One day you’re all leather jackets and ripped strings, the next you’re living on a high-end street, pulling this—” He gestured around the plane, at the wood gleam and the silver buckles. “You’re a contradiction, Hwang.”

Hyunjin’s smirk was infuriatingly calm, stretching slow across his lips. He leaned back, arms folded loose, gaze catching Felix like it always did—steady, unflinching, as if there was no place else in the world worth looking at.

“There’s a lot more you don’t know about me,” Hyunjin said, echoing yet again the same lines Felix has once told him. His voice carried easy, the engines beginning to rumble underneath them.

Felix swallowed, pulse racing in a way he hated to admit. He wanted to snap back, wanted to claw back the ground, but his tongue tripped. “Then what should I know, huh?”

Hyunjin’s eyes crinkled, lips curling sharper. “Depends.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You interested?”

Felix’s breath hitched. He hated how transparent it felt in the small cabin, hated the way the air suddenly pressed heavier against his skin. He wanted to say no. He wanted to laugh.

But the hum of turbines rose, the floor trembled as the plane began to roll, and Hyunjin’s voice cut clean through it all, calm, certain, dangerous.

“We’ve got all the time in the world once we land.”

The air hit him first—warm and salted, carrying the tang of seaweed and sunscreen, sticky enough to cling to his skin even before they stepped off the tarmac. Jeju was softer than Seoul, Felix decided. Less sharp edges, more sky. The mountains sloped green in the distance, and the ocean glittered like someone had spilled diamonds straight into the horizon.

Beside him, Hyunjin tugged his cap lower, the breeze tossing strands of his hair free. He looked too normal in his loose shirt and sneakers, luggage wheeling noisily behind him. Not the bassist who set stages on fire. Not the boy who cornered Felix under neon lights. Just Hyunjin.

And Felix hated that he noticed.

The car ride blurred by in windows full of coastline. When they reached the resort, Felix followed Hyunjin into the lobby, trying to keep his face neutral while Hyunjin checked them in. The scent of polished wood and ocean lilies filled the space. Felix told himself he wasn’t expecting anything, wasn’t hoping for anything.

Which was why the sting of surprise caught him off guard when the receptionist handed them two keycards.

“Separate rooms?” Felix asked before he could stop himself.

Hyunjin glanced back, brows raised like the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Of course.”

Felix snapped his mouth shut, heat crawling embarrassingly up his neck. Right. Obviously. What was he even expecting—that they’d share, like some cliché getaway? He wanted to kick himself. Maybe twice.

They parted briefly to drop their luggage in their respective rooms. Felix’s suite smelled faintly of citrus and linen, all clean lines and balcony views that seemed painted on. He leaned against the door for a second, palm pressed over his racing chest, scolding himself for being ridiculous.

When he stepped back into the hall, Hyunjin was already there waiting. No jewelry, no leather, no stage glare. Just a boy in a worn cap and a half-smile tugging at his mouth.

“Dress casually,” Hyunjin said, eyes flicking over Felix’s outfit before nodding with approval. “No Creed bassist today. No supermodel either. Just us.”

The words landed heavier than Felix wanted them to, threading into the quiet ache under his ribs. Just them. He shoved his hands into his pockets to hide the twitch in his fingers.

“Fine,” he said, fighting for nonchalance. “Just us.”

But the thrum in his chest betrayed him, pulsing too fast, too loud.

Outside, the world opened wide.

The resort path sloped toward a stretch of coastline, stone walls tangled with ivy on either side. The breeze was softer here, almost playful, threading through Felix’s hair and tugging at the hem of Hyunjin’s shirt. Somewhere down the hill, children shrieked with laughter, chasing waves as if the tide belonged to them.

Felix let his steps slow, let the quiet seep into him. Seoul had always pressed against his ribs—claustrophobic with flashing cameras, heels on marble floors, schedules that ran him ragged. But Jeju… Jeju was unhurried. Unstaged.

“Feels different, huh?” Hyunjin’s voice broke the silence, low and thoughtful.

Felix glanced sideways. The bassist wasn’t looking at him but at the horizon, where the sea kissed the sky in endless blue. There was no smirk, no sharpness—just something contemplative, like Hyunjin belonged here in ways Felix couldn’t put into words.

“Yeah,” Felix admitted, surprising himself with the softness of his own voice. “Like I can breathe.”

Hyunjin’s lips curved, the kind of small smile that tugged at Felix like gravity. “Good. That’s the point.”

They walked a little further, sneakers crunching over gravel, shoulders brushing close enough for Felix to feel the heat that wasn’t entirely from the sun.

It was ridiculous, Felix thought. He’d crossed continents, stood under Paris lights, graced runways carved out of marble halls. Yet here, on a quiet island path with Hyunjin—no cameras, no flash—he felt more disarmed than any spotlight had ever managed.

And he wasn’t sure whether to fight it or let it sweep him whole.

They drifted into the streets, sneakers brushing gravel and asphalt, the kind of silence between them that didn’t ache. Felix glanced at Hyunjin from the corner of his eye, trying to reconcile this—this version of him, shoulders relaxed, hands in his pockets, a guy who looked like he belonged to the sea—with the sharp, stage-scorched image of the bassist everyone else saw.

A contradiction. Again. A contradiction that made Felix’s chest tighten.

“Hungry?” Hyunjin broke the quiet, tilting his chin toward a cluster of food stalls gathered near the harbor.

Felix shrugged, though his stomach growled traitorously at the smell of grilling seafood and sugar. “Maybe.”

Hyunjin didn’t even hesitate. He steered them into the market, past a stall overflowing with tangerines, past ajummas calling out prices and boys running errands with baskets slung over their backs. The world here wasn’t curated or polished. It was real.

They stopped at a hotteok stand. Hyunjin ordered without asking, and Felix arched a brow when he handed him one.

“You’re bossy,” Felix muttered, peeling the steaming pancake apart, brown sugar dripping thick inside.

Hyunjin smirked. “You like it.”

Felix nearly choked on the first bite—not because of the food but because of the way Hyunjin said it. Too smooth, too knowing. His brat armor kicked in. “Don’t flatter yourself. Maybe I just like hotteok.”

“Sure,” Hyunjin said, biting into his own, molten filling almost burning him—but he didn’t flinch, eyes cutting sideways at Felix like he knew exactly what game they were playing.

They wove deeper into the market after, tasting samples, brushing shoulders in the crush of people. Felix tugged his cap lower, instinctively keeping his face angled away from wandering eyes, while Hyunjin—contradiction again—walked unbothered, tall and noticeable but somehow blending in.

“How do you do that?” Felix asked before he could stop himself.

“Do what?”

“Look like…” Felix’s voice faltered. “Like you don’t care. Like you’re free.”

Hyunjin stopped for a beat, gaze heavy on him. The air between them hummed.

“You could, too,” Hyunjin murmured. “If you wanted.”

Felix swallowed. His chest twisted. He hated how much he did want.

Chapter Text

Hyunjin thought Felix would scoff the second the cab pulled up to the Teddy Bear Museum. It was a ridiculous choice, even by his standards—childish, corny, a far cry from the sleek image of a runway darling or the edgy chaos of a CREED bassist. He was already bracing himself for a sharp remark, some teasing jab that would make him regret not picking a more appropriate spot.

But then Felix stepped out into the Jeju sunlight, and the reaction wasn’t a scoff at all. His face softened, lips parting slightly, eyes wide as if the sight of giant teddy bears out front was the last thing he expected. There was no mask, no careful poise of a model accustomed to cameras. Just pure, unguarded delight.

And Hyunjin’s heart—damn traitor—stumbled hard enough that he had to glance away, pretending to straighten his jacket.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually into this,” he said, pitching his voice casual, like it didn’t matter.

Felix turned that grin on him—dimples deep, sunlight caught in the curve of his mouth. “Don’t tell me you’re not.”

Hyunjin didn’t answer. Couldn’t, not when Felix’s laughter already rang ahead of them as he walked toward the entrance, pink hair glowing against the blue sky like the whole scene had been painted to test Hyunjin’s self-control.

Inside, it was absurd. Teddy bears dressed as kings and queens. Teddy bears on miniature rollercoasters. Teddy bears frozen mid-waltz beneath chandeliers that glittered like stars. Hyunjin expected Felix to get bored in five minutes. Instead, he leaned in close to glass cases, pulled out his phone, snapped photos from angles that made his eyes light up.

At one point, Hyunjin stopped in front of a display of teddy soldiers lined up in parade. “Cute,” he said dryly, tilting his head. “A fuzzy little army. Terrifying.”

Felix elbowed him lightly, not looking away from the glass. “Don’t make fun of them. They’re working hard.”

“Working hard?” Hyunjin raised a brow, smirk tugging at his mouth. “They’re stuffed.”

“They’ve got spirit,” Felix shot back, voice stubborn but playful. His dimples betrayed him when he turned, and Hyunjin had to fight the urge to grin too wide at the sight.

Every little sound—his quiet laugh, the low hum when he spotted something new—lodged itself somewhere in Hyunjin’s chest.

At the gift shop, Hyunjin pointed to a pair of simple silver chains with tiny teddy charms. It was supposed to be a throwaway joke. “Hey. Let’s get these.”

He thought Felix would roll his eyes, maybe fire back with What are we, teenagers? But Felix just tilted his head, considered for a beat, and shrugged.

“Fine,” he said.

Hyunjin blinked. “Fine?”

“Fine.” Felix smirked, like he knew exactly how off-guard Hyunjin was. “But you’re paying.”

So they did it. Matching necklaces. Hyunjin slipped his on right there, fingers brushing the charm like maybe if he held it tight enough it would explain why his chest felt so heavy. Felix’s glinted against the mesh of his shirt, catching the museum lights as if it had been meant for him all along.

Hyunjin couldn’t stand how much that tiny chain suddenly meant.

Then he doubled down on his own chaos and bought the biggest teddy bear in the shop. It was so massive he nearly had to drag it sideways through the doorway, its glassy eyes staring ahead, limbs floppy as it bumped against the polished floor.

“Alright, big guy, walk with me—like this.” Hyunjin looped an arm through its paw and exaggerated his steps, demonstrating how to lift its leg properly.

Felix burst out laughing. The sound was sharp, real, unfiltered—like Hyunjin had just tripped into some secret frequency he’d never heard before. Phone raised, Felix recorded him with shaking hands, dimples flashing as his braids fell forward.

“You’re insane,” Felix managed between gasps, nearly doubling over.

Hyunjin grinned, tugging the bear into a half-spin like they were dancing. “Nah. You love it.”

Felix’s laughter kept rolling, filling the entire space like music. And Hyunjin—stupid, reckless Hyunjin—knew he’d do anything to be the reason Felix laughed like that again.

They left the museum in the most ridiculous formation possible: Hyunjin first, dragging the massive teddy bear by its paw, Felix trailing just behind with his phone held up like paparazzi. The bear’s head kept lolling forward with each step, its fuzzy snout bobbing against Hyunjin’s shoulder as though it, too, was exhausted from the day’s sightseeing.

People stared, of course. Some whispered. A couple of kids pointed and giggled. One older woman clapped politely as if Hyunjin had just finished a street performance.

Hyunjin leaned down to the bear’s ear and stage-whispered, “Ignore them. We’re icons, not clowns.”

Felix nearly dropped his phone from laughing, his pink hair falling into his eyes as he tried—and failed—to smother the sound. “You’re the clown,” he said, but his voice wobbled with amusement.

The teddy bear was so wide it barely squeezed through the exit doors, forcing Hyunjin to wrestle it sideways with a grunt. Felix recorded the whole ordeal, cackling when Hyunjin barked out, “Don’t just stand there, help me!”

“No way,” Felix said, still filming, dimples flashing. “This is art.”

Hyunjin finally wrangled the bear free and stood tall, brushing imaginary dust off his jacket like he’d just survived a war. Then, grinning, he threw up a hand and waved at the handful of tourists watching. A couple waved back, entertained. Felix immediately shoved his face half behind his phone, trying to hide the flush creeping up his neck.

“Hyunjin—stop—” he hissed, voice muffled, but the way his shoulders shook gave him away.

Hyunjin only leaned down toward him, smirk tugging lazy at his mouth. “What? Afraid we’ll end up in headlines?”

Felix shot him a look, but his lips twitched, betraying him.

The teddy bear loomed between them like some absurd chaperone, its stitched smile catching the sunlight. Hyunjin had the sudden, reckless thought that if he could bottle this moment—the laughter, the stares, Felix trying to look annoyed but glowing all the same—he’d never let it go.

Felix should’ve known better than to say yes.

That’s the thought that kept circling as they walked out of the Teddy Bear Museum—Hyunjin cradling the oversized stuffed toy like it was their firstborn, Felix trailing two steps behind with his phone, pretending not to smile as much as he actually was. He should’ve known better, because he wasn’t supposed to feel this.

Freedom. The word pressed into his ribs, dangerous and warm. It wasn’t the kind of fleeting relief he got when a campaign wrapped, or when the cameras finally stopped flashing in his face after a red carpet. This was something else entirely. Untethered. Airy. Like he’d stepped out of his own skin for a moment and lived as someone normal.

And damn it, Hyunjin had predicted this—had poked and teased him on the sidewalk that night, told him he should try freedom on for size. Felix wasn’t about to hand the bassist the satisfaction of admitting he was right, though. Hyunjin had enough upper hand already, enough smirks tucked in his pocket to last a lifetime.

Still. Felix’s chest ached with it.

The date didn’t end there. Of course it didn’t.

Hyunjin walked ahead with the massive teddy bear practically swallowing him whole, and Felix had to jog a little to catch up, breath fogging in the late afternoon air. Hyunjin looked ridiculous, hair falling in strands over his forehead, lips curved in the faintest grin as if even carrying an absurd mascot was the most natural thing in the world.

They cut through a quieter street where stalls lined the sidewalks—handmade crafts, tiny trinkets, old ahjummas with folding tables stacked high with accessories and snacks.

Felix froze for a moment because it hit him like déjà vu.

The first date, Hyunjin wandering up to an ahjumma roasting potatoes, face lit soft in the glow of the streetlight. That same softness was there now, carved across his features as he bent slightly to look at the trays of bracelets and keychains.

Felix’s throat went dry.

The ahjumma’s gaze flicked from Hyunjin’s sharp jaw to Felix standing close behind. Something knowing curled her lips. She held up a small velvet tray with plastic rings, cheap but charming in their bold colors. “Matching rings, eh?” she teased in a stage whisper, leaning in conspiratorial. “For your boyfriend.”

Felix’s ears burned.

Hyunjin’s laugh was low, warm, carrying like music down the street. He shook his head, not looking embarrassed in the least. “Not yet,” he said easily, as though the words weighed nothing on his tongue.

And that was when Felix felt it.

The floor tilting under him. The air knocking clean out of his lungs. Because he realized, with brutal clarity, that he was falling.

Not in the stupid, shallow way people joked about when they said models and musicians were meant to orbit each other. Not even in the dizzy adrenaline-fueled way he sometimes thought he’d felt in fleeting crushes before. This was slower, heavier. Like water seeping through cracks in his armor, impossible to stop no matter how hard he tried.

Oh no, Felix thought, pulse tripping.

Hyunjin was still chatting with the ahjumma, still fiddling with the ridiculous acrylic rings—one black, one white, translucent with swirls like marble. He slipped the white one onto his finger and tilted the black towards Felix, eyes glinting under the late daylight, lips curved like he already knew how this would end.

“C’mon,” Hyunjin said, easy and reckless. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

Felix’s pulse rattled in his ears. He should’ve laughed, should’ve rolled his eyes, should’ve tossed some sharp remark about how he didn’t wear cheap acrylic rings, thank you very much. But instead—traitorous, stupid instead—his fingers reached out, plucked the ring from Hyunjin’s long ones.

The black acrylic caught the glow of the streetlights overhead, faint swirls in the plastic glimmering like ink in water. It was warm from Hyunjin’s skin.

Felix slid it onto his finger. It clicked into place too easily, snug against his knuckle like it belonged there all along.

“Oh, look at that.” Hyunjin’s grin widened, all teeth and mischief. He lifted his hand to show the white one already gleaming on his finger, twin to Felix’s. “Now we match.”

Felix’s throat went tight. His heart lurched, uneven and wrong, because this was the kind of thing couples did. This was dangerous territory, lines blurring in ways he’d sworn they wouldn’t.

He scoffed, scrambling for cover. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Hyunjin hummed, shoulders loose, satisfied in a way that made Felix want to kick him and kiss him all at once. “But now you’ve got proof you like it.”

Felix shoved his hands into his pockets, hiding the ring even though he could still feel it burning against his skin. He muttered something under his breath, quick and defensive, but his chest was already betraying him—buzzing, alive.

Because he knew what this was.

Not just a game. Not just banter. Not just a bratty tug-of-war.

This was Hyunjin pressing closer, step by step, until Felix’s walls weren’t walls at all—just paper, ready to give.

And Felix—stupid, hopeless Felix—was letting him.

Chapter Text

Back at the hotel, the corridors smelled faintly of polished wood and expensive fabric softener, the kind of pristine quiet that came with a five-star stay. Dinner had been easy—laughter threaded between bites, conversation drifting without sharp edges. For once, Felix hadn’t felt the need to check his phone or guard his posture like glassware on display.

And now, with the hall lights dimmed into a warm amber haze, Hyunjin was walking him to his room. Teddy bear still slung under one arm like a ridiculous companion, he stopped just before Felix’s door.

“My room’s just next to yours,” Hyunjin said lightly, a half-smile playing on his lips. “So, technically, I’m being a gentleman.”

Felix rolled his eyes, hand already fishing for the key card. “If you say so.”

But before he could swipe it, Hyunjin tilted his head, gaze softening in a way Felix wasn’t ready for. “Did you… enjoy today?”

There was nothing smug in it. No sly grin, no rockstar swagger. Just that same boy who spoke to ahjummas like they mattered, who bought trinkets with ease, who carried a giant bear like it was the most natural thing in the world. And Felix—damn him—felt another wall crumble, bricks sliding out of place.

His throat tightened. He only managed a nod, but it was enough. Genuine. Dangerous.

“Good,” Hyunjin murmured.

And then, without warning, he stepped closer. Close enough that Felix could feel the warmth radiating off him, the brush of his breath curling against his cheek. The air between them shrank, brittle and charged, like the silence before thunder. Felix’s fingers stilled on the key card, suddenly useless.

Hyunjin’s voice dropped low, rough-edged and careful all at once. “Can I kiss you?”

Felix didn’t bother answering. He couldn’t. Every nerve in his body had already betrayed him, pulling him forward, surrendering the sliver of space between them.

The first press of lips was slow, unhurried, like Hyunjin was laying claim to patience itself. His mouth was warm, insistent without being forceful, coaxing Felix into melting instead of colliding. Felix’s pulse spiked anyway, sharp and wild, beating loud in his ears.

Hyunjin lingered, tilting just enough to taste him deeper, his free hand brushing against Felix’s wrist where it still hovered uselessly with the key card. The featherlight touch sent sparks racing up Felix’s arm. He let out the faintest sound—a sigh, a slip of breath—and Hyunjin caught it like it was meant for him.

The kiss stretched, deepened. Hyunjin angled closer, shoulders bowing to erase even the whisper of distance. Felix felt his back press lightly against the cool wood of the door, the contrast sharp against the heat spilling between them. His fingers twitched, half wanting to push Hyunjin away, half aching to pull him closer. He did neither, caught in the haze of it.

When Hyunjin finally pulled back, it was only enough to hover—lips grazing, breath mingling, the space too fragile to last. His eyes glinted in the dim light, searching, daring. Felix couldn’t catch his breath.

The world hadn’t shattered. It had only shifted. And Felix realized, dazed and trembling, that he didn’t want it to shift back.

The kiss was still on him. Clinging to the curve of his mouth, humming through his veins like some dangerous aftershock. Felix swore he could feel it even now, in the quiet dark of his hotel room, his body betraying him with every replay. Hyunjin’s laugh, soft and low, still rang in his ears. That was nice, he’d said, like he hadn’t just detonated something under Felix’s ribs. Then good night, casual, easy, and Felix had been left stranded in the silence.

He couldn’t sit with this. Not alone.

Before he could talk himself out of it, his fingers found his phone, thumb hovering, then pressing the only contact that mattered when the world tilted too far: Seungmin.

The call picked up after a few rings, and Felix was immediately greeted with muffled noise in the background, laughter breaking through. Then his best friend’s voice, a little distracted, “Lix? What’s—”

A louder voice interrupted, bright and unfiltered. Jisung. “Is that Felix? Put him on speaker!”

Felix blinked, caught off guard. “Wait—are you two together right now?”

There was a pause, then a suspiciously guilty silence, and then Jisung’s unmistakable giggle. Felix grinned despite himself, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Oh my god. You are. Seriously? At this hour? Should I hang up before I hear something scarring?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Seungmin muttered, but Felix could hear the faint rustle, the soft way he probably leaned into Jisung without even realizing.

Felix sat up, grin widening. “No, but really—Seungminnie, you sound all… domestic. Do I hear wedding bells already?”

Jisung howled with laughter in the background, egging it on. “I might need to propose first. Or him, who knows.”

Felix cackled, leaning back against the headboard. “I can practically hear you smiling through the phone. This is disgusting. I didn’t call for a live broadcast of your honeymoon phase.”

Seungmin sighed, the sound heavy with both patience and the tiniest shade of affection. “If you called just to tease me, I’m hanging up.”

“Aw, come on—” Felix started, but then Seungmin’s tone shifted, subtle but sharp.

“Felix,” he said, quieter now, the laughter draining into something steadier, perceptive. “You wouldn’t be calling at midnight unless something’s wrong.”

Jisung must’ve caught the shift too because there was some rustling on the line, his voice soft but clear: “I’ll give you two a minute.” Then muffled footsteps, a door closing.

Now it was just Seungmin. Just his best friend, clean and clear through the speaker. “Talk to me.”

And just like that, Felix felt the ache rise again, the kiss swelling like a bruise under his ribs. He pressed his palm against his chest, wishing he could flatten it, wishing it didn’t feel like falling.

“I—” He swallowed hard. “I kissed him.”

A pause. Not shocked. Not even surprised. Just… steady.

Then Seungmin’s voice, calm but cutting straight through: “That’s not the first time.”

Felix froze. “What—”

“The greenroom,” Seungmin said simply, like dropping evidence on the table. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. You two aren’t nearly as subtle as you think.”

Felix groaned, dragging the blanket over his face. “Oh my god, Min—”

“So,” Seungmin pressed, unbothered, relentless in that soft, surgical way of his, “what’s different this time?”

Felix’s throat went tight. Because that was the question, wasn’t it? This wasn’t some accidental slip, a reckless mistake in a heated moment. This was deliberate. Asked. Answered. A kiss that left him trembling because he’d wanted it. Because he still wanted more.

He exhaled shakily into the phone. “It… it felt real. Like it wasn’t just him messing with me, or me losing my mind. It felt like…” He trailed off, unable to finish, the words choking him.

“Like you wanted it,” Seungmin supplied, gentle now. Not accusing. Just steady.

Felix shut his eyes. “Yeah.”

For a moment, all he could hear was Seungmin’s breathing through the line, grounding him. Then, softer still, the best friend who always knew how to pull him back to shore:

“Alright. So you’re not drowning. You’re just scared. And that’s fine, Lix. That’s why I’m here. Just… don’t run from it, okay? You owe yourself more than that.”

Felix dragged a hand over his face. “God, Min—what if I’m the idiot here? I started this, right? I was the one who pushed, who teased, who made it a game in the first place. And now… now I feel like I’m the one getting played.” His voice cracked, frustration bleeding in. “What if I walked right into the same trap I set?”

On the other end, Seungmin hummed low, sharp in the way only he could be. “Then answer me this—was it just a game for you?”

Felix froze. His mouth opened, then shut, then opened again. He wanted to say yes, wanted to lean on that easy defense, but the word got stuck in his throat. His silence was answer enough.

Seungmin exhaled. “That’s what I thought.” His voice softened, but it was still edged with that steady, grounding weight Felix had always relied on. “I’ve seen the way you look at him, Lix. Like you hate that you can’t look away. And him?” A pause, deliberate. “He looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. He tries to hide it, but he’s terrible at it. It’s not a game anymore. Not for either of you.”

Felix pressed his forehead against his knees, heart pounding too fast, too loud. He whispered, “Then what if it blows up? What if I let it matter and it ruins everything?”

“Then it blows up,” Seungmin said simply. “And I’ll still be here to scrape you off the floor. That’s the deal.” Another pause, before his voice dipped, sharp as a knife: “But if he hurts you, if he even thinks about messing with you—tell Hyunjin I’ll personally castrate him.”

Felix choked out a laugh, watery and uneven. “God, you’re insane.”

“Protective,” Seungmin corrected smoothly. “There’s a difference.”

And for the first time that night, Felix let himself smile, small but real, because if nothing else, Seungmin’s words carved out a piece of solid ground under his feet.

But when the call ended and the silence of his room rushed back in, Felix found himself wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Seungmin’s voice lingered in his head, louder than his own spirals.

It’s not a game anymore. Not for either of you.

The words dug into him, looping over and over, threading through the memory of Hyunjin’s laugh, the way his lips tasted, the quiet weight of his presence.

Felix curled under the sheets, pulling them tight around him like they could keep the thoughts out. But it was useless. The truth pressed heavy against his ribs, undeniable now.

Because no matter how hard he tried to pretend, to play it cool, to cling to the armor of his bratty deflections—he knew it. He felt it.

He was falling. And he didn’t know how to stop.

The teddy bear sat slouched in the corner of the hotel room, a ridiculous monument to a day that Hyunjin knew would haunt him for weeks. He hadn’t even bothered to undress yet—still half in the clothes he wore, sprawled against the mattress with one arm over his eyes, replaying the night like a record he couldn’t eject.

The kiss.

God, that kiss.

It was still on his lips, the faint taste of Felix—sweetness edged with something stubborn, defiant, like he was daring Hyunjin to lose control and then shoving him right over the edge. Hyunjin laughed under his breath, the sound low and sharp in the still room. He’d thought he’d won when Felix leaned in first back in the greenroom, but tonight… tonight was different.

Because Felix hadn’t just kissed him back—he’d unraveled.

Hyunjin felt it in the way Felix’s fingers curled into his shirt, the way his breath hitched when their mouths synced, how his body leaned forward like gravity had given up on pretending. And Hyunjin—stupid, greedy Hyunjin—wanted more. Not just another kiss, not just another fleeting touch. He wanted the whole damn thing.

What are you doing, Hwang Hyunjin?

It was supposed to be a game. That was how it began, wasn’t it? Felix tossing the bait, smirking at him through text about songs and jealousy, daring him to catch up. And Hyunjin had bitten, because he never backed down from a challenge. Not on stage, not in life. But now?

Now the game was twisted, because somewhere along the line, Hyunjin realized he wasn’t playing anymore.

He could still see Felix’s face at the museum—the way his eyes lit up, no armor, no bite, just unfiltered awe. He could still hear his laugh when Hyunjin made a fool of himself with the giant bear. He could still feel the weight of that homaika ring sliding onto Felix’s finger, a soundless promise they both pretended not to notice.

The bassist dragged a hand through his hair and groaned. He was in deep, no use lying to himself anymore.

Felix had started the fire, sure. But Hyunjin was the one feeding it now, every chance he got. Gifts, songs, kisses. Every move pulling him further in. And for once, he didn’t feel like clawing his way out.

His gaze drifted to the teddy bear again, its stupid glassy eyes staring back at him. He huffed out another laugh, shaking his head.

“What the hell are you doing to me, Lee Felix?” he murmured into the quiet.

And maybe the answer was obvious.

Because no matter how much Hyunjin told himself it was just a kiss, just a date, just a brat he wanted to outwit—he knew. Deep down, undeniable.

He couldn’t get enough of him.

Not the smiles, not the sparks, not the way Felix made him feel like the world was both dangerous and safe in the same breath.

And Hyunjin wasn’t sure he ever wanted to.

Felix woke up with the ghost of last night still clinging to him like perfume. The kiss. The heat. The way Hyunjin’s voice had dipped low after, saying it was nice, like it was the most casual truth in the world. Felix had smiled like an idiot into his pillow after Hyunjin left, then spent the next three hours trying to convince himself it meant nothing.

And here he was, the morning after, walking the resort grounds like some lovesick fool who thought fresh air could cure a crush.

It was just a kiss, he told himself for the fiftieth time. People kiss all the time. Friends kiss sometimes. Game, remember? You started it. This is fine. Totally fine.

It wasn’t fine. His heart was still doing Olympic-level gymnastics in his chest, and every time he blinked he saw Hyunjin’s face hovering too close.

Felix rubbed at his cheeks, forcing himself to focus on the neat rows of palm trees, the faint salt in the breeze. He was fine. He was—

until he turned the corner by the resort pool and nearly blacked out.

Because Hyunjin was there.

In the water.

Not just swimming—gliding, all long lines and effortless grace. Sunlight bounced off the surface, catching every ripple that slid down his skin, each droplet turning into a glittering spotlight. His arms cut through the water with slow, powerful strokes, back muscles flexing and pulling tight. His hair, wet and pushed back, framed a face that honestly had no right to look that sculpted this early in the morning.

Felix’s jaw went slack. His chest forgot how to do basic inhaling.

I knew he was hot, Felix thought numbly. Everyone with eyes knows that. But this? This is… this is… illegal. Actually illegal. They should arrest him. Shirtless Greek god impersonation, that’s the charge. I'm actually going crazy…

He gripped the railing so hard his knuckles ached, torn between looking away and staring harder.

“Like what you see?”

Hyunjin’s voice sliced through the morning air, sharp, amused, and so aware.

Felix’s soul yeeted straight out of his body. “I—I wasn’t—” His voice cracked, perfect. “Just… I was walking. And you were—uh—wet.”

Hyunjin’s eyebrow arched as he hoisted himself out of the pool, water cascading off him in sheets, muscles flexing with absolutely no mercy. He grabbed a towel with leisurely precision, never taking his eyes off Felix.

“You were staring,” he said, matter-of-fact, drying his hair. “Not complaining. Just… noticing.”

Felix flailed internally, scrambling for control. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was—uh—just making sure you don’t drown. Lifeguard instincts, you know?”

Hyunjin chuckled, low and lethal. “Mm. Good to know you’re watching out for me, Lixie.”

The nickname. The smirk. The absolute audacity.

Felix’s ears burned, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish that had lost the plot. He wanted to bite back, to flip the script, to prove he wasn’t the one flustered here—but the sight of water still dripping down Hyunjin’s collarbones fried his brain beyond repair.

So instead he turned on his heel with all the dignity of someone very much not running away.

“Enjoy your swim,” he muttered, his voice much higher than intended.

Behind him, Hyunjin laughed—deep, knowing, victorious. And Felix hated, hated, hated how much he loved the sound.

Hyunjin had always been able to keep his composure, even when chaos spun around him like a storm. But seeing Felix flustered after that—catching him swimming shirtless in broad daylight at the resort pool—and still flustered during brunch? That was a new kind of entertainment.

The sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the seaside café, catching every stray glint off Felix’s pink hair tied up in its neat little bun. Hyunjin watched, sardonically amused, as the blond fumbled with the menu like it was a puzzle made to trap him. He sipped his coffee slowly, letting Felix squirm under his gaze, the way the corner of his mouth twitched upward betraying his amusement.

“You okay there, Lix?” Hyunjin asked, voice low and smooth, a teasing undertone threading each word.

Felix shot him a glare so potent it could’ve been patented. “I’m fine,” he said, too fast, too loud, and Hyunjin stifled a chuckle behind his cup.

Oh, you’re not fine. Not even close.

Felix picked at the edges of the croissant, eyes darting to Hyunjin every time he moved, every time his hand brushed against the cup. Hyunjin caught every glance, savoring the subtle dance of blush creeping up Felix’s neck. It wasn’t just cute—it was addictive.

The rest of the day in Jeju was a slow, careful unraveling of ordinary pleasures: wandering through the narrow streets, stopping at little shops, testing local snacks, and even sitting on the edge of the seawall with their feet dangling over the waves. 

Hyunjin felt lighter than he had in months, each laugh, each shared look with Felix threading through him like sunlight through glass. And as he stole glimpses at the blond, he could tell Felix was just as unguarded, even if the menace never fully left his expression.

Hyunjin let himself be caught up in it, letting the ordinary feel extraordinary simply because Felix was there. And for once, there was no game, no challenge—just the quiet thrill of company he never wanted to end.

All too soon, the day had to give way to the evening, and they were back at the airport. Felix’s soft, genuine thank you landed like a hammer against Hyunjin’s chest, and he felt it in a way he hadn’t expected. 

It wasn’t a game. It wasn’t teasing. It was simple, sincere, and it hit harder than any of their banter ever could.

Hyunjin swallowed, attempting nonchalance, but the heat rising in his chest refused to obey. His hands curled slightly around the straps of his bag as he caught Felix’s gaze—clear, steady, and unguarded—and for a fleeting moment, Hyunjin understood just how dangerous “simple” could be.

He’s really something, Hyunjin thought, the words almost tasting like a confession he wasn’t ready to say.

And somehow, the thought of leaving Jeju, leaving Felix—even for a little while—felt impossibly heavy.

Chapter Text

Life resumed, or at least the closest approximation of it. 

Airports blurred into greenrooms, greenrooms into hotel corridors; the familiar carousel of fittings, shoots, rehearsals and flights spun back up as if Jeju had never happened. Felix fell back into his routine like a coin dropped in water—smooth, silent, practiced.

But something inside the pattern had been rearranged.

It wasn’t a grand announcement. No neon sign flashing NEW DYNAMIC. It was small things—the weight of a pause, the warmth of a text at the right time, the way his chest eased when his phone buzzed with Hyunjin’s name. The game they’d been playing had softened; the banter was still there, but threaded through it now were pockets of quiet, small check-ins, moments of sincerity. Sunlight leaking through blackout curtains.

The bassist’s voice calls at odd hours weren’t about winning the game anymore—they were just there, steady as a heartbeat. And though Felix still threw on his brat armor out of habit, there were cracks now, enough for warmth to slip through.

On a flight back from Busan, Felix caught himself smiling at a meme Hyunjin had sent. No teasing caption, just “made me think of you”. His thumb hovered over the keyboard longer than he liked before he replied with an emoji.

He hated how it made his pulse jump.

Everyone around him saw it before he admitted it to himself.

Minho, ever the cousin-manager, was the first to voice it. In the car after a shoot, he looked over the rim of his sunglasses, tone deliberately casual.

“You’re different,” he said. “Calmer.”

Felix snorted, hiding under sarcasm. “Maybe I’m finally meditating.”

Minho only hummed, like he could see right through the deflection, filing the observation away for later.

Jeongin, his stylist, didn’t even bother with subtlety. While pinning a hem before a runway show, he grinned at Felix’s phone lighting up with yet another message.

“You’re glowing,” he sing-songed. “Is that from the lighting or from a certain rockstar?”

Felix threw a makeup sponge at him. Jeongin’s knowing laugh stuck to his ribs.

And Seungmin, of course, saw everything. He didn’t tease; he watched. At lunch one day, when Felix absent-mindedly scrolled through his texts with Hyunjin, Seungmin tilted his head, soft eyes scanning his best friend’s face.

“You’re smiling,” he pointed out quietly, like it was a secret he didn’t want to spook. “You don’t even notice it.” Felix tried to shrug, tried to joke, but Seungmin’s steady gaze left nowhere to hide.

And the messages kept coming.

🧸💙: Still alive or did the photoshoot swallow you whole?
🐥: barely. they had me in six outfits before lunch 😒
🧸💙: Eat. Don’t make me send another cake.
🐥: threatening me with carbs again?
🧸💙: Promising.
🐥: you’re ridiculous
🧸💙: You like it

Felix stared at that last bubble longer than he’d admit, thumb hovering, before finally sending back just a 🙄. It didn’t stop his heart from climbing into his throat.

He kept telling himself it was nothing. That Jeju had just been a detour, an island bubble he’d stepped into and out of. But when Hyunjin’s name popped up again, when the bassist sent him a picture of a seaside sunrise with the caption “Next time we go earlier”, Felix’s chest went warm in a way that had nothing to do with the weather.

Onstage, Hyunjin was still all leather and smoke, a grimy rockstar stomping across neon light. But offstage, in Felix’s messages and in the spaces between, there was a man who carried teddy bears and taught them how to walk. And Felix—Lee Felix, the supermodel with polished edges—was starting to soften too.

For the first time in years, the world felt less like a treadmill and more like something he wanted to walk into.

And somewhere, deep down where he wouldn’t say it aloud, Felix knew he was inching toward a ledge. Toward something he couldn’t undo.

Back in Seoul, the city pressed in again: neon, traffic horns, a constant tick-tick of schedules. Hyunjin slipped back into CREED’s practice space with his bass strapped over his shoulder like armor. He’d expected the island to fade the moment the door shut behind him. It didn’t.

Jeju still clung to his skin—salt air in his hair, the echo of Felix’s laugh caught in the museum hall, the weight of a ridiculous teddy bear still in his arms. He had showered twice, worn his darkest hoodie, even gone barefoot on the studio floor to ground himself, but the island lived under his ribs.

Practice started the same as always. Chan at the keys, head bent, counting them in. Jisung slinging his guitar over his shoulder, humming a warm-up. Changbin twirling a drumstick between his fingers like a threat. It should have felt like home.

But the minute Hyunjin tuned his bass, Changbin's eyes cut to him. “You’re humming,” the drummer said, brows up. “You don’t hum.”

Jisung snorted. “He’s been grinning at his phone since he walked in. Bet you a coffee it’s not a new bass pedal.”

Hyunjin ducked his head, cheeks warming under the fluorescents. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, adjusting a string that didn’t need adjusting.

Chan’s hands slowed on the keys. “Hyune.” His tone was soft, but the weight was there. “You’re different.”

Hyunjin tried to shrug, but the movement felt too obvious. “It’s just Jeju. Sunburn.”

Changbin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Sunburn that makes you smile like that.”

They all laughed, but Chan stayed quiet, watching him the way only a leader who’d known him for years could.

Later that night, while Hyunjin was in the studio laying down bass takes, Chan leaned against the doorframe talking quietly with Changbin. The older boy’s arms were crossed tight, jaw working.

“He’s different,” Chan repeated.

Changbin glanced through the glass at Hyunjin, who was bent over a lyric sheet, lips moving in silence. “Different good or different bad?”

“That’s the thing,” Chan murmured. “He’s… happy. Lighter. But you know him, Binnie. When Hyunjin falls for something—” He broke off, searching for the right words. “It’s not casual. It’s all in. He’ll move mountains. And if the mountain shifts under him…”

Changbin nodded, finishing for him. “He breaks.”

Chan’s mouth tightened. “I’m scared for him. He’s never been good at slow, at protecting himself.”

Inside the booth Hyunjin laughed at something on his phone. The sound filtered faintly through the monitors. It was small, unguarded. For a heartbeat Chan couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard that laugh.

Changbin’s hand landed briefly on Chan’s shoulder. “We’ll keep an eye on him. That’s what we’re here for.”

Meanwhile, Hyunjin slid into a corner of the couch after recording, thumbs flying over his phone.

🥟: Survived rehearsal.
🤍🧸: proud of you 😌
🥟: That emoji is illegal.
🤍🧸: 🥺
🥟: Stop.
🤍🧸: make me
🥟: You’re impossible
🤍🧸: then stop grinning at your phone 😏

Hyunjin stared at the little grey bubbles until his pulse slowed. Jeju had been supposed to be a game—a challenge thrown back at the golden boy who’d started it. Now, back in the city, he wasn’t sure who was winning. All he knew was that he couldn’t stop reaching for his phone.

Felix had begun to measure his days in tiny, ridiculous things: a photo Hyunjin sent of his lunch (“looks like dog food but tastes good”); a voice note of a bass riff Hyunjin was working on; a blurry selfie of the giant teddy bear propped on Hyunjin’s couch with sunglasses on.

They were small, domestic scraps folded into the noise of fittings and calls and runway rehearsals. They didn’t belong in the schedule Minho sent every night, but they threaded through Felix’s days anyway.

One evening, somewhere between a hair trial and a late fitting, Felix thumbed a message while Jeongin fussed with pins at his collar:

🐥: milan next week ✈️ another event. 

The bubbles appeared almost instantly.

🧸💙: You’re leaving me?? 😭
🐥: you’ll survive
🧸💙: Doubtful. Who’s gonna bully me about my outfits
🐥: bin hyung and jisung are still alive aren’t they
🧸💙: Not the same. I’m gonna miss you

Felix’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. Miss you. The words bloomed and pressed against his ribs. He typed, deleted, typed again.

🐥: don’t be dramatic
🧸💙: You’re blushing.
🐥: how would you even know that
🧸💙: I just do 😏

Jeongin tugged at the collar. “You’re smiling,” he said, voice dry. “Who’s texting?”

“No one,” Felix muttered, shoving the phone face-down. The bratty armor was automatic, but his pulse wouldn’t slow.

Two mornings later, just as Minho was rattling off his travel checklist, the concierge wheeled in a slim black box tied with a silver ribbon. Felix blinked. Another package.

The ribbon slipped off like water; inside lay sleek, midnight-blue passport holder, buttery leather that smelled faintly of cedar, with his initials pressed into the corner in silver foil. When he lifted it, a folded card fluttered out. Good luck, Milan boy. Don’t forget me while you’re dazzling the world. Hyunjin’s handwriting—neat but slanted, a little cocky—ran across the paper like a bassline.

The smell of leather, the weight of the card, the way Hyunjin always managed to find a path straight past his defenses—it was all too much and not enough at once.

His phone buzzed at that exact moment, cutting through Minho’s monologue.

🧸💙: So… did my good luck charm arrive?

Felix swiped before he could think.

🐥: you know you don’t have to send me stuff
🧸💙: You know you don’t have to look so cute opening it
🐥: i wasn’t
🧸💙: Uh huh

Minho raised an eyebrow at him. Felix turned away, heart hammering.

🐥: 😒 thanks, rockstar
🧸💙: Anytime, supermodel. Go kill milan
🐥: i'll try. behave while i'm gone
🧸💙: No promises.

Felix bit the inside of his cheeks but his fingers lingered on the stitching of the passport holder, as if the leather itself carried Hyunjin’s pulse.

On the other side of the city, Hyunjin lounged on the studio couch, bass balanced across his chest. Changbin was tapping a muted rhythm on his knees, Jisung scrolling through memes, and Chan at the keys pretending not to see Hyunjin grinning at his phone.

He thumbed another quick message.

🥟: bring yourself back from milan. i have plans
🤍🧸: plans huh?
🥟: songs don’t write themselves 😉

He locked the screen, the new riff still humming in his fingers. The studio smelled of coffee and cables, but all he could taste was the salt wind of Jeju and a blond boy’s laugh. The song wasn’t finished yet, but the melody kept drifting toward the same place: Felix, a plane ticket, and the space between them closing.

The passport holder sat on Felix’s hotel nightstand in Milan like a dare. Midnight blue, initials glinting under the lamp. He’d spent most of the flight staring at it instead of his prep notes. Minho had fallen asleep with his tablet, unaware of the tiny smile Felix kept having to smother behind his mask.

By the time the fitting was done and the hair team finally left his suite, his phone was already lighting up with a new thread of messages. Hyunjin, somewhere between rehearsal and studio, apparently decided to run a play-by-play of his day.

🧸💙: Survived 3 hrs of practice. Bin hyung spilled coffee on Chan hyung’s synth. Jisung wrote a whole new chorus out of spite.
🐥: 😂 tragic. are you a news anchor now?
🧸💙: Only for you.
🐥: oh wow. the bassist of creed is now clingy. headlines tomorrow: grimy rockstar becomes golden retriever.
🧸💙: 🐶 shrug. You bring out something in me.
🐥: …stop saying things like that
🧸💙: Why? it’s true.

Felix dropped the phone on his chest, staring up at the ornate ceiling, heart hammering like he’d run a runway instead of walked it. Outside, Milan’s city lights cast gold stripes across the curtains.

He clawed back at the teasing, thumb flying.

🐥: anyway… tell me about the album.
🧸💙: All of us wrote for it. Bin hyung’s track is insane. Chan hyung’s is a prayer. Jisung’s will make people cry.
🐥: and yours?
🧸💙: Can’t spoil it.
🐥: at least give me a hint.
🧸💙: Let’s just say it’s the kind of song you don’t write unless someone crawls under your skin.

Felix swallowed hard, staring at the last line until it blurred. He typed, deleted, typed again.

🐥: must be one hell of a muse.
🧸💙: You have no idea.

He rolled over, pulling a pillow across his face to smother the noise that almost escaped him. He’d come to Milan to work, to reset, to remember who he was outside of Hyunjin. Instead, here he was, clutching a passport holder like a talisman and smiling at a glowing screen.

Somewhere in Seoul, Hyunjin was probably still strumming that half-finished song, the bass line already looping like a heartbeat.

The next night the hotel lobby smelled like white roses and fresh varnish. Flashbulbs burst outside the revolving door, but Felix walked through them like a ghost; Minho at his shoulder, Jeongin fussing with the last pin on his jacket. Cameras snapped. Someone shouted his name. Inside, a PR manager was already shepherding him toward the car.

By the time he hit the after-party, he’d smiled at three designers, posed with two actresses and somehow ended up onstage to announce a collaboration. It was all glitz and marble until he found himself alone on a balcony with an espresso, the city humming beneath. His phone buzzed.

Incoming call: 🧸💙

Felix ducked into the suite’s living room, barefoot now, jacket abandoned on the back of a chair. The time difference meant it was morning in Seoul. Hyunjin’s voice came through warm and a little scratchy, like he’d just rolled out of a practice room.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Hyunjin asked.

Felix laughed softly. “Couldn’t leave the party fast enough.”

Hyunjin chuckled, low. “Want a distraction?”

Before Felix could answer, a soft bass riff spilled through the speaker—slow, liquid, full of tiny syncopations. Not a full demo, just Hyunjin’s bass and some hazy keyboard chords in the background. It sounded like late nights and neon reflections on wet streets. Felix closed his eyes and leaned against the window, the Milan skyline melting away.

“This is yours?” he whispered.

“Mine,” Hyunjin said. “Not finished yet.”

The music swelled. And then, a voice—Hyunjin’s—slipped in, almost under his breath:

“…and maybe love your eyes—”

A click. Silence. “Oops,” Hyunjin said quickly, almost laughing. “That part’s not supposed to be there yet.”

Felix’s heart went off-beat. “Hyunjin—”

“I’ll send you the real demo when it’s ready,” Hyunjin said, voice suddenly soft again. “Go kill your show tomorrow, yeah?”

Felix managed a “Yeah,” but it came out like air.

They said goodnight, Hyunjin teasing him one last time about his Italian espresso habit before hanging up. The line went dead. Milan’s city noise came rushing back through the glass.

Felix sat there, phone in his lap, staring at nothing. The lyric looped in his head like a pulse he couldn’t stop: and maybe love your eyes.

It played on repeat as he undid his cufflinks, as he slipped into bed, as the city’s light flickered across the ceiling. He pressed the passport holder to his chest and let the thought slide under his skin where the music had already made a home.

Chapter Text

Milan never slowed down. Every hour was fittings, lighting checks, and tiny cups of coffee that barely touched his exhaustion. But one thing pulsed under all the noise: 3 p.m. Seoul time.

Hyunjin’s message still sat on his phone from yesterday, unread but memorized.

🧸💙: Album drops 3pm Seoul time. Don’t forget to stream, superstar.

Felix had shoved the phone under a pile of look sheets as if that could muffle his own anticipation. “Not me being more excited than the fans,” he muttered. Yet when the clock hit, he was already perched cross-legged on his hotel bed, laptop open, earbuds in, heart tripping.

The opening track poured out and his chest swelled. CREED sounded huge now—stadium huge. Jisung’s vocals, warm and raw, spilling like thunder over Chan’s keys; Changbin’s drumming a pulse under the floorboards. And Hyunjin—Hyunjin’s bass lines weren’t just holding the songs up, they were weaving everything together, a low dark thread Felix felt in his own bones. The lyrics, the harmonies, the way it all fit. They weren’t just good. They were great. They’re magnificent, he thought, pride swelling so fast it almost hurt. He’s magnificent.

A thumbnail blinked at the corner of the screen: LIVE: CREED 3rd Album Press Conference. Without thinking, Felix clicked.

The hotel room dimmed around the feed. A long black-draped table; nameplates, bottles of water, flashbulbs. Chan at the centre, grounded and kind; Changbin cracking jokes at a reporter; Jisung ducking his head with a shy grin. And Hyunjin—

Hyunjin in a loose black silk shirt, collarbones like brushstrokes, hair tucked behind one ear. The silver in his earring caught every camera flash. He looked still, collected, fingers playing absently with the base of his mic, then lifting his eyes to smile at something Jisung said—and Felix’s stomach dropped. Greek god. How is he real.

The camera widened. A girl sat between Jisung and Hyunjin, long dark hair, shimmering dress, leaning in when they spoke. The caption at the bottom read: CREED ft. Ningning.

Felix blinked, reread it, blinked again. Featuring? Ningning? His pride flickered like a candle in draft. He knew CREED had been collaborating, Jisung had hinted at it, but seeing her there—next to Hyunjin, laughing at something he’d said—planted something sharp right under his ribs.

The interviewer's voice cut through the static in his head. “Could you tell us about the making of this album?”

Chan spoke first, smooth as always, about growth, soundscapes, touring life. Changbin chimed in about experimenting with new rhythms. Then the interviewer turned to Ningning.

“What was it like working with CREED?”

She smiled, eyes sparkling. “Honestly, it was fun. Chan-ssi and Hyunjin-ssi reached out, and the energy in the studio was amazing.”

“Mostly Hyunjin?” the interviewer teased.

Chan chuckled. “It was mostly him. He fought for her to be on the track.”

Felix’s heart gave a hard, unsteady thud.

Hyunjin shook his head quickly, laughing low, palms up. “No, no, it was all of us. She’s incredible.”

The interviewer leaned in, grinning. “There’s great chemistry between you two. Maybe another collab in the future?”

Hyunjin’s laugh—deep, unguarded—rolled out through the tinny hotel speakers.

Felix sat very still, earbuds heavy in his ears. The flashbulbs on the stream, the shimmer of the stage, the sound of Hyunjin’s laugh with someone else—it all blurred together. He reached for the track window, thumb hovering, then closed the laptop instead.

Silence settled over the hotel room like a heavy quilt. Pride still beat somewhere inside him, but it was tangled now with a darker, softer ache he didn’t want to name. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if it could give him answers, the image of Hyunjin’s smile beside someone else still burning behind his eyelids.

The numbers on the screen kept climbing, a little counter in the corner of Hyunjin’s phone pulsing like a heartbeat. Streams. Comments. Clips of the press conference. Ningning’s name trending alongside CREED’s. His name. Jisung’s name. Chan’s. Changbin’s.

He let the phone drop onto the couch and leaned back until his head touched the wall. He could still feel the echo of the last show ringing in his bones—bass notes thrumming through his palms, lights baking his shoulders, that collective intake of breath from the crowd when the new songs hit. Not underground anymore, not really; but not stadium gods either. Something in-between, some liminal space they’d been clawing toward for years.

For a moment, he just let himself float in it.

It wasn’t that long ago they were crammed into Chan’s basement with three second-hand amps and a drum kit that rattled like a tin can. Changbin still had a bruise on his shin from kicking it in frustration. Jisung had been a local kid with a voice too big for the open mic nights he haunted. Chan, already half a legend in certain Seoul circles, had walked in one day with a keyboard under his arm and a quiet, almost paternal smile. And Hyunjin—nineteen, fresh out of high school, unsure where to put his hands, a borrowed bass hanging off his shoulder like a question mark.

They were misfits with no plan except to make something loud enough to drown out their own doubts. And somewhere between the cracked basement walls and the sticky floors of Hongdae clubs, they did.

Hyunjin had learned to hold his ground inside the noise. The others were lyrical animals—Jisung scribbling lines on napkins, Chan layering chords like cathedral beams, Changbin hearing rhythms in subway doors. Hyunjin wasn’t like that. He didn’t wake up with words clawing at his throat. But he learned how to anchor them. Bass first, steady and patient, like blood under skin. Slowly he built his own language—dark, melodic, the kind of playing you felt in your ribs.

When the first EP caught traction online, they’d all stared at the streaming numbers in disbelief. When the second one let them quit their part-time jobs, they’d laughed until they were hoarse. Now—now they were here. This album, this stage, this moment where the room finally quieted to listen.

And then there was Felix.

Hyunjin’s phone buzzed where it had landed beside him. He picked it up automatically, expecting another update from their manager or a meme from Changbin. Instead, the notification bar showed an Instagram story:

@yong.lixx — a screenshot of CREED’s album on a streaming app, captioned with nothing but a blue heart and the words “on repeat.”

For a heartbeat Hyunjin thought he was hallucinating. Felix never posted anything personal—not about his family, not about friends, and definitely not about Hyunjin. Supermodel accounts were supposed to be manicured, sterile, full of brand deals. This was raw, immediate. It sat there in his feed like a flare fired into the sky.

And it worked. Within an hour, articles were already springing up: Supermodel Lee Felix Supports CREED’s New Album. Retweets. Fancams. The kind of cross-over attention their PR team would have killed for.

Hyunjin’s mouth curled without him meaning it to. He tapped open a message window.

🥟: You didn’t tell me you’d post. Thank you, superstar.

He waited, thumb hovering. Felix was usually fast—bratty comebacks, emoji bombs, a little sparring match that could stretch for hours. Instead, the three dots blinked for a long time before a reply landed.

🤍🧸: congrats on the album.

Just that. No teasing, no inside joke, no follow-up. Dry as chalk.

Hyunjin read it twice. It looked like a text you’d send a stranger, not someone you’d… he exhaled sharply, rubbing the heel of his palm over his eyes. He tried again.

🥟: Hey, you okay?

This time no dots appeared at all.

He set the phone down on the coffee table and stared at the wall opposite. He could still see Jeju if he closed his eyes—the way Felix’s face had lit up at the museum, the matching teddy bear necklace and homaika rings, the taste of salt on the air when they kissed outside his hotel door. He could still feel the weight of Felix’s small hand brushing his as they walked back to the car. All of it bright, unfiltered, real.

And now this.

The apartment was quiet except for the city outside—someone laughing on the street, a scooter engine gunning, a dog barking somewhere below. Hyunjin leaned forward, elbows on knees, the teddy bear from Jeju still sitting ridiculous and enormous in the corner. He watched its button eyes glint in the dim light and felt something shift under his ribs.

He’d thought it was a game once, a dare. The pretty blond model with the sharp tongue and guarded eyes; the bassist who didn’t know how to back down. But the game had blurred somewhere between Jeju sunsets and hotel hallways, and now he wasn’t sure where the lines were anymore.

He picked up his phone again, stared at the silent chat, and for the first time since the album dropped, the rush of success didn’t feel like enough.

Outside, Seoul hummed louder, the city carrying on without him. Inside, Hyunjin sat with his head tipped back against the couch, trying to remember how to breathe.

The message glowed at the top of Felix’s screen like a lighthouse beam.

🧸💙: Hey, you okay?

He stared at it for a long time, thumb hovering but not moving. In the seconds between the press conference and now he had replayed every detail—the way Ningning had leaned close to laugh at something Chan whispered, the interviewer teasing Hyunjin about who had invited her, Hyunjin’s easy denial and easy laughter. That laugh had done something to him, something sharp, like glass under skin.

He locked the screen and shoved the phone into his pocket.

There were callsheets to check, fittings to attend, choreography for the show’s finale. There was the old Felix to slip back into—the one without a bassist in his periphery, the one who knew exactly how to keep his head high and his smile precise, who could make Milan run on his time zone with just a nod.

He moved like a ghost through the day, efficient, on time, immaculate. The driver opened doors, the stylists buzzed around him, cameras flashed. He knew how to do this. He’d been doing it since he was nineteen.

And still, Hyunjin’s text sat in his pocket like a stone.

“Someone’s distracted,” Minho muttered in Korean, low enough that only Felix could hear. They were backstage at a rehearsal, Minho half-crouched over his tablet, checking the next day’s call sheet. “Your eyes are on a different stage.”

Felix looked up from his phone and blinked. “I’m fine.”

Minho raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Fine? You haven’t nitpicked a single outfit today. Jeongin nearly put you in neon green leather.”

From across the room Jeongin snorted, not even looking up from the garment bag he was unpacking. “He’s lying, hyung. I would never put him in neon green leather. I like my job.”

Felix tried to smile but it came out thin. “See? Everyone’s dramatic.”

Jeongin zipped the bag shut and turned, eyes narrowing with stylist precision. “No, you’re off,” he said. “It’s your mouth—too polite. And your shoulders. You’re holding them like you’re carrying something.”

Felix rolled his eyes, a practiced deflection. “Maybe it’s just Milan. Too much espresso.”

“You’re not on your phone,” his cousin remarked, didn't phrase it as a question. “You’re always on your phone between takes.”

Felix pressed his fingers to his temple. He could feel the room tilting under their scrutiny. “I’m literally looking at the call sheet.”

“That’s work,” Minho said. “You’re not on your phone-phone. No little smile, no secret texts. Just dead eyes and bullet points.”

Jeongin’s head snapped up, eyes flicking between them. “Ooh. Hyung caught you. What’s wrong, no more bassist memes to send?”

Felix rolled his eyes, tried for bored. “Not everything is about him.”

“Sure,” Jeongin drawled. “But everything about you has been about him for months. And now you’re…what? Detoxing?”

Felix’s grip tightened on his tablet. “It’s called being professional.”

Minho leaned forward, voice dropping so only Felix could hear. “Professional is fine. But you’re reading the call sheet like it’s a holy text. That’s hiding.”

Jeongin’s teasing softened into something closer to worry. “You okay, hyung? You look like you’re waiting for a storm.”

Felix gave them one of his practiced, camera-ready smiles. “I’m fine. Just busy.”

Minho held his gaze a moment longer, then straightened. “Busy, huh. If you say so.”

Jeongin turned back to his phone, muttering “storm it is” under his breath.

Felix ducked his head, pretending to check the next appointment. But Hyunjin’s unread message sat in his pocket like static, like a storm building at the edge of his horizon. He’d become an expert at pretending he didn’t hear it, but it was there, waiting.

Hyunjin used to be good at reading silences.

Silence meant the band was working. Silence meant Chan was thinking. Silence meant Jisung was writing another set of lyrics in the corner.

But this silence—this stretch of space where Felix should be—felt like a void he couldn’t map.

At first he thought it was the time zones. Milan, Seoul, airports, call sheets. Felix’s schedule was always a tangle of flights and cameras. So Hyunjin did what he always did: he sent small things. Stickers, memes, good-morning texts, a blurry photo of his cat doodle from the studio. Usually it earned him a bratty remarks or at least a stop being sappy. 

Lately it just earned him nothing. Read receipts like ghosts.

He tried to shake it off during rehearsal. The new album was alive now, screaming out of car radios and café playlists. CREED had been a garage-band dream once—four misfits who met at an after-school program, banging out songs no one asked for. Now they were here, a real band with a presscon and a trending hashtag. He should be floating. He was floating. Except Felix wasn’t there to see it. Except Felix had gone quiet.

He hadn’t even known Felix was back in Seoul until Seungmin turned up at their rehearsal room one afternoon like a walking department store bag.

“Delivery from Milan,” he’d said, looking faintly amused at the way the four of them snapped their heads up. 

Inside: a Fendi denim jacket for Chan. A Vivienne Westwood muscle tee and pants for Jisung. A Mugler hoodie for Changbin. And at the bottom of the bag, wrapped in crisp white paper, a Versace leather jacket that looked as if it had been tailored from a daydream of Hyunjin himself—soft, black, sharp-shouldered, cut so it would hug his torso onstage.

Chan had laughed, low and warm. “Trust Felix to pick the perfect thing for each of us.”

Jisung had already thrown on his tee over his hoodie, strutting across the room. Changbin held the Mugler up to his body and whistled. Hyunjin ran a thumb over the Versace label like it might bite him.

Perfect gifts, each of them. Thoughtful. Expensive. Felix’s handwriting on each tag like a ghost. And yet… no text. Not even a “hope you like it.”

It was Seungmin who clocked him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said quietly, glancing at Hyunjin’s hands on the jacket. “You didn’t know he was back?”

Hyunjin blinked. “Back?”

Seungmin tilted his head. “He landed two nights ago. Straight from Milan. Told me he had more schedules lined up. He's gonna be busy so don't take it personally.”

Hyunjin managed a laugh, low and rough. “Busy. Right.”

Hyunjin stayed in the empty practice room long after the others left, the low hum of the amp the only heartbeat left. His bass lay across his lap like an anchor. The leather jacket sat on the edge of the amp, accusing him in silence.

He unlocked his phone. The last thread with Felix still sat pinned to the top of his messages, full of emojis and half-sent selfies from Jeju. The most recent message from him was three days ago—“land safe?”— still marked as read, no reply.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard.

🥟 Hey
🥟 Hey, you okay?
🥟 I miss—

He deleted the third one. Typed something else. Deleted that too. The little blinking cursor felt like it was mocking him. He set the phone down, picked it up again.

What if Felix was just tired? What if he’d finally gotten bored of the game? What if Hyunjin had read everything wrong and he was just… a fling? 

His stomach twisted. He hated how much room Felix took up in his head, how the blond had wormed his way under his ribs with a handful of bratty texts and soft smiles.

He typed again, slower this time:

🥟 You back in Seoul?

His finger hovered over send. He didn’t press it. He stared at the screen until it dimmed and reflected his own face back at him—tired eyes, hair falling into his lashes, a line between his brows he didn’t used to have.

Hyunjin dropped the phone on the couch beside him, leaned back and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He could still see Felix’s smile at the teddy bear museum, hear his laugh over the phone late at night, feel the softness of his mouth against his. And now, nothing.

For the first time since Jeju, the high of the album and the press and the new attention dulled, replaced by a low ache under his ribs. CREED was winning. He should have been happy. But every win felt a little emptier without Felix there to send him a teasing emoji about it.

Hyunjin picked up his bass again, fingers finding a riff he’d been working on in secret, something soft and restless. It sounded like waiting. It sounded like someone standing at the edge of a message they couldn’t send.

He played until his hands ached, until the room felt too small, until the jacket stopped staring at him. Then he slid his phone into his pocket without unlocking it and left the practice room, the silence following him like a shadow.

Chapter Text

Seoul smelled like wet asphalt and roasted chestnuts when Felix stepped out of Incheon. The dawn sky was the color of bruised pearl, neon shop signs flickering like tired eyes. He tugged his cap low, headphones over his ears, slipping through the arrival hall unnoticed. The familiar hum of his city pressed against him like a memory he couldn’t quite shake.

By the time he reached his apartment, his suitcase was already half-unpacked, designer tote bags lined up on the kitchen counter like a neat confession. He’d spent his last free hour in Milan hunting down each piece for each CREED member. 

When Seungmin arrived, straight from his own photoshoot with coffee in hand, his eyes widened at the lineup. “You know this looks like the wardrobe for an awards show, right?” he said, poking at the Mugler tag. “You’re spoiling them.”

“It’s just a congratulatory thing,” Felix muttered, fussing with already neat tied-up ribbons. “Album drop, remember?”

Seungmin tipped his head, studying him. “Why don’t you bring it to them yourself?”

Felix’s head snapped up. “I’m busy,” he said after a beat. “Schedules are crazy.”

“Right. Busy.” Seungmin said, voice mild but eyes sharp. 

Felix looked down at the tote bags again, particularly the Versace one. “Seriously. Just… do me a favour and drop them off, yeah?”

Seungmin didn’t move and just sighed. His eyes are softer now, that particular brand of patience Felix had leaned on for years. “You know I’ll do it. But Lix—” he tilted his head until their eyes met “—don’t spiral alone. Whatever’s going on in that head of yours, don’t let it rot in there.”

For a heartbeat Felix almost said something—almost. Instead, he tried for a smile. “I’m fine,” he murmured.

“Sure you are.” Seungmin said softly, but he took the tote bags anyway. “I’ll make sure they get these. But you owe me food after your Milan money rolls in.”

Felix laughed under his breath, the sound thin but real, and watched his friend go. Outside, the rain had slowed to a mist, the city glowing faintly like a secret.

By the time Felix was back on his schedules, the denial had hardened into a routine. Ignore the texts. Pretend Jeju was just a glitch in the matrix. Pretend the kiss hadn’t happened. Pretend he wasn’t refreshing CREED’s tag at 2 a.m. So when Hera Beauty booked him for a new campaign shoot and told him CREED would be part of the event—a live performance during the brand’s mini-showcase—he laughed. Of course. The universe had jokes.

The day of the shoot, the studio was a hive of ring lights and garment bags. Felix arrived early, hoodie up, headphones in, the usual armor. Cameras followed him in quiet awe, but he barely heard them.

He made it through the morning’s shots on autopilot, face flawless, heart somewhere else. Then, on his way to grab coffee from the pantry, he heard it—a laugh he’d know anywhere.

He froze in the doorway.

Hyunjin was leaning against the counter, a paper cup in hand, hair tucked behind one ear. Jisung was saying something, Changbin chuckling, Chan fiddling with his phone. And Ningning—perfect, luminous Ningning—was standing between Jisung and Hyunjin, laughing at something he’d just said. Hyunjin threw his head back and laughed too, that easy, sunlit laugh Felix hadn’t heard directed at him in days.

Something in Felix’s chest twisted so hard he had to grip the doorframe. All the denial cracked like glass.

Hyunjin glanced up mid-laugh, eyes finding him across the pantry. It was only a heartbeat, but it felt like forever.

Felix bolted.

He didn’t even know where he was going—down a hallway, into an unused dressing room—just anywhere away from the sight of Hyunjin and that laugh and that girl and the members all around him like nothing had changed. His pulse roared in his ears, his palms cold.

Jealousy flared up, bright and ugly, before he could stuff it back down. He told himself it was stupid. He told himself he didn’t care. But his hands were still trembling when he shut the door behind him.

The studio pantry was the one normal corner in an otherwise glitzy chaos. Hyunjin leaned against the counter with a paper cup of burnt coffee, shoulder brushing Changbin’s as the drummer swayed to whatever beat was in his head. Jisung perched on a stool nearby, making a disaster out of a packet of cream crackers, and Chan had his ever-present laptop open, quietly tweaking set cues even on break.

CREED had been on the run for days; the Hera Beauty showcase felt less like a job and more like a fever dream. Models glided past with perfect hair, production staff whispered into headsets, camera rigs clicked. Hyunjin was bone-tired, but the adrenaline of a new stage always lit something under his ribs.

Ningning glided into the pantry like she belonged there—silver dress catching the overhead light, perfume curling sweet around the stale coffee smell. She’d been easy to work with on the track, professional and bright. Hyunjin respected her hustle.

“Hyunjin,” she said, her voice cutting through the low din. “This is insane, huh? Makeup shows and rock bands. Who would’ve thought.”

He gave a small laugh, resting his bass case against his knee. “We’ve played stranger,” he said.

She tilted her head, smile teasing. “You never answered my DM about the afterparty.”

Hyunjin rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking toward the door. “We’ve barely had time to sleep,” he murmured, defaulting to polite.

“You’re always like this,” she teased, light but intentional. “Cool and slippery. Someone’s got to catch you.”

Jisung snorted into his cracker. Changbin started a low beat on the countertop like a drum. Chan gave a look that was both fatherly and exasperated.

Hyunjin smiled but didn’t bite. The flirt bounced off him like rain off a coat. His mind had already drifted; the noise of the room had turned into static because he’d caught a flash of blond at the far edge of his vision.

There—near the pantry doorway, hoodie up, hands tucked in pockets. 

Felix.

Hyunjin’s heartbeat did a weird stutter-step. He hadn’t seen Felix since Jeju; not in the flesh, not this close. For a second it felt like the world shrank to the space between them—Felix in the doorway, Hyunjin mid-laugh with a cup of coffee. Relief bubbled up so quickly it almost made him dizzy.

He straightened, mouth opening to call out.

But Felix was already looking at him. Not the bratty smirk, not the soft smile from Jeju, but something sharper, before he turned on his heel and disappeared back into the hallway like a ghost.

Hyunjin blinked, the moment snapping. Ningning was still talking; Jisung had clocked the glance and raised a brow; Changbin’s rhythm had gone offbeat. Chan was tapping his laptop, oblivious.

Hyunjin set his cup down too hard. “I’ll be back,” he muttered, already slinging his bass case over his shoulder.

“Hyunjin?” Ningning called after him. “Where are you—”

But he was already moving, slipping out of the pantry, the studio noise fading behind him. That one second of Felix’s eyes—cold, retreating—had landed like a punch.

He didn’t even know what he was going to say when he caught up. He just knew he had to find him.

The hall smelled of hairspray and warm cables. Doors opened and shut as staff ferried clothes and makeup. Somewhere a speaker crackled. Hyunjin’s steps echoed down the corridor, following nothing but a gut pull and the memory of blond hair disappearing around a corner.

“Felix,” he murmured under his breath, a name, a question.

No answer.

He kept walking.

The dressing room smelled like hairspray and paper flowers. The big vanity mirror threw back rows of cold bulbs, each one a tiny sun. Hyunjin’s reflection wavered in it as he eased the door shut behind him; the click sounded way too loud in the cramped space.

Felix was there, perched on the edge of the makeup chair, hoodie thrown over his shoulders like armour, hands locked around a paper cup. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a campaign shoot and then tried to fold himself down into something smaller, tighter. Even his voice was missing; he didn’t say a word when Hyunjin entered, just flicked his eyes up once and then back down to his coffee.

Hyunjin felt his heart kick hard against his ribs. It had been months since they’d been in the same room and every cell in his body wanted to lunge forward, close the distance, pull the blond into a quiet hug he didn't know he long for. Instead, he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and leaned against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world.

“So…” he said lightly, forcing a grin. “World’s smallest greenroom. You hiding from the crowd, Lix?”

Felix’s shoulders barely twitched. “Just needed air,” he murmured, voice flat.

Hyunjin tried again, a little louder, his usual teasing tone. “What, no sarcastic comeback? No calling me a diva? Did the model finally outgrow me?”

That earned him a look, but not the one he knew—no spark, no warmth. Felix’s eyes were dark, guarded, a thousand miles away. Hyunjin’s grin slipped but he kept going, hoping if he could make him laugh, the room would tilt back to normal.

“You’re the one who bolted,” he said, softer now. “Saw you near the pantry. Thought you’d at least say hi before running for cover. I even combed my hair for you.”

Felix’s fingers tightened around his cup. He stared at the floor. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “We can’t keep doing this, Hyunjin.”

It hit like a door slamming. “Doing… what?” Hyunjin asked, throat gone dry.

“This,” Felix said, gesturing vaguely between them, a flick of his wrist that held every late-night text, every stolen moment, every quiet thing they’d built. “Whatever this is. We have to stop.”

For a heartbeat Hyunjin didn’t move. He just stood there, every sound in the hallway dropping away—the techs, the muffled stage noise, even the hum of the lights. His stomach went cold. “I don’t understand,” he said finally. “Did I—did something happen?”

Felix shook his head but wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Nothing happened. That’s the problem.”

Hyunjin took a step forward, then another, slow like approaching a frightened animal. “Lix… talk to me. If I messed up, tell me. Don’t just—don’t shut me out.”

“It’s not you. It’s me. I just… I can’t.”

Hyunjin’s hands clenched at his sides, heat rising in his chest, hurt and confusion coiling into a dangerous, bitter knot. “You can’t?” His voice sharpened, spilling over with the ache he’d held back for too long. “I—You—You were the one who came into my world first! Who broke through! And now you’re the first to run?”

Felix finally looked up, and the look in his eyes nearly floored Hyunjin: anger and ache layered so thickly he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. 

“And you think I’m doing this lightly?” he spat, words laced with equal parts frustration and fear. “I can’t keep being… wherever you are, whatever you are, Hyunjin! You think you know, but you don’t. You’re everywhere, on stage, in my head, in my stupid feed. I can’t—I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t mess me up.”

The words hit harder than Hyunjin expected, slicing into the moments they’d shared, the playful banter that had once floated between them. 

Hyunjin felt the world tilt, his chest tight, throat dry. Anger, confusion, and a strange, raw ache swirled together. He stepped back, gaze flicking once over the blond sitting tensely on the chair. His fingers itched, ready to reach, to steady, to hold, but the storm inside him told him otherwise.

Hyunjin swallowed hard. “So that’s it?” he asked. “You run. I stand here and watch you go.”

Felix’s eyes shimmered but he blinked hard, tearing his gaze away. “Please, Hyunjin. Just… let me breathe.”

Hyunjin’s jaw tightened. He breathed out slowly, the words leaving his mouth quieter than he wanted them to be, but sharp enough to echo in the empty room. “Fine. If that’s what you need.”

Felix’s shoulders sagged fractionally, but he said nothing more.

Hyunjin turned, every step toward the door heavy with the weight of unsaid words and unshed emotions. He didn’t glance back. He left Felix there, fragile and closed-off, and walked into the hallway buzzing with crew, cables, and the echo of music—leaving a silence between them that felt louder than any applause.

The door clicked shut. The hallway lights seemed harsher now, the world outside carrying on oblivious to the storm he left behind. And somewhere deep in his chest, Hyunjin realized that even walking away, he couldn’t stop thinking about the blond who’d shaken his world—and bolted.

Chapter Text

Hyunjin felt the quiet shift the moment he stepped back into the studio. The room smelled faintly of instruments and polish, the leftover warmth of stage lights still clinging to the walls. CREED’s members immediately sensed it—the subtle tension, the way his shoulders tightened and his fingers drummed against the bass case just a beat too long.

“Hyunjin, you okay?” Changbin asked, voice light, teasing as usual. But Hyunjin just shrugged, the smallest smirk twitching at his lips. “I’m fine,” he said, but the word tasted hollow even to him.

They went through the motions—packing up, exchanging brief congratulations after their performance, and fielding a few quick questions during a backstage interview. The adrenaline of performing kept the edges sharp, but it couldn’t smooth over the frayed threads of what had happened earlier.

Felix appeared as the crew wrapped up. Bright, poised, impossibly composed. He approached, offering the congratulations Hyunjin should have felt proud to receive. But when their eyes met, Hyunjin’s chest clenched, and he slid past the supermodel with practiced indifference, barely nodding.

Felix’s expression faltered—the faint crease of hurt near his eyes, the way his lips parted as if to speak but didn’t. Hyunjin almost paused, almost turned on his heel, but the memory of the confrontation from earlier—the words Felix had thrown, the plea for distance—kept him moving.

He couldn’t undo that. Not yet.

Back at the studio, after the crowd had thinned and instruments were being stored away, Chan finally cornered him in the quiet of the practice room. His eyes were sharper than usual, reading the storm beneath Hyunjin’s surface.

“You’re off,” Chan said gently but firmly. “I’ve seen it since you came back. Don’t try to hide it from me.”

Hyunjin exhaled, the fight he’d been holding in his chest crumbling. His fingers gripped the bass, trembling slightly. “I… I don’t know, hyung. Everything… it’s just…” His voice broke off, thick with the swirl of confusion, hurt, and unspoken longing.

Chan stepped closer, a calm anchor amidst the chaos in Hyunjin’s chest. “I know,” he said softly. “It’s him, isn’t it? Felix.”

Hyunjin’s head dropped, a small, frustrated laugh escaping him. “It’s always him,” he admitted. “I can’t… I don’t know how to—he shakes me, hyung. Every time. I thought I could play it cool, I thought… but then—” His voice cracked, swallowed by the weight of everything he felt for the blond.

Chan’s hand rested on his shoulder, grounding him. “I get it,” he said. “You feel everything, Hyunjin. You always do. But you’re not alone in this. You have your music, you have us… and you have me. You don’t have to carry it by yourself.”

Hyunjin exhaled, letting the tension seep out, almost melting into the comfort Chan offered. The older member’s presence reminded him of steadiness, of perspective, of someone who saw the tempest inside him and didn’t flinch.

“Thank you,” Hyunjin whispered, voice low, almost embarrassed. 

But even as he spoke it, the thought of Felix—the way his presence lingered like smoke in every corner of his mind—remained. The hurt, the longing, the confusion… none of it had faded.

Chan squeezed his shoulder once before letting go. “Just… be careful,” he said, voice gentler now. “Don’t lose yourself, okay?”

Hyunjin nodded, but inside, the storm still churned. 

Felix. That name echoed in every heartbeat, every breath. 

He wanted to chase him, to fix what he thought he might have broken, to make Felix stay—but he also remembered the distance the blond had demanded. And for now, all he could do was ride the ache and try to make sense of it.

Then, just as he sank into the quiet after the last strings were packed, his phone buzzed.

Hyunjin hesitated. The name on the screen made his stomach twist: Mr. Park—the house butler who had raised him after his parents’ frequent absences, the only thread of family he had really trusted.

Hyunjin, your father is asking for you. Please come home.

Hyunjin froze, his fingers tightening around the device. 

His father. The same voice that had demanded perfection, expected boardroom poise, sculpted behaviors, and a future dictated by luxury and duty. The same father he had run from years ago, the one whose approval had always been measured, conditional.

He could feel the weight of the family mansion, the high ceilings, the gilded rooms, the endless obligations pressing down through the screen. The thought of going back made his chest constrict. He had fought tooth and nail to carve his own life, to find a home in music, in CREED, in the messy, chaotic, alive existence he had finally chosen for himself.

No. He wouldn’t go back. Not yet.

Hyunjin locked the phone, tucking it into his pocket with deliberate calm. He wasn’t ready to return to that world of expectations. Not when he’d just begun to taste freedom. Not when the echoes of Felix’s laugh, the tremor in his chest from seeing him, were still so alive.

He leaned against the wall, bass in hand, letting the hum of the studio fill the space. Outside, the city pulsed and breathed, oblivious to the turmoil inside him. Hyunjin closed his eyes, listening to the lingering echo of their performance, the ghost of Felix’s gaze, the tug of what could have been—and what he still couldn’t let go.

The message sat in his pocket, heavy and insistent. And yet, Hyunjin didn’t move. He wouldn’t move. Not for now.

Not for anyone.

Days blurred after the HERA event. Headlines and clips of CREED’s set exploded across social media, hashtags trending, fancams everywhere. Hyunjin saw himself in those videos—tight lines of his jaw, fingers running sure over the bass, eyes sharp—but it felt like watching someone else.

Felix’s words still echoed, dull and heavy, like a bruise under the skin: We need to stop whatever this is. No amount of noise could drown it out.

He went through the motions—rehearsals, shoots, interviews—but the spark that usually lived in his veins felt dim. Every time Chan cracked a joke behind the keys, Hyunjin’s laugh came a second too late. Every time Jisung riffed on his guitar during soundcheck, Hyunjin’s mind wandered.

It didn’t fool them. Not for long.

One night, after another long rehearsal, the three of them were sprawled across the studio couch eating delivery food. The smell of fried chicken and tteokbokki filled the air, warm and sticky. Changbin drummed his fingers on an empty box, eyeing Hyunjin over a chicken drumstick.

“Hyune, what's going on?” he asked bluntly. “Your head’s not here.”

Hyunjin reached for his drink, forcing a smirk. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“You’re always ‘just tired,’” Jisung piped up from where he was tuning his guitar. “Even my grandma’s more lively than you lately.”

Hyunjin rolled his eyes, but the jab landed. The silence that followed was heavier than it should’ve been.

Changbin leaned back, arms crossing. “We need a break. All of us. Hyunjin especially.”

Hyunjin looked up at that, startled. “What are you—”

“Bin’s right,” Chan said from his corner at the keys, scrolling absently through his phone. “We’ve been running nonstop. The HERA event was huge. We should… breathe a little.”

Jisung’s eyes lit up. “Vacation?”

Chan’s smile curved, slow and knowing. “Yeah. A vacation. We can go to Sydney. My family home’s empty right now. It’s quiet there, private. No managers breathing down our necks.”

Jisung practically bounced. “Sydney? Beach? Actual sun?”

Even Changbin cracked a smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

All eyes turned to Hyunjin. He sat there with his drink in hand, staring at the condensation dripping down the plastic cup. The idea of sun and salt air, of somewhere far from Seoul, tugged at something in him. But Felix’s face—Felix’s hurt—flashed in his mind, and the thought of running felt like both a relief and a betrayal.

Chan must have caught the flicker in his expression because his voice softened. “You don’t have to say yes right now. Just think about it. Might do you some good.”

Hyunjin exhaled slowly, setting his drink down. “I’ll… think about it,” he murmured.

But later, alone in his room with the city lights bleeding through the blinds, he stared at his phone again—at the unread message from Mr. Park, at the silence where Felix used to be. His world felt like it was tilting, caught between the place he ran from and the person he couldn’t reach.

Outside, a jet passed low over the city, a dull roar fading into the night. Hyunjin closed his eyes and wondered if distance—miles of ocean, sky, time—could quiet the noise inside him.

Sydney was dazzling in a way that made Hyunjin ache. It wasn’t Seoul’s neon-drenched chaos—it was something slower, warmer, stretched out under a sky so blue it felt unreal.

He stood on Bondi Beach with his bass slung over one shoulder like it belonged there, sand stuck stubbornly between his toes. Chan had taken them out their first morning, grinning wide as he pointed to the waves.

“This,” Chan said, arms spread like he was presenting a masterpiece, “is what freedom looks like.”

Changbin squinted at the surfers cutting across the waves. “Freedom looks like drowning to me.”

Jisung was already shirtless, sprinting toward the water with a yell. “See you losers on the other side!”

Hyunjin laughed—really laughed—for the first time in days. He tossed his sandals aside and followed, the saltwater rushing cool against his ankles as he dove after Jisung. The ocean was endless, sprawling, demanding he pay attention to this moment and nothing else. And yet—

Felix lingered anyway.

His laugh, sharp as broken glass but soft around the edges. His accent slipping like honey between words. His face that night in the dressing room, shuttered, guarded, telling him to stop.

Hyunjin surfaced, hair plastered to his face, salt stinging his lips. He wanted to text. Just a stupid message: Hey, Sydney looks like you. Or Did you ever miss this? Or maybe simply, I miss you.

His phone sat wrapped in a towel up on the sand, safe from the waves. The thought of Felix’s name lighting up the screen made Hyunjin’s chest both tighten and lift. But when they finally collapsed back on the beach, breathless and dripping, he scrolled through his contacts, thumb hovering over Felix’s chat.

He typed. Deleted. Typed again. Backspaced until there was nothing but the empty white box staring back at him.

He pocketed the phone, pressed his palms into the sand, and tried to let the sound of the waves drown it all.

The days blurred in salt and light. They visited Chan’s childhood home, greeted by his parents’ warm embrace and a spread of food so abundant even Changbin looked overwhelmed. Mrs. Bang fussed over them like they were still high school boys, piling plates with grilled prawns and lamb. Mr. Bang pulled out an old keyboard from the attic, dust settling as Chan’s fingers ran across the keys with practiced ease.

“You boys remember this?” he grinned.

Jisung strummed along with his guitar, Changbin tapping rhythm on the table, Hyunjin adding soft bass lines on a borrowed acoustic. They laughed until the chords tangled, music spilling from the house like it belonged to the sea breeze.

Later, under a night sky pricked with stars, they built a bonfire on the beach. Jisung poked at the flames with a stick, humming some half-written melody. Changbin passed around bottles of beer, clinking them together with a proud “cheers.”

Hyunjin leaned back against the sand, watching sparks curl up toward the sky. His chest felt loose for once, laughter buzzing in his veins. But when he closed his eyes, the image that surfaced wasn’t the fire, or the band, or even Chan’s proud smile.

It was Felix. Always Felix.

Felix with sand tangled in his curls, Felix perched on a surfboard, Felix lit by firelight. Felix laughing at Jisung’s antics. Felix leaning close enough for Hyunjin to smell sunscreen and salt.

Hyunjin’s eyes snapped open. He pressed the lip of the beer bottle to his mouth, swallowing down more than alcohol.

Chan noticed, of course he did. His gaze lingered, quiet but knowing, before he let it slide away.

Hyunjin tilted his head back toward the stars, let the cool night air burn his lungs, and told himself to stop. To just be here. With his brothers, with the waves, with the music that made them a family.

But in the quiet between laughter, Felix’s absence rang louder than any crashing tide.

The next morning, Hyunjin slipped on sunglasses and slung a sketchpad under his arm. His hoodie hood was tugged up like he could disappear inside it.

 “I’m gonna check out the museums today,” he told the others, casual, offhand, like it wasn’t an excuse to get lost in his own head.

Changbin arched a brow from where he was nursing his iced coffee. “Museums, huh? That code for ‘Hyunjin’s about to brood alone again’?”

Jisung, sprawled out on the couch, smirked. “We’re in Sydney, not a K-drama. Don’t spiral too far, rockstar. If you start writing tragic poetry in the rain, I’m calling a doctor.”

Chan leaned against the doorway, steady as ever, that quiet kind of grounding presence. “Go, but remember—you don’t have to carry stuff by yourself, yeah? We’re here. Always.”

Hyunjin only hummed, a low note caught in his throat, the sound somewhere between gratitude and ache. He didn’t trust himself to say more. He left before his chest could betray him.

The museums were hushed sanctuaries of white walls and polished floors, light pouring in from skylights that cut geometric shapes across marble. Every step echoed. Every breath felt magnified. Hyunjin drifted past oil paintings and sculptures, letting his gaze blur colors together, the chaos of brushstrokes strangely soothing.

Other tourists paused, tilted their heads, snapped photos. Hyunjin just stood still and stared, arms folded tight against his chest, like if he looked long enough he could drown out everything else—the noise of stages, the memory of a blond who laughed like he belonged under the sun.

He bought a small set of art materials at the museum shop—charcoal pencils, a thin sketchbook—more for the distraction than necessity. He needed something for his hands, something to keep from clawing at the thoughts spiraling in his head.

By instinct, his steps carried him down toward the harbor. The Opera House loomed sharp against the skyline, sails catching in the afternoon light. He found a spot on the steps, sketchbook balanced on his knees, and let his hand move.

Lines for the skyline. Arcs for the roof. The water rippling in jagged shadows at the edges of the page.

And then—before he could stop himself—he added a figure at the railing. Broad shoulders, compact frame, a messy halo of curls bent toward the sea.

Felix. Always Felix.

Hyunjin stared at the sketch, chest tightening, the lead smudged where his hand trembled. He snapped the book shut and stood abruptly, as if distance alone could undo the truth bleeding onto paper.

By late afternoon, the sun had slipped low, gilding the city in that sleepy golden wash. Hyunjin ducked into a small café tucked between bookstores. It smelled of espresso and vanilla, the kind of place locals probably loved and tourists stumbled into by accident.

The café was nearly full—every table cluttered with notebooks, laptops, or couples whispering across mugs. The only empty space was a corner table by the window. He slid into the seat, sketchbook open again, shading in the Opera House rooftops, pencil smudges staining his fingertips.

For a while, it was quiet. Just the hiss of steamed milk, the clatter of cups, the low murmur of conversations blending into white noise.

“Excuse me,” a voice broke through, warm and polite. “Mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is packed.”

Hyunjin blinked up, startled. The man standing there was tall, with a soft expression framed by dark hair. A stranger, but the kind of stranger who didn’t feel sharp around the edges.

“Uh—sure,” Hyunjin said, nodding at the spare chair.

The man slid into the seat, setting down his coffee with practiced ease. “Thanks. I’m Yongbok, by the way. Lee Yongbok.”

Hyunjin’s pencil froze mid-line.

The name struck him like a chord, reverberating too close, too raw. His chest jolted, unbidden images flashing in his head—a different Lee, a different smile, a different voice, curls catching under sunlight, the way Felix’s accent rounded vowels into honey.

Hyunjin forced a smile, polite, careful, the kind you wear to keep from unraveling. “Hyunjin.”

The stranger didn’t notice the way Hyunjin’s knuckles whitened around his pencil, or how he barely touched his coffee. Yongbok chatted about the city, about Bondi’s waves, about how crowded Darling Harbour was in the evenings. Hyunjin nodded when he needed to, but his mind wasn’t here, wasn’t in this café.

The conversation drifted into silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward so much as… suspended. Hyunjin went back to shading in the lines of the harbor, his pencil whispering against the paper. The stranger—Yongbok—sipped his coffee, gaze absent-mindedly wandering out the window.

It should’ve stayed quiet. But then—

“Are you an artist?” Yongbok’s voice cut through the hush, gentle curiosity wrapped around the words. His chin tilted toward the sketchbook.

Hyunjin shook his head before he even thought about it. “No. Just… a habit.”

Yongbok leaned in a little, brows lifting. “Some habit. That looks way too good to just be called doodling.” His finger gestured loosely toward the page. “Especially that one. The silhouette. Your lover?”

Hyunjin’s breath caught. The tip of his pencil stuttered. Heat rose under his skin, blooming across his ears. He dropped his gaze, muttering, “No.”

But it was too quiet, too hesitant. Like a truth half-swallowed.

Yongbok’s brows lifted. He didn’t press, only studied him with a quiet kind of knowing. Then he sat back, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Funny. You’ve got the look of someone who’s drawing from memory.”

Hyunjin’s throat tightened. He didn’t answer, couldn’t.

Instead, Yongbok filled the silence with his own story. “You know, I wasn’t always this bold about love either. My partner and I—” his eyes flicked toward the door, soft with fondness “—we grew up together. Always found our way back to each other no matter what. But for a long time… we were terrified. You don’t just walk around declaring that kind of love. Not when the world isn’t ready to hear it.”

Hyunjin’s pencil stilled completely. He stared at the page, at the faint silhouette he’d been shading in, his heart snagging on the words.

“But,” Yongbok continued, his voice low, steady, almost like confession, “we learned that fear can’t hold a candle to trust. To love. We stopped fighting what we already knew—that it was mutual. And once we did, it was like every storm after felt survivable.”

Hyunjin swallowed hard, his laugh brittle, more exhale than sound. “Wish mine was mutual.”

Yongbok tilted his head, studying him openly now. “Maybe it is. Maybe they’re just scared. Confused. Sometimes it takes time for people to catch up to their own hearts.”

Hyunjin’s lips parted like he might argue, but before he could, a voice cut through the café.

“Yongbokie!”

The effect was immediate. Yongbok’s whole face lit up, like a switch had been flipped. Hyunjin almost had to look away; the sudden brightness was too raw, too intimate. He followed Yongbok’s gaze to the man by the counter—a casual figure, nothing extraordinary at first glance, but the air around him shifted when their eyes met.

That was the difference. The unspoken tether.

Yongbok pushed his chair back, rising with a grin so wide it left no room for doubt. “That’s Sam. My partner.” He picked up his coffee, then turned back to Hyunjin with warmth lingering in his eyes. “Thanks for the company. Think about what I said, yeah? Don’t give up too fast. You never know.”

Hyunjin nodded, unable to find his voice.

He watched Yongbok cross the room, watched the easy way Sam reached for him, watched the gravity of two people who had chosen each other despite everything. The way Yongbok leaned in, casual, natural, like he’d done it a thousand times before.

Hyunjin sat back, pencil loose in his hand, his sketchbook open to the ghost of a blond silhouette.

For a moment, all he could do was ache—envy and hope tangled tight in his chest.

One day, he thought, pressing the pencil against the paper again. One day, maybe I’ll have that too—with a certain Lee waiting back in Seoul.

Chapter Text

Felix thought the air would feel lighter once Hyunjin walked out of the dressing room. Instead, it pressed heavier on his lungs, thick and suffocating, as if every breath threatened to undo him.

“Okay. If that’s what you need.”

Those were Hyunjin’s last words. Simple, stripped, so unlike him. No teasing drawl, no sly grin sneaking at the corner of his mouth. Just quiet finality. Hyunjin had turned, the slope of his shoulders stiff, the weight of confusion and anger barely contained, and left.

And Felix stayed rooted.

Every instinct in him had screamed to run after him, to grab his wrist and say stay, please stay, I didn’t mean it, I just don’t know what I’m doing with you, with us. His legs had tensed, muscles ready to move, but he never did. His feet were concrete. His heart, traitorously loud in his ears, drowned out the words that could’ve made a difference.

Because every time he pictured Hyunjin, his mind didn’t conjure the boy from late-night calls or stupid inside jokes or the one who always seemed to know when Felix needed grounding. No. It flashed back to the press conference. To Hyunjin laughing, head thrown back, voice deep and unguarded—but not at him. At her. At Ningning.

The image burned so sharp it cut away whatever courage Felix thought he had. He told himself to let go. To hold his ground. To not be pathetic.

So he stayed. Alone.

And now—hours later—the decision had calcified.

By the time the HERA event started, Felix had worn his mask so tightly it almost felt real. Supermodel Lee Felix: poised, untouchable, face carved in cool angles under the flash of cameras. His smile sharp but practiced. Every movement intentional, every glance choreographed.

He’d opened the show, the crown jewel of HERA’s campaign, walking out in a tailored ensemble that glittered under the spotlights. The runway stretched before him, lined with cameras and whispers, but he didn’t falter. Not once. Felix could command an audience; it was the one skill he knew would never betray him.

Still, beneath the polished surface, his mind throbbed like an open wound.

Because tonight wasn’t just about him.

Tonight, they were also here.

CREED.

The lights dimmed.

Felix, from his vantage point backstage, folded his arms across his chest, as if that could shield him from what was coming.

A low hum filled the hall, the kind of sound that always preceded something electric. Then the spotlight cut to the stage, and there they were.

CREED.

Chan at the keys, his head nodding slightly as his fingers moved with steady command. Changbin behind the drum kit, sticks flying in sharp precision. Jisung with his guitar, leaning into the mic, his voice already pulling the audience in. And—

Hyunjin.

His bass slung across his shoulder, dark hair swept back, spotlight kissing the sharp line of his jaw. He looked taller somehow, more solid, his posture screaming confidence even as he slipped into rhythm like second nature.

Felix’s heart stuttered.

The music roared, and the crowd followed. It wasn’t just sound—it was presence. The band filled the room, no longer the “misfits” Hyunjin had once told him about but a force of their own. Every note, every harmony, stitched together in something that felt alive.

Felix’s gaze never left Hyunjin.

He watched the way his fingers plucked the strings, how effortlessly he seemed to breathe with the music. He watched the faint smirk ghost his lips when the audience cheered louder, the tiny curl of pride when Jisung’s vocals soared. He watched—because how could he not?

And then Hyunjin lifted his gaze to the audience. Right where Felix was standing.

Felix’s chest constricted, ready to be pierced by recognition. By that familiar spark. By anything. But Hyunjin’s eyes slid past him. Past and through and beyond.

As if Felix wasn’t there at all.

Felix’s throat burned. His fingers dug into his own arm, nails sharp against the fabric.

This was his decision. His choice. He told Hyunjin to stop. To walk away. And Hyunjin had listened.

So why did it hurt this much to be invisible?

After the performance, the atmosphere was buzzing—HERA execs gushing, audience members raving, staff clapping as CREED stepped down from the stage. Felix could hear the praise bouncing off the walls, but it all felt muted, like he was trapped underwater.

Still, he knew his role. He slipped back into the crowd, smile practiced, strides confident, and approached the band like he would any other celebrity guest.

“Congratulations,” Felix said, voice smooth, steady, betraying nothing. His eyes, though—traitors again—flicked to Hyunjin.

For one suspended moment, Felix thought maybe. Maybe he’d glance back, say something, anything.

But Hyunjin just walked past.

Didn’t pause. Didn’t even blink.

The brush of his shoulder against Felix’s as he passed was the closest thing to acknowledgment. And that—that—nearly undid him.

Felix’s lips parted, the smile frozen, empty. He wanted to cry, wanted to scream, wanted to undo it all and rewind back to the moment he’d stayed rooted instead of running after Hyunjin. But this was his choice. His consequence.

He stayed still, congratulating the others with a mask that didn’t crack, while inside, every word he’d told Hyunjin splintered like glass.

The car ride home was quiet. Seoul blurred past in lights and shadows, neon bleeding into the dark like veins. Felix leaned his forehead against the glass, cool and grounding, but it didn’t quiet the storm in his head.

Minho, from the driver’s seat, didn’t say anything for the first stretch. He never pushed. He knew Felix better than anyone, knew the difference between silence that was peace and silence that was punishment.

Finally, as they pulled up outside Felix’s apartment, Minho spoke, his voice casual but firm. “Whatever’s eating you alive, Lix… you don’t have to carry it alone. Talk to me if you need.”

Felix blinked, throat aching, but he only nodded.

Minho didn’t press. He never did. He just squeezed Felix’s shoulder briefly before letting him go.

Felix walked into his apartment, lights dim, silence heavy. He leaned against the door after locking it, the image of Hyunjin’s shoulder brushing past him replaying on a loop.

His own decision had built this distance. His own words had dug this chasm.

Felix slid to the floor, head in his hands, the storm inside him louder than the city outside his window.

For a long while he just sat there, eyes burning, breath shallow, listening to the sound of his pulse against his ribs. But stillness only stretched the ache further, so eventually—out of habit, out of muscle memory—his hand reached for his phone.

The screen lit up, and with it came the flood.

HERA’s official account had already posted photos from tonight. His own face beamed back at him, sharp and poised, the picture-perfect model. He swiped past it quickly, unwilling to stare at his own mask. The next post was the band—CREED under the stage lights, instruments still humming in the shot. Comments overflowed with praise, hashtags multiplying like wildfire.

Felix’s thumb hesitated. Then tapped.

#CREED was trending. His feed flooded instantly—clips from fan sites, fancams with shaky zooms, official high-res photographs that captured every detail of the performance. And in nearly all of them, one person kept appearing.

Hyunjin.

Hyunjin with his head bent low over the bass, hair falling in strands against his cheek. Hyunjin caught mid-laugh with Jisung between songs, mouth wide, dimples deep. Hyunjin in black stagewear, sharp lines and shadow, sweat glinting under the spotlight.

Felix swallowed hard, scrolling faster as if speed could lessen the sting.

Every photo, every angle, every praise-filled caption carved something out of him. The world was watching Hyunjin now. Celebrating him, capturing him, wanting more of him. And Felix—what was he, if not the fool who’d asked him to stop?

He stared until his vision blurred, until the glow of the screen felt like it branded his skin.

His thumb drifted upward. To Contacts. To 🧸💙 Hyunjin.

The name blinked back at him, steady, patient. A single tap away.

Felix’s fingers hovered, typing out You were amazing tonight. Then deleting. Typing again—Did you see me in the crowd? Delete. I miss— delete, delete, delete.

He stared at the blank box, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat.

And then, with a sharp inhale, he locked the phone.

The room fell back into silence, the storm still raging inside him, unanswered and unspoken.

Felix curled against the door, the faint ghost of Hyunjin’s shoulder brushing past him haunting him more than any memory could.

And his phone, face-down on the floor, kept its silence too.

Chapter Text

The days blurred into the old familiar rhythm.

Airports. Studios. Fittings. Runways. Flashbulbs.

Lee Felix, the supermodel—clean-cut, polished, untouchable—was back.

Or at least that’s what everyone else saw. Minho who ushered him from van to studio. Jeongin who slipped jackets over his shoulders. The designers who watched him glide down their runways with expressions sharpened into knives. They saw the Felix who could silence a room with a smile, the Felix whose face could be airbrushed across billboards, the Felix who never faltered.

They didn’t see the boy clawing at his chest every time his phone lit up, hoping for a ping that never came.

They didn’t hear the way silence screamed louder than a crowd.

Felix told himself it was fine. He could do this. He could slip back into the machine, the constant grind, the identity he had worn long before a bassist with dark hair and a smile like sunlight had stumbled into his orbit.

He tried not to check the phone. Tried harder not to open the music app and hit play on that song. The one threaded with a bassline that pulsed too close to his own heartbeat. The one he knew was his, even if Hyunjin had never said it aloud.

Hardest of all, though, was the necklace.

That stupid teddy bear necklace. He’d tucked it away into the velvet-lined safe where he kept jewelry worth more than most cars. It didn’t belong there—it wasn’t gold or diamonds, wasn’t from Bulgari or Louis Vuitton. But it felt precious in a way that made his chest ache.

And the ring—cheap black acrylic, mismatched against every designer suit they styled him in. He wore it anyway. Every time he looked down at his hand on a glass of water or curled around a pen, the little band winked at him. Mocking him. Reminding him.

Felix told himself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just a ring. Just a necklace. Just a kiss. Just a song.

But then Seungmin called.

“Movie night,” Seungmin said flatly through the phone, like it was a decree from the heavens.

Felix almost laughed. Almost. “Seung, I can’t. Fitting tomorrow at six. Campaign shoot in the afternoon. Runway rehearsal at night. My schedule’s—”

“Felix,” Seungmin cut in, tone sharpening. “Best friend card. Don’t make me play it.”

Felix froze, jaw clicking. That card… he hated it. Hated it because it always worked. Because it meant Seungmin had seen through him. Because it meant the walls he built didn’t matter.

“Fine,” Felix sighed, pressing his thumb hard into the acrylic ring. “But if I fall asleep on your couch, you’re carrying me.”

“You wish,” Seungmin muttered before hanging up.

Seungmin’s place was warm in the way Felix’s apartment never was. Lived-in. Books stacked on coffee tables, mugs left half-full on counters, a blanket tossed over the couch in a way that suggested someone had actually used it earlier that day.

Felix stood at the door, hands shoved deep in his pockets, scanning the room with mock suspicion. “Where’s Jisung? Hiding in the closet with snacks? Or do I get you all to myself tonight?”

“Jisung’s in Sydney,” Seungmin said casually, padding into the kitchen.

Felix’s smile faltered. Only for a second. Just a flicker. But Seungmin was watching.

He masked it quick, tipping his head back with a little scoff. “Sydney, huh? Living his rockstar dream. Good for him. So what are we watching? Horror? Rom-com? Don’t tell me it’s one of those pretentious indie films again.”

Seungmin didn’t answer. Just handed him a soda and started the movie.

Felix sank into the couch. He focused on the screen, on the flicker of light, on the dialogue he wasn’t really hearing. His body sat there, but his mind… his mind was somewhere else. Somewhere with blinding stage lights and a bassline thrumming in his bones.

His hand drifted, without thought, to the ring. Tug. Twist. Tug. Twist.

Seungmin noticed.

He always noticed.

Twenty minutes into the movie, Seungmin hit pause. The room went still, the sudden silence loud.

Felix blinked at the frozen image on screen. “What? Did I snore already?”

Seungmin didn’t laugh. He just turned, expression soft but sharp, cutting right through Felix’s armor. “Talk.”

Felix’s throat tightened. “About what? The cinematography? Because honestly—”

“Felix.”

The name snapped like a whip.

Felix looked down at his hands. At the stupid ring turning and turning until it burned his skin.

Seungmin sighed. Not annoyed. Not sharp. Just… weary. Like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“Hyunjin?” he asked quietly.

The name cracked something open. Felix’s chest caved, his breath stuttering, his vision blurring.

He tried to laugh. Tried to brush it off. But the sound caught in his throat, warping into something wet, something raw.

And then he was breaking.

The sob tore out of him before he could stop it, shoving his palms against his face like he could hide from it. His body curled in, shoulders shaking, breath ragged.

Seungmin didn’t move at first. He let it happen. Let Felix crumble. And only when the sobs turned jagged, when Felix whispered, “It’s my fault, it’s all my fault,” over and over into his palms, did Seungmin lean in.

An arm draped over his shoulders. A quiet anchor.

“You love him, don’t you?” Seungmin’s voice was low, steady.

The words cracked through Felix like thunder. He froze, every defense he had left shattering under the weight of them.

For a heartbeat, he wanted to deny it. Wanted to laugh, shake his head, toss a careless shrug. He was Lee Felix, after all. He knew how to wear a mask so well the world thought it was his real face.

But the mask wouldn’t come.

His throat worked around air that refused to stay down, his hands trembling as they twisted the black acrylic ring. And then, like floodgates breaking, the words tumbled out.

“I do,” he whispered, almost inaudible. “God, I do. I love him.”

The confession ripped something open inside him. Raw, terrifying, liberating. He pressed his fists against his knees like he could hold himself together, but the ache in his chest only spread wider.

Seungmin’s gaze softened, but he didn’t move. Just waited. Patient, steady, letting Felix stumble through the storm.

“What’s stopping you?” Seungmin asked gently.

Felix’s head dropped, curls falling into his face. He laughed—ugly, broken. “Everything. I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never—my whole life, it’s always been about the dream, you know? About modeling, about making it. That’s all I’ve known how to love. There wasn’t space for… for anything else. Not for—” His voice cracked. “Not for someone like him.”

He dragged his palms over his face, trying to rub away the heat gathering behind his eyes. But the words wouldn’t stop. They spilled, raw and frantic.

“I’m jealous all the time. I hate it. I hate myself for it. The way he smiles at people, the way he laughs with Ningning—God, it eats me alive, Seungmin. And still I want him. I want him by my side every second, but I’m too scared. Scared of what the world would say if they found out Lee Felix, the perfect, untouchable supermodel, fell in love with some band’s bassist. Scared of what Minho hyung would do if he knew. He’s my cousin, but he’s my manager first, and he’d—he’d…” Felix’s breath hitched. “He’d see this as a mistake. As weakness. Something to fix.”

Seungmin’s chest ached as he listened. Felix’s voice shook, but the words kept coming, faster, messier, like he’d been holding them back so long they were clawing their way free.

“And the world—Seungmin, the world eats people alive for less than this. I’ve built everything on this image, this career, this dream I bled for. And now—now Hyunjin walks in and suddenly it’s all… all off balance. I don’t know how to do both. I don’t know if I can.”

Felix’s voice broke on the last word, the room spinning with the weight of his confession. He slumped forward, curls falling into his face, hands shaking as they clutched the ring like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

For a long moment, the only sound was Felix’s uneven breathing.

Then Seungmin reached out, his voice softer than Felix had ever heard it.

“Lixie,” he murmured. “You don’t need to be scared.”

Felix’s head snapped up, red-rimmed eyes meeting his.

Seungmin held his gaze, steady and unshakable. “Because what matters isn’t the world. Isn’t Minho hyung. Isn’t anyone else. What matters is what you feel. You’ve been carrying this weight like it’s a crime, like love is something to hide in the dark. But it’s not. It’s yours. Yours to claim, yours to protect, yours to choose.”

Felix’s lips parted, trembling. His chest heaved with the effort of keeping in another sob.

“You’ve done so well, Felix,” Seungmin went on, his voice warm, grounding. “You’ve carried yourself through storms that would’ve broken anyone else. You’ve been the face of an entire industry since you were barely out of your teens, and through it all, you’re still the same Aussie boy I met when we were kids. Beneath the runway lights and magazine covers—you’re still you. And that’s enough.”

Felix broke again, a choked sound tearing out of him as he pressed his palms hard against his eyes.

Seungmin let him cry, rubbing slow circles into his back. “When I fell for Jisung, it wasn’t easy either,” he admitted quietly. “Our worlds didn’t make sense together. I was like you—a model, swallowed up by deadlines and shows and managers breathing down my neck. He was CREED's main vocalist. Loud, messy, unpredictable. We had different schedules, different dreams, different priorities. People said it wouldn’t work.” He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Sometimes I believed them.”

Felix lifted his head, eyes wet.

“But we didn’t let the world decide for us,” Seungmin said simply. “We chose anyway. And it’s messy, yeah. It’s not perfect. But it’s ours. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

His gaze sharpened, gentle but insistent. “So ask yourself, Felix. What do you want to choose this time? Not Minho hyung. Not the industry. Not the world. You.”

Felix swallowed hard, throat raw, chest pounding like a trapped bird. The words Seungmin laid in front of him felt heavy, terrifying. But somewhere beneath the fear, something shifted.

Because the truth was there, pulsing in every vein.

He wanted Hyunjin.

Not as a fling. Not as a game. Not as a secret thrill he could tuck away when the cameras turned back on.

He wanted him. His laugh, his fire, his music. Wanted him in the quiet moments, the messy ones, the ones no one else would ever see.

Felix closed his eyes, breath shuddering. “I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered. “But I think… I think I want to try. For him.”

Seungmin’s hand tightened briefly on his shoulder. “Then that’s all you need. The rest… you’ll figure it out. You always do.”

Felix cracked a small, trembling laugh, wiping at his eyes. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is,” Seungmin said with a little shrug. “Complicated, sure. But simple. Love usually is.”

Felix sat there, heart hammering, the weight of the world still heavy—but for the first time in weeks, it felt like he could breathe.

Chapter Text

Felix woke with sunlight warming his cheek. For the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like a burden but a gentle nudge back into the world. His body felt heavy, bones loose with exhaustion, but his chest… his chest wasn’t the same hollow cave it had been.

He blinked at the unfamiliar ceiling—the pale cream walls of Seungmin’s guest room, faintly lit by the morning sun spilling through half-drawn curtains. The air smelled faintly of coffee and detergent. His eyes stung when he rubbed at them, the skin raw from hours of crying, but there was something else underneath the soreness: lightness.

The night replayed in fragments—the movie paused mid-scene, Seungmin’s steady hand on his shoulder, the way words he’d swallowed for months finally broke free.

I love him.

Felix bit down on his lip, heat crawling across his face. The words didn’t feel like a mistake now. They felt… true. Unshakable. Terrifying, yes, but real in a way that steadied him.

Memories tumbled one after another, too vivid, too sharp to ignore. Hyunjin laughing with ahjummas at the Jeju market, his tall frame folded as he listened to their stories. Hyunjin stumbling into the hotel room with a teddy bear so large it nearly swallowed him whole, grin wide and shameless because Felix’s laugh had been worth it. Hyunjin’s quiet gestures—the earrings tucked into his palm, the sketchbook pushed across a table, the playlist he’d built without saying why. The softest kiss in the dark of a Jeju hotel room, one that still set Felix’s knees weak when he thought about it. And that song. That damn song onstage, written with hands that trembled but eyes locked on him, every note a confession no one else understood.

Felix pressed his hand against his chest as if he could hold the warmth inside. He had been so afraid of these feelings, but now—now he wanted to stop running from them. He wanted to accept them, to stop punishing himself for loving someone who made the whole world shift on its axis.

When he finally padded barefoot down the hall toward Seungmin’s kitchen, it was with a hesitant kind of calm. He followed the smell of coffee, the muffled hum of a phone screen, the faint sound of Seungmin muttering under his breath.

Seungmin was at the counter, shoulders tense, brows pulled tight as he scrolled. His mug sat forgotten beside him, steam curling in the air.

Felix paused in the doorway, heart steady but curious. “Morning.”

Seungmin flinched slightly before snapping his head up. His eyes softened at the sight of Felix, but something in them lingered—worry, sharp and unhidden.

Felix frowned. “What?”

Seungmin didn’t answer right away. He set the phone down on the counter, face angled like he was bracing himself. “You should eat something first.”

Felix’s heart skipped. “Min, what is it?”

Seungmin hesitated. The silence stretched, broken only by the hum of the fridge and the faint tick of the wall clock. Finally, he sighed and slid the phone across the counter.

“Felix…” His voice was careful. “You need to see this.”

Felix’s stomach turned even before his eyes landed on the screen.

The headline screamed in bold letters, impossible to ignore:

“Hwang Hyunjin of Hwang Enterprises and Ning Yizhuo (publicly known as Ningning of Aespa) Announce Engagement.”

Everything in Felix went silent. His ears rang, blood rushing so fast it drowned out every sound. His knees buckled and he staggered, catching himself on the counter’s edge.

“No—” The word ripped out of him, breathless, strangled. His chest seized as though something inside had split open.

Seungmin caught him before he fell, strong arms locking around him, grounding him against the sudden collapse. “Lix. Hey—hey, breathe. You’re okay. Stay with me.”

But Felix couldn’t. His lungs rebelled, each inhale sharp and useless. The world tilted—Seungmin’s kitchen spinning, the floor threatening to disappear. He clawed for air, for reason, for anything but the words blazing in his skull.

Hyunjin. Engaged.

Engaged.

The word gutted him.

It couldn’t be real. Not the boy who’d pressed his forehead to Felix’s in quiet moments, who’d carried stupidly big gifts just to make him laugh, who’d written him into a song in front of thousands. Not the boy whose kiss still burned on his lips.

But the headline was there, sharp and merciless.

“Felix. Look at me.” Seungmin’s voice broke through the haze, low and commanding. His hands cupped Felix’s face, forcing his tear-blurred eyes to meet his. “Don’t spiral. Breathe.”

Felix shook his head violently, sobs tearing up his throat. “It’s—he’s—”

“You don’t know anything yet,” Seungmin cut in firmly. “This is a headline. Headlines lie. Headlines twist. You know that better than anyone.”

Felix tried to swallow the panic, but it clawed harder. His heart raced until it hurt, chest caving as though something precious was being ripped away.

Seungmin’s grip softened. His thumbs brushed away tears with surprising gentleness. “Trust him, Felix. If what you told me last night is real—if you love him—then you need to trust him, too.”

Felix froze, Seungmin’s words piercing through the noise.

Trust him.

He wanted to. God, he wanted to. But fear gnawed at every edge of him—fear of being foolish, of opening his heart only to find it had already been claimed by someone else.

Seungmin didn’t let him drift. “Listen to me,” he said, steady as stone. “You’ve already made the hardest choice. You admitted what you feel. You let yourself love him. Don’t undo that now because of some headline written by people who don’t know a damn thing about your hearts.”

Felix blinked hard, breath hitching. His chest still hurt, but Seungmin’s words wrapped around him like a rope, pulling him back from the freefall.

“You’ve already chosen him,” Seungmin pressed, voice gentler now. “So wait. Trust that he’ll choose you, too.”

Felix sagged into him, shaking, his tears soaking into Seungmin’s shirt. The weight of the headline still pressed on him, but Seungmin’s words anchored him just enough to breathe again.

Trust him.

Felix closed his eyes, gripping the ring on his finger like a lifeline. He had no idea how to hold steady when the world tried to shake him apart, but maybe… maybe Seungmin was right.

Maybe this wasn’t the end.

Not yet.

The words clung to him long after Yongbok and his partner left the café.

“Don’t give up too fast. You never know.”

Hyunjin sat frozen at the corner table, fingers tracing the rim of his untouched coffee. He should’ve stood, should’ve followed the couple out into the Sydney sun, but all he could do was watch as Yongbok slipped his hand into Sam’s without hesitation, without fear. Their shoulders brushed, heads tilted toward each other, a quiet tether made visible with every small, ordinary gesture.

Hyunjin’s chest tightened. He wanted that. He wanted it so badly it almost felt embarrassing.

Not with anyone, though. Only with one.

A certain Lee, currently thousands of miles away in Seoul.

He pulled his cap lower, shoved his hands in his pockets, and let his feet carry him toward the beach. The late afternoon sky was the kind that seemed to spill color into the ocean, soft washes of pink and lavender on endless blue. Waves curled and collapsed against the shore, steady and unbothered. If only his heart could be the same.

But it wasn’t. It beat with a stubborn rhythm, one name reverberating louder than the waves: Felix.

It was ridiculous, really, the way Felix managed to thread himself into every crevice of Hyunjin’s life. Not even with effort—no, Felix had barged in the way sunlight does, uninvited but impossible to turn away from. Hyunjin thought of nights when Felix tested his patience with bratty remarks, smirking as if he knew exactly how far he could push before Hyunjin snapped. 

Felix who had spluttered, actually spluttered, the first time he saw Hyunjin in a suit. It was at Seungmin’s Burberry event, Felix talking with guests like he owned the room, all poise and glamor—until his gaze landed on Hyunjin walking in with Jisung at his side. The way his mouth dropped, eyes blinking too fast, like Hyunjin was some sight he couldn’t compute. Hyunjin had wanted to laugh. He wanted to freeze that moment and replay it forever.

Felix at the amusement park, brave until he wasn’t. Cocky until they stood at the entrance of the haunted house and suddenly Felix wasn’t bratty—he was a terrified, wide-eyed boy clinging to Hyunjin’s sleeve with both hands. The kind who buried his face against Hyunjin’s arm when shadows jumped out. Cute. Unbelievably cute. And Hyunjin had felt his chest cave under the weight of it.

Felix barging into CREED's rehearsals with Seungmin, tossing a grin at Chan and Changbin like they were his favorites while skipping right past Hyunjin. Hyunjin had burned with jealousy before he even realized that’s what it was. How ridiculous—jealous of his own bandmates, just because Felix’s laugh tilted toward them instead of him.

He remembered Felix standing frozen at the sight of Hyunjin outside his apartment one evening. The black Audi R8 purring behind him, a bouquet of blue flowers in his hands. Felix’s eyes wide, his lips parting like he couldn’t decide if he should mock Hyunjin or melt. 

And then later that night—Felix glowing under the city lights as Hyunjin shared his private Han River spot with him, both of them tearing into roasted potatoes from the ahjumma who never failed to smile at him. The way Felix flushed pink when Hyunjin told him his pink hair suited him—it was seared into Hyunjin’s mind, right down to the way Felix tucked his head, ears burning, before Hyunjin drove away.

And Jeju.

Jeju would live with him forever.

Felix’s unfiltered delight at the Teddy Bear Museum—the way Felix’s eyes lit up like a child’s, laughter spilling freely as he posed beside oversized bears. Hyunjin had watched him, mesmerized, and in that moment it didn’t matter that Felix was an internationally known model. He wasn’t Felix the Supermodel then; he was just Felix, the boy who could find joy in glass cases of stuffed bears. Hyunjin remembered the way Felix said yes when he teased to buy the matching necklace, and how Hyunjin bravado slipped.

Hyunjin still has the cheap little white acrylic ring that matched the black one Felix wore. Felix had accepted the ring with that small, shy smile—the one that knocked the air out of Hyunjin every time.

God, he loved that smile.

God, he loved him.

And he had loved every side Felix revealed to him: the composed model walking runways, the soft boy laughing until his shoulders shook, the brat teasing him over trivial things, the man who sat across from him during their high-end date with wide eyes and a spluttered laugh before grounding them back into something simple, a walk by the Han River under the glow of city lights.

Hyunjin thought of the hotel in Jeju, Felix’s lips brushing his in a kiss so tentative yet so devastating. Thought of Felix turning red when Hyunjin emerged from the water, hair slicked back, water droplets clinging to his frame. Thought of the soft buzz of his phone at odd hours, Felix’s texts filling the quiet with easy warmth, the good mornings that turned even the heaviest days bearable.

There was no use denying it anymore.

Hyunjin stopped walking, ocean stretching endlessly before him, and let the realization root itself deep in his chest.

He loved Felix. Every version. Every contradiction. Every laugh and every silence. He loved him enough that even when Felix had asked for space, he tried to give it, even when it tore at him.

And maybe—just maybe—that was okay.

Hyunjin found himself smiling, soft and unguarded, the kind of smile he’d usually save for Felix himself.

By the time his thoughts slowed, he had already reached Chan’s house. The band had been using it as their base in Sydney, a place to rehearse and crash between sets. The familiar creak of the wooden gate pulled him from his reverie. He slipped inside, dropped his shoes by the door, and immediately felt it—tension thick in the air, heavier than the scent of reheated takeout lingering in the kitchen.

Three pairs of eyes found him. Concern painted across their faces in different strokes: Chan’s subtle frown, Changbin’s restless shifting, Jisung’s worried bite on his lip.

Hyunjin froze, heart skipping.

It was Chan who finally spoke, voice careful, like he was handling glass.

“Hyunjin… do you know about it?”

Hyunjin blinked. “Know about what?”

Silence stretched for a beat too long. Then Changbin exhaled, weary, and held out his phone.

The glow of the screen lit the room.

A headline screamed back at him:

“Hwang Hyunjin of Hwang Enterprises and Ning Yizhuo (publicly known as NingNing of Aespa) Announce Engagement.”

The world tilted.

Chapter Text

The airport was a warzone.

Cameras flashed like lightning, microphones thrust forward, reporters hurling questions that blurred into one dissonant roar.

“Hyunjin-ssi, are the engagement rumors true?”

“Are you confirming your identity as the sole heir to Hwang Enterprises?”

“Does this mean CREED was just a cover until you take over the company?”

“Does CREED know you’ve been hiding your chaebol status?”

Hyunjin kept his head down, cap brim low, mask covering most of his face. He gripped the strap of his bass case like it was a lifeline. Behind him, Chan and Jisung were flanked by their manager, cutting through the sea of bodies. Changbin shouldered through on Hyunjin’s side, jaw tight, muttering under his breath with every shove of a microphone.

Their manager had been smart—two vans waiting at the curb, security detail already forming a wedge. They pushed, ducked, maneuvered until the automatic doors swallowed them whole and Incheon became just another storm behind glass.

Hyunjin finally exhaled when the van doors slammed shut. But the noise followed him anyway, crawling into his chest, replaying every headline, every flashbulb.

Their manager, hands white-knuckled on the wheel, didn’t bother sugarcoating. “You’re all staying at Chan’s,” he said. “No exceptions. No sneaking off to your own apartments. Until this blows over, the four of you move as one. Got it?”

A chorus of tired agreement followed. No fight left to give.

Hyunjin leaned his head back against the window, Seoul’s nightscape blurring into smears of light. The headline replayed in his mind like a cruel joke.

Engaged. Heir. Hwang Enterprises.

Of course it was his father. A move straight out of the Hwang playbook—if Hyunjin refused to crawl back willingly, then drag him through the mud until he had no choice.

But Hyunjin wasn’t twelve anymore. And he sure as hell wasn’t going back.

The van’s low hum lulled him into memory.

He had been an only child. Which in his father’s world meant he wasn’t a child at all—he was an investment portfolio wrapped in a school uniform. His future drafted long before he could spell his own name. Which clubs to join, which universities to apply for, which mergers to smile politely at.

Hyunjin’s earliest memories weren’t playgrounds or scraped knees. They were stiff suits and silent corridors echoing with his footsteps. Tutors cycling through by the week. Expectations piled higher than toy blocks ever could.

As the only child, his life was mapped before he even spoke his first word. Someday, the company would be his. Someday, the empire would sit heavy on his shoulders.

He never asked. He never wanted it.

But no one ever asked what he wanted.

Music came by accident.

He was nine when his mother signed him up for piano—another lesson to fill his schedule, another way to prove refinement. But the first time he pressed a key and sound vibrated through his fingertips, something stirred. He practiced not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Hours stretching unnoticed, lost in the swell of notes.

Then one day, in the corner of a dusty practice room, he picked up a bass.

It was too big for him, clumsy in his small hands. But the first string he plucked thrummed through his bones. A low, steady heartbeat that felt more real than anything his world had offered him.

Freedom. That’s what it felt like.

And freedom had a name: Mr. Park.

The family butler had served the Hwangs since before Hyunjin was born. Stern, soft-spoken, always there when Hyunjin needed him. He noticed. He always noticed. When Hyunjin’s eyes lit up, when his hands lingered too long over chords, when he started humming instead of reciting.

It was Mr. Park who gave him an old laptop, whispering, “Try this. You might like it.”

It was Mr. Park who taught him how to upload to SoundCloud, to post covers under a pseudonym so no one would trace them back.

It was Mr. Park who covered for him when he slipped away for hours, who signed off on false alibis, who became the silent shield between Hyunjin’s two worlds.

He was sixteen when a message appeared in his inbox.

yo, your bass lines are insane. we’re looking for someone to join our band. you in?

Signed: Christopher Bang.

Hyunjin almost ignored it. Almost. But then he listened to their demo. Raw, rough, imperfect. But alive.

He snuck out to meet them—three boys huddled in a tiny garage that reeked of sweat and hope. Chan, Changbin, Jisung.

They asked him to play. He did.

And when the last note vibrated into silence, all three broke into grins.

“You’re it,” Chan said simply. “You’re what we’ve been missing.”

Hyunjin had never been needed before. Not like that. Not for something he chose.

So he kept sneaking out. Mr. Park kept covering. And for the first time, Hyunjin felt alive.

Of course, secrets never last.

He was seventeen when Chan, Changbin, and Jisung found out. They pieced it together—his guarded answers, the expensive car that once dropped him too close, the way he flinched at questions.

Hyunjin had panicked. He thought they’d hate him, think he was fake. That they’d see Hwang Hyunjin, chaebol heir, not the boy who loved his bass more than air.

But they just shrugged.

“Okay,” Jisung said, munching on chips.

“...Okay?” Hyunjin repeated, stunned.

“Yeah,” Changbin chimed. “What, you think we care? We’re not here for your money. We’re here because you feel the music. That’s it.”

Chan clapped his shoulder, eyes steady. “What matters is the music. Not your last name.”

And they’d meant it.

The van jolted to a stop, pulling Hyunjin out of memory. Chan’s apartment loomed above them, a safehouse dressed as concrete and glass.

Inside, the exhaustion hit them all at once. Shoes kicked off. Jackets slung over chairs. Jisung muttering about ordering fried chicken while Changbin collapsed onto the couch. Their manager locked the door with a finality that made it clear—no one was leaving tonight.

Hyunjin sank into a corner of the couch, silent. His chest was still tight, the words of the reporters clanging like chains.

But then—Chan sat down beside him. Not close enough to crowd, but steady enough to be there. No speeches, no advice. Just presence.

Jisung plopped down at his feet, scrolling his phone. “We’re still trending, by the way. All of us. Not just you. Hashtag Creed at the Airport is number two worldwide.” He grinned up at Hyunjin like it was something to be proud of.

Changbin tossed him a soda can. “Drink. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

The fizz hissed open in Hyunjin’s hand. Small, ordinary. Anchoring.

And that was the thing—this was how they’d always been. When Hyunjin spiraled, when the world tried to shove him back into the mold of a chaebol heir, they didn’t let him drown. They cracked jokes. Threw sodas. Ordered fried chicken at midnight. Reminded him that he was their bassist, not his father’s son.

Their anchor. His anchor.

Hyunjin leaned his head back against the couch and let himself breathe.

For now, it was enough.

The soda can sweated cold against Hyunjin’s palm. He hadn’t taken a sip yet. Just held onto it, like if he gripped it hard enough, the tremors inside him would finally stop.

Chan must’ve noticed. Of course he did—he always did. “Hyunjin.” His voice was calm, deliberate. The kind of tone that cut through static without raising volume. “Look at me.”

Hyunjin dragged his gaze up.

“You know none of this changes anything, right? You’re still ours. Still CREED's bassist. Still my brother.” Chan’s mouth quirked, half a smile. “Hwang Enterprises can shove it.”

That earned the smallest laugh from Hyunjin—half-choked, but real.

Changbin leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His tone was sharper, edged with protective heat. “Yeah, don’t let those parasites get in your head. Heir? Engagement? All smoke. If your father wants a puppet, he can buy one. You’re not his anymore.”

Hyunjin swallowed hard. His throat burned.

Then Jisung—soft where Changbin was sharp, mischievous where Chan was steady—tilted his head up from his phone. “Besides, imagine you actually leaving us. Who’s gonna carry our sound, huh? You think we can just replace you? Not happening.” He grinned, but his eyes were serious. “We’d fall apart without you.”

The words landed heavy, the good kind of heavy. Like sandbags holding him down so he wouldn’t float away.

They didn’t see an heir. Or a headline. Or a scandal waiting to happen. They saw him. Just him.

Hyunjin closed his eyes for a second, and for the first time since Incheon, the tight coil in his chest loosened.

Whatever happened—whatever storms his father threw their way—CREED wasn’t letting him face it alone.

But later, when the apartment finally quieted—Changbin snoring against the armrest, Jisung muttering half-dreams into the carpet, Chan still awake but scrolling silently beside him—Hyunjin’s mind drifted where it always did.

Felix.

He pictured the headline again, ugly in its bold font: Hwang Hyunjin and Ning Yizhuo Announce Engagement.

Had Felix seen it? Had he believed it?

The thought twisted like a knife. Felix, wide-eyed and stubborn, holding his walls so high Hyunjin couldn’t scale them anymore. Felix, who had asked for space but still lived under Hyunjin’s skin like oxygen.

If he had seen the news… did he think Hyunjin had betrayed him? Did he think it was true?

Hyunjin stared at the ceiling, but all he could see was blond hair under stage lights, all he could hear was a laugh that had carved its place in his chest.

The soda can had long gone warm in his hand, but Hyunjin held on anyway.

The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the low murmur of Seoul outside the window. Hyunjin let his eyes fall shut, and for a second he wished the silence could last, wished the storm would stop clawing at his ribs.

Then his phone buzzed against the table.

Seungmin.

Hyunjin blinked at the name for a long beat before opening the message.

🐶: I’m only telling you this because you need to know. Felix saw the news. We both did. He’s shaken up, more than he wants to admit.

Hyunjin’s heart lurched, a sick twist low in his stomach. His thumb hovered uselessly over the screen.

Another message dropped in.

🐶: I also know about what happened between you two. He told me enough. The fight. The space.

Hyunjin dragged a hand through his hair, every muscle tight. God, even the word—space—felt like a chasm.

The third message was slower, longer, like Seungmin had weighed every syllable.

🐶: I get if you think it’s too late. I’m not asking any of you to fix it overnight, Hyunjin. But listen—trust Felix. Even if he’s stubborn, even if he’s scared. And if you can’t trust him right now… then at least trust what you feel. Trust the thing between you two. That’s real. That’s yours. And nobody—not his world, not yours, not the headlines—can control that unless you let them.

Hyunjin stared at the words until they blurred. His throat tightened, and for once, he didn’t know if he wanted to scream or fold in on himself.

Trust Felix. Trust the feeling.

The phone dimmed in his hand, but the words burned anyway.

And for the first time in days, Hyunjin let himself whisper into the empty room, voice cracked but steady—

“I trust him.”

Even if Felix didn’t know it yet.

Chapter Text

The sunlight didn’t feel warm. It spilled across Chan’s living room in dull strokes, cutting through the curtains and settling on the bodies strewn across couches and futons. CREED had survived airports, paparazzi, headlines, and the kind of silence that swallowed an entire band whole. But morning came anyway, no matter how wrecked the night had been.

Hyunjin sat awake long before the others stirred. His phone was heavy in his hand, the screen black, reflecting back only the bruised shadows under his eyes. He hadn’t slept—not really. Every time he closed his eyes, Felix’s face carved itself into the dark. Felix, laughing at the teddy bear museum. Felix, pink hair glowing under Seoul’s neon signs. Felix, the only one he wanted to run to now, after the storm had broken.

Hyunjin’s heart pulled in two directions: the ache of fear, the glimmer of hope after Seungmin’s text.

He dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled. Enough. He couldn’t sit here waiting for life to make his choices for him. Not anymore.

The first sound in the apartment was Changbin’s groggy shuffle, the man swearing under his breath as he banged into the coffee table. Then Jisung, mumbling something incoherent about ramen. Chan, last to wake, sat up with his leader instincts already switched on, scanning the room with that quiet way of checking if everyone was still intact.

Hyunjin cleared his throat. “I’m going home.”

That woke them properly.

“Home?” Jisung’s voice cracked halfway through. “Like, your home home or…?”

“Or is this you running away again?” Changbin shot back, too sharp, too fast—the kind of defensiveness that came from worry.

“Hyunjin,” Chan’s voice was low, warning. “It’s not safe right now. You need to—”

“I need to do this.” Hyunjin’s words cut sharper than he meant, but he didn’t soften them. “I need to fix this. I can’t—” He faltered, searching their faces. “I can’t wait anymore.”

Jisung blinked at him, suddenly more awake. “Fix what exactly?”

The silence stretched, taut and heavy, until Hyunjin let it snap. “Felix. I love him.”

The words hung in the air, raw and irreversible. Hyunjin felt them sink into his bones, like he’d been carrying them forever and only now set them free.

“I love Felix,” he said again, firmer this time. “And I can’t sit here hiding while he’s out there thinking I don’t care. I’m not going to lose him—not to headlines, not to my father, not to anyone. I need to fix this. I need him to know. And if the world finds out in the process? Then fine. Let them. Because I’ll choose him. I’ll choose CREED. Over and over again.”

Changbin was the first to move. He walked over, clapped a hand on Hyunjin’s shoulder, and smirked—though his eyes were serious. “Took you long enough.”

Jisung snorted. “Yeah, we’ve been placing bets on when you’d stop brooding and admit it.” But the teasing melted when he added, “If this is what you want, then go for it. We’ve got your back.”

Chan crossed the room until he stood in front of him, close enough that Hyunjin couldn’t look away. There was no judgment in his face—just quiet calculation, the weight of years of leadership pressing down.

“Do you understand what this means?” Chan asked, not harsh, not easy either. “Once you step out that door, there’s no undoing it. You’ll be making a statement, with or without words.”

Hyunjin’s chest tightened, but his answer was steady. “Then let me make one worth it.”

For a long moment, Chan just studied him. Then, finally, he nodded. “If that’s your choice, we’ll stand with you. Always.”

“Yeah, but maybe let us stand with you literally,” Changbin muttered. “What if someone’s waiting outside? You’re not exactly low-profile right now.”

Hyunjin shook his head. “No. This is something I need to do on my own.”

Silence again. It was Jisung, of all people, who broke it this time, his voice surprisingly sincere. “Then at least don’t shut us out after. We’re your band, Hyunjin. We’re your family too.”

Hyunjin’s throat felt too tight for words, so he just nodded.

“But before you run headfirst into a war zone, will you say something to the fans?” Chan’s expression softened. “They’ve been with us since day one. They’re scared too. They deserve to hear from you.”

Hyunjin frowned. “A letter?”

“Not some PR-polished thing,” Chan clarified. “Your words. What you really feel. Tell them where your heart is. For CREED. For music. Clear up the engagement rumors—make it obvious that you and Ningning are just acquaintances. And…” he paused, his eyes narrowing in careful calculation, “…if you’re willing, tell them about Felix. You don’t have to drop his name. Just enough to tell the truth.”

Hyunjin froze. “You want me to say that?”

“Why not?” Chan said simply. “Fans respect honesty. Silence only lets the lies grow.”

A beat of silence followed before Chan slid his laptop across the table. The screen glowed, blank document waiting. The cursor blinked like a pulse, daring him.

Hyunjin stared at it. Then at his own reflection faintly visible on the screen. He thought of Felix—his bratty remarks, his flustered laugh, the soft way he’d once looked at Hyunjin when no one else was watching.

Maybe honesty wasn’t so terrifying after all.

He set his hands on the keyboard. And began to type.

To our dearest fans,

I never thought I’d be writing something like this, but I want you to hear my voice directly—not through headlines, not through rumors, not through anyone else.

Music saved me. Long before I ever stepped on stage, long before the name “CREED” meant anything to the world, it meant everything to me. Music was freedom when I had none. It was the reason I could breathe. And then, one day, I met three people who turned that private freedom into something bigger—into a band, into a family. That family is CREED.

Lately, my name has been attached to stories I didn’t write. Words I never said. Engagements that don’t exist. I want to be clear: Ningning and I are acquaintances, nothing more. She’s kind, talented, and deserves better than to be dragged into a rumor that isn’t real.

What is real is CREED. What’s real is my love for our music, for the brothers who’ve stood by me from the beginning, for the fans who’ve been with us since our first rough demos and basement rehearsals. That’s where my heart is, and that’s where it will always be.

There’s something else I want to admit. There is someone I like. Someone who’s been in my thoughts more than I ever expected. I’m not ready to share their name with the world yet—not because I’m ashamed, but because some feelings deserve to be protected, at least for now. All I’ll say is this: they make me want to be better. And that’s all anyone really needs to know.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. But I know this: as long as CREED is still here, as long as there are people who believe in our music, I’ll keep playing. I’ll keep fighting for this band, for this dream, for all of you who made it possible.

Thank you for staying with us—for staying with me.

With love,
CREED's Hyunjin

He stared at the words, breath caught between fear and relief. His thumb hovered over post.

“Do it,” Changbin said from the kitchen. “Before you chicken out.”

Jisung grinned. “If your dad calls, block his number. Easy fix.”

Chan only gave him a small nod. “You said you’ll choose us. So let them hear it.”

Hyunjin pressed post.

The silence afterward was deafening. Then—slowly—Jisung leaned over and muttered, “Well… guess the world knows you’re a simp now.”

Hyunjin rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

Hyunjin never thought he would dial Mr. Park’s number again. The digits came back to his fingers like muscle memory, even though he hadn’t touched them in years. When the call connected, the old man’s voice had the same calm lilt, that soft deference Hyunjin remembered from boyhood.

“Master Hyunjin,” Mr. Park said, like no time had passed at all.

And for a second, Hyunjin hated how easy it was to slip back into that title—how the world outside CREED would never let him just be Hyunjin, bassist, artist, man in love. Here, he was Hwang Hyunjin, heir.

He gave Chan’s address, a quiet arrangement spoken in fewer words than the weight behind them.

The car came not long after, sleek and black, its windows dark enough to erase him from the world the moment he stepped inside. The members crowded around before he left.

“Remember,” Changbin said, crossing his arms though his eyes betrayed the worry, “you’re not going back alone. We’re still here.”

“We’ll cover for you if your old man tries to chain you up,” Jisung added with an exaggerated grimace. “Seriously, don’t let him gaslight you into anything. You’ve got us.”

Chan, always steady, pressed a hand to Hyunjin’s shoulder. “Go. Do what you need to do. But come back. This—” he gestured around at their cramped apartment, coffee mugs and half-written lyrics scattered across the table—“this is home. Don’t forget it.”

Hyunjin swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. Then he slid into the waiting car, the leather seat swallowing him in silence.

The Hwang residence rose from the hills of Seoul like a monument to power. Gleaming white stone, vast glass panels, manicured gardens that looked more like museum pieces than anything alive. Even from the gates, Hyunjin felt the difference—the space screamed wealth, but not warmth. Every angle, every corner was designed to impress, to remind the world of the name carved into its foundation: Hwang Enterprises.

The car glided up the long driveway, passing fountains sculpted into swans, flowerbeds trimmed to geometric perfection, not a petal out of place. It was beautiful, yes. But it was also sterile. Lifeless. The opposite of the cramped laughter-filled nights he had at Chan’s.

The front doors opened before he could even reach them. A row of staff lined the entryway like he was walking onto a runway. Heads bowed in unison, voices greeting him as though reciting a script.

“Welcome home, Master Hyunjin.”

Their tone was polite, rehearsed, reverent. Yet not one of them felt like they were glad. He was an heir returned to his throne, not a son coming home.

Hyunjin forced a nod, his throat tight.

Inside, the house stretched out like a palace: ceilings impossibly high, chandeliers dripping crystal like frozen rain, marble floors that echoed every step too loudly. He remembered being a child here, every sound magnified until he learned to tread lightly, quietly. A boy taught to take up as little space as possible in a house built to magnify power.

“Hyunjin.”

The voice was soft, practiced. His mother stood at the base of the staircase, clad in pale silk, her hair pinned immaculately. She looked as though she had stepped out of a portrait frame, untouched by time, untouched by warmth too.

“Mother,” Hyunjin said, bowing politely. He had to stop himself from calling her mom—that word never truly belonged between them.

She approached, her perfume floral yet distant, like everything about her. Her smile curved without reaching her eyes.

“You’ve grown thinner,” she remarked, a hand brushing the sleeve of his coat as if assessing fabric quality more than her son. “Life away from home hasn’t spoiled your manners, I hope?”

Hyunjin’s lips pressed into a line. “No, Mother.”

“Good.” Her smile flickered again, quick as the light bouncing off marble. “Your father is waiting in his office.”

Of course. No embrace, no warmth. Just protocol. Just business. Always business.

Hyunjin’s chest ached. Not because he expected more, but because some buried part of him still wished for it. He thought of Chan’s firm hand on his shoulder, of Felix’s laugh echoing in his ears. He thought of how home was supposed to feel—and how this was anything but.

He followed the familiar hallways, the silence of the house pressing in on him. Every door carved in oak, every painting chosen for prestige, every detail curated to perfection. And yet, it all felt empty.

By the time he reached the double doors of his father’s office, Hyunjin realized he hadn’t taken a full breath since stepping inside.

He lifted his hand, knocked once.

“Come in.”

The voice was clipped, stern.

Hyunjin pushed the door open, bracing himself for the man who never greeted him as a son—only as an heir.

The office door was carved mahogany, heavy and unyielding, like everything in this house—built to impress, not to invite. Hyunjin stood before it, his pulse steady but his jaw locked. The butler’s knuckles had barely brushed the wood before a clipped voice from within rang out.

“Come in.”

It wasn’t a greeting. It was a command.

Hyunjin stepped inside.

The room was exactly as he remembered it: shelves of untouched leather-bound books, paintings of men who shared his jawline but not his heart, and at the center, a vast desk that looked more like a throne than a workspace. Behind it sat Hwang Seong-woo—his father. Tailored suit in a shade of gray as cold as his expression, eyes sharp enough to cut, fingers tapping once against polished wood before they stilled.

“Sit,” his father said.

Hyunjin didn’t. He remained standing, shoulders squared, letting silence stretch between them until it thickened into something almost physical.

Finally, Seong-woo leaned back, studying him like a chess piece he’d long ago mapped out. “You’ve been busy.”

Hyunjin tilted his head slightly, saying nothing.

“The performance at Balmain. The HERA event.” His father’s tone was flat, almost bored. “Commendable. A… spectacle, I suppose. But that’s all it is. A performance. Pretty distractions.”

His lips curled faintly, not quite a smile. “It’s time you stopped playing your silly games, Hyunjin. Enough of this… band. Enough of this masquerade. You’re not a child anymore.”

Hyunjin felt the words like cold rain, familiar but unwelcome. He drew in a slow breath. “I didn’t come here to listen to you reduce my life to a game.”

“Oh?” Seong-woo arched a brow. “Then why are you here?”

Hyunjin stepped forward, every movement deliberate, controlled. “To tell you this once, so you’ll never expect otherwise: I’m not coming back. Not to the company. Not to your plans. Not to the marriage you arranged behind my back. None of it.”

The air sharpened.

Seong-woo’s jaw ticked. His hands folded together on the desk, but the knuckles whitened from the force of his grip. “You’ve grown bold.”

“No,” Hyunjin corrected, voice low but steady. “I’ve grown free.”

The words struck something in the older man—rage, disbelief, it was hard to tell—but it cracked his composure. He slammed his palm flat against the desk. “Do you understand the disrespect you show me now? After everything I’ve given you? Everything this name has given you?”

Hyunjin’s mouth twisted into something close to a laugh, but it held no humor. “Everything this name has taken from me, you mean. My choices. My voice. My life.” He met his father’s glare, unflinching. “Creed gave me back what you never could. That band—that family—that’s my home. Not this mausoleum you call a house.”

“Careful,” Seong-woo snapped, his composure splintering. “You tread dangerously close to severing yourself entirely.”

“Good,” Hyunjin shot back. “Sever me. Disown me. Threaten to strip away the inheritance, the safety net. Do it. Because I’ve been fending for myself for years. I didn’t need your money to survive, and I sure as hell don’t need it to live.”

The older man’s face flushed, his temper finally breaking. “You’ll be penniless! Nothing but a fallen son with no future!”

Hyunjin’s laugh was sharp, defiant. “I already have a future. On my own terms. With my own name, not yours.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping, each word carrying the weight of every year he’d swallowed his truth. “I don’t need this family, Father. I don’t need your company. And I don’t need your approval.”

For a moment, the office was electric, the silence ringing louder than any words.

Then Hyunjin straightened, turning toward the door. He could’ve left it there. Could’ve walked away with just his defiance. But the truth—his truth—burned too hot to be contained any longer.

“One more thing,” he said, and his father’s eyes narrowed.

“The engagement,” Hyunjin continued, voice low but steady, “isn’t happening. Not now. Not ever.” He let the silence stretch, savoring the tension, before delivering the strike. “Because I already have someone.”

Seong-woo’s face hardened, but Hyunjin pressed on, each word deliberate.

“I love a man.”

The confession landed like thunder, rattling the quiet composure his father clung to. His eyes widened a fraction, then darkened, his jaw tightening so hard the veins stood out at his temple. But Hyunjin didn’t stop.

“You’ve spent your life treating love like a transaction. A merger. A way to build empires. But mine is not for sale. Mine isn’t yours to negotiate. My heart belongs to him, and nothing—nothing—you do will change that.”

His father’s breath hitched, sharp, the first crack in the armor of control he’d worn all his life. His voice came out like venom. “You’ll shame this family. You’ll throw away your future. For what? For—”

“For him,” Hyunjin cut in. “For me. For the life I want. For the truth you’ve spent your whole life burying under money and marble.” His chest rose and fell with the force of his conviction. “I won’t let you dictate who I am, and I won’t let you erase who I love.”

For a moment, father and son stared at each other—one burning with fury, the other with defiance. Two storms colliding in a room too small to contain them.

Then Hyunjin turned, his hand steady as it closed around the door handle. “You wanted me to clear my head,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Consider it cleared.”

And with that, he left.

The door shut behind him with a muted thud, but the sound reverberated like a gavel, sealing the truth between them.

For the first time in his life, Hyunjin felt lighter. Not safe, not forgiven—but free.

The heavy oak door closed behind Hyunjin, shutting out the echo of his father’s rage. For a moment he stood still in the hushed corridor, breathing in the chill air of the Hwang estate. His heart thundered, not with fear but with release. The weight of decades felt looser on his shoulders, though not yet gone.

When he turned, Mr. Park was waiting.

The butler’s frame had grown thinner, hair more white than black now, but the man still carried himself with the kind of quiet dignity that outshone the grandeur of this house. He looked at Hyunjin not as an heir returning from rebellion, not as the wayward son of the master, but simply as Hyunjin.

“Master Hyunjin,” Mr. Park said softly, bowing his head.

The words caught in Hyunjin’s throat. He swallowed, lowering his eyes. “I’m… sorry, Mr. Park. I won’t be staying long.”

The old man shook his head, his smile gentle, the same one that had kept Hyunjin sane in his darkest years. “Do not apologize. You’ve stayed long enough in this place.” His voice, though old, carried a warmth that no marble wall could extinguish. “Go where your heart leads you, Master Hyunjin. I am rooting for you, like always.”

The knot in Hyunjin’s chest broke. For so many years, Mr. Park’s presence had been the single thread tying him to something resembling family. Now, with everything unraveling, Hyunjin couldn’t hold back.

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the butler.

The old man stiffened in surprise for only a second before his arms came up, steady and strong, embracing Hyunjin with the kind of warmth that no father’s grip had ever given him.

“You’re the only parent I’ve ever known,” Hyunjin whispered into his shoulder. His throat burned, voice unsteady. “Thank you. For everything.”

Mr. Park’s hand came up to pat the back of his head, the gesture achingly familiar. “Then I consider my life’s work fulfilled,” he murmured.

Hyunjin pulled away slowly, committing the sight of Mr. Park’s smile to memory—the rare thing that had made this house bearable.

He descended the grand staircase, every step an echo of years lost in this place. And when he reached the landing, someone was waiting.

His mother stood waiting at the bottom of the stairs, perfectly composed in cream silk and pearls. The kind of picture that had graced countless magazines and family features, always flawless, always distant.

Hyunjin’s steps faltered. For a heartbeat, he was a boy again—waiting for her to pull him close, to shield him from his father’s scolding. But that had never happened. Not once.

“If you’re here to stop me,” Hyunjin said, voice clipped, “it’s too late.”

She shook her head, the pearls at her ears catching the light. “I won’t stop you.”

He blinked, stunned, but said nothing.

Then, softer than he’d ever heard her speak, she whispered, “I only came to say… I’m sorry.”

Hyunjin froze. The words rang foreign in this house of command and expectation. His chest tightened.

“I know I wasn’t the mother you needed me to be,” she went on, steady but brittle. “Your father and I… we thought shaping you meant silencing you. That wasn’t parenting. That was control.” Her voice thinned, trembling despite her rigid posture. “I failed you, Hyunjin. And yet—” she paused, eyes glistening, “I have watched you. From afar, always from afar. And I am proud of who you’ve become.”

Suspicion flickered in him—was this another performance, another ploy? He searched her face, but there was no mask this time. Only a woman, older, tired, finally laying down her armor.

“I won’t say sorry,” Hyunjin answered, his own voice shaking. “Because I’m not sorry for my choices. Not for leaving. Not for music. Not for who I love.”

Her lips trembled into the faintest smile. “I don’t expect you to be.”

For the first time, silence stretched between them without suffocating.

She opened her purse and pressed a velvet box into his hand. Inside lay the Maserati key.

“A Stradale GT2,” she said. “It’s yours. My last gift. Every year since you left, I tried to give you something—birthdays, holidays. You sent them all back. This time… don’t.”

Hyunjin stared at the key, his fingers trembling around the weight of it.

“I know it doesn’t make up for anything,” she said quickly. “But… maybe when you drive it, you’ll think of me. Not as your mother, not as the woman who failed you—but as someone who wished she’d been braver.”

Her words cracked something in him. He looked at her again and saw not the polished society matron, but a woman who had been trapped almost as much as he had.

For a wild second, he almost stepped forward. Almost pulled her into the hug he had always wanted. His arms even twitched at his sides.

But distance had been their language for too long. He couldn’t rewrite it in one night.

Instead, he drew in a breath, his voice quiet but firm. “Thank you.”

Her eyes shone, though no tears fell. She nodded, accepting what he could give.

Hyunjin pocketed the key, turned, and walked to the great doors.

He didn’t look back, but he felt her gaze follow him all the way out.

The Maserati gleamed in the driveway, a symbol of both everything he was leaving and everything he was finally free to claim. He ran a hand over its hood, then slipped inside, the leather hugging him like a new skin.

As the engine roared to life, Hyunjin glanced once at the looming mansion behind him.

A cage dressed as a palace.

He exhaled and whispered his last farewell.

Not to the house.
Not to the name.
But to the boy who had once been trapped inside.

Then he drove away.

For good.

Chapter Text

Hyunjin didn’t look back.

The Maserati’s engine roared alive like a beast unchained, and the gates of the Hwang estate shrank into the distance with every passing second. In his rearview mirror, the place that had raised him—and caged him—dissolved into nothing more than another Seoul landmark swallowed by the dark.

For the first time in his life, the weight on his chest wasn’t a chain. It was a hollow ache, yes, but it wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t suffocating. His father’s threats still echoed in his ears, the ultimatum of disownment thrown like a gauntlet, but Hyunjin found himself almost laughing at the memory. What was there to take from him? His name? He had lived without it. His inheritance? He had survived without a single coin of it. His future? He had carved one out of music, sweat, and the messy warmth of CREED.

There was nothing left his father could strip from him—because Hyunjin had already chosen what mattered.

And yet, even in that clarity, his chest burned with another ache.

Felix.

The name surfaced unbidden, a whisper and a plea.

Hyunjin’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. He thought about Chan’s apartment, about crashing into the chaos of the dorm where laughter and music spilled out in equal measure, where he could hide from himself in the noise of his brothers. But tonight wasn’t for them.

Tonight, his heart had already chosen its destination.

The city blurred around him. Neon streaked across glass towers, the glow of convenience stores and twenty-four-hour cafés passed in a haze. The hum of the engine fused with the heartbeat in his throat, faster, faster, until he was no longer driving on instinct but on gravity—gravity pulling him toward Felix.

Felix’s building loomed before him, steel and glass catching what little light the night offered. It rose like a monument, every floor stacked with lives Hyunjin didn’t know, but one of them belonged to Felix. One of them held the boy who haunted him, saved him, destroyed him, all in the same breath.

Hyunjin pulled to the curb, shifted into park, and let silence settle around him. The Maserati ticked faintly as it cooled, headlights washing the pavement in pale light. He sat with his hands still locked on the wheel, knuckles white.

The urge hit him all at once, violent and raw: get out. Run inside. Take the elevator three floors, five floors, ten floors—he didn’t even know which anymore, though his memory screamed the exact number. Bang on Felix’s door. Fall into his arms. Breathe him in, beg him to listen, confess it all in one reckless tumble of words.

But memory was cruel.

“I need space.”
The tremor in Felix’s voice.
The crack in his eyes, too sharp, too fragile.

Hyunjin shut his eyes, the steering wheel pressing into his forehead as if it could anchor him. He had promised. He had let Felix go, because Felix needed time. Because Felix deserved to choose without being smothered by Hyunjin’s need.

And so he would wait.

For Felix, he could wait forever.

When he finally unclenched his grip, his palms stung, the steering wheel slick beneath them. He pushed the door open, the city air cool against his overheated skin. Seoul pulsed softly around him—traffic weaving like veins of light, laughter from a group spilling out of a pojangmacha nearby, the endless heartbeat of a city that never truly slept.

But here, standing at the base of Felix’s building, the noise fell away. The world narrowed until it was just glass windows stretching skyward and the knowledge that Felix was up there somewhere. Breathing. Existing. Close enough that Hyunjin’s lungs hurt with the nearness.

He tilted his head back, gaze climbing floor after floor. Somewhere behind one of those glowing panes, Felix might be reading, or scrolling through his phone, or lying awake staring at his ceiling like Hyunjin was staring now.

And for just a second—fleeting, delicate—Hyunjin swore he felt it.

The weight of someone’s gaze. Not hostile, not curious, but searching. Soft. He didn’t turn, didn’t dare check. To look would be to break the spell, and he was too afraid to lose it.

So instead, he stood there, hands shoved deep into his pockets, grounding himself against the ache that swelled in his chest. His lips parted, breath catching.

“I’ll wait, Lix,” he whispered into the void, words too fragile for anyone else to hear. “However long it takes.”

The words disappeared into the breeze, carried upward as if the city itself was delivering them to the right window.

Behind him, the Maserati’s lock beeped, a sharp reminder that the world was still turning. Hyunjin lingered one heartbeat longer, memorizing the lines of the building, as if he could sketch Felix’s silhouette into every reflection.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he turned back to the car. Each step felt heavy and light all at once, like leaving part of himself on the pavement.

The engine purred back to life, headlights stretching across the street. Hyunjin eased the car forward, merging back into Seoul’s veins. He didn’t see the figure pressed against a high window, blond hair faintly catching the light, gaze following his car into the night.

But he felt it.

And somewhere between freedom and longing, Hyunjin allowed himself the smallest smile.

Felix had mastered the art of autopilot.

Smile here, tilt his chin there, eyes wide, shoulders slouched just enough to look soft but not tired. Click. Another flash. Another pose. Another campaign in the bag. He had stopped registering the brands—Louis Vuitton, Gentle Monster, HERA, Tamburins—they all blurred into the same glossy cycle of lights, backdrops, and stylists fussing at the hem of his clothes.

On the surface, Felix was everything they wanted: the golden boy who could move from high fashion to bubble tea endorsements with a flick of his expression. But inside, he was noise.

Because Seungmin’s words wouldn’t leave him. Trust Hyunjin.

They echoed through the endless hallways of his head, so loud they followed him even onto the set, even into the stillness of late-night car rides. Trust Hyunjin, when every headline screamed otherwise. Trust Hyunjin, when photographs of him with Ningning had been plastered across his feed. Trust Hyunjin, when the memory of their last conversation still stung like an open wound.

Felix kept moving because if he stopped, he was afraid he’d shatter.

The day had stretched long, another campaign in the books, this time for Gong Cha. His lips were stained with the artificial sweetness of taro milk tea, his smile sharpened and rehearsed, but beneath it, his chest ached. The staff packed up, bowed their goodnights, and he slipped into Minho’s waiting car, body heavy but mind restless.

Minho drove in silence at first, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily against the gear shift. To anyone else, he looked unbothered, like a man who’d mastered detachment. But Felix knew him better. His cousin’s sharp eyes had been flicking toward him all day, reading every twitch of his mouth, every stiffness in his shoulders.

By the time they reached their apartment building, Felix knew he was caught.

Inside, the night was soft. The hum of the fridge, the low city buzz pressing through the windows, the faint smell of fabric softener from the laundry Minho had folded earlier. Felix dropped his bag by the door and made for the couch, but Minho’s voice stopped him.

“Sit.”

It wasn’t sharp. Not the clipped command of his manager’s tone. Softer. Like a brother asking, not ordering.

Felix turned. Minho was already lowering himself onto the couch, patting the spot beside him. His expression carried none of the usual exasperation or sarcastic bite—it was steady, almost tired.

Felix hesitated, then obeyed, sinking onto the cushions with a sigh.

“You’ve been… off,” Minho said finally, leaning back, one ankle crossing over his knee. “Even for you.”

Felix tried for a shrug, casual, detached. “I’m fine. Just tired. Work’s been non-stop.”

But Minho’s brow arched. That look had cornered Felix since childhood, the one that stripped excuses bare.

“You know I saw the headlines.”

Felix stilled.

His throat worked, but he forced the words out. “Then you know it doesn’t concern me.”

“Doesn’t it?”

Felix hated how fast his body betrayed him—the stiff line of his shoulders, the quick dart of his eyes away from Minho’s face. Minho noticed, of course he did. He sighed, dragging a hand over his face.

“Lixie…” His voice softened further, dropping the manager edge completely. “I’ve been hard on you, haven’t I?”

Felix blinked at him, startled. Minho rarely apologized.

“I was a kid,” Minho went on, gaze fixed on his hands. “Barely holding my own life together, and then suddenly I was in charge of yours. When you told your parents you wanted to go into fashion, I was terrified. But I promised them. I promised them I’d take care of you.” He laughed without humor. “A kid swearing to protect another kid.”

The lump rose in Felix’s throat before he could stop it.

“You did,” Felix said, voice thick. “You do. You’ve been my fortress, hyung. If it wasn’t for you—and Seungmin, and Jeongin—I would’ve drowned a long time ago.”

And as if to prove it, the memories flooded in.

The first time he walked a runway—fifteen, trembling, his accent making every backstage instruction feel foreign. A photographer had cornered him afterward, peppering questions too fast, too sharp. Minho had appeared, slipping between them like a shield, voice calm but firm: He’s done for tonight. Back off.

Or the winter he collapsed after back-to-back shoots, fever high, but insisted he’d keep going. Minho had physically dragged him out of the studio, shoved porridge in his hands, and snapped, You’re not a mannequin, you’re my cousin. Eat.

Or the night Felix broke down after reading cruel comments about his freckles. Minho had sat with him on the balcony until dawn, not saying much, just being there, presence solid enough to anchor him.

“You’ve always been harder on yourself than anyone else could be,” Felix added quietly. “But I’m thankful. Every day. Even when you scold me till I cry.”

That earned him a soft chuckle. “Yeah, you were a crybaby.”

Felix elbowed him weakly, and for a moment, the heaviness lifted.

But Minho’s gaze sharpened again, though not unkind. “You like him.”

Felix froze.

Minho didn’t blink. “Hyunjin. You like him. More than you want to admit. Honestly, I wouldn’t even be surprised if it’s love already.”

The word hit Felix like an exposed nerve. His chest squeezed, breath hitching. He opened his mouth, but no denial came. What was there to deny? Hyunjin’s shadow filled him even when he tried to push it away.

Minho’s voice gentled. “I know you better than you know yourself sometimes. And I also know it won’t be easy. Not with him, not with the industry, not with the world. But…” He reached out, resting a hand briefly on Felix’s shoulder. “I’m here. Whatever you decide, whoever you choose, I’ll back you up. And if he hurts you—” Minho’s mouth curved into that dangerous smirk Felix knew too well—“I’ll castrate him myself.”

Felix choked on a laugh, eyes wet. “Hyung—!”

“I’m serious,” Minho deadpanned. “I’ll even buy the scissors in advance.”

Felix dissolved into real laughter then, shoulders shaking, the first honest sound he’d made in weeks. Minho watched him, smile tugging despite himself, and for a while, the apartment felt lighter.

When the laughter faded, silence stretched between them. Comfortable. Healing. Felix leaned into the couch, head tipped back, and Minho mirrored him.

Minutes passed before Minho spoke again. “CREED’s got a press conference coming up.”

Felix frowned, cracking an eye open. “Why are you telling me that?”

Minho didn’t look at him, just studied the ceiling like it held answers. “Because I secured you a seat.”

Felix’s heart thudded, sharp and heavy.

Minho finally turned, his gaze steady. “I thought you might want to be there.”

Felix couldn’t answer. The storm inside him roared too loud—fear, hope, longing all tangled. But Minho just squeezed his shoulder again, firm, reassuring.

And for the first time in a long while, Felix believed he might not have to weather this storm alone.

Felix was halfway through unlacing his boots when he heard the low hum of an engine pulling up outside the building. He hadn’t thought much of it at first. Seoul was a city that never stopped moving, and he was used to the soundtrack of brakes, engines, and muffled voices that threaded through the day.

But something made him pause. A softer vibration in the air, the way the sound lingered. He stood, boots forgotten, padding barefoot across his living room until he was framed by the tall windows.

And then he saw it.

The sleek curve of black paint catching the streetlight, the unmistakable trident emblem gleaming at the hood. Maserati. His pulse jumped. His brows furrowed. Who the hell—

But the answer stepped out before he could even form the question.

Hyunjin.

Felix’s chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt. For a second, instinct had him ducking, pressing himself against the side of the window frame like a kid caught sneaking around. Old habits—hiding, holding back, protecting himself from being seen. But then he remembered: Hyunjin couldn’t see him. Not from this high up, not with the glass between them.

So Felix watched.

Watched as Hyunjin stood at the curb like the city had swallowed him whole and spit him back out in front of this very building. His hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat, his jaw sharp even under the dim glow of the streetlamps, his eyes flickering upward once, then away.

Felix’s heart stuttered. He wanted to move—no, he ached to move. Every fiber of his body screamed to run to the elevator, hit the lobby, cross that small stretch of pavement and collapse into Hyunjin’s arms like it was the only place he was ever meant to be.

But he didn’t.

His forehead pressed against the cool glass, breath fogging faintly against it. He stayed rooted, still as stone, watching from above while his whole body shook with the effort it took not to break.

Not yet, he told himself.

Seungmin’s voice echoed in his head. Trust him.
Minho’s voice followed. I’ll support you, whatever you choose.

His fortress had spoken. His cousin, the one who guarded him like a hawk all these years, had finally, quietly, given him permission. And that meant something. That meant everything.

Felix’s fingers curled tight against the sill, nails digging crescents into his palm. His throat ached with the words he couldn’t say, the ones he wanted to scream down to the street. I see you. I want you. I’m yours.

But tonight, he wouldn’t move. Tonight, he wouldn’t give in.

He’d wait one more day.

Because when he finally stepped forward, when he finally crossed that invisible line between them, it would be on his own terms. It wouldn’t be hiding, or ducking, or loving Hyunjin in secret. It would be the whole of him—raw, unflinching, and ready.

So he whispered into the glass, almost a prayer, almost a promise:

“Tomorrow.”

And as Hyunjin lingered below, staring up at the tower that held Felix inside, Felix let himself ache freely, no longer fighting it. He let the ache fill him, steady him. Because tomorrow, there’d be no turning back.

Chapter Text

The hotel ballroom looked like someone had bottled the night sky and poured it into a single room. Blue banners of CREED’s logo stretched across the walls, camera flashes pulsed like erratic constellations, and the air buzzed with the low static hum of chatter, microphones being tested, camera shutters clicking in restless staccato.

Felix sat near the middle, right in the thick of the press crowd—close enough to see, far enough to pretend he was just another journalist. His press ID hung loosely around his neck, a little too pristine to be real, courtesy of Minho’s connections. His cousin hadn’t said much when he handed it to him this morning, just a casual, “Don’t freak out. Sit there, look professional, and don’t scream if he winks.”

Felix had rolled his eyes then. Now, sitting here, his palms were slick against his knees.

He’d tried to look normal. Emphasis on tried. A plain white button-up tucked into jeans, hair loose but neat, a simple black mask tugged under his chin when he sat. Just enough to blend in. But his heart clearly didn’t get the memo—it was sprinting laps, a wild thrum he could feel all the way in his throat.

He was about to see Hyunjin again.

After everything.

He didn’t know whether to run, cry, or scream.

The room dimmed, and a hush rolled through the press crowd like a single drawn breath. A familiar bassline filled the speakers—CREED’s latest single—and then the doors opened.

The boys walked in.

And the noise that followed could’ve rattled the walls.

Chan came first—hair dyed a shock of white that glowed under the lights, his easy grin anchoring the chaos. Behind him, Changbin’s red hair caught every camera flash, sharp against the deep blue of his suit. Jisung followed, softer, playful, waving shyly as he tripped slightly over his own shoes (the crowd laughed, he laughed louder). 

And then.

Hyunjin.

Felix forgot how to breathe.

Short black hair, brushed up and away, catching the glow of every spotlight. Blue suit tailored perfectly—every line a knife, every fold deliberate. The silver earrings glinted with every subtle tilt of his head, and his eyes—sharp, dark, alive—scanned the crowd with a calm Felix knew was anything but.

Hyunjin looked untouchable. Like every spotlight was built just to follow him.

Felix’s throat tightened. His fingers curled around his knee until his knuckles whitened. There was a tremor under his ribs that refused to settle.

He watched Hyunjin smile politely for the cameras, bow with the others, take his seat at the long table draped in the CREED logo. His heart clenched because the distance between them was so small—just rows of chairs—and yet it might as well have been the entire world.

The press emcee began the introductions, voice smooth and rhythmic, listing off the members’ achievements: their latest EP reaching number one on every streaming platform, over 500,000 physical sales in the first week, and the honor of opening both Balmain’s Fashion Event and HERA’s new product launch. Each name met with another chorus of camera flashes.

Felix barely heard any of it.

He was too busy tracing Hyunjin’s every move—the little way he adjusted his tie before sitting down, how his thumb brushed over the mic when he spoke, how he kept that calm half-smile even when the photographers yelled for “One more, one more!”

The photo op began first. Standard procedure.
Reporters called out poses: “CREED pose! Fist up!”, “Changbin, flex!”

The boys obliged, charming as ever. Then came the chaos:

“Hyunjin-ssi! Puppy ears pose, please!” The room burst in laughter.

Hyunjin groaned dramatically, but did it anyway—raising both hands above his head, forming ears with his fingers, cheeks puffed out in mock misery.

Felix’s heart melted.

He tried not to smile too much, tried not to look too enchanted—but god, how was he supposed to resist? His lips twitched, betraying him anyway. A giggle slipped out before he could bite it back, and he quickly ducked his head, pretending to adjust his lanyard.

The sound of Hyunjin’s laughter over the speakers didn’t help. That same honeyed tone that used to curl around his ribs and settle there for hours.

The Q&A started after. Microphones passed, questions flying from every corner.

“How did CREED form?” Chan grinned. “In a garage, with two broken amps and too much instant ramen.”

“How’s fame treating you?” Changbin laughed. “Like a clingy ex—won’t leave us alone, but we love the attention.”

The crowd erupted.

Felix found himself smiling genuinely now, shoulders relaxing bit by bit. This was familiar. This was them.

Each member spoke with ease—their answers bouncing off one another, inside jokes, snarky comments, soft laughter. The room filled with warmth, the kind that made you forget the flashing lights and just listen.

Then, Hyunjin’s turn.

A reporter leaned forward. “Hyunjin-ssi, your performance collaborations with HERA and Balmain received international praise. How do you feel seeing CREED transition from music to luxury fashion?”

Hyunjin’s smile deepened— that polite, practiced one—but there was something real glinting beneath it.

“I think we’ve always been about expression,” he said, voice steady. “Music, fashion, visuals—they’re just different ways to tell stories. I’m grateful that people want to listen, or watch, or even wear our art.”

He said it so effortlessly, like poetry rolling off his tongue. The crowd ate it up. 

Felix did too, but for entirely different reasons. He knew that tone. That quiet defiance hiding under charm. That was Hyunjin being himself.

The next few questions blurred together—tour plans, album inspirations, who cries the most during rehearsals (Jisung, unanimously). The laughter returned, the flashes popped.

But Felix couldn’t shake the tension coiling low in his gut. It was the rhythm of the inevitable, the way the air shifts before thunder hits. He felt it coming before it even happened.

Then it did.

A hand shot up from the front row—an older journalist with too bright a smile.

“Hyunjin-ssi,” she began, microphone angled like a blade. “We recently learned that you are, in fact, the heir of Hwang Enterprises. Can you confirm this?”

The air stilled. Every flash went off in sync. Felix’s stomach sank.

Hyunjin leaned slightly toward his mic, expression unreadable. “Yes,” he said evenly. “That’s true. I'm the son of the chairman of Hwang Enterprises.”

A murmur swept through the room—scribbling pens, low gasps, rustling papers. Felix could practically hear the headlines forming in real time.

But before the next question could fly, Hyunjin continued, voice firm but calm: “However,” he said, and the word echoed like a drumbeat, "I’ve never been involved in the company, and I don’t intend to be. My work, my heart—they’ve always belonged to music.” He smiled faintly, polite but pointed. “That’s all I am—an artist. Whatever my last name holds, it has nothing to do with who I am on this stage.”

Applause broke the tension. Small at first, hesitant—then swelling as more people joined in. Felix exhaled slowly, chest tight with pride. That was his Hyunjin—steady even in a storm.

The follow-up question came quickly. “Did the other members know about your background before the news broke?”

Chan chuckled, taking the mic before Hyunjin could. “Oh, we’ve known for a long time,” he said. “Even before CREED took off—back when we were just teenagers rehearsing in my garage. We met his butler once or twice. Didn’t take a genius to connect the dots.”

Jisung leaned in with a grin. “His surname and that black car that used to pick him up were kinda a giveaway,” he said, earning laughter from the crowd.

Changbin added warmly, “But honestly, what matters isn’t his background. It’s his dedication. Hyunjin loves music. That’s the only reason CREED exists like this today.”

Hyunjin smiled softly at them—eyes glassy for a second before he blinked it away.

Felix’s throat tightened. He could feel the warmth radiating from the stage—loyalty, friendship, love. The kind that holds a person steady when the world tries to shake them.

And then came the question.

A reporter stood from the middle row, voice sharp. “Then can we ask about the engagement rumor between you and Ning Yizhuo, better known as Ningning of Aespa? Is there truth to the reports that an engagement was arranged between the two families?”

The entire hall went silent. Even the camera clicks slowed.

Felix froze. He’d known this was coming—everyone did. But knowing and hearing it aloud were different things.

Hyunjin’s expression didn’t falter. He looked straight ahead, eyes calm but resolute. “I’ll answer that directly,” he said.

Felix’s pulse roared in his ears.

“There is no engagement,” Hyunjin said clearly. “There never was, and there never will be.”

A collective gasp rippled across the room. The reporters straightened, ready to pounce, but Hyunjin wasn’t done.

“Ningning is a talented artist,” he continued. “We’ve met at industry events, she had a collaboration with us, and I respect her deeply. But we are only acquaintances. The reports were based on assumptions and family speculation, not fact.”

His voice softened, just a fraction.

“And... I think it’s important to say this once, for clarity.”

Felix’s fingers gripped the hem of his shirt. Every breath hurt.

Hyunjin inhaled, gaze steady, expression bare.

“My heart already belongs to someone else.”

The room erupted.

Gasps, shouts, flashing lights—chaos unfolding in real time. Reporters practically leapt from their seats, hands flying into the air, cameras exploding in brightness.

But Felix didn’t hear any of it.

All he heard was that one sentence, replaying over and over in his head like a prayer.

My heart already belongs to someone else.

And suddenly, the chaos didn’t matter. The cameras didn’t matter. The whispers didn’t matter.

Because Hyunjin had just told the world—not names, not faces—but truth. The kind that didn’t need to be spelled out for Felix to understand.

And Felix, sitting in the middle of it all, couldn’t stop the trembling in his hands.

There was something almost ritualistic about mornings before a press conference. The sound of the espresso machine hissing in Chan’s kitchen. Changbin humming under his breath while tying his tie in the reflection of a microwave. Jisung sitting cross-legged on the counter, eating cereal straight from the box while scrolling through fan tweets.

And Hyunjin—standing in the corner by the window, letting sunlight bleed across his reflection as he rehearsed the words in his head for the thousandth time.

Not lyrics. Not a speech. Just truth.

“Alright, troops,” Chan said, clapping his hands, shattering the calm like thunder. “Big day today. New album. Concert announcement. Global broadcast. You know the drill.”

Changbin mock-saluted with his spoon. “Aye aye, captain.”

Jisung didn’t look up from his phone. “We’re basically professional at this point. Can do a press con in our sleep.”

“Maybe don’t do that,” Chan said, shoving him off the counter. “You snore.”

Hyunjin smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His hands were steady now, but his pulse wasn’t.

Chan’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Hyunjin,” he said gently, tone dropping the leader’s edge for something more personal. “You ready?”

Hyunjin looked up.

“For the press questions,” Chan clarified. “About... y’know. Everything.”

The headlines had been brutal. Hwang Hyunjin, Heir of Hwang Enterprises plastered across every outlet like it was breaking news, not a truth he’d been carrying since birth. The engagement rumor with Ningning, the speculations, the corporate gossip—it had all snowballed faster than his PR team could chase it.

But he’d already decided: no more silence.

“I’m ready,” Hyunjin said. No hesitation.

Changbin and Jisung exchanged glances—quiet ones that said are you sure?—but before either could speak, Hyunjin exhaled. “I just… want to be true to myself this time.”

Chan tilted his head. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Hyunjin said, voice steady but soft, “I want to tell them that I like someone else.”

The room fell still.

Jisung blinked, spoon halfway to his mouth. Changbin’s brows rose. Chan’s mouth curved slowly into a grin—the kind that meant he wasn’t even surprised.

“Then go for it,” Chan said. “Say it.”

Jisung gasped dramatically. “Wait—what?! You’re seriously gonna tell the world you’re in love?”

Hyunjin’s ears went pink. “I didn’t say I was in love.”

Changbin laughed. “You didn’t have to. That blush said enough.”

Hyunjin rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t fight the tiny smile tugging at his lips. They’d always been like this—his brothers in chaos. They teased him, grounded him, reminded him that even when the world was cruel, this was still home.

“Alright,” Chan said, clapping his shoulder, tone soft again. “No matter what happens out there, we’ve got you, yeah?”

Hyunjin nodded. “Yeah.”

Before leaving, Hyunjin scrolled through his phone. His open letter—the one he’d posted few days prior through CREED’s official account—had exploded. Pinned at the top of their page, it was simple and raw: his journey with music, his gratitude for the fans, the truth about the headlines.

He’d written, Ning Yizhuo and I are only acquaintances. My heart has long been somewhere else entirely. I ask for your trust and your kindness—for me, for CREED, for the people I love.

And the replies—they came in tidal waves.

@nekodame: “you don’t owe us an explanation, hyunjin 🩵 we love you no matter what. thank you for trusting us.”

@HFBABYGIRLS: “WHO’S THE LUCKY PERSON 👀👀👀 I JUST WANNA TALK”

@kihokku: “he really said ‘my heart belongs to someone else’ and expected us to FUNCTION???”

@bbokseungahri: “idc who it is. if they make him smile like that again, i’ll stan them too 😭🩵”

Of course, a few negative comments floated between—cold words about image, professionalism, “distractions.” But they drowned under the sheer volume of love pouring in.

Fancams and edits already flooded X—clips of Hyunjin smiling during performances, tagged with captions like so this was him thinking of his person huh and find someone who looks at you like Hwang Hyunjin looks at the audience.

Jisung had joked that morning that he’d seen “Hyunjin” trending in seventeen countries overnight. Chan said it was twenty-three.

Hyunjin didn’t check. He didn’t need to.

Because for the first time, the noise online wasn’t suffocating. It was soft. Supportive. A chorus of strangers telling him he wasn’t wrong for choosing honesty.

They left Chan’s apartment around noon—convoy of black vans, bodyguards, a sea of fans waiting outside even before the event began.

From the window of his van, Hyunjin watched the blur of Seoul slide past—buildings gleaming like glass memories, billboards flashing their faces in quick, electric bursts. His reflection stared back at him, faint and contemplative.

“You’re quiet,” Jisung said, chewing gum.

“I’m thinking.”

“About him?”

Hyunjin gave him a flat look.

“Okay,” Jisung said, hands up, grinning. “I’ll shut up.”

But it was true. He was thinking about him—about Felix, about how much he missed the sound of Felix’s laugh.

His heart ached in a way no song could fix. But maybe—maybe today, words could.

The press conference was held in one of Seoul’s largest hotel ballrooms—ceiling dripping with chandeliers, floor carpeted in blue, stage framed by banners of CREED CEREMONY.

Backstage, the staff buzzed like clockwork. Makeup artists dusted powder, stylists adjusted cuffs and collars, managers whispered final notes. Chan was talking logistics with the PR team, Changbin was hyping Jisung up with dumb jokes, and Hyunjin… stood quietly, breathing.

“You good?” Chan asked, stepping beside him.

Hyunjin nodded. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Chan smiled. “Then go tell the truth, Hwang Hyunjin.”

And he did.

The first part went smoothly, like muscle memory.

Photo ops. Flashing lights. Posed smiles. The room was alive with laughter—reporters calling out for silly poses, Changbin doing the infamous “bunny ears” behind Chan's head, Jisung accidentally tripping over a mic cable and bowing dramatically to recover.

Hyunjin smiled when they told him to do “puppy ears.” He did it anyway, because it made people laugh. Because he wanted the air to stay light, at least for now.

Then came the questions.

“How did the group feel when your latest EP hit number one across all streaming platforms?”

“What was your reaction to selling over half a million physical albums in a week?”

“What’s next for CREED after performing for Balmain and HERA?”

Standard, safe—easy enough to answer. Chan handled most of it, with Changbin and Jisung chiming in to tease or add punchlines. Hyunjin stayed poised, adding a few words where needed, smiling at familiar faces in the crowd.

Then came the question about his family and Hyunjin answered each, solidifying his instance with CREED and not his last name. 

A smattering of applause followed. He caught Chan’s approving nod from the corner of his eye.

Then another question, whether the members knew about it. Chan, Jisung and Changbin easily confirmed; Jisung jokingly reminisced the luxury family car that picked up Hyunjin.

Hyunjin smiled at them, a quiet flicker of gratitude warming his chest.

But the peace didn’t last.

A new voice—sharp, eager— sliced through. “Then, can we ask about the reported engagement between you and Ning Yizhuo, better known as Ningning of aespa? Are the rumors true?”

The room tightened like a held breath.

Hyunjin exhaled once, calm. “No,” he said simply. “There’s no engagement. Ning Yizhuo is a wonderful artist, and I respect her deeply, but we are only acquaintances.” He glanced up briefly—the lights blinding, flashes endless—and then added, quietly but clearly: “My heart already belongs to someone else.”

For a second, the silence was total. Then came the eruption—murmurs, gasps, camera clicks exploding like thunder.

Hyunjin didn’t flinch. He’d expected it. The chaos, the noise, the hundreds of eyes dissecting every blink, every word. And then a reporter, bold and smiling too wide, raised her mic. “You do look like a man in love, Hyunjin-ssi,” she said.

The room burst into laughter—good-natured, teasing.

Changbin groaned. “Oh, he’s definitely a man in love.” Jisung cackled, leaning toward the mic. “You should see how much time he spends writing lyrics lately. He’s a menace.” Chan just chuckled, shaking his head. “He’s glowing, isn’t he?”

Hyunjin felt the blush creeping up his neck. “Can I finish?” he muttered, glaring playfully at them.

The reporter laughed. “Can you name the person, Hyunjin-ssi?” He smiled, soft but firm. “No. I want to respect his privacy.”

Gasps. His.

It was subtle, barely a slip, but the room caught it—and Hyunjin saw it in their widened eyes, the way excitement rippled through the crowd like static. But he didn’t backtrack.

“Maybe one day,” he added, “when I’m brave enough to confess properly.”

The room went ooohhh in unison, a wave of laughter and cheers. Someone clapped. Jisung wolf-whistled.

“Have you confessed yet?” another reporter shouted over the laughter. Hyunjin shook his head, smiling. “Not yet. But maybe soon.”

“Any hints on when?”

He leaned forward, grin mischievous now. “Watch our upcoming concert.”

The crowd roared.

“See?” Jisung said, elbowing him. “You basically just spoiled your solo.” Hyunjin rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

But the laughter only grew louder.

“His solo song’s basically a love letter,” Jisung announced proudly into his mic. “You’ll hear it and just know.” Hyunjin jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow, muttering something about betrayal, but his flushed ears gave him away.

The emcee tried to regain control, voice trembling from laughter. “Last question, please.”

A woman near the front raised her mic, smiling conspiratorially. “If each member could recommend one song— not CREED’s—to your fans, or maybe to their special someone…” her gaze lingered on Hyunjin with a wink, “…what would it be?”

Chan went first. “Dive In by Trey Songz,” he said without hesitation, earning laughter and groans.

Changbin grinned. “Boo’d Up by Ella Mai.”

Jisung hummed, pretending to think. “I Love You So by The Walters.”

Then all eyes turned to Hyunjin.

He smiled, slow and deliberate, then looked directly at one of the cameras—right where he hoped Felix would be watching. “Well,” he said, voice honey-warm and teasing, “if he’s watching… maybe he can listen to Kiss Me Slowly by Parachute.”

The press room erupted.

Laughter, gasps, applause—pure chaos. The emcee called for the wrap-up, the lights dimmed, and Chan stood, bowing with the group.

But as Hyunjin straightened, flashes still burning white against his eyes, he felt lighter.

For the first time in years—no masks, no pretenses—he’d spoken honestly.

Chapter Text

There was a split second—right after the flashes died down, when the host was wrapping up, microphones being unplugged and cords coiling back into the floor—that the world went still.

And in that stillness, Hyunjin saw him.

It was like catching a glimpse of a memory made flesh—the impossible kind, the one your brain insists can’t exist anymore but your heart recognizes instantly. A shock of pink hair, soft under the stage light, caught between moving figures in the second row.

For a moment he thought he imagined it. Because how could Felix—his Felix—be here?

But then the figure tilted slightly, head lifting just enough that the light hit familiar cheekbones, the faint freckle dusting his skin, the curve of his mouth.

And that was all it took.

Hyunjin’s heart stuttered, like it forgot the rhythm it had been playing for twenty-five years and decided to improvise.

He blinked once. Twice. But the figure was already moving—standing up, slipping into the current of journalists leaving the venue, surrounded by the rustle of coats and camera straps.

“Hyunjin!” someone was calling his name—maybe Chan, maybe their manager—but it came from far away, like underwater.

Before he even realized what he was doing, Hyunjin was running.

He jumped off the stage, nearly missing a step, the edge of the platform biting into his shin. Changbin’s voice echoed behind him—“Hyunjin, what the hell—!”—followed by Jisung’s half-panicked, half-hysterical laugh. “Manager-nim’s gonna kill you!”

Maybe. Probably. But none of that mattered.

Because if that pink hair really belonged to Felix—if that wasn’t a trick of light or wishful thinking—then Hyunjin wasn’t about to let him slip away again.

Security tried to stop him at the bottom of the stairs, but Chan waved them off from above. “Let him go,” he said with that quiet knowing grin. “He’s got something more important to do.”

So Hyunjin went.

The hotel lobby was chaos. Reporters huddled in small groups, clutching cameras and voice recorders. Staff members moved like waves around them. Fans pressed against the far barricades, holding banners and phones aloft, voices overlapping into a wall of sound.

But Hyunjin didn’t hear any of it.

He was looking for pink.

For him.

“Hyunjin-ssi!” someone called, a journalist waving a mic.
“Hyunjin, can we get a follow-up—”
“Hyunjin, who’s the mystery person you mentioned?”

He didn’t answer. Just weaved through the crowd, ignoring every flash, every question, every hand that reached out to stop him. His heart was pounding hard enough that it drowned out everything else.

And then—there.

Just beyond the glass doors leading out to the street, beneath the gold glow of the hotel awning, stood three figures.

Jeongin, shifting awkwardly with his hands in his pockets. Minho, calm and unreadable as always, an arm loosely around his cousin's shoulders as if keeping him grounded. And between them—a little apart, eyes down, pink hair catching the breeze—Felix.

The world narrowed to a single point.

Hyunjin pushed through the doors, the autumn air hitting him like clarity.

“Lix!” he called out.

It came out louder than he meant to—desperate, raw, a name torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

Felix’s head snapped up.

For one suspended heartbeat, neither of them moved. The city noise faded—horns, chatter, camera shutters—everything gone quiet except the rush of blood in Hyunjin’s ears.

Felix blinked once, disbelief flickering across his face like light on water. And then his lips parted in a small, shaky breath.

Hyunjin swore, right then and there, that everything had been worth it.

Every sleepless night.
Every rumor.
Every heartbreak.
Every ounce of waiting.

Because it led him here—to this single moment, where Felix was real and alive and looking at him.

Felix thought he was done with storms.

Thought he’d learned how to walk steady through thunder—how to breathe when lightning cracked open the sky. But the moment Hyunjin’s name was called on that stage, the static came back like muscle memory.

The lights, the hum, the sea of cameras—it all blurred into the same dizzy rhythm as that night under the rain. Except now, the storm wasn’t falling around him. It was inside him.

“Have you confessed yet?”

Felix didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t move.

And Hyunjin—calm, poised, beautiful in that impossible blue suit—smiled. Not the polite, press-friendly smile. No. The other one. The real one.

“Not yet,” he said softly.

Not yet. Felix felt it like thunder in his chest. Like the air itself tilted toward that voice.

“Any hints on when?"
"Watch our upcoming concert.”

Laughter rippled through the room, light and teasing—the kind that made everyone think it was a joke. Everyone except Felix.

Because he’d seen that same smile before, right before Hyunjin leaned in close and whispered something that sounded a lot like don’t look away.

Then Jisung, predictably chaotic, leaned into his mic with a grin:

“Hyunjin’s solo is basically a love letter.”

The crowd exploded. Cameras flashed. Chan buried his face in his hands, half-laughing, half-dying. Changbin groaned dramatically into his mic.

And Hyunjin—the man at the eye of the chaos— jabbed Jisung playfully. A soft blush creeping up his neck, his gaze flickering toward the audience, as if searching for someone.

Felix felt that look like a strike of lightning straight to his ribs.

He wanted to look away. He couldn’t.

Every flash from the cameras looked like lightning. Every cheer from the crowd sounded like thunder. And all he could think was—don’t do this, not here, not when I still can’t breathe right.

Then came the last question—the one that made the room still.

“If each member could recommend one song— not CREED’s—to your fans, or maybe to their special someone, what would it be?”

Chan went first. “Dive In by Trey Songz.”
Changbin followed. “Boo’d Up by Ella Mai.”
Jisung grinned. “I Love You So by The Walters.”

And Hyunjin, without missing a beat, looked straight at the main camera. “Well, if he’s watching… maybe he can listen to Kiss Me Slowly by Parachute.”

The way he said it—slow, deliberate, like every syllable was a secret being unwrapped.

Felix’s chest burned. He’d heard that song once in Hyunjin’s car. The lyrics about patience and longing, about wanting someone in a way that wasn’t loud but steady.

The audience erupted but Felix heard nothing. Because all he could hear were the echoes—the words from the dressing room, the look on Hyunjin’s face that night when he said if that's what you need.

The presscon ended in a blur of applause and camera flashes.

Felix waited until the crowd began to thin before standing. His knees felt weird—half-weightless, half-heavy. Jeongin found him first at the corridor, buzzing with too much energy for someone who didn’t just have their emotional foundation publicly detonated. “Earth to Lix hyung,” Jeongin sang. “You’re doing the thing again. The dazed-boy-in-love thing.”

“I’m not—” Felix began, voice coming out hoarse.

Jeongin smirked. “You are. It’s fine. It’s cute. Painful, but cute.”

Minho rolled his eyes, already on his phone. “Both of you, enough. The interview is over so we should go before the press—”

“Lix!”

The world stopped.

Hyunjin’s voice cut through the noise like lightning splitting sky. Felix turned—slowly, like moving too fast would make it disappear.

And there he was.

Hyunjin.

Running. Through the corridor, past managers calling his name, camera flashes still popping from behind. His tie was undone, hair falling into his eyes, breath ragged like he’d sprinted straight from the stage.

The look on his face wasn’t calm or collected—it was raw. Open. The same look from that night in the dressing room, when he asked Felix to not shut him out.

“Hyunjin—” Minho stepped forward before Hyunjin could reach them. The crowd was still thick with press members, assistants, flashes starting up again at the sight of a CREED member suddenly running out mid-event.

The two met halfway. Felix watched from a distance as Minho said something to Hyunjin, voice low and clipped. Hyunjin just stood there, chest rising and falling fast, eyes never leaving Felix. Then he nodded—once—and turned back inside.

Felix felt like he’d swallowed glass.

Minutes later, Minho’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, sighed, then pocketed it. “We’re leaving. He’s changing.”

Felix blinked. “He—what?”

“Hyunjin. He’ll meet us in the parking lot,” Minho said casually, leading the way. “Apparently someone needs to talk before he combusts on live television.”

Jeongin snorted. “Oh, that someone is definitely combusting.”

Felix shot him a warning glare. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I thrive on drama,” Jeongin said, entirely unapologetic.

They reached Minho’s car parked near the back exit—quieter, out of reach from the lingering press. Felix climbed into the back seat, clutching his tote to his chest, trying to ignore how his pulse refused to calm down.

Jeongin was scrolling through his phone, smirking at something. “Oh my god, look. X's on fire. Everyone’s saying Hyunjin’s ‘someone’ must be the luckiest guy alive.”

Felix muttered, “Good for him.”

“Uh-huh,” Jeongin said, tone dripping with disbelief. “Sure, hyung. Totally neutral reaction there.”

Before Felix could throw his bag at him, Minho’s gaze flicked toward the rearview mirror. “He’s here.”

Felix turned.

Hyunjin was walking toward them—changed out of his stage clothes into a loose gray sweater and sweatpants, hair still a little damp from the quick wash. Even under the faint parking lot light, he looked like he’d run through a storm.

Jeongin whispered, “You’re about to have your K-drama moment.”

“Shut up,” Felix hissed, shoving his shoulder.

Minho opened his door and stepped out first, intercepting Hyunjin before he could reach the car. The two exchanged a look—Minho’s stern, Hyunjin’s serious. Then Minho leaned in slightly, voice low but sharp. “Make him cry, and I will personally castrate you. Slowly. No anesthesia.”

Hyunjin didn’t even flinch. He only gave a faint, almost grateful smile. “Understood, hyung.”

Jeongin barked a laugh. “You think he’s kidding? He’s not. I’ve seen the scissors.”

“Jeongin,” Minho snapped.

“Okay, okay!” Jeongin grinned, sliding toward the car. He peeked through the open window at Felix. “Don’t do anything filthy, yeah? We literally just survived a scandal week.”

Felix shot him a middle finger. “Shut up, Jeongin.”

Jeongin giggled like a demon and followed Minho toward the building. “We’ll give you thirty minutes before I start texting threats!”

Their voices faded, leaving only the faint hum of streetlights and the sound of distant city noise.

Felix stayed frozen for a heartbeat too long before reaching for the door handle. Hyunjin hesitated outside the passenger side, looking unsure for once. “Can I—?”

Felix nodded wordlessly.

Hyunjin climbed in. The car felt too small immediately. The scent of clean detergent and faint cologne filled the air, the same one Felix remembered from sleepless nights and quiet car rides between shoots.

The door shut. Silence followed.

Hyunjin’s hands were clasped together, thumb rubbing against his palm like a nervous tell. Felix didn’t dare look straight at him yet.

Every inch of the space buzzed with something—not anger, not comfort—just that impossible weight of two people who’d been orbiting the same ache for too long.

The car hummed quietly around them, headlights from the parking lot painting faint gold stripes across the tinted windows. Somewhere outside, a reporter laughed, a door slammed, an engine roared—life moving on while they stayed frozen inside a single heartbeat.

Felix could hear his own pulse in his ears. The tick of Hyunjin’s breathing. The way his hands were balled loosely in his lap, unsure where to go, unsure what to do.

He hadn’t planned for this. Not the ache of seeing Hyunjin again. Not the way the air bent around him—like gravity couldn’t help but bend his way.

Hyunjin sat across from him, freshly changed into a loose gray sweater and sweatpants, damp hair pushed back from his face. He still looked like the press conference—too composed, too luminous—except for the edges, frayed now. Like the adrenaline had run out, leaving only the truth underneath.

Felix swallowed, throat tight. His mind screamed say something, but his mouth refused to move.

They sat there for what felt like forever until—

“I—”
“Lix—”

They spoke at the same time. And for a second, something unknotted. A soft sound—laughter—broke the stillness.

It wasn’t loud, or clean. But it was theirs. A small, crooked crack in the wall that had been building for months.

Hyunjin smiled, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I miss this,” he said quietly.

Felix raised a brow, voice a little steadier than his heart. “What, awkward silences and bad timing?”

Hyunjin huffed out a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Exactly that.”

Felix snorted, leaning back against the seat, trying to pretend his chest wasn’t warm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only around you.”

That made Felix look up. And maybe he shouldn’t have.

Because that look—that look—it was the same one from Jeju. The one Hyunjin had given him when the room went quiet and the sea outside sounded like confession.

The same eyes, the same ache. Longing. Pure, unguarded longing.

It hit Felix like a memory and a wound all at once.

Hyunjin leaned forward, elbows resting loosely on his knees, voice low. “I know you asked for space,” he started, slow, careful, like every word mattered. “And maybe you’re scared. Maybe I did something that hurt you. I don’t know.”

He paused, searching Felix’s face.

“But all I’m asking now is a chance. Just one. Let me show you that I’m serious. With you. With this.”

The word this lingered between them, heavy, undefined.

Felix blinked, his breath caught halfway in his chest. The sincerity in Hyunjin’s voice—it wasn’t pleading, it wasn’t desperate. It was quiet, grounded. Like truth.

“Hyunjin,” he whispered, voice small. “It’s not you.”

Hyunjin frowned. “Then what is it?”

Felix gave a weak laugh, eyes lowering. “It’s me.”

For a second, Hyunjin looked thrown—like he couldn’t understand how someone could take the blame for something that didn’t need it.

Felix exhaled, pressing his palms together. “You said I’m scared,” he said slowly. “You’re right. But not for the reasons you think. I’m scared because I don’t know where I fit in your life. I don’t know what I am to you, or what you see when you look at me.”

The words came out trembling, fragile as breath.

“I know I started this. The flirting, the teasing, the stupid tension everyone joked about. I pushed it because it was fun—because I thought I could control it.”

He laughed, bitter and soft. “But I can’t anymore. I don’t even know where the game ends and real life begins.”

Hyunjin didn’t speak. Just listened, eyes fixed on Felix like he was memorizing the way his mouth moved.

Felix’s voice cracked when he continued. “And when I saw you with her—with Ningning—it just…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It hurt. And it made me realize how jealous I was, and how stupid that is because I don’t even have the right to be.”

The last word hung there. Right.

Hyunjin finally exhaled, like something inside him had given way. “Lix,” he said softly. “You’re not stupid.”

Felix scoffed, trying to keep it light. “Tell that to the part of me that wants to scream every time someone else makes you laugh.”

That made Hyunjin laugh, too—but not because it was funny. It was the kind of laugh that cracked in the middle.

Then, softer: “Then don’t end it.”

Felix froze.

“Don’t end something that hasn’t even started yet,” Hyunjin said. His voice wasn’t pleading, but steady, almost trembling from how much he meant it. “The idea of us—even if it’s just that—deserves a chance.”

The air between them shifted again. Felix felt it—the gravity. The pull.

“Hyunjin…”

“Look,” Hyunjin said, reaching into the pocket of his hoodie. “If you don’t know what to say yet, if you still need space, fine. But I want you to see me. Not the rumors, not the noise, just me.”

He pulled something out—a small white envelope—and slid it across the seat.

Felix blinked at it before taking it carefully.

When he opened it, a ticket fell out— glossy, printed, unmistakable.
CREED: CEREMONY — World Tour.
Seat: Front Row.

Felix looked up, mouth parting.

“Come see me,” Hyunjin said.

Felix frowned, confused. “What?”

“Come see me perform,” Hyunjin repeated, his tone quiet but unshaken. “Maybe then you’ll know the answer.”

Felix looked down at the ticket again, the black-and-blue print gleaming under the dim car light. His heart thudded painfully.

“Hyunjin…”

“Please,” Hyunjin said, and this time there was a crack in his voice. “You don’t have to say anything now. Just come. Let me show you what I couldn’t say that night.”

Felix’s throat tightened. He could feel the sincerity spilling out of Hyunjin like light through cracks—raw, unpolished, real.

He wanted to say something witty. To deflect, to tease. To slip back into that safe rhythm of you and me but not really.

But he couldn’t. Not this time.

He swallowed hard, then nodded. Once. Quietly.

“Okay,” he whispered.

Hyunjin blinked, eyes searching his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Felix said again, firmer now. “Okay.”

For a long moment, they just sat there.

Hyunjin leaned back slowly, a quiet breath leaving him—the kind you exhale when the weight finally lifts off your chest. Felix looked out the window, heart still beating too fast, too hard.

Outside, the city pulsed—neon lights smearing gold and blue over wet asphalt. The kind of night that felt suspended in time.

Felix traced the edge of the ticket with his thumb, the paper soft against his skin.

There it was—the pull again. The same one from Jeju. From every glance, every unspoken word, every almost-touch.

But maybe this time, he thought, it wasn’t pulling him apart. Maybe it was leading him somewhere.

He looked up at Hyunjin—really looked. The way the streetlight caught the faint sheen of sweat on his neck, the way his eyes softened when they met his.

And suddenly, it was simple.

This wasn’t a game anymore. It hadn’t been for a long time.

Hyunjin looked back at him, a faint, almost disbelieving smile playing at his lips. “Okay,” he echoed.

And Felix—heart hammering, pulse thrumming like the bridge of a song—smiled back.

The silence returned, but this time, it wasn’t empty. It was full, charged with something almost tender.

They didn’t need to fill it. They just needed to exist in it.

And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.