Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hello readers!

Welcome to my collection of Dino oneshots, where I’ll be bringing to life stories inspired by your ideas and requests. Whether you’re here for fluff, angst, comfort, drama, or whatever else you want, I’ve got you covered.

I won’t write smut since I’m not comfortable with it, nor do I feel confident in my ability to do it justice.

Chapter Text

The harsh lights of the practice room flickered above, casting a cold, sterile glow on the sweaty bodies of SEVENTEEN as they moved through their latest routine. The mirrors stretched across one wall, reflecting their synchronized movements, but as much as they tried to match each other’s steps, there was a subtle dissonance in the air. Something about their youngest member was off.

Lee Chan, the bright and energetic youngest member of SEVENTEEN, usually bubbled with the energy of a thousand stars, his youthful spirit infectious. But today, his steps were stiff. His movements, which normally flowed with grace and precision, felt forced. His posture was slightly slouched, a telltale sign that something was wrong.

The other members didn’t notice right away, or maybe they didn’t want to. They were too focused on the routine, on perfecting their formations, making sure their timing was flawless. But as the hours stretched on and Chan began to fall behind in the choreography, the others started to look at him more closely.

"Chan, what’s up with you today?" Hoshi’s voice was light, filled with teasing, but there was an edge of concern there too. His eyes darted over to Chan, who was still trying to catch up, breath ragged from the exertion. "You're falling behind."

"Fine," Chan mumbled, forcing a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Just… a little tired." His voice was thin, fragile, as though even the smallest exhale could shatter him.

Mingyu shot him a worried glance, but said nothing, continuing the routine with focused precision. The rest of the group didn’t know how to interpret Chan’s sudden shift in behavior. His upbeat nature had always been a constant, something they could rely on to lighten the mood during practice. Now, the silence hanging in the air was thick, almost suffocating.

The choreographer, who had been working with the group for months, stepped forward, clapping his hands. His face held the usual friendly smile, though his eyes were sharp, scanning the room for any imperfection. "Let’s take a break. You all deserve it. Chan, take a seat. You look like you need one."

Chan didn’t argue, walking slowly to the side of the room and collapsing onto the floor, stretching out his legs and leaning back against the cool wall. His breath came in uneven, shallow gasps, but he tried to hide it, to push past the discomfort. But the pain from his body—the bruises, the soreness—was relentless.

The choreographer, watching him for a moment, didn’t seem to notice the exhaustion, the strain in Chan’s eyes, or the way his posture was a little too rigid. He just gave a brief nod and walked away to converse with Woozi, who was going over some musical notes.

Chan’s eyes lingered on the floor, his gaze unfocused as the noise of the other members filled the room. But he couldn’t shake the aching pain in his shoulders, the tender bruise on his arm that still throbbed from earlier. He had tried to cover it up during the routine, pulling his sleeves down a little too tightly, but the sharp pain couldn’t be ignored.

The others didn’t know. They couldn’t know. They all loved the choreographer. He was the one who made their dances feel like art, the one who praised them for their dedication, the one who cracked jokes and told them they were doing great. He was always kind, always smiling. But that kindness didn’t reach Chan. Not anymore.

"Chan, you’re fine, right?" Seungkwan’s voice broke through his thoughts. He’d come over, sitting beside him with a curious expression. "You’re kind of off today. You’ve been quiet."

Chan hesitated, not wanting to speak the words that lingered on the tip of his tongue. He didn’t want to bring it up, didn’t want to make it real. He didn’t want to be the one to ruin the perfect image of their choreographer in front of the others. But the words felt like they were burning in his throat, choking him with the weight of their truth. Still, he forced a smile, the same one he’d practiced in front of mirrors for years.

"I’m fine," he said, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. "Just tired, Seungkwan. It’s nothing." He flashed a strained grin that didn’t convince either of them. The pain in his body—the bruises, the ache in his arms, the throbbing soreness from long nights of cruel punishment—was something he couldn’t explain. No one would understand.

Seungkwan didn’t seem convinced, his gaze lingering on Chan’s exhausted face, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he patted Chan’s shoulder lightly, trying to offer some semblance of reassurance.

"You’re a trooper, Chan," Seungkwan said. "We all know you work hard. Just… take care of yourself, okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks," Chan muttered, the words hollow, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The others began to gather in small clusters, resuming conversations about their next steps in the routine. But as Chan sat on the floor, trying to catch his breath, his thoughts drifted to what had been happening in private—how the choreographer’s once-supportive hand had become something darker, how the words he had spoken with such kindness now felt like daggers.

Earlier in the day, the choreographer had grabbed his wrist too harshly, pulling him aside after practice. His voice had been quiet, cold. "You need to be better. If you can't keep up, I'll make you." The words echoed in his mind as his body trembled.

Chan had been too afraid to say anything, too scared that the others wouldn’t believe him, that they would see him as weak or ungrateful. After all, the choreographer was always so nice to everyone else. He smiled, joked, encouraged them. How could anyone believe that same man could hurt him?

But the bruises, the pain, the humiliation—it was real. And it was breaking him slowly, piece by piece.

____________________

As the break continued, the members of SEVENTEEN gradually drifted to different corners of the practice room, chatting about the next part of the routine or joking amongst themselves. But Chan remained in his spot, his legs stretched out in front of him, feeling the heaviness of his body press into the cool floor. He wanted to join them, to laugh with them, to slip back into the comfort of their camaraderie, but the walls felt taller now. His once seamless connection to the others felt like a distant memory.

His hand trembled slightly as he tried to stretch his arm, the bruise from earlier making itself known once again. It wasn’t just his arms that ached—his back, his legs, and his ribs were sore too, a constant reminder of the harsh treatment he'd been subjected to. The marks hidden beneath his clothes were starting to blur with each day that passed, as if trying to swallow him whole. But the worst part wasn’t the physical pain—it was the loneliness. The growing isolation that gnawed at him, a quiet whisper that told him the truth: no one would ever know.

Chan wanted to tell them. He wanted to scream, to make them see what was happening, to make someone understand. But fear held him captive. Fear that they would turn away, laugh, or worse, accuse him of making things up. He had seen how they all adored the choreographer. How could they believe that the man they trusted could hurt him? How could they believe that the same person who complimented their dedication, who always smiled, could be the one to strike fear into Chan’s heart?

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden voice, cutting through the noise of the room.

"Chan." The voice was soft but firm, cutting through the chatter. It was Woozi, who had been observing him from across the room. His sharp eyes narrowed slightly as he walked over, his expression unreadable. "You’ve been off today. What’s going on? You’ve barely said anything."

Chan swallowed hard, glancing up at Woozi. His throat felt tight, his heart racing. He wanted to deny it, to brush it off like he had before, but something inside him broke. The weight of the truth pressed so heavily against his chest that he almost choked on it.

"I—I just... I’m tired," Chan said, the words coming out strangled. He shifted uncomfortably, forcing himself to stand up despite the pain that shot through his legs. "It’s nothing, Woozi. Really. Just tired. I’m fine."

Woozi didn’t seem convinced, his eyes flicking to Chan’s body language—how rigid his posture was, how his gaze shifted uneasily. He reached out, placing a hand on Chan’s shoulder, a gesture of concern. "Chan, you know you can talk to us. If something’s wrong, you don’t have to keep it to yourself. We’re a team."

But Chan couldn’t do it. He couldn’t expose the truth to Woozi, couldn’t lay bare the horror that had become his life every day, hidden behind closed doors. So he shook his head, his smile forced but strained.

"I’m okay," he repeated, more quietly this time.

Woozi hesitated for a moment longer, studying Chan closely, before nodding. "Alright. Just... remember, we’re here for you, okay?"

Chan nodded, though he could feel the weight of Woozi’s gaze lingering on him as he turned back to the rest of the group. The unease in Chan’s chest didn’t lessen. Instead, it deepened, settling into the pit of his stomach. He wanted to reach out, to ask for help, but he couldn’t. The fear, the shame, the uncertainty—they were too overwhelming.

As the rest of the group gathered to start the routine again, Chan lingered at the back of the room, keeping a safe distance from the others. He couldn’t risk letting anyone get too close, couldn’t let them see the truth that he couldn’t hide anymore. The choreographer’s voice rang in his ears as he remembered the earlier confrontation. The harsh words, the unforgiving grip, the threats that had followed. "You’ll never make it if you can’t keep up. If you want to be a part of this team, you’ll do what I say."

But the worst part? The worst part was that Chan couldn’t fight back. He couldn’t speak out, because the choreographer was always so perfect to the others. The rest of SEVENTEEN adored him, thought of him as a mentor, a guide. They didn’t see the way his hands would tremble when the choreographer’s palm brushed against him, didn’t know the sharpness of his voice when they weren’t around.

"I’m okay," Chan whispered again to himself, as if repeating it would make it true.

The practice continued, the steps becoming more complicated, the choreography more demanding. Chan kept his head down, moving mechanically, trying not to think about the pain that followed him at every turn. His movements were stiff, his energy drained. Each time they repeated the routine, it felt like a reminder of how far behind he was slipping, of how much he was failing.

Eventually, after what felt like hours, the choreographer called a stop. The members were drenched in sweat, breathing heavily, but Chan felt a different kind of exhaustion settling in. A weariness that had nothing to do with physical fatigue, but everything to do with the emotional toll of hiding his truth.

"Good work, everyone," the choreographer said, his voice warm and encouraging as always. He patted Mingyu on the back and high-fived Joshua. "You’re all really coming together for this. But Chan…" His voice shifted, turning sharp. "You’re still behind. You need to get it together."

Chan’s stomach dropped. The smile the choreographer gave him felt cold, calculating. His heart pounded in his chest as the eyes of the group turned toward him.

"Chan, what's wrong? You’re not trying hard enough." The words stung, even though they weren’t new. He had heard them before, over and over, each one chipping away at him, making him smaller, weaker.

"I’m trying…" Chan’s voice faltered as he glanced up at the others, but they weren’t looking at him with concern. No, they were looking at him with frustration.

"Not hard enough," the choreographer snapped again, raising his voice just enough to send a chill down Chan’s spine. The others were too caught up in the routine to notice the way his hand clenched into a fist, the way his body tensed, or the way his face paled at the sharpness of the reprimand.

"You need to keep up, Chan," the choreographer continued, as though the words didn’t cut into Chan’s skin like broken glass. "Or maybe you shouldn’t be here at all."

The last part of the sentence hung in the air like a threat, its weight suffocating. Chan’s hands trembled, his chest tight. He wanted to say something, wanted to defend himself, to explain that it wasn’t just his fault. But the words died in his throat. The group—his family, his teammates—stood there, frozen, watching with expressions that ranged from confusion to irritation.

They didn’t see it. They didn’t see the fear in his eyes, the silent tears he had swallowed every night. They didn’t see how much it hurt to keep pretending everything was fine.

"I’ll do better," Chan whispered, barely loud enough for anyone to hear, but his words were drowned out by the sound of the choreographer's voice, which kept moving, kept pushing, as the others stood around in uncomfortable silence.

____________________

The next few days blurred together in a haze of exhaustion and dread. Each morning, Chan woke up with the familiar pain in his body, the ache of his bruises pressing against his skin, but he forced himself to push through it. The group continued their rigorous practices, each day marked by more demanding routines, more hours spent rehearsing, and more moments when Chan found himself slipping further away from them.

No matter how much he tried to keep up, he was always a step behind. And each time the choreographer’s cold words rang in his ears, it felt like a weight added to the pile of guilt and shame that already threatened to crush him.

Chan could hear the others laughing and chatting around him during breaks, their voices carrying with a sense of unity that made his heart ache. They didn’t know what was going on, didn’t know what the choreographer was doing to him. He had tried so many times to say something, to tell them the truth, but each time the words caught in his throat. The fear of them not believing him, of them thinking he was lying, was too overwhelming.

But that fear reached a breaking point one evening, when the abuse had escalated. After a particularly brutal session where the choreographer had yanked him by the arm and yelled at him for missing a step, Chan had found himself retreating into a corner of the practice room, trying to keep himself together. The others were still working on the routine, so he had a few moments of silence to breathe, but even in the quiet, he could still hear the taunting words of the choreographer echoing in his mind.

"Why can’t you do anything right? You’re dragging the group down."

That was all Chan could hear now, the thought repeating in his head like a broken record. He wanted to tell the others, needed to, but every time he tried, he felt paralyzed by the fear that they wouldn’t believe him. But he couldn’t keep hiding it, not anymore.

That night, as the group wrapped up practice and started to gather their things, Chan approached them, his steps shaky and uncertain. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, a constant drumbeat of anxiety, as he stood at the edge of the circle they had formed.

"Guys, I need to talk to you," he said, his voice small, barely audible. His hands fidgeted nervously in front of him, and he avoided meeting anyone's eyes, too afraid of what their reactions might be.

The others paused, glancing at him in confusion. Woozi, who was always the first to notice when something was wrong, narrowed his eyes at Chan, sensing the tension radiating off of him. "What’s going on, Chan?" he asked, his tone cautious but warm.

Chan swallowed hard, gathering every ounce of courage he had left. "I… I need to tell you something about the choreographer."

There was a beat of silence. For a moment, no one spoke. The others exchanged quick, confused glances, not understanding what he meant.

"The choreographer?" Seungkwan repeated. "What about him?"

Chan's heart pounded in his chest, and his throat felt tight, like the words he needed to say were lodged there, suffocating him. But he couldn’t stop now. This had to be the moment.

"He… He’s been hurting me. Physically. He’s been hitting me, grabbing me, and saying awful things to me. I—I can’t take it anymore." The words rushed out in a frantic tumble, each one filled with desperation. His hands balled into fists, his knuckles white. He felt vulnerable, exposed, but he needed them to know.

For a long moment, no one spoke. It was like the world had stopped moving, the silence heavy and suffocating. Chan’s chest tightened, his eyes darting around the group, searching for some sign of belief, of understanding. But instead, what he saw was disbelief.

Joshua was the first to react. He stepped forward, looking concerned but also a little skeptical. "Chan… What are you talking about? The choreographer? He’s always been kind to us."

"I—I know," Chan stammered, his voice shaking with the weight of his frustration. "I know he seems nice to everyone, but… to me, it’s different. He… he’s been hurting me, and I can’t… I can’t do this anymore."

Mingyu frowned, glancing at the others. "Chan, that’s not possible. Why would he do that to you? We’ve all worked with him, and he’s never shown any sign of being… like that."

"I don’t know why," Chan admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I can’t keep it to myself anymore. He keeps saying I’m not good enough, that I’m dragging everyone down, and then… he hurts me. Every time I mess up. Every time I don’t do something right." His breath hitched in his throat as the words left him, and the floodgates of emotion he had tried so hard to suppress began to crack open. "I don’t know what to do."

The other members exchanged uncomfortable glances, clearly conflicted. But instead of offering the support Chan had hoped for, there was a growing tension in the room, a sense of disbelief mixed with suspicion.

"You’re saying he’s been hurting you, but we’ve never seen anything like that," Woozi said, his voice calm but cautious. "We all know how hard the choreographer works us. Maybe you’re just being too sensitive. Everyone gets tired, Chan. We all push ourselves."

Chan recoiled at the words, his heart sinking deeper into his chest. "But it’s not just that," he protested, his voice barely a whisper. "You don’t see it. You don’t hear him when you’re not around. He’s been hurting me—physically and mentally. He… he yells at me. He calls me useless. I don’t know what to do, but I can’t keep pretending like nothing’s happening."

Seungkwan stepped forward, his tone sharp. "Chan, stop. You’re making it sound like he’s some kind of monster. We’ve all been through tough practices, and you’ve always pushed through. You can’t just accuse someone like that without any proof. Do you really expect us to believe this?"

The words hit Chan like a slap to the face. He stood there, frozen, as the weight of Seungkwan’s dismissal crushed him. He tried to speak, to explain, but no words came. All he could do was stand there, his hands trembling, his heart breaking.

"We’re just trying to look out for you," Woozi added, his voice softer now but still tinged with doubt. "If something’s wrong, you need to talk to us in a way that makes sense. We can’t just take your word for it without understanding why."

"But… I’m telling you the truth," Chan choked out, his voice barely a whisper. "I don’t know what else to say."

Seungkwan shook his head, crossing his arms. "This is… this is too much, Chan. We’re trying to help you, but accusing the choreographer of something like that doesn’t make sense. I can’t just believe something without evidence. We’re a team. You need to trust us, but… this doesn’t feel right."

The silence that followed felt like a thousand knives digging into Chan’s chest. The others weren’t angry with him—they were just… confused. Doubtful. They didn’t believe him.

His stomach twisted in knots, and the ache in his chest intensified. He had tried. He had begged them for help. But now, standing before them, he realized how alone he truly was.

He nodded, trying to hold back the tears that burned his eyes. "I… I understand. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything."

The words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them, a defense mechanism to shield himself from the pain of their disbelief. He turned away, not waiting for any response, and walked quickly toward the door, his heart heavy with the crushing weight of rejection.

The others stood there, staring after him, unsure of what to do or say. But the moment was over.

And so was Chan’s hope.

____________________

Chan didn’t want to leave the practice room. He didn’t want to face the others, but it was impossible to stand there any longer. The silence that had fallen between them felt like an impenetrable wall, and every second he spent in the same space as them only reminded him of how alone he truly was.

The others hadn't followed him when he had walked away. They hadn’t tried to stop him, or even offer a kind word to ease the sting of their disbelief. They just let him leave, as if his words meant nothing.

As Chan stepped out into the hallway, the sound of their voices faded behind him. He leaned back against the cold wall, his eyes squeezed shut, and his hand clenched around the fabric of his jacket. It felt like the weight of the world was pressing down on him.

"Why did I even bother?" he whispered, his voice trembling in the emptiness of the hallway. "Why did I think they'd believe me?"

The bitter realization that his friends—his brothers—had turned away from him like that hurt more than any physical injury ever could. The emotional sting cut deeper than the bruises that littered his skin. He had never felt more isolated, more invisible, than in that moment.

He didn’t even know how long he stood there, trying to calm his racing heart and suppress the tears that threatened to spill over. Every second felt like an eternity, like he was trapped in a never-ending cycle of loneliness.

But just as he was about to push himself off the wall and retreat further into the depths of his own mind, he heard footsteps approaching.

"Chan?" It was Woozi’s voice, quiet and hesitant.

Chan’s body tensed at the sound of his name. He didn’t want to turn around. Didn’t want to face them again. He was too tired, too hurt.

But Woozi’s footsteps stopped just behind him, and there was a brief moment of silence before the older member spoke again. "Chan, we… we need to talk."

Chan bit his lip, fighting the urge to snap at him. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to explain himself again. But something in Woozi’s voice, that soft uncertainty, made him pause.

He turned around slowly, finally facing Woozi. The older member’s expression was unreadable, his eyes searching Chan’s face like he was trying to piece together something that didn’t make sense.

"Chan," Woozi said again, his tone softer now, more sincere. "I know you’re hurting. And I know you probably feel like we don’t understand… but we do care. We just… need time to process this."

Chan couldn’t stop the bitter laugh that bubbled up in his throat. "You think I’m lying. You all think I’m lying."

Woozi shook his head, his face pained. "No, we don’t think you’re lying, Chan. But we’re confused. We’re trying to understand why this is happening, and—"

"It doesn’t matter," Chan interrupted, his voice shaking. "You don’t believe me. You don’t trust me. It’s just easier to dismiss me, isn’t it?"

The words cut deeper than anything the choreographer had ever said to him. Chan could see Woozi’s eyes flicker with a mix of guilt and regret, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough anymore.

"I’m sorry," Woozi muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "We didn’t mean to make you feel like this. But we need more than just words, Chan. We need proof. We need to see it for ourselves."

Proof. It always came back to that, didn’t it? Words weren’t enough. They needed something to show them that what he was saying was true.

But how was he supposed to prove something that had been happening in secret? How could he show them the bruises that were hidden beneath his clothes, the marks that the choreographer had left in places no one else could see? How could he explain the fear that gripped his chest every time the choreographer’s voice grew sharp, the way his hands trembled when he knew he was about to be punished for a mistake?

Chan wanted to scream, to shout out everything he had been holding back, but instead, he simply nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. "I’ll show you when it’s too late," he muttered bitterly. "When there’s nothing left for you to believe."

Woozi flinched at the words, clearly hurt by the accusation, but Chan didn’t care anymore. There was no more fight left in him. He had tried. He had tried to explain, to make them see what was happening to him, but it wasn’t enough. They weren’t ready to believe him.

Before Woozi could respond, Chan pushed past him, walking briskly down the hallway, away from the practice room, away from them.

He couldn’t stay there any longer. The ache in his chest was too much. The weight of their doubt, the distance growing between them, suffocated him with every step. He didn’t know where he was going or what he was doing. All he knew was that he had to get away. He had to escape from the suffocating atmosphere of rejection and disbelief.

But as he walked, his mind was a whirlwind. He couldn’t stop thinking about how much he wanted things to be different, how much he wanted to be seen, to be understood. But it felt like the more he reached out, the further away they pulled.

And the more he tried to convince them, the more he felt like he was sinking into a deep, dark hole that no one would ever reach him from.

____________________

The next day passed in a blur, the hours slipping away as the group continued their practices, their conversations, their laughter—everything was the same, and yet, it wasn’t. Chan had become a ghost among them, his presence barely acknowledged, his words unheard.

Every time he tried to speak, to make himself known, his voice seemed to be drowned out by the noise of their lives going on as if nothing had changed.

But the real change was happening inside of him. The more they ignored him, the more he withdrew into himself. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep pretending that everything was fine. The façade was crumbling, and deep down, he knew the truth would eventually come to light.

But by then, it might be too late.

____________________

The days blurred into each other. Chan barely spoke to the others, his presence almost invisible as he moved through the motions of their schedule. Rehearsals. Meals. Free time. It was all the same—empty, hollow, and full of a growing ache that made every breath feel heavy.

The others kept their distance, not out of malice, but because they didn’t know how to bridge the gap Chan had created between them. They still didn’t believe him. They still thought he was making it up, trying to get attention or stir up trouble where there was none.

But the bruises weren’t imaginary. The pain wasn’t something he could just push aside. He could feel it in his bones, in the exhaustion that weighed him down every day, and in the fear that never left him. Even in the quiet moments when he was alone, when there were no rehearsals or meetings, the terror lingered.

And yet, despite everything, he continued to carry the burden of silence. The weight of their disbelief pressed down on him, and every time he felt the walls closing in, he fought to stay strong. Because if he fell apart, who would be left to pick up the pieces?

The turning point came unexpectedly.

It had been another grueling day in the practice room. The choreographer was there, watching them from the sidelines, his eyes sharp and critical, but still with that veneer of kindness that fooled everyone else. It was the same as always—long hours, harsh critiques, and an oppressive tension that made Chan feel small and powerless.

But today, something felt different. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he felt it in the way his body reacted when the choreographer approached him. The familiar dread settled in his chest like a stone, heavy and suffocating. His hands began to shake.

"Chan," the choreographer’s voice was quiet but firm. "You missed that step again. What’s wrong with you today?"

The others were busy practicing, unaware of the conversation unfolding in the corner of the room. Chan tried to steady his breathing, tried to force his body to stop shaking, but it was impossible. Every word from the choreographer felt like another blow to his fragile composure.

"I—I’m sorry," Chan muttered, his voice barely audible. "I’ll do better."

But it wasn’t enough. The choreographer’s gaze hardened, and before Chan could react, he felt a sharp hand grip his arm. The touch was rough, painful, and it sent a shock of panic through his veins.

"Do better, huh?" the choreographer sneered. "You think you’re doing your best? You’re useless."

The grip tightened. Chan winced, the pressure unbearable, and he knew if he didn’t do something, it would only get worse.

But then, just as he was about to pull away, a voice cut through the tension.

"Hey!" It was Hoshi. "What’s going on here?"

Chan’s heart nearly stopped at the sound of his voice. For a brief moment, he thought he had imagined it. But when he turned his head, he saw Hoshi walking toward them, his eyes sharp with concern. The others followed behind him, sensing that something was wrong.

The choreographer’s grip on Chan loosened slightly, and he turned toward Hoshi, a forced smile on his face. "Oh, nothing," he said smoothly, as if nothing had happened. "Just helping him out. He’s a bit off today, isn’t he?"

Chan’s throat closed up. The choreographer was lying, but he couldn’t speak. He was frozen, trapped in the web of deceit the older man had spun around him. He wanted to tell them everything, wanted to scream the truth, but the words felt stuck in his throat, suffocating him.

But then something unexpected happened.

Seungkwan, who had been standing nearby, stepped forward, his face scrunched in confusion. "You’re... hurting him?" His voice was small, almost disbelieving.

The choreographer’s smile faltered for just a second before he recovered, glancing at Seungkwan with narrowed eyes. "He’s fine. Just overreacting."

But the others weren’t convinced. They exchanged confused glances, the tension between them palpable. They had seen the bruises before, but none of them had dared to question the choreographer. Until now.

"Chan," Hoshi said gently, taking a step closer. "Are you okay?"

The question was simple, but it felt like a lifeline. It was the first time anyone had truly asked, the first time anyone had looked at him without judgment, without doubt.

Chan swallowed, his chest tight. He wanted to speak, to say the words that had been choking him for so long, but his throat felt dry, constricted. The fear that had lived inside him for weeks threatened to spill out, but he couldn’t let it. Not like this.

Instead, he just nodded weakly, refusing to meet their eyes. He couldn’t let them see the truth. Not yet.

But the others weren’t fooled. The silence that followed was heavy, charged with the unspoken understanding that something was wrong.

And then, Seungkwan’s voice broke through again, softer this time, full of hesitation. "Chan, we’ve noticed the bruises. You don’t have to hide it from us."

Chan’s breath caught in his throat. The bruises. They had seen them. They had known.

A mix of emotions flooded over him—relief, guilt, shame. He didn’t know what to feel anymore. But one thing was certain: they were finally seeing him. Finally understanding.

But it wasn’t enough yet. He couldn’t let them off the hook that easily.

"I’m fine," Chan whispered, trying to pull himself together, trying to make them believe the lie. "I just... didn’t want you guys to worry."

It was too late for that now. They had already seen the truth in his eyes, in the way his shoulders trembled with the weight of the secret he had been keeping for far too long.

"Chan," Woozi’s voice was low, almost broken. "We should have believed you. I should have believed you."

Chan felt a tear slip down his cheek, but he quickly wiped it away, refusing to let them see his weakness. He had already cried too many times in silence.

"We’ll get you out of this," Joshua said, his voice firm, as if making a vow. "We’ll make sure he never hurts you again."

And for the first time in weeks, Chan allowed himself to believe it. He allowed himself to believe that, maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t alone anymore.

____________________

The weight of the moment seemed to hang in the air, thick with the unspoken truths and the rawness of their confrontation. Chan stood there, still unable to fully grasp what was happening. It was as if his reality had been cracked open, exposing the raw, painful truth that had been buried inside him for so long.

He hadn’t expected them to believe him so easily, or at least not so quickly. In a way, he had prepared himself for more rejection, more dismissal of his pain. But now, as he looked at their faces—softened with concern, regret, and guilt—he felt something he hadn’t dared to hope for in a long time: safety.

Seungkwan, who had always been so quick to protect his friends, was the first to reach out. His hand, warm and gentle, landed on Chan’s shoulder. "You’re not alone anymore, Chan," he said quietly, voice thick with emotion. "We’re going to take care of you. I promise."

Chan’s throat tightened, the floodgates of his emotions threatening to break. He had been so used to fighting this battle on his own, so accustomed to silence and isolation, that hearing those words felt like a balm to a wound he hadn’t realized was still raw.

Jeonghan stepped forward, his usually calm expression now a mix of anger and sorrow. "We should’ve seen this sooner," he muttered, shaking his head as if berating himself. "I can’t believe we let this happen."

Chan tried to shake his head, to reassure them that it wasn’t their fault, that he had kept it hidden on purpose. But before he could say anything, Hoshi spoke again, his voice filled with a quiet resolve. "We’re going to get him. The choreographer. He won’t hurt you anymore, Chan. I’ll make sure of it."

A collective murmur of agreement rippled through the group. Every single one of them looked at Chan with determination, as if their shared anger was now a unified force that would not be ignored. But for Chan, that anger wasn’t just for the choreographer. It was for the years of abuse he had suffered in silence, and the guilt he had carried for not speaking sooner. For not trusting them sooner.

"I... I don’t want to make things worse," Chan whispered, the weight of his own words seeming to crush him. "I don’t want to cause trouble."

Mingyu, who had been standing at the back, stepped forward, his tall frame blocking out the others’ faces for a moment. His voice was steady, but there was a visible strain beneath it. "No, Chan. This isn’t your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. We’ll deal with the consequences together."

Vernon, usually so reserved, spoke up next. "We’ve all got your back. This isn’t just your problem. It’s ours too."

Chan felt his knees wobble, and he was grateful for Seungkwan’s firm grip on his shoulder, steadying him. For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t alone in the darkness. There was light now—flickering, tentative, but real.

As the conversation died down, they moved to the next step. Hoshi, now leading the charge, made sure to gather the members together for a brief meeting in their dorm later that night. It wasn’t just about confronting the choreographer; it was about making sure they all understood what had happened, and how they could help Chan heal from the scars that couldn’t be seen.

But even as they discussed what to do next, Chan couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. That nagging voice inside his head, the one that had kept him silent for so long, whispered that things weren’t going to be easy. That, even though they wanted to help, the path ahead would be fraught with struggles and setbacks.

"Chan," Joshua said, breaking through his spiraling thoughts. "You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. We’re not going to push you. But we need to figure out what happens next. How we can protect you."

"I—" Chan paused, swallowing hard. "I don’t want to go back. To the practice room. I don’t want to face him again."

And that was the truth. The very thought of having to face the choreographer, to be under his cruel control again, sent waves of panic rushing through Chan’s body. He could still feel the marks on his arm where the choreographer had gripped him, still hear the words that had echoed in his ears long after the incident had ended.

"We won’t let him hurt you again," Seungkwan promised, his voice firm. "We’ll make sure he knows he’s not welcome here. And if he tries anything... we’ll take care of it."

The conviction in Seungkwan’s words reassured Chan more than anything. It wasn’t just a promise—it was a vow, one that Chan knew he could trust. They weren’t going to let this go, and they weren’t going to let him face this alone.

The next few days were a blur of discussions and plans. The group knew they needed to handle this carefully—after all, the choreographer had been a part of their lives for so long, and they didn’t know who else he might be manipulating or threatening. They contacted their manager and the higher-ups, explaining the situation in as much detail as Chan was comfortable with.

It was then that they realized just how deep the choreographer’s manipulation had run. No one had suspected anything—because, to everyone else, he had always been the charming, supportive mentor who had only the best intentions for them. The truth was far uglier than any of them had imagined.

Chan had to face the reality that even if the choreographer was removed, the damage had been done. The emotional scars were far deeper than anyone could see. He would need time—time to rebuild the trust he had lost, not just in the people around him, but in himself.

____________________

The days following the confrontation were difficult. The choreographer, once a constant presence in their daily lives, was gone. Fired, removed from the team, and never to be seen again. But that didn’t mean things suddenly became easier for Chan or the rest of SEVENTEEN.

The first thing they did was clear the air. The members sat together in the practice room, where everything had taken place, to talk openly. To apologize, to listen, and to start rebuilding the trust they had once taken for granted.

It was an uncomfortable conversation, but it was necessary. No one knew what to say at first—how could they? The reality of how much Chan had suffered under their noses had shaken them to their core. They had failed to see the signs, and no matter how hard they tried to explain that they hadn’t known, that they hadn’t meant to hurt him, it didn’t change the fact that they had been blind.

"Chan, I’m so sorry," Jeonghan said, his voice full of regret. He sat across from the youngest member, eyes filled with remorse. "I should’ve listened to you sooner. I should’ve known better."

"I—" Chan began, but his throat tightened. He wasn’t angry anymore—not at them. He had been angry for so long, so deeply, at the choreographer, at himself, at the situation. But now, hearing their words, seeing the sincerity in their eyes, he couldn’t stay angry. He just felt... tired.

"You don’t have to apologize," Chan whispered, looking down at his hands. "It’s not your fault. I kept it to myself. I didn’t want to cause any problems."

"But you were hurting, Chan," Joshua said softly, moving closer to him. "You don’t have to carry all that by yourself. We’re your family. We should’ve been there for you."

Chan blinked back tears. "I didn’t want to burden you."

"You’re not a burden," Mingyu interjected. His tone was steady but firm. "You’re a part of this group. And we’re going to take care of you now. We’re here for you, always."

The words came slowly, but they began to take root in Chan’s heart. Each apology, each vow of support, softened the walls he had built around himself over the past few months. It didn’t fix everything, and it didn’t take away the pain of the past. But it was a start.

The healing process was never going to be linear. Some days, Chan woke up and felt like he was fine—he was laughing with his members, practicing without the heavy weight of fear pressing on his chest. Other days, the memories came flooding back. His heart would race, his palms would sweat, and he would feel like he was suffocating under the weight of it all.

But the difference now was that he wasn’t facing it alone. His members, once distant, now gathered around him with such tenderness, such care, that it felt like a lifeline. They weren’t just offering him their apologies; they were showing him their love. They were proving, in every quiet moment, that he was worthy of that love.

Seungkwan, who had been a pillar of strength through it all, had taken it upon himself to make sure Chan felt supported. He sat with him during meals, made sure he was eating enough, even made light-hearted jokes to ease the tension that still clung to Chan’s shoulders. "Remember when you used to say you wanted to be taller than me? Looks like that’s not happening anytime soon, huh?" Seungkwan teased, a grin on his face.

Chan managed a small smile, the first genuine one in days. "I’ll catch up," he teased back.

In these small moments, things slowly began to change. The group was learning how to listen more, to support more, and to see the signs of pain that had once been so easily overlooked. It wasn’t about making everything better right away—it was about being there, showing up for each other, and taking the time to heal together.

One evening, after a particularly draining rehearsal, Chan sat down in the common room with his members. They were all gathered around, unwinding after a long day of practice. But Chan couldn’t shake the feeling that something still wasn’t quite right.

"I’m sorry," he said, breaking the silence. "I don’t know how to be okay again. It’s hard... to just move on like nothing happened."

Vernon, sitting nearby, looked up from his phone, his gaze softening. "It’s okay to not be okay," he said quietly. "You don’t have to be perfect, Chan. We’re going to help you get there, at your own pace."

That was all Chan needed to hear. He didn’t have to be perfect. He didn’t have to have it all figured out. He had his members, his family, beside him—each of them offering their support in their own ways, not forcing him to move faster than he could, but walking with him at every step.

____________________

A few weeks later, things were beginning to feel somewhat normal again. But for Chan, that normalcy came with a new understanding: the scars from the past weren’t something that could be erased. But they could heal. Slowly, piece by piece, he was learning to let go of the shame, the fear, and the pain that had once dominated his life.

And in the silence of that healing, with the unconditional love of his members around him, Chan found hope.

Hope that one day, he would be able to speak freely again without fear. Hope that the darkness would no longer feel so consuming. And hope that he could, once again, believe in the power of love—the love of his family.

His family.

SEVENTEEN.

Chapter Text

The buzz of SEVENTEEN's rehearsal room was electric, a mix of chatter and the shuffle of sneakers against the floor. Everyone was scattered about, stretching, warming up, or finishing the last details of their practice before heading into the main event. But amidst the clamor, there was one constant sound: Jeonghan's voice.

"Dino, drink some water."

Dino, who was in the middle of a particularly complicated dance move, didn’t even look up as he made a noise of acknowledgment, trying to push through the moves. He had been running on little sleep, but that didn’t stop him from throwing himself into the choreography with his usual intensity.

“Dino,” Jeonghan’s voice was persistent, warm, and just a little too knowing. “Water. Now.”

With a sigh, Dino slowed his movements and glanced over at Jeonghan, who was standing by the side of the room, arms crossed, looking like a parent on duty. Dino shot him a teasing look, pretending to scowl. “I’m fine, hyung,” he said, making his voice dramatic.

“You always say that,” Jeonghan replied with a smirk. “But I’m not buying it.”

“I swear, you’re like my mom,” Dino grumbled, rolling his eyes, but there was no real annoyance in his tone.

Jeonghan's gaze softened, his eyes flicking between Dino and the rest of the group, assessing whether he was truly okay. Satisfied that Dino wasn’t about to collapse on the spot, Jeonghan approached him, holding out a water bottle like it was a life raft.

“Just drink. I’m not asking,” he teased, his voice dripping with mock sternness. Dino could hear the affection beneath it, even if the playfulness was clear.

“I’m literally fine, hyung,” Dino protested, but he took the water anyway, not wanting to prolong the conversation. As soon as the bottle was in his hands, Jeonghan was back to observing him like some sort of personal bodyguard.

“Good,” Jeonghan said, and when Dino took a sip, he nodded, satisfied for now.

Dino couldn’t help the small grin that tugged at his lips. Sure, it was a bit much sometimes, but there was something about Jeonghan’s overprotectiveness that made him feel… well, safe. Not annoying, but safe. Like everything was okay, even when the world around them was moving at breakneck speed.

As Dino finished off the bottle, he glanced at Jeonghan again, who was still watching him with a gaze that was both amused and somehow protective.

“Fine,” Dino said, pulling off his sweatshirt to prepare for the next round of practice. “But if I fall over dead from dehydration, I’m blaming you.”

Jeonghan smirked. “I’ll be right there to catch you.”

Dino made a noise of mock exasperation as he headed back to join the others, but his heart warmed at the familiar routine. This was just how it was with Jeonghan. He could pretend to be annoyed, but deep down, he appreciated it more than he’d ever let on.

As Dino moved to the center of the room, he caught the eyes of the other members, who had clearly been watching the exchange.

“Someone’s getting spoiled,” Woozi teased, looking over his shoulder as he stretched.

“Jeonghan hyung got his eyes on you like a hawk,” Hoshi chimed in, nudging Dino with his elbow. “He’s got a whole checklist of things you’re supposed to do, doesn’t he?”

“Definitely,” DK added with a laugh, glancing at Jeonghan. “I wouldn’t mind having him looking out for me, actually.”

Dino shot them all a deadpan look. “He’s like my mom, guys. Not in a cool way.”

“I think you’re more like his baby brother,” Seungkwan said with a smirk, joining the conversation.

Dino couldn’t help but snort. “Yeah, and I’m definitely not asking for that.”

Jeonghan, from his spot by the wall, caught their teasing and raised an eyebrow. “You all are just jealous. At least I care about my youngest member.” His voice was light, but there was no mistaking the affection behind it. He paused for a moment before adding, “And I’ll make sure Dino doesn’t pass out before the concert, unlike some people around here.”

Hoshi threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, we get it. Jeonghan hyung is the best at taking care of us.”

Dino rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything more. He already knew what was coming next—Jeonghan was going to be the one to make sure he was hydrated, stretched, and fed, even if it meant embarrassing him in front of the others. But it was hard to stay annoyed when you knew that kind of attention was coming from a place of love, not control.

As they went back to the practice, Dino could feel Jeonghan’s eyes on him again. He half-wondered if the older man was even capable of relaxing for five minutes without worrying about whether Dino was taking care of himself.

And honestly? Dino wouldn’t have it any other way.

____________________

The rest of practice passed in a flurry of movements, music, and occasional bursts of laughter, but through it all, Jeonghan's watchful gaze never strayed too far from Dino. It wasn't overbearing in a way that felt intrusive, though—more like a gentle, unspoken promise that if anything went wrong, Jeonghan would be there to handle it.

During a particularly challenging section of the choreography, Dino felt his legs start to ache, the tension building up in his calves. He had barely noticed when Jeonghan started to drift closer, keeping his distance but close enough to sense the subtle shift in Dino's energy.

“Are you okay?” Jeonghan’s voice was low, quiet, and just for Dino.

Dino shot him a grin, trying to brush it off. “Totally fine. Just... stretching a little more than usual.”

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, his expression never wavering. "If you say so," he said, tone dripping with a mixture of skepticism and care. "But you’re looking a little sluggish. If you need to take a break, just say the word."

“I’m not a baby,” Dino huffed, but even he could hear the slight laugh in his voice. There was no way to be genuinely annoyed with Jeonghan's concern when it felt like a warm blanket surrounding him.

“I don’t know,” Jeonghan teased lightly, nudging him with his elbow. “Sometimes I wonder.”

The teasing wasn’t malicious—it was the kind of playful poke only two people who were deeply comfortable with each other could manage. But even as Jeonghan nudged him, his eyes were still scanning Dino for any signs of discomfort. It was as if he could sense the tiniest shift in Dino’s body, even when Dino was trying his best to hide it.

"Hyung, seriously," Dino said, half-laughing and half-exasperated, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I’m fine. You know I can handle it."

“Mm-hmm,” Jeonghan hummed knowingly, before, as if on cue, reaching down and grabbing the bottle of water from the side of the room, bringing it over to Dino without another word.

Dino made an exaggerated face of annoyance but accepted the water anyway. “I swear, you’re like a puppy sometimes,” he grumbled.

Jeonghan simply raised an eyebrow in mock offense, his lips curling into a smile. “I’m not a puppy. I’m just looking out for you.”

"Yeah, well, I can do my own looking out, thank you very much," Dino said, swiping the water bottle from Jeonghan’s hand with a dramatic flourish.

But even as he said that, he caught Jeonghan’s gaze—the soft, unspoken care lingering in his eyes—and felt an overwhelming sense of appreciation. It was moments like this when Dino realized that Jeonghan’s constant concern wasn’t just about keeping him safe or protected. It was about love. The kind of love that showed itself in the smallest of actions: a water bottle handed over at just the right time, a quiet glance to make sure he wasn’t overexerting himself, a shoulder offered to lean on when the weight of the world felt too heavy.

The music started up again, and the group fell back into their positions. Dino caught Jeonghan's eye for just a second, offering him a small but genuine smile. Jeonghan raised his chin slightly in return, a silent acknowledgment between the two of them.

As the rest of practice wore on, Jeonghan’s overprotectiveness didn’t lessen—if anything, it grew more noticeable. Every time they stopped for a break, Jeonghan would sidle up to Dino, making sure he was drinking enough water, stretching enough, or just generally taking care of himself. It was sweet, even if it was a bit much. The rest of the members, used to Jeonghan’s antics by now, just chuckled and carried on with their own routines, though they didn’t hesitate to throw in a teasing remark every now and then.

“Jeonghan hyung,” Seungkwan started with a smirk, “are you sure Dino doesn’t need a nap, too? Maybe you should tuck him in with a blanket before we head to the stage.”

“I’ll make sure to get him his favorite pillow, too,” Jeonghan replied deadpan, eyes flicking over to Dino, who was pretending to roll his eyes. “It’s for his own good.”

“You guys really are like an old married couple,” Joshua teased, adjusting his hat as he stood in the corner, a slight grin on his face. "Next thing you know, Jeonghan’s gonna be picking out Dino’s outfits for him."

Dino gasped in mock horror, clutching his chest. “Please don’t. I’m capable of dressing myself, hyung.”

“Oh, I know you are,” Jeonghan replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “But I just want to make sure you don’t accidentally wear something... embarrassing.”

“I’m not embarrassed by anything,” Dino retorted, though the corners of his lips twitched, betraying his amusement. He knew it was all in good fun.

As the group continued to banter, Dino couldn’t help but glance over at Jeonghan once more. Despite the teasing, despite the occasional dramatic sighs, he couldn’t deny how much he secretly appreciated it all—the hovering, the care, the little reminders to take care of himself.

Jeonghan wasn’t just being overbearing for the sake of it. It was his way of saying, I’ve got you. No matter what, Dino always knew Jeonghan would be there to catch him, whether he needed water, a laugh, or a moment of reassurance.

And maybe, just maybe, Dino liked it more than he was willing to admit.

____________________

The following day was just another whirlwind of rehearsals, photoshoots, and the steady rhythm of SEVENTEEN's chaotic routine. The group was in a rehearsal space, prepping for a big upcoming concert. Despite the usual hustle and bustle, Jeonghan's overprotectiveness remained a constant, like a soft hum in the background, ever present, yet never overbearing.

Dino was stretching by the side of the room when Jeonghan’s voice broke through the noise of the other members warming up.

"Drink some water, Chan."

It wasn’t even a question—it was a gentle command wrapped in concern. Jeonghan was standing by the door, his arms crossed, his gaze lingering on Dino as if he could sense the exact moment Dino might start to push himself too hard. Dino had only been stretching for five minutes, but that was enough for Jeonghan to think he might be overexerting himself.

“I just got some,” Dino said, nodding toward the bottle beside him. But the moment he said it, Jeonghan was already walking over, plucking the bottle from his hand, and unscrewing the cap with practiced ease.

“Mm, this is too warm. You should drink fresh water.”

“Hyung, I’m fine. Seriously, I’m not a child.” Dino said it lightly, trying to sound annoyed, but the soft corner of his mouth hinted at a smile. “I’m capable of holding my own water bottle.”

Jeonghan tilted his head, inspecting the bottle. "Just drink it," he said, his voice not leaving room for argument. “If you drink warm water, you might get dehydrated more easily.”

Dino rolled his eyes in a mock display of annoyance, but he took the bottle anyway, indulging Jeonghan’s stubborn need to care for him. He took a swig, knowing full well that the routine would continue for the rest of the day—Jeonghan would find some other way to make sure he was okay, even if it was something as simple as checking his water temperature.

It was a strange kind of routine, this unspoken ritual they shared. The other members had noticed it by now, of course. Some of them found it amusing, others found it endearing. But Dino—well, Dino secretly liked it more than he would admit.

"Why do you always do this?" Dino asked, his voice a little quieter this time as he set the bottle down and stretched his arms over his head.

Jeonghan shrugged, leaning against the wall with an easy smile. "Because you're my responsibility. And I'm not going to let you wear yourself out before the concert."

Dino blinked at him, caught off guard by the simple statement. His mouth opened slightly as he processed it, but before he could say anything, Jeonghan was already turning away to rejoin the group. "Now, get back to stretching. I’ll make sure you don’t overdo it."

That was it. No grand declaration. No heavy explanation. Just a quiet commitment to watch out for him, always.

____________________

Later, as they took a break from practice, the group settled into the lounge area, catching their breath and chatting about anything but work. Jeonghan’s eyes found Dino almost immediately, as if he couldn't help himself. Dino was sitting on the couch, his legs stretched out, chatting animatedly with Joshua and Woozi.

But Jeonghan could see the way Dino was rubbing his temple, an unconscious gesture that spoke louder than words. He wasn’t in pain, but Jeonghan knew that look—Dino was probably starting to feel the effects of a long day. It was the kind of thing Dino would never admit out loud.

Without a word, Jeonghan got up and walked over to him, sitting down on the couch beside him. Dino looked over with a surprised grin, but it was clear he wasn’t quite expecting Jeonghan to hover right next to him.

“Something wrong with your head?” Jeonghan asked softly, his voice gentle as he leaned closer.

Dino shook his head, brushing it off. "Nah, just a little tired, I guess. The whole day’s been kind of a blur.”

Jeonghan didn’t buy it for a second. He reached over and gently took hold of Dino’s shoulder, his fingers pressing lightly but firmly, massaging the muscles there. "You should've told me if you weren’t feeling well," Jeonghan chided, his tone affectionate but filled with a faint sense of reproach.

“I’m fine, hyung,” Dino said, trying to sound annoyed but failing. “Really, I don’t need a shoulder rub.”

But as Jeonghan’s fingers worked their magic, Dino couldn’t help but lean into the touch. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the tension melt away. Jeonghan had a way of knowing exactly where the stress built up, and his touch was always the right kind of soothing.

"You’re not fine, Chan," Jeonghan said quietly, his voice warm with concern. "You’re pushing yourself too hard."

Dino snorted, opening one eye to look at Jeonghan. "I’m fine, really. But this...this feels nice."

Jeonghan’s lips quirked up in a small, satisfied smile. "Good. I’m glad. But I’ll still be checking up on you all day."

“I didn’t think I’d need a babysitter,” Dino teased with a mock pout, but it was clear that the playful jab wasn’t meant to deter Jeonghan in the slightest.

Jeonghan just chuckled. “Well, you do. At least, I think you do.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “And someone needs to keep you in line.”

By now, Dino couldn’t help but laugh along, the warmth of Jeonghan’s care settling in his chest like a comforting embrace. He knew he’d never really escape Jeonghan’s watchful eye, and honestly, he didn’t want to.

Just as Dino was about to say something else, Seungkwan wandered over, looking at the two of them with an exaggerated look of disbelief.

“Honestly, you two,” Seungkwan huffed. “If you’re not careful, people might start thinking you’re dating or something.”

Both Dino and Jeonghan froze for a split second before bursting into laughter.

“Seungkwan hyung, please,” Dino said, trying to catch his breath from laughing too hard. “It’s not like that!”

“Yeah, exactly,” Jeonghan added, his smirk wide. “I’m just making sure Dino doesn’t die of exhaustion. He’s too stubborn for his own good.”

Dino shot Jeonghan a mock glare. “I’m not that bad. And I definitely don’t need you to babysit me.”

Jeonghan just winked. “I think you do, though.”

As the banter continued, the other members rolled their eyes, but deep down, they could see the truth in Jeonghan’s actions—no matter how much he teased, his care for Dino was genuine. And it was that care that made their bond so special—small acts of love and affection, hidden in every teasing remark, every gesture that went unnoticed by most.

It was simple, really. But for Dino, it was everything.

____________________

After the brief and lighthearted moment with Seungkwan, the rehearsal continued in its usual chaotic rhythm. However, for Dino, it felt slightly different this time. As he watched Jeonghan walk away, his eyes lingering on him for just a second longer than usual, something inside him softened. The warmth Jeonghan radiated, so effortlessly, made everything feel a little more comfortable. He couldn’t deny that having Jeonghan always looking out for him was a comfort in itself.

____________________

The afternoon drifted into evening, and the members made their way back to the dorm after a long day of practices and schedules. Tired and ready to crash, everyone scattered to their rooms with the intention of grabbing a quick bite, washing up, and passing out. The only noise left in the house was the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the occasional sounds of someone rummaging for a snack.

Dino was halfway through his meal when Jeonghan appeared by the door, his figure silhouetted against the soft light in the hallway. His gaze was locked on Dino, his eyes scanning the younger member as though he were searching for something.

Dino didn’t have to look up to know what was coming next. He had learned by now that Jeonghan didn’t do anything without reason, and this moment was no different. It wasn’t just about checking if Dino had eaten enough, though that would probably come next—it was the way Jeonghan always seemed to check in, even when it didn’t feel like it was necessary.

"Do you need anything?" Jeonghan asked, his tone casual, but the concern was there. "Water, extra blankets, a snack—anything?"

Dino looked up, his mouth full of food. He swallowed quickly before answering, a grin already tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’m fine, hyung. I promise I can take care of myself.”

Jeonghan narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. "I’m just making sure you’re okay. Can’t let you go without proper rest. It’s important to—"

"I’m not going to pass out from exhaustion, I swear," Dino interrupted, rolling his eyes in a playful exaggeration.

But Jeonghan wasn’t having it. He walked in, his steps light, and started rummaging through the closet. "You’re getting some extra blankets tonight. It’s cold in here, and you always say you’re fine, but I don’t trust that."

Dino snorted, trying to hide his smile behind his hand. "You’ve got to stop this," he said, his voice muffled.

But Jeonghan didn’t hear him—or maybe he didn’t care. In any case, Jeonghan proceeded with his mission, pulling out a thick blanket from the pile and laying it across Dino's legs with the precision of someone who had done it a hundred times before.

"There you go," Jeonghan said, stepping back with a satisfied look. "Now you won’t freeze to death in the middle of the night."

Dino couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head at Jeonghan’s antics. “You know, I really don’t need this much care,” he teased, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “I can survive without being swaddled in five layers.”

“Just making sure,” Jeonghan said, his voice oddly gentle despite the playful teasing. He paused for a moment, meeting Dino’s eyes with an unspoken message that was only ever shared between the two of them. “You never know. I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

Dino’s smile softened, his teasing fading just slightly. He reached out, patting the spot beside him on the couch. “I know. I’m just messing with you.”

Jeonghan’s expression softened too. He sat down beside Dino, giving him a side glance. "If you ever need anything, just ask, okay? Even if it's something small. I’ve got you covered."

It was a simple statement, but it hit Dino in the chest, a reminder of the unshakeable bond between them. The older member’s devotion was unwavering, even in the little things. In that moment, Dino felt incredibly lucky. It wasn’t just about the blankets or the little acts of care—though they were sweet—it was about the fact that Jeonghan always saw him, always cared for him, even when it felt unnecessary.

“Okay, okay. I’ll ask for help if I need it,” Dino said with a soft smile, knowing it was unlikely he would ever let Jeonghan see the full extent of how much he appreciated it.

"Good," Jeonghan said, his voice low but satisfied. He leaned back on the couch, making himself comfortable next to Dino, who was now snuggled under the blankets Jeonghan insisted on giving him.

____________________

A few days later, during a practice session, the group was rehearsing their choreography for the upcoming concert. Sweat was dripping from their brows, and some of them were visibly struggling with the fatigue that came with long hours of practice. The members were trying to push through, but Dino was starting to slow down. He had been feeling a little under the weather for the past few hours, but he hadn’t wanted to say anything.

But Jeonghan noticed. He always did.

Without a word, Jeonghan approached him, tapping his shoulder lightly. "You okay?" he asked, his voice soft but serious, like he could tell something wasn’t quite right.

Dino tried to brush it off, waving his hand in the air as though it were nothing. "I’m fine, just a little tired. It’s nothing."

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. He looked Dino up and down, his gaze lingering a moment too long. "No," he said simply, before turning to the others. "We’re taking a five-minute break."

Seungkwan, who had been monitoring the situation from a distance, raised his hand. "You sure you want to stop? We’re almost through with this run."

Jeonghan didn’t even look at him. His focus remained entirely on Dino. "Five minutes. Now."

Dino opened his mouth to protest, but Jeonghan had already walked off, pulling him gently away from the group. He didn’t ask for permission. He didn’t need to.

Once they were in the corner of the room, Jeonghan crossed his arms, giving Dino a pointed look. "Sit down, Chan. No arguing."

Dino sighed but obeyed, plopping onto the bench nearby. "I’m really fine, hyung. Just a little tired. I’ll push through, okay?"

Jeonghan knelt in front of him, placing a hand on his knee. "Rest for a minute. You’re not pushing through anything if you’re exhausted." He paused for a moment, his brow furrowing. "You don’t need to prove anything. Let us take care of you sometimes."

Dino blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in Jeonghan’s words. A part of him wanted to argue, wanted to show he could do it himself, but he knew it wouldn’t work. It never did with Jeonghan.

"Thanks," Dino said quietly, his voice softening. "I guess... I guess I don’t say it enough, but I really appreciate it."

Jeonghan smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from Dino’s forehead. "I know you do."

____________________

The days blurred together in the whirlwind of practice sessions, interviews, and the anticipation building up toward SEVENTEEN's next concert. Everyone was riding the high of excitement, but in the midst of it all, Jeonghan's overprotectiveness never wavered. Every small detail mattered to him, from making sure Dino was drinking enough water to checking if he had enough rest between schedules. The other members, of course, had started to catch on to Jeonghan's hovering and sometimes teased him for it—especially Dino.

One morning, after a particularly intense practice, Jeonghan had made his usual rounds. The members were lounging in the break room, chatting and munching on snacks while taking a much-needed breather. Jeonghan’s eyes were locked on Dino, who was sitting in a corner, nursing a bottle of water.

"Is that all you've had to drink today?" Jeonghan asked, his voice laced with concern as he stood in front of Dino, blocking his line of sight to the rest of the room. "You should drink more. Are you feeling okay?"

Dino sighed dramatically, leaning back in his seat. “Hyung, seriously, I’m fine. I had a whole bottle of water right before we started. I’m not dehydrated.”

Jeonghan wasn’t convinced. He knelt down in front of him, peering into his eyes like a worried parent inspecting their child for signs of illness. “I can’t take your word for it. You’re probably dehydrated and don’t even know it.”

With a mischievous glint in his eye, Dino decided it was time for a little fun. He raised his hands defensively, exaggerating the gesture for effect. “No, no! I’m fine, hyung. You can stop treating me like I’m a sick puppy.”

At this, Jeonghan’s eyes widened slightly, an almost offended expression crossing his face. He opened his mouth, but before he could respond, Seungkwan piped up from across the room.

“Jeonghan hyung, you seriously have to stop with the ‘mommy’ act! Dino’s not going to break.” He raised an eyebrow teasingly. “Although, if you’d like to be the overprotective parent, just make sure to send him off to school with a lunchbox next time.”

“Hey!” Dino protested, crossing his arms and mock-pouting at Seungkwan’s teasing. “I can take care of myself!”

Jeonghan, ever the perfectionist, ignored the teasing and crouched down to Dino’s level, inspecting the bottle of water in his hand like it was some sort of unsolved puzzle. “I’m not convinced. You barely drank any of it.” He reached over, snatching the bottle away from Dino with a stern, parental air.

“Hey! I was drinking that!” Dino protested, reaching out in mock desperation.

Jeonghan held the bottle just out of reach, his arms lengthening as Dino tried to snatch it back. “Not until you finish all of it,” Jeonghan said, almost smugly, like he’d won some sort of battle.

The room erupted in laughter. The other members were watching this play out with a mixture of amusement and exasperation, clearly used to the dynamic by now. Woozi leaned against the doorframe, a smirk playing on his lips. “Jeonghan hyung is officially taking over as the ‘group mom’,” he muttered, earning a laugh from Joshua.

Dino, never one to back down from a challenge, narrowed his eyes at Jeonghan. “You’re just trying to make me look bad in front of everyone,” he teased, sticking out his tongue.

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You think I care about how you look in front of the others?” He turned his attention back to the water bottle, unscrewing the cap and raising it to Dino’s lips. “Drink.”

Dino crossed his arms, refusing to be pushed into submission. “No,” he said, but the playful defiance in his voice gave him away. He then grabbed the bottle from Jeonghan’s hand, taking a sip with exaggerated slowness. “There. Happy now?”

Jeonghan stood back up, satisfied. “You’re lucky I love you, or I’d probably make you drink two more bottles.”

Dino rolled his eyes, trying to hide the smile threatening to spread across his face. “You’re impossible.”

____________________

Later that evening, after a long day of rehearsals and a concert prep meeting, the group finally settled down for the night in their shared dorm. The lights were dimmed, and the quiet hum of the air conditioning was the only sound filling the room.

Dino was sitting on the couch, his legs crossed, going through some choreography notes from the rehearsal earlier. Jeonghan walked in a few moments later, carrying a warm, fuzzy blanket that he’d apparently retrieved from his room.

"Alright," Jeonghan said, his voice a little too casual, "I brought you something.”

Dino looked up from his notes with a raised eyebrow. “What’s this?”

Jeonghan held up the blanket, his expression serious. "You’re going to use this."

Dino’s face twisted into a comically exaggerated expression of frustration. “Seriously? You’re going to cover me with this too? What is it with you and blankets?”

"Don’t act like you don’t need them. You always get cold," Jeonghan replied, sitting beside Dino and wrapping the blanket around his shoulders without waiting for permission.

Dino stared at Jeonghan for a moment, his mouth open, ready to protest—but then he sighed, smiling warmly. "You really are impossible."

Jeonghan smirked, settling down beside him. "I know. But at least you know you’re in good hands."

Dino chuckled softly, leaning into the warmth of the blanket and Jeonghan’s casual presence. He might have pretended to be annoyed, but deep down, he loved it. He loved how Jeonghan took care of him in ways that no one else did, always looking out for his well-being with such quiet devotion.

As the night wore on, the teasing died down, replaced by comfortable silence. The other members had already gone to bed, but Jeonghan remained with Dino, both of them content to simply share the moment.

"So, do you still think I’m being overprotective?" Jeonghan asked, a playful edge to his voice.

Dino smiled, leaning his head back against the couch. "Maybe a little... but I don’t mind it."

Jeonghan’s grin softened into something more genuine. “Good. Because I’m not stopping anytime soon.”

And in that moment, Dino realized something. No matter how much Jeonghan teased him or how over-the-top his actions sometimes seemed, it was clear that everything Jeonghan did came from a place of love—genuine, unshakeable love. And for Dino, that was more than enough.

____________________

The next day was an especially busy one, with a packed rehearsal schedule followed by interviews and a photoshoot. Dino had woken up with a slight headache, but he tried to shake it off. As much as he appreciated the attention Jeonghan showered him with, sometimes it did feel like he was being smothered. But Jeonghan’s concern never seemed to waver, and Dino could never really bring himself to complain too much.

During a break between rehearsals, Dino wandered into the practice room where Jeonghan was busy fiddling with his phone. He wasn’t sure why he was there—probably just to get away from the hustle of the other members—but when Jeonghan looked up, his eyes immediately fixed on Dino, the usual concern flashing across his face.

“You okay?” Jeonghan asked before Dino could even sit down, his voice full of that all-too-familiar worry.

“I’m fine,” Dino said, waving his hand dismissively as he plopped onto the floor. “Just a little headache, but I’ll be fine.”

Jeonghan tilted his head, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “Are you sure? You look pale. Maybe you should take a break.”

Dino smirked, deciding to push Jeonghan’s buttons a little. “Hyung, I’m fine. You don’t have to treat me like a fragile doll every time something goes wrong.”

Jeonghan frowned, clearly not pleased with the teasing. “What do you mean by that? I’m just looking out for you.”

“Oh, I know,” Dino said, playfully stretching his arms above his head. “It’s just that sometimes you act like I’m going to collapse any minute. You can’t keep hovering around me all the time.”

Jeonghan’s lips parted in disbelief. “Hovering? I’m not hovering, I’m just... trying to take care of you.”

Dino leaned back on his hands, enjoying the playful banter. “You know, maybe I like the attention. It’s not the worst thing in the world.”

Jeonghan stared at him for a moment, and then, with a smirk of his own, leaned in closer to Dino. “Is that so? You like being treated like a baby, huh?”

Dino’s eyes widened, realizing he might’ve made a mistake in encouraging Jeonghan’s teasing. He quickly tried to backtrack. “N-No, I didn’t mean it like that! I just—”

But Jeonghan, ever the troublemaker, didn’t give him a chance to finish. “So you want me to treat you like a baby, huh?” He then leaned even closer, his face only inches from Dino’s, his voice dropping into a dramatic whisper. “Alright, little Dino, I’ll take care of you.”

Before Dino could react, Jeonghan gently placed his hands on Dino’s shoulders and squeezed them in what could only be described as an absurdly affectionate—and borderline condescending—gesture. The other members had walked into the room by now, and of course, they noticed what was happening.

“Jeonghan hyung, what are you doing?” Mingyu asked, raising an eyebrow at the scene in front of him.

Dino immediately shot him an annoyed look, but Jeonghan just grinned. “Just giving Dino a little bit of extra care. You know, because he’s so fragile.” He ruffled Dino’s hair, despite the younger member swatting his hand away.

“Stop, hyung,” Dino grumbled, trying to shove Jeonghan away with a mock scowl, but his resistance was weak. It was clear he was secretly enjoying the attention, despite his attempts to act annoyed.

Seungkwan walked in, catching the tail end of the interaction. “Ah, here we go again,” he said with a knowing smile. “Jeonghan hyung got the ‘mommy’ vibe going strong today.”

“Oh, come on,” Dino muttered, his face flushing slightly at the teasing. “I’m not that fragile.”

Jeonghan, still in his playful mood, continued to ignore Dino’s protests. “Oh, I think you are,” he teased, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. “You should be careful, you might get a cold if you don’t take better care of yourself.”

Dino rolled his eyes, his patience wearing thin—but then, as Jeonghan’s teasing began to drag on just a bit too long, something unexpected happened. Jeonghan gave him a quick squeeze on the shoulder—one that was meant to be playful, but for a split second, Dino’s head started to spin.

He blinked, then shook his head, hoping the dizziness would pass. He could feel the headache from earlier intensifying. It wasn’t bad, but the pressure was building, making his vision blur for just a moment. He tried to ignore it, but the nagging feeling wouldn’t go away.

Jeonghan noticed it almost instantly. His playful grin faltered, and his brow furrowed in concern. “Dino?” he asked, his tone changing from teasing to concerned in an instant. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Dino opened his mouth to respond, but his words came out more slowly than usual. “Yeah, I... I’m just a little dizzy. It’s nothing, really.”

Jeonghan’s eyes narrowed as he placed a hand gently on Dino’s forehead. “You’re warm. You’re definitely not fine. Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

Dino, feeling slightly embarrassed, rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s nothing, really, hyung. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

But Jeonghan wasn’t having it. “You should have told me! You’re not allowed to just ignore things like this, Dino. You need to take care of yourself.”

Before Dino could even respond, Jeonghan was already standing, his hand on his hip as he looked around the room. “Someone get him some water. He needs to sit down for a bit. Maybe we should cancel his next part in the dance practice.”

Dino, now feeling the weight of Jeonghan’s concern—though secretly touched by it—sighed in exasperation. “I’m fine! Really. It’s just a headache. I don’t need water and a nap.”

The other members were trying to hide their smiles, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. “Dino, you know Jeonghan hyung is not going to let you get away with this, right?” Woozi said, crossing his arms with a small grin.

Dino groaned, leaning back against the wall. “I swear, you guys are all impossible.”

Jeonghan wasn’t listening, though. He had already moved on to his next course of action. “Alright, that’s it. We’re taking a break. Dino, come with me. We’re going to get you some water and make sure you’re comfortable.”

As Dino followed Jeonghan reluctantly, he couldn’t help but smile—despite the slight irritation. Jeonghan might have been overbearing, but deep down, Dino knew there was no one else who cared for him the way Jeonghan did.

And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind being doted on by his overprotective older brother figure after all.

____________________

After the brief interruption in practice, Jeonghan insisted on walking Dino to the lounge area, where the rest of the members were taking a break. Dino tried to protest, but Jeonghan wasn’t hearing any of it. The moment they reached the couch, Jeonghan practically guided Dino to sit, his hands hovering around him like an overzealous guardian.

“You’re sure you’re okay now, right?” Jeonghan asked, his voice filled with concern. He hovered over Dino, scanning his face as if he could read every tiny change in his expression.

Dino, now seated with a bottle of water in hand, finally gave in. “I’m fine, hyung. Really. Just a little dizzy. It happens.”

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, but instead of arguing, he sat down next to him, making sure there was enough space between them so that Dino wouldn’t feel entirely suffocated. "Well, I’m glad it’s nothing serious. But you know... I still think you should get some rest after practice."

Dino let out a playful sigh, leaning back against the cushions. “You're unbelievable, you know that?”

Jeonghan smirked, nudging him lightly. "I'm just being careful. Someone has to keep an eye on you. Otherwise, who knows what would happen?"

Dino couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’d survive, you know.”

But Jeonghan just shook his head, his lips quirking up into a smile. “Maybe. But I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

The rest of the members trickled into the lounge, and the mood quickly lightened. Woozi, Mingyu, and DK immediately began making fun of Jeonghan’s behavior, teasing him for being “Mom Jeonghan” once again. Dino couldn’t help but roll his eyes, though the affectionate grin on his face was hard to hide. He was used to this—Jeonghan was always like this, always hovering, always keeping an eye on him. But the truth was, Dino secretly appreciated it. It made him feel safe, even if it was sometimes over the top.

“I’m fine, really,” Dino repeated, this time to the group, though he couldn’t help but smile at the knowing glances the other members exchanged.

Seungkwan, never missing a chance to tease, smirked. “You know, Dino, if you really wanted attention, you could’ve just asked. Jeonghan hyung got enough love to go around.”

Dino shot him a playful glare. “I’m not asking for attention! I’m just saying I’m fine. I don’t need a bodyguard.”

Jeonghan leaned back, resting his arm on the back of the couch. “Well, you’ve got one. And I’m not going anywhere.”

The casual tone of Jeonghan’s words was somehow both amusing and endearing to Dino. He looked over at him, seeing the slight warmth in his eyes. Despite the teasing and banter, Dino knew that Jeonghan would always be there for him. Even if it was sometimes a little too much, it was because Jeonghan genuinely cared.

As the group continued chatting and laughing, Dino took a moment to look at Jeonghan from the corner of his eye. He’d never admit it out loud, but he was grateful. Grateful for Jeonghan’s persistence, for the little things he did to make sure Dino was always okay, even when he pretended to be annoyed. The extra blankets, the constant reminders to drink water, the way Jeonghan would always check if he was eating enough—it was all small, but meaningful. It was a kind of love Dino didn’t know how to ask for, but he was glad it came without him needing to.

“Seriously, though, if you’re not going to stop treating me like a baby, at least give me a snack,” Dino joked, nudging Jeonghan’s shoulder lightly.

Jeonghan, without missing a beat, reached over to grab a bag of chips from the coffee table and handed them to Dino with a grin. “You want snacks? I got snacks. But if you don’t finish them, I’m not letting you have any more.”

Dino took the bag, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Deal. But if I’m eating all of this, you owe me a nap.”

Jeonghan’s eyes widened slightly. “A nap?”

“Yep,” Dino said, popping a chip into his mouth. “You promised I’d rest after practice.”

Jeonghan sighed dramatically, but there was no mistaking the fondness in his voice. “You really know how to play me, don’t you?”

“I’ve learned from the best,” Dino said with a wink, teasing Jeonghan even more.

There was a pause in the conversation as the members took in the scene. It wasn’t unusual for Jeonghan to dote on Dino, but the comfortable, almost familial energy in the air was unmistakable. It was moments like these, amid the teasing and the laughter, that reminded everyone why they were so close. Jeonghan’s overprotectiveness wasn’t something that annoyed them—it was something that, in its own way, helped to hold the group together.

“Alright, alright,” Jeonghan said, shaking his head. “I’ll let you nap after this, but only if you finish those chips.”

Dino smiled, leaning back into the couch, his headache now nearly gone, his heart feeling a little lighter than before. It was an odd kind of peace—one where he could sit back, relax, and let Jeonghan take care of him without feeling like he had to put up any walls. He glanced over at Jeonghan, who was already reaching for his own snack, and felt that familiar warmth that came from knowing there was someone who cared, in the most thoughtful, even if sometimes over-the-top, way possible.

And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind being “baby-ed” by Jeonghan after all. Because no matter how much he joked about it, or how much he pretended to be annoyed, there was comfort in knowing that someone, somewhere, was always going to have his back.

The world outside the practice room might be chaotic, but right here, in this small moment, it felt like everything was just... right.

Chapter Text

Dino had never been the type to complain.

As the maknae of SEVENTEEN, he took pride in being dependable—someone his hyungs could rely on, not someone who needed to be taken care of. He had spent years proving he was strong enough, mature enough, capable enough. Even now, at twenty-five, he still felt the weight of that expectation. Not because his hyungs ever made him feel lesser, but because he never wanted them to.

So when the first sharp pain twisted through his lower abdomen, he ignored it.

It was nothing, he told himself. Maybe he ate too fast, or maybe he was just exhausted. They’d been running on fumes lately, jumping from one schedule to another, and practice had been relentless. His body was sore all over—one more ache wouldn’t make a difference.

He exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders before falling back into step with the others.

"Again," Hoshi called, clapping his hands. The backing track restarted, a familiar beat pounding through the practice room speakers.

Dino locked into position, forcing himself to ignore the way his stomach twisted.

The first hour was fine. By the second, he could feel the discomfort settling deeper, a slow, dull ache blooming low in his side. He shifted his weight slightly, adjusting how he moved to ease the strain, hoping it would pass.

It didn’t.

The third hour dragged on, and the pain sharpened. Every time he twisted his torso, it pulsed hot and insistent beneath his ribs. His muscles were protesting, his movements turning just a fraction too stiff, but he forced himself to keep up.

"Chan-ah," Joshua called out during a water break, tilting his head. "You okay?"

Dino blinked, then nodded quickly, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "Yeah. Just a little tired." He plastered on a grin. "Didn’t get much sleep."

It wasn’t entirely a lie.

Joshua studied him for a moment, but the others were already starting to gather back, and the concern in his expression faded as Hoshi announced the next run-through.

Dino let out a quiet breath. Crisis averted.

____________________

That night, as they returned to the dorm, the pain was still there. It wasn’t unbearable, just… persistent. He shifted on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position as Seungkwan scrolled through his phone beside him.

"You look dead," Seungkwan commented without looking up.

Dino huffed. "Thanks, hyung. That’s exactly what I needed to hear."

Seungkwan finally glanced over, squinting. "No, seriously. You good?"

"I’m fine," Dino said, keeping his voice light. "Just tired from practice."

Seungkwan didn’t seem convinced, but before he could press further, Mingyu wandered in, complaining loudly about being hungry, and the conversation shifted.

Dino took the distraction for what it was.

If he was lucky, maybe the pain would be gone by morning.

____________________

Dino woke up the next morning with the pain still lingering, heavier than before. It wasn’t unbearable, but it was sharp enough that he had to pause as he swung his legs out of bed, pressing a hand against his side.

Not a big deal.

He gritted his teeth, taking slow, measured breaths before forcing himself to stand. The ache in his stomach pulsed in protest, but he ignored it, moving toward the bathroom. The last thing he needed was his hyungs noticing something was off.

By the time he joined the others for breakfast, he had schooled his expression into something neutral, slipping into the usual morning chaos.

“Did you even sleep?” Jeonghan asked, eyeing him as he lazily stirred his coffee.

Dino forced a grin, reaching for a glass of water. “Did any of us?”

“That’s not an answer,” Jeonghan muttered.

But before he could say anything else, Minghao let out a sigh from across the table. “We have another full day today. Vocal unit is recording this morning, performance unit has practice right after, and then there’s the photoshoot.”

Hoshi groaned dramatically, slumping against DK. “We just practiced for hours yesterday.”

Woozi barely looked up from his phone. “And you’ll practice for hours today, too.”

Hoshi gasped, as if personally offended.

Dino laughed, though the movement made something in his side throb. He adjusted his position slightly, taking a careful sip of water. He wasn’t hungry—not with his stomach twisting in on itself—but he knew skipping breakfast would just raise suspicions, so he forced himself to grab some toast.

He ate slowly, chewing deliberately, trying not to think about the nausea creeping at the edges of his stomach.

Seungcheol, seated at the head of the table, glanced up from his phone. His gaze flickered toward Dino briefly before he took a sip of his own coffee. “Make sure you’re all taking care of yourselves,” he reminded them firm.

Dino gave a small nod, hoping Seungcheol wouldn’t look too closely.

He can’t know. None of them can.

____________________

By mid-afternoon, the pain was worsening.

Dino could feel it now, a deep, insistent ache gnawing at his side. It was no longer something he could ignore, but he was still trying.

They were in the middle of practice, the room warm with the heat of their bodies, sweat dripping down their backs. The speakers blared as they ran through their choreography, every movement sharp and precise.

Or at least—his were supposed to be.

But he was slowing down.

It was small, barely noticeable—his footwork just a fraction off, his turns not as sharp, his jumps slightly lower. Anyone watching casually wouldn’t see it, but his members weren’t casual observers. They knew him too well.

Hoshi called for a break, and Dino let himself exhale, pressing his palms against his knees.

His head was swimming. He was sweating more than he should be. His body felt heavy, sluggish.

“Chan,” Seungcheol’s voice was close. Too close.

Dino straightened immediately, blinking past the haze in his head. “Yeah, hyung?”

Seungcheol frowned, eyes scanning over him. “You’re not keeping up.”

Dino forced a breathy laugh, willing his face to stay neutral. “Just a little tired.”

Seungcheol didn’t look convinced.

“Maybe take it easy,” Joshua added from the side, his voice softer.

Dino shook his head. “I’m fine.”

Woozi sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “At least drink more water before you collapse or something.”

That got a laugh out of a few of them, and Dino used the moment to grab his bottle, taking slow sips. He could feel the way Seungcheol’s eyes lingered on him, sharp and assessing, but he refused to let it show.

They moved on, and so did he.

____________________

That night, he could barely stand long enough to shower.

His stomach was screaming now, every breath sending sharp pulses of pain through his side. He gripped the sink, steadying himself, watching his reflection in the mirror. His face was pale, sweat dampening the strands of his hair.

He needed to sleep. Tomorrow will be better.

Dino swallowed the nausea rising in his throat and forced himself to bed.

____________________

The pain didn’t stop.

In fact, it only worsened.

The next morning, Dino awoke with a cold sweat clinging to his skin. He had somehow managed to sleep, but even in the haze of exhaustion, the throbbing in his abdomen felt sharper than ever.

He winced as he sat up, his muscles stiff, his body fighting against every movement. Every inch of him ached, from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet, and his stomach felt like it was on fire. But he told himself again: it’s nothing. It’s just stress. He had pushed through much worse. He wasn’t about to break now.

When he joined the others for breakfast, he immediately regretted it. The effort to smile through the pain was draining. The very act of chewing his food felt like a chore, but he forced himself to do it, silently hoping that if he ignored it long enough, the pain would fade.

Jeonghan eyed him closely, his brows knitting together. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked, his tone gentle but laced with suspicion.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Dino answered too quickly. He wanted to say more, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want them to worry. He didn’t want them to feel burdened.

But Jeonghan didn’t buy it. The older member looked at him for a moment longer before shaking his head. “If you say so.”

Dino forced a grin and stuffed the rest of his toast into his mouth, not daring to say more. He didn’t have the energy to explain that the pain was slowly suffocating him.

____________________

The day’s schedule was a blur, one exhausting thing after another.

The first stop was the vocal studio. The pressure in Dino’s abdomen felt like it had doubled overnight, a persistent, heavy weight that pulled at him with each breath. The last thing he wanted was for the others to notice how his voice was wavering, how his breaths were shallow as he tried to match the pitch. He swallowed his discomfort, pushing through every note, trying to maintain his usual level of performance. But each breath felt like it was ripping something out of him, and his throat burned from the effort.

Hoshi caught him wincing between takes, his eyes narrowing in concern.

“You good, Chan?” Hoshi asked, dropping his hand to Dino’s shoulder, his grip firm and warm.

Dino gave a quick nod, shrugging the pain off with another forced smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little tired from all the rehearsals.”

But Hoshi didn’t seem convinced. He lingered for a moment, his hand still on Dino’s shoulder, his gaze too knowing.

“Okay, but if you need a break, you should take one. No one’s going to think less of you.”

Dino swallowed. “I’m fine,” he repeated, this time a little more quietly.

Hoshi didn’t argue, but he didn’t move away either.

____________________

By the time the photoshoot rolled around in the afternoon, Dino was running on fumes. His movements were stiff, his body desperately trying to keep up with the relentless pace, but every step was slower, every expression harder to fake.

He could feel the concern in the way his members looked at him now, though none of them said anything. It was like a silent understanding passing between them: Dino wasn’t okay, and they didn’t know why.

During a brief break between shots, Seungkwan sidled up next to him, concern written all over his face. “Chan, seriously. What’s going on with you?”

Dino shook his head, unable to meet his eyes. “I’m fine, hyung. Just… a little off today. Nothing to worry about.”

But Seungkwan didn’t buy it. He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “You sure? You’ve barely said a word all day, and you’re not even laughing at Mingyu’s terrible jokes.”

Dino pressed his lips together. “I’m fine,” he repeated once more, the words tasting empty in his mouth.

“Alright, fine. But if you pass out from exhaustion, don’t come crying to me,” Seungkwan muttered, turning to walk back toward the others.

Dino stayed in place, staring at his reflection in the nearby window, watching the way his own expression was starting to falter. The pain was so much worse now, gnawing at him like a slow burn, but he kept telling himself it was nothing.

Just a little longer.

But the longer he ignored it, the worse it got.

____________________

That evening, as they returned to the dorm after an exhausting day, Dino barely had the strength to change into his pajamas. The ache in his stomach had become a constant, low roar, and the fever had started to settle into his bones. He was shivering despite the heat, and his movements were clumsy, uncoordinated. He dropped his water bottle twice before he managed to get it into the fridge.

"Chan, seriously. Are you okay?"

It was Seungcheol’s voice, and it was too close.

Dino froze. He could hear Seungcheol’s footsteps approaching the kitchen, the older member’s presence heavy, steady.

He turned around too quickly, his vision blurring for a moment. “Yeah. I’m fine. Really.”

But Seungcheol was already too close, and Dino couldn’t hide it anymore. The way he swayed slightly, the way his body shook with every movement, the way his breath caught every time the pain spiked—none of it could be ignored.

Seungcheol’s expression softened with a quiet intensity. He took a step forward, resting a hand on Dino’s shoulder. “Chan.” His voice was low, almost gentle. “You’re not fine.”

Dino blinked, his vision swimming for a moment, and he felt his throat close up. He could feel the tears threatening to spill. He wanted to say it. He wanted to tell Seungcheol everything—the way the pain was ripping him apart, the way he couldn’t breathe without it crushing him—but the words caught in his throat.

And before he could stop it, Dino’s knees buckled.

Seungcheol was there in an instant, catching him before he could collapse fully, his arms strong as they wrapped around Dino’s waist.

“Chan!” Seungcheol’s voice was sharp, filled with panic. “What the hell is going on?”

Dino shook his head, unable to speak, his body trembling as the pain seared through him.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” Seungcheol said, his tone no longer the reassuring guide he usually was, but full of raw urgency.

The others were already rushing into the room. Seungkwan, Mingyu, Joshua—they all swarmed in, concern written across their faces.

Dino couldn’t look at them. The guilt and fear were too much. But they didn’t need to ask. They knew.

It was too late to hide it now.

____________________

The world felt blurry, as if someone had smeared Vaseline across his vision. Dino couldn’t keep his focus on anything—his thoughts were too scattered, too overwhelmed by the pain that felt like it was swallowing him whole.

Seungcheol’s grip was firm around his waist, supporting him, but even with the older member’s strength, Dino couldn’t help but lean into him, his body practically collapsing under the weight of his own exhaustion. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one more labored than the last.

“Hold on, Chan. We’re getting you to the car. You’re gonna be okay, alright?” Seungcheol’s voice was steady, but the tightness in his tone betrayed the panic he was trying to mask.

Dino tried to nod, tried to reassure him, but it felt like his body was betraying him at every turn. His legs wobbled, and it was only Seungcheol’s arm around him that kept him upright. Every step they took to the door felt like a mountain to climb, the pain in his stomach intensifying with every motion.

He didn’t want to worry anyone. He hated worrying them. But now that it was happening, he realized just how much he had been holding in. Just how much he had kept from them.

Why did I wait this long?

It was a simple thought, but it felt like a lead weight.

Once they reached the car, Dino had to lean against Seungcheol to steady himself. His vision was blurry again, and he fought to keep his eyes open. The world felt like it was tilting, spinning just slightly out of control. He could hear the members behind him, but their words were muffled, lost in the chaos of his own body’s failing.

“Dino, look at me.”

It was Joshua. His voice was soft, calm, but filled with an unmistakable urgency. He stepped into Dino’s line of sight, his face full of concern. “Chan, please. Look at me. We’re getting you to the hospital, okay? You’re going to be fine. Just stay with us.”

Dino couldn’t respond. He didn’t trust his voice to work properly, didn’t trust his body to stay upright for much longer. But the pressure of their hands on his back, their steadying presence, made him feel like he wasn’t alone. For a moment, he allowed himself to lean on them, allowed himself to believe that maybe everything would be okay.

The car ride to the hospital was an agonizing blur. Dino’s body trembled with each bump in the road, and every minute felt like an hour. His thoughts were jumbled, his breathing uneven. The pain had become unbearable—sharp, burning, an all-consuming ache that had long since eclipsed his ability to think clearly.

____________________

When they arrived at the hospital, the members helped him out of the car, their hands steadying him, guiding him toward the entrance. Dino could barely focus on anything except the overwhelming pain that rippled through him with each movement. His body felt foreign, a stranger to him.

They didn’t waste time. Doctors and nurses moved quickly, their voices crisp, their actions swift. But through it all, Dino could only hear the thudding of his own heartbeat, erratic and loud in his ears. His limbs felt like lead, and his mind was fogged with a mix of exhaustion, fear, and pain.

It wasn’t until they wheeled him into a private room and the doctor began asking him questions that Dino’s brain started to catch up. He barely remembered what the doctor had said—something about needing an immediate assessment, about the possibility of appendicitis—but the panic that rose in his chest made his stomach tighten even more.

“Chan, it’s okay,” Seungcheol’s voice cut through the haze of his mind, and Dino looked up to find the leader standing by his side. He was pale, his hands clasped together as if he were trying to steady his own nerves. “We’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”

But even through Seungcheol’s calm words, Dino couldn’t shake the weight of his own guilt.

He had done this to himself.

He had kept it all inside—suffered in silence—because he didn’t want to be a burden.

The nurse stepped in, interrupting his thoughts, and began prepping him for an IV. Dino winced at the sharp sting in his arm, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his abdomen.

____________________

The doctor came in shortly after, her expression grim as she examined Dino’s vitals.

“We’re going to need to get you into surgery immediately,” the doctor said, her tone serious but not unkind. “Your appendix has ruptured, and there’s a severe infection. It’s a very serious situation, but we’re going to take care of you. You need to trust us.”

Dino barely registered her words, too consumed by the fog in his mind and the growing pressure in his body. He turned his head to look at the members. They were all gathered around him now, their faces pale, eyes filled with anxiety.

“I’m sorry,” Dino managed to whisper, barely able to get the words out. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Seungkwan’s expression crumpled, his hand reaching out to rest on Dino’s. “Chan,” he began, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re not a burden. You’re never a burden. We should’ve known.”

Mingyu nodded, his eyes hard with guilt. “We should’ve noticed sooner. How could we have missed this?”

Dino could see the regret in their eyes, but it didn’t make him feel any better. They shouldn’t have had to notice. He should have been stronger, should have been able to keep pushing through.

“I’m so sorry,” Dino whispered again, closing his eyes against the swirl of emotions. “I didn’t want you to worry about me. I didn’t want to be weak.”

Seungcheol was the one who answered, his voice firm, but gentle. “Chan. You’re not weak. And you’re never a burden. You don’t have to carry everything on your own. You hear me?”

Dino couldn’t answer. He wasn’t sure if he had the strength to. But he nodded weakly, feeling the weight of Seungcheol’s words settle into him.

As the doctors began to prepare him for surgery, the members moved closer, gathering around his bed in a quiet, collective support. The silence between them wasn’t awkward, but it was filled with unspoken promises—promises that, after this, they would be there for him in ways they hadn’t been before.

And with that, Dino finally let himself slip into unconsciousness, the pain pulling him under.

____________________

He woke up in a hospital room, the room still dim and quiet. His body ached, but it was a dull, distant ache now—nothing like the sharp, searing pain from before.

Seungcheol was sitting beside his bed, his head resting on his arms, clearly asleep. The others were scattered around the room, some standing, some sitting. Everyone had stayed.

Dino wanted to apologize again. He wanted to tell them he was sorry for making them worry. But when he opened his mouth, the words didn’t come.

He didn’t need to say anything, because they were already there. Every one of them had stayed by his side. They hadn’t blamed him, hadn’t judged him for what had happened.

And for the first time, Dino allowed himself to let the weight of it all go, knowing that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to carry it alone anymore.

____________________

The days following Dino’s surgery were a blur of painkillers, faint memories, and constant faces hovering over him. The hospital room felt strangely sterile, but warm in its own way because it was filled with the people who meant the most to him.

He could feel the constant presence of his members—each one carefully checking in, sitting with him, talking to him, or just sitting in silence. But that silence wasn’t oppressive. It was the kind of silence where words didn’t need to be spoken, because everything that needed to be said was already understood.

____________________

Dino woke up to the sound of soft laughter in the corner of the room.

His eyes fluttered open, and his vision was still a little blurry, but he could make out Seungkwan and Mingyu sitting at the small table in the corner, playing a game of cards. Mingyu had his usual smug grin on his face, while Seungkwan was dramatically slamming down cards.

Dino couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips, despite the dull ache in his abdomen.

“Hey, you’re awake,” Seungkwan said, noticing his gaze. He got up immediately, walking to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Dino croaked, his voice hoarse from the lack of use. “Just… tired.”

Seungkwan’s eyes softened, and for a moment, Dino saw the guilt flash across his face. But it was gone so quickly, replaced by the usual bright smile. “Well, you deserve all the rest you can get, you know. You’ve been through a lot.”

Mingyu followed, leaning over Dino’s bed with his usual easy grin. “Seungkwan’s right. You’re not allowed to move for a while. You need to get better so we can tease you properly.”

Dino chuckled weakly, but the sound was cut off when a sudden wave of dizziness hit him. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus, but the sensation of the room spinning was too much.

“Hey, hey, you’re alright. Take it easy,” Mingyu said, his voice softer now, more concerned. “Don’t push yourself.”

Dino nodded slowly, feeling the weight of their concern wrap around him. The pain was there, but it wasn’t the only thing occupying his mind. The guilt was there, too.

He didn’t want to be the one who made them feel guilty, but it was hard to ignore how deeply it was affecting them. Seungkwan’s hesitant smiles, Mingyu’s quieter than usual demeanor, even Joshua’s overly gentle tone—he could feel the unease hanging in the air, the way they were all walking on eggshells around him.

It hurt. It hurt because he realized just how much they cared. But it also hurt because he didn’t want them to carry that burden. He didn’t want to be the one to cause this pain.

____________________

The next few days were filled with small, steady moments—visits from each member, soft conversations, the occasional teasing that Dino couldn’t quite muster the energy to respond to, but that still made his heart warm. Despite the pain, despite the recovery, the atmosphere in the room was somehow comforting.

It wasn’t until Seungcheol came in one afternoon that Dino finally let his guard down.

The older man entered with a quiet smile, sitting at the edge of the bed with a careful grace that told Dino he’d been pacing outside the room for a while, unsure of how to approach him.

“You feeling okay?” Seungcheol asked, reaching out to adjust Dino’s pillow slightly, his touch gentle.

Dino looked up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time since he’d woken up. There was a deep concern in Seungcheol’s eyes—guilt, too—but also something else. A calm steadiness that Dino hadn’t realized he needed until now.

“Yeah,” Dino replied, though the word felt hollow, because he wasn’t okay—not entirely. “I mean… I’m still sore. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Seungcheol gave him a small, knowing smile, but there was a heaviness to his expression. “Dino… I know you’ve always tried to carry everything on your own. You’ve always wanted to be the strong one, the dependable one. But, Chan…” He paused, his voice catching slightly. “You don’t have to carry it alone. Not anymore. And you shouldn’t have been carrying it for this long.”

The words hit Dino like a punch to the gut. He felt his chest tighten, and his throat went dry. He blinked rapidly, trying to stop the sting in his eyes from turning into tears.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Dino whispered, his voice small and fragile. “I didn’t want to be a burden to you.”

Seungcheol shook his head gently, reaching out to rest a hand on Dino’s shoulder. “You’re never a burden to us, Chan. We are your family. We’re your brothers. And we need you to be here with us. Not just as the one who supports us, but as someone who allows us to support you too.”

Dino felt the lump in his throat grow, the weight of his emotions suddenly crashing down on him. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. I should’ve asked for help.”

Seungcheol’s hand tightened, giving him a firm squeeze. “You don’t have to apologize. We should’ve noticed. We should’ve seen it earlier. But that’s not important right now.” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering. “What matters is that you’re here. You’re safe. And you’re not alone.”

Dino let out a shaky breath, nodding slowly. He didn’t know when he had started crying, but Seungcheol was already there—quiet, strong, and supportive—just like always.

“I don’t want to be weak,” Dino admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Seungcheol’s gaze softened, and for a moment, there was no one else in the world but the two of them. “It’s not weakness, Chan. It’s human. And we all need help sometimes. Even the strong ones.”

The truth of Seungcheol’s words hit Dino like a wave, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to lean into it—allowed himself to accept the care and support of the people around him.

____________________

That evening, as Dino sat up a little more comfortably in his bed, the door opened again. This time, it was Joshua who stepped inside, a small bag of snacks in his hand.

“I thought you might want something to eat,” Joshua said with a smile, his usual calm demeanor masking the underlying concern.

Dino smiled back, feeling a sense of warmth spread through him. “Thanks, hyung.”

As Joshua set the bag down and sat beside him, Dino took in the sight of his face, the way his eyes searched his own as though he could see the cracks in his walls. It made Dino feel vulnerable in a way he wasn’t used to, but it also made him feel more at ease.

“I’m sorry for making you worry,” Dino said softly, once again feeling the sting of guilt.

Joshua’s eyes softened, his voice gentle. “You don’t need to apologize, Chan. We’re just glad you’re okay now. We don’t want you to feel like you are alone. We’re here, okay?”

Dino nodded slowly, his heart swelling with the quiet understanding they shared.

And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

____________________

The days slowly passed, and as Dino’s physical strength returned, so did his mental clarity. The guilt didn’t vanish completely, but the members were doing their best to erase it—one small gesture at a time.

They joked with him, teased him, even brought him small gifts, just to keep his spirits lifted. And with every laugh, every small moment of lightness, Dino felt the weight of his own expectations slowly start to lift.

He wasn’t just the maknae. He wasn’t just the strong one.

He was Chan. And he was allowed to be cared for, just like everyone else.

And as he lay back against the pillow one night, feeling the warmth of the members around him, he realized that maybe, just maybe, he was starting to believe it.

____________________

The days were starting to blur together, the constant cycle of hospital visits, medications, and healing becoming routine. Dino was regaining his strength, though not without moments of exhaustion that crept up unexpectedly. Every day felt like a small victory as he fought to reclaim his energy, but the emotional toll was something harder to shake.

____________________

The room was quieter now, with only a soft hum from the machines and the occasional shift of chairs as his members rotated in and out of his room. Each visit was a small comfort. Their laughter, despite the heavy atmosphere, was like balm on the wounds he hadn’t realized were there.

But there was always a moment when the laughter faded, and the silence between them became thick with the weight of unspoken words.

It was during one of these moments, when everyone else had momentarily left, that Seungcheol entered the room again, looking as calm as ever but with an undercurrent of concern that Dino couldn’t ignore.

Seungcheol wasn’t just here for a visit anymore. The way he looked at Dino told him that much. There was something unspoken in the air—something Dino was dreading, but knew had to be said.

“I’ve been thinking a lot, Chan,” Seungcheol began, his voice softer than usual. He sat down next to Dino’s bed, his hands clasped together. “About what happened… about how we missed the signs.”

Dino felt the knot tighten in his stomach again, the familiar sting of guilt rising, but he forced himself to meet Seungcheol’s gaze.

“I’m fine now, hyung,” Dino said quietly, trying to brush it off. “It’s over. Don’t worry about it.”

But Seungcheol didn’t look away. He shook his head slowly. “I know. But I can’t help but feel like I should’ve noticed sooner. That maybe if I had seen it, we could’ve prevented all of this.”

Dino clenched his jaw, his heart racing with conflicting emotions. He didn’t want to see Seungcheol beating himself up over this. “You didn’t know,” he murmured. “None of you did. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. I hid it… I didn’t want to be a burden.”

The words felt foreign as they left his mouth, but they had been sitting there for so long that he couldn’t ignore them anymore.

Seungcheol sighed heavily, his fingers tapping the edge of the bed as he thought. “But that’s just it, Chan. We should’ve known. You shouldn’t have had to hide it. I should’ve noticed you weren’t yourself, that you were pushing yourself too hard.” His voice cracked just slightly, betraying the emotion that was so often buried beneath his calm exterior. “I should’ve been more aware. I should’ve been a better leader, a better friend.”

Dino opened his mouth to protest, but the words died in his throat. He could see the pain in Seungcheol’s eyes, the guilt and regret that mirrored his own. And despite everything, the comforting truth settled in the pit of his stomach: Seungcheol cared. They all did.

“I’m sorry,” Dino said, his voice shaking slightly, a tear escaping his eye before he could stop it. “I didn’t want to make you feel bad. I didn’t want to burden anyone with my pain.”

Seungcheol moved closer, his hand gently resting on Dino’s. “Don’t apologize for that. You’re allowed to need help. You’re allowed to be weak sometimes. We all are.” His voice was soft but firm, like the quiet anchor in the storm.

Dino squeezed Seungcheol’s hand, his chest tightening as the raw truth of Seungcheol’s words sank in. He had spent so much time trying to protect his members from his own pain, but he had forgotten the most important thing—they were in this together.

“Thanks, hyung,” Dino whispered, the words tasting bittersweet on his tongue. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Seungcheol gave him a soft smile. “You don’t have to find out, Chan. You don’t have to go through anything alone.”

____________________

Later that evening, as the group gathered in the small lounge area just outside Dino’s room, the atmosphere was noticeably lighter. The tension that had hung in the air for the past few days had finally begun to loosen, even if just a little. The members had all taken turns coming by his room, but now, they were all together—sitting in a circle, sharing stories, laughing, and even teasing Dino about his hospital stay.

“You’ve been completely useless, you know,” Seungkwan said with a grin as he passed Dino a cup of water. “All that time in the hospital, and you didn’t even have the energy to do anything for us. How dare you?”

Dino rolled his eyes, grateful for the normal teasing. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be more entertaining next time I’m hospitalized.”

The group erupted into laughter, and for the first time in days, Dino felt the familiar weight of their friendship settle around him. He didn’t have to be the perfect leader, the strong maknae, or the one who always kept things together. With them, he could just be.

There was something healing in that—something deeply comforting about being surrounded by people who loved you enough to let you be vulnerable.

____________________

The days passed, and as Dino’s body healed, so did his spirit. The emotional toll was still there, but it was no longer a burden he carried alone. Each day, his bond with his members grew stronger, the space between them shrinking with every quiet conversation and every laugh that filled the room.

By the time he was ready to leave the hospital, it wasn’t just his body that had recovered—it was his heart.

____________________

The moment Dino walked out of the hospital, the sunlight hit him like a breath of fresh air. It was brighter than he remembered, warmer. And as he looked around at the faces of his members, he realized just how much they had done for him without even knowing it.

“We’re glad you’re out,” Mingyu said, his smile wide and bright as he clapped Dino on the back.

Seungkwan raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, we missed your energy around here. But don’t go pushing yourself too hard again, okay?”

Dino smiled back, the weight in his chest finally starting to ease. “I promise. No more hiding things from you guys.”

And for the first time in a long time, Dino truly meant it. He was allowed to need them. He was allowed to lean on them. And they, in turn, would always be there to catch him when he fell.

In that moment, standing between his members, Dino felt something new—something that had been missing for so long. Peace.

____________________

The weeks after Dino’s hospital discharge were filled with gradual progress. The physical recovery was slow but steady, the lingering pain from his surgery fading little by little. His body felt lighter with every passing day, but his soul—his heart—was still working through the process of healing. It wasn’t just the recovery from his appendicitis that needed time; it was the healing from the silent burden he had carried for so long.

It was strange, at first, to allow himself to lean into the care of his members, to admit his vulnerability without guilt. But as the days wore on, he found comfort in their presence, in the quiet understanding they offered him without needing words.

____________________

One evening, when the schedule finally allowed for a rare moment of quiet, the members gathered in the living room of the dorm. The couch was crowded, as usual, with Hoshi and Woozi occupying one end while Joshua and Seungkwan sprawled out on the floor. Dino sat at the center, still recovering, but his smile was brighter than it had been in weeks.

His legs were stretched out in front of him, and he leaned back against the couch, hands tucked behind his head. His members, aware of his need for rest, were more than happy to let him bask in the comfort of their collective energy. Even as the laughter and chatter swirled around him, Dino felt a certain peace in simply being there.

“I think you should try this,” Seungkwan said suddenly, holding out a snack he'd bought earlier that day. He grinned at Dino, knowing full well the younger member had a soft spot for chips.

“Are you trying to bribe me?” Dino raised an eyebrow, though the teasing smile on his face betrayed his words. He reached for the bag and popped a chip into his mouth. “Not gonna lie, this hits different after being stuck in the hospital.”

Seungkwan laughed, then leaned in conspiratorially. “I’ll make sure to send you another care package next time you're ‘too tired to eat.’"

Dino chuckled but softened at the playful tone. “I wasn’t that bad…”

“Well, you weren’t great either,” Seungkwan replied with a wink, his voice light but there was an undeniable warmth in his eyes. “But seriously, Chan, you should let us take care of you more often. You don't need to go through things alone.”

The words felt like an echo of the conversations they had all been avoiding—words Dino hadn’t wanted to hear, words that made him feel both guilty and relieved. He swallowed hard, trying to brush away the emotions that threatened to spill over.

“I know,” Dino finally said, his voice quieter than usual. “I… I should have told you guys sooner. But I didn’t want to be a burden.” He hesitated, looking around at the familiar faces, all of them watching him with such quiet intensity. "I was afraid that if I showed I was weak… I’d let you down."

Hoshi, who had been quietly watching from his seat, nudged Dino with his elbow. “You don’t have to be perfect, Chan. None of us are. We’ve got your back no matter what.”

“Exactly,” Joshua chimed in, his usual calm demeanor softened with sincerity. “You’re allowed to have moments where you don’t have to carry everything. You’re not alone in this. You never have been, and you never will be.”

Dino let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing for the first time in what felt like forever. He had been so focused on being strong for them, but now, here, surrounded by their steady presence, he finally realized that strength didn’t mean hiding his pain. It meant trusting them enough to share it.

____________________

The next few days were more of the same—quiet conversations and playful teasing. The members had subtly adjusted to his pace, making sure he was comfortable without pushing him too hard. But it wasn’t just their gentle care that helped Dino heal; it was the unspoken understanding that wrapped around him like a blanket, reminding him that it was okay to be human.

It was Seungcheol, though, who made sure to check in on him the most.

They were in the practice room one afternoon, running through a few rehearsals that had been delayed because of Dino’s hospital stay. Despite the lingering soreness in his abdomen, Dino pushed himself to keep up with the choreography, though he felt his energy waning faster than usual.

“Take a break,” Seungcheol said, catching sight of Dino’s faltering movements. “We’ll cover for you.”

Dino shook his head, but he knew Seungcheol could see right through him. He took a few steps back to catch his breath, trying to ignore the discomfort that had started to settle in his muscles.

Seungcheol came over, placing a hand on Dino’s shoulder. “You’re pushing yourself too hard again. You don’t have to do this alone, Chan. We’re right here.”

For a moment, Dino just stood there, letting the words sink in. It wasn’t about the practice. It wasn’t about how many times he could keep up or how fast he could recover. It was about remembering that he didn’t have to be strong all the time. And that, more than anything, was what was starting to heal him.

“Okay,” Dino finally admitted, his voice softer than usual. “I’ll rest. But only for a little while.” He shot Seungcheol a teasing grin, adding, “You know I can’t stay still for too long.”

Seungcheol laughed, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “I know. But you will rest.”

Dino leaned into his hand for just a moment before stepping back, settling on the edge of the practice space and finally letting himself breathe.

____________________

That night, as the group gathered together for dinner, it felt different. Lighter. The conversations flowed more easily, and there was a deep sense of camaraderie in the air.

Dino caught Seungkwan looking at him across the table, his eyes glinting with mischief. “By the way, I’m making you a new care package. You can’t escape it this time.”

“I’ll take anything you give me,” Dino laughed, shaking his head, feeling at peace in a way he hadn’t in a long time.

They were a family, he realized. Not just in the light moments or the good times, but in the hard ones too. There was no expectation to always be perfect, no pressure to carry everything alone. It was about sharing the load, being there when the other stumbled.

____________________

As the months passed and the weight of the ordeal continued to fade, Dino’s bond with his members grew even deeper. They had seen him at his lowest, yet in their eyes, he was still their maknae, the one who always brought joy and lightness to their lives. And for once, he didn’t mind being the one to lean on them.

In fact, he knew now that he didn’t have to carry everything on his own. They were all in this together, and that was all the strength he would ever need.

Chapter Text

Backstage was always a mess of movement and noise—staff rushing, managers barking orders, members in various stages of exhaustion, and adrenaline. But in the chaos, Dino had perfected the art of slipping away unnoticed, and tonight was no different.

The café was tucked into a quieter part of the city, one of the rare places they could meet without the risk of flashing cameras or wandering eyes. I.M was already there, sitting in the farthest booth, hood pulled low, fingers drumming idly against the table. He looked up the moment Dino slid into the seat across from him, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

“You’re late,” I.M murmured, but there was no heat in it.

Dino grinned, pulling off his mask. “Fashionably.”

There wasn’t much time—there never was. Between schedules, rehearsals, and the ever-present gaze of the industry, every second together felt like stolen treasure. Their conversations had to be fast but meaningful, their touches subtle but lingering. Dino nudged I.M’s foot under the table, a quiet acknowledgment, and I.M smirked, shaking his head.

“How’s your schedule?” Dino asked, taking a sip of the coffee I.M had ordered for him. The warmth seeped into his fingers, grounding him.

“Hell,” I.M replied. “Yours?”

“Also hell. But you know, at least we get to suffer together.”

I.M chuckled, but there was something softer in the way he looked at Dino, something unspoken. It wasn’t always easy—sometimes it was barely manageable. But in moments like these, when the world outside the café ceased to exist, it felt worth it.

As much as Dino wanted to stretch time, reality always caught up. Their phones buzzed with reminders of looming schedules, and their managers would notice their absence soon. Dino sighed, letting his head rest against the back of the booth for a moment before standing up.

“See you in a few days?” he asked, already pulling his mask back on.

I.M nodded, a brief flicker of something like reluctance in his eyes before he masked it with his usual calm. “Yeah. Be careful, okay?”

Dino winked. “Always.”

They walked out separately, I.M first, then Dino a few minutes later, just another idol disappearing into the night.

____________________

The next stolen moment came after a music show. The chaos backstage was its own kind of cover, allowing Dino to slip into an empty dressing room unnoticed. I.M was already there, leaning against the counter, arms crossed.

“You know, one day someone’s going to catch you sneaking around like this,” I.M muttered, but his hand still reached for Dino’s wrist, pulling him just a little closer.

Dino tilted his head. “Then we better make it count.”

I.M laughed, a quiet thing meant just for Dino, and pressed a quick kiss to his jaw before pushing him away. “Go before someone comes looking for you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dino said, already grinning as he disappeared back into the hallway.

Neither of them knew that the countdown to getting caught had already begun.

____________________

The next time they managed to steal a moment, it wasn’t planned.

Dino was exhausted—SEVENTEEN had just wrapped up another performance, and his body ached from the intensity of their choreography. The moment they were back at the dorms, the others scattered, some heading straight for the showers, others collapsing onto the couches, scrolling through their phones.

Dino’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

I.M: You free?

Dino glanced around. The members were distracted, and if he left now, they probably wouldn’t notice for a while.

Dino: Give me 10 minutes.

Grabbing a hoodie, he slipped out of the dorms, pulling his hood low as he made his way down the quieter streets. They had learned the hard way which places were safe and which weren’t. Tonight, they kept it simple—meeting up in I.M’s car, parked a few metres away.

The moment Dino slid into the passenger seat, he sighed, leaning back against the headrest. I.M chuckled from the driver’s side, eyes briefly flickering over him.

“Long day?”

“Brutal.” Dino turned his head, eyes half-lidded as he looked at I.M. “But this is nice.”

I.M reached out, fingers brushing over the back of Dino’s hand before lacing them together. It was rare to be able to do this—to touch without paranoia without the weight of cameras and expectations.

“I missed you,” I.M admitted softly, and Dino felt something in his chest tighten in that pleasant, aching way.

“Me too.”

For a while, they just sat there, the hum of the city outside muffled by the car’s interior. Dino closed his eyes, letting himself relax completely for the first time all day. I.M didn’t say anything—he just squeezed Dino’s hand gently, grounding him.

But peace was fleeting.

Dino’s phone vibrated against his thigh, and he groaned before glancing at the screen. A message from Mingyu.

Mingyu: Where’d you go?

Dino huffed a small laugh. “They’re starting to notice.”

I.M smirked, but there was a knowing look in his eyes. “Then you better head back before they send out a search party.”

Dino rolled his eyes but squeezed I.M’s hand once before reluctantly letting go. “I hate how you always make sense.”

“It’s a curse.”

Dino hesitated before leaning in, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of I.M’s lips. “See you soon?”

I.M exhaled softly, as if the touch had knocked the breath from his lungs. “Yeah. Be careful.”

Dino slipped out of the car, making his way back to the dorms, the warmth of I.M’s touch lingering on his skin.

He didn’t realize how much trouble he was about to be in.

____________________

The first sign that something was off was the way everyone was too casual when he walked in. Mingyu and Joshua were sprawled out on the couch, but they weren’t as engrossed in their phones as they wanted to seem. Jeonghan and Seungcheol were in the kitchen, and though they were pretending to talk about something random, their voices dropped when Dino entered.

He froze.

“What’s up?” he asked, keeping his tone light.

Joshua looked up first, raising a brow. “That’s what we were going to ask you.”

Dino forced a laugh. “I just went for a walk.”

Mingyu hummed, tilting his head. “Funny. When we checked the dorm security footage, you didn’t go in the direction of the convenience store or the park.”

Dino’s stomach dropped. “You checked?”

Mingyu grinned. “Of course we did.”

Jeonghan, leaning against the counter, smirked. “So. Who’s the mystery person you keep sneaking out to see?”

Dino almost panicked. Almost. But he had years of experience bullshitting his way out of tight spots.

“You guys are acting like I have some big secret. Maybe I just wanted fresh air.”

Seungcheol narrowed his eyes. “Fresh air that requires getting into someone’s car?”

Dino’s mouth snapped shut.

Shit.

Joshua and Mingyu gasped dramatically, while Jeonghan’s smirk only widened.

“Oh, this is juicy,” Jeonghan said, nudging Seungcheol. “Do we have a scandal in our dorm?”

Dino tried to recover, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, I met up with a friend—”

“A friend who picks you up in their car in the middle of the night?” S.Coups asked, arms crossed.

Mingyu gasped again. “Oh my god. It’s a secret relationship.”

Dino groaned.

They were never going to let this go.

____________________

If Dino thought his hyungs were bad before, they were downright unbearable now.

The moment they got even the slightest confirmation that he was in a relationship, everything changed. All his hyungs had suddenly appointed themselves as his personal bodyguards—unprompted, unwelcome, and very over-the-top.

Dino barely got a second of peace.

It started small—Mingyu hovering a little too close whenever he checked his phone, Joshua randomly throwing an arm around his shoulders like he was assessing his tension levels. But it escalated quickly.

One morning, as he groggily walked out of his room, he found Jeonghan, Seungcheol, and DK sitting on the couch like they were in a mafia movie, hands clasped in their laps, waiting.

Dino blinked. “Uh. Good morning?”

Seungcheol gestured for him to sit. Gestured. Like this was some official meeting.

“We need to talk,” Jeonghan said, voice deceptively sweet.

“About what?” Dino asked, even though he already knew.

DK sighed dramatically. “About your… mysterious late-night adventures.”

Dino groaned, flopping onto the couch. “I already told you, it’s not that serious—”

“Oh, it’s very serious,” Jeonghan said. “Because now, as your hyungs, we have questions.”

Seungcheol leaned forward. “Number one: Is he treating you well?”

“Number two,” DK added, “Do we need to… have a talk with him?”

“Number three,” Jeonghan said, resting his chin on his hand, “should we be concerned about anything?”

Dino looked between them. “You guys realize I’m an adult, right?”

Seungcheol gave him a pointed look. “We realize that you’re our maknae, and that means we have a duty to protect you.”

Dino wanted to die.

____________________

The teasing got worse once they discovered who the secret person was.

While Seungcheol and the others took their self-imposed bodyguard duties very seriously, the rest of the group had one goal: to humiliate him.

Hoshi, Woozi, and Seungkwan were the worst offenders.

“Hey,” Hoshi started casually during practice, stretching his arms. “Are we officially in-laws now?”

Dino choked on his water.

Seungkwan lit up, clapping his hands. “Oh my god. You’re right! If Dino’s dating I.M, that means we’re practically family with MONSTA X now.”

Woozi, who had been neutral up until now, leaned back against the wall with a smirk. “We should make rules. You know. Maknae relationship rules.”

Dino stared at them in horror. “Please don’t.”

“Oh, it’s happening,” Hoshi said. “Number one: No skipping practice to go on dates.”

“Number two,” Seungkwan added, “we get weekly updates. We’re invested in this now.”

Dino groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I hate all of you.”

____________________

But the real nightmare began when MONSTA X found out.

I.M had clearly spilled something to his members because the next time Dino and I.M met up—this time at a very hidden café—he immediately knew something was wrong.

I.M looked stressed.

“Are you okay?” Dino asked, frowning as he took a seat.

I.M exhaled. “Hyungwon hyung just sent me a text.” He turned his phone to show Dino.

Hyungwon: We’re watching you, maknae. Treat him right.

Dino laughed. “Oh, this is great. This is so great.”

“It’s not great,” I.M muttered, rubbing his temples. “Minhyuk hyung told me he’s planning a ‘Welcome to the Family’ dinner.”

Dino grinned. “Oh my god. You’re suffering too.”

I.M slumped against the table. “We’re never going to hear the end of this.”

Dino just smirked, stealing a sip from I.M’s drink. “Guess we’re in this together, huh?”

I.M looked at him, something fond in his gaze.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “We are.”

____________________

The overprotection was unbearable.

Dino couldn’t even text I.M in peace without someone peering over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure who was worse—Seungcheol, who treated the whole thing like a covert military operation, or Jeonghan, who looked way too entertained by it all.

One night, while Dino was curled up on the couch, thumbs flying over his phone screen, he felt it.

A presence.

Slowly, he looked up.

Seungcheol was standing over him, arms crossed.

Dino let out a slow breath. “Hyung. You need to stop doing that.”

S.Coups nodded toward his phone. “Who are you texting?”

Dino stared. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

Seungcheol didn’t flinch. “I just want to make sure you’re being careful.”

“Careful about what?” Dino threw up his hands. “It’s not like I’m committing a crime.”

“Technically, in the eyes of the company—”

Dino groaned, throwing himself back against the couch. “Hyung. Please. I beg you. Let me live.”

____________________

Jeonghan was worse.

If Seungcheol was the overly serious protective older brother, Jeonghan was the chaos gremlin who lived to make his life miserable.

One night, as Dino was sneaking out of his room to make a quick phone call, he barely got five steps before he was met with a very smug Jeonghan, casually leaning against the wall.

Dino froze.

Jeonghan smiled. “Going somewhere?”

Dino considered his options. Running? No, Jeonghan was faster than he looked. Lying? Useless—Jeonghan could smell a lie from a mile away.

So, naturally, he blurted, “Just… getting water.”

Jeonghan nodded, mock serious. “Ah. Yes. The very well-known ‘getting water at midnight while clutching your phone and looking guilty’ move.”

Dino groaned. “Hyung—”

Jeonghan grinned. “Tell Changkyun I say hi.”

Dino nearly screamed.

____________________

The teasing never ended.

One afternoon, as Dino sat in the practice room, trying very hard to mind his own business, Seungkwan suddenly gasped.

“Oh my god,” Seungkwan said dramatically. “You’re smiling at your phone.”

Woozi and Mingyu immediately turned to look.

“No, I’m not,” Dino said way too fast.

“Yes, you are,” Woozi said, leaning in.

“Guys, stop—”

Mingyu snatched his phone.

Dino lunged, but it was too late—Mingyu had already seen the screen. His eyes widened.

“Oh my god,” Mingyu whispered. “Is that a heart emoji?”

Seungkwan gasped again, clutching his chest. “Dino. Are you—are you in love?”

Dino wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

____________________

MONSTA X was just as bad.

A few days later, Dino found himself dragged to an “official” meeting with I.M’s hyungs.

He knew it was a trap the second he walked into the room and saw Minhyuk, Shownu, and Hyungwon sitting across from him like it was an interrogation scene in a crime drama.

Dino sat slowly.

Hyungwon steepled his fingers. “So.”

Dino swallowed. “So?”

Minhyuk leaned forward. “What are your intentions with our I.M?”

Dino blinked. “Are you guys serious?”

Shownu just nodded gravely. “Very.”

Dino sighed. “Look, I know this whole thing is unexpected, but I care about him, okay?”

Minhyuk squinted. “Like… really care?”

Dino stared. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Hyungwon exchanged a look with Shownu. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Alright. That’s acceptable.”

Minhyuk grinned. “Welcome to the family.”

Dino felt like he had just passed a test he didn’t sign up for.

____________________

The real nightmare began when both groups met.

It was a disaster from the start.

Jeonghan and Minhyuk hit it off immediately, bonding over their shared love of chaos.

Seungcheol and Shownu took turns grilling Dino and I.M, occasionally exchanging knowing nods like overprotective dads.

Hoshi and Kihyun somehow ended up in a heated debate about who was the superior dancer, while Woozi and Joohoney just… observed the madness.

And Dino?

Dino just sat there, watching his entire life fall apart, while I.M patted his shoulder in silent sympathy.

“You know,” I.M murmured, clearly amused, “this could be worse.”

Dino turned to him, horrified. “How?”

I.M smiled. “They could be planning a double-family vacation.”

Dino’s soul left his body.

____________________

The storm hit all at once.

One moment, Dino and I.M were navigating their relationship with relative secrecy, dodging their hyungs’ overprotection and teasing. The next, their names were everywhere.

Dispatch dropped the article.

Photos of stolen moments—late-night drives, secret café meetings, a blurry snapshot of them holding hands backstage.

The headline was brutal. “SEVENTEEN’s Dino and MONSTA X’s I.M rumored in Secret Relationship—Companies to Respond.”

Dino’s phone exploded.

Texts, calls, alerts—every second, more poured in. His hands shook as he scrolled through the comments. Some fans were supportive. Many were furious.

In the dorm, the atmosphere turned to ice.

Seungcheol, normally calm under pressure, looked one second away from destroying something.

Woozi swore under his breath, gripping his phone like he wanted to crush it. “The company’s already drafting statements.”

Jeonghan glanced at Dino. “Hybe’s going to make you stay quiet.”

Dino swallowed hard. He already knew.

____________________

I.M wasn’t faring any better.

At Starship, the tension was suffocating.

Shownu pulled him into a quiet room the moment he arrived. “They’re considering damage control,” he said, voice carefully neutral. “They might try to push a dating scandal to cover it up.”

I.M clenched his jaw. He knew how this worked. He had seen the way the industry spun narratives, twisting reality until it barely resembled the truth.

Hyungwon sat against the table, scrolling through his phone. “The fans are split,” he murmured. “Some are furious. Some are defending you.”

Minhyuk’s expression hardened. “Doesn’t matter. The companies don’t care about the truth. They care about the image.”

I.M knew what came next. The PR machine. The scripted denials. The suffocating silence.

He looked at his hyungs. “I’m not letting them end this.”

Shownu exhaled. “Then we fight.”

____________________

They weren’t alone.

At Hybe, Jeonghan was already whispering in the right ears.

At Starship, Minhyuk was leaking counter-stories to journalists who weren’t company-controlled.

Seungkwan went full PR mode, monitoring online discussions, pushing positive narratives.

Woozi worked quietly, reaching out to connections in the industry that had survived similar scandals.

Even Seungcheol and Shownu—usually the cautious ones—stood firm. They wouldn’t let their youngest members get buried under the weight of the industry’s control.

____________________

The retaliation came fast.

Strict schedules. Reduced promotions. Subtle punishments are disguised as “business decisions.”

Dino felt the pressure every second.

The cold stares from some staff. The way certain opportunities suddenly disappeared.

I.M saw it, too. Meetings canceled. Projects delayed. A clear warning.

One night, they met in secret, exhaustion clear in their faces.

Dino exhaled shakily. “Is this… worth it?”

I.M didn’t hesitate. “You’re worth it.”

Dino’s breath caught. The world was trying to break them.

But they weren’t going to let it.

____________________

The following days were a blur of back-and-forth negotiations, media storms, and the slow grind of the industry’s gears pressing down on them. It felt like a never-ending cycle of pressure and scrutiny, where everything they did or said was dissected and spun into something unrecognizable.

Dino could hardly find time to breathe. Between canceled schedules, extra practice sessions, and unexpected meetings with Pledis’s higher-ups, his world was tightening around him like a noose. He couldn’t even escape to his phone without it lighting up with angry comments, fan messages, or, worse, company alerts. The weight of it all was becoming suffocating.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Dino muttered one evening, pacing in the practice room. His frustration was palpable, his movements sharp and quick. “I never thought… I never thought they’d go this far.”

Woozi, watching from the side, frowned. “It’s not just the companies, you know. It’s the fans, too. Some of them feel betrayed. Some of them want the image of you with the group, not… this.”

Dino’s heart sank. The thought of losing their support—the fans - his group—was far more painful than any company ultimatum. But what could he do? The truth was that this—his love for I.M—was real. And as much as he wanted to fight for it, he knew the industry had its claws in deep.

____________________

I.M wasn’t handling it much better. The stress was wearing him thin, especially now that Starship was pulling him into closed-door meetings. He could feel the tension building in the air—the whispered conversations, the cold glares from certain higher-ups who were more concerned with the image than with his actual happiness. He hated it.

“I’m so done with this,” I.M muttered to Hyungwon one afternoon as they both sat in the lounge, waiting for another round of endless company calls. “They’re treating me like a pawn. Like this is just some stupid game.”

Hyungwon, ever calm, gave him a side-eye. “It’s not just you, you know. It’s both of you. And they can’t exactly push this away because they’re worried about their image. They’ll twist it, control it, but they won’t let you go easily. You’re both too valuable for that.”

“I’m not a commodity, though,” I.M snapped back, the raw frustration clear in his voice. “I’m a person.”

“I know.” Hyungwon’s voice softened. “We all know. But the industry doesn’t care about that. They just see the numbers, the profits, and the fans.”

____________________

The longer it dragged on, the harder it became for both Dino and I.M to keep their heads above water. The industry was relentless, the clock ticking down on how long they could keep their secret relationship intact. The tension was eating away at them, slowly eroding their confidence in the face of the pressure.

One night, after a long series of meetings, Dino sat alone in his room, staring blankly at his phone screen. He wanted to text I.M. He wanted to tell him how badly he missed him, how much he needed him, but he couldn’t. Every time he thought about it, a wave of guilt and fear washed over him.

What if it wasn’t worth it? What if they were risking it all for something that couldn’t survive in a world like this?

The sound of his phone vibrating brought him back to reality, and he hesitated before answering. It was I.M.

“Are you okay?” The message was simple but full of the concern that they both shared—even in silence.

Dino’s fingers hovered over the screen, unsure of what to say. What could he say when everything felt so broken? He paused for a long time before typing, “I don’t know anymore. The pressure’s… too much. I feel like everything is falling apart.”

I.M’s reply came quickly. “Then let it fall. But not us. We’re still here. Together.”

Dino stared at the message for what felt like hours. It was both comforting and painful to hear because deep down, he knew what it meant. It wasn’t just about the career or the company—this relationship was everything. And he couldn’t let it slip through his fingers.

____________________

The next day, things took a turn for the worse.

Both groups were called to an emergency meeting with their companies. Dino and I.M were positioned at opposite ends of the table, their heads low as their managers and PR teams laid out the situation. They could feel the heat in the air—the weight of the decision that had already been made. They were being forced into a corner.

“We’ve been contacted by multiple media outlets and fans regarding the relationship,” Pledis’s representative said, his voice flat and unfeeling. “The decision is clear—we need to cut ties with this situation. It’s a distraction to the group’s image, and it cannot continue.”

I.M clenched his fists under the table, his eyes trained on the floor as he tried to control his breathing. On the other side, Dino fought the urge to speak out, to argue, but he knew it wouldn’t help. His gaze flickered to Seungcheol, who was visibly tense beside him, his jaw clenched in frustration. Seungcheol wasn’t going to let this slide either.

“We don’t care what you think,” Seungcheol finally spoke up, his voice uncharacteristically hard. “If you’re going to make us choose between the group’s image and their happiness, then I’m not sure I want to be part of this company anymore.”

The words hung in the air. There was no going back now.

“We won’t let them be torn apart,” Shownu added from across the table, his gaze unwavering. “This isn’t just about their relationship anymore. It’s about their well-being. And if you think we’re going to let them face this alone, you’re wrong.”

____________________

The weeks that followed the company ultimatum felt like a battleground. The battle was no longer just about maintaining a secret relationship—it had become a full-blown war with the industry, their companies, and the unrelenting pressure of their public personas.

Dino and I.M had never felt so alone yet so together in all their lives.

The fight wasn’t just external; it was internal, too. They were torn between their loyalty to their groups, their love for one another, and the overwhelming expectations that seemed to rise higher with every passing moment. Their relationship had been a secret once, but now, it felt like an open rebellion—a symbol of defiance against the very industry that had built them into idols.

____________________

It all came to a head when the Dispatch article hit again. The leak wasn’t subtle. This time; it was a full-on exposé. Photographs, intimate moments they thought were safely hidden away in the quiet corners of their world, suddenly exploded across the internet. The headline screamed: “SEVENTEEN’s Dino and MONSTA X’s I.M: K-pop’s Hidden Couple Revealed!”

Dino’s phone buzzed nonstop. Fans, media outlets, and even fellow idols—everyone was reacting. Some were angry, others were confused, but many were supportive. It was a spectacle, a mess of emotions spilling over into the public eye, and yet, amidst the chaos, Dino felt one emotion the most:

Fear.

Fear for what this would do to him. To I.M. To their groups. Would they be dragged down even more into the mess of it all?

I.M didn’t seem to have the same reservations. He was calm—eerily calm. In fact—as he sent Dino a single message: “Are you ready to face this?”

Dino stared at the message for a long time, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. Was he ready? Did he even have a choice anymore?

“Yes,” Dino typed back, finally. “I’m ready. Let’s do this.”

____________________

The tension in both groups was palpable when they reconvened. The first few moments were awkward, filled with hesitant glances and uncomfortable silences. But as the dust began to settle, something happened.

Support.

Always came from his hyungs.

S.Coups, who had initially been the most adamant about protecting Dino, stood up at the front of the meeting. “If this is what they want, then we stand by them. We’ve been through too much together for anything to break us apart now.” His voice was firm, unwavering.

Joshua, who had spent the past few days trying to act like the calm, understanding older brother, now looked at Dino with nothing but pride in his eyes. “You’re not alone in this,” he said quietly. “We’ve got your back.”

Seungkwan, who had always been the one to lighten the mood, turned to I.M with a cheeky smile. “I think I’m gonna like having you around more often. It’ll be fun teasing you about Dino.”

The mood shifted. What had started as a cloud of tension gradually became lighter. Their groups, although shaken, were standing together.

But there was more to it. The industry still hadn’t let go.

____________________

It wasn’t just about their companies anymore. It wasn’t just about the fans, either. There was a bigger fight on the horizon—one that could shape the future of their careers and their relationship.

The media frenzy wasn’t letting up. The questions, the rumors, the threats of staged dating scandals—everything they feared was now a reality. Both companies were pressuring them, threatening to take drastic action to protect the group’s image.

They met in secret late one night, with both groups huddled together in a quiet café, far from the prying eyes of the public. The tension was still there, but now it was something else: determination.

“I don’t care what they say,” I.M spoke up, his voice quiet but fierce. “We’ve made it this far. And if we have to go through hell to be together, then I will.” His eyes locked with Dino’s. “We’ll go through hell together.”

Dino nodded, his heart heavy but resolute. “I’m not going to stop. Not for anyone. Not for them. This is our fight.”

____________________

The following week was a whirlwind. The companies demanded an official statement, a public apology, something to calm the storm. But Dino and I.M refused. They couldn’t go back to hiding, pretending they weren’t in love, pretending they didn’t want to stand by each other.

“I won’t apologize for loving him,” Dino said, the words coming out more forcefully than he had intended.

I.M, standing beside him, gave a soft smile. “Neither will I.”

Together, they took the stage for the public press conference, a decision that would change everything. They faced the cameras, the lights, the overwhelming weight of the industry’s scrutiny, and for the first time, they stood tall—together.

The questions came fast. “Is it true that you’re dating I.M from MONSTA X?” “How does this affect your group dynamic?” “What will happen to your career if your companies oppose this relationship?”

But Dino and I.M had an answer for everything now.

“We’re not asking for permission,” Dino said firmly, his hand resting in I.M’s. “We’re just asking for understanding.”

“I know it’s complicated,” I.M added, squeezing Dino’s hand. “But we’re human. We deserve to be happy. And that happiness includes each other.”

____________________

As the press conference ended and the cameras clicked their last shots, there was a strange sense of relief. For the first time in months, Dino could breathe. I.M could breathe.

And although the companies were still furious, the public reaction was different than they had feared. The fans, both from SEVENTEEN and MONSTA X, showed overwhelming support. The love was undeniable.

It wasn’t a perfect ending. The battle wasn’t over. The industry was still there, looming large. But Dino and I.M had made a choice: to stand up for themselves, to stand up for their love. They weren’t going to hide anymore.

Together, they had taken a stand in the spotlight.

And together, they would face whatever came next.

Chapter Text

It was just another day at the SEVENTEEN dorm—a mix of laughter, chatter, and chaos that had become so familiar, so comforting, that it almost felt like second nature. Everyone was scattered around the living room, practicing routines, lounging on the couch, or trying to coax a reluctant puppy into playing fetch. The energy was high, but somewhere in the corner of the room, Chan sat quietly.

He wasn’t alone, but for some reason, it felt like he was. His usual enthusiasm—always the loudest laugh, the most energetic cheer, the never-ending hype—was gone today. His fingers tapped nervously against his phone screen, but his attention wasn’t on it. He was watching his hyungs, watching them interact with each other, watching them work together, and wondering when he’d get to be part of it.

“Chan!” Hoshi called, snapping him out of his thoughts. “You’re gonna mess up the count if you keep zoning out like that.”

Chan’s lips tugged into a quick smile. “Sorry, Hoshi hyung. I’ll pay attention.”

The older member gave him a playful shove and laughed, but there was something about the exchange that felt hollow. Hoshi’s focus was already back on the choreography, and Chan’s moment of lightness faded away quickly.

It wasn’t anything huge—just a thousand little things. During the meeting earlier that day, Chan had made a suggestion about the setlist for their upcoming performance. It was an idea he thought would bring something fresh, something that reflected their growth as a group. But before he could finish, Joshua had chimed in with an alternative, and Seungcheol had nodded in agreement.

“Good point, Joshua,” Seungcheol had said, dismissing Chan’s suggestion with the slightest flick of his hand. Chan just smiled and kept quiet. After all, what could he say? It was just his idea. Maybe it wasn’t as good as Joshua’s, and that was fine.

In practice, he worked himself to exhaustion, his feet aching, his body covered in sweat. But the praise didn’t come. Seungkwan cheered loudly for Seungcheol’s perfect spin, and Woozi complimented Hoshi on his energy during a particularly fast section. But when Chan nailed a complex move, landing it smoothly after a dozen tries, no one said anything.

“Great, let’s move on,” Woozi said as if nothing had happened, his voice already shifting to the next part of the choreography.

It stung, but it was small—so small that Chan almost couldn’t justify feeling hurt. So, he did what he always did—he brushed it off, cracked a joke, and tried to let the sting fade.

Later, the atmosphere shifted as the members talked excitedly about Dk and Vernon’s birthday plans. There were decorations being thrown up, cake discussions, and promises of wild, over-the-top gifts that would only make sense in the context of their chaotic group.

“I can’t wait for Dk and Vernon’s party,” Seungkwan said, practically bouncing with excitement. “We’re going to have so much fun!”

Chan smiled faintly, nodding along. He was glad for Vernon, truly. He was always so positive, so bright, but the excitement buzzing around him left Chan feeling strangely detached. The others didn’t seem to notice. His own birthday had passed just days ago, but the usual birthday hyung energy hadn’t arrived. No one had asked what he wanted, no one had even mentioned it.

Maybe they were planning something later, he told himself. Maybe they were just busy. But it felt wrong. It felt empty.

The day came and went without anyone acknowledging it, and as much as he wanted to brush it off, it gnawed at him. Chan had always been the one to hype the others up, to cheer them on even when they didn’t need it, to give them all of his energy without expecting anything in return. But now, here he was—feeling invisible, unnoticed, and unnoticed again.

He pushed the thought aside. After all, he wasn’t supposed to care about things like that. Birthdays were trivial, weren’t they? Just another day in the life of an idol, right?

Yet, as the sun set and the dorm settled into its usual hum, the emptiness settled over him like a weight he couldn’t shrug off. He sat at the kitchen table alone, tapping his foot against the tile in a rhythm that matched the ache in his chest.

“Chan, are you okay?” Jeonghan’s voice broke through the silence, and Chan looked up to find the older member standing in the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Chan lied, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Are you sure? You’ve been awfully quiet today.”

“I’m just tired. Nothing to worry about, hyung.”

Jeonghan didn’t push, just gave a small nod. “Alright. If you need anything, I’m here.”

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t anything. Chan could only nod back, watching Jeonghan leave, feeling the quiet stretch between them. The space wasn’t just in the room; it was inside him too, growing wider with every moment that passed.

His exhaustion wasn’t just physical—it was emotional.

The weight of being overlooked wasn’t new. But tonight, it felt heavier than it ever had before.

And as he lay down in bed later, staring up at the ceiling, he couldn’t shake the thought that had been growing louder in his mind: Do they even see me?

The question echoed in the silence. And for the first time, Chan wasn’t sure of the answer.

____________________

Chan lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, the faint glow of streetlights filtering in through the blinds. His body ached from practice, but it wasn’t the physical exhaustion that weighed the heaviest on him. It was the quiet, persistent sense of being invisible. The feeling gnawed at him, pulling at his insides with every passing minute, every second that went by without anyone acknowledging his presence.

It wasn’t like he needed constant praise. He wasn’t asking for extravagant gifts or grand gestures. But a simple “Good job, Chan” or “You’re doing great” could’ve been enough to make him feel seen, to make him feel like his contributions mattered. But today, even those small things had been withheld.

He rolled over, pulling the blanket tighter around him, his body curling into a ball as if trying to hide from the world outside. But there was no escape. The feelings of isolation and insignificance were trapped inside him, like an echo that wouldn’t stop ringing in his head.

He tried to think of something else—anything else. He could hear the muffled sound of laughter from the living room, the others still chatting about Vernon’s birthday, their voices carrying through the walls. The contrast was jarring. It was like he was hearing their happiness from a distance, an outsider to their inside joke, an unseen figure just outside the frame of their world.

Chan squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push the hurt away. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this. He was the maknae, the one who lifted everyone’s spirits, the one who always had a smile on his face. He had always been the one to keep the energy up, to keep things light and fun, to make sure no one ever felt alone. But now, he felt like he was the only one who was truly alone.

The thought stung harder than it should have. He wasn’t supposed to need them to validate him. He wasn’t supposed to need their attention. But here he was, feeling small, feeling forgotten, feeling like he didn’t matter as much as the others.

A soft knock on his door interrupted his spiral.

“Chan?” It was Seungkwan’s voice, tentative and quiet. “Can I come in?”

He wasn’t sure how to respond. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted company. But Seungkwan wasn’t one to be easily deterred, so he sat up and pulled the covers back, his voice low as he called out.

“Yeah. Come in.”

Seungkwan opened the door slowly, stepping in with a soft sigh. “I thought you were asleep already.”

“I’m not tired,” Chan muttered, not bothering to look up.

Seungkwan sat on the edge of his bed, glancing at him with a furrowed brow. “You’ve been kind of distant today. Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” Chan said, the words coming out automatically, almost like a reflex.

Seungkwan didn’t buy it. He leaned forward, his gaze soft but insistent. “You know, you don’t always have to be the happy one. You can tell us when something’s bothering you.”

“I’m not bothered,” Chan replied quickly, forcing a smile. It felt forced, like a mask slipping over his face. “I’m just tired. It’s nothing.”

Seungkwan seemed unconvinced, but he didn’t push any further. Instead, he just gave a small, understanding nod and sat in silence for a moment. The quiet between them wasn’t uncomfortable—it was just heavy, like there was something unsaid hanging in the air.

Finally, Seungkwan spoke again, quieter this time. “You know we all appreciate you, right?”

Chan looked at him, his heart aching a little at the sincerity in Seungkwan’s voice. But the words felt hollow, like an empty promise. He had heard them before. He had heard them so many times, but they never seemed to match up with how things actually felt.

“I know,” he said, even though he wasn’t sure if he believed it.

Seungkwan gave him a small smile. “You mean a lot to all of us, Chan. More than you probably realize.”

Chan nodded, though it did little to ease the tightness in his chest. The words were kind, but they didn’t feel real. Not right now.

Seungkwan didn’t linger long after that. He gave Chan a quick pat on the shoulder and stood up. “Get some rest, okay? Don’t stay up too late.”

Chan only nodded again, and Seungkwan left, closing the door behind him.

But the quiet that followed felt louder than ever.

Chan lay back down, his thoughts spiraling once again. The ache in his chest was growing stronger, more painful with every passing second. It wasn’t just about being overlooked—it was about being misunderstood. It was about always being the one to give, to encourage, to be the loud, cheerful force that held everyone together while feeling like no one even noticed the weight of it.

And then the crushing realization hit him: maybe they didn’t. Maybe they couldn’t. They saw him as the maknae, the youngest—someone who didn’t need to be supported, someone who would always bounce back, someone who was always there for them but never expected anything in return.

The tears came before he could stop them, slipping down the sides of his face in the darkness, as he buried his face into his pillow.

He was just... tired. Tired of being the one who had to keep everyone else’s spirits up. Tired of being the one who had to always be okay. Tired of feeling like he didn’t matter, like his efforts didn’t matter.

And for the first time, he wondered if anyone would even notice if he was gone.

____________________

The days blurred together after that night. Chan was going through the motions—practice, meetings, rehearsals, the usual routine—but everything felt like it was happening around him, like he was merely watching the others live their lives while he stood still. The weight of being overlooked had built up, and now it was a constant pressure on his chest, like a stone lodged in the pit of his stomach.

It wasn’t even that the others were being intentionally neglectful. They hadn’t meant to make him feel small or unimportant. They were just... distracted. Caught up in their own busy lives, their own triumphs and struggles. But the reality was undeniable: he had become invisible to them.

The straw that broke the camel’s back came during an intense dance practice. Everyone was exhausted, sweat dripping down their faces, their movements becoming a little more sluggish as the routine dragged on. But Chan kept pushing, forcing himself to give more, to do better, to prove that he was just as capable as the others. He had always been the one to give everything in practice, to push through the fatigue with a smile on his face and a determination in his heart. But today, it felt like no one was paying attention. His arms burned with the effort, his feet stung with every step, but when he looked up, his hyungs were focused on their own movements, as if he wasn’t even there.

His breath hitched, his heart pounding harder in his chest. He felt the familiar ache in his throat, the one that came whenever he was on the verge of breaking. But he didn’t want to cry. Not here. Not in front of them. He couldn’t. He had to be strong for them, right?

But the tension inside him kept building, tighter and tighter, until it snapped.

“Why does it always have to be me?” he blurted out, the words escaping before he could stop them.

The room went quiet.

Everyone stopped mid-step, turning to look at him, confusion and surprise written across their faces. It wasn’t like Chan to snap. He was the happy one, the one who kept everything light, the one who was always there to cheer them on. No one had seen him like this before.

Chan’s heart pounded in his ears, his vision blurring as the frustration bubbled over. “I’m always the one who has to keep things together,” he continued, his voice shaking. “I’m the one who pushes myself when no one else will, the one who makes everyone else feel better, the one who tries so damn hard to prove myself. But no one notices. No one cares. I’m just... here. But I’m not really here, am I? I’m just the maknae. The kid who’s always supposed to be happy.”

His breath was coming faster now, his hands trembling at his sides as his emotions spilled out, raw and unfiltered.

The others exchanged uncomfortable glances, unsure how to respond. They had never seen Chan so vulnerable, so open with his feelings. They didn’t know what to say, and that silence only made the tension worse.

Seungcheol, always the leader, was the first to speak. “Chan, what’s—”

“I’m tired of pretending,” Chan interrupted, his voice louder now, the words spilling out like a flood. “I’m tired of pretending that it’s okay. Tired of pretending that I’m fine when I’m not. You guys... you guys don’t even notice when I’m struggling. You don’t notice when I’m giving everything I have and getting nothing in return. Not even a ‘thank you,’ not even a ‘good job.’ Just... expectations.”

The silence in the room was suffocating. Chan’s chest was heaving with every breath, his body trembling as the weight of his own words hit him harder than anything he had ever felt.

Jeonghan took a small step forward, his expression soft with concern. “Chan, we... we didn’t mean to make you feel like this. We didn’t know—”

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s the problem,” Chan snapped, his voice breaking. “You didn’t know because you were too busy to see me.”

And with that, everything that had been building inside him for weeks finally came to a head. The hurt, the exhaustion, the loneliness—it all spilled out in one gut-wrenching sob. Chan’s body shook with the force of it, the tears coming faster than he could control. He couldn’t hold it back anymore, and it felt like a dam had finally broken.

He ran. He didn’t even know where he was going, just that he needed to get out of that room, away from their stunned faces, away from the suffocating air of expectations and unspoken resentments. His heart was pounding as he shoved open the door and bolted into the hallway, the sound of his hyungs’ voices trailing behind him.

“Chan, wait!”

“Chan, stop!”

But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

His footsteps echoed through the empty halls, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts that made no sense. His chest burned, the ache inside him growing with every step. He needed to get away, needed to be somewhere where he could breathe, where he could feel something other than the suffocating weight of his own emotions.

The streets outside were quiet, the air cold against his skin as he ran without direction. He didn’t care where he was going—he just needed to escape. He needed to be alone, to think, to process everything that had just happened. He couldn’t keep pretending anymore. He couldn’t keep being the one who always held everyone together when he was falling apart inside.

He didn’t know how long he had been running, but eventually, his feet slowed, and he found himself standing outside a familiar building.

JYP Entertainment.

He hadn’t planned on coming here, but it felt like the only place he could go. The only place where he might be understood.

He took a deep breath, wiping the tears from his face as he approached the entrance. He didn’t even have to think twice. He rang the doorbell, his hands still trembling from the rush of emotion, and waited.

A moment later, the door opened, revealing Seo Changbin standing on the other side. His expression shifted from confusion to concern as soon as he saw Chan’s state.

“Chan?” Changbin asked, stepping aside to let him in. “What happened?”

“I... I don’t know,” Chan whispered, his voice small. He stepped inside, letting the door close behind him. “I just needed someone to talk to.”

And for the first time in a long time, Chan felt like someone actually saw him—not as the maknae, not as the one who always had to keep things together—but as Lee Chan, a person who was just as broken and vulnerable as anyone else.

____________________

Changbin led Chan inside, guiding him to a couch in the living room. The space was familiar, comforting in a way Chan hadn't realized he needed. He sank down onto the cushions, feeling the weight of his emotions settle heavily around him. He wasn’t sure what to say, what to feel—everything inside him was tangled and raw.

Changbin took a seat beside him, but not too close—just enough to offer space, as if giving Chan room to breathe, but also to feel the quiet support. There was no rush for words, no immediate attempt to fix things. The silence stretched out for a long while, and Chan found that, in a way, it was exactly what he needed.

He stared at his hands, the ones that had pushed so hard for so long, the ones that had given so much for so little in return. The fingers trembled slightly, but he didn’t try to stop it. He didn’t need to be strong here. Not anymore.

Changbin broke the silence first, his voice soft but firm. “Talk to me, Chan. I’m here. No judgment.”

Chan swallowed hard, his throat tight with the effort to hold back another wave of emotion. He wasn’t sure where to begin—how to even start explaining everything that had been building up for so long. But when he spoke, his voice cracked, raw with hurt.

“It’s just... I’m always the one who has to keep everything going,” Chan muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I always try to keep the mood up, to make sure everyone else is okay. I always give my all, but no one notices. I’ve been pushing myself harder than anyone, but it’s never enough. They just... they just expect me to be this happy, energetic person all the time. And when I’m not, it’s like they don’t even care.”

His hands clenched into fists in his lap, the frustration bubbling up again. “I love them, but... it’s like I don’t even matter sometimes. They don’t see me. They don’t see how tired I am, how much I’m struggling. They don’t see that I need help too.”

Changbin nodded, his expression calm and understanding. There was no pity in his eyes, no rush to offer solutions—just quiet understanding. “I get it. It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Trying to be the one who lifts everyone else up when there’s no one there to lift you.”

Chan nodded quickly, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Exactly. And the worst part is... they don’t even notice. I don’t even think they realize how much it hurts. How much I’ve been hurting.”

Changbin shifted closer, offering a small, reassuring smile, though there was an edge of sadness in his eyes. “Chan... sometimes people don’t see what’s right in front of them. Not because they don’t care, but because they’re too caught up in their own stuff. You can’t always expect them to read your mind, especially when you’re the one who’s always putting on a brave face.”

“I know," Chan murmured, shaking his head. "But it’s not just that. It’s everything. My birthday came and went, and not a single one of them remembered. I tried to pretend it didn’t matter, but it does. It all matters. I’ve been giving everything I have for them, for the group, for SEVENTEEN... but it feels like no one is giving anything back. No one’s even trying to see me.”

Changbin’s expression softened further, his gaze steady and unwavering. “You don’t have to be strong all the time, Chan. You don’t have to be the one who’s always lifting everyone up. You deserve to have people see you, too. You deserve to feel valued, to be seen for everything you are, not just what you do for others.”

Chan swallowed again, his voice barely audible as he whispered, “But... what if I’m not enough? What if I’m just... the maknae? What if I’m just here to fill a role, to make everyone else feel good, but I don’t matter beyond that?”

There was a long pause as Changbin took a deep breath. He placed a hand on Chan’s shoulder, the gesture steadying and warm. “That’s a lie, Chan. You matter. You matter just as much as anyone else in that group. You’re not just the maknae, not just the one who makes everyone laugh or keeps the energy up. You’re you. And that’s enough.”

The words hit Chan harder than he expected. He felt something shift in his chest, a quiet kind of warmth spreading through him, but it was quickly replaced by a gnawing emptiness. He wasn’t sure if it was the relief of finally being understood, or the painful truth that he had needed this kind of validation for so long and had never gotten it.

“I don’t know if I can go back to them,” Chan said, his voice cracking. “I don’t know if I can face them after everything that happened today. I’m... I’m so tired, Changbin.”

Changbin didn’t hesitate. “You don’t have to go back right away. Take your time. You’ve done so much for them, Chan. Don’t be afraid to take a step back and take care of yourself. They’ll understand eventually. They have to.”

“I hope so,” Chan replied softly, his eyes finally closing as he allowed himself to breathe without the constant tension in his chest. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself a moment to simply exist without the pressure of always being the strong one. He leaned back against the couch, the exhaustion of the day—and of the weeks leading up to it—catching up with him all at once.

For a while, the two of them just sat in comfortable silence. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. Chan didn’t feel the need to explain anymore, didn’t need to justify why he was hurt. He didn’t need to force himself to be okay. He just needed to feel understood.

Eventually, Changbin spoke again, his voice soft but firm, as though he was offering the final words of a long conversation. “Chan... you’re not alone. You don’t have to carry everything by yourself. And when you’re ready to go back to your members I’ll be here. We’re all here for you.”

Chan nodded, the weight in his chest easing just a little. Maybe it wouldn’t be easy to go back, but the comfort of knowing someone understood gave him a sense of strength he hadn’t had in a long time. For now, though, he could stay here, with Changbin, and allow himself to heal.

He didn’t need to figure everything out all at once. He didn’t need to be everything for everyone all the time. Tonight, he was just Lee Chan—no expectations, no roles to fill—just him. And for once, that was enough.

____________________

Chan spent the night at Changbin’s dorm, a quiet refuge from the chaos of his life, his group, and the crushing weight of unmet expectations. The sounds of the night were distant—a few muffled conversations from the other members of Stray Kids in the hallway, the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen—but within the walls of Changbin’s room, it was a world of peace. The cluttered space, the familiar scent of perfume and old sneakers, and the gentle thrum of music from an unspoken playlist made Chan feel strangely at home.

The next morning, the sunlight streamed in through the window, casting soft beams across the room. Changbin was already up, moving about the kitchen, and the smell of coffee drifted into the living room. Chan had always found mornings like this comforting—when everything felt ordinary, when there were no demands, no urgent phone calls, no rehearsals waiting. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling the simple peace.

“Morning,” Chan mumbled, rubbing his eyes as he sat up on the couch. He wasn’t sure what had kept him from sleeping, but exhaustion had taken a backseat to his need for solitude. He was in no rush to leave yet.

“Morning,” Changbin called back, flashing him a quick smile as he slid a cup of coffee across the table toward Chan. “Thought you might want something to drink.”

Chan nodded, taking the coffee, and sipped it quietly. It wasn’t until the warm liquid settled in his chest that he realized how much he had been craving something as simple as this. No agenda, no expectations—just a brief moment where he could breathe.

“So, what now?” Chan asked after a few moments, the question hanging between them. He wasn’t sure if he was asking about his situation with SEVENTEEN or his situation in general. What did he even want right now?

Changbin leaned against the counter, watching him carefully. “That’s up to you, Chan. You don’t have to go back to them right now. But when you’re ready, just know that you don’t have to be the one who always holds everything together. It’s okay to take time for yourself.”

Chan stared into the coffee cup, his thoughts drifting to his group. SEVENTEEN. His brothers. He loved them more than anything, but there was a growing distance between what they gave him and what he needed.

“I don’t know if they’ll understand, Bin,” Chan said softly, almost to himself. “I’ve always been the one they lean on, the one they rely on. They need me, but what about when I need them? I don’t know if they’ll be able to see me, like... truly see me. Not just the maknae, not just the one who makes everything fun.”

“Maybe they won’t, at first,” Changbin replied. “But they’re your family, Chan. They’ll figure it out, eventually. You don’t have to rush them. Let them come to you, when they’re ready. And until then, you’ve got people who see you. I see you.”

Chan’s chest tightened, but the warmth in Changbin’s voice eased some of the weight. For the first time in a long time, Chan didn’t feel like he had to perform, didn’t feel like he was playing a role in someone else’s show.

“I didn’t even realize how much I needed to hear that,” Chan admitted, his voice quieter now, almost as if speaking the truth out loud made it more real. “I’ve always just been there for everyone else. I don’t know how to not be.”

“It’s okay to not be ‘on’ all the time,” Changbin said with a small smile. “You don’t need to be perfect for everyone. You don’t need to be ‘the maknae’ or ‘the hype-man’—just be yourself, Chan. That’s enough.”

There was a pause before Chan finally spoke again, his voice a little steadier this time. “I don’t even know what to do when I’m not the one holding it all up. What do I even do with all this... this space I’ve made for myself?”

Changbin gave him a thoughtful look. “You fill it with whatever makes you feel whole again. Whether that’s quiet moments like this or diving into something you’ve always wanted to do. But whatever it is, it has to be for you.”

Chan absorbed the words, the weight of them sinking in deeper than he anticipated. For so long, everything had been for everyone else—making sure the group stayed connected, making sure they were all happy. But what about him? What did he want? He didn’t have an answer just yet, but he didn’t need one. Not right away.

Just being here, in this moment of quiet, felt like a breath of fresh air.

The sound of his phone vibrating on the table broke the silence, and Chan glanced at it quickly, his heart skipping a beat when he saw the name on the screen. It was from Seungcheol. His leader. The one who always seemed to have a handle on everything, but whose absence was now felt more than ever.

Chan hesitated for a second before picking up the phone.

“Hello?” His voice sounded quieter than usual, but it was steady. Changbin gave him a subtle nod, as if to remind him that this was his choice, his call.

“Chan? Where are you?” Seungcheol’s voice was immediate, concerned, and loud. “Everyone’s looking for you. We’ve been trying to call you. Are you okay?”

Chan felt a wave of uncertainty wash over him. He didn’t know how to answer. How could he?

“I’m fine,” Chan replied, his voice hoarse. “I’m just... I needed some time alone. I’m okay, really. I just... I just needed a break, you know?”

Seungcheol’s tone softened, and Chan could hear him exhale, as if trying to compose himself. “We’ve been worried, Chan. Everyone’s worried. You didn’t even tell us where you were going. You know we care about you, right? We care a lot.”

Chan closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as a bitter laugh escaped him. “Yeah... I know. It just didn’t feel like it. I don’t know... maybe I was expecting more. Maybe I just wanted to feel like I mattered the same way you all do.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “Chan, I—I don’t know what to say. We didn’t realize how much you were carrying. But you’re so important to us, Chan. I’m sorry. We should’ve seen you.”

“Maybe I should’ve said something sooner,” Chan admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s not about you saying sorry. It’s about you seeing me, the way you see each other.”

Seungcheol’s voice cracked slightly. “I’m so sorry, Chan. I’m really sorry. We’ll fix this. I’ll make sure of it.”

Chan’s heart tightened in his chest, but this time, the heaviness didn’t feel so unbearable. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back, Seungcheol. But I’ll come back when I’m ready.”

“I understand,” Seungcheol said softly. “Take all the time you need. We’ll be here when you’re ready.”

The call ended shortly after, and Chan set the phone down slowly, letting out a long breath. He didn’t feel completely relieved, but it was a start. An important start. He didn’t know what would happen next—whether he would ever feel fully seen by his group, whether they would ever be able to meet him halfway. But for now, he had something he hadn’t had in a long time: space to be heard, to heal. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

____________________

Chan sat back in the chair, his hands still resting on the coffee mug, though it had long since gone cold. The room around him felt quieter than ever, the hum of the city outside almost distant, muffled. He felt like he was suspended between two worlds: the one where his group expected him to always be the leader, the reliable one, the one who could smile through it all, and the one where he could just... exist. Not for anyone else, but for himself. A place where his own needs and thoughts didn’t have to be buried under the weight of others’ expectations.

He knew he couldn’t stay in this stillness forever, though. His phone buzzed again, this time with a message from Woozi. "We're having a meeting later. We want to talk about everything."

The message was simple, direct. No over-explanation, no excuses—just a need to address what had happened, to confront the rift that had started forming. But Chan’s heart sank slightly, the reality of the situation settling in. He could hear Woozi's calm voice in his mind, hear the hesitation behind the words. They were trying, at least. But trying wasn’t enough for Chan anymore. He had been the one to carry everyone’s burdens for so long, to keep everything moving, to be the one they could count on when things got tough.

But now, he wasn’t sure who would be there for him when the roles flipped. Was there even room for him in this group anymore? Or had he made himself so indispensable that he had forgotten how to be just Chan?

As the day moved forward, his thoughts weighed on him like stones in his stomach, heavy and unrelenting. The quiet of Changbin’s dorm felt like the calm before the storm, and part of him wanted to stay in this bubble forever. But he knew that wasn’t possible. Life, as always, moved on.

The others were expecting him. And he had to face them, whether he was ready or not.

By the time Chan arrived at the dorm, his stomach was tight with a mixture of nerves and dread. He had prepared himself for this moment, but now that he was here, the tension in the air felt almost tangible. As soon as he walked in, his eyes locked on the faces of his members—each one of them looking at him with a different emotion. Some guilt, some concern, but most of all, an overwhelming sense of quiet anticipation.

The room was a little too still, a little too heavy with unspoken words. Chan couldn’t help but feel like he was walking into a courtroom, his every action being scrutinized. But he swallowed his anxiety and pushed forward, taking a seat in the center of the circle they had formed.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then, Seungcheol finally broke the silence. His voice was low, almost tentative. “Chan... we’ve been talking. And we... we don’t know what to say. We didn’t realize how much we were taking from you. How much we were asking of you without even thinking about what you needed in return.”

Chan felt his breath catch in his throat. It wasn’t the apology he had expected, but it was enough. The acknowledgment—finally—the recognition that he had been carrying a burden that no one else had even seen.

Seungcheol continued, his voice rough. “We’ve all been so focused on our own stuff, trying to keep everything together. But we forgot about you. We forgot that you need something from us, too. And I’m sorry. We should’ve noticed.”

Chan didn’t know what to say at first. His lips parted, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he felt a strange mix of emotions—relief, anger, sadness. It was all there, swirling inside him like a storm that he couldn’t control.

“I don’t need your pity,” Chan finally said, his voice steady, but sharp. “I didn’t need you to fix everything for me. I just... I wanted you to see me. I wanted to know that I matter to you, like you matter to me. Not as the maknae, not as the one who always picks up the slack. But as Chan.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with truth. The room was quiet again, but this time, it was different. There was no tension, no defensiveness—just silence, and the weight of what had been said.

And then, Woozi, ever the calm and composed one, spoke up, his voice quiet but firm. “You matter to us, Chan. We didn’t realize how much you were holding in. We didn’t realize how much we were expecting from you without giving anything back. We’re sorry. Truly. And we’re going to do better. Not just for you, but for all of us. We’ve all been taking each other for granted, and it stops now.”

Chan looked around the room, at the faces of the people he had known for years, the ones who had been there through everything. His heart felt a little lighter, but there was still that gnawing feeling of uncertainty. Could they really change? Could he allow them to change?

Seungkwan, who had been unusually quiet until now, spoke next, his voice softer than usual. “We’ve been so focused on our own issues, we forgot to check in with you. You’ve always been there for us, and we didn’t realize how much we’ve been relying on you without offering you anything in return. I don’t know if saying sorry is enough, but I’m sorry. And I’ll make sure you’re seen from now on.”

Chan felt his chest tighten again, but this time, the emotion felt different. It wasn’t just the hurt anymore. There was a flicker of hope, however small. Maybe they could get through this.

As the others chimed in with their own apologies and assurances, Chan listened, letting their words sink in. It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t everything he had dreamed of, but it was a start. A place to build from.

“Thank you,” Chan said softly, his voice wavering. “I just needed to hear that. I just needed to know that you really saw me, not just as the one who’s always okay, but as a person who’s allowed to be... broken sometimes.”

The conversation stretched into the evening, a gradual, messy, but necessary unraveling of everything they had taken for granted. For the first time in a long time, Chan felt a weight lift off his shoulders—not because everything was fixed, but because the first step had been taken.

And that, for now, was enough.

____________________

The days that followed were full of quiet tension and effort. The air in the dorm felt different now, more reflective, like the calm after a storm. SEVENTEEN had come to terms with their mistakes, but the true test lay ahead: could they make things right with their youngest member, not just through words, but through actions? Could they prove that he wasn’t just the maknae, but an equal, someone whose presence meant everything to them?

Chan had heard their apologies, but now it was time for him to see if they were truly willing to change, if they could show him, through small but meaningful actions, that they recognized his worth beyond being the ever-supportive youngest.

One evening, as the group gathered in the living room, Chan felt an odd sense of anticipation building in his chest. He had already been thinking about how he would move forward, what this new dynamic would look like. He was trying not to expect too much from them, but he couldn’t help it. Deep down, he hoped they would rise to the occasion.

Seungcheol was the first to break the silence, his voice carrying a weight Chan hadn’t heard before. “We’ve been talking, and we’ve realized that we can’t keep taking you for granted. We don’t just need you as our maknae—we need you as a brother. And we want to show you that.”

Chan looked up from his place on the couch, feeling the sincerity in Seungcheol’s words. The older man continued, his tone uncharacteristically vulnerable. “We know we missed your birthday, and we know we haven’t been the best at showing you how much you mean to us. So we’re going to fix that. We’ve been planning something.”

At first, Chan’s heart skipped a beat. The mention of his birthday brought up that old sting, the painful reminder of the neglect he had felt. But as Seungkwan, Dokyeom, and Woozi stood up, their faces determined, he realized they weren’t just talking about the birthday they had missed—they were talking about something deeper, something that would address all the years of overlooking him. This wasn’t going to be another rushed, half-hearted gesture.

The members began setting up the living room, and Chan, though still slightly wary, couldn’t help but be curious. The usual chaos of the dorm had taken on a different tone today—less frantic, more deliberate. He watched as each member took on a role, working together with an intensity he hadn’t seen before. There was no shouting, no rushed movements, just a quiet purpose in every action.

“I think you’ll like this,” Mingyu said, his eyes bright with excitement, though his tone was more subdued than usual. “We’ve all put something together. Something that’s for you. Just you.”

Chan’s chest tightened as he tried to understand what they were doing. The others, too, moved with a careful reverence, and for the first time in what felt like ages, it dawned on him that this wasn’t just about fulfilling an expectation—it was about making him feel seen, truly seen, in a way that didn’t rely on his role as the youngest.

Eventually, the members stepped back, revealing the centerpiece of their plans. It wasn’t a grand display or a flashy gift, but it was deeply personal: a wall covered with handwritten letters from each member, small tokens from inside jokes, memories of moments shared, pictures from their pasts, and gifts they had all contributed to.

It wasn’t extravagant—it was thoughtful.

Seungcheol stepped forward with a gentle smile, holding one of the letters. “This isn’t just about a missed birthday,” he said softly. “This is about recognizing everything you’ve done for us, everything you’ve given. We’ve been so caught up in ourselves that we never stopped to ask how you’re feeling, what you need. And for that, I’m sorry. We hope this is a step toward showing you that you matter, not just because you’re the youngest, but because you’re a vital part of this group. You are our heart, Chan.”

The others nodded, each of them looking at Chan with a softness in their eyes that he hadn’t realized they were capable of.

As Chan slowly walked forward, he felt a lump form in his throat. He could feel the weight of the moment, a heaviness mixed with relief and a deep, aching sense of gratitude. This wasn’t just an apology—it was an acknowledgment. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he wasn’t invisible to the people who meant everything to him.

“Thank you,” Chan said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve spent so long trying to prove myself, trying to lift everyone up... but I never really knew if anyone saw me. If anyone ever noticed. You don’t know how much this means.”

Seungkwan, who had been holding back tears, finally spoke up. “You’ve always been the one to hold us together, Chan. And we’ve taken that for granted. We’ve leaned on you so much, we didn’t realize you needed the same from us. We’re sorry. We’ll do better.”

The room was silent for a moment, each member feeling the weight of the words that had been spoken. And for the first time in a long time, the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t heavy with unsaid things. It was full of understanding, of mutual recognition, of an unspoken promise to try harder, to be better.

As Chan turned to face the wall of letters, he felt a tear slip down his cheek. But it wasn’t a tear of sadness, not this time. It was a tear of release, of letting go of all the bottled-up frustration, the bitterness that had built up over time. He could feel the weight lifting off him, not completely, but enough to breathe again.

“We won’t let you feel like this again,” Woozi added quietly, his voice soft but determined. “We won’t let you carry everything alone.”

The night wore on with laughter, stories, and shared memories. The room that had once felt suffocating with tension now felt filled with warmth, with a sense of belonging that Chan hadn’t realized he had been missing. It was slow, awkward at times, but it was real.

Later that night, as Chan lay in his bed, his phone buzzing with messages from his members, he allowed himself to smile. There was still so much to fix, so much to work through, but for the first time in a long while, he felt at peace. He wasn’t just the youngest. He wasn’t just the one who carried everyone else. He was Chan. He was loved. And that, in itself, was enough.

Tomorrow, they would work to show him every day that he wasn’t alone. That he had a place here, not as the maknae, but as one of them—equally important, equally valued.

And that was worth everything.

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered through the blinds of the dorm, casting gentle beams of light across the cluttered living room. It was an ordinary day—or it should have been. The familiar sound of shuffling footsteps, soft laughter, and the hum of the television were usually the first things Dino heard when he woke up. But today, the silence felt different.

Dino stretched, his muscles aching slightly from the intense practice session the night before. He glanced around, noting the absence of familiar figures. Usually, Seungcheol would be the first one up, getting ready to lead the day’s rehearsal with his usual air of leadership, while Jeonghan and Joshua chatted quietly over breakfast. Hoshi, ever the early riser, would have been in the living room, either practicing dance moves or already deep in conversation about plans for the day. Yet today, there was only the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock on the wall.

He shook it off at first, telling himself it was nothing. Maybe everyone had slept in, or they were all just out running errands or meeting for something. The day ahead had been planned—practice, lunch, a few meetings at the company—but none of that felt urgent enough to explain the empty dorm.

Dino wandered into the kitchen, opening the cabinets to prepare breakfast, his thoughts still lingering on the silence. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out, expecting to see a few texts in the group chat. It wasn’t unusual for the members to check in with one another throughout the day. But there was nothing. The last message was from last night, a casual text from Woozi reminding everyone to get enough rest before the practice session.

A little confused, Dino typed a message into the group chat: “Hey, where is everyone?” He hit send, but there was no immediate response.

It wasn’t like anyone to leave him hanging for too long. Normally, Seungcheol would chime in first, even if it was just a quick response about when they were meeting. But as minutes ticked by and the phone screen remained blank, Dino’s brow furrowed slightly. He leaned back against the counter, the knot in his stomach tightening. Maybe they’re just busy.

He ate his breakfast, occasionally glancing at his phone, but still, nothing came through. A faint sense of unease crawled under his skin. He wondered if someone had gone out without telling him, but that didn't make sense—there was never any secrecy between them. The group chat was always active, always buzzing with plans, jokes, and casual updates.

Dino tried calling Hoshi. The phone rang several times before going to voicemail. He hesitated, pressing the screen to hang up before quickly calling Joshua, and then Jeonghan, and then Woozi. Each time, the calls went unanswered, leaving him with the sinking feeling that something wasn’t right. Still, he shrugged it off. Maybe they’re busy, or maybe they’re all in practice or meetings.

Deciding to distract himself, Dino pulled on his workout clothes and grabbed his sneakers. He was going to head to the practice room, even if it was just to kill time. But as he reached the door to leave, something in the back of his mind made him hesitate. The absence of the usual noise, the usual faces—it felt like too much of a void.

He checked his phone one more time. Nothing. Even the location-sharing app was showing empty spots where normally the members’ names would appear. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his earlier sense of unease creeping in again. He checked the time—it was already past noon, and he hadn't heard a single word from anyone.

At this point, Dino could no longer ignore the discomfort gnawing at him. His fingers hovered over his phone as he texted again, this time more directly: “Where are you guys? Are we practicing or not?”

His message was quickly read, but there was still no response.

The silence pressed down on him. He frowned, a gnawing sensation deep in his chest. The air felt heavy, and the empty space around him felt suffocating in a way he couldn't shake off. It wasn’t like anyone to ignore him like this, especially not for hours. Something was wrong. He didn’t know what, but he could feel it—his instincts telling him that this wasn’t just a delay. They wouldn’t leave me out of the loop like this, right?

In a mix of frustration and confusion, Dino made his way to the practice room, hoping he would find someone there. But as he entered the building, the emptiness seemed even more pronounced. The usually bustling hallways were eerily silent. No one was in sight. He walked past practice rooms, the door to each one shut, no sound coming from within. Not even the echo of footsteps or the scrape of shoes on the floor.

His heart rate began to pick up as he walked toward the door to their main practice space. He knocked on the door, hoping to hear the familiar voices of his members inside. Nothing. The silence in the hallway was almost suffocating now, making his skin feel tight and his thoughts scatter.

Where is everyone?

Dino could feel his pulse quicken, anxiety creeping in from the edges of his mind. Something was definitely wrong, and as the minutes stretched into hours with no word from anyone, his calm facade began to crack.

____________________

The clock on the wall in the practice room seemed to mock him, ticking away in rhythmic precision as Dino stood frozen in front of the door. He stared at the smooth surface, his hand still resting on the doorknob. He took a deep breath, trying to center himself. Maybe I’m overthinking this, he told himself, trying to brush away the uneasy feeling that had settled deep in his chest. It’s just a prank, or a surprise. Maybe they’re all just busy with something.

But the thought didn’t sit right. Dino felt a knot tighten in his stomach, a growing sense of dread creeping up his spine. The longer he stood in front of the practice room, the more his mind spiraled.

His phone buzzed again in his pocket, pulling him from his thoughts. His hands trembled slightly as he fished it out, desperately hoping for a message or call. His heart skipped when he saw that it was a notification from the group chat, but when he opened it, it was just a notification from the system—a simple read receipt for his previous messages.

No one had replied.

He leaned back against the wall, pressing his palm to his forehead as the tension began to seep through his body. His breathing became shallow, the rhythmic sound of his heart thumping against his ribcage louder than the silence around him. He felt the walls of the hallway closing in, a suffocating weight pressing against his chest.

Where are they?

He quickly scrolled through his contacts again, dialing Wonwoo’s number this time. The line rang once, twice, and then a voice mail picked up. He quickly ended the call, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. There had to be an explanation. There had to be something. He refused to believe that they would all just leave him behind, isolated in a sudden, oppressive quiet.

Dino checked his phone once more, tapping the screen anxiously. His fingers hovered over the message he had typed earlier, but instead of sending another text, he decided to check their location-sharing apps one last time.

It was blank.

All of the members’ locations, once clearly marked, now showed empty spaces, their names replaced by gray markers. He could feel the rising panic making his heart race faster as he stared at the blank map, the cold sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. His mind flashed through worst-case scenarios—accidents, emergencies, something bad happening. What if something happened to them? What if they’re all hurt and I’m the only one who doesn’t know?

His thoughts spiraled out of control, taking him down a path of anxiety he didn’t want to walk. What if he had done something wrong? What if they were all upset with him, pushing him away without any explanation? The thought of being abandoned, of being the only one left behind, sent a chill down his spine. The weight of loneliness, heavier than ever, threatened to crush him.

No. He couldn’t think like that. He couldn’t let himself spiral. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his hands. Maybe it’s just some sort of misunderstanding, he thought, maybe they’re just pulling a prank or something...

But the more he tried to rationalize, the worse his anxiety became. He left the practice building in a daze, walking aimlessly back to the dorm. Every footstep felt heavier than the last, each breath harder to take. The silence followed him like a shadow, echoing with the absence of his members. The dorm door creaked open as he entered, but it felt nothing like the home he had grown used to. The empty living room stared back at him, still as a picture. Not a single sound. Not a single voice.

Dino dropped his bag on the floor, his shoulders slumping as he walked further into the space, his heart racing faster. He checked his phone again—no messages. No calls. He could feel his chest tightening, the familiar pang of anxiety rising with each passing minute. His palms were clammy as he wiped them against his pants, trying to fight the growing feeling of being utterly alone.

Minutes passed. The ticking clock sounded like it was counting down to something. He couldn’t sit still, couldn’t focus on anything. His mind was consumed by the same questions, over and over, until the answers blurred together into a whirlwind of doubt and fear. What if it was him? What if they were upset with him? What if he had pushed them away without realizing it? Was he not good enough for them? Not loyal enough?

He paced the room, his hands running through his hair as he tried to steady his breath. The loneliness was starting to suffocate him, the weight of it unbearable. He opened his phone once more and tried to call them, each call ringing with no answer, each voicemail sounding emptier than the last.

He texted Seungcheol one last time, his fingers shaking as he typed, “Hyung, what’s going on? Please answer me.” He stared at the screen, waiting for a response that never came.

At this point, Dino was spiraling, and he didn’t know how to stop it. The minutes stretched on, becoming hours. His anxiety was a slow-burning fire that kept growing with every unanswered call and text. Every thought that crossed his mind was darker than the last. The silence had taken on a life of its own, wrapping itself around him like a suffocating cocoon.

Just as he was about to collapse onto the couch in defeat, the door to the dorm creaked open.

Dino’s heart skipped a beat, his body stiffening as he stood up, his eyes wide, waiting for the figures of his members to step through the door. But it wasn’t anyone. It was just the wind, pushing the door back with a soft gust, making the silence even more unsettling.

His chest tightened further, and before he could stop himself, he let out a shaky breath, half-laughing and half-crying in the emptiness. He had no idea how to handle this, how to stop the panic from taking over.

But as the night stretched on and he stayed in the dorm alone, everything seemed even more impossible to escape. The only thing Dino knew for certain at that moment was that whatever was happening, it was far beyond what he had expected.

____________________

Dino hadn’t realized how tightly he was clenching his phone until his fingers began to ache, the small device digging into his palm like a lifeline. The hours that passed felt like an eternity, and as the night grew deeper, so did the overwhelming sense of panic gnawing at him. He could no longer tell if the tightness in his chest was from the anxiety or the suffocating silence that seemed to press down on him. Every little creak of the building felt like an intruder, every shadow that stretched across the floor an unfamiliar threat.

He turned the lights off, hoping the darkness might ease his nerves. Instead, it only amplified the feeling of isolation, leaving him to stew in his own thoughts. The emptiness of the dorm had become a mirror to his own growing emptiness. He wasn’t sure what he was afraid of anymore, but the fear of being forgotten, of being left behind, was like a constant hum in his head.

What if this is a test?

The thought crossed his mind, and with it came a flood of insecurity. What if this was some sort of punishment for something he had done wrong? What if he had messed up so badly that his own members would go to such extremes just to see if he could handle being alone? He couldn’t understand why they would do this, but the thought gnawed at him like a broken record.

He couldn’t sit still anymore. Dino paced the room, his footsteps echoing in the stillness. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, his mind a swirling mess of anxiety and worst-case scenarios. The clock ticked louder, each second stretching into what felt like a minute, and with each passing moment, the panic grew stronger, more urgent. It was the uncertainty that ate at him, gnawing away at whatever shred of calm he had left.

What had he done wrong? Why hadn’t they told him anything? Why hadn’t they answered his calls or replied to his messages? The silence felt deafening. He stared at his phone again, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he saw that there were still no messages, no missed calls, no updates. It was like they had erased themselves from his life entirely. His chest tightened again, and he exhaled shakily, trying to calm himself. He hadn’t felt this alone in... ever.

He went into the kitchen, the cold air of the fridge hitting his face as he opened it, staring at the half-empty shelves without seeing anything. It was just another reminder of the isolation creeping into his bones. He grabbed a bottle of water, his hands trembling slightly as he took a long gulp, but even that couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

The panic in his chest was becoming harder to ignore now. It felt like a ball of pressure lodged deep in his throat, preventing him from taking in enough air. Dino gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles turning white. His mind was running wild, thoughts bouncing from one horrifying possibility to the next. What if something had happened to them? What if they had been in an accident and couldn’t get to him? What if he was the only one who didn’t know?

His thoughts turned darker. What if they’ve abandoned me? His breath hitched at the thought, his chest tightening painfully. He could already feel the familiar sting of abandonment cutting deep into his heart, the raw ache of being left behind. He couldn’t stand it, couldn’t bear the thought that his worst fear might be coming true.

Dino leaned against the counter, his eyes closed as he tried to steady himself, to slow his racing heartbeat. But it wasn’t working. The silence was deafening, and it filled his ears, drowning out the rational part of his mind that was telling him this couldn’t be real. He was alone. Completely, utterly alone.

He forced himself to breathe in, then out, but each breath felt shallow, as though he were inhaling only a fraction of the air he needed. His thoughts were suffocating him.

There was a loud bang from somewhere deep in the building, the sound of something shifting. Dino froze, his eyes snapping open, heart leaping into his throat as he scanned the empty kitchen. For a split second, he imagined the members walking through the door, laughing at the prank they’d pulled on him, but when nothing happened, the empty silence closed in again, leaving him stranded in his own fear.

He dropped the bottle of water, the glass clinking against the floor. A cold sweat had formed across his brow, and his hands were clammy as they fumbled for his phone again. Maybe they’re just busy, he reasoned weakly, maybe they’re just… just not in the mood to talk.

But his phone screen remained unchanged.

No texts.

No calls.

No messages.

Nothing.

The idea of calling again made him hesitate. What if he was bothering them? What if they were upset with him and didn’t want to talk? What if it was his fault they were ignoring him? He couldn’t risk it. He didn’t want to push them away further.

So, he did what he always did in moments of stress: he tried to distract himself. He grabbed his headphones and plugged them into his phone, playing one of his favorite songs to fill the silence. But as the sound of the music surrounded him, it only reminded him how quiet everything else was. The room felt cavernous. The silence felt thick, a tangible thing that pressed against his ears, and no amount of music could drown it out.

It wasn’t enough to quiet the storm inside his head. No matter how many times he tried to convince himself that everything would be fine, the anxiety just wouldn’t let go. What if they’ve all left me? What if this is how it ends?

The thought twisted painfully in his chest, and before he could stop it, tears welled up in his eyes. He tried to blink them away, to push them down, but the sensation of being utterly alone was too much. He hadn’t expected this. A prank? Sure. But not... this.

It wasn’t funny anymore.

Dino sat down on the couch, curling his knees up to his chest, hugging them tightly as his mind spiraled further into the abyss of anxiety. He buried his face in his hands, trying to steady his breathing as the panic grew more intense. It was overwhelming. He couldn’t stop it. His heart pounded in his chest like it was trying to escape, and all he could do was sit there and let it happen.

He had never felt this kind of loneliness before—not even when he was a trainee. Back then, he’d always known where everyone was, who he could count on. But now? Now he felt like he was floating in an abyss, tethered to nothing.

What if they never come back?

The thought hit him like a wave, and he couldn’t fight the sob that broke free. He was alone. They had all left him behind, and he didn’t know if he could handle it. The silence was all-consuming.

____________________

Dino’s breath hitched as he gasped for air, his chest tightening further with every passing second. The weight of his fear was becoming too much to bear, every inhale feeling shallow, every exhale too quick. The tears that had gathered at the corners of his eyes now streamed down his face, hot and painful as they burned the sides of his cheeks. He wiped them away in frustration, only to feel more come in their place. His hands shook as he pressed them to his face, trying to quell the sobs that threatened to break free.

He had to pull himself together. He couldn’t let himself break down like this. But the more he tried to fight it, the worse it got. The realization that he was completely, utterly alone gnawed at his insides. His members, the people who had always been there for him, who had always made him feel like he belonged, had vanished without a trace.

What if something bad happened to them? The thought bubbled up again, and it was like a switch flipped inside him. His mind began to race. Had they been in an accident? Were they hurt, somewhere, unable to reach out to him? What if they needed him, but he was too far away to help? The thought made his chest ache with guilt, each scenario in his head more horrifying than the last.

What if I did something wrong?

The question lingered like a shadow in the corners of his mind. Was it something he said? Was it something he did? What if they were punishing him for something he didn’t even realize? The idea was paralyzing. His stomach churned with the weight of his thoughts, twisting into something heavy and suffocating.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t gone through his own moments of fear before. He’d always been able to handle uncertainty, to focus on his training and the members when things got rough. But this was different. This felt like being left in the dark, locked away with no key, no one to hear his cries.

His phone buzzed, and for a moment, he froze. A sense of desperate hope flared up in his chest. It had to be one of them. They were coming back, they were finally going to explain what was going on.

But it wasn’t.

It was just a notification from his calendar reminding him about practice tomorrow.

Dino exhaled sharply, slumping back against the couch, the weight of the useless notification crushing him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the crushing disappointment. His phone buzzed again, and he glanced at the screen, but this time he didn’t even have the energy to check it. His fingers hovered over the screen, and then slowly, they lowered to his lap.

What was the point?

The clock on the wall ticked forward, but the passage of time felt like it was dragging on slower than ever. He glanced over at the pile of blankets on the couch where he had haphazardly thrown them earlier, now lying untouched. He had no energy to even move. No energy to try and make himself feel better. The anxiety had dug its claws in too deeply.

Another hour passed. Then another.

At some point, Dino had stopped looking at his phone, stopped hoping for a message or a call that would never come. The idea of calling again made him cringe. It felt like he was chasing something that was never there. He had already texted them. He had already tried. Nothing had worked.

He was truly alone.

He stood up abruptly, his body aching from the tension that had built up over the course of the night. He walked to the window, pressing his forehead against the cold glass as he stared out at the darkened city below. The streets were empty. The lights in the buildings were dimming, one by one. The world outside seemed to be moving on, indifferent to his growing panic, as if nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

The thought sat heavy in his chest.

What if he had done something wrong? What if they were avoiding him? What if he wasn’t enough for them anymore? He had tried to push it out of his mind earlier, but now it was impossible to ignore. The fear of abandonment was too real, too raw.

Dino’s breath quickened again, his mind spiraling downward. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as his thoughts collided in a chaotic mess. He couldn’t help but wonder if the prank was just the beginning. Was this how it would always be? Was this how he’d always feel—like he wasn’t enough, like he didn’t matter to the people he cared about most?

A small, barely audible noise broke through his thoughts, and he turned sharply toward the sound.

His heart leapt in his chest, but it was just the soft rustling of the apartment’s air conditioner kicking on. A reminder that everything was still... still the same. But for Dino, everything felt different now. The silence had transformed into something sinister, suffocating him with its coldness.

The darkness outside seemed endless. He thought of the others, of how they might be together, talking and laughing, oblivious to how he was falling apart on his own. The thought was like a punch to the stomach. He wanted to scream, to demand an explanation. He wanted to ask why they hadn’t told him anything, why they hadn’t been honest with him, why they had done this.

But instead, he stood there in the dark, paralyzed. The world outside was as cold and distant as it had ever been, and inside, his emotions were churning, threatening to overwhelm him.

The clock ticked on. Hours passed. Yet, Dino could feel the space between him and the others growing wider, deeper. There was no way to fill that gap, no way to make the silence go away. No matter how many times he tried to calm himself, the panic continued to rise, crushing him beneath the weight of his own fears. It felt like drowning, like suffocating on his own uncertainty. And with each passing minute, it felt like he was sinking deeper into a place that he could never escape.

He had never felt this alone in his life.

And the worst part? He had no idea when it would end.

____________________

The first ray of sunlight that filtered through the blinds seemed almost like a cruel joke. It was the same light he had seen countless times, the same city waking up outside the window, but today it felt suffocating, too bright, as if the world was mocking him. Dino hadn’t slept—how could he? He had spent the entire night tangled in his own thoughts, his body stiff with anxiety. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind painted worse scenarios, each one darker than the last. The fear had taken root deep in him, spreading like wildfire.

His phone, still untouched on the table, vibrated with a message. Dino jumped, heart racing, hoping it would be one of the members. It wasn’t.

It was just another reminder: Practice at 3 p.m. Don’t forget.

He stared at the message until the words blurred together. How could he go to practice? How could he even pretend like everything was fine when his mind was in this state of chaos? His thoughts were still on a constant loop: What if something had happened to them? What if they were hurt and he had no idea? His chest constricted painfully at the thought, his hands trembling as they hovered over his phone.

He had called them. He had texted them. He had tried to contact every member, and yet no one had reached out. No one had answered. He was alone, stranded in this abyss of silence, and there was nothing he could do to escape it.

His eyes flicked to the door, then back to the phone. His mind told him to go to practice, to keep his usual routine, to not let the fear control him, but it felt impossible. He didn’t know what was worse—the constant anxiety gnawing at his insides or the unrelenting silence that had taken over every corner of his life.

Before he could think too much on it, the door opened.

A hesitant knock echoed against the frame.

Dino’s breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t even dare to blink. He wasn’t sure if it was real or just his mind playing tricks on him.

Another knock. Slightly louder this time.

He scrambled to his feet, heart pounding in his chest as he quickly wiped away the remnants of his tears. The fear gripped him again, but this time it was different—he wasn’t sure if it was dread or relief.

He took a few shaky steps toward the door, his breath uneven, and as his hand touched the handle, his mind went blank. He swung it open without thinking, and before him stood—no, it couldn’t be—all of them.

Seungcheol was the first to step forward, a guilty expression on his face. The others crowded behind him, looking similarly conflicted. They had their heads down, avoiding his gaze, the weight of the silence hanging heavily in the air.

Dino’s heart stuttered, but his chest tightened again, this time with anger. He opened his mouth, but the words got stuck in his throat, the emotions choking him. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. So they were here. They were really here.

It wasn’t a dream.

It wasn’t a hallucination.

But the cold, hollow feeling inside him didn’t go away. No matter how badly he wanted to embrace them, to feel the warmth of their presence, something was missing. Something was broken.

“Dino…” Seungcheol started, his voice low, hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure how to begin.

Dino just stood there, staring at them, his arms crossed over his chest protectively. His entire body ached as his eyes darted between their faces. They all looked at him, but none of them said anything, as though they were waiting for him to speak first.

“You… You all left me,” Dino whispered, his voice barely a whisper. It wasn’t even a question. His words hung in the air, sharp and heavy with hurt.

Seungcheol winced at the accusation, his expression faltering as he looked at Dino. “Dino, we didn’t—”

“No.” Dino cut him off, the pain in his chest swelling. “You didn’t even give me a reason. You all just disappeared. I thought… I thought something had happened to you. I thought I was the reason you weren’t answering. I thought maybe I had done something to make you leave, and that—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. The thought of being abandoned, of not being enough for them, still felt like a dagger in his heart.

Seungcheol’s eyes softened, and for a brief moment, Dino saw a flicker of regret in his leader’s gaze. “Dino, we… we didn’t mean for it to go this far.”

Dino’s mind whirled. “What do you mean? What do you mean you didn’t mean for it to go this far? What did you think was going to happen?” His voice cracked on the last word, and he had to swallow back the lump in his throat.

The silence that followed was suffocating, heavy with unspoken words. He could feel the eyes of the members on him, each of them looking guilty, each of them silently apologizing without saying a word. But it wasn’t enough. Not now. Not after everything that had happened.

“It was just a prank,” Jeonghan finally spoke up, his voice quieter than usual, almost too soft to be heard. “We wanted to surprise you, have some fun. We never thought it would… get to this point.”

Dino blinked, his head spinning as he tried to process the words. A prank?

It was a prank?

The room seemed to tilt on its axis, the revelation crashing over him like a wave. He was left standing there, his mind reeling with confusion, disbelief, and an overwhelming wave of anger. All of this… all of the panic, the endless hours of wondering, the spiraling thoughts that had eaten away at him… had been for nothing. Just a joke?

“A joke?” Dino asked, his voice trembling as he searched their faces for any sign that they were joking now. But they weren’t. They were serious. And in that moment, something inside him broke.

“That’s not funny,” he whispered, though his voice quivered with the weight of his emotions. His hands were shaking, his vision swimming with tears that threatened to fall once more.

“We’re sorry, Dino,” Joshua said softly, stepping forward. “We never meant for it to hurt you. We thought you’d be fine. It was supposed to be just for a little while. We didn’t mean to make you feel abandoned.”

But Dino couldn’t bring himself to listen. The pain was too raw, too fresh. The insecurity, the fear, the loneliness—it all rushed back with a force he couldn’t contain.

“You left me,” Dino said, his voice breaking as he slowly took a step back, away from them. He felt numb. “You all left me.”

And with that, Dino turned away from them, walking toward the door that led outside. His feet felt heavy, as if the world was pushing against him, forcing him away from the very people who were supposed to make him feel safe. He needed air. He needed space. He couldn’t stay in that room with them right now, not when everything felt like it had been shattered into a thousand pieces.

“Dino,” Seungcheol called after him, but Dino didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. He had to get away, had to find a way to breathe again, to make sense of what had just happened.

He walked out of the dorm and into the night, the weight of their absence lingering like a cold shadow. He didn’t know where he was going, but he couldn’t stay there, not when his heart felt like it was being pulled apart by invisible hands. The silence was still with him, and he had no idea how to get rid of it.

____________________

The streets were eerily quiet as Dino walked, the chill of the night air doing little to numb the ache in his chest. His mind raced, each thought jarring against the last, each one more incoherent than the one before. He had left the dorm, left them behind, needing space to breathe, but every step he took felt heavier, more like running from something he couldn't face.

What was he supposed to do with this pain? The betrayal still felt raw, gnawing at him with every breath. They had left him, without a word, without any warning. Even when they returned, trying to explain it as a joke, the hurt still lingered like a bruise on his soul. His steps faltered as his thoughts clouded his path.

The thought of going back, of facing them again, made his stomach turn. But as he walked through the quiet streets, the weight of the world on his shoulders, he felt it: that familiar pull of homesickness, the desire to go back to the place that had always been a sanctuary for him.

But it didn’t feel like home anymore.

Dino didn't know how long he walked, his mind lost in the darkness of the night. Every time he tried to stop thinking, it only seemed to spiral deeper. He needed to hear from them—needed to know they understood how much it had hurt him. But they hadn't followed him. None of them had come after him. It was like they were waiting for him to come back, to come to his senses, but the longer he was away, the more it became clear: they didn't get it.

They didn't get how badly they'd broken him. They didn't understand how the absence of their presence felt like being swallowed by the very space they'd once filled.

____________________

Back at the dorm, things were just as heavy, but in a different way. The members had stayed behind, each one nursing their own guilt. The silence between them now felt even more suffocating than it had when Dino first walked out. They had expected him to understand the joke, to laugh it off. But now, with the hours dragging on and Dino still not back, the weight of what they'd done began to settle in.

“I didn’t think it would be this bad,” Seungcheol said, rubbing a hand over his face as he paced back and forth in the living room. “I thought it would be funny. Just a few hours. He would have laughed it off and we’d be fine.” His voice was tight, but the uncertainty was palpable.

“We’ve done pranks before,” Joshua added quietly, his usual calm demeanor slipping slightly. “But... I didn’t think it would hurt him like this. It feels different, doesn’t it?”

The other members exchanged uneasy glances. Jun sighed, leaning against the couch. “Yeah, this is not how I imagined it would go. I thought we could just go somewhere, let him think we were gone, and then come back and laugh about it. But I feel like we’ve made it worse. We didn’t even realize how much it would mess with him.”

“I feel terrible,” Seungkwan muttered, his hands tugging at his shirt. “We should’ve told him, at least. Told him it was a joke from the start.”

“Where is he?” Mingyu asked, pacing now, his tall frame restless. “Why hasn’t he come back?”

The tension in the room was thick, each of them trying to rationalize what they had done. But none of them had an answer. They had made a decision on impulse, and now the reality of their prank was setting in like a heavy storm cloud.

“I’m going to find him,” Seungcheol finally said, his voice firmer now, a sense of resolve settling in. He had to fix this. He needed to fix this. The damage had been done, but it wasn’t too late to make things right. He wouldn’t let Dino be lost to this, to the hurt they had caused him. “I’ll find him.”

____________________

Dino’s mind was spinning when he finally found himself standing in front of their dorm, the building looming in front of him like a barrier he didn’t want to cross. The walk had done little to ease the churning in his chest. His hands were still shaking, his heart still too fast, but now he had a decision to make.

He could keep walking away, could keep running until his legs gave out beneath him, or he could face the truth. He could go back inside. He could confront them, make them see the damage they had caused, and somehow—somehow—find a way to repair the rift that had formed between them.

The door creaked open before he had time to second-guess himself. Seungcheol stood there, his face drawn in a mixture of guilt and concern. He looked at Dino as though seeing him for the first time, like a child hoping for forgiveness.

“I’m sorry,” Seungcheol said before Dino could even speak. “We never meant for you to feel this way. I thought… I thought it would be funny, that you’d laugh and we’d go on like nothing happened. But I see now how wrong I was. I’m sorry for leaving you, for making you feel alone.”

Dino stood frozen, the words hitting him like a slap in the face. His throat tightened, and he felt an overwhelming rush of emotions—confusion, anger, betrayal—all of it swirling inside him. But as Seungcheol’s eyes met his, full of remorse, Dino couldn’t bring himself to yell, to say anything bitter. He couldn’t.

“I didn’t know what to think,” Dino finally said, his voice rough with the weight of everything. “I didn’t know if you were hurt or if you’d left me for some reason, if I did something to make you all not want to be around me anymore.”

Seungcheol’s expression softened, guilt seeping deeper into his features. “Dino, we would never leave you. Not like that. We… we got caught up in the joke. But we never meant for it to hurt you. We were so focused on the prank, we didn’t stop to think about how it would affect you. I should’ve known better. I should’ve realized.”

The weight of Seungcheol’s apology hung in the air, but Dino didn’t know what to say. He had spent hours, days, wondering what had gone wrong, thinking he had done something to push them away. The hurt was still there, but the softness in Seungcheol’s eyes was a small comfort, a crack in the wall of anger that had started to build.

“I don’t know if I can just forgive you,” Dino said quietly, his eyes downcast. “This… it really hurt, hyung. I felt like I lost everything. And I don’t know how to get that back.”

Seungcheol nodded slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know. And I don’t expect you to forgive me right away. But I’ll do anything I can to make it up to you.”

There was a silence between them, a long, painful pause where Dino just stood there, feeling lost, unsure. But then, quietly, he looked up, meeting Seungcheol’s eyes.

“Promise me it won’t happen again,” Dino said, his voice small but resolute.

“I promise,” Seungcheol said, his voice steady. “We all promise.”

And as Dino stepped back into the dorm, surrounded by the members who had come together in a way they hadn’t in a long time, he realized that even though the damage was done, the healing had begun. They were there now. And that, at least, was enough to start over.

____________________

The next few days were quiet, but the tension that had once hung heavily over them had shifted. It was no longer the weight of the prank or the hurt they had caused, but the weight of rebuilding—rebuilding trust, rebuilding their connection, and most of all, rebuilding what Dino had once thought of as unshakable. His bond with the members. The aftermath of their joke was far from easy to navigate, but it was necessary. Each of them had to prove they were willing to make things right, to show that they had learned from the hurt they caused, that they truly understood the depth of their actions.

The members were relentless in their apologies. Every gesture, every word, was carefully thought out, aiming to express their sincerity, their regret, and their commitment to making Dino feel safe again.

Seungcheol had taken it upon himself to lead the way, not just with words, but with actions. He was the one who initiated daily check-ins with Dino, even on days when they were busy or distracted by other things. No more leaving him wondering. No more silence. He would ask how Dino was feeling, even when the answer was simply a nod or a quiet murmur. Seungcheol didn't rush him, though. He understood that this wasn’t about forcing Dino to forgive him, but about showing that he was there, consistently, in both big and small ways.

“Do you want to go grab something to eat later?” Seungcheol asked one afternoon, his tone light, as though it was a casual question. But the glint in his eyes told Dino everything he needed to know—it wasn’t just about food, it was about reconnecting. Rebuilding the bridges that had been cracked, maybe even broken, by their actions.

“I… yeah,” Dino answered after a pause, his voice still unsure but softer than it had been in the days before. “That sounds nice.”

____________________

Meanwhile, the rest of the members were not far behind in showing their commitment to mending what had been hurt. Joshua, ever the gentle soul, had begun leaving small notes for Dino in places he knew Dino would find them—on his bed, in his locker, even in his shoes. Each note was a simple message: “I’m sorry,” “I care about you,” or “I’m here.” It was nothing grand, but it was constant. The subtlety was something Dino didn’t expect, but it was a comfort. Joshua's notes, though small, were like little building blocks—silent promises that spoke volumes.

Mingyu, who often felt awkward in serious conversations, took a different approach. He was the one who would send random messages throughout the day, sometimes silly, sometimes serious. “Can you help me with this?” he’d ask in the group chat. “It’ll be good to see you.” His presence felt like a reminder that things were back to normal, not by force, but by familiarity. Even though they didn’t have the answers, they still showed up for him.

Vernon had been more direct in his approach. He was blunt, but not harsh, and his sincerity was unmistakable. “Dino,” he said one night when they were all sitting together, “I know I messed up, and I’m not going to lie about it. I just want you to know that I’m here. If you want to talk or just need someone to be around, I’ve got you.”

Dino didn’t answer right away, but the sincerity in Vernon’s words—no jokes, no teasing—was enough to make him pause. It was the first time since the prank that he felt something close to peace in his chest.

____________________

And then there was Woozi. As quiet as he was in everything else, his actions spoke louder than words ever could. His apology had come in the form of a simple gesture, but one that Dino could never have predicted. Woozi had spent hours, days even, working on something small—yet profoundly meaningful. The day he presented it to Dino, it wasn’t grand or extravagant, but it was something that made Dino’s heart ache in the best way.

It was a song—a composition Woozi had written just for him.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me right away,” Woozi said, his voice low and soft as he handed Dino the sheet music. “But this is how I feel. I want to make it up to you. I’ll be here, in whatever way you need me.”

Dino stared at the sheet music in disbelief, his eyes brimming with emotion as he read the notes. The music spoke a language he understood, a language of healing, of patience, and of quiet apologies. Woozi wasn’t a man of many words, but his gift spoke everything Dino needed to hear.

____________________

As the days passed, Dino found himself letting go of some of the sharp edges of his hurt. It wasn’t all gone, but it was softened. The more the members showed their sincerity, the more Dino realized that maybe they hadn’t understood the weight of their actions at first—but they did now. They were learning, and they were making it right, slowly but surely.

One night, a week after the prank, Dino sat with the members in the living room. It was a rare quiet moment, no practices, no schedules, just the members gathered together, talking, laughing, the hum of the TV playing in the background. It felt different than it had before, but it wasn’t bad. They weren’t pretending everything was fine, and that in itself felt like a victory.

“Hey,” Seungcheol said, glancing over at Dino, his voice quieter now, “if you’re still up for it, we could all hang out. Go for a late-night walk, grab something sweet. Just... let’s take a breath. No more pranks, just us.”

Dino looked at him, the familiar smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He had feared he’d never feel at home in this space again, that the prank would haunt them all, but now, with Seungcheol’s sincere offer, with the members surrounding him in this quiet, unspoken understanding, Dino realized that maybe—just maybe—they could start over. He could start over.

“I’d like that,” Dino said, the words coming more easily now. He wasn’t sure if everything would be perfect overnight. Trust wasn’t something that could be fixed so quickly, but with every gesture, every small action, they were building something stronger than before.

It was a slow process, but it was enough. For the first time in a while, Dino felt like he could breathe again.

____________________

As they all left the dorm together, heading toward the late-night streetlights, the laughter of his members filling the air, Dino knew one thing for sure: though it had been a painful journey, they were still his family. And that—more than anything else—was worth the struggle.

Chapter Text

Dino sat in the corner of a small, cozy café in Seoul, nursing a half-empty cup of iced americano. The soft hum of conversations around him filled the air, but it did little to break the silence he sat in. He liked it that way—quiet, reflective, almost as if he could hear his thoughts clearer in this space. The large windows allowed the late afternoon sun to filter through, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floors. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Yeonjun and Hyunsuk were supposed to arrive in about twenty minutes, though it was never a guarantee that they would show up on time. The only thing Dino was sure of was that when they did, the dynamic between them would fall back into place, as if time had never passed.

A soft sigh escaped his lips as he absentmindedly twirled the straw in his drink, his thoughts wandering. He remembered the first time they met—how awkward it had been, a meeting of three idols from completely different groups, yet somehow feeling like they had always known each other. He was shy back then—still growing into his role in SEVENTEEN, trying to balance being the youngest with the ever-present pressures of being in the public eye. But Yeonjun had cracked him open with a simple joke about his “tragic” taste in coffee, and Hyunsuk had laughed like everything was already alright, like nothing had to be forced. They had clicked, unexpectedly, and their friendship had blossomed from there, growing stronger as the years passed.

A soft chime of the doorbells snapped him out of his reverie. He glanced up to see Yeonjun strutting in, his confidence radiating through the room. As usual, Yeonjun’s entrance was less a subtle arrival and more a statement. His bright smile immediately found Dino’s, and with a mock gasp, he dropped into the seat across from him.

“Is this seat reserved for someone with terrible taste in coffee?” Yeonjun teased, his eyes gleaming with amusement. Dino rolled his eyes but couldn't help the soft smile that tugged at his lips.

“You never miss an opportunity, huh?” Dino replied, his voice a mix of fond exasperation. Yeonjun’s grin only widened in response, like he’d already won.

“I know, I know. I’m practically a walking joke,” Yeonjun said, dramatically resting his chin in his hand as if his life were a tragedy.

Just as Dino was about to respond, the door chimed again, and Hyunsuk appeared. With a casual wave, he made his way over to the table, sitting next to Dino with an easy smile.

“Didn’t take you two long to start causing trouble,” Hyunsuk said, settling into the seat beside Dino, his tone playful as always. “I leave you for a few minutes, and the chaos begins.”

Yeonjun shot him a quick, exaggerated wink. “What can I say? Dino is a magnet for my genius-level humor.”

Dino rolled his eyes but didn’t try to hide the smile that crept onto his face. The three of them had this way of slipping into a comfortable rhythm, the teasing and playful banter so natural it felt like they’d been doing it for years—probably because, in a sense, they had.

“So, what’s new?” Hyunsuk asked as he signaled the waiter for a drink.

Dino shrugged, a little quiet for the moment. "Same old, really. Rehearsals, schedules, more rehearsals." He caught Yeonjun’s eyes across the table. "What about you guys? How’s the comeback prep going?"

Yeonjun’s eyes lit up with the usual spark of confidence. “You know, it’s been good. Busy as always. But there’s always a little chaos behind the scenes, right?” He chuckled, rubbing his neck, clearly thinking of the countless moments of stress that came with their jobs. “What about you, Hyunsuk? Are you ready for your group’s next big step?”

Hyunsuk stretched his arms above his head, his easygoing demeanor never wavering. “You know me—I’ll be ready when I’m ready. I just hope we don’t have to change outfits every five minutes again. Last time, I thought I was going to suffocate in that jacket.” He smirked, glancing at Yeonjun, who snickered in return.

Dino leaned back in his seat, watching his two friends with a quiet fondness. He always admired how Hyunsuk seemed so unbothered, and how Yeonjun, despite his teasing, was never afraid to show his vulnerabilities, like when he’d talked about the pressures of being the face of TXT. It was funny—these were the two who had probably dealt with just as much pressure as he had, but they didn’t shy away from it. They’d figured out ways to survive the chaos, to make it into something they could laugh about, or at the very least, something that didn’t feel so heavy.

“Do you ever get tired of all this?” Dino asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it. He glanced down at his drink, not sure where the sudden wave of heaviness had come from.

Yeonjun caught the shift in Dino’s tone and leaned forward, his teasing grin fading into something softer. “Tired of what?”

“Of the constant expectations... The need to always be ‘on.’” Dino’s voice dropped just a little, and he looked up to meet their gazes. “Sometimes, I just want to be... normal. To be able to go out without people knowing who I am.”

There was a long pause, and Hyunsuk reached over, resting a hand on Dino’s shoulder. His grip was steady, grounding. “I get it,” he said quietly. “It’s not easy, and sometimes you just want to take a breath without feeling like the world’s watching.”

Yeonjun nodded in agreement. “Yeah, man, it gets heavy. But that’s why we have each other, right? To remind us that we’re more than just idols. We’re still us.”

Dino let out a small breath, the weight lifting slightly. It wasn’t solved—nothing ever was—but hearing it from them helped. They understood.

“I guess that’s true,” Dino said, his smile returning, though a bit more thoughtful this time. “Thanks, you guys.”

They continued chatting, the conversation drifting to other topics—group gossip, ridiculous behind-the-scenes stories, even a ridiculous bet involving who could pull off the best dance move in public without anyone noticing. Laughter filled the air, light and easy, and for that moment, Dino felt the comfort of their friendship wrap around him. He didn’t have to be the youngest member of SEVENTEEN, he didn’t have to carry the weight of expectations—he could just be Dino, a young man with two friends who truly saw him.

____________________

The conversation wandered through lighter topics, but the unspoken bond between the three of them stayed steady in the background. Dino had long since grown used to the way Yeonjun and Hyunsuk could bring out the best in him, even when he didn’t know he needed it. They’d become the sort of friends who filled in the gaps that nothing else could.

As the afternoon sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting golden hues across the café’s windows, a familiar feeling of peace settled over Dino. It was the kind of peace he only found when they were all together—when they could just exist in a moment of stillness. This was their escape: a world where none of their professional identities mattered. It was moments like these that reminded Dino why he needed this—why he needed them.

“So, are we gonna talk about the fact that we’re all wearing black today?” Yeonjun asked suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Dino blinked, his mind snapping back into the present. “What do you mean?” he asked, glancing down at his own outfit—a simple black hoodie and jeans.

“You’re both wearing all black,” Yeonjun pressed, pointing between himself and Hyunsuk, who only glanced down at his outfit with a lazy shrug.

“Maybe we just like to match,” Hyunsuk replied, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “It’s the new ‘cool.’ Haven’t you heard?”

Dino couldn’t suppress a small laugh. “I mean, I guess it works.”

Yeonjun leaned back in his chair, the playful edge never leaving his voice. “You two always try to match. You’re basically secretly twins. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t show up with matching shoes or something.”

“Wait,” Dino said, raising an eyebrow as he crossed his arms. “You’re saying we look that similar?” He turned to Hyunsuk, who looked just as confused.

“Definitely,” Yeonjun grinned. “And I thought I was the one with the power to get away with anything, but you two? You’re a package deal. No one can tell where one ends and the other begins.”

Dino chuckled, shaking his head, while Hyunsuk leaned back, feigning offense. “Wow, I didn’t know you had such a deep understanding of our style. You’ve been studying us, haven’t you?”

“Obviously,” Yeonjun said with a dramatic flair, pretending to adjust an imaginary monocle. “I’m taking notes. I’ll be able to publish a guide to the ‘Dino-Hyunsuk Style’ by the end of this week.”

It was moments like these that Dino treasured. Their humor, their goofiness—it was a part of what made their friendship so special. It wasn’t just the support in the serious times, though those mattered too. It was the ability to laugh about silly things like matching outfits and ridiculous moments. It made everything else seem lighter.

The conversation shifted again, moving from fashion critiques to discussing recent TV shows they’d been watching. Despite their busy schedules, they made a point to keep up with things that reminded them of their normal lives—the things they could talk about without the weight of their fame looming over them.

After a while, though, the air began to shift again. The café had started to empty out, and the noise around them faded into a quiet hum. Dino took a deep breath and noticed that, somehow, they’d slipped back into a comfortable lull. But this time, he couldn’t shake off the thoughts that had been lurking in the back of his mind.

Yeonjun, ever perceptive, caught his shift in energy immediately. “Hey, is everything okay?” he asked, his voice lowering, more serious than usual. “You’ve been quiet.”

Dino hesitated, glancing down at his cup, before looking up at his two friends. “I guess... I’ve been thinking a lot lately. About the comeback... the expectations, you know?”

Hyunsuk’s expression softened immediately. “That’s a lot to carry,” he said, his voice calm and understanding. “But you’re not carrying it alone.”

Dino nodded, appreciating the sentiment. “It’s just... sometimes it feels like we have to constantly be on. Like every move we make has to be perfect. And it’s exhausting.”

Yeonjun leaned in, his eyes meeting Dino’s with a soft seriousness that Dino hadn’t expected. “I know exactly what you mean,” he said quietly. “We all feel that pressure. But you know what? We choose this life. And, more than that, we have each other.”

Hyunsuk’s hand found its way to Dino’s shoulder again, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Exactly. We’re not alone in this. Don’t let the noise get to you. You’re still you, no matter what.”

The warmth from their words wrapped around Dino like a blanket, and for a moment, he closed his eyes, taking it all in. This—this was the kind of thing that made their friendship so important. No matter how the world saw them, they always knew they had a safe space in each other.

“Thanks,” Dino said, his voice quiet but sincere. “I don’t know what I’d do without you two.”

“You’d probably be getting fashion tips from Yeonjun instead,” Hyunsuk joked, trying to lighten the mood again. “And we all know that’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

Yeonjun gasped in mock outrage. “How dare you! My fashion sense is impeccable.”

“Sure, if you’re going for ‘dancing in a hurricane’ chic,” Hyunsuk shot back.

“Now that’s just mean,” Yeonjun pouted, but the playful glint in his eyes betrayed the joke.

Dino laughed, the moment of tension finally broken. This was what he needed—this kind of companionship, where they could talk about everything and nothing all at once. It was their way of staying grounded.

As they continued to chat and joke, the conversation naturally ebbed and flowed. Time seemed to stretch lazily, like they had all the time in the world. For Dino, it was a reminder of why their friendship was everything. It wasn’t about fame or the image they projected; it was about the simple, quiet moments they shared. The moments where, just for a while, they could be the people they had always been before the world turned them into something else.

When they finally stood to leave, the café’s soft lights fading behind them, Dino felt something inside him settle. He didn’t have to have everything figured out. Not when he had people like Yeonjun and Hyunsuk by his side, always reminding him that the world didn’t define who he was—they did.

And that was enough for now.

____________________

The week after the café hangout passed in a blur of rehearsals, schedules, and endless meetings. Time felt like it was moving too fast—like the world outside their friendship didn’t have the same weight. But Dino didn’t mind. There was something oddly comforting about the way their bond held steady amidst the chaos of their lives.

It was late on a Thursday when his phone buzzed with a notification.

Yeonjun: Can’t sleep. Wanna talk?

Dino stared at the message for a moment, the words feeling more like an invitation than anything else. Yeonjun was one of those people who never had trouble falling asleep, always the first to rise in the mornings and stay energized throughout the day. But when he did stay up, it usually meant something was on his mind. Dino had come to understand that.

Dino: I’m awake. Always down for a chat.

His thumbs hovered over the screen for a second longer. His friends, Yeonjun especially, knew how much Dino valued his rest. He wasn’t the kind of person to overwork himself, but he had his moments of anxiety—nights when he just couldn’t shut his brain off, and the pressure of everything started to weigh him down. He appreciated how easily they both allowed him to be himself, without judgment or expectation.

The response was almost immediate.

Yeonjun: Thoughts about the comeback? I’ve been thinking about it nonstop.

Dino: Honestly? Same. It feels like I’ve been stuck in my own head about it. What if it’s not enough?

There was a pause before Yeonjun replied.

Yeonjun: That’s the thing, though. It’s not about “enough.” You’re already enough, Dino. We all are. What we’re doing right now? It’s already making a difference.

Dino smiled at the screen, feeling a mix of gratitude and guilt. They were always so good at reminding him that he was enough, but that didn’t make the looming fear of failure any less real. He never wanted to let anyone down, least of all Yeonjun and Hyunsuk. They were his grounding force in the whirlwind of fame.

Dino: You’re right. I just... get caught up sometimes.

Yeonjun: We all do. It’s why we have each other.

Dino exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the conversation lift a little. Their words were always the reassurance he didn’t know he needed, no matter how small the gesture. Yeonjun had a way of making everything feel less complicated, and Hyunsuk... well, Hyunsuk always kept the mood light enough to make him laugh through it.

Another ping broke his thoughts.

Hyunsuk: Hey, I’m awake too. What are we talking about?

Dino chuckled, feeling a warmth settle in his chest.

Dino: Same as usual. Comeback stress.

Hyunsuk: I get it. You guys know that when I’m stressed, I eat everything in sight, right?

Dino grinned at the phone. He knew all too well. Hyunsuk’s stress management involved raiding the nearest convenience store and coming back with an armload of snacks, making it a ritual of sorts.

Yeonjun: You mean we know. You definitely tried to buy out the entire 7-Eleven last week.

Hyunsuk: That was one time, and I regret nothing.

Dino couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. It was so typical of them—playful, goofy, and completely normal in a way that made everything else seem less overwhelming.

Dino: Honestly, you’re making me hungry just thinking about it. Maybe I’ll go grab something too. You’re making me feel like I’m missing out on life’s most important snacks.

Hyunsuk: Exactly! We’re just living life, Dino. Join the club.

Yeonjun: Yeah, if you don’t join us, we’ll have to find a new third member for our late-night snack reviews.

Dino felt a warmth in his chest, a lightness that came from knowing that, no matter what the industry demanded of them, they could always come back to these small, almost mundane moments. These were the moments that mattered—when they didn’t have to be idols, didn’t have to be perfect, just... themselves.

The conversation flowed for a while longer, but soon, Dino found himself growing sleepy. He leaned back in his chair, eyes heavy, but a small smile tugged at his lips as he scrolled through their messages. Even on their busiest days, they always found time for each other.

“Goodnight, guys,” he typed, tapping out the final message before putting the phone aside. “Thanks for the talk. I needed that.”

Yeonjun: Get some rest, Dino. Tomorrow’s another day, and we’ll face it together.

Hyunsuk: Goodnight, Dino. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.

Dino chuckled softly, feeling the warmth of their words pull him under. As he closed his eyes, the stress of the comeback faded just a little. He didn’t need to have everything figured out right now. They had each other, and that was all he needed.

____________________

The following morning brought a flurry of activity. Rehearsals, meetings, and video calls with the team had them all running on adrenaline, but Dino found it hard to shake the sense of connection he’d felt the night before. It was like the space between them wasn’t just filled with words—it was filled with understanding, too.

At lunch, Dino found himself walking through the cafeteria with his fellow SEVENTEEN members, but his mind kept wandering back to the conversation with Yeonjun and Hyunsuk. As much as they kept his spirits up, he knew the pressure would return sooner or later. They couldn’t be together all the time. The spotlight wouldn’t let them. But he would always have their support, no matter what.

He was about to grab a tray of food when he spotted Hyunsuk, who was sitting with a few of the TREASURE members, his usual carefree energy filling the space. The sight of his friend, laughing and joking with others, eased something inside Dino.

Without a second thought, Dino walked over to their table, taking an empty seat next to Hyunsuk.

“You’re stealing my spot again,” Hyunsuk teased, giving Dino a playful shove.

“Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you,” Dino replied, grinning. “You can’t be trusted alone with all this food.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Hyunsuk said to the others, “he’s just mad because I already finished the last croissant.”

Dino rolled his eyes. “You ate my croissant?” he gasped, though he was laughing.

“You snooze, you lose,” Hyunsuk said with a wink.

The exchange was so natural, so effortless, that Dino didn’t feel like he had to think too hard about it. He just was, sitting there in the moment, enjoying the company of his friends.

“Seriously though,” Hyunsuk continued, his tone shifting slightly. “If you need to talk, you know we’re here for you, right? You’re not alone in this, no matter how much pressure comes your way.”

Dino glanced at him, and for a second, he felt something raw and unspoken pass between them. Hyunsuk always had a way of cutting through the noise. No one else could pull Dino from his spirals like Hyunsuk could, with just a few simple words.

“I know,” Dino replied quietly, the weight in his chest easing. “And I’m grateful for it. I don’t say it enough, but I am.”

Hyunsuk’s expression softened, and for a moment, the world outside their little bubble didn’t matter. It was just the three of them—together, unbreakable.

____________________

The days drifted on like soft waves, calm but with a rhythm that demanded constant attention. With the comeback looming in the distance, Dino found himself both excited and oddly exhausted by it all. But as much as he felt the weight of expectation, he didn’t want to let it affect his friendships with Yeonjun and Hyunsuk. There was a delicate balance there—a space between their professional lives and their personal connections. They never crossed that line, at least not in a way that felt forced. It was the kind of bond that kept them grounded, no matter how far the world might pull them in different directions.

By the time Saturday evening rolled around, they were all in the dorm, the usual din of voices and laughter filling the air. Dino could hear the familiar sounds of members coming and going, the playful chaos of their daily lives as SEVENTEEN. He was sitting on the couch in the living room, quietly watching his phone when the ping from Yeonjun appeared again.

Yeonjun: You free tonight?

Dino glanced at the clock. It was late—past midnight, and the night was still young, but the energy was different tonight. Rehearsals had wrapped up earlier than expected, and no one seemed in a rush to call it a night. The promise of free time felt rare, and Dino found that it was often in these quiet hours that their friendship felt most solid, like everything had slowed down just for them.

Dino: Of course. What’s up?

Yeonjun: Hyunsuk and I were thinking of hitting up that karaoke place. You in?

Dino paused, glancing toward the dorm’s hallway where Hyunsuk was probably with the others, catching up on their group chat. Karaoke with the two of them? It was one of those things that seemed too simple, too small, yet it always held so much meaning. There was no pressure—just the three of them, singing badly on purpose, and making fools of themselves until they were laughing so hard their stomachs hurt. It was a comfort, a way to escape the noise of their public personas and just... exist.

Dino: Yeah, sounds fun. I could use a break from all the planning and stress.

Yeonjun: You and me both. Alright, we’ll meet you there in 30.

Dino smiled to himself, locking his phone and making his way to the hallway, where he found Hyunsuk lounging on the couch with a snack in hand. He looked up with a grin when Dino entered the room.

“Ready to make some terrible music choices?” Hyunsuk asked, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Always,” Dino replied, nodding in mock seriousness. “I think tonight, we should do all the classics.”

“Ah, I see. The full cringe experience.” Hyunsuk’s grin widened. “I’m down.”

As they made their way to the karaoke place, Dino couldn’t shake the feeling that this was what kept him grounded. The world might be demanding their attention, but in moments like this, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t about perfection or hitting every note right—it was about them, sharing these small, easy moments of connection. When they arrived, Yeonjun was already there, picking a song, his voice carrying over the music as he argued with the system about his song choices.

“Yeonjun, if you play another ballad, I swear—” Hyunsuk started, but was interrupted by Yeonjun’s dramatic gasp.

“You don’t like my taste in music?” Yeonjun’s expression was mock-hurt as he turned to face them. “What kind of friend are you?”

“I’m the one who’s trying to keep us alive here,” Hyunsuk shot back with a laugh. “What’s next? Are we doing ‘My Heart Will Go On’ for the third time in a row?”

Dino watched the exchange with a small smile, the gentle teasing always making him feel like he was part of something bigger than just the music. It wasn’t about being perfect in this moment. It was about being. And with them, he felt like he could just breathe.

They took their turns picking songs, the night passing in a blur of off-key notes, laughter, and inside jokes. Yeonjun picked a few ballads, but for every dramatic slow song, Hyunsuk threw in an upbeat K-pop hit, and Dino just… let it all go. He sang his heart out, not caring how ridiculous he looked. It was moments like this that made the pressure of fame feel like it was so far away. For a few hours, they were just friends. Not idols, not public figures. Just Yeonjun, Hyunsuk, and Dino, sharing a night where nothing mattered except enjoying each other’s company.

Later, as they stepped out into the crisp air, the city lights shimmering in the distance, Dino found himself leaning against the brick wall, just watching the night unfold.

“You good?” Yeonjun asked, his voice softer now that the noise of the karaoke place was behind them. He stood beside Dino, his gaze shifting toward the streetlights as well.

Dino nodded, looking up at the stars, though they were only faint in the city sky. “Yeah. It’s been a while since I felt this... normal, I guess.”

Hyunsuk was walking a little ahead of them, munching on a bag of chips. He turned around when he heard Dino’s words. “Normal, huh? I’m pretty sure we haven’t been normal a day in our lives.”

“I mean,” Yeonjun said, crossing his arms. “We’re definitely not your typical ‘normal’ group of friends. But we’re us, and that’s all that matters.”

Dino smiled, the weight of the world somehow feeling a little lighter in that moment. “Yeah. That’s true.”

They walked in silence for a while, the only sounds being the distant hum of the city and the crunch of Hyunsuk’s chips. Dino found comfort in it. These moments, these simple, silent exchanges, felt more real than anything else. It wasn’t about constantly talking. It was about just being together.

Later that night, back at the dorm, Dino crawled into bed with a sense of peace that was rare these days. The pressures of the comeback were still there—looming, constant, waiting for the moment they’d have to face it head-on—but for now, they were just friends. And in this small space between their performances and their private lives, Dino had everything he needed.

____________________

The days following their impromptu karaoke night were a blur of rehearsals, meetings, and the ongoing hum of their respective group schedules. For Dino, it meant late nights spent in the practice room, perfecting moves for SEVENTEEN's upcoming performance. For Yeonjun and Hyunsuk, it was the same—each of them tangled in the expectations that came with their idol status. Still, despite the whirlwind of their lives, they managed to carve out moments to check in with one another.

Dino’s phone buzzed with a message from Yeonjun just as he sat down to eat a quick lunch between practice sessions.

Yeonjun: You’re good, right?

It was a simple text, but it carried a weight. Yeonjun didn’t need to elaborate; they all knew the pressure that came with their careers. Sometimes, a single question could express more than a thousand words. Dino didn’t even have to think about it before typing his response.

Dino: Yeah, just tired. You know how it is. How about you?

Yeonjun: Same. Got a lot on my plate. But hey, let’s talk later. I know it’s been a lot for all of us lately.

Dino sat back, the faint ache of exhaustion pulling at his shoulders. He didn’t even realize how much he was carrying—until someone else noticed. The unspoken understanding between the three of them was something that didn’t need to be explained, but it still weighed on him sometimes. There were conversations they could only have with each other, the kind of conversations they couldn’t have with their members, or their fans. Not because they didn’t love them, but because no one understood the unrelenting demands of their industry quite like the three of them did.

Later that night, when the dorm was quieter, Dino found himself staring at his phone again, fingers hovering over the screen. This time, it wasn’t Yeonjun who reached out, but Hyunsuk. The message was brief, but it echoed the same sentiment.

Hyunsuk: Let’s meet. We need a break.

Dino felt a grin tug at the corners of his mouth. It was exactly what he needed. Sometimes, their hangouts were the only thing that made him feel like he could breathe. He quickly tapped out a response.

Dino: You know I’m down.

____________________

The café they frequented was small, tucked away in a corner of the city, away from the crowds and flashing lights of their busy lives. The soft hum of conversation and the smell of coffee filled the air, grounding Dino in a way he didn’t realize he needed. When Yeonjun and Hyunsuk arrived, they slipped into the booth beside him with an ease that only came with years of friendship.

Yeonjun grinned as he slid into the booth, tossing his jacket over the back of the chair. “How’s the practice grind, little brother? You surviving?”

Dino let out a tired laugh. “Surviving is about all I can do. You?”

“You know, same old. When’s the last time any of us actually rested?” Yeonjun leaned back, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his cup. “Feels like every time I close my eyes, there’s something else to do.”

Hyunsuk, who’d been quietly sipping his drink, glanced over the rim of his cup. “You know the drill. The more we do, the more they want from us.”

“Yeah, but it’s like... it never stops,” Dino said quietly, stirring his coffee, his gaze fixed on the swirling liquid. “I can’t remember the last time I felt... free. Not from the schedule. Just—just... being myself.”

Yeonjun’s eyes softened, a look of understanding flickering behind his usual playful exterior. “I get that,” he said, his voice a little more serious than usual. “It’s hard, especially with all the eyes on us. But you’re doing great, you know?”

Dino smiled faintly, his eyes drifting to Hyunsuk. He wasn’t sure what to say. The words that had been swirling around in his mind felt heavy—too heavy to spill out in one go.

Hyunsuk, sensing the shift in the air, placed his cup down and leaned in a little, his usual teasing smile replaced with something more grounded. “You’re allowed to have moments like this. It’s okay to not have everything figured out right away. You don’t always have to be the one holding it all together for everyone.”

The sincerity in Hyunsuk’s voice caught Dino off guard, and for a brief moment, the walls he’d built up over the years cracked just slightly. It was one thing to feel the weight of expectations from fans, from his members, and from the world at large. But there was something about their friendship—this quiet understanding—that made it feel like maybe he didn’t have to carry it all alone.

“I think... I think I’m just scared, you know?” Dino said softly, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his cup. “Scared that if I’m not always on top of things, if I don’t push myself hard enough, I’ll let everyone down. And sometimes, it feels like I can’t escape it.”

Yeonjun leaned forward, his playful smirk replaced by something more serious. “You’re not the only one feeling that, Dino. All of us—everyone goes through it. The industry doesn’t let up. But we have each other, right? We always have this—” he motioned between the three of them “—this space. You don’t need to have it all figured out. You just need to be you.”

Hyunsuk nodded, his gaze steady. “Exactly. We’ve been through so much together already, and we’ve got your back. No matter what happens, we’re here.”

Dino felt the weight of their words sink in. It was the kind of reassurance he hadn’t realized he needed until that moment. The unspoken understanding, the bond they shared—it was everything. And in that moment, surrounded by the low buzz of the café, the world outside didn’t seem so heavy. There was comfort in the knowledge that, despite everything, he wasn’t alone.

They spent the rest of the night talking—about everything and nothing at all. The conversation flowed easily, the weight of their individual pressures forgotten for just a while. And in the warmth of their shared laughter and easy banter, Dino realized that sometimes, it wasn’t the answers that mattered. It was the space they carved out for each other. The simple, quiet moments where they could just be.

____________________

The night deepened, and the soft hum of the café shifted as the hour grew later, quieter. The buzz from the tables around them thinned out, leaving only a few scattered groups lingering over drinks and conversations. The three of them sat in comfortable silence for a while, the only sound the occasional clink of a spoon against a cup or the rustling of paper napkins.

For a while, Dino had forgotten what it felt like to just sit and breathe without the constant pulse of the next task, the next practice, the next performance. Everything always had a deadline, a pressure to meet, a goal to reach. But here, with Yeonjun and Hyunsuk, time seemed to stretch out—a luxury he rarely had.

Yeonjun broke the silence first, his voice lighter now, as if the seriousness of their conversation had eased into something more comfortable.

“Alright, I know we’ve been all heavy and deep and stuff,” Yeonjun grinned, pushing his empty coffee cup aside. “But let’s talk about something else. I have a million things I could tease you about, Dino. Like, for starters, why do you always order the same thing?”

Dino blinked, momentarily thrown off guard by the shift in energy. “What do you mean, ‘the same thing’?” he asked, playing along.

“You literally never order anything other than an iced americano,” Yeonjun chuckled. “It’s like your go-to. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were sponsored by that one brand.”

Dino rolled his eyes, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “What’s wrong with having a favorite?”

Hyunsuk chimed in with a grin of his own, clearly enjoying the banter. “The only time you ever change your drink order is when we drag you into trying something else, and even then, it’s like pulling teeth. Remember that one time you tried a strawberry frappuccino, and you looked at us like we’d asked you to perform a live solo at the Dome?”

Dino couldn’t help but laugh at the memory. He had, indeed, looked like he’d been asked to do something completely outrageous, simply because he’d never been one to stray from his usual drink. But after a few teasing remarks from Hyunsuk and Yeonjun, he’d reluctantly given it a try. It hadn’t been terrible, but it definitely hadn’t dethroned his precious iced americano.

“I’m loyal,” Dino replied with a smirk. “What can I say? I don’t switch for trends.”

“That’s true,” Yeonjun said, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You’re a man of principle, Dino. We respect it.”

“And you guys are the worst influence,” Dino shot back, feeling lighter, the heaviness from earlier lifting bit by bit. “But fine, I’ll admit it. I don’t always stick to the same thing.”

Hyunsuk leaned back in his seat, his expression teasing as ever. “Alright, but don’t let us catch you ordering a pumpkin spice latte. That might break our friendship.”

Dino’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Are you serious? I would never.”

“Good.” Hyunsuk gave a dramatic nod. “I mean, you’ve got a reputation to maintain, right?”

As they laughed, Dino realized just how much he needed this—this ease, this comfort in their camaraderie. It was rare, and maybe that’s what made it so special. They didn’t need to be anyone but themselves. Even when the world outside seemed so demanding and suffocating, here, in this space, they could just be three friends—no labels, no expectations.

____________________

The conversation drifted from trivial matters to small talk—discussions about music, funny behind-the-scenes stories from the latest concerts, and casual rants about their respective company schedules. But as always, the tone remained playful, with the occasional bout of sarcasm and teasing.

“Alright, alright, enough with the drinks,” Yeonjun said, shaking his head as though disappointed in them both. “But tell me, Dino, how do you really feel about the comeback? Like, aside from the iced americanos, what’s going on in that head of yours?”

The shift in tone was subtle, but it was there. A slight tension flickered in Dino’s chest, a reminder of the quiet anxieties he’d been trying to push aside. The pressure of the comeback loomed like an unspoken cloud, hanging over all of them, and despite how hard he tried to ignore it, it always found its way back into his thoughts.

Dino took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms loosely. “I’m… I’m nervous. Not just about the performance, but about how people will react to the new stuff. I feel like, every time we put something out, the bar gets higher. You want to give everything, but it’s never quite enough. It’s like… we’re constantly trying to one-up ourselves.”

Yeonjun’s eyes softened at his words, the playful edge of his expression disappearing for a moment. “I feel that, too. Like, no matter how much we do, it’s always this expectation we have to meet. It never stops. But that’s the thing, Dino. We do it because we love it. We love performing. We love creating. And that’s more than enough.”

Hyunsuk nodded, his expression thoughtful. “And the fans—our fans—will love it, too. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s us. They’ll always be there, cheering us on. We just need to remind ourselves why we started this in the first place.”

Dino felt a weight lift off his shoulders as he absorbed their words. The pressure would always be there, sure, but maybe they didn’t need to carry it alone. They had each other, and maybe that was enough. It was moments like this—conversations like this—that reminded him they were more than just idols. They were people who happened to be doing something they loved, and that was what mattered most.

____________________

As the night continued, the three of them continued talking, their easy banter and quiet exchanges acting as a balm for the fatigue they all carried. They joked, they teased, they reassured each other, and in the end, they simply were. There was no pressure to be anything else. No stage personas, no cameras, no expectations.

Just friends. And that, Dino thought, was more than enough.

____________________

The night had grown colder as the three of them left the café, their laughter still lingering in the air like an echo. Yeonjun and Hyunsuk were playfully arguing over something trivial, probably about whether Yeonjun could actually finish his drink in one go (he couldn't), and Dino walked behind them, a quiet smile on his face as he watched them bicker.

It was these moments, the ones where they weren’t talking about music or careers, that felt the most real. Where they could let go of everything—the demands, the pressures, the expectations—and just exist. For a while, Dino didn’t feel the weight of being the youngest member of SEVENTEEN, or the pressure to constantly do better. Here, in the middle of the city, with his friends by his side, he could just be.

They walked in comfortable silence for a while before Hyunsuk broke it, his voice full of that easygoing warmth that made Dino feel like the world was a little lighter.

“You know,” Hyunsuk said, casually slipping his hands into his pockets, “I’m glad we did this. It’s been too long.”

Dino nodded, his gaze drifting to the ground as the cool breeze brushed against his skin. “Yeah, me too. It’s... it’s nice to just be normal for a bit, you know? No cameras, no schedules. Just us.”

Yeonjun, who had been quiet for the past few moments, turned around with a grin. “Yeah, I swear we’re way more fun when we’re not all caught up in our ‘idol’ personas. I mean, come on, look at us—this is the real us.”

Dino chuckled softly. “I think people forget that sometimes. They see the stages, the performances, the rehearsals, but… they don’t see this. The side of us that’s just hanging out, being ridiculous.”

Hyunsuk smirked, nudging Dino’s shoulder. “Like how you totally got caught off guard by the frappuccino incident earlier.”

Dino rolled his eyes, but there was a lightness to his movements. “I knew that was coming.”

The teasing shifted the mood back to the lighthearted energy they always managed to fall into, even after the more serious moments. It was as if their bond was woven together by this mix of playfulness and understanding—always teasing, always supporting, always there for each other in ways that mattered most.

____________________

They reached the small park they had been walking toward, an oasis of calm in the middle of the city’s constant hum. The streetlights cast a soft glow, and the air was crisp but refreshing. Hyunsuk found a bench and collapsed onto it, sprawling out with the kind of laziness that only people who were used to being busy could appreciate.

“I don’t want this to end,” Yeonjun said suddenly, his voice quieter now as he looked out into the park. “These nights. They remind me of… everything. Why we’re doing this. Why we’re still here.”

Dino paused, his heart a little heavy at Yeonjun’s words. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been craving these moments until now—the late nights where nothing had to be perfect. Where their conversations meandered from one topic to the next, and they could forget the world for a little while.

He sat down next to Hyunsuk, leaning back on the bench and staring up at the stars scattered above. For a moment, the weight of everything else faded away. The pressure, the expectations, the endless cycle of being seen as idols rather than people—it all seemed distant. Here, under the quiet sky, it was just them.

Dino’s voice broke the silence, soft and thoughtful. “Do you think this will always be like this? This friendship, I mean. Will we still be able to do this when everything gets bigger?”

Hyunsuk lifted his head from the back of the bench and met Dino’s gaze, his expression serious but kind. “Of course. We’re not just friends because we happen to work in the same industry. We’re friends because of everything else—the stuff no one sees. And that’s not going away.”

Yeonjun nodded, his eyes softening with a quiet understanding. “We’re not going to let it change. We’ll always find a way back to this. No matter how big we get.”

Dino let their words settle in, the reassurance soothing something in him that he hadn’t realized had been unsettled. They were right. They had something deeper than the surface-level friendships people often assumed they had. They had a connection that was grounded in something real, something that no amount of fame or success could touch.

They were friends before the cameras, before the stages, and that would always matter more than anything else.

____________________

They stayed there for a while, the sound of the city blending with their laughter, a soft undercurrent to the night. There was no rush to leave, no need to say anything more. Just a quiet contentment in the simple act of being together, of sharing something that was uniquely theirs.

Dino found himself thinking, not for the first time, how rare and precious this was. In a world that always seemed to demand more from them, where nothing was ever truly private, they had this. They had each other.

And that was enough.

____________________

Later, as they parted ways, Hyunsuk slung an arm around Dino’s shoulders, pulling him into a half-hug. “Don’t get too comfortable with all this talk of us being ‘normal.’ You know we’re probably gonna get back to our hectic schedules tomorrow, right?”

Dino laughed, rolling his eyes as he shoved Hyunsuk away. “Yeah, I know. But it’s nice to pretend for a while.”

Yeonjun threw an arm around Dino’s other side, his usual playful smirk back in place. “Pretend? We’re just getting started, kid. We’ve got plenty more ridiculous nights ahead of us.”

Dino grinned, his heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks. “Sounds good to me.”

As they walked away, the sound of their footsteps echoing down the quiet street, Dino felt something he hadn’t expected—hope. A quiet, steady hope that no matter what came next, this bond they shared would remain unshaken.

Because at the end of the day, they were more than just idols. They were friends. And that, Dino thought, was something that could never be broken.

Chapter Text

The room was warm—too warm.

Chan shifted in his seat, blinking against the bright lights of the interview set. His skin prickled with heat, sweat gathering at the nape of his neck. The studio was always warm under the cameras, but this was different. It seeped into his bones, made his muscles ache, and left his head heavy with an odd, buzzing sensation.

“Chan?” Jeonghan’s voice cut through the fog, light but pointed. He felt a hand on his knee, squeezing once, and he forced himself to sit up straighter.

“Mm,” he hummed, swallowing. His throat felt raw. “Yeah, I’m listening.”

Jeonghan didn’t look convinced, but the MC had already moved on, and the interview continued. The members filled the space effortlessly—Seungcheol answering with steady confidence, Seungkwan and Hoshi adding playful remarks, Mingyu’s laughter ringing between them. It was easy, familiar. But Chan couldn’t focus.

The heat was unbearable.

His breath caught, and suddenly everything felt too close. The scent of the studio, the subtle traces of his hyungs’ colognes, the soft rustle of fabric whenever someone shifted—it was all too much.

He clenched his fists against his knees. His vision blurred for a moment, pulsing with the frantic beat of his heart.

Something was wrong.

A shudder ran down his spine. His skin tingled, his muscles locked tight, and then—

Then the scent hit him.

Sweet. Thick. Suffocating.

It was his own.

The realization sent a fresh wave of nausea through him. His own scent had never been this strong before, never this—this overwhelming. He knew how alphas smelled—deep, rich, commanding. He knew how betas smelled—neutral, grounding, steady. He had spent years surrounded by his hyungs, learning to read their scents like second nature.

But this—this was something else.

“Chan.”

His head snapped up. Seungcheol was watching him, expression unreadable, his body just a little too still. Around them, the atmosphere had shifted.

Tension.

A pulse of awareness ran through the group, subtle but undeniable. The alphas stiffened, barely perceptible, but Chan felt it like a tidal wave. Jeonghan’s fingers twitched against his knee before pulling away. Woozi, usually composed, was gripping the hem of his sleeve too tightly. Mingyu and Wonwoo had gone quiet, shoulders squared, something unreadable in their eyes.

Chan inhaled sharply—and it shattered him.

His own scent swarmed him, too strong, too potent. His body felt like it was burning from the inside out. His vision blurred at the edges, and for the first time in his life, pure instinct seized him in an iron grip.

Run.

The chair scraped against the floor as he lurched to his feet. He barely heard the confused voices, barely registered the way Seungcheol moved to intercept him. His heart pounded, breath ragged, legs trembling as he staggered back.

“Chan—”

The words didn’t reach him.

Because in that moment, the heat finally crashed over him.

Pain.

Blinding, unbearable pain.

His knees buckled, the floor tilting beneath him. Someone caught him—strong hands gripping his arms, a steady presence keeping him upright—but he couldn’t tell who.

The world blurred. His own heartbeat roared in his ears.

Too much. It was too much.

A whimper tore from his throat, raw and helpless, and everything spiraled into darkness.

____________________

The world came back in fragments.

Heat. Pressure. The sensation of something cool pressing against his forehead. Distant voices—soft, urgent murmurs layered over the steady hum of an air conditioner.

Chan’s eyelids felt impossibly heavy, but he forced them open, blinking sluggishly against the dim light. The ceiling above him wasn’t familiar. He tried to move, but his body felt weighed down, sluggish, his skin damp with sweat.

He wasn’t in the studio anymore.

“Finally awake?”

Jeonghan’s voice, quiet and edged with something unreadable.

Chan turned his head, wincing at the dull throb behind his eyes. Jeonghan was sitting beside the bed—a bed?—leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. His expression was unreadable, but there was something sharp in his gaze, something assessing.

Chan swallowed, throat dry. “What…?”

Jeonghan didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached to the side, picking up a water bottle. “Here.”

Chan hesitated, but his body made the decision for him. He took the bottle with trembling hands, gulping down the water greedily. It helped, but not enough. His body still ached, his skin still too sensitive.

Jeonghan watched him, silent.

It was unnerving.

Chan licked his lips, trying to steady himself. “Where…?”

“Our dorm,” Jeonghan said, voice even. “You passed out at the studio. Seungcheol carried you out before anyone else could notice. We brought you straight back.”

The weight of the words settled over him slowly. The interview. The heat. The way his body had—

A shaky breath escaped him.

His fingers clenched around the water bottle. “I—”

Something flickered across Jeonghan’s face. Understanding. Sympathy. A trace of something sharper.

“Do you remember what happened?” Jeonghan asked, softer now.

Chan’s stomach twisted. He didn’t want to remember.

But he did.

The unbearable heat. The scent—his own scent, unfamiliar and suffocating. The way his hyungs had reacted. The way Seungcheol had looked at him, like he knew—

Like all of them knew.

A cold weight settled in his chest. His mouth felt dry again, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“What am I?” he whispered.

The question hung in the air.

Jeonghan’s gaze didn’t waver. He sighed, tilting his head slightly, considering his words. Then—

“You’re an omega.”

It shouldn’t have felt like a death sentence. But it did.

Chan exhaled sharply, body locking up. His breath stuttered, coming too fast, too shallow.

No. That—That didn’t make sense. It wasn’t possible.

He wasn’t—

His vision blurred again. Panic clawed at his chest. His entire life, he had known who he was. He had trained, pushed himself, fought tooth and nail to stand alongside his hyungs without feeling like the youngest.

He wasn’t weak.

He wasn’t—

“Breathe.”

Jeonghan’s voice cut through the spiral, calm but firm. A second later, a hand landed on his wrist—not squeezing, just there. A grounding touch.

Chan gasped, forcing air into his lungs.

Jeonghan didn’t speak again, just stayed there, waiting. Letting him process.

It took several long, agonizing moments before Chan could finally whisper, “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

Jeonghan’s fingers twitched against his wrist. “Neither did we,” he admitted. “But the signs were there. You just—didn’t present until now.”

Presented.

Late.

Too late.

Chan let his head fall back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling, pulse still erratic. His body felt foreign. Wrong. Not his own.

“…The others?” he asked hoarsely.

Jeonghan’s mouth quirked slightly. “Freaking out in their own ways.”

A humorless laugh nearly bubbled up, but Chan swallowed it down. Of course they were.

Seungcheol—he would be protective, but overbearing. Trying to take control of the situation, make sure everything was handled.

Woozi—probably quiet, watching. Calculating what needed to be done, offering solutions but staying out of the emotional mess.

Mingyu and Wonwoo—tense. Overwhelmed. Unable to hide how much the change unsettled them.

Vernon—Chan frowned slightly, not sure what to expect. But Jeonghan’s phrasing stuck out.

“Who’s freaking out the most?” Chan muttered.

Jeonghan actually laughed at that, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t expect it.”

Chan closed his eyes, breathing slowly.

Nothing felt real.

He was an omega.

And there was no going back.

____________________

Silence had never felt this loud.

Chan sat on the couch, hands clenched together, staring at the floor. The tension in the room was suffocating.

They were all here. Seungcheol, Jeonghan, Joshua, Jun, Soonyoung, Wonwoo, Jihoon, Mingyu, Minghao, Seungkwan, Vernon. Every single one of his hyungs, seated around the living room, their expressions ranging from concern to unease to something heavier.

He could feel them watching him, the weight of their gazes pressing against his skin.

His skin that still felt wrong.

The scent of his heat was mostly gone now, but traces lingered, clinging to the air, to the cushions beneath him. It made his stomach twist. He could feel the way some of the alphas in the room were still reacting to it—small, involuntary shifts, deeper breaths, the slight tension in their shoulders.

They were holding themselves back.

Chan swallowed hard. His throat was dry.

Seungcheol exhaled sharply and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “How are you feeling?”

The question was simple, but Chan hated it. Hated the way they were all waiting for his answer, waiting to see how fragile he was.

“I’m fine,” he said, voice flat.

Mingyu made a noise, disbelieving. “Chan.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Seungcheol’s brows furrowed. “You just had your first heat—”

“I know,” Chan snapped before he could stop himself.

The room tensed.

His pulse pounded in his ears.

He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. “I know,” he repeated, quieter this time.

The words tasted bitter on his tongue.

He knew. He had spent the last twenty-four hours knowing. His body still ached with the aftermath, his head still felt too full, his heart still stung from the realization that everything was different now.

He was an omega.

His hyungs were alphas.

And that changed everything.

Woozi shifted in his seat, arms crossed. “We’re not expecting you to be fine right away,” he said, voice even. “This is… a lot.”

Understatement.

Chan laughed, short and humorless. “Yeah.”

No one spoke for a moment.

Jeonghan sighed. “Chan—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Another thick silence settled.

That wasn’t true.

He wanted to talk about it. He wanted to understand what the hell had happened to him, why it had happened so late, what it meant now that it had.

But he didn’t want to do it like this.

Not with all of them looking at him like that.

Like he was fragile.

Like he was different.

Seungcheol rubbed his temple. “We’re not trying to overwhelm you. We just…” He hesitated. “We want to make sure you’re okay.”

Chan’s stomach twisted.

That was the worst part. He knew they cared. He knew that everything they were doing—hovering, watching, waiting—came from concern.

But it didn’t make it easier.

Didn’t make him feel any less suffocated.

He let out a slow breath. “I just need time.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, but he nodded.

Woozi studied him for a long moment before nodding as well.

Jeonghan hummed, tipping his head. “Alright,” he said lightly. “We’ll give you space. But don’t think that means we’re going to ignore this.”

Chan’s lips pressed into a thin line.

He hadn’t expected anything less.

But it still made his chest feel too tight.

____________________

The silence stretched, thick and unbearable.

Chan could feel the weight of it pressing against his ribs, the unspoken tension in the air wrapping around him like a vice. His hyungs were waiting—watching—for something he couldn’t quite name.

Maybe for him to crack. Maybe for him to ask for help.

But he couldn’t. Not yet.

“I’m tired,” he said finally. It wasn’t a lie. His body still ached, his muscles sore and weak from the ordeal of his first heat. But more than that, he was exhausted in a way that ran deeper than just his bones.

Seungcheol hesitated, his fingers flexing against his knees like he wanted to reach out but was holding himself back. “Alright,” he said after a long moment. “Go rest.”

Chan didn’t need to be told twice. He pushed himself up, ignoring the way his limbs still felt sluggish, and left the room without another word.

The hallway felt too much—too long, too empty, too suffocating. His head was a mess of tangled thoughts, emotions fraying at the edges no matter how hard he tried to hold them together.

Omega.

He was an omega.

He swallowed hard, his stomach twisting.

The door to his room was slightly ajar when he reached it. That alone made something inside him prickle—he always closed it completely.

Chan pushed it open warily, half-expecting someone to be inside.

And sure enough, someone was.

Seokmin was by his bed, adjusting the fresh sheets with careful precision.

Chan hesitated in the doorway. “…What are you doing?”

Seokmin didn’t look up right away. “Changing your bedding,” he said simply. “You needed fresh ones.”

Chan didn’t know how to respond to that.

He watched as Seokmin smoothed out the fabric one last time before finally meeting his gaze. “I know you don’t want to talk about it,” he said, voice calm, “so I won’t push. But you’re not going to get through this by pretending nothing happened.”

Chan’s jaw clenched. “I’m not pretending.”

Seokmin gave him a look.

Chan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I just… I don’t know what you guys want from me.”

Seokmin sighed, leaning against the edge of the bed. “We don’t want anything, Chan. We just want you to be okay.”

Chan let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, well. I don’t know if I am.”

It was the closest he had come to admitting anything.

Something in Seokmin's expression softened. He didn’t push, didn’t press further—just nodded, a quiet understanding passing between them.

“You should sleep,” Seokmin said finally.

Chan didn’t argue. He was too drained to fight anymore.

But as he climbed into bed, curling into the fresh sheets, he caught the faintest trace of something familiar—Seokmin’s scent, lingering in the fabric.

Warm. Steady. Comforting.

And for the first time in days, the knot in his chest loosened just a little.

____________________

The fractures were small at first—hairline cracks running through the foundation of their group. Barely noticeable if you weren’t looking closely enough.

But Chan could feel them.

In the way Seungcheol hovered more than usual, always standing just a little too close, his fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to reach out. In the way Jeonghan’s teasing had taken on a sharper edge, like he was trying to coax something out of Chan without making it obvious.

In the way Mingyu and Wonwoo had become watchful—tense in a way that made Chan’s skin prickle with something he didn’t want to name.

And in the way Vernon, of all people, had started checking in on him. Quietly. Casually. But with an intensity that hadn’t been there before.

It was like they were waiting.

For him to crack again.

For him to accept this new reality.

Chan wasn’t sure which one terrified him more.

____________________

“Are you going to keep avoiding us forever?”

Chan paused, his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. He looked up to find Jeonghan watching him, head tilted, a knowing look in his eyes.

The other members were quiet, eyes flickering between them, but no one interrupted.

Chan forced himself to swallow, setting his chopsticks down carefully. “I’m not avoiding anyone.”

Jeonghan hummed, unconvinced. “Then why do you flinch every time one of us gets too close?”

Chan’s fingers curled into fists under the table. “I don’t.”

Jeonghan didn’t call him out on the lie, but the silence that followed was enough.

Mingyu exhaled sharply, setting his spoon down with a little more force than necessary. “You know we don’t care, right? You being an omega doesn’t change anything.”

Chan’s stomach twisted.

Didn’t it, though?

He wasn’t the same. He felt it.

The way his body had betrayed him, the way his instincts had nearly shattered him—nothing was the same anymore.

And yet they were all sitting here, expecting him to pretend it was.

“It doesn’t change everything,” Seungcheol said, voice measured, “but it does change some things.”

Chan’s head snapped up, heart pounding.

He hadn’t expected Seungcheol to admit it.

“Like what?” he asked, the challenge clear in his voice.

Seungcheol’s jaw tensed. “Like the fact that you won’t let us help you.”

“That’s not—”

“Chan,” Jihoon cut in, his voice quiet but firm. “You’re struggling. We see it.”

Chan’s pulse thrummed in his ears.

The weight of their gazes was suffocating.

“You don’t get to decide that,” he snapped, pushing his chair back abruptly. The legs scraped against the floor, loud in the silence.

He stood, hands clenched at his sides. His entire body was shaking, though he wasn’t sure if it was from anger or something else.

“I don’t need your help,” he said, voice cold. “And I’m not weak.”

No one tried to stop him as he turned on his heel and walked away.

But as he left, he could still feel them watching.

Still waiting.

And that terrified him more than anything.

____________________

Chan didn't go far.

He told himself he was just stepping out to clear his head, but his feet took him to the practice room—the one place that had always felt like his own.

The room was dark, the mirrors casting back his own shadowed reflection as he stood in the doorway, breathing hard.

He knew the others wouldn't follow him.

Not yet.

They would give him time to cool off, to think.

Chan didn’t want to think.

His chest felt tight, his mind still spinning with the weight of their words. They thought he was struggling. That he was avoiding them. That he was weak.

Was he?

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily.

The thing that scared him most was that he didn’t know.

His body had betrayed him in ways he still couldn’t fully understand. His instincts were unfamiliar, raw and untested, a constant war between submission and defiance. And his hyungs—his pack—were changing, shifting around him in ways he wasn’t ready to face.

Everything felt off-balance.

I’m not weak.

Chan clenched his fists, the words ringing in his head, desperate and hollow.

He stepped forward, turning on the speaker with a practiced flick of his fingers. The music filled the room, sharp and pounding, something to drown out the thoughts he didn’t want to face.

And then he moved.

The moment his body started following the rhythm, some of the tension bled away. This—this—was something he knew.

He lost himself in the steps, pushing harder, faster, trying to forget the way Seungcheol’s voice had sounded when he said, You’re struggling.

Chan didn’t know how long he danced before the door finally opened.

He didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Woozi didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, watching, his presence quiet but unyielding.

Chan slowed, his breaths heavy.

“You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep pushing like this,” Minghao said eventually.

Chan let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

Minghao sighed, stepping further into the room. “You don’t have to prove anything to us, you know.”

Chan stiffened.

Minghao’s voice was calm, steady, but there was something in his expression that made Chan’s stomach churn.

Like he knew.

Like he saw right through him.

“I’m not proving anything,” Chan muttered.

Minghao didn’t respond right away. He just tilted his head slightly, studying Chan with an unreadable look.

Then, finally, he said, “Then why are you so scared?”

Chan froze.

His pulse jumped, and for a split second, something raw and painful surged through him—so fast and sharp that it stole his breath.

Scared?

He wasn’t—

He wasn’t scared.

He refused to be.

Chan’s hands clenched at his sides. “I’m not.”

The lie tasted bitter in his mouth.

Minghao didn’t argue.

He just held Chan’s gaze for a long moment before exhaling quietly.

“I get it,” he said. “I really do.”

Chan swallowed, his throat tight.

Minghao took a step closer. Not close enough to crowd him, but close enough that Chan could feel the warmth of his presence.

“You’re still you, Chan.” His voice was softer now. “No one expects you to be anything but you.”

Chan’s breath hitched.

The words sank deep, striking something he hadn’t even realized was aching.

But he wasn’t ready to let them settle just yet.

He shook his head, stepping back. “I need to be alone.”

Minghao studied him for a second longer, then nodded.

“Alright.”

He didn’t push. Didn’t argue.

Just turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Chan stood there, staring at the empty space where Minghao had been.

His heartbeat was still uneven, his body still thrumming with unspent energy.

But for the first time since this all began—

He felt just a little less alone.

____________________

The days that followed were a blur of quiet tension, punctuated only by the soft hum of their routines.

Chan had expected things to feel different after Minghao’s quiet words in the practice room, but they didn’t. It wasn’t that he had expected an immediate change in how his hyungs treated him—he knew they would be careful, cautious, protective. What he hadn’t prepared for was how little he could escape from it.

Everywhere he went, they were there.

Seungcheol, ever the leader, always keeping an eye on him, a quiet vigilance in his gaze that was both comforting and stifling. Jeonghan, too, though less overt in his protection, seemed to be everywhere—his voice lingering in the air, the way he would casually slide into the seat next to Chan during meals, his presence always just enough to make him feel seen without saying much.

But it was Minghao who still lingered in Chan’s thoughts the most. The way the older man hadn’t pushed, hadn’t tried to fix him, but had simply understood. Minghao had given him space in a way that no one else had, and it made Chan realize just how much he needed it.

He needed to find his own way through this.

One afternoon, after practice, Chan made the decision.

He wasn’t sure what had made him bold enough to finally take the first step, but there was something in the air that made him feel like maybe he could do this. Maybe he could find his balance again.

He pulled Seungcheol aside, his words faltering as he began to speak. “Hyung, I want to try something.”

Seungcheol, who had been watching him with an almost unreadable expression for days, paused, his brow furrowing in concern. “What do you mean?”

Chan hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I want to push myself... I want to prove to you—and to myself—that I can handle this.”

Seungcheol’s protective instinct flared, his gaze softening with a mix of hesitation and concern. “Chan, you don’t have to—”

“I do, though,” Chan interrupted, surprising both of them with the firmness in his voice. “I have to.”

There was a long pause before Seungcheol sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, Chan. But if you’re sure...”

“I am,” Chan replied, his tone firm. “I need to do this.”

Seungcheol studied him for a long moment, and then, finally, he gave a reluctant nod. “Alright. But don’t push yourself too hard.”

Chan’s eyes flickered with gratitude. “I won’t.”

With that, he turned, and for the first time in a long while, felt a small flicker of his old determination return.

The next few days were a whirlwind of practice, self-reflection, and quiet moments of introspection. Chan found himself working harder than he had in weeks, pushing his body to its limits, trying to prove something to himself that he still wasn’t sure how to put into words.

There were moments of exhaustion, moments where his body screamed for him to stop. But he didn’t.

Every time he thought about giving up, he thought of his hyungs, of the way they had stepped in, their unspoken protectiveness, and the subtle strength they had given him. And for the first time, instead of feeling burdened by it, Chan felt inspired.

One evening, after a particularly intense practice session, Seungcheol pulled him aside again, his expression unreadable.

“Chan,” he began quietly, “you’ve been working yourself too hard. You need to rest.”

But Chan didn’t want to stop. He couldn’t. Not yet.

“I’m fine, hyung. Just... just let me push through this.”

Seungcheol’s brow furrowed deeper, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he sighed softly and placed a hand on Chan’s shoulder. “You don’t need to carry this alone.”

Chan shook his head, feeling the familiar weight of his doubts creeping up again. “But I do. I can’t... I can’t just keep relying on all of you.”

Seungcheol’s gaze softened, and he squeezed Chan’s shoulder reassuringly. “You’re not a burden, Chan. You never have been. We’re your pack, your family. We’re here to help, not just to fix things.”

The words stung more than he expected, because deep down, that was exactly what Chan had been trying to do—fix himself. But he couldn’t, not alone.

“I’ll rest,” Chan said finally, his voice quiet. “But I still need to prove I can handle this.”

Seungcheol gave him a warm, understanding smile. “You’ve already proven it, Chan.”

The words settled deep, and for the first time, Chan felt the weight on his chest ease, even just a little.

It wasn’t about proving he was strong. It was about accepting that he wasn’t alone.

The next morning, he woke up early, his body sore from the constant strain of the past few days, but there was a quiet determination in his heart. He had found his balance—not through brute strength, but through accepting that he didn’t have to face this alone.

He found his hyungs waiting for him outside the practice room, as always. But today, there was something different in the way they looked at him—less protective, more equal.

They had finally let him take the lead.

Chan gave them a small, tentative smile, one that was only for them, his pack, the ones who had held him up when he couldn’t stand on his own.

And for the first time since this all began, he truly felt like he could breathe again.

The road ahead would be long, but for the first time, it felt like he was walking it on his own terms.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn spilled like molten gold over the village of Liora, brushing the thatched roofs with a gentle glow and stirring the morning mist that curled lazily across cobblestone streets. Dew-laden grass sparkled like a scattering of tiny stars, and the scent of damp earth mingled with the faint sweetness of early-blooming flowers. Smoke from hearths hung in the crisp air, carrying hints of baking bread and simmering porridge. A rooster crowed insistently from beyond the hills, breaking the hush of the early morning and calling the villagers to their day.

Chan tightened the straps of his worn leather pack, inhaling the familiar blend of scents and sounds, feeling a strange tug in his chest. Twenty years of life in this village had been quiet, sheltered, and, in its own humble way, full. He had grown up among the soft gestures of kindness that stitched together a life without parents: Old Marwen leaving a loaf of bread on his windowsill, Sister Alina tucking a ribbon into his hair, Thomlin saving the choicest grains for his porridge. The village had been a quilt of warmth and small affection, a fabric he could fold around himself in memory as he stepped into the unknown.

“Good morning, Chan,” Sister Alina’s voice chimed from the narrow lane, her basket swinging gently with each step. “Have you eaten your bread and cheese? The journey to Pang is long, and a man needs all the strength he can carry.”

“I have, kind sister,” Chan replied with a bow, his voice soft but steady. “But your advice is wise. I will carry it with me.”

“Take courage, young man,” she said, brushing a hand lightly over his shoulder. “May fortune be with you, and may the kingdom keep you safe.”

“Thank you, sister,” he murmured, bowing again.

From the square, Marwen’s boisterous voice called after him. “Chan! Take this loaf! You’ll need it—you can’t wield a sword if you’re hungry!”

Chan accepted the bread with a deep bow, smiling through the tug of nerves in his stomach. “Your kindness will not be forgotten, good Marwen.”

He set off, leaving the village behind. Rolling hills unfurled before him, dotted with wildflowers swaying in the breeze and ancient trees standing sentinel along the path. The scent of pine and river mist mingled, birds chirped in the high branches, and the soft rustle of leaves accompanied his quiet steps. Each step carried the strange combination of loss and anticipation—loss for the village that had been his cradle, anticipation for a life he had only glimpsed in dreams.

____________________

By mid-afternoon, the skyline of Pang emerged, vast and imposing, glinting under the sun. Towers pierced the sky, city walls bristling with guards, and streets thrummed with energy. Merchants called over the clamor of the market, hawking silk, spices, and fresh fruits. Horses’ hooves clattered against stone, mingling with the laughter of children darting through alleyways. The smell of roasted meats blended with fresh bread and the river’s tang. Chan paused, chest tightening with awe. He had dreamed of the capital, but the reality struck him with a dizzying vibrancy.

Navigating the northern quarter toward the training grounds, he passed older guards whose polished armor gleamed and disciplined stride exuded authority. Some glanced at him with quick, appraising looks; others barely spared him notice. New recruits scurried about the streets—some bold and self-assured, others nervous, wide-eyed, uncertain.

And then he noticed them.

They were subtle at first—a man stepping lightly from the shadows, bowing with careful courtesy. “Pardon me, young man. The streets are crowded, and a newcomer might find the way confusing. Are you also headed to the northern training grounds?”

“I… I am,” Chan replied, bowing low. “I wish to train to serve as a guard of the kingdom, sir.”

The man’s gaze lingered, just a fraction longer than needed. Another stepped forward, brushing the strap of Chan’s pack with deliberate care, a hand resting ever so briefly on his shoulder. Chan felt heat rise to his cheeks and lowered his eyes in a bashful bow.

“My name is Chan,” he murmured. “I come from Liora.”

“Ah,” said the first, a small smile tugging at his lips. “A fine village. And now a finer path awaits you here.”

They guided him through the bustling streets, offering small, almost imperceptible touches of assistance—a map extended with an encouraging smile, a boot strap adjusted with precision, a shoulder lightly steadied to keep him from jostling merchants. Each gesture was polite, almost formal, yet there was an undeniable warmth beneath it. Chan could feel it as acutely as the morning sun on his back.

____________________

Along the way, he glimpsed the twelve without knowing their number or names yet. One lingered a little too long while explaining the training schedule, another adjusted his pack with a casual hand that betrayed far too much attentiveness. They moved in synchrony, a quiet orbit of interest around him. Their eyes met his in fleeting glances that were polite but impossible to ignore, each attempt to contain their obsession failing just a little. Chan found himself smiling nervously, unsure whether to be flattered or embarrassed.

“Are you accustomed to such a city?” a calm voice asked, soft but deliberate.

“I have only known Liora,” Chan admitted. “It is… overwhelming.”

“It is so,” said another, kneeling slightly to check a strap on Chan’s boot, hands lingering an instant longer than necessary. “Yet you carry yourself well. One would scarcely guess you are new here.”

Chan’s cheeks burned, and he gave a small nod, caught between gratitude and shyness.

By late afternoon, the group arrived at a modest inn where recruits lodged before training. The streets outside were alive with merchants, horses, and children, but inside the inn, a quiet warmth welcomed them. The twelve continued their subtle vigilance, hovering politely—too polite to be casual, too careful to seem obvious. One lingered at the door as Chan settled into a small room overlooking the street.

“Rest well, young Chan,” he said with a bow, eyes lingering in a way that made Chan’s stomach flutter. “From tomorrow, your journey here will begin. May fortune guide your path.”

Chan nodded, unsure how to respond. Once alone, he sank into the narrow bed and gazed out the window at the twinkling lights along the river. The city hummed around him, vast and alive, and yet in the quiet warmth of the room, he felt a curious comfort. The men he had met—their subtle attentions, awkward care, and fleeting gestures—left a strange imprint, a soft orbit he felt but could not yet name.

He thought of Liora, of home, and of the unknown paths that awaited. Somewhere amid these streets, these men, his life had already begun to interlace with theirs in delicate, invisible threads. Threads of curiosity, care, and perhaps a warmth he had never dared hope for.

____________________

The next morning light spilled across Pang in slow, deliberate gold, brushing towers and rooftops with a warmth that seemed almost alive. Chan rose from the narrow cot in his room at the inn, stretching limbs that ached pleasantly from the previous day’s journey. Beyond the open window, the city hummed with life: carts rattled over cobblestones, the chime of distant church bells rang in the crisp air, and vendors called out their wares in bright, melodic voices. The scent of fresh bread mingled with the tang of riverwater, smoke from chimneys, and the earthy aroma of market vegetables, layering into a dizzying but comforting perfume of Pang. Chan inhaled deeply, feeling the city’s pulse—fast, insistent, and yet oddly inviting.

He adjusted his pack, smoothing the leather straps, and stepped into the street. The markets were already vibrant with movement: children darted between stalls, trying to snatch glimpses of exotic fruits; a butcher balanced a basket of herbs on one arm, his voice rising above the chorus of merchants; a milkmaid’s jingling pails rang against her steps. Chan’s senses drank it all in, every color, every scent, every tiny sound weaving together the city’s living tapestry. He felt a thrill, a mixture of awe and apprehension, that Liora’s quiet streets could never have offered.

Making his way toward the northern training grounds, he passed older guards patrolling with an almost imperceptible rhythm, boots hitting the stones in precise cadence. Young recruits scrambled over practice dummies, hefted heavy wooden swords, or ran laps around the yard, their movements a mix of energy and uncertainty. The sharp clang of metal on wood rang out, punctuated by shouted instructions or low, measured reprimands. Chan paused to watch a recruit stumble, another veteran kneeling to adjust his stance, sweat glinting on sun-warmed skin. The discipline and focus in each motion captivated him—here, the city’s chaos gave way to controlled, graceful order.

A voice called out, smooth and commanding. “Good morning, young man. You must be Chan of Liora.” Chan turned to see a tall figure approaching, boots echoing against the cobblestones. “I am Choi Seungcheol, captain of the Royal Attacca Guard Division. Welcome. Today marks the start of your new life here, and I shall guide you through the essentials first.”

Chan bowed, chest tight under Seungcheol’s steady gaze. “It is an honor, Captain Seungcheol,” he murmured.

“Good. Come,” Seungcheol said, inclining his head. “We have much to cover. But first…” He gestured toward a group moving gracefully among the recruits. “Meet the other guards who serve in the Royal Attacca Guard Division beside me. They will observe, guide, and perhaps challenge you more than you anticipate. Chan, pay attention—they’re eager to meet you.”

Chan’s gaze swept across the group, each figure radiating a distinct energy, and he felt a ripple of excitement in the pit of his stomach.

Hong Joshua stepped forward first, grinning brightly. “I am Hong Joshua” he said, bowing with a cheerful flourish. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chan!”

Wen Junhui followed, moving with fluid grace, sword glinting in the morning light. “I am Wen Junhui, but many call me Jun,” he said, voice lively. “I look forward to seeing what you can do.”

Kwon Soonyoung spun in a lively twirl, laughter spilling across the yard. “I am Kwon Soonyoung, also known as Hoshi,” he said, bowing low. “Step lively, Chan! Every move has rhythm, and I’ll show you how.”

Yoon Jeonghan stepped forward, silver hair catching the sunlight. “I am Yoon Jeonghan, though you can call me Jeonghan,” he said, bowing lightly. “I’ll help you find your balance.”

Jeon Wonwoo’s calm presence followed. “I am Jeon Wonwoo” he said, voice steady. “I’ll watch your form carefully.”

Lee Jihoon knelt briefly, inspecting Chan’s wooden sword. “I am Lee Jihoon but I prefer Woozi,” he said, standing with a faint grin. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Xu Minghao brushed lightly against Chan’s gauntlet. “I am Xu Minghao” he said with a playful nod.

Kim Mingyu leaned forward with a grin. “I am Kim Mingyu, but Mingyu works fine,” he said. “Don’t hold back, Chan!”

Lee Seokmin’s laugh rang across the yard. “I am Lee Seokmin but you can also call me DK,” he said. “Fight with heart, Chan!”

Boo Seungkwan raised his voice cheerfully. “I am Boo Seungkwan, Seungkwan is fine too,” he said. “I’ll cheer you on!”

Chwe Hansol leaned in, smirk teasing. “I am Chwe Hansol, but Vernon works as well,” he said. “Keep up, Chan!”

Chan bowed deeply, chest tight with awe. “It is an honor to meet each of you. I will do my utmost to learn and grow.”

____________________

Chan first attempt at practice was awkward, his wooden sword heavy and uncooperative in his hands. Seungcheol’s voice cut clearly across the yard. “Fundamentals first. Grip, stance, swing. Confidence, not haste.”

Joshua sidled beside him, smirking. “Strength is nothing without focus,” he said, gesturing with an exaggerated demonstration that sent Chan stumbling slightly. Junhui lunged, light on his feet, and Chan barely parried, tripping over a loose cobblestone with a small yelp. Hoshi spun nearby, laughter echoing like bells. “Steady your feet, young Chan! They are the foundation of your every move.”

Even the quiet ones contributed in their own ways. Wonwoo’s gaze followed Chan with unwavering attention; Woozi’s meticulous instructions refined each swing; Minghao’s playful nudges drew laughter; Mingyu whispered hints between jabs and parries; DK and Seungkwan cheered his small victories, and Hansol’s teasing remarks lightened the strain. Each interaction, no matter how brief, was a deliberate orbit around Chan, building a web of attention and warmth that was both exhilarating and bewildering.

After several hours, Chan allowed himself a breath and wandered through the city streets. The markets were alive with color and sound: bolts of silk gleamed in the sun, spices lent the air an exotic sharpness, and the river shimmered where small boats bobbed against the docks. He lingered at a stall selling honeyed pastries, the baker offering a warm smile and a sample. “For a young man like you,” she said. “May your path be strong.” Chan bowed, tasting the sweet golden morsel with a delighted grin. Even here, his thoughts flickered back to the twelve, their subtle presences guiding his steps, lingering in his mind like the soft warmth of dawn.

Returning to the inn, he found small surprises awaiting him: adjustments offered to his pack, playful teases about his posture, whispered dares to best them in practice the next day. Even the simplest chores—laying out his sword, tending his armor—were turned into shared, laughing moments with the twelve hovering nearby. Each interaction deepened a strange, comforting orbit, as if they were invisible threads tugging at him, urging him to belong.

Twilight settled over Pang, the city bathed in rose and amber. Chan found a quiet patch of grass near the training grounds and sat, exhaustion softening into contentment. Around him, the twelve lingered, playful, attentive, subtly competing for his attention—each smile, each glance, each teasing remark a reminder that in this vast, vibrant city, he was not alone. The clang of swords and laughter wove together with the fading light, and Chan realized, with a gentle, thrilling certainty, that he had already begun to find a place among them. Among the twelve, in the Royal Attacca Guard Division, in Pang, in this new life, he was home.

____________________

Another morning arrived like a slow-burning ember, glowing gently over the rooftops before spilling into the streets as a wash of pearly gold. Chan woke to it in a tiny breath of wonder, sitting up on his cot as though the light itself had tapped his shoulder and whispered, rise. His muscles moaned in protest, but it only made him chuckle softly; pain was proof he’d begun something real.

He splashed his face with cold water from the basin, the shock clearing the fog from his mind. Outside his window, Pang was already thrumming: glass clinking as tavernkeepers polished mugs, the distant whoosh of a blacksmith’s bellows, the clatter of wagon wheels on stone. In Liora, mornings had been quiet things. In Pang, they roared to life.

Chan tugged on the fresh jerkin the innkeeper had left for him, cinching the straps with care. The leather still smelled new—sharp, earthy, stiff—but he liked that. It made him feel ready. He stepped into the waking streets with a strange mix of dread and excitement sparking through his ribs.

Today was his first real day.

His first true step toward becoming a guard.

And he was very aware that twelve pairs of eyes would be waiting.

____________________

The training grounds were already alive when he arrived, heat rising from the stones and fading mist clinging to the edges of the yard. Recruits stretched and stumbled, veterans chanted drills, and the rhythmic thud of boots on dirt pulsed like a heartbeat through the air.

But Chan barely had time to take it all in before a familiar presence appeared in front of him.

Seungcheol stood tall, cloak draped neatly around him, expression as stern as a carved statue—until he saw Chan. Then something softened, like a brief crack of warmth slipping through.

“You’re early,” he said. “Good. Early means disciplined.”

Chan bowed. “I—I didn’t want to disappoint, Captain.”

A hum of approval rumbled in Seungcheol’s chest. “We’ll make a guardsman out of you yet.”

Before Chan could even straighten, a cool hand slid onto his shoulder.

“You slept well, yes?” Jeonghan asked, leaning in with such gentle familiarity that Chan’s breath caught. “No tossing or turning? No nightmares? No regrets about coming here?” His tone was musical, playful—yet sincere.

“I’m… doing fine,” Chan answered, though his pulse stuttered.

“Good,” Jeonghan murmured. “I’d hate for you to suffer alone.”

A shadow fell beside him, and Joshua stepped into view wearing a lazy grin.

“You’re gripping your nerves like a sword with no hilt,” Joshua said. “Try loosening up. Or you might fall over before the training even begins.”

Chan blinked. “I’m not that nervous.”

“Mm,” Joshua replied. “We’ll see.”

There was no time to respond—the others were arriving. And with them came a subtle shift in the energy of the yard, as though the temperature itself rose.

Junhui approached first, stretching his arms overhead with theatrical grace. “He’s stiff,” he declared after one look at Chan. “We’ll have to fix that.”

Hoshi spun in a half-arc around him, as if gravity tugged him into orbit. “I can teach him to loosen his feet. Movement is half of living, Chan! And you—” He poked Chan’s chest. “You’re moving like a startled goat.”

Wonwoo appeared silently, taking his place beside him without a sound. “Don’t let them overwhelm you,” he said, voice quiet but grounding. “They mean well.”

“Do we?” Vernon called from several paces away, ruffling his hair. “I thought we were here to see if he survives the morning.”

Mingyu shoved him lightly with an elbow. “Ignore him. He’s afraid you’ll become better at this than he is.”

Vernon gasped dramatically. “I would never—okay, maybe.”

DK and Seungkwan materialized in perfect, shimmering unison, both saluting far too formally.

“We have arrived to cheer!” DK declared.

“To supervise!” Seungkwan corrected.

“To protect—” DK added.

“To critique—” Seungkwan countered.

“To inspire—”

“To intrude,” Woozi muttered as he brushed past them, shoving a practice sword into Chan’s hands. “Grip this. Correctly.”

Minghao slid in behind him like a silk ribbon. “No pressure,” he whispered. “Just breathe. Or pretend to. Either works.”

Chan stared at all twelve hovering around him, crowding him, circling him, adjusting him, claiming space around him like tiny suns determined to keep him warm.

He swallowed.

“Do you,” he asked hesitantly, “hover like this around all the new recruits?”

Twelve heads shook in perfect harmony.

“Oh,” Chan whispered.

“Oh,” Joshua echoed with a smirk.

____________________

The morning began with footwork. Rows of recruits lined the field, stepping and pivoting as older guards shouted instructions. Chan did his best to keep up—though “best” was generous. His feet liked to argue with each other.

“Left!”

“Right!”

“Not—you moved both, Chan!”

Junhui’s laughter rang bright as he swept in to catch Chan before he toppled.

“You’re charming when you wobble,” Junhui said. “But maybe don’t wobble into the dirt.”

Chan flushed. “I’m trying.”

“And we adore that,” Hoshi added as he lightly nudged Chan’s ankles into proper alignment. “You’re learning the rhythm. Let me see—step… step… now turn—no, not that way—”

Chan spun too quickly and nearly smacked into Mingyu.

Mingyu steadied him with an arm around the waist. “Easy there,” he muttered, cheeks suspiciously pink. “You’re allowed to take your time.”

Woozi, standing exactly two paces away, scribbled something into a small notebook.

Chan squinted. “Are you… taking notes on me?”

“Yes,” Woozi said plainly.

“What kind of notes?”

“Various.”

That did not reassure him.

And it didn’t help that Wonwoo stood nearby with crossed arms, watching him with the focused intensity of someone observing a rare bird.

“You’re improving,” Wonwoo said.

Chan gaped. “I just tripped over my own heel.”

“Exactly,” Wonwoo said. “Yesterday, you tripped over your toes.”

Chan had no idea whether that was a compliment. But the way Wonwoo smiled—small, soft—made something warm bloom in him anyway.

____________________

The next lesson was sparring.

Chan did not want to spar.

Chan especially did not want to spar with one of them.

So of course Seungcheol clapped once and announced, “Chan will spar with Junhui.”

Chan stiffened. “Why me?”

“Because,” Joshua replied, “we want to see what you do under pressure.”

“And because Junhui hasn’t stopped volunteering,” Vernon added.

Junhui grinned, tapping the wooden sword against his palm. “Ready when you are.”

Chan was not.

But the twelve cheered anyway.

He lifted his sword.

They circled around him like wolves.

And the spar began.

Junhui’s movements were swift but gentle, offering Chan openings he could attempt—barely, awkwardly, desperately. Every time Chan swung, someone shouted advice:

“Lower your shoulder, Chan.” — Seungcheol

“Mind your breath!” — Wonwoo

“Oh, he’s adorable when he panics.” — Minghao

“Block! No, that’s your head—” — Seungkwan

“Good effort!” — DK

“Terrible aim!” — Joshua

“I believe in you!” — DK

“I mildly believe in you!” — Vernon

“At least he looks good doing it.” — Mingyu

“He does,” Jeonghan murmured, too close to Chan’s ear.

Chan’s brain short-circuited.

He missed the next block entirely and stumbled backward.

Junhui caught him by the wrist. “Hey. I’ve got you.”

Chan blinked up at him, breathless, heart racing.

“Try again,” Junhui said. “I like seeing you try.”

The spar lasted longer than Chan had expected. He didn’t win—not even close—but he improved. He learned how to shift his weight, how to read Junhui’s stance, how to move with intention rather than fear.

By the end, he felt different.

Not good.

Not confident.

But… capable.

A little.

Maybe.

____________________

Lunch came with laughter.

Chan sat on a patch of grass with a bowl of broth and a heel of bread, steam curling into the warm afternoon. Recruits buzzed nearby, bragging or complaining. Pang’s bells chimed from the tower above.

And the twelve?

They gathered around him again. Obviously.

Hoshi plopped down first, leaning into Chan’s shoulder like they’d known each other for years.

“You swing like a duck,” he said cheerfully. “But a determined duck.”

“That’s a compliment,” DK insisted.

“It is?” Chan asked.

“Yes,” Seungkwan said.

Mingyu dropped his cloak on Chan’s lap. “You’re cold.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re cold,” Mingyu repeated firmly.

Jeonghan fixed a loose strap on Chan’s jerkin without asking.

Joshua stole half of Chan’s bread.

Vernon leaned against a tree above them all, studying Chan’s face as if measuring something.

Woozi was still writing notes.

“Do you ever take breaks?” Chan asked.

“No,” Woozi replied.

Wonwoo nudged a water flask toward him. “Drink.”

Minghao made an approving sound when Chan obeyed.

Junhui simply lay in the grass beside him, basking in the sun like an elegant cat.

Seungcheol watched the entire scene with a small, hidden smile.

Chan wasn’t sure what to call the feeling building in his chest. Softness? Belonging? A quiet, hesitant joy?

Whatever it was, it settled into him like warmth from within.

____________________

The last trial of the day was balance training along one of the narrow beams laid across the grounds.

Chan stepped up, wobbling instantly.

The twelve inhaled at the same time.

Joshua muttered, “He’s going to fall.”

“He won’t,” Jeonghan countered.

“He’ll fall,” Vernon repeated.

“Have faith,” DK said.

“Have realistic expectations,” Woozi corrected.

Chan took one brave step.

Hoshi cheered.

Junhui clapped softly.

Mingyu reached out as though ready to catch him despite standing several paces away.

Minghao leaned forward, fascinated.

Wonwoo’s breath hitched.

Jeonghan whispered something like a prayer.

Seungkwan squealed.

Woozi wrote more notes.

DK kicked dirt excitedly.

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, impressed.

Chan’s foot slipped—

Twelve bodies lunged forward at once.

He didn’t hit the ground.

He wasn’t even sure whose arms caught him.

All he knew was warmth, hands steadying him, voices overlapping in panic:

“Are you hurt?”

“Are you dizzy?”

“Did you twist something?”

“He needs water!”

“He needs rest!”

“He needs supervision!”

“He needs a hug—”

“He absolutely does not—”

Then Seungcheol stepped in and lifted Chan back to his feet with one firm hand.

“You did well,” he said. “Tomorrow, you’ll do even more better.”

Chan nodded, cheeks flaming.

____________________

By night, the city glowed with lanternlight. Pang’s streets shimmered like threads of gold stretching into the dusk. The river reflected the sky in molten orange. The training grounds quieted, leaving only the rustle of grass and the distant laughter of vendors closing their stalls.

Chan stood at the edge of the field, breathing in the cool evening air.

He felt tired. Sore. Dusty.

But he also felt… full.

Full of warmth.

Full of gentle chaos.

Full of voices calling his name.

Jeonghan brushed a strand of hair behind his ear before leaving with the others.

Joshua smirked over his shoulder.

Mingyu told him to sleep early.

Minghao added, “Or at least try.”

Junhui winked.

Hoshi waved both arms like he was sending off a ship.

DK and Seungkwan harmonized, “Good niiiiight, Chaaaan~”

Vernon tossed him a crooked grin.

Woozi didn’t look up, but paused long enough to murmur, “You did well.”

Wonwoo stayed a moment longer, saying nothing—just offering a quiet nod that meant everything.

And Seungcheol said last, “Tomorrow, again.”

Chan watched them go.

And for the first time since he left Liora, he didn’t feel small.

He felt wanted.

Surrounded.

And as he turned toward the inn, heart blooming and aches settling into something warm and good, he whispered to the empty path:

“I can do this.”

And somewhere behind him, hidden in the shadows, twelve soft smiles answered.

____________________

Another day where the morning air was crisp, scented faintly with dew and the lingering smoke of early fires. Chan stepped onto the training grounds, his boots crunching softly over frost-kissed cobblestones. Sunlight trickled through the open arches of the nearby towers, glinting off steel and polished wood, and the distant hum of the city carried over the walls—wagons rattling along streets, merchants calling their wares, and a far-off choir of bells. Even the familiar scent of bread baking in the market reached him here, sweet and warm, wrapping around him like a promise.

Before he could even adjust his stance, Jeonghan appeared beside him with the effortless grace of someone who had already moved a thousand times that morning.

“Good morning, Chan,” he said, voice soft, melodic. “The dawn doesn’t wait for anyone, but I hope your bed held firm.” His hand brushed lightly against Chan’s shoulder in a gentle adjustment. “You’ll need every ounce of strength today.”

Chan bowed, cheeks warming. “I… I slept well, thank you.”

Joshua leaned lazily against a post, smirking at the exchange. “Bed held? Or you’re just good at pretending?”

“You’re all insufferable,” Chan muttered, though a grin tugged at his lips.

DK’s voice rang out from across the yard. “Clumsy as ever, but try! You’ll survive!”

Seungkwan elbowed him sharply. “Quiet! Let the lad breathe before you collapse him with noise.”

Hoshi vaulted gracefully off a barrel with a laugh that scattered small leaves across the ground. “Rise and shine, Chan! Today’s a new chance to wobble impressively!”

Mingyu nudged Minghao, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Look at him—so serious, so small.”

Minghao rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide a faint smile. Vernon lounged on the fence, arms crossed, watching Chan as if personally invested in every heartbeat. Woozi crouched near the practice swords, jotting notes as he observed the interactions like a chronicler of a small, chaotic constellation.

Seungcheol stepped forward, his voice calm and resonant. “Warm-ups. Start with the basics. Observe your breathing, your stance, your balance. All of us will guide you—” he cast a sharp glance at the hovering cluster around Chan “—and occasionally amuse ourselves in the process.”

Joshua smirked. “Mostly the amusing.”

Jeonghan corrected him softly. “We guide, Joshua. Watching alone is not enough.”

Vernon muttered from the shade, tossing a small pebble with a lazy flick. “Hover if you must. I enjoy it.”

DK and Seungkwan erupted in unison: “Cheer!”

Junhui twirled his sword with dramatic flair. “And I will compete! Every move counts!”

Hoshi raised his eyebrows, voice playful. “Maybe all at once. Chaos is motivating.”

Chan felt his chest tighten in both awe and panic. How was it possible for twelve people to hover around him at once without spilling over into utter chaos?

And yet… somehow it worked.

____________________

Jeonghan appeared behind him during stretches, guiding Chan’s arms upward. “Reach for the stars,” he murmured, brushing hair from Chan’s brow. “Not literally, of course, but you understand.”

Minghao tapped Chan’s knee lightly. “Bend more. Center your balance. Don’t fight the ground—it supports you.”

Mingyu stepped close, hand on Chan’s shoulder, adjusting his posture. “Tall, confident… neither a shrub nor a scarecrow, remember.”

Joshua leaned against a post, smirking. “Careful, Mingyu. If he listens to you, he might outshine us all.”

Mingyu puffed his chest. “He already does in small, subtle ways.”

Joshua’s grin widened. “Terrifying.”

Jeonghan’s soothing voice reminded him to breathe, and for a moment, Chan felt the day’s nerves melt into a faint warmth that threaded through his chest.

____________________

Sword drills began in earnest. Chan gripped the wooden blade tightly, the weight unfamiliar, the grain rough against his palms. Seungcheol walked behind him, guiding each swing.

“Follow the arm, not the sword,” Seungcheol instructed. “Lift it like it belongs to your body, not your fears.”

Junhui barked at another recruit, voice playful but sharp. “Strike with purpose, not as if swatting flies! Chan, watch closely!”

Hoshi twirled past in a blur. “Feet first! The body follows the rhythm of your steps! Lighter! Faster! No hesitation!”

“I can’t float,” Chan muttered under his breath.

“Yes, you can,” Hoshi insisted.

“You will,” Minghao added firmly.

“You must,” Junhui declared, grinning.

Woozi crouched beside him, steady and calm. “Relax your elbow. Grip with intent. The sword is an extension of yourself, not a burden.”

Wonwoo’s voice was quiet, almost like a reminder of heartbeat. “Plant your feet. Control your rhythm. Each movement matters.”

Vernon spun a pebble lazily. “You keep saying that about everything.”

Wonwoo’s reply was serene. “Because it works.”

The rest of them added bursts of encouragement and commentary, playful corrections, soft laughter, cheering, teasing—the yard a whirl of energy focused entirely on him. Every adjustment, every word, every glance from them was a tiny orbit of attention. Chan felt dizzy with gratitude, warmth, and the faint tickle of being utterly seen.

____________________

“You belong with us,” Junhui whispered as they paused for a breath. “Your instincts? Perfect for the frontlines. I’ll make a warrior of you.”

“No, no,” Minghao countered, leaning close. “You’ve got the precision of a tactician. Our methods suit you best.”

“And the courage of a leader,” Mingyu added, crossing his arms. “Royal Attacca Guard isn’t just strength—it’s heart, and you’ve got plenty.”

Joshua smirked. “Strong hearts? You barely have one yourself.”

Seungcheol’s commanding voice cut through the teasing, grounding everything. “Enough. Finish your drills. But know this—there’s a place for you here, if you choose it.”

____________________

Archery followed, and Chan was suddenly holding a bow far heavier than he expected. Arrows lined up neatly in a quiver, fletchings brushing against his shoulder.

“Draw from the shoulder, not the wrist,” Seungcheol instructed.

“Straighten your arm,” Minghao murmured.

“Relax your fingers,” Mingyu added.

Jeonghan leaned close, brushing a stray lock of hair behind Chan’s ear. “Breathe. Slow and steady. Trust yourself.”

Joshua, ever dramatic, leaned on the fence. “Try not to shoot the clouds. They’ve already seen enough arrows today.”

Hoshi giggled. “Imagine the target trembling at your approach! You’re terrifying!”

The arrow flew, clipping the edge of the center.

DK gasped. “Impossible!”

Seungkwan’s voice rose, triumphant. “He’s improved again! He’s really improved!!”

Junhui gestured wildly. “Look at his form! The lad grows!”

Mingyu smiled warmly. “I knew he could do it.”

Minghao countered, soft but proud. “So did I.”

Joshua quirked an eyebrow. “You didn’t say that.”

Woozi murmured. “Indeed.”

Vernon shrugged, eyes glinting. “I take full credit.”

Chan buried his face in his hands, laughter muffled.

____________________

The afternoon was a gentle chaos of rest, simple meals, and quiet attentions. Woozi offered water. Minghao draped a damp cloth over Chan’s neck. Mingyu pressed fruit into his hands. Joshua stole a bite, earning a playful glare. Jeonghan snatched another slice while murmuring, “Elegance is optional.” DK fanned him with a broad leaf. Seungkwan nodded with the solemnity of an adjudicator. Hoshi juggled apples just to make Chan smile. Vernon leaned against the oak, watching every reaction. Wonwoo’s quiet approval grounded the moment.

“I… thank you,” Chan whispered, cheeks warm.

Junhui leaned close, smug. “See? You think we’re charming.”

Woozi muttered, correcting him.

DK and Seungkwan argued over it anyway, and Chan simply laughed, hiding his face in his hands again.

____________________

Group maneuvers took up the rest of the daylight, weaving together drills, sprints, and mock attacks. Chan stumbled and corrected, chased the wrong path, then the right one. Every misstep was met with corrections, encouragement, or a teasing elbow. Even Arlen, another recruit, glanced at him in astonishment.

“Do they… always do this?” he whispered.

Chan exhaled, smiling faintly. “Apparently.”

____________________

As the sun dipped and lanterns flickered on the streets beyond the walls, Seungcheol gathered him for the evening.

“You’ve endured much, but you’ve grown,” he said.

Jeonghan brushed a faint smudge from Chan’s cheek. “I am proud of you.”

Joshua crouched, leaning on his knees. “Don’t get complacent. Tomorrow is higher.”

Junhui thumped the ground beside him. “My standards are already impossibly high.”

Hoshi spread arms in theatrical joy. “And you fell less! Truly remarkable!”

Wonwoo’s quiet nod said more than words.

Woozi murmured, “Competence.”

Minghao added softly, “Potential.”

Mingyu declared with warmth, “Talent.”

DK sang a little jingle.

Seungkwan finished with, “Adorableness itself!”

Vernon shrugged, casual but amused. “You’ll do.”

Chan laughed into his hands, heart full. “All of you… thank you. Truly.”

And as he walked back to the inn, lanterns reflecting in the river, footsteps echoing softly behind him, he realized something: Pang wasn’t just a city. The twelve weren’t just guards. They were his orbit, his warmth, his guiding stars—and he never wanted to leave their gravity.

____________________

The weeks rolled past like banners caught in a gentle wind, each day unfurling with a rhythm Chan was beginning to recognize: the clatter of hooves against cobblestones, the shrill calls of merchants along Pang’s crowded streets, the distant clang of steel from the training yards, and the persistent hum of the city that never truly slept. Somewhere in that constant bustle, Chan discovered a quiet center—an invisible circle in which the twelve hovered, guiding, correcting, and occasionally distracting him with spectacular precision.

____________________

One morning, the sun was barely a pale smear of gold across the barracks windows when Chan woke to the scent of bread and smoke. His muscles hummed with the memory of yesterday’s drills, pleasantly sore, proof that he was growing stronger. He swung his legs over the edge of the cot and stretched, feeling the weight of his own body settle comfortably, no longer foreign.

Outside, the city buzzed to life, but Chan’s attention went elsewhere.

The twelve were waiting, as always—strategically positioned like a council who had spent hours debating “optimal angles for Chan’s training.”

Seungcheol stood by the archway, posture so disciplined it seemed to draw a line of authority straight from him to the gate. Jeonghan leaned against a column, every movement measured, hair catching the sunlight like spun silk. Joshua lounged casually on a bench, radiating an effortless elegance that made Chan’s chest tighten. Junhui was mid-stretch, counting aloud with exaggerated precision. Hoshi perched on a fence, humming a tune that seemed almost dangerously upbeat. Mingyu and Minghao flanked the weapon racks, silent sentinels with faint smirks. DK and Seungkwan waved with grandiosity sufficient to startle an unsuspecting pigeon, while Vernon lounged on a barrel, observing the scene as if it were all a mildly amusing play. Woozi, ever the chronicler, scribbled in his notebook, head tilted and brow furrowed in concentration.

Chan raised a brow. “Good morning… or whatever this is.”

Seungcheol’s reply was solemn. “A coincidence.”

Seungkwan snorted. “Sure, a coincidence.”

Hoshi bounced in place. “We call it… natural oversight.”

Joshua smirked. “And we failed spectacularly.”

Chan grinned. “I noticed.”

____________________

Formation drills began with the clang of shields and synchronized steps across the yard. Chan fell in line with the other recruits, but the twelve swiftly positioned themselves around him, a living perimeter of judgment, encouragement, and occasionally, dramatic flair.

“You don’t need to hover,” Chan teased as Jeonghan adjusted his arm guard.

“We’re not hovering,” Jeonghan said, glancing pointedly at Chan.

“We’re supervising,” Joshua added with theatrical flair.

“Competing,” Junhui corrected.

“Encouraging!” DK and Seungkwan bellowed.

Hoshi leapt in place, hands in the air. “We sparkle!”

Woozi muttered, flatly. “Only in spirit.”

Chan laughed. “And does anyone ever let me breathe?”

Mingyu placed a hand over his heart. “We would never risk such a thing.”

Minghao scoffed, then smiled faintly. “Ignore him. He fancies himself charming.”

Chan quirked an eyebrow. “And you don’t?”

“No,” Minghao replied, eyes glinting. “I know I am.”

The group snorted collectively, some feigning outrage, others quietly plotting revenge.

____________________

Sparring became Chan’s favorite part of the day. His movements, once hesitant and uncertain, now carried a fluidity born of practice—and of twelve watchful eyes constantly offering advice, critique, or entirely unnecessary commentary.

Arlen, a fellow recruit, faced him across the yard. Chan’s sword snapped through the air, deflecting Arlen’s strike with a satisfying clack.

“Magnificent!” Seungkwan shouted, nearly bouncing on his heels.

“I taught him that!” Mingyu claimed, chest puffed.

“No, I taught him!” Junhui countered, flicking his hair with a flourish.

“You were showing off,” Woozi muttered, scribbling in his notebook.

“Chan, adjust your grip!” Wonwoo’s voice was calm, quiet, but carried a weight that made Chan’s shoulders straighten immediately.

“I will,” Chan said with a grin. “Yes, sir.”

Joshua groaned. “Why does he listen to Wonwoo immediately?”

“Because it's simply him,” Chan replied, shrugging.

Wonwoo’s subtle nod spoke volumes. “Good.”

____________________

Afternoons were a swirl of agility courses, sprints, and climbing exercises, often punctuated by the twelve’s competitive one-upmanship.

“Faster, little sprout!” Hoshi called, bouncing backward with impossible grace.

“I am running!” Chan panted.

“More spiritually, little sprout!” Hoshi insisted, spinning midair.

“What does that even mean?” Chan shouted, nearly tripping over his own feet.

“You’ll know when you level up,” Hoshi sang, flipping onto the next obstacle.

Junhui waved from a climbing wall. “Follow my path, Chan! Mine is optimal!”

“Refinement, Chan! Mine is more precise,” Joshua added.

Mingyu shouted from the other side. “No! Ours will make you front-line ready!”

Seungcheol’s commanding voice cut through the chaos. “Follow the path that keeps you upright. The others are nonsense.”

Vernon leaned lazily on a beam. “Captain, you have no idea where his feet are either.”

Chan stumbled into laughter, nearly losing balance, but the warmth of their presence held him steady.

____________________

Evening fell soft and golden, lanterns flickering along the streets outside the walls. Chan collapsed under the oak tree near the training yard, limbs trembling, lungs burning, but heart full.

The twelve gathered around him like an orbiting constellation.

Jeonghan draped a cloak over his shoulders. “Cool too quickly and you’ll stiffen.”

Minghao knelt, tying Chan’s boot laces with precision. “Loose, yet secure. You’ll trip otherwise.”

Mingyu offered a canteen. “Drink. You need it.”

Joshua leaned forward, teasing. “He’s hoarse because he laughs too much at us.”

Chan smirked. “Maybe I do.”

Junhui snorted. “Cruelty is attractive.”

Woozi muttered, “It’s not.”

Seungkwan thrust a honey bun into Chan’s hands. “Take one! No, two! Three!”

DK sang a jingle in accompaniment.

Vernon shrugged. “Grow taller, maybe.”

Wonwoo’s quiet nod of approval steadied the moment. “You’re doing well.”

Chan felt heat bloom in his chest. Weeks ago, such attention would have flustered him. Now, it warmed him.

____________________

Night in Pang carried the scent of roasted chestnuts and distant smoke. Stars twinkled overhead as the twelve, acting as a single harmonious unit, tried once more to convince him to join the Royal Attacca Guard.

Jeonghan spoke first. “Elegance, grace, precision—we value subtlety.”

Mingyu interrupted, chest proud. “Strength, courage, heart—you belong on the front lines with us.”

Joshua flourished a hand. “Wisdom, wit, style—our ranks will sharpen them all.”

Junhui stepped forward, twirling a practice blade. “Artistry, skill, creativity—we cultivate them here!”

Woozi’s voice was flat but firm. “We do real work. Consider that.”

Hoshi somersaulted. “And make it fun!”

Seungkwan pleaded, wide-eyed. “Choose us! We’ll guide you best!”

Vernon tilted his head. “Or chaos. That works too.”

Chan reclined, smirking. “Maybe I’ll join whichever path stops campaigning first.”

Every single one froze—then erupted into simultaneous protests. Chan laughed until tears pricked his eyes.

____________________

Days melted into weeks. Chan’s skill grew, his confidence blossomed, and his teasing of the twelve became a subtle game—a playful push and pull that only deepened their adoration.

Every day, he felt their attention sharpen.

Every day, their affection grew louder, warmer, more deliberately chaotic.

And every day, Chan teased them back, sly, warm, utterly at ease, wrapped in the orbit of twelve of Pang’s finest guards.

____________________

Morning in Pang spilled over the city like molten gold, catching the red-tiled rooftops and scattering across the banners fluttering above the crowded streets. The scents of fresh bread, roasted chestnuts, and blooming flowers wove together with the faint tang of riverwater, creating a perfume only the capital could produce. Chan stepped carefully through the throng, sword at his hip, stride no longer awkward but measured, controlled, as though the city itself had somehow bent to accommodate his presence.

Of course, the twelve would never let him walk unnoticed. They drifted around him with the quiet inevitability of shadows in the sun.

“Chan,” Joshua announced from a half-step ahead, voice rich with mock solemnity, “that merchant there—you’ll notice he counts coins like a magician. Extra copper hidden in the fold of his thumb. Guard your purse.”

Chan widened his eyes. “You just know that?”

Joshua smirked faintly. “Wisdom is a dangerous weapon. Best handled carefully.”

Minghao slipped alongside Chan, brushing his arm with a light nudge. “Center yourself. Step too close to the edge of that puddle and you’ll be soaked.”

“And you,” Mingyu said from the other side, towering just enough to shade Chan’s face, “stand taller. Shoulders back. Chin up. Yes—perfect. Look sharp, because you’ll want to impress your fellow Royal Attacca Guards.”

Chan shot a grin at him. “Do you practice saying this to every recruit, or am I just special?”

“You’re special,” Mingyu replied without hesitation, puffing his chest.

From a few steps ahead, Seungkwan leapt onto a low crate. “Chan! Look at these berries! They’re literally the color of victory!”

“Or mischief,” DK added, barreling past to intercept the next vendor cart.

“You’re both a hazard,” Vernon remarked, perched atop a barrel, observing the chaos with an air of lazy judgment. “Yet somehow he survives. Remarkable.”

“I have masterful reflexes,” Chan replied, ducking under Seungkwan’s arms.

Jeonghan drifted toward him, calm as ever, adjusting the lay of Chan’s cloak. “Even with pandemonium swirling around you, your balance is… graceful. For a recruit, it’s remarkable.”

“I tripped over a goose ten minutes ago,” Chan said.

“Yes,” Jeonghan said, voice serene. “And your recovery was flawless.”

Seungcheol’s voice cut through the playful storm with authority. “Stay close. Pang’s streets are a labyrinth of danger. And under no circumstances—do not—follow Hoshi if he shouts, ‘Behold!’”

Chan tilted his head. “Why not?”

A moment later, Hoshi vaulted from a cart with a triumphant “Behold!” and disappeared into the crowd. Chan groaned. “Ah.”

“Exactly,” Seungcheol said.

____________________

By midday, Chan had reached the palace training grounds. Sunlight gleamed off polished helms, dust spiraling under booted feet, and the clang of swords echoed in a rhythm that made Chan’s heart pound in sync. His drills were more advanced now—fluid steps, sharper strikes, precise footwork—but the twelve had invented new ways to hover and bicker over his attention.

“Your stance lacks flair!” Hoshi declared mid-cut, bouncing lightly on his toes. “Your sword should sing with the sun!”

Junhui glided beside him, motion smooth, almost imperceptible. “Flair leads to sloppy footing. Watch instead—precision. Whisper to your opponent, don’t dazzle the air.”

Chan tilted his head. “So I’m supposed to whisper and sing at the same time?”

“It’s art,” Junhui said simply. “Contradiction is essential.”

Woozi, scribbling notes on a low bench, added without looking up, “Both are wrong. Chan, shift your weight half a step to the right. If you get flanked, you’ll thank me.”

“Ah, reassuring,” Chan muttered, nudged into the correct stance by Wonwoo, whose gentle guidance carried more authority than the loudest commands.

Nearby, DK and Seungkwan had declared themselves Chan’s personal cheerleaders. “Incredible! Magnificent! Unstoppable!” they shouted, in perfect unison. Chan buried his face in his arm.

“Impossible to contain!” DK cried.

“Never!” Seungkwan agreed.

Vernon, atop a stack of shields, observed with mild amusement. “He thrives. Possibly in spite of all this.”

“Entirely because of us,” Mingyu countered.

“Mostly because of me,” Minghao added, humming smugly.

Jeonghan sighed, hand on his hip, watching the chaos as if he’d been summoned to referee a circus.

____________________

Afternoon brought a new “training game,” courtesy of Joshua. Chan had to navigate a makeshift obstacle course while twelve voices shouted conflicting instructions.

“Left!” Hoshi yelled.

“Right!” Seungcheol corrected.

“Forward!” DK cried.

“Back!” Woozi barked.

“Close your eyes and trust fate!” Junhui suggested.

“No, do none of that,” Wonwoo murmured.

Chan skidded to a halt. “I refuse to die in your chaos.”

Jeonghan placed a hand on his shoulder. “Reasonable.”

“You can’t give up!” Mingyu groaned. “Our division’s honor depends on it!”

“You’re shameless,” Chan said, laughing.

“Yes,” Mingyu replied proudly.

The exercise dissolved into a glorious mess: Hoshi leaping over crates, Minghao subtly repositioning obstacles, DK racing and tripping, Seungkwan pointing the “prophetic route,” and Vernon providing calm, pointed commentary. Chan moved with grit and amusement, learning as much from surviving their antics as from actual drills.

____________________

As dusk bled rose and gold across the courtyard, Chan collapsed onto a stone ledge. Sweat cooled on his skin, muscles trembling from exertion. The twelve encircled him, moving as if by choreography born of obsession.

Mingyu fussed with Chan’s gauntlet. “Excellent work. Surely you’ll commit to the Royal Attacca Guard now?”

Chan tilted his head, sly, mischievous. “Well… maybe I’m thinking of… joining another division. One that isn’t yours.”

The twelve froze. Eyes widened. Hands twitched. Breath hitched.

“Excuse me?” Mingyu growled, voice low and dangerous.

“Chan,” Seungkwan whispered, clutching his honey bun as if it were a lifeline, “that… that can’t be.”

Hoshi’s jaw dropped. “No! I will not allow it! We—”

Joshua pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “How dare you toy with us?”

Vernon leaned back lazily but with a twitch of irritation. “Chaos. You said chaos?”

Jeonghan gave a serene sigh, though his eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Chan.”

Chan grinned, leaning back comfortably, hiding his laughter. “I am fully aware.”

The twelve erupted into a frenzy: shouting conflicting warnings, racing to “persuade” him back, and gesturing wildly as though their arguments alone could bend reality. DK and Seungkwan bounced around, Hoshi flung himself dramatically toward the horizon, and Mingyu and Minghao argued over the “correct” method of recruitment panic. Seungcheol finally stepped in, voice calm but sharp: “Enough! Chan belongs with us. We guard what is ours.”

Chan closed his eyes, letting their chaotic devotion wash over him. Lanterns flickered along the palace walls, the evening breeze carried the scents of Pang, and he felt, deep in his bones, that this city, this division, this constellation of twelve devoted, chaotic, obsessed guardians—was already his absurd, tender, perfect home.

And he hadn’t even revealed that it was a prank yet.

____________________

Another day rose over Pang, gilding rooftops and banners of the Royal Attacca Guard Division with molten gold. The scents of baking bread, river water, and blooming flowers mingled in the air, carrying the promise of a new day. Chan moved deliberately through the crowded streets, sword at his hip, stride measured, shoulders relaxed, yet a mischievous glimmer danced in his eyes. Behind him, the twelve of the Royal Attacca Guard Division followed with perfected chaos. Every subtle glance, every faint hesitation in his step, and every murmur of curiosity about “other divisions” sent them spiraling into frantic devotion. Rumors of rival guard sectors—the Precision Guard, the Vanguard, even the ceremonial Honor Guard—made Chan’s prank dangerously believable.

____________________

Training began at the yard, sunlight glinting off polished helms and steel. Chan moved fluidly, letting tiny hesitations slip into his posture, faint glances toward distant squads, and soft murmurs of curiosity.

“Your guard is impeccable,” Jeonghan said, brushing a lock of hair from Chan’s forehead, “but perhaps another sector has methods more… sophisticated?”

Chan’s lips curved. “Sophisticated, you say? Perhaps… for observation purposes.”

Minghao nudged him gently. “Balance, focus, loyalty… consider if another sector might lure you away.”

Chan’s gaze flicked to a distant group practicing a different drill. “Hmm… they do move with precision…”

Mingyu spread a blanket on the stone floor. “Do not wander, even in thought. Some divisions are… persuasive.”

Every pause and glance became a trigger for the twelve’s antics. DK and Seungkwan argued over who should “guard him” first, Hoshi vaulted over crates to block imaginary recruiters, Joshua narrated the spectacle like a wandering hero under siege, Woozi scribbled strategies, Junhui offered philosophical commentary on loyalty, Vernon hovered close with dry warnings, and Seungcheol calmly orchestrated the chaos. Even a minor stumble sent them springing into action, all competing to “keep him safe from temptation.”

____________________

By midday, errands across the barracks and city streets became opportunities for subtle mischief. Hoshi performed somersaults over puddles to “intercept possible recruiters,” Joshua measured the “danger level” of rival divisions with mock solemnity, Minghao whispered tactical advice, and Mingyu fussed over the perfect tea temperature. Seungkwan clasped his hands over his chest. “He’s seriously considering leaving us!”

DK gasped. “Do we need a barricade?”

Vernon raised an eyebrow. “Would that even work?”

Hoshi groaned theatrically. “Impossible! He cannot toy with us like this!”

Even minor acts—sitting too far, glancing toward a different sword rack, or pretending to be interested in a rival recruit—sent the twelve into hyperactive, over-the-top strategies. Chan’s amusement grew with every frantic move, the quiet center of his eyes betraying the carefully orchestrated prank.

____________________

Afternoon sunlight spilled over the training yard, warming the cobblestones, but nothing could calm the storm brewing around Chan. He moved with measured steps, sword at his hip, letting the tiniest flicker of hesitation slip into his expression. That faint, mischievous glimmer—the subtle, unspoken “what if I joined another division?”—was all it took.

The twelve guards froze for a heartbeat, and then erupted into a tornado of panic and persuasion.

“He said it again!” Hoshi shrieked, spinning in place and nearly colliding with Mingyu. “He’s… thinking about leaving us! Can you believe it?! Leaving! Us!”

“Impossible!” Seungkwan yelped, clutching DK’s sleeve as if it were a lifeline. “We cannot allow it! Think of the honor… the very reputation of the Royal Attacca Guard Division!”

Mingyu puffed his chest, trembling with dramatic urgency. “No other sector could possibly appreciate him! Only us! Only we can keep him—safe, glorious, perfect!”

Minghao crouched slightly, eyes narrowed as if he could calculate Chan’s next step. “Do we… intercept mid-course? Redirect him? Block him from temptation? He might actually escape!”

Joshua threw his arms wide, voice booming like a stage actor. “Imagine the scandal! The utter catastrophe! If he wandered to another division… the bards would lament our failure for decades!”

DK leapt to his feet, bouncing up and down. “I’ll create a barricade! Or twenty! Maybe a decoy too! Crates, barrels, benches—whatever it takes!”

Junhui twirled his sword, eyes alight with determination. “Philosophically, he cannot—he must not—be tempted! The balance of the universe depends on him staying!”

Woozi crouched low, scribbling frantically on scraps of paper. “Flow patterns, loyalty probabilities, chaos coefficients… risk of wandering: 87% unless immediate interventions occur!”

Vernon leaned lazily against a post, pretending calm, but his eyebrow twitched. “I thought I’d seen all forms of chaos. This… this is art. Absolute, terrifying art.”

Seungcheol stepped forward, voice steady and commanding. “Everyone, focus. Chan is still within our orbit. We are the Royal Attacca Guard Division. Protect, guide, and… manage your enthusiasm.”

“Manage?!” Hoshi shrieked, spinning midair. “There is no managing him! He toys with our hearts and minds!”

Mingyu stomped, dust spiraling dramatically. “We cannot falter! He must remain ours!”

DK and Seungkwan collided, forming a wobbling human barricade. “He cannot leave!” Seungkwan yelled, nearly toppling over in the process.

Joshua gestured wildly, dramatic as ever. “Elegance, wit, charm, flair! Without us, he risks… mediocrity! Only we can guide him!”

Hoshi flailed again, arms like wings. “We will make training exhilarating, rewarding, fun! How could any other division compete with this chaos?!”

Minghao stepped forward, voice calm but tense. “Guidance, precision, mastery… elsewhere, he would drift, lost in dullness.”

Jeonghan adjusted a ribbon near Chan’s collar, gentle but insistent. “Subtlety, grace, mastery—we cultivate all that here. You belong with us.”

Wonwoo’s quiet, firm voice cut through the bedlam. “Every step, every choice… strongest here. Only here.”

Even the smallest stumbles became performances: Vernon nudged obstacles to “test loyalty,” Joshua narrated each dodge as a heroic epic, Woozi kept feverish notes, Junhui philosophized dramatically mid-step, DK and Seungkwan alternated between blocking imaginary exits and cheering him on. Every glance, every smirk, every hesitant pause Chan allowed set them further spiraling into absurd, chaotic devotion.

By the time he reached the far edge of the yard, the twelve were a perfect storm of panic, advice, cheerleading, and protective maneuvers—Hoshi somersaulting, Mingyu gesturing like a general, DK and Seungkwan forming human walls, Minghao adjusting obstacles with precise care, Joshua narrating heroically, Woozi scribbling calculations, Junhui philosophizing, Jeonghan fussing with Chan’s cloak, Vernon subtly nudging obstacles, and Seungcheol attempting to impose calm order on the beautiful, chaotic mess.

Even small, quiet moments became battlegrounds for his prank. Minghao subtly loosened Chan’s boot laces to “see if he wanders,” Joshua narrated each minor stumble as a heroic epic, and DK and Seungkwan formed literal walls around him during breaks. Mingyu dramatically fanned the “threatening Precision Guard cadets” with parchment, while Hoshi executed exaggerated leaps to “intercept imaginary recruiters.” Chan let it all play out, silent laughter buried in the corner of his mind.

____________________

As dusk bled rose and gold across the palace courtyard, lanterns flickering along the gates, the twelve gathered around Chan like a vibrating constellation, every movement a mixture of frantic devotion and barely-contained panic. Chan stood at the center, sword at his hip, calm and deliberate, a faint, unreadable smile tugging at his lips.

Seungcheol stepped forward, voice commanding but steady. “Chan of Liora. You have completed all trials. Declare your chosen division before the kingdom.”

The twelve leaned forward, eyes wide, hearts hammering. Every week of teasing, hesitation, and subtle hints about other divisions had led to this moment. Chan let the pause stretch, letting their frantic, exaggerated competition settle around him like a living, chaotic halo.

“I… choose the Royal Attacca Guard Division,” he said, voice steady, clear, and deliberate.

The reactions were instantaneous.

Hoshi flung himself into the air, scattering lantern petals. “YES! Finally! He’s ours!”

DK and Seungkwan nearly toppled over each other in sheer joy, hugging and shouting.

Mingyu puffed his chest, eyes shining. “He chose us! He really chose us!”

Minghao exhaled, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. “So… all that panic… it was—”

Joshua, dramatic as ever, froze mid-gesture, eyes narrowing. “He never actually considered leaving…”

Seungkwan clutched his honey bun, realization dawning. “Wait. That means… the hesitation, the glances, the teasing…”

DK gasped. “The ‘maybe another division’—it was all… a prank?”

Hoshi’s jaw dropped, then lifted into laughter mixed with exasperation. “You little…! We’ve been running ourselves into the ground for nothing!”

Even Vernon, leaning casually against a post, smirked, shaking his head. “Clever. Dangerous. Insufferably clever.”

Woozi scribbled frantically, muttering, “Strategy… psychological manipulation… efficient chaos.”

Junhui raised his sword in mock salute, chuckling. “I yield to your cunning.”

Jeonghan adjusted Chan’s cloak, lips curved in quiet amusement, while Seungcheol’s calm pride radiated through the courtyard, anchoring the whirlwind of reactions.

Every one of the twelve blinked, laughed, groaned, and whispered in turn, realizing that Chan had orchestrated weeks of near-hysterical devotion just to amuse himself. And yet, their relief and joy were uncontainable. They had been frantic for nothing, but he had still chosen them—and that was enough.

Hoshi leapt onto a barrel. “We did it! Victory!”

Seungkwan danced in circles, DK mimicked acrobatics, Mingyu puffed up his chest, Minghao adjusted his stance, Joshua narrated heroically, Woozi scribbled frantically, Junhui philosophized, Jeonghan fussed over Chan’s cloak, Vernon muttered delightedly, and Seungcheol’s quiet, proud smile held the chaos together.

Chan laughed, warm and breathless, at the center of their orbit, savoring the absurd devotion that weeks of careful mischief had produced. The twelve hovered, competed, fussed, and adored him endlessly, utterly unaware that the panic over “another division” had been his quiet, subtle, perfectly executed prank.

From that day onward, life in Pang became an endless orbit of hovering, obsession, protection, and playful chaos. The twelve never stopped fussing, competing, and adoring him, and Chan, without a word, simply enjoyed the perfect, chaotic family he had secured—his constellation of guardians, absurdly loving, entirely devoted, and entirely his own.

Chapter Text

Chan learned early that silence wasn’t empty.

It had weight. Texture. A temperature that clung to you long after the room had emptied out, long after the music stopped. Silence could bruise if you let it sit too long. And Chan had lived inside it for years.

In the practice room, it was freezing.

The mirrors stretched wall to wall, tall and merciless, reflecting thirteen bodies moving in exact synchronization. Sneakers squeaked against polished floors. The bass thudded through the speakers, vibrating up through Chan’s legs and into his ribs, settling somewhere behind his heart. Sweat slid down his spine, soaked into the back of his shirt, but his movements never faltered.

He was sharp. Clean. Precise.

Too precise.

He hit every beat like it mattered more to him than it did to anyone else—and that was always the tell. Wanting showed in the way he danced. Wanting made his movements just a little too desperate, just a little too careful.

“Again,” Seungcheol said, already turning away, clipboard tucked under his arm.

No explanation. No eye contact.

They ran it again.

Chan adjusted mid-count without being asked. He always did. Shortened his steps so Mingyu could take wider lines. Softened his arms so Jun’s movements looked cleaner by comparison. Pulled his energy inward, tamped it down until he blended seamlessly into the formation.

He’d learned early—back in the trainee days—that choreography wasn’t just about execution.

It was about knowing when to disappear.

Back then, there had been fourteen of them.

Samuel had always stood out without trying. Too young, too bright, laughter spilling out of him between counts. He used to cling to the hyungs’ sleeves during breaks, sit cross-legged on the floor and complain dramatically about being tired. Chan remembered those days vividly—late nights, cramped studios, shared instant ramyeon and stupid dreams whispered between stretches.

Chan had been there for all of it.

The music cut.

Jeonghan leaned back against the mirror, arms crossed, eyes unfocused like he was looking through time instead of glass. “Samuel used to float through these kinds of transitions,” he said lightly. “It felt smoother back then.”

Not criticism. Not praise. Just nostalgia, dropped carelessly into the room.

“Yeah,” Hoshi added, nodding as if the thought had been waiting for him too. “He had better bounce. More… spark.”

A soft laugh followed. DK, maybe. Someone else hummed in agreement.

Chan kept his face neutral. Counted his breaths. One, two. His jaw tightened before he could stop it. He bowed his head slightly. “I’ll fix it.”

No one told him to.

No one stopped him either.

Samuel.

The name didn’t feel intrusive. It belonged here. It always had.

Samuel lived in the practice room—in the corners where laughter used to echo louder, in the way the hyungs’ eyes softened when they talked about then. The real past. The shared struggle they romanticized now.

Samuel had been young. Bright. Loud in a way that invited affection. He’d been the maknae they doted on instinctively, without effort.

Chan had been there too.

He just hadn’t been chosen.

Practice ended in the usual chaos. Groans as bodies hit the floor. Mingyu collapsed dramatically, sprawling like he’d been shot. Seungkwan complained about his knees like he was fifty years older than he was. Hoshi clapped his hands, already energized, launching into a half-serious rant about spacing.

Chan stood near the mirrors, towel around his neck.

Waiting.

He always waited.

No one looked his way. No one asked if he was okay. No one bumped his shoulder playfully or tugged him into a conversation. No hand reached out to ruffle his hair the way maknaes were supposed to be touched—carelessly, fondly, without thought.

Eventually, he slipped out first.

No one noticed.

____________________

The dorm smelled like oil, garlic, and something sweet burning slightly on the stove.

Chan slipped off his shoes and lined them up by the door, straightening them even though they were already neat. He lingered there, fingers resting on the laces, listening to the room breathe around him—laughter overlapping, voices rising and falling with the ease of people who belonged.

Joshua glanced over briefly. “You’re blocking the entry.”

“Sorry,” Chan said immediately, stepping aside.

The word came out too fast, like reflex.

He edged into the living room and perched on the arm of the couch. The cushions were already claimed. Wonwoo and Vernon leaned shoulder to shoulder, absorbed in something on Wonwoo’s phone. Minghao stretched quietly on the floor, calm and self-contained. Jihoon sat at the table, headphones on, typing, existing somewhere else entirely.

The room had a rhythm Chan never quite managed to catch.

Seungcheol passed by and knocked Seungkwan’s shoulder lightly with his own. “Eat before it’s gone,” he said, fond.

Seungkwan grinned. “You worry too much.”

Chan watched it like it was happening behind glass.

Something tight pulled in his chest.

He told himself not to want it. Wanting was reckless. Wanting always turned into disappointment, and disappointment stayed longer than it should. Still, his fingers twitched in his lap, restless.

He tried, sometimes. Laughing a little louder at the right moments. Offering to clean up. Asking questions about schedules he already knew. Being useful. Being agreeable. Being quiet when quiet was preferred.

None of it earned him warmth.

Later that night, Chan lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. The lights were off, but the hallway glow slipped under the door in a thin, stubborn line. Laughter echoed faintly from somewhere down the hall—someone retelling an old story.

He caught a name through the wall.

Samuel.

The word maknae rolled around in Chan’s head.

It was supposed to mean something. Protection. Indulgence. A softness the others wrapped around you without thinking.

For Chan, it had always felt like a technicality. A title without the benefits. They corrected him more than they coddled him. Expected him to keep up. Told him to be grateful.

They never spoiled him. Never hovered. Never worried.

Because even though he’d trained just as long, suffered just as much, he was never the one they’d lost.

He was the one who stayed.

Samuel had left because he was “too young.” Because his mother had looked at the industry and said no. The hyungs talked about it like a tragedy frozen in amber—voices dropping, eyes distant.

If only he’d stayed.

If only we’d debuted together.

Chan had been there when Samuel left. Had watched the door close behind him. Had watched something precious get taken away—and felt the aftermath settle into the group like grief no one wanted to process.

Chan had tried to fill the silence Samuel left behind.

With effort. With obedience. With everything he had.

They never let him.

____________________

The announcement came the next afternoon.

Not through a message. Not quietly.

In person.

They were gathered in the practice room again when the manager stepped inside, smiling wider than usual. “We have news.”

Chan felt it before it landed. A prickle along his spine. His stomach tightened.

“He’s coming back,” the manager said. “Samuel’s returning.”

The room exploded.

“What?” Seungkwan shouted.

“You’re serious?” Hoshi’s hands flew to his head, grin breaking across his face.

Jeonghan laughed, bright and unrestrained. “Finally.”

“Our maknae,” DK said, eyes shining. “He’s really coming back.”

Seungcheol exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. “It feels right again.”

Again.

Chan stood frozen near the mirrors.

No one looked at him.

No one noticed the way his hands curled into fists at his sides. Or how his heartbeat stuttered, then raced. Or how the word right echoed painfully in his ears.

As if something had been wrong all along.

They talked over each other, memories spilling out.

“Remember when he cried over losing rock-paper-scissors?”

“He used to fall asleep anywhere.”

“He was so small back then.”

Chan watched them glow with excitement, watched affection bloom freely where it had never been planted for him. He smiled when he realized someone might notice him not smiling.

Because that’s what he did.

Later, alone again, he sat on the edge of his bed and stared at his phone as the group chat buzzed nonstop. He didn’t open it.

He didn’t need to.

Samuel was coming home.

And Chan—who had trained beside him, grown up beside him, yet somehow never been the one they missed—felt the cold truth settle deep in his chest.

Whatever scraps of affection he’d been chasing were about to be taken back.

Reclaimed.

Returned to their rightful owner.

Chan lay down and stared into the dark, blinking slowly, forcing his breathing to steady.

Tomorrow, he would smile. He would dance. He would make space.

He always did.

But somewhere deep inside, beneath years of practiced restraint and quiet endurance, something sharp stirred—aching, bitter, and exhausted from pretending it didn’t want more.

And this time, it didn’t feel like it would stay quiet forever.

____________________

Chan woke up because his body refused to rest when it knew it would be unwanted later.

The dorm was still dark, but his chest already felt too tight, ribs pressing inward like they were trying to cage something restless. He lay on his back for a while, eyes fixed on the faint crack in the ceiling above his bed—the one shaped vaguely like a star if you squinted hard enough. He used to imagine it meant something. Now it was just there. Like him.

From down the hall came the muffled sound of footsteps. A door opened. Voices—soft, warm, familiar. Someone laughed quietly, like they didn’t want to wake anyone but couldn’t help themselves.

Chan turned his face toward the wall.

He waited until the sounds faded before sitting up. His movements were careful, controlled. Even alone, he knew how to be quiet. Years of practice made sure of that.

He dressed quickly, smoothing his shirt, tugging the hem down like it might offend someone if it wrinkled. When he stepped into the hallway, the lights were still dimmed, but the kitchen glowed faintly.

Jeonghan was there, leaning against the counter, scrolling on his phone. Joshua sat at the table, one leg tucked beneath him, cradling a mug.

They looked peaceful.

Chan paused in the doorway, hand half-raised. “Morning,” he said.

Jeonghan hummed absently, eyes never leaving his screen.

Joshua glanced up, nodded once. “Hey.”

That was it.

Chan stepped fully inside, immediately feeling like he’d disrupted something private. He moved to the sink, poured himself a glass of water. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—for them. It wrapped around Chan like a reminder.

Jeonghan’s lips curved into a smile. “He sent pictures.”

Joshua leaned over. “Already?”

“Mm. Airport selfie.” Jeonghan chuckled softly. “Still has that face.”

Joshua laughed too, fond and easy. “He never changed.”

Chan swallowed.

“He asked if we remembered the way he used to get lost anywhere he went,” Jeonghan added, finally looking up. “Like—how do you forget that?”

Joshua shook his head. “He was always clinging to someone.”

Chan’s fingers tightened around the glass. The cool edge pressed into his skin.

“I can grab more cups if—” Chan started.

“You don’t have to,” Joshua said quickly, already standing. “We’re done.”

“Oh.” Chan nodded. “Okay.”

He rinsed his glass immediately, dried it, placed it back exactly where it had been. When he turned around, they were already talking again, heads inclined toward each other, voices lower.

Chan slipped out.

____________________

The practice room lights buzzed faintly overhead when he arrived. He liked it best like this—empty, echoing, impartial. No expectations yet. No comparisons.

He dropped his bag by the wall and stood in front of the mirrors.

For a few minutes, he just breathed.

Then he moved.

His body knew how to take up space when no one was watching. His steps were wider, sharper. He let the music fill him completely, let it pull emotion out through his limbs. Sweat broke across his skin quickly, his heart racing not from effort alone but from release.

Alone, Chan danced like he mattered.

By the time the others arrived, he was already breathing hard, shirt clinging to his back. He wiped his face, schooled his expression into neutral, and stepped back into line.

“Let’s go over the chorus,” Seungcheol said. “We should make it feel… warmer.”

Warmer.

Chan adjusted automatically.

They ran it once. Twice.

“Chan,” Jihoon said suddenly, cutting the music. “You’re pulling focus.”

Chan stiffened. “I can tone it down.”

“Do that.”

No elaboration. No suggestion of how to fix it beyond becoming less.

He did.

During break, Chan crouched near the mirror, retaping his ankle. His fingers were steady despite the faint tremor in his hands.

Behind him—

“Samuel would’ve loved this part,” DK said. “It suits him.”

“He always liked being center,” Hoshi replied.

“He earned it,” Seungcheol said easily.

Chan pressed the tape harder than necessary.

Earned.

He wondered what he’d been doing all these years, then.

When break ended, Hoshi brushed past him, hand landing briefly on Chan’s shoulder—not to reassure, not to connect. Just to move him aside.

“Careful,” Hoshi said, already gone.

Chan murmured, “Sorry.”

____________________

The afternoon was spent rehearsing interviews.

“Talk about your bond,” the PD instructed. “What makes your group special?”

Chan smiled on cue.

“Our history,” he said when prompted. “We’ve been together a long time.”

“How does it feel preparing for… changes?” the PD asked, deliberate pause.

The room buzzed with excitement.

“It feels right,” Jeonghan said without hesitation. “Like something’s being restored.”

Chan nodded enthusiastically, clapping softly. “Yeah. It feels… nostalgic.”

The word tasted strange in his mouth.

Between takes, Chan drifted to the side, checking the playback monitor. A staff member adjusted his mic.

“You’re always so polite,” they said kindly. “You don’t complain.”

Chan bowed slightly. “There’s nothing to complain about.”

He meant it the way someone means I don’t get to.

____________________

That evening, the dorm was alive in a way it rarely was.

Boxes stacked by the door. Fresh sheets folded neatly. Someone played music louder than usual. It smelled like detergent and takeout and anticipation.

“Should we rearrange the room?” Mingyu asked, holding up a pillow.

“Obviously,” Seungkwan said. “It has to be perfect.”

Chan hovered near the edge, hands clasped. “I can clean the windows.”

Jeonghan glanced over. “We already did.”

“I can—”

“Chan,” Seungcheol said, tone patient but firm. “Just sit down.”

Chan froze.

“Oh. Okay.”

He sat.

On the floor.

He watched them move around him, coordinated and purposeful, talking over each other, finishing each other’s sentences. This was what family looked like. Effortless. Loud. Warm.

He was a guest who stayed too long.

“Do you think he’ll cry when he sees us?” DK asked.

“I hope so,” Seungkwan laughed. “I want to tease him.”

Joshua smiled softly. “He missed us.”

Chan’s throat tightened.

He wondered—briefly, dangerously—if anyone would miss him if he left.

The thought scared him enough that he shoved it down immediately.

Later, alone in his room, Chan sat on his bed and stared at the spare mattress leaning against the wall—the one meant for Samuel. New sheets. No creases yet.

He reached out and smoothed the fabric, fingers lingering longer than necessary.

“I’ll try,” he whispered to no one. “I’ll be good.”

The words echoed uselessly.

He opened his phone, scrolled through messages he never sent, photos he never posted. Samuel’s name trended everywhere. Fans rejoicing. Hearts and exclamation points.

Chan locked the screen.

In the quiet, something inside him finally cracked—not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough to let something bitter seep through the longing.

He was tired.

Tired of shrinking.

Tired of earning nothing.

Tired of loving people who only loved what he wasn’t.

When he lay down, sleep came slowly, tangled with thoughts he didn’t want but couldn’t stop.

Samuel would come back smiling.

The hyungs would gather around him instinctively.

And Chan would stand just outside the circle, clapping, cheering, making space—like he always had.

But this time, the ache felt different.

Sharper.

More aware.

Samuel hadn’t even arrived yet.

And Chan could already feel the place he occupied slipping further away—like it had never truly been his to begin with.

____________________

The moment Samuel stepped through the dorm door, it was like the air itself had been waiting for him.

Chan felt it first—not with his eyes, but with his chest, tight and hollow, as if someone had slammed a window shut inside him. The room shifted, muscles and voices rearranging themselves to accommodate a presence he had known from photos, from memories, but not like this. Not alive, not here, not right.

Samuel’s bag slipped from his shoulder, and Seungcheol was already at his side, hands on his upper arms, pulling him forward like a magnet. “Sam! You’re taller—no, wait—what is this, seriously?” Seungkwan’s voice squeaked, too high and too excited, hands already ruffling Samuel’s hair before he could react.

Chan remained rooted near the kitchen counter, fingers pressed against the laminate as if it could anchor him to the world. He swallowed a breath he didn’t want, knuckles tight.

Joshua, Jeonghan, Mingyu—every hyung seemed to exist in a state of anticipation, as though Samuel’s arrival had been a missing beat in a rhythm they’d long since memorized. “Come here, come here!” Jeonghan’s arms reached, tugging Samuel forward. Mingyu’s laughter rang out, sharp and delighted, as Samuel stumbled slightly into Seungkwan’s embrace, cheeks flushed and bright.

Chan’s chest ached, every pulse hammering against his ribs. He watched Samuel be enveloped in warmth he had spent years chasing—careful hands on his shoulders, gentle adjustments of stance, heads leaning close in laughter, voices soft and affectionate. Samuel fit. Naturally. Immediately.

Chan’s stomach twisted. His heart raced as if it had mistaken this for danger. The last years of endless striving, of polite compliance, of shrinking himself to make space for the hyungs’ moods and egos, felt suddenly meaningless.

When Samuel’s gaze flicked toward him, Chan caught it, held it, searching desperately for recognition—just a flicker, a smile, a flick of warmth. Samuel raised his eyebrows once, politely, curiously, then turned away, immediately pulled back into the circle of attention that had opened around him.

“Oh,” Chan said, too softly to carry. “Hey.”

Samuel acknowledged him, nodding slightly. That was it. No warmth, no familiarity, no trace of the years they had known each other as trainees, as friends, as someone who had once been his closest peer. Just acknowledgment.

Chan exhaled slowly, shoulders rigid. His hands unclenched, releasing nothing but a faint tremor in his fingers.

____________________

The dorm that night felt alive in a way it never had with him. Laughter, voices, movement—it surged and flowed around Samuel, pooling at his feet and spilling outward. The hyungs hovered close, leaning into him, adjusting his posture, brushing hair from his eyes. Jeonghan teased him about his long flight, Seungkwan playfully scolded him for forgetting something trivial, Mingyu fussed over the angle of his jacket, Joshua whispered a joke that made him tilt his head back in laughter.

Chan sat near the edge, far from the center, fingers gripping the hem of his shirt. He tried to smile, tried to join in, but the words caught in his throat. Food placed in front of him stayed half-eaten. Every touch, every laugh, every glance Samuel received felt like a blade pressed against the soft part of his chest.

The hyungs didn’t just love him—they cherished him. They fussed over him. They nudged, adjusted, teased, and laughed in ways they had never allowed for Chan. And he had tried. Always tried. Polite. Good. Obedient. Careful.

But it had never been enough.

Now it wasn’t needed at all.

____________________

Chan wandered through the dorm like a shadow that had outstayed its welcome. Minghao was leaning over Samuel, correcting a stray strand of hair, demonstrating a gesture of a choreography he hadn’t even started yet. DK had his arm draped casually around Samuel’s shoulders, leaning close to whisper something funny, and Samuel laughed openly, bright and unreserved.

Chan’s eyes stung, a bitter taste pooling at the back of his throat. His hands clenched into fists, jaw tight, pulse hammering against his temples. Every smile Samuel offered, every laugh the hyungs echoed, every gentle adjustment of posture, every shared joke—all of it was proof of the affection Chan had chased his entire life but never received.

He could feel it. The invisible line that separated him from them. The way he had been tolerated rather than loved. The way Samuel simply was.

____________________

Later, Chan found himself in the quiet of the hallway, leaning against the wall, phone in hand. He scrolled through messages the fans had sent. Clips of Samuel with the hyungs—laughing, playful, natural. Comments exploded in hearts and exclamations:

“Our maknae is back!”

“He fits so perfectly, I’ve missed him!”

“He belongs here.”

The words, the images, all poured over him like a cold rain. His thumb swiped mindlessly, endlessly. He felt his chest tighten, heat pooling low and sharp under his ribs. It wasn’t quiet anymore. The jealousy was burning, corrosive, insistent. It demanded to be noticed.

Chan’s eyes fell to the floor. His fingers trembled. He thought of all the years he had spent bending, shrinking, performing perfection, waiting for recognition that never came. And now, that same recognition was flowing freely, naturally, inevitably, to Samuel—the rightful maknae, the one the hyungs had always wanted.

He clenched his jaw, trembling, and whispered into the quiet hallway, “I tried. I’ve always tried.”

But even the walls didn’t answer.

____________________

The next morning, Samuel’s presence had already rearranged the rhythm of the dorm.

Jeonghan and Joshua fussed over his breakfast like he was a guest in a palace, asking if the eggs were cooked correctly, if he wanted extra toast, if he’d slept well. Seungkwan hovered with an exaggerated grin, leaning forward to offer suggestions for the upcoming schedule, teasing him gently. Mingyu carried in a small pile of pillows, holding one out with a flourish.

Samuel laughed easily at all of it, taking in the attention without hesitation, without anxiety, without self-consciousness.

Chan lingered at the counter, sipping water, a silent observer. No one asked him to eat with them, no one nudged him toward warmth. He was there, and yet not there—an afterthought in the periphery of laughter, a shadow at the edges of care.

He tried. He tried to joke when Samuel stumbled over his words. He tried to laugh when Seungkwan teased him. He tried to offer help when someone reached for Samuel’s bag. And every time, the hyungs glanced past him, not unkindly, just… uninterested. Polite indifference. Nonchalant dismissal. The constant reminder that he was a burden they tolerated, never cherished.

Chan’s stomach tightened. His chest ached. Every shared smile between Samuel and the hyungs felt like a fissure opening in his ribs. Every laugh, every touch, every gentle correction or tease, drove the point home: Samuel had always been the one, and Chan—no matter how hard he tried—never would be.

____________________

By evening, the jealousy that had simmered all day was a living thing inside him. It pulsed, whispering in his ears, curling into his muscles, igniting his chest. When Samuel laughed at a joke from Joshua, Chan’s fingers tightened around his water glass until the plastic threatened to crack. When Seungkwan ruffled Samuel’s hair, Chan’s stomach lurched. When DK rested an arm casually over Samuel’s shoulder, leaning close, the warmth pressed into Chan like an accusation.

He hated him. He hated him for fitting so naturally, for taking with ease what he had begged for silently for years.

But more than that—he hated himself.

For wanting it. For craving attention he had never been allowed. For wanting to be more than a shadow.

He left the room quietly, footsteps light, retreating to the practice room. The mirrors reflected his rigid posture, tight jaw, storming eyes. He danced, alone, harder than ever, louder than ever, letting the motion carry the heat of his jealousy, the sting of rejection. Each step was precise, perfect, demanding notice he would never receive.

And in the quiet aftermath, sweat on his skin, muscles burning, chest heaving, he finally admitted it fully:

Samuel was the rightful one.

And Chan… was left with nothing but the hollow ache of having tried too much, loved too hard, and never belonged.

____________________

The dorm was alive in a way that Chan had never known.

Not the kind of life he had imagined—quietly humming along to his own careful steps—but a roaring, overflowing warmth that ebbed and pulsed around Samuel. The hyungs leaned in, touched him, laughed with him, fussed over him. And all of it was natural. Effortless.

Chan tried to join in once, offering a joke about the breakfast toast burning slightly. He had rehearsed it perfectly in his mind during the quiet walk from the practice room.

“Ha—haha… get it? The toast?”

The silence that followed was enough to make him freeze. Samuel laughed instead, a short, easy laugh that made the hyungs’ heads turn. Seungkwan nudged Samuel gently, whispering something that made Samuel tilt his head and laugh again, the warmth spilling in every direction.

Chan’s chest tightened. He cleared his throat. “Right… funny.” No one looked at him. No one needed him.

____________________

At practice, the disparity widened. Every adjustment Samuel received, every correction, every small compliment, was public and layered with affection.

“Careful with the hand position, Sam,” Hoshi murmured, leaning in close enough to adjust the angle of his wrist. Samuel tilted his head, smiling softly, and accepted it without hesitation.

Chan, positioned behind him, clenched his fists, heart hammering, throat dry. He tried to mimic the exact precision of Samuel’s movement, trying to match the exact finesse, trying to carve out his own space in the hyungs’ attention.

Seungcheol glanced at him once, then looked away, uninterested. “Keep your timing,” he said shortly, already turning to Samuel.

Chan’s stomach twisted. His body moved, perfect and precise, but the validation, the warmth, the care, it was for Samuel. Always Samuel. Always easy.

____________________

During a break, Chan tried again. He leaned slightly closer to Samuel, laughing at one of his jokes that had earned the hyungs’ attention.

“—and then I said—” Samuel’s grin widened, and the hyungs doubled over with laughter.

Chan’s voice cut through instinctively, sharp: “You’re exaggerating.”

The laughter stopped. Samuel blinked at him, puzzled, hurt flashing briefly across his features.

“Chan…” Joshua’s voice was calm, warning, disapproving. “Don’t.”

Chan ignored him. “No—he is. That’s not what happened.” His words were low, tight, but they carried an undercurrent he hadn’t realized was building: competition, obsession, need.

Seungkwan nudged Samuel gently. “Ignore him, Sam. Don’t let him ruin it.”

Samuel tilted his head, a soft, apologetic smile flickering toward Chan. “I didn’t mean—”

“Just stop,” Chan muttered, turning away, feeling heat pool low in his chest.

He didn’t notice the subtle tightening of his jaw. Didn’t notice the way his stomach churned when Samuel’s laughter resumed, unchecked, uninterrupted, a tide that Chan could not climb.

____________________

Later, during solo practice time, Chan tried something new. He executed a move he knew Samuel had been struggling with—perfectly. He added a flourish, a glance toward the hyungs.

Seungcheol barely noticed. Jihoon’s brow furrowed, disapproval flickering. “Chan, relax, don’t overdo it.”

Chan’s heart stuttered. He had done it perfectly. And still… invisible.

Meanwhile, Samuel stumbled over a small step. Mingyu swooped in, correcting the position with a hand on his shoulder, a smile, a pat. Samuel smiled up at him, a small laugh, fingers brushing Mingyu’s in a fleeting, intimate gesture. The hyungs watched, murmuring approval, fussing over minor imperfections as if every micro-error in Samuel’s body were a personal failure to protect him from.

Chan’s fists clenched. He could feel the pulse in his temples, the heat rising in his chest, the sharp prickle of something he didn’t yet name. Jealousy, he told himself. Pure, rational jealousy.

He repeated the choreography again. Flawless. Perfect. He stepped into the center of the formation, hoping—begging—for a glance, a nod, a single acknowledgment.

Nothing.

Samuel misstepped again, smaller this time, and Jihoon's sharp voice cut through, praising him gently. “Sam, adjust here—yes, just like that.”

Chan’s jaw tightened. His teeth ground together.

Why is it him?

____________________

That night, the dorm hummed with energy. Samuel sat at the kitchen counter, glass of water in hand, as Joshua fussed over him. “Did you eat enough? Your day must have been exhausting. Let me fix a proper dinner for you.”

Samuel smiled politely, almost shyly, and nodded. The hyungs leaned in. Hoshi adjusted his sleeves, Minghao straightened his collar, DK casually rested an arm over Samuel’s shoulder, murmuring something funny that made Samuel tilt his head back and laugh freely.

Chan hovered at the edge, hand wrapped around a cup of water, watching the warmth he had always craved flow to someone else.

He tried to break in. “I—I can help too.”

Seungkwan glanced at him, polite but distant. “You don’t need to.”

Joshua added softly, almost dismissively, “Chan, you’ve eaten already, right?”

Their words were gentle—but they carried the weight of distance. Polite distance. Nonchalant dismissal. He tried again. Offered to cut vegetables, fix Samuel’s water, clean up. Every action ignored, every gesture acknowledged only by the motion of Samuel’s hands, brushing off or lightly smiling, nothing directed toward Chan.

____________________

Practice the next day brought the same torment. Chan found himself directly behind Samuel again during a drill. Their shoulders brushed, and for a second he wanted to adjust, to help. Then something sharp and sour flickered inside him. No. You don’t get the attention you want. Not from me.

He let Samuel stumble slightly, just a fraction, not enough to injure, but enough to disrupt the flow. Samuel’s eyes widened, caught by surprise.

“Chan—!” Seungcheol’s voice snapped.

“It’s fine,” Chan muttered, forcing calm into his tone. But inside, something had shifted. The heat in his chest surged. The jealousy he had disguised as longing now burned with a sharper edge. He gets everything. Everything I wanted. Everything I never had.

Samuel adjusted instantly, brushing the collision off with his usual grace, but Chan saw it—the unguarded ease, the way Samuel’s apology softened into a polite smile. The hyungs’ relief, their warmth, all flowing toward Samuel, unbothered, uninterrupted.

Chan turned away, fists clenched, and whispered to himself: I’ll get there. I’ll get them to see me. I’ll be the one they can’t ignore.

But beneath that thought, buried and subtle, the jealousy began to twist, curling around his chest, sharpening into something darker. Something he couldn’t yet name—but Samuel, blissfully unaware, was the center of it.

____________________

By the end of the week, Chan was exhausted. Body aching, muscles screaming from practice, mind taut from watching the affection he had chased vanish repeatedly into Samuel’s orbit. And yet he didn’t stop. He tried harder. Flawed attempts at jokes, precise choreography tweaks, sharper corrections, leaning closer in small gestures, all calculated to pull attention from Samuel, all quietly, desperately competitive.

The hyungs noticed. They didn’t scold—not overtly—but their warmth never faltered for Samuel. For Chan, it was never enough. Praise was clipped, acknowledgment minimal, sometimes just a nod or a glance that carried no weight.

One night, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, Chan felt a strange clarity.

Samuel had always been the rightful maknae. Always. The hyungs had never wanted him. He had never been enough.

And yet… he couldn’t stop trying.

The thought made his stomach tighten, the ache in his chest throb, and a small, forbidden part of him thrill at the idea that he could compete. That maybe, if he worked harder, was cleverer, more precise… maybe he could steal even a flicker of that warmth.

And somewhere beneath the jealousy, beneath the aching bitterness, a seed began to grow—slow, insidious, unrecognized. Not just longing, not just envy. Something darker.

Chan didn’t realize yet that he was beginning to hate Samuel.

But he would.

And the hyungs—warm, caring, unfaltering toward Samuel—were watching. Oblivious to the storm quietly gathering at their once-ignored maknae’s feet.

____________________

The storm didn’t feel loud at first.

It felt calculated.

Chan learned, very quickly, that being good made him invisible, and being quietly upset made him inconvenient—but being bad? Being disruptive, sharp, volatile?

That made them look.

So he started planning it.

Not all at once. Not with clarity. It came in fragments—thoughts he hated, ideas that made his stomach twist and his pulse quicken in equal measure. If perfection didn’t earn him space, then imperfection would. If silence made him disappear, then noise would force him into existence.

If love wasn’t an option—

Then fear would do.

____________________

It started small.

At the dorm, Chan stopped moving out of the way.

When Samuel passed through the hallway, Chan didn’t step aside like he always had. Their shoulders collided—harder than necessary.

“Watch it,” Chan snapped.

Samuel turned, startled. “I—sorry, I didn’t see—”

“Then open your eyes,” Chan cut in, voice flat and sharp.

The hyungs froze.

Seungcheol’s head lifted from his phone. “Chan.”

Chan met his gaze and didn’t back down. His heart was hammering, adrenaline lighting his veins on fire.

Samuel murmured, “It’s fine,” instinctively soothing, instinctively minimizing himself—and that only made something inside Chan boil.

At dinner, Chan slammed his chopsticks down when Samuel laughed too loudly at DK’s joke.

“Can you stop acting like everything’s a variety show?” Chan snapped. “It’s annoying.”

The table went quiet.

DK blinked. “Hey—what’s your problem?”

“Nothing,” Chan said immediately. “Just saying.”

Seungkwan scoffed. “You’ve been ‘just saying’ a lot lately.”

Samuel shifted uncomfortably. “I can—eat later if it’s too loud.”

“No,” Joshua said quickly, turning toward Samuel. “You’re fine.”

Then, sharper, toward Chan: “You’re out of line.”

Chan stared at his plate, jaw tight, satisfaction and shame tangling in his chest. They were talking to him now. Not kindly. But directly.

It worked.

And that realization scared him more than anything else.

____________________

Outside the practice room, things worsened.

One night, returning late from schedules, Chan shoved past Samuel near the elevator, shoulder checking him hard enough that Samuel stumbled back into the wall.

“Chan—!” Mingyu grabbed Samuel immediately. “Are you okay?”

Chan didn’t stop walking. “He should learn how to stand properly.”

“Are you serious?” Seungkwan snapped. “What is wrong with you?”

Chan turned then, eyes wild, smile thin. “What? You only care when he gets hurt.”

Silence.

That was the first time Seungcheol raised his voice at him outside practice.

“Enough,” he said. “Go to your room.”

Not Are you okay?

Not What’s going on?

Just removal. Containment.

Chan laughed as he walked away. It sounded ugly even to his own ears.

____________________

Practice became a battlefield.

Chan stopped holding back.

If Samuel missed a count, Chan called it out loudly.

“If you can’t keep up, say so.”

If Samuel hesitated, Chan shoved past him.

“Don’t block the formation.”

Once—deliberately—Chan stepped on Samuel’s foot during a turn.

Samuel hissed, nearly losing balance.

Music stopped immediately.

“What the hell, Chan?” Hoshi demanded.

Chan shrugged, breathing hard. “Accidents happen.”

Jihoon stared at him for a long, cold moment. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“So?” Chan shot back. “What are you gonna do?”

That was the moment the room changed.

They didn’t argue.

They didn’t scold.

They closed ranks.

Samuel was pulled away, seated, surrounded—hands checking his foot, water offered, murmurs of comfort flowing easily.

Chan stood alone again, chest heaving, fingers curling and uncurling like he wanted to break something just to feel real.

“Sit out,” Seungcheol said curtly. “You’re done.”

Chan slammed his bag into the mirror hard enough to crack it.

The sound echoed.

No one flinched—except Samuel.

And that did it.

That tiny, instinctive fear in Samuel’s eyes ignited something dark and awful in Chan’s chest.

You see me now, he thought.

You all do.

____________________

At the dorm later that night, the storm fully unraveled.

Samuel was in the living room, stretching quietly, headphones in. Chan watched him from the doorway, heart pounding, thoughts spiraling.

If he wasn’t here—

If he messed up badly enough—

Chan crossed the room abruptly and yanked the headphones off Samuel’s head.

“What?” Samuel startled. “Hyung, what are you—”

“Stop pretending you don’t know,” Chan snapped. “You know they only care because it’s you.”

Samuel stood up slowly. “That’s not true. They care about you too.”

The lie—well-meaning, gentle—felt like an insult.

Chan shoved him.

Hard.

Samuel hit the corner of the couch, breath knocked from his lungs.

“CHAN!” Seungcheol roared, already rushing forward.

Mingyu stepped between them instantly, arms out, shielding Samuel like instinct alone had taken over. “Back the hell off!”

Chan’s hands were shaking. His vision swam. “See?” he yelled, voice cracking. “You don’t even think. You just—protect him.”

“Because you’re out of control,” Jihoon snapped.

Joshua grabbed Chan’s wrist when he tried to step forward again. “Enough. You’re scaring him.”

That word—him—rang in Chan’s ears.

Not us.

Not everyone.

Just Samuel.

Chan laughed again, wild and broken. “Good.”

The room went dead silent.

Seungcheol stared at him like he didn’t recognize him. “Go. To. Your. Room.”

Chan went.

He slammed the door so hard the frame rattled.

Inside, he slid down the door, breathing ragged, forehead pressed to the wood. His hands were scraped raw. His chest hurt like it might split open.

He felt awful.

He felt relieved.

He felt seen—even if only as a threat.

____________________

After that, the rules changed.

Chan was never left alone with Samuel.

Schedules were rearranged. Dorm dynamics shifted. Conversations stopped when Chan entered rooms. Corrections turned harsh. Tolerance vanished.

“Watch your attitude.”

“Control yourself.”

“Don’t start.”

No one asked why.

That hurt more than anything.

Late at night, Chan lay awake listening to the dorm breathe, staring at the ceiling, heart heavy with a grief he didn’t know how to name.

He had wanted love.

He had wanted to belong.

Instead, he had become the storm they needed to survive.

And the bitterest part—the part that made his throat ache with unshed tears—was that even now, even like this, a small, broken part of him still hoped:

Maybe tomorrow they’ll ask.

Maybe tomorrow they’ll see me.

But deep down, beneath the rage and the noise and the damage he’d already done, Chan knew the truth settling in his bones—

He wasn’t their maknae.

He wasn’t their choice.

He was just the disaster that happened while they were waiting for the rightful one to come home.

____________________

The storm didn’t burn itself out.

It learned how to breathe.

Every day, Chan woke up with the same pressure sitting on his chest, like the air itself had weight now. He carried it through schedules, through practice, through meals he barely tasted. The anger didn’t come in waves anymore—it stayed, low and constant, humming under his skin.

He stopped trying to be careful.

Words came sharp now, cutting before he could stop them.

During practice, Samuel missed a cue—barely half a beat late—and Chan laughed.

A short, humorless sound.

“Wow,” he said loudly. “You’d think with all that attention, you’d at least get the timing right.”

The room froze.

Samuel flushed. “I—sorry—”

“Don’t apologize,” Chan snapped. “Just do better.”

“Chan,” Seungcheol warned.

Chan turned, eyes bright. “What? I’m helping.”

“No,” Jihoon said coldly. “You’re being an asshole.”

That word used to scare him.

Now it felt like confirmation.

Later, when Samuel stumbled during a transition, Chan didn’t adjust to cover him like he used to. He held his position deliberately. Samuel clipped his shoulder, nearly losing balance.

Music stopped.

Mingyu was already at Samuel’s side. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Samuel said quickly, though his hands shook.

Chan shrugged. “Maybe he shouldn’t rely on everyone else to catch him.”

“Get out,” Hoshi snapped. “Take five. Now.”

Chan stared at him. “Or what?”

For a moment, it looked like Hoshi might actually step forward.

Instead, Seungcheol intervened. “Chan. Leave.”

No questions. No discussion.

Dismissed again.

The physicality also continues to creep in quietly.

A shove in the hallway when no one was looking. A shoulder check that sent Samuel into the wall hard enough to leave a bruise. Chan told himself it wasn’t intentional—even as his pulse spiked every time Samuel flinched.

That flinch became addictive.

One night in the dorm kitchen, Samuel reached past Chan for a glass.

Chan slapped his hand away.

The sound cracked through the room.

“What is wrong with you?” Seungkwan shouted, already pulling Samuel back.

Chan’s hands were shaking. “Don’t touch my stuff.”

“It’s a cup,” DK said, incredulous.

“And he didn’t even take it,” Joshua added, voice tight. “You didn’t need to do that.”

Didn’t need to.

Need had nothing to do with it anymore.

Samuel wouldn’t meet Chan’s eyes after that.

The final violent outburst came days later.

They were exhausted—too many schedules, too little sleep. Tempers were thin. Practice dragged.

Samuel messed up again.

Just once.

Chan exploded.

“Do you even take this seriously?” he shouted, kicking his bag across the room. “Or do you just assume someone else will fix it for you like always?”

“That’s enough!” Seungcheol barked.

Chan laughed, wild and cracked. “No, it’s not. You’re just sick of hearing it.”

Samuel stepped forward despite himself. “Chan, please—”

Chan shoved him.

Hard.

Samuel went down.

Everything after that happened at once.

Mingyu tackled Chan back. Hoshi shouted. Seungkwan swore. Someone grabbed Samuel, hands everywhere, voices overlapping.

“Are you okay?” “Sit down—don’t move.” “Get ice—now.”

Chan thrashed against Mingyu’s grip, vision tunneling.

“You see?” he screamed. “You always see him!”

“Stop!” Jihoon shouted. “You’ve lost it!”

Chan went still at that.

Lost it.

They dragged him away from the room like he was something dangerous.

Which—fair.

That night, no one spoke to him.

The silence felt heavier than screaming.

And the confrontation came the next evening.

Chan knew it the moment Seungcheol told him to sit down. All of them were there—no phones, no distractions. Samuel wasn’t.

That omission screamed louder than anything else.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Seungcheol said. “Your behavior is getting worse.”

“You think?” Chan replied flatly.

“This isn’t jealousy,” Jihoon added. “This is cruelty.”

Chan clenched his fists. “You taught me how.”

Seungkwan scoffed. “Don’t put this on us.”

“Why not?” Chan shot back. “You replaced him with me and then acted surprised when I couldn’t be him.”

Joshua sighed. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” Chan said softly. “But it’s true.”

Jeonghan had been quiet the whole time.

When he finally spoke, everyone listened.

“You’re right about one thing,” he said calmly. “We are gentler with Samuel.”

Chan’s breath hitched.

Jeonghan met his eyes without flinching. “And even if you are the maknae—we will never give you the same attention we give to Samuel.”

The words hollowed the room.

Chan felt it happen inside him—the last thread snapping clean through.

“Oh,” he whispered.

No anger. No shouting.

Just… collapse.

“So it didn’t matter what I did,” Chan said slowly. “Good or bad. I was never going to be enough.”

No one contradicted him.

That was the answer.

Chan stood on unsteady legs. “You should’ve said that sooner.”

“Chan—” Seungcheol started.

But Chan was already walking away.

This time, no one followed.

Later, alone in his room, Chan sat on the floor with his back against the bed, staring at the wall until his eyes burned.

He had wanted love.

He had begged for attention.

He had screamed for it.

All he’d done was prove what they already believed—

That he was never the maknae.

Only a placeholder, keeping the seat warm until the rightful owner came back.

____________________

The dorm had changed. Or maybe it hadn’t—maybe it had always been this way, and Chan had only now realized it. The air carried a chill that no heater could reach, a subtle hum of disapproval and distance. He noticed the small things first: DK’s careful, almost hesitant footsteps in the hallway, Jihoon's stiff posture as he carried his music sheets, Seungcheol’s eyes flicking to Chan and immediately darting away. It was a silent acknowledgment that something irreparable had happened.

Chan moved through the day as though he were underwater. Words hovered on the tip of his tongue but sank before they could escape. He no longer argued, no longer tried to be seen or heard. He simply existed in the spaces he was allowed to occupy, a quiet presence that the hyungs could neither reach nor confront.

At breakfast, Mingyu nudged a plate toward him. “Chan… you gonna eat?”

Chan’s head tilted faintly, an almost imperceptible nod. He didn’t pick up the chopsticks. Mingyu left without a word, the plate untouched, the food cooling into a small, sad mound.

During practice, the silence was more noticeable than any scream, any outburst. When Seungcheol called for adjustments, Chan responded with a stiff nod, a slight shift in stance. No words, no jokes, no corrections. Only precision. Only execution. The energy he had once poured into every move, every expression, every interaction, had drained out, leaving a polished, mechanical version of himself.

Even Samuel, approached cautiously. His attempts to bridge the gap—small smiles, tentative touches on the shoulder, quiet jokes—fell flat. Chan’s eyes flicked once toward him, neutral, and Samuel’s hand withdrew as if burned.

One afternoon, after a grueling choreography session, Samuel lingered near the water cooler. “Hyung… do you… I mean… are you still mad at me?”

Chan’s response was a slight shake of the head. Not anger. Not forgiveness. Just a refusal to engage.

Samuel swallowed, eyes stinging with a mixture of shame and helplessness. He glanced at the hyungs, hoping for some intervention, some guidance, some reassurance that the walls Chan had built could be broken down. But the hyungs watched with tight jaws, silent regret, the truth clear to them now: they had destroyed something inside him that no apology could resurrect.

Later that evening, Chan sat alone in the corner of the dorm lounge, his knees pulled to his chest. The hum of the air conditioner was a lullaby he didn’t want. He stared at nothing, letting the memories of the storm replay in fragments: Samuel’s startled flinch, the shoves, the harsh words, the cold, disappointed stares.

Jeonghan entered quietly, carrying a cup of tea. He sat a few feet away, careful to maintain distance. “Chan…” His voice was soft, almost hesitant, a stark contrast to the harshness of before. “I… we were wrong. We should have loved you. Not just Samuel. You too.”

Chan didn’t look at him. He didn’t respond. His silence was a wall, a moat filled with years of neglect and the scars of wanting love and receiving none.

Jihoon appeared next, hands in his pockets, leaning against the doorway. “We… we are sorry” he admitted. His usual sharpness was gone, replaced by a trembling vulnerability. “For never—never giving you the care and love you deserved.”

Chan’s head tilted faintly, acknowledging the sound but not the meaning. He didn’t rise. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. The weight of what they were saying—the regret, the guilt, the unspoken sorrow—hit the room like a physical presence, but it no longer reached him.

Seungcheol finally spoke, voice heavy with the burden of realization. “Chan, we… we didn’t realize. Not until it was too late.”

Chan’s lips pressed together, not a snarl, not a frown, not a tear. Just the quiet of someone who had accepted that some things could never be repaired. He pushed himself to his feet, moved past them without a glance, and returned to his room. Not a single hyung followed. None dared. None could.

Days turned into weeks. Chan’s quiet became routine. He existed in the studio and dorm with precision and professionalism, the public persona a friendly, engaging image, the private reality a hollow shell. He moved through life like a shadow: present but untouchable, performing but never participating, responding only with nods or shakes.

The hyungs tried. A glance here, a soft word there. But every effort collided with the invisible barrier Chan had erected. They realized, with a bitter clarity, that their words, their actions, their coldness, their favoritism had built a wall that now kept them out forever.

One night, after a long day of practice, Samuel approached him quietly in the hallway. “Hyung… can we talk?”

Chan didn’t look at him. He merely shook his head. Not a “no,” not a rejection born of anger, but a statement of fact: the bridge had burned, and he would not cross it. Samuel’s shoulders slumped. He knew then that whatever warmth and connection they’d once shared had disappeared. It had been drowned in jealousy and hate, twisted into something unrecognizable, and finally sealed beneath a silence born of someone so broken that it was all he had left.

Even the hyungs, watching from a distance, felt it. The regret that twisted their stomachs was powerless against the finality of Chan’s withdrawal. Jeonghan’s eyes misted as he whispered, “He’s… gone.”

Jihoon’s jaw tightened. “Not really gone. Just… locked away.”

The dorm grew quieter still. Meals were eaten in isolation. Laughter was sparse, subdued, cautious. Chan’s silent presence loomed over everyone like a shadow, constant and unyielding. He no longer provoked, no longer acted out. All the fire, all the storm, all the chaos—it was gone, leaving a stillness so profound it seemed to echo in every corner of the building.

The bittersweet truth of it all hit hardest in those quiet, private moments: Chan no longer hated Samuel. The jealousy, the longing, the desire to compete—they had vanished, burned away by the cold, unyielding reality of his place in the group. And yet, this calm was not peace. It was resignation. It was the quiet aftermath of a hurricane that had destroyed everything in its path, leaving only ruins and echoes.

One evening, as he sat by the window of his room, watching the city lights blur beneath a fine drizzle, he let himself think for the first time in weeks. Not of revenge, not of attention, not of being seen. Just… of himself. The weight of wanting and never receiving, of screaming and never being heard, settled deep in his chest.

The hyungs knocked lightly, one by one, offering apologies, concern, small gestures of care. He didn’t move. He didn’t respond. He simply stayed there, silent, letting the night carry the sound of their regret away.

And when he finally lay down, staring at the ceiling as the raindrops tapped gently against the window, he felt the quiet seep into him completely. The storm had passed. The fire had burned out. What remained was stillness. Absolute.

A single thought hovered in his mind, fragile and cold:

He would never be the maknae. He would never be enough. And yet, in that quiet, he no longer cared.

The hyungs had loved Samuel. They had never loved him. They had shown him their indifference, their dismissal, their coldness—and now, in the aftermath, all that love, all that warmth, all that possibility was meaningless.

Chan closed his eyes. The city outside hummed with life, but inside, he was gone. Not angry, not broken, not seeking. Just… quiet.

And in that quiet, there was something infinite. Something final. Something that would never, ever be touched again.