Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There’s a particular kind of noise that lives in backstage dressing rooms. Not quite chaos, but definitely not calm either. It’s the sound of controlled urgency, of too many people moving in sync toward the same deadline, all aiming for perfection. Hairdryers whir in the background. Shoes scuff against the tile floor. Every now and then, a shout or a burst of laughter cuts through. Together, it all forms a rhythm. A pulse.

Hongjoong sits at the heart of it all, still, like the eye of a storm.

The members move around him in that awkward space between half-dressed and ready, while the stylists weave through them with practiced hands, fixing every detail before the mini fanmeeting kicks off. Hongjoong watches one stylist noona dig into Mingi’s shirt collar and pull out a necklace like she’s doing surgery. She doesn’t even blink, just yanks it into place like it’s muscle memory. It’s kind of impressive. Kind of terrifying.

Hongjoong quickly glances down at his shirt and the silver pendant resting neatly against his chest.

All good. Nothing to fix here.

He drags his sleeves down over his wrists and for a moment considers reaching for the jacket slung over the back of his chair. Spring is creeping into Seoul, little by little, but the chill hasn’t let go yet; it seeps through the walls and lingers in the air, making the room colder than it should be. Hongjoong has no time to complain, though. Not with the makeup noona beating his face nonstop for more than half an hour, probably trying to mask the dark circles under his eyes. He makes a mental note to be more disciplined about his sleep schedule, if only to make her job a bit easier.

“Hyung, look alive!”

Wooyoung’s voice slices through the hum of the room, and before Hongjoong can so much as blink, a phone is practically pressed against his nose. He flinches back on instinct, only to be met with Wooyoung’s gleeful expression—far too excited for whatever he’s about to say.

“Our captain loves to look cute,” Wooyoung announces, lies, his voice rising as if he’s speaking to an invisible audience. “He can’t wait to show Atiny his aegyo on stage—”

Hongjoong releases a breath that’s ninety percent resignation and ten percent regret. This isn’t his first Wooyoung ambush, and he’s learned that playing along only fuels the fire. That’s the trick with Wooyoung: if you don’t react, he’ll get bored and move on.

Sure enough, after a beat of silence and no satisfying reaction, Wooyoung lets out a loud, theatrical groan, as if Hongjoong just personally ruined his day.

“You are the least fun person in this group,” Wooyoung says, scanning for anyone else who’ll play along. “Anyone wanna be my main character today?”

“Try Mingi-hyung,” Jongho chimes in. Hongjoong spots him in the mirror reflection over Wooyoung’s shoulder, a faint smirk already in place. “He cried watching a dog food commercial this morning.”

That lands like a record scratch.

Mingi, hunched over his phone in the seat to Hongjoong’s left, freezes mid-scroll. The ambient noise in the room seems to dip for a second, just long enough for everyone within earshot to clock what was just said.

“...I didn’t cry,” Mingi says after a beat, blinking up with all the wounded dignity of someone absolutely caught. “But the dog was alone in the rain...”

A brief silence. Then, like clockwork, a collective awww ripples through the room, quickly followed by scattered laughter. That’s all the invitation Wooyoung needs. He spins around so fast it’s a wonder his phone stays in his hand, and the noise ramps up instantly.

“It wasn’t even a real dog!” Jongho shouts from the side. “It was animated!” Mingi laughs too, waving his hands like he’s trying to push both Wooyoung and the conversation away.

Hongjoong shakes his head, watching the moment settle like bait in the air. This is either headed for the next logbook or being tucked away by Wooyoung for some future scheme. Probably one that will make Mingi groan later. He quickly scans the room for the nearest neutral zone so he can avoid getting dragged into whatever is unfolding behind him.

On his right, Seonghwa sits like he’s been cut straight out of a painting. He watches the trio in the mirror, head tilted just enough to say he’s entertained but not about to get pulled in. Aside from that tiny tilt, he barely moves—back straight, hands resting in his lap while the stylist noona works product through his hair. A few strands are left loose, falling over his forehead in a way that looks both casual and perfectly planned. Hongjoong can’t help but stare a little. Sometimes it feels like the world just knows how to frame Seonghwa. Even the sharp fluorescent lights seem to play along, catching the angles of his face just right, highlighting the gentle slope of his jaw and the subtle curve of his lips.

But this time it isn’t Seonghwa’s too-good-to-be-true face that catches Hongjoong’s attention this time.

It’s the almost invisible shiver running through him, the tiniest crack in his calm, polished exterior. Most people wouldn’t notice a thing.

But Hongjoong does.

Because someone has to, since Seonghwa sure as hell won’t say anything. Not about the cold, not about aching muscles, not about the nonstop flights that leave your body humming like it’s been wrung out and stitched back together. He just endures. Quietly. Sure, Hongjoong knows it’s part of the deal, the trade-off they all signed up for. But that doesn’t make it any easier to watch.

It gets to him, every time. That urge to fix it, to do something. Even if it’s something small. Even if it’s stupid.

Before Hongjoong can let his mind linger on it, the room shifts again. Another ripple of movement. A coordinator calls for line-up. Someone yells about mics and timing. The current catches him before he can think twice, pulling him halfway toward the door on autopilot.

Then he stops.

One beat. Two. He turns.

The crowded space doesn’t make it easy, but he weaves through it without hesitation, zeroing in on his target like it’s the only thing that matters right now.

Seonghwa is already halfway to standing when he spots Hongjoong coming. “Did you forget something?”

“Nope,” Hongjoong says, reaching for the jacket draped over the back of his chair. “You did.”

The jacket lands on Seonghwa’s shoulders with one smooth motion, and the quick, surprised oh that follows makes Hongjoong grin.

It isn’t just any jacket. Hongjoong spent hours obsessing over this one, tweaking every seam and detail. A custom rework from an old piece he couldn’t bring himself to throw away. He cut it apart, stitched it back together, and added tiny touches only he would notice. His schedule was packed lately, leaving little room for side projects, but he had made time for this one.

“There,” Hongjoong mutters, brushing imaginary dust from Seonghwa’s shoulder. “Congratulations, you’ve been upgraded to ‘not freezing to death.’”

Seonghwa tugs lightly at the lapel, glancing down at the jacket like he’s not entirely sure what to do with the sudden weight. “You don’t have to dress me,” he starts, turning his face slightly but not enough to hide the amused curve of his mouth.

“Wouldn’t have to if you weren’t in denial about your body temperature,” Hongjoong fires back. “Your spine just shivered so hard I thought you were buffering.”

Seonghwa blinks, then laughs weakly. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Uh-huh,” Hongjoong hums, already stepping back toward the door. “Keep telling yourself that. Meanwhile, keep the jacket. You clearly need it more than I do.”

Seonghwa gives him a once-over—subtle, but not subtle enough. Like he’s checking whether Hongjoong really means it, or maybe just making sure he doesn’t look colder than him. Either way, it’s a terrible attempt at being discreet.

Hongjoong doesn’t stick around for the inevitable comeback. He knows better than to push his luck when he’s already winning.

But honestly, maybe he should’ve stayed.

Because when he looks back, just for a second, he catches Seonghwa slipping the jacket fully onto his shoulders, adjusting the collar with careful fingers. The sight makes Hongjoong stumble—not physically, but in that sudden, unexpected catch of breath that throws off his rhythm. The fabric settles like it belongs there, draping perfectly over Seonghwa’s frame in a way that makes sudden warmth spread through Hongjoong like a slow burn that takes its time to reach every corner of his chest.

It suits him perfectly.

And it’s not just the way it fits or flatters his frame. There’s something deeply… personal about it. Hongjoong knows every inch of that jacket. He remembers staying up until 2 AM, tearing apart the lining because the fabric bunched weird under the shoulders. He remembers debating over that asymmetrical stitch on the sleeves, wondering if it was too much. And now, seeing it sit so naturally on Seonghwa, it’s like the jacket finally found its home.

A minute later, they’re in front of fans. Everything feels loud and fast and familiar, but Hongjoong’s head is a half-second behind the beat. The fan service lines he’s supposed to rattle off? Gone. The talking points he memorized earlier? Nowhere to be found. All he can think is, wow, he looks good in that. Like, really good. So much so that it’s borderline infuriating.

No, scratch that. It is infuriating.

This shouldn’t throw him off so much. It’s not like it’s a big deal.

And yet, Hongjoong’s eyes keep snapping back to Seonghwa. Every little move makes the jacket settle perfectly, the silver buttons catching the light just enough to drag his gaze like a magnet.

Yeah, it’s messing with him.

Worse, it’s messing with him in a way he can’t even explain. He’s not just proud of the piece, he’s weirdly attached to the way Seonghwa wears it. The way it looks on him sparks something warm and selfish and slightly ridiculous in Hongjoong’s chest.

Something that screams, I made this.

But now it’s Seonghwa’s.

The thought lands hard. He likes this. Not just how the jacket looks, but how Seonghwa looks in something he made. Something shaped with his hands, his late-night, probably-insane choices. It’s unnervingly intimate. Seonghwa is wearing a secret and, somehow, only Hongjoong knows it.

Somewhere along the way Seonghwa picks up on it. His expression twitches, curious, and Hongjoong rips his eyes away before he can make it worse. He tries to focus and reminds himself why they are here, but it is useless. No matter where he looks, Seonghwa finds his way back into view. Laughing. Posing for a photo. Just standing there in that damn jacket like he belongs in it.

Every time, Hongjoong feels that same rush. That soft, steady ache that curls low in his chest and won’t leave him alone.

And for the first time in a long while, he isn’t sure what to do about it.

Later that evening, Hongjoong’s sprawled on his bed like a dropped marionette, legs trapped in a blanket he doesn’t even remember pulling over himself. His phone is in one hand, thumb drifting lazily over the screen with no real destination. He’s not even reading—just cycling through apps. Instagram, Twitter, KakaoTalk. Instagram again. He taps on a fancam, watches himself blink dramatically into the camera for five seconds, cringes, and swipes it away like it burned. A second later he opens the group chat, sees seventy-three unread messages—mostly memes, someone arguing over the best ramen brand, and that cursed photo of San in a frog hat making its fifth appearance this week—and closes it again without replying.

His brain is static. The kind of tired that isn’t fixed by sleep.

He thinks about grabbing his laptop, maybe messing with one of the demos he’s been ignoring just to trick himself into feeling productive. But the urge fizzles out before it goes anywhere. He is still caught between doing it or not when the door swings open.

Seonghwa storms in, looking almost comically dramatic with one hand holding the jacket and the other clutching a container of kimbap like it’s both an offering and a weapon. He doesn’t even bother with a knock this time.

“Hey,” Seonghwa says, dropping the jacket onto Hongjoong’s bed and waving the kimbap in his face. “Have you eaten anything today? Or are you surviving on a single Americano again?”

Hongjoong winces. Of course he would notice that, Hongjoong thinks, and for a moment he’s both relieved and irritated by Seonghwa’s tendency to look after him, even when he doesn’t ask for it. “You know, I can take care of myself.”

Seonghwa snorts. “Sure,” he says, eyebrow arching as he sets the kimbap down on the bedside table with a soft thud. “You looked like you were about to collapse mid-fanservice. Very convincing.”

Hongjoong lets out a quiet sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. He thinks he’s deflecting well enough, right up until he glances up and catches the flicker of real concern in Seonghwa’s eyes. It’s gone almost as soon as it appears, but the effect lingers. Hongjoong’s stomach churns at the thought of what Seonghwa would say if he knew the real reason Hongjoong was off his game today. What could he possibly say? That he couldn’t focus because he was too busy thinking about Seonghwa in his clothes? Yeah, no way.

“Fine, fine,” Hongjoong relents, sitting up and taking the kimbap without argument. Maybe Seonghwa’s right; he really hasn’t eaten anything substantial all day. Just coffee and a vague hope that he’d get around to something more, only for the hours to slip by.

As he peels back the lid, his gaze drifts to the jacket lying beside him. Even resting in a heap, the jacket keeps the outline of Seonghwa’s frame, stubborn in the way it remembers him. Seeing it there sends that same warm ache prickling through his chest.

He wonders if it will ever stop doing that.

“Thanks for letting me borrow it,” Seonghwa says, breaking the quiet. Hongjoong looks up and finds him folding the jacket, careful now, smoothing every crease. It makes him want to laugh—Seonghwa can’t stand things being out of place, even if he’s the one who left it that way.

Hongjoong watches for a moment, smiling to himself. “Yeah, no problem. Looked good on you,” he blurts out before he can stop himself. The words leave his mouth too honest and he regrets them instantly. He shoves another bite of kimbap into his mouth like it might muffle any other dumb thing ready to escape. He doesn’t dare look up, eyes glued to the kimbap container like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

“You know,” Seonghwa says, “it reminded me of those Valentino outfits we got for Coachella.”

That actually pulls a laugh out of Hongjoong. He blinks, glancing up in surprise. “No way,” he says, shaking his head with a grin. “My jacket reminded you of Valentino? That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”

“No!” Seonghwa says, a little too loud, then ducks his head and lowers his voice. “I—I mean, it’s not… it’s not the brand. It’s more that… when something’s made just for you, it feels different. Like someone actually noticed you and decided you were worth the time. It gives you confidence, even when you don’t really have it.” His thumb traces along the seam of the jacket. “I know this wasn’t made for me, but when I wore it, it felt like I got to borrow that feeling for a little while.” He laughs quietly, almost sheepish. “Sorry. That probably didn’t make much sense.”

Hongjoong is quiet for a moment. “No, I get it,” he says softly. “But, Seonghwa-ya…”

The words hang between them, awkward and heavy, while Hongjoong searches for a way to say what he’s been holding in for so long. You don’t need anything extra to be everything you already are. He’s wanted to say it countless times, especially in those rare moments when he caught that shadow of doubt in Seonghwa’s eyes. It’s better now, not as sharp as it used to be, but it’s still there, just beneath the surface. Seonghwa always seems a step away from thinking he’s not enough, still chasing some impossible version of perfect. And maybe that’s the frustrating part—how someone like Seonghwa, with all his talent, charisma, and kindness, can sometimes be so blind to his own worth.

Hongjoong’s tongue feels heavy, words tumbling around in his head that won’t form a sentence without sounding awkward or too raw. Every phrasing he comes up with feels wrong—either too blunt, too sentimental, or too stupid. Usually, with Seonghwa, it’s easy. Hongjoong barely has to say a thing and Seonghwa just gets it. But right now? Nope. Even Seonghwa wouldn’t have a clue what’s going on in his head.

The words in his head keep spinning in circles until another thought quietly elbows its way forward.

No, maybe Seonghwa wouldn’t believe him.

But if a piece of clothing makes him feel more grounded, more secure in his skin—if it gives him that extra inch of confidence—then maybe it is worth something. And if Hongjoong can give him even a fraction of that feeling, he wants to.

No—he needs to.

The thought plants itself firmly in his chest, refusing to budge. He shifts on his bed, nudging the empty kimbap container aside, and leans forward before his nerves can slam on the brakes.

“What if I made something for you?” he says. “Not just a tweak or a fix. A real custom piece. It would be yours.”

He doesn’t add and mine too, in a way, but the words linger, unsaid, in the space between them.

For a second, nothing happens. Hongjoong expects a chuckle or some throwaway comment that would brush past the moment and file it under his usual spur-of-the-moment suggestions. But no laugh comes. Seonghwa’s just standing there, eyes scanning Hongjoong like he’s trying to decide if this is serious or if Hongjoong’s about to backtrack.

Then Seonghwa’s voice cuts through, softer than usual. “You’re serious?” He hesitates again, eyes scanning Hongjoong’s face. “You’d actually do that?”

Hongjoong shrugs, trying to keep it casual even though his heart’s thudding a little too hard. “Yeah. Whatever you want. Fabric, shape, details…everything.”

Seonghwa’s eyes shift between the jacket and Hongjoong. “That’s… that’s a lot of work, Hongjoong-ah.”

“I don’t mind,” Hongjoong says. “I want to.”

Seonghwa pauses again, his eyes lingering on Hongjoong’s face, as if weighing his words. The corners of his mouth slowly lift into a small, thoughtful smile. “Then… I’d be honored.”

Hongjoong smiles in return, curling one knee up on the bed and tapping it with his fingers. “Alright, it’s settled.” The smile turns into a grin. “But don’t go expecting VIP treatment all the time, Seonghwa-ssi. I’m not running a free couture service here.”

Seonghwa laughs, warm and a little too pleased. “Guess I’ll just have to make it worth your while,” he says, and then the smile spreads, big and real, lighting up his whole face.

And there it is again—that warm tug in Hongjoong’s chest.

The sensation spreads slowly, like a flicker of heat, a dozen tiny sparks igniting inside him. It doesn’t burn or ache, but rather kindles a gentle glow, as if something inside him is quietly waking up after being tucked away for far too long.

Hongjoong knows exactly what it means.

He can admit, to himself at least, that he’s always had this… thing when it comes to Seonghwa.

It’s not like he’s spent years actively pining, nothing that dramatic or intense. But from day one, there’s been this quiet attraction that would flare up at random times, always settling in his mind as a familiar, stubborn part of himself. It was there when they were just awkward trainees stumbling through practices, and it’s still there now, unmoving.

But the other thing… that one’s a little harder to untangle.

If Hongjoong is being honest, he can’t pinpoint exactly when it began. It crept up on him so slowly that it took an embarrassingly long time for him to realize what it meant, and even longer for him to admit it to himself.

People always talk about falling in love like it’s something loud and spectacular—fireworks, confessions, world-tilting moments. But for him, it was the opposite. There wasn’t a big aha! moment. No, more like one random rainy Tuesday he caught himself watching Seonghwa laugh at the way his umbrella got bent by the wind and thought, wait… have I been feeling this for months? Years? And the answer was yes, apparently.

It had been there all along. Patient, quiet, waiting for him to catch up.

Looking back, he wishes he’d seen it sooner, that he’d recognized the signs before it became this unshakable part of him.

For as long as Hongjoong’s known he’s in love with Seonghwa, he’s been careful to keep it locked away in a mental vault where it wouldn’t disrupt the delicate balance of their friendship. It felt safer that way, or at least that’s what he kept telling himself—even if it meant living in the shadow of what might have been. There were moments when he let himself wonder, briefly, about the what-ifs and maybes, but he always brushed them away just as quickly.

What complicates things even more is that Hongjoong knows Seonghwa likely feels the same way, or at least did years ago. Seonghwa dropped hints here and there, little half-formed confessions that never fully took shape because Hongjoong shut them down before they could go anywhere.

He often wonders if Seonghwa is still haunted by those same unresolved feelings or if they’ve faded with time.

Either possibility makes his heart twist painfully.

The next couple of days pass relatively quietly.

Not that they’re actually relaxing; their schedules are packed with practice and meetings. Hongjoong spends most of his time out of the dorm, sitting in on strategy sessions to fine-tune the comeback rollout and content that has to be locked down before summer hits and the tour takes over, running through choreography with the team, shooting promotional videos—

Okay, it’s not quiet.

But through it all, one thought refuses to let go, clinging to him like static on a sweater. Every evening, when the noise of the day fades and the dorm quiets down, Hongjoong finds himself back at his desk, sinking into a different kind of frenzy. It’s become a quiet ritual now—laptop open, tabs multiplying like weeds, an almost-empty cup of cold coffee forgotten at his elbow. He’s long lost track of how many nights he’s spent like this, navigating a digital maze of fabric suppliers, YouTube tutorials, and niche forums full of people arguing about stitch length and seam allowances like their lives depended on it.

Yes, Hongjoong knows how to sew. But he also knows how much work it really takes to bring a complicated design to life. Back when he made custom designs with Ugo Mozie for his Beat It cover, he got a firsthand glimpse of just how many moving parts are involved—from the sketch to the final stitch. He’s lucky enough to have had those designs brought to life by someone with way more skill, but that experience left him hungry to improve his own craftsmanship.

It helps that he’s been spending time at a local jaejakso over the past few months. The place is a small custom tailoring studio tucked behind a stationery shop, quiet and easy to miss unless you’re looking for it. He found a seasoned tailor there who took the time to walk him through everything. They would sit together and go over his designs one by one, drafting patterns, testing fits, marking out where the embroidery should go. It’s so different from watching tutorials at two in the morning. It feels real. Tangible. Like his ideas can actually leave his brain and turn into something people can touch.

He’s also been hitting up Dongdaemun Market more than usual. He’d been going there long before he ever promised Seonghwa anything—sometimes with a clear idea in mind, other times just wandering, letting himself get lost among the endless bolts of fabric. He’s discovered real gems that way, pieces he hadn’t even known he was searching for until they were already in his hands.

The fabric he bought most recently is spread across his desk and, if he’s being brutally honest, mostly on the floor since his room doesn’t have much furniture and the one desk he does have is mostly taken up by his music equipment. He’s even moved a few things around to make space for the sewing machine he ordered a few days ago, shoving cables into precarious stacks just to clear a small corner where he can actually work.

Hongjoong ordered it in a moment of bold optimism which quickly morphed into nervous energy the second it arrived. He’s pretty sure he caught Wooyoung giving it a long, suspicious look, and Jongho might’ve said something under his breath about needle safety, but Hongjoong pretended not to hear. Better to maintain the illusion of confidence than admit he spent ten minutes trying to figure out how to wind a bobbin.

He glances at the machine, fingers hovering like it might explode if he presses the wrong thing. A slow breath. His current go-to mantra runs through his head: You can do this. It’s just fabric. It’s just fabric.

Right as he’s about to dive in, his phone buzzes against the desk, jolting him out of his thoughts. He grabs it and checks the screen.

It’s a message from Seonghwa.

i’ll be there in a second

Hongjoong looks around and promptly feels his soul evacuate his body.

His room is a disaster. It looks like a textile tornado blew through and then decided to settle down permanently. Sure, Seonghwa’s seen worse. They’d spent enough years sharing a room for Seonghwa to be well-acquainted with Hongjoong’s messier side. But still, Hongjoong feels this sudden, unshakable urge to make things look… less tragic. Not perfect, but at least like he hasn’t completely lost control of his life.

He swears under his breath and flings into action, adrenaline fuelling his flimsy attempt at cleaning. He grabs armfuls of fabric from the floor, shoving them into any box or drawer within reach. A roll of linen escapes, bouncing off a chair leg before disappearing under the desk. When he crouches to retrieve it, his hip bumps his sketchbook, sending it tumbling with a heavy thud to the floor, landing face-down. He curses again and drops to his knees, crawling under the desk. Just as his fingers brush against the rogue roll of fabric, a knock sounds at the door.

He freezes. Roll in one hand, heart in his throat.

Seonghwa opens the door with the ease of someone who’s walked in and out of this room a hundred times, but his step falters the second he spots Hongjoong curled under the desk. Hongjoong’s face heats up instantly. He braces for a teasing jab, or worse, that barely restrained sigh Seonghwa does when he’s trying not to sound disappointed but absolutely is.

But no disappointing sigh comes. Seonghwa’s eyes widen in an almost cartoonish way, lips twitching as if he’s fighting back a full laugh. He tilts his head, taking in Hongjoong’s crouched, flailing form. “You said anytime,” he says, voice calm but every inch dripping with amusement.

“Right… I did say that,” Hongjoong mutters, scooting fully out from under the desk.

But before he can even straighten, Seonghwa drops down beside him, folding one leg under the other like sitting on the floor in the middle of Hongjoong’s room is the most natural thing in the world. He reaches out and pokes a roll of fabric. “This one’s plotting an escape too,” he says, letting it flop back onto the floor.

“I—uh, it’s organized chaos?” Hongjoong stammers.

Seonghwa leans back and smirks. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Otherwise, I’d make you clean all of this… with me watching.”

Hongjoong sinks back against the desk. “That’s almost scarier than you going through my sketchbook.”

At the single word, Seonghwa’s eyes light up. “Oh? Where—?” He stops mid-sentence, scanning the room before his gaze locks onto the fallen sketchbook on the floor. He glances at Hongjoong, as if silently asking, is it okay? Hongjoong gives a quick nod, and Seonghwa’s grin spreads wide. He leans down, fingers curling around the book, and flips it open.

Calling it “a few designs” barely scratches the surface. Hongjoong had been nervous at first, but getting them right wasn’t impossible. He knows Seonghwa’s style almost instinctively by now. If that weren’t enough, there was that night after a promotional shoot when they grabbed hotteok and ended up sprawled on a bench under dim streetlights, tossing ideas back and forth.

The first page shows a blazer—cropped at the waist, with a high, wraparound collar that twists into a loose, adjustable knot at the throat, giving it a sleek, almost origami-like look. Seonghwa studies it in silence. Hongjoong watches him, heart pounding in his ears. This is the first time Seonghwa’s really seeing what he’s been doing. Not just vague references or late-night texts. The actual proof. And suddenly Hongjoong isn’t sure if he wants to stand proudly next to it or shove it all into the closet and pretend it never existed.

“Oh, this one’s beautiful,” Seonghwa says quietly, eyes still on the first page. “It looks like something you’d wear too.”

Hongjoong blinks. “If I wore it, it wouldn’t be cropped like that.”

Seonghwa lets out a soft laugh, shrugging. “Atiny would like it.”

And for a moment, all the anxiety fades. Just a little. Seonghwa then starts flipping through the notebook. He lingers, pausing here and there, tilting his head like he wants to see past the graphite and into the thought behind it. Time seems to slow around them, the room narrowing to the sound of paper turning. Hongjoong suddenly wishes, more than anything, that he could peek into Seonghwa’s head and know what he’s really thinking.

Seonghwa stops on a sketch of a blouse with sheer sleeves, the pencil smudged faintly where Hongjoong’s hand must have dragged. Hongjoong rubs the back of his neck, a little self-conscious. “They’re still a little rough. I was just messing around with the ideas you gave me.”

Seonghwa stays quiet for a moment, focused on one sketch, brow furrowed like he’s trying to read between the lines. “They don’t look rough,” he says. “They look like you know exactly what you’re doing.”

Seonghwa flips another page and Hongjoong feels his stomach twist.

It’s an idea he sketched in a sudden rush of inspiration. Seonghwa had greenlit dresses, sure, but this was different. Hongjoong combined a dress with a corset. On paper it felt daring, almost thrilling. Now, under Seonghwa’s steady gaze, it feels less bold and more dangerously close to too much.

“I just thought that one would look nice,” Hongjoong blurts before he can stop himself. “I mean… since it’s not for a performance, we could,” he waves a hand, “really cinch you into it. For photos or something.” He pauses, scanning Seonghwa’s face for even a hint of discomfort. “But if it’s too out there, we can go with something simpler.”

Seonghwa shakes his head slowly, eyes still locked on the sketch. “No, Hongjoong-ah,” he says softly. “It’s not too much. I like it. A lot. I just… didn’t expect you to go all out like this.”

Hongjoong ducks his head, fingers twisting the roll of fabric in his hands. “I didn’t want to give you one option and have you be like, ‘Yeah, this doesn’t work.’”

“Well, I’m definitely not complaining. They’re all pretty.” Seonghwa lingers on a page, thumb pressing at the edge. Then, almost abruptly, he shifts the sketchbook closer. “Help me pick, Hongjoong-ah,” he murmurs, tilting it a little more toward him. “If you had to choose… which one would you want to make first?”

“What? No. This isn’t about me. I’ll make whatever you want.”

“But I like all of them.”

“Then I’ll make all of them.”

Seonghwa laughs softly. “Hongjoong-ah…”

Hongjoong lets out a slow breath. Maybe Seonghwa’s right to push him on this. Starting smaller would be smarter. Something manageable. Something that won’t immediately end in emotional collapse or a sewing machine-related injury.

“A skirt might be a good start,” he says finally. “It’s easier to tweak.”

“A skirt?” Seonghwa’s brows lift, a teasing smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “I’m intrigued. But I’ll warn you, I look pretty good in a skirt.”

Hongjoong rolls his eyes and lightly smacks Seonghwa’s arm with the roll. “You know, I wanted to boost your confidence with some nice clothes, but it seems like you don’t need it after all.”

Seonghwa shrugs. “A little extra boost never hurts. Now, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Hongjoong scoots a little closer as the room settles into a quiet rhythm. The only sound is the soft scrape of paper as Seonghwa flips through the sketchbook. Hongjoong watches him carefully, letting Seonghwa take the lead. His eyes dart between Seonghwa’s face and the designs. A few skirt sketches are scattered among the pages, but he says nothing. He wants Seonghwa to choose for himself.

Eventually, Seonghwa pauses, his finger tapping lightly against one of the sketches. “This one,” he says.

It’s a high-waisted skirt with a zipper running down the side. The hem falls just below the knees in an asymmetrical cut: clean, angular, and modern. The longer side sways slightly as if it’s caught mid-turn, giving the whole piece a quiet sense of motion. There’s a single panel of contrast fabric—just a strip—running parallel to the zipper, a matte black against charcoal grey. It’s minimalistic, but with that slightly rebellious flair that makes it feel like something Seonghwa would wear.

“Okay,” Hongjoong hums in approval.

Seonghwa doesn’t look away from the page. He studies it for a second longer, his head tilting thoughtfully. “Hongjoong-ah,” he says, glancing up, “do you think you could add a slit to the skirt? Right here?” He traces a line down the side of his thigh. “Nothing wild—just enough to show a little leg.”

Hongjoong's throat goes dry. For a second, his mind short-circuits with a brief, stupid flash of Seonghwa actually wearing it.

No, he can’t add that.

“I—yeah, sure. That’s… doable,” he manages to choke out, his voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat and looks anywhere but at Seonghwa. “I’ll... get started on it soon. And I’ll make sure it’s perfect.”

“What? Hongjoong-ah, no, listen,” Seonghwa says, setting the sketchbook down against his knees with a firm pat. “You’ve got a million things going on. I don’t want to be the reason you pass out at your sewing machine.”

“No, trust me,” Hongjoong says quickly, relieved by the change of subject. It distracts him from the nervous flutter in his chest. “This is actually relaxing. Feels like a break from everything else.”

Seonghwa doesn’t look convinced. He has that look, the one that says he’s clearly skeptical but doesn’t want to push too hard.

“If you say so.”

“Just promise not to laugh if it turns out looking like a high school sewing project,” Hongjoong says, feigning seriousness. The joke feels like a thin veil, but it does its job.

“Only if you promise not to pull an all-nighter trying to make it perfect,” Seonghwa shoots back, soft but firm. “You’re not allowed to die over a skirt.”

“I’m not dying,” Hongjoong says, chuckling. “I’m designing.”

“Alright,” Seonghwa sighs, but the fight’s mostly gone from his tone, “but if I see you looking too exhausted, I'm dragging you away from the sewing machine and making you sleep for a week."

Hongjoong laughs, the tension finally easing. “Deal.”

The days have started to feel a little less monotonous after the fanmeeting in Kobe. Not by much, but enough that Hongjoong notices the difference. There are still meetings and shoots that run longer than they should, but the days aren’t quite so back-to-back anymore. The air feels lighter. For the first time in weeks, Hongjoong has a quiet day with no immediate deadline hanging over his head. Sure, another promotion cycle is around the corner—they always are—but for now, there’s no stage to prep, no script to memorize, no group chat lighting up with last-minute changes.

So he spends most of the day doing nothing. Or trying to. He reorganizes his closet for no reason. Puts on the first episode of a drama he’s been meaning to start, then pauses it halfway through when he realizes he hasn’t retained a single line. Eventually, he ends up lying flat on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, mind buzzing with things he could be doing.

He’s never been good at this—having free days. But he promised himself that after the European tour, he’d at least try not to live in a studio when he doesn’t have to.

There’s an itch to go there. But something else is calling him too. Something he hasn’t had much success with yet.

Slowly, his feet carry him to his room. And then, to his desk.

The sewing machine hums to life a few minutes later, the soft mechanical purr filling the quiet. The sketch Seonghwa picked out, torn from his sketchbook in a moment of impatience, sits propped between a stack of books and a mug of fabric markers. The page keeps slipping, its corners curled from being handled too much, but Hongjoong doesn’t bother fixing it. He already knows it by heart. He just likes having it close.

His gaze shifts between the wool gabardine fabric—neatly folded and waiting for its moment—and the mess of fabric scraps scattered around him.

In theory, he knows what he’s doing. He’s watched countless tutorials, read through guides, and even practiced on some old cotton fabric to get a feel for the stitching. He’s spent hours visualizing how the skirt should come together.

But in practice? Nothing’s going as smoothly as he hoped.

He knows what to do—he knows it. He even managed to get Seonghwa’s measurements without raising any suspicion, though it involved some strategic maneuvering. Asking the stylists directly would have been easier, but it felt too awkward. The last thing he wanted was for this project to become gossip fodder among the staff. Instead, Seonghwa had casually asked for the measurements himself, claiming he needed them for some personal tailoring, then passed them along to Hongjoong.

The issue isn’t preparation—it’s execution.

The stitches aren’t as clean as they should be; tiny wrinkles ripple along the seams where the fabric has bunched in defiance. The presser foot feels like his enemy, either refusing to hold the fabric steady or sending it skidding out of alignment the moment he presses down. And then there’s the dreaded needle jams, which seem to occur at the exact moments when he finally thinks he’s getting the hang of things.

It really shouldn’t be this hard. His tutor makes it look effortless. People online make it look effortless—smooth seams, perfect cuts, no jammed needles. Hongjoong wonders if they’ve secretly edited out all the mistakes just to make amateurs like him suffer. He glances at the untouched gabardine fabric and feels like he’s about to fail some personal mission. If the practice run is this brutal, what hope does he have for the real thing?

But backing down isn’t his style.

He switches to a sturdier scrap and hopes it will be more forgiving. Carefully, he rethreads the machine, double-checks everything, and takes a deep breath. The machine jerks to life with a faint whir as he presses down on the foot pedal, his eyes glued to the needle. He silently wills the fabric to glide through smoothly and the seam to stay straight.

For a moment, everything seems fine. A few smooth stitches fall into place—clean, even.

Then, with a sharp clunk, the needle jams again.

“Fuck!” he shouts, yanking the fabric free, which only tangles the thread worse. He lets out a long, exasperated sigh and slumps back in his chair, arms hanging at his sides. The machine sits there, silent and unrepentant, as if it hasn’t just betrayed him for the fifth time.

He’s considering whether or not to throw the whole thing out the window when the door to his room creaks open.

Wooyoung pops his head in, eyebrows shooting up at the state of the room. His gaze sweeps over the fabric scraps, tangled threads, and Hongjoong, looking completely frazzled. “You okay? You didn’t, like, sew through your hand or anything, right?”

Hongjoong runs a hand through his hair. “Not yet.”

Wooyoung steps fully into the room, taking in the mess. “Hyung,” he says, tone deadpan, “you do know we have staff for this stuff, right? You don’t need to know how to do everything yourself. Next thing I know, you’ll electrocute yourself trying to figure out the stage lighting."

“I might, at this rate.”

Wooyoung gives him an unimpressed look but otherwise ignores the comment, picking up a scrap of crookedly stitched fabric. He holds it up with a wry smile, turning it between his fingers. “Looks like you’re having a rough time.”

“You could say that,” Hongjoong mutters, sinking further into his chair.

Wooyoung claps a hand on his shoulder, somewhere between a pat of sympathy and a playful shove. “It’ll get better. No one nails it on the first try.” He glances around the room again, eyes landing on the crumpled test pieces with an amused tilt of his head. “Or, you know, the second. Or the third.”

Hongjoong snorts, shaking his head. “Wow. Truly inspiring. Thanks for the pep talk.”

His eyes drift to the sketch of the skirt propped on his table, and suddenly, it all feels impossibly far away, like every design belongs to some more competent version of himself.

One who could actually sew.

Wooyoung must notice the shift, because his teasing fades. “Seriously though,” he says, a little more gently now, “step away for a minute. Clear your head. Everything looks better after a break.”

Hongjoong thinks about it, then glances up. “Want to grab food or something?”

Wooyoung winces, the corners of his mouth dipping into a faint frown. “I promised Yeonjunie I’d catch a movie with him tonight. But hey, come along if you want. He won’t mind.”

Hongjoong shakes his head, offering a small smile. He knows the TXT guys well enough, but not that well. Plus their night out is theirs, and schedules like that don’t line up often. “Nah, you two go have fun. I’ll figure something out.”

Wooyoung studies him for a beat, then nods, giving his shoulder one last pat.

Once the door shuts behind him, the apartment feels unusually quiet. Hongjoong pauses for a moment, listening for any signs of life, but it seems Jongho isn’t home either. The silence feels strange, like it’s pressing on his chest, amplifying the restless energy that’s been building all day. He picks up his phone and taps out a quick message into the group chat.

anyone free? need a break

The reply comes fast, buzzing against his palm. It’s Yunho: Let’s go. Yeoksam-dong?

Hongjoong smiles. Yunho always knows the best spots, and spending a few hours with him sounds infinitely better than staring at fabric. He sends a quick reply.

As he pockets his phone and grabs his coat, his eyes drift back to the folded gabardine fabric sitting untouched on his desk. It looks almost accusatory, like it knows he’s abandoning it for the night.

One day, he thinks, letting the door click shut behind him. Just not today.

They find the restaurant tucked deep in one of Yeoksam-dong’s backstreets, the kind of place you could easily pass without noticing. Inside, the walls are plastered with photos of laughing patrons, clusters of sticky notes, and handwritten messages of gratitude. Some notes curl at the edges, ink faded and smudged with age, while others are crisp and bright, scrawled in languages Hongjoong doesn’t recognize.

He lets his eyes wander, taking it all in. There’s a strange sense of familiarity, quiet and distant, and then it clicks. He’s seen this place before, in photos Yunho and Mingi used to post back when they would come here after late-night dance practices.

An ajumma in a green apron emerges from behind the counter, her face lighting up as she spots them. “Yunho-ssi,” she greets warmly, bowing deeply before turning to Hongjoong with the same kind smile. “Hongjoong-ssi.”

Hongjoong has never met her, but he returns the bow respectfully, caught off guard by how easily she recognized him. She takes them to a spot in the back corner, and Hongjoong notices the familiarity with which Yunho navigates the space, a testament to the many times he’s been here before.

As they settle in, Yunho looks around with a fond expression. “This place has the best food. I practically lived here during training. They kept me alive with tteokbokki and late-night sundubu.”

Hongjoong quirks an eyebrow. “Late-night sundubu? Sounds like luxury compared to the instant ramyeon I survived on.”

“You should’ve joined me,” Yunho says, flipping through the menu even though it’s obvious he already knows what he wants.

“I didn’t know you that well back then,” Hongjoong replies with a wry smile. “And I was way too awkward to invite myself.”

“Well, now you do,” Yunho replies, putting down the menu as he spots a server. “And lucky for you, I’m about to order the best galbi-jjim in the city.”

Hongjoong watches with a small smile as Yunho rattles off their order with the confidence of someone who’s done this a hundred times. Not long after, the food arrives: steaming galbi-jjim, rich and fall-apart tender, served with an array of banchan. A bottle of soju and two glasses follow, completing the table.

“See?” Yunho says, gesturing proudly to the spread. “Best food in the city.”

Hongjoong picks up his chopsticks. “Okay, let’s see if you’re right.”

Yunho watches eagerly as Hongjoong takes his first bite, eyes locked on him like he’s awaiting a verdict from a judge. The galbi is as tender as promised, soaked in a rich, savory sauce that melts against his tongue. Hongjoong doesn’t speak at first, just nods slowly as he chews.

Yunho’s grin spreads immediately. “That’s the face of a man who knows his friend was right.”

Hongjoong swallows and tilts his head in surrender. “Alright, fine. You win. This is ridiculously good.”

“I told you,” Yunho says, still smiling, already reaching for the bottle of soju. “You just have to trust me more.”

He pours them each a shot, the soft clink of glass against wood as he slides one across the table. They eat and drink in companionable silence, conversation flowing easily between bites. After a while, Yunho goes quiet, his expression shifting as he studies Hongjoong more closely.

“Post-recording jitters?”

Hongjoong looks up, caught off guard. “Huh? No. What makes you say that?”

“You’ve been quiet. Even on the way here, you were somewhere else entirely. You get like that when something’s eating at you.”

“I do?” Hongjoong asks, chopsticks hovering midair.

Yunho nods, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah. So? Is it music again? Are you working on something new?”

“No, not really. I mean, not any more than usual,” Hongjoong admits, putting down his chopsticks. It’s mostly true; he hasn’t visited the studio in over a week.

“So what’s got you so wound up today?”

Hongjoong hesitates, fingers toying with the edge of his napkin. Yunho’s steady, open expression makes it easier to speak.

“I’ve been dabbling in fashion again.”

Yunho raises an eyebrow. “Dabbling how?”

“I’m trying to sew something,” Hongjoong says, quieter now. “Not just adjusting stuff or piecing things together. A full piece. From scratch.”

Yunho lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Seriously? That’s great. What are you making?”

Hongjoong takes a slow breath, then murmurs, “A skirt.”

Yunho blinks. “For yourself?”

Hongjoong shakes his head. “No…for Seonghwa.”

There’s a beat of surprised silence before Yunho leans in, eyes wide with curiosity. “Wait, really? Is it for something special?”

“Not exactly,” Hongjoong says, eyes dropping to his scrunched-up napkin. “I offered to make him something custom. He picked a piece he liked from my sketchbook and I said I’d try making it. Didn’t think much of it at first, but now that I’ve started... I’m kind of freaking out.”

“Why?” Yunho asks, resting his chin in his hand.

“Because what if it turns out terrible?” Hongjoong lets out a breathy laugh, but it’s tight around the edges. “What if I spend all this time on it and it’s not even wearable? I’ve already jammed the machine five times and ruined the practice fabric. And it’s for Seonghwa—he notices everything.”

Yunho studies him for a moment. “Hyung, hear me out. Seonghwa-hyung could get a custom piece from anywhere. But if you made it? He’d wear it like it’s straight off a Paris runway. Even if you handed him a pillowcase with arm holes, he’d still thank you and pose like it’s a Vogue editorial.”

Hongjoong shakes his head, but a reluctant smile creeps in. “That’s not the point.”

“No,” Yunho agrees, nudging his glass toward Hongjoong for a toast. “But it kind of is. You’re making something for him, and knowing Seonghwa-hyung, he’s going to love it. Because it’s from you.”

A soft flush spreads across Hongjoong’s neck. He prays Yunho chalks it up to the soju.

“I hope so,” he says quietly.

They clink glasses, the soft chime almost swallowed by the low hum of the restaurant. The soju slides down smooth, warming his chest, while Yunho digs into another piece of galbi like it’s his last meal. Between bites, he mumbles, “Seriously, you’re gonna make Seonghwa-hyung cry. In a good way.”

Hongjoong snorts. “If he cries, I’m never sewing again.”

Yunho grins, chopsticks pausing over gamja jorim. “Then make it ugly. Save yourself.”

Hongjoong laughs, the sound light and unguarded. For once, the knots in his shoulders ease, just a little. Tomorrow, the pressure will return. The fabric will still be waiting. But tonight?

Tonight, he’s got soju, galbi, and Yunho offering half-baked wisdom between bites.

Honestly, it’s more than enough.

Hongjoong wasn’t lying when he said he hadn’t been to the studio in over a week. It wasn’t avoidance exactly. More like… creative limbo. He tells himself it’s just a phase. Everyone goes through it, right? Even the best artists probably have their days where they’re just not feeling it.

It’s frustrating, though. One minute he’s full of ideas; the next, he’s staring at a blank screen, suddenly daunted by the keyboard in front of him. He knows he should be helping the production team, contributing somehow, but it’s like trying to unlock a door with the key in his hand, only for it to slip away again and again.

Just when he’s starting to wonder if his talent has packed up and left for good, the universe throws him a bone: an email from management. He’d been expecting his inbox to be filled with newsletters about “the next best satin offers” or phishing emails about royalties from songs he doesn’t even remember writing. But no, it’s a real invitation to meet with two American producers.

For a solid thirty seconds, he just stares at the screen, waiting for it to vanish. When it doesn’t, he actually laughs out loud, startling himself. Apparently the universe had finally grown tired of his internal monologue and finally decided to intervene. Okay, okay, fine. Here’s something to get you back on track.

He spends most of his day at a studio located in one of Seoul’s more downtown neighborhoods — a popular hub for international artists and producers passing through the city. The meeting goes better than he expected. Maybe even better than he deserved, considering he’d walked in almost convinced his creative brain was still on vacation. By the end of it, Hongjoong’s got two demos in progress, a notebook crammed with scribbled lyrics, and a caffeine buzz strong enough to power a small city.

When he finally steps back out onto the street, the sky is slipping into sunset, the skyline washed in deep streaks of orange and pink. The breeze brushes past like a soft caress, and for a second he finds himself thinking that maybe the universe doesn’t hate him after all. Maybe.

By the time he gets back to the apartment, the last bits of sunlight are sliding off the buildings, casting everything in a soft, honeyed glow. He kicks off his sneakers and doesn’t even bother with the usual post-work collapse on the couch. Instead, his feet carry him straight to his desk, where the sewing machine sits, smug and waiting, surrounded by the wreckage of previous failures.

He pulls out the chair, cracks his knuckles, and flips the machine on.

Alright, he thinks, mouth twitching into a smile. Round two.

He digs through the mess on his desk and pulls out a fresh piece of practice fabric. It’s not fancy, just something unlikely to cause trouble. He lines it up carefully, lowers the presser foot, and braces himself. He waits for the awful crunch-grind of the machine jamming again, or the bobbin to shoot across the room like a rogue marble.

But nothing happens.

The needle glides forward in a clean, smooth line, the fabric feeding through like butter.

For a moment, Hongjoong just stares, completely dumbfounded. He leans in cautiously, still bracing for something to go wrong—a jam, a snap, maybe the machine bursting into flames just to spite him. But it doesn’t. It hums along quietly, smoothly, like it knows it’s finally doing its job. He adjusts the fabric, fingers moving a little more confidently, and watches as the stitches appear straight and even. It’s not perfect, but it’s good. Good enough that, for the first time in days, Hongjoong feels like he might actually pull this off. That spark he felt in the studio hasn’t left him. It followed him home, settling into his shoulders, keeping his hands steady and his thoughts quiet.

As the sun sets completely, Hongjoong finishes the final seam and carefully lifts the fabric from the machine. He holds it up in front of himself, turning it in his hands. One edge still slants a little, and there’s a rogue thread sticking out where he got distracted by a phone notification, but it’s miles better than anything he managed before.

He promises himself he’ll practice more, that he’ll make it back to the jaejakso soon. And then, maybe, he’ll finally be ready to tackle Seonghwa’s skirt. He exhales without realizing he’s been holding his breath, grinning down at the first neat line of stitches that feels like a win.

Maybe the universe didn’t change overnight.

But tonight, it’s meeting him halfway.

He’s still admiring his handiwork when a familiar voice drifts down the hall, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Hyung!” Wooyoung yells. “You’re coming with us to noraebang!”

Hongjoong sighs, reluctantly poking his head out of his room. “Noraebang?” he repeats, eyebrows rising as he spots Wooyoung leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed like he’s issuing a royal decree.

“Yeah. Let’s go,” Wooyoung says, firm like it’s an order, not an invitation.

Hongjoong blinks at him. In all honesty, he can count on one hand the number of times they’ve gone to karaoke together. He knows Wooyoung, San, and Seonghwa have been sneaking off lately for impromptu nights out, but for him? The idea feels borderline ridiculous. After all, they sing for a living. Spending his night belting out cheesy ballads and clumsy duets for fun feels almost... counterproductive. Like a chef clocking out just to cook instant noodles for entertainment.

“Whose idea was this?” Hongjoong asks, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

“Mingi’s,” Wooyoung says without missing a beat.

Hongjoong squints. “Really?”

“Yeah. “

“You’re not just trying to pass your own idea off as Mingi’s, are you?

“This is slander,” Wooyoung protests.

“And you’re not covering for San or Seonghwa either?” he presses.

Wooyoung throws his hands up. “Why am I the villain here? And for the record, Sannie’s not even coming. Mingi’s the mastermind. Blame him for your ruined evening.”

Hongjoong pinches the bridge of his nose and glances over his shoulder at his desk where the neatly folded fabric and sewing tools sit waiting. His peaceful, productive evening is already slipping through his fingers, and there’s no point in trying to chase it.

“Fine,” Hongjoong mutters. Wooyoung lights up instantly, triumphant, and spins on his heel toward the door like he knew Hongjoong would cave.

On their way out, they pass through the kitchen, where Jongho is calmly stationed at the counter, steeping omija-cha like he’s preparing for a tea ceremony instead of just making a late-night drink. He looks up as they approach, spoon in hand.

“Wait,” Hongjoong says, pausing in the doorway. “Jongho-ya, you’re not coming?”

He watches as Jongho stirs his mug with slow, practiced movements, looking every bit the picture of composure while they’re about to throw themselves into a night of…whatever this is shaping up to be.

Hongjoong turns to shoot Wooyoung a look that’s somewhere between exasperation and mild betrayal. “How come I’m the only one getting dragged out?”

He can see Wooyoung gearing up, chest puffing slightly like he’s about to launch into one of his famous speeches about “team bonding” or “saving Hongjoong from artistic isolation,” but before he can get a word out, Jongho steps in smoothly.

“Hyung, I’ve got a voice lesson tomorrow,” Jongho says, punctuating the words with a tiny, strategic pout. The kind that’s devastatingly effective and should honestly be illegal at this point.

Yeah, he can’t argue with that.

He can definitely argue with Wooyoung, though. Hongjoong turns to him, squinting. “Maybe I had plans too.”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. What plans? If I didn’t drag you out, you’d be sewing yourself into a cocoon of loneliness.”

“Maybe I want to be a hermit.”

It’s a lie. He likes people. But he’s petty, and he’s committed.

“Tough.” Wooyoung slaps him on the back like he’s doing some kind of noble charity work. “Consider this an intervention. You’re welcome.”

Jongho, from behind his mug, offers an unhelpful, “Take videos.”

Wooyoung salutes him. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m getting evidence. If hyung even thinks about dodging a song, I’m posting it.”

Hongjoong groans, already regretting everything as Wooyoung starts herding him out of the kitchen. “You’re both traitors.” He throws one last look over his shoulder at Jongho, who’s sipping his tea like a wise old sage watching fools set off on a doomed quest.

“Correction,” Jongho says calmly, tilting his head toward Wooyoung. “He’s the traitor. I’m staying out of it.”

Wooyoung, entirely unbothered, throws up a thumbs-up and nudges Hongjoong toward the front door. As they step into the hallway, he slings an arm over Hongjoong’s shoulders, steering him toward the elevator with far too much enthusiasm for someone initiating a noraebang ambush.

“Guess it’s just us and the others tonight,” he says, not the least bit deterred. “But don’t worry, we’ll make up for Jongho’s absence. In fact, I’ll even let you pick the first song.”

Hongjoong gives him a side-eye. “You’re too generous.”

If Wooyoung picks up on the sarcasm, he doesn’t show it. “Damn right I am.”

Hongjoong’s ears are ringing.

The deafening chorus of off-key notes fills the cramped, neon-lit room, the walls pulsing in time with the blaring speakers. Wooyoung and Mingi are currently butchering—no, enthusiastically attempting—IU’s Good Day, their voices cracking on every high note, each one lunging for the melody with the kind of reckless conviction that only makes it funnier.

Meanwhile, Yeosang is taking advantage of the moment with his phone. The glow of the screen illuminates his face as he crouches low, capturing the scene from an angle that somehow makes it look even worse. When he gets right in Wooyoung’s face, it’s clear he’s having too much fun with this. Hongjoong’s starting to suspect Yeosang agreed to this karaoke just for the blackmail material he’s collecting. If there’s one thing he’s learned over the years, it’s that Yeosang is a connoisseur of future leverage.

Mingi is halfway through the chorus, his voice cracking spectacularly as he reaches for that infamous high note. Hongjoong instinctively leans back into the plush cushion of the booth, wincing as the pitch goes rogue and veers even further off course. For a brief, traitorous second, he envies Yunho and San, who both conveniently bailed earlier, claiming they absolutely had to catch the finale of some show Hongjoong has never even heard of.

He glances across the booth at Seonghwa, who is quietly watching the scene unfold with an amused expression. His head is tipped back against the seat, eyes half-lidded like he’s unimpressed but secretly entertained. Between them on the table sits a crinkled bag of honey butter chips, which Seonghwa reaches for every now and then, plucking out a chip and holding it delicately between his fingers before popping it into his mouth.

Hongjoong notices absentmindedly how Seonghwa’s hair is held back by a few bobby pins that are doing absolutely nothing to tame the strands falling across his forehead and curling near his temples. The messiness of it only sharpens everything else: the clean line of his jaw, the elegant slope of his nose, the effortless poise that never quite leaves him. Under the flickering neon lights, his skin glows warm and impossibly smooth.

Hongjoong’s gaze slips lower before he can stop himself, tracing the exposed line of Seonghwa’s neck where his collar has dipped just enough to show skin. It’s barely anything, but something about it pulls at him. Out of nowhere, a memory surfaces. Seonghwa in the dressing room after a long shoot, that fake MATZ tattoo still clinging to his neck in smudged black ink. Hongjoong had joked about it, even reached out and dragged his thumb across the letters just to be annoying.

It looked good. Too good.

Dangerous.

And then, almost before he can stop himself, another thought tumbles in after it.

He wants to press his lips there.

Hongjoong stiffens, mentally slamming the brakes so hard he nearly gives himself whiplash.

No. Absolutely not. He’s not thinking about that. Not now. Not ever.

But another part of him—the one that creeps in late at night when his defenses are worn thin—starts unraveling the protest before he can even hold it together.

Not just a kiss, it whispers. Not playful. Not harmless.

He wants it slow. He wants to drag his lips across that warm stretch of skin, to feel the steady thrum of Seonghwa’s pulse under his mouth. He wants to scrape his teeth right where the fake tattoo had once smudged against his fingertips.

He wants to leave a mark.

One that won’t wash off.

One that belongs only to him.

“What are you looking at?” Seonghwa asks suddenly, voice smooth, low, and criminally well-timed.

Shit.

There’s a beat where his brain refuses to reboot, still sluggish from wherever that very inappropriate train of thought had taken him.

“You,” Hongjoong manages, shaking off whatever has come over him.

He can’t help but wonder, for what feels like the hundredth time, if Seonghwa can hear it in his voice. The affection. The quiet wanting. If he can see straight through him.

The thought terrifies him a little.

Seonghwa’s lips curl at the edges. “And?” he says, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear, only to have it spring right back into place. “What are the reviews saying?”

Hongjoong shrugs again, busying himself with taking a sip from his drink. “Okay.”

Seonghwa’s smile falters. “Okay?” He places a hand over his heart as if he’s been dealt a grave insult. “Just okay?”

“Reviews are still pending,” Hongjoong says, setting the drink down with the kind of thoughtfulness that implies deep artistic critique, not panic.

Seonghwa leans in, resting his elbow on the table and cradling his chin in his hand. He studies Hongjoong with a pointed sort of mischief, like he’s testing how far he can push. “Then what can I do to improve them?”

“Hm, I don’t know,” Hongjoong says, tilting his head toward the karaoke machine. “You could start by going up there and singing the next song. Maybe your voice will save us.”

Seonghwa laughs but stays planted in his seat. “You just want to get rid of me.”

“Not at all,” Hongjoong says, leaning back. “If I wanted you gone, I wouldn’t have let you steal all the chips.”

“That bag was communal,” Seonghwa protests, lips pulling into a soft pout. “And besides, you weren’t eating them.”

“I was waiting for you to finish so I could have the crumbs.”

Seonghwa huffs a soft laugh, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “Fine, I’ll do it,” he says after a beat, glancing toward the karaoke setup. Then his eyes slide back, slower this time, and he leans in just a touch closer, elbow still propped on the table. “But I’ll have you know, I only perform when the audience is attentive.”

“Oh, I’m paying attention,” Hongjoong says, matching his posture. He props his chin on his hand and raises an eyebrow. “Completely captivated.”

That earns another laugh from Seonghwa, but it doesn’t land the same way. He shifts slightly, just enough to seem unsteady for a second, gaze dropping to the tabletop as though looking at Hongjoong has suddenly become too much.

“Good,” he says quietly.

Just as the awkward silence begins to linger, two hands suddenly clamp down on Hongjoong’s shoulders, gripping with the unfiltered enthusiasm of someone who’s definitely had one too many. A chest presses against his back. “What,” Wooyoung’s slurred voice mutters in his ear, “are you two lovebirds whispering about?”

Hongjoong freezes.

This is the worst.

Wooyoung is the worst.

He tilts his head slightly, his expression deadpan. “No one’s whispering. You two are just too loud.”

“We’re exactly as loud as we should be,” Wooyoung fires back, grinning wide as his eyes shift between Hongjoong and Seonghwa. “Come on, you two,” he claps a hand on Hongjoong’s shoulder and stretches the other toward Seonghwa, “we need more voices. It’s karaoke, not a staring contest.”

Hongjoong stays put, arms crossed, making it perfectly clear he isn’t moving just because Wooyoung says so. It’s a silent protest. Predictably, Wooyoung tightens his grip on Hongjoong’s shoulder in response. Hongjoong doesn’t think. He just reacts. He bites at the offending hand, sharp and quick, making Wooyoung yelp in surprise.

“Let go, or I’ll bite you again.”

“Go on then. Bite me,” Wooyoung dares, eyes gleaming.

Hongjoong’s eyes narrow. “I will.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Guys,” Mingi calls out, cutting through the chatter with the authority of someone holding sacred intel. “I forgot to mention…Jongho texted me on the way here. If we hit a perfect score tonight, he’s volunteering to clean your apartment for two whole months.” He gestures between Hongjoong and Wooyoung like this should be life-altering news. “I tried to help, but, well…” Behind him, the karaoke machine pings. A score flashes in bold neon digits across the screen: 20.

Hongjoong blinks. Then blinks again.

“Twenty?” he says, voice rising with disbelief as he leans forward to squint at the screen. “Twenty?” He turns to Mingi, unable to hold back the bark of laughter that escapes him. “Mingi-ya, be honest. Why would you pick this song if we needed a perfect score?”

Mingi waves him off. “Everyone knows these machines are rigged. I figured... you know, I could nail it. How hard could it be?”

“You thought wrong,” Wooyoung mutters, flopping dramatically onto Hongjoong’s shoulder like the weight of Mingi’s choices is personally crushing him. “We are never getting Jongho’s help now.”

“Listen,” Mingi says, holding up a hand like he’s about to make a serious point. “It felt right in the moment.”

“You got a twenty,” Yeosang points out, angling his phone toward Mingi.

“Which is still technically not zero,” Mingi shoots back, trying to salvage whatever pride he has left.

“Is that better?” Seonghwa murmurs, almost to himself.

“Okay, you go next,” Mingi says, plopping down beside Seonghwa and handing him a mic. “Redeem us.”

Seonghwa leans back slightly. “No, thanks. You made this mess. You clean it up. Pick something with… fewer high notes.”

“Nah,” Mingi grins. “I’ve already destroyed my credibility. And I know you’ve got a secret playlist of shower ballads you’ve been dying to unleash.”

Before Seonghwa can argue, Yeosang suddenly steps in front of Hongjoong and shoves a mic into his hand with zero warning and way too much confidence. “Hongjoong-hyung will sing with you,” he says sweetly to Seonghwa—far too sweetly. Hongjoong looks down at the mic, then up at Yeosang, who is already sitting down calmly like he hasn’t just lit a match and walked off whistling.

Seonghwa meets his eyes across the table, brows slightly raised in the universal language of I did not plan this either, but I guess we’re doing it now.

There’s a beat. And then they stand in sync, moving toward the front of the room with the kind of resigned grace one only gains through years of dealing with the unpredictability that is their friend group.

“Okay,” Hongjoong says, adjusting the mic in his hand as he turns back toward the others. “Let’s show them how it’s done.”

The room quiets. Partly in anticipation, partly out of curiosity, but mostly because Wooyoung has loudly shushed everyone like he’s about to watch a soap opera.

Hongjoong gestures toward the screen and then to Seonghwa who’s going through the selection of songs. “But fair warning,” he adds, raising an eyebrow, “you all better pay attention. I’ve been told—by a very private, very reliable source—that Park Seonghwa doesn’t perform unless he’s got the audience’s full attention.”

At that, Seonghwa groans softly, his eyes flicking up from the song list to glare half-heartedly at Hongjoong.

“Hey, don’t give me that look,” Hongjoong starts with a shrug. “I’m just making sure everyone’s aware of the performer’s high standards.”

Wooyoung, sensing the moment of vulnerability, grins widely at Seonghwa. “Don’t worry, hyung. We’re all watching. Really watching.”

“I will walk out,” Seonghwa mutters as he desperately avoids eye contact with anyone.

But there’s no real heat behind it—just a bit of red in Seonghwa’s ears, a new song queued up on screen, and the soft ripple of laughter from the rest of the room as the lights dim just enough to turn the neon-lit room into a small, private stage.

Hongjoong stands in front of Seonghwa’s door, skirt folded neatly over one arm, fist hovering just shy of knocking. He’s been here for a full minute, maybe longer. Long enough to feel ridiculous about it.

It’s just fabric. Just a project.

Just Seonghwa.

And yet his hand won’t move.

He shifts his weight, glances down at the finished skirt like it might give him courage. The seams are clean, the zipper finally behaves, and the contrast panel—his sworn enemy—lines up exactly how he wanted. It should feel like a win. Instead, it feels dangerously close to a grand gesture.

And he’s never been good at those.

His mind drifts back to the last few weeks. Evenings hunched over his sewing machine, the dorm finally quiet and his brain slowing down after a day full of practice. Everyone else had collapsed into bed; he went straight for the fabric. The skirt came together in inches, grudging and slow. The zipper was a nightmare that refused to lie flat. The contrast panel wouldn’t sit right no matter how many times he picked it apart and redid the seams. There were moments he wanted to throw the whole thing across the room, but he didn’t. He kept going. Stitch by stubborn stitch. Quietly, steadily. Maybe a little obsessively.

He glances down at it again, not because he needs to, but because part of him still can’t believe it’s real. Like if he looks away too long, it might vanish and he’ll be left holding nothing but the idea of it again.

He should knock. He knows that. He already texted. Seonghwa’s expecting him.

A few days ago, he’d tossed the suggestion out so casually, as if it hadn’t been looping on repeat in his head for weeks. “Maybe we could do a shoot? Seoul Arts Center?” Seonghwa’s eyes lit up when Hongjoong said it. Just for a second. Then he reined it in, offering only a soft, almost-too-careful, yeah, let’s do that. But Hongjoong knew that look. That was the look Seonghwa gave when something mattered more than he wanted to admit out loud. When he was trying not to seem like he cared as much as he did.

Which is how Hongjoong ends up here, skirt in hand, standing stupidly outside Seonghwa’s door and trying to work up the nerve to go in. With a quiet huff, he gives up on knocking entirely and pushes the door open with his shoulder instead. He slips inside without a word, the skirt still clutched to his chest like it might deflect awkwardness.

Seonghwa sits at his desk, eyes fixed on his phone. One leg tucked beneath him, shoulders loose, posture easy. He looks calm. Comfortable. Oblivious to the nervous energy brewing just inside the doorway.

Just do it. Don’t overthink it. You’ll make it weird if you hesitate.

Hongjoong makes his way across the room, every step louder in his own head than it probably is in real life. He drops the folded skirt on the desk in front of Seonghwa, and the fabric lands with a soft thud that somehow slices through the silence like a blade. Seonghwa flinches, head snapping up so fast you’d think Hongjoong just kicked the door in. Seonghwa blinks at the skirt. Then at Hongjoong. Then back to the skirt. His mouth opens slightly, like there’s a comment forming, but whatever it is never makes it out.

It feels like forever before Seonghwa’s fingers twitch. He releases a soft breath, then sets his phone down on the desk, screen-first like it no longer matters. One hand stays there, resting beside it, while the other lifts slowly. His palm hovers above the fabric, just barely, like he’s afraid to break something by getting too close.

Then Seonghwa pulls back and looks up. His eyes are soft, warm in that way that always makes Hongjoong wonder if he wants to stay staring forever or cut the eye contact before his chest gives out.

“Did you really make this for me?”

Hongjoong lets out a small tsk, masking the jittery flutter in his chest with a crooked smile. “You doubt me, Seonghwa-ssi? You think I just bought it off some boutique site and tried to pass it off as mine?” He leans in, fingers tracing his little logo, the only visual proof that this was really his work. “I’ve been fighting with this thing for weeks. Endless nights of my sanity hanging by a thread…literally.”

“No, Hongjoong-ah—"

“Or,” Hongjoong cuts in, grin widening, “should I be flattered? You think it’s so clean it has to be store-bought? Because if that’s the case—”

He breaks off mid-sentence.

Seonghwa’s hand has come to rest over his own, just lightly. Not firm, not pulling him closer, just resting there like it belongs. It’s a barely-there touch, gentle and weightless, but it sends a sharp current running up his arm. For a second, all he can do is stare at their hands, heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else.

Then, just as suddenly, Seonghwa pulls his hand back and stands, his eyes locked on Hongjoong’s. “Thank you, Hongjoong-ah,” he says, warmth lacing every word. “It’s beautiful. It really means more to me than you can imagine.”

Hongjoong feels the world tilt just a little and his heart stutters dangerously in his chest. There’s nothing showy or dramatic in Seonghwa’s tone, and somehow that makes the words hit harder than any over-the-top praise ever could. Seonghwa always does this. Every compliment is direct, honest, with no hesitation. It’s disarming every single time. Hongjoong should be used to it by now, but he’s not. The words sink deep, wrapping themselves around something vulnerable inside him.

Seonghwa picks up the skirt like it’s made of glass, holding it in front of him with both hands. His lips twitch into a quiet smile, the kind that makes Hongjoong’s stomach do weird flips.

Well, every hour he spent wrestling with this fabric is officially justified.

“You should try it on,” he says, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Make sure it fits.”

Seonghwa’s eyes never leave the skirt as he answers gently, “I’m sure it will.”

Hongjoong glances around Seonghwa’s tiny room, taking in the lack of seating options—basically none. The desk is a no-go, already claimed by a neat spread of makeup brushes, palettes, and a round mirror propped at an angle. With nowhere else to go, he drops onto the bed instead, sprawling across it with one leg dangling over the edge.

Seonghwa crosses the room, placing the skirt carefully next to Hongjoong before turning to dig through a drawer. After a moment of quiet rummaging, he pulls out a soft white sweater, holds it up thoughtfully, then lays it out above the skirt. The sweater is fitted, with a square neckline and a unique collar that folds gently over itself.

His eyes flick to Hongjoong, a quiet way of asking, well?

Hongjoong nods without hesitation. “Yeah, that’ll work,” he says, because honestly, Seonghwa could pull a curtain out of his closet and he’d probably still agree.

Seonghwa adjusts the sweater slightly. “You can tell me if you want it to look different. I just figured the asymmetry and the cut lines give it enough detail. No need for anything bright or flashy. The skirt should do the talking.”

“That makes sense,” Hongjoong says with a smile.

Seonghwa gives a small nod and moves to his desk. Hongjoong props himself up on one elbow, watching with mild curiosity as Seonghwa begins collecting a handful of makeup supplies.

“What’s this, a whole production?” Hongjoong teases lightly.

Seonghwa doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he picks up his phone, taps a few times, and then leans toward the bed to show Hongjoong a photo. It’s a bold makeup look, all shimmering accents and sharp, dark eyeliner.

Hongjoong blinks at the image, then back up at Seonghwa. “You were looking at this earlier?”

“Fans send me stuff like this all the time,” Seonghwa shrugs, his tone matter-of-fact. “I’m basically swimming in ideas.”

“I see,” Hongjoong murmurs, fighting back a smile that keeps threatening to slip.

“What?” Seonghwa asks, tilting his head.

“You wouldn’t see this on my feed,” Hongjoong says with a shrug. “They don’t send me stuff like that.”

Seonghwa arches a brow. “What do they send you, then?”

Hongjoong lets out a soft breath, his hand cutting lazy circles in the air like he’s trying to gather every example at once. “Mine’s more of a jumble. Outfit ideas, a bit of fanart, random reels. And, uh… Jjoongrami popping up in the strangest places. Grocery aisles. Inside a washing machine. I’m pretty sure someone even photoshopped him into a Renaissance painting once.”

At that, Seonghwa gives a tiny, lopsided smile before setting the phone aside and turning back to his task. For a while, the room is quiet save for the soft clink of brushes and compacts. Hongjoong watches from his spot on the bed, his eyes lingering on Seonghwa’s meticulous movements. Makeup has never been Hongjoong’s thing—he’s more comfortable experimenting with hair color than blending eyeshadow.

“You know,” Hongjoong says, watching Seonghwa with a growing fondness, “you’re taking this really seriously.”

Seonghwa gestures at the skirt with his brush. “I have to. I can’t be the weak link in the ensemble.”

Hongjoong’s grin widens. “Ah, Seonghwa-ya. No pressure.”

“Oh, there’s definitely pressure,” he says, wiping a stray bit of powder from his desk. “And you’re adding to it by lying there like a critic silently judging my every move.”

“Judging?” Hongjoong laughs, placing a hand over his heart in mock offense. “I’m admiring your skills.”

Seonghwa huffs a soft laugh and shakes his head. “Sure, we’ll go with that. Just remember, if I mess this up, I’m blaming you for the nerves.”

Seonghwa’s expression stays calm, but Hongjoong can tell—there’s a little tension in his shoulders, a faint pull at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not actually nervous, are you?” Hongjoong asks. “You’ve done makeup in worse conditions. Remember the car ride to Incheon? No staff, zero lighting, potholes every five seconds.”

“That was survival,” Seonghwa replies without looking away from the mirror. “This is presentation.”

Hongjoong raises a brow. “Presentation?”

Seonghwa dips a finger into a pot of shimmer and gently taps it to the corner of his eye. “You made something for me. I want to do it justice.”

Seonghwa keeps fiddling with stuff on his desk, the soft clinks somehow managing to distract Hongjoong just long enough. Then Seonghwa moves over to the clothes tossed on the bed, and Hongjoong immediately drops into full pretend-mode, inspecting a random thread on the comforter like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Still, no matter how hard he tries, his eyes keep sneaking back to Seonghwa.

He tries to convince himself it’s all research. After all, tonight’s whole point is seeing Seonghwa in the outfit he made. It’s strictly professional, right? Appreciating how good Seonghwa will look is actually necessary. His brain nods in agreement, but his heart... his heart seems to be going off the rails a little as he watches Seonghwa undress.

He really should get a grip.

He’s seen Seonghwa in his underwear a hundred times. Naked too. Years of sharing a room and squeezing into tiny dressing spaces together mean there’s nothing new or scandalous about this. They’ve seen far too much of each other, inside and out, and yet Hongjoong still feels like he’s the one terrifyingly exposed right now.

He blames it all on the noraebang. Ever since that night, it’s as if someone broke into his brain and unlocked a secret vault filled with thoughts he absolutely should not be having while sitting here and staring at Seonghwa like a fool.

Seonghwa pulls on the sweater first, carefully adjusting it to avoid messing up his hair or makeup. Hongjoong watches, trying to keep his cool, but every second feels like his brain is running a mile per minute trying to convince itself this is just a normal day.

Then Seonghwa steps into the skirt.

The world around Hongjoong seems to pause.

It’s exactly how Hongjoong pictured it. No, even better. The whole look just clicks, effortless, like it was meant to be. He deliberately avoids looking at Seonghwa’s bare leg—that way lies danger—instead, he focuses on the hemline, the way it sits clean and precise against Seonghwa’s waist. It’s perfect.

Before he knows it, his hand moves on its own, fingers lightly tugging at the skirt’s waistband as if double-checking that everything is sitting exactly where it should be.

It’s purely technical, he tells himself. Just one last adjustment.

Even though nothing actually needs fixing.

The sudden pull throws Seonghwa slightly off balance, and he steps a little closer. Hongjoong’s hand lingers at the waistband for one heartbeat too long before he yanks it back like he’s been burned.

“Guess I didn’t do too badly for my first try,” he says, voice a little too light, a little too quick. Despite the quiet storm in his chest, Seonghwa's eyes stay mercifully glued to the skirt, hands gliding over the fabric, pausing at the slit that shows just a hint of skin. He looks slightly unsure, like he’s still deciding if it actually works. Hongjoong, who is absolutely not having a normal brain day, feels the silence stretch too long and panics. “Well, if you wanted that detail included, the muse can’t exactly blame the artist.”

The second it leaves his mouth, Hongjoong wishes he could snatch it back. Seonghwa shoots him a pointed look, and heat crawls up Hongjoong’s neck. What is wrong with him today? What is he saying? He’s having one of those moments where he should probably swear off speaking altogether for the rest of the day. Maybe the rest of the week, just to be safe.

Seonghwa keeps his gaze on him, sharp and amused, with maybe a hint of knowing tucked in there. He steps closer, turning slowly to give the skirt a subtle flare with his movement. “Does it look like what you had in mind?”

Hongjoong blinks, scrambling for a coherent answer. His brain, predictably, is offering nothing helpful. He lingers on the sight a beat too long, mind spinning at how much better it looks in real life than it ever did in his imagination. But he’s not saying that out loud.

He’s already said too much.

He settles for a small smile and a nod.

“Good.” The corner of Seonghwa’s mouth tugs upwards. “Then I guess it’s time to see how it photographs.”

Seoul rushes past in a slow blur of towering buildings and flashing headlights cutting through the fading afternoon haze. The city always feels alive, but from inside the car, it moves like a dream, distant and hushed behind glass.

There’s something oddly comforting in that. In the low hum of the engine. In the familiar presence of Seonghwa beside him. No cameras jammed into the space, no mic packs clipped to their shirts, no eyes watching every move. No pressure to perform. Just the two of them and the quiet murmur of the radio threading through the stillness.

But Hongjoong isn’t entirely convinced that Seonghwa feels the same calm.

He sits silently in the passenger seat, his trenchcoat folded neatly over his lap. His knees rest near the gearstick, one cheek pressed into his hand as he stares out the window. In his other hand, he holds a black face mask, his fingers fidgeting with the edges, tugging and twisting the fabric in an uncharacteristic display of nerves. Hongjoong’s own hand itches to reach over and still them, but he grips the wheel tighter instead. “Are you okay? We can turn back, if you want.”

“I’m okay,” Seonghwa replies, but it doesn’t sound convincing. The words come out quiet, a little thin around the edges. Hongjoong hears the hesitation tucked inside them.

And he understands. If their roles were reversed, he’d be on edge too. The truth is, this could get uncomfortable fast. The outfit looks like it belongs in a magazine spread or under stage lights. In that context, it would make perfect sense. But here, in the soft vulnerability of a public space, it feels different. Like they’re putting something private out into the world without a safety net. People usually mind their own business, sure, but it’s still a man wearing a skirt. That fact alone draws eyes, curiosity, maybe even judgment.

Maybe they should have picked some abandoned rooftop instead of Seoul Arts Center. Somewhere with fewer people and fewer opinions. He remembers suggesting Seonghwa could wear trousers underneath, just to make it safer. But Seonghwa said no. This was the look, and this was how it should be seen.

Maybe Hongjoong should have pushed harder. Maybe he should have insisted.

Before the worry can take root, Seonghwa shifts, finally turning toward him. The soft smile Hongjoong knows too well spreads across his face—the one that says, I know you’re worrying, but you don’t need to. “I’m okay,” Seonghwa repeats, firmer this time. “I really want to do this.”

The knot in Hongjoong’s chest eases a little bit, and he lets his hand drift back to the gearshift, his fingers tapping against the edge. “Good. The city could use a little style upgrade anyway.”

Seonghwa lets out a soft laugh. Barely more than a breath, but enough. The mask band finally stops snapping between his fingers. Hongjoong counts that as a win.

Up ahead, the Seoul Arts Center glows under the amber wash of the late sun. The place is full of people, but it doesn’t feel crowded. People drift across the place, some heading for the art museums, others toward the opera house, all of them caught up in their own quiet worlds.

The moment they step out of the car, the wind hits Hongjoong square in the face. He flinches, hissing under his breath, then shrugs deeper into his jacket. Seonghwa follows suit, but there’s a brief hesitation in his movements as he pulls the coat over his shoulders. Even with the mask covering half his face, Hongjoong sees it. The way his eyes move from person to person. The slight tension in his posture. Like he’s waiting for someone to look a little too long.

Hongjoong doesn’t say anything. He steps closer, just enough to move slightly ahead, clearing a path without really thinking. It’s instinct. Something he does when Seonghwa seems to shrink beside him. His mind is already ticking through backup plans—detours, excuses, anything to make this easier if Seonghwa decides he’s not up for it.

They move further along. Hongjoong scans the crowd, but no one seems interested. No lingering looks, no raised phones.

A few meters ahead, a place catches his eye. Tucked beside one of the buildings is a small alcove of clean, modern lines. Glass and stone meet at sharp angles, all of it glowing in the golden light. The spot feels quiet, like its own little frame inside the city. Private enough to feel safe, open enough to keep the grandeur of the architecture behind them. Even better, the lighting here is perfect: warm, golden hues bathing the scene, casting soft shadows and enhancing the muted tones of Seonghwa’s outfit.

Hongjoong gently nudges Seonghwa’s arm. “Here,” he says, tilting his head toward the spot.

Seonghwa nods, lowering his mask and tucking it into his pocket. He surveys the area, then slowly slips out of his coat, adjusting the skirt with a smooth tug. He pauses for a moment, as if considering where to place the coat, before draping it over Hongjoong’s shoulders, the fabric falling with a soft weight.

Just before stepping away, Seonghwa turns and gestures to his face. “Did I smudge anything?”

Hongjoong blinks, snapping himself out of his thoughts. He takes a step forward, scanning Seonghwa’s face. The light catches on the line of his jaw and the soft curve of his cheek. Everything is exactly in place. Of course it is. “No,” he murmurs, giving a small shake of his head. “You’re good.” A beat, then a grin. “Though, you know, if you did smudge something, I’d have a great excuse to take even more photos.”

Seonghwa shoots him a withering look, but there’s a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. His shoulders relax as he turns back to the frame. A breeze ruffles his hair, catching the light, and for a moment, Hongjoong just stares before he mentally kicks himself into motion.

Seonghwa doesn’t need direction—he’s already posing. His movements are fluid, familiar: the tilt of his head, the shift of weight, the way the skirt settles around his legs—it’s all instinctive, like muscle memory. Hongjoong watches through the phone screen, resisting a groan. He should have brought his real camera. The phone works well enough, but it can’t capture the depth and texture a proper camera would. These shots deserve better.

Then it hits him—he’s been taking every photo on his own phone. He quickly reaches into Seonghwa’s coat pocket, still draped over his shoulders, and pulls out Seonghwa’s phone. Time for a fresh start. Not a single perfect ray of light is going to go to waste.

Seonghwa shifts slightly, angling toward the softest edge of sunlight. It grazes his cheek as he lifts a hand to brush a strand of hair away, and Hongjoong almost forgets to keep snapping.

“I swear, you’re trying to be a walking magazine cover,” Hongjoong mutters under his breath, more to himself than anything.

Seonghwa doesn’t move from his pose. “And? Is it working?”

Hongjoong scoffs, adjusting the angle of his phone. “Unfortunately.”

Seonghwa smiles. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

“It is,” Hongjoong mutters. “I came here to take a few casual photos. Not have a full-blown existential crisis about lighting and angles and why your face refuses to cooperate with normal standards of attractiveness.”

Seonghwa tilts his head, smirking. “Wait, what was that last part? Speak up, I didn’t catch it.”

Hongjoong can feel the heat rising in his face, and he silently thanks the phone for giving him something to hide behind. “Yah, you’re distracting me. Some of us are actually trying to work here, Seonghwa-ssi.”

“I’m not distracting you,” Seonghwa says, shifting into another pose. “If anything—” His words trail off, and his gaze slides to the side.

Hongjoong follows it and spots the source of the hesitation: two men and a woman lingering nearby. They’re doing that awkward dance of pretending not to stare, but it’s painfully obvious. Hongjoong exhales through his nose, lowering the phone slightly. He glances at Seonghwa. His stance has shifted—he’s not frozen, but the tension is there. Shoulders pulled tight. Chin angled slightly down.

And he gets it. That quiet discomfort of being watched too closely when you’re not performing, just existing. And worse, when it’s something that matters. Something you don’t want misunderstood.

Hongjoong steps in, closing the small gap between them. “I think we’ve got the best shots already,” he says. His eyes drift toward the horizon, where the light is softening into dusk. “And the golden hour’s about to tap out, so…”

“Okay.” Seonghwa nods.

Hongjoong moves without thinking. He slips the coat from his own shoulders and carefully wraps it around Seonghwa. His fingers pull the front together, then button it up slowly, one clasp at a time. The motion feels a little too personal, and it’s definitely lingering a beat too long, but he doesn’t stop.

Seonghwa watches him the whole time.

This is fine, Hongjoong tells himself. Nothing weird about it. Just two friends, one of them being a bit too photogenic for his own good.

Hongjoong steps back and clears his throat. “Let’s call it a wrap, yeah?”

Seonghwa tugs the coat tighter and nods again. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Hongjoong isn’t sure if it’s the added layer of fabric or just Seonghwa’s presence settling back into place, but the tension in his chest finally begins to ease.

The truth slips in before he has a chance to stop it.

He’s been so focused on making Seonghwa feel comfortable, and all this time, he’s been the one holding his own breath.

Back in Seonghwa’s room, the air shifts and settles into something quieter, as if the world outside has melted away. With the last of the sun gone but the room not fully dark, Seonghwa turned on only the bedside lamp. Its soft glow spreads across the space, bathing everything in warmth and casting gentle shadows along the walls. The room feels smaller, more intimate, and Hongjoong swallows against the thought before it can go anywhere.

Seonghwa perches on the edge of the bed and pulls out his phone. Hongjoong hovers for a second, not sure where to go or what to do with himself. Eventually, he slides into the desk chair, arms crossed, trying to look casual. The setup feels familiar, just with the roles flipped. And of course, Hongjoong knows exactly how this is going to go.

He’s doomed. Again.

Seonghwa’s fingers move slowly across his phone screen, pausing every now and then, like he’s inspecting each shot for imperfections or whatever it is Seonghwa thinks about when he’s in that quiet, analytical mode. The photos had already been transferred to Seonghwa’s phone on the drive back to the dorm, an action Hongjoong barely noticed, too busy trying to focus on the road and not the way Seonghwa’s legs looked crossed in the passenger seat. Now, in the soft lamplight, it’s easier to look at him without the added risk of rear-ending someone.

Every so often, Seonghwa’s mouth twitches, like he’s fighting off a smile. Other times, his head tilts with this overly serious expression that makes it seem like he’s solving some world-shattering riddle hidden in the pixels.

“So,” Hongjoong says eventually, cutting through the quiet “how’d I do as your photographer?”

Seonghwa’s thumb swipes once more across the screen. “Not bad,” he says, the corner of his mouth curving.

“Not bad?” Hongjoong blurts, louder than he means to. He pushes up from the chair, crosses the room, and drops onto the bed beside him. “Let me see.”

Seonghwa scrolls a little slower as Hongjoong leans in closer, squinting at each shot as it passes by.

“You’re glowing in half of these,” Hongjoong teases, unable to hold back the smug satisfaction. “Admit it. I’m a natural.”

Seonghwa offers the faintest smile, trying to hide it as he swipes to the next photo. “They’re really nice.” It’s the shot where Hongjoong angled the camera just enough to catch the skirt in motion as Seonghwa stepped sideways. “Definitely another entry on Kim Hongjoong’s never-ending list of skills.”

Hongjoong leans back, eyes drifting from the screen to Seonghwa. “Oh, come on. You’re not just saying that to be polite, are you?”

Seonghwa shakes his head, still focused on the photo. “Polite doesn’t get shots like these. You’ve got an eye for it… for everything, really.”

As Seonghwa remains focused on the photo, Hongjoong finds himself doing the same—watching Seonghwa, the real one. There’s a softness in his expression now, something unguarded, and Hongjoong finds himself tracing the small details: the way his hair falls just a little over his eyes, the slight curve of his lips.

It’s so easy to get lost in Seonghwa, and Hongjoong hates how quickly his thoughts spiral.

“Hey,” Hongjoong says softly, nudging their shoulders together, “it goes both ways. I had a good model. An excellent one even.”

Seonghwa freezes mid-swipe. His head lifts, eyes locking on Hongjoong’s. He leans just a fraction closer, enough to make Hongjoong’s chest tighten. “Yeah?” he murmurs, barely audible.

“Of course,” Hongjoong replies, voice soft. “It’s team work.”

“That makes me lucky then.”

Hongjoong swallows, heat pooling in his chest. “I’d say it’s the other way around.”

Seonghwa blinks, and for a moment his gaze dips down, tracing Hongjoong’s lips before moving back up to meet his eyes.

The room tilts on its axis.

One second everything is normal, the next the air crackles like static. Hongjoong feels it on his skin, humming and hot. Every inch of him is alive with it. He’s hyperaware of everything—the way Seonghwa is watching him, the faint trace of his perfume, the almost-touch of their knees.

Something twists behind Hongjoong’s ribs, tight and urgent. It presses up into his throat and lodges there, pulsing with every frantic heartbeat.

He wants to kiss Seonghwa.

He wants to kiss him so badly it leaves him dizzy.

And before he can talk himself out of it, before he can second-guess every reason why he shouldn’t, Hongjoong leans in.

It’s quick. The kiss is barely a kiss at all, just a brush, soft and hesitant, like the air itself might break if he pressed harder.

But it’s enough.

The spark that shoots down his spine is instant. It’s like every nerve in his body lights up at once, stealing the air from his lungs. He pulls back, startled by the rush of it. His heartbeat roars in his ears.

He might have just ruined everything.

Seonghwa’s next exhale is shaky, and Hongjoong feels it ghost against his skin, a soft tremor that sends a jolt through him.

Panic claws its way up his throat. He wants to backtrack, crack a joke, shove the moment back into the shadows before it becomes irreversible.

He’s already starting to lean away when he chances a glance at Seonghwa.

And stops breathing.

Seonghwa is still close, cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes locked on Hongjoong’s mouth like he wants more. The invitation is right there.

And Hongjoong… he doesn’t have it in him to keep pretending he doesn’t want this.

So he acts.

He surges forward without thinking, like his body has already decided for him. His hand finds the back of Seonghwa’s neck, fingers sliding into the soft hair there as he pulls him close and kisses him again.

This time, he doesn’t hold back.

He kisses him once, then again, each kiss more insistent than the last, as if something inside him has finally broken free, years of bottled-up affection spilling out all at once. Or maybe he’s just that starved for this. For Seonghwa. For the closeness of him.

It gets messy fast. Their mouths part, breath catches, and then he’s licking into Seonghwa’s mouth, hungry and wet and shameless. He’s running on instinct now. One hand cups Seonghwa’s jaw, his thumb brushing beneath the curve of his cheekbone. The other drags down along the column of his neck, where his pulse is racing just as fast as Hongjoong’s own. The skin there is warm, smooth, addicting. He wants to touch all of him. Wants to map out every inch, burn it into memory before it slips away.

Because in the back of his mind, that little voice is still there, whispering everything that could go wrong.

They’re friends. They work together. They have too much to lose. And most terrifying of all, Hongjoong’s feelings aren’t new. They’re deep, complicated, and real. This might be an impulsive heat-of-the-moment thing, but he’s been in this for a long time. Quietly, hopelessly.

He should stop. He knows he should.

But then Seonghwa makes a small broken noise against his lips, and suddenly the idea of denying himself this is unfathomable.

Screw it, Hongjoong thinks.

He slides his hands to Seonghwa’s shoulders, urging him down onto the mattress. He doesn’t even pause to think. He just follows the pull inside him, settling over Seonghwa and straddling him with his heart pounding so loud it feels like it might crack through his ribs.

He leans down and their lips meet again. The instant he feels Seonghwa’s tongue press at the seam of his mouth, Hongjoong parts his lips with a low, involuntary sound. Seonghwa pushes up into it, meeting him in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss that leaves Hongjoong reeling. He can’t remember ever kissing anyone like this before. Everything breaks open at once—tongue and teeth and heat colliding, the kisses turning frantic, almost desperate.

Seonghwa keeps making these quiet, helpless sounds—little gasps and high, breathy hums that hit Hongjoong like a current. Each one drives him a little further out of his mind. The more he hears, the tighter everything coils inside him, until his hands are trembling where they’re braced against the sheets on either side of Seonghwa’s head.

But it’s not just Seonghwa’s mouth that’s driving him crazy. Fingers glide up Hongjoong’s arms, skim across his shoulders, slide down his sides in a slow, searching sweep. The touch leaves a trail of fire everywhere it goes. Then Seonghwa’s grip shifts. He takes hold of Hongjoong’s waist, firm and sure, before sliding one hand lower. His palm settles over the curve of Hongjoong’s ass and he pulls him down, closing the last bit of space until their hips press together.

The contact knocks the air out of him.

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly his body reacts, how easily he ruts against the pressure, but Hongjoong can’t even bring himself to care. Seonghwa feels too good beneath him, warm and solid and receptive in all the right ways. He is hard, too—Hongjoong can feel it when he grinds down against him, pushing their hips together until they both groan into the kiss. They find a rhythm that might be a little bit clumsy, unrefined, but still mind-blowingly good. Hongjoong's breath comes fast, each gasp and hitch slipping between kisses, and he can’t tell whose heartbeat he’s feeling anymore. The soft sounds Seonghwa makes flood Hongjoong’s mind until everything else fades into white noise. All he knows is the taste of Seonghwa, the grip of his hands clutching him, and the heat swelling between them.

At last he tears away for air, lungs burning, mind spinning.

The sight stops him cold.

Seonghwa’s cheeks are flushed, but it’s not the usual redness. This one is different. This isn’t from dancing too long or laughing too hard or getting embarrassed in public. This flush has a rawness to it, a vulnerability that Hongjoong has never seen before. His lips are swollen, slick, dark with color where Hongjoong’s teeth and kisses left their mark. His pupils are huge, endless black swallowing the brown, and his chest lifts in shaky, uneven breaths he cannot seem to steady.

Hongjoong’s heart trips over itself. He did this. He put that wrecked, beautiful look on Seonghwa’s face. A fierce, possessive thrill burns low in his stomach. He wants more. He wants everything.

His internal bravery doesn’t last long, though. Hongjoong is painfully aware that Seonghwa is looking back at him now, and fuck, it’s too much to handle. He’s always been bad at this. Bad at the rawness of eye contact, at the vulnerability it demands. He’s used to looking when Seonghwa isn’t looking back, when he can admire him from a safe distance, hiding whatever feelings threaten to spill over. When it’s only longing, not possibility. But now, with Seonghwa’s eyes steady on his, there’s nowhere left to hide. It’s like the tension of everything unspoken has finally caught up with him, and it’s pressing down on his chest, choking him. His gaze drops automatically, and that’s worse. So, so much worse. Because it lands on the skirt, still draped low on Seonghwa’s hips, hitched up just enough to reveal the soft skin of his thighs. There’s a strange mix of pride and desire in the pit of his stomach, and that same flash of possessiveness that he doesn’t know how to deal with.

He’s spiraling, so lost in his own whirlwind of thoughts that he almost misses it—the quiet, desperate whisper that slices through the haze.

“Touch me.”

Seonghwa’s voice is rough around the edges, like it scraped its way out of his throat just to be heard.

The words hit Hongjoong like a jolt of electricity.

His breath catches. His body locks up. For a second, it genuinely feels like the air has been stolen from his lungs. His thoughts stall completely, too tangled in the weight of Seonghwa’s voice to register what’s happening—until he feels it. Seonghwa, quicker than him, already working open Hongjoong’s fly, already easing his pants down, already wrapping a hand around him.

It’s nearly over for him right then and there.

It’s been a while. A really long while. He tells himself that it’s just that. Just the time. Not the fact that it’s Seonghwa’s hand wrapped around his cock.

He leans forward like it’ll help, like the press of his body over Seonghwa’s will ground him somehow. He buries his face in the curve of Seonghwa’s neck, muffling the sound that wants to break free as Seonghwa strokes him with slow, deliberate movements. Up and down, wrist flicking at the top, thumb brushing over the slit to spread slickness.

It’s obscene how good it feels.

His thoughts are syrupy now, blurred at the edges, every nerve buzzing with heat. His hips twitch forward into Seonghwa’s fist, helpless, greedy for more.

But he doesn’t want to just take. He forces his hand to move, sliding between them and pushing the skirt higher until the fabric gathers at Seonghwa’s hip. He brushes against the edge of his underwear, and Seonghwa inhales sharply, hips twitching. With a tentative motion, he presses his hand, shifting the fabric just enough to slip his fingers inside.

Seonghwa breathes out a moan, quiet and desperate and right into Hongjoong’s ear, and it's quite possibly the best thing that Hongjoong has ever heard in his life.

He wants Seonghwa to make that sound again.

And again.

He wants all of this so badly that it makes his head spin. It’s too much. It’s all too fucking much, and not enough. He tries to match Seonghwa’s pace, tries to give what he’s getting, but it’s hard—Seonghwa’s hand is too good, too skilled, and his own muscles are trembling with the effort of staying upright. But it might not matter. Not when Seonghwa’s just as gone, just as breathless and desperate, grinding into Hongjoong’s touch like he can’t help it.

He tries to not come embarrassingly soon. Tries to drag it out, to savor every slide of Seonghwa’s hand, every roll of his wrist. But his whole body is on fire, and Seonghwa is everywhere—around him, under him, stroking him so perfectly it almost hurts. That tightness in his gut snaps. The groan he lets out is low and raw, punched out of him as his hips stutter and he spills over Seonghwa’s hand, shuddering through it. The world narrows to white-hot sensation, his body seized up and useless except for the part of him still reaching for Seonghwa, like touch alone might keep him from breaking apart completely.

A second later, Seonghwa follows. There’s a sharp inhale, a scratch of nails against Hongjoong’s waist, and then a broken moan that echoes in Hongjoong’s head.

And god, he’s going to remember that sound for the rest of his life, going to go over it again and again, going to hear it every time he lies down, every time he closes his eyes.

For a moment, they just breathe. The only sound in the room is the soft rise and fall of it, faint and shaky. Hongjoong stays curled in the crook of Seonghwa’s shoulder, face pressed into warm skin. His heartbeat slowly finds rhythm again, no longer thrashing, just thudding steady beneath his ribs. He breathes in Seonghwa’s scent, familiar and dizzying, and lets it anchor him.

But his mind won’t stay calm. It never does.

Thoughts surge up without permission. Stupid thoughts. Dangerous ones. He thinks about how he never wants to kiss anyone else. Never wants anyone else’s hands on him. Not after this. This is where he belongs. This is who he should be with. This synchrony, the way they move in harmony; they fit with a perfection that’s not perfect at all but that feels like the righting of the world, the settling of a longtime ache.

His mind is still in that sweet haze, when the world crashes back in.

A door slams in the hallway. Loud. Jarring. A burst of sound that slices through the moment like a knife.

Hongjoong flinches and jerks upright before he even thinks. The warmth he was wrapped in disappears so fast it leaves a chill.

Someone could have walked in.

Someone still might.

The world rushes back in, stark and unforgiving. The faint sound of footsteps in the hall. The lingering stickiness on his skin. The mess they’ve made of the sheets. Seonghwa’s phone lying abandoned on the floor beside the bed. Every detail feels suddenly magnified, each one pressing down on his chest until it’s hard to breathe.

He pushes himself upright, hastily adjusting his clothes back into place and forcing his shaky limbs to cooperate as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. “We should—”

“Yeah,” Seonghwa agrees, sitting up, and Hongjoong hates that he knows him so well, can just look at the slump of Seonghwa’s posture and know he’s feeling awkward, maybe a little disappointed and self-conscious. Fuck.

A box of tissues is shoved into Hongjoong’s hand with more force than necessary, jolting him out of his daze, and his fingers fumble to grab it. He quickly wipes at the worst of the mess on his hand and clothes, and tosses the tissues toward the trash without even looking where they land.

The tension in the room is palpable now, buzzing like static in the space between them. Seonghwa sits on the edge of the bed, staring wide-eyed at the floor and resolutely not meeting Hongjoong’s eyes.

Oh fuck. Oh god.

This was stupid. Stupid and impulsive and probably the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

But also something he knows could blow up their entire friendship.

His pulse jumps for an entirely new reason now, not desire but fear. He needs to leave. If he stays, he’s going to start panicking, overthinking every second of what just happened. He’s going to say something he can’t take back.

He can’t do that—not here, not in front of Seonghwa.

Without another word, Hongjoong bolts for the door.

They don’t talk about it.

It’s not like they’re actively avoiding each other; it’s not that dramatic. Life goes on. They follow the same routines, move through the same spaces, laugh at the same things. It’s easier that way, letting the rhythm of daily life smooth over the silence between them.

So, yeah, it’s fine. They don’t talk about it.

And Hongjoong pretends like he didn’t spend all night staring at the ceiling, lips still tingling with the memory of Seonghwa. Pretends he didn’t lie there replaying it all over and over, whispering what the fuck did I do into the dark like it might give him an answer.

Hongjoong could be almost fooled into thinking it’s only his mind making him act stupid around Seonghwa, but he’s pretty sure there’s a subtle shift in the way they both move around each other. They’re careful now, like they’re two magnets that got too close, snapped together once, and now they’re being held apart by invisible hands, careful not to repeat the mistake.

Not that he thinks it was a mistake. Not really. Maybe. God.

He tells himself it’s a small blessing that they’re never really alone. There’s always someone nearby. Another member. A manager. Staff hovering with schedules and clipboards. Cameras in the corner. It’s like the world has conspired to keep them buffered, to protect them from the awkward silence that neither of them seems ready to face.

But of course, it doesn’t last. Because eventually, it has to catch up to them.

The studio is quiet in that late-night way that makes everything feel slower, heavier. Hongjoong’s five hours deep into a session that should’ve been quick. It’s just him, Seonghwa, and Mingi now. The track looping quietly in the background has long since stopped being useful.

They’re trying to pin down the division for the rap sections—who takes what, where to build tension, how to avoid making it feel like they’re just trading lines for the sake of it. Hongjoong is hunched over the desk, his coffee long cold and forgotten beside him. He rubs at his temple, eyes squeezed shut like maybe that will pull something useful from his brain.

Seonghwa sits on the couch across from him with one leg crossed, a wrinkled lyric sheet in his lap. Mingi is beside him, tapping out rhythms on his thigh, probably chasing a cadence that hasn’t landed yet.

Eventually, Mingi groans and stretches, his back cracking loud in the small space. “Gonna hit the bathroom,” he says around a yawn, already sliding off the couch and heading for the door. “Don’t finish without me.”

Hongjoong hums. Seonghwa gives a vague nod, his eyes still fixed on the page in his hands. The door closes behind Mingi with a soft click.

The silence that follows feels... wrong.

It’s not the usual quiet of a late-night session, it’s stiff, heavy, and just there. Hongjoong feels it immediately, like an itch you can’t quite scratch, and he knows Seonghwa feels it too.

The first minute is excruciating. Both of them are focused on everything but each other. Hongjoong stares at his lyrics like they might rearrange themselves into a hit song if he stares hard enough. Seonghwa, in turn, has swapped out his papers for his phone, pretending to check something clearly not urgent.

By minute two, Hongjoong feels his fight-or-flight instincts kicking in, his body screaming for an escape. He shifts in his seat, his knee bouncing nervously, and he almost stands up, ready to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. Maybe a dumb comment about the weather or an excuse to take an urgent call. But no, that’s ridiculous. Even for him.

It’s just that the prospect of that conversation still sits heavily in Hongjoong’s stomach. They might be pretending it didn’t happen, but Hongjoong can’t fool himself. Not really. He can’t erase the memory of the way Seonghwa looked, kissed breathless, like he’d been pulled apart and pieced back together. Those moments are seared into his brain, impossible to forget.

But how does he even begin to address it? Hey, Seonghwa-ya…listen, about… About what? That night? The way they’ve been tiptoeing around this awkwardness? This… thing between them? His throat tightens, words clawing at him but refusing to come out.

The silence is suffocating, pressing down on Hongjoong’s chest until it feels like he might crack under the weight. He needs to say something, anything, before the tension eats him alive. He needs to say something right fucking now—

“I was thinking about the designs,” he blurts out. Seonghwa’s head snaps up at the sound, and Hongjoong quickly ducks his head, eyes flitting between Seonghwa and the pile of lyric sheets on the desk. “I—I was thinking, if you want, I could work on some more pieces. For you.”

Warning bells go off in his head, flashing red and frantic. What the hell is he even saying? That wasn’t the plan. That’s not where he wanted to go. Or was it? Maybe it was. Maybe this is some convoluted way of bridging the gap without actually talking about that night.

“I mean,” he stammers, words spilling out in a jumble, “it could be fun, I guess. Just thought I’d mention it, if you’re still into it. I could, uh, help. If you want.” He risks a glance at Seonghwa, only to find him staring at him with his mouth slightly open. Hongjoong, in full self-sabotage mode, keeps talking. “Not that you need help, obviously,” he adds, too fast. “You’ve already got great taste. You can get custom pieces anywhere you want. You don’t need me at all.”

Please, shut up, Hongjoong’s brain screams, but his nerves are already in control, sending him careening forward with no brakes in sight.

There’s a brief pause, a beat of silence, before Seonghwa finally speaks. “More clothes?”

“Yeah,” Hongjoong replies quickly. “We could polish the ones I already made. Or I could sketch something new. If you want—”

Before anything else can be said, the door creaks open. A wash of blue hallway light spills into the room, stretching thin across the floor. Mingi walks back in, the soft click of the door closing behind him breaking the moment like glass.

Seonghwa’s expression softens, the tension easing just enough for a small, almost imperceptible nod. Hongjoong’s chest tightens for a moment, then instinctively he mirrors the gesture, offering a small smile and nod in return.

The ghost in the room, the tension haunting them all night and lingering in the quiet between the notes, finally fades into the faint hum of the studio equipment.