The morning after felt... muted.
Like someone had turned down the volume on the world, but my thoughts were still screaming.
Everyone acted like nothing happened.
Like there hadn't been a photo scandal. Like Sunghoon hadn't almost punched Jay. Like I hadn't stood in the middle of it all, voice trembling, heart laid bare. Like I hadn't said it.
"Because I loved you."
But no one mentioned it. Not the boys. Not Jay.
And definitely not him.
Instead, we all played our parts.
Like clockwork.
Their first schedule was a live music show, and the waiting room buzzed with stylists, managers, and staff. I stood at the side with my makeup kit, watching them go through the motions. Junguwon was humming to warm up his voice. Min Ho and Danial were bickering over which selfie to post. Sunghoon... he was quiet. So quiet.
And I? I was just... pretending.
Pretending I hadn't cried in front of Jay. Pretending Sunghoon's silence didn't feel like a wall I couldn't climb anymore.
...
They performed for thirty minutes like nothing was wrong.
If you didn't know them, you'd think they were fine. Flawless choreography. Perfect vocals. Bright smiles for the cameras.
But I knew better.
I could see it in the stiffness of Sunghoon's shoulders, in the way Jay kept glancing sideways between songs, like his mind was somewhere else entirely. I saw it in how junguwon never left the center unless someone guided him, like he was anchoring the group through sheer force.
I was waiting in the hallway when they came back—sweat-drenched, breathless, adrenaline still buzzing under their skin.
I didn't say anything.
I just held out a towel. Jay was the first to take it.
He met my eyes and gave a small nod, his fingers brushing mine in a way that made my throat tighten.
"Thanks," he said, soft enough only I could hear.
I nodded.
And then the others walked past. Laughing. Talking. Already heading toward the makeup room to unwind, to cool down.
But Sunghoon lingered.
He didn't stop. He didn't speak.
He just passed by me—close enough that I could feel the air shift.
And then he looked at me.
That look.
The one I had told myself I didn't need anymore.
The one I had waited for so long to see again.
It wasn't just affection. It was him.
The way his eyes softened, burned, craved. The way he looked at me like I was still his to hold, even if he'd let go.
It shattered every piece of calm I'd built this morning.
He was supposed to be avoiding me.
But that look—obsessive, possessive, unmistakably his—told me I hadn't imagined it.
Told me he remembered too.
And then he was gone, following the others.
I stood there, still holding a towel in one hand and my heart in the other.
Pretending everything was fine.
_______________
"Artist call in forty-five minutes!" one of the seniors called out from down the hallway.
The boys had just barely cooled off from their stage, and already the next schedule was looming — a photoshoot. No rest. No time to fall apart.
I swallowed hard and stepped into the room, masking everything with that calm I'd practiced a hundred times before.
The room was buzzing with stylists, hair dryers, soft chatter. Everyone pretending we hadn't all watched each other break the night before.
I was heading toward the makeup station when I heard Min Ho's voice.
"Can I get a cup of coffee?" he asked, his tone light, already dressed in a clean outfit, shirt crisp and collar sharp.
I turned just in time to catch his eyes — warm, polite, the eldest always holding the group together even with simple things.
I nodded wordlessly.
"Thanks," he said with a small smile, already settling into the chair.
I turned around and walked out again, faster than I needed to.
Because maybe it was just about the coffee.
Or maybe I needed the excuse to get out of that room.
To breathe.
I found the nearest break table, shoved a packet of instant coffee into a cup, stirred, poured, moved like it was mechanical.
Like I wasn't still haunted by the way Sunghoon had looked at me just moments ago.
By the time I walked back in, the caffeine was ready — but so was the storm.
_________________
I pushed the door open with one hand, the coffee in the other, forcing a deep breath.
Just walk in. Give it to Min Ho. Pretend you're fine.
But I wasn't five steps into the room when someone turned the corner, fast — and I collided full-on.
Hot liquid surged out of the cup, splashing between us. A sharp hiss left his mouth before I even looked up.
My eyes widened in horror.
Sunghoon.
The coffee had drenched his arm — but worse, soaked down the front of his jacket. His denim jacket. The one custom piece the stylists had been obsessing over all week. The one they'd warned us all not to touch.
The fabric was dark with heat and liquid. A soft steam rose from it like smoke from a fuse.
"Oh my god," I breathed. "I—I'm so sorry—"
His eyes locked on mine.
Sharp. Silent.
My throat went dry.
He didn't yell. He didn't say anything.
He just looked at me — like he couldn't decide whether to explode or fall apart. Like last night was still in his bones, and this just cracked it wide open.
And I'd done it.
Again.
But instead of anger, his eyes softened.
"Are you okay?" he asked, voice low but urgent.
My lips parted, breath caught. His hand reached out before I could answer, fingers curling around mine — lifting my wrist, inspecting it like he didn't even feel the heat seeping into his own skin.
"Did you burn your hand?" he asked again, brow furrowed in concern, still holding me gently, protectively.
I couldn't speak. My heart had forgotten how to beat.
His jacket was soaked. His sleeve clung to his arm. He had to be hurting — but his eyes never left mine.
That's when the door burst open again.
"Jiwon!" a stylist's voice cut through the moment like a slap. "Are you blind or what, you stupid girl?!"
I flinched, pulling my hand back. The warmth of his touch vanished.
"I—It was an accident—" I started, but she didn't let me finish.
"That jacket was custom made! Do you have any idea how much—"
"It's fine," Sunghoon said sharply, stepping between us. "I moved too fast. It's not her fault."
The stylist blinked, stunned silent.
But I couldn't look at him anymore. Not after everything. Not when he was still willing to protect me — even now.
Especially now.
...
"Then what should we do now?" the stylist snapped, her arms folded, shooting daggers at both of us. "We can't shoot with him looking like that."
Sunghoon didn't flinch. He barely looked at her. "I have a red leather jacket in my closet," he said calmly, brushing a hand through his hair like none of this rattled him.
A male stylist perked up from the corner. "Yes — that'll look perfect with the set lighting."
"Then go get it," the woman said quickly, turning to me with a pointed finger. "Jiwon, bring the jacket from his dorm."
I nodded immediately, not even thinking.
But before I could step out, Sunghoon's voice cut through the room again. "I'll go with her."
All heads turned.
"What?" the stylist blinked, completely thrown off.
"I need to make sure she finds the right one," he said with that unreadable tone, already stepping toward the door like it was a normal thing. Like it was nothing at all.
No one said a word. Not even Jay.
I followed him out in silence, too stunned to ask why — or if he was really doing this just because of the jacket.
Because something told me it wasn't just about that.
____________________
We walked side by side in silence, the echo of our footsteps bouncing off the quiet hallway.
He didn't say a word. Neither did I.
The air between us was thick — not cold, not warm — just... tense. Like something was pressing against my ribs from the inside. Like something wanted to be said, but neither of us knew where to begin.
"You didn't burn your hand, did you?" he asked suddenly, eyes fixed forward.
I blinked. "No. You did, though."
He shrugged, as if that mattered less. "It was an accident."
But we both knew that wasn't what this tension was about.
I held the coffee cup tighter in my hands, now empty but still warm. I could feel his gaze flick toward me from the side.
"You've been quiet," he said, a little softer now.
"I've been working," I replied, just as softly.
Another pause. The silence returned, but this time it felt heavier.
As we stepped into the elevator, the doors closed with a dull chime, locking us inside together. He stood just inches away, close enough that I could smell his cologne — clean, cold, familiar.
He didn't look at me. He kept his eyes on the glowing floor numbers.
But I saw his hand twitch slightly by his side. Like he wanted to reach out. Like he almost did.
And I hated that my heart still noticed things like that.
Neither of us spoke as we left the building, just the soft tap of my shoes against the pavement and the faint hum of the city afternoon around us. Every now and then, I felt his eyes on me — like he was trying to say something, but the words couldn't form.
I didn't dare look at him. I didn't trust myself if I did.
We reached the car of his manager (I guess) just outside, and I hesitated by the passenger door. He stepped ahead, casually opening it for me.
"Thanks," I murmured, sliding inside.
He rounded the front and got in beside me.
Only once the door shut and the world grew quiet again did I finally ask, "Why did you tag along?"
He didn't answer immediately. He just stared ahead, his jaw tightening, his hand resting loosely on the gearstick.
Then, in a voice too calm to be casual, he said, "Because I wanted to take my chance."
I turned toward him, caught off guard. "Your chance for what?"
That's when he leaned in — slowly, deliberately. His face was so close to mine I could feel the warmth of his breath, smell the faint coffee that lingered on his shirt. My heart froze, breath caught halfway up my throat.
And just when I thought he was going to kiss me—
Click.
He pulled back and tugged the seatbelt across my chest, clipping it into place with a soft snap.
"Safety first," he said, voice low, but his eyes... they said something else entirely.
I didn't say anything.
Neither did he.
But the silence in the car was so loud it felt like a third presence — sitting between us, watching us, waiting.
He started the engine, the soft purr cutting through the stillness, and pulled onto the road.
I stared out the window, pretending the city lights and passing people were more interesting than the boy sitting inches from me. But I could feel him. Not just his presence, but him. The weight of what had almost happened. The seatbelt he'd clipped in still pressed against my chest like a brand, like a reminder.
"You've been avoiding me," he said, not looking at me.
I blinked, slowly turning toward him. "No, I haven't."
His lips tugged into a half-smirk, humorless. "You avoid my eyes, walk out of the room when I enter, only talk to the others. That's not avoiding?"
I clenched my fingers in my lap. "What do you want me to do, Sunghoon? Act like nothing happened?"
He was quiet for a second too long. "Maybe I don't want to forget it happened."
That made me snap my head toward him. "Then what do you want?"
He turned the wheel, pulling to a stop at a red light. And then he looked at me — really looked at me. "I want the truth. From you. Just once."
The light turned green, and the car rolled forward again.
I couldn't tell if it was the stoplight or him making it harder to breathe.
"I said what I wanted to say," I whispered, still not looking at him. "I don't have anything else to say... The way you— the way you turned your back on me, I thought you didn't want to remember anything."
There was a pause.
And then—he laughed.
No, not a full laugh. A quiet, breathy chuckle. A smile curling on his lips like he'd been waiting for this exact moment.
I turned toward him sharply, frowning. "Why are you smiling?"
He glanced over at me, one hand loosely resting on the wheel, the other brushing his jaw like he was trying to hide it. "Because you're so wrong," he said softly. "You always assume I don't feel anything."
"I don't assume anything," I snapped. "I just react to how you treat me."
He smiled again — this time not teasing, not smug, but quiet and full of something that made my chest ache.
"I remember everything," he said. "That's the problem."
And just like that, I couldn't speak.
The silence wrapped around us again as the car sped along the nearly empty road, only the hum of the engine filling the space between us.
I glanced at the dashboard. "Can you drive faster?" I muttered.
He didn't even look at me. "I don't want to."
I frowned. "Why?"
His voice was calm, almost too calm. "Because I want things to go slow."
My breath caught for a second.
I turned to look at him, trying to read his expression. He still had that faint smile on his lips, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he was enjoying watching me squirm in my own confusion.
Is he... flirting with me?
The thought hit me harder than it should've. And the worst part was — I didn't know if I wanted him to stop.
___________________
When the car finally rolled to a stop in front of the dorm, Sunghoon unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out without saying a word.
I reached for my own, but paused. "I'll just wait in the car," I said quietly, not quite looking at him.
He leaned down slightly, one hand on the open door. "Are you kidding me?" His brows arched, almost amused. "You came all the way here with me... just to stay in the car while I grab the jacket?"
I blinked. The way he said it — not accusing, not annoyed — but with something unreadable in his tone, made my heart stumble.
What is he trying to say? I couldn't tell.
But he was already walking ahead.
Flustered, I got out and shut the door behind me, my steps falling in line with his as we made our way to the dorm — too close to pretend it was nothing, too far to pretend it was something.
He pushed open the front door and held it with one hand, flashing a smile over his shoulder. "Ladies first."
I stepped inside hesitantly, pretending not to notice the way his voice dipped a little lower than usual.
"Wait here," he said, nodding toward the lounge. "I'll go grab the jacket."
He turned to head upstairs, already halfway there when I blurted out, "Sunghoon."
He stopped, glancing back at me with a raised brow and a curious gleam in his eye. "What is it? You want to go to my room now?" he asked, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.
My eyes widened. "W-What? No!" I shot back, the heat rising to my cheeks faster than I could hide it.
His grin deepened, clearly enjoying my reaction. "Relax," he chuckled, turning back toward the stairs. "I'm just getting the jacket... unless you change your mind."
I stared at the floor, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing how red my face had gotten.
___________________
While he was still upstairs, I wandered toward the kitchen without really thinking. Maybe I was just trying to keep my hands busy... or maybe I was hoping to find some kind of proof that the boy I loved still existed.
That's when I saw it—a small wooden box tucked in the corner of the shelf. It wasn't labeled, but something about it pulled at me. I hesitated, my hand hovering over the lid. I shouldn't. I really shouldn't.
But my heart... it ached to know.
I opened it slowly, the hinges creaking. Inside were small pieces—fragments—of us. A hair band. My hair band. The one I thought I lost in the practice room that day. A pink hair clip I used to tease him with, clipping it into his bangs and laughing at how cute he looked. A small Polaroid—one I didn't remember being in. It was of him... but in the blurred background, I was there. Smiling at something else. He must've noticed me. He must've kept it on purpose.
My breath caught, and I tried to blink away the tears, but they stung too hard, rising faster than I could stop them.
"Let's go," came his voice from behind me, soft but sudden.
I still couldn't turn around.
Not when my heart was pounding like this. Not when my fingers still trembled from touching pieces of a past I wasn't sure I was allowed to remember.
I heard his footsteps approach—soft, slow, and then... still. Right behind me.
I felt him before I saw him.
He looked down at the box, then at me. I didn't dare look up. Not yet.
His gaze dropped to my hand—my closed fist—and without a word, he reached forward.
He tried to pull the photo from me, but I twisted, pulling it back, holding it close to my chest. "Why?" I asked quietly, trying to mask the wobble in my voice. "Why did you try to take it back so fast? What is this?"
He didn't answer.
I looked up, a teasing smirk playing on my lips, but my heart was beating wildly. "Sunghoon... is there something you don't want me to see?"
Then he moved.
One sharp pull, and I was in his space—closer than I'd ever been since everything broke apart. His hand wrapped gently but firmly around my wrist, and the photo crumpled slightly in my grip.
Too close.
Too close.
His chest rose against mine, our breath caught somewhere between the tension and the silence, and when I finally looked up... he was already staring.
Right into me.
Eyes deep and unreadable.
Eyes that used to know me better than anyone else.
I could feel it—the crackle in the air, the weight of the moment pressing against every part of me. My lungs forgot how to work. My voice disappeared.
And for a second... I really believed the world had stopped.
...
"It's nothing," he muttered.
"No," I shot back, clutching the photo even tighter. "It's something."
His jaw clenched. He reached for my hand again, fingers curling around mine, trying to pry it open. But I wouldn't let go. Not this time. I was tired of pretending like none of this mattered.
"Why do you even have this?" I asked, voice shaking. "Why did you keep it?"
He looked frustrated—like he didn't have the words, like he wanted to say too much and nothing at all.
And then he stepped closer.
So close that I had to tilt my head back just to keep looking at him.
His voice dropped low. Dangerous. Barely above a whisper.
"I know you don't want to regret coming here with me. Alone. In my dorm."
My breath caught in my throat. His eyes didn't blink—dark, stormy, filled with something that scared me and pulled me in at the same time.
"You know how obsessed I am with you," he continued, voice now a rough, husky edge. "Do you want me to show you?"
The world tilted.
I couldn't speak.
My hand trembled around the photo, and I didn't know if it was fear or want or something in between. His words echoed in the space between us, thick with tension. My heart was racing, trying to outrun my thoughts. My lips parted to say something, anything—
But nothing came out.
___________________
I opened my hand slowly, letting the photo go.
He took it without a word, gaze flickering from my face to the trembling Polaroid in his fingers. Then he leaned in, reaching past me to slide the photo back into the box. His hand brushed mine—just for a second—but I felt the warmth long after.
As he closed the lid, I looked up at him, heart still racing.
"You think I'm scared of you?" I asked, voice steady but low. "If I was, I wouldn't have come here. I wouldn't be standing beside you right now."
He stilled. His hand froze on top of the box, eyes lifting to meet mine.
"You think you can scare me?" I said, stepping just a little closer. "You can't."
I swallowed the lump rising in my throat.
"I guess I never told you... you're the only person in this whole world who made me feel comfortable. Who made me feel like home. Even when everything else felt strange and empty and wrong."
The room was quiet, the silence between us thick with everything unsaid.
"I don't know anything about this place," I whispered. "But you being here... that makes it feel like something I can survive."
He didn't blink. Didn't move. But something shifted in his eyes—like a wall cracking just slightly, just enough for me to see what was behind it..
He reached forward and gently took my hand.
Then he pulled—softly, but with a kind of urgency that made my heart skip.
I stumbled a step, and suddenly I was right in front of him, so close I could feel the heat off his skin, the air shifting between us.
"Let me," he whispered, voice hoarse, eyes searching mine. "Please."
His hand was warm, fingers wrapped around mine like he was afraid I'd disappear.
I looked up, breathing shaky. And then I gave him the only truth I had left.
"There's no way I can say no to you," I said quietly.
Not when you look at me like that.
Not when I've been waiting for this—for you—for so long.
Without another second, he pressed his lips on mine.
No hesitation. No space left to breathe. Just him.
It wasn't soft—not this time. It was desperate, like he'd been holding it in for years, like everything he couldn't say was pouring into me all at once.
His hand slid to the back of my neck, holding me like I might disappear. My fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, grounding myself as the world tilted on its axis.
His kiss was warm and demanding and dizzying, and I kissed him back like I needed it to breathe. Because maybe I did.
Because I wanted this. I wanted him.
When we finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine, breath still uneven.
"I should've done that a long time ago," he whispered.
....