Everyone turned to see Dan, their building's security guard, who had arrived for his routine late-night check. He stood in the doorway, taking in the sight of seven famous idols discussing basic human interaction at nearly 1 AM.
"Oh," Jon said weakly. "Hi, Dan."
"Don't mind me," Dan said, closing the door behind him. "Continue with your... what exactly are you doing?"
Julian announced cheerfully. "We're terrible at dating."
Dan's weathered face showed a mixture of amusement and sympathy. "I can see that. Mind if I offer some advice? I've been married for twenty-three years."
Seven faces turned toward him with desperate hope.
"Please," James said. "We're hopeless."
Dan removed his cap and settled into a chair, committed to helping. "First lesson: stop thinking so much. You're treating every interaction like a test you can pass or fail."
"But what if we say the wrong thing?" Silas asked.
"Then you say the wrong thing," Dan shrugged. "Real people do that all the time. The goal isn't perfection—it's connection."
For the next 30 minutes, Dan guided them through conversations without scripts, focusing on listening rather than planning responses, on being comfortable with silence, and on recognizing that awkward moments were normal rather than catastrophic failures.
"Better," Dan said finally, observing their slightly more natural interactions. "Now, what's with the produce Julian's been guarding?"
Julian's face lit up as he retrieved his harvest. "This is where it gets interesting!"
Julian deposited his fruit collection on the coffee table with a theatrical flourish: apples, peaches, oranges, and what appeared to be a particularly unfortunate banana. "Behold!" he announced. "Our practice partners!"
Six pairs of eyes stared at the fruit with the collective expression of men contemplating their life choices.
"This is insane," Jake muttered, though he was already reaching for his camera to document what was going to be either their greatest triumph or most spectacular failure.
"Insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results," Roman pointed out, consulting his tablet. "Our current approach has a 12% success rate. Statistically, almost any alternative represents improvement."
"Even... this?" Vic gestured vaguely at the fruit display, his usual philosophical demeanor cracking slightly.
"Especially this," Julian declared with the confidence of someone who had never encountered a bad idea he couldn't enthusiastically embrace. "Think about it - controlled environment, no judgment, unlimited practice opportunities..."
"The fruit won't judge us," Silas agreed slowly, "because fruit lacks consciousness."
"Exactly!" Julian beamed. "It's perfect!"
The seven members stood around the coffee table in a circle, like disciples gathering around some particularly questionable altar, studying their inanimate teachers with newfound respect and terror.
"So," Jon said finally, breaking the contemplative silence. "Who goes first?"
The collective step backward was immediate and synchronized, as if choreographed.
"Rock, paper, scissors?" Jake suggested weakly.
"That seems like the kind of decision we'll regret in the morning," James observed.
"We're going to regret all of this in the morning," Silas pointed out. "Might as well embrace the full catastrophe."
Dan looked from the desperate faces of seven superstars to the innocent fruit arrangement and back again. A slow smile began to spread across his weathered features.
"You know what?" he said. "I've seen stranger things in this building, and at least this is constructive." He paused. "Sort of."
"Dan, you're our relationship guru now," Julian declared. "Teach us the proper technique!"
The security guard looked torn between amusement and a hint of secondhand embarrassment. "I'm not sure this is..."
"Please?" Julian asked. "We have no one else to ask. Manager Kando would have a heart attack if we mentioned this, and Director Blake would probably schedule us for extra dance practice to 'redirect our energy.'"
Dan sighed, the resigned sound of a man who had witnessed too many idol antics to be surprised anymore. "Fine. But I'm only giving verbal guidance. The fruit is your responsibility."
What followed was perhaps the most absurd training session in C7's history. Under Dan's increasingly uncomfortable instruction, seven idols practiced approaching, angling, and ultimately contacting various fruits, each member applying their characteristic intensity to the task.
Silas's approach was clinical and precise, as if the peach were a particularly challenging musical arrangement. Roman analyzed every instruction with scholarly thoroughness, occasionally pausing to take notes. Jake filmed his attempts from multiple angles, reviewing the footage with critical focus. Vic seemed to be having a deeply metaphorical conversation with his fruit that no one else could hear. Julian attacked his apple with characteristic enthusiasm but no finesse. Jon approached the exercise with the same careful consideration he applied to cooking, focusing on technique and timing.
"Remember," Dan instructed, fully committed to his unexpected role as kissing coach, "it's about feelings, not thoughts. You're not trying to impress."
"The fruit doesn't seem very receptive to my communication," Roman observed, inspecting his peach with scientific interest.
"Mine keeps rolling away," Julian complained as his apple escaped for the third time. "Is that symbolic?"
"Probably," James laughed, watching his bandmate chase the fruit across the floor.
The absurd practice session was at its peak - Julian dramatically dipped his recaptured apple while Jake provided kdrama-style commentary - when the dorm door opened without warning.
Manager Kando stepped in, arms full of schedules and planning documents, mouth open to deliver some administrative announcements. He froze, taking in the unprecedented scene: seven idol superstars engaged in what appeared to be intimate interactions with various fruits, under the guidance of their stoic security guard.
"What," Manager Kando finally managed, his voice strangled, "is happening here?"
Seven pairs of eyes stared at him like startled deer, fruits held in various compromising positions.
"Midnight snack?" Jon offered weakly.
"Nutritional assessment?" Roman attempted.
"Performance art," Vic suggested with uncharacteristic quickness.
"Kissing practice!" Julian cheerfully announced, immune as always to social awkwardness. "Dan is teaching us because he's been married for twenty years and knows all about relationships, and we need to learn for our dating project and..."
"JULIAN!" six voices chorused in alarm.
It was too late. Manager Kando's expression progressed through a fascinating array of emotions: confusion, realization, horror, and finally, something approaching an existential crisis.
"Dating... project?" he repeated faintly, documents slipping from his grasp to scatter across the floor.
"It's not what it looks like," James began, then reconsidered. "It's exactly what it looks like, but with context it's less strange than it appears."
"Twenty-three years in entertainment management," Manager Kando murmured, seemingly to himself. "I've handled drunk idols, dating scandals, and international incidents. But this..." He gestured weakly at the fruit-holding members, "This is where I draw the line."
"We can explain," Jon attempted.
Manager Kando held up a hand. "No. No explanations. I will leave this room, walk around the building, and return in fifteen minutes. When I return, there will be no fruit, no kissing practice, and no evidence that this has ever occurred. Are we clear?"
Seven heads nodded in unison.
"Dan," Manager Kando turned to the security guard, betrayal evident in his voice, "I expected better from you."
Dan shrugged, unrepentant. "Someone had to help these kids. They're hopeless."
Manager Kando closed his eyes briefly, visibly counting to ten. Without another word, he turned and exited, shut the door with exaggerated gentleness, somehow more concerning than if he had slammed it.
The moment he left, seven idols and one security guard burst into uncontrollable laughter, the absurdity of the situation finally breaking through their practiced composure. They laughed until their sides hurt, gasping for breath between fresh waves of hysteria whenever someone managed to say "fruit" or "kissing practice."
"His face," Julian wheezed, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I've never seen anyone look so betrayed by a peach."
"We're never going to live this down," Jon predicted, still chuckling as he gathered the discarded fruit. "He's going to bring up 'the fruit incident' at every contract negotiation for the rest of our careers."
"Worth it," Jake declared, reviewing the footage he had somehow captured of Manager Kando's expression. "This is art."
Dan checked his watch as they hastily cleared the evidence of their unorthodox training session. "My rounds are overdue. For what it's worth," he added, pausing at the door, "you're all on the right track. Not with the fruit, that was ridiculous, but with growing beyond your idol personas."
"Thanks, Dan," Jon said sincerely. "For everything."
The security guard nodded, his usual stoic expression returning. "Just promise me one thing."
"What's that?" James asked.
"When you eventually have real first kisses with your girls, leave the fruit out of it," Dan advised solemnly. "Trust me on this."
With that parting wisdom, he left them to deal with the imminent return of their traumatized manager.
When Manager Kando returned fifteen minutes later, seven men, innocently seated, were engaged in a relaxing late-night conversation. If their barely suppressed smiles and occasionally suspicious coughs suggested otherwise, he chose not to acknowledge it.
Through years of experience in artist management, Manager Kando had learned that some things were better left uninvestigated. Whatever "dating project" they had undertaken, despite his explicit guidelines about discretion and appropriate behavior, would presumably reveal itself in time.
For now, he would file the fruit incident in the ever-growing mental folder labeled "C7 Mysteries" and focus on the comeback preparations that were ostensibly the purpose of his late-night visit. In the following weeks, if they occasionally dissolved into inexplicable laughter whenever anyone mentioned fruit, Manager Kando wisely chose not to ask why.