Archive of Our Own ^beta

Minho knew something was up the second Chan walked onto the rink, hands deep in his pockets like he was trying to hold back a smirk. That was never a good sign. Chan only ever looked that smug when he was about to ruin Minho’s day—and the way he was chewing absently on his thumbnail confirmed it.

Minho sighed. “Spit it out.”

Chan grinned. “Taking in a new student this season.”

Minho wrinkled his nose. “Is this the part where I pretend to be surprised?”

“Nah, this is the part where you pretend to be happy for me.”

Minho gave him a flat look.

Chan rocked on his heels, clearly enjoying this. “It’s Seungmin.”

Minho actually stopped tightening his laces, looking up like Chan had just said something truly offensive. “You’re joking.”

Chan flashed a toothy grin. “Nope.”

Minho groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You left competing early for music, and now you’re personally mentoring my biggest rival? Are you kidding me?”

Chan hummed, absently biting his nail again. “Well, you were my friend first, student second. Seungmin has no such advantage.”

“Oh, fantastic. So, now I get to watch you mentor someone who probably hates people?”

Chan snorted. “Oh, and you don’t?”

“I have people skills.”

“You? Last season, you actively avoided eye contact with the referee before accepting your silver medal.”

Minho narrowed his eyes. “He was biased.”

“Sure he was.”

“This is going to suck.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Minho stepped off the rink, shaking off the lingering cold from his gloves as he slung his skate bag over one shoulder. He had barely made it two steps before Chan appeared beside him, chewing absently on his thumbnail in that way that usually preceded him saying something annoying.

“Alright,” Chan started, exhaling like he was about to launch into a speech, “I need you to not glare at Seungmin.”

Minho blinked at him like he had just spoken a foreign language. “Excuse me?”

Chan sighed. “Just—act normal. Pretend to be friendly. Or, at the very least, don’t look like you’re actively planning his downfall.”

Minho hummed, pretending to consider it. “See, that’s tricky. He’s unfriendly. It’s instinctual.”

Chan gave him a flat look. “That’s not an excuse.”

“No, really.” Minho adjusted his grip on his skate bag, fully prepared to explain himself. “Seungmin doesn’t do friendly. He has, like, zero actual friends in the skating world. Not because he’s bad—he’s ridiculously good—but because he’s got this whole ‘I don’t talk to people’ thing going on. You think I have bad people skills? He makes me look like a customer service representative.”

Chan snorted but tried to keep the conversation on track. “Well, maybe you could just not match his energy.”

Minho gave him a slow, unimpressed stare. “Did you just ask me to not be petty?”

“…Yes?”

Minho shook his head. “You should know me better by now.”

Chan groaned, finally giving up. “You know what? Forget it.”

Minho grinned, stepping ahead of him toward the lockers. “That was faster than usual.”

“I pick my battles.”

Minho wasn’t expecting an audience.

The rink was supposed to be quiet—his space to skate without pressure, without distraction. But midway through his routine, he caught movement at the barrier.

Someone was watching.

He slowed, shifting onto the edge of his blade, and turned toward the spectator.

Blonde. Unreasonably good-looking. His long hair, a mix of gold and honey under the rink’s dim lighting, was tied back loosely, a few strands falling over high cheekbones. His coat—long, expensive-looking, the kind that suggested he had more style than Minho could ever bother with—hung effortlessly over his frame. If the guy wasn’t here, standing in an ice rink like this was normal, Minho might’ve assumed he was about to walk into a photoshoot.

The guy smiled. “You skate well.”

Minho narrowed his eyes. “Thanks?”

The stranger stepped forward slightly, dipping his chin in polite introduction. “Hwang Hyunjin.”

Formal. Polite. That was unexpected.

Minho raised a brow but relented with a nod. “Lee Minho.”

Hyunjin grinned, looking far too at ease for someone who had just invited himself into Minho’s post-work routine. “Seungmin told me he had a new rink mate, so I figured I’d come check things out.”

Minho’s brain malfunctioned for a solid three seconds.

Seungmin? Talking? About people?

He eyed Hyunjin again—taking in the casually handsome features, the effortless way carried himself, the sheer visual appeal of him—and had to pause, reevaluate his entire understanding of the universe.

Because this was Seungmin’s friend?

No. No, that wasn’t right. That lowered his qualifications.

Minho had been under the impression that good-looking people lived by a certain standard—especially ones who seemed like they had elite-level fashion sense and flawless genetics.

And yet. Here was this guy, willingly admitting to associating with Seungmin.

Minho scoffed. “Seungmin mentioned me?”

Hyunjin nodded casually. “Yeah.”

Minho blinked. “Like, voluntarily?”

Hyunjin laughed. “You make it sound like he doesn’t talk.”

“I had a theory.” Minho tilted his head in mock contemplation. “Selective mutism. Spoke, like, once a year. At most.”

Hyunjin snorted. “Wow, harsh.”

“I was justified,” Minho said, dead serious. Then narrowed his eyes. “And you’re saying you’re friends with him? Actually friends? Not just ‘fellow skaters he tolerates’?”

Hyunjin chuckled. “I’m not a skater.”

Minho stared at him, caught completely off guard. “You—wait. You don’t skate?”

Hyunjin shook his head. “Nope.”

Minho frowned. “Okay, so why are you here? Like, in a rink? Talking to me? Being friends with Seungmin, of all people?”

Hyunjin smirked. “Didn’t realize being friends with Seungmin was such a shocking revelation.”

Minho exhaled sharply. “It is. You—you look like you belong in a fashion editorial, and he looks like he’s auditioning for the role of ‘most unapproachable man alive.’ This isn’t making sense.”

Hyunjin laughed. “Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think.”

“I know enough.” Minho crossed his arms. “And frankly, I now have to lower your attractiveness ranking in my personal system of judgment. It’s tragic, but the association with Seungmin really takes points off your score.”

Hyunjin shook his head, amused. “You keep talking about rankings like you run some kind of visual evaluation system.”

Minho shrugged. “I have opinions.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“You had potential,” Minho sighed dramatically, like he was mourning a loss. “But alas.”

Hyunjin grinned. “Glad to know I was ever considered in the running.”

“You were thriving. But then you said the S-word.”

Hyunjin snorted. “S-word?”

“Seungmin.” Minho deadpanned. “That was your downfall.”

Hyunjin laughed again, shaking his head. “Yeah, I figured.”

Minho had been warned.

Chan had made it clear—Seungmin would be around. He’d be training here. He was officially Minho’s rink mate for the season.

Minho had nodded, absorbed the information, and then proceeded to ignore it entirely.

Because, realistically, Seungmin was a serious competitor. A professional. Someone who trained like his life depended on it when the season was in full swing. But this was the off-season. The period of relative calm before everything ramped up again.

Minho had hoped—genuinely, foolishly hoped—that meant Seungmin wouldn’t actually be here. At least not yet.

But apparently, the universe enjoyed crushing his expectations.

Because the moment he stepped into the rink, Minho spotted him.

And, true to form, Seungmin didn’t bother acknowledging Minho’s existence.

No nod, no greeting—just a complete lack of interest, as if Minho was merely part of the background.

Minho scoffed internally. The mute theory remained undefeated.

Of course, Hyunjin, who had somehow wormed his way into this rink dynamic, was the one to greet him. “Hey, Minho hyung.”

Minho glanced over. Hyunjin looked exactly the same as yesterday—ridiculously attractive, effortlessly social, the kind of person who could probably charm his way out of a parking ticket.

Seungmin, by contrast, looked shockingly… average. Still handsome but that’s minor detail.

Gone was the polished competitor—replaced by a hoodie, sweatpants, and hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in at least twelve hours.

Minho frowned slightly. Maybe he had expected some level of untouchable perfection even off the ice. But no. Just some guy in sweatpants.

At least his attractiveness rankings could remain neutral.

Minho settled onto the floor, stretching lazily, barely paying attention—until Seungmin stepped onto the ice.

And then, everything else faded.

Minho had seen Seungmin skate before.

Technically.

But never like this.

Never without the filter of his own competition stress—never with the luxury of just watching.

And now, for the first time, he did.

Seungmin didn’t just skate.

He expressed.

His movements weren’t simply well-executed—they were felt. Every step, every turn, every leap had purpose beyond mechanics. He wasn’t just perfecting techniques; he was giving them meaning.

He cut through the ice like it was an extension of himself, not an obstacle. He gathered speed effortlessly, transitions smooth but never sterile—fluid and alive, like the ice itself was moving with him.

Then came the jumps.

Explosive power, a snap of muscle tension, and then—airborne.

Minho barely processed the lift, the split-second suspension where Seungmin seemed to hang, defying gravity for just a little too long before descending back into seamless momentum.

No hesitation. No breaks. Just uninterrupted flow.

It was controlled, but wild—sharp edges slicing clean paths, yet never jagged. Every movement calculated down to the finest detail, yet still too smooth, too beautiful to feel robotic.

Minho had seen skaters with good technique. He had competed against skaters who trained relentlessly. But watching Seungmin now? He wasn’t seeing skill alone.

He was seeing mastery.

And artistry.

And expression, like each movement carried something behind it—something invisible, something intangible that made it linger in the air just a second longer than it should.

For the first time in his life, Minho found himself forgetting his own stretching—half-finished, abandoned somewhere in the middle—as he watched, unblinking.

Because, damn.

Seungmin was better than the clips.

Better than the replays.

Better than anything Minho had ever actually expected.

He knew Seungmin outranking him was kind of a fact by now but seeing it was a bit of a hit too.

Minho had never let someone’s presence dictate how he skated.

And yet.

Somehow, with Seungmin standing there, vaguely watching, Minho felt the need to at least try doing his best.

It wasn’t nerves. It wasn’t intimidation. It was just the plain, annoying fact that Seungmin was there—and, for better or worse, Seungmin always skated like skating meant something.

Minho wasn’t about to look sloppy in front of that.

So he stepped onto the ice, let the chill bite into his skin, rolled his shoulders, and started his routine.

It was solid. Technical. Clean. But even as he moved, he could feel the off-ness.

His flow wasn’t quite right. His posture felt a little too controlled. It wasn’t stiff, per se, but it wasn’t natural either. He was skating the way he always did—executing, not expressing.

Expression was never his strength. Not on the ice, not off it. He could land jumps, check his speed, hit every necessary beat, but when it came to feeling the movement the way Seungmin always seemed to—Minho just didn’t have it.

And, frankly, that was annoying.

It had always annoyed him. Every time Seungmin outranked him. Every time Seungmin effortlessly carried his movement like it had more meaning beyond technique. Every time Minho knew he had the skill but not the presence.

Minho finished his routine, sliding to a stop near the barrier, catching his breath as he absently shook off the tension in his arms.

Seungmin, who had been leaning against the boards, finally glanced at him. “You dropped your right shoulder during the loop jump.”

Minho exhaled sharply, wiping his palms against his sleeves. “Wow. Thanks. Was that supposed to be constructive criticism or just casual disrespect?”

Seungmin blinked. “Correction.”

Minho stared at him, unimpressed. “Unbelievable.”

Seungmin didn't dignity that answer, jsut stepped on to the ice as it was an answer frot everything .

Minho sighed, leaning against the barrier, absently rolling his shoulders, prepared to watch—but not prepared for what he actually saw.

Because the moment Seungmin began moving, Minho knew immediately.

Knew that this was different.

The sheer, ridiculous intensity of it.

Seungmin didn’t just go through the motions—he poured everything into his runs, pushing the limits of technique, of expression, of stamina. Where Minho had leaned into precision, Seungmin attacked the ice with raw power. The speed, the footwork, the height in his jumps—everything had that extra edge.

And then—the jumps.

Way too many jumps.

Minho lost count somewhere after the second quadruple.

Quad toe-loop, clean landing. A triple axel into a perfect step sequence. Another quad, this time a salchow, controlled on the exit like it wasn’t one of the most brutal jumps in figure skating.

Minho barely held back a scoff. There were so many. This program wasn’t just challenging—it was downright excessive.

Most skaters wouldn’t even attempt this level of difficulty in regular practice, much less execute it perfectly.

But, of course, Seungmin wasn’t most skaters.

And by the time he landed the final combination jump—yet another triple, because apparently moderation didn’t exist in his world—Minho caught the slight hitch in his breath.

Winded.

Seungmin was winded.

Minho narrowed his eyes.

Of course he was—his routine was insane. Heavy on stamina, packed with jumps that should have pushed him into exhaustion, but even then? He wasn’t that tired. Not enough to be gasping, not enough to show real strain.

Minho sighed internally. Again, the age thing.

And the fact that Seungmin was known for this.

It wasn’t just that he skated well—he pushed himself beyond what most skaters would dare. Minho had heard it plenty of times from commentators, seen it in replays, known it whenever rankings were released: Seungmin thrived in high-intensity performances. He did what others wouldn’t even attempt.

Which, in Minho’s opinion, was unnecessary.

Too much.

Frankly, obnoxious.

Minho crossed his arms, watching as Seungmin finally slowed, chest rising and falling with sharp exhales. “You have too much energy. It’s honestly offensive.”

Seungmin barely spared him a glance. “I’m tired.”

“Oh, please. You just did more jumps in one run than most people attempt in a week and you’re barely out of breath.” Minho rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Meanwhile, I so much as think about exerting more energy and I have to consider my entire life decisions afterward.”

Seungmin just stared at him, unreadable.

Minho sighed, dramatic. “You know what it is? The youth.” He gestured vaguely at Seungmin, like that single fact explained everything. “That’s the problem. Your unfair genetic advantage of not being exhausted twenty-four-seven.”

Seungmin blinked, unimpressed. “I’m two years younger than you.”

“Exactly.”

Seungmin didn’t even dignify that with a response.

Instead, he ignored Minho entirely and went back to catching his breath.

Minho scoffed, pushing off the barrier and onto the ice again.

That was fine. That was whatever.

But seriously. Two years was unfair.

After their routines, they naturally drifted into opposite ends of the rink.

Minho, methodical. Focused on refining footwork, cleaning transitions, making sure his stamina didn’t betray him when the season picked up again.

Seungmin, relentless. Running laps, picking up speed, then throwing himself into yet more jumps like exhaustion was an abstract concept that didn’t apply to him.

Minho didn’t acknowledge him outright, but he kept catching the landings out of the corner of his eye. Sharp, controlled, completely unreasonable in difficulty.

And then there was Hyunjin—who had apparently dedicated his entire existence to making sure Seungmin didn’t keel over from his own intensity.

Minho watched with mild curiosity as Hyunjin hovered, offering water, nagging about pacing, muttering about how he was doing too much again.

It was, frankly, absurd.

Hyunjin had the kind of face that belonged in high-fashion campaigns, in expensive commercials, in settings where everything was intentionally lit to make him look even more flawless than he already was.

And yet—this was where he had chosen to devote his energy? Sticking to Seungmin like a personal caretaker, fussing over his training habits, trailing after him like some kind of overly glamorous assistant?

Unfortunate.

Minho wasn’t sure how exactly Seungmin had managed to pull someone like Hyunjin into his gravitational field, but he had to admit—it was wildly inconvenient.

Seungmin ignored most of the nagging. But every once in a while, Minho caught the sarcasm—some dry, effortless comment thrown back at Hyunjin when his pestering got too ridiculous.

At one point, Hyunjin dramatically sighed about his stress levels.

“I swear, taking care of you is aging me,” Hyunjin grumbled, handing Seungmin his water bottle. “I should start billing you.”

Seungmin took a sip. “You’d be broke.”

Minho blinked. That was sarcastic. That was actual sarcasm from Seungmin’s mouth.

He had assumed—no, known—that Seungmin was allergic to casual conversation.

And yet, here he was, giving Hyunjin more interaction than Minho thought physically possible.

Absurd.

Minho frowned slightly, shaking off the thought, returning his attention to his steps.

It wasn’t his problem.

Probably.

Minho had made the executive decision not to be an idiot.

Training too much, too early in the off-season? No thanks. He wasn’t about to wreck his muscles for no reason. He needed balance, proper rest, and—most importantly—a day off where he wasn’t thinking about figure skating every waking second.

So he went home, fed his cats, cooked himself a solid meal—something warm, something rewarding after yesterday’s unnecessary exertion.

Then, finally, he collapsed onto his bed, fully prepared to sleep easy.

And yet.

One moment, he was casually scrolling through his phone, just killing time before bed. The next? He had somehow fallen into a black hole of Seungmin’s performances.

It wasn’t intentional. Not really.

But it started with one clip—some competition from two seasons ago. And then another. And then a breakdown analysis video. And then a slow-motion replay of one of Seungmin’s most ridiculous jump sequences.

And before Minho knew it, hours had disappeared.

But more than the sheer number of performances, more than the trophies and rankings, more than anything—Minho was realizing something that should have been obvious.

Seungmin had always been ridiculous.

Not just good. Not just technically perfect. Ridiculous.

The second half of his programs were stuffed with jumps, packed with high-energy transitions, overloaded with combinations that any sane skater would stagger out for pacing purposes.

But not Seungmin.

Minho scrolled absently, watching yet another video of him landing back-to-back triples with zero signs of strain.

It wasn’t just natural talent.

It was stamina.

The kind most skaters wouldn’t even try building for routines that demanding.

The kind Minho had spent his whole career tolerating but never quite acknowledging directly—until now, when the evidence was practically flashing before him in high-definition replay.

And the worst part?

One single training session with Seungmin had unlocked something in Minho he wasn’t prepared for.

It wasn’t frustration.

It wasn’t irritation.

It was the sharp, undeniable realization that he was competitive.

Not just in the usual, expected way—not just with rankings, with scores, with placements—but in an instinctual, unspoken way that had nothing to do with official competition.

Seungmin was there.

Seungmin trained like skating meant everything.

Seungmin outranked him, more times than Minho wanted to admit.

And suddenly, Minho had trained harder than he meant to.

Not on purpose. Not even because he wanted to. Just because something in him had reacted.

Which was annoying.

Frankly, unacceptable.

So, tomorrow? A proper free day.

Away from skating. Away from Seungmin.

Away from whatever buried instinct had just been dragged to the surface.

Minho sighed, patting his cat absentmindedly as he pulled together a decent meal—something warm, something filling, something vaguely rewarding for the completely unnecessary amount of training he’d done.

Then, with his muscles aching just enough to remind him of how much effort he put in, he fell into bed.

And ignored figure skating entirely.

At least for one day.

Minho woke up late.

Not irresponsibly late, but late enough to feel properly rested, stretched out across his bed like he had achieved some kind of luxury sleep milestone.

And, for once, he didn’t immediately feel the crushing weight of training expectations looming over him.

A true free day.

No rink. No jumps. No footwork drills. Just peace, quiet, and a very necessary break from figure skating-induced suffering.

So, naturally, he took his time making brunch—something warm, something rewarding, something that didn’t involve the depressing quick snacks he grabbed between training sessions.

Then, after feeding his cats and debating whether doing absolutely nothing was a valid way to spend the entire day, he decided to head to 3RACHA’s studio—better known as Han Jisung’s apartment, which had long since been overtaken by unnecessarily expensive recording equipment.

Minho had been there enough times to know what to expect.

Which was a lot.

Because Jisung? Was an enthusiast.

Of everything.

Especially overpriced recording devices.

Minho stepped inside, took one glance at the stacked monitors, the endless wires, the three different microphones positioned within the same half-meter radius, and sighed internally.

Jisung had a habit of collecting gear like someone who thought he was single-handedly running an entire professional label.

And the worst part? He actually knew how to use all of it.

Because when it came to music, Jisung wasn’t just talented—he was ridiculous.

Minho had seen him compose, mix, produce, and write lyrics faster than most people could form a basic thought.

His rapping? Sharp, precise, like he wasn’t bound by normal human breath control.

His singing? Dynamic, expressive, deeply unfair to anyone trying to compete with him vocally.

Frankly, Minho had accepted long ago that there was no point in trying to match Jisung in music.

Which was funny, considering they had actually dated once.

It had seemed logical at first—similar interests, easy chemistry, shared creative energy.

Until it wasn’t.

Eventually, both of them had just looked at each other and knew.

It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t heartbreaking. It was just one of those things that made sense until it didn’t.

So they had shrugged, parted ways, and immediately went back to mocking each other like nothing had happened.

Honestly? A pretty solid outcome.

Speaking of solid outcomes—Minho thought his day was shaping up to be a relaxing one.

Until he made the grave mistake of stepping into the studio and locking eyes with Bang Chan.

Minho sighed immediately.

Because this was not good.

Chan looked way too pleased, way too thrilled at his presence—like Minho had just walked straight into a trap.

“Minho,” Chan greeted, clearly excited, clearly planning something.

Minho barely paused before responding. “No.”

Chan didn’t even blink. “You didn’t hear what I was going to say.”

“I already know.” Minho exhaled sharply, making his way over, glancing at Jeongin—who was sitting in the corner, scribbling down lyrical notes with the enthusiasm of someone being held hostage. “You’re going to trap me in an impromptu recording session, because you see ‘free day’ as an abstract concept that doesn’t apply to anyone under your jurisdiction.”

Jeongin huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t look up from his work.

Chan didn’t even deny it. “That’s crazy.”

Minho narrowed his eyes. “No, it’s predictable.”

Jisung, still hunched over the mixing board, smirked slightly. “He has a point.”

Changbin grinned, adjusting levels like the setup was already decided. “You are here on a free day, and now you’re not.”

Minho sighed, glancing back at Jeongin—who had already accepted his fate long before Minho even arrived.

And now Minho was in the same position.

Fine. Whatever.

At least Jeongin was suffering too.

Minho had barely pulled off his headphones before sighing dramatically.

The session had gone on way too long.

And worse? The lyrics had been mostly in English.

Minho hated English lyrics. Not because he couldn’t handle them, but because there was always some overly complicated phrasing, some unnecessary syllable stress, some annoying vowel sounds that made everything harder than it needed to be.

And for what? It’s not like he was getting paid for this.

Jisung and Changbin had already wandered off to grab food, Jeongin had muttered something about having impractical friends before heading back to his and Chan’s apartment to do university work, leaving Minho alone in the studio with Chan—who was still buried in his laptop, filtering through sound files like the session wasn’t already long enough.

Finally, with some semblance of peace settling in, Minho leaned against the couch, absently spinning his phone in his hand before curiosity got the better of him.

“So, your grand decision to take in Seungmin,” he started, tone casual but vaguely pointed. “Where did that come from?”

Chan barely looked up. “Hyunjin reached out.”

Minho frowned slightly. “And that was enough?”

Chan hummed, still focused on the screen. “He explained the situation. Seungmin’s previous coach just left—no warning, no transition, just gone.”

Minho paused.

No coach?

No preparation?

That was brutal. Even for someone like Seungmin—who probably trained more independently than most skaters—losing a coach like that, without warning, was a mess.

He exhaled slowly, stretching his arms, letting the information sit for a moment. “And Hyunjin thought you were the solution?”

Chan finally glanced up, smirking slightly. “I’m always the solution.”

Minho scoffed. “That’s debatable.”

Chan laughed lightly but continued. “I’ve known Hyunjin for years. Met him at uni first, then kind of started seeing him around competition spaces—coaches’ areas, training camps, that kind of thing.”

Minho tilted his head slightly, processing that. “So what—you just adopted him into your life?”

Chan huffed a quiet laugh. “Not exactly. But you cross paths with the same people enough times, and suddenly they’re just there.”

Minho hummed, shifting his posture slightly. “And Seungmin?”

“Same deal,” Chan said, nodding slightly. “He was around when I started noticing him in coaching spaces. I wasn’t directly involved, but I knew where he trained, knew his routines, knew his style.”

Minho exhaled sharply. “So Hyunjin just pulled you in?”

Chan smirked again. “Hyunjin likes to fix things.”

Minho raised a brow. “That’s generous.”

Chan shook his head with a grin but continued. “Seungmin’s not hard to train either. He listens, follows instructions, doesn’t fight too much. The only weird part is getting his actual opinions on things.”

Minho frowned slightly. “You guess it’s because he’s new?”

Chan nodded again, turning back to his work. “Probably. Could be personality too. Just takes time.”

Minho leaned back into the couch, considering all of this.

Friends who just look out for each other, who quietly make sure things don’t fall apart, who actually step in when necessary.

Seemed…

Odd. Minho had friends like that too but Hyunjin felt too devoted.

And yet, Minho couldn’t deny—there was something about it that felt strangely reliable.

Even if he wasn’t about to admit that aloud.

Minho had been training for a while now, focused, methodical.

And, most importantly, very actively not wondering why Seungmin was late.

Because that would be ridiculous. It wasn’t like he cared. It wasn’t like he was paying attention. It wasn’t like he had noticed Seungmin was always early when it came to rehearsals, competition warm-ups, training sessions—always, to the point where Minho could have set his watch to it if he wanted.

It wasn’t like he was thinking about it.

At all.

Except maybe a little.

Just in the logical way. The observational way. The completely reasonable way of noting an inconsistency.

And then, finally, Seungmin stormed in—Hyunjin right at his heels, nagging with the persistence of someone who refused to be ignored.

“Skipping breakfast isn’t efficient.”

Silence.

“You burn too much energy. You need food.”

More silence.

Minho wasn’t surprised.

Seungmin was here. He was late, sure, but he had arrived with a Hyunjin-powered verbal storm at his feet, which honestly tracked.

What was surprising, however, was just how brutally Seungmin ignored him.

No reaction. No subtle acknowledgment. No irritation, no sarcasm—nothing.

Hyunjin kept talking, kept pushing, kept insisting—and Seungmin acted like he was physically incapable of hearing it.

Minho blinked.

It was almost rude.

No, actually—it was rude.

And Minho couldn’t even process that before Seungmin, without greeting anyone, without so much as looking up, threw himself into stretches like he was gearing up for war.

And then—without hesitation—he hit the ice.

It was immediate.

Sharp. Explosive.

It wasn’t just focused—it was furious.

Every movement had urgency, every turn had weight, every jump had force.

Minho had seen Seungmin skate at high intensity before.

But this? This wasn’t about precision.

This was desperation.

This was escape.

And Minho was just—what? Processing it? Watching? Trying very hard not to be caught off guard by the sheer aggression in each motion?

Meanwhile, Hyunjin, still unfazed, kept talking.

Minho was honestly starting to think he was immune to being disregarded.

“Seungmin. You could have grabbed anything before coming here.”

No response.

“You’re training like this with nothing in your system. It’s inefficient.”

Still, nothing.

Minho exhaled sharply, watching Seungmin launch into another sequence with too much force.

It was almost unnerving.

And yeah, maybe skipping breakfast wasn’t ideal, but—honestly? Was it that big of a deal?

Hyunjin seemed genuinely offended by the mere concept, but to Minho, the whole thing felt a bit… overprotective.

Possibly excessive.

Okay—definitely excessive.

Minho shook his head slightly, refocusing, keeping his own training steady, pretending very hard that he wasn’t thinking about any of this.

Even though he kind of was.

Just a little.

Minho had had enough.

Because that jump—that jump—had landed so dangerously close to him that, in another life, he might actually be dead.

And the worst part?

Seungmin hadn’t even acknowledged it.

No glance, no reaction, no apology—just complete disregard, like Minho’s near-death experience was nothing more than background noise to whatever furious momentum was currently driving him across the ice.

A sharp, biting frustration flared in Minho’s chest, spreading through his limbs as he forced himself off the rink and onto the bench. His pulse thrummed in irritation, the adrenaline still fresh, still bitter from the sheer recklessness of what had just happened.

He wasn’t here to risk his life for an angry Seungmin.

For whatever version of him had taken over today—the one that skated with violence, with desperation, with no regard for anyone else.

Usually, Seungmin carried an almost deceptive charm. Soft features, that effortlessly polite face, the cute look that made his sharp skating style seem like an unfair contradiction.

But right now?

Right now, Minho wasn’t looking at an angel—he was looking at a storm.

Seungmin’s jaw was tight, his movements unrelenting, his presence almost suffocating in its intensity.

There was no artistry. No elegance. No competitive grace.

Just pure, unchecked force.

And Minho—watching, analyzing, irritated—felt something shift in his chest.

Because, honestly?

This wasn’t unfamiliar.

It wasn’t just reckless skating.

It was anger.

And Minho had been there before.

A long time ago—back when he carried too much frustration, when the world had felt a little too unfair, a little too suffocating, when skating had been less about precision and more about escape.

Back when the ice had been a distraction, a way to not think, not feel, not deal with whatever had been weighing down his chest off the rink.

Minho clenched his jaw slightly, watching Seungmin throw himself into another run, pushing past exhaustion, past logic, past whatever should have been holding him back.

He hated it.

Hated recognizing it.

And beside him, Hyunjin was still worrying.

Still biting his lip, fingers pressed against his knee, gaze locked onto Seungmin like he was trying to mentally will him into stopping.

Minho sighed sharply, rubbing his temple before glancing at him.

Hyunjin was been absurdly good-looking—too perfect for his own good, with sharp cheekbones, full lips, and the kind of effortlessly messy hair that somehow made him look better.

But right now, his features weren’t charming or playful or soft.

They were tight. Tense.

His brows furrowed, his lips pressed together, his expression darkened with frustration.

A kind of helpless frustration.

Minho glanced back at Seungmin, skating harder, faster, more desperately.

“Does he do this often?”

Hyunjin exhaled, slow and sharp, fingers tightening. “Not like this.”

Minho frowned. “So what’s the deal?”

Hyunjin shook his head. “I don’t know. He doesn’t talk.”

Minho blinked. “At all?”

“Not like a normal person,” Hyunjin muttered, voice edged with irritation. “He doesn’t explain things. Doesn’t say what’s wrong. Just shuts down and does… this.”

Minho scoffed lightly. “That’s helpful.”

Hyunjin huffed, leaning forward slightly, still watching Seungmin skate with an intensity that felt almost suffocating. “It’s like he thinks he can just skate through whatever’s bothering him. Like if he pushes hard enough, it’ll fix itself.”

Minho tilted his head. “And you’re just… okay with that?”

Hyunjin shot him a look. “Do I look okay with it?”

Minho smirked faintly but didn’t respond.

Then, beside him, Hyunjin sighed again, shaking his head slightly. “He didn’t eat yesterday.”

Minho froze for a second.

Then slowly turned to look at him. “What.”

Hyunjin exhaled sharply. “He skipped every meal.”

Minho frowned. “Like—accidentally? Or—”

“No,” Hyunjin interrupted, jaw tightening. “He does this.”

Minho narrowed his eyes, watching Seungmin push himself harder than necessary. “And you’re making a big deal out of one missed breakfast because…?”

Hyunjin shot him a sharp look, frustration spilling over. “Because it’s never just one.”

Minho exhaled slowly, his irritation settling into something heavier.

“Because yesterday it was every meal,” Hyunjin continued, voice clipped with frustration. “Because he’s done this before. Because I never know when it stops, or when he’s actually going to eat, or when he’s going to push himself until he drops.”

Minho stared at him for a second.

Then slowly looked back at Seungmin—who was still skating like stopping wasn’t an option.

It wasn’t just an annoying habit.

It wasn’t just stubbornness.

It was a pattern.

And Minho hated that.

Hated knowing it.

Hated understanding it.

Because now, whether he liked it or not, it was his problem too.

Minho didn’t linger.

There was no reason to sit there, watching Seungmin tear through the ice like his emotions had turned into sheer velocity. No point in sticking around for another hour of frustrated pacing while Hyunjin sighed dramatically and kept biting his lip in concern.

So Minho left.

Bidding a brief, sharp goodbye to Hyunjin, he headed to his part-time job—a world entirely separate from the chaos of competition, skating, and whatever the hell had taken over Seungmin today.

And honestly? It was exactly what he needed.

Dancing with kids for five hours was the perfect reset. Their energy was relentless, their laughter loud, their movements chaotic—but there was something grounding about it. Nothing calculated, nothing sharp, just pure, instinctive fun.

Lunch break was quick but satisfying.

Then, on impulse, he took an extra shift—two more hours, letting himself get lost in the rhythm, the movement, the distraction of something simple, light, easy.

And when the day finally wrapped up, sweat clinging to his skin but his mind clearer than before—he realized something.

He had actually finished the day better than he had started.

No anger. No frustration. Just exhaustion—the good kind. The kind that didn’t sit heavy in his chest, the kind that felt like effort spent wisely.

And that was worth something.

Maybe even enough to ignore whatever storm was waiting back at the rink tomorrow.

Maybe.

Minho exhaled sharply, watching the scene unfold, mind racing.

Hyunjin’s sheer dedication, the relentless concern, the refusal to stop worrying—everything about it was, frankly, absurd.

And yet, Minho couldn’t deny—

The way Hyunjin fought for his friends?

Was kind of incredible, too.

Even if it wasn’t making a difference.

Even if it wasn’t enough.

Even if Seungmin was still—still—skating like stopping wasn’t an option.

Like it never had been.

Time blurred after that.

An hour—maybe more—dragged out like eternity, each minute stretching painfully as Seungmin continued to skate, slower now, movements strained, exhaustion evident in the way his limbs hesitated just a fraction too long before each push.

And then, finally—finally—he stopped.

No grand bow. No dramatic flourish.

Just pure, drained fatigue.

He gathered his things with quiet efficiency, still ignoring Hyunjin entirely, still offering nothing in the way of acknowledgment, still moving like the only thing that mattered was leaving.

And then—he was gone.

No words. No reaction. Just a figure walking out the door, fading from sight like he had never been there at all.

Minho exhaled sharply, forcing himself to process something, anything—but before he could even settle his thoughts, he heard it.

Hyunjin.

Breaking.

Minho turned—watched as Hyunjin collapsed, his carefully held composure fracturing under the weight of the past hours, hands pressed to his face, breath uneven, shoulders trembling with the sheer force of his frustration, his exhaustion—his helplessness.

Minho blinked.

Because, frankly? He still didn’t get it.

This dynamic—this impossible patience, this relentless dedication, this friendship that apparently knew no limits—how much did it matter?

How much could one person care before it became too much?

And how long had Hyunjin been waiting for Seungmin to care back?

Minho sighed, rubbing a hand down his face, staring at the spot where Seungmin had disappeared.

He still didn’t have answers.

But now, somehow, his questions felt heavier.

Minho hesitated.

He wasn’t good at this—at emotions, at comfort, at whatever fragile state Hyunjin had clearly slipped into after watching Seungmin wreck himself across the ice for hours.

Frankly, Minho barely knew Hyunjin.

But standing there, watching him try to pull himself together, watching the frustration and exhaustion tremble at the edges of his expression, Minho sighed sharply and did the only thing he could think of.

He rummaged through his bag, pulled out an unopened energy drink—nothing fancy, nothing miraculous, just something that might stop Hyunjin from shaking on an empty stomach—and wordlessly held it out.

Hyunjin blinked at it.

Then blinked at Minho.

Minho rolled his eyes. “Take it.”

Hyunjin exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face before muttering a quiet, barely audible, “Thanks.”

Then—he was gone.

Because, of course, he went after Seungmin.

Minho watched him leave, jaw tight, irritation curling at the edges of his thoughts.

Because, honestly? He wanted to scold Hyunjin.

Wanted to snap at him for caring this much about someone who had spent the entire day treating him like a ghost.

Wanted to tell him that Seungmin wasn’t his responsibility. That, at some point, he had to stop chasing after someone who had no intention of stopping for him.

But Minho swallowed it down.

Because it wasn’t his place.

And so, finally—he turned, walked home, letting the weight of the evening settle cold in his chest.

Once again—tangled up in their problems.

Once again—dragged into something he shouldn’t care about.

And yet, somehow, he still did.

The next day Minho had spent the entire day deliberately avoiding the rink, throwing himself into his job, losing himself in the chaotic energy of dancing with kids, and doing everything humanly possible to erase Seungmin and Hyunjin from his brain.

And, after hours of movement, hours of distraction, hours of not dealing with whatever mess had unfolded yesterday—he had finally succeeded.

Which is exactly why the studio felt good.

Comfortable. Normal. No tension, no frustration, just easy conversation and the occasional bullying from 3RACHA.

“Well, well, well,” Jisung smirked, leaning back in his chair as he replayed Minho’s last recording. “Would you look at that—our dear Minho hyung sounds deeply uninterested in English lyrics.”

“I never said that,” Minho muttered, crossing his arms.

“You didn’t have to say it,” Changbin grinned. “It’s written all over your voice.”

“Still not the worst,” Bang Chan hummed, scrolling through some files.

“High praise,” Minho deadpanned.

Jisung rolled his eyes, clicking around. “Anyway, we might remix some parts later, but it works.”

“For you,” Minho muttered. “I don’t get paid for this.”

“You get friendship,” Jisung said dramatically, spinning in his chair. “A rare gift.”

“I want money,” Minho replied without hesitation.

Changbin laughed, shaking his head. “Valid.”

Chan smirked slightly but didn’t look up.

And the conversation shifted, sliding into casual nonsense as they skimmed through tracks, made edits, threw ideas around, until finally—Bang Chan sighed, stretching his arms.

“By the way,” he said, voice far too casual. “First shared skating session is tomorrow. Show up early for warmup.”

Minho blinked.

He didn’t react.

Didn’t let himself react.

Even though Chan said it so normally, like Minho hadn’t witnessed Seungmin tearing across the rink for hours alone, like they hadn’t shared more time together in a few days than they had in years.

But Minho kept quiet, kept his expression neutral.

And thankfully, the conversation pivoted.

“Speaking of shared space,” Jisung snickered, “Jeongin is officially kicking Chan Hyung out of his own apartment.”

Changbin grinned. “Final exams stress, huh?”

“Yeah,” Jisung smirked. “Too much work, too much concentration, no time for Channie hyung s existence.”

Minho raised a brow. “So where does Channie exist now?”

“On my couch,” Jisung sighed dramatically. “Like a stray cat.”

“I’m not a stray cat,” Chan muttered, shaking his head.

“You sound like one,” Changbin pointed out.

Minho smirked slightly, stretching his arms. “You really got expelled from your own place?”

Chan exhaled, rubbing his temple. “It’s temporary.”

Jisung snickered. “I think Jeongin would say otherwise.”

Minho shook his head, leaning back against the couch, letting the conversation wash over him.

This—this was good.

Normal.

Exactly what he needed.

Even if tomorrow was waiting.

When Minho went home, threw his bag onto the couch, and exhaled sharply.

Tomorrow was going to be something, and he wasn’t interested in dealing with whatever new disaster Seungmin would bring, so sleeping early seemed like the smartest decision he had made all day.

So he ate, stretched out his muscles, let the exhaustion of the day settle into something comfortable—something manageable.

And yet, as he settled into bed, his thoughts drifted—because, for whatever reason, Hyunjin lingered in his brain.

The guy was undeniably handsome—sharp cheekbones, full lips, absurdly good skin, the kind of effortlessly refined look that most people spent way too much money trying to achieve.

And yet, despite all the potential, all the presence, all the ways he could have been doing anything else with his time—he was here. Babysitting someone nearly his age. Nagging, showing up to every single practice, making sure Seungmin ate of all things—hovering like some deeply committed mother hen.

Minho scoffed slightly, turning onto his side.

Because, seriously? What was Hyunjin’s life outside of this?

Did he even have one?

But then, Minho frowned, shifting his thoughts slightly.

Because, honestly? He didn’t know.

Hadn’t bothered to know. Hadn’t asked.

And maybe he wouldn’t—maybe he didn’t want to.

But still, for whatever reason—Hyunjin stayed in his mind longer than expected.

And Minho sighed, pulling the blankets higher, forcing his thoughts elsewhere, forcing himself to sleep.

Tomorrow would be something.

And he wasn’t ready for it.

Not yet.

Minho hadn’t expected the morning to come so soon.

Despite sleeping early, despite trying to prepare himself, despite knowing exactly what the day would bring—he still felt like it had arrived too quickly, dragging him into reality before he was fully ready.

But it didn’t matter. He had things to do.

So, he pushed himself through his routine, ate, stretched, and finally stepped into the rink.

And the first thing he noticed—was Seungmin.

Already here.

Already stretching.

Already looking normal.

Too normal.

And wearing—of all things—a hoodie.

Not a training hoodie, either.

Just normal clothes.

Minho frowned slightly.

It was off. Not alarming, not necessarily wrong, but just different enough to make him pause. He had assumed Seungmin would show up in something streamlined, precise, fitted for the session—but this? This was unexpectedly casual, like he had just walked in without putting much thought into it.

Then, to make matters worse, the guy actually greeted him.

“Good morning.”

Minho nearly did a double take.

Like that day hadn’t happened. Like hours of furious skating hadn’t unfolded right in front of him. Like he hadn’t ignored Hyunjin completely, hadn’t collapsed only to get up again, hadn’t treated the rink like some emotional battlefield.

But Seungmin’s expression was blank.

Polite.

Minho muttered a response, barely holding back his disbelief, before shifting his focus back to stretching.

Then—Hyunjin.

Lurking on the bench again.

His perfect face was shadowed with exhaustion—not overwhelming, but visible enough that Minho caught it in passing.

He wondered again, briefly, about what kind of life Hyunjin had outside of this. Outside of chasing after Seungmin, outside of worrying, outside of showing up to practices just to make sure someone else ate.

But there was no time to dwell.

Because Bang Chan walked in, followed closely by Jisung—who, as expected, arrived with oversized headphones and far too many notebooks, saluting Minho with exaggerated enthusiasm before flopping onto the bench.

Hyunjin, clearly curious, glanced at Jisung with vague interest. Jisung wasn’t hiding his interest either, but really Hyunjin was handsome and Jisung’s gay heart might find a good time being there with him.

Just casual.

Because, frankly, they had just met.

Han asked a few surface-level questions, Hyunjin replied smoothly, and their conversation remained light—easy.

Minho barely paid attention to it.

Instead, he focused on training.

Chan, stepping forward, clapped his hands together with an easy smile, addressing everyone directly.

“So, first things first,” he started, voice warm, open. “I know you guys probably don’t know each other well, but let’s keep this friendly. You’re going to be working together a lot, so don’t make things awkward. Help each other out.”

There was a brief pause, just long enough for his words to settle.

Then, as if just remembering, he gestured between them.

“Minho, Seungmin—officially introducing you. Jisung’s here too, handling music stuff. And Hyunjin—” He glanced toward the bench, quirking a brow. “You’re here… just to be here?”

Hyunjin huffed slightly but didn’t argue.

Chan smirked before rolling his shoulders, moving toward Seungmin. “Right. Now let’s get started.”

Seungmin nodded, quiet, smooth—his posture unbothered, focused.

Chan worked through his technique—not in a strict way, but with careful observations, small adjustments, quiet suggestions.

They didn’t talk much—just short mumbles, occasional nods, a few brief exchanges whenever Chan corrected something.

It was subtle. Steady.

A student-and-mentor kind of rhythm.

Chan watching, learning his style, figuring out how he worked.

Meanwhile, Chan also worked with Minho, refining his expression.

Expression wasn’t just about movement—it was about intention, about pulling emotions into physicality, about making the audience feel something beyond the technical execution.

Chan corrected the way Minho carried tension in his arms, made adjustments in his posture, pointed out moments where his expression didn’t fully align with his movements.

“Don’t just hit the beats,” Chan murmured at one point, watching closely. “Make the audience care why you hit them.”

Minho frowned slightly, absorbing the words, trying to let them settle in a way that actually changed something.

And Chan kept pushing, kept refining—while Seungmin, just a few feet away, continued acting like nothing had happened.

Like the last few days had meant nothing.

Like none of it had ever happened.

Minho frowned slightly but didn’t dwell.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t acknowledge.

Instead, he focused back on training, pretending very hard that he wasn’t thinking about it.

Even though he was.

The training went smoother than expected.

Bang Chan had kept everything balanced—guiding, correcting, making sure the session wasn’t just productive but comfortable, easing Minho into expressive movement while quietly observing Seungmin’s style, adjusting where necessary.

They had two breaks, lunch included, and despite the initial awkwardness, things eventually settled.

Hyunjin and Jisung, somehow, had decided they were best friends now.

A feat, really—Jisung wasn’t exactly known for immediate connections. He was selective, introverted, notoriously difficult to win over in casual settings.

And yet, apparently, doing nothing but watching people skate in circles had turned into a deeply enriching bonding experience.

Minho rolled his eyes slightly at the thought.

Right. Because staring at people run on ice for hours, aimlessly, was the best foundation for an unbreakable friendship.

Maybe next time they could hold hands.

And then, as the session wrapped up, Seungmin—ever proper—thanked Chan hyung, then bid farewell to the other three and left.

With such a good boy persona, Minho almost doubted his own memory.

Had that stormy Seungmin really happened?

Had he imagined the sheer fury in his skating?

Had he misread the way he collapsed only to keep going?

It felt unreal—until his eyes flickered toward Hyunjin.

Watching Seungmin’s retreating figure.

Silent.

Worried.

Minho exhaled sharply, shaking off the thought.

Whatever that was—whatever was happening behind the blank expressions, behind the technical execution, behind the effortless control—wasn’t his cconcern.
Atleast, not yet.

Then—Chan and Jisung called it a day.

“Alright, old man,” Jisung snickered, dramatically slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Go eat something before you shrivel up.”

Minho huffed immediately. “I’m not old.”

Chan just smirked, shaking his head, giving Minho a casual pat on the back before heading out with Jisung—who was still grinning like he had somehow won a nonexistent argument.

Minho sighed, rolling his shoulders, stretching out the tension that had built up over the past few hours. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his back, damp with sweat, the kind of sticky exhaustion that lingered long after training ended.

He went through the motions—cooling down, packing up, locking up the rink.

What he hadn’t expected—was Hyunjin staying.

Not lingering for Seungmin, not watching the ice like some concerned overseer—just sitting there, waiting, until Minho was done.So, after changing out of his training clothes, he found himself settling into conversation.

Nothing deep. Nothing complicated.

Just—casual talk.

“Didn’t peg you as the type to stay after,” Minho muttered, shouldering his bag.

Hyunjin hummed, stretching lazily. “Didn’t peg you as the type to be this sweaty.”

Minho scoffed. “Yeah, well, skating actually requires movement.”

Hyunjin smirked. “All kinds of sports do, not chess maybe”

“Wow,” Minho deadpanned, “look at you, understanding basic concepts.”

Hyunjin rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

The conversation shifted naturally—small, easy banter. They talked about Jisung’s absurd number of notebooks, about Chan’s ability to somehow always act like he was more tired than the people actually training, about how watching skating apparently made for a high-quality bonding experience (which Minho still deeply doubted).And then, somewhere between a sarcastic remark about Jisung’s headphones and Minho deciding he was finally ready to leave, the topic shifted.

“So,” Minho muttered, glancing at him. “You actually have a life outside of babysitting Seungmin, right?”

Hyunjin huffed a laugh, shaking his head slightly. “Believe it or not, yeah.”

Minho raised a brow. “That include anything interesting?”

Hyunjin smirked faintly. “I’m a professional dancer, actually.”

Minho blinked.

That—was unexpected.

Not that Hyunjin didn’t look the part. He carried himself like someone deeply familiar with movement, like someone who understood control, precision, elegance.But still.

Minho hadn’t thought about it before.

“Right,” Minho muttered. “And yet, instead of doing that, you’re here watching some guy skate until he collapses.”

Hyunjin shrugged. “Don’t question my choices.”

Minho scoffed. “Too late for that.”

But Hyunjin didn’t elaborate.

Didn’t offer details, didn’t explain, didn’t fill the silence with anything more than a slight smirk before glancing away, stretching his arms again like none of this was a particularly big deal.

And, naturally, Minho had more questions than answers.

Typical.

The week passed in a rhythm that almost felt normal.

Skating sessions stayed consistent—relatively friendly, relatively smooth. The tension from before had settled, leaving Minho feeling like he had finally adjusted to having Seungmin around.

It wasn’t dramatic.

Wasn’t some big realization.

Just—routine.

Minho did a few more recordings, spent time at the dance studio, shuffled through shifts, kept himself occupied.

And, somewhere in the middle of all that, Hyunjin’s appearances became increasingly vague.

But when he did show up, it was seamless.

Like he had always been part of things.

Jisung had casually grumbled about him stealing the best spot on the bench, Chan had offhandedly mentioned him while discussing scheduling—like he was just there, woven into their spaces without effort.

Minho hadn’t realized it until Jisung casually muttered something about Hyunjin blending in too easily.

“Man, he adapts fast,” Jisung had mused one afternoon, watching Hyunjin banter with Changbin like they hadn’t just met recently.

Minho had scoffed. “What, jealous?”

Han rolled his eyes. “No, just surprised. Guy barely talks about himself but somehow exists everywhere.”

That was—accurate.

And Minho had thought about that, too.

Then, Saturday arrived—a Hyunjin-present day.

Minho noticed something new.

No more surprises from Seungmin.

No flashes of frustration, no recklessness, nothing sharp or unpredictable. Just calm, controlled, focused training—professional in a way that felt seamless now.

Minho exhaled, letting himself adjust to that, too. He kind of liked the guy when he wasn’t that much of a stone cut out though.

Then—after practice, after the rink emptied out, he found himself talking with Hyunjin.

It was easy.

Hyunjin was waiting for Seungmin to change out of the locker room, and conversation naturally unfolded while they stood around.

Minho leaned against the bench, arms crossed. “Haven’t seen you much this week.”

Hyunjin stretched lazily. “Yeah, been busy.”

Minho narrowed his eyes slightly. “Vague answer. What exactly is ‘busy’ for you?”

Hyunjin smirked. “Work, training, life. Things that exist outside of this rink, believe it or not.”

Minho scoffed. “Right. So, what’s life outside of here like?”

Hyunjin hummed, thinking for a moment before replying, “Dance crew stuff. Backup for a concert.”

Minho blinked.

Processed.

Then, with zero hesitation, muttered, “Okay, that’s kind of cool.”

Hyunjin grinned. “You sound bitter about it.”

Minho huffed. “I’m not bitter.”

Hyunjin tilted his head slightly, amusement still in his expression. “Are you sure?”

Minho sighed sharply. “I’m just saying, if you’re doing concerts, why do you look like you’ve been running around all week?”

Hyunjin rolled his eyes. “Because I have been running around all week.”

Minho scoffed but didn’t push further.

Hyunjin wasn’t exactly handing out explanations—but whatever his week had looked like, it clearly involved more than just showing up at the rink.

And for once, Minho actually wondered about it.

Not that he was about to ask outright.

Not yet, anyway.

The two weeks of calm had been surprisingly nice.

Training had settled into routine, the group had adjusted to a steady rhythm, and Minho had finally stopped feeling like Seungmin’s presence was some unexpected disturbance.

Even Hyunjin’s appearances had become more sporadic—still present enough to blend in, but vague enough to remind Minho that the guy actually had a life outside of skating.

Jeongin had finally finished his exams, 3RACHA had wrapped up their next single (set to release next winter, because Bang Chan was incapable of not thinking ahead), and, for once, everything felt relatively smooth.

Then, Bang Chan decided he was reclaiming his apartment.

With a party.

Of all things.

Jeongin, predictably, was annoyed.

Not just at the party itself, but at the fact that Bang Chan had spent two weeks squatting in Jisung’s place like some displaced wanderer, eating whatever leftovers he could find and insisting it was a “tactical survival strategy.”

“You could have stayed literally anywhere else,” Jeongin grumbled as Bang Chan tossed bags of snacks onto the kitchen counter.

Chan smirked. “Yeah, but why do that when I could live the thrilling life of a couch nomad?”

Minho huffed a laugh at that.

Jisung, however, was delighted.

“You were a couch nomad!” he exclaimed, pointing dramatically. “Living off scraps, observing us like a lost traveler, waiting for your home to be returned—tragic, really.”

Jeongin groaned. “Stop encouraging him.”

Jisung grinned. “Never.”

Chan leaned against the counter, still grinning. “Honestly, I think I thrived as a wanderer. The world was my home.”

“You ate my leftovers and stole my charger twice,” Jisung deadpanned. “That’s not thriving, that’s thievery.”

Minho smirked. “Couch Nomad: The Survival Story.”

Chan just laughed, unbothered, and moved on with party preparations.

At the very least, this felt familiar—Jisung causing chaos, Jeongin complaining, Chan pretending he wasn’t responsible for any of it.

And with the usual crew locked in—Minho, Changbin, Jisung, and now, by default, Hyunjin—it was shaping up to be the kind of party that felt like old times.

Except, of course, Jisung had casually invited Seungmin.

And Seungmin?

Had just said yes.

Without hesitation.

Like it was nothing.

Minho had stared for a full three seconds, waiting for Seungmin to make some sarcastic remark or brush it off, but instead, he had simply agreed.

Which led to the other bizarre detail—Jisung’s newfound fascination with Seungmin.

Somehow, against all logic, Jisung had convinced himself that Seungmin had unknown depth. That beneath the sharp skating, the occasional frustration, the painfully chill demeanor, there was something deeply interesting waiting to be uncovered.

And worse—Jisung had also described Seungmin’s look as boy crush material.

Minho had nearly choked on his drink when he heard it.

Because, seriously—what did that even mean?

But Jisung had just shrugged, thoroughly unbothered, and carried on with his assessment, like Seungmin was a subject for deep study.

Minho didn’t bother questioning it further.

And, if that wasn’t enough, there was the wild card—Felix.

Bang Chan’s Australian friend, set to arrive just in time for the party, thrown into their chaos with no prior experience dealing with this particular mess.

Minho didn’t know much about him yet, but he did know one thing.

This party?

Was going to be interesting.

And, against his better judgment, Minho was actually looking forward to it.

The training session had been sharp, focused—Bang Chan keeping them locked in, refining movements, pressing for adjustments.

And, naturally, Minho was struggling.

Not technically. Not with execution.

Just—expression.

Seungmin, on the other hand?

Had no issue with that.

His movements carried charge effortlessly—natural emotion, sharp feeling, the kind of skating that told a story even without words.

Which is probably why Chan eventually turned to Minho with a pointed look.

“Alright,” Chan muttered, nodding toward Seungmin. “Since he actually knows how to skate with feeling, maybe you should take notes.”

Minho scoffed. “Wow, thanks.”

Seungmin, unbothered, just stretched slightly before speaking. “You react to everything except skating.”

Minho frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Seungmin hummed, tilting his head slightly. “It’s like music. You know how it makes you feel immediately, right? How it just—pushes something out of you?”

Minho blinked. “Yeah?”

“So, when you skate, it’s the same.” Seungmin nodded toward the rink. “It’s not just about thinking what the movement should be. It’s about letting the emotion hit first, like how you react to music instinctively before you process it.”

Minho frowned slightly.

That… actually made a weird amount of sense.

Seungmin watched him carefully for a moment before speaking again, voice flat.

“Are you bad at expressing yourself off the ice too?”

Minho stared.

Chan snorted, failing to hide his amusement.

Minho huffed immediately. “Excuse me?”

Seungmin shrugged, completely unbothered. “I’m just asking.”

Chan smirked. “Alright, Minho. Try again. Maybe think about your personality crisis while you’re at it.”

Minho rolled his eyes but sighed, shaking his head.

Fine.

He’d go again.

And maybe, just slightly, he tried to let himself relax into movement.

Even if expression still felt like some ridiculous battle he hadn’t won yet.

The session wrapped up, and Chan finally called it a day, heading off with his usual easy instructions about recovery and pacing, leaving Minho alone on the ice.

He could’ve left too.

Could’ve packed up, gone home, stretched, unwound.

But something about the rink—about the space, about the quiet—made him stay a little longer.

So, he skated.

Just for fun.

Not for training, not for expression drills, not for technique adjustments—just movement, just the feeling of gliding without expectation.

Then, at some point, he found himself watching Seungmin.

Just moving.

Not skating in the way Minho was used to, not going through structured drills—just dancing.

Effortlessly smooth, balanced, fast—like he wasn’t even thinking, just reacting, just letting his body flow, like the ice itself was some natural extension of movement.

It was good.

Too good.

Minho tried to do the thing Seungmin had said—tried to imagine a song in his head, tried to pull the feeling out through movement instead of just forcing it technically.

But it was harder than he expected.

And then—he noticed Hyunjin.

Standing just off to the side, watching.

Waiting.

And like before—Seungmin ignored him.

Flat out refused to acknowledge him.

Still a functioning human with Minho, still spoke when needed, still existed normally—but Hyunjin?

Nothing.

Minho blinked.

It was weird.

Too weird.

Because what was this? Some kind of unresolved tension? Were they in a relationship? Was Hyunjin harboring some kind of unspoken, unrequited thing?

It was hard not to think that way, when Hyunjin kept hovering, kept murmuring something to Seungmin’s ear that went unanswered, kept offering small gestures that went ignored.

Still trying.

Still waiting.

Still being shut out.

Minho exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

Whatever this was, he wasn’t going to untangle it tonight.

So, he pushed forward, tried again—tried to skate with some feeling, like Seungmin had said.

Even if it wasn’t coming naturally yet.

Even if something about all of this still felt like a puzzle he hadn’t figured out.

Not yet, anyway.

Also he was really bad with puzzles too.

The structure had set in now—like an unspoken routine.

Minho and Seungmin always finished training at the same time, naturally falling into the same rhythm without discussion, without effort.

And—Hyunjin was there.

Sitting on the bench.

Waiting.

With two packs of food.

Like clockwork.

Minho wasn’t unfamiliar with friendship—he had people in his life, had good people, had friends who would show up if he needed them.

But Hyunjin’s dedication?

That was something else.

Something beyond casual loyalty, beyond the kind of friendship Minho understood.

This wasn’t just mutual trust, wasn’t just easy give-and-take, wasn’t like the way he was with 3RACHA or Jeongin—who would absolutely be there for him in a heartbeat if he asked but never hovered like this, never played whatever caretaker role Hyunjin seemed locked into with Seungmin.

Minho had stopped trying to make sense of it.

And then he entered the locker room.

Familiar now. Routine.

He and Seungmin shared it, keeping to the edges, settling into their usual habit of staying toward their own corners.

Neither of them were particularly comfortable with changing casually, with stripping layers without some instinctive need for space.

But now—Minho realized he had stopped noticing that habit.

It had just become how they were.

And Seungmin?

His oversized clothes—his constant oversized clothes—felt like some ingrained part of him now. He never trained with actual training clothes like ever.

Not just a preference.

A default.

Because Seungmin never wore slim fits, never wore anything that actually showed his proportions—no bodysuits, no tight competition outfits, nothing that accentuated anything beyond a crisp silhouette.

Not that Minho had thought about it much before.

But now, watching Seungmin casually pull on another hoodie that could probably fit two of him and an extra Minho—the contrast hit differently.

Because under all that?

Seungmin was built well.

Frustratingly well.

With sharp lines, with a waist that was way too small for someone who never showed it off, with proportions that would probably stun if he ever actually tried.

And competition outfits?

They followed the same pattern.

While other skaters wore sleek bodysuits, tight fits meant to enhance lines and precision, Seungmin stuck to structured layers—pressed shirts, tailored blazers, things that looked elegant but never revealed anything.

Minho hadn’t cared before.

But now, realizing just how much Seungmin hid—intentionally or not—he wondered if anyone else had ever noticed.

Because damn, if he wanted to?

He could stand out for more than just his skating.

Minho sighed sharply, shaking his head.

He wasn’t dealing with this now.

But the thought settled in his chest anyway—no matter how much he tried to ignore it.

Minho went home with a frustrated mind, cursing Jisung under his breath for planting that ridiculous idea in his head.

Why the hell was he noticing Seungmin looked nice?

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

Seungmin was not his boy crush.

Gross. Weird. Wrong.

Minho groaned, shoving off his jacket, tossing it toward the chair like somehow that would shake off the entire train of thoughts spiraling through his brain.

His cats greeted him at the door, soft weights against his legs, tails flicking, expectant, unaware that their owner was currently having the most inconvenient mental breakdown over the way someone else’s proportions were annoyingly good.

He picked one up, pressed his face into the fur, let the quiet warmth of them settle against his chest.

This was normal.

This was grounding.

This was fine.

Except—somehow, eventually, after food, after sitting on his couch in an attempt to forcibly reset his brain, after scrolling aimlessly through his phone—he ended up watching Seungmin’s performance again.

Of course.

The black hole.

The endless cycle of replaying something that was supposed to be casual analysis but had somehow become something more than that.

And this time—this time, Minho couldn’t stop noticing.

The way Seungmin’s waist cut in sharply, the way his shoulders balanced out the proportions effortlessly, the way he was tall but carried himself with a precision that made him look even sharper, stronger—

The way his body wasn’t bulky, wasn’t packed with muscle, but still held the sheer power needed to launch himself into jumps, to command movement, to twist, land, push effortlessly into the next motion like it was second nature.

How in the world.

Minho stared at the screen, exhaling slowly.

No.

No, this wasn’t happening.

He was not falling into some ridiculous admiration spiral over Seungmin’s frame.

That was not on today’s agenda.

And yet—

Minho hit replay.

Again.

Damn it.

Saturday rolled in with an easy, steady rhythm.

Minho skipped the rink today—let himself have the morning to jog instead, pacing through the quieter streets, the cold biting at his skin just enough to wake him up properly.

It was nice, really.

A change of routine. Something simple.

Then, as usual, he headed to his Saturday shift at the dance studio.

The familiarity of it settled easily—the hum of music, the pull of movement, the comfortable repetition of steps until everything slotted into place.

Something grounding. Something that didn’t give his brain room to overthink nonsense.

And after that—home.

Minho stretched, fed his cats, let them weave between his legs as he leaned against the kitchen counter, lazily tossing bites of food into his mouth while aimlessly scrolling his phone.

The evening stretched ahead, slow and relaxed—at least for now.

Tonight would be different.

Minho tried not to overthink his outfit for the night.

It wasn’t like this was some grand occasion. It was just them—his lifelong friends, the same chaotic bunch he had known forever, nothing fancy, nothing dramatic.

Even with Felix there.

Even with Seungmin and Hyunjin showing up, no doubt tangled in their usual strange dynamic.

It wasn’t unreasonable.

It wasn’t something he should even care about.

Hyunjin could look like a runway model all he wanted.

Jeongin could conquer the world with fashion.

But Minho?

Minho wasn’t going to stress about it.

He settled on his usual—plain jacket, a black t-shirt with a cat print, nice denim, and the stylish shoes he had gotten from a sponsor last skating season.

Casual, comfortable, good enough.

He looked okay, he reasoned.

And that was all that mattered.

Minho barely stepped through the door before Jeongin greeted him with an annoyed look—one that loudly screamed, How come you came here looking like an idiot?

To be fair, Jeongin always looked borderline high-fashion absurd, and tonight was no exception.

Rings stacked on every finger, an elegant-but-completely-unnecessary purple shirt, and those shoes—Minho had no idea where Jeongin even found things like that, but somehow, he made it work.

Meanwhile, Jisung was suffering in his grip like some unfortunate frog caught mid-escape.

“Are you done terrorizing people?” Minho asked, stepping in with an easy mood.

Jeongin huffed. “Depends. Are you done dressing like some guy who lost a bet to a cat?”

Minho just grinned, pushing past them into the apartment.

The setting was already in full party mode—classic movies running on mute, a karaoke setup waiting for eventual chaos, Changbin casually eating snacks on the couch—next to someone blonde.

Not Hyunjin.

Must be Felix.

Minho barely had time to process before the guy laughed—bright, effortless, the kind of sound that lit up a whole room just by existing. Ah sunshine in human from.

Changbin looked utterly enchanted.

Minho raised a brow slightly. Oh. Oh, this was going to be interesting.

And then Felix looked up, introducing himself with a warm, easy smile—except, when he spoke—

Minho nearly choked.

Because that voice did not match that face.

It was deep. Deep in a way that completely defied the angelic brightness Felix radiated, in a way that didn’t make sense, in a way that Minho absolutely did not expect. It might be the Deepest voice he ever heard wow.

This was going to be fun.

Bang Chan strode in, effortless in his usual tank top, enthusiasm practically radiating off of him as he extended a pizza slice toward Minho like some grand peace offering.

“Eat,” he said, grinning. “You’re gonna need the energy.”

Minho didn’t even argue—just took the slice and muttered something about at least this host provides food.

Then—Jeongin crashed in.

Dragging Jisung along, the latter looking distinctly flushed, cheeks and neck tinged red in a way that was way too obvious to ignore.

And behind them—Hyunjin and Seungmin stepped in.

The contrast between them was ridiculous.

Hyunjin—runway-ready, sharp, polished, moving like he had just stepped off a photoshoot, effortlessly perfect in that way only he could pull off.

And Seungmin?

Dressed like he was prepared for an outdoor survival trip rather than a party, drowning in another oversized hoodie—green, this time—paired with baggy cargo pants.

Seungmin had hoodies in every color. As it seems.

He wouldn’t even be surprised if the guy had an entire section of his closet dedicated to them, organized by shade, rotating them like some structured system only he understood.

But before Minho could dwell on that thought, his attention shifted back to Jisung—and Hyunjin.

Because Hyunjin wasn’t just there.

He was close.

Too close.

Leaning into Jisung’s space, murmuring something low, something clearly meant just for him, something that made Jisung’s cheeks go even redder, his eyes darting away like he couldn’t handle the proximity.

Hyunjin smirked, entirely unbothered, like this was just another day of casually wrecking someone’s composure.

Minho sighed internally.

Ah.

So that was why Jisung looked so flustered.

Jisung had no resistance to Hyunjin’s antics, not in the slightest.

Minho smirked slightly but didn’t comment—just stepped further into the apartment, scanning the setup.

Tonight was already shaping up to be something.

And Minho was ready to see where it went.

The party had settled into that perfect, easy chaos—the kind where everything blurred just enough to feel fun, loud, alive.

Minho was fussy with his drink, inspecting the soju like it had personally offended him, taking long sips and muttering under his breath about how much he didn’t need a headache tomorrow.

Jisung, on the other hand?

Was already gone.

Barely a few sips of beer in, and he was officially a whole problem—loud, ridiculous, swaying slightly whenever Hyunjin leaned in close, which was far too often.

Because Hyunjin?

Hyunjin was absolutely all over him.

Hovering, teasing, draping himself over Jisung’s frame with the kind of practiced ease that should’ve been illegal, murmuring things that had Jisung’s already flushed face turning downright red.

Meanwhile, Felix was effortlessly friendly, chatting easily, openly enjoying himself—but his gaze kept flicking toward Changbin.

Lingering.

Focused.

Minho raised a brow slightly, catching the subtle shift in attention. Interesting.

And somewhere toward the other end, Seungmin and Jeongin had found their own pocket of conversation—bonding over something Minho didn’t have the context for but could tell was quickly becoming their own little world.

In the middle of it all, Bang Chan and Minho arranged dinner on the floor, setting up dishes, making space for everyone to sit, talking over the music blasting through the speakers, the sound practically shaking into their bones.

It was fun.

The kind of night that settled into good memories before it was even over.

The dinner had been nothing short of a disaster—beef drenched in spice that Felix clearly couldn’t handle, loudly cursing Chan for his cute acting about how mild it was. Chan hyung himself had much low spice tolerance himself the real culprit was Minho.

Felix, with his sunshine demeanor, had apparently met his match in Chan’s spice tolerance, and Minho couldn’t help but enjoy the chaos.

It was the true dream, really.

Seungmin, as always, was unbothered—casually eating, entirely unaffected by the spice war unfolding around him.

Meanwhile, Jisung had somehow ended up draped over Seungmin, looking far too comfortable for someone who had been loudly protesting Hyunjin’s teasing earlier.

And Hyunjin?

Hyunjin had shifted his attention, now lingering with Changbin, effortlessly charming as always.

Felix, on the other hand, had somehow managed to become Changbin’s best friend in the span of three hours, their laughter blending into the background noise like they’d known each other forever.

Minho leaned back slightly, letting the music blast into his ears, the chaos swirling around him in perfect harmony.

It was fun.

The kind of night that felt messy and loud and right.

Midnight arrived, and the party shifted into full-blown karaoke chaos.

3RACHA tore through rapid-fire verses, rapping at a speed that made everyone else stare in disbelief, energy sharp, delivery flawless.

Jisung, naturally, threw himself right into it—spitting out words so fast Minho barely kept up, completely in his element, completely thriving.

And Hyunjin?

Hyunjin looked like he was in love.

Not just impressed—genuinely mesmerized, watching Jisung like he had just discovered the meaning of life through a perfectly executed rap verse. About world domination and cheese?

Minho was amazed, honestly.

Jeongin, meanwhile, had cycled through a few songs, charming in his own right before eventually retreating—to Chan’s lap, of all places—settling in like that was completely normal.

Minho himself sang a duet with Jisung, laughing through the high-energy mess they created, barely holding onto the tune but enjoying every second of it.

Then, Hyunjin jumped in—rapping with a ridiculous amount of tongue, completely over-the-top, completely dramatic, completely Hyunjin.

And Felix?

Felix was officially drunk.

Completely clinging to Changbin now, openly affectionate, practically latched onto him like they had been best friends for years instead of just hours.

The music blasted, the night unraveled, and the chaos only got better.

This was fun.

Seungmin picked up the mic, and at first, Minho barely even registered it.

It was normal—just another person taking their turn, nothing special, nothing surprising.

Everyone was positively drunk or at least halfway there, fuzzy and cozy in their own little pockets of warmth, sprawled across couches, clinging to each other, caught up in their laughter and conversations.

But then—

Then, Seungmin started singing.

The first notes slipped in unnoticed, blending into the background, just another voice in the hum of the party.

And then—a few seconds in—everyone started paying attention.

Because wow.

The guy could actually sing.

Like—damn.

The kind of effortless, controlled voice that wasn’t just good—it was ridiculous.

Han, who had been thoroughly lost in his own drunken haze, sobered up fast.

3RACHA looked like they had collectively fallen in love at first note.

Even Jeongin, ever sharp, ever unimpressed by most things, had that rare flicker of actual admiration in his eyes.

And Minho?

Minho just stared.

Because suddenly, this was the moment.

The kind of unexpected twist that made a night unforgettable.

And damn—he hadn’t seen it coming.

Seungmin sang four songs—effortlessly, naturally, like he had been doing this his entire life.

By the time he sat back down, the atmosphere had shifted.

It wasn’t just them hanging out anymore. It was them, all seven, sitting around Seungmin like some interrogation squad, wide-eyed, amazed, downright shook.

Jisung, of course, wasted no time.

“WHERE did you learn to sing like that?”

Seungmin, ever calm, ever frustratingly casual, just shrugged.

“I took lessons since I was a kid. Was an idol trainee for a while.”

Changbin choked.

“Like—idol, idol trainee?”

Seungmin nodded, completely unbothered

. Jisung asked questions and Seungmin was just answering ? It never occurred to Minho that asking questions might get answers out of Seungmin. The guy didnt really give that vibe.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Chan leaned in, eyes gleaming with interest. “Which company?”

“JYP Entertainment”

“JYP?” Changbin echoed, looking officially impressed. Minho was too surprised as he tried to imagine that scenario.

Minho had seen idols perform.

He had seen the sharp choreography, the perfectly timed movements, the bright expressions that fit whatever concept they were meant to embody.

He had seen the way they danced—fluid, powerful, sometimes playful, sometimes cute.

And now, as he sat across from Seungmin, trying to fit him into that picture—

It didn’t work.

Because Seungmin wasn’t that.

He wasn’t the kind of person who fit into idol aesthetics naturally. He wasn’t the type to wink at cameras, to execute playful gestures, to adjust his entire presence around fan expectations.

Minho tried to imagine it anyway.

Seungmin—training under JYP, learning choreography, standing in a practice room doing the idol routines.

It was impossible.Not because Seungmin lacked skill—Minho had no doubt he could dance if he put his mind to it—but because it didn’t feel right.

Seungmin was precise, controlled, sharp. He was built for skating, for movement that meant something beyond just performance.
So then why—why had he ever been an idol trainee?

What had led him there?

And more importantly—what had made him leave?

Jeongin, sharp as ever, leaned in now, curiosity sparking. “How did you even get in?”

Seungmin, in true Seungmin fashion, answered like it was nothing.

“Open auditions. I got second place.”

The collective reaction was immediate.

“What?!” Jisung practically fell backward.

“You got second place? That’s insane,” Chan exclaimed, clearly processing way too many thoughts at once.
“Man, you could be a damn good singer for us,” he declared, grinning like he had just uncovered a hidden treasure.
“Bro, you could’ve debuted,” Jeongin pointed out, eyes narrowing. “You got second. What happened?”

Seungmin shrugged again.

“I quit”
Seungmin took a deep breath. “ For skating”

Minho noticed the shift immediately.

Hyunjin, who had been watching with mild amusement until now, suddenly looked different.

Not surprised, not intrigued—something else. He knew.

Something heavier.

Something quietly sad.

Like he knew there was more to it.

Like the words I quit to do skating didn’t tell the full story.

Like there was something behind that choice—something Minho didn’t know, something maybe none of them knew.

Hyunjin masked it quickly, leaning back, letting the conversation flow forward, but Minho had seen it.

Had caught the flicker in his expression, the way his body tensed for just a moment before smoothing over.

And now—now Minho was left wondering.

The conversation had settled into a rhythm now—questions flying, reactions escalating, everyone soaking in the absolute absurdity of what they were learning about Seungmin.

Jisung leaned back, grinning. “I knew it. I knew you had depth.”

Seungmin shot him an unimpressed look. “That’s such a weird way to phrase that.”

“No, no, because now it’s confirmed,” Jisung waved him off. “I had a theory, and now—boom. Proven right.”

Minho, still processing everything, decided to shift the conversation.

“You went to uni, right?”

Seungmin nodded.

Felix, ever the curious one, leaned in slightly. “Wait, what major?”

“Business and music production.”

The moment he said it, Minho caught it instantly.

Felix’s eyes widened, disbelief flickering across his face—the kind of reaction where you know someone’s trying to process too much information at once.

Minho exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “Wait—you’re older than Jeongin, right?”
Seungmin nodded again.

“So, you graduated before him?”

“Yeah.”

“And this was all while skating?”

Seungmin shrugged, completely casual.

Chan blinked like his brain had short-circuited. “You—what?”

“You double majored while skating?” Jeongin echoed, voice slightly incredulous.

“You could run an entire company and produce the music for it at the same time,” Jisung pointed out, looking personally offended. Minho remembered that Jisung used to be the smartest out of everyone here. Not much of a feat really.

Felix, still recovering, nudged Changbin. “He might be smarter than all of us combined.”

Minho leaned back, staring at Seungmin for a second, then shook his head, smirking slightly.

This guy was unbelievable.

Bangchan grinned, spinning toward Seungmin. “We’re serious, by the way. Ever thought about recording something with us?”Seungmin tilted his head slightly, as if considering.

No,” he said simply. “I haven’t trained in a long time. I wouldn’t be able to record properly.”

3RACHA groaned collectively, disappointed but not deterred.

Seungmin had layers.Felix grinned, nudging Seungmin lightly. “You might not want to record vocals, but don’t be surprised if Chris tries to steal you for production meetings.”
This might be the first step toward something more.Seungmin barely hesitated before shaking his head.

Minho, watching it all unfold, still couldn’t believe they had gotten so much out of him in one conversation.

And yet, despite everything, despite the glimpses of past lives and unexpected talents—Seungmin still felt like he was only showing them part of the story. Minho for whatever reason wanted more. The look Hyunjin harboured said it perfectly

Jisung, ever the instigator, turned to Minho with a mischievous grin. “So, you’ve been beaten by Seungmin before?”

Minho groaned, leaning back against the couch. “Why are we talking about this?”

“Because it’s hilarious,” Jisung said, laughing.Felix, grinning, leaned over. “So, what’s it like, Minho hyung? Getting beaten by someone who’s basically a prodigy?”

Minho shot him a look. “It’s humbling. That’s what it is.”

Bangchan chuckled, patting Minho on the shoulder. “Hey, at least you can laugh about it now.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Minho said, waving a hand. “Laugh it up. I know you’re all enjoying this way too much.”

Seungmin, who had once been the source of so much frustration for Minho, but who now felt like something else entirely.

Minho couldn’t quite put it into words, but there was something about the way Seungmin carried himself—calm, composed, but with a quiet strength that made him stand out even in a room full of personalities. For the first time It didn’t frustrated Minho but made him curious ,a dangerous thing.

After the party, something had changed.

The initial shock of learning about Seungmin faded, and suddenly, all eight of them had morphed into a proper, tightly-knit friend group.

3RACHA, still reeling from Seungmin’s ridiculous vocal ability, started tagging along to his skating sessions—just to see it.

And they were mesmerized.

Watching him perform, watching the sheer control and precision—it was different from hearing about it, different from knowing he was good.

It was art.

And it was undeniable.

Meanwhile, Felix—originally planning to visit Bang Chan—had somehow ended up staying.

At first, he lived with Chan, sliding into an easy rhythm with his Aussie brother.

But after a while—after experiencing two extreme neat freaks under the same roof—he made a decision.

A shift no one actually expected but, in hindsight, made perfect sense.

Felix moved in with Changbin.

Because those two?

They had been awfully close lately.

Talking more, gravitating toward each other, falling into effortless conversations that felt natural.

And now, with Felix and Hyunjin constantly discussing dance, constantly exchanging thoughts, constantly sharpening their ideas—Felix wasn’t just visiting anymore.

He was staying.

At least for now.

And Minho?

Minho figured—yeah.

That made sense.

But there was another dynamic unraveling beneath all of that—one Minho had been watching.

Jisung and Seungmin had been murmuring with each other constantly—laughing, leaning in too close, falling into their own little world, sharing something unspoken.

And Hyunjin?

Hyunjin noticed.

And it bothered him.

Not in a casual, friendly way.

No—Minho saw it, the way Hyunjin’s gaze lingered too long, the way his smile flickered when Jisung laughed with Seungmin, the way he looked like he wanted to be the one sharing those quiet moments.

It was jealousy.

Not because he had lost a best friend.

But because Jisung was someone he wanted.

And now—now Seungmin was in that space instead.

Minho leaned back, smirking slightly.

Interesting.

Minho had nearly forgotten the weird, tangled dynamic between Seungmin and Hyunjin.

Two weeks of casual outings, late-night banter, and the ease of slipping into a larger friend group had made it easy to ignore.

In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have.

Because when the storm hit—it hit.

Seungmin came into training furious.

Fuming with barely contained rage, skating like he was possessed—sharp, ruthless, pushing himself harder than ever.

Minho, watching from the sidelines, decided to leave it alone.

Ignore the demon.

Let him work through whatever mess had turned him into this.

But Hyunjin?

Hyunjin had never been the type to sit back.

He showed up early that morning—and stayed until training ended.

Hovering. Nagging. Insisting.

Trying to get something out of Seungmin, trying to crack through whatever was brewing underneath.

And Seungmin?

Seungmin was downright rude.

Ignoring him. Snapping at him. Shutting him down at every turn, like they had slipped into some old pattern Minho wasn’t privy to.

And now, even worse, Felix had started tagging along.

Clearly worried. Clearly invested in the overworking demon fiasco—watching, making quiet attempts at interference, throwing concerned looks in Seungmin’s direction every time he pushed too hard.

Minho exhaled, watching the whole mess unfold, watching the ridiculous spiral between Hyunjin, Seungmin, and now Felix—and then decided, finally, to give up trying to understand it.

Whatever had happened—whatever was still happening—was beyond him.

For now.

By the third day, Minho had had enough.

Hyunjin was worrying like it was his life being ruined, hovering, nagging, and bending over backward for someone who—most of the time—was a perfectly capable adult.

Minho could usually ignore whatever mess unfolded between Hyunjin and Seungmin, but when he saw it—the moment Seungmin threw away the coffee Hyunjin had handed him, right in front of Hyunjin’s face—something snapped.

That was too much.

Whatever was going on between them, Hyunjin didn’t deserve to be treated like trash for caring.

So Minho made a decision.

He wasn’t going to sit back in his corner anymore.

When training ended, he walked straight into the locker room, anger clear on his face, and spoke his mind.

“Why do you treat him like this?” He didn’t hold back—his voice sharp, cutting straight to the point. “He’s caring for you, not killing you.”

Seungmin barely reacted.

Didn’t flinch, didn’t frown, didn’t even acknowledge Minho’s frustration.

Just looked at him, gaze tired—exhausted, worn down, filled with something unspoken.

Pain.

Sadness.

But Minho didn’t care—not in that moment.

He was angry.

Angry at Seungmin.

Angry at Hyunjin.

Angry at whatever had caused this mess between them.

Seungmin held his gaze, impassive, before finally speaking. “Why would you care?”

Minho scoffed, shaking his head. “Because he’s my friend too. And he deserves better.”

Seungmin let out a quiet breath, gaze flickering, then looking away.

“Well,” he said, voice eerily neutral, “I deserve better than someone who gets paid to look after me.”

Then, without another word, Seungmin grabbed the food pack Hyunjin had given him—and dropped it straight into the bin.

Minho didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched.

And for the first time since this whole mess started—he realized he might have stepped into something far deeper than he was prepared for.
When Minho stepped out of the locker room, the rink was dark, the cold biting at his skin as he adjusted his jacket.

Hyunjin’s long blonde hair was immediately visible near the door—a soft contrast against the night, against the dim glow of streetlights just beyond the entrance.

But Seungmin?

Seungmin was nowhere.

After their anger-filled outburst, Minho had expected tension, had expected maybe even awkwardness—but he hadn’t expected Hyunjin to wait for him.

Hyunjin wasn’t looking at him directly, just staring out into the street, lost in thought.

Minho was a straightforward person—never one to dance around things, never one to pretend everything was fine when it wasn’t.

So when he finally reached Hyunjin, he let go of whatever restraints had held him back earlier and just asked.

“Seungmin said you get paid to take care of him. Is that true?”

The shift was instant.

Hyunjin turned to look at him, and Minho saw it—the sudden paleness, the flicker of fear in his eyes.

It spoke volumes.

They walked in silence for a while, stepping out onto the street, where the moon hung high above them, dreamlike, its silver light casting Hyunjin in something almost surreal.

Angel-like.

Otherworldly.

Like he belonged to something bigger than this moment.

And finally—finally—Hyunjin spoke.

“Yes, I get paid for it,” he admitted, voice rough. “Hell, I got paid for everything. Going to school with him. Being his friend. Being his only friend.”

Hyunjin corrected himself, gaze distant now, lost in something deeper.

“I didn’t have a choice, okay?” His voice wavered—sharp, defensive, but honest. “You don’t say no to a rich man who adopts you from an orphanage—who’s willing to pay you to keep that quiet, who only wants you to befriend his son. To keep him human. To keep him from turning into something isolated.”

Minho could hear the weight in his words—the resignation, the truth of it.

“I got a chance,” Hyunjin continued, voice quieter now. “And I took it. I never thought beyond that back then.”

Minho didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Because for once—for the first time—he found himself speechless.

Hyunjin sighed, the weight of his words settling heavily in the quiet night air.

“I only ever was his friend,” he admitted, voice rough with something unreadable. “Seungmin was never supposed to find out. I lived somewhere else. I only spoke to him at school. I didn’t even go to his competitions or anything flashy. I was just—normal. That was my role. That was what I was supposed to be.”

But then—

“Someday, he found out.”

The tension in Hyunjin’s voice sharpened.

“And I think, in that moment, he felt betrayed by his only friend.”

Minho inhaled slowly, listening.

“We’ve never been the same since,” Hyunjin continued. “But—he never went to his parents. Never made it obvious. Because he knew.”

Hyunjin’s voice faltered slightly.

“He knew I wanted this. Needed this.”

Minho didn’t speak.

Minho didn’t speak.

Hyunjin exhaled, shaking his head, finally turning to look at Minho directly.

“I wanted money,” he said, quiet but firm. “It was my only chance for a future. An orphan like me—what other choice did I have?”

Silence stretched between them.

Minho stood there, words caught in his throat, an odd mix of emotions battling within him—rage, sadness, understanding, disbelief.

He wanted to laugh.

Or cry.

Like some manic, spiraling mess—because how shallow had he been?

Judging without knowing the full story.

Without knowing this.

And suddenly—suddenly, the whole tangled mess between Seungmin and Hyunjin didn’t seem so simple anymore.

Minho had thought he was prepared.

That he understood things well enough.

That the chaos between Hyunjin and Seungmin, the tense standoff, the bitterness—it was just complicated feelings, just history they hadn’t sorted out.

But standing there, watching the way Hyunjin looked so distant—so tired of explaining his existence like it was just a fact, just something inevitable—Minho felt something crash into him.

Hard.

Like a wave he hadn’t seen coming.

Like something sharp, something ugly, something that made his chest feel too tight.

Thinking it was just pride, just some long-worn grudge, just stubbornness and misunderstandings.

But it wasn’t.

It was years.

Years of being someone’s assigned friend, years of trying to justify that position, years of not even realizing what it would mean when the truth finally surfaced.

Minho clenched his jaw, staring forward, exhaling slow through his nose as his hands curled into fists in his pockets.

Hyunjin had always known.

Had always known that someday, Seungmin would find out.

And that this—this mess, this storm, this twisted, painful distance—was inevitable.

Because how do you fix something like that?

How do you tell someone that every moment, every interaction, every bit of care they thought was real—was bought?

Minho felt something sharp press into his ribs, something unsettled, something wrong.

Because now?

Now, he wasn’t sure there was a way to fix any of it.

That night, Minho lay in bed, restless.

Sleep didn’t come easily—his mind replaying the past few days, the conversations, the weight of everything.

He had thought he understood people.

He had thought he knew what struggle looked like.

But Hyunjin’s words had rattled him—had shifted something deep inside, had made him see things differently.

Hyunjin was an orphan.

Minho had never stopped to consider what that meant. Never once questioned what was hidden behind that easy laugh, that effortless charm, that fluid grace that made him so adored.

And now, knowing the truth—that Hyunjin hadn’t just chosen to be Seungmin’s friend, that he had been assigned to him, that his whole childhood had been shaped by obligation instead of pure choice—Minho felt something break inside him.

He thought about Jisung—wild, brilliant, chaotic, too fast for his own thoughts sometimes, masking his fears with humor, burying anxieties beneath laughter.

He thought about Changbin—the years of body-shaming, the struggle of becoming himself, the fight to stand tall despite the weight of cruel words thrown at him.

Bang Chan—the sleepless nights, the relentless dedication, the way he gave everything to the people around him without ever stopping for himself.

Jeongin—the ignorance of his parents, the quiet presence of his grandmother, the way he grew despite the neglect.

Felix—he didn’t know enough yet, but that didn’t change the fact that life was never fair.

And then—then, Minho thought about himself.

The father who had left too soon.

The mother who had to carry too much.

The constant pressure to be okay, to be strong, to hold his own even when things felt like they were crumbling.

Even now, he worked to stay afloat—not because he wanted to, but because he had to.

No rich family. No safety net. Just the determination to keep going, no matter what. Chasing a carrier in a sport hard as fuck just to keep going. Chasing his dreams.

He sighed, letting the music fill the silence—his fingers curling absently into the soft fur of his cat, grounding himself.

He didn’t know when he finally fell asleep.

But that—that had been a hard night.

Minho avoided the rink the next day.

He knew he couldn’t keep skipping, knew Bang Chan would be on his case about missing practice this close to skating season. And sure enough—there it was.

A text from Chan.

Nothing harsh, just a reminder. Just that presence, that knowing tone—like Chan felt him slipping before Minho even admitted it to himself.

But today?

Today, Minho wasn’t dealing with it.

Instead, he drowned himself in work, picking up too many shifts at the dance studio—where Felix was also still around. His “Korea visit” had unofficially turned into something much longer than planned.

They worked together, ate together, enjoyed the day in some sense.

Minho almost convinced himself he was fine.

Until—

Until he saw the group chat.

Another party.

This time, at Jisung’s place.

Minho stared at the details, the casual excitement flowing between everyone, the anticipation, the jokes, the plans—felt that small, creeping dread settle in his chest.

Like someone who knew too much.

Like someone standing inside a door that was meant to stay closed.

And suddenly, the weight of yesterday—the weight of Hyunjin, of Seungmin, of everything—felt heavier.

The party was set for the last autumn Saturday, but in the days leading up to it, Minho barely had the time to think about it.

He threw himself into training—early mornings, late nights, pushing himself harder than ever.

Seungmin was doing the same, silent but relentless, skating like he had something to prove, like stopping wasn’t an option.

Hyunjin, caught between everything, spent most of his time running back and forth—between the rink, between Bang Chan, between 3RACHA, who were deep in their new release. Their coach was a hard to catch person too. The workaholic.

And Jisung?

Jisung had been impossible to catch lately.

So when he appeared, out of nowhere, standing in the rink like it was the most natural thing in the world—Minho genuinely thought he was hallucinating.

Overworking had officially messed with his brain.

But then Jisung winked at him.

At Hyunjin.

And then—then he went straight for Seungmin, pulling him into a hushed conversation, voices too low for anyone else to hear.

Minho frowned, watching them, something unsettled stirring in his chest.

And then—

Before anyone could process it—

Seungmin was done.

Off the rink early, grabbing his things, unlacing his skates, leaving—walking out with Jisung like it was planned, like this wasn’t shocking at all.

Hyunjin—

Hyunjin stared.

Mouth slightly open, eyes wide, something stuck in his throat.

Minho just blinked at them, at their retreating figures, at the way Seungmin had gone, just like that.

Something was happening.

Something bigger than what Minho had been paying attention to.

And suddenly, he had a feeling—whatever it was, he wasn’t ready for it.

Minho trained like his life depended on it.

He was done with fourth-place finishes.

This time, he wanted the podium.

He was training alongside a champion—so he had to train like one. No holding back, no easy days, just relentless, all-consuming effort.

When Bang Chan handed him a fresh track from 3RACHA, Minho accepted it gratefully.

He had always skated to their music in his winning seasons—something about the rhythm, the sharpness, the raw energy matched him perfectly. It felt like a good sign—like maybe this time would be different.

Chan also offered some tracks to Seungmin.

And Seungmin?

He politely declined.

Said he already had something ready.

Minho barely reacted, barely blinked.

Because he kind of understood.

Seungmin switched coaches like socks—completely unbothered by changing guidance, unapologetically independent, only ever needing someone to point out minor faults. Not someone to instruct him, not someone to shape him—just someone to adjust, tweak, refine.

And honestly? That must have been infuriating for coaches.

Working with someone who was this good—someone who already made tracks their own, someone whose costumes weren’t just standard designs but customized by a friend ( Hwang Hyunjin he found out) with world-class designers backing it—must have been a nightmare.

Legit.

Minho scoffed, shaking his head slightly.

His own costumes were always made by Jeongin.

The poor kid.

Chan started working with Minho again, training him to the track—not just making him execute the moves, but making him express them.

Minho breathed deeply, steadying himself.

This was his shot.

He had to make it count.

Minho had drowned himself in training that night—completely lost in the rhythm, the music, the relentless need to be better.

He hadn’t noticed when Seungmin left.

Hadn’t realized until the session was over, until the rink was quiet, until he stepped out of the locker room—only to find Hyunjin waiting for him again.

The nice friend.

The too good friend.

Minho exhaled, adjusting his bag, and when he reached the door, Hyunjin handed him a pack of food.

Seungmin had left without taking it.

Minho knew it—knew Hyunjin had brought it for him, knew Seungmin had probably walked right past without acknowledging it.

He didn’t say anything about it.

Food was expensive. Saving money was important. No point wasting it.

So they walked.

Minho had a feeling Hyunjin wanted to talk, so he let the silence stretch—let Hyunjin get there himself.

And when he finally sighed—heavy, quiet, tired—Minho knew it was coming.

“Hyung,” Hyunjin murmured, voice low. “I thought when we moved out of Seoul, I found Chan as Seungmin’s coach because I knew Chan wouldn’t move to Seoul for him. But Seungmin—he had to move here.”

Minho frowned slightly but kept listening.

Hyunjin’s voice wavered. “I thought fresh air, less pressure would make him see that I genuinely want to be his friend. Away from all the history of us in Seoul .That it’s not about money, not about a contract. We’ve known each other for so long, hyung. He knows that—but he doesn’t trust me.”

Minho inhaled slowly, processing.

“I want to prove it to him,” Hyunjin continued. “But he’s not ready to let the pain go.”

His voice cracked slightly—frustration, helplessness, something heavier than just words.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” he admitted, voice soft, broken. “I can’t keep going like this much longer. Seungmin is adamant on killing himself for this skating, but I’m not.”

Minho’s grip on the food tightened slightly, footsteps slowing, thoughts spinning.

This wasn’t just exhaustion.

This wasn’t just frustration.

This was deep.

And suddenly—suddenly, Minho realized that this wasn’t just about Seungmin.

It was about Hyunjin too.

Minho arrived at the Saturday night party determined to make the most of it.

The last big gathering before skating season began.

A moment to let loose, to breathe before everything turned serious again.

Jisung, predictably, made it fun—loud, chaotic, reminding Minho exactly why he had stuck around this oddball for so long.

Seungmin, on the other hand, was quieter.

But when he did sing, when he casually took over the microphone, his voice steady and sharp—it shut the room down.

And then, somehow, he ended up singing a song Jisung had recorded.

The second his voice carried through the speakers, the moment the raw emotion hit—Hyunjin and Felix cried.

Of course, Felix cried. Classic Felix.

Now dating Changbin, no less.

And Felix wasn’t just dating Changbin—he was all over him, glued to his side like they had been attached at the hip since birth.

But the real shock?

Bang Chan.

Because he had been the one to casually drop the biggest surprise of the night.

“I’m dating Jeongin,” he had announced, casually, effortlessly, like he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell.

A beat of stunned silence.

Then, applause.

Laughter.

Shocked but genuine happiness.

His friends were moving forward.

And Minho—watching everything, feeling everything—wasn’t sure how to process it all.

Especially not when Seungmin, clearly drunk, turned to him—smiling like a madman, grinning with reckless abandon, looking right at him.

And Minho’s heart skipped.

A stuttering jump, a falter he hadn’t prepared for.

He shook the feeling off, glancing at his surroundings, taking in the absolute disaster of Jisung’s setup.

The recording area of his apartment( there was no no recoding area in that apartment though )—if you could even call it that—was a mess of tangled wires, microphone stands pushed too close together, soundproof foam haphazardly slapped on the walls in uneven patches.

Navigating the room was a challenge, a feat of agility.

A single wrong step, a single moment of distraction, and Minho would’ve gotten trapped—ankle caught in some loose cable, knee crashing into an unused amp.

But somehow, Jisung thrived in this chaos.

And somehow—so did everyone else.

Minho exhaled, shaking his head slightly, amused despite himself.

This group.

This night.

This was going to stay with him for a long time.

Minho had always known that skating was ruthless—demanding, exhausting, unforgiving.

But this season, something different was burning inside him.

This wasn’t just practice.

This wasn’t just another routine.

This was desperation.

Determination.

A need to finally make it—to stand on that podium, to prove that he wasn’t just another skater fighting for scraps.

So he trained.

Relentlessly.

Pushed himself past exhaustion, past reason, past limits.

His short program was drilled into his bones—a second skin, something he could do without thinking. His free skate was instinctual, muscle memory, a part of him that existed without effort.

And then—

That evening, during an intense session, he executed his short program flawlessly.

Chan watched, analyzing every moment, and when Minho finished, breathless and steady, Chan finally nodded.

Approval.

That one motion, that slight confirmation, was everything Minho needed.

And then—

Then, Minho caught Seungmin’s expression.

For the first time, Minho saw a flicker of impressed.

A win.

A small victory.

Minho felt smug, confidence curling in his chest—until Seungmin stepped forward, composed and silent, and revealed his own short program.

Because this—this was what Seungmin had always excelled at.

The music wasn’t just good.

It was pain.

It was heartbreak.

It was raw emotion that ripped through the air, seeping into every movement, every transition, every single second.

Minho watched.

Watched the way Seungmin performed like he wasn’t just skating—but telling a story.

Watched the effortless execution, the control, the sheer presence.

And in that moment—

It was obvious.

Undeniable.

Who had been last year’s champion.

Minho exhaled, grip tight around the edge of the rink, the weight of reality sinking into him like ice.

Seungmin wasn’t here to compete.

He was here to win.

And suddenly—suddenly, Minho wondered if all his training, all his relentless pushing, would ever be enough.

Skating season had always been brutal.

Minho thought he knew that.

But watching Seungmin train like a demon, like something beyond exhaustion, beyond reason—he finally understood the real cost of winning.

It wasn’t just about talent.

It wasn’t just about being good.

It was about sacrifice.

Seungmin trained like every minute of his being depended on it—relentless, consumed, unwavering.

Even Bang Chan was worried.

And Hyunjin—Hyunjin had fully settled into worrier mode, abandoning his own life just to hover around Seungmin’s practices.

Nagging.

Making sure there was water, making sure he had food, making sure that—even if Seungmin ignored him—he tried.

And Minho, watching all of this, felt something unsettling press into his chest.

Because he had spent years complaining about unfair judging.

Blaming the referees.

Thinking that bias was why he hadn’t won.

But this—this level of sacrifice?

He had never done this.

Never drowned himself this deep.

And suddenly, Minho felt selfish for ever believing it had just been luck.

Hyunjin kept worrying, kept circling Seungmin like a constant force, and Minho noticed it—the way Seungmin skipped far too many meals, the way Hyunjin, exhausted and defeated, muttered under his breath:

“I hate skating season.”

Too many times already.

When Seungmin nearly collapsed on the ice, Minho saw a glimpse of his past.

Of when skating had been his everything.

Of the times he had pushed too hard, the moments he had drowned himself in practice without considering the toll it was taking.

Seungmin left before sunset that day.

And Hyunjin—Hyunjin had never looked so worried.

Minho thought he saw his eyes glisten when he stepped off the rink.

A quiet kind of fear.

A deep, exhausted kind of concern that didn’t just fade.

When Minho exited the rink, Hyunjin was waiting for him.

And when he spoke, his voice was reluctant, careful—like he hated having to ask for help but had no other choice.

“Can you invite Seungmin to dinner after practice? Or something?”

There was desperation in his voice.

“His manager sent his diet,” Hyunjin muttered. “And I’m worried.”

Minho didn’t hesitate.

Of course he said yes.

Who wouldn’t?

Minho had never been strict about skating diets—he kept himself in shape, sure, but he had never had infinite food supplies to pick and choose from. He ate what he could, kept balanced enough, and moved forward.

But Seungmin—Seungmin, the ever-controlled, ever-perfect skater, was different.

Minho wondered just how far he would go.

Because suddenly, he realized that he, too, had stepped onto Hyunjin’s boat of worry.

He, too, had started paying attention in ways he hadn’t before.

Funny.

Last year, if someone had told him he would be worried about Seungmin eating—of all things—he would’ve laughed them out of the room.

But now?

Now, it wasn’t funny at all.

That night, Minho intended to sleep.

He really did.

After a long day, after relentless training, after pushing himself harder than ever—he thought he’d pass out immediately.

But then, chatting in the group, caught up in the usual chaos, caught up in the familiar comfort of his friends—he impulsively sent a text to Hyunjin.

Their first ever private message outside of the group chat.

“What exactly is that diet?”

It wasn’t planned.

It wasn’t something he had thought through.

It just—happened.

And Hyunjin?

Hyunjin responded immediately.

Like he had been waiting for it.

Like the words had been sitting there, ready, like this—this confirmation—was something he hadn’t known how to bring up on his own.

Minho read it.

Read it again.

And suddenly, sleep became an impossible concept.

Because what Hyunjin sent him—what Seungmin had been following—wasn’t a diet.

It was starvation.

Minho lay there, staring at his screen, processing.

Trying to wrap his head around it, trying to justify it, trying to tell himself that Seungmin—controlled, precise, flawless—must know what he’s doing.

But that night, sleep felt off.

His dreams twisted—full of diets, full of Seungmin, full of Hyunjin, full of other skaters he had seen over the years, figures blurred by memory, by exhaustion, by something deeper.

And when morning came?

Minho woke up with a pit in his stomach.

Like something had settled there.

Like something wasn’t okay.

Minho had waited for the perfect moment to ask Seungmin out for dinner—casually, effortlessly, as if it wasn’t something he had debated over for days.

Friday night, he finally did it.

He expected Seungmin to refuse.

Fully braced for the rejection, ready to pretend it didn’t bother him.

But Seungmin, instead, looked at him—expression unreadable—and said yes.

Then added, dryly, “If I say no, you’re going to tell Hyunjin, right?”

Minho froze.

Because, yeah.

He had been going to.

But he said nothing, just let it pass, walking with Seungmin to the quiet diner where he usually ate when he had enough money to spare.

When it came time to order, Minho took charge—steak and salad for both of them.

Seungmin didn’t protest.

Didn’t make a move to order anything himself.

And when they ate, it was quiet—not awkward, but not comfortable either.

It felt like a blind date with someone he knew far too well.

The awkwardness of it matched.

But Seungmin ate.

Slowly, cautiously, but he did—half his salad, some steak, enough for Minho to not feel like dragging him out had been a total failure.

Minho didn’t push.

Didn’t make comments.

Just let it happen.

But when the bill arrived, just as Minho was about to grab it—Seungmin moved first.

Fast. Efficient.

His own card handed over before Minho could protest.

And when they stepped out, Minho frowned slightly.

“I asked you to come. Why did you pay?”

Seungmin didn’t hesitate.

“I know you work for your money. And I have money. Don’t waste your hard-earned money on me, hyung.”

And then—

Then, he left.

Leaving Minho standing there, staring at the retreating figure, processing.

Because that was the first time Seungmin had ever called him hyung.

And suddenly—suddenly, Minho walked home with a weird warmth sitting heavy in his chest.

Something unexplainable.

Something that lingered.

The next few days barely existed for Minho.

There was only training—long, brutal hours, leaving him drained, his legs aching, his mind too focused to think about anything else.

The only time he was home was to sleep.

And Bang Chan? He was always at the rink, sharpening their moves, perfecting every detail, making sure Minho was prepared—because there were no excuses this season. No gaps. No room for error.

Then—Jeongin.

He showed Minho his new outfit, the one designed for his free program.

A theme of slow-blooming love.

And the red—the way it pulled everything together—it was art.

The short program outfit was incredible, too—Jeongin had really stepped up after graduation, putting everything into Minho’s designs.

This could be his breakthrough.

His real shot at the fashion world.

And Minho—watching his own reflection in the deep red fabric, seeing how effortlessly Jeongin had captured the theme—felt something proud settle in his chest.

But there was no time to dwell.

Jisung visited, and, of course, he flirted—falling back into something easy, teasing Hyunjin, who finally let go of his worrier mode whenever Jisung was near.

Felix and Changbin showed up together sometimes, inseparable as ever.

And Seungmin—

Seungmin trained like hell.

Minho could feel it.

That quiet determination, that unwavering focus, that sharp edge to everything he did—like winning wasn’t a goal, but a necessity.

Minho exhaled, pressing his palms against the rink wall, staring at the ice.

This season wasn’t just intense.

It was war.

Minho had barely registered the days passing—just endless cycles of training, exhaustion, and moments of sleep that never seemed enough.

So when a loud bang jolted him awake one night, pulling him from much-needed rest, his first reaction was irritation.

Dragging himself to the door, half-asleep, half-annoyed, he prepared to scold whoever had woken him up.

But the second he opened it—

He was wide awake.

Hyunjin stood there, barely holding himself together.

No jacket.

Thin clothes against the biting cold of early winter.

Eyes distant, unfocused, red at the edges—like he had cried, like he was still on the verge of crying.

Minho didn’t ask questions.

Didn’t hesitate.

He pulled Hyunjin inside, wrapped him in blankets, settled him onto his own bed, trying to ease the trembling in his body.

But Hyunjin kept murmuring.

Fragments of words, thoughts unraveling—something about Seungmin.

Something about fainting.

Something about a cancer patient.

None of it made sense, not yet, but Minho could feel it—could feel the weight of whatever had wrecked Hyunjin this badly.

So he did what he could.

Soup. Warmth. His cat purring beside Hyunjin, a steady presence.

Soft words.

Nothing complicated, nothing overwhelming—just enough to pull Hyunjin out of the spiral, to bring him back to the present.

It took time.

But eventually, Hyunjin calmed.

Breathing slower, posture less tense, his eyes still exhausted but focused now.

Then—finally—he looked at Minho, eyes meeting his for the first time, tear-filled but steady.

Why are you here?” Minho asked.

He hadn’t even told Hyunjin where he lived—had no idea how he had found him.

Hyunjin swallowed, fingers twisting in the blanket, before he finally spoke.

“Seungmin fainted.”

Minho stiffened.

“I found out too late.”

Hyunjin let out a shaky breath.

“When he came back to his right mind, he locked me out of the apartment.”

His voice cracked—small but noticeable.

“And it was bad. Really bad.”

Minho exhaled slowly, steadying himself, bracing for whatever was coming next.

Hyunjin muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

“I think I have to start from the beginning for you to make sense of it.”

Then, after a beat—after a deep inhale, after something heavy settled in his expression—Hyunjin met Minho’s gaze again.

“I think you deserve to know too, hyung.”

And suddenly, Minho felt it.

Felt that whatever was coming next—

It wasn’t going to be easy to hear.

Minho sat still, listening.

Hyunjin spoke slowly, voice threaded with exhaustion, words falling out like something heavy—something that had been sitting in his chest for far too long.

“When I first met Seungmin, he was different.”

Minho frowned slightly, watching Hyunjin’s fingers twist into his sleeves, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing holding him together.

“He was full of life. Laughter. Teasing. Sharp, sometimes ruthless—but fun. Friendly, once you got close to him. Nothing like the ice demon we see now.”

Minho tried to imagine it.

Tried to picture Seungmin before skating became his whole world.Before every competition, every sharp execution, every flawless routine—but in all those moments Minho had seen him on the ice, not once had Seungmin ever smiled when he won.

That thought stuck, pressed deep in Minho’s mind like a stubborn thorn.

Had he really never noticed that?

“I get why the rich man wanted Seungmin to have a friend.”

Hyunjin exhaled, shaking his head slightly.

“When I first met him he always talked about his debut team, his hyungs, his training, his idol life. His dreams.”

Minho inhaled slowly.

“He always wanted to be a singer. An idol.”

Something sharp settled in Minho’s chest. Seungmin wanted to be a singer Minho realised ,an idol.

He had only ever seen Seungmin as a skater—as someone untouchable in competition, someone trained to win.

“I connected the dots too late.”Hyunjin laughed softly—hollow, bitter.

“His family made it impossible for him to chase it. They pulled him out of a near-debut team. Made him skate instead. They made his hobby his hell”

Minho swallowed, his grip tightening on his own wrist.

“He never got a chance for what he wanted.”

Hyunjin’s voice dipped lower, strained.

“He had to skate. He learned, he perfected—but he never wanted it.”

Minho felt sick.

“They made him live someone else’s drama—the one who couldn’t chase that dream. And they handed him a dream instead.”

Minho clenched his jaw, memories flashing through his mind—the way Seungmin had always felt untouchable, yet never once looked happy about it.

“When he wanted to go to university, he had to package his music with something acceptable—like business.”

Hyunjin sighed, shaking his head slightly.

“It was cruel.”Minho stayed quiet.

Because what could he say to that?

“It was hard watching him tear himself apart to chase something he hated.”

Minho exhaled slowly.

“And I stayed with him.”

Hyunjin let out another hollow laugh.

“Because it was my job. And because I finally understood why I was hired.”

Minho inhaled sharply.

Of course.

Of course this wasn’t just about friendship.

“When He stopped living with his debut team. His personality completely changed. He became this—the cold, detached version of himself.”

Minho couldn’t imagine what it felt to see it. Hyunjin , how strong you had to be to bear it he wanted to ask.

Hyunjin let out a breath, gaze flickering away for a moment before settling back on Minho.

“And his dad?”A pause.

A beat.

A breath.

“His dad made Seungmin chase his dreams instead.”

Minho clenched his jaw, pulse uneven.

“He suffered.”

Hyunjin’s voice dropped into something nearly painful—low, restrained.

“He sacrificed everything he wanted—to make his father’s dream come true.”

Minho thought back—

To every time Seungmin had stood at the top.

Every championship. Every medal. Every moment of victory.

But he never smiled.

“But he was never allowed to chase his own dream.”

Minho inhaled sharply, pressing his palm against his forehead, trying to ground himself through the frustration, through the sadness, through the sheer wrongness of it all.

“It’s not fair,” he muttered, voice low, thick with emotion

“It never was, hyung.”

And Minho—staring at him, knowing everything now—felt something deep, something unsettling, settle in his chest.

Seungmin had never wanted this.

Minho had thought it couldn’t get worse.

But as Hyunjin took a long, shaky breath and began to speak again, Minho realized just how wrong he was.

“Minho hyung, do you remember the day Seungmin skated nonstop for eight hours? No breaks. No food.”

Minho nodded slowly, unease curling in his stomach.

Of course, he remembered. It had been unsettling to watch—Seungmin skating with an almost mechanical precision, like stopping wasn’t even an option. It stayed with Minho even though he didn’t wanted to.

“That day,” Hyunjin continued, voice raw, “his sister called.”

Minho stiffened.

“His father is dying of a Cancer. He only has until January at most.”

Minho exhaled.

The words hit like a brick, but Hyunjin wasn’t done.

“Seungmin felt—hurt, I guess.” Hyunjin ran a hand through his hair, frustration flickering in his expression. “The man who made his life a living hell is slipping away. And I don’t even know why he did what he did, but it was—”

A pause.

A deep inhale.

“It was hard to see.”

Minho swallowed.

Hard to see Seungmin process it? Hard to see him still skating like his life depended on it? Hard to see that no matter what had happened between them, between Seungmin and his father, there was still something there—some invisible chain, some unspoken duty?

“And now,” Hyunjin murmured, “there’s no going back for him.”

Minho clenched his jaw.

“He will sacrifice everything to win.”

Of course he would.

“The starving diets. The training until he drops. Because this—this season? It’s the last one his dad will witness.”

Minho inhaled sharply, hands curling into fists.

“So Seungmin is working harder than ever for it.”

Minho felt it—the weight of those words settling deep in his chest.

Not because it made sense.

Not because it was justified.

But because it was exactly what someone like Seungmin would do. Determined and loyal to a fault. Maybe hopeless too in a sense.

“I don’t know if I can think about it anymore,” Hyunjin whispered, voice breaking slightly.

Minho pressed a hand to his forehead, eyes closing briefly.

Because he could barely think about it either.

“It’s like a prison,” he muttered, voice quieter now. “This duty. This obligation he never asked for. This—”

Minho exhaled sharply.

“He hates it, doesn’t he?”

Hyunjin stared at him, eyes red, voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know what Seungmin will do after this.”

Minho looked away.

“But he’s sacrificing too much.”

Hyunjin let out a breathless, painful laugh, shaking his head.

“For a dream he never wanted.”

A long, suffocating pause.

“Or maybe he does,” Hyunjin added softly. “Because it’s the only dream he was ever allowed to have.”

Minho inhaled deeply, his chest aching.

“I can’t tell the difference anymore.”

And suddenly—

Neither could Minho.

Minho understood why Hyunjin came to him , in a sense Minho can understand it too. Not the pain Seungmin went through but Hyunjin who was watching it without power, like little Minho watched his father walk away without power to stop him, to ask to end his mother’s suffering.

Hyunjin wanted to tell this to someone before he broke, and like trauma calling to more trauma or it was the understanding he came to Minho, and he let Hyunjin cry himself dry and let him sleep. It was hard to watch Hyunjin cry himself to sleep but he needed it Minho reasoned.

The next morning, Minho woke up with no memory of when he had actually fallen asleep.

The exhaustion from the night before lingered, but the smell of ramyeon pulled him back to reality.

Hyunjin stood in the small kitchen, making two cups of instant noodles, looking somewhat awkward—like he was still carrying the weight of last night’s emotions.

Minho sat up slowly, stretching, watching as Hyunjin turned to him, hesitant.

“Sorry for barging in last night,” Hyunjin muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flickering with guilt.

Minho waved it off without a second thought.

“That’s what friends are for, your hyungs.”

Hyunjin blinked, a little caught off guard—but the tension in his shoulders eased.

As he settled into eating his ramen, his gaze drifted across the room before stopping at the really big no huge plushie sitting in the corner.

“Are they yours?” he asked.

Minho glanced over, then shook his head

“They’re Jisung’s. He never took them when he moved out.”

Hyunjin looked at him like he had grown a second head.

“You lived together?”

Minho exhaled, stirring his noodles lazily.

“We dated,” he clarified. “For a while.”

Hyunjin’s mouth opened slightly in surprise before he recovered.

“Oh.”

A pause.

“That was years ago, though.” Minho clarified.

“Yeah.” Hyunjin nodded more to himself.

But Jisung had never taken his things.

Never cleared everything out like most people would after a breakup.

Minho had never thought much about it—until now.

Maybe Jisung hadn’t wanted him to buy new things.

Maybe he knew Minho couldn’t.

Jisung was thoughtful like that.

A sweet guy.

Minho glanced at Hyunjin, feeling something small settle in his chest.

He hoped Hyunjin got a chance with him.

He deserved something sweet—something easy.

Someone like Jisung in his life.

After that night’s conversation with Hyunjin, Minho thought he finally understood Seungmin better.

And maybe he did.

Maybe he could see the cracks now, could recognize the weight Seungmin carried, could piece together the story behind the ice-cold focus and the relentless training.

So Minho tried.

Tried to be friendly, to make small gestures—to offer water, to check in without making it obvious, to be something resembling a normal human being. Completely ignoring the little dances his heart involuntary did.

But after the fourth time Seungmin looked at him like he had just grown a second head—like Minho handing him water was the most unbelievable thing in the world—Minho decided to call it quits.

“Woah,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly. “It’s hard to be a normal human with this guy.”

So he focused.

Trained harder.

Pushed himself past exhaustion.

Did everything to make sure he was ready for the competition.

Because even if he understood Seungmin better now—

That didn’t change the fact that they were both here to win.

Minho had finally done it.

No more fourth place. No more finishing just outside the podium, left with nothing but frustration.

For the first time, he had secured his spot in the Grand Prix Final.

Third place. A podium finish.

And yet—his memories of the journey to Beijing, of the airport, the hotel, the rehearsals—were hazy.

He had been running on nerves, barely processing anything beyond the sheer weight of the competition.

Seungmin was there.

Bang Chan was there.

They trained, they prepared, but Minho hardly remembered what Seungmin had done during rehearsals—only that he had been locked in his own anxiety, unable to think about anything but his own performance.

But when the moment came—when he stepped onto the ice, when his music filled the arena, when the weight of the world had settled onto his shoulders—his mind was clear.

No anger.

No doubt.

Just him.

On ice.

And Volcano—Jisung’s melody, his old gift.

A song Minho had kept for years, but only now had felt worthy to skate to.

And he did.

Executed his program right.

Third place in the short program.

First in the free skate.

His personal best.

When he saw Seungmin on the highest step, Minho didn’t feel that sharp stab of envy he used to.

Didn’t feel bitter.

Didn’t feel lesser.

Instead, he felt content.

Satisfied with his place.

And—somehow—happy for Seungmin, too.

Because in the end, they had both made it.

And maybe that was enough.

This time was different.

Minho had been to the Grand Prix Final before—five skaters could qualify, so it wasn’t impossible.

But this—this wasn’t just qualifying.

This was making it there as a podium finisher.

Something had changed.

And somehow, that made it mean more.

This wasn’t just about getting there.

This was about earning it.

About proving he belonged.

And as Minho stood at the edge of the rink, staring out at the competition, at Seungmin, at everything he had worked for—he felt it settle deep in his chest.

He wasn’t chasing ghosts anymore.

He had made it.

And for the first time—

That was enough.

The plane ride from China to Seoul was anything but comfortable for Minho.

Seungmin and Bang Chan had both fallen asleep almost immediately—exhausted, drained from the intensity of competition.

Minho, on the other hand, spent the flight fighting his fear of heights.

Every slight turbulence made his stomach drop, every shift in altitude had his hands gripping the armrests a little tighter.

It wasn’t unbearable—it wasn’t new.

But it was always a struggle.

Still, the fear kept his mind occupied, distracted enough that he didn’t think about much else.

When they were back at Seoul airport Hyunjin and Jisung were waiting for them. He had a suspicion that they were holding hands before they came into the veiw. Jisung was suspiciously red.

But once Seungmin handed his things to Hyunjin and left—off to visit his family for the day—Minho found himself feeling something he hadn’t expected.

Worry.

Not about the next competition.

Not about rankings, scores, training schedules.

But about Seungmin himself.

Minho had never worried about Seungmin before.

Had always seen him as someone unwavering—untouchable in competition, relentless in focus.

But after everything he had learned, after knowing the weight he carried, after seeing how much he was sacrificing for something that had never truly been his dream—Minho couldn’t shake the feeling that Seungmin was walking into something heavy.

And Hyunjin—Hyunjin clearly felt it too.

He looked uneasy, restless, his gaze flickering toward the direction Seungmin had gone, fingers curled into his sleeves like he was resisting the urge to run after him.

But Jisung—Jisung kept the atmosphere light.

Kept teasing, kept talking, kept making the air feel manageable again.

Minho appreciated it.

As they rode back home in Bang Chan’s van—more like a truck disguised as a van—Hyunjin sighed, muttering about Jisung not having a license. Chan hyung the old man was asleep again .

“You wouldn’t let him drive even if he did,” Minho pointed out.

Hyunjin huffed, but didn’t deny it.

Minho thought about it for a second.

Hyunjin had a license.

Chan did.

He did.

Did Seungmin?

He had no idea.

And somehow, that small, ridiculous detail lingered longer than expected—just another piece of Seungmin he didn’t quite understand yet.

But it wasn’t the only thing lingering.

Because, for the first time—

Minho wasn’t just competing against Seungmin.

He was worrying about him too. He was caring about that shit head of a person.

Minho barely allowed himself to breathe after the competition—just two days of rest before he was back on the ice, drowning himself in training.

And Seungmin?

Seungmin returned like a demon.

Something had changed after visiting his family—something sharper, heavier, more relentless than before.

There was no hesitation in him, no gap in his focus.

It was terrifying, in a way.

Minho could feel the shift, could sense how much weight Seungmin was carrying—but there was no room to linger on it.

Minho had his own work to do.

His short program—Volcano—remained the same, but he refined it, sharpened the footwork, adjusted the details until it felt better.

His free skate, though—

That was new.

A track he had contributed to, something he had put effort into beyond just skating—Youth.

And he wanted to do it justice.

So he trained.

Harder.

Smarter.

Determined to make this program not just good, but something that finally felt like his.

The weeks leading up to the Grand Prix Final barely existed for Minho.

It was just training—endless hours, perfecting every step, every movement, every detail of Youth.

This program was something new for him.

Minho had always been known for sexy, showy routines—flashy, bold, commanding attention.

But Youth was different.

It was quieter.

More introspective.

Something he was beginning to embrace—especially now, as his own youth felt like it was slipping away.

And he trained—pushed himself harder than ever, determined to do it justice.

Seungmin trained just as relentlessly.

Unlike Minho, he had changed everything.

Two entirely new programs—because that was just how he operated.

Hyunjin, predictably, was back to his full-time worrier mode, hovering around the rink with quiet concern, watching Seungmin’s every move like he was waiting for him to collapse.

3RACHA practically lived at the rink at this point—there was no getting those three out of there, no matter how late it got. They always waited till Minho and Seungmin end their trainings.

Felix was still around, now officially Changbin’s boyfriend.

And Bang Chan?

He worked tirelessly with both Minho and Seungmin—lingering through night sessions, giving extra training advice, motivation, encouragement.

Because this wasn’t just any competition.

This was the Grand Prix Final.

And everything was on the line.

Russia was cold.

That was Minho’s first thought as they stepped out of the airport—the biting chill pressing against his skin, harsher than expected, immediately reminding him that this was not home.

The Grand Prix Final.

Here.

Now.

It still felt surreal.

But reality settled in quickly when they spotted Seungmin’s manager waiting for them—a sturdy man with a permanent scowl, someone Minho had disliked on sight.

Hyunjin had come along this time.

Seungmin needed him, and Minho understood that now—understood why Hyunjin hovered, why he was here despite his usual aversion to competitions. This might be Seungmin’s last competition the secret hung heavy in the air.

Both Minho and Hyunjin kept their eyes locked on Seungmin’s manager, watching, waiting, barely masking their distrust.

But Seungmin, unfazed, responded to him in Russian.

Minho blinked.

Since when did Seungmin speak Russian?

There was always something new with him.

Bang Chan, steady as ever, stayed by their side through every step—encouraging, reassuring, his presence a quiet anchor.

Once they reached the hotel, they had a light dinner.

Usually, Minho would make a bit of conversation with other skaters, exchange words, maybe even a little friendly banter.

But this time?

No one approached.

Seungmin was with them.

And the other skaters kept their distance—like some unspoken force field had surrounded their group, pushing everyone else away.

Minho wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

But he didn’t dwell.

Tomorrow was another day—one step closer to the biggest competition of the season.

And right now, that was the only thing that mattered.

The night before the competition, Minho did his final rehearsal—going through the motions, ensuring every step felt sharp, every movement exactly where it needed to be.

It was familiar now.

The cycle of perfecting, of refining, of pushing himself to the edge before stepping onto the real stage.

Afterward, he caught up with a few skaters he knew from past competitions, exchanging words, sharing brief moments of camaraderie before they all returned to their own routines.

And then—something lighter.

Something normal.

Hyunjin, Bang Chan, and Seungmin gathered with him, watching random funny videos, breaking the tense atmosphere even if just for a moment.

Minho let himself laugh, let himself relax—even just a little—before the weight of the competition settled onto his shoulders again.

Tomorrow, everything would be on the line.

But for tonight?

He let himself breathe.

Minho breathed out a long sigh. The kind that spoke of tiredness and final waves of adrenalin leaving him.

Minho had done his best.

His short program—Volcano—was sharp, refined, executed with everything he had. His red outfit screamed of love, the earth shattering slow burn kind of love people die for in movies.

And this time, he had skated before Seungmin, which meant he had the rare chance to sit back and watch—to observe Seungmin in his element, to see him claim the ice as his own.

His ranking was satisfactory—solid, a win in itself.

And more than that, this season felt like his grand comeback.

The cheers, the energy, the way his fans responded to Volcano—it was different. It was right. Jisung’s voice screaming into the microphone felt so right too.

So as he sat on the bench, catching his breath, watching Seungmin step onto the ice, Minho exhaled slowly.

This wasn’t just another competition.

This was proof.

For both of them.

And for the first time, Minho didn’t just see Seungmin as his rival.

He saw him as a skater with a story of his own.

And he let himself appreciate it.

The rink glittered beneath Seungmin , reflecting the cold overhead lights, making the dark layers of his attire shimmer with every step—his latest prince-like ensemble, a glittering black blazer that masked everything beneath.

No figure-hugging fabric.

No sharp lines revealing the body trained to perfection.

Just layers—concealing, holding back, keeping everything restrained.

And yet, despite that, he looked like a prince.

Minho exhaled slowly, watching.

Even without movement, without choreography, without anything beyond pure presence—Seungmin owned the ice.

It was his domain.

And when he finally reached the center—when he took his stance, poised, ready—Minho felt something heavy settle in his chest.

And suddenly, the silence spoke louder than words.

Seungmin stepped onto the ice, and the atmosphere shifted.

Minho had seen it happen a hundred times before, but it was always something remarkable—the way Seungmin took his first step onto the rink, the way the silence stretched out around him, the way every movement was calculated, almost deliberate.

No rush.

No wasted energy.

Just a quiet, steady approach—something almost haunting in its stillness.

He didn’t acknowledge the crowd, didn’t react to the shifting murmurs or the flashes of cameras.

Seungmin never did.

He just skated.

Silent. Controlled.

Seungmin stepped into position, his posture regal, unwavering.

Even before the music began, there was something about him—something commanding, something greater than just an athlete preparing to perform.

And then—

Then, Phobia unraveled.

The first few steps were delicate, measured, an eerie softness before the explosion—before Seungmin launched.

His jumps.

Perfected beyond belief.

Quad toe, seamless, landing with precision so sharp it hardly looked real.

Triple axel, effortlessly smooth, no hesitation, not a single flaw visible in the transition.

Each jump—not just executed, but crafted, built into the fabric of the program, telling the story woven into the ice.

Minho felt it.

Felt the exactness of every landing, every edge control, the sheer efficiency in how Seungmin moved—not a single wasted moment, not an ounce of unnecessary energy.

And through all of it—beneath the layers of his glittering black blazer, beneath the elegance, beneath the artistry—was the reality Minho knew too well now.

Seungmin had starved for this.

Had trained past exhaustion.

Had molded himself into something so undeniably flawless—so inhumanly precise—for a dream that had never truly belonged to him.

And yet—his outfit still hid everything.

That enviable waist, that sculpted frame—concealed beneath layers, untouched by the extravagance most skaters embraced.

It was so him.

So restrained.

So controlled.

And Minho—watching the emotion bleed into Seungmin’s movement, watching the sheer beauty of something so painful—felt his throat tighten.

Hyunjin sniffled beside him.

Chan hyung looked like he wanted to reach for Seungmin, to hold him, to tell him he didn’t need to do this anymore.

And Minho—

Minho shed a tear.

The first time he had ever cried over a performance.

Because this wasn’t just skating.

This was Seungmin—in the only way he allowed himself to be seen.

The night before the free skate, Minho retreated to his room early, letting exhaustion settle into his body as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thoughts tangled around tomorrow.

Hyunjin and Seungmin had been whispering, voices low, just out of reach—talking about something he wasn’t meant to hear.

Bang Chan had disappeared into a video call with Jeongin, too deep in conversation to notice when Minho slipped away.

So Minho had let the world fade out.

Had let sleep take hold, body heavy, mind restless but slowly drifting.

Tomorrow was the free skate.

The final, decisive battle.

The moment he had trained for, worked for, sacrificed for.

And he was ready.

Until—

A slow, rhythmic knock disturbed his peace.

Not urgent.

Not frantic.

Just steady.

A presence lingering outside his door.

Minho opened his eyes, exhaling quietly, willing himself to move—because whoever was standing there wasn’t leaving anytime soon

Minho blinked once.

Twice.

Nearly pinched himself—because for a brief second, he thought he was dreaming.

But no.

It was real.

Seungmin stood there.

Tall, solid, awake—too awake for this time of night, for the night before the free skate, when most competitors would be forcing themselves into rest, into focus.

Minho didn’t know what stunned him more—the fact that Seungmin was standing at his door, or the quiet, uncertain look in his eyes, something restrained, something unlike the usual ice-sharp precision Minho was used to.

“Can I come in, hyung?”

The words were soft.

Not demanding.

Not detached.

Just there.

Minho nodded, too speechless to answer properly, stepping aside as Seungmin entered.

He watched him carefully—noticed the faint redness on his cheeks, the way his ears looked raw, like he had been out in the freezing Russian night for too long.

Had he been walking?

In this weather?

Why?

Minho swallowed, something small settling in his chest.

Something unnerving.

Something telling him that whatever was coming next—

Wasn’t going to be something simple.

Seungmin settled onto Minho’s bed without asking—without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His fingers fidgeted absentmindedly, the movement delicate, precise, effortlessly pretty.

Minho caught himself before that thought went any further.

But damn—

Seungmin looked too good right now.

The dim lighting, the soft flush still on his cheeks from the cold, the way his lashes fluttered slightly when he glanced up—

Too flirty for this hour.

Minho was not prepared for such brashness, for whatever this was, for Seungmin looking at him like that.

But then—

Then he actually met Seungmin’s gaze.

And the playfulness—

The teasing edge—

Was gone.

It took a moment.

Seungmin sat there, fingers still fidgeting slightly, gaze flickering away like he was struggling to start.

Minho didn’t mind waiting.

When it was Seungmin, he’d wait as long as it took.

And then—finally—Seungmin spoke.

“I just wanted to say thank you, hyung.”

Minho’s breath caught, something small, something unexpected fluttering in his chest.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself before responding.

“Why do you make it sound like a goodbye, Seungmin-ah?”

His voice was softer than intended—like the thought of goodbye had settled too deeply, too quickly.

Seungmin blinked.

“Oh, it’s not a goodbye, hyung.” His voice was calm, his expression unreadable. “It’s just…a new day tomorrow. I just wanted you to know.”

Minho stared at him—at the faint flush on his cheeks, at the way his presence suddenly felt too real, too close.

His face was serious.

Something lingering behind his expression, something weighted.

Minho exhaled quietly, his pulse steadying, and sat down beside him.

Whatever this was—

Whatever had brought Seungmin here, restless and raw—

Minho was going to listen.

It took a moment.

Seungmin sat there, fingers still fidgeting slightly, gaze flickering away like he was struggling to start.

Minho didn’t mind waiting.

When it was Seungmin, he’d wait as long as it took.

And then—finally—Seungmin spoke.

“I just wanted to say thank you, hyung.”

Minho’s breath caught, something small, something unexpected fluttering in his chest.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself before responding.

“Why do you make it sound like a goodbye, Seungmin-ah?”

His voice was softer than intended—like the thought of goodbye had settled too deeply, too quickly.

Seungmin blinked.

“Oh, it’s not a goodbye, hyung.” His voice was calm, his expression unreadable. “It’s just…a new day tomorrow. I just wanted you to know.”

Minho stared at him—at the faint flush on his cheeks, at the way his presence suddenly felt too real, too close.

And suddenly—

He was far too awake.

Seungmin kept talking—voice quiet, steady, carrying something Minho couldn’t quite grasp.

“I like it there—the rink, Chan hyung, 3RACHA, Jeongin-ah.”

Minho listened, caught in the rhythm of Seungmin’s words, waiting—expecting something more.

“And can you tell Hyunjin thank you for me?” Seungmin continued. “For being my friend.”

Before Minho could form a coherent thought—before he could even process what Seungmin was saying—

Seungmin leaned in.

Soft. Certain.

A kiss—light, fleeting, landing on Minho’s lips before he had any chance to react.

Minho was too stunned to reciprocate, too caught in what was happening—but when Seungmin pulled back, when he looked at him with that unreadable gaze—Minho knew.

He understood.

The message was loud and clear.

“Why are you making this feel like a goodbye, Seungmin-ah?” Minho finally asked, voice lower, something unsettled flickering through him.

Seungmin smiled—small, smug, the kind that was so him.

“Oh, this isn’t a goodbye, hyung,” he murmured, as if amused at the thought. “Like I said.”

Then, with that signature confidence—

“Watch me on TV tomorrow.”

The romance evaporated instantly.

Minho exhaled, shaking his head slightly, watching as the brat—the savage kid—walking away, already so sure of his victory, already smug about it.

“Goodnight, hyung,” Seungmin murmured as he left.

Minho stayed silent, pressing his fingers to his lips briefly, lost in everything that had just happened.

But that night—

For the first time in weeks—

Minho slept without a care in the world.

The next day, Minho stepped into the rink with a new bounce in his step—a lightness in his movement, a sharp contrast to the tension that had gripped him in previous competitions.

He was smiling.

At everyone.

And that alone was enough to catch people off guard.

Seungmin was nowhere to be found—not unusual. He always stayed out of sight until his moment on the ice. Though he kind of hoped there would be a change.

Being ranked first meant Seungmin would skate last.

Minho, holding third, would go just before him.

So he dressed, scanned the rink for Hyunjin—who was, strangely, nowhere to be seen—and walked with Bang Chan to wait for his turn.

His new outfit was something different—a mix between a school uniform and skating attire, nothing glittery, nothing flashy, but something that told a story. Not that jeongin didn’t want glitter.

Minho listened to his music through his headphones, feeling more ready than ever.

After last night, after Seungmin, after the lingering press of something unspoken, Minho felt like he could take on a giant and win.

Bang Chan noticed the shift in his energy—felt it, saw it—but didn’t say anything about it.

Didn’t need to.

Because Minho was ready.

And the ice was waiting.

Minho stepped into the middle of the rink, heart steady, gaze flickering across the crowd.

Signs with his name, hearts scribbled in bright ink—his fans, waiting for him, cheering for him.

He felt content.

A little smug, too.

Because this—this was his moment.

He waved at a few of them, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he settled, waiting for the music to fill the space.

Then—

The playful tones of Youth spilled through the speakers, filling the arena with lightness, with energy, with everything this program represented.

And when his own voice rang through—the lyrics woven into the melody—Minho caught the soft reactions, the murmurs of appreciation, the way it resonated with the crowd.

He skated like he never had before.

Engaged. Powerful. Effortless.

A perfect mix of everything Youth stood for—freedom, passion, recklessness, all captured in movement.

His jumps—executed flawlessly.

Quad toe, clean.

Triple axel, sharp.

Transitions? Seamless.

No falls.

No trips.

Nothing embarrassing.

Just skating.

Just living in it, in the moment, in the ice, in the music that carried him forward.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, his thoughts lingered—on last night, on that fleeting kiss, on the way Seungmin had looked at him, had left him with something unspoken.

This was it.

His youth.

And for the first time—

He let the emotions pour into his skating.

Let them move with him, guide him—let himself feel it all.

Because nothing mattered more than this.

Minho finished his program with a winning bow, chest rising and falling with deep, controlled breaths as he skated off the ice.

He stepped into Kiss and Cry with Chan hyung by his side, the anticipation settling heavy in his chest.

And then—

The score came.

Higher than his last personal best.

First place.

For the first time in his career, Minho had placed at the very top—his name shining on the leaderboard in a way he had only ever dreamed of.

The weight of it hit harder than expected.

For the first time, he felt like he could cry.

Chan lingered for a moment, squeezing his shoulder briefly, before stepping away—off to support Seungmin, off to do what he always did.

Minho exhaled, lingering a little longer, before slipping out of the area, successfully dodging the eager media members waiting for interviews.

Poor lads.

They wanted him to talk in English, but Minho had other priorities.

He stood near the rink, watching as the next skater finished their routine—a performance full of energy, engaging, pulling the audience in.

The reaction was strong—people awed, enthralled by the skill displayed.

But Minho wasn’t thinking about rankings.

Wasn’t thinking about them.

He was waiting.

For Seungmin.

For his Seungmin.

The one person who, without question, would skate like nothing else mattered.

And Minho—

Minho needed to see it.

And Seungmin never came.

Minho saw Chan hyung talking to the referees, caught the murmurs spreading through the arena, felt the shift in the atmosphere—something off, something wrong.

And then the podium preparations began.

No more waiting.

No more questioning.

Just moving forward.

Hyunjin appeared beside him—silent, steady—but there was something determined in his eyes, something unreadable, something final. Hyunjin took a deep breath.

Seungmin won’t compete.”

Minho stiffened.

“He went back to Korea last night.”

Minho’s heart shattered—quietly, internally, in a way that left nothing visible on the surface.

But he walked.

Emotionless.

Stepping onto the podium, accepting his silver medal—second place in the Grand Prix Final.

It should have felt like victory.

Like achievement.

Like something finally earned.

But it didn’t.

Because he hadn’t competed with Seungmin.

Hadn’t faced the one person who made the competition matter.

It was an empty win.

Bang Chan hyung looked worried, eyes flickering over Minho as he accepted the medal—like he knew.

Like he understood.

The skater Minho had half-watched—now standing on the highest step, the Grand Prix champion—had deserved the win.

Had performed brilliantly.

But Minho’s mind was far away.

Lingering in Korea.

Lingering where Seungmin was.

Because this wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

And somehow—

That hurt more than anything.

Minho moved through the hours like a ghost—silent, detached, avoiding every handshake, every congratulatory word, every acknowledgment of his silver medal.

None of it felt real.

None of it mattered.

Hyunjin was beside him the whole time—steady, unwavering, like he already knew Minho needed the silence more than anything.

But when they reached their hotel room, Hyunjin stopped—didn’t say a word, just handed Minho his phone.

A news report played on the screen.

The Kim Corporation chairman has passed away.

Then—a live broadcast.

His kids addressing the press, asking for privacy in their time of grief.

A black-clad girl spoke first.

And beside her—Kim Seungmin.

Stoic. Expressionless.

Unmoving, unreadable—like he had locked himself behind something cold, something untouchable.

Minho stared at the screen, at the way Seungmin stood, at the way he looked like nothing could reach him.

And suddenly, the weight of last night—

The whispered words, the lingering presence, the way Seungmin had made it feel like something more—

It hit.

So last night was a goodbye.

Whatever shit Seungmin had whispered—whatever fleeting, quiet thing Minho had refused to accept—

It had been a goodbye all along.

The flight back to Korea was silent.

Minho, Hyunjin, and Bang Chan sat through the trip without speaking—without acknowledging anything that had just happened.

It wasn’t just exhaustion.

It was something else.

Something heavier.

Something unspoken sitting between them.

When they checked out at the airport, Jisung, Changbin, Felix, and Jeongin were already there—waiting, watching.

They didn’t talk about his win.

Didn’t mention Seungmin.

Just let him exist in the quiet, like they already knew forcing a conversation would be useless.

The drive back home was just as detached.

Minho stared out the window, watching the endless streets of Seoul blur past—fast-moving cars, towering buildings, everything still functioning, still moving forward.

And then—

Banners.

Across so many buildings.

Condolences to Chairman Kim.

Minho exhaled quietly, the weight of reality settling even deeper.

Seungmin owned those buildings now.

The company.

The legacy..

Minho felt bitter.

Because the competition, the Grand Prix, the win—none of it had mattered in the end.

Seungmin had never even needed to compete.

Because his future had already been decided for him. Did he ever wanted this ? Minho might never find out.

That night, they all gathered at Bang Chan’s place—everyone together, no pressure, no expectations, just being there.

They comforted Minho in subtle ways—quiet reassurances, unspoken understanding, laughter that felt softer, warmer than usual.

But it wasn’t until Jisung showed up with Minho’s cats that the first real smile broke through.

The warmth of his fur babies, the way they curled against him, the simple familiarity—it grounded him in a way nothing else could.

And after that, the night shifted.

They celebrated the win.

They ate, talked, let themselves sink into something normal again.

And Minho?

He intentionally got drunk.

Sang.

Cried.

Let himself forget—even if just for a little while.

He forgot Seungmin, the kiss, the aching weight of everything that had settled in his chest.

For a few brief hours, he let himself exist in the blur.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

Minho woke up under a table.

Not on a couch.

Not in a bed.

Under a damn table in Chan hyung’s apartment—his head throbbing, body stiff, the unmistakable weight of a hangover pressing down on him.

Before he could fully process how he got there, he shifted—only to bang his head against something solid.

A very groggy Hyunjin.

Great start to the day.

They all felt it—the exhaustion, the sluggishness, the dull ache from a night of too much drinking, too much celebrating, too much everything.

So they stayed in.

Lazed around the apartment.

Ignored the outside world, ignored responsibilities, ignored whatever reality waited beyond those walls.

And it wasn’t until the night had fully settled, shadows stretching long across the room, that Minho finally checked his phone.

The weight of yesterday still lingering.

Still waiting for him to face it.

Minho picked up his phone that night, hoping—just for a second—that maybe, maybe, there would be a message.

Something from Seungmin.

Something small.

But when he unlocked his screen—

Nothing.

No text.

No missed call.

Just the empty silence staring back at him.

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to swallow down the weight of that disappointment.

They had never really chatted privately, not like that.

So it was fine.

It had to be fine.

But then—

He spotted it.

A day-old notification from Kim Seungmin Skates—his YouTube channel.

Minho frowned.

When had he ever subscribed to that?

But curiosity—or something deeper—made him click on it.

The screen went black for a moment.

Then—dim lighting.

A familiar-looking rink.

Their rink.

The place they had trained together.

Soft melody started to play, and then—

Seungmin appeared.

Minho stared.

At the outfit, at the way he had finally let himself go.

No signature layers.

No structured hoodies.

Just a damn crop top, clinging pants revealing everything Minho had only ever caught glimpses of.

Broad shoulders.

Sharp lines. That ridiculous waist.

Those strong arms.

Minho swallowed hard.

And then—

The music started, moving with Seungmin’s voice.

And Minho recognized it.

Had heard that melody before—in Han Jisung’s apartment-slash-studio, in a fleeting moment, in something passing but never fully acknowledged.

Seungmin sang.

And this—

This was him.

A performance full of heartbreak and pain, but hope, too—palpable, undeniable, wrapped in something raw.

Minho watched, caught in it, unable to look away.

Then the credits rolled.

Han Jisung

The song: Hold On.

Sung by Kim Seungmin.

And the final words—

Special thanks:

Lee Felix, 3RACHA, Yang Jeongin—“For being my friends, even if our time was short.”

Hwang Hyunjin—“For being my best friend for years.”

Lee Minho—“For being everything else I needed.”

Thank You

Minho stared.

Felt something in him stop.

And after a long, long moment—

The screen went black.

Just like that.

A month passed in silence.

Not a single word from Seungmin.

Not a single sign of his return.

Hyunjin screamed when he tried to open the app—the one that gave him access to Kim properties as a hired worker.

Only to find out—

His entrance was cancelled.

With nothing but a polite thank you and a deposit to his account—more than eight digits, a sum that made even Hyunjin, who rarely faltered, lose his mind.

Seungmin never came back to take his things from their shared apartment either.

Never reached out.

Never asked for anything.

Just—gone.

Jisung had explained it once, briefly, in a quiet conversation that Minho barely responded to.

He had helped Seungmin record that performance.

Had even given him the song. Had done the recording with Seungmin.

But none of it changed the fact that Minho avoided the rink completely after that.

Fully threw himself into dance instructor mode—swapped the ice for the studio, stayed away, didn’t even look at the rink anymore.

And life went on.

Everyone continued.

Felix laughed, Changbin worked, Jisung made music, Hyunjin brooded, Chan carried on.

But Seungmin’s spot—the space he had occupied beside them, the presence they had all learned to live with—

It stayed empty.

Whether they spoke about it or not, whether they acknowledged it or pushed past it—

His absence settled somewhere deep.

And nothing could replace it.

Minho woke up to a bang—a chaotic, jarring start to the day, but honestly, with his dumbass friends, it wasn’t exactly unusual.

He groaned, pulling an oversized shirt over his night tank top. No way was he getting caught in one of their camera pranks again. Not today.

Sulking, he shuffled to the door, already bracing himself for whatever nonsense awaited him.

And then—

A swarm of chaotic twenty-somethings young men burst in, loud and overwhelming.

Minho blinked, instinctively counting.

One. Two. Three.

And—seven?

What the actual—

But then his gaze locked onto Seungmin.

Standing there in a green oversized hoodie, gray sweats, and his training sneakers.

Seungmin.

Seungmin.

Minho froze, speechless, as Seungmin smiled at him—wide, bright, his perfect teeth on full display, looking so effortlessly himself.

And before Minho could even think, before he could process the sheer shock of it all—

He flung himself at Seungmin.

Arms wrapping tight, holding on like he’d never let go.

And Seungmin hugged him back—just as tight, just as fierce.

When they finally pulled apart, the others were watching—waiting, eyes flickering between them, anticipation thick in the air.

Minho didn’t care.

He leaned in, tilted his face upward, and pressed his lips to Seungmin’s—hard, certain, leaving no room for doubt.

This time, he’d be the one to surprise Seungmin.

And Seungmin?

He kissed back.

Hungry, desperate, like he’d been waiting for this moment just as much as Minho had.