Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yunjin’s voice crackled through the speaker, soft, tired, like a fading ember.

“I miss you so much, Chaewonnie…”

Chaewon leaned against the cool backstage wall, her back pressed to the concrete as stagehands buzzed around the perimeter of her vision. The noise was distant, clashing echoes of mic checks, staff directions, and the occasional booming bassline from the pre-show warmup. But none of it mattered.

Not when she heard Yunjin’s voice like that.

The soft way her name was said, fragile, stretched thin, stirred something in Chaewon's chest, that familiar ache that never fully left. The ache of missing someone so badly, it sat heavy in her bones. She pressed the phone tighter to her ear, as if she could will herself into the room with her best friend.

“I miss you too, Yun,” she said quietly. Her voice was warm but strained at the edges. “You have no idea.”

“I think I do,” Yunjin replied, teasing lightly, trying to sound like herself. But even the tiny smile in her tone sounded paper-thin, like she was holding it together with sheer will. There was a pause, delicate, heavy with unspoken things.

Chaewon closed her eyes and took a breath. “How are you feeling today?”

Another pause.

“Okay.”

It was too quick. Too clean. Too practiced.

Chaewon's brow furrowed. She could hear the lie before the silence settled behind it.

“Yunjin. Be honest with me.”

There was a soft rustle through the speaker—fabric shifting, maybe the stiff sheets of the hospital bed or the cotton of her sweatshirt brushing against the receiver. Then, just barely, Chaewon heard it. A quiet inhale through gritted teeth. A faint, stifled sound.

A wince.

Her stomach turned cold.

“Wait—was that you? Did you just—did something hurt?”

Yunjin was quiet. Too quiet. And then:

“No. I mean… just moved wrong. Back pain again.”

“Again?” Chaewon’s voice pitched up, concern edging every word. She stood straighter against the wall, her fingers gripping her phone so tightly her knuckles paled. “Is it worse?”

There was a delay.

Then Yunjin exhaled shakily, defeated.

“It’s like… it wraps around my spine, Chae. Some days, it’s a dull throb. But today? It’s like my whole body is protesting. My legs shake when I stand up. My hands go numb.”

Chaewon’s heart sank like a stone.

“I didn’t tell the nurses. I didn’t want to delay therapy again.”

“Yunjin…”

“But I can handle it,” she added quickly. Too quickly. “I swear. Don’t worry. You have enough on your plate.”

It broke something in Chaewon—how easily Yunjin dismissed her own pain to protect her.

She took a steadying breath, trying not to cry. Not here. Not now. She forced the crack out of her voice and made it soft but firm.

“You’re more important than anything on my plate.”

There was a pause on the line. Then, faintly, a tired chuckle.

“You always say the right thing.”

“It’s not a line, Yunjin,” Chaewon whispered. “You are more important than this concert. Than anything.”

Silence fell between them again, but this one wasn’t empty. It was thick—dense with love, with longing, with the ache of what they couldn’t reach through a phone line.

Yunjin cleared her throat, the sound strained and too quiet.

“Oh shoot—it’s almost time for my session. Shock therapy again.”

That one word: again.

Chaewon’s entire body tensed. “Wait, which nurse is doing it today?”

“Some new guy. Park-something. He seems okay, I guess.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

Yunjin let out a soft laugh, trying to deflect. “What, don’t trust my judgement?”

“I don’t trust anyone with you but me.”

Chaewon meant it. Every syllable.

And Yunjin heard it.

There was a beat, a tender breath shared in silence, through space, through time zones, through everything between them.

“I love you, Chaewon.”

“I love you too,” Chaewon said instantly. “Talk after, okay?”

“Always.”

Click.

Chaewon stood there for a moment after the call ended, the silence in her ear deafening. The ache in her chest didn’t subside, but it shifted. Became something heavier. Something angrier.

"back pain again."

“Park-something.”

“legs shake… hands go numb.”

She wanted to throw her phone at the wall. Wanted to scream. But instead she slid it back into her pocket, wiped at her eyes quickly before anyone could see.

And then, with jaw tight and fists clenched, she turned and walked back into the dressing room.

Because Yunjin was in pain, and Chaewon couldn’t be there. But she would be. Soon.

She just had to get through one more show.

---

The call ended with a soft, final click, but Yunjin didn’t move. She remained curled on her side, the hospital blanket tangled around her legs, her forehead pressed to the cool, unforgiving surface of the pillow.

“I love you too,” she whispered again, barely a breath.

As if the words themselves could wrap around her chest and hold her together for just a few more minutes. As if they could plug the leaks in her dam before everything spilled out again.

Her hand trembled as she reached up and gently pulled the phone from her ear. It slipped slightly from her grasp and landed on the blanket with a dull thud. Her other hand curled into the sheets.

She didn't cry. Not yet. But the ache in her body—deep, old, and newly sharp—was clawing at her nerves like rusted hooks.

Yunjin pushed herself upright. Her torso protested immediately. Her lower back throbbed with a dull, ugly pressure, like something inside her spine had coiled too tightly and refused to relax.

Her legs dangled over the edge of the bed, and she hesitated before trying to stand. The moment her weight shifted downward, a thousand needles prickled violently beneath her skin. First numbness. Then fire.

She let out a shaky breath and gripped the metal bedrail. Every part of her felt disconnected. Distant.

You can handle it.

That was what she’d said. What she always said. Because saying it made it true, right? Right.

There was a soft knock.

Nurse Park.

He stood by the open doorway, clipboard in hand, with a pressed smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His ID badge sat crooked on his chest. His uniform looked a size too big, like it wasn’t tailored to him, or he wasn’t ready to fill the weight of it.

“Miss Huh?” he asked, voice tight with forced politeness. “Ready?”

Yunjin nodded slowly. “As I’ll ever be,” she muttered, trying to lace her voice with her usual dry humour, but the sound was frayed and thin.

She took one step and faltered. The hospital socks slid slightly on the tile floor. Her knees almost buckled.

Park didn’t notice.

He’d already turned away, walking ahead down the hallway, his footsteps brisk and detached. He didn’t look back once.

Yunjin clenched her jaw and forced herself to keep moving, one hand dragging along the wall for balance. Her legs felt like heavy glass, her back stiff and locked up with every step. Each footfall felt a second too delayed from her body’s command.

The room was too cold. Not just sterile—cold. The fluorescent lighting buzzed low and constant, like a wasp’s nest trapped inside her skull. The air smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol and static. There was no music, no conversation, no comfort. Just machines and wires.

Yunjin eased herself onto the therapy table and sucked in a breath as her spine protested the hard surface. She curled her fingers into the edges of the cushion, trying to stay grounded. Her pulse was already beginning to race, a low thrum under her skin.

Park stood by the main console. He was muttering something under his breath, squinting at the monitor, tapping keys too fast. He looked… uncertain.

That was never a good sign.

Yunjin swallowed. “Shouldn’t we wait for Dr. Shin?” she asked, voice quieter now. Almost like she was hoping he’d say yes.

“She’s on lunch,” Park replied without glancing at her. “I’ve got clearance.”

Yunjin didn’t respond. Her stomach twisted. Something about the way he said it—offhand, like he was brushing lint off his shoulder—made her uneasy.

Her fingers curled tighter.

Electrodes were placed on her lower back. The pads were cold. The contact gel was colder. One after another, the wires tangled like spider legs along her skin.

“Wait—can we… go slow today?” she asked, eyes flitting to his back.

“Of course,” Park replied mechanically. He still wasn’t looking at her.

But he didn’t mean it.

The hum began. Low. Buzzing. Like the flicker of static just before a lightning strike.

Yunjin flinched slightly, just from anticipation. She closed her eyes. Focused on her breathing. One in. One out.

And then—snap.

A pulse shot through her spine like a whip.

Her back arched uncontrollably off the table.

It wasn’t just pain—it was wrong. Like something inside her was bending the wrong way. Like her nerves were being peeled from her bones.

Her mouth opened in a silent cry. Her vision went white around the edges.

“Wait!” she gasped. “I—I can’t!”

She tried to lift her arm, to signal him, but her muscles spasmed violently. Her limbs jolted. Her legs kicked out.

Park's head shot up. He blinked at the monitor, confused. “Shit—hang on!”

He fumbled with the dials. One switch slipped past his fingers. The hum grew louder.

Yunjin’s body seized again. Her hands scrabbled at the table edges, nails scraping uselessly against vinyl.

My heart—why is it pounding like that? Why can’t I—why can’t I breathe?

Her chest was caving in. Her lungs refused to expand.

And then her fingers stopped moving.

Her body fell still. Slack.

Her eyes rolled back in her head.

The monitor flashed red, loud, sharp beeps echoing through the room. [ALERT: NEUROSTIMULATION ERROR. IRREGULAR CARDIAC RESPONSE.]

A second nurse burst through the door.

“Oh my god, she’s coding! Get the crash cart!”

Park froze. His hands hung mid-air like he wasn’t sure where they were supposed to go.

The nurse shoved him aside and dove for the emergency switch. Alarms shrieked. Footsteps pounded.

Yunjin felt nothing.

She floated in blackness.

A cold, endless dark.

But somewhere in that void, like a far-off lighthouse beam, she heard Chaewon’s voice again.

“I love you too. Talk after, okay?”

Her mouth formed the words, even if no one could hear them.

“Always.”

---

The concert hall buzzed like a hive ready to explode.

Fans were already stamping their feet above the ceiling. Their cheers pulsed like distant thunder, a rhythm of anticipation vibrating through the floorboards.

Inside the dressing room, the members of LE SSERAFIM prepared, but something was off.

Chaewon sat stiffly in her makeup chair, surrounded by glitter, hairspray, and the frantic shuffle of stylists. A voice was talking—something about mic placement—but it faded into white noise. She turned her head slightly.

Yunjin’s makeup chair sat empty beside her. Untouched. Lonely.

Still holding the grape-flavored candies she always brought, still lined with that small heart-shaped mirror she stuck to the side because “it made the lighting better.”

No one had touched it.

Kazuha stood silently by the mirror, brushing her hair for the fourth time in a row. Not because they needed fixing, but because it gave her hands something to do. Her gaze was fixed, hollow. Like her reflection belonged to someone else.

Eunchae sat curled in a chair, scrolling through her phone. Not speaking. Her thumb moved, but she wasn’t reading anything. Her usually bright eyes were dimmed, flickering like a candle trying to stay lit.

Sakura paced the length of the room.

Not dramatically, but with a kind of nervous rhythm, like a ticking metronome that made her steps echo louder than they should. She picked up a water bottle. Put it down. Picked it up again. Her shoulders were too stiff.

The tension in the air was thick, but hidden beneath the appearance of routine. It was the kind of silence that lived between breaths. Unspoken, but choking everyone all the same.

Then the stage manager peeked in.

“Ten minutes.”

Everyone nodded. No one spoke.

Chaewon stood. Her chest felt tight, like her lungs weren’t expanding all the way.

“I’ll be back,” she murmured to no one in particular and slipped out the dressing room door.

Chaewon leaned against the cold wall, exhaling quietly. She needed a second. Just a moment of quiet.

Her fingers curled into her jacket pocket and found her phone.

Still no new messages.

No missed calls.

She hovered over Yunjin’s name in her recent calls. Her thumb shook slightly.

Should I send a quick message? Just one—

Behind her, the low buzz of a walkie-talkie crackled from one of the production staffers. She didn’t pay it much attention at first.

Not until Sakura’s voice, low and urgent, made her pause.

“…Wait, say that again?”

Something in her tone stopped Chaewon mid-step.

She turned back, eyes narrowing.

Sakura stood by a staff member holding a walkie-talkie. Her hand was tight around her own earpiece. Her jaw tensed visibly.

“Who authorized the transport?” Sakura asked, voice barely above a whisper but lined with panic. “Where is she now? Which hospital?”

Chaewon’s stomach dropped.

She stepped closer. “What’s going on?”

Sakura looked up, startled. “Chaewon—nothing, it’s fine—”

Chaewon’s expression hardened. “Don’t lie to me.”

Sakura hesitated.

“I’m the leader,” Chaewon said quietly, firmly. “If something’s wrong, I have the right to know.”

The silence held for half a second too long.

Then Sakura finally exhaled, her shoulders slumping as she made a choice.

“Yunjin collapsed during shock therapy,” she said softly. “They don’t know why. She was responsive when they started… but then… she wasn’t.”

Chaewon breath hitched. “What do you mean by wasn’t?”

Sakura swallowed. “She lost consciousness. Collapsed. Unresponsive. A nurse called for emergency help. They had to resuscitate her. She’s been taken to a hospital nearby. That’s all they said.”

Chaewon didn’t feel her body move.

But she was already stepping past Sakura, past the staff, down the hallway, heartbeat pounding in her throat like a war drum.

Sakura caught her arm. “Chaewon, where are you going?”

“She needs me.”

“You can’t just leave, we’re going on in—”

“I don’t care.” Chaewon’s voice cracked. “I have to go.”

And she tore her arm free.

"Chaewon!" The eldest watched helplessly as their leader—whom they needed at a time of crisis—ran away to chase after the girl who owned her heart.

Sakura returned to the dressing room, breathless and dazed. Kazuha and Eunchae looked up instantly.

“What happened?” Kazuha asked.

“Where’s Chaewon unnie?” Eunchae asked, voice already wavering.

Sakura froze.

She couldn’t say it. Not like this. Not with all their hearts already fraying.

“She—uh. She left. Had an emergency,” Sakura mumbled.

"She left?" Eunchae repeated.

“What kind of emergency?”

Sakura looked around wildly.

“Explosive diarrhea,” she blurted.

Eunchae and Kazuha stared at Sakura like she’d grown a second head.

“Explosive… what?” Kazuha said slowly, brows furrowed.

“I panicked!” Sakura whispered harshly. “I didn’t know what to say!”

“So, you're lying?” Eunchae said. Her voice had dropped to a hush, soft and cracking like brittle ice. “That’s not why Chaewon left…”

Sakura’s eyes flickered toward the closed door, as if expecting Chaewon to come storming back in.

She didn’t.

Sakura exhaled sharply and motioned for the two of them to huddle closer.

Her voice dropped, low and fragile. “You’re right. It’s not. It’s Yunjin.”

Kazuha froze. “What happened?”

“She was in her therapy session, something went wrong. The new technician—Park—he…” Sakura paused, her jaw tightening. “He did something. Wrong settings or something. She collapsed. She lost consciousness, and they had to rush her to the ER.”

Eunchae’s hands flew to her mouth. Her phone slid from her lap, hitting the floor with a dull clatter.

“No,” Kazuha whispered. “No, she was okay yesterday—she texted me—she—”

“I know,” Sakura said softly. Her own eyes were red now, rimmed with un-shed tears. “She was getting better. And now…”

Kazuha stepped back, as if the air had become suddenly heavier. “They didn’t… they didn’t say anything else?”

“Only that she was unresponsive. That they’re doing tests.”

Eunchae’s tears broke free.

“She’s not okay,” she said, her voice trembling. “She’s not okay and Chaewon unnie’s gone because she’s scared she’s gonna lose her—”

Sakura pulled both of them into a hug. Tight. Protective.

“She’s strong. Yunjin’s the strongest person I know,” Sakura said, her voice shaking now too. “She’ll fight. She always fights.”

“But why her?” Eunchae whimpered. “Why again?”

There was no answer.

Just silence, broken only by the distant sound of the fans cheering from outside.

Then the stage manager’s voice rang out again from the hallway:

“Three minutes!”

They broke apart.

Eunchae wiped her tears, her face still blotchy but determined. “We’re going on?”

“We have to,” Sakura said. “Chaewon would want us to hold the stage until she’s back. And Yunjin—she’d never forgive us if we didn’t.”

Kazuha’s jaw set. She stood tall. “Then let’s do it. For her.”

Sakura nodded, then glanced at the crowd just beyond the curtain. Her fingers trembled, but she clenched them into a fist.

“For both of them.”

The roar of the crowd hit them like a wave.

Lightsticks lit the stadium like stars, pink and white and pulsing with energy, but to LE SSERAFIM, it felt like stepping into a dream where the world was spinning too fast.

Sakura stood center stage, hands clenched at her sides, mic already clipped to her ear. She could feel Eunchae’s trembling next to her, she hadn’t let go of her hand since they stepped into the spotlight. Kazuha flanked Sakura’s other side, her spine straight, face unreadable, but her eyes were glassy.

Chaewon’s spot in the middle was glaringly, painfully empty.

The intro music started.

They moved by muscle memory.

But it wasn’t the same.

Eunchae came in half a second late on the first beat. Kazuha missed her cue to spin. Sakura’s voice cracked slightly on her first line, but she kept going, refusing to cry in front of thousands.

Still, the crowd knew.

They noticed.

The fan chants were quieter than usual. Whispers filled the gaps between verses.

"Where was Chaewon?"

"Why did the members look like they’d just cried?"

"Why was Eunchae visibly shaking?"

"Why was Kazuha staring down at the floor like she couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes?"

Midway through the second song, Eunchae completely froze during her line. Her voice caught in her throat. She looked out into the sea of fans, lightsticks waving, phones up, and her vision blurred. She bit her lip hard, but the tears still slipped down.

Sakura stepped in immediately, wrapping an arm around her and continuing the line herself, but her own voice was cracking too now.

Kazuha missed another beat. She turned the wrong way.

The choreography collapsed.

And the lights cut suddenly.

Dead silence.

Sakura stepped forward to the center mic. Her hands were shaking so hard the mic bumped against her lips.

She bowed deeply. Then again. And again.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, voice raw. “I know you were all looking forward to today. We were too. But… due to an emergency—”

Her breath hitched.

“Our leader, Kim Chaewon, had to leave. One of our members is… not well.”

Gasps from the crowd. Someone shouted “Is it Yunjin?!”

Sakura blinked rapidly.

“Yunjin collapsed during her medical therapy today. She’s in the hospital now. We don’t know how bad it is. We’re waiting too.”

There was a ripple of stunned silence.

“I lied earlier,” she admitted softly. “I wanted to say it was… it was a stomach issue. Because I was scared. But you deserve to know the truth. We don’t know if she’s okay.”

Eunchae covered her face. Kazuha reached over to rub her back.

Sakura looked back at them, then at the crowd.

“She’s our sister. Our friend. And we can’t go on singing like nothing happened. We’re so sorry. Please forgive us.”

She bowed again. Deep. Her knees buckled slightly, but she stayed low.

Seventeen bows. The audience counted. No one stopped her.

By the time she straightened up, her face was streaked with tears.

They left the stage to stunned silence, no cheering, no music, just the soft murmur of worried fans trying to piece together what had just happened.

Backstage, the girls collapsed into chairs.

No one said a word.

Kazuha’s fists were clenched white. Eunchae was quietly sobbing into a towel.

Sakura looked around the choas surrounding her. She should've been worried about the concert, the fans, LE SSERAFIM's reputation, but all she could focus on was Yunjin. She was so worried for the younger member.

Come back to us, Yunjin. Please.

---

The city lights blurred past like ghosts, meaningless, shifting streaks of neon against the van’s windows.

Chaewon sat curled in the backseat, hunched forward, elbows on her knees, her hands twisted tightly together. Her knuckles were bloodless. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, yet everything she looked at was a smear. She couldn’t see the city. She couldn’t hear her manager’s occasional attempts at reassurance.

All she could hear was Sakura’s voice echoing over and over in her skull.

“Yunjin collapsed during therapy.”

“She’s unresponsive.”

Unresponsive.

Her stomach clenched so hard it felt like something inside her might burst. She tried to swallow the scream in her throat, but it was boiling, choking her. Her leg bounced violently, not from nerves, but from barely restrained panic.

She was alone.

While I was unaware backstage.

Her fingernails dug into the back of her hands. She hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye before storming out to perform. She hadn’t known. She hadn’t sensed anything.

And Yunjin had collapsed.

Yunjin. Her Yunjin.

Was she in pain?

Was she scared?

Was she calling out for me?

“Drive faster,” she whispered, voice raw.

The manager beside her didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The silence in the van was already too loud.

The van skidded to a stop outside the ER entrance. Before the tires had fully halted, Chaewon was out the door, sprinting.

Her breath came fast, sharp, her chest burning as she burst through the sliding glass doors of the emergency department.

“Huh Yunjin,” she gasped out to the front desk, nearly colliding with it. “Please, what room is she in?”

The nurse blinked at the disheveled idol standing before her. She took in the smudged eyeliner, the stage makeup streaked with sweat and panic. Then, quickly, she checked the system.

Typing quickly, she scanned the system.

“Room 317. East wing. Third floor.”

Chaewon didn’t wait. “Thank you—” didn’t even make it past her lips.

She ran.

Down white corridors that all looked the same. Past posters about handwashing, signs for pediatric units and neurology wings. Her sneakers pounded against the floor like drumbeats.

Each hallway stretched longer than the last.

Each turn felt like it took her farther away.

The elevator was too slow, so she took the stairs, two at a time, her limbs screaming, lungs burning. But she didn’t stop.

She reached the third floor, dizzy and breathless, and then everything was still.

The sterile lighting buzzed overhead. The hall smelled like bleach and fear. Every closed door felt like a coffin.

Room 317.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the handle.

She couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t open the door.

Because what if…

What if she was too late?

What if she saw Yunjin, and there was no “Yunjin” left inside that body?

Her fingers hovered. Then clenched.

She forced the door open.

And her heart shattered.

Yunjin lay small against the hospital bed, her long form curled ever so slightly despite the stiff sheets. Her skin was pale, too pale, her cheeks devoid of warmth. Tubes connected to her arms. Electrodes still stuck to her temples and collarbone. The monitor beside her beeped steadily, but it wasn’t comforting. It was haunting.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t stir.

Didn’t blink.

She looked… empty.

No bright laughter. No mischief. No spark.

Just stillness.

Chaewon stumbled forward, her knees buckling as she dropped into the chair beside the bed.

Her hands found Yunjin’s fingers. They were cold. Not lifeless, but too close for comfort.

“Yun,” Chaewon whispered, her voice breaking immediately. “I’m here, baby. I’m here.”

She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the back of Yunjin’s hand. Her tears dropped onto the skin, hot, frantic, helpless.

“You didn’t even say goodbye.”

Her breath came in hiccups.

“You promised,” she choked, voice cracking. “You said we’d talk after.”

A sob burst from her throat. She couldn’t suppress it anymore.

“I wasn’t there. I should’ve been there. I knew something was wrong, I should’ve stayed with you. I should’ve told the staff not to let you go alone. Why didn’t I fight harder?”

She kissed the inside of Yunjin’s palm, again and again, as if trying to pour warmth back into her through touch.

“You can’t leave me. Do you hear me?” she whispered fiercely. “You’re not allowed to leave me.”

She reached up and gently brushed the hair from Yunjin’s forehead, her fingers tender but shaking.

“I didn’t even get to tell you how proud I am of you,” she said, her voice cracking. “Every day you fought. Every day you smiled even when it hurt. I was so caught up being a leader I forgot how strong you were just by waking up and pushing through.”

Yunjin’s face didn’t move.

The monitor beeped steadily, but it wasn’t enough.

“Please,” Chaewon whispered. “If you’re in there, if you can hear me...please come back.”

Another sob escaped. She bit her lip so hard it split, but she didn’t care.

“I can’t do this without you.”

Chaewon reached for her phone, unlocked it with trembling fingers, and opened the last voice message Yunjin had sent her.

“Chaewonnie~ I love you!”

Her throat closed.

She hit replay.

“Chaewonnie~ I love you!”

Again.

Again.

She played it until she couldn’t take it anymore.

Until her chest caved in and her voice broke and all she could do was curl into the edge of the hospital bed, clutching Yunjin’s hand like it was her only tether to the world.

Because it was.

The sterile beep of the monitor cut through the silence like a ticking clock of dread.

Chaewon had lost all sense of time. She sat unmoving in the stiff chair beside the hospital bed, fingers still laced tightly with Yunjin’s, as if letting go would make her disappear entirely.

She didn’t flinch when the door creaked open.

Two figures entered, a man in a white coat, clipboard tucked under his arm, and a nurse trailing behind with a tablet. The room felt colder the moment they stepped inside.

The doctor glanced up and paused, spotting Chaewon seated like a stone guardian beside the patient.

“Who are you?” he asked cautiously.

Chaewon rose instantly, her posture tense, eyes shadowed but blazing. “Kim Chaewon. I’m… her friend.”

Her voice was clipped, brittle, but the word friend tasted wrong in her mouth. Insufficient. Powerless.

The doctor gave her a strange look, noting the white-knuckled grip she still had on Yunjin’s hand. “Right… friend. I assume you want to know what happened.”

Chaewon nodded once. Sharp. Her jaw tightened, lips pressed into a line that barely contained the storm inside her.

The doctor’s eyes flicked to the monitor briefly before he spoke. “Miss Huh experienced a vasovagal syncope—a sudden loss of consciousness—accompanied by seizure-like activity and a partial spinal collapse. The cause was excessive neuromuscular stimulation during her electrotherapy session.”

Chaewon blinked. Her heart pounded louder in her ears.

“I’m sorry. Excessive… stimulation?” she echoed slowly. Coldly. “Are you saying she was over-shocked?”

The doctor exhaled carefully. “The electrical calibration was set beyond her charted limits. It overstimulated her lower spine and central nerves. Her body reacted violently. The technician didn’t notice until—”

Until she was already unconscious. Until she was convulsing on the table alone.

Chaewon’s voice dropped to a low whisper. “Are you telling me this was a mistake?”

The nurse shifted uncomfortably beside him.

“Yes,” the doctor admitted. “It was a miscalculation. A human error.”

The words shattered her restraint like glass underfoot.

“A miscalculation?” Her voice pitched up with disbelief. “She collapsed in your therapy room. She could’ve died, and you’re calling that a miscalculation?”

The nurse flinched. The doctor held up a hand. “Miss Kim, I understand you’re upset—”

“No, you don’t,” she hissed. “You don’t understand a goddamn thing.”

She took a step forward, rage glowing in her eyes like fire under cracked glass. “That girl in that bed fought tooth and nail to stand on stage again. She cried through rehearsals, through rehab, and still smiled for your staff. She trusted your people with her body, her future, and now she’s like this because someone couldn’t was too careless to read a chart?!”

The nurse tried to speak, but Chaewon cut her off with a scathing glare. “Don’t you dare defend this.”

The doctor’s face paled slightly. “The technician has been reported. We’ve opened a formal investigation. Hospital administration is already—”

“Good. If you weren’t,” she growled, “I’d do it myself.”

There was venom in her tone now, sharp enough to draw blood. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. “What’s the damage?”

The room quieted. The monitor beeped. One... two... three.

Finally, the doctor looked at the chart again.

“She’s presenting with acute lower limb paralysis. Likely temporary. We’re hopeful that with the proper intervention and rest, she’ll regain function. But it will take time. We’re monitoring brain activity and spinal swelling closely.”

Hopeful.

Not certain.

Hopeful.

Chaewon stared at him like she wanted to burn holes through his coat. “And if she doesn’t recover?”

The doctor didn’t answer.

She didn’t expect him to.

“You don’t get to play god with her recovery. You don’t get to shrug and call this ‘unfortunate.’ You were supposed to help her.”

“Miss Kim—”

“She trusted you.”

She was trembling now. Not from fear, but from fury. Righteous, suffocating rage.

The doctor nodded stiffly. “I understand. We’ll update you immediately with any changes.”

“Get out,” she whispered, not looking at them.

The nurse blinked.

“Out.” Her voice cracked.

The door clicked shut behind them a moment later.

Silence fell.

Chaewon stood there, staring at the floor like it had wronged her. Then, slowly, shakily, she turned back to the bed.

To Yunjin.

To the only person in the world who could make her melt and ignite in the same breath.

She dropped back into the chair, her body too heavy now. Her hands reached again for Yunjin’s, pulling it gently to her lips.

“You always did have a flair for drama,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “You couldn’t just recover quietly, huh?”

She brushed her thumb along Yunjin’s knuckles, studying every crease like she might never get the chance again.

“I don’t care if you can’t walk for six months. I don’t care if I have to carry you everywhere. I don’t care if we have to cancel everything.” Her voice broke again. “I just want you. I want you to wake up and laugh at my hair being frizzy. I want you to argue over what drama to binge. I want you to look at me like you do when you think I’m not paying attention.”

She reached out and gently tucked a strand of Yunjin’s hair behind her ear.

“I want your dumb little hoodie with the fraying sleeves. I want the way you steal my food and act like I didn’t see it. I want us.”

Tears rolled freely down her cheeks now.

“You can’t leave me like this,” she whispered. “You don’t get to say you love me and then disappear. That’s not fair. I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

Her voice collapsed into silence.

Then she laid her head down on the side of the bed, still clutching Yunjin’s hand, her tears soaking into the thin blanket.

---

It started like the others.

A bright room. White walls. The faint buzz of electricity threading the air like invisible wires. Cold air kissed her skin, clinical and unforgiving.

Yunjin lay, stomach-down, on a therapy table, her hands gripping the cold mattress beneath her, trembling, ghost-like. Her breathing came short and shallow, every inhale catching like a hiccup in her throat.

The walls were too white.

The light was too harsh.

The silence was wrong.

It wasn’t peaceful.

It was watching her.

She turned her head. Slowly.

There was no door. No window. No one.

Only the sound.

Bzzt.

Her whole body flinched. Not from the noise,but from what came with it.

Dread.

She looked back.

Wires.

Her stomach dropped.

The same ones. The thick, plastic-tubed leads were strapped tightly around her thighs, calves, her spine. The electrodes blinked. Blue light. Like eyes. Like veins.

“No…” she whispered, barely able to get the word out.

It echoed in the too-quiet room, bouncing off walls that felt like they were creeping closer.

She tried to move. Her fingers twitched. Tried to peel the wires off, to rip them off, but nothing worked.

Her arms sat limp by her side like they didn’t belong to her anymore.

Her legs wouldn’t budge.

Not even a toe.

“Help… I can’t—” she tried, but her voice strangled in her throat, the panic making her chest tighten. Her breath came faster.

And then—

BZZZZZZZZT.

The current hit.

Not a jolt. A surge.

It sank into her spine like a needle of lightning, spreading through every nerve, every muscle. Her body arched violently, every tendon straining, her teeth clenching so hard it sent a sharp pain to her skull.

Her back. Her neck. Her core. All locked.

Her body wasn’t hers. It was a puppet. A conduit. A cage of electricity.

She tried to shout.

But her scream didn’t come out. Only a soft, choking gasp. Her mouth moved, wide and desperate, but there was no sound.

She couldn’t scream.

She couldn’t even cry.

The wires tightened. Or maybe it was just her nerves seizing.

The pain wasn’t sharp anymore. It was all-consuming. Like her very cells were being set on fire. Like her bones were being crushed from within.

Her legs? Gone. She couldn’t feel them.

She looked back again.

Nothing.

White static. Flickering where her limbs should be. Like the signal was breaking. Like she was a bad feed, glitching out of her own body.

Her fingers disintegrated before her eyes—ash, falling in slow motion, breaking apart like paper burned too fast to scream.

BZZZZZZZT.

The machine wailed again, the pitch rising.

Her heart galloped against her ribs.

Her lungs refused to expand.

“I—I can’t breathe—” she rasped, but no one heard.

There was no one.

No nurses. No Chaewon.

Only wires. Pain. And silence that roared louder than thunder.

“Please! STOP!”

She screamed.

But the room swallowed the sound whole.

Her vision blurred. Tears? Maybe. Or her brain shorting out like the rest of her.

And then the walls, those terrible white walls, started to melt. Dripping like wax. Like they were bleeding.

The ceiling cracked and spidered like glass about to shatter.

Her mind screamed, but her mouth only trembled.

The machine shrieked, its whine glitching, splitting into static and mechanical growls.

She was falling. Or sinking. Or floating. She didn’t know.

Her body convulsed in place—but she couldn’t feel it anymore.

Everything around her turned black.

No, she thought. No, please… not again. Not again. I don’t want to die like this… I don’t want to be alone again—

Then—

A voice.

Like an anchor slicing through a storm.

“Yunjin!”

Her head snapped. She knew that voice.

Chaewon.

The sound of it cracked through the nightmare like a stone through glass.

“Chaewon…?” Her voice broke, hoarse and disbelieving.

She was still in the dark.

But now, there was a pulse of warmth. Distant, but real. She felt it like a thread brushing her cheek.

“Yunjin! Wake up, please I’m right here!”

Her heart leapt.

She turned. Frantic. “Where?! Where are you?!”

The darkness didn’t answer. It only throbbed, like it was alive. Mocking her. A heartbeat of black static and nothingness.

“Please…” she begged. “I don’t know if you’re real. If you’re… a dream. But don’t stop. Don’t stop talking.”

The voice came again, sharper now. Louder.

“Yunjin, come back to me!”

“Chaewon!” she cried. Her voice cracked, finally real. “I can’t—I can’t feel anything—I don’t know where I am—”

"I'm right here, Yunjin!"

Yunjin turned, her arms shaking like jello. She reached.

Blindly.

Like grasping through water, her hand stretched toward the sound. Her body trembled, but she didn’t care.

Her fingers brushed something warm.

Was it her hand?

Was it real?

“I’m scared…” she whispered, voice collapsing. “Please don’t leave me again.”

And then—

Darkness again.

But softer, now.

Like sleep, not death.

---

Chaewon didn’t know when she’d fallen asleep.

One moment she was whispering to Yunjin in the stillness of the hospital room, her hand curled gently around hers, her forehead resting against the edge of the bed. The next, the dark behind her eyes flickered, until something stirred beneath her fingers.

Her hand twitched.

So did Yunjin’s.

Not a full movement, not a stretch, just a tiny, shaky spasm of fingers beneath her own. Barely there. But real.

Chaewon’s breath caught.

Her eyes snapped open, the haze of sleep immediately replaced by sharp, focused adrenaline. Her back ached from the awkward position, but she didn’t care. Her head jerked up, heartbeat thudding in her ears.

Yunjin’s fingers twitched again.

Then again.

And then her grip, weak, spasming, started to tighten.

At first, Chaewon thought she was waking up.

But then Yunjin’s brow furrowed, twisting in visible agony. Her parted lips trembled. Her chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts. Her arms jerked slightly, then stilled, then twitched again, restless beneath the hospital blanket.

A tiny, broken sound escaped her.

Chaewon’s pulse jumped. “Yunjin?” she whispered quickly, rising halfway from her chair, voice taut. “Yunjin, hey, I’m here.”

Yunjin didn’t open her eyes.

She whimpered.

Her limbs twitched again, more forcefully this time, like she was trying to fight something off. Her breathing picked up, shallow and erratic, like she was being chased inside her mind. Sweat glistened on her forehead.

“No, no, no—” Chaewon leaned in, her voice trembling. “Yunjin, it’s okay. I’m right here, love. You’re safe.”

She gently cupped Yunjin’s cheek. It was warm now, too warm. Clammy. Her skin glowed pale under the fluorescent light, chest trembling with rapid breaths.

But Yunjin didn’t wake.

Her mouth moved, barely, shaping syllables in silence.

“Ch… Chae…”

It came out raw. Desperate.

She was still trapped.

Her back arched slightly. Her jaw clenched. Her hands curled into the sheets like she was grasping for an edge to reality that wouldn’t come.

“Yunjin!” Chaewon called, now panicking herself. “It’s just a dream. Baby, please wake up! You’re safe. It’s over.”

Yunjin thrashed suddenly, a gasp ripping from her throat.

“NO—stop!”

Her voice broke.

And so did Chaewon.

“I’m here, Yunjin! Come back to me!” she pleaded, voice cracking open. She moved both hands to cradle Yunjin’s face. “I’m right here! Wake up, please, please wake up!”

Yunjin’s eyes shot open.

A deep, gasping breath tore from her lips like she’d just surfaced from drowning. Her whole body jolted, muscles rigid. Her eyes darted frantically around the room—unfamiliar walls, antiseptic scent, cold IV in her arm, monitors beeping with mechanical indifference.

Her vision blurred. Everything swam.

Where was she?

Where had she just been?

Her heart was pounding so violently it hurt. Her limbs screamed. She tried to move, but pain stabbed up her spine like glass.

“Agh!”

“Hey, hey, shh—it’s okay! You’re okay now!”

That voice. 

Her head snapped toward the sound. Her eyes met a pair of soft, tear-glossed ones. Familiar. Real.

Chaewon.

Her voice cracked. “Chaewon…?”

“Yeah.” Her breath hitched. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Chaewon’s hands shook as she tucked damp hair behind Yunjin’s ear. She was still crying, but her voice was soft, controlled.

“You’re safe, Yun. You’re in the hospital. You’re okay.”

Yunjin’s breath still heaved. Her fingers clutched at the blanket like she needed something to hold. She looked around again, confusion written all over her face.

“What… what happened?” Her voice was hoarse, cracked. “Where… why am I?”

Chaewon’s heart broke all over again. “You had an episode. During therapy. The machine… it wasn’t calibrated right.” She swallowed hard. “They gave you too much. Your body couldn’t handle it.”

Yunjin froze.

Flashes of electricity. Pain. Screaming. Darkness swallowing her whole.

Her fingers curled against the bedsheets. Her body began to tremble. Her head shook faintly—no, no, no.

“I—I remember…” Her lips parted, and a small, pitiful sound escaped her. Her whole body went taut, like it was trying to reject the memory clawing back in.

“It hurt. It hurt so bad—I couldn’t… I couldn’t move—I thought I was dying—”

“Hey, hey, stop, look at me,” Chaewon said, voice cracking as she gently cupped Yunjin’s face. “Look at me, Yunjin. You’re not there anymore. You’re safe. You’re with me now.”

Yunjin’s gaze snapped back to hers, wide and wet and terrified.

“Can you feel my hand?” Chaewon asked, squeezing gently.

Yunjin nodded, barely.

“Then breathe with me,” Chaewon said, trying to keep her own panic at bay. “Just like this.”

She took a deep breath. In. Out. Again.

Yunjin matched her.

And again.

The tension slowly, slowly left her trembling shoulders. Her eyes blinked away fresh tears.

She clung to Chaewon’s presence like it was the only solid thing in the room.

But then, she tried to move.

Nothing.

Her eyes widened. She tried again. Her legs...why weren’t they...moving?

“Chaewon…” Her voice cracked. “I… I can’t—why can’t I move?”

Chaewon’s face broke, just for a second, before she forced herself to stay steady. “It’s temporary,” she said gently, squeezing Yunjin’s hand. “The doctor said it’s likely just neurological trauma. Your spine took a hit, but there’s no permanent damage.”

Yunjin stared at the ceiling. Her voice barely came out. “I can’t feel my legs…”

“You will,” Chaewon said, inching closer, pressing her forehead to Yunjin’s temple. “You will, okay? Just not today. But I’ll be with you every step. I swear.”

“I promise,” Chaewon whispered again, softer this time. “You’ll get it back.”

Tears spilled down Yunjin’s cheeks.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know.”

Chaewon’s forehead rested gently against Yunjin’s temple. They stayed like that for a long moment, silent but connected. Just breathing. Just existing in the same air again.

Then Yunjin finally spoke, barely above a whisper.

“You stayed?”

Chaewon didn’t move. “Of course I did.”

Yunjin shifted her hand, linking their fingers quietly.

“I thought I wouldn’t hear your voice again,” she whispered.

Chaewon squeezed. “And I thought I’d lost you.”

Her voice broke again, raw, stripped down to the bone.

“I should’ve been there. I should’ve known. I should’ve protected you.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Yunjin murmured, weakly shaking her head. “I didn’t even know it would happen.”

Chaewon wiped her cheek with her sleeve.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” she whispered, so softly it almost wasn’t there.

“You don’t have to,” Yunjin replied, breathless. “Because I’m still here.”

Another tear slid down Chaewon’s face. She bit her lip.

She couldn’t say what she wanted to say. Not yet.

Instead, she looked at Yunjin like she was something precious. Something fragile and bright and irreplaceable.

And Yunjin… just looked back.

Quiet.

Safe.

Alive.

---

Chapter Text

Morning sunlight bled through the blinds in slanted, honey-gold lines, striping across the white bedsheets like quiet reminders that the world outside hadn’t stopped. Birds chirped faintly beyond the glass. Cars passed, engines low and steady. Somewhere, life was moving on.

But inside this room, time had stopped.

Yunjin lay still, her body barely a whisper beneath the thin hospital blanket. Her lips were pale. Her eyelashes barely fluttered with the rhythm of dreams, or memories, or nightmares. One arm lay at her side, the other tangled in a mess of IV lines and monitors, her hand limp against the bed.

Even in sleep, her brow was furrowed, like pain was still chasing her through some unseen place.

Chaewon hadn’t moved all night.

She sat hunched over in the hard vinyl chair, one arm folded protectively across the bed, her fingers wrapped around Yunjin’s unmoving hand like it was the last thing tethering her to Earth. Her legs were numb. Her back ached like hell. Her throat was dry and raw from not speaking. But none of it mattered. Not when Yunjin looked like this.

Not when she’d nearly—

She swallowed hard. She wouldn’t say the word. Wouldn’t even think it. It felt like jinxing her heartbeat.

At some point around 2:00 a.m., a nurse had quietly stepped in, soft-eyed and gentle, offering a warm blanket, some coffee, maybe a cot from the break room.

Chaewon hadn’t even looked up. Her voice came low and automatic. “No. I’m staying.”

The nurse had nodded and left her alone.

Now the first full rays of sun touched Yunjin’s face, casting a pale glow across her cheekbones, and Chaewon gently lifted a hand to shield her from it, brushing loose strands of hair from her temple. The skin was still cool.

She leaned forward and whispered, voice cracking, “You’re safe now. I’m right here.”

A knock.

Followed by the slow creak of the door opening.

Chaewon didn’t move at first. Her fingers only tightened protectively around Yunjin’s hand, her body instinctively angling in front of her like a shield. She didn’t even bother to look up, until she heard the wrong kind of shoes. Polished. Professional. The kind that didn’t belong in a room full of grief.

“Kim Chaewon?” a clipped, male voice asked.

Her head rose slowly. And her eyes—sharp and dark and dangerous—locked on the man in the doorway.

He was tall, dressed in a sleek charcoal-gray suit, the HYBE badge gleaming from his lapel like it meant something. A woman followed close behind, stylus in hand and a corporate calmness in her eyes that immediately made Chaewon’s stomach twist.

“Yes,” she said, her voice flat, but cold enough to drop the temperature in the room. “I’m Chaewon.”

The man stepped forward, clearing his throat like he wasn’t speaking over someone’s collapsed body. “Director Lee, HYBE Entertainment. We were notified of the incident involving Miss Huh early this morning.”

She didn’t offer a greeting. She didn’t offer a seat. She just stood, straightening slowly to her full height and folding her arms across her chest. Her voice cut like a blade.

“Then you already know what happened.”

He faltered a bit. “We… have preliminary details. I’d like to assure you, first and foremost, we’re treating this situation with the utmost seriousness—”

“She stopped breathing.”

Lee paused.

Chaewon took a step forward. “She convulsed. Her body seized up, her heart almost stopped, and I was halfway across the city under stage lights while she nearly died on a therapy table.”

The silence was suffocating.

The woman with the clipboard cleared her throat.

“The current findings confirm improper calibration of the neuromuscular stimulator,” she said quickly. “The therapist failed to adjust the voltage range appropriate for her spinal sensitivity. We believe it was an unfortunate—”

“Negligence,” Chaewon said, voice flat. “Call it what it is.”

The woman faltered. “Well—yes. A negligent oversight.”

“Is he fired?” Chaewon asked. Her eyes were steady. Cold. Furious.

The director glanced at the clipboard woman, then back. “He’s been suspended pending a third-party review.”

“That’s not enough.”

Director Lee opened his mouth to explain, but Chaewon’s voice cut over him, deadly calm.

“He was entrusted with her recovery. She was vulnerable. She was already scared. And instead of helping her, he put her through something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.”

She turned slightly, letting her hand drift back to Yunjin’s arm, just to ground herself. Her voice dropped lower.

“She was screaming in her sleep. Twitching. Clawing the air like she was being shocked all over again. And I had to sit here and watch it because some underqualified technician didn’t bother checking his damn settings.”

“You have to understand, Miss Kim,” the woman said carefully, “these incidents—”

“I don’t care,” Chaewon snapped. “I don’t care how rare they are. I don’t care about your protocols. I care about her.”

Her voice cracked. Her eyes stayed dry.

“I want his license reviewed. I want his record public. I want written proof that he won’t just be reassigned to someone else.”

Director Lee looked pained. “We’re working on—”

“And if I see his face again,” Chaewon added, softer now, which made it worse, “I swear to God, I’ll go to the press myself. I don’t care if it kills my career. I don’t care if it tanks HYBE’s stock. I’ll tell them everything. And I’ll tell them exactly how you let this happen.”

No one spoke.

Behind her, Yunjin let out a soft exhale in her sleep, like she could sense the tension even now.

Chaewon didn’t look at them again. She turned her attention back to the bed, smoothing the blanket over Yunjin’s chest with quiet, aching precision.

“I’ve already lost her once,” she murmured. “I’m not doing it again.”

Director Lee stood there, blinking. Then he bowed, deep, stiff, and awkward.

“We’ll escalate everything immediately,” he said. “You have our word.”

They filed out one by one. The door clicked shut behind them.

For a moment, the silence returned.

Chaewon finally allowed herself to sit, and this time, she sagged like the weight of it all had collapsed onto her bones. She reached for Yunjin’s hand again. It was still warm. Still tethered to this world.

Her eyes shimmered, but the tears didn’t fall.

She leaned closer and whispered, her lips just brushing against Yunjin’s knuckles.

“They better be scared of me,” she breathed. “Because I’ve never protected anyone the way I’m going to protect you.”

And she meant it with her entire soul.

And for the first time in hours, Yunjin stirred, ever so slightly, but unmistakably. Her fingers twitched under Chaewon’s. A subtle shift, a flutter like a leaf caught in a breeze. And then, almost shyly, her hand squeezed back.

Chaewon’s breath caught.

She looked up instantly, scanning Yunjin’s face. The heart monitor kept its gentle, steady rhythm, but the faintest crease in Yunjin’s brow deepened, her lashes flickering like she was fighting her way out of a dream. Her lips parted, dry, her breathing shallow but conscious.

The sterile quiet of the room held its breath.

Then a soft voice rasped out, weak and scratchy. “Water…”

Chaewon was on her feet in an instant. “Hey. Hey, you’re awake—wait, don’t move, I’ve got you.” Her hands worked quickly, grabbing the small cup of ice chips from the side table and holding one gently to Yunjin’s lips.

Yunjin sucked it in gratefully, eyes still heavy but clearer now, less fogged by pain.

Chaewon sat down again, visibly trembling, one hand instinctively returning to where it had stayed all night, wrapped around Yunjin’s. Her thumb resumed its soft tracing, grounding both of them.

“You really haven’t slept at all?” Yunjin asked hoarsely, eyes still half-lidded.

Chaewon gave a tired smile, her voice quieter now, tender. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Yunjin whispered. “You look like… a tragic ballad.”

Chaewon chuckled under her breath. “Romantic. But true.”

Yunjin let out a small, pained breath that could’ve been a laugh. “You should’ve been performing…”

Before Chaewon could respond, the door burst open with the force of a small hurricane.

“YUNJINNNN!!”

Eunchae careened into the room like a human wrecking ball, her hoodie sleeves flapping like wings and her cheeks already wet. She launched herself at the bed, arms open like a dramatic K-drama heroine charging into battle.

“She’s ALIVE!! Thank GOD, she’s alive!!” she sobbed, grabbing Yunjin’s blanket like it was the last life raft on a sinking ship.

“EUNCHAE!”

Sakura appeared seconds later, breathless and horrified. Her eyes went wide as she lunged and yanked Eunchae back by the hood with the practiced force of a long-suffering older sister. “She just had a damn spinal seizure and you’re trying to body-slam her?! Are you out of your mind?!”

“I was emotional!!” Eunchae sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “I thought she died! I had to grieve!”

“You grieve with a card, not a flying tackle!” Sakura hissed, already checking Yunjin’s IV drip for damage.

Yunjin blinked up at them, disoriented but amused. “You’re gonna kill me before the injuries do…”

Behind the two chaos agents, Kazuha slipped into the room slowly, her expression caught between reverence and a low-key funeral. Her eyes were wide, her voice solemn.

“I brought flowers,” she said, lifting a humble bouquet of drooping daisies and one lonely carnation. “They were next to the ramen section in the gift shop.”

Yunjin stared at the bouquet. “…Did you say ramen?”

“They had limited inventory,” Kazuha added.

“Truly,” Yunjin said, managing a grin, “the most depressing sentence I’ve ever heard.”

“Don’t laugh,” Chaewon scolded immediately, her hand reaching instinctively for Yunjin’s arm. “You’ll hurt your back.”

“You mean the thing that already feels like someone reversed a truck over it? Yeah, okay.”

Chaewon gave her a dry look. “Well then, I guess I’ll call the truck back to finish the job.”

The room softened then, chaos fading into warmth. Eunchae stood sheepishly near the foot of the bed, still sniffling. Kazuha placed the ramen-flower bouquet with quiet ceremony on the bedside table, bowing respectfully to the IV pole again. And Sakura stood at Yunjin’s side, arms crossed, trying to look composed but failing miserably as her eyes scanned every inch of her injured friend.

And then her gaze snapped.

Straight to Chaewon.

“What the hell were you thinking?!” Sakura exploded, the calm in her face vanishing like smoke. “Running off like that?! You vanished mid-performance! No warning, no text, no signal, no damn smoke bomb! Just poof! Gone!”

Chaewon blinked like a deer in headlights. “I—”

“I had to improvise in front of an arena full of FEARNOTs!” Sakura’s arms flailed like a cartoon character on fire. “Do you know many times I bowed?!”

“Saku—”

“SEVENTEEN!” Sakura shrieked. “My thighs still haven’t recovered!”

Kazuha nodded solemnly. “She did. It was… spiritual.”

“She said you had explosive diarrhea,” Eunchae added brightly.

Chaewon’s soul left her body.

“I WHAT?!” she choked.

Sakura looked genuinely defensive now. “You left me on the front lines with no script! What was I supposed to say?! ‘Sorry everyone, Chaewon dipped mid-show because her girlfriend's brain got electrocuted’?!”

“She's not my girlf—!” Chaewon shouted, cheeks heating.

Yunjin chuckled, but then everything went tense. “Wait… what do you mean she ran off stage?”

Silence fell.

Chaewon froze.

Sakura paused mid-scold, eyes narrowing slightly. “You… didn’t know?”

Yunjin turned, slowly. Her gaze locked onto Chaewon, more alert now. “…You left the concert?”

Chaewon’s eyes dropped, her jaw tightening slightly. “I—yeah. I did.”

Yunjin’s voice trembled, fragile as thread. “Mid-show?”

Chaewon hesitated for a beat, then answered quietly. “It was during the costume change, actually. I overheard a staff member on their walkie. They said… they said you collapsed. That you weren’t waking up.”

The air left Yunjin’s lungs.

“I couldn’t just… stand there,” Chaewon added, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t even think. I just ran.”

“You left,” Yunjin whispered, disbelieving. “You really… left the show.”

“I ran out of the stadium. No security. No plan.” Chaewon let out a breathless laugh, dry and shaky. “Still had half my stage makeup on. Wig glued down. I pushed past, like, ten backup dancers. Nearly tripped over a fog machine.”

“You what,” Yunjin breathed, covering her mouth, tears springing to her eyes.

“I think I screamed at a sound guy. Poor guy was just holding a mic cable,” Chaewon added, smiling faintly in that dazed, surreal way people do when recalling moments that don’t feel real.

Yunjin was trembling now, her shoulders shaking with the effort not to cry again.

Chaewon’s expression softened. She reached out—slowly, gently—and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Yunjin’s ear. Her fingers lingered there, brushing against her temple with reverence.

“When I got to the hospital,” she whispered, “and I saw you on that stretcher…”

Her voice cracked.

“I didn’t know if you were going to wake up. You were pale. Hooked up to machines. Your hands were ice cold.” She blinked rapidly. “And all I kept thinking was… if this is it… if I lose her here… she’ll never know how I feel.”

Yunjin’s throat tightened. She stared up at Chaewon like she was trying to memorize the shape of her.

The room had gone still. Not a single rustle. Not a breath out of place.

“I don’t know who I am without you anymore, Yunjin.”

Yunjin’s breath caught. Her lips parted, but no words came out. Just air, shaking and light.

Chaewon looked down at their hands, her fingers still loosely wrapped around Yunjin’s, knuckles pale from how long she’d been holding on. Then she slowly brought Yunjin’s hand to her chest, pressing it right over her heart.

“You scared me,” she whispered. “I’ve never been that scared in my life.”

Her voice wavered.

“I thought I was going to lose you. And that broke something in me.”

Yunjin looked at her for a long moment—really looked. Her face was blotchy from crying earlier. Her eyes still glassy with exhaustion. Her posture weary and small and raw in a way she almost never let herself be seen.

And yet, she had run across a stadium in full costume.

Just to be here.

Yunjin squeezed her hand, firmly.

“You didn’t lose me,” she said quietly. “You found me.”

Chaewon looked up then, eyes shining, mouth parting in surprise.

They stared at each other.

“By the way, I told the fans the truth.” Sakura interrupted. 

Yunjin blinked. “Wait… you did?”

“Yeah,” Sakura said, quieter now. “Once we cancelled the rest of the show. I told the fans it was a medical emergency. That one of our members needed us. I didn’t say your name, but they figured it out.”

Yunjin swallowed thickly.

“They were worried,” Sakura added. “All of them. They’ve been leaving messages on weverse all night.”

Yunjin looked down at her own hands, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of it all, the hospital bed, the beeping monitors, the IV, the girls around her, all standing here like she had nearly been lost and no one knew how to say it out loud.

“…I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “I didn’t want to scare you. Any of you.”

“Too late,” Eunchae sniffled, rubbing her eyes.

“You scared the hell out of us,” Sakura said, more softly this time. “You could’ve died, Yunjin. Don’t you dare apologize for surviving.”

Yunjin’s eyes stung.

She turned slowly to Chaewon, who hadn’t said anything since the truth came out.

“You… left the stage for me?” Yunjin asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Chaewon’s jaw clenched. Her fingers moved instinctively, brushing over Yunjin’s wrist.

“I didn’t care about the stage,” she said quietly. “I just needed to get to you.”

Yunjin’s heart twisted.

Chaewon didn’t look away.

“I was performing like everything was fine. But it wasn’t. You weren’t. And I couldn’t sing another word knowing you were hurting—alone—in some hospital room without me.”

Yunjin stared at her.

Soft.

Full of emotion.

Full of something unnamed, unspoken, but so loud it shook the air between them.

Behind them, Sakura groaned. “Ugh, not in front of the patient!”

“She is the patient,” Eunchae whispered loudly.

“She’s also in pain, so stop flirting,” Sakura added.

“We’re not flirting!” Yunjin and Chaewon both yelped at the same time, flushing in sync like traitorous tomatoes.

Kazuha walked over quietly to Yunjin’s other side, settling gently into the chair opposite Chaewon. Her fingers brushed Yunjin’s forearm in a touch so soft it barely registered. “I’m really glad you’re okay,” she said, her voice low but full.

Yunjin gave her a tired, lopsided smile. “Thanks, Zuha.”

There was something behind Kazuha’s calm, quiet worry that had been simmering beneath the surface, hidden behind every reserved expression.

“When I saw you in the stretcher…” she started, then paused. “I wanted to scream. But I didn’t know how.”

Yunjin’s eyes softened. Her heart squeezed.

Without another word, Kazuha reached into the pocket of her hoodie and pulled out something small, carefully folded. A tiny crane, made out of what looked like a receipt.

“I made this in the van. On the way here,” she said. “I just… needed to do something.”

Yunjin blinked down at it as she took it in her hand. The paper was creased and fragile in her palm, like everything had been lately.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered.

Kazuha smiled faintly. “Not really. The beak’s a little off.”

“I don’t care,” Yunjin said, her voice cracking. “I’m keeping it forever.”

Then, for the third time, Eunchae dramatically collapsed onto Yunjin’s side with a strangled sob.

“I MISSED YOU SO MUCH!”

“Again?!” Sakura half-screeched. “You’re gonna dislocate something!”

Yunjin wheezed out a laugh, which quickly turned into a groan. “It’s okay. I think I still have one or two ribs intact.”

“Why would you joke about that?!” Eunchae cried harder, burying her face in the pillow beside her shoulder.

Yunjin’s hand lifted slowly and gently stroked Eunchae’s hair. “Hey… it’s okay, Manchae.”

“You promised me you'd always be there,” Eunchae hiccupped. “And then you just—collapsed! And no one knew what was going on, and there were alarms and shouting and I thought—and I—”

“I’m sorry,” Yunjin whispered, blinking away tears that had returned too fast.

“You can’t do that again,” Eunchae choked out. “I don’t care if you’re tired, or in pain, or sick—you tell us. We’re supposed to be a team.”

“We’re supposed to be family,” Sakura added, arms crossed, voice firm, but quieter now.

Yunjin’s lips quivered. “I didn’t want to scare anyone. I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Sakura’s expression crumbled.

She knelt down beside the bed, resting one hand on the mattress, the other trembling in her lap.

“You idiot,” she whispered. “You are a burden. That’s the whole point. We’re all burdens. That’s how family works—we carry each other.”

The words hit Yunjin like a punch to the chest. She started crying silently, again, her breath hitching and shoulders trembling. Chaewon leaned in and gently wiped her cheeks without a word, her thumb warm and steady.

Eunchae reached up and clutched her wrist. “Next time you feel like you’re falling apart, you tell us. And if we don’t listen, scream. Throw your shoe. Bite someone.”

“I’ll bite her,” Kazuha offered, nodding seriously toward Chaewon.

“Thank you, Zuha,” Yunjin laughed weakly. “I’ll remember that.”

Chaewon let out a shaky breath through her nose. “We almost lost you,” she said, her voice lower now. “And I didn’t even realize how bad it was until… until it happened.”

Sakura stood up again and glanced around at the girls, her voice more composed but eyes still red. “We all didn’t. But we’re not letting that happen again.”

A beat passed in the silence.

Then Eunchae jumped up and threw her fists in the air.

“NEW PLAN. From now on, we all report our stress levels every morning. And if anyone says seven or higher, we call an emergency group huddle.”

“What kind of scale is that?” Kazuha asked, tilting her head.

“I don’t know! But it feels right!” Eunchae shouted.

Chaewon laughed under her breath. “You are so weird.”

“We’re all weird,” Sakura muttered.

“Speak for yourself,” Kazuha said as she gently flicked a crumpled flower petal off the table with military precision.

“You brought me cup noodle flowers, Zuha,” Yunjin pointed out.

“Out of love,” she replied sincerely.

Yunjin blinked back the last of her tears and looked around, at Chaewon’s unwavering gaze, Sakura’s scuffed knees and folded arms, Eunchae’s still-snotty sleeves, and Kazuha’s soft, quiet concern.

And for the first time since waking up, she really saw it.

She hadn’t just come back from the brink.

She’d come back to her family.

“I’m really lucky,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “To have you all.”

Chaewon leaned closer, smiling softly.

“We’re the lucky ones.”

Eunchae wiped her nose dramatically on her sleeve again. “Ugh, I’m crying again. This is emotional abuse.”

Kazuha handed her another tissue from her pocket without looking.

Sakura made a face. “Okay, group therapy time over. She needs rest.”

Yunjin smiled faintly, the pain still there, but softer, under all the warmth. “I’ll rest. But only if someone gets me pudding.”

“I’M ON IT!” Eunchae bolted out the door like a woman on a mission.

“I swear, if she trips in the hallway again…” Sakura groaned, chasing after her.

“I’ll help clean,” Kazuha said, quietly starting to pick up all the used tissues and wrinkled wrappers.

And then, just like that, it was quiet again.

Just Chaewon and Yunjin.

Chaewon moved closer, adjusting the blanket one last time, brushing a loose strand of hair from Yunjin’s forehead.

“You okay?”

Yunjin blinked up at her. Her eyes were tired, but calm.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I think… I finally am.”

Chaewon smiled. Didn’t say anything more.

She just stayed.

And Yunjin let her.

Because sometimes, that was everything.

----

Yunjin’s hospital stay, as it turned out, was less peaceful recovery and more chaotic best friend hover zone.

The morning after the incident, the sterile hospital room underwent a complete metamorphosis.

The wilting beige flowers had mysteriously vanished. The peeling posters warning about handwashing and back pain were replaced—though no one quite knew how with brightly coloured cards taped over them. The air smelled faintly of citrus, thanks to a diffuser someone had smuggled in and hidden behind the curtain.

Balloons shaped like ducks floated gently near the ceiling, Eunchae’s unmistakable touch. A long banner, painted with painstaking care in soft watercolours, read “GET WELL SOON YUNJINNIE” and was proudly taped across the window like a child's masterpiece on a fridge, Kazuha’s solemn and quiet contribution.

Then there were the teas. So many teas. Three dozen miniature boxes of loose-leaf herbal blends lined the windowsill like a strange apothecary. No one knew how to use them properly, especially not in a hospital room without a kettle, but Sakura insisted they were vital for "energy alignment" and had brought a laminated guide on chakra balancing, which she presented to the nurse with all the seriousness of a legal briefing.

And then, of course, there was Chaewon.

Self-declared nurse, bodyguard, therapist, nutritionist, emotional support human, and very possibly, if one asked the exhausted night nurse, a fire hazard.

Yunjin blinked awake that morning to the sight of her pacing near the window, backlit by soft morning light. She was wearing a hoodie two sizes too large, clearly stolen from Yunjin’s suitcase, sleeves swallowed past her fingers—and clutching a clipboard like she was about to conduct an exam.

“Morning,” Yunjin croaked, her throat dry.

Chaewon’s head whipped around instantly, eyes sharp, as if she’d been waiting on edge for the sound. “How’s your back? Rate the pain from one to ten. Any dizziness? Nausea? Do you want the nurse? Wait, no—hold on. Water. Room temperature. Just how you like it. One second.”

She bolted to the bedside table, grabbed a pre-poured glass of water with both hands like she was holding the Holy Grail, and passed it over with exaggerated care.

Yunjin looked at her over the rim of the glass. “Did you sleep?”

“Yes,” Chaewon said too quickly.

“Liar.”

“…No.”

With a defeated sigh, Chaewon perched herself on the edge of the bed and gently brushed hair away from Yunjin’s forehead. Her touch was light, reverent. “I’m not leaving until you’re better,” she said softly. “And even then, I might still stay.”

Yunjin’s lips curved into a sleepy smile. “You mean you didn’t already move in?”

There was a pause.

“…Technically, I’m listed as your ‘medical emotional companion’ on the visitor log.”

“That’s not a real thing.”

“It is now,” Chaewon replied, sounding far too smug about it.

Recovery Day 3: The Great Pill War

“No,” Yunjin said firmly, arms crossed, eyeing the tiny cup of pills like it had personally wronged her.

“Yes,” Chaewon countered, her stance equally stubborn as she held it out.

“They taste like chalk and despair.”

“They taste like stability and not dying,” Chaewon snapped.

Yunjin raised a brow. “That’s a bold marketing choice.”

“You had a seizure, Yunjin. You are taking your damn pills.”

Yunjin tilted her head, eyes playful. “Will you kiss me afterwards to get the taste out of my mouth?”

That made Chaewon freeze. A beat passed. Then her ears turned a furious shade of red. “Shut up and open your mouth.”

Yunjin grinned triumphantly.

Chaewon fed her the pills one by one, delicately, like she was afraid they’d bite. Then she handed over a duck-shaped water bottle—another Eunchae special, complete with googly eyes and a detachable hat.

Yunjin took a sip, then muttered, “Ew.”

Chaewon leaned in, pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, and whispered against her skin, “You'll live.”

Yunjin's cheeks burned red. "Shut up."

Recovery Day 5: The Physical Therapist’s Visit

The new physical therapist arrived looking like he’d accidentally wandered into a battlefield. He was young, early twenties, maybe, and clearly not briefed on the Chaewon Situation.

“I-I’ll be very gentle,” he stammered as he adjusted the hospital bed, his hands trembling slightly.

Chaewon, standing in the corner with her arms crossed and eyes narrowed, looked like a mob boss judging a rival’s apology. “If you increase the voltage without checking the calibration chart first, I will personally throw you out the window.”

Yunjin, mid-stretch, let out a snort. “Chae, you’re terrifying him.”

“Good,” Chaewon muttered darkly.

The poor therapist yelped when he bumped into the IV pole and spent the next five minutes apologizing while Chaewon watched like a hawk. The session ended without casualties, but the man left pale and sweating.

Later, as Yunjin rested with a warm compress, she whispered, “You’re kind of scary when you’re protective.”

Chaewon, lying next to her with her head on Yunjin’s stomach, whispered back, “Only when it comes to you.”

Recovery Day 7: Chaos Squad Visit (Again)

Eunchae burst through the door first, wielding a roll of stickers like she was redecorating a spaceship. She covered Yunjin’s cast in an eclectic mix: skulls with bows, a banana surrounded by sparkles, and a frog with sunglasses labeled “BOSS.”

“Instant healing power,” she declared with all the confidence of a child with a glue gun.

Kazuha arrived next with an awkwardly wrapped bento box. Inside were delicate rice balls shaped like bunnies. Yunjin tried to eat one, but couldn’t stop laughing. Chaewon confiscated the box until they could confirm it didn’t contain raw squid or “whatever the hell that spicy powder was last time.”

Then came Sakura, dressed like a lawyer in business casual, holding a manila folder labeled “OFFICIAL REPRIMAND.”

She slammed it onto Yunjin’s tray table. “Kim Chaewon. These are the documented consequences of your actions.”

“What actions?” Chaewon frowned.

“Deserting your post. Leaving mid-concert. Forcing me to tell the crowd you had explosive diarrhea. Do you know what that does to my brand?”

“I didn’t force you to say that!”

“I HAD TO THINK FAST! Eunchae and Kazuha were crying on stage! Sobbing! And you were gone! I had to carry the show with nothing but eyeliner, charisma, and lies!”

“I panicked!”

“I know! And it was sweet and romantic and fans are already editing dramatic music under clips of it, but I HAVE KNEE TRAUMA, CHAEWON.”

Recovery Day 10: Progress

By now, the nurses had accepted their fate.

Yunjin was finally strong enough to sit up on her own. Her body still protested. Her muscles trembled with effort. But she was healing, slowly, steadily.

Chaewon helped her ease into a wheelchair that had mysteriously acquired a leopard-print cushion and a flower garland. She didn’t let go once, not even as they rolled through the hospital hallway and out into the small courtyard garden, where spring was just beginning to stretch its limbs.

The breeze was cool. A bird chirped somewhere in the branches overhead. Yunjin closed her eyes and tilted her face toward the sun.

“I feel like a fragile teacup,” she muttered, half amused, half resigned.

“You are my fragile teacup,” Chaewon deadpanned. “With floral patterns and matching saucers.”

“You’re so weird.”

“Only for you.”

That shut her up.

Yunjin turned slowly in her chair to look up at her, to really look at her.

Chaewon looked tired, yes. But so full of emotion. So open. So there.

And Yunjin smiled.

“Me too.”

---

Chapter Text

The sun was lazily dipping behind the skyline as the van pulled up to the familiar building, golden light stretching long across the pavement like arms reaching for something precious. Everything was bathed in gold. Warm. Nostalgic. Like someone had turned up the saturation on an old memory.

The LE SSERAFIM dorm sat quietly in that golden light, looking like a dream Yunjin wasn’t quite sure she was ready to wake into.

She stared out the window, unmoving. The building hadn’t changed, the chipped corner on the front step, the faint scuff mark on the railing where Eunchae had once swung around like a gymnast and nearly concussed herself. Same place. But it felt different. Her heart was thudding so hard it echoed in her ears.

It had only been weeks.

Weeks that felt like lifetimes.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the seat.

Would they treat her the same? Would they look at her like she was breakable? Like she wasn’t really back?

Before she could spiral any further, the van door slid open.

“Hey,” came a soft, breathless voice.

Chaewon.

Yunjin looked up. There she was, standing on the pavement like she hadn’t moved in hours, hoodie sleeves bunched in her hands, eyes wide and shining with something that sat right on the edge between joy and relief. She was practically bouncing, trying to play it cool and failing miserably.

“Welcome home,” Chaewon said. Her voice cracked on home.

Yunjin stepped down slowly. Her back ached, a dull throb reminding her she wasn’t at a hundred percent yet. But she wasn’t falling apart either. Not anymore.

Before she could find her balance, Chaewon’s hand was already there. Steady. Warm. Sure.

She squeezed it. Not hard, just enough. Grounded. Real.

They hadn’t even reached the first step when—

“YUNJIN-AHHHH!!!”

The front door SLAMMED open, followed by a shrieking missile of emotion.

Eunchae, socked feet and all, came barreling toward them like a cartoon character losing control on ice. She stopped short at the last second, arms flailing comically to keep herself from tackling Yunjin to the ground.

“Wait—wait! Can I??” she shouted, half-lunging, half-hovering.

Yunjin laughed, arms already opening. “Gently.”

The hug Eunchae gave her was shockingly soft for someone so dramatic. And then she was crying. Loudly. Into Yunjin’s shoulder.

“I missed you so much I had to share a room with Kazuha for a week and she breathes like a ninja! I couldn’t even tell if she was alive half the time!”

Yunjin wheezed. “That’s… oddly specific.”

Kazuha appeared behind her, serene as always, despite watery eyes. She walked up and slid her hand into Yunjin’s for a quiet squeeze, then leaned in for her own hug.

“We’ve all been waiting for you,” she murmured.

“And I’ve been waiting for my bed,” Yunjin muttered into her shoulder.

“That too,” Kazuha said with a small, amused smile.

Then came Sakura.

At first, she looked like she was holding it together. Composed. Polished. Eldest-sister-mode: fully engaged.

“You look like you lost weight,” she started, already digging into mom mode. “Are you eating enough? I swear if the hospital didn’t feed you properly—”

And then her voice cracked. Her arms wrapped around Yunjin so tightly it lifted her half an inch off the ground.

“I’m not crying,” she mumbled into Yunjin’s shoulder, very obviously crying.

“No one said you were,” Kazuha offered dryly, though she sniffled mid-sentence.

Eunchae was openly sobbing again. “She’s CRYING. I KNEW IT!”

“Let me have one moment!” Sakura growled through tears.

“You’re such a softie,” Eunchae hiccupped.

“I am the oldest!” Sakura barked back. “It’s my job to cry dramatically when my kids almost die!”

Inside the dorm, it was clear someone had gone completely feral with planning.

The hallway was lit up with fairy lights, zigzagging like constellations. A scattering of glittering confetti floated down from the ceiling vents—Eunchae’s doing, obviously, and there was a suspicious trail of duck stickers leading to the living room.

The living room itself was a fever dream of celebration. A giant banner said “WELCOME HOME YUNJINNIE!!!” in three different shades of pink. A small stuffed bear had somehow materialized in her arms.

“...When did this get here?” she muttered.

“I gave it to you outside,” Eunchae sniffled proudly. “You were too busy not collapsing to notice.”

The table held a very wobbly, extremely heartfelt cake that said “WELCOME HOME YUNJIN” in shaky, slightly melting icing. One of the letters had clearly been redone with a spoon.

Yunjin stood in the center of it all, completely overwhelmed. Her fingers curled around the bear’s paw like a lifeline.

“You guys… did all this?” she whispered.

Sakura stepped forward. Her face was blotchy, her eyes red, but her voice was steady now. “Of course we did.”

Chaewon’s voice followed, soft behind her. “This place wasn’t the same without you. It wasn’t home.”

That did it.

Yunjin blinked rapidly, her vision swimming. She looked across the room and locked eyes with Chaewon.

Chaewon wasn’t crying. But the way she was smiling, like she’d just exhaled a breath she didn’t know she was holding for weeks, was somehow even more powerful.

Yunjin's throat closed up.

“…Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, voice cracking.

“Like what?”

“Like you think I’m gonna vanish again.”

Chaewon took a step forward and gently reached out, brushing Yunjin’s hair behind her ear. Her fingers trembled.

“Because part of me thought I would,” she murmured. “You don’t get it, Yunjin. That night—when I saw you like that—everything in me just… froze.”

Yunjin couldn’t answer. Her chest was too tight.

So she did what felt right.

She leaned forward until her forehead rested gently against Chaewon’s.

Just like that. Nothing more.

“I’m okay now,” Yunjin whispered.

Chaewon closed her eyes. “I know.”

From behind them came a loud sniffle.

“I’m not okay,” Eunchae cried dramatically. “You’re all so emotional! I can’t handle it!”

“Someone give her the emergency tissue stash,” Kazuha muttered.

Sakura tossed a pack across the room like a grenade.

Yunjin pulled back with a quiet laugh, blinking away the last of her tears. “Thank you,” she whispered. “All of you.”

Eunchae saluted with the tissue pack. “Captain Emotional, reporting for duty.”

Chaewon smirked, her hand still resting lightly on Yunjin’s back. “You’re not allowed to leave us again, you know.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Yunjin said.

She looked around again at the glittery chaos, the too-sweet cake, the banners and lights and stickered floors.

And for the first time in weeks, she felt it settle deep in her bones.

She was home.

“Alright,” Sakura sniffed, composing herself again. “Let’s eat before the cake collapses.”

“It’s already leaning like the Tower of Pisa,” Kazuha observed.

“I tried my best!” Eunchae shouted. “Baking is hard!”

Chaewon handed Yunjin a fork and leaned in, voice low and fond. “Even if the cake’s a disaster, we’re all here.”

Yunjin glanced at her, heart brimming.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “We are.”

After the cake had been thoroughly destroyed—half eaten, half smeared across Eunchae’s cheek thanks to a frosting war no one had officially declared—the girls migrated to the living room floor. Pillows were dragged from every corner of the dorm, blankets draped across backs like cloaks. It was a scene of cozy, chaotic domesticity: one member half-dozing, another giggling into her sleeve, the faint hum of a playlist humming in the background.

Yunjin sat in the center of it all, cross-legged on a beanbag chair that felt a little flatter than it had before she’d left. Chaewon sat right beside her, their knees brushing—accidentally at first, then neither of them moved.

“So,” Yunjin said, her voice light, teasing. “What did I miss while I was gone? Any major betrayals? Celebrity scandals? Personal meltdowns?”

Sakura perked up immediately. “Kazuha was stealing Eunchae’s yogurt.”

There was no hesitation. No mercy. Just a surgical strike.

Kazuha gasped, scandalized. “Unnie!”

“I had to survive!” she added quickly, tossing her hands in the air, entirely unrepentant. “They were the good kind. The strawberry ones. The ones with the little crunchy bits on top!”

“You’re a criminal,” Eunchae huffed, arms crossed. “I knew my math wasn’t wrong. I counted six. Six!”

“And you ended up with one,” Kazuha said, looking far too pleased. “That’s math too.”

“I lived with a yogurt thief!” Eunchae whined, throwing herself dramatically across a pillow. “Do you know the psychological damage?!”

“It’s okay,” Yunjin said, holding her arms open with a grin. “Come here, you poor yogurt-deprived soul.”

Eunchae crawled into the hug with a pout, clinging like a koala.

“Oh, and,” Eunchae added, lifting her head like she just remembered the juiciest detail, “Chaewon dropped her phone in the toilet.”

Yunjin’s head whipped around so fast it made her wince. “What?!”

Chaewon groaned and covered her face with both hands. “Why would you expose me like this?”

“Because it’s funny,” Eunchae said, completely unapologetic.

“It was once! And I saved it, okay? Rice. Towels. Prayers to the tech gods. I even played it lullabies while it dried.”

“That explains why it smells like lavender now,” Kazuha muttered.

“I love my phone,” Chaewon defended with mock seriousness. “We’ve been through a lot together. I will not abandon her just because she took a dive.”

Yunjin giggled, her shoulders shaking. “You really are a menace.”

“And don’t forget,” Sakura cut in smoothly, like she’d been waiting for her cue, “someone in this dorm has a… ramen hoarding issue.”

Yunjin tilted her head innocently. “Wait, who?”

They all pointed. Simultaneously. At Chaewon.

There was a beat of silence.

“Betrayal,” Chaewon muttered. “From every corner.”

“She has, like, seven backup packs under her bed,” Kazuha reported.

“Thirteen,” Sakura corrected, arms crossed. “Including two expired ones. I confiscated them for safety.”

“They’re fine!” Chaewon yelped. “Instant ramen doesn’t expire, it evolves.”

“I’m living with a science experiment,” Eunchae mumbled, still burrowed into Yunjin’s side.

Yunjin let out a full laugh, loud, unfiltered, the kind that made her ribs hurt a little but was worth every twinge. “You’re all disasters.”

“You love us,” Kazuha said smugly, crawling behind her and wrapping both arms around her shoulders in a loose hug.

Yunjin sighed, dramatic and fond, leaning back into the embrace. “Unfortunately.”

“Don’t lie,” Sakura said with a tiny smirk. “You missed the chaos.”

“I missed everything,” Yunjin said, voice quiet now. “Even the yogurt theft. Even the ramen hoarding.”

There was a soft beat of silence. Just enough time for everyone to hear the affection behind her words.

Then Chaewon shifted beside her, and without looking, Yunjin felt her pinky nudge against her own. A small, silent gesture.

She curled her own pinky around it.

Just for a second.

No one mentioned it.

As the night wore on, bodies began to slump. Laughter turned to sleepy chuckles. Eunchae dozed off mid-sentence, her hand still curled around a cracker. Kazuha had drifted to the corner with her face squished into a cushion, hair fanned out around her like a halo. Sakura sipped tea with one eye open and one eye glaring at Chaewon from across the room.

She stood up, dusted off imaginary crumbs from her shirt, and gave Chaewon a pointed poke to the shoulder.

“Don’t think I forgot that you abandoned us on stage,” she said matter-of-factly.

Chaewon sputtered, caught off guard. “I—uh—I panicked!”

“You sprinted off-stage like someone set you on fire,” Sakura said. “I had to do PR damage control in real time. I lied, Chaewon.”

“I know, you told the crowd I had explosive diarrhea!”

“I panicked too!” Sakura snapped. “Do you know how fast I had to think? You were gone, Eunchae and Kazuha were sobbing, and I had to keep the show running! It was a triage situation!”

Yunjin started laughing again. It was too much. “Explosive diarrhea?! That’s what the fans think?!”

“Some of them,” Chaewon muttered, burying her face in her hands. “Some of them made fanart.”

“It’s weirdly good,” Sakura added helpfully.

Chaewon turned bright red. “I hate all of you.”

Sakura smirked. “You’re lucky it was for love.”

Chaewon froze.

Yunjin blinked.

Sakura walked away like she hadn’t just dropped a bomb and sauntered into the kitchen.

Behind her, Chaewon turned so red she looked like she’d caught fire. “It wasn’t— I didn’t—she’s exaggerating!”

Kazuha, from her pillow fort, mumbled, “She’s not.”

Yunjin looked down at her lap, cheeks warm.

She didn’t say anything.

But she didn’t let go of Chaewon’s pinky either.

The dorm had gradually hushed, voices tapering off into whispers, doors clicking shut one by one. The laughter, the teasing, the chaos—it all faded like the embers of a fire finally resting after a long, wild burn.

Only two figures remained.

Yunjin sat curled on the living room couch, legs tucked beneath a blanket that smelled faintly of fabric softener and home. Her eyes were half-lidded, the exhaustion of the day settling into her bones like dusk. The television had long since stopped playing anything meaningful, the screen now awash in a muted blue glow, casting both her and Chaewon in soft shades of ghostlight.

Chaewon stood nearby, arms folded loosely, watching her with quiet concern.

“Ready for bed?” she asked gently, voice low, as if speaking too loudly would break something delicate in the room.

Yunjin nodded, her head dipping in slow motion. “Yeah… yeah, I think so.”

She tried to sit up on her own, and winced slightly.

Immediately, Chaewon was there, one arm around her back, the other gently taking her hand, guiding her up like it was second nature.

“Easy,” she murmured. “I got you.”

Together, they moved through the dim-lit dorm like it was a sacred space. Not a single overhead light was turned on, just the ambient glow from the hallway night lamp and the flicker of fairy lights Eunchae hadn’t turned off.

In the bathroom, Chaewon handed her a toothbrush with the toothpaste already squeezed. Wordlessly passed her a towel. Set her clothes neatly on the counter before stepping out to give her space.

By the time Yunjin emerged, shuffling softly in her sleep shirt and warm socks, her bed had already been transformed.

Her favorite blanket fluffed. The heating pad tucked neatly under the covers. A glass of water waiting by the nightstand. Even her stuffed seal, the one she forgot she missed, had been found and returned to its rightful place.

Yunjin stared at it all, throat tightening.

“Chae…” she whispered as Chaewon folded the edge of the blanket down like it was some kind of royal turndown service.

“Hmm?” Chaewon looked up.

“You’re spoiling me,” Yunjin said, trying to make it sound teasing, but it came out too soft, too overwhelmed.

“I plan to,” Chaewon replied without hesitation, straightening the edge of the duvet like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She stepped back then, awkwardly brushing her hair behind her ear. “Okay, um… I’ll let you rest. If you need anything—just shout, I’ll be right across the hall.”

Yunjin hesitated. Her fingers gripped the edge of the blanket, knuckles pale.

“Chae,” she said again, barely above a whisper.

Chaewon turned instantly. “Yeah?”

There was a long pause.

Then, with all the hesitance of someone crossing a cliff on a single rope, Yunjin asked, “...Can you stay?”

Her voice trembled. It was so quiet, but it echoed in the room like thunder.

“Just—just for a bit?” she added quickly, as if trying not to ask for too much. “Please?”

Something in her eyes made Chaewon’s heart stumble. There was a kind of vulnerability there that she didn’t get to see often—raw, open, and so real it made her breath catch.

“I... yeah. Of course,” Chaewon said, softer than before. “Yeah.”

She walked to the bed slowly, carefully, like she was approaching something fragile. She pulled the blanket back and slid in beside Yunjin, leaving a bit of space at first, but that space didn’t last.

Yunjin moved first.

She leaned in, head resting on Chaewon’s shoulder, then her chest, letting out a quiet breath of relief the moment she felt the steady beat of her heartbeat. Her arm looped around Chaewon’s middle, fingers curling gently into the fabric of her sleep shirt like she was afraid she’d slip away.

Chaewon didn’t say a word. She just wrapped her arms around her in return, one beneath Yunjin’s shoulders, the other resting lightly on her waist, thumb brushing slow, lazy circles against her side.

The silence that followed was heavy in the best way. Full of warmth. Full of meaning.

“You’re really here,” Yunjin breathed, voice small, like she still couldn’t believe it.

Chaewon nodded, chin brushing against the top of her head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

There was a pause, the kind filled with slow breaths and steady hearts.

Yunjin shifted, just slightly, enough so that her nose brushed along the hollow of Chaewon’s collarbone. “You smell like my lavender shampoo.”

Chaewon blinked. “You gave me permission to use it.”

“Did I?”

“You did. I asked you while you were on heavy meds. You nodded very enthusiastically.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Well,” Chaewon said, a small smile curling her lips, “I’m not giving it back.”

Yunjin let out a muffled giggle into her chest. “Thief.”

“Lavender-scented thief.”

Another beat passed. Yunjin’s grip around her tightened ever so slightly.

“…Can we stay like this?” she asked, so quiet it was nearly inaudible.

Chaewon didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” she said. “We can stay like this for as long as you want.”

There was no declaration of love. No kiss. No confessions.

But as Yunjin fell asleep to the rhythm of Chaewon’s heart beneath her cheek, and Chaewon watched her with all the careful tenderness in the world, it didn’t matter.

Because something had shifted.

And even if they couldn’t name it yet, they both knew.

They were each other’s home.

Time passed.

The dorm was silent.

Not the kind of silence that buzzed with energy or sleep, but the kind that felt vast. Still. Sacred.

Chaewon lay awake, eyes open in the dark, the soft rise and fall of Yunjin’s breath against her shoulder the only sound in the room. Her arm was still wrapped around her, loose now, but unwilling to let go. Yunjin had curled closer in her sleep, face tucked into the crook of her neck, the tips of her fingers resting over Chaewon’s heart like they belonged there.

It should have been peaceful.

But something inside Chaewon was stirring. Restless. Loud in her chest even though the world around her was so quiet.

She stared at the ceiling, wide awake, and didn’t know why she suddenly felt like crying.

After what felt like hours, she gently, carefully eased herself out of bed. Yunjin shifted in her sleep, mumbling something incomprehensible. Chaewon stilled, watching her, watching her lips move, and then, when she didn’t stir again, padded softly out into the hallway.

The floor was cool under her socks. The fairy lights in the living room were still on, dim now, faded to a sleepy amber. One or two flickered like tired fireflies. The air had that faint warmth of a place recently filled with voices and laughter, now sleeping.

Chaewon walked to the kitchen, opened the cupboard, pulled down a glass with practiced ease. Her hands moved like muscle memory, like she’d done it a thousand times.

But her mind was somewhere else.

She filled the glass and took a slow sip. The cold water shocked her teeth. She welcomed it.

And then she just stood there. Elbows against the counter. Glass in hand. Breathing.

Trying to stop thinking.

Failing.

God. Yunjin.

Chaewon let out a soft exhale and closed her eyes.

Yunjin’s laugh echoed behind her eyelids, bright, breathless, familiar. Her voice. Her eyes when she was passionate. Her grip when she was scared. Her quiet vulnerability. Her strength. Her chaos. Her warmth.

Chaewon had spent days, weeks, telling herself it was normal. That it made sense to care this much. That she would’ve done the same for any member. That what she felt wasn’t love, it was friendship. Protection. Worry.

But that was a lie, wasn’t it?

She set the glass down, gently, like the noise might break her open.

It’s not friendship. Not the way I feel it.

It wasn’t just about worrying when Yunjin got hurt.

It was the way her entire body had gone cold when she got that phone call during the concert. The way her legs moved before her mind could. The way her heart had stopped in her chest when she saw Yunjin’s name on the hospital list—like someone had kicked the air out of her lungs.

It was how she’d slept in that stiff chair for three nights straight, just to be close.

It was how she memorized the timing of every beep on the monitor.

It was how holding Yunjin’s hand didn’t feel like comfort. It felt like breathing.

Chaewon’s hand trembled slightly, fingers brushing the counter’s edge.

I love her.

The thought hit her like a gut punch.

A real one. Not soft. Not sweet. It knocked the wind out of her.

Because she’d been trying not to go there. She’d been pretending that none of this was bigger than it was. But deep down, under the excuses, under the quiet denial, under the ‘I’m just protective’ mask.

She knew.

She had known for a while.

It was in the way her heart skipped when Yunjin laughed without holding back. The way she remembered every detail of the scar near her jawline. The way she found herself saying “we” instead of “I” without realizing.

It was how she hated seeing Yunjin in pain more than anything in the world.

It was how her body moved instinctively to shield her, even from words.

It was how she kissed her forehead like a prayer.

It was how she stayed. Not because she should, but because she couldn’t not.

It wasn’t friendship anymore.

Maybe it never had been.

Chaewon leaned against the counter, staring into the glass of water like it might tell her what to do.

“Shit,” she whispered to no one. “Shit.”

Her chest ached.

And not with fear. Not even with sadness.

With weight. With the truth.

Because loving Yunjin was terrifying, yes, but it was also inevitable. Like the tide returning to shore. Like gravity. Like something older than memory.

She remembered all of it now, with brutal clarity.

The way Yunjin had leaned into her that night and said, “You’re really here.”

The way Chaewon had answered, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The way she meant it with her whole heart.

Chaewon’s throat tightened, eyes stinging.

She didn’t know when it happened. When the line between best friend and something more blurred. Maybe it was the hospital. Maybe it was years ago, the moment Yunjin sang her stupid English songs too loud in the practice room and Chaewon looked at her and thought God, you’re ridiculous—but smiled anyway.

Maybe she’d been falling ever since.

And now she had to live with it.

With the fact that she loved her best friend.

Not just as someone she wanted to protect.

But as someone she wanted to build something with. Grow old with. Wake up beside. Laugh with until their stomachs hurt. Hold on nights like this, when the world was quiet and honest and real.

And Yunjin didn’t know.

She might not even feel the same.

But that didn’t matter. Not right now.

Chaewon pressed her palms against the edge of the sink, grounding herself.

She didn’t have to figure it out tonight.

But she could stop lying to herself.

She loved Yunjin.

Romantically. Deeply. Unshakably.

And whether or not she said it out loud one day... she would love her quietly, faithfully, in every look, every word, every second.

She stood in the kitchen, barefoot on the cold tile, wrapped in a hoodie that hung too big on her frame, Yunjin’s hoodie, actually. She hadn’t realized until she caught the scent of that familiar vanilla-lavender shampoo. And now she couldn’t take it off.

The glass of water she’d poured sat untouched on the counter beside her.

She wasn’t thirsty. Not really.

She was spiraling.

Chaewon leaned her elbows onto the counter, fingers loosely laced together, her forehead resting against the cool surface. Her thoughts raced, loud and unrelenting in the stillness.

She asked me to stay.

She curled into me like she’s always belonged there.

And I wanted to stay there forever.

She squeezed her eyes shut. It was more than protectiveness. More than affection. More than the way she always made sure Yunjin had enough water or brought her her meds exactly on time or made up medical titles just to stay longer in the hospital.

I love her.

The thought wasn’t new. But this time it came with weight. It came with gravity. It didn’t whisper, it roared.

Chaewon pushed herself upright, exhaling hard through her nose. Her heart was pounding, her stomach twisting in tight knots. She was a leader. An idol. A public figure. She had expectations to meet, a team to guide, a reputation to uphold.

Falling in love wasn’t part of the plan.

Not like this.

Not with her.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the glass, finally taking a sip. It didn’t help. She was still suffocating under the weight of her own emotions. It was too much. Too consuming. Too terrifying.

She didn’t hear the footsteps until they were almost behind her.

“Unnie?”

Chaewon startled slightly, nearly dropping the glass. She turned and found Eunchae in the doorway, blinking up at her with a messy ponytail and sleepy eyes.

“Eunchae, why are you awake?” Chaewon asked, trying to keep her voice steady, casual.

Eunchae shrugged. “I wanted some of the leftover cake.”

Chaewon breathed out a small sigh. “You shouldn’t be up this late.”

“Says the one standing in the dark kitchen looking like she’s about to cry.”

Chaewon’s expression froze. She looked away, setting the glass down. “Go back to bed, Manchae.”

But Eunchae didn’t move. She padded further into the room, her expression softening. “Unnie… are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Chaewon said quickly.

Too quickly.

Silence stretched between them.

Eunchae looked up at her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Okay.”

She didn’t believe her. Chaewon could tell. But she didn’t press.

Instead, Eunchae stepped forward and gently wrapped her arms around Chaewon’s waist, hugging her with quiet sincerity.

“I’m here if you need me,” she whispered into her shoulder. “Even if I don’t get it. Even if you don’t say anything.”

Chaewon stood frozen, her arms still at her sides, overwhelmed. Slowly, shakily, she lifted her hand to cradle the back of Eunchae’s head, holding on just for a moment longer than necessary.

“…Thanks,” she murmured.

Eunchae pulled away, offered a faint smile, then padded off toward the hallway again, muttering something about eating the cake straight out of the pan.

When she was gone, the silence returned.

Chaewon stared at the empty doorway, her heart pounding louder than it had all day.

You’re in love with your best friend.

You’re in love with her smile, her voice, her fire. The way she never hides her pain. The way she held on through everything.

You’re in love with her bravery. Her messiness. Her heart.

You’re in love with her, and it’s terrifying.

She pressed her palm flat to her chest.

And it ached.

Not with sadness.

With clarity.

She was in love.

Not the quiet, slow kind. Not the gentle realization that builds over time.

This was a wildfire.

A storm.

A breaking point.

And she didn’t know what to do with it.

She took another sip of water, and then just… stood there.

In the soft light of the kitchen. Wrapped in Yunjin’s hoodie. Heart full and heavy.

Alone with the truth.

And no idea where it would take her next.

---

Chapter Text

The sun filtered softly through the dorm curtains, casting warm stripes across the floorboards and plaster walls. A gentle breeze slid in through the open window, bringing with it the scent of morning dew and cherry blossoms beyond the garden.

Wrapped in the quiet warmth of their shared bed, Yunjin stirred slowly, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks as she blinked at the sunlight. Her body was nestled perfectly against Chaewon’s, legs entwined, an arm draped possessively over Chaewon’s waist.

Chaewon, already awake, kept her hand on Yunjin’s back, gently tracing slow, soothing circles. Her eyes were soft and crinkled at the corners, lit with a quiet joy only the early hours could hold.

“Morning, sunshine,” she murmured, voice rich and half-lost in the dusk of sleep.

Yunjin gave a lazy, drowsy smile. She stretched one arm over Chaewon’s shoulder and nuzzled her nose into the crook of Chaewon’s collarbone. “Is it morning… already? Damn.”

Chaewon chuckled, tilting her head to press her cheek against Yunjin’s. “Afraid so. But we can pretend it isn’t. Just for a while longer.”

“Mmm.” Eyes fluttering shut again, Yunjin offered a soft smile. “Doctor’s orders, five more minutes of pretending.”

“Oh? Better start keeping notes, then.” Chaewon teased and shifted slightly.

“Start by documenting that your patient demands more cuddles,” Yunjin countered with a fond grin.

Chaewon’s lips curved against her forehead. “Very high-maintenance patient. Lucky for her, I’m completely obsessed..”

She paused, sliding a hand to tuck a stray strand of Yunjin’s hair behind her ear. “with cuddles,” she finished, voice low and affectionate.

"CHAEWON, YUNJIN, GET OUT BED BREAKFAST IS READY!!" Sakura called from the kitchen.

The two groaned simultaneously. 

"Coming, unnie!" Chaewon yelled back.

Later that morning, the dorm buzzed to life. The living room flickered with the glow of an on-screen anime fight, where Kazuha and Eunchae passionately debated which hero had superior abs. Yunjin and Chaewon sat on the couch’s edge, half-snoozing, fully in comfort.

Chaewon’s hand rested possessively on Yunjin’s shoulder, massaging gently as though it were her natural place.

“You’re really back,” Sakura said, sliding in beside Yunjin. She squeezed Yunjin’s hand and offered an affectionate, relieved hug. “For reals this time.”

Yunjin leaned in. “Feels like I’m still half-ghost.”

“Your blanket still smells like you,” Eunchae remarked earnestly.

A beat, then uproar of laughter. Sakura snorted. Chaewon chuckled until tears sprang to her eyes.

“God, Eunchae,” Kazuha said, alternating between mock horror and adoration. “You can’t say that in front of people!”

“What? I’m giving them reassurance,” Eunchae said, arms crossed proudly.

“It’s creepy,” Sakura said wave of her hand, but her smile betrayed the warmth in her voice.

Kazuha shot Eunchae a knowing glance, then looked softly at Yunjin. No one else seemed to notice, but her gaze lingered longer than usual.

After a light lunch, Yunjin headed for some water in the kitchen. Chaewon, predictably, padded after her in socked feet.

“Chaewon,” Yunjin sighed.

“Yes?”

“I said I could go alone.”

“And I am your official safety shadow,” Chaewon answered, leaning casually against the counter. “Where you go, I go.”

“Even to the bathroom?”

“…We don’t need to open that door.”

Yunjin rolled her eyes but smiled, touching Chaewon’s hand on her back. “Okay. But, thank you.”

Chaewon offered a nod, one hand brushing Yunjin’s hair. “You okay?”

Yunjin turned and set the water down. Her face was warm in the morning light. “Honestly… yeah. I’m okay.”

“Good,” Chaewon said softly. “Because… I really wouldn’t know what I’d do if you weren’t.”

Chaewon’s words hung between them, gentle yet profoundly real. Yunjin met her gaze, warmth shining in her tired eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Chaewon didn’t say anything back. She only squeezed Yunjin’s hand and held on, steady, unwavering support flowing between them.

That evening, the dorm had a familiar hum, soft footfalls, the shuffle of blankets, muted laughter. Someone—probably Eunchae—had screamed “movie night!” and no one had fought it. Within fifteen minutes, everyone had assembled in the living room like magnets drawn to warmth.

Eunchae had already claimed the middle of the floor, cocooned in her favorite blanket like a sea monster guarding a popcorn bowl twice her size. “No one touch it,” she warned seriously. “I counted.”

Chaewon and Yunjin shared the far end of the couch, tucked beneath a blanket that smelled faintly of lavender and home. Their arms were linked, not obviously, but undeniably. Yunjin’s elbow hooked loosely through Chaewon’s. A thumb brushing her forearm every now and then. Familiar. Natural.

Sakura had settled next to Kazuha, just close enough to brush shoulders. But it was their hands that said the most—casually resting near one another on the blanket, pinkies just barely touching. Ghosting. Hovering. Like the thought was there but unspoken.

At one point, Sakura leaned over and whispered something into Kazuha’s ear. Whatever it was, Kazuha laughed softly, cheeks coloring just a little. Her smile stretched shy and lovely.

No one noticed.

Except Eunchae, who squinted over the edge of her popcorn mountain like a raccoon spotting suspicious activity.

“…What was that?” she asked, pointing a finger between the two of them. “You’re acting weird.”

“Nothing,” they both said in perfect unison.

Eunchae narrowed her eyes. “Suspicious.”

“Eat your popcorn,” Sakura muttered.

Kazuha smiled innocently. “Don’t choke.”

Eunchae grumbled, but dropped it, mumbling something about how “the weird energy in this house is off the charts.”

As the movie played and golden light from the screen flickered across sleepy faces, the room slowly melted into quiet comfort. Soft breathing, muffled giggles, the crinkle of a candy wrapper here and there.

Yunjin shifted, resting her head against Chaewon’s shoulder. “You’re still fussing,” she whispered, eyes barely open.

Chaewon’s lips brushed the crown of her head. “And you still love it.”

“…Maybe,” Yunjin murmured.

She really did.

By noon the next day, the dorm was quiet. Peaceful. Like a breath held just before an exhale.

Eunchae had disappeared into her room, likely under three blankets, binging dramas with one sock hanging halfway off her foot.

Sakura and Kazuha had declared they were going out for "air," but the gentle way their hands touched as they passed through the front door made the excuse unnecessary.

The energy left behind in the dorm felt like warm soup and old lullabies—soft, familiar, and faintly sweet.

Yunjin sat in her room by the window, where the sunlight poured in thick and gold. Her knees were drawn up, arms resting loosely over them. Outside, the trees swayed gently in the breeze, a bird chirped once, then again.

Her eyes were distant. Her fingers traced slow, unconscious patterns on her pajama-clad leg.

A few moments later, soft footsteps padded in behind her, Chaewon, socked and silent. She didn’t speak right away. Just paused, watching Yunjin bathed in sun like something sacred.

Eventually, she crossed the room and sat on the floor with a quiet groan, back to the bed, legs folded beneath her.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low and steady. Familiar.

Yunjin exhaled softly. “I just realized… I’ve been away from performing for almost a month.”

Chaewon didn’t say anything right away. She turned to look at her more directly.

“You’ve been healing,” she finally said. Not correcting. Just reminding.

“I know,” Yunjin said. “But…” Her voice trailed off. “I miss it. I miss the stage. The sweat, the chaos, the late-night rehearsals. Even the weird warm-ups that make me sound like a dying goat.”

Chaewon let out a small, real laugh. “You did sound like a goat.”

Yunjin narrowed her eyes. “Gee, thanks.”

“Anytime,” Chaewon grinned, leaning back with a stretch. “You were a very elegant goat.”

They shared a laugh. But then the quiet crept back in.

Yunjin hugged her knees tighter. “I’m scared, Chae.”

Chaewon’s expression softened. “Of what?”

“Of being behind. Of coming back and… not fitting. Not being good enough anymore.”

Chaewon blinked once. Twice. Then reached out and wrapped her hand around Yunjin’s wrist, fingers gentle but firm. 

“I’m serious,” Yunjin whispered. “What if I mess up? What if everyone’s expectations are too high and I come back and just… disappoint them?”

Chaewon tightened her hold.

“You won’t,” she said softly. “But even if you did. Even if you forgot every lyric or tripped over your own feet—you’re still you. Our Yunjin. My…”

She stopped. Swallowed. “My best friend. No matter what.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. Heavy in a warm way.

Yunjin’s fingers twitched, then slowly laced into Chaewon’s.

Their heads leaned together, pressed cheek-to-cheek, breathing slow and steady.

Just outside their door, footsteps padded like secrets trying to walk.

Sakura and Kazuha were trying to tiptoe—emphasis on the trying part—down the hallway, shoes in hand, whispering in what they thought was stealth mode. Their hushed voices floated faintly through the air like petals on the wind.

“Why are you walking like that?” Sakura hissed.

“I don’t know, I’m nervous!” Kazuha whispered back, her steps awkward, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug.

Sakura looked exasperated. “About what? We went for a walk—”

“Exactly,” Kazuha muttered. “We went. Together.”

Sakura made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Kazuha, we’ve walked together before.”

“Yeah, but this one had eye contact and I think our pinkies brushed at one point!”

A beat of silence.

“…You’re so doomed,” Sakura said softly, but she was smiling.

Back inside the room, Yunjin stirred under the blanket and tilted her head toward the door, lips curving into a sly grin. “Are they…?”

Chaewon didn’t even try to hide her smirk. “Finally.”

Yunjin snorted. “Should we say something?”

Chaewon leaned closer, her breath brushing Yunjin’s temple. “Absolutely not. If we pretend we don’t know, they’ll keep sneaking around and being cute. It’s way more fun to watch them unravel.”

“You’re evil,” Yunjin murmured, nuzzling closer into her side.

“And you love it.”

Yunjin sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately.”

But her grin said fortunately, and maybe something deeper than that.

Later, afternoon sunlight spilled into the dorm like melted gold, painting the floors in soft, sleepy strokes.

Yunjin shuffled into the living room with her hoodie pulled over her knees, sleeves hanging far past her fingers like she was trying to hide in them. Her damp hair clung to her neck in soft waves, and she blinked lazily, still looking half-asleep.

She looked a little fragile. A little soft. But there was a strength in her step that hadn’t been there a few days ago.

Chaewon followed close behind, arms folded like a shield, eyes flicking around like a silent security system on legs. Not hovering, not quite, but definitely ready to catch Yunjin if she so much as wobbled.

Yunjin flopped onto the couch with a groan. “I’m not gonna explode, you know.”

“You almost did last time,” Chaewon replied flatly, reaching over to fluff a throw pillow behind her back.

Yunjin rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her with a twitching smile. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Chaewon blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” Yunjin said, already smirking and pulling the blanket over her legs.

Eunchae poked her head out of the kitchen, holding a pan with something slightly scorched and entirely questionable on it. “Who wants an overcooked egg on rice?”

There was a long pause.

“I don’t want to die that soon,” Kazuha mumbled from the floor, where she was lazily doing toe touches, head tucked between her knees like a sleepy cat.

“You’ll regret it when I’m famous for it one day,” Eunchae said proudly, tossing the pan back onto the counter.

“You’ll be famous for starting a small kitchen fire,” Sakura muttered, entering from the hallway, phone already in hand. “Speaking of domestic greatness, did you know kettle design peaked in the 1950s? Look at this one. Look at the spout.”

She shoved her phone directly into Yunjin’s face.

Yunjin blinked. “Why… why are you like this?”

“I’m an intellectual,” Sakura said, completely deadpan.

“You’re weird,” Yunjin corrected, trying not to laugh.

Sakura beamed proudly. “Weird with taste.”

Chaewon snorted. “That’s not the flex you think it is.”

Meanwhile, Kazuha had given up on stretching and was now curled on the carpet with half a couch cushion as a pillow. Eunchae stood over her, trying to teach a dance she’d half-made-up to a jingle from a commercial they all hated.

“Five, six, seven—no, your arms go like this!” she groaned.

“I’m on the floor,” Kazuha said into the carpet.

“Dancers can rise from the floor,” Eunchae replied, hands on her hips. “It’s the spirit of the move.”

Chaewon chuckled and sank down beside Yunjin on the couch again. Her hand found Yunjin’s without even thinking—warm fingers threading naturally together as if they’d done this a thousand times.

Yunjin leaned her head on her shoulder, sighing.

“This is nice,” she said, her voice light, almost sleepy. “Too nice.”

“Why ‘too’ nice?”

“Because every time things are this perfect, something dumb happens. Like Eunchae burning rice or you falling off the top bunk.”

“That happened once.”

“And I laughed for days.”

Chaewon nudged her gently. “You were supposed to be worried!”

“I was! …After the third laugh.”

Yunjin smiled wider when Chaewon shook her head and muttered something under her breath about “traitorous fake friends.”

Then, as if pulled by gravity, Yunjin shifted until she was practically curled into Chaewon’s side. Not needy, not showy—just there. Present. Real.

Chaewon’s hand rested on her knee now, thumb stroking small, slow arcs that made Yunjin’s heart stutter.

There was a knock.

A sharp, neutral knock. Not the eager rhythm of Eunchae forgetting her key again. Not Sakura’s clipped pattern, not even the lazy double-thump of a delivery.

It was official. Intentional.

Sakura opened the door, expecting maybe a package. Instead, she stiffened.

The group manager stood there, too composed, with his hands politely folded in front of him like this was a boardroom meeting. Not a dorm full of exhausted, healing girls.

“Hey, girls. Can I talk to Yunjin for a moment?”

Immediately, tension crackled in the air like static. Chaewon moved closer to Yunjin on instinct. Eunchae turned the stove off without a word.

The manager took a seat on the chair opposite Yunjin, giving her a careful look.

“I just came from the hospital,” he began. “The doctors reviewed everything… and they’re very encouraged by your recovery so far.”

Yunjin nodded slowly, eyes wary.

He exhaled lightly. “They do believe the best course of action… is to resume electro-convulsive therapy. Starting next week.”

Silence.

Yunjin’s body locked up.

“What?” she whispered.

Chaewon stood immediately. “Are you serious?”

“It’s what they think will help prevent long-term relapse—”

“You saw what happened last time.” Chaewon’s voice was low and sharp now. “She coded. They shocked her wrong. And you want her to just walk back in there like it’s nothing?”

The manager held up his hands slightly. “This time will be different. There’ll be new staff. Better preparation. Full supervision—”

“No,” Chaewon cut in. “Not good enough. I want names. Who’s in charge? Who signed off on this plan? Are the machines re-calibrated? Has the technician from last time been fired or reassigned?”

The room was dead quiet.

Sakura crossed her arms and stepped forward. “She was barely conscious when we saw her. She had burns. Her heart stopped. Now you’re telling us, ‘Oops, but round two’?”

“You wouldn’t be saying this if it was one of us,” Kazuha added, voice firm. “If it was your sister in that bed, would you trust the same hospital again so easily?”

Eunchae hovered by the couch, visibly shaking now. “Do we even get a say? Does she?”

The manager looked overwhelmed for a beat, but composed himself.

“I promise you, I’ll get every answer. I’ll set up a meeting with the lead specialist. Nothing is being done without your consent, Yunjin.”

But Yunjin wasn’t hearing him.

She was shrinking into herself, breathing shallow, hands clenched, chest tightening.

The memories surged like a tidal wave: the sterile smell, the wires on her temple, the countdown… and then pain, confusion, fear.

Suddenly, it wasn’t the dorm anymore. It was the hospital bed. The flashing lights. The sound of someone calling her name. Chaewon’s voice.

“Yunjin,” Chaewon said softly now, kneeling in front of her. “Hey. Look at me.”

She didn’t. She couldn’t.

Her breathing quickened. Her face was pale.

Without a word, Chaewon reached out and pulled her forward into her arms, wrapping tight around her trembling body.

“Hey. I’ve got you,” Chaewon whispered against her hair. “You’re not going through that alone.”

“I can’t,” Yunjin gasped. “I can’t do it again—”

“You won’t,” Chaewon said firmly. “You’re not going near that place unless everything is airtight. You don’t walk through those doors unless I walk in with you. I’ll fight every doctor if I have to.”

The others snapped into motion.

“I’m coming too,” Sakura declared, already pulling out her phone. “I’m emailing the label. She’s not going back until we approve it.”

“I’ll sit outside the room the entire time,” Kazuha said. “They try anything sketchy again, I’ll break the damn machine.”

“I’ll bring snacks and hold her hand if she wants,” Eunchae said quietly, still near Yunjin’s side. “Even if it’s gross and sweaty.”

“We’re not letting her be alone again,” Sakura said, eyes blazing. “This is our sister. Not a test subject.”

Chaewon stroked Yunjin’s back, rocking slightly. “You hear them?” she whispered. “You’ve got an army now.”

Yunjin buried her face into Chaewon’s hoodie, breathing in the scent of detergent and skin and safety.

She still felt broken, but she didn’t feel alone.

Dinner was quiet.

Not heavy or sad, just filled with a kind of soft gratitude. Like everyone had used up their words earlier and now they were just letting the quiet speak for them.

Chopsticks clicked gently against bowls. Someone refilled the miso soup without asking. Eunchae leaned her head on Kazuha’s shoulder for a second too long. Sakura kept silently passing Yunjin her favorite side dishes, pretending it wasn’t on purpose.

No one brought up the manager’s visit. Not yet.

But every movement said we’re here. Every glance said we’re not letting go.

After the dishes were done and the lights dimmed, they all naturally drifted toward the couch like gravity had pulled them there. A shared blanket stretched across all five of them, legs tangled, limbs slumped. The glow of the TV lit the room in flickers of color as Sakura scrolled through Netflix with the intensity of choosing a world leader.

Yunjin didn’t mind the closeness. She was nestled between Chaewon and Kazuha, her head tilted just enough to brush Chaewon’s shoulder. It was comforting. Familiar. Her body still ached sometimes, but right now it was quiet. Her chest was still tight, but only a little.

Eunchae was curled near the end like a cat, half-asleep already with her hoodie pulled up over her nose.

“Why are you picking horror when we just got emotionally traumatized two hours ago?” she mumbled through her hood.

“It’s not horror,” Sakura said with the air of someone lying. “It’s…thrilling.”

“I want fluff,” Eunchae groaned. “Something with dogs and cupcakes.”

Kazuha chuckled. “You’re so specific.”

“I almost cried when she flinched from the word hospital earlier,” Eunchae murmured suddenly, the joke fading from her tone. “I hate seeing her like that.”

There was a pause.

Sakura gently set down the remote and glanced over.

“Me too,” she said. “But we’re going to be her net. Every time she falls, we catch her. No questions.”

“She doesn’t need to be strong all the time,” Kazuha added. “She’s allowed to be scared. We’ll hold that with her.”

“But what if it happens again?” Eunchae whispered. “What if something goes wrong and we’re not there in time?”

Sakura reached over, threading her fingers through Eunchae’s. “Then we fight. Together. We’re not letting her walk through anything alone again. And neither are you.”

Eunchae sniffed, quietly hiding her face in her sleeve. “Okay.”

Back on the couch, Yunjin leaned in closer to Chaewon, who didn’t flinch or question it. She just shifted slightly so their shoulders pressed even more snugly, like it had always been that way.

“You’re fussing again,” Yunjin whispered.

Chaewon kept her eyes on the screen, but her lips curled up. “Am not.”

“You keep making these tiny glances at me like I’m going to vanish.”

Chaewon shrugged. “Well, forgive me for keeping an eye on someone who almost gave me a heart attack.”

Yunjin smirked a little. “You’re too small to be intimidating, you know.”

Chaewon turned to face her, deadpan. “Are you saying I’m weak?”

“I’m saying you’re stubborn,” Yunjin said softly, eyes lingering.

Chaewon’s face softened. She looked away, just slightly. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Yunjin stared at her for a second. Her heart thudded once, heavy.

She reached down and laced their fingers together under the blanket. Their hands fit like they’d done it a thousand times before.

“I’ll try again,” Yunjin said quietly. “The therapy. The recovery. All of it. As long as you’re there.”

Chaewon turned back toward her, surprised by how fragile Yunjin’s voice sounded, like hope stitched together with fear.

Her fingers tightened.

“Always,” she said.

It wasn’t a confession.

But it was a promise.

Somewhere between Kazuha pretending not to notice and Sakura muttering “This remote is cursed,” the night slipped into the kind of silence that only comes from love—spoken, unspoken, and everything in between.

And in that silence, under that blanket, Yunjin finally exhaled.

---

Chapter Text

The next morning, the dorm felt… quieter. Not with the weight of anxiety, not like before—but focused. There was a pulse of purpose under everything. Dishes were washed a little faster. Socks actually made it to the laundry basket. Phones were picked up and set down again. Everyone moved, but they moved around something—or someone.

Yunjin had asked for it.

“I want to talk,” she’d said earlier, after breakfast, still in her hoodie, eyes steady but voice careful. “With all of you. And the manager. About the therapy. About everything.”

No one questioned her. Not this time.

Within the hour, their manager had arrived, seated now at the kitchen table with his iPad in front of him, the familiar little green case open like a shield. He looked professional as always, but there was something different today. Something gentler in the way his hands rested on the table. He didn’t look like someone here to give instructions, he looked like someone prepared to listen.

One by one, the girls gathered around the room. Sakura sat first, arms crossed but face unreadable. Then Eunchae, her leg bouncing slightly. Kazuha took the stool by the counter, always the quiet watcher. And finally, Chaewon—who didn’t say anything as she entered, just made a beeline for the empty chair next to Yunjin and sat down like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Not too close. Not touching. But close. A quiet kind of loyalty.

Yunjin stood for a moment, staring at the chair across from the manager. It was strange how intimidating furniture could be. She exhaled through her nose, squared her shoulders, and finally sat.

Her hands folded tightly in her lap.

The manager cleared his throat, gentle. “First, thank you, Yunjin. For wanting to have this conversation. I want you to know, this isn’t about making decisions today. It’s just about making space. You don’t owe anyone anything.”

“I know,” Yunjin said, voice steady, but soft. “But I want to understand. All of it. What it’ll look like. What’s different. What I can say no to.”

There was a pause, brief, but warm. From her right, she felt it more than saw it: Chaewon glancing over, a small shift in posture, a hint of pride in the silence between them. Yunjin didn’t look her way, but she felt the glance like a sunbeam through window glass. She held onto it.

The manager tapped on his iPad. “So here’s what’s planned so far. The technician assigned this time is a specialist from Seoul National Hospital. She’s worked extensively with neural trauma and long-term recovery cases. You’ll meet her before anything else. Nothing happens without your full consent. Verbal, written, everything.”

Sakura raised an eyebrow. “And what happens if she isn’t the right fit?”

The manager didn’t even hesitate. “Then we look for someone else. No pressure, no ticking clock. This is your treatment. You make the call.”

That got a few nods, but it was Chaewon who leaned forward just slightly, her voice cutting in like cool water. “Can we be there?” she asked. “Not just in the hospital waiting room, I mean the day of. I want to speak with the technician myself. I want to know what kind of machine they’re using. Who calibrated it. I want to look them in the eye.”

There was something sharp beneath her calm. Yunjin heard it. Everyone did.

Eunchae folded her arms. “I second that. None of this behind-the-scenes, hush-hush nonsense like last time. No half-truths. We’re all here. We’re all witnesses.”

The manager blinked. Maybe he hadn’t expected this kind of unity. “Of course. If Yunjin wants you there, you’re there. Fully.”

“I do,” Yunjin said. Her voice didn’t shake.

Kazuha shifted forward slightly, speaking for the first time. “So… can you tell us, honestly, if there’s any chance of what happened last time repeating?”

Yunjin spoke before the manager could. “There’s always risk.” Her tone wasn’t bitter, just real. “But this time, it’s going to be different. Because I won’t be walking in blind. And I won’t be walking in alone.”

Eunchae reached under the table and found Yunjin’s hand. She squeezed it tight, warm and firm.

“Damn right,” she muttered.

A pause fell over the group. It wasn’t awkward. It was full. Heavier than silence, but not painful. Just full of feeling.

Yunjin inhaled. Turned slightly in her chair.

Her eyes met Chaewon’s.

“I know you want to protect me,” she said, voice low, vulnerable in a way she didn’t often let herself be. “And sometimes… I want that. I want to crawl behind you and let you deal with it for me. Pretend I don’t have to go back in there. But I do. And I have to go in as me. I need to be the one walking. You can walk beside me, but it has to be my step. My choice.”

There was a flicker across Chaewon’s face. Something fierce and soft all at once. A quiet war she seemed to fight within herself.

And then she nodded.

“I know,” she whispered. Her voice held no bitterness, just belief. “And I’ll be right there. Right behind you, every single step. If anyone tries to push you before you’re ready…” she paused, her voice low and firm, “...they’re going to regret it. But if you say go—then I trust you.”

Yunjin’s throat tightened.

She didn’t cry. But she felt the burn behind her eyes, like a storm she’d been holding back for weeks had finally passed, leaving the sky over her ribcage just a little bit clearer.

The room around them didn’t feel clinical or suffocating like it had during past talks. It didn’t feel like a boardroom, or a press briefing, or a therapy intake form.

It felt like home. Like safety. A sanctuary built out of people who refused to let her carry it alone.

The meeting stretched out after that—into logistics and follow-ups and scheduling. The manager took notes. Kazuha asked about insurance. Eunchae suggested backup plans and emergency exits. Sakura brought up media coverage and how they’d shield Yunjin from it.

They discussed support staff, sleep schedules, even meals. They created a code word Yunjin could use to end any session if it got too overwhelming. No questions asked.

They planned everything.

But more than that—they made it clear: this time, she wasn’t just someone to be managed. She was someone they stood for.

And maybe most important of all… she stood for herself, too.

---

The weather outside was stupidly perfect.

Blue skies, cotton-draped clouds, and that kind of breezy warmth that smelled like grass and sunscreen and late spring. It was so suspiciously picturesque that it felt illegal to stay indoors.

Sakura, of course, was the first to declare it criminal. Literally.

“This is picnic weather,” she said, standing in front of the living room window with a hand on her hip like a daytime drama villain. “If we don’t leave the house, we’re committing a felony.”

Eunchae gasped. “Unnie! You can’t just say that!”

“We are celebrities,” Kazuha added helpfully. “It’s probably true for us.”

But by then, they were already halfway out the door, a chaotic parade of sandals, sunscreen, and poorly packed bags.

They brought takeout sandwiches, thermoses full of iced barley tea, a Bluetooth speaker with questionable pairing ability, and a checkered blanket that Kazuha claimed she had washed—though no one dared to confirm it with a sniff.

Han River Park greeted them like an old friend. No cameras. No rehearsals. No staff hovering at the edges. Just a wide tree that threw shade like it had a grudge and soft grass that flattened easily under them.

It was the first time in what felt like forever that they could just be.

Yunjin dropped down cross-legged onto the blanket and sighed like her bones were older than they were. “You guys are seriously bad at unpacking.”

Across from her, Sakura was struggling with a folding chair that had clearly declared war on her fingers. “I’m a conceptual unpacker,” she huffed. “I delegate.”

“To who?” Yunjin asked, incredulous. “You only brought one chair.”

“I delegated poorly.”

Laughter broke out, bubbling and effortless. The kind that wrapped around them like a shared blanket. Eunchae nearly dropped her sandwich from laughing too hard, and Kazuha just looked mildly betrayed by her own fruit contributions.

Chaewon leaned back on her elbows beside Yunjin, sunglasses sliding slightly down her nose, that slow, self-satisfied smile playing on her lips. “Meanwhile,” she said with smug pride, “I brought the fruit.”

Eunchae squinted at her. “You brought, like, two bananas.”

“Which is still more fruit than anyone else brought,” Chaewon replied, tone smug enough to qualify as legally cocky. “Queen behavior.”

Kazuha wordlessly extended half a strawberry in her direction. “Joint monarchy?”

Chaewon accepted the offering with a solemn nod. “We rule kindly.”

Yunjin just shook her head, smiling despite herself. She didn’t realize how much she’d missed this. Not just the jokes or the familiar rhythms of each person’s humor, but the presence of it all. The togetherness. The noise that wasn’t work or pressure or expectation. Just friends being absurd under a tree.

It didn’t make the fear of what was coming disappear. But it softened the edges of it. Made it bearable.

Eventually, the group dissolved into a lazy post-lunch pile, limbs flung over limbs, someone’s foot in someone else’s lap, soft music playing from the Bluetooth speaker like a half-forgotten thought.

Yunjin stood, brushing grass off her jeans. “I’m going for a walk.”

She hadn’t said it loudly, but someone always heard.

“I’ll come,” Chaewon said, already pushing her sunglasses up and stretching her arms above her head with a yawn that looked entirely too smug for someone who’d brought two bananas.

They walked side by side, down the slight slope toward the river. It wasn’t a conversation walk, not right away. The breeze tugged at their hair, and the occasional cyclist whizzed past on the path, but otherwise, it was just them and the water and the hush of rustling trees.

Chaewon didn’t fill the silence, which Yunjin appreciated more than she could say. Some people feared silence and broke it with noise. Chaewon walked in it like she was fluent.

“Thanks,” Yunjin murmured eventually.

Chaewon glanced over. “For what?”

“For today,” Yunjin said, eyes on the path. “For staying close even when you know I need space. You’re always… just the right amount of there.”

That earned her a quiet laugh, breathy and real. “I don’t always get it right.”

“You get it close enough,” Yunjin said. Then after a pause, with a touch of humor, “Which is better than most people manage with me.”

They reached a low bench tucked under a tree. Chaewon dropped onto it with a dramatic sigh like they’d just hiked up Mount Everest instead of walking ten minutes. Yunjin stayed standing, arms loosely crossed, watching the sun glint off the rippling water.

“You’ve been holding a lot,” Chaewon said, not as a question. Just an observation. A fact spoken gently.

Yunjin nodded. “Some days I feel okay. Other days, it feels like I’m dragging my own shadow behind me. And the worst part is, I don’t want to ask for help because I’m scared the help will feel like pressure. Like more eyes watching, more people waiting.”

Chaewon leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “That’s fair. But… I think you forget we’re not watching to measure you. We’re watching because we care. That’s different.”

Yunjin looked at her, then away again, swallowing against the tightness rising in her chest.

“I’m scared I’ll freeze again. That I’ll walk into that hospital and just—shut down.”

“If that happens,” Chaewon said quietly, “I’ll be there. To unfreeze you. Or wait. Or sit on the floor beside you until you’re ready. Whatever you need.”

Yunjin’s laugh came out small and watery. “You always make it sound so simple.”

“Maybe it is simple,” Chaewon replied, with a little shrug. “Not easy. But simple.”

A gust of wind blew a strand of hair into Yunjin’s face, and she squinted up at the sky like it had personally offended her. Chaewon stood again and stepped close, brushing the strand away without thinking.

It wasn’t a dramatic moment. No sudden swell of music. Just soft, familiar closeness.

Yunjin looked up at her. “Promise me, if I start slipping, you’ll pull me back?”

Chaewon didn’t hesitate. “Always.”

They stood there for a moment, two silhouettes in the late afternoon sun, shadows tangled at their feet.

Yunjin suddenly grinned. “I feel like I should offer you a banana now. As payment for emotional labor.”

Chaewon made a face. “I swear, if you’re still mocking my fruit contributions by next week—”

“I’m not mocking. I’m admiring your minimalism. Very modern art.”

Chaewon shook her head, but her eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

They started walking again, back toward the blanket and their napping, sun-drenched members. The noise grew louder as they got closer—Eunchae arguing with Kazuha over whether clouds could technically be classified as ‘sky furniture,’ and Sakura filming herself dramatically sipping tea like she was in a commercial for luxury introspection.

Yunjin smiled.

Today wasn’t perfect. But it was beautiful.

And it was hers.

---

Yunjin didn’t sleep much the night before.

She lay on her back, eyes wide open, watching the faint glow of the ceiling in the dark. The dorm was silent except for the quiet hum of the fridge down the hall and the occasional creak of pipes in the walls.

Beside her, Chaewon breathed in slow, even rhythm. Steady. So steady it hurt.

Yunjin turned her head slightly, just enough to see Chaewon’s profile lit by the sliver of moonlight filtering through the curtains. Her lashes twitched once. She was dreaming.

Yunjin didn’t want to wake her. She didn’t want to burden her.

But the storm in her chest refused to calm.

It wasn’t just fear of pain. It was the memory of losing control, that dizzying disorientation, the cold panic that clawed up her throat and left her gasping. She remembered how the world had warped, how her body had gone rigid while her thoughts screamed and scrambled.

She didn’t want to feel that again.
She didn’t want to lose herself.

A soft rustle broke her spiraling thoughts. Chaewon shifted in her sleep and, as if guided by some invisible instinct, reached across the narrow space between their beds and laid a hand over Yunjin’s stomach. Her fingers didn’t move, didn’t tighten, they simply rested there. Warm. Anchoring.

Yunjin exhaled through her nose, eyes fluttering shut. That simple touch kept her afloat for the rest of the night.

She didn’t sleep.

But she didn’t drown either.

Morning came too fast.

The hallway light was already on when Yunjin stepped out of her room, hoodie draped over her thin frame, hair tied up haphazardly. Her eyes were glassy, skin pale.

Eunchae looked up from tying her shoelaces. She opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it and just gave a small, reassuring nod.

Kazuha was waiting by the front door, coat already zipped, thermos in hand. Her expression was calm, but there was a quiet tension in her jaw.

Sakura noticed Yunjin last. She immediately stood, her usual dramatic flair replaced by something sharper — focused. Protective.

“You don’t have to talk,” Sakura said, stepping forward and meeting her eyes. “Just nod. Are we doing this?”

Yunjin looked around at all of them. Her chest ached.

She nodded.

“Okay,” Sakura replied. “We’re ready.”

No one asked if she was. They all knew.

Downstairs, their manager blinked in  surprise.

The van door was open, but when she turned, she was greeted by a bundled huddle of girls, each of them already dressed and waiting in the lobby.

“You’re... all coming?” she asked.

Sakura crossed her arms, chin high. “You think we’d let her go alone?”

The manager looked at them, then at Yunjin, who was quiet, standing half a step behind Chaewon.

She nodded slowly. “Okay. Let’s go.”

The van ride was quiet. The kind of quiet that made every little sound feel too loud, seat belts clicking, blinker ticking, the faint hum of the heater.

Yunjin sat between Chaewon and Kazuha, hands clenched tightly in her lap. Her knee bounced slightly, uncontrolled.

Chaewon didn’t say much. But her hand found Yunjin’s without hesitation and held it firmly. Whenever Yunjin’s fingers twitched or her breath hitched, Chaewon would trace slow, grounding circles on her knuckles or lean in slightly, her voice just a whisper:

“You’re in charge today. No one else. Not even them.”

It wasn’t loud or grand.

But it was everything.

At the clinic, the others stayed behind.

“Are you sure you don’t want us in the room?” Eunchae asked, biting her lip.

Yunjin turned to look at all of them, her strange little family of chaos and warmth and too many snacks.

“I need to do this with her,” she said quietly, glancing at Chaewon.

Seulgi gently squeezed her shoulder. “We’ll be right here.”

Sakura added, “You scream even once, I will knock that machine over with my entire body.”

Yunjin cracked a small smile. “Noted.”

Inside, the room was cold.

Too cold. The overhead light was sterile. The machine in the corner blinked softly, passive and unthreatening, but Yunjin’s stomach still twisted when she looked at it.

The technician greeted her gently, and for the first time, they didn’t start by handing her a form or telling her what to expect.

They asked.

“Yunjin, would you like us to walk through the process first?”

“Would it help if we explained what each part does?”

“Do you want to stop at any time, just say the word. You’ll be in control the entire time.”

Chaewon remained by her side. She didn’t sit yet. She crossed her arms and gave the technician a polite but razor-sharp look.

“If anything—anything—feels wrong, we’re done. Understand?”

The technician nodded. “Understood. We’ve reviewed the last session’s report thoroughly. We’re taking every precaution. Our goal is to rebuild her trust.”

Yunjin’s throat tightened. She climbed slowly onto the treatment bed, every muscle stiff.

She remembered the last time—the machine’s sudden surge, her own voice failing to rise over the panic, her body locking up while her mind screamed.

Even now, her heart was racing.

The technician’s touch was gentle. Electrodes were applied with quiet care.

Still, her breath quickened. Her fingers curled around the edges of the bed.

She was shaking.

Chaewon knelt beside her, voice low but unwavering. “Yunjin. Look at me.”

She turned her head.

“You’re not trapped this time. You chose this. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Yunjin blinked hard. “I’m scared.”

Chaewon nodded slowly. “Then let’s be scared together. But you’re still here — that means you haven’t given up. That means everything.”

Yunjin let out a trembling breath. “Don’t look away.”

“I won’t.”

The machine activated.

Low frequency. Closely monitored.

Controlled.

A pulse rolled through Yunjin’s body—deep and strange, like thunder in her nerves. Her back tensed. Her teeth clenched.

She gasped softly. Her eyes stung.

Her hand jerked involuntarily.

“Stop.” Chaewon’s voice was immediate. Sharp. Protective. “We’re stopping.”

The technician moved fast. “Stopping now. Power off.”

Yunjin’s breath came in ragged gulps. She curled in slightly, hands shaking.

“No,” she croaked. “Wait. I just—I need a second.”

Chaewon blinked, caught between concern and restraint. “Are you sure?”

Yunjin nodded, eyes shut tight. “This time… I want to keep going. But I say when.”

No one argued.

The technician looked to her and waited.

Yunjin lay back down, slower this time. She met Chaewon’s eyes, and something wordless passed between them.

Chaewon sat back down, but she didn’t relax.

She didn’t blink.

The second round began.

It was painful. Sharp. Fatiguing. Her hands trembled with effort. Sweat pooled at her back and her jaw ached from clenching.

But she endured.

Because this time, she wasn’t alone.

Because this time, every choice was hers.

Because Chaewon never looked away.

When it ended, Yunjin slumped back against the bed.

Her body ached. Her face was damp with sweat and maybe tears.

But her chest—her chest wasn’t caving in.

“Holy shit,” she whispered. “I did it.”

Chaewon stood slowly, brushing hair from Yunjin’s forehead with careful fingers.

“You did.”

Outside, when they returned to the lobby, the others all stood at once.

Sakura blinked at her, eyes wide. “How do you feel?”

Yunjin paused. “Tired. Like... I ran five marathons in my head.”

Kazuha offered a protein bar. “We brought snacks.”

Eunchae burst out, “I was ready to punch someone if they messed up again.”

Sakura added, “We made a blood pact. Next time, we all storm the room.”

Yunjin laughed. A real one, even if her voice cracked.

“Thanks,” she said, her gaze drifting briefly to Chaewon, who had stepped quietly behind her again, ever her silent shield. “I couldn’t have done it without you guys.”

“No,” Chaewon murmured. “You did this. We were just... here to remind you you could.”

Yunjin didn’t say it aloud.

But in her chest, something unspoken bloomed, warm, steady, aching.

Thank you for staying.

Thank you for being brave for me when I couldn’t be.

I think I love you.

---

Later, after the sugar high from the snacks had died down and everyone had slowly migrated to their own rooms, the dorm settled into a gentle stillness. The kind that only came after a long day filled with laughter, movement, and too much frosting.

Yunjin sat on the edge of her bed, the room dim except for the soft glow of her bedside lamp. Her gaze was fixed on the mirror across from her. The girl staring back looked a little different—paler, maybe, and with more shadows under her eyes. But she was upright. Breathing. Healing.

Still here.

A quiet knock on her open door made her glance over. Chaewon stood there, hair slightly tousled, a glass of water in hand and a sleepy smile on her face.

"Hey," she said gently, stepping inside. "How’re you holding up?"

Yunjin took the glass with a grateful murmur. “Better,” she said, voice soft. “Still a little... floaty. But good. Actually good.”

Chaewon nodded, then wandered toward her dresser like it was the most natural thing in the world, picking up a folded hoodie and holding it up like she was inspecting it for damage. “It’s probably the cake,” she said, amused. “I’m convinced the frosting had five cups of sugar. Minimum.”

Yunjin let out a soft giggle, the sound light and a little shy. “Hey, Chaewon?”

“Hm?” Chaewon turned slightly, one hand still absently fidgeting with the hem of the hoodie.

“Can you help me get changed?” Yunjin asked, eyes lowered now, focused on her water glass. “My back’s okay, I just... kinda want you to.”

Chaewon didn’t hesitate. Her eyes softened, something unspoken passing through them. “Of course,” she said, her voice warm and quiet.

She moved gently, like the moment itself might shatter if she rushed. Her hands were careful as she helped Yunjin out of her top, guiding her into her soft pajama shirt with featherlight touches. Her fingertips lingered just a second too long on Yunjin’s bare shoulder, smoothing the fabric over it like it was made of silk, like Yunjin was something breakable and precious.

Yunjin could have done it herself—she wasn’t made of glass. But she didn’t stop her. Not when Chaewon’s hands were this warm. Not when every second with her felt like the world pressing pause.

“You still hover,” Yunjin teased gently, once she was fully dressed, though her voice was barely louder than a whisper. She sat back on the edge of the bed, watching Chaewon with fond eyes.

“I’m not hovering,” Chaewon said, stepping closer. Her voice dropped into something softer. “I’m looking at you.”

Yunjin blinked up at her, heart stumbling, something fluttering wildly behind her ribs.

The space between them shrank.

There was no dramatic confession. No perfect speech. Just a breathless beat of silence, a thousand thoughts balanced in the air between them—thoughts they’d never spoken aloud.

Chaewon leaned in slowly, eyes searching Yunjin’s face, giving her all the time in the world to pull away.

She didn’t.

Her breath hitched. Chaewon’s hand grazed hers on the bed. Their noses nearly touched. Yunjin’s eyes fluttered closed.

And then—

“Unnie?!” Eunchae’s voice rang out from the hallway. “Did you guys eat the last of the chips?!”

They sprang apart like startled cats.

Yunjin’s water nearly spilled. Chaewon stepped back so fast she almost tripped over her own feet. Their faces were flaming red.

“Uh—I think they’re in the kitchen,” Chaewon called back, voice cracking just a little.

Yunjin let out a nervous laugh, brushing her hair behind her ear with trembling fingers. “She really likes those chips.”

“Obsessed,” Chaewon agreed, scratching the back of her neck.

They stood there awkwardly, the air still thick with the moment they almost shared but now wrapped in a blanket of denial.

“Well,” Yunjin said, forcing a casual tone, “thanks for the help.”

“Yeah,” Chaewon replied, backing toward the door. “Anytime.”

And just like that, she slipped out of the room, leaving Yunjin alone with a racing heart and the ghost of a kiss that never quite happened.

Chapter Text

It had been a month.

A month since the chaos at the hospital, sirens and sterile lights still echoing in the corners of Yunjin’s mind.

A month since her slow, careful return to therapy—no longer just about recovery, but about reclaiming control.

A month since the others had to leave without her, boarding planes with forced smiles and watery eyes, while she stood at the dorm door waving like she wasn’t breaking inside.

They’d promised to call. She’d promised to heal.

And they did. And she did.

But none of them said what they were all thinking.

That it hurt like hell to be apart.

Yunjin missed everything—every silly warm-up, every chaotic dressing room argument over missing socks, every off-key mic check that turned into a group scream-sing. But more than all of it, more than the stage lights and the adrenaline, she missed her.

Chaewon.

God, she missed Chaewon like she was missing a second heartbeat.

The calls helped. The late-night voice notes. The blurry screenshots mid-FaceTime. But there’s only so much a screen can hold. It couldn’t hold the way Chaewon always looked at her first when something funny happened. It couldn’t hold how her hand would drift toward Yunjin’s during walks and pretend not to.

And Chaewon had tried to be strong for her. Always strong. Always soft in that way only Yunjin saw.

“You eating?”

“Did it hurt today?”

“Don’t lie—are you sleeping enough?”

Yunjin had learned to answer truthfully. And now, finally, her truth was something she was proud of.

She was discharged yesterday.

Her body still ached here and there, and she knew her healing wasn’t linear. But her heart had steadied. Her mind had cleared. She was ready.

And she had a surprise planned.

Meanwhile, in Japan...

The rehearsal venue buzzed with light and movement.

LE SSERAFIM had arrived early, hair tied back, sweats on, stretching out stiff limbs while a beat played faintly through the overhead speakers. Their final rehearsal before tomorrow’s concert was well underway, and nerves were bubbling beneath the surface.

Chaewon rolled her shoulder back with a groan. “Where’s coffee when you need it?”

“I drank yours,” Sakura said flatly, like she was daring someone to be mad about it.

Chaewon stared at her in betrayal. “You monster.”

“It was dying anyway. Lukewarm and depressed.”

“Like me,” Eunchae said dramatically, spinning in slow, limp circles with her arms stretched wide. “Can someone carry me to the afterlife? Preferably bridal style?”

“No,” Kazuha said without missing a beat, halfway through a split. “But I’ll drag you there by the leg.”

Eunchae gasped. “Violence.”

The speaker crackled as the choreographer’s voice buzzed in. “Reset from the bridge. Five-minute break, everyone.”

As the beat stopped, the girls gathered near the mirrors, panting lightly and sipping water. Chaewon flopped onto the floor, face-first.

“That bridge is illegal,” she grumbled into the mat.

“We survived it,” Kazuha said, wringing her hair into a tighter ponytail.

“Barely,” Sakura huffed, poking at the weird kink in her shoulder. “Also, who said there was a surprise? Because I see no balloons. No confetti. No free skincare samples.”

“Or a new dance coach,” Kazuha added. “One who doesn’t yell in three languages.”

“Or!” Eunchae’s eyes lit up. “Maybe it’s special effects. Like fire pillars or confetti cannons or—ooh! Live tigers!”

Everyone slowly turned toward her.

“No tigers, please,” Chaewon muttered. “I can’t outrun anything right now.”

Then a voice came through the crew comms—quiet, almost giddy:

“She’s here. Bringing her in.”

The girls didn’t catch it, but the stage manager did. He looked up, smiled slightly, and vanished behind the curtain.

They didn’t even have time to question it before the side door creaked open.

And standing there—hoodie sleeves rolled up, hair tied back in a lazy ponytail, expression unsure but eyes unmistakably familiar—was Huh Yunjin.

For a second, no one moved.

Yunjin stood with one hand gripping the strap of her duffel bag, the other loosely hanging by her side. Her gaze flicked up, meeting theirs, then quickly darted back to the floor.

She looked smaller somehow, quieter. But she was glowing. Radiating something soft and unshakable.

Her voice cracked as she tried to speak: “Hey, guys—”

“...Unnie?”

Eunchae’s voice was a squeak. She was frozen mid-sip of her water bottle. "Is that really you?”

Yunjin blinked, eyes already watering. “Yeah. It’s me.”

“YUNJINNIE!!!”

There was a thud—Chaewon’s bottle hit the floor—and then she ran.

Like actually ran, arms pumping like she was in a drama, eyes locked on Yunjin with the intensity of a storm.

Yunjin barely had time to laugh before Chaewon crashed into her, arms wrapping tight around her waist, face burying into the side of her neck. She smelled like sweat and shampoo and something that smelled so Chaewon it made Yunjin’s knees weak.

“You’re—You’re real,” Chaewon whispered, breath shaky against her skin. “Oh my god, you’re really here.”

Yunjin laughed, breathless. “Surprise?”

Chaewon pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes glassy. “You—You didn’t tell me. You liar. You traitor. You literally said you were resting today.”

“I was,” Yunjin said innocently. “On the plane.”

Chaewon made a choked noise and hugged her again, this time even tighter.

Then came a full-bodied sob from the other side of the room.

“YUNJINNNNN!” Sakura wailed, running with all the grace of a sitcom character and crashing into them. Kazuha followed, hands over her mouth in stunned joy, and Eunchae—screaming the whole way—tripped over her own feet and still made it into the group hug.

They were a pile. A mess. Arms everywhere. Someone’s elbow in someone’s face. Kazuha apologizing while still crying. Eunchae repeating, “This is the best day of my LIFE,” over and over.

“Who’s crying?” Sakura sniffed.

“You are,” Kazuha muttered, wiping her own tears.

“Shut up, I’m grieving joyfully!”

Yunjin just laughed and laughed until she couldn’t anymore, until her chest ached, and she had to breathe deeply to stop the shaking.

Eventually, they peeled off, only slightly, enough to see her properly.

Chaewon cupped her face in both hands, thumbs brushing under her eyes, like she was still afraid she’d disappear.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly. “Are you really okay?”

Yunjin nodded, blinking back fresh tears. “I’m okay. I’m better than okay.”

Sakura stared at her in stunned awe. “What are you doing here?! Did you—did you sneak back into Japan?”

“I got discharged yesterday,” Yunjin explained, eyes shining. “I talked to the managers and begged a little. I wanted to surprise you. I’m cleared to rehearse. To perform again.”

Eunchae gasped. “Wait—you’re back back?”

“Back back,” Yunjin grinned.

The scream that followed nearly shattered the soundboard.

Kazuha hugged her for the third time in ten minutes. “You kept this a secret just to make us cry, didn’t you?”

Yunjin smirked. “Maybe.”

Sakura sniffled again. “I’m never trusting your texts again.”

“I said I was resting!” Yunjin protested.

“ON A PLANE!”

And still—through it all—Chaewon never let go of her hand. Their fingers tangled somewhere between the chaos, palms pressed together like they’d never separated.

They ran through the choreography again—this time with Yunjin in her rightful place—and it was electric.

There was a crackle in the air the moment the beat started. The energy shifted. Like the final piece had clicked back into place and the group, for the first time in weeks, felt whole.

Yunjin stumbled during the first sequence. Just a small misstep—her timing half a beat off—but instead of freezing or flinching, she laughed. A soft, airy sound that melted any tension in the room. She gave a sheepish wave, and Eunchae yelled, “She’s back and still a menace!”

On the second try, she nailed it. By the time the chorus hit, her body moved like water—graceful, strong, familiar. Like she’d never left. Like the stage had been waiting for her.

And Chaewon couldn’t stop watching her.

Yunjin’s smile was brighter than the lights. Her eyes glinted with joy and something deeper—something that made Chaewon’s chest ache in the best way.

Every shared glance during the routine felt loaded. And every time they passed by each other in the choreography, brushing hands, mirroring movements—it was like a secret conversation no one else could hear.

She belonged here. She’d fought for this.

And now she was reclaiming it, beat by beat, breath by breath.

When the final pose hit, and the last note echoed through the studio, there was a heartbeat of silence—then thunderous applause. The crew clapped. The choreographer grinned. Eunchae screamed something incoherent and threw a towel in the air like it was a bouquet.

“She’s back!” someone from production yelled. “Yunjinnie’s back!”

Yunjin bent over, hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

Chaewon was already watching her.

Yunjin looked up, cheeks flushed and radiant, and saw her across the room.

Chaewon mouthed the words: “Proud of you.”

Yunjin’s eyes softened. She stood up straighter, and mouthed back, “Thank you… for waiting.”

Later that night, at the hotel  

Dinner had been loud. Happy. Exhausted. Sakura cried again halfway through her ramen and blamed it on the spice level. Kazuha tried to cheers with a cup of barley tea and accidentally elbowed Eunchae in the ribs. Laughter filled the room in waves, and Yunjin had never felt so full.

Now, hours later, the hotel was quiet.

Yunjin stood barefoot on the balcony, a blanket loosely draped over her shoulders. Tokyo stretched out below her in glittering threads—car lights, distant music, the occasional siren echoing through the night.

The sliding glass door creaked open behind her.

She didn’t have to turn.

Chaewon.

The soft padding of socks. The rustle of a cardigan. The way the air changed when she entered a room.

Chaewon stepped beside her, silently leaning on the railing, shoulder brushing Yunjin’s.

They stood like that for a while. Letting the city hum around them. Letting the silence speak.

Finally, Chaewon murmured, “When you walked in today, I swear I forgot how to breathe.”

Yunjin smiled faintly. “I almost cried when I saw you running.”

“You did cry.”

“I did not.”

Chaewon turned her head, deadpan. “You were literally leaking from your eyes.”

“It was the lighting.”

“It was emotional leakage.”

Yunjin elbowed her lightly. “You’re the emotional one.”

Chaewon scoffed. “You sobbed when we watched Paddington 2.”

“It was a very moving bear movie.”

They both laughed, quiet and breathy, smiles lingering longer than necessary.

Yunjin’s fingers brushed against Chaewon’s.

Chaewon didn’t move away.

A second later, Yunjin’s hand slipped into hers. Soft. Natural. Like they’d done it a thousand times before—even though they hadn’t.

“I’m really okay now,” Yunjin said, her voice low and sincere. “Not just physically. I feel… clear. Like I finally walked out of the fog.”

Chaewon squeezed her hand. Her eyes didn’t leave the skyline, but her voice was barely a whisper. “I know. I can see it in you.”

Yunjin turned toward her, slowly, until she was facing her fully.

Her forehead rested lightly against Chaewon’s.

“And you were beside me. Every step,” she murmured. “Even when I was across an ocean.”

Chaewon let out a shaky breath. She didn’t step back. Didn’t joke. Just leaned in a little more, noses brushing.

“I missed you so much it physically hurt sometimes,” Chaewon whispered.

“I was hurting with you,” Yunjin said softly. “Just, y’know. With less stage lights.”

Chaewon smiled, eyes glossy. “I memorized your solo just to feel closer.”

Yunjin’s voice caught on a laugh. “You did not.”

“Ask Sakura. I tried to practice it in the bathroom and hit my elbow on the sink.”

Yunjin giggled, forehead still pressed to hers. “You nerd.”

“You love it,” Chaewon teased.

“I do,” Yunjin whispered, before she could stop herself.

They stood there a little longer, just two silhouettes against the city, hearts finally speaking the same language.

And for the first time in a long time, everything felt right.

---

The hotel room was quiet.

Not silent—Tokyo never truly slept—but inside these four walls, the world had softened to a gentle hush. The hum of the air conditioner filled the space like white noise, mingling with the distant murmur of traffic far below. A siren. A car horn. Faint, ghostlike reminders that somewhere, life was still moving.

But in here, everything felt still. As if time had tucked itself under the same blanket.

Chaewon lay sprawled diagonally across their bed, a blanket thrown halfway off like she’d fought it in her sleep and won. One arm curled loosely near her face, the other draped across the mattress, fingers twitching slightly every few minutes. Her lips were parted, breath slow and steady, lashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks.

She looked… peaceful.

Almost unfairly so.

Like all the weight she carried during the day had simply melted off the moment her eyes closed.

Yunjin, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking.

She lay beside her, stiff and still, eyes locked on the ceiling. Counting the grooves in the plaster. Letting her thoughts roll in, one after another, like an unwelcome tide she didn’t have the strength to push back.

Ten minutes had passed since they crawled into bed—tangled in comfortable silence, both too tired to talk. And yet, somehow, Chaewon had fallen asleep almost instantly, her face relaxing against the pillow as if Yunjin’s presence alone had let her drop her guard.

Yunjin had watched it happen.

Had watched her lips part and her breathing slow. Had memorized the way Chaewon’s brow smoothed and her lashes fluttered once, twice, before going still.

Now, she rolled onto her side.

Carefully. Quietly. Just to look at her.

The moonlight spilled in through the crack in the curtains, falling like a silk ribbon across Chaewon’s sleeping form. It lit her up in soft outlines—her cheekbones, her hair, the curve of her jaw. The cardigan she’d worn out to the balcony was slipping off one shoulder.

Yunjin’s fingers twitched. She reached out… and stopped short.

She hovered just above Chaewon’s arm, so close she could feel the warmth radiating off her skin.

But she didn’t touch.

Instead, she curled her hand into a fist and pulled it back to her chest.

She couldn’t stop the ache in her chest—the kind that only grew louder when things were too quiet. That bittersweet pressure that came with watching someone you love when they couldn’t see you loving them.

She stayed like that for a while, then—carefully—slipped out of bed.

The cold air kissed her bare legs as she padded across the room, grabbing the throw blanket and wrapping it around her shoulders. The marble tiles in the kitchenette were icy beneath her feet, but she barely noticed. She grabbed a glass, filled it from the small filtered tap, and held it tight.

She didn’t drink it.

Just stood there, fingers tight around the rim, like it could ground her. Like it could stop the memory that was already crawling back in.

The fluorescent lights in the doctor’s office buzzed faintly. Too bright. Too white. The kind of sterile that made everything feel distant, unreal.

Yunjin sat with her hands folded in her lap, trying not to grip her own fingers too tightly.

The doctor gave her a kind smile, the kind that always came with good news. “Yunjin,” he said, warm but firm, “you’ve done incredibly well. Everyone on the team is proud of your progress.”

Her heart leapt. “Wait—does that mean…?”

“You’re discharged,” he confirmed. “No more weekly check-ins. No more supervised sessions. You’ve earned your return to the stage.”

Yunjin blinked, then smiled. It came fast, bright and overwhelmed. “I—I’m cleared? Seriously?”

He nodded. “Seriously.”

She exhaled, her shoulders sagging. A laugh escaped her, one hand flying to her chest. “Oh my God. I thought I was gonna cry or something.”

But the smile didn’t last long—not when she saw that his hadn’t either.

“…What?” she asked, her laughter faltering. “Is there something else?”

The doctor hesitated, folding his hands on the desk. “Nothing that changes your clearance,” he said carefully. “But there’s something you need to be aware of.”

Yunjin straightened. “Okay…”

He leaned forward slightly. “The convulsions you experienced during the incident caused more strain on your lower spine than we initially realized. The nerves and muscles around that region were damaged—not severely, but noticeably.”

Her breath caught.

He continued, gently, “You’ve healed well. Your mobility is intact. But that area is now… vulnerable. More than before.”

She blinked slowly. “…So I’ll still feel pain?”

“Occasionally. Especially after long rehearsals or extended performances. It won’t be constant, but it’ll be your body’s way of telling you to slow down. And I need you to listen. Don’t ignore it. Don’t push through it.”

“I won’t,” Yunjin said immediately. “I mean—I’ll try not to.”

“There’s more,” he said, voice lowering. “One last thing, and I need you to take it seriously.”

Yunjin swallowed. “Okay…”

“If the same area gets reinjured—if the stress compounds again—therapy might not be enough next time.”

Her blood ran cold.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

The doctor looked at her, steady but kind. “If it worsens, you’d likely require spinal surgery.”

The word didn’t echo.

It detonated.

Surgery.

Surgery.

Her brain seized around it. Her throat tightened.

“I…” She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

The doctor saw it. He softened. “It’s unlikely. You’ve recovered beautifully. Many dancers return to the stage in situations like yours and never have further issues. As long as you stay careful, this doesn’t need to define you.”

But Yunjin wasn’t listening anymore.

Her mind had spiraled, straight into memories of hospital gowns and harsh lights and the helplessness that came with lying in a bed while machines beeped beside her.

She thought of performing.

Of losing that.

Of watching from the sidelines forever.

And suddenly, the dream she’d worked so hard for—the stage, the fans, the music, her girls—felt fragile. Breakable.

Like glass in her hands.

She nodded, eventually, but her voice came out flat.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

And when she left the office that day, she smiled at the nurse, thanked the receptionist, and walked calmly to the elevator.

But in the privacy of the ride down, her legs had shaken.

And when the doors closed, her vision blurred with quiet, terrified tears.

That day.

That conversation.

That word.

It still clung to her like smoke.

Yunjin stared down at the half-full glass of water in her hand, her fingers wrapped tight around the cool rim. The echo of her doctor’s voice played on repeat in the back of her mind—quiet, careful, final.

Surgery.

The syllables curled like frostbite in her chest.

She brought the glass to her lips—

And it hit.

A sharp, searing jolt tore across her lower back like someone had driven a white-hot blade straight through her spine.

Yunjin’s breath shattered in her throat. The glass slipped from her grip and knocked gently against the countertop with a muted clink, sloshing water against the rim. Her hands shot out, clutching the edge of the counter like it was the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

Her knees buckled slightly under her. Muscles tightened. Jaw clenched so hard it clicked.

“Okay—” she rasped out, voice thin and cracking. “Okay, it’s… it’s fine. Just breathe.”

She forced air through her lungs. In. Out. Shaky. Unsteady.

“Just breathe through it,” she whispered to herself, almost pleading.

But it didn’t listen.

Another spike of pain ripped through her spine—angrier, deeper this time—and her entire body flinched. Her head bowed. Shoulders hunched. She gasped sharply and let out a strangled whimper, the sound escaping before she could shove it down.

Her fingers dug into the countertop. Her knuckles were white.

“C’mon, not now,” she muttered through her teeth, eyes squeezed shut as hot tears blurred her vision. “Not now, please—please not now.”

She bent forward instinctively, trying to ease the tension. It helped… but only slightly. Every breath sent echoes of pain radiating outward, like aftershocks.

Her legs trembled beneath her. Her feet went cold.

The thought struck her, uninvited.

What if I collapse again?

What if I can’t stand up this time?

Her heart pounded against her ribs like it was trying to escape.

She bit the inside of her cheek until the coppery tang of blood hit her tongue. It grounded her. Anchored her to the now.

One… two… three…

She counted seconds in her head like prayer beads.

Four… five… six…

The pain didn’t vanish, but it ebbed—slowly, cruelly.

The worst of it passed, like a wave that had finally broken.

Yunjin’s breath came out in a shaky exhale. Her back still ached in that deep, bone-tired way, but the fire had dimmed.

Still bracing one hand on the counter, she used the other to wipe at her eyes quickly—angrily. Her palm came away damp.

“Stop crying,” she muttered to herself. “You’re fine. It’s over.”

She sniffled once, inhaling hard through her nose, and finally reached for the water again. She took a small sip. Her hand was trembling slightly, but she held it steady enough.

Her reflection in the dark microwave door met her gaze—pale, sweat-dampened, eyes still glassy.

She stared at herself.

And then whispered, “I’m fine.”

The lie felt like an old friend.

“I can handle it.”

It didn’t matter if she didn’t believe it. It just had to be said.

She placed the glass down, turned off the light, and tiptoed back into the bedroom.

Chaewon hadn’t moved.

Still curled up on her side, blanket tangled around her knees, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Her face was so relaxed, so unaware, it made something in Yunjin’s chest twist.

She hated waking up in pain. But more than anything, she hated the idea of Chaewon waking up and seeing her in it.

She hated the way the others looked at her when they were worried—like she was a glass sculpture that might tip and shatter at the first gust of wind.

She couldn’t let them see it.

Not now. Not after everything.

Yunjin slid carefully beneath the covers, her movements deliberate and slow. She curled onto her side, facing away, arms wrapping around herself like armor. Her body was still buzzing—tender and trembling from the aftershocks—but she didn’t make a sound.

She stared at the wall in front of her, blinking slowly.

Just sleep, she told herself.

It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.

Her fingers gripped the edge of the pillow like it was a lifeline.

And in her heart, somewhere deeper than fear, a thought whispered back:

I hope so.

Unbeknownst to Yunjin, a shadow lingered quietly in the far corner of the suite.

---

Eunchae shuffled out of the bathroom, rubbing her eyes with the sleeve of her oversized pajama top, her feet dragging lazily against the carpet. She was still caught somewhere between sleep and waking, her brain foggy, her body on autopilot.

The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint golden spill of light coming from the kitchen. She blinked, squinting into the glow.

Someone was standing by the counter.

It took her a moment to process, then she recognized the silhouette instantly. The long auburn-red hair, the familiar curve of her shoulders.

Yunjin unnie?

Eunchae blinked harder, frowning in quiet confusion. She was just standing there. Not moving. Not drinking. Not even fidgeting. Just… still.

The glass of water in her hand caught the light, but she hadn’t raised it to her lips. Her other hand was pressed against the counter, flat and tense. Her head bowed slightly, like she was lost in something far away.

Eunchae took a careful step forward, her voice caught halfway to her throat.

“...Unnie?” she whispered.

But she didn’t get a chance to say it out loud.

Because in the next second, Yunjin’s body jerked violently—her back arching, one hand slamming against the counter with a dull thud. The glass wobbled dangerously in her grip but didn’t fall. Her knees bent slightly, and a low, breathless gasp broke from her lips.

Eunchae froze mid-step.

Everything in her stopped.

Yunjin’s face twisted, a tight, pained grimace overtaking her normally soft features. Her eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners instantly, as if the pain itself had reached inside and pulled them loose.

“Ah!” Yunjin’s voice broke—barely a sound, more like a breath trying and failing to become a word. Her fingers gripped the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping her standing. Her knuckles turned bone-white.

Eunchae’s heart climbed up into her throat.

She didn’t understand what she was seeing.

No one had told her anything was still wrong. Yunjin was back. She danced. She laughed. She’d braided Eunchae’s hair just a few hours ago, pretending to mess it up on purpose so she could redo it twice. She was okay again.

Wasn’t she?

But this—this didn’t look like okay.

Yunjin’s chest heaved with sharp, shallow breaths. Her head hung low, face hidden beneath a veil of trembling hair, and then she whispered something so soft, so fragile, that it barely reached across the room.

“Come on… come on, just stop…”

A desperate chant. A prayer to something bigger than her.

Another wave hit. Eunchae could see it ripple through her spine. Yunjin let out a small whimper—guttural, cracked, helpless.

Eunchae clutched her sleeve to her mouth, eyes wide, not daring to make a sound. She didn’t want to be seen. Didn’t want to scare her. She knew—somehow, she knew—that Yunjin didn’t want anyone to witness this.

Yunjin stood there for what felt like forever.

Just breathing.

Just shaking.

Fighting through something invisible and cruel and real.

And then, finally… it passed.

Or at least dulled.

Yunjin slowly straightened up, her movements cautious and shaky. Her hand trembled as she wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. A few strands of hair stuck to her damp cheeks.

She sniffled, inhaled deeply through her nose, then took a small, careful sip of water. Just like that. Like it had never happened.

She didn’t see Eunchae. Didn’t know she was being watched.

She turned and padded silently back down the hall, her footsteps soft, her body just a little slower than before.

She never looked back.

Eunchae ducked behind the wall instinctively, pressing herself flat against the hallway corner like a child hiding from a storm.

She waited until she heard the quiet click of the bedroom door.

And then she moved.

She stepped out into the kitchen, her hands shaking as she stared at the empty space where Yunjin had just stood.

The counter. The glass. The faint lingering heat of something that didn’t belong in the quiet hours of the night.

She backed up until her spine hit the wall behind her. Then she slid down slowly, arms wrapping around her legs, her chin trembling as it pressed to her knees.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Tears began to fill her eyes.

She didn’t even realize she was crying until the first drop slid down her cheek and landed soundlessly on her pajama pants.

“Unnie’s still in pain,” she whispered, voice cracking into the empty room. “She’s still hurting…”

The words tasted bitter on her tongue. Like betrayal.

She thought it was over. They all did.

They had celebrated. Rehearsed. Hugged. Laughed. Believed.

But this—this wasn’t the Yunjin she’d seen tonight, the Yunjin who teased Kazuha over dinner and smiled through the run-throughs.

That Yunjin was armor.

This Yunjin was breaking.

And only Eunchae knew.

She hugged her knees tighter, the ache in her chest growing heavy with guilt and helplessness. What was she supposed to do? Tell the others? Tell Chaewon? Say what, exactly?

That she saw her unnie crying at the counter in the middle of the night?

That she looked like she was trying to survive something she didn’t want anyone to know still haunted her?

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, curling tighter. “I don’t know how to help her.”

But no matter how tightly she closed her eyes…

That broken sound Yunjin made wouldn’t stop echoing in her mind.

A sound not meant to be heard.

A sound that changed everything.

And now Eunchae carried it like a secret no one gave her permission to hold.

---

Chapter Text

Sunlight spilled lazily into the hotel room, soft and golden, painting slow-moving shadows across the tangled white sheets. Outside, Tokyo had just begun to hum—cars rolling past, shop shutters lifting, the faint ding of a nearby crosswalk signal—but inside, the air was still and heavy with warmth, like the morning had no intention of rushing anyone.

Yunjin stirred first.

Her eyes remained closed for a moment, savoring the comfort. She was wrapped in softness—the crisp scent of fresh hotel linen, the warmth of the blanket pulled snug up to her chest, and, more than anything else, the familiar weight nestled against her back.

She didn't have to open her eyes to know who it was.

Chaewon had somehow managed to curl her entire body around her again during the night, her arm slung over Yunjin’s waist, one knee tucked behind hers, as if she were trying to physically mold herself into the shape of comfort. Her forehead pressed lightly between Yunjin’s shoulder blades, her breaths slow and even.

Yunjin smiled to herself.

Then came the familiar, sleepy mumble: “Mmmph… Jinnie?”

Yunjin blinked open her eyes, still smiling, and murmured, “Morning.”

Chaewon didn’t respond right away. She was slow to wake up—always had been. It was endearing in a way that made Yunjin’s chest ache a little more than she liked to admit. When she finally did speak, her voice was barely a whisper, heavy with sleep and something else far softer.

“Is this real?” she mumbled. “You’re really here?”

Yunjin turned slowly in her arms until they were facing each other, foreheads close. She tucked a piece of hair behind Chaewon’s ear without thinking. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

Chaewon blinked up at her with the most open expression—unguarded, still dream-soft. Her eyes were glassy with sleep, her lips parted slightly like she hadn’t yet remembered how to put her armor back on. She looked at Yunjin like she was trying to memorize her all over again.

“I missed you so much,” she said quietly. “You have no idea how weird everything felt without you.”

“I think I do,” Yunjin replied, her voice catching slightly. “Everything’s quieter without you. Too still.”

Chaewon smiled—small and crooked. “Even the chaos is better when you’re around.”

Yunjin laughed, quiet and breathy. “That might be the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received.”

“Take it or leave it,” Chaewon said, burying her face into Yunjin’s shoulder with a sleepy huff. “I’m too tired to be poetic.”

There was a silence that settled between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was warm, lived-in. The kind of quiet that only came from knowing someone so well that words weren’t always necessary.

Chaewon’s grip around Yunjin’s middle tightened, just a little.

“I kept waking up in different hotel rooms,” she mumbled, her voice muffled now. “And every single time, I’d roll over and think—just for a second—you’d be there.”

Yunjin’s breath hitched. She didn’t answer right away, just rested her chin lightly on top of Chaewon’s head.

“I did that too,” she whispered finally. “We’re kind of pathetic, huh?”

“The most.”

Yunjin laughed again, this time louder, and it made Chaewon grin in triumph against her shoulder.

“God, I forgot how annoying you are in the morning,” Yunjin said fondly.

“I’m a delight,” Chaewon insisted, her voice muffled. “A clingy, starving-for-attention delight.”

“That part I can believe.”

Chaewon looked up at her, her chin now propped on Yunjin’s chest like a lazy cat. “Hey. I haven’t gotten to tackle you in like, a month. I’m making up for lost time.”

“You’ve been glued to me since I walked through the door last night,” Yunjin said, teasing. “Even in your sleep.”

“Instinct,” Chaewon replied with a shrug. “You’re like a giant space heater with better hair.”

Yunjin rolled her eyes, but there was a light in them. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet, here you are. Still letting me squish you.”

Yunjin didn't respond. Instead, she reached out and gently smoothed Chaewon's messy bangs back from her forehead, fingers trailing softly through her hair like it was second nature. It kind of was.

“I guess I missed being squished.”

Chaewon looked up at her for a long second. Something flickered in her expression—tenderness edged with something deeper. But she didn’t say anything.

Neither did Yunjin.

Eventually, she pressed her hand against Chaewon's cheek with a gentle smile, thumb brushing under her eye in a barely-there motion. “Your love language is literally physical smothering.”

“Damn right it is,” Chaewon said proudly, nuzzling into her palm like she couldn’t help it.

They stayed like that for a while—tangled in blankets, pressed close, hearts thudding just a bit too loudly in their chests. The kind of closeness that always threatened to spill over into something more, but never quite did. Not yet.

Then Yunjin’s stomach growled loudly.

Chaewon blinked, then snorted with laughter. “Is that your subtle way of saying you want breakfast?”

“I think my stomach’s saying it for me,” Yunjin said, groaning as she stretched.

Chaewon made a dramatic sound of protest and flopped back onto the bed, dragging a corner of the blanket with her. “But it’s warm here. And you’re here. That combination is rare. Can’t we just stay in this cocoon of feelings and poor boundaries a little longer?”

Yunjin laughed. “Tempting. But if I don’t get food soon, you might lose an arm.”

Chaewon grinned and reached out lazily, poking her side. “Worth it.”

Yunjin stood up slowly, rolling her shoulders. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m your ridiculous,” Chaewon mumbled from under the blanket—then froze.

Yunjin paused.

There was a beat of silence. Not tense, exactly, but charged.

Chaewon peeked one eye out from under the covers, trying to play it off. “I mean, not your yours. Just, you know. Figuratively. As a concept.”

Yunjin gave her a small, unreadable smile. “Right. A concept.”

Chaewon grinned awkwardly. “Cool.”

Yunjin walked toward the door and opened it a crack. “I think someone brought breakfast trays. Come on, concept.”

“Hey!” Chaewon leapt up, scrambling to wrap herself in the blanket like a makeshift cape. “I demand at least half your hash browns. For emotional damage.”

Yunjin just laughed and held the door open. “Try and catch me first.”

They disappeared down the hallway, their laughter echoing faintly behind them—two best friends wrapped in sunlight, tangled blankets, and an invisible thread they still didn’t dare pull on just yet.

The sweet scent of miso soup, scrambled eggs, and perfectly crisped toast filled the apartment, warm and comforting in the quiet of morning. Someone—probably Sakura—had started breakfast early, humming under her breath as she moved through the kitchen, the soft clatter of plates and the hiss of the coffee machine forming a gentle rhythm against the backdrop of a waking Tokyo.

Yunjin emerged from the hallway freshly changed, her red hair still damp at the ends. She wore a cozy oversized sweatshirt and grey sweatpants, her face relaxed, but her posture just a little too careful. Her lower back ached faintly with every step, the tightness manageable but constant, like a quiet warning.

She looked like an idol finally catching her breath—calm, composed… almost.

What no one noticed at first was that Chaewon was clinging to her from behind, arms looped snugly around Yunjin’s waist like a stubborn child refusing to let go, her cheek pressed flat between Yunjin’s shoulder blades.

“Chaewon,” Yunjin said through a muffled laugh, tilting her head back a little. “You can’t koala me to breakfast.”

“I can,” came Chaewon’s dramatic whine. “And I will. You’re not escaping me today. I’ve got a full month of missed hugs to cash in.”

“I’m literally still here.”

“Not close enough,” Chaewon grumbled, nuzzling lazily into the back of her shoulder. “I’m emotionally unwell. Let me be clingy in peace.”

“You’re impossible,” Yunjin muttered, trying to walk forward, but the extra weight of her very persistent friend made her shuffle awkwardly toward the kitchen like she was dragging a weighted blanket.

From where she stood by the kettle, Kazuha turned with an amused smirk. “Oh my god. Are you two fused now?”

At the table, Eunchae—already halfway through a chocolate croissant—looked up at the sound of footsteps. Her eyes landed on Yunjin in the golden light spilling through the windows, her hair practically glowing, and her mouth opened slightly.

She looked… fine. Laughing. Relaxed. At ease.

But Eunchae had seen her last night—had seen the way Yunjin winced when she thought no one was looking, the way her hands trembled slightly when she tried to close the bedroom door. She remembered the muffled hiss of pain. The way she leaned against the frame like her knees were giving out.

Now, in the bright morning, it all felt like a dream. Except Eunchae knew it wasn’t.

“Did you sleep okay?” Sakura asked brightly, placing a steaming plate of toast on the table.

Chaewon answered first, still stubbornly attached to Yunjin’s back like a second spine. “She passed out in my arms like a snoring, chaotic angel.”

“I don’t snore,” Yunjin retorted, elbowing her lightly—but there was no real heat in it.

“Debatable,” Kazuha murmured into her tea.

Yunjin finally managed to free herself, slipping into the seat beside Sakura with a subtle wince she quickly masked behind a long sip of orange juice. She forced a laugh at Sakura’s teasing about Chaewon’s “stage-five clinger energy.”

It was all light and breezy, perfectly timed. Perfectly performed.

But not everyone was laughing.

Eunchae sat frozen, her cereal forgotten, both hands cradling her mug of milk like it might anchor her to the moment. Her gaze didn’t leave Yunjin—not as she shifted uncomfortably in her chair, not as she carefully reached for a spoon with just a whisper of hesitation.

It was there, in the tiny falter of a motion.

She’s still in pain, Eunchae thought. She’s pretending she’s fine, but she’s not.

And no one else saw it.

“Eunchae?” Sakura nudged her gently. “You okay?”

She blinked, startled out of her thoughts, and nodded a little too quickly. “Yeah! Just… thinking about practice later.”

“You look like you saw a ghost,” Kazuha teased, eyebrow raised.

“I just didn’t sleep well,” Eunchae said with a shrug, smiling weakly, then quickly dropped her gaze back to her bowl.

Across the table, Chaewon had finally settled into her seat, now meticulously piling food onto Yunjin’s plate like she’d appointed herself honorary breakfast guardian.

“You better eat,” she muttered, eyes narrowing at Yunjin like she was issuing a challenge. “You’re back on schedule today, and if you skip again and faint mid-rehearsal, I swear I’ll fight the choreographer myself.”

Yunjin blinked at her, taken aback by the sheer intensity of the statement. “That’s… really sweet. And kind of terrifying.”

“She’s been like this all morning,” Sakura said, smirking. “Hovering like a grandma with a grudge.”

“She has no idea how she sleeps,” Chaewon shot back, pointing her fork at Yunjin. “Takes up the whole bed, limbs everywhere. I deserve a medal just for surviving the night.”

“I’m deeply apologetic for my unconscious acrobatics,” Yunjin said with a wry grin.

But Eunchae still wasn’t smiling.

Her eyes kept flicking back to Yunjin’s hands, to the way she cradled the fork a little too carefully, to how she laughed a second too late.

Around her, breakfast continued like nothing was wrong. Laughter spilled across the table, Sakura refilled coffee cups, Kazuha tried to steal Chaewon’s toast, and Chaewon retaliated by dumping pickles onto her plate.

But Eunchae… couldn’t focus.

Should I tell someone? Should I tell Chaewon? The thought circled her head like a bird trapped in a cage. Or should I say nothing and pretend I didn’t see her struggling? Pretend everything really is okay?

She didn’t know the answer. All she knew was that her appetite had vanished, and that somewhere beneath the table, her fingers were trembling again.

The stadium still felt vast and empty, the kind of emptiness that made it seem like a world waiting to be filled. The flickering overhead lights hummed, casting an almost eerie glow on the stage that was slowly being transformed. Crew members bustled about, adjusting rigs and sorting microphones, each movement a small part of a much larger machine. The sound of bass testing reverberated through the floorboards, the deep thud of it settling into the very bones of the building—a heartbeat, slow and steady, ready to pulse through the night.

Backstage, the members of LE SSERAFIM moved with a quiet energy, each one in various stages of preparation. The air was thick with anticipation, but there was no panic. Hair was tied back into neat ponytails, in-ears already clipped to tank tops. Some wore joggers over their performance gear, as if trying to maintain the illusion that they weren’t already about to step onto the stage for the night’s biggest show. The rehearsal had begun, but it was clear this wasn’t just another practice.

Chaewon was bouncing on her heels, the kind of pre-show jitter that filled the space with a light buzz. She was teasing Sakura lightly, slapping her on the arm every time they passed each other, counting through steps with the rhythm in her blood.

But it was Yunjin who stood out, though not in a way anyone might notice at first.

She was standing off to the side, arms loosely folded across her chest. A half-smile danced on her lips as she nodded along to the beat, her eyes gliding over the movements she would soon perform. To anyone else, Yunjin was calm, collected, radiating the same quiet charisma she always did. Her energy was effortless, her grace unchanged. She looked fine. She was fine.

But Eunchae noticed something.

It was in the way Yunjin subtly rolled her shoulders between run-throughs, like she was stretching out a twinge no one else could see. Her movements were just a little too deliberate, as if every motion was carefully measured, a fraction slower, more cautious. When no one was looking, she would lean against the speaker box for a moment—just five seconds, just enough for her back to reset, for her body to brace itself.

Eunchae could tell it wasn’t just the rehearsals wearing Yunjin down. It was something else, something deeper.

There was that flicker again—a wince, fleeting as a shadow, when Yunjin shifted her weight too quickly. She covered it well, smoothing over the moment like she was just adjusting to the rhythm. But Eunchae saw it. She felt the tension lingering in the air. The small signs that Yunjin was struggling.

The music kicked in, sharp and demanding, and the girls scrambled to their positions. “ANTIFRAGILE” blasted through the speakers, and for a moment, the weight of the song seemed to fill the space. The bass rattled the stage, running through their feet and into their very bones, each note pushing them forward.

Yunjin moved, but not quite the same.

Her steps were controlled, her arms sharp and deliberate, but there was a layer of restraint in her performance now. She still had that elegance—her movements like the soft curve of a dancer’s line, but tonight it was tempered, held back. She didn’t drop into the full body roll she usually did, the one that made the audience hold their breath. She substituted it with a shallower curve, less fluid, more careful. The turns were tighter, like she was trying to avoid something. Something she couldn’t let herself indulge in, not yet.

Eunchae’s gaze stayed fixed on her, watching closely as Yunjin stood up slowly from the floor during one of the transitions. The change was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but Eunchae saw the caution. Saw how Yunjin took an extra breath before moving forward. Saw how her spine never fully straightened.

No one noticed.

Chaewon was too busy looking at Yunjin with heart-eyes, her focus drifting between the choreography and the way Yunjin’s elegance made everything look effortless. Kazuha was drenched in sweat, but her grin never faltered as she tried to nail every single step, Sakura too lost in perfecting her arm angles to glance around.

But Eunchae saw.

At the end of the run-through, they broke for water. The sound of shuffling feet and dripping bottles echoed in the spacious backstage area, but Yunjin was quiet as she wiped the sweat from her brow with a towel, stretching her back with a soft groan, but not too far. Always stopping just short of what might be too much.

“Everything good, unnie?” Kazuha asked, tossing Yunjin a chilled bottle of water, her voice light, not a hint of suspicion.

Yunjin’s smile was wide, almost too wide. She took the bottle with a grin. “Yep. Just shaking the rust off. Haven’t danced in a while, remember?” Her tone was light, casual, but something in the way her voice wavered, just for a split second, made Eunchae’s stomach turn.

Chaewon leaned in beside her. “You’re killing it. Seriously. You’ve got this.”

Yunjin laughed softly, squeezing Chaewon’s arm in thanks. Her hand lingered there for just a moment too long. A tiny gesture, something that would be lost on anyone who didn’t know them the way Eunchae did.

But the moment was fleeting, and when they turned away, Eunchae saw it.

Yunjin’s hand went straight to her lower back. A soft press. A deep, steadying breath, like she was trying to hold something back. The smile she gave the others was effortless, but her body was telling a different story. A story no one was asking to hear.

Eunchae’s fingers tightened around her water bottle, the plastic creaking under the pressure. Her throat tightened.

She’s hiding it again.

But what if she was wrong? What if this wasn’t a sign of pain, but just… the way Yunjin danced now? Maybe it wasn’t a secret. Maybe Yunjin was just being cautious, a little more mature in how she handled her body. And if Eunchae said something—if she pushed—would it make Yunjin feel exposed? Like she was weak? Or worse, that she wasn’t trusted?

The image from last night still haunted Eunchae’s mind—the way Yunjin had been so alone in the dim kitchen, her back arched in pain, silent tears streaming down her face.

Yunjin had told her everything was fine.

But Eunchae couldn’t forget the way her unnie’s face had crumpled, the way her body had betrayed her in those quiet moments, long before anyone else could see.

And now, here Yunjin was again, performing like nothing had happened. Dancing with a careful grace that no one else seemed to notice. But Eunchae did.

For the first time, Eunchae felt like she was holding a secret too.

And it was heavy.

The floor hummed beneath their sneakers, a low vibration that rattled up their legs as the opening notes of “UNFORGIVEN” echoed across the stadium. The familiar rush of the beat filled the space, pushing them into motion without a second thought. Muscle memory kicked in, the steps flowing like water, all of them moving into position as if the world had already set them on their path.

Eunchae, center-left, adjusted her mic, fingers grazing the wire, trying to ground herself in the moment. She flicked a quick glance across the stage, eyes landing on Yunjin, who was stationed on the far right.

Yunjin was smiling. Her lips curled up at the corners in that effortless, radiant grin that made her seem untouchable, like she was glowing with a light no one else could reach. Her movements were fluid, confident, almost playful as she sauntered into her verse, letting the music flow through her like it was second nature. The crowd would be feeling it, too—her energy contagious, her charisma lighting up every corner of the stage.

But Eunchae wasn’t looking at her face anymore.

She was watching her body.

The rhythm of the song picked up, and as they neared the point in the choreography right before the first chorus, the moment that would require Yunjin to bend backward into a sharp dip, Eunchae’s focus sharpened. Her eyes locked onto Yunjin’s movements.

She knew what was coming.

The dip. The spine-bending curve. Yunjin had nailed this move a hundred times before, her body melting into it effortlessly, the transition as seamless as a breath. The crowd would cheer; no one would even think twice.

But this time, as Yunjin leaned back—her body arching, sharp as ever—Eunchae noticed something no one else did.

When Yunjin straightened up, her smile faltered. It was the slightest shift, a fraction of a second, so quick it could have been missed by anyone who wasn’t paying close attention. But Eunchae was.

She watched as Yunjin’s jaw tightened, just for a moment, before her eyes flicked downward, almost like she was checking herself, making sure her body was still in control. The flicker was gone before it could even be fully registered, but Eunchae saw it. She saw how Yunjin’s hands curled into tight fists at her sides, her knuckles pressing pale against her skin.

Yunjin didn’t release them right away.

She just stood there for a beat, her fists clenched tight, her body rigid, like she was holding onto something, like she was trying to anchor herself in the midst of the movement. Her breath came a little harder, a little faster.

Eunchae’s chest constricted.

The song continued, the beat driving forward, but for Eunchae, everything seemed to slow down in that moment. Yunjin...

She watched her unnie, the one who always made it look effortless, and for the first time, Eunchae realized that it wasn’t.

And then, the verse ended.

Chaewon, oblivious, flung her arm around Yunjin with a bright laugh. “Still got it, huh?”

Yunjin, breathless, nodded quickly. “Y-Yeah. Just… need to pee really quick,” she said, her voice a little too quick, a little too light.

She was already disappearing before anyone could respond, heading toward the backstage area without a second glance.

No one thought twice about it.

Except Eunchae.

Something in her gut twisted. She wasn’t sure why, but the moment had stuck with her—Yunjin’s smile, that flicker of tension. Her clenched fists. It all felt too deliberate, like a carefully constructed act. Eunchae’s body moved before her mind caught up. She grabbed a towel off the counter, slinging it casually over her shoulder to make it look like a simple break, and began walking toward the hallway leading to the bathrooms.

Her mind raced, but the closer she got, the heavier her steps felt.

She wasn’t even sure why she was following. She just knew she couldn’t ignore what she had seen.

Turning the corner, she slowed down, trying to keep her steps light and inconspicuous.

And then she heard it.

Breathing.

Heavy. Ragged. It was faint at first, a soft sound that could have been lost in the hum of the air conditioning, but it was there. There was a weight to it, like someone was trying to control it, to slow it down.

Then came the sniffle.

Barely audible, but unmistakable.

Eunchae froze, her hand hovering near the bathroom door, her pulse pounding in her ears. She held her breath, straining to hear more, and that was when she heard Yunjin’s voice. It was muffled, but clear enough to pierce through the silence.

“Breathe. Come on. You’re fine. Just… don’t cry. Don’t f—”

Another sniffle. Then a sharp, shaky breath.

Eunchae’s heart dropped into her stomach.

She wanted to move, to rush in and pull Yunjin into her arms, but her feet wouldn’t move. Her body locked in place, hovering at the threshold, as if she were witnessing something she wasn’t meant to see. Something she wasn’t meant to know.

Yunjin’s voice trembled as she tried to calm herself, but it was so raw, so vulnerable, that Eunchae felt a knot tighten in her chest.

She’s still in pain.

The thought burned into her mind. Eunchae could feel the weight of it like a stone pressing down on her chest.

Yunjin was pushing herself. She was hiding it. She didn’t want anyone to know.

But Eunchae knew now.

She knew, and she couldn’t unsee it.

Back in the main rehearsal room, the music blared and the practice continued, the sound of their footsteps filling the air. But the rhythm felt distant, like it belonged to someone else.

A minute later, Yunjin came back, her towel pressed to her face as though she had just splashed water on it. Her smile was back—bright and easy, as if nothing had happened. She slapped Kazuha on the arm playfully, teasing Sakura about her ponytail looking like a palm tree.

No one suspected anything.

Not even Chaewon, who was too busy watching Yunjin laugh, her eyes soft and warm as they always were when they lingered on her.

But Eunchae couldn’t unsee it anymore.

Even when Yunjin was joking, her movements were slightly off. She stood tilted to the left, her weight uneven, like she was trying to protect something. During cool-down, she didn’t squat fully like the others. She opted out of one full run-through of the choreography, citing the need to “preserve energy” for the real performance.

It all looked so normal to everyone else.

But to Eunchae, it wasn’t.

Now she knew better.

She knew that Yunjin wasn’t okay. And no one else had any idea.

What do I do now?

The thought lingered, heavy and unanswered, as Eunchae tried to focus on the steps ahead of her. But no matter how hard she tried, Yunjin’s face kept flashing in her mind—her forced smile, the look of pain she couldn’t quite hide.

And suddenly, being part of this group didn’t feel like enough. She had to do something more. Something to make sure Yunjin didn’t have to carry this alone.

But she didn’t know what that was yet.

Later that evening, the energy shifted.

The chaotic bustle of rehearsals faded into the quiet hum of hair dryers, low conversation, and the occasional click of a curling iron. Stylists moved around the girls with practiced hands, ushering them through rotations like clockwork. Foundation, lashes, glitter. Breathe in, breathe out.

The pre-show buzz filled the air like static electricity, snapping lightly between them. But Eunchae wasn’t laughing with the others anymore.

She sat in the makeup chair, her legs crossed at the ankle, hands limp in her lap. Her eyes weren’t on the mirror.

They were locked on Yunjin, across the room.

Yunjin sat perched on a low stool, posture casual, legs bouncing slightly as one of the stylists secured her in-ear packs under her outfit. Her hair was already done—sleek, parted, shining under the lights. She was chatting with one of the coordis about which lip tint to go with. Laughing, even.

But Eunchae’s gaze had moved past the surface.

She saw Yunjin’s hand drop briefly to the small of her back when no one was watching. Just a light press. Not enough to look suspicious.

Then, as the stylist clipped on her mic belt, Yunjin’s expression shifted—barely—but Eunchae caught it. A flicker in her eyes, a twitch of discomfort around her mouth. A brief, stolen breath as she readjusted it herself with a soft joke.

And then the mask slipped back on.

That radiant Yunjin smile.

The worst part was… she was doing everything right.

Yunjin was resting between blocks. She was drinking water regularly. She wasn’t going too hard during practice. There was no reckless stubbornness. No outward refusal to pace herself. She was playing it safe, doing all the “correct” things a responsible performer would do.

And yet she still had to hide that it hurt.

That was what tore Eunchae apart.

It wasn’t recklessness—it was fear. Quiet, calculated fear. The kind you carry alone.

Because Yunjin wasn’t ready to tell anyone.

Not yet.

But someone needed to know. Someone had to help carry the weight she clearly couldn’t set down.

Eunchae shifted in her seat, mind reeling. Should she talk to her? Say she saw? Ask if she was okay?

Or maybe… she should tell Chaewon. Let someone closer, someone older, take the lead.

But Chaewon—she was already under so much pressure. Would it make things worse? Would it feel like betrayal?

Or worse—should Eunchae stay silent, and wait for Yunjin to come to her?

The options spun in her head like a wheel she couldn’t stop turning.

This was all too much for her to hold on her own.

She clenched her hands tightly in her lap, until her knuckles turned white.

And then—

The lights dimmed.

The buzz of conversation fell into sudden stillness, a breath held in anticipation.

Then the stadium erupted.

A wave of cheers, deafening and raw, slammed into the walls of the arena like a thunderclap. Thousands of voices screamed in unison, crashing over one another in a tidal wave of sound and devotion. On the massive screen behind the stage, LE SSERAFIM’s opening VCR faded into black.

And the first notes of FEARLESS rolled in—low, smooth, hungry. The kind of opening that didn't ask for attention, but demanded it.

Smoke poured out in gentle bursts. White spotlights sliced through the dark like spears.

And then, they stepped out.

All five of them.

Chaewon front and center, spine straight, eyes fierce. Kazuha flanked her right, strong and still. Eunchae took her mark on the left, hands trembling only slightly.

Sakura at the far edge, always poised.

And behind them, perfectly placed in the staggered formation… Yunjin.

Backlit by the glare. Head high. Glowing.

A roar tore through the arena.

“HUH YUNJIN!! HUHHH YUNJIN!!”

The chant echoed again and again, a heartbeat made of sound.

From the crowd’s reaction alone, you’d never know she had been gone.

You’d never know she was hurting.

The track kicked off hard—sharp, chaotic, demanding—and LE SSERAFIM moved like lightning. Their bodies sharp, elegant, synced down to the angle of their wrists.

Yunjin was electric.

Every turn. Every flick of her fingers. Every sharp tilt of her chin.

She hit each mark with that signature confidence, the kind that made it look easy. Her hair whipped back, catching the light. Her sassy stare into the audience landed perfectly. She licked her teeth mid-line and winked like she owned the entire stadium.

To anyone else, she looked flawless.

But Eunchae’s eyes were sharper now.

She saw how Yunjin’s landings were just a hair lighter, her weight pulled subtly away from her lower spine. She noticed how her transitions were slightly more calculated—half a breath slower, like her body was negotiating with itself in real time.

Her right hand, normally expressive and loose, curled into a fist in between formations.

Once. Twice.

Barely noticeable.

But not to Eunchae.

Still, she danced. Smiling. Performing. The cheers of the fans like white noise in her ears as she kept sneaking glances at her unnie, dread knotting in her stomach every time Yunjin dipped forward or twisted too far.

Please be okay.

The next few songs bled together in a blur of adrenaline and color.

ANTIFRAGILE.

No Celestial.

Sour Grapes.

They floated from formation to formation like a single body made of five souls.

And then, during Impurities, Chaewon drifted to Yunjin’s side for a soft, hushed harmony. Her voice was low, gentle, eyes soft as she brushed past her friend—her best friend. There was nothing overt. Just a graze of hands, a shared breath.

Yunjin’s smile curved deeper after that.

And Chaewon? She didn’t look away for a few beats longer than usual.

It was unspoken. Tender.

And Eunchae caught all of it.

Later, during Good Parts, Sakura passed Kazuha mid-stage and their fingers touched—barely, but intentionally. Sakura smirked, that rare little smirk she reserved for late-night dorm whispering and inside jokes. Kazuha raised one brow, the corner of her lip twitching upward.

Eunchae blinked, the realization hitting like a slap.

Is everyone in a secret relationship except me?

Her jaw twitched slightly—half in amusement, half in exasperation.

But then her chest tightened again.

Because there were bigger things to worry about.

The show marched on, unstoppable.

More VCRs. More sets. Wardrobe changes and water breaks. Screams that never died down.

Yunjin kept up. Again and again.

Flawless. Or almost.

During Fire in the Belly, Eunchae saw it again. That flicker. That half-second delay before a spin. The wince—so quick it looked like a blink. But it was there. And then, as if on cue, Yunjin smiled wide, tossed her hair, and made the crowd erupt again.

They don’t see it, Eunchae thought. They don’t know.

And God, she wished she didn’t either.

She wanted to scream—not from excitement, but from the pressure building behind her ribs.

But instead, she danced.

She smiled.

She stayed silent.

Just like she was supposed to.

As the concert neared its final stretch, the girls paused mid-stage for their crowd interaction break. Sweat glistened on their temples. Their chests heaved, adrenaline still pumping. And yet they were glowing—radiant under the lights.

Chaewon stepped forward first, mic in hand.

“How are we feeling, Tokyo?”

The crowd roared.

Chaewon laughed, brushing damp strands from her face. “Us too. It’s our first time back here in a while with all of us, and…” Her eyes flicked toward Yunjin, just for a moment. “...we’re really, really happy.”

Yunjin stepped up next.

She smiled, gaze sweeping across the sea of fans. “Honestly…” she began in soft, fluent Japanese, “I missed you all so much.”

A murmur of affection rippled through the stadium.

“This past month felt like forever,” she continued, her voice faltering just slightly, “but being here tonight… dancing again with my members… with my girls…”

Her eyes found Chaewon for the briefest second.

“…it feels like I’m alive again.”

The crowd melted. Screams erupted. A fan hurled a plushie onstage.

Yunjin caught it mid-air with a bright laugh, eyes shining.

But Eunchae saw the truth behind it.

That guarded posture. That tightness in her shoulders. The way she shifted her weight just slightly to her left foot. The careful hold around her back that she never let go of.

Yunjin was back.

But she was carrying more than just a mic.

And no one else knew.

No one else saw.

Except Eunchae.

And the weight of that truth was getting harder to dance through.

---

Chapter Text

Weeks passed.

City to city. Show to show.

The lights kept flashing. The fans kept screaming.

And Yunjin kept dancing.

Flawlessly. Convincingly. Desperately.

To anyone watching—from the nosebleeds to the pit, from fancams to press footage—she was radiant. Powerful. Back in her element. No one could see the fracture lines beneath the gloss.

Her movements were sharp, yes. But too sharp, too clean to the point of caution, calculated in a way they hadn’t been before. She smiled, she winked, she played with cameras and fans like she always had. But there was something behind her eyes, something glassy and worn. Something only a few people noticed.

And Eunchae was one of them. She noticed everything now. She had to.

She noticed the tiny wince when Yunjin sat too quickly. The way she stretched her lower back, subtly, like someone trying to hide it. The split-second pauses before kneeling choreography. The death grip on her mic during slower songs.

She saw the tremble in her hands after long sets. Heard the slight hitch in her breathing when the lights went out.

Sometimes, after shows, Eunchae would wake in the middle of the night and find Yunjin standing in the dark dorm kitchen, bent slightly forward over the counter, breathing in controlled measures, like she was trying to slow her heartbeat down.

Eunchae never said anything. She didn’t know how. Because the truth scared her. Because what if saying it out loud made it worse? What if it made it real? So she said nothing.

And Yunjin kept dancing.

It all came to a head during one soundcheck.

They were mid-rehearsal in Tokyo, final run-through before doors opened. The stage floor vibrated under their feet, lights in half-power, water bottles scattered across the wings. The girls were soaked in sweat, laughing in that breathless, buzzy way that only came after hours of hard rehearsal.

Yunjin had just finished a killer run-through of Eve, Psyche & the Bluebeard’s Wife. She’d nailed the spin-footwork combo in the second chorus, the one that had always made her back throb. Everyone had seen it. Even the staff.

An assistant let out a low whistle. “Damn. She’s back.”

The head choreographer clapped her hands with a grin. “You’re doing amazing, Yunjin. Seriously, the way you picked everything back up so fast? I’m impressed.”

Yunjin wiped sweat from her brow, panting softly. “Thanks,” she said, half-laughing. “I missed this. I missed you guys.”

“You too,” the choreographer said warmly. Then she turned to the rest of the girls. “And credit to the rest of you as well. You all slipped back into the original formations like nothing. That’s real teamwork.”

A silence followed.

A little too long.

Chaewon blinked, her brows twitching. Kazuha looked down at her shoes. Sakura’s mouth tightened, just slightly.

Yunjin’s smile froze, mid-curve.

“...Slipped back?” she asked, voice light but uncertain. “What do you mean?”

The choreographer hesitated. Only a beat. But it was enough.

“Oh—nothing serious,” she said quickly, waving it off. “Just that when you were gone, we reblocked some choreos to work with four. Made things smoother, you know. But it’s all back to normal now.”

Yunjin’s world stopped.

Not dramatically. Not instantly. But in slow, suffocating fragments.

Her ears rang. Her throat dried. Her stomach twisted in a way that felt too familiar—hospital ceilings, cold sweat, the soft beep of machines at 3 a.m.

They’d reblocked everything.

They’d carried on. Without her.

“I—I didn’t know that,” she said faintly, the words catching like thorns in her throat.

Chaewon stepped forward instantly, too quickly, like she’d been holding her breath this whole time.

“It was only temporary,” she said, her voice gentle but urgent. “Yunjin, no one wanted to—”

“You were injured,” Sakura added softly, her gaze steady. “You needed time.”

“We didn’t know how long you'd be out,” Kazuha said carefully. “We got orders. We just... followed them.”

But Yunjin barely heard them. Her vision swam. She wasn’t even looking at the others now. Her eyes were on the stage floor—the tape marks where she used to stand.

Her marks.

Her space.

Gone.

Her thoughts began spiraling, impossibly fast and yet painfully slow:

They were fine without me.

They adjusted.

They moved on.

She remembered lying alone in that white, too-bright hospital room, scrolling through photos of the others performing on stage, smiling, glittering under the lights. She remembered wondering—not for the first time—if the fans even noticed she was missing.

And now she knew.

They had noticed.

And adjusted anyway.

And that thought, the one she had buried deep, under hope and sweat and denial, finally broke the surface.

I was gone… and they didn’t need me.

Chaewon stepped closer.

“Yunjin,” she said, soft enough that only she could hear. “Please… look at me.”

But Yunjin didn’t move.

Her shoulders were shaking now, not visibly, not enough for the staff to notice, but enough for Chaewon to see it.

Enough for Eunchae, watching from across the stage, to freeze in place.

Chaewon hesitated. Then reached out, fingers trembling, and touched Yunjin’s wrist. Gently. Tentatively.

The contact broke something.

Yunjin flinched, not violently, but enough.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

“Yun—”

“Don’t touch me.”

Her voice cracked. A beat of stunned silence.

“I’m sorry,” Chaewon said immediately, pulling back. Her hand hovered in the air for a moment, then dropped to her side. “I just... I didn’t want you to feel alone.”

“I am alone,” Yunjin said.

The words left her before she could stop them. It felt like glass shattering in her chest. And once the cracks started, they didn’t stop.

“I was alone. While you were out there performing and adjusting and switching formations and—” Her voice caught. She tried again. “I was alone in that hospital bed. For weeks. You didn’t call. Not once.”

“That’s not true,” Chaewon said, her voice low and trembling. “I tried. I texted. I just... didn’t know if you wanted to talk to me. We were booked with rehearsals and shows as well.”

Yunjin looked at her then really looked. Her eyes were red. Wide. Too full of all the things she never said.

“You didn’t know?” she repeated. “I begged for one of you to check in one me while you were in Korea. Only Eunchae did. And when no one else did, I told myself it was fine. Because the group needed to move on, right? I was the weak link. The injured one. The—” she bit the word back, barely swallowing it. “The replaceable one.”

“You’re not replaceable,” Chaewon said, nearly choking on it.

“Then why did it feel so easy for everyone? You guys only came running when my life was threatened, but didn’t bother to call once before.”

Her voice echoed.

No one moved.

And for a long moment, all anyone could hear was the sound of the stage cooling around them, quiet, oppressive, like the breath before a storm.

Backstage, Eunchae slipped away, hands clenched into fists. She couldn’t bear to watch anymore. She wanted to scream. To cry. To run back in time and warn Yunjin before that moment broke her. But she couldn’t.

No one could.

Not even Chaewon, who was still standing onstage, frozen in the space between reaching out and pulling back. Between love and fear. Between truth and silence. She hadn’t told Yunjin yet. About her feelings. About any of it. And now, she was terrified she’d lost the chance.

That night, after rehearsals ended, the hotel was unusually quiet.

No post-dance laughter. No late-night takeout orders. No music from Sakura’s speaker drifting down the hall.

Just silence.

It was the kind that settled over everything like a blanket soaked in cold water, suffocating and too heavy to shake off.

Yunjin didn’t say much. She smiled at them, or at least, the version of her smile she could still wear like armour. Thin, practiced. Almost convincing.

“I’m just tired,” she murmured.

And no one questioned it.

No one stopped her when she disappeared down the hallway, towel around her neck, hair still damp from the post-rehearsal shower. She didn't return to their shared suite. Instead, she turned left, toward the practice rooms on the hotel’s lower floor. Private, soundproof, and always left open for them.

She needed air. Or movement. Or something she could control. So she danced.

The speaker in the corner clicked softly as she hit repeat for the third time.

Her reflection stared back at her from the studio mirrors, flushed cheeks, sharp eyes, body taut with tension. Like a string pulled too tight.

“Perfect isn’t enough,” she muttered, biting the words like a warning. “I need to be better than ever.”

She moved through Eve, Psyche & the Bluebeard’s Wife with laser precision. Each beat cut through the still air like a blade. Her footwork was flawless. Her lines, immaculate. But there was no joy in her movements now,only urgency. Desperation. Obsession.

Because now she knew.

They had learned to move on without her. The group kept breathing while she was drowning. And if she wanted to survive this, she’d have to claw her way back into a space she once believed belonged to her without question.

She gritted her teeth through the ache starting in her lower spine. She could feel it coming, the dull, stinging throb that always started in the base of her back when she overworked herself. But she ignored it.

Because this pain, she understood.

This pain made sense.

This pain had rules.

Push. Persevere. Perform.

It was better than the other pain, the silent one. The kind that whispered at night when she turned over in bed and remembered the empty days in the hospital. The unanswered messages. The way her name stopped trending.

She had to be perfect. No—more than perfect.

If she couldn’t be essential…

She would make herself irreplaceable.

Eunchae wandered into the hallway half-asleep, her water bottle swinging from her fingers. She paused outside the last door at the end, brows furrowing at the faint sound of music bleeding into the corridor.

Soft. Familiar. Repetitive.

Again. And again.

She stepped closer, pressing her palm gently to the cool doorframe, peeking through the small square window.

And there she was.

Yunjin.

Alone.

Still dancing. Still pushing.

Her movements had become harsher now. Not elegant—frantic. Sharp in a way that looked wrong. Her shirt clung to her like a second skin, soaked through. Her breathing was erratic. And her eyes,Eunchae couldn’t forget her eyes, they looked haunted.

Like she was fighting something no one else could see. And losing.

Eunchae raised her hand to knock, already opening her mouth to call out.

Then it happened...

One misstep. A twist just a little too deep.

Yunjin’s face contorted, pain striking like lightning down her spine.

White-hot. Blinding.

Her entire body jerked, stiffened, then buckled.

She twisted midair, trying to brace herself, but her left foot slid on the sweat-slick floor and her balance snapped. She careened sideways, shoulder slamming into the mirrored wall with a sickening crack, followed by the dull, heavy thud of her back crashing against the floor.

It echoed.

So did her scream.

“AGH!” Raw. Fractured. Choked with pain. The sound tore through the room like a knife and stabbed straight into Eunchae’s chest.

“Unnie!” Eunchae gasped.

The world blurred.

Sound fractured.

Air grew thin.

Light warped at the edges of her vision.

Yunjin’s chest rose and fell in short, rapid bursts, like she was drowning on dry land.

Each breath stabbed.

She clutched at her ribs instinctively, her limbs stiffening, breath catching on every inhale that just wouldn’t go deep enough. Panic slammed into her like a wave. Crushing. Cold. Sudden.

“They didn’t need me.”

“I’m replaceable.”

“I’m ruining everything.”

“What if I can’t keep up?”

“What if I lose this forever?

“What if I was never enough?”

Her own voice echoed inside her skull, louder than the music still faintly playing from the corner speaker. Louder than the throb of her spine. Louder than everything.

“No, no, no,” she gasped, curling in on herself.

Her hands dug into her thighs.

Her knees pressed hard to her chest.

“Not again—please not again!”

Her back burned. Her chest heaved. Her lungs refused to expand.

Hyperventilation.

She knew the signs. She just couldn’t stop them.

She was shaking now. Arms half-out like she’d tried to break her fall. Palms scraped. Knuckles white. Her whole frame shuddered, not from cold, but from fear. From pain. From panic that gripped her like a vice and wouldn’t let go.

And when Eunchae burst through the door, the sight stopped her in her tracks.

“Shit, shit, shit!” she gasped. “YUNJIN-UNNIE!”

Her socks slipped against the floor as she ran, her water bottle clattering somewhere behind her.

But Yunjin didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even see her.

She was gone, trapped inside something far deeper than the present. Her body trembled violently, her eyes unfocused and wild. Tears streaked silently down her flushed cheeks. Her mouth moved without control, pouring out broken, frantic pleas:

“No—no, don’t take me out—don’t take me out—I can do it—I can—I have to—please—”

Her voice cracked on the last word, like something inside her had torn.

“Yunjin unnie, hey—hey,” Eunchae dropped to her knees, heart pounding in her ears. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here.”

She reached out, hand hovering before finally resting on Yunjin’s trembling shoulder. The contact was light, grounding.

But Yunjin didn’t register it.

Her breathing grew faster, more erratic. Like her own body was fighting her.

Her head jerked, her whole torso folding forward like she could collapse even further into herself.

“Please, don’t let them replace me,” she whispered, voice shredded raw. “I’ll fix myself—I promise—I’ll fix everything—just please, don’t—”

“Unnie, please, please listen to me,” Eunchae begged, both hands gripping Yunjin’s now. “Just breathe with me. Look at me.”

But it was no use.

Yunjin was spiraling, pulled into the undertow of everything she hadn’t let herself feel, the pressure, the fear, the months of silence in recovery, the rehearsals, the lie of “I’m fine.”

“I can’t—I can’t—I’m not strong enough—I’m not—”

Her voice broke again, eyes unfocused, as if she was talking to someone who wasn’t even there. As if she was still begging that doctor to discharge her early. Still rehearsing what she’d tell the staff to get back on stage. Still trying to convince herself she belonged.

“I’m not enough…”

“Unnie, STOP!” Eunchae’s voice cracked, loud and desperate. Her own hands were shaking now as she gripped Yunjin tighter, locking their fingers together.

“Please come back—just come back to me, okay?”

No response. Just sobbing. Sharp, breathless, like her lungs didn’t know what to do with air anymore.

So Eunchae did the only thing she could.

She pulled Yunjin into her arms.

Held her tight, firm, not to trap her, but to anchor her.

Her embrace was warm and solid in a world that had turned too loud, too fast, too cold.

She began to rock them back and forth, heart beating against Yunjin’s temple.

“You’re okay,” she whispered. “Just listen to my voice.”

“You’re not on stage. You’re not in the hospital. You’re here. I’m here. You’re safe now, unnie.”

And then she began counting.

One breath in.

One breath out.

Again.

And again.

Her voice was steady, low, rhythmic, the only constant in the chaos. And slowly, something began to shift.

Yunjin’s breathing started to catch. Still uneven. Still trembling. But there was air now. There was breath. Her clenched fists slowly relaxed. Her shoulders dropped, barely.

A sob cracked out of her throat, followed by another, until the gasping panic became something rawer, deeper.

Grief.

“Unnie…” Eunchae whispered, brushing a damp strand of hair away from her face. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

Yunjin blinked, dazed, eyes glassy and red. Her lips moved, but no sound came at first.

Then, finally, a whisper: “I didn’t want you to worry… or tell Chaewon… or the others…”

Her voice broke like glass underfoot.

“I thought if I could just prove I was strong enough… that I still deserved to be in the group—”

“Stop,” Eunchae said, voice soft but firm. She shook her head gently. “It’s okay. I don’t need an explanation right now.”

Yunjin froze. Her mouth opened, then closed.

Because for the first time in weeks, someone didn’t ask her to justify it.

“I just need you to be safe,” Eunchae continued, eyes wet now too. “And this?” She looked around the empty room, the scattered water bottle, the trembling body on the floor, the shattered silence. “This isn’t safe, unnie.”

Yunjin’s breath hitched again.

Something cracked, not in her spine, but in her soul.

And this time, she didn’t fight it. She let go.

A choked sob tore out of her, loud and unrestrained.

Her body collapsed fully into Eunchae’s embrace, forehead pressed to her shoulder, hands gripping the back of her sweatshirt as if she’d disappear otherwise.

“I’m so tired,” she whispered. “I don’t want to fall apart again. I don’t want to be weak.”

“You’re not weak,” Eunchae whispered back fiercely. “You’re strong. But even strong people break sometimes. You’re allowed to.”

She held her tighter.

“I’ve got you, unnie.”

And this time…

Yunjin didn’t argue.

She didn’t apologize. She didn’t hide. She just cried.

Let herself break, not on a stage, not behind a mirror, but in someone’s arms.

And Eunchae, her baby maknae—the youngest of them all—held her through every shaking breath, every sob, every shattered piece.

Just like she’d promised she would.

Yunjin’s panic had dulled to soft, broken sobs, wet and quiet, barely making a sound save for the occasional trembling breath. Her body was curled in on itself, almost childlike, as though trying to vanish into the safety of Eunchae’s arms. She clutched Eunchae’s sleeve like it was the only thing anchoring her to the earth, knuckles white, her fingers digging in just hard enough to tremble.

Her face was hidden in the crook of Eunchae’s neck, warm tears soaking into the fabric. Each breath she took stuttered, shaky and raw, and her entire frame trembled as if the storm inside her had drained her completely.

Eunchae didn’t rush her. She said nothing for a long while, just held her. One hand rubbed slow, rhythmic circles into Yunjin’s back, the other gently threaded through her tangled hair, careful and soothing. The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was a shelter.

Every now and then, barely above a whisper, Eunchae murmured, “It’s okay,” or “You’re safe now.” She didn’t offer false promises. She didn’t try to fix it. She simply stayed, letting Yunjin break. Letting her be human.

Time felt suspended. The rehearsal room around them, once buzzing with music and movement, was now a quiet cocoon, the outside world muffled and irrelevant. Just the two of them, a fragile piece of stillness in the chaos.

Eventually, Yunjin’s sobs slowed. Her grip on Eunchae’s sleeve loosened, though she didn’t let go completely. Her body no longer shook violently with each inhale, but instead slumped, drained. She gave one last, weak sniffle, her voice hoarse and cracked as she rasped, “I’m sorry…”

Eunchae’s brow furrowed. She pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, hand still gently pressed against her back. “No, unnie.” Her voice was steady, soft but resolute. “Don’t apologize for breaking down. You needed this. You’ve been holding everything in for way too long.”

Yunjin bit down on her trembling lip. Shame flickered through her features. Her gaze fell to the floor, but Eunchae didn’t let her shrink away.

“I didn’t mean for anyone to see,” Yunjin murmured, barely audible. There was a tension in her shoulders again, the kind that came with secrets long buried and finally unearthed.

Eunchae nodded slowly. There was a pause, a moment where the weight of what she was about to say sat between them.

“That night… in the kitchen.”

Yunjin froze.

“I saw you.”

Her breath caught like it had been punched out of her lungs. She pulled back slightly, eyes wide, panic flaring in her chest. “W-what?”

Eunchae didn’t flinch. Her tone was calm, but unwavering. “I woke up and saw you by the counter. I didn’t mean to… but I saw everything. The way you clutched your ribs like they were about to cave in. How you tried so hard not to make a sound, like even your pain had to be polite. Then you just… collapsed, like your legs gave out from holding it all in.”

Yunjin’s face crumpled. Her mouth opened to defend herself, to deny it, to make it less real, but the words wouldn’t come. Her voice cracked as she stammered, “Eunchae, I—It wasn’t—I didn’t mean—”

But Eunchae gently took her hand, squeezing it, grounding her. “Unnie,” she said firmly, “I’m not judging you. I’m not angry. I’m just… worried. Deeply. What you’re doing, it’s not okay. You’re hurting yourself, and pretending like you’re not.”

Yunjin looked down again, shame wrapping around her like a noose. Her eyes were glassy. Her lip trembled.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” Eunchae asked softly. Not demanding. Just… heartbroken curiosity. A need to understand the hurt she couldn’t mend.

Yunjin’s fingers fidgeted with the fraying edge of her sleeve. For a long moment, it seemed like she might shut down again. But then she exhaled, a brittle, defeated sound, and whispered, “When I was on hiatus… I had a lot of time. Too much. And not in a healing way.”

Eunchae said nothing. She just listened.

“I kept thinking about everything. About how easy it is to disappear. The stage went on without me. Schedules kept rolling. The group didn’t pause. Fans still showed up, screamed just as loud. Content kept getting posted. People laughed, smiled, joked…”

She blinked hard, voice trembling. “And I wasn’t there. And no one seemed to notice I was gone.”

That sentence hit like a blade, and Eunchae's heart broke silently.

“Then when the choreographer said they changed the formation to four members,” Yunjin continued, quieter.  She laughed, but it was hollow, bitter. “It felt like confirmation. That I wasn’t needed. That LE SSERAFIM worked better without me. That I was just… extra weight.”

Her voice cracked again. “So I told myself I’d come back stronger. More perfect. I started pushing harder, sleeping less, eating less. I thought if I could be better, faster, thinner, something, maybe they wouldn’t regret waiting for me.”

Eunchae’s expression softened into grief. Not pity—never that—but sorrow. Deep, aching sorrow for a sister who had been quietly at war with herself.

“Unnie…”

Yunjin pressed a shaking hand to her face. “I just… I needed to prove I wasn’t a burden. That I deserved to be here. That I wasn’t the one everyone had to make space for.”

Silence.

Then Eunchae leaned in, took Yunjin’s face in both hands, tender, steady, and met her eyes.

“You were never a burden,” she whispered. “Never. You are not some replaceable part. You’re the heart of us. And when you were gone, it wasn’t the same. Not even close.”

Yunjin’s jaw trembled, and fresh tears spilled over.

“Every show,” Eunchae continued, voice tightening, “I smiled and danced and waved like everything was okay. But I cried after every stage. I cried for you. Because I could feel the space you left behind.”

“People clapped. Fans screamed. But none of it felt right without you.”

Yunjin choked on a sob, and Eunchae pulled her back into a fierce embrace.

“We didn’t move on without you,” she whispered into her hair. “We just… held on. Until you could come home.”

That broke something in Yunjin, something jagged and buried deep. The grief that came out of her then wasn’t chaotic or panicked. It was quiet devastation. The kind that came when someone finally saw you. All of you.

She clung to Eunchae like a child, like she didn’t know how to stop crying once she started. “I was scared,” she confessed, brokenly. “I still am.”

Eunchae nodded against her. “I know. But you don’t have to be alone anymore.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty this time. It was warm. Full of something tender and real.

They stayed like that, wrapped in the stillness, the hum of the city outside barely audible beyond the studio walls. And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—Yunjin felt something lift. Not completely. But enough to breathe.

Because someone had seen the cracks. And chose to stay anyway.

Eunchae sat beside Yunjin long after her final tear had fallen. Her arm remained gently draped across her unnie’s shoulders, her warmth a quiet anchor in the stillness. Neither spoke for several minutes. The silence between them wasn’t awkward, nor heavy. It was soft. Healing. Like the room itself knew words weren’t needed yet.

Yunjin’s breathing had evened out, but her eyes still looked distant—like her soul hadn’t quite caught up to her body yet. Her fingers nervously twisted the fabric of her hoodie. Beneath the calm was something fragile, like a porcelain surface still warm from the kiln, not yet cooled, not yet hardened.

When Eunchae finally spoke, her voice barely broke the hush around them.

“Unnie…” she murmured, hesitant but steady. “I really think you should tell them.”

Yunjin didn’t move. But her breath caught.

She stared at the floor in front of her like she was staring into a void, into the unknown. She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe for a moment. Like those few words had cracked something again—something deeper.

“I…” she whispered, then stopped. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. “I don’t know if I can.”

Her voice sounded small. Uncertain. Terrified.

Eunchae gently rubbed her back in slow, steady circles. “I know you’re scared,” she said softly. “But you don’t have to carry this alone anymore. You’re not a problem, unnie. You’re family. We love you.”

At that, Yunjin’s eyes closed tightly, as if the word love physically hurt. Her jaw tensed. Her chest rose with a shaky inhale.

“I’m not ready to tell them everything,” she confessed after a long pause. “I… I don’t even know how to start.”

“You don’t have to say everything,” Eunchae said. “Just enough. Enough to let them see the real you. So you’re not suffocating with this alone anymore.”

Yunjin didn’t reply right away. But her fingers slowly unclenched from the hem of her sleeve. She gave the faintest of nods, tentative, brittle, but real. A yes. A scared yes.

Eunchae reached out, gently taking her hand. She gave it a squeeze. Then stood, tugging Yunjin up with her. Yunjin rose shakily, her legs still uncertain, the aftermath of emotion making her limbs feel like they didn’t quite belong to her.

But Eunchae didn’t let go. She stayed at her side, step for step, as they made their way out of the studio and into the hall.

The walk back to the suite felt longer than it should’ve. Yunjin’s chest was tight with every footstep. Her heart pounded with dread. Her body was heavy with exhaustion, but her mind buzzed with the fear of what she might say. Or worse, what she might see in their eyes when she did.

Judgment. Disappointment. Pity.

Rejection.

But Eunchae’s hand in hers grounded her. She wasn’t doing this alone. Not anymore.

When they reached the dorm door, Eunchae opened it for her. The light from inside spilled out into the hall like a soft glow, but to Yunjin, it felt blinding.

Inside, Sakura sat curled up on the couch beside Kazuha, their conversation hushed but tense. Chaewon was pacing slowly in front of them, arms crossed, head bowed slightly like she’d been trying to solve a riddle with no answer.

The moment the door creaked open, all three of them jerked upright like magnets pulled toward the same point.

“There you are,” Chaewon said instantly, her voice sharper than intended, laced with panic barely hidden beneath the surface. “Where the hell were you? We’ve been worried sick.”

“You both disappeared right after soundcheck,” Sakura added quickly, rising from the couch. Her brow furrowed, concern drawing deep lines across her usually calm face. “And we’ve got soundcheck tomorrow.”

Yunjin froze just inside the doorway. Her feet refused to move. Her fingers tightened around Eunchae’s without thinking.

That was when Chaewon got a better look at her. Her whole body stilled.

Her voice dropped, almost a whisper. “Yunjin… your face.”

Kazuha stood too, alarm flickering in her eyes. “You look like you’ve been crying. Are you okay?”

Sakura stepped closer, quietly. “Your hands… they’re shaking.”

The mood in the room shifted. Whatever tension had existed before was gone now, replaced with something heavier, deeper. Concern. Fear.

Eunchae glanced sideways at Yunjin, nodding slightly. Just a small gesture, full of meaning. You can do this.

Yunjin took a slow breath. Her mouth opened.

“I… I have something to say,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper.

The room fell silent. Every pair of eyes turned to her. Waiting. Listening. Not a single breath was wasted.

Especially Chaewon, who had moved closer, still keeping space, but watching her like one might watch someone standing at the edge of a cliff.

But before Yunjin could speak again, her head spun.

It was sudden, like the floor tilted beneath her feet. Her vision blurred, darkness crawling in at the edges. Her stomach dropped. Her pulse roared in her ears.

"Yunjin?" Chaewon called, voice laced with concern.

Yunjins tried to swallow it down, to push through, but her knees buckled beneath her. Before anyone could react, Yunjin’s eyes rolled back, and she collapsed forward.

“Yunjin!” Chaewon’s voice cut through the air like a whip, urgent and sharp.

She had caught Yunjin, barely, her knees hit the ground hard from the weight, but all she registered was the sickening silence. Yunjin’s body had gone completely slack in her arms. Eyes closed. Breath shallow. And not a single sound came from her.

Chaewon froze.

The world spun.

“Yunjin! Hey, hey, no, no!” Chaewon’s voice cracked as she cradled her unconscious girlfriend against her chest. “Somebody call the manager, now!”

Sakura was already sprinting for her phone.

“Yun—Yunjin!” Chaewon cried out. “Hey, come on, please, what’s happening?!”

But Yunjin didn’t move.

Didn’t respond.

Didn’t move.

The silence wrapped around her like a noose.

She held Yunjin tighter, shaking hands fumbling to feel for a pulse, to touch her face, to brush her hair away and check her breathing, anything. Her fingers trembled as they pressed against Yunjin’s neck, her own breath hitching when she finally felt the faint rhythm of a pulse.

Chaewon broke. Tears burst free from her eyes, and her entire body shuddered with the sob she couldn’t contain. “Don’t do this to me,” she begged in a whisper, cradling Yunjin’s face. “Please. I can’t—I can’t lose you again.”

The leader held her best friend tighter, panic seeping into every inch of her tone. Her breathing grew erratic as she brushed Yunjin’s hair back, her fingers trembling like leaves in a storm. “Medic! We need the medics, now!!”

“I’m calling the manager right now!” Sakura’s voice rang from behind, sharp and urgent as she scrambled for her phone. Her fingers fumbled over the screen before she pressed it to her ear. “Get the medic team to our suite right now. Now. Yunjin collapsed—she’s unconscious—hurry!”

Kazuha stood frozen. Her lips were parted, but no sound came out. Her eyes were wide, stuck on Yunjin’s pale face, like she was watching something surreal unfold in front of her.

Eunchae’s knees hit the floor next. She sat beside them, hands shaking at her sides. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she looked helplessly between Chaewon and Yunjin, the fear too loud for words.

Chaewon leaned in closer, her arms still wrapped tightly around Yunjin. Her eyes scanned her face, desperate. She pressed the back of her hand against her forehead. “She’s cold—why is she cold?” she murmured. “Is she sick? Did she hit something? What’s wrong?!”

With one hand she cradled the back of Yunjin’s head gently, running her trembling fingers through her soft hair as if that alone could keep her grounded. Her other hand slid along her side, searching, something, anything. “Is she hurt? Did she fall earlier?”

“Manager said they’re coming now, they’re on their way,” Sakura called from across the room, but her voice was shaking too. She hovered behind Kazuha, phone still clutched in her hand like a lifeline.

Yunjin didn’t stir.

Chaewon’s panic only deepened.

“Please, baby,” she whispered brokenly, pressing her forehead against Yunjin’s. “You have to wake up. You’re okay. You’re with me. Please wake up.”

Her voice cracked again.

Eunchae scooted closer, slowly placing a hand on Yunjin’s knee, her own tears silently streaming down her cheeks.

Kazuha's head spinned. “She was fine earlier,” she whispered. “She was fine. I don’t get it…”

No one did. No one, except Eunchae. 

"I should've said something. This is all my fault. Why didn't I say something?" Eunchae whispered to herself, her mind clouded with regret. 

Chaewon heard her, but her mind was too much of a mess to focus on anything other than Yunjin. 

The room had gone still.

No one moved, no one spoke, only the harsh, uneven sound of their breathing filled the space. Fear weighed down the air like a heavy fog. Panic still pulsed beneath their skin, and all they could do was stare at the girl lying motionless in Chaewon’s arms.

Knock, knock.

The sharp knock snapped everyone’s heads up. The door burst open a second later, and two medics rushed in, one carrying a black emergency bag, the other wheeling a compact IV kit behind them.

One of them scanned the scene quickly and spoke, voice calm but firm.

“We’ll need a bit of space to examine her.”

But Chaewon didn’t move.

She was still kneeling, cradling Yunjin’s limp form against her chest. Her arms tightened instinctively, like letting go would mean losing her completely.

“No,” she said, her voice frayed at the edges. “I’m not letting go. Please. Just… check her like this. I can’t—” Her throat clenched. “I can’t let go right now.”

The medics exchanged a brief glance. Then, one gave a small nod.

“All right. We’ll work with it.”

They knelt beside her, careful not to jostle Yunjin as they unpacked their supplies. One began assessing her vitals, gently brushing Yunjin’s hair back to check her pupils, pressing fingers to her neck and wrist. The other unzipped the IV kit, quietly inserting a line into her arm, hands steady even as the tension in the room stayed razor-sharp.

Chaewon stayed utterly still, except for the trembling in her fingers as they brushed across Yunjin’s knuckles. Her eyes never left her face. She watched every twitch, every movement, like each breath was a thread keeping her tethered.

“She’s got a strong pulse,” one medic murmured after a moment. “Breathing’s shallow, but stable.”

No one spoke, but a breath passed through the room, less a sigh, more the instinctive exhale of people who’d been holding it too long.

“She didn’t collapse from anything related to her spinal injury,” the second medic added. “Which is a really good sign.”

A ripple of quiet relief followed.

Eunchae’s eyes fluttered closed. Her shoulders sank slightly, tears still drying on her cheeks. Sakura lowered her head into her hands, exhaling shakily. Kazuha finally moved from where she’d been frozen, her body slackening just a little.

Chaewon’s head dropped slightly, her arms still wrapped around Yunjin, not as tightly now, but still close. Her expression cracked, overwhelmed and exhausted, but beneath it all was something else.

Something quieter.

Guilt.

“Then… what caused it?” she asked, voice rough, like it had been dragged through glass.

The medic looked up, pausing before he answered. “It’s a combination of things—chronic exhaustion, prolonged stress, acute muscle fatigue. Her body’s been under too much strain for too long.”

He gently motioned toward the IV line. “She’s also mildly dehydrated. My guess is she’s been running on empty for days, maybe longer. Sometimes, when someone pushes themselves too far, the nervous system just… shuts down. Like a breaker flipping. It’s the body’s last way of protecting itself.”

“But…” Kazuha spoke up suddenly, brows drawn together. “She’s been resting. She’s been careful during practice. We made sure of that, didn’t we?” Her voice trembled near the end, uncertainty creeping in.

The room fell into silence again.

“...That’s not exactly true,” Eunchae said softly.

The air snapped.

Every eye turned toward her. Slowly. Sharply.

Sakura sat upright. Kazuha stiffened again. Even the medics paused, sensing the shift.

Chaewon turned, gaze narrowed, not in anger, but in alarm. Protective. Desperate for answers.

“What do you mean?” Sakura asked carefully.

Eunchae didn’t speak right away. She looked down at Yunjin’s face—pale, peaceful in a way that didn’t feel right.

Her hands clenched at her sides. She swallowed once, hard.

“There’s something you don’t know,” she whispered.

---

Chapter Text

The words slipped out before Eunchae could stop them.

“…That’s not exactly true.”

The air in the room turned to ice.

Sakura blinked, then turned toward her slowly. “What do you mean?”

Eunchae flinched under the sudden attention, her eyes darting toward Yunjin’s still body, then quickly back to the floor. Her fingers twisted into the hem of her shirt, knuckles white.

She didn’t answer.

“Eunchae,” Chaewon’s voice came next—gentle, but laced with steel. “What do you mean by that?”

Her throat tightened. Her lungs felt too small. “I… I don’t know if I should say.”

Kazuha stepped forward cautiously. “Hey. It’s okay,” she said, voice soft but steady. “You’re not in trouble. We just want to understand.”

“I’m not trying to keep secrets,” Eunchae whispered. “I just didn’t know if it was even my place. If it was mine to tell.”

Sakura’s arms folded tightly over her chest. The worry on her face deepened. “If something’s wrong with Yunjin… if she’s been hiding something serious, we need to know.”

“Please, Manchae,” Chaewon said again, quieter now, her eyes rimmed red, gaze flicking between Eunchae and Yunjin. “Whatever it is… tell us.”

Eunchae’s lip trembled.

Her voice came out barely above a whisper. “I saw her… that night.”

The words seemed to pull the oxygen from the room.

Sakura’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What night?”

Eunchae looked down again, arms pressed to her sides. “The night she came back. After our first group rehearsal. I woke up late. I went to the kitchen for water.”

She swallowed hard. “She was already there. Standing at the counter. I thought she didn’t see me. Her back was to me. She was holding her side like she was in pain, hunched over. She looked like she was trying so hard to stay upright.”

No one said a word.

“I froze. I didn’t know what to do. She looked like she couldn’t breathe.” Eunchae’s voice cracked. “Then she just disappeared into the bathroom. She stayed in there for a long time. I thought she was okay after that. I wanted to believe she was okay.”

Sakura sat back down slowly, her hand covering her mouth. Kazuha didn’t move, her eyes wide, like she was still trying to process every word.

“She seemed fine,” Kazuha whispered. “She laughed with us, danced with us…”

“She wanted you to think that,” Eunchae said. “She needed us to think that.”

The room felt like it was shrinking.

“At first I thought it was just one bad night,” Eunchae continued. “But I started noticing other things. Tiny things. Stuff that didn’t feel right.”

Kazuha furrowed her brows gently. “Like what?”

“During ‘UNFORGIVEN’, she flinches right after that back-bend. You can barely see it unless you’re looking. She clenches her fists. Her jaw. Sometimes her lips tremble, like she’s trying not to cry. Or like she’s in pain.”

Everyone went still.

“She disappears after the hardest routines. Says she needs to fix her mic or use the bathroom, but I followed her once.”

Eunchae swallowed again. “She was crying. Standing by herself in the stairwell, trying to breathe. Hands over her mouth. Like she was falling apart, and trying to hide it.”

Sakura’s hand pressed harder over her mouth.

Kazuha’s face crumpled.

Chaewon didn’t say anything. But her grip around Yunjin never loosened, not even a little.

Eunchae’s voice dropped again. “But it wasn’t just that one time. It was happening again… today.”

All eyes snapped back to her.

“After soundcheck,” she said. “She disappeared again. Said she left something in the studio. I knew something was wrong. So I followed her.”

Eunchae was shaking now, her voice rising with the guilt she could no longer contain.

“She was in the practice room, alone. Dancing. Pushing herself over and over again. She looked exhausted but she wouldn’t stop. Like she was punishing herself.”

Her next breath hitched. “Then she flinched again. Worse this time. I heard her cry out. Then… she hit the mirror. Her knees gave out and she collapsed. Her arms didn’t catch her. She just...fell.”

Kazuha gasped softly.

Sakura closed her eyes, like bracing herself.

“She curled up on the floor,” Eunchae whispered. “Hugging her knees. Shaking. She couldn’t breathe. She kept saying things I couldn’t even understand at first.”

Her eyes filled again.

“Stuff like ‘I’m not enough.’ ‘They don’t need me.’ ‘I don’t belong anymore.’”

Silence.

Only the quiet hum of the IV bag beside them and the sound of uneven breaths.

“She thought we’d replaced her,” Eunchae said. “Because the choreography changed while she was gone. Because we kept going without her.”

Her voice broke. “She thought she had to earn her place back. That if she wasn’t perfect, she’d lose everything.”

Everyone turned to look at Yunjin—pale, still, the IV needle taped to her arm, her head resting gently against Chaewon’s chest.

Chaewon’s jaw was clenched. Her eyes shimmered, but no tears fell. She just looked at her, like she was memorizing every line of her face, every breath she could still see moving in her chest.

Kazuha’s face crumpled, like the words had physically hit her. “She thought we… didn’t need her anymore?”

“No,” Sakura whispered, her voice trembling, her eyes already welling. “No, no, she didn’t think that. She couldn’t have.”

But the silence that followed, and the look on Eunchae’s face, said everything.

Eunchae was shaking, tiny, uneven breaths escaping her. Her lower lip trembled, and she clenched her fists to stop them from shaking, but it wasn’t working. She looked like a dam seconds from bursting.

Chaewon’s shoulders dropped, her posture collapsing like someone had yanked the air out of her lungs. Her arms hung limply by her sides, fingers twitching with the urge to do something—anything.

“She really thought that?” she asked, her voice paper-thin, more breath than sound. “All this time… all those nights she said she was fine?”

Her throat closed around the words. A pause, then—

“Why didn’t she tell me?”

The words weren’t calm. They weren’t soft. They shattered.

“I’m her best friend,” Chaewon gasped out. Her hands balled into fists. “Why didn’t she come to me?!”

No one answered. No one dared.

She turned suddenly, sharply.

“And you!” Her voice cracked like a whip. Her glare landed squarely on Eunchae, who took a reflexive step back. “You knew this whole time, didn’t you?! You knew, and you didn’t say anything?!”

Eunchae’s eyes widened, glassy with panic. “I—I didn’t mean to hide it! I just—”

“You let her suffer alone!” Chaewon yelled, the words shaking in her throat. “You watched her fall apart and said nothing! How could you—how could you just stand there?!”

“I didn’t know what to do!” Eunchae burst out. “I didn’t even know what was happening at first! And then she asked me not to tell anyone and I—I thought she just needed time—”

“She’s lying in my arms, barely breathing!” Chaewon’s voice hit a higher pitch, strangled and raw. “You should’ve told someone! Me! The manager! Anyone! You just let her keep pushing herself like this!”

“I thought I was protecting her!” Eunchae cried.

“By keeping secrets from the people who love her?! From me?!”

Eunchae flinched like she’d been slapped. Her mouth opened, then shut again, useless. Her whole body was trembling now.

“I didn’t want to make it worse…” she whispered. “I was scared…”

“That's not good enough!” Chaewon shouted, tears pricking her eyes now too. “She needed help, and you let her drown in it!”

Eunchae's voice broke. “I thought I was helping!”

“You weren’t!”

“I know that now!” Eunchae screamed. Her knees buckled slightly and she stumbled back, catching herself on the edge of the couch. “I know, okay?! I—I was just so scared I’d lose her if I said anything…”

”Hong Eunchae!! What the fuck is—"

“KIM CHAEWON!”

The room stopped breathing.

Sakura's voice cut through like a thunderclap. Her face was twisted with rage, eyes wide, jaw clenched, arms already moving.

She was at Eunchae’s side in two strides, pulling her into a tight, protective hug as the youngest broke completely. Eunchae curled inward, sobbing into Sakura’s chest, her fingers gripping her shirt like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

Chaewon froze, staring. The rage in her spine crumbled like ash. Her hands dropped to her sides. Her knees felt weak.

“I didn’t mean to...” she said, but the words felt hollow, like they barely made it to her own ears.  She looked down, slowly, like her body was moving through molasses, and saw Yunjin again.

Still.

So still.

Her face was pale. Too pale. Her chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths.

And Chaewon shattered. Her hand trembled as she reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from Yunjin’s damp forehead. Her fingers were ice-cold.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispered, her voice breaking like glass. “Why did you think you had to carry this alone?”

She looked down at her, eyes wide, brimming. “You idiot,” she choked. “You stupid, beautiful idiot…”

Her voice cracked again, barely audible.

“I should’ve seen it.”

She sank to her knees fully now, forehead pressing against Yunjin’s shoulder, body shaking.

“I should’ve seen it…”

Tears slipped freely down her face now, silent and constant. Her chest heaved, trying to force air into lungs that didn’t want to work.

Kazuha sat frozen, hands clutched together so tightly her knuckles were white. Beside her, even Sakura—fierce and protective—was crying now, one hand stroking Eunchae’s hair as the younger girl sobbed in hiccups against her shoulder.

No one moved. The silence was thick, suffocating.

Because no one knew what to say.

Because everything had gone so wrong.

---

A faint rustle.

The quiet beeping of the portable IV monitor.

The room had gone still, thick with grief and tension, except for Eunchae’s muffled sobs against Sakura’s shoulder and Chaewon’s trembling breaths where she knelt on the floor beside the couch, head bowed, one hand gently cradling Yunjin’s like a lifeline.

“...Chaewonnie?”

The voice was barely audible—thin, rasped, and dry—but it cut through the silence like a lightning strike.

Chaewon’s head shot up, her tear-streaked face contorting in disbelief. Her breath caught as her eyes locked onto Yunjin’s fluttering eyelids.

“Yunjin…?” she whispered, like the air had been slammed back into her lungs all at once.

Yunjin blinked slowly, her vision swimming, her body heavy and uncooperative. She could feel a hand gripping hers, warm and trembling. Chaewon. Beyond her, Kazuha stood frozen, wide-eyed. Sakura clutched Eunchae tightly, the younger girl still shaking in her arms. Everyone looked like survivors of a wreck.

Her voice came out cracked. “What… what happened?”

“You fainted,” Chaewon breathed. She was already leaning closer, her voice raw and trembling. “You collapsed. You scared the hell out of all of us.”

Yunjin’s brows drew together, confusion clouding her eyes. “I…?” She tried to sit up instinctively but gasped softly at the weakness in her limbs. Her arms gave out before she even got halfway.

“Don’t,” Chaewon said quickly, gently pressing her back against the pillows. “Just… just stay down. The medics said it was exhaustion. You overworked yourself.”

Every word carried a tremble, like she was holding herself together by threads.

Yunjin’s breath caught as flashes of what had happened started to trickle back. The panic. The spinning. The pain in her chest. The helplessness.

Then, Eunchae.

Her eyes moved slowly across the room until they landed on the youngest.

“Eunchae…” she croaked.

Eunchae pulled away from Sakura slightly, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. She looked like a child caught in the aftermath of something too big to understand.

“I told them,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse and barely there. “Everything.”

Yunjin froze.

“You—” she started, her throat tight.

“I’m sorry,” Eunchae said quickly. “I know you didn’t want anyone to know. But I couldn’t—I couldn’t just watch you destroy yourself like that.”

A part of her wanted to panic, to recoil, but she didn’t have the strength. And somehow, seeing all their faces again, their grief, their worry, it made something inside her crack open.

“I was trying to be okay,” Yunjin said softly. “I thought if I just worked harder… maybe they’d stop seeing me as the one who needed saving.”

There was a sharp inhale. Chaewon’s jaw clenched.

“Who told you that?” she asked, voice strained. “Who made you think you had to earn your place?”

Yunjin looked away. “No one had to. That’s just… how it felt.”

She took a shaky breath.

“When I was on hiatus… when the shock therapy started… I had days where I didn’t think I’d ever come back. And then I did, but everything was already moving without me. The choreo worked. The fans were cheering. The group was okay. And I—I wasn’t part of that anymore.”

“Don’t say that,” Kazuha whispered. Her voice was barely above a breath.

Yunjin’s eyes filled again. “It’s how I felt.”

She swallowed hard.

“I kept smiling, pretending I was okay because I didn’t want to drag the comeback down. But it got harder every night. And when the choreographer said the routine had to be changed again, because of me…”

Her voice broke. She blinked hard, but the tears still slipped through.

“I realized how easy it was to just be… taken out.”

Sakura let out a soft, broken sob. Her grip on Eunchae tightened.

“Unnie…” Eunchae said, stepping forward, voice trembling. “Please don’t think that. You’re not replaceable.”

Yunjin gave a bitter laugh through her tears. “I didn’t want you to see me like this again. So I started pushing harder. I wanted to prove I still belonged.”

Chaewon’s voice cracked. “You could’ve died, Yunjin.”

That silenced the room.

“I know…” Yunjin whispered.

A long, agonizing pause followed.

Then, softly, so fragile it almost didn’t reach her  

“Why didn’t you tell me, Yun?”

Yunjin couldn’t answer at first. Her lip trembled. Her gaze dropped.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

Chaewon laughed, short and sharp, almost bitter. “I already worry. Every day. You’re my best friend. You think not knowing made it easier?”

Yunjin met her gaze at last. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” Chaewon said, voice breaking again. “But you scared me. You scared all of us.”

She reached out again and gripped Yunjin’s hand tighter.

“I should’ve seen it,” she whispered. “I should’ve known. I’m supposed to know when you’re not okay.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Yunjin said, her voice steadier now, but still soft. She squeezed Chaewon’s hand. “You’re not a mind reader, Chae. I hid it.”

Chaewon’s fingers curled tighter around hers. “Just… don’t do that again. Please. I don’t care how strong you want to seem. Talk to me.”

“I will,” Yunjin promised. Her voice cracked. “I promise.”

The weight between them lingered, heavy and raw. But the air felt a little clearer.

Sakura took a quiet breath, still clutching Eunchae gently.

“Can we all agree,” she said, voice low and thick with emotion, “that this doesn’t happen again? That no one has to go through anything alone anymore?”

There was a soft beat.

Then Kazuha nodded. “Yeah.”

Eunchae sniffled. “Family means no one gets left behind. Or hidden.”

Yunjin looked at each of them—Sakura, Kazuha, Eunchae. Then at Chaewon.

Her hand still held hers like it was anchoring them both. Tears slipped quietly down her face again, but this time, they weren’t full of shame or fear. They were the kind that came when the worst had happened… and she hadn’t been abandoned.

For the first time in a long while, Yunjin felt like she could breathe. And for the first time… she believed they would catch her if she ever fell again.

Yunjin let her head fall back into the pillow, exhaustion still anchoring every limb, but the presence of the people she loved; surrounding her, holding her here, was enough to keep her grounded.Her gaze drifted across the room, slowly, taking in each familiar face. Each one reflected the same storm: fear, heartbreak, relief… and something deeper she didn’t dare name.

Chaewon was still right beside her. She hadn’t moved an inch since Yunjin woke up. Her hands—both of them—were still wrapped around Yunjin’s, knuckles tight, skin pale from the grip.

“I really thought I lost you again,” Chaewon whispered, voice trembling, like something inside her had finally snapped loose.

Yunjin blinked, confused. “What…?”

Chaewon shook her head, biting her lip, her voice cracking around the edges. “When your eyes rolled back and you just dropped—God, Yunjin, I—my heart stopped. I’ve never been that scared in my life.” Her words trembled, every syllable heavier than the last.

Yunjin stared at her. She could see it, how Chaewon, her composed, steady Chaewon, was barely holding herself together. There were tears in her eyes that hadn’t fallen yet. Her breath came in uneven pulls, like she was still trying to climb out of the panic.

“I was so scared, Yun,” she said again, voice rising this time, cracking completely. “You were just lying there. Limp. Not breathing. And I—”

She cupped Yunjin’s cheek with both hands, not forcefully, but urgently, desperately, like she still needed to feel that she was warm, alive, real. “You weren’t moving. I was screaming your name, shaking you, and you just… you wouldn’t wake up. It felt like everything stopped. I kept thinking, ‘Not again. Please, not again.’ It was only a few minutes before the medics came but it felt like forever.” Her hands trembled as she tried to keep her voice steady, but it cracked again. “I’ve never felt that kind of fear. Not even once. And I never want to feel it again.”

Yunjin’s chest ached. She reached up, her hand weak and trembling, and gently cupped the back of Chaewon’s neck, pulling her close until their foreheads touched. “I’m here,” Yunjin whispered, voice rough but steady. “I’m right here, Chae. I’m not going anywhere.”

Chaewon let out a soft, shaky sob and buried her face in Yunjin’s shoulder.

The floodgates opened.

Her entire body trembled now, finally letting herself collapse, letting herself feel all of it. And Yunjin, despite the pain and the weakness, wrapped her arm around her and stroked her hair slowly, grounding her.

“You didn’t lose me,” Yunjin whispered. “I’m so sorry I scared you.”

Chaewon clung to her like the world would disappear if she let go. “Just… promise me no more hiding. Please. I can’t go through that again.”

“I promise,” Yunjin said without hesitation. “No more hiding.”

They stayed like that for a while. Breathing. Holding. The quiet stretched between them like a safety net neither of them had words for. And maybe they didn’t need words, not now.

Yunjin blinked back her own tears and turned her gaze to the others.

“Eunchae…”

The youngest looked up instantly, her face still red and blotchy, body curled up like she wanted to shrink away from the moment.

“Yeah…?” she whispered.

“Thank you,” Yunjin said, her voice thick with emotion. “For watching over me. For keeping quiet when you thought it would help, and for speaking up when you knew it wouldn’t. You saved me.”

Eunchae’s eyes filled again. “I didn’t know what to do. I just… I didn’t want to lose you. I didn’t want to make it worse.”

“You didn’t,” Yunjin said softly. “You were brave. Braver than me.”

She opened her arm, and Eunchae didn’t hesitate this time. She crossed the room in a few steps and hugged her tightly, burying her face into her side like she’d been waiting to exhale for hours.

Yunjin held her as best she could, rubbing small circles into her back.

Behind them, Kazuha had turned away slightly, blinking fast, arms crossed over her chest as if trying to hold something in.

“Zuha…” Yunjin called gently. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Kazuha answered too quickly. But her voice cracked.

Yunjin frowned, tilting her head. “No, you’re not.”

Kazuha hesitated before turning back around. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were shining. “You scared me. I thought you were getting better. I wanted to believe everything was okay. I didn’t know it wasn’t.” There was something rare in her voice, vulnerability. Unshielded.

Yunjin reached out a hand.

Kazuha looked at it for a second, then stepped forward and took it. Yunjin gave her a soft pull until she was sitting on the edge of the couch, shoulders hunched, eyes low.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Yunjin told her gently. “None of you did.”

Kazuha spoke quietly. “I should’ve asked more. I should’ve noticed.”

“You were just trying to respect my space. That’s not a failure.”

“You’re here now,” she added. “That’s what matters.”

Sakura stepped in last. Her eyes had gone glassy at some point, but she blinked it away, arms folded as she looked over Yunjin with a mix of exasperation and sheer tenderness. “You scared the hell out of me,” she said simply.

Yunjin let out a breath of laughter. “You and everyone else.”

Sakura leaned over, brushing hair off Yunjin’s damp forehead with gentle fingers. “Do you know how close I was to busting down the hotel door myself? The manager had to hold me back.”

“That would’ve been kind of badass.”

Sakura rolled her eyes but didn’t pull her hand away. “You’re not funny. You’re resting. No more pushing. No more pretending. Got it?”

“Got it,” Yunjin said, smiling faintly. “I’ll behave.”

“Good.” Sakura exhaled and stepped back, but stayed close.

The others slowly settled around her. Eunchae curled up at her legs, holding a blanket. Kazuha stayed near, her hand still resting lightly on Yunjin’s. Sakura took a seat on the armrest above her, alert and protective.

And Chaewon… Chaewon stayed nestled beside her, their heads still lightly touching, breath syncing little by little.

It was chaotic. Tender. Unspoken.

But it was real.

And for the first time in too long, Yunjin felt like she didn’t have to carry the weight alone.

Later that night, after Yunjin had stabilized and the room had finally calmed, Chaewon found herself standing outside on the hotel balcony with Eunchae.

The youngest had slipped out earlier for air, and Chaewon had followed quietly, shutting the door behind them.

“Eunchae,” Chaewon said softly.

Eunchae turned around slowly, a trace of hesitation still lingering in her eyes. “Unnie?”

Chaewon looked down, scuffing the toe of her slipper against the ground before meeting Eunchae’s eyes again. Her voice cracked before she spoke.

“I’m so sorry.”

Eunchae blinked in surprise.

“I was scared. Completely overwhelmed. And I… I took it out on you,” Chaewon continued, the words spilling out unevenly. “You were doing what none of us were brave enough to do. You were there for Yunjin. You were trying to protect her… and I wasn’t. And I think some part of me—maybe the ugliest part—was just angry. At myself.”

Eunchae’s lips parted, her expression softening.

“I should’ve never yelled at you,” Chaewon said, voice thick. “That wasn’t okay. That’s not how a leader should act. And it’s definitely not how your sister should treat you.”

Eunchae stayed quiet for a moment, then slowly nodded.

“I forgive you, unnie,” she said gently.

Chaewon blinked. “You do?”

“You were scared,” Eunchae whispered. “So was I. I get it.”

Without another word, Chaewon stepped forward and pulled her into a tight hug. Eunchae sank into it instantly, burying her face in Chaewon’s shoulder.

“I’m really proud of you,” Chaewon murmured into her hair. “You were so brave today. You saved her.”

Eunchae nodded into her shoulder, voice trembling. “I was just really scared to lose her too.”

Back inside, Sakura sat beside Yunjin’s bed, gently stroking her hair.

She watched her sleep, eyes scanning her features like she still couldn’t fully believe she was okay. When Yunjin stirred faintly, Sakura instinctively reached forward, pressing a palm to her forehead.

“I’ve got you, Yunjinnie,” she whispered. “No more doing this alone. I’m not letting you.”

It was the softest version of Sakura, stripped down, vulnerable, walls gone. Her hand moved through Yunjin’s hair in steady, comforting motions, like she was soothing a child after a bad dream.

Yunjin blinked awake slowly, dazed, her gaze landing first on Sakura.

“Unnie…?”

Sakura smiled, even though her eyes were glassy and red. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Yunjin weakly reached out. Sakura took her hand instantly and lifted it to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles.

“You scared me,” she whispered. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I’ll try not to,” Yunjin murmured, a faint, sheepish smile tugging at her lips.

“You’re safe now,” Sakura said, brushing her hair back again. “We’ve got you.”

And with that, Yunjin let her eyes flutter shut once more, sleep claiming her under Sakura’s watchful gaze.

The medics had helped transport Yunjin back to her room to rest properly. After they confirmed she was stable, they left quietly.

Sakura stayed at her side, curled in a chair, fingers gently combing through Yunjin’s hair in a slow rhythm. The IV hummed quietly nearby. The room had dimmed into a soft silence, fragile and still.

Yunjin was finally asleep again, her breathing deep, her expression the calmest it had been in days.

Sakura stayed there, watching her, refusing to look away even for a moment.

A soft shuffling behind her broke the quiet.

Kazuha stepped into the room, careful not to startle anyone. Her eyes swept across the space before landing on Sakura’s slumped figure, still perched over Yunjin protectively.

Kazuha didn’t speak right away. She crossed the room and crouched beside her, placing a gentle hand on Sakura’s arm.

“Kkura.”

Sakura flinched, just barely.

Kazuha leaned in. “Come here,” she whispered.

But Sakura didn’t move. Her eyes stayed fixed on Yunjin.

“She stopped responding,” she murmured. “When she fell… she didn’t move.”

Kazuha’s chest tightened.

“I thought she was gone, Zuha. Just like that. One second she was there, and the next… it was like she disappeared.” Her voice broke on the last word.

Kazuha wrapped her arms around her from behind—slow, grounding—pulling her close. “She’s okay now,” she whispered. “She’s still here.”

Sakura stayed frozen a moment longer. Then, finally, her jaw trembled and her shoulders sagged.

“I’ve been trying so hard,” she said quietly. “To hold everything together. Keep the group stable. Keep people calm. I didn’t even realize how tired I was until just now.”

Kazuha pressed her forehead to Sakura’s shoulder. “I know.”

“I’m the oldest,” Sakura whispered. “If I fall apart, it feels like everything else will too.”

Kazuha gently turned her so their eyes met and cupped her cheek. “That’s not true,” she said. “You’re allowed to be tired, Kkura. You don’t have to carry all of us by yourself.”

Sakura blinked, her eyes filling again, grief, relief, guilt, everything all at once.

“You’ve been holding us,” Kazuha said softly, thumb brushing away a tear. “Let someone hold you, too.”

And Sakura finally leaned forward, letting herself fall into Kazuha’s arms. Her body trembled, arms tightening around her best friend like she'd been holding herself up for far too long and was finally allowed to rest.

Kazuha held her close, one hand stroking her back, voice soft.

“I’ve got you. You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

She pressed her forehead to Sakura’s temple, grounding her with quiet presence.

“You’re strong, Kkura,” she whispered. “But you’re also human. And it’s okay to fall apart. That doesn’t make you any less of a leader. Or any less loved.”

Sakura nodded, lips trembling, tears soaking into Kazuha’s hoodie.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that.”

Kazuha gave a faint smile, resting her chin atop her head.

“That’s what I’m here for.”

And in the quiet of that moment, wrapped in the presence of someone who understood, Sakura allowed herself, for the first time that night, to stop being the strong one.

---

Chapter Text

Later that night, Chaewon stood alone on the hotel balcony, arms crossed tightly against herself, the breeze brushing against her bare skin like memory. The sky stretched endlessly overhead, stars barely visible behind the washed-out glow of the city lights.

The glass door clicked softly open behind her.

“I figured you’d be out here,” came Sakura’s quiet voice as she stepped beside her.

Chaewon didn’t respond right away. Her throat felt tight. Her eyes stung again with the tears she thought she’d finished shedding.

“Everyone’s asleep,” Sakura added. “Even Yunjin.”

A beat passed.

Chaewon swallowed. Her voice, when it finally came, was raw. “Do you ever feel like… no matter how much you love someone, it’s never enough to protect them?”

Sakura turned to look at her, the question catching her off guard.

“I’m with her all the time. I see her every day,” Chaewon continued, barely above a whisper. “And somehow… I still didn’t see it. The panic. The fear. How much she was breaking inside.” Her voice cracked. “What kind of leader—what kind of best friend does that make me?”

“You’re the kind who didn’t leave her side once tonight,” Sakura said softly. “The kind who cried holding her. That’s more than enough.”

Chaewon let out a breath, shaky and shallow. “It didn’t feel like enough when she went limp in my arms.”

That silenced them both.

“I thought I lost her,” she whispered. “Just like that. And all I could think was—how didn’t I see this coming?”

Sakura reached out, laying a steady hand on Chaewon’s shoulder. “You didn’t lose her. She’s here. She’s okay.”

“I took it out on Eunchae,” Chaewon admitted, guilt rising again like bile. “She was just trying to help. She did help. And I still snapped.”

“You owned up to it. You apologized,” Sakura reminded her gently. “She forgave you.”

Chaewon’s eyes closed. “I just… I need to be better. For her. For all of you.”

“You already are,” Sakura said, pulling her into a hug. “But even the best need someone to lean on. So let us carry you too, okay?”

This time, Chaewon didn’t argue. She leaned into Sakura’s shoulder, quiet, letting herself fall apart—just a little—beneath the stars.

Inside the hotel room, the air had settled into something softer. Dim, hushed, heavy with the quiet aftermath of panic.

Sakura eventually returned to her own room, and Chaewon followed after, quiet as a shadow.

The suite was nearly dark, only the faint orange streetlight bleeding in through the sheer curtains. Yunjin lay still in bed, the steady rise and fall of her chest the only sound that mattered.

Chaewon approached slowly, every step weighted with something between reverence and regret. She stood at the edge of the bed for a long time, just watching.

The light spilled across Yunjin’s features, casting delicate shadows across her cheekbones, catching the faint shimmer of dried tears on her skin. Her brows were still faintly furrowed in sleep, her lips parted just enough to breathe softly.

She looked smaller like this. Fragile. So far from the bright, unstoppable force everyone else saw.

And yet... Chaewon thought, maybe this was the most real version of Yunjin of all.

Chaewon sat on the edge of the mattress and reached out slowly, brushing Yunjin’s hair back from her forehead with gentle fingers. She let them drift through her dark strands, featherlight and lingering.

"God, you’re so beautiful. And you don’t deserve a single ounce of the pain this world’s tried to give you."

She traced her gaze over every inch of Yunjin’s face, the curve of her lips, the dark lashes resting against her skin, the slight twitch of her nose as she shifted in her sleep. Her heart ached with everything she felt.

"I should have seen it…" "I should have known something was wrong."

One single tear slid down Chaewon’s cheek without her even realizing. She sniffled faintly, blinking it away. Then leaned forward, careful not to stir Yunjin, and pressed a soft kiss to her warm forehead, just above her brow, just beneath the cold cloth. A kiss not of passion, but of prayer. Of gratitude. Of protection.

“I love you,” she whispered into the stillness, the words barely audible. “So much.” She pulled back slowly and slipped under the covers beside her, careful not to tangle the IV line, not to disturb her rest. Just close enough to feel the heat of her skin. To feel her presence.

“You shouldn’t have had to carry that alone,” she whispered.

Her fingers trembled slightly as they moved through her hair, lingering.

"I should’ve noticed. I should’ve said something sooner. Anything."

“I’m so glad you’re still here,” she breathed. 

She sat there in the silence, soaking in the moment. Just breathing.

Then, after a long pause, she slid under the covers beside Yunjin—carefully, gently, keeping to her side. Not touching. Just close enough to feel the warmth of her. She didn’t speak again. Didn’t move. She just watched the rise and fall of Yunjin’s chest. She closed her eyes slowly.

Not because everything was okay.

But because Yunjin was still breathing. Still here. Still with her.

And for now… that was enough.

---

The early morning light filtered softly through the thin hotel curtains, painting the room in warm gold and pale blue. The air was still, a fragile peace hanging in the aftermath of the storm that had shaken them all the night before.

Sakura stood by the small hotel table, phone balanced between her shoulder and ear as she spoke calmly in Japanese to the room service operator.

“Yes, two miso soups, one rice porridge… and a fruit bowl. No, not the melon one—the mixed berry. Thank you.”

Her free arm was occupied with a half-asleep Eunchae, who clung to her like a sleepy toddler, cheek smushed against Sakura’s hoodie. Her hair stuck out in several directions.

“I want waffles,” Eunchae mumbled into Sakura’s side, voice muffled and petulant.

Sakura brushed her fingers through her hair, soft but firm. “You’ll get waffles. And soup. Something warm first.”

Eunchae whined faintly but didn’t argue further.

On the other side of the room, Kazuha was in the middle of a quiet morning stretch. Her limbs moved slowly, deliberately, like she was trying to find stability in her own body after an emotionally draining night. Her gaze flicked occasionally toward the bed, where worry still lingered behind her usually composed eyes.

Chaewon hadn’t moved from Yunjin’s side.

Still dressed in her hoodie and sweats from the night before, she lay facing Yunjin, barely blinking. She hadn’t slept. Not really. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Yunjin collapsing all over again.

Yunjin remained asleep, her breathing soft and slow. The IV monitor blinked quietly beside the bed. A cool cloth rested on her forehead, Chaewon had replaced it twice during the night.

Now, in the quiet warmth of morning, Chaewon just… watched. Her hand hovered near Yunjin’s cheek, fingers twitching with the urge to brush her skin. But she didn’t. Not yet. She was afraid to wake her. Or maybe… afraid she’d vanish if she touched her.

Yunjin looked peaceful like this. Pale, yes. Weakened. But the pain that had etched itself into her features over the past few weeks was finally gone, if only for now.

And Chaewon hated that it took something this terrifying—a full collapse—for them to finally see it.

“You really thought you had to carry it all by yourself, didn’t you?” Her voice was barely audible. “Even from me…” She reached out, finally, and brushed a lock of hair from Yunjin’s forehead. Her touch was featherlight.

Last night had shattered something in Chaewon.

“When you stopped moving…”

“When I was holding you and you didn’t respond…”

“I really thought I lost you.”

She blinked hard. A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. Then she leaned forward—slow, reverent—and pressed the gentlest kiss to the back of Yunjin’s hand where it lay atop the blanket. It wasn’t romantic. Not quite. But it was sacred.

A silent promise.

“If I could shield you from everything, I would. But I can’t. So I’ll stay. I’ll be here when it gets bad. Every time. Whether you ask me to or not.”

Yunjin stirred faintly at that, a soft movement beneath the covers. Her fingers twitched ever so slightly beneath Chaewon’s.

Chaewon froze. Her breath caught in her throat. But Yunjin didn’t wake. Not yet.

A soft knock came at the door.

Sakura glanced up, frowning as she ended the call. “That’s fast…” she muttered, furrowing her brow. “I literally just hung up.”

The knock came again. Three short, cheerful taps.

Kazuha straightened from her stretch. Eunchae peeled herself off Sakura, rubbing at her eyes.

Chaewon sat up slightly, careful not to disturb the bed. Her body stiffened in instinct.

Sakura shuffled to the door and cracked it open cautiously.

The moment she did, a high-pitched voice burst through the hallway.

“Surprise!!”

Standing there with a cake box in one hand and a bouquet of bright pink peonies in the other was a girl with flushed cheeks and a grin that could split clouds.

“Rachel?” Chaewon blinked from across the room, stunned.

Kazuha straightened fully in surprise. “Wait—Rachel?”

Eunchae’s eyes snapped open. “Eh?!”

"Rachel-ssi?! What a surprise!" Sakura couldn't hide the bewildered expression stamped on her face. 

"I know, right!" Rachel grinned. “Oh my God, I missed you guys! Hi! I just got here, flew in last night! I wanted to surprise Yunjin for her comeback. I know I'm a few weeks late, but my schedule had me imprisoned. Anyways! I brought cake! And flowers. I didn’t tell her I was coming, figured it’d be a cool little sister moment.”

The members stood frozen, blinking at the hurricane of energy that had just stepped through their door. Most of them couldn’t find the words to respond. But that was mostly because… well, English.

Rachel’s rapid-fire speech had them blinking like deer in headlights.

Sakura leaned slightly toward Kazuha, eyebrows raised. “She speaks fast…”

Kazuha offered a small, sheepish smile and translated gently, “She said she came to surprise Yunjin. She brought cake and flowers.”

“Ohh!” Eunchae nodded, finally starting to wake up properly. “Aww. Cute!”

Rachel breezed into the suite like it was her name on the reservation. The air seemed to brighten with her, her enthusiasm practically rebounding off the walls. “I brought cake! And flowers!” she declared again, waving them dramatically. “Peonies—her favorite, right? Mom helped me pick them out.” Then her eyes caught on a stunned figure near the couch.

Chaewon stood there stiffly in her hoodie and sleep pants, eyes wide, clearly not ready to be perceived at this hour.

Rachel’s eyes sparkled.

“My future sister-in-law!” she gasped, pointing dramatically. “Chaewon, you better be taking care of my sister!”

Chaewon blinked. “Wha—Rachel-ah!” Her voice came out an octave too high, and she immediately regretted it.

Eunchae snorted into her sleeve. Kazuha covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. Even Sakura, who understood only half the words, was grinning now.

Rachel ignored the chaos she’d just triggered.

“I’m serious!” she continued, storming forward like she was on a stage. “I’ve witnessed first-hand how she talks about you. It’s disgusting. Adorable. But still disgusting.”

Chaewon flushed to the roots of her hair, her hand flying up to rub the back of her neck.

“She’s teasing you,” Kazuha whispered behind her, smile twitching.

“Yeah, I got that,” Chaewon muttered back, ears practically glowing red.

Rachel pressed on, completely unaware—or more likely, completely aware—of the mess she was creating.

“She literally sent me voice notes about how you folded her laundry with ‘attractiveness.’ I had to pause the recording to scream. What does that even mean? Like, how do you fold a hoodie attractively? Is there a special wrist flick?”

Sakura cleared her throat. “Rachel-ssi? Uh… maybe put cake down first?”

Rachel blinked. “Oh! Right, sorry—sorry!”

Eunchae practically leapt forward. “I got it!” she said quickly, gently taking the cake box like it was a sacred relic. “I will take care of it. Don’t worry.” She retreated to the counter immediately, eyeing the box like a dragon guarding treasure.

Rachel handed her bag to Kazuha with a quick, “Thanks, Zuha,” then glanced around the room, bright as ever. “So… where’s the star of the hour?” she asked.

Sakura’s mouth opened slightly. “Um…”

“She’s still sleeping, yeah?” Rachel asked, already stepping forward. “It’s fine, I know just the trick to wake her up—”

“Wait—Rachel unnie!” Eunchae tried to grab her arm, half panicked. “Wait! Just one moment, uh—”

But Rachel was already gone, slipping around the corner with a mischievous smile and a bounce in her step. “Yunjin~!” she called, sing-song. “Wake up, lazy! I brought—”

She stopped.

All at once, the air seemed to pull out of the room.

Rachel stood frozen at the edge of the bedroom doorway.

Her eyes locked on the still figure in the bed. The IV stand. The faint beeping of the monitor. The cloth on her forehead. The slow, too slow rise and fall of her chest.

Gone was the vibrant, chaotic, older-sister-everyone-didn’t-know-they-needed.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The peonies slipped from her hand.

They landed on the carpet with a soft whump, petals scattering like fallen pieces of something sacred.

Yunjin was so still.

Too pale.

Too quiet.

And for the first time in her life, Rachel felt the bottom of the world drop out from under her.

Her voice broke around the edges.

“Yunjin…?”

Her lips trembled.

“What… what the fuck—”

---

Chapter Text

The flowers fell to the floor.

Rachel stood frozen in the middle of the hotel suite, her eyes locked on Yunjin—her older sister, the one who always smiled the widest, who always made things seem okay.

But this wasn’t okay.

She didn’t move. Not even a twitch.

Yunjin lay curled under crisp sheets, unnaturally still, her face washed out in the soft gray of morning. Her lips were dry. Her chest rose too slowly. An IV line snaked into the crook of her arm, its presence sterile and clinical, out of place in a setting that should’ve been warm. Familiar. Safe.

Rachel’s eyes darted over every detail, her breath catching in her throat.

This wasn’t the girl who’d FaceTimed her three days ago, grinning at a stupid filter and talking about eating too many choco pies.

This wasn’t right.

“What happened?” Rachel asked, voice cracking around the edges. “Why is she—why is she like that?”

Sakura stepped toward her, slowly and carefully, like approaching a startled animal. Her voice was calm but tight, the words deliberate in her accented English.

“She collapsed. Last night. From stress. From exhaustion,” she said. “She is okay. She resting.”

But Rachel wasn’t hearing her. Not really. Her eyes never left Yunjin, her pulse a hammer in her ears.

“Did she re-injure her back?!” she asked suddenly, louder than she meant to.

The room stilled.

Kazuha’s head snapped up. “What?”

Rachel’s words came fast, rushed. “Did the surgery already happen? Is that why she looks like that?”

The silence hit harder than any answer could’ve.

Chaewon, who had been silently rooted at Yunjin’s side, turned slowly toward Rachel. Her brows furrowed in confusion. Her voice came quietly.

“Surgery?” she repeated, like the word itself didn’t belong in the same room as Yunjin.

Kazuha stepped forward, uncertain. “What are you talking about? Yunjin didn’t have surgery.”

Rachel blinked, thrown by the question. “She didn’t?” Her breath released all at once. “So it didn’t happen?”

A thick, suffocating stillness settled over the room.

No one moved.

No one dared to speak.

Until Chaewon did.

Her voice was soft, careful. English still stiff, but steady. “Why… do you think Yunjin have surgery?”

Rachel stared at her, baffled. “Because that’s what her doctor said.”

The answer came out so casually. Like it should’ve been obvious. Like everyone should’ve already known.

“Remember?” Rachel said, still looking toward the bed. “The doctor told her after she was discharged. The damage to her back was… serious. He said if it got worse—if she pushed too hard—therapy wouldn’t be enough. She’d need surgery.”

Her voice lowered. “I thought maybe that’s what happened. When I saw her like this.”

The weight of her words lingered in the air like smoke.

She turned and looked around, and only then saw what she hadn’t noticed before.

Sakura’s complexion had gone paper-white, her mouth slightly open. Kazuha gripped the back of a chair, knuckles pale. Eunchae took an unconscious step backward, one hand hovering near her mouth.

And Chaewon. Chaewon looked hollowed out.

Eyes wide, jaw slack, as if someone had pulled the world out from under her without warning.

Rachel blinked. “…Wait,” she said slowly, pieces clicking together. “You didn’t know?”

No one answered. They didn’t have to.

Their faces told her everything.

“She didn’t tell you?” Rachel whispered.

Eunchae’s voice cracked in the stillness. “No… We did not know.”

Rachel opened her mouth to respond—anything, something—but nothing came out.

She just stood there, helpless, heart thudding against her ribs, eyes drifting back to her sister.

And suddenly, the room felt too heavy. Too quiet.

She looked at Yunjin again, and a tight knot formed in her throat.

In the corner of the room, Chaewon stood deathly still.

Her hands trembled at her sides, fingers flexing into fists and releasing again, like her body didn’t know whether to fight or flee. Her gaze was vacant, locked somewhere between the IV drip and the soft rise of Yunjin’s chest. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Her breathing faltered.

The others hadn’t noticed at first. But Sakura did.

She looked over, and saw it.

The subtle quake in Chaewon’s shoulders. The way her chin dipped just slightly, her mouth tightening into something unreadable. She wasn’t blinking. Her whole world was tilting on its axis. And then, like a drop in silence, a single tear slid down Chaewon’s cheek.

Yunjin had hidden this from her.

Her. Of all people.

Why?

Why hadn’t she told her?

What else had she kept buried behind that guarded smile?

What other pain had she carried, silently, while pretending everything was fine?

Chaewon’s chest squeezed tight, almost painfully so.

This wasn’t some simple secret.

This was a wound that had been deliberately hidden, and it stung.

She didn’t trust me with this.

The thought echoed hollow in her ribs, knocking against all the nights she’d stayed by her side, all the moments she thought they’d shared in silence and certainty.

A sharp ache bloomed beneath her sternum. Not anger. Not yet.

Just heartbreak.

Sakura’s voice broke through the stillness, soft but sharp at the edges.

“Rachel-ssi…” she said carefully, “why does she still have back pain? We all thought… she was healing. That it was over.”

Rachel turned, blinking like she’d just realized the weight of her own words. “She is healing. But—”

“Mmh…”

The sound cut through the air like a match striking dry wood.

Every head turned.

Yunjin shifted faintly beneath the blanket. Her brow creased, lips parting in a shallow breath. The damp cloth slipped slightly from her temple, sliding down just an inch.

Her fingers twitched.

A soft, disoriented sound left her throat.

She was waking up.

Yunjin stirred faintly under the blankets, her brows twitching together. Her lashes fluttered against pale cheeks as a low groan escaped her throat. The overhead light stung her eyes, blinking rapidly as the blur of the world slowly sharpened around her. She shifted, only to wince. Pain flared up her spine, and immediately, warm hands steadied her.

“Easy,” came Chaewon’s voice. Gentle. Hoarse. Cracked from emotion. But steady. She guided Yunjin carefully upright, propping a pillow behind her back, fingers brushing briefly against the IV line like it physically hurt her to see it there. “Just breathe,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Yunjin let her body rest against the pillow, chest rising and falling slowly as her vision adjusted. Shapes became clearer. Voices in the background dimmed. Then her gaze landed on something—no, someone—that didn’t belong in this room. A familiar face. One she hadn’t seen in far too long.

“…Rach?” she croaked. Confused. Squinting. “Is that… you?”

Rachel’s whole face lit up.

“Yeah, dummy,” she laughed, already walking forward with arms wide. “It’s me!”

She didn’t wait.

She practically launched herself onto the bed, wrapping her arms tightly around her sister. Yunjin gave a startled gasp, then laughed, a quiet, breathless giggle, before weakly lifting her arms to hug back.

“What are you doing here?” she murmured, the sound barely above a whisper.

“I wanted to surprise you!” Rachel beamed, tears already in her voice. “Celebrate your comeback. You did it, Jen.”

Yunjin shook her head faintly, eyes warm. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, lips trembling into a soft smile. “But I love you.”

“I brought cake!” Rachel added proudly. Then glanced down at the IV, her smile faltering. “Though, uh… I think I was the one getting surprised.”

Yunjin’s smile froze in place.

Her eyes dropped to the IV line as if seeing it for the first time. Her lips parted. “Oh. I…”

No words came.

Rachel noticed the change instantly and reached for her, her voice softening. “It’s okay,” she said quietly. “They explained.”

Yunjin’s eyes flicked to the side.

Chaewon was still next to her. Still holding her hand. But her eyes were downcast now. Her grip a little tighter.

Kazuha, Eunchae, and Sakura stood off to the side. Watching. Silent.

And suddenly, Yunjin knew.

The air had changed. The warmth in the room had cooled into something brittle.

“…Did I miss something?” she asked cautiously, eyes darting between their expressions. Kazuha’s brow was tense. Eunchae looked like she’d been crying. Sakura’s arms were folded tightly, but her eyes were soft, maternal. 

And Chaewon? Chaewon looked hollow. Her eyes were dry but far away, like she wasn’t in the room anymore.

Kazuha was the first to speak. Her tone was calm, but her words weren’t soft. “Why didn’t you tell us about the surgery risk?”

The question landed like a stone.

Yunjin’s heart stuttered. Her breath caught. She looked at Rachel, who avoided her eyes.

“You told them?” she whispered, voice fragile.

Rachel flinched. “I didn’t know they didn’t know!” she said quickly. “I swear, Jen. I thought you’d told them already—I mean, I walked in and saw you like that, I was terrified! I thought maybe you’d already had it—”

“You what?” Yunjin’s voice barely rose above a breath, but her chest was tight.

“I thought you got worse!” Rachel’s voice cracked. “That something happened. You looked… you looked half-dead.”

Yunjin turned away from her. And there they were, her members. Her girls. The people who’d stayed up with her, laughed with her, cried with her. The ones she’d kept in the dark.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, voice thin and cracking. “I didn’t want to ruin everything. I just… I wanted things to feel normal again. Even if I wasn’t. And I didn’t want you to worry.”

Her voice trembled. “I thought if I pushed through, I could—”

The scrape of a chair interrupted her.

Chaewon stood. So fast it startled everyone. She didn’t say anything. Her fists were clenched, jaw tight. Her eyes never left the floor as she turned. And then she walked out. No words. No glance back. Just the door swinging shut behind her.

“Chaewon!” Yunjin cried, panic flaring as she tried to push herself up, only to cry out in pain. “Agh!” Her hand shot to her back as she collapsed onto the mattress, grimacing hard. “Shit—”

“Yunjin!” Rachel grabbed her, holding her upright. “Don’t move. Don’t move—breathe, breathe, I got you.”

Sakura was at her other side in seconds, hand pressed to Yunjin’s shoulder. “Stay still,” she said quickly, her voice sharp but calm.

Kazuha adjusted the pillow behind her, her face pale, hands careful.

Yunjin’s breathing was unsteady. But her eyes… they were locked on the door.

Rachel sat beside her now, adjusting the blanket up over her again. Her voice was quieter, almost scolding, but not cruel.

“You have a lot of explaining to do,” she murmured.

Yunjin didn’t answer. She just stared at the door.

---

It was sometime later.

The room had grown quieter, the storm passed, but not forgotten. The air was heavier now, dense with understanding, the kind that settled deep in the chest and refused to move.

Yunjin had finished explaining everything. The collapse. The overworking. The weight of being “back.” Her voice had wavered more than once, cracked in spots. But she didn’t lie. She didn’t sugarcoat. She spoke it plainly, bone-deep and bruised  

“I just didn’t want to be… replaced,” she whispered. The words sat fragile and terrified in the space between them. “I was scared if I didn’t come back and give it everything, someone else would take my place. Or maybe the fans would forget me.”

Rachel sat beside her, a hand curled gently around her wrist. Her usual spark had quieted. The bounce in her voice was gone. Her brows were drawn, lips pressed into a line. “You’ve been through hell,” she murmured. “And you didn’t tell anyone.”

Yunjin didn’t answer. She just looked down.

Then, Sakura spoke. Her voice was low and flat in Korean. “That still doesn’t explain why your back still hurts,” she said. “Rachel said it was serious.”

The shift was immediate.

Yunjin froze. Her gaze slid to the IV line in her arm. To the blanket resting quietly in her lap. She looked like someone deciding whether to lie, and realizing she didn’t have the strength. So, she exhaled. And she told the truth.

“Even though I was ‘healed’… after the shock therapy,” she said slowly, in English this time, “the damage might’ve left something behind. They’re not sure yet if it’s permanent, but it’s there.” She glanced up, eyes flicking from one member to the next.

“There’s still pain. Some days worse than others. Technically, my back is okay now, but… I have to be careful. No stress. No heavy dancing. No triggers. If I push too far again…” Her voice thinned. “…then surgery’s the only option left.”

Silence.

No one breathed.

Eunchae’s hands came up to cover her mouth. Kazuha stood completely still. Sakura’s gaze dropped, her fingers tightening where they rested on her knee.

Then, Sakura’s voice. Not loud. But lethal. “…That therapist,” she said in English. Her tone was flat as a blade. “This is all because of him.” She didn’t scream. She didn’t flinch. But her fists were white in her lap.

Despite the weight of it all, the girls moved instinctively closer. Closer to Yunjin. Not because they had something to say, but because being near her suddenly felt important.

Eunchae was the first to break the silence. Her English trembled. “Why… why not tell us?” she asked. “Why not come to us?”

Rachel looked at her sister, then back at the others. She hesitated, but then answered for her. “Because she was overwhelmed,” Rachel said gently. “And she didn’t need people who were always worried about her.”

Her eyes flicked around the room. “She needed people who were worried for her.”

The girls blinked.

Rachel went on, her voice calm but not unkind. “You’re amazing. All of you. And you love her, I can see that. But sometimes… when someone’s breaking, they don’t have the energy to manage everyone else’s panic.” She looked toward Sakura, Kazuha, Eunchae.

“You were scared. But you told her that. You showed her that. Every day.” Her eyes returned to Yunjin. “She needed to cry. But instead, she spent all her energy comforting you.”

Yunjin swallowed.

Rachel’s hand reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her sister’s ear. “You’ve been holding it in,” she said softly. “Because no one gave you room to let it out, huh?”

Yunjin’s lips trembled.

And then, Rachel climbed gently onto the bed beside her. She pulled Yunjin into her arms. Cradled her like something breakable. Like something sacred.

“It’s okay,” she whispered into her hair. “You can let it out now. I’m here.”

And Yunjin shattered.

It wasn’t a pretty kind of cry. It tore out of her, harsh and guttural. Her whole body shook in Rachel’s arms, fists gripping at her hoodie like she needed to hold on or she’d vanish. She sobbed, loud, broken sobs that echoed through the room and made time stand still.

The others could only watch at first. Stunned.

They’d seen Yunjin tired. Quiet. But never like this. Because they hadn’t looked hard enough. Because they hadn’t listened.

All of them had been afraid for her, but Yunjin had lived those fears. Every day.

Alone.

Eunchae moved first. She didn’t say a word. Just stepped onto the bed and gently wrapped her arms around Yunjin’s side. No tears. No apologies. Just presence.

Kazuha followed. She climbed up quietly and slipped into the growing embrace, her chin resting on Yunjin’s shoulder, eyes closed.

And finally, Sakura. She knelt at the bedside. Didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. She simply reached out and threaded her fingers through Yunjin’s hair, again and again. A soft, rhythmic comfort. A mothering promise in every stroke.

Yunjin cried for everything she’d buried. Everything she feared. Everything she thought she had to carry by herself.

And the others, sat with her through it.

Said nothing.

Didn’t flinch.

They let her cry, and let her be, and in that quiet space… she was no longer alone.

---

Chapter Text

The dull chime of the convenience store door echoed behind her like a memory trying to reach her through fog.

Chaewon barely registered it.

The world had blurred at the edges. Too quiet. Too slow. The overhead fluorescents buzzed with a tired hum, but even their harsh white glow felt dimmer than usual—like the world was matching the gray static that flooded her chest.

She sat curled in the farthest booth of the store’s cramped sitting area, legs drawn up, arms hugging her knees beneath her oversized hoodie. The fabric swallowed her. She wanted it to. Maybe if she could just pull it tighter, shrink smaller, the ache would stop echoing inside her ribs.

Her water bottle sat untouched on the table.

Her fingers were clenched so tightly around it, the plastic was warping beneath her grip.

But she didn’t notice. Couldn’t loosen her hand.

She was shaking. Quietly. Constantly.

Not from cold.

From everything she was trying to hold in.

Images spun over and over again in her mind. Yunjin, still as stone beneath a hospital sheet. The quiet beep of the IV monitor. The pale stretch of skin beneath the tape. Rachel’s voice, thick with panic.

Surgery. Permanent damage. Re-injury.

The words echoed louder than the fluorescent buzz. Louder than her own thoughts. Until they were the only thing she could hear.

Her head bowed, hoodie shadowing her face.

Yunjin hadn’t told her.

Yunjin hadn’t told her.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

And the hurt came rushing in like floodwater.

It wasn’t anger. Not even close.

It was shame. Guilt. Heartbreak.

Because the person Chaewon loved most in the world—quietly, painfully, desperately—had gone through all of this…

Alone.

And she hadn’t noticed.

How could I not have noticed?

Tears slid silently down her face. Warm. Endless.

She didn’t bother wiping them away.

Her hands had gone slack now. Useless in her lap.

“What kind of person…” she whispered, voice shredded raw, “doesn’t even notice the one they love is falling apart?”

It cracked something in her.

Love, she had always believed, was about protection. She had promised herself—sworn to herself—that if Yunjin ever broke, she would be there to catch her.

But she hadn’t caught her.

Because she hadn’t even seen her fall.

She thought about all the nights they’d shared in the dorm. The stolen glances, the quiet companionship. The cups of tea left waiting on the table. The laughter. The moments Chaewon held on to like they meant something more—because they did. She knew they did.

But maybe it had all just been surface.

Maybe Yunjin had smiled through it all so well… she fooled even her.

A sob hitched in her throat.

She covered her mouth with her sleeve.

God, she felt sick.

Had Yunjin winced behind her back?

Had she swallowed pain while Chaewon looked the other way?

Had she hidden the weight of her fear behind polite silence… because she didn’t think Chaewon could handle it?

Because she didn’t trust her with it?

Because Chaewon had tried so hard to be gentle, to protect, to offer comfort, without ever stopping to listen?

I should’ve seen it.

I should’ve seen her.

Her whole chest ached with it.

She thought loving Yunjin quietly, steadily, was enough. That being there in the wings—folding her laundry, tucking her in when she fell asleep in the van, holding her hand in the dark—was enough.

But if Yunjin didn’t feel like she could collapse into her, then none of it mattered.

“I’m not enough,” she whispered, barely audible. “I wasn’t enough for her to tell me…”

Her voice cracked. Her hands clenched again.

And still, beneath it all—deeper than the guilt, deeper than the heartbreak—there was love.

A love that hadn’t dulled, even now. A love that hurt worse the longer she sat here, knowing Yunjin was in pain and still hadn’t let her in.

She wanted to fix it.

She wanted to run back. Grab her hand. Say, Tell me everything. Scream. Cry. Let me be the one who holds it this time.

She wanted to say, I love you.

Even if they’d never said it. Even if it still lived unspoken between them.

I love you. I love you. I love you. Please let me love you right.

But she couldn’t say it.

Not yet.

Not when Yunjin hadn’t let her see the cracks.

She wiped her face with her sleeve again, blinking out the blur.

The sky outside had gone fully bright. The city moved like nothing had happened.

But Chaewon sat there, frozen in place.

Still too full of the words she hadn’t said.

Still too full of the ones Yunjin never gave her the chance to hear.

The sound of footsteps approached.

Chaewon jumped slightly, shoulders tightening. She yanked her hood further over her head, ducking her chin down, scrubbing at her face in panic. Her heart raced.

She couldn’t be seen like this.

Not by fans.

Not by staff.

Not by anyone.

Not with swollen eyes. Not with hands that still trembled like leaves in a storm.

She didn’t need the headlines.

She didn’t need—

“Hey there, sister-in-law.”

The voice cut through her spiral like a spotlight through fog.

Chaewon froze.

Slowly she turned her head.

Rachel Huh was standing beside her.

Brown ponytail. Oversized hoodie. A steaming cup of microwaved tteokbokki in one hand and a six-pack of banana milk in the other. Her legs swung lazily beneath the table like this was the most casual thing in the world.

Like she hadn’t just walked in on Chaewon crumbling.

“R-Rachel…?” Chaewon’s voice came out cracked. Unsteady. Like it had rusted from the inside.

Rachel beamed and set the microwaved tteokbokki down on the table with an exaggerated flourish.

“Ta-da~!” she sang, like she was presenting a five-star meal instead of spicy rice cakes in cheap plastic. “Food for the dying. Or in this case, the extremely dramatic.”

She nudged the banana milk over with a casual flick. “Yunjin said she wanted this brand. Like, specifically the cheap kind that tastes like sugar and despair. So. Hero of the day, reporting for duty.”

She leaned back, opened the lid with a hiss, and added flatly, “Pretty sure between this and the milk, we’re just giving her cancer at this point. But hey—if it kills her faster, at least it’s aesthetic.”

That earned a sound from Chaewon.

It wasn’t a laugh exactly—more like a short, helpless puff of air—but her lips curled at the edges. Barely. Just enough to prove she was still in there, somewhere.

Rachel caught it instantly.

She didn’t say anything about it. Just let the moment hang there.

Then, more quietly, she asked, “You okay?”

Chaewon flinched at the question like it physically hit her.

Rachel didn’t move. Didn’t crowd her. Just waited.

Chaewon’s hands had tightened again in her lap, her sleeves pulled over them like she could hide the tremble. She shook her head.

“...No,” she whispered.

Rachel nodded slowly, as if she’d expected the answer. “Wanna talk about it?”

Chaewon hesitated.

Her mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

“It’s... complicated.”

Rachel gave a soft chuckle, light and without judgment. “Chaewon, I’m Yunjin’s sister. If there’s a PhD in dealing with complicated, I’ve already graduated. Twice. With honours.”

That got another twitch of a smile.

She poked at the food, just to keep her hands busy, but her voice came quieter this time. “She talks about you a lot, you know.”

Chaewon looked up slightly. She didn’t speak.

Rachel continued, tone warm but not teasing. “Like... a lot a lot. Stuff I didn’t ask to know. Like how you peel oranges for her. Or how you line up her shoes when she’s too tired to do it herself. Or the time you stood outside her therapy room, waiting, just so she’d see you the second the door opened.”

Chaewon’s eyes dropped again, her fingers nervously picking at the banana milk label.

“She said you made her feel safe,” Rachel added softly.

A silence settled between them. Not heavy, just fragile. Like if either of them moved too quickly, it would break.

Chaewon’s voice came small. “Then why didn’t she tell me?”

Rachel stayed quiet.

Chaewon finally looked up, eyes glassy. “I didn’t know. I didn’t see it. She was hurting. She was scared. And I didn’t see it.”

Her words came slower now, halting between breaths.

“She smiled. She joked. She leaned on me. So I thought… she was okay. I thought I made her feel safe. But now I wonder if maybe I didn’t. If I never really did.”

Her eyes dropped again.

“I thought we were…” She swallowed. “I thought we were close.”

Rachel didn’t interrupt.

Chaewon continued, voice barely above a whisper now. “But maybe I was just someone she didn’t want to worry. So she lied. And maybe that means… she couldn’t lean on me. Not the real me. Not for the scary things.”

Rachel blinked slowly, her brows tugging together.

Chaewon’s shoulders hunched like she was trying to disappear. “I’m supposed to be her best friend. I’m supposed to know when something’s wrong. But I missed it. I didn’t see the signs. And now she’s—she’s like this, and I—”

Her breath hitched, and she had to look away again.

“I should’ve noticed.”

Rachel exhaled through her nose, quiet and steady. “You couldn’t have known, Chaewon. She didn’t tell anyone.”

“But she told you about the surgery risk.”

“That was months ago,” Rachel replied gently. “And I only knew because I was there. Because I asked. And even then, it took days to get the truth out of her.”

Chaewon didn’t respond.

Rachel leaned in, her voice even softer now. “Yunjin doesn’t hide things because she doesn’t trust people. She hides things because she doesn’t want to be a burden. She thinks if she says she’s scared, she’s making everyone else scared too. So she smiles. She distracts. She protects people from her own pain.”

Chaewon shook her head. “She shouldn’t have to protect me. I wanted to protect her.”

Rachel watched her quietly. “I know.”

Another silence.

Then, in a voice so low Rachel almost didn’t catch it, Chaewon whispered  “Maybe she needs someone else.”

Rachel’s face faltered.

“What?”

Chaewon didn’t look at her.

“I failed her. I didn’t know. I didn’t help. I didn’t even notice. And maybe… maybe if I step back, she’ll find someone who can do those things. Someone better. Someone she won’t have to hide from.”

Rachel just… stared at her.

For a long time, she didn’t say a word.

Then, in a flat, unimpressed voice, she muttered, “That is the stupidest thing I’ve heard all day.”

Chaewon blinked.

Rachel leaned forward, elbows on the table, expression suddenly razor sharp.

“You think love—or whatever it is you’re not calling it—is about being perfect all the time? About catching every blink, every flinch, every tear before it falls?”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

“It’s not. You missed it? Yeah. You did. That sucks. But it doesn’t mean you throw yourself out like garbage. It means you try again. You show up better. You fight for her.”

Chaewon’s throat moved as she swallowed.

Rachel’s voice dropped now. Serious. Firm.

“You don’t walk away from someone you love because you made a mistake.”

And Chaewon finally looked up.

Eyes red.

Voice barely there.

“I don’t want to hurt her again.”

Rachel’s face softened.

“But Chaewon… she’s hurting without you.”

And that was the moment Chaewon broke.

Her head dropped into her hands. Her shoulders shook again, but this time not from guilt, at least not only guilt.

Because beneath the grief… was the truth.

She loved Yunjin.

And she couldn’t keep pretending that she didn’t.

Not when it hurt this much just to think of stepping back.

Not when Yunjin looked so small in that bed, and all she wanted was to hold her until she felt safe again.

--- 

The hotel room felt heavier than it should have for seven in the morning.

The air conditioner hummed in the background, filling the silence with a sterile, low buzz. The curtains were still drawn, muting the grey light bleeding in from the storm outside. The rain tapped softly against the window, like it, too, was hesitant to disturb the quiet.

Yunjin sat still as the last medic gently removed the IV from her arm. She barely reacted to the small sting of the needle leaving her skin. Only a faint wince, and then she stared straight ahead again, unblinking, as sterile gauze was taped down over the puncture.

It wasn’t the pain that lingered. Not in her body, at least.

It was the hollow echo in her chest. The kind of silence that didn’t just fill a room—it filled her.

Kazuha and Eunchae had already left. They’d insisted on getting to rehearsal early, said they needed to warm up and clear their heads. But Yunjin knew. They were giving her space. Giving her room to breathe. Or maybe to break.

Now, only Sakura remained.

The door clicked softly shut after the medics left, leaving just the two of them in the dim light and thinning air.

Sakura stood still for a moment, then slowly walked over and sat down in the chair beside Yunjin’s bed. She didn’t speak right away. Just watched.

Watched the way Yunjin kept grazing her fingers over the bandage on her arm. Watched how her eyes flitted restlessly across the room, never settling. Like she was searching for something—or someone—that wasn’t there.

“You’ve been quiet,” Sakura said finally. Her voice was calm, but careful. “That’s not like you.”

Yunjin’s shoulders barely moved. Just a slight twitch. Her mouth stayed closed.

Sakura sighed gently, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I know you’ve got a lot to say. I can see it. You’re holding back.”

A beat passed.

Yunjin’s fingers tightened against the edge of the blanket.

And then, at last, her voice broke through, small, brittle.

“I hurt her.”

Sakura blinked, her brow furrowing. “…Who?”

Yunjin didn’t look at her.

“Chaewon,” she said quietly. “I must’ve made her think I didn’t trust her. That I didn’t feel safe enough to tell her what was happening. And that’s… that’s the last thing I ever wanted her to feel.”

The words tasted like guilt. Like shame. They dragged across her tongue like glass.

“I think she’s mad at me,” Yunjin whispered. “And honestly… I wouldn’t blame her if she hated me.”

Sakura made a sharp noise in the back of her throat. Somewhere between a laugh and a scoff.

“Hates you?” she repeated, blinking like Yunjin had grown another head. “Are you serious?”

Yunjin turned, startled.

Sakura sat up straighter, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees.

“Yunjin. You cannot be that stupid.”

“S-Sorry?” Yunjin blinked, thrown off.

Sakura held up a finger, cutting her off. “Listen to me. Chaewon would throw herself off a building if it meant putting a mattress under you.”

Yunjin opened her mouth to speak—but again, Sakura didn’t let her.

“She has been there for you through everything. While leading this team, managing herself, dealing with pressure andfans, and you know what she always made time for? You. Always. I’ve watched her. Hell, we’ve all watched her.”

Yunjin’s throat tightened. Her heart was pounding now.

“There is nothing in this world Chaewon wouldn’t do for you,” Sakura said, her voice quieter now. “And nothing that would ever make her hate you.”

Yunjin blinked hard, tears already threatening to rise. Her lips trembled.

“She’s not mad at you,” Sakura added softly. “She’s mad at herself.”

Yunjin bit down on her lip. Hard.

Because that sounded exactly like Chaewon.

She didn’t get angry at people—not really. She turned it inward. Every time. She internalized, overthought, picked herself apart piece by piece until there was nothing left but blame she didn’t deserve.

Yunjin’s hands clenched in the blanket.

“…I have to find her.”

Sakura glanced toward the window, where rain still pattered against the glass like a ticking clock. “How?” she asked gently. “It’s pouring. And she left without security. No guards. No phone on her, probably. She could be anywhere.”

Yunjin’s lips pressed into a thin, frantic line.

Ring ring.

Sakura’s phone buzzed sharply in the silence.

She blinked, looked down at the screen.

“…Rachel?” she muttered, confused.

Yunjin leaned over. “Why is she calling you?”

Sakura answered the call, pressing it to speaker.

“Rachel-ssi?”

“Hey,” came Rachel’s voice, hurried and quiet, like she was crouching behind a counter in a spy movie. “Don’t freak out. I don’t have long. I… I found Chaewon.”

Sakura straightened in her seat. “You what? Wait—why are you whispering?”

“I’m hiding. I’m literally crouched behind a magazine rack. So she doesn’t see me.”

Sakura’s brows furrowed. “Hiding?? Why are you hiding?”

“She’s—okay, listen—she’s planning to cut Yunjin off. Like, for real. No texts. No calls. Nothing. She’s pulling away.”

There was a beat.

Then both voices shrieked at once:

“WHAT?!”

“EH!?”

Rachel winced. “Ow! Ow! God—why are you so loud?! Wait, was that Yunjin? Is she there?!”

Yunjin lunged forward, but Sakura slapped a hand over her mouth and took the wheel.

“Rachel. Why?” Sakura’s tone was steel now. “What is she thinking?”

Rachel’s voice dropped to a whisper again. Urgent. Panicked.

“She said she’s failed Yunjin. That if she couldn’t notice the pain, if Yunjin couldn’t trust her enough to say anything… then she wasn’t good enough to stay close.”

Yunjin’s heart cracked open.

“She thinks she was just… making things worse. She said she doesn’t deserve to be someone Yunjin relies on.”

Sakura’s mouth opened, but she didn’t speak.

Rachel’s voice trembled slightly.

“She thinks the best way to protect Yunjin… is to disappear.”

The silence was deafening.

Yunjin’s whole body went still. Her heartbeat crashed against her ribs like thunder.

And then, Sakura turned slowly to look at her.

There was no teasing in her face now. No humor. Just sharp, clear truth in her eyes.

"I told you," Sakura said quietly, "She’d destroy herself before she stopped loving you.”

Yunjin didn’t even blink.

She just moved.

She snatched the phone from Sakura’s hands like it had personally offended her.

 “Rachel, where are you?”

“Jen, wait, just let me talk to her—”

“HUH RACHEL, I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL SKIN YOU FOR DINNER!!”

Rachel flinched audibly. “Okay, okay! Geez, calm down Cruelle De Vil, we are at the convenience store at the corner of the block!”

Click.

The call ended.

Yunjin was already off the bed.

“Wait—Yunjin—” Sakura stood up, reaching for her.

Too late.

The IV wire was ripped out  

Yunjin’s bare feet hit the cold floor, but she didn’t stop. Didn’t even flinch at the sting in her back.

She ran.

Flinging the door open, storming out like the world itself was on fire and only she could put it out.

“YUNJIN!” Sakura shouted. “YUNJINNIE—COME BACK, YOU’RE INJURED!”

SLAM.

The door shut hard behind her, shaking the frame.

Silence returned.

Sakura stood alone in the middle of the room, blinking.

She looked at the phone still clutched in her hand.

Then at the bloody-ripped-out IV wire lying on the table.

Then out the window, where the rain kept falling.

“…I’m getting too old for this,” she muttered.

---

Chapter Text

Rachel stared down at Sakura’s phone, the black screen now silent and lifeless in her palm.

“…Did she just hang up on me?”

She blinked once. Then twice.

“No. Wait. That was Yunjin.”

The realization hit a second too late, and Rachel groaned, dragging a hand down her face.

“Shit,” she muttered, smacking her forehead with the heel of her palm. “Nice going, genius. Way to light a match on the gas leak.”

She shoved the phone into her jacket pocket, heart still pounding from the sheer chaos of that call. She turned to scan the store’s quiet interior again, trying to remember where she last saw—

“There you are.”

Rachel nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun around so fast she almost dropped the six-pack of banana milk she’d been clutching like a stress toy.

Chaewon stood a few feet away, emerging from behind the beverage fridge like a ghost. Her voice had been quiet, almost gentle, but it struck Rachel like a thunderclap.

The older girl’s hoodie was rumpled, the drawstrings still uneven from when she’d pulled it tight over her head to hide. Her hair peeked out in soft, messy strands. Her eyes, once bright and sharp, were dulled now. Not red, not puffy, but flat.Like the storm hadn’t passed. It had just settled deeper. Buried itself under her ribs and taken root.

“Jesus, you scared the shit outta me,” Rachel blurted, trying to laugh it off.

Chaewon didn’t smile. Instead, she tilted her head slightly. “Did you find the rice balls Kkura unnie wanted?”

Rachel’s breath caught. Oh, right. That was the lie she told so she could sneak off and call Sakura.

She blinked. “Uh—no. No, she… she changed her mind. Said she’ll just stick with…” She flailed slightly, then held up the banana milk like it was Exhibit A. “…with this.”

Chaewon stared at her for a moment. Not long. But long enough that Rachel felt seen in the worst way. Suspicion flickered in her eyes. A quiet, calculating shift. But then, like a cloud passing over the sun, it disappeared.

“Whatever,” Chaewon said at last, voice clipped. “I’m going out.”

Rachel straightened. “Out? Where?”

“To the venue,” Chaewon replied flatly. “I’m going to rehearsal.” The way she said it made Rachel’s stomach twist. Because it wasn’t just a routine declaration. It was an escape plan. Her tone was too even. Too detached. Like she’d rehearsed that sentence, over and over again, until it no longer tasted like guilt.

Rachel took a cautious step forward. “What about Yunjin?”

Chaewon paused for only a second. “I can’t see her right now,” she said. “If I do… I’ll break.”

The words landed like a stone in Rachel’s chest. Her heart twisted, hard. “Chaewon…”

“When are you gonna do it?” Rachel asked, more quietly this time. She already knew the answer, but she needed to hear it out loud.

Chaewon didn’t respond right away. Her fingers curled tighter around the convenience store’s glass door handle.

“…After the show,” she said finally, so softly it could’ve been mistaken for a breath.

Rachel frowned. “Why after?”

“I don’t want to ruin it for her,” Chaewon said. Her voice trembled—barely. “She deserves one last happy memory before…" She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.

Rachel swallowed the lump in her throat. She felt it coming, like a landslide.

“You’re really gonna do it?” she whispered.

Still, no answer.

Only the silence of Chaewon not denying it. She didn’t look at Rachel. She didn’t look anywhere, really, just forward. Like if she allowed herself to feel anything right now, she’d shatter on the tile floor.

And Rachel saw it. The truth beneath the hoodie, the weight behind her shoulders, the way her jaw clenched like she was holding back a scream. She wasn’t mad at Yunjin. She wasn’t done with her.

She was devastated. She was in love. And convinced she wasn’t enough.

Rachel bit her lip, hard, but the words still pushed their way out.

“She loves you,” she said, voice thin. “Like… really loves you.”

Chaewon’s lips parted.

They trembled. Just a little.

“I love her too,” she whispered. ‘But, Yunjin doesn’t love me in the way I love her,’ is what Chaewon wanted to say  

Rachel’s eyes stung.

Chaewon finally looked at her, and in that moment, she looked so small. So young. Not like the leader of a top girl group. Not like someone who always had the answers. But like a girl with a heart too full and no room left to carry it.

“More than I ever thought I could love anyone,” she said. Then her gaze dropped again. Her shoulders caved inward. “But this is… this is for the best.”

Rachel opened her mouth.

But Chaewon was already moving. She turned and pulled her hood up again, like armor. Like maybe if she covered herself well enough, nothing would seep out. No pain. No guilt. No weakness. She stepped outside.

The door jingled faintly behind her, the sound too small for how final it felt.

She didn’t look back.

Didn’t pause.

Didn’t wait.

Rachel stood frozen, banana milk still clutched in her hands like a joke she couldn’t laugh at anymore. And all she could do now was pray that Yunjin would get there in time.

Before Chaewon disappeared for good.

Outside, the rain had become merciless.

It wasn’t gentle or romantic the way it sometimes looked in movies. It was loud. Violent. Like the sky was mourning something it couldn’t name. Water poured in waves off rooftops and flooded over sidewalks, drenching the world in cold, gray grief.

Chaewon stepped out from the convenience store with a sharp inhale, the door swinging shut behind her with a muted chime. She didn’t bother with her hood. Didn’t flinch at the rain pounding against her skin. She welcomed it.

She wanted it.

No umbrella.

No coat.

No plan.

Just herself, small and hollow, walking through the storm like punishment.

Her sneakers hit the pavement with a splash, puddles soaking through her socks instantly. She barely noticed. Her fingers were curled into fists by her sides, her arms slick with water. Her hair clung to her cheeks and forehead, dripping, but she didn’t raise a hand to fix it. She just kept walking. Head down. Shoulders tight.

Each step was heavy.

Each breath, harder to take than the last.

Because every step forward meant she was really doing it.

She was walking away.

From Yunjin.

From everything.

Behind her, the bell on the store door jingled again.

“Chaewon!” Rachel’s voice rang out behind her, strained over the noise of the storm.

Chaewon didn’t stop. Just glanced back slightly, water streaming down her lashes like tears that hadn’t asked permission.

Rachel was jogging after her, her arms wrapped tightly around the banana milk six-pack like it might shield her from the elements.

“You’re not seriously walking in this alone, are you?”

Chaewon’s voice was flat. Distant. “Why are you following me?”

Rachel caught up, ducking her head under the edge of Chaewon’s soaked hoodie.

“Company.”

A beat of silence passed between them as the rain roared down. Cars passed in blurs of noise on the far end of the street, but otherwise the world felt narrowed. Small. Like it had reduced itself to just this: two girls walking in a downpour, holding too much in.

“Why do you care?” Chaewon finally muttered. Her voice was small. Bitter. “I’m about to break your sister’s heart.”

Rachel slowed slightly, her lips pressing together. Her hair was sticking to her neck. The rain didn’t let up. But she kept walking beside her.

“I don’t approve,” Rachel said softly. “I hate that you’re doing this.”

Chaewon’s throat tensed.

“But she loves you too damn much,” Rachel continued. “And she would literally haunt me if I let you get hit by a car, or struck by lightning, or swallowed by a sewer drain. So.”

Chaewon didn’t respond. Her jaw clenched tighter as she looked down, puddles swirling around her steps like the earth itself wanted to pull her under.

“I don’t need a speech,” she whispered. “If this is some plan to talk me out of it—don’t.”

Her voice cracked, just faintly. “Don’t waste your breath.”

But then—

It hit.

Like lightning cracking across a quiet sky.

A voice, distant at first.

Raw.

Cracked.

And soaked in desperation.

“KIM CHAEWON!”

Chaewon stopped walking.

The sound cut through the rain like a scream through silence.

She blinked once. Slowly.

Rachel froze beside her, eyes wide.

Then the voice came again, closer this time.

Louder.

Thicker with emotion.

“KIM CHAEWON!!”

Chaewon’s head snapped up, lashes sticking together from the water. Her eyes squinted into the downpour.

For a moment, she thought she was imagining it.

Hallucinating.

But then she saw her.

Barefoot.

Sprinting.

Soaked to the bone.

A blur of red hair clinging to her cheeks, plastered against flushed skin. Thin pajamas drenched and transparent against her frame. Her arms pumping wildly. Her legs splashing through knee-deep puddles. Her face, Yunjin’s face, twisted in panic and something that looked like devastation.

Her mouth was open. Still calling.

“KIM CHAEWON!!”

Each syllable cracked against the rain like thunder.

Her eyes were locked.

Only on her.

Chaewon staggered back half a step.

The air punched from her lungs like she’d been hit in the stomach.

“Yunjin…?”

Her voice barely made it past her lips.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Yunjin was running toward her.

Through the storm.

Through the mess.

Through everything.

Screaming her name like it was the only thing she had left.

Rachel had gone silent beside her. Her banana milk long forgotten. All she could do was stare.

Chaewon’s mind was spiraling.

What is she doing?

Why is she out here?

Why is she barefoot?

She’ll get sick.

She’ll fall.

She’ll—

“KIM CHAEWON!!”

The world drowned in rain.

But Chaewon didn’t hear it anymore.

All she could hear was Yunjin.

All she could see was Yunjin.

And all she could feel was the unbearable weight of love colliding with guilt.

It knocked the wind out of her. Again. And again.

“…What is she doing?” she whispered to herself, eyes wide, her pulse thundering. “Why is she running in the rain?”

It hit her like a truck.

Yunjin was running.

Barefoot.

In the pouring rain.

Wearing nothing but a loose pajama set that clung to her body like second skin.

And she wasn’t just running.

She was sprinting.

Toward her.

Through puddles. Over cracked pavement. Through wind and storm and everything else trying to slow her down.

Chaewon’s eyes widened so hard it almost hurt. Her entire brain short-circuited.

“She’s running…” she breathed, barely audible over the storm. “She’s running…”

Her voice trembled. Disbelief twisted fast into horror.

“She’s barefoot, in the rain!” She took a frantic step forward, her heart clenching so hard it almost stopped.

“She’s gonna slip! Her back!” Her words got louder, voice breaking from a sharp mix of panic and rage.

“WHY IS SHE RUNNING LIKE THAT?! SHE’S GONNA HURT HERSELF!” Her voice cracked fully now, high-pitched and ragged.

“YUNJIN, STOP!”

Beside her, Rachel jerked her head up, alarm etched into her soaked features “Chaewon!”

But Chaewon didn’t hear her. She was already gone.

She launched forward like she’d been set on fire, boots slamming into the pavement with explosive splashes, hair whipping in the wind as she ran, hard, fast, desperate. She didn’t care about the water blinding her, or the pain in her knees, or the rain that seemed to weigh her entire body down.

She only knew one thing: Yunjin couldn’t fall.

She couldn’t.

“YAH! HUH YUNJIN!”

She screamed into the storm, every word tearing from her lungs like knives.

“STOP RUNNING, IDIOT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

But Yunjin didn’t stop.

If anything, she ran harder.

Her soaked pajamas slapped against her legs with every step. Her breath came in sharp gasps. Her eyes—wide, wild, locked only on Chaewon—looked like they were breaking apart.

Like getting to her was the only thing keeping her from shattering  

Then—

Disaster.

Yunjin’s foot slid violently across a slick patch of concrete.

Her arms flailed.

Her balance tipped.

Her knees buckled.

“YUNJIN!!”

Chaewon’s scream split the air as she lunged, every instinct in her body firing at once. Her hands stretched forward. Her boots skidded. Her body collided with Yunjin’s with full force.

There was a loud splash, the crack of limbs hitting soaked ground.

And then, chaos.

They collapsed in a tangle of limbs and breath and water.

“Oof—!”

Pain burst across Chaewon’s back as she hit the concrete first, breaking Yunjin’s fall. Her spine screamed, but she didn’t notice. She was too busy making sure the girl in her arms hadn’t just broken herself.

Yunjin jerked up immediately, straddling Chaewon, hands searching her face with panic written in every line.

“Oh my god—Chaewon?! Chaewon! Are you okay?!”

Her voice cracked like glass. Her fingers brushed over her cheeks, her chest, frantic and desperate.

But before she could fully rise, Chaewon grabbed her.

Fists curled tight around her arms, dragging her back down like she was tethering her to the ground.

To her.

The rain poured mercilessly around them as Yunjin collapsed to her knees beside her in the puddle, both of them soaked and shaking and breathless.

Chaewon’s voice broke open, raw and trembling, as she held onto her with shaking hands.

“What the hell were you thinking?!”

Her voice cracked again, louder this time. Frantic. Scared.

“You could’ve hit your back, Yunjin! You’re not even allowed to run like that! You—you could’ve gotten hurt again!”

Her grip trembled harder, her breathing wild.

“Do you even think before you pull shit like this?!”

Yunjin yanked herself out of her hold, her entire body shaking with fury and disbelief.

“Oh, I’m the crazy one now?! I’m insane?!”

Chaewon blinked, still catching her breath, stunned by the sudden shift.

“What…?”

Yunjin’s hair was sticking to her cheeks, her shoulders rising and falling with heavy sobs. Her face twisted, pain, rage, heartbreak.

“The audacity,” she hissed, water streaming from her chin. “The absolute nerve of you to yell at me for being reckless, when you were out here planning to cut me off without even telling me why?!”

Chaewon froze.

Rain pelted her skin like punishment. Her soaked clothes clung to her frame. Her chest rose and fell in ragged, panicked breaths.

Yunjin’s voice still echoed in her ears.

It hung there.

Unreal.

Undeniable.

Unforgiving.

She stood there, stunned, blinking rapidly as if the words might wash away if she just kept standing in the storm long enough.

Her mouth opened slightly.

“W-What…?” she croaked, barely audible. “How do you—?”

“Don’t.” Yunjin’s shout cut through the rain like a whip.

Her voice broke mid-word, hoarse from emotion and the downpour. “Don’t you dare try to lie or deflect! Don’t you dare pretend this isn’t happening! Rachel called. I heard everything!”

Behind Chaewon, Rachel visibly winced. “Shit,” she muttered.

Yunjin didn’t wait. She stood up sharply, water spilling off her skin, pajama pants soaked and plastered to her legs, fists trembling at her sides. Her whole body shook, not from the cold, but from rage. From betrayal. From grief.

“You were just gonna walk away?!” she screamed. “No explanation?! Just disappear?! Like I didn’t matter?! Like none of this meant anything?!”

Chaewon scrambled up, mud smeared along her sleeves, eyes wide with panic. “Yunjin—please—just listen—”

“No!” Yunjin flung her arms out, drenched sleeves flaring like flags in the wind. “You don’t get to ask me to listen when you were planning to vanish without even talking to me!”

Her voice cracked. Her breathing broke.

“Did you even think about me?! About how that would feel?!”

Her chest heaved, water cascading from her hair, streaking down her cheeks, mixing with tears she couldn’t hide anymore.

“Do you even realize what you mean to me?! Do you have any idea how much I need you?!”

Chaewon flinched like she’d been stabbed.

“I—I was just trying to—”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Yunjin shouted. Her voice trembled with fury.

Chaewon reached out again, eyes pleading, hands shaking. “Yunjin, wait! I’m sorry—I’m so sorry! I didn’t want to do it like this, believe me! It’s absolutely killing me to do this!”

Yunjin stared at her, breathless, jaw clenched. Her voice dropped to a shaky whisper.

“Then why do it?”

Chaewon’s face crumpled. Her voice was barely there now.

“Because you deserve better than a friend like me…”

The sentence twisted like a knife through her throat.

“I didn’t even notice you were suffering. I didn’t see it. I didn’t see you. I should’ve known, should’ve been able to feel it—I’m supposed to know you. But I didn’t. I was too distracted, too stupid—if I were really the right person, I would’ve noticed…”

Her voice faded like a dying ember.

“I’m not worthy of being a leader,” she whispered.

Her arms hung limp at her sides.

“You deserve a friend and a leader who makes you feel safe. Someone who doesn’t—”

SMACK.

The sound was deafening.

Sharp. Wet. Echoing off the pavement and into the sky like thunder.

Chaewon’s head snapped to the side, her breath hitching.

Rachel gasped. “Holy shit.”

Sakura, who had caught up silently behind Yunjin, clamped a hand over her mouth in horror.

Chaewon slowly turned her face back toward her.

Her cheek was already reddening.

Yunjin stood in front of her, hand trembling at her side, eyes full of wreckage.

“You don’t get to say that to me,” she whispered. Her voice wasn’t loud anymore. It didn’t need to be.

It hit harder than any scream.

Her lips quivered. Her jaw clenched. Her whole body shook.

“I don’t want someone else.”

Her voice broke.

“I want you.”

Chaewon’s knees nearly buckled.

“Even if you didn’t see it. Even if you missed it. Even if I had to carry that pain by myself—I still only ever felt safe with you.”

The words dropped like bombs.

Yunjin took a shaky breath, staring into her soul, soaked hair glued to her cheeks, eyes wild with feeling.

“Don’t you dare try to take that away from me.”

Chaewon could barely breathe.

The sting on her face. The throb in her chest. The truth spilling from Yunjin like it had been ripping her apart from the inside for months.

“You think you’re not worthy of me?!”

Yunjin’s voice spiked with disbelief and fury.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?! You’re my right person, Kim Chaewon!”

Her voice trembled. But she didn’t hold back.

“You are my safe haven. You’re the only reason I made it through the worst parts of this without completely giving up! Don’t you get it?!”

Each sentence came out like lightning—bright, blinding, impossible to ignore.

“I have never needed anyone the way I need you! Not fans! Not the label! Not even my own family! You are the only person who keeps me here. You are the only one who makes any of this feel real.”

Chaewon’s lips parted.

But no sound came out.

Yunjin kept going. The dam had broken. Everything poured out.

“And the only reason you didn’t know how bad I was is because I didn’t let you. Not because I didn’t trust you, but because I didn’t want anyone to look at me like I was made of glass. I didn’t want you to worry.”

Her voice cracked again.

“You were the only one who didn’t make me feel broken. You never tried to fix me. You just loved me like I wasn’t something that needed saving.”

She moved closer, step by step, until they were toe to toe.

Until the only thing between them was air and tension.

Her voice fell into a whisper, thunder rumbling behind her.

“So don’t you dare blame yourself for what I chose to keep hidden. I stayed silent because I was terrified of losing you.”

Chaewon’s body was shaking now. She could feel the weight of every word crashing down on her shoulders like the rain above. Heavy. Crushing. True.

Yunjin took one more step.

Their foreheads nearly touched.

The silence between them was deafening.

“Chaewon,” she whispered, eyes glimmering with tears. “These past few months have been hell. But you—you kept me grounded. You reminded me what I was fighting for. You were the reason I got back up every single time.”

Then she let out a small, broken laugh.

Not bitter.

Just tired.

“I love you like I’ve never loved anyone in my entire life,” she said.

“And I’m not just going to stand here and let the love of my life walk away from me because you think I’d be better off without you.”

Chaewon’s breath caught in her throat. Was Yunjin….confessing to her? 

Yunjin lifted her chin, voice rising again, fierce through the flood.

“If it came down to it, I’d give it all up. The stage. The spotlight. Everything. I’d walk away from all of it before I ever let you leave me.”

Rain streamed between them.

Time stopped.

Chaewon could barely find her voice.

“…Yunjin…”

The girl in front of her trembled, red-rimmed eyes locked on hers. Her chest rose and fell in broken gasps. Her hands were clenched tight, like holding herself together was the only thing keeping her upright.

Her words were barely a whisper now, but they carried more weight than anything she’d ever said.

“Don’t you get it?”

She screamed it.

Loud.

Raw.

Like her entire soul was being ripped out of her chest.

“I LOVE YOU, KIM CHAEWON!!”

Yunjin stood there, shaking.

Drenched.

Furious.

Heartbroken.

And still—

So stunning it hurt to look at her.

Her red hair clung to her cheeks. Her lips were parted, breath heaving from the storm and the scream and the silence that followed. Her eyes locked onto Chaewon like she’d tethered her soul to them, like she wasn’t going to survive if Chaewon walked away again.

She took one staggering step forward.

Her voice cracked open like thunder. “Don’t you love me?!”

And in that split second, something snapped in Chaewon.

“I love you!!” she screamed back, voice torn, hoarse, thundering.

The sky didn’t even need to respond. Her words were the lightning.

Yunjin flinched from the sheer force of it, her eyes wide, as if she hadn’t expected to be answered that loud. That fast. That desperately.

But Chaewon wasn’t done.

She couldn’t stop.

She wouldn’t stop.

“I LOVE YOU SO MUCH, HUH YUNJIN!!” she choked, the sob tearing out of her like it had lived in her chest for years. “So much it feels like it’s killing me!”

She slammed a fist against her chest, her voice splintering again. “I love you so much my heart doesn’t even feel like it belongs to me anymore! I can’t breathe without thinking of you! I wake up thinking about you! I fall asleep haunted by you!”

Her eyes glistened, desperate and wild.

“I need you like I need air, Yunjin! Like I need light to live! I would trade everything—everything—just to keep you near me. I would burn the whole damn world down if it meant you’d be okay!”

Her voice rose higher, louder, uglier with grief and truth.

“I would break every bone in my body—every single one—before I’d let anyone put a scratch on you! And I swear to God—swear to God—you leaving would kill me faster than anything else in this world!”

Yunjin stood frozen.

Soaked.

Utterly stunned.

She looked like the wind had been knocked out of her. Like every word was rewriting the anatomy of her heart in real time. Like she couldn’t tell if she was dreaming or dying.

Chaewon was trembling, her chest caving in, her shoulders rising and falling like her lungs were on fire.

And then, without warning…

Yunjin launched forward.

And the second her lips crashed into Chaewon’s, the world split open.

Chaewon gasped into the kiss, stunned, eyes still open for half a heartbeat, like her brain couldn’t believe it was real.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

And her whole body gave in.

Her hands found Yunjin’s waist, shaky and tight, gripping like she was terrified this moment would vanish if she let go. Her fingers curled into damp fabric, holding her like an anchor in the storm.

Yunjin kissed her like she’d been waiting years to.

Desperate.

Frantic.

Wild.

Her hands came up to cup Chaewon’s cheeks, gentle despite the hunger in her mouth. Their kiss was messy. Sloppy. Rain-drenched and frantic. Their teeth bumped, their noses clashed, and neither of them cared.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was real.

And it was them.

The salt of their tears. The chill of the storm. The heat of their skin.

It was all tangled together.

It tasted like everything they’d never said and everything they’d been too afraid to want.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads stayed pressed together. Their noses touched. Their eyes stayed closed. Their breathing was ragged, matching heartbeats pounding in sync between them.

Chaewon was the first to whisper.

“You… you kissed me,” she said, still dazed, as if confirming it out loud would make it real.

Yunjin let out a breathy, tearful laugh. “You yelled at me like a lunatic.”

Chaewon blinked. “You slapped me.”

“You deserved it,” Yunjin said, sniffling, her lip twitching.

“…Fair.”

And then they laughed.

Really laughed.

Wheezing, soaked, tired-out laughs. The kind that only comes when you’ve survived something that nearly broke you.

It was hoarse. It was wet. It was cracked and painful and beautiful.

It was theirs.

Chaewon leaned in again, forehead to forehead, hand pressed to Yunjin’s cheek.

“Please,” she whispered, “don’t ever run in the rain like that again. I swear I almost died watching you.”

Yunjin smiled, eyes still glassy. “Only if you promise not to try to leave me again.”

Chaewon closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. “Deal.”

She pulled back, brushing Yunjin’s wet hair from her face, her fingers impossibly gentle.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” she said, voice cracking from laughter and love.

Yunjin smirked through her tears. “And you’re a dumbass.”

Chaewon grinned. “Yeah, well… I’m your dumbass.”

Yunjin giggled, eyes shining like dawn. “And I’m your idiot.”

They stood there like that—wrapped in each other, on a soaked sidewalk, like the rain wasn’t cold anymore.

Just holding on.

Afraid to let go.

Behind them, Sakura stood stiff as a statue, hand over her mouth, mascara streaking in twin trails down her cheeks. She sniffled, audibly.

Rachel stood beside her, hand clutching her chest.

She whispered to no one, and to everyone:

“…Finally.”

The rain didn’t stop.

But it didn’t matter.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, it felt warm.

---

Chapter Text

“Take five, girls!”

The voice over the speaker sounded distant, hollow. Like it didn’t belong in the same room as them. The rehearsal track had cut off minutes ago, but the silence that followed didn’t bring peace, only more weight. It settled like dust on the studio floor, heavy and unwelcome.

Outside, the rain still poured.

Not the gentle kind, but a relentless downpour that rattled the windows and crawled under your skin. Thunder murmured behind the clouds like something brooding, something unfinished.

Kazuha sat cross-legged on the scuffed floor, sweat cooling fast on her skin. Her elbows rested limply on her knees, head bowed slightly, breaths uneven. Her usually calm expression was unreadable now, drawn tight and distant.

Beside her, Eunchae was curled in on herself. Legs drawn to her chest, forehead pressed to her knees, arms locked tight around them. Like she was trying to hold herself together with the sheer force of her grip.

Neither of them spoke.

The studio, usually loud with laughter, the squeak of sneakers, the hum of phones and chatter, was silent.

But the silence didn’t feel empty.

It felt haunted.

Then Eunchae’s voice broke through it, muffled and small:

“…I don’t like the quiet anymore.”

Kazuha turned her head slowly, almost afraid to move too fast. “Huh?”

Eunchae lifted her face, revealing eyes glassy with unshed tears, her cheeks flushed with something that wasn’t just exertion. “I don’t like it when it’s this quiet…”

She blinked, slowly. Her lips trembled. “It reminds me of when Yunjin was gone.”

Kazuha inhaled sharply. She didn’t respond right away. Her jaw tightened, her throat thick.

“…Me too,” she finally whispered.

A beat passed.

Then Eunchae gave a shaky laugh, the sound paper-thin. “Everything just… dimmed. Like the lights were still on, but nothing felt warm anymore.”

Kazuha looked at her.

Eunchae’s voice kept going, softer now. “No Yunjin running in late with snacks. No stupid impressions. No tripping over her own shoelaces while she tried to beat us to the mirror.”

Her voice cracked. She didn’t try to stop it. “No one laughed the same way.”

Kazuha slowly turned her whole body to face her. Her hand inched toward Eunchae, but she didn’t touch her yet. She just listened.

“Do you remember that first week?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Right after the announcement? The managers told us she just needed rest, and we all nodded like that was enough.”

Eunchae nodded, eyes unfocused. “But it wasn’t. Nothing felt right.”

“I kept checking the dorm door every night,” Kazuha admitted, her voice shaking. “Just to see if maybe… maybe she’d walk in. Sleepy. Hugging her pillow. Wearing those ridiculous socks.”

A soft silence returned.

It wasn’t peaceful.

It was mourning.

Then Eunchae’s voice dropped even lower, brittle and frayed: “…I’m scared, Zuha.”

Kazuha blinked and turned more fully, her heart tightening in her chest.

Eunchae’s gaze met hers.

“We’re losing her.”

Kazuha stared at her, eyes wide. “What?”

Eunchae sniffled. Her lower lip trembled, but she held her voice steady. “We’re losing Yunjin unnie. Aren’t we?”

Kazuha’s mouth opened.

Closed.

Her tongue felt thick. Her lungs didn’t know how to move.

“Eunchae…”

“I’m not just talking about her being off schedule,” Eunchae went on, her voice gaining urgency with each word, “or her back, or her pain. I’m talking about her. The real her. The one who used to burst into our room like a storm and leave candy wrappers everywhere. The one who made up songs about fried chicken and made us all sing backup. The one who made us feel like… like we were invincible.”

Her voice cracked fully now, a sob cutting through it.

“What if we already lost that version of her?”

Kazuha shook her head. “Don’t say that…”

“I didn’t want to say it!” Eunchae snapped, her voice sharp, but so broken it barely held shape. “But nobody else is saying it, and I can’t stop thinking it!”

She pulled at her sleeves, fidgeting as her body began to tremble.

“What if HYBE decides she’s not worth the risk anymore? What if they think she’s too slow to recover? Too fragile? Too inconvenient? What if they find someone new—someone perfect and unbroken—and they just take her away from us?!”

Her voice shattered mid-sentence.

And so did Kazuha.

“Eunchae—”

“I’ll lose her.” Eunchae’s voice was nearly a whisper. “We’ll lose her.”

She hugged her knees tighter, curling inward like she could hide from the truth. “I won’t survive that, Zuha,” she sobbed. “I swear I won’t. It already hurt too much the first time.”

Kazuha’s vision blurred completely now.

Her chest ached. Her throat burned. And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop the tears from falling. They rolled silently down her cheeks, cutting through the light sheen of sweat, hot and aching.

“I had that fear too,” she confessed, voice low and shaking. “When she started getting quieter… When she wouldn’t meet my eyes after practice… when she kept saying she was ‘just tired.’”

She swallowed thickly. “When the therapist appointments started changing every week, getting more urgent… when our managers started whispering more behind closed doors—I started thinking, what if this is it? What if we’ve already lost her and no one’s told us yet?”

Eunchae sobbed again, louder this time, both hands flying to cover her face. Her shoulders trembled with each hiccupping breath. “I can’t—I don’t want to do this without her. I don’t know how to.”

Kazuha didn’t hesitate. She moved in an instant, wrapping her arms tightly around Eunchae, pulling her in like she could shield her from the storm outside and the one rising inside them both. Eunchae clung back just as fiercely, burying her face into Kazuha’s shoulder, shaking like a leaf in the wind.

“She’s not just a member,” Eunchae choked out. “She’s our person. She’s the glue. She’s Yunjin.”

Her voice cracked like glass.

“If we lose her, we don’t just lose a part of the group—we lose a part of us.”

Kazuha felt something split open in her chest at those words. It bloomed into a terrible, helpless panic. She pulled back slightly, cupping Eunchae’s shoulders, grounding her with touch.

“Hey. Hey—breathe. Okay? Look at me.”

Eunchae sniffled but obeyed, raising her red-rimmed eyes to meet Kazuha’s.

“Good,” Kazuha said softly. Her lips trembled, but she managed the smallest, shaky grin. “Now listen. Do you seriously think Chaewon unnie would let anyone take Yunjin away from us?”

Eunchae blinked.

“Please,” Kazuha scoffed gently. “She’d throw hands with a HYBE executive right there in the boardroom. No hesitation.”

A soft, wet laugh escaped Eunchae’s lips. “That’s… that’s true.”

“She gets scary when she’s protective,” Kazuha went on, warming to the memory. “Especially when it’s about Yunjin unnie. You’ve seen it. Everyone has. One time the stylists tried to make Yunjin perform with a back brace that didn’t fit, and Chaewon nearly flipped a table.”

Eunchae’s smile returned, small but real. “She threatened to rip the label off and do it herself.”

“Exactly.” Kazuha grinned. “She’d bodycheck a manager into the drywall before she ever let them lay a finger on her.”

That earned a real laugh. A loud, unexpected one that made Eunchae’s hand fly to her mouth.

Kazuha looked pleased. “And don’t even get me started on Kkura unnie.”

Eunchae tilted her head, wiping her cheeks. “Oh no. What would she do?”

“Burn the HYBE building down,” Kazuha said without missing a beat. “With a very well-organized spreadsheet of everyone she was going to emotionally ruin after the fire.”

Eunchae giggled, eyes wide. “That’s so accurate it’s terrifying.”

“She’d walk in wearing a Chanel coat and set everything on fire just because someone looked at one of us wrong.”

Eunchae let out a wheezing laugh, shaking her head. “I love when Kkura unnie goes all mama bear. It’s like watching a CEO lose her mind at a bake sale.”

“She’s a menace,” Kazuha said fondly. “But the good kind.”

For a moment, the tension ebbed. The storm inside quieted.

Eunchae exhaled slowly, her laughter dying into soft silence. She looked down at her trembling fingers, then up again.

“…You’re here too, right?” she asked, her voice tentative. “Like… to protect us?”

Kazuha’s heart squeezed. Without hesitation, she reached out and laced her fingers through Eunchae’s, squeezing gently. “Always,” she said. “Especially you, Manchae.”

Eunchae blinked, her lower lip wobbling, but then she smiled. It was soft. Real. Not forced.

“…What are you gonna do, Zuha unnie? Ballet-kick someone with your long legs?”

Kazuha gasped, mock-offended. “Excuse me? I am a graceful weapon, thank you very much.”

Eunchae burst out laughing again, this time full-bodied, falling slightly forward onto Kazuha’s shoulder.

“You’re a danger to society,” she snorted, still sniffling. “But like, in an elegant swan kind of way.”

Kazuha smirked, bumping their heads together lightly.

Then, Eunchae pulled back just enough to say, more serious now, but steadier: “And I’ll protect all of you too. Every single one of my unnies. With everything I’ve got.”

Kazuha looked at her with pure pride, her eyes still glossy but her heart swelling. She reached out and gently brushed Eunchae’s bangs out of her eyes.

“That’s our Manchae.”

The laughter between them had only just begun to fade, soft and slow like the final ripples in a pond after someone throws a stone. The room still clung to the warmth of it, Kazuha’s teasing, Eunchae’s snorting giggles, the comfort of shared fear finally eased.

For a moment, just a moment, everything felt okay again.

Then the door creaked open.

Their manager stepped inside fast, shoes clicking against the studio floor, a faint sheen of sweat on their brow. The urgency was quiet but immediate. Not frantic—yet. But close.

“Have either of you seen Chaewon, Yunjin, or Sakura?”

Both girls instantly sat up straighter, the shift in mood slamming down like a dropped curtain. The humour drained from Eunchae’s face. Kazuha’s spine locked straight.

Kazuha responded first, her voice cautious. “Chaewon unnie stormed out of the hotel earlier. We haven’t seen her since.”

Eunchae’s brows knit in confusion. “But… Yunjin and Kkura unnie should still be there. We haven’t seen them since this morning, though.”

Their manager exhaled sharply, running a hand through their hair.

“They’re not at the hotel,” they said. “No one’s seen them since Chaewon left. All three of them are gone, and none of them are answering their phones.”

Kazuha’s stomach dropped.

“What?”

The word came out sharper than she meant it to, laced with sudden dread.

“They’re not picking up,” the manager continued, voice quiet but tense. “Not Yunjin. Not Chaewon. Not even Sakura. We’ve tried their personal cells, their room phones, everything. Their rooms are empty.”

Eunchae blinked, her fingers tightening slightly around her phone. “Maybe they went for a walk… or out to eat?”

“They didn’t say anything to staff. They didn’t tell anyone,” the manager said, their voice thinning with worry now. “They just disappeared.”

Kazuha swallowed hard.

Their manager looked at them both one more time, as if searching their faces for an answer they couldn’t give, then turned and left, the door shutting behind them with a final-sounding click.

The silence that followed was oppressive. Different from before. Heavier.

Like it was waiting for something to go wrong.

“I’m calling Kkura unnie,” Kazuha said immediately, already fumbling for her phone, her movements quick and stiff.

Eunchae’s hands trembled slightly as she unlocked her own. “I’ll try Yunjin unnie.”

Kazuha pressed the call icon.

Waited.

Nothing.

No ringing.

Not even a dial tone.

Just silence.

She hung up. Dialed again.

Again.

Again.

Still nothing.

“Come on, Kkura unnie…” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Pick up…”

Across from her, Eunchae’s phone buzzed once, then stopped.

She stared at it.

“It’s going straight to voicemail,” she said, barely above a whisper. “That only happens when her phone is dead or—”

“Or turned off,” Kazuha finished, her breath catching in her throat.

A cold, uneasy chill settled in her chest. She hadn’t even realized she was holding her breath until she let it go in one shaky exhale.

Eunchae looked up, her eyes wide now. “Try Rachel.”

Kazuha nodded, already moving. Her hands were shaking.

The first call rang.

No answer.

The second time, straight to voicemail.

Kazuha lowered her phone slowly, like the weight of it was suddenly too much to hold. Her hands fell into her lap, and her lips parted with a soft, unsteady breath.

“None of them are replying,” she whispered.

Her voice felt like it didn’t even belong to her anymore.

Eunchae’s phone buzzed softly against her palm again, but it was just another missed call notification from earlier. Nothing new. No messages. No updates.

She stared at the screen for a long second, then looked back at Kazuha.

“…And Chaewon unnie left her phone in the hotel room,” she whispered.

Kazuha’s eyes slowly lifted, dread blooming behind them like smoke.

They both sat there, frozen in the middle of a bright, empty rehearsal room, surrounded by mirrors, the rain outside softly hitting the windows like ticking clock hands.

And no one was picking up.

Outside, thunder cracked hard and sudden, making both Kazuha and Eunchae flinch where they sat. The storm had only grown heavier, like it was trying to make up for the hours of quiet panic they’d endured.

Kazuha’s chest rose in a sharp inhale, her fingers still clenched around her phone. “They’re out there,” she whispered. “In this weather. No one knows where.”

Eunchae’s voice trembled. “And they’re not answering…”

Then, slam.

The sharp bang of the backstage door echoed like a cannon blast through the quiet studio.

Both girls jumped, whirling toward the sound with matching looks of wide-eyed panic, hearts in their throats, breath frozen in their lungs.

And then they saw them.

Two figures emerged from the dark hallway into the backstage lights, silhouettes flickering beneath the overhead beams, rainwater dripping in puddles behind them.

Chaewon.

And Yunjin.

Kazuha blinked, like her brain couldn’t fully process what she was seeing.

Because Yunjin—drenched, barefoot, and clearly not in any normal state of dress—was being carried. Full-on bridal-style. By Chaewon.

Tiny, terrifying, eye-bags-and-glare Kim Chaewon.

Yunjin had her arms lazily draped around Chaewon’s neck, her cheek resting against her shoulder like she’d done this a thousand times before. Her giggles came light and soft, laced with exhaustion and joy, cheeks flushed and glowing. Her soaked red hair clung to her face in tangled waves, eyes sparkling like she’d just returned from a war she won.

Chaewon, meanwhile, looked like she had been in a war. And maybe still had a few battles left. Her bangs were stuck to her forehead, her jaw locked in a focused scowl, but her eyes never left Yunjin. Not for a second. She carried her like she was precious cargo, like the weight of her was the only thing keeping Chaewon grounded on Earth.

Yunjin peeked up and waved casually with one hand. “Hi~! Sorry we’re late!”

Kazuha opened her mouth, but only air came out.

Eunchae looked like she was buffering.

“…Are you barefoot?” Kazuha finally asked, her voice two octaves higher than usual.

“Mhm!” Yunjin chirped, chipper as ever. “Left the hotel in pajamas. It was kind of an emergency.”

Eunchae stared. “Emergency…?”

“She ran after me,” Chaewon said, voice quiet but firm, still breathless from the effort. “In the middle of the storm. No shoes. No sense of survival. I had to catch her before she snapped her spine and my soul.”

Yunjin giggled. “She caught me and fell for me. Literally.”

“I slipped,” Chaewon muttered, adjusting her grip without blinking.

“You made me land on top of you.”

“You tripped over your own dumbass feet.”

“You kissed me with tongue.”

Kazuha choked.

Eunchae’s soul left her body.

The two younger members stared in absolute silence as the reality of what they were witnessing settled in.

Did those two…finally confess? Are they a couple now? Is that why they look so ridiculous?

Yunjin gave Chaewon a gentle smack on the shoulder. “Put me down. My legs aren’t broken.”

“You sure?” Chaewon raised an eyebrow, but still hadn’t looked away from her. “You nearly lost them sprinting through three blocks of puddles.”

“I’m a graceful gazelle,” Yunjin said proudly.

“You’re a sleep-deprived maniac in cartoon pajama pants,” Chaewon replied, but her lips twitched into a smile. She finally, slowly, lowered Yunjin to the floor, her hands lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

Yunjin’s bare feet hit the floor with a soft splash. Rainwater pooled around them, soaking the polished stage. Neither of them cared.

They just stood there, close, breathless, eyes locked. Two soaked idiots looking at each other like they were seeing the sun for the first time.

Chaewon’s hand lifted, gentle and reverent, as she tucked a strand of Yunjin’s damp hair behind her ear. Her fingers brushed against her cheek, thumb lingering just long enough to make Eunchae gasp.

And the way Yunjin looked at her? Like nothing else existed.

They didn’t kiss again. They didn’t need to.

Every part of them screamed we chose each other.

Behind them, the storm continued to rage, but somehow, the air inside the room had shifted. Lighter. Warmer. Like the atmosphere itself had exhaled in relief.

“…What the fuck,” Eunchae finally said, blinking rapidly.

This was going to take some explaining  

“Wait… where’s Kkura?” Kazuha’s voice was barely above a whisper, brows furrowed, lips trembling with worry.

Yunjin opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, the backstage door swung open again.

This time, Sakura stepped inside.

She was soaked through and through, her hoodie clinging like a second skin, water dripping steadily from her hair and sleeves, leaving a shimmering trail on the floor behind her. She moved with the slow exhaustion of a warrior returning from battle, one hand pressed firmly against her lower back as if it were aching from carrying the weight of the world, or maybe just from hauling around four overgrown kids on a wild adventure.

Her eyes locked immediately on Chaewon and Yunjin, and with a long, exaggerated groan, she moaned, “Remind me to punch the next bus driver who recognizes me right as I’m getting off!”

Yunjin blinked, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “Wait, what?”

Sakura waved a dismissive hand, her voice dripping with disbelief. “I was literally halfway out the door when this guy goes, ‘Hey! You’re Sakura from LE SSERAFIM!’ Then suddenly, there’s phones everywhere!! People want pictures, shout out to their cousins in Busan, the whole circus.”

“And meanwhile, you two lovebirds vanish like spies in a K-drama without even a goodbye!” Sakura’s glare was playful but sharp.

Chaewon couldn’t help herself; a fit of giggles burst out, smothered behind her soaked sleeve as she tried to act serious.

Yunjin joined in with a soft snicker, hands raised in mock surrender. “I couldn’t let fans see us like that! We looked like we’d been dragged through a soap opera and then tossed into a car wash.”

Sakura rolled her eyes so hard it looked like they might leave their sockets. “Unbelievable. You two get your ‘newlywed running-in-the-rain’ moment, and I’m stuck autographing bus tickets. And I’m too old to be carrying grown women for selfies.”

Chaewon grinned. “You’re under thirty.”

“Whatever,” Sakura shot back, deadpan, “You left me to die.”

“Valid point,” Yunjin admitted sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck.

Sakura muttered something in Japanese under her breath, shaking out her sleeves, droplets splattering the already soaked floor.

Then her gaze softened as it landed on Eunchae.

The maknae’s smile was genuine now, her eyes clear and warm, shoulders relaxed for the first time in hours. The group was whole again. Safe.

Sakura’s stern expression cracked, her voice softening to a tender murmur. “Hey, Manchae.”

“Hi, unnie,” Eunchae replied, her voice shaky but bright with relief.

Before Sakura could even turn to greet Kazuha or say another word, before she could tease, joke, or just breathe, a sudden movement startled everyone.

Kazuha closed the distance in a heartbeat, arms wrapping tightly around Sakura like she was holding onto air, afraid she might disappear. She tucked Sakura’s soaked head under her chin, fingers gripping the fabric of her hoodie as if it were the last thing keeping her grounded.

Sakura froze, eyes wide and searching, utterly stunned by the sudden flood of emotion she hadn’t expected.

“Zuha?” Her voice cracked just a little, a whisper full of disbelief and relief.

But Kazuha didn’t let go. She held her closer, every word shaking with urgency.

“You weren’t answering,” she murmured into Sakura’s damp hair. “The manager said you disappeared from the hotel… and then your phone was off, and you never ignore my calls…”

Sakura’s breath hitched. Her arms rose slowly, wrapping around Kazuha in a soft, hesitant embrace. The walls around her cracked and melted as she leaned into the warmth, the chaos and fear falling away in that moment.

“Zuha…” she breathed. She opened her mouth to explain, to say something, but before she could, Kazuha pulled back just enough to cup Sakura’s face in her hands.

Her thumbs brushed tenderly across her cheeks.

Then she kissed her.

No hesitation.

No subtlety.

Just raw, desperate, aching lips pressed against each other in the middle of the storm.

The world fell silent.

Yunjin stopped mid-yap.

Chaewon blinked twice, stunned like she’d just seen the season finale of a drama unfold live.

Eunchae’s jaw dropped so far it nearly hit the floor.

Even the distant sound tech paused, glancing up in confusion.

The kiss lasted barely a second.

But it shattered everything into before and after.

When Kazuha pulled away, her hands still cradled Sakura’s face as if she were the most fragile treasure on earth. Her eyes were wide and desperate.

“Do you know how worried I was?”

Sakura blinked, still dazed, caught in the electric charge of the moment.

Slowly, that shock softened into the warmest, most genuine smile. She reached up, covering Kazuha’s hands with her own, leaning in just a little.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I left my phone in the room when I ran after Yunjin… and Rachel’s phone was dead.”

“WHAT THE FUCK—”

Everyone jumped.

Yunjin, standing a few steps away, had flung her hands in the air. Her voice boomed through the venue like thunder.

“WHAT IS GOING ON?! WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?!”

Kazuha blinked, realizing only now what she had just done.

She had kissed Sakura.

In front of all their members.

In front of everyone.

“Oh my god,” she mumbled, face going bright red as it hit her. She immediately tried to hide behind Sakura, but considering the height difference… it was like a tree trying to take cover behind a daisy.

“Seriously?” Yunjin asked, her jaw still halfway to the floor. “You—you’re dating?!”

“Wait, since when?!” Eunchae added, her hands flailing. “How long?! How did I not know?! How did you hide it?! I live in your rooms!!”

Chaewon just blinked at them, brows high. “Okay… I’m happy for you two, but I’m also lowkey impressed and mildly offended. Like, how long have you been this good at sneaking around?”

Sakura chuckled, one arm draped casually around Kazuha’s waist now, cool as ever despite the entire room looking like it had been hit with a shipping truck.

“Fate,” she said with a teasing smile. “We were just too good.”

“That’s not a real answer!” Yunjin yelled, waving her arms, still not over the shock. “I need a full timeline. I need texts. Evidence. Witnesses.”

“We’d rather not make out in front of the whole world, sorry, unlike some people,” Sakura replied dryly, smirking.

Yunjin snorted. “Okay, fair.”

Chaewon, on the other hand, flushed pink and gasped like someone had slapped her honour. “Excuse me! We are tastefully affectionate.”

“Uh-huh,” Sakura quipped. “Because whispering sweet nothings while princess-carrying your girlfriend across a storm counts as ‘tasteful.’”

Chaewon opened her mouth to fire back, but Yunjin was already giggling, her arms crossing smugly as she leaned against Chaewon’s side, all sunshine and no shame.

Eunchae’s eyes sparkled as she clapped her hands together with pure excitement. “All my ships are sailing today!” she exclaimed, voice bright and full of joy. “This is officially the best day ever!”

She looked around at everyone, her chest swelling with warmth and relief. The chaos, the tension, the long, painful silence, they were all melting away like snow in the spring sun.

Then, her smile faltered for a moment, and her gaze flicked to the side. “Wait… where’s Rachel?” she asked quietly, brows knitting in concern.

Yunjin waved a lazy hand, already half-laughing at the memory. “Oh, Rachel? She hit her daily emotional quota and just… gave up. Texted me something like, ‘Need to lie down and disassociate. BRB.’ She practically ghosted us and went back to the hotel.”

Kazuha blinked, looking at the soaked trio. “Okay, but seriously, why are you all drenched like you just went swimming in a thunderstorm?”

Sakura rolled her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement. “Because these two? They’re dramatic as hell when it comes to their love lives.”

“We are not dramatic!” Yunjin protested, throwing her hands up, her soaked hair dripping water like a faucet.

Right on cue, Chaewon gasped, clutching her chest in mock offense. “That’s so rude!” Her eyes shone mischievously, but her pout was almost instantly undermined by the laughter bubbling up.

They both stood there, arms crossed, pouting like two kids caught stealing cookies, but utterly unconvincing.

“Right,” Sakura drawled with a teasing smirk. “Sure, keep telling yourselves that.”

Eunchae’s eyes softened as she watched them, the way their soaked clothes clung to their bodies, their laughter filling the space, the easy teasing that only came from the closest bonds. Her heart swelled, tender and fierce all at once.

After everything, after the pain, the silence, the distance, they were here.

Together.

Whole again.

No tension choking the air.

No heavy, suffocating silence.

No heartbreak or confusion.

Just the messy, loud, beautiful chaos of them.

Without warning, Eunchae let out a high-pitched squeal, her energy bubbling over like a fountain.

“GROUP HUG!!” she shouted, sprinting forward like a small sunbeam of pure joy.

Everyone yelped, caught completely off guard as Eunchae barreled into them with the force of a tiny, unstoppable tornado. Arms flailed, feet slipped on the wet floor, and laughter exploded.

Chaewon reflexively wrapped her arms tightly around Yunjin, pulling her close like she was afraid to let her go again. Yunjin immediately reached out to grab Kazuha, whose arms found Sakura without hesitation.

And there was Eunchae, squeezed right in the middle, giggling as she clung to whoever was within reach, her laughter ringing clear and light.

“Wow, Manchae, you’re like a tiny wrecking ball,” Sakura teased softly, her voice full of affection as she squeezed Kazuha’s hand.

“I’m just spreading the love!” Eunchae replied with a grin so wide it lit up the whole backstage area.

For the first time in what felt like weeks, maybe even months, the heavy weight had lifted. The endless stress, the crushing fear, the uncertainty, they all faded into the background, replaced by something pure and powerful.

Love.

Trust.

Family.

They stood there, tangled together, soaking wet, hearts pounding, smiles shining bright.

Just them.

Together.

And nothing else mattered.

---

Chapter Text

Yunjin was back. Fully, wildly, terrifyingly back.

No more sluggish steps. No more quiet winces when she bent down. No more forced smiles to reassure everyone she was "fine."

Now, she was cartwheeling across the practice room.

"HUH YUNJIN! WHAT THE HELL!" Chaewon shrieked from the corner of the studio, her arms mid-air in panic, a protein bar forgotten in her fist.

Yunjin landed the cartwheel with a triumphant flair and threw both arms in the air. "TA-DA!"

Eunchae, clapping wildly beside her, squealed, "DO IT AGAIN! DO IT AGAIN!"

"No! Do not do it again! Do NOT do it again!" Chaewon rushed forward like an emergency medic in a K-drama, her eyes wide with unfiltered terror. She gently but firmly grabbed Yunjin by the arm. "You almost died less than two months ago, and now you're doing Olympic-level floor routines?!"

Yunjin beamed. "I didn’t die, though. That’s the key!" She tried to spin away dramatically but tripped over her own sock.

Chaewon yelped, caught her halfway, and ended up squatting awkwardly with a flailing Yunjin in her arms. "See?! This is what I mean, Yunjin!"

From across the room, Sakura watched while sipping her banana milk. "She’s Huh Yunjin, what did you expect?"

"HELP ME!" Chaewon screeched.

"Nah. This is comedy gold."

Kazuha, comfortably seated beside Sakura, held up her phone. "I'm filming for TikTok. Title: 'When Your Girlfriend Thinks She's Jackie Chan.'"

"Kazuha! No, give me that!" Chaewon lunged for the phone, but Yunjin slipped away from her arms and sprinted across the room.

"She’s gone again! I’ve lost visual! Yunjin is OFF THE GRID!"

Eunchae laughed and joined Yunjin in some kind of dance battle that involved high kicks and pirouettes.

"Someone is going to get injured! Again!!" Chaewon shouted, practically vibrating. She had both hands on her hips, cheeks flushed red with pure stress.

Yunjin paused mid-spin and turned dramatically to face her. "Chaewonieee~ I’m fine, really. My back is good. See?" She bent into a deep back-bend.

Chaewon screamed like she had seen a ghost. "NO, STOP THAT! You are NOT a contortionist! You're an idol with recent spinal trauma!!"

Eunchae flopped onto the floor, cackling. "Why is she like this?!"

Sakura took another sip of her drink. "Yunjin was born to make Chaewon develop early wrinkles."

Kazuha nodded solemnly. "Chaewon unnie is fighting for her life every day."

"I'm filing for emotional damages!" Chaewon yelled, chasing after Yunjin again as the taller girl took off into a series of exaggerated ballet leaps across the room.

"You see this?" Yunjin called over her shoulder. "I LEARNED THIS FROM ZUHA!"

Kazuha gasped. "Don’t drag me into this!"

"SHE’S LEAPING!" Chaewon cried out. "THIS IS NOT THE NUTCRACKER!"

Finally, after a full ten-minute chase scene, Chaewon managed to wrangle Yunjin into a tight, desperate hug.

"Stop moving," Chaewon muttered, forehead pressed to Yunjin's chest. "Please. I'm going to develop a heart condition."

Yunjin blinked, surprised, then wrapped her arms around her tiny girlfriend. "Okay, okay. I’ll rest. For you."

Chaewon didn’t move for a moment, just hugged her tightly. Then, she muttered into her shoulder, "I’m putting you on a leash."

Yunjin snorted. "That’s hot."

"YUNJIN."

"Okay okay, I’ll behave!" Yunjin giggled and kissed Chaewon's forehead.

Sakura, from the sidelines: "We’re never having a normal day again, are we?"

Eunchae collapsed onto her back on the floor and yelled, "I LOVE THIS FAMILY."

Kazuha just kept filming.

Yunjin promised she’d behave.

That promise lasted approximately seventeen minutes.

Seventeen.

Because the next thing Chaewon knew, Huh Yunjin had grabbed Eunchae’s hands with a manic glint in her eyes and was yelling, “LET’S DO A TRUST FALL PYRAMID!”

“…Trust fall what?!” Chaewon barked from across the room, mid-quad-stretch, nearly dislocating her own shoulder as she flailed upright like someone set her yoga mat on fire.

“I’m the base!” Eunchae declared proudly, crouching down like a human squat rack.

Yunjin was already clambering up her back like she was scaling Mount Maknae. “If this works, we’re going viral!”

Chaewon sprinted across the studio like an Olympic sprinter hearing her name on the emergency broadcast system. “If this works, you’re going back to the hospital! Get OFF her! Off! Right now!”

But she was too late.

Eunchae stood up with too much gusto, and Yunjin, at the exact wrong angle, wobbled like a baby giraffe on roller skates.

“Abort mission!” Yunjin squealed.

Chaewon launched herself, arms outstretched, catching her girlfriend just before her dramatic descent to the cold, hard floor.

They collapsed in a heap, Chaewon cradling Yunjin like she was reenacting a tragic scene from a historical war drama.

“One day,” she gasped, holding her tighter, “One single day without a near-death stunt, please!”

Yunjin blinked up at her, now cradled upside-down in her arms like a dripping, chaos-soaked koala. “That was kind of hot though. You’re like my knight in shining armor.”

Chaewon looked directly into Kazuha’s still-recording phone camera. “Send help.”

“You brought this on yourself,” Sakura called from the couch, not looking up from her phone. “You dated the chaos demon.”

Chaewon let out a strangled sound. “I’m dating a danger noodle. That’s what this is.”

“I resent that!” Yunjin pouted, still hanging upside down.

“You don’t even know what it means.”

“I am the moment!”

“She is,” Eunchae agreed solemnly.

“YOU'RE NOT HELPING.”

Chawon gently flipped Yunjin upright again, like defusing a very slippery bomb, and started patting her all over—shoulders, arms, hips, knees—like a grandma checking for bruises after recess.

“Okay, nothing’s broken, but you can’t keep being this reckless,” she said, still puffing. “What if something happened again? What if your back gives out while you’re doing interpretive parkour?!”

Yunjin tilted her head. “I asked the doc. They said it’s fine now. Mostly.”

Chaewon’s pupils dilated. “Mostly?”

“Like… 85 percent fine,” Yunjin offered with a sheepish grin.

“EIGHTY FIVE?! That’s a B!” Chaewon exploded. “I would never accept a B in school or in spinal recovery!”

Eunchae raised her hand. “I would. I got a C in math and I still survived.”

“This isn’t about math, this is about—” Chaewon inhaled deeply, then pointed at Yunjin’s legs. “No dancing. No kicking. No climbing the walls, no cartwheels, no backflips, and definitely no pyramid schemes!”

Yunjin raised an eyebrow. “So no taxes either?”

“YUNJIN.”

At that point, Kazuha finally stopped recording long enough to wipe a tear of laughter from her cheek. “She’s like a combination of a golden retriever and a hurricane.”

“And I’m the poor umbrella,” Chaewon muttered, dragging her girlfriend down to sit on the floor beside her like she was grounding a toddler on too much sugar. “You’re staying here. With me. On the ground. Where gravity can’t betray us.”

Yunjin huffed but flopped down dramatically, sprawling across Chaewon’s lap like she was trying to emotionally damage her further with cuteness.

“Fine,” she pouted. “But only if you play with my hair.”

Chaewon rolled her eyes but reached down and immediately began combing her fingers through Yunjin’s damp, tangled locks, her touch surprisingly gentle. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“But like… romantically?”

“Romantically and medically.”

Kazuha aimed the camera again. “Caption: ‘Love looks different for everyone.’”

“Post it,” Eunchae said, plopping beside them like a sleepy golden retriever. “This is peak LE SSERAFIM chaos energy.”

Chaewon looked around, Yunjin lounging in her lap like a smug cat, Eunchae curled up beside them like a koala, Kazuha recording everything like their personal documentary crew, and Sakura? Still sipping banana milk like this was a nature show.

She sighed. “I need a raise.”

“Good luck,” Sakura said. “Our company barely wants to raise the AC in here.”

They all laughed.

Turns out, that day in the practice room was not the last time Chaewon would face the natural disaster known as Hurricane Yunjin.

It was, in fact, just the beginning.

Later that evening, the girls were staying in a fancy downtown hotel—five stars, complimentary slippers, and most importantly, futuristic glass elevators that zoomed up and down like they were auditioning for a sci-fi movie.

And the moment Yunjin laid eyes on one, wide and glowing, mirrors on all four sides and glass windows showing the city skyline?

Chaewon should’ve known. She should’ve sensed it.

Yunjin stepped inside first, looked around once… then turned to face her members with a mischievous sparkle in her eye and said the six most dangerous words in the Korean language:

"What if I do a split?"

Chaewon’s soul left her body.

“No. No no no,” she said immediately, marching in after her like a mom at a mall food court. “You will not do a split in a moving elevator! There are cameras! There are mirrors! There are LAWS!”

Yunjin grinned, already stretching. “It’s called art, babe.”

“It’s called a lawsuit waiting to happen!!”

But it was too late.

Yunjin, being Yunjin, had already lifted one leg toward the ceiling in what may have been an ambitious attempt at a centre split. Except the elevator jolted, that cursed mechanical hum shifting beneath her feet just enough to throw her slightly off balance.

Her heel slid across the smooth floor with a soft squeak.

Chaewon screamed like she was being attacked. “OH MY GOD—SOMEONE STOP HER!” She dove like she was defusing a bomb, arms outstretched in full panic mode, grabbing onto Yunjin’s waist before she could perform an accidental pelvic slam into the hotel floor.

Yunjin laughed, half-folded like a possessed flamingo. “I’m fine! This is fine! This is what peak flexibility looks like!”

Chaewon was still on the floor, gripping her, screaming. “THIS IS WHAT PEAK INSANITY LOOKS LIKE!”

Outside the elevator, Eunchae shrieked in laughter and jumped in behind them, trying to mimic Yunjin’s pose, only to immediately trip over her own Crocs. “WHEEEE—ow.”

“Why are you like this?! Both of you!”

At that moment, Kazuha and Sakura arrived, casually walking down the hallway. Kazuha was holding the elevator door button with one finger, sipping water from a mini hotel cup with the other. Sakura was lagging behind, crouched to retie her sneakers with practiced grace and a distinct air of I am not getting involved in this.

They both peered into the elevator.

Yunjin was half-split on the ground, smiling like a drama villain. Chaewon was crouched, arms wrapped around her waist like she was preventing an exorcism. Eunchae was face-down beside them, legs tangled in defeat.

Kazuha blinked. “…Do we get in?” she asked quietly.

Sakura slowly stood up, brushed invisible lint off her sleeve, and stared into the elevator like she was observing a zoo enclosure.

“…Nah,” she said after a beat. “This one’s full.”

The doors began to close.

Yunjin spoke cheerfully, one leg still high in the air. “BYE! DON’T FORGET TO TIP YOUR PERFORMERS!”

“I’M GOING TO TIP YOU OUT A WINDOW!” Chaewon replied. 

“Best. Hotel. Ever.” Eunchae said from the floor. 

“I’m glad we stayed back. That looked like a hazard.” Kazuha muttered to Sakura, as they turned away. 

“That was a hazard. I saw my life flash before my eyes and I wasn’t even inside.” 

They let the elevator doors close. 

Yunjin had entered full “theatre kid” mode during rehearsal prep. Which, in theory, should’ve been fine.

Except in practice, it meant she was currently belt-screaming a Whitney Houston ballad that wasn’t even in their set list—while holding a curling iron as a mic. The cord trailed behind her like a diva’s red carpet train, occasionally knocking over water bottles and bumping into unsuspecting toes.

“AND I—” she wailed, eyes clenched, clutching her chest like she was auditioning for a tragic lead in a drama about heartbreak and taxes, “WILL ALWAYS—” she dropped to one knee, “LOVE YOUUUUUUUUUUUUU~!!”

The final note rang out with enough vocal force to make the mirror vibrate.

Chaewon, who had been quietly trying to finish her eyeliner in peace, turned with the slow, pained expression of someone who had just watched their retirement plans evaporate into glitter.

“Why are you like this?” she asked flatly, half of her winged liner perfect, the other looking like it had been drawn by a caffeinated squirrel.

Yunjin stood up slowly, hand over her heart, her voice still trembling with faux emotion. “I’m releasing suppressed energy.”

“Suppressed from what, exactly?”

Yunjin didn’t answer. She was too deep in character. Too lost in the drama. She grabbed the corner of a towel and used it to wipe a fake tear. “My soul needed to speak.”

“You are five minutes away from setting this building on fire.”

At that moment, Sakura stepped into the doorway, cool as ever, mint in her mouth and hair already styled. She took one glance at Yunjin’s performance and leaned against the frame with a sigh.

“She’s going to combust one day.”

Kazuha appeared beside her, casually sipping from a smoothie pouch, eyes locked on the scene like it was high art. “She already has. We’re just living in the aftermath.”

Yunjin slid dramatically across the floor, hair now half-stuck to her lip gloss, eyes brimming with emotion as she reached toward Chaewon. “Take me seriously!”

“I’d love to,” Chaewon muttered, reaching for her setting spray, “if you weren’t singing into something that literally heats up to 400 degrees.”

Yunjin looked down at the curling iron in her hand and blinked. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Chaewon deadpanned. “Oh.”

Yunjin beamed, completely unbothered. “Anyway! Encore?”

“No encore,” Chaewon said, spraying her face aggressively. “Only exile.”

But she didn’t stop smiling.

A simple trip to buy almond milk was supposed to take fifteen minutes.

They should’ve known better.

The chaos began the moment Yunjin spotted the long, polished grocery store aisle with its gleaming tile floors and complete lack of other customers. Her eyes sparkled. Her socks slid just a little on the surface when she shifted her weight.

That was all the encouragement she needed.

And before anyone could stop her, she took a running start and launched herself down the aisle like a figure skater at the Olympics.

On socks.

In a supermarket.

“WOOOOO!” Yunjin shouted, arms out like wings as she glided past the cereal section at terrifying speed.

“SHE’S SKATING. WHY IS SHE SKATING?!” Chaewon yelled from the other end, bolting after her like a stressed-out parent chasing a greased-up toddler on a sugar high.

Yunjin spun, lost control halfway through, and veered directly into a bottled water display. “CATCH ME IF YOU CAN!” she shouted joyfully before vanishing behind a falling wall of plastic bottles.

Eunchae sprinted past next, a shopping basket on her head like a knight’s helmet, swordfighting with a pack of spaghetti. “Yunjin unnie’s starting a revolution!”

Chaewon’s voice cracked mid-scream. “YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE HELPING ME, NOT JOINING THE REBELLION!”

Sakura, several aisles away, hadn’t moved. She calmly tossed a chocolate bar into the cart without looking up. “We’re gonna need sugar for this,” she muttered, deadpan.

Kazuha was leaned coolly against the freezer door beside her, one leg casually crossed over the other like she wasn’t watching a public meltdown. A fond smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

“I kinda wanna join her.”

Sakura raised a brow. “Please don’t.”

“I won’t.”

A pause.

“…But I want to.”

They both winced as a new crash echoed from the other aisle.

Chaewon came tearing around the corner a second later, hair wild, hoodie half-zipped, panting like she’d run a marathon through a war zone.

She stared at them with wide, pleading eyes. “Do either of you have a tranquilizer gun?!”

The hotel room was… suspiciously quiet.

Which, in LE SSERAFIM terms, usually meant someone had either broken a lamp, a bone, or the boundaries of sanity—and no one was currently screaming about it. Yet.

Chaewon stepped into the doorway, towel slung around her neck, water bottle in hand, damp hair clinging to her neck from post-practice sweat. She was only planning to grab her earbuds, maybe a snack if she got lucky, and retreat to her little peace corner.

Instead, she walked into a war crime.

Yunjin was sitting awkwardly on the floor. Not lounging, not relaxing—sitting. Back stiff, shoulders high, her hands braced behind her like she was auditioning to be a mannequin for back pain commercials. Her smile was way too wide. It was the kind of smile that said, “Everything is fine,” but in a voice that was internally screaming.

Eunchae was nearby. Frozen mid-step. Looking like someone had just told her the floor was made of lava and also full of taxes. She glanced between Yunjin and Chaewon like a malfunctioning security camera on high alert.

Chaewon paused mid-step.

Her eyes narrowed. The towel slid off her shoulder and flopped to the floor unnoticed.

“What’s going on?” she asked slowly, suspiciously calm.

Yunjin flashed a full-teeth smile. “Nothing!”

Eunchae made a noise that sounded like a tea kettle overheating and immediately shuffled behind a nearby potted plant.

“Why are you sitting like that?” Chaewon asked, taking a slow step forward.

“Like what?” Yunjin replied, way too fast. Her voice was chipper, almost sing-song, and absolutely criminal.

“Like someone’s grandma who just stood up too fast and saw heaven for five seconds,” Chaewon deadpanned.

“Okay, wow. Ageist and rude.”

Chaewon’s gaze sharpened to full Mom Mode. “Did you hurt something?”

“Nope! I’m in perfect health. Peak condition. Spinally blessed!”

That was when Eunchae let out a visible wince. A full-body flinch. The plant shook.

Chaewon’s voice dropped to that eerily calm octave she only used when she was about to end someone with love. “Manchae.”

Eunchae tried to fake a smile. Her eyes darted around for an exit strategy that didn’t involve betrayal, but it was too late. Her mouth opened and closed, lips wobbling like a broken marionette. “I—uh—it’s just—well—”

Yunjin, eyes wide, threw her the full-force puppy stare. She even tilted her head slightly. Don’t do it.

Eunchae whimpered like an anime sidekick seconds away from doom.

The hotel room was… suspiciously quiet.

Which, in LE SSERAFIM terms, usually meant someone had either broken a lamp, a bone, or the boundaries of sanity—and no one was currently screaming about it. Yet.

Chaewon stepped into the doorway, towel slung around her neck, water bottle in hand, damp hair clinging to her neck from post-practice sweat. She was only planning to grab her earbuds, maybe a snack if she got lucky, and retreat to her little peace corner.

Instead, she walked into a war crime.

Yunjin was sitting awkwardly on the floor. Not lounging, not relaxing—sitting. Back stiff, shoulders high, her hands braced behind her like she was auditioning to be a mannequin for back pain commercials. Her smile was way too wide. It was the kind of smile that said, “Everything is fine,” but in a voice that was internally screaming.

Eunchae was nearby. Frozen mid-step. Looking like someone had just told her the floor was made of lava and also full of taxes. She glanced between Yunjin and Chaewon like a malfunctioning security camera on high alert.

Chaewon paused mid-step.

Her eyes narrowed. The towel slid off her shoulder and flopped to the floor unnoticed.

“What’s going on?” she asked slowly, suspiciously calm.

Yunjin flashed a full-teeth smile. “Nothing!”

Eunchae made a noise that sounded like a tea kettle overheating and immediately shuffled behind a nearby potted plant.

“Why are you sitting like that?” Chaewon asked, taking a slow step forward.

“Like what?” Yunjin replied, way too fast. Her voice was chipper, almost sing-song, and absolutely criminal.

“Like someone’s grandma who just stood up too fast and saw heaven for five seconds,” Chaewon deadpanned.

“Okay, wow. Ageist and rude.”

Chaewon’s gaze sharpened to full protective-girlfriend mode. “Did you hurt something?”

“Nope! I’m in perfect health. Peak condition. Spinally blessed!”

That was when Eunchae let out a visible wince. A full-body flinch. The plant shook.

Chaewon’s voice dropped to that eerily calm octave she only used when she was about to end someone with love. “Manchae.”

Eunchae tried to fake a smile. Her eyes darted around for an exit strategy that didn’t involve betrayal, but it was too late. Her mouth opened and closed, lips wobbling like a broken marionette. “I—uh—it’s just—well—”

Yunjin, eyes wide, threw her the full-force puppy stare. She even tilted her head slightly. Don’t do it.

Eunchae whimpered like an anime sidekick seconds away from doom.

Chaewon crossed her arms. Activated full Leader Mode. “Three seconds to explain or I confiscate every pack of gummy bears you own. Including the secret drawer.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Eunchae gasped like she’d been shot. “OKAY! Yunjin unnie maybe kind of possibly tried to do a back handspring and then maybe possibly landed weird and now she’s walking like an eighty-year-old grandpa who fights with swords—DON’T BE MAD PLEASE I VALUE MY LIFE!”

“I SAID DON’T TELL HER!” Yunjin wailed, trying to twist around in betrayal and immediately regretting it with a grunt.

“You tried to do what?!” Chaewon shrieked, dropping everything and power-walking to her.

“It wasn’t even a full handspring! More like a… handspring-adjacent tumble. With flair,” Yunjin explained, holding up her hands like that made it legal.

Chaewon dropped to her knees beside her like a medic at a battlefield. “Where does it hurt? Same spot? New spot? Is it just pulled? Did you stretch first?!”

Yunjin winced. “A little pull. Like, not sharp pain. Just tight. I think I flopped weird.”

“You… flopped,” Chaewon whispered. “You flopped your recovering spine.”

“I flopped with dignity.”

Sakura peeked into the room with Kazuha behind her, holding snacks. “She what her spine?”

“She FLOPPED!” Chaewon cried out. “SHE FLOPPED HER SPINE.”

Kazuha blinked. “Should we build her a panic room?”

“I’m building her a padded cell,” Sakura sighed, setting down her gummies.

Chaewon was already moving like a rescue worker in a disaster drill. “You’re grounded. Again. No dancing. No jumping. No breathing wrong.”

“Oh come on, I barely even sprained it!” Yunjin argued. “It’s a tickrain!”

“You just made up a word to downplay a spinal incident.”

“I’m quirky!”

“I’m spiraling.”

Chaewon retrieved an ice pack from the mini fridge. The cute ducky one. She smacked it gently onto Yunjin’s lower back like a stamp of shame.

“You are now on flat surface duty. Two days. Minimum. No stunts, no flips, no anime choreography, and no interpretive dolphin routines.”

“I feel like those were directed at me,” Eunchae whispered from the plant.

“THEY ARE.”

Yunjin tilted her head back, wincing slightly, and gave Chaewon the softest grin. “Still love me?”

Chaewon stared at her, deadpan. “Unfortunately.”

“Aww, babe.”

Chaewon sighed, crouching again, and rested her forehead gently against Yunjin’s. “You’re going to kill me before we hit our first anniversary.”

“I’ll carry you to the hospital.”

“No, you’ll cartwheel there and throw out your other vertebrae.”

Everyone burst into laughter.

Sakura collapsed into a bean bag, wiping a tear. “This is the best night of my life.”

Kazuha, curling up beside her, chuckled. “Don’t stop it. I wanna see who wins: Yunjin’s spine or Chaewon’s blood pressure.”

Eunchae finally emerged from behind the plant and sat beside them, snacking quietly and watching the chaos like it was her favorite show.

Yunjin leaned against Chaewon’s shoulder, wiggling her fingers. “I promise I’ll behave now.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“…I meant emotionally.”

From across the room, Sakura and Kazuha high-fived without looking up.

Chaewon facepalmed into her hands. “God help me.”

Yunjin leaned in and kissed her cheek. “He already did. He gave you me.”

When everyone had finally settled, the dorm felt like a war zone after a truce. Not peace, just a ceasefire long enough to recharge.

Chaewon lay curled beside Yunjin in their bed, the room dimly lit by the soft blue glow of a salt lamp on the nightstand. Outside, rain tapped against the windows like a lullaby for the unhinged.

Yunjin wiggled her eyebrows, dramatically, eyebrows practically doing the cha-cha.

Chaewon narrowed her eyes. “No. You’ve had enough chaos for one day.”

“I’m just smiling.”

“You’re scheming.”

Yunjin giggled and leaned in to press a featherlight kiss to her nose. “Fine. I’ll sleep.”

Chaewon raised a suspicious brow. “Like actually sleep?”

“Like… 87% sleep.”

A long sigh. The kind that came from deep within the soul. Chaewon draped her arm around her girlfriend and pulled her closer. “I love you. But you’re going to be the reason I have a therapist before thirty.”

Yunjin tucked herself beneath Chaewon’s chin, fingers gently tracing circles on her side. “That’s okay. I’ll go with you. I’ll hold your hand and bring tissues.”

Chaewon smiled despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“But I’m your impossible.”

From the other room, Eunchae’s voice echoed through the thin walls like a banshee: “SHUT UP AND LET ME SLEEP, NEWLYWEDS!”

They both burst into giggles, muffling them into each other’s shoulders as their bodies tangled more comfortably under the blankets.

But of course… it hadn’t even been half a day.

Five hours. That was how long the peace treaty lasted before Huh Yunjin—certified menace, chaos incarnate, and recent self-declared “tickrain survivor”—decided that her grounding was clearly a dramatic overreaction.

Sure, she’d pulled her back a little, but it wasn’t like her spine had fallen out! She felt totally fine. Kind of. Mostly. Okay… enough.

So when the dorm was quiet, lights dimmed, and the others were settled in their rooms, she made her move.

Mismatched socks. Hoodie pulled up. Phone flashlight off. She tiptoed—actual on-her-toes tiptoed—down the hallway like she was escaping from prison.

Mission: Dance Studio Re-entry.

She didn’t even make it to the door.

“Huh Jennifer Yunjin.”

Her entire soul left her body.

Yunjin froze mid-step, foot hovering like a cartoon criminal caught in a spotlight. She turned slowly, like a broken horror movie animatronic.

And there was Chaewon.

Standing behind her in the dark like a shadowy demon summoned by betrayal and sleep deprivation. Arms crossed. One eyebrow raised. Wrath glowing in full 4K.

“ChaeChae… hi,” Yunjin offered weakly, flattening herself against the wall like a guilty cat caught in the pantry.

“It’s two AM.”

“I’m aware.”

“You’re grounded.”

“Yes, but—”

“I bathed you. With duckies.”

“I loved the duckies.”

Chaewon took one step forward, radiating the slow-burning rage of every overworked girlfriend across the universe. “Then why are you sneaking into the studio like a criminal?”

“I’m not!” Yunjin paused. “Okay, I am, but for a good reason!”

Chaewon tilted her head. “Which is?”

“I… missed dancing.”

“You have a full-length mirror in the bedroom.”

“I missed dangerous dancing.”

Chaewon blinked like she needed divine intervention. “You need holy water.”

From down the hallway, Sakura’s voice rang out like a prophecy: “TOLD YOU she’d try to escape!”

“Stop betting on me like I’m a feral raccoon!” Yunjin yelled toward the ceiling.

Chaewon exhaled and walked right up to her. She grabbed the edge of Yunjin’s hoodie and yanked the hood down over her face. “Back to bed, gremlin.”

“Just one spin? One pirouette? One high kick?”

“You literally just said ‘high kick’ while recovering from a spinal strain.”

“You can’t stop me from being fabulous.”

“I can duct tape you to the bed.”

Yunjin blinked. “That’s evil. But also… kind of hot. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yunjin.”

“I’m kidding! …Kind of.”

Chaewon grabbed her by the wrist like an exhausted single mother with a glitter-covered toddler and marched her back toward the living room. She sat her down with all the care of someone placing a ticking bomb on a beanbag, then tucked a fleece blanket around her like a burrito of shame.

She handed Yunjin a banana milk and a protein bar with the solemn grace of an offering.

Yunjin blinked. “You come with snacks now?”

“If I feed the gremlin,” Chaewon muttered, flopping beside her on the couch, “maybe it won’t try to parkour again.”

Yunjin leaned her head onto Chaewon’s shoulder with a happy sigh. “I love you.”

“I’m filing a complaint with the Injury Prevention Society.”

“That’s not real.”

“It is now.”

Yunjin giggled, bumping her knee against Chaewon’s. “Okay, okay. I’ll stay grounded. You win.”

“Damn right I do.”

“But only because you’re cute when you boss me around.”

Chaewon turned beet red. Her ears practically steamed. “Shut up and eat your protein bar.”

Just then, Sakura and Kazuha peeked in from the hallway, both holding a bag of popcorn like they were watching a drama premiere. Sakura was already chewing with the kind of smugness only an unbothered older sister could exude.

“We came for the drama,” Sakura announced, “stayed for the domestic fluff.”

“Ten bucks says she tries again tomorrow,” Kazuha added, smirking.

Chaewon didn’t even look up. “I’m already sleeping with one eye open.”

Yunjin, sipping her banana milk with both cheeks puffed out, flashed them a peace sign. “Watch me.”

Chaewon facepalmed so hard it echoed. “God help me.”

---

Chapter Text

The music echoed through the practice room, the padded walls catching the beat and throwing it right back. LE SSERAFIM's water bottles were lined up like soldiers along the mirrored wall, and the air smelled like fabric softener, sweat, and just a hint of Sakura’s melon body spray.

They were rehearsing for their tour, and everything was laser-focused, at least for the moment.

Yunjin was in the middle of breaking down a move, brows furrowed, lips slightly pursed, beads of sweat slipping down the side of her neck. She’d been working on this one step for ten minutes straight now, tweaking the angle of her foot, how her weight landed on the ball of her heel, how she turned into the next formation with just enough momentum but not too much.

Chaewon, standing off to the side with her arms crossed and that signature 'leader watching' face, finally stepped forward. Her tone was calm, focused, completely in Leader Kim mode.

“Yunjin-ah, you’re overextending your hip here,” she said, walking over and gently tapping the back of Yunjin’s thigh. “Try tightening your core when you go into the spin. You’re giving away too much energy on the turn, that’s why your balance is off by a beat.”

Yunjin blinked, then nodded immediately. “Got it. From the top?”

Chaewon gave her a tiny nod, taking a step back to give her room.

Yunjin reset. She didn’t even glance Chaewon’s way, she was laser focused, every muscle pulled tight with dedication. She executed the move again, and this time her center held. She landed the transition into the chorus with a clean finish, breath steady.

Chaewon nodded, arms still crossed. “That’s it. Better. Keep that locked in.”

Yunjin turned to her, panting softly, face glistening from the work. Then she smiled, wide and radiant, nothing like the intense idol who had been working a minute ago.

“Thanks, ChaeChae,” she said, and without a second of hesitation, leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

Just like that.

Like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Chaewon blinked.

Her brain short-circuited.

Yunjin had already turned away, bouncing lightly on her heels as she made her way back to her spot to try the move again. Her hair bounced with her, the moment already gone, for her, at least.

Chaewon was frozen.

A full second passed. Then another.

Her ears turned bright red. Her cheeks flushed pink.

Her grip on her water bottle slipped and she fumbled, barely catching it before it hit the floor.

From across the room, Sakura, mid-sip of her own water, paused when her eyes landed on Chaewon. Her eyebrows lifted. Slowly, a knowing smirk curled on her lips.

“Well, well,” she said quietly, just loud enough for the few members near her to hear. “Looks like our fearless leader’s melting again.”

Chaewon snapped her head in her direction. “I’m not.”

“You’re literally a tomato right now.”

“Shut up.”

Sakura cackled. “You’re so whipped. I love it.”

“Shut. Up.”

But Chaewon’s voice lacked bite. She turned away quickly, water bottle now firmly in hand, and walked toward the corner of the studio under the guise of “hydrating.” She kept her back to the group, taking long sips, face still flushed.

Behind her, Yunjin finished the move again and called out, “How was that, unnie?”

Chaewon inhaled, shook her shoulders a little, then turned around with her face composed (barely) and her arms crossed.

“Form up,” she said, voice sharp and clear. “We’re doing another full run-through. From the top.”

The members quickly gathered, Eunchae sliding into her spot with a dramatic flop, Kazuha straightening her shoulders, Yunjin skipping over to stand beside Chaewon like nothing had happened.

Only Yunjin glanced at her out of the corner of her eye… and smirked.

Chaewon narrowed her eyes.

“You’re enjoying this,” she muttered under her breath.

Yunjin bumped her shoulder and whispered back, “A little.”

“Behave.”

“No promises.”

“Yunjin.”

“I’m your best student. Let me live.”

Chaewon shook her head, biting down a smile she couldn’t hold back.

Sakura whispered to Kazuha, “This is so much better than reality TV.”

Kazuha just nodded in solemn agreement. “I’d pay for the bonus clips.”

As the music started again, Chaewon took her position, eyes fixed forward, heart still racing a little faster than normal.

Professional. Composed. Leader-nim.

Totally not whipped.

Not at all.

Okay, maybe a little.

Maybe a lot.

A few hours passed.

The bass thudded through the walls, the mirrored walls catching every sharp movement and spill of sweat. The choreographer stood beside Chaewon, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as the rest of Le Sserafim executed the final section of the run-through.

Chaewon was silent, her own arms folded as she watched, not just as a leader, but as someone who knew every twitch of her members' movements like her own breath. She made mental notes automatically, Eunchae’s shoulder was just a bit late on the last beat, Kazuha needed to smooth out her turn on eight, but her eyes inevitably wandered.

To her.

Yunjin.

Front row, center-left, black tee damp with sweat and cheeks flushed pink. There was something about the way she moved, not just technically, but with emotion. Her body rolled into the beat like she was drinking in the music through her skin, every transition between steps filled with something alive.

She didn’t just hit choreo.

She danced.

Chaewon swallowed, heart skipping as Yunjin locked into a spin and then a body wave, hair flicking slightly with the motion. She was radiant. Free. Angelic, in a way that made Chaewon feel simultaneously like she could fly and like she needed to drop to her knees in reverence.

"God, she’s beautiful."

But then a strange quietness settled inside her. Something that didn’t belong in this room full of noise.

That question again. The one she'd shoved away weeks ago, then again, and again.

Why did her back still hurt… after the first discharge?

She hadn’t wanted to push. She respected boundaries. She trusted Yunjin’s judgment and autonomy, always. But… the more she learned, the more that old knot of concern began to reform in her chest.

Yunjin had been discharged once before. She was supposed to be cleared. Yet her pain had lingered, muffled and quiet, like it was waiting behind the curtain.

Even Eunchae, sweet little Eunchae who had the hardest time keeping secrets, had admitted: "She was leaning against the counter, her head down, holding her side like she was in pain. She looked… like she was barely holding herself up. I didn’t know what to do." 

But why?

She never got an answer. No full explanation. No direct conversation from Yunjin herself.

Chaewon clenched her jaw softly, brows furrowed as her gaze remained fixed on her girlfriend. Yunjin was smiling now, her lips parting just slightly as she hit the final move, arms up and eyes fierce with energy.

And still, still, there was that tiny flicker in her back. The way she readjusted her spine when she thought no one was looking. A stretch held half a second too long. A micro-flinch as she exited a high-impact sequence.

Maybe no one else would notice.

But Chaewon did.

She always noticed when it came to her.

She blinked out of her thoughts as the song faded and the girls broke formation, breathless and grinning, water bottles and towels being passed around.

“Not bad,” the choreographer muttered beside her. “They’re locking in better today. Especially Huh Yunjin. Girl’s on fire lately.”

“Yeah,” Chaewon replied absently, but her voice had dropped just slightly. Quieter. Distant.

The choreographer moved on to give individual notes. Chaewon lingered where she was, still watching Yunjin, who was now leaning over slightly, sipping from her bottle and laughing at something Eunchae had said.

"She’s okay now," Chaewon reminded herself. "She’s okay. She’s strong. She’s dancing again."

But the memory wouldn’t let go, of Yunjin curled in her lap on the hotel suite floor, limp, breath shallow. Of the slap of rain against pavement and the shriek of her name echoing down the street. Of how hard she had fought. Of how long she had hidden it.

And how Chaewon hadn’t seen the truth until it was almost too late.

She made a mental note. One she would not forget this time.

She’d ask her later. Gently. Carefully. Not as a leader.

But as the girl who loved her too much to pretend not to wonder.

Chaewon stood stiffly by the wall, arms folded tighter than she realized, eyes glued to the now empty practice floor. Everyone had already scattered after the final run-through. Eunchae and Kazuha had collapsed into a sweaty giggling mess in the corner, Yunjin was stretching while talking animatedly with one of the staff, and yet, Chaewon didn’t move.

She didn’t even hear the footsteps approaching until someone cleared their throat softly beside her.

“You’re doing the face again,” Sakura said lightly.

Chaewon blinked, pulled from her thoughts. “The face?”

“The one where you’re pretending to analyze choreography but are clearly overthinking your entire life,” Sakura replied, arching a brow.

Chaewon let out a soft huff and turned away, grabbing her water bottle and pretending to drink. “I’m just watching the team.”

“Chaewon.”

It wasn’t stern, but it wasn’t teasing either. It was gentle. Too gentle.

She finally turned back to Sakura and gave a resigned sigh. “Okay… fine. I was thinking.”

Sakura crossed her arms and leaned casually on the wall beside her. “About?”

Chaewon’s eyes flickered back to Yunjin, who was now sitting on the floor with her water bottle, playfully nudging Eunchae with her foot.

“Her,” Chaewon admitted.

“Shocking,” Sakura deadpanned.

Chaewon ignored the jab. “She’s… dancing like she’s never been in pain. Like she’s never had an injury. But I can’t stop thinking about it. About what happened.”

Sakura tilted her head. “You mean the therapy incident? Or that day where she flopped limp in your arms..?”

“No—well, yes. I mean...both? But also…” She bit the inside of her cheek. “Why did she still have pain after her first discharge? Remember when Eunchae told us that Yunjin wasn’t fully healed even after the doctor cleared her the first time.”

"How could I forget? The was the day she collapsed right in front of our eyes, no reason, no explanation, it's still engraved in my memory. I'm glad Eunchae chose to speak up about what Yunjin had been hiding."

"But, we never got an explanation for why she still had pain up to that point."

"Yeah, we did," Sakura blinked, then widened her eyes. “Ohhh right. You weren’t there when Yunjin explained everything. That was the day Rachel came to visit.”

Chaewon’s heart sank. “The day I… stormed out.”

Sakura gave a sympathetic nod. “Yeah.”

Chaewon leaned in slightly. “So, you do know the reason?”

Sakura hesitated. Her lips pressed together, teeth lightly tugging her bottom lip. “I… wasn’t sure if it was my place to tell you.”

“Please,” Chaewon said, quieter now. “I need to know.”

Sakura studied her for a moment. The look in Chaewon’s eyes wasn’t just worried, it was pained, angry, vulnerable. She deserved to know. So Sakura nodded.

“She should’ve been healed a month earlier,” she started. “Yunjin was progressing perfectly after her first recovery plan. But, you remember the incident with the shock therapy, the mis-calibrated settings, the one that landed her in the hospital?”

Chaewon’s entire body tensed. “Of course I remember.” That day haunts her to this day. 

“That’s what set her back,” Sakura said, her voice laced with a thread of bitterness. “The therapist, who I still don’t know how got certified, used a faulty setting. It caused trauma in her lower back. Not permanent damage, thank god, but enough to undo part of her progress.”

Chaewon didn’t speak.

Her jaw was clenched. Her hands had curled into fists without her realizing.

That day… the staff’s panicked voices over the walkie-talkie. Her heart dropping as she overheard Yunjin’s name. Her sprint off the stage mid-performance. That torturous car ride to the hospital where she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t stop the loop in her head screaming please let her be okay.

And then, seeing her.

Wires. Machines. Yunjin’s pale face, her lips dry and her eyelids fluttering.

Then rage. Pure rage. When she found out the incident wasn’t just a freak occurrence, it was a mistake. A careless one. A therapist failing to double-check settings on a vulnerable patient.

She had been seconds away from punching someone. The only reason she hadn’t was because Yunjin needed her. But now?

Now the fury returned like it had been waiting.

“So that’s why she wasn’t healed,” Chaewon said quietly, her voice strained.

Sakura nodded.

“She suffered more because he didn’t do his job.”

Another nod.

“She could’ve been pain-free. Onstage with us. Living her life again sooner. And instead…” Her voice cracked at the end, and she quickly looked away.

“She never told me,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone. “She let me think she was just taking longer. That her body just needed time. And all this time it was his fault.”

Sakura placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “She didn’t want to stress you out more. You were already blaming yourself for not noticing. I think… she thought if you knew, you’d want to bury the man alive.”

Chaewon scoffed, low and bitter. “I already do.”

Sakura squeezed her shoulder. “She’s okay now. She made it through. And honestly? You’re the biggest reason she kept fighting.”

Chaewon’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “It still wasn’t enough to stop her pain.”

“Maybe not,” Sakura said gently. “But you were the reason she had somewhere to land.”

The storm in Chaewon’s head hadn’t calmed.

If anything, it grew louder. All she could think about was that therapist. That carelessness. That stolen time. The pain Yunjin had endured for longer than she should have. The image of Yunjin pale and trembling in that hospital bed still haunted her, how could it not?

She didn’t notice how tightly her jaw was clenched again until Sakura’s voice softly broke through her spiraling thoughts.

“You’re thinking about hunting him down, aren’t you?”

Chaewon flinched.

Sakura gave a knowing look, arms now loosely crossed as she leaned against the wall beside her.

“It’s not worth it, Chae,” she added lightly, but with meaning.

Chaewon’s brows furrowed. “How could you say that?” Her tone sharpened slightly, offended by the implication. “You think Yunjin doesn’t deserve justice for what happened to her?!”

Sakura exhaled through her nose, not rising to the tension. She tilted her head toward the practice room, where Yunjin was laughing so hard she nearly fell backward from a failed high-five with Eunchae.

“Of course she deserves justice,” Sakura said calmly. “She deserved better than what happened. But… look at her, Chaewon.”

Chaewon’s eyes flicked to Yunjin on instinct.

Yunjin was radiant. Alive. Not just physically, but in her spirit, in the way she moved without pain, without fear. In how her laugh echoed off the practice room walls like a melody that hadn’t existed for months.

Sakura continued, gently, “Look how she’s glowing. She’s healed. She’s here, with us. Mentally, physically. Laughing. Dancing. Loving you.”

Chaewon swallowed, something stuck behind her throat.

“Yunjin’s already moved on from that pain,” Sakura said. “And not because it didn’t hurt. But because she chose to keep going forward. I think it’s time you do the same.”

Chaewon didn’t reply. Not yet. Her fingers fidgeted with the bottle cap in her hand, but her gaze never left Yunjin.

“She didn’t let what happened ruin her spirit. Don’t let it ruin your peace either.”

“But, ” Chaewon’s voice came out hoarse. “What if it does happen again? What if something goes wrong and I don’t see it in time?”

Sakura reached out and gently rested a hand on Chaewon’s shoulder. “Then be there for her again. Just like you’ve always been. That’s what love is.”

Chaewon’s lips parted slightly, a shaky breath escaping.

“Stop replaying the past. Stop letting guilt steal your moments with her. You get to have her here, now. That’s a gift.” Sakura’s voice was firm, but kind. “You don’t have to fight old battles when the war is already over.”

Chaewon’s eyes lingered on Yunjin again.

Her messy hair tied up, sweat glistening on her skin, her whole body moving like it was made of music and joy. 

Yunjin looked over and caught her staring.

She beamed. A bright, gorgeous smile that made Chaewon’s heart lurch with love. Then she winked and sent her a little finger heart across the room.

Chaewon’s shoulders loosened for the first time in minutes.

Sakura gave her a soft smile. “See?”

Chaewon finally smiled, just a little. “She’s ridiculous.”

“She’s yours,” Sakura said.

And for the first time that day, Chaewon let the past rest.

Because Yunjin was here, healed, alive, laughing, and she’d never take a single second of that for granted again.

Yunjin didn’t just deserve better.

"You're right. She is mine, my whole world." 

Yunjin deserved the world.

And Chaewon would spend every damn second of her life making sure she got it.

Kazuha’s voice broke the moment with calm precision.

“Um, unnie,” she said carefully, sipping her water, “your world is currently being flirted on by one of our backup dancers.”

“…Wait, what?”

Chaewon’s head snapped up so fast it might’ve given her whiplash. Her eyes immediately locked onto where Kazuha had subtly gestured, just across the practice floor.

There he was. One of their main backup dancers, all too smiley, standing much too close to Yunjin.

And then Chaewon saw it, the hand. His hand. Casually, nonconsensually, resting on Yunjin’s shoulder. The way he leaned in, throwing out flirty compliments disguised as “encouragement,” his eyes clearly not just focused on dance critiques.

Yunjin didn’t look right. Her body was stiff, her smile strained to the point of almost cracking, and her eyes kept flicking between the guy and the unwanted weight of his hand. She looked trapped. Uncomfortable. Almost like she was begging for an exit.

Off to the side, Eunchae stood like a guardian spirit summoned by rage. Her arms were crossed, her glare sharp enough to slice the man’s ego in half. Clearly, she’d been right beside Yunjin until this guy swooped in and made it all about her. Eunchae was two seconds away from launching a shoe at him.

Chaewon felt her entire body lock with fury. Her heartbeat thundered. Her blood boiled.

How dare he.

How dare he touch what was hers. How dare he flirt with Yunjin so blatantly, so disrespectfully, right in front of everyone. How dare he make her uncomfortable. How dare he think he could get away with it.

Without a word, Chaewon stormed across the room, each step deliberate and full of silent threat.

From the corner, Sakura and Kazuha smirked, already whispering.

Oh no,” Sakura muttered. “She’s activated.”

“This is gonna be good,” Kazuha grinned, shifting forward like she was watching a live drama unfold.

Chaewon didn’t waste a second.

“Yunjin-ah,” she called, voice sugar-sweet but ice-cold underneath, “Can I borrow you for something?”

Yunjin saw her, then her eyes lit up in immediate relief, her entire posture relaxing the second she saw who it was. She looked like she’d just been rescued from a haunted house.

“Yes! Of course!” she practically chirped, stepping back instinctively.

Chaewon slipped her hand into Yunjin’s like it was the most natural thing in the world, gently but firmly guiding her away from him. Her grip was soft, but full of unspoken protection. Possession. Safety.

"You don't mind, do you?" Chaewon flashed a sweet smile at him, but her eyes told a different story. She looked at him like she was daring him to argue, and how she would destroy him if she did. 

The backup dancer laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah… yeah, no problem,” he said, trying to play it cool, but clearly sensing the sharp shift in energy. He gave an uneasy smile.

Chaewon smiled too, falsely sweet, all teeth. “Thank you,” she said smoothly. “By the way, your footwork earlier, interesting interpretation of tempo. Super free-spirited. I guess being on beat is optional now?”

The man blinked.

Yunjin bit back a laugh.

With that, Chaewon turned away, pulling Yunjin gently out of view.

The second they were around the corner, Yunjin dropped her head onto Chaewon’s shoulder and let out a dramatic groan of relief.

“You’re my literal saviour, ChaeChae,” she muttered into her neck. “I was seconds away from faking a phone call and crawling out of the studio.”

“I could tell,” Chaewon said, wrapping both arms tightly around her waist. “He touched you.”

Yunjin nodded, cheek still pressed to her. “It was weird. I didn’t like it. I didn’t know how to shake him off without making it awkward.”

“You don’t ever have to handle that alone again,” Chaewon whispered, voice lower now. “Not when I’m around.”

Yunjin smiled softly against her. “You’re so hot when you’re angry.”

“Don’t test me, Huh Yunjin,” Chaewon warned playfully, pulling back just enough to cup her cheek.

Then, without another word, she leaned in and kissed her. Not rushed. Not needy.

Just full of love, and protection, and a deep, fiery devotion that said: you’re mine, and no one gets to make you uncomfortable and walk away untouched.

Yunjin responded instantly, melting into her like this was the place she belonged most.

When they pulled apart, breathless and warm, Yunjin giggled. “That’s the first time I’ve ever been rescued like a princess and kissed like a sinner.”

Chaewon smirked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You are my princess.”

“Even if I occasionally flirt with death and backflips?”

Chaewon rolled her eyes, kissing her forehead. “Especially then.”

Yunjin's looked down and her breath caught in her throat, because Chaewon was suddenly looking at her like she was the only thing that had ever mattered. Like the entire world had paused. Like the thought of anyone else laying a hand on her was suddenly… intolerable.

The air between them thickened instantly.

Yunjin’s fingers, previously resting lightly on Chaewon’s shoulders, slid up, slow, deliberate, until they curled behind her neck, tugging her closer.

Chaewon didn’t even hesitate.

Their lips crashed together again, this time deeper, hotter. A mess of breaths and soft whimpers. Yunjin tilted her head, letting Chaewon take control as her hands ran down her back and locked securely on her waist.

Chaewon’s grip tightened, firm, commanding, and in one motion, she spun them gently, pressing Yunjin’s back against the wall.

Yunjin gasped at the motion, breath stolen, pulse wild.

“Chaewon…” she breathed.

“Shh,” Chaewon whispered against her lips, “I’ve got you.”

And she did.

Yunjin’s hands tangled in Chaewon’s hair, her back arching as Chaewon’s lips trailed away from her mouth, down her jawline, tracing fire with every kiss.

Yunjin let out a low moan, soft but aching, when Chaewon nipped gently just beneath her ear.

Then lower, her lips brushed the skin of Yunjin’s collarbone.

A gentle suck. A slow bite.

Yunjin whimpered, one hand clutching Chaewon’s shirt like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.

Chaewon’s mouth curved into a smirk as she placed one last kiss on the spot she’d marked, then began trailing back up, ready to capture her lips again. 

“UNNIEEEE? YUNJIN?”

They froze.

It was Eunchae. From the practice room. Her voice echoing just enough to snap them out of the haze.

“Where did they go?! Did they fall into a mop closet?!”

Chaewon exhaled through her nose, half laughing, half frustrated. She rested her forehead against Yunjin’s.

Yunjin, red in the face, let out a breathless giggle.

Chaewon placed one final soft kiss on her lips, gentle, grounding, and then winked.

“I’ll see you in there, pretty girl.”

And with that, she turned and walked off, composed as ever.

Yunjin stood there for a second, stunned. Her cheeks hot. Her legs slightly unsteady.

She looked down at herself.

Her shirt was a little wrinkled.

Her heart was still racing.

And on her neck, a red-purple bloom was definitely forming.

Yunjin just smirked.

Worth it.

Yunjin finally strolled into the practice room like nothing had happened, posture way too relaxed for someone who just got her soul kissed out of her body. Chaewon was already stretching by the mirror-wall, pretending to be the picture of innocence, but her flushed ears betrayed her. Kazuha raised an eyebrow from where she was stretching. Sakura was still scrolling through her phone, suspiciously smirking.

And Eunchae? Eunchae was eyeing Yunjin like she was a suspect in a high-level investigation.

Her eyes scanned Yunjin’s flushed cheeks… her dazed little smile… and then her gaze locked onto the fading mark blossoming on Yunjin’s collarbone.

“WAIT.”

All of LE SSERAFIM froze.

“Is that a—” Eunchae gasped. “IS THAT A HICKEY?!”

Yunjin blinked like a deer in headlights. “W-What? No? Maybe? It’s just, like… um… a rash.”

“A rash??” Eunchae said, already storming up to her. “A front-of-the-neck, perfectly circular, very conveniently placed rash??”

Yunjin turned to Chaewon for help.

Big mistake.

Because Chaewon was not even pretending anymore. She was blushing, sipping water, staring at the ceiling, whistling the Antifragile chorus like she wasn’t 100% responsible for said “rash.”

“I knew it,” Eunchae said, hands on her hips. “I knew something was up when you both disappeared and took longer than the Avengers runtime to return."

Sakura peeked over her phone. “Can you blame them? Chaewon was in full ‘do not touch what’s mine’ mode earlier. Honestly, I expected it to happen sooner.”

Kazuha sighed and muttered, “This is like watching a K-drama with bonus choreography.”

Chaewon groaned. “Eunchae, it’s really not that serious—”

“NOT SERIOUS? NOT. SERIOUS??” Eunchae gestured dramatically like she was on a variety show. “We have a show tonight!! And she looks like she was mauled by a vampire. There is LITERAL evidence on her neck!”

Yunjin, flustered and fully giving up, just muttered, “You’re too young for this conversation.”

“I’M EIGHTEEN, I’M NOT A CHILD.”

“You eat cereal with a fork to ‘save milk,’” Kazuha deadpanned.

“I—irrelevant!” Eunchae stammered. “We’re not talking about me! We’re talking about that!” She pointed again at Yunjin’s neck.

Sakura leaned back in her chair. “It's not like they try to hide it, Manchae. I'm surprised this is the first time you've noticed evidence like that.”

Yunjin tried to glare. “We’ve been subtle.”

“A few days ago, you came out of Chaewon's hotel room with trembling legs. A fully healed Yunjin, with trembling legs, while leaving her girlfriend's room. Need I say more?"

"KKURA UNNIE!!" 

Chaewon rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay. Enough.”

She placed her hands on her waist, switching on her leader mode again. “Come on, guys. We still have a show tonight. We’re going to stretch again and do the setlist run-through once more.”

Some sort of confident demon possessed Yunjin. She spoke, smirking, “You're gonna stretch me out again, ChaeChae?”

The leader choked, gasping for air. 

“OH MY GOD, MY POOR VIRGIN EARS,” Eunchae yelled, immediately running to hide behind Sakura.

Kazuha just snorted, laying back on the floor with her arms crossed behind her head. “Somebody film this. The world needs to know the truth.”

Yunjin glared. "Don't you dare, Zuha."

“I'm growing too old for this,” Sakura muttered.

LE SSERAFIM exchanged glances and sighed in unison.

They could never have a normal rehearsal day. 

---

Chapter Text

Mid-tour life was intense.

The schedules were packed. The airports blurred together. And Chaewon, bless her tiny but terrifyingly capable soul, was deep in leader mode.

She was everywhere, on calls with staff, checking sound equipment, coordinating outfits, revising choreography, fielding fan Q&As, managing jet-lag, and somehow still rehearsing like her life depended on it.

She was also, tragically, not simping for Yunjin.

Yunjin noticed this on day two of the drought.

On day three, she was fidgety.

By day four, she was mourning.

By day five, she was spiraling.

Yunjin sat backstage, legs spread like a gremlin, sipping water and scowling into the abyss.

"I haven’t been forehead-kissed in 72 hours," she muttered. "I need my girlfriend to come back from the dead."

Eunchae, sprawled beside her, giggled. “Unnie, she’s not dead. She’s literally leading our sound check.”

"Exactly," Yunjin sighed dramatically. “She’s leading everything but me.”

From across the room, Chaewon stood talking to staff with her clipboard, eyes sharp, bun too tight, and her "serious leader" face on.

Yunjin whined.

Sakura walked by and patted her shoulder. "You look emotionally constipated."

"I'm affection-deprived!" Yunjin cried. "I need cuddles, validation, eye contact, anything."

Sakura smirked. "You’re addicted to your simp.”

Yunjin grabbed her by the wrist. “Help me."

“How?”

“Flirt with me.”

“…What.”

Yunjin whispered urgently. “I’m gonna make her jealous. She’ll snap. Then, I’ll have my simp back.”

Sakura blinked once. Twice. Then shrugged. “Alright, I’m bored. Let’s go.”

Yunjin giggled and curled into her like a needy puppy, head on her thigh, hand on her knee, laughing at everything.

Chaewon walked by, didn’t flinch, didn’t even pause. Just muttered, “Five minutes till formation,” and left the room.

Kazuha, who had just walked in, froze mid-step.

“…Why is your head on my girlfriend’s thigh?” she asked flatly.

Yunjin looked up from Sakura’s lap and blinked. “Huh?”

Sakura grinned. “Don’t worry, Zuha. She’s only using me to make her actual girlfriend jealous.”

“Oh,” Kazuha said. Then: “…Wait, what?!”

“Shhh, it’s not working,” Yunjin whispered.

Yunjin started draping herself over Sakura at every opportunity. She looped her arm around her waist. She rested her head on her shoulder during breaks. She even fake-laughed at Sakura’s dumbest jokes (not that they were bad but she cackled like they were Oscar-winning).

Chaewon didn’t look up once.

Kazuha, watching from the side, whispered to Eunchae, “This is tragic.”

“She’s flopping,” Eunchae whispered back. “It’s like watching a toddler try to seduce a statue.”

Chaewon, meanwhile, saw everything. And her eye twitched. "Sakura? Really?"

She wrote “mic cue check” on her clipboard with aggressive pen strokes.

Phase Two: Visual Attack

Yunjin’s next move in her Simp Summoning Strategy was simple.

Dress. To. Destroy.

Operation “Visual Attack” was a sacred art, honed over years of Instagram thirst traps and accidental-on-purpose mirror selfies. And today? Today was war.

Outfit Number One: A cropped hoodie—no shirt underneath—and low-rise pants slung so low they whispered danger.

She walked into the practice room like she owned gravity.

Chaewon looked up briefly from her tablet, gave a nod, and said, “Wear a tank top under that when we go outside.”

Strike one.

Yunjin retreated, unshaken.

Outfit Number Two: A black mesh long sleeve over a minimal sports bra, paired with biker shorts that hugged everything.

She walked in spinning her water bottle like a model off-duty.

Chaewon blinked. Paused. There was the tiniest, barely perceptible twitch of an eyebrow.

Progress.

Outfit Number Three?

It was the final boss.

Skin-tight, black, sleeveless, and zipped just enough to qualify as legal. The zipper shimmered like sin itself. She paired it with a pleated mini skirt and walked in like there were invisible fans following her. Hair down. Strut on. Murder in her heart.

Sakura looked up from her coffee and choked.

“Are you trying to get banned?!”

“No,” Yunjin replied sweetly, adjusting her top like it wasn’t already breaking three unspoken dorm rules. “I’m trying to get noticed.”

And Chaewon?

Oh, she noticed.

She walked in, saw the outfit, tripped over a power cable, recovered with a cough, and very calmly said: “Don’t forget your in-ears.”

Then sat down like nothing had happened.

Yunjin died a little inside, 'I just got ignored while wearing my final evolution stage. Am I losing my touch?'

Phase 3: The Flirt Game Show

Desperate times called for televised measures.

They were filming a light-hearted Japanese variety show, something about bonding games and team challenges. The perfect stage for strategic chaos.

The members were randomly split into pairs.

Fate—or perhaps the producers with a flair for drama—put Yunjin and Kazuha together.

Chaewon, across the room and beside Sakura and Eunchae, did not look pleased.

Perfect.

First game: Guess the Lie.

Yunjin leaned dramatically into Kazuha’s shoulder between rounds. “Zuha-yahhh~ did you see how good we were? We’re so in sync.”

Kazuha, ever the partner in crime, smiled with a small nod. “We’re like telepathic.”

Yunjin batted her lashes. “We’re such a good match.”

Chaewon, across the stage, clenched her pen so hard it bent slightly.

Sakura looked over. “Uh-oh.”

Second game: Charades.

Yunjin and Kazuha dominated. Not because they were actually good at it, but because Yunjin made sure every turn involved a little giggle, a little arm touch, a little shoulder press.

The host laughed, clearly amused. “Ohh! Look how close Team Shinez are!”

Kazuha smiled politely.

Yunjin, turning directly to the camera with the flirtiest wink she’d ever delivered, purred, “We’re very compatible.”

Across the room, Chaewon cracked her knuckles loud enough to make the sound tech flinch.

Eunchae leaned over to whisper, “Unnie, you're poking holes into your cue card.”

“I’m fine,” Chaewon said through a clenched jaw, her smile so tight it could cut glass. “I love when my girlfriend flirts on national television.”

Sakura, sipping a juice box, casually added, “You’re forgetting she’s flirting with a taken woman—my woman.”

Chaewon blinked.

Phase 4: The Airport Fit

Yunjin had one card left to play in the Simp Recovery Saga.

And it was leather.

She emerged from her hotel room like a scene straight out of a fashion magazine shoot that had been banned in at least three countries.

Oversized black sunglasses? Check.

Glossy, blood-red lip tint? Check.

Backless, ribbed tank top paired with fitted leather shorts? Check.

Attitude like she just ran a mafia empire? Triple check.

Sakura, who was casually scrolling on her phone by the vending machine, looked up—and choked so hard on her gum she physically slapped the wall behind her.

“You’re wearing that? To the airport?”

Yunjin spun once, her curls bouncing. “Mmhm. Isn’t it cute?”

Sakura stared. “It’s a statement, alright.”

Yunjin tossed her carry-on over her shoulder, letting the muscles in her back flex ever so slightly. “Exactly.”

“A statement like ‘please ruin me’?”

Yunjin just smiled sweetly. “Bingo.”

At the airport check-in lobby, LE SSERAFIM regrouped in front of the private gate entrance. Cameras were already flashing from a distance, fans tucked behind security ropes. Staff buzzed about. It was chaotic.

And then, Chaewon turned the corner. She was mid-sentence, talking to their tour manager, when she caught sight of Yunjin.

She froze.

Her jaw visibly clenched. Her pupils dilated like she’d just been slapped by God.

Her eyes scanned slowly—slowly—from the thigh-high boots to the shorts, to the utterly illegal glimpse of lower back and shoulder, and finally to the dark-tinted shades that should’ve come with a “viewer discretion” warning.

Chaewon blinked hard. Took a breath. Swallowed.

“Hi, Chaewonnie~” Yunjin greeted innocently, brushing imaginary lint off her hip.

Chaewon opened her mouth. Closed it. Then finally, voice strangled: “…Hi, baby. Nice outfit. Please—wear a jacket. The plane is cold.”

And just like that, she turned around and walked off stiffly.

But not before Yunjin caught the violent blush blooming up her neck like a heat rash.

Sakura stepped up beside her, a bag of almonds in hand. “You almost killed her. That was attempted murder.”

Kazuha followed a moment later, glancing back at Chaewon who was definitely walking faster than usual. “You’re going to give her a heart attack.”

Yunjin smirked. “That’s the goal.”

Phase 5: Fake Flirting With a Backup Dancer

The evening rehearsal was in full swing. Everyone was running on protein bars and residual adrenaline. Lights blazed from overhead, music pulsed through the speakers, and sweat-slicked dancers mirrored the girls on stage.

Yunjin had been planning this part all day.

Enter: Backup Dancer Flirtation Act I.

One of the newer backup dancers—a sweet guy with a big smile—complimented her vocals as they cooled down from choreography.

“You seriously killed that bridge,” he said, grabbing a towel. “Your voice is insane.”

Yunjin beamed. “Aw, you’re sweet.”

She lightly bumped his shoulder and leaned in a little closer.

He flushed. “No really, you’re incredible.”

Yunjin tilted her head, resting her chin in her palm. Her voice softened to velvet. “I don’t know how you do that move so smoothly though. Like, do your hips even have bones?”

He laughed, a little flustered. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

“Only if someone’s watching,” she purred.

And someone was.

She could feel it.

That unmistakable burn of a specific pair of eyes from across the room. Like heat on her skin. Like being caught mid-sin.

She peeked.

Chaewon was standing ten meters away, locked in a conversation with the performance coordinator.

Except she wasn’t speaking.

Her eyes were glued to Yunjin.

Expression unreadable. Shoulders tight. Clipboard gripped just a little too hard.

The dancer walked off after a few moments, mumbling something about water.

Yunjin turned back, pretending to stretch, trying to look casual, triumphant even. She popped a leg, bent into a dramatic side stretch, one arm overhead—flawless.

But Chaewon didn’t move. Didn’t blink. She just stared.

That slow, calculating stare that said I know what you’re doing and I’m deciding how dead you want to be.

Yunjin’s smirk faltered.

She swallowed.

Maybe… just maybe... she’d gone too far.

Eunchae walked past humming and whispered under her breath, “You’re gonna get detention.”

Yunjin didn’t even respond. Because for the first time since her mission began…

Chaewon was quiet.

And that was the scariest thing of all.

Phase 6: The Final Descent

Yunjin was curled up in the dressing room in a hoodie, pouting into a bowl of grapes.

“She doesn’t love me anymore,” she declared solemnly.

Eunchae rubbed her back. “You’re being dramatic.”

“She used to follow me around like a duckling,” Yunjin sniffled. “She used to kiss me after every rehearsal. She used to call me goddess, Eunchae. GODDESS.”

“She also used to cry when you tried to do back-flips, unnie. Maybe she’s just focused.”

Yunjin pouted harder. “I feel unloved.”

Kazuha tilted her head. “Still no attention?”

“Nothing,” Yunjin whispered. “I flirted with everyone but the camera crew.”

Eunchae frowned. “You’re not actually trying to make her jealous now, are you?”

Yunjin groaned. “I don’t know anymore. I’m losing my mind. I miss her clinging to me. I miss her obsessive touching and forehead kisses and complimenting me every five seconds like I was the sun.”

Sakura sipped her drink. “So basically… you poked the bear and now you’re crying because the bear won’t growl.”

Yunjin blinked. “...Yes.”

She sank further into her hoodie. “Maybe she doesn’t want me anymore.”

Eunchae’s jaw dropped. “Unnie.”

Kazuha gently patted her head. “You’re just touch-starved.”

Sakura raised an eyebrow. “Or you’re two seconds away from being slammed into a wall because that bear has definitely been watching.”

Yunjin frowned. “I don’t see how she even notices—”

“Yunjin-ah.”

Chaewon’s voice came from the doorway.

Yunjin turned like a deer caught in headlights. “Y-Yeah?”

“Come here.”

“…Why?”

Chaewon tilted her head, calm, terrifyingly calm. “Huh Yunjin, I said, come here.”

Yunjin stood on autopilot. The door clicked shut behind her.

Eunchae gasped. “IT’S HAPPENING.”

Sakura grinned. “RIP Huh Yunjin. She lived, she flirted, she got claimed.”

In the dressing room. Door locked.

“Chae, what are you—”

Chaewon backed Yunjin into the vanity table before she could finish her sentence. “You’ve been driving me insane.”

Yunjin gulped. “I–I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Oh really?” Chaewon said, leaning in. “You don’t know what you’re doing with these outfits? With Sakura? With Kazuha? With the backup dancer, Yunjin?!”

Yunjin grinned nervously, about to answer, but was immediately silenced by Chaewon’s mouth crashing against hers.

It was fiery, rough, claiming, a kiss that told her: you’re mine, don’t forget it.

Yunjin whimpered, grabbing onto Chaewon’s shoulders, her head tipping back as Chaewon’s lips moved down her neck, trailing kisses until she reached the already bruised spot from a week ago.

Without hesitation, Chaewon sucked harshly against a new spot near her collarbone, her hands gripping Yunjin’s bare waist.

“Chae—Chaewon,” Yunjin breathed, voice cracking slightly.

“Quiet,” Chaewon whispered against her skin. “You begged for my attention all week. Now, you're getting it.”

Yunjin could barely stand. Her legs were jelly and her brain was fog.

Chaewon gave her one final deep kiss, leaving them both breathless, before slowly pulling back and brushing Yunjin’s hair behind her ear.

“You don’t need to beg for my attention,” she murmured. “You’ve always had it. You just need to be patient.”

Yunjin blinked, dazed. “…But, you looked so busy.”

“I was,” Chaewon said, grabbing a concealer stick from the vanity and dabbing it lightly over the brand-new hickey she just made. “But, I never stopped thinking about you. Not for a second.”

Yunjin watched, heart thudding, as Chaewon cleaned her up with the softest care, even after leaving her breathless seconds ago.

“And for the record,” Chaewon added, stepping back to admire her work. “This,” she tapped lightly over the covered hickey, “is just the first warning.”

Yunjin barely had time to process anything before of Chaewon’s lips were on her again. Their kiss deepened fast, too fast, hands gripping waists and cheeks flushed red.

Chaewon kissed like a girl starved, like she was pouring in a week’s worth of bottled-up need and fury and desperate love into the space between their lips.

And then she pulled back.

Yunjin gasped, dazed, lips tingling. “W-Why did you stop?”

Chaewon stared, catching her own breath, and smirked softly. “Because, I need to look at you properly.”

Yunjin whined. “You’re so mean…”

But, before she could protest further, Chaewon gently tugged her by the hand and guided her down onto the couch in the corner of the dressing room. Without a word, she sat and pulled Yunjin forward until the taller girl was carefully straddling her lap.

Yunjin stared at her, confused but willing, her long legs folding around Chaewon’s thighs. “Chae…?”

Chaewon didn’t answer right away.

She reached up, cupped Yunjin’s cheek, and softly ran her thumb along the bone. Her gaze had softened now, the fire cooled into something warmer. Something gentler. Her other arm slid around Yunjin’s waist, pulling her just a little closer until their foreheads gently touched.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

Yunjin’s heart cracked.

And before she could respond, Chaewon dipped her head, placing it softly on Yunjin’s chest, right above her heart. She clung to her silently, her arms snug around her waist, fitting into the curve of Yunjin’s body like a piece of her had been missing all week.

The room was quiet. It was just them, breathing together, the chaos of the tour melting into the background for a moment.

Yunjin slowly, shakily, wrapped her arms around Chaewon’s neck. Her fingers carded through her girlfriend’s soft hair.

“I missed you too,” she whispered, voice cracking. “So much.”

Chaewon said nothing, only held her tighter.

“I thought…” Yunjin continued, hesitating. “I thought maybe you didn’t want me around that much anymore. You were so busy, and you didn’t notice me,  not even once.”

“I noticed everything,” Chaewon whispered.

Yunjin swallowed. “It felt like I was… fading into the background. And I hated it. I didn’t realize how much I needed your attention until I didn’t have it. I got so used to the way you always cling to me. I thought I hated it sometimes, but… I didn’t. Not really.”

Chaewon smiled softly against her chest.

“I took it for granted,” Yunjin mumbled. “All your hugs. All your stares. Your dumb little texts during vocal warmups. You always holding my hand, or fixing my mic, or sitting on my lap for no reason. It was so normal, I didn’t even realize how much it meant until it disappeared.”

Chaewon looked up then, her eyes glassy but warm. “You never faded, Yunjin. You’re the brightest thing in every room I walk into.”

Yunjin blinked back the sting of tears.

“And the reason I stopped being clingy wasn’t because I wanted space,” Chaewon added. “It’s because I had to be a leader. But, it doesn’t mean I stopped being your girlfriend. I never stopped needing you.”

Then, Chaewon leaned up again, her eyes half-lidded but focused, unreadable and tender all at once.

“I noticed everything,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to Yunjin’s forehead.

Another kiss, this one to her temple.

“I noticed you flirting with Sakura.” Her lips brushed Yunjin’s cheekbone.

Yunjin shivered.

“I noticed the outfits. The cropped shirts. The low backs. That stage fit with the boots and… god, Yunjin,” Chaewon sighed, placing a lingering kiss just below her ear. “You know what that did to me?”

Yunjin let out a shaky breath, her grip tightening around Chaewon’s shoulders.

“And I noticed the pouty looks. The sighs. The way you lit up when I spared one glance your way. I saw it all.” Another kiss, softer this time, pressed to her jawline. “And it killed me not to give you what you wanted.”

Yunjin whimpered, not even trying to hold back the soft sound that escaped her lips when Chaewon’s kisses ghosted lower to her neck, warm, slow, adoring.

“Chaewon…”

Chaewon hummed against her skin. “I love you.”

Yunjin’s breath caught.

“I love your stubbornness. Your smile. The way your whole face scrunches when you laugh too hard. The way your hands are always cold and your heart is always warm.”

She kissed just beneath Yunjin’s jaw, gently now, more reverent than teasing. “I will never stop worshipping you. Not when I’m busy. Not when I’m tired. Not even when I’m mad.”

Yunjin’s eyes fluttered shut, head tipping back just slightly as Chaewon kissed the curve of her neck again, a soft moan escaping her before she could stop it.

“I love you,” Chaewon whispered once more.

And then, finally, she leaned back up, eyes shining, and captured Yunjin’s lips with her own.

It was slower this time.

Full of love. Full of meaning.

A kiss that said, I’m yours. And I never stopped being.

Yunjin melted into her, the warmth of Chaewon's body seeping through her clothes, igniting a fire within her.

Chaewon deepened the kiss, her tongue exploring Yunjin's mouth with a tenderness that made Yunjin's heart race. Her hands roamed down Yunjin's body, tracing the curves of her hips before settling on her thighs.

Her fingers found their way under Yunjin's top, teasing the soft skin of her stomach before moving up to her breasts. She played with Yunjin's nipples through her bra, rolling them gently between her fingers, eliciting soft moans from Yunjin.

Chaewon‘s lips trailed kisses down Yunjin's neck, her breath hot against her skin.

"I want to make you feel good," She murmured, her voice a low, husky whisper. "I want to show you how much I love you."

Yunjin's eyes fluttered open, meeting Chaewon's intense gaze. She nodded, her voice barely a whisper. "Please."

Chaewon's hand slid down Yunjin's body, cupping her through her skirt. She rubbed gently, feeling Yunjin's heat and wetness even through the fabric. Yunjin bucked against her hand, seeking more friction. Chaewon smiled, a soft, wicked curve of her lips.

She unzipped Yunjin's skirt, her fingers deftly working the zipper down.

Yunjin lifted her hips, allowing Chaewon to slide her hand into her underwear.

Chaewon's fingers found Yunjin's clit, rubbing it in slow, gentle circles. Yunjin gasped, her head falling back as Chaewon's other hand continued to tease her nipples.

"Chae," Yunjin whimpered. "I need more, please."

"Patience, my love," Chaewon's fingers slipped lower, dipping into Yunjin's wetness before sliding back up to her clit. She repeated the motion, her touch feather-light and teasing.

Yunjin squirmed, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Chaewon's lips captured hers in a deep, passionate kiss, swallowing her moans.

Suddenly, Chaewon remembered the way Yunjin had flirted with Sakura, Kazuha, and the backup dancer. A surge of possessiveness and desire coursed through her. She wanted to claim Yunjin, to make her forget anyone else existed.

"You've been teasing me all week," Chaewon's fingers plunged into Yunjin, moving with a roughness that took them both by surprise. "You don't know what you do to me, Yun. How much I missed the feeling of your skin on mine. How much I missed your cuddles. How much I wanted to just throw my responsibilities away and run in your arms." She curled her fingers, directly hitting that special spot that drove her girlfriend crazy. 

Yunjin cried out, her hips bucking against Chaewon’s hand.

Chaewon's thumb found Yunjin's clit, rubbing it in firm, demanding circles.

"Chae—Chaewonnie," Yunjin panted, her voice a mix of surprise and pleasure. "I'm—I'm close. Faster, please."

Chaewon obliged, her fingers moving faster, harder. She captured Yunjin's lips in a bruising kiss, her tongue mimicking the motion of her fingers.

Yunjin moaned into her mouth, her body tensing as Chaewon brought her closer to the edge.

"Come for me, sweetheart," Chaewon commanded, her voice soft yet dominant. "Let me feel you fall apart."

Yunjin‘s orgasm hit her like a wave, her body convulsing as she cried out Chaewon's name.

Chaewon kissed her through it, her fingers slowing but not stopping until Yunjin's body went limp against hers.

Chaewon pulled her fingers out, bringing them to her lips. She sucked them clean, her eyes never leaving Yunjin's.

Yunjin watched, her breath coming in short gasps, a flush spreading across her cheeks.

"Mine," Chaewon murmured, capturing Yunjin's lips in a soft, tender kiss. "Always mine."

Yunjin melted into her, a soft smile playing on her lips. "Yours," she whispered back, her voice filled with love and contentment. "Always yours."

When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathless, flushed and dazed and smiling like fools in love.

Chaewon raised her hand between them and held out her pinky.

“I can’t always be perfect,” she said softly, “but I promise, even when I’m busy, I’ll try my best to make time for you. Always.”

Yunjin blinked at the pinky for a moment, then gently wrapped her own around it.

She grinned.

“I pinky swear I’ll annoy you until you do.”

Chaewon chuckled, tugging her close again, their foreheads touching as they swayed slightly in the quiet of their little world.

"I love you, Yunjinnie."

"And, I love you, Chaewonnie."

---

Chapter Text

The crowd's roar still echoed in their ears as the last notes of their final song faded into a symphony of screams and flashing lights. The stage was bathed in golden glow, sweat glistening on every member of LE SSERAFIM as they took their positions at the front, forming a line shoulder to shoulder. Their heavy breaths were matched only by the wild rhythm of thousands of hearts beating just beyond the barricade.

Yunjin reached for the mic first, her cheeks pink and gleaming. “Thank you so much for tonight!” she called, eyes shining. “You all gave us so much energy. Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever screamed so loud in my life!”

Eunchae bounced beside her, nearly dropping her mic. “You guys were so loud! I thought my eardrums were gonna explode!”

The fans screamed in response.

Kazuha leaned forward gently, her calm voice warm. “It was an honour performing for you. We could really feel your love tonight.”

Sakura, always composed, smiled as she stepped forward. “Please get home safe. Eat well, drink water, and… come back next time, okay?”

Chaewon, standing in the middle, lifted her mic last. Her voice wasn’t loud, it never had to be. It was the quiet sincerity that made everyone hush. “You mean everything to us. Thank you for trusting us. Thank you for being here. We’ll keep working hard… so please, keep watching over us.”

The cheers reached a crescendo, and the five girls clasped hands, bowed low in unison, and held the pose a second longer than usual.

The stage lights cut. The fans kept cheering, but the show was over.

Backstage, the shift in energy was instant.

Eunchae was the first to move, practically sprinting toward the water bottles lined up at the staff table. “I’m dying! Give me three!”

Kazuha laughed breathlessly, jogging behind her. “You say that after every concert.”

Sakura offered a quiet “Thank you,” to a nearby staff member as she took a towel, wiping the sweat from her face and neck in practiced, graceful motions. She moved with the elegant exhaustion of a dancer used to hiding how tired she really was.

Yunjin, however, still buzzed with kinetic energy. Her eyes sparkled under the dim backstage lights, skin glowing with post-performance adrenaline. A staff member approached with a chilled water bottle and she accepted it with both hands, bowing slightly. “Thank you!” she beamed, then chugged it halfway in one go, still practically bouncing in place.

Chaewon, meanwhile, quietly slipped away from the chaos. Her steps were lighter now, the invisible weight of leader-mode briefly lifted. She made her way to the dressing rooms, one hand already tugging at the edge of her costume jacket. Her breathing was steadying, but her mind was still replaying moments from the stage. The crowd. The timing. That one missed cue during the bridge, she filed it away mentally for later.

Inside her dressing room, the air was cool. A welcome relief. She stripped out of her stage outfit with automatic motions, slipping into a loose white t-shirt and soft black joggers, tugging her hair out of its tight ponytail and letting it fall around her shoulders.

She took a breath. Deep, grounding. The adrenaline was fading, and with it came the ache in her calves and shoulders, the weight behind her eyes. But it wasn’t unpleasant. This was the kind of exhaustion that came from giving everything. And it felt right.

She grabbed her phone off the vanity, intending to check in on the others, and then stopped.

Because the moment she opened the door, someone was standing there.

A man. Ew.

One of the backup dancers. What was his name..? Mina? ...No, wait, that's a Twice member. 

He straightened abruptly when he saw her, like he hadn’t been expecting her to appear so quickly.

“Ah—” he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey. Uh. Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

Chaewon blinked, taken aback. “Oh… no, it’s fine.”

Her voice was polite, neutral. But her body remained half in the doorway, fingers still curled loosely around the doorframe. She didn’t know him well—had seen him in rehearsals, sure, but barely exchanged more than a few nods.

He smiled, a little nervous, like he’d practiced this. “I just… wanted to say, you were really amazing on stage tonight. Like really amazing.”

Chaewon’s eyes widened just slightly. Compliments weren’t rare, but the intensity of his tone caught her off guard.

“Oh,” she said after a beat. “Um. Thank you.”

She gave a small bow, awkward, unsure of what else to say.

The man looked hopeful now, encouraged. “I mean it. You have this… presence. Like, real charisma. Every time I looked up from my cues, my eyes would always land on you.”

There was a pause.

Chaewon’s polite smile held. “That’s… nice of you to say.”

It wasn’t that she was cold. Just confused. Her instincts didn’t flare with warning, but they didn’t light up with connection either. There was a wall, soft, subtle, but unmistakable.

The dancer chuckled lightly, trying to ease the silence. “Sorry, I probably sound weird. I just thought… you should know. Not everyone has that kind of energy.”

Chaewon gave the backup dancer a polite smile, still standing just inside the doorway of her dressing room, the cool air brushing her neck now that she was changed and finally comfortable.

He was still talking, something about her "presence," her "energy," and how “some people are just magnetic on stage.”

It wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful. She was. It was nice, in a vague kind of way.

But something about the way he looked at her… it made her skin itch. Not from fear, just discomfort. Like she was being placed on a pedestal she hadn’t asked for.

She opened her mouth to say something, maybe to end the conversation gently, when something else caught her eye.

Someone.

A flash of familiar auburn-red hair across the hallway. A glint of water bottle condensation clutched in one hand. That chaotic gait. That flushed, post-performance glow.

Yunjin.

She was walking toward the dressing room cluster, face half-turned as she laughed at something Eunchae shouted behind her.

Chaewon’s heart flipped.

Her girlfriend hadn’t seen her yet, not with the way her head was tilted slightly back, water bottle now pressed to her lips. The edges of her grin curled high and uninhibited, happy in that wild, unfiltered way only Yunjin could pull off. Her cheeks were still a little pink from the stage. Her oversized hoodie hung loosely over her frame, and her socks didn’t match. Not even close.

She was perfect.

Everything else dropped out of Chaewon’s mind. The dancer’s compliment faded. His presence became a blur. A pebble on the sidewalk.

Nothing else mattered.

“Yunjinnie!” Chaewon called, her voice lifting with a sudden, girlish burst of joy.

The effect was immediate.

Yunjin looked up, eyes lighting like twin suns. “Chaewonnie!”

She barely had time to react before Chaewon bolted forward, forgetting all sense of propriety, dignity, or the fact that she was a professional artist who had just performed for thousands. She didn’t care.

She ran—sprinted—the few feet between them, launching herself into Yunjin’s arms with all the force of a girl who hadn’t seen her favorite person in weeks instead of twenty minutes.

Their bodies collided with a soft oof, Yunjin staggering half a step back but catching her with ease.

Chaewon wrapped her arms tightly around Yunjin’s neck, face buried in her shoulder, all warm laughter and breathless relief. “I missed you.”

Yunjin let out a bright, astonished giggle, arms circling Chaewon’s waist instantly. “Babe, we were on the same stage twenty minutes ago.”

“I don’t care.” Chaewon leaned back just enough to beam up at her, cheeks flushed. “You were too far away. I needed this far.”

Yunjin laughed again, cheeks glowing as she cradled Chaewon against her chest like a prize she wasn’t letting go of. “You’re so clingy after shows.”

“You smell like strawberries and glory,” Chaewon mumbled, nuzzling her nose into Yunjin’s neck.

The backup dancer stood frozen in the hallway.

He had been mid-sentence when it happened. One second Chaewon had been looking at him, soft-spoken, slightly awkward, but at least listening, and the next… she was gone. Eyes locked on someone else. A red-haired blur that stole her entire focus like gravity bending toward a sun.

He hadn’t even registered the full force of it until Chaewon had said the name. That casual, sweetened “Yunjinnie,” the kind of name you only called someone when you knew them. Really knew them.

The hug, the laugh, the way Chaewon’s fingers curled into the back of Yunjin’s hoodie like she needed something to hold onto to keep from floating away, it was intimate.

His throat tightened.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

That girl. The one who always had that wild energy in rehearsals. The one who talked with her hands and danced like her blood was music. The one Chaewon kept glancing at during sound check. Her.

Huh Yunjin.

He watched, silent and burning, as Chaewon leaned back just far enough to press a featherlight kiss to Yunjin’s cheek. Soft. Thoughtless.

Yunjin blinked, giggling at the surprise affection. “Are you okay? You usually get this clingy when you’re hungry or sleepy.”

“I’m both,” Chaewon said. “And I need you first.”

“Okay, that was smooth,” Yunjin said with mock-serious approval.

The backup dancer finally turned away, jaw tight. He walked away before either of them noticed him standing there like a fool.

Meanwhile, Chaewon tugged Yunjin down for another cuddle, voice soft in her ear. “Let’s go hide somewhere for five minutes.”

Yunjin smiled. “You want to sneak off?”

Chaewon grinned. “I want to breathe with you.”

“God, you’re cute.”

It was supposed to be a chill night.

They had finished their last performance of the week. Everyone’s bones were tired, their muscles sore, their souls in need of healing. So, they made a plan: no fancy reservations, no fanfare, just a casual, cozy dinner at a lowkey place Chaewon had picked out for its soft lighting, good food, and almost zero chance of running into paparazzi.

The restaurant was warmly lit, tucked into a side street, quiet but still lively enough to feel alive. The air was filled with the scent of sizzling meat, garlic butter, and just a hint of citrus.

They arrived half an hour after the dinner rush and were guided to a private booth near the back, a long corner seat wrapping around a large wooden table. Chaewon sat near the middle, with Yunjin beside her—Yunjin, who immediately took off her jacket and sprawled out like she owned the place. Sakura and Kazuha were across from them, knees knocking under the table within five minutes.

Eunchae slid in beside Yunjin, grinning as she smacked her menu down on the table and declared, “I want everything.”

It started out normal. Really.

They chatted about the show, teased each other over minor dance mistakes, and gushed over a fan gift someone had handed to Yunjin. Chaewon rolled her eyes as Yunjin recited the note out loud in a dramatic voice like she was reading Shakespeare. Sakura chuckled behind her hand while Kazuha just gazed at her, looking like she hadn’t heard a single word but found her girlfriend fascinating anyway.

Eunchae was happy. Warmed by their laughter, their energy. Being the youngest didn’t make her feel left out, if anything, she liked watching them all interact. Her chaotic sisters. Loud, dramatic, ridiculous.

It started with one drink.

Just one. Yunjin had chosen a fruity wine because it looked pink and flirty. Kazuha went for a cocktail with a slice of pineapple and a tiny paper umbrella, purely because it came with a sparkler.

Chaewon narrowed her eyes the second the drinks touched the table. “One,” she said again, staring at Yunjin like she was making a pact with a demon.

Sakura nodded in agreement, turning to Kazuha. “One, Zuha. You get flirty when you’re tipsy, and I will not have to wrestle you out of the DJ booth again.”

Kazuha blinked. “But, there’s no DJ booth here.”

“Exactly.”

Eunchae, sipping her cola with a wide grin, chirped, “Let them live a little!”

“You’re eighteen,” Chaewon snapped. “You’re supposed to be the innocent one.”

“I’m just here for the show.”

Yunjin raised her glass dramatically. “To beautiful girlfriends! Who try so hard… so hard to stop us from being ourselves.”

Kazuha giggled and clinked her glass with Yunjin’s. “To being ourselves.”

And that’s where it all began.

Within fifteen minutes, both girls had downed their drinks and ordered more, this time without consulting anyone.

Yunjin waved the waiter over with a flirtatious grin. “Two tequila sunrises. Actually, no—four. We’re warming up.”

Chaewon’s mouth fell open. “You are not warming up!”

“I’m a furnace, baby,” Yunjin said, blowing her a dramatic kiss.

Kazuha leaned into Sakura’s side. “Is it hot in here or is that just you?”

Sakura blinked. “Zuha, that’s your third drink.”

“Third time’s the charm,” Kazuha whispered.

By the time round three of drinks arrived, both girls were slouched dramatically against each other in the booth, cheeks flushed, voices louder than anyone else in the restaurant.

Kazuha was narrating the contents of the menu like she was doing voice acting for an anime villain.

Yunjin was trying to balance two edamame beans on her upper lip like a walrus.

Eunchae was living for it, doubled over with laughter. “This is the best night of my life.”

Chaewon buried her face in her hands. “This is a disaster.”

“You’re just mad because you didn’t get the edamame tusks,” Yunjin slurred, winking at her.

Sakura reached over and slowly pulled the chopsticks out of Kazuha’s ponytail, why they were in there, no one knew. “Let me help before you accidentally impale someone.”

“No one would mind if she impaled me,” Yunjin declared, dramatically clutching her heart. “Kazuha is hot. She’s like a… sexy assassin ballerina.”

Kazuha struck a pose. “And you’re my muse.”

“I thought I was your muse?” Sakura asked dryly.

“You’re my soulmate. That’s different.”

Sakura flushed. “Oh. Okay, then.”

Yunjin turned to Kazuha. “Let’s do a sexy toast.”

Kazuha giggled. “What are we toasting?”

“To girls who look like angels and kiss like devils.”

“To thighs strong enough to crush a watermelon.”

“To girlfriends who scold us and tie us up.”

“Yunjin!” Chaewon nearly choked on her water.

Sakura blinked at her girlfriend. “Zuha!”

Kazuha bit her lip innocently. “I meant in a supportive way…”

Chaewon glared. “You are never drinking again.”

Yunjin leaned forward on the table, grinning like a menace. “But unnie~ we’re being good. We haven’t even danced on the table yet.”

“You’re wearing a skirt!” Chaewon hissed.

Kazuha snorted. “That never stopped me.”

"Don't we perform in skirts?" Yunjin questioned. 

“Stop encouraging each other!” Sakura said, grabbing Kazuha’s drink just as she reached for it again.

“But baby, I’m parched,” Kazuha pouted.

“You’re unhinged.”

Yunjin poked Chaewon’s arm. “Why are you so pretty when you’re mad?”

“Why are you trying to die before dessert?”

“I am your dessert.”

Everyone froze.

Kazuha dropped her chopsticks. Sakura froze in horror. Eunchae screamed into her hands.

Chaewon turned slowly. “Huh. Yunjin.”

Yunjin batted her lashes. “Yes, love of my life?”

“You’re sleeping on the couch.”

“With you?”

“Oh my God,” Chaewon groaned.

Kazuha clapped slowly. “Queen behavior.”

Yunjin turned to her and said, “Tag team?”

“Always.”

Before either of them could get up and actually do anything, Sakura reached across the table and grabbed Kazuha’s wrist like she was about to arrest her.

“You. Sit. Down.”

Kazuha blinked up at her, dazed. “…You’re hot when you’re threatening me.”

“Stop talking.”

Eunchae was losing it, hiding behind a napkin, shoulders shaking from how hard she was laughing.

“You two are the worst drunks,” Chaewon said, eyes twitching.

Yunjin leaned across the table, both elbows down, head tilted with mock seduction. “Then maybe you should… punish me.”

“Yunjin.”

Eunchae choked.

Sakura threw a piece of lettuce at her. Yunjin didn’t flinch. She caught it. And ate it.

Kazuha collapsed onto Sakura’s shoulder. “Please take me home. Tie me to the bed.”

“I’m going to knock you out,” Sakura said, patting her cheek.

“Use handcuffs.”

Eunchae shrieked. “I CAN’T DO THIS. I’M A CHILD.”

“You’re eighteen!” Chaewon and Sakura shouted together.

Yunjin raised her glass, still mostly full. “To being in love with women who could kill us.”

Kazuha raised hers too. “And hoping they do.”

Chaewon blinked. “We’re calling the bill.”

“I haven’t even kissed you tonight,” Yunjin pouted.

“Because you taste like tequila and tears.”

“Romantic.”

Sakura held her own glass of water and muttered under her breath, “I’m never letting them drink at the same time again.”

Yunjin and Kazuha clinked their drinks one last time.

“To chaos,” Kazuha declared.

“To thirst,” Yunjin agreed.

“To death,” Eunchae added dramatically, raising her cola.

Chaewon sighed. “To God, if you're listening… help me.”

"Help us." Sakura added.

Morning.

Sunlight leaked through the curtains like it had beef with everyone in the room.

Yunjin stirred first, a soft hum leaving her throat as she shifted under the blanket. Her bare arm brushed against soft, warm skin. She smiled in her half-conscious haze.

“Mmm… Chae…” She cuddled closer to the warmth beside her, nose pressing into a soft shoulder. A gentle sigh.

The warmth responded.

“Mmph… Kkura…”

A matching hum. A lazy hand slid across Yunjin’s waist.

Yunjin giggled in her sleep. “Getting handsy already?”

The other figure snorted. “You’re the one spooning me…”

A pause.

A twitch.

Two sets of eyes blinked open at the exact same time.

Two slow, sleepy blinks. Two bleary, confused stares. Then—

“AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

Yunjin and Kazuha launched away from each other like they’d been tasered, limbs flailing as they scrambled in opposite directions on the mattress.

“WHY ARE YOU IN MY BED?!” Yunjin shrieked.

“WHY AM I IN YOUR BED?!” Kazuha screamed back.

“WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING ME?!”

“YOU WERE TOUCHING ME!”

They both glanced down at themselves and immediately shrieked again.

“WHY AM I IN MY UNDERWEAR?!”

“OH MY GOD I’M IN MY BRA—COVER YOURSELF!!”

“YOU COVER YOURSELF!!”

They yanked the comforter up, each curling into their own side of the bed, wide-eyed, sweaty, and mentally spiraling.

“I—did we—?!” Kazuha clutched her head.

“OH MY GOD I CHEATED,” Yunjin wailed. “SHE’S GONNA KILL ME—MY LIFE IS OVER—I DON’T EVEN LIKE YOU THAT WAY—NO OFFENSE—”

“NONE TAKEN BUT SAME!!” Kazuha shouted.

“I don’t even remember anything—what if we kissed?!”

“WHAT IF WE DID MORE THAN KISS?!”

“I’M GOING TO VOMIT.”

“PLEASE DON’T.”

The door suddenly slammed open.

“What happened?!” Eunchae burst in, hair a mess, holding her phone like she was ready to call 911.

Yunjin immediately pointed at her like a dramatic court plaintiff. “EXPLAIN WHY I WOKE UP HALF-NAKED IN BED WITH ZUHA!”

“AND WHY I THINK I CHEATED ON MY GIRLFRIEND!” Kazuha added, still clutching the blanket to her chest.

Eunchae blinked once. Then twice. Then…she cackled. “I told them this would break you two.”

“WHAT IS HAPPENING?” Yunjin shouted, hair sticking up in every direction.

“You guys passed out cold in the van,” Eunchae said, still laughing. “Like, dead asleep. Drooling on each other. We tried to wake you. Nothing.”

“So you… what?! Dumped us in a hotel bed together like a crime scene?!”

“Noooo,” Eunchae said sweetly. “Chaewon and Sakura unnie did.”

“WHAT?!”

“They said it was your punishment for being ‘flirty menaces who made public threats about bed restraints,’” Eunchae explained, casually opening a bottle of water.

“I didn’t threaten! I flirted artistically!” Yunjin whined.

“They wanted peace. So they locked you two in here. Together.”

“Fully clothed?!” Kazuha cried.

Eunchae raised a shoulder in a shrug. “When I checked last night, you were wearing your clothes. I think you just… got hot and started stripping in your sleep. You probably thought you were with your girlfriends.”

Kazuha buried her face in her hands. “I hate everything.”

“I spooned you,” Yunjin whispered, mortified. “I whispered Chaewon’s name into your neck.”

Kazuha groaned. “I stroked your waist. I THOUGHT YOU WERE SAKURA.”

“You said I was getting handsy!”

“I WAS ASLEEP!”

Eunchae was wiping tears from her eyes now. “This is even better than I imagined.”

“You imagined this?!” Yunjin howled.

“They planned it,” Eunchae said, proudly. “They told me not to say anything unless you screamed.”

“WE SCREAMED,” Yunjin said dramatically. “MULTIPLE TIMES.”

Eunchae looked entirely unbothered. “Anyway, your girlfriends are making pancakes.”

Yunjin and Kazuha stared at her.

“You’re telling me… after all this… we could’ve woken up to pancakes with our actual girlfriends?”

Eunchae nodded.

Yunjin turned to Kazuha. “Pact. We never speak of this again.”

“Agreed,” Kazuha whispered. “We take it to the grave.”

“After we shower and burn these blankets.”

“Deal.”

Eunchae leaned on the doorframe, grinning ear to ear. “Just so you know, Chaewon said if you ever drink like that again, she will duct tape you to the bed.”

“…Why did that sound like a threat and a promise?” Yunjin muttered.

“Because it was both,” Eunchae said with a wink. “Good luck explaining this one.”

And with that, she skipped out, leaving two flustered, half-naked lesbians in a tangle of regret and blanket fabric.

“Next time,” Yunjin groaned, falling back against the pillows. “Just let me die at the restaurant.”

The door creaked open again.

Yunjin immediately flinched, blanket clutched to her chest like armor. Kazuha sat frozen beside her, equally braced for impact.

Then they heard it. The sound of calm, light footsteps… and a soft voice that somehow chilled them both to their core.

“Morning, traitors.”

Chaewon stood in the doorway with her arms crossed, dressed in comfy sweatpants and one of Yunjin’s oversized hoodies.

Behind her, Sakura leaned against the doorframe, sipping from a matcha latte with the smuggest grin imaginable.

“We—WE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!” Yunjin blurted instantly.

Chaewon narrowed her eyes. “Did I say you did?”

“You’re giving off vibe! You have murder vibe!”

Kazuha panicked beside her. “We swear we didn’t cheat! It was a misunderstanding—clothes fell off! Sleep! There were dreams! I thought she was you!”

Sakura raised a brow. “...You thought Yunjin was me?”

“I WAS ASLEEP!!”

Chaewon walked into the room slowly. “Let me get this straight… you both got blackout drunk, turned dinner into a rated-R musical, scared the waiter so bad he may never speak again, and now you’re waking up half-naked in the same bed.”

Yunjin nodded frantically. “Correct!”

“And you thought I wouldn’t punish you?”

“I thought the hangover was the punishment!”

Chaewon tilted her head. “Oh, baby. That was just the prequel.”

Yunjin audibly whimpered.

Meanwhile, Sakura stepped over and lovingly smacked Kazuha on the forehead with her free hand.

“This is for making me babysit you and Yunjin,” she said sweetly. “And for calling me your ‘tiny sexy emperor’ in front of the entire restaurant staff.”

Kazuha gasped. “I meant it!”

“That’s not the issue.”

“I just thought you should know!”

Sakura just sipped her drink again, unfazed.

Chaewon finally sat at the edge of the bed and looked at Yunjin, who was still wrapped in the comforter like a traumatized burrito.

“Yunjin,” she said gently.

“Yes?”

“Did you learn anything?”

Yunjin blinked. “Yes.”

“What?”

“Don’t order six tequila shots because Kazuha dared me.”

“That’s step one.”

“Step two is: don’t let you out of my sight because you’re scary when you plot.”

“And step three?”

Yunjin leaned in dramatically, wide-eyed. “If I’m not in your bed, don’t take my shirt off.”

Chaewon burst out laughing despite herself.

She leaned over and kissed Yunjin’s forehead. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I’m lucky you haven’t committed homicide,” Yunjin whispered.

“You’re on thin ice.”

Yunjin grinned and tugged her into a hug anyway.

Across the bed, Kazuha was sitting sheepishly as Sakura sat beside her with a sigh. She handed her a bottle of water and muttered, “You drooled on the blanket. You owe me.”

“I’d kiss you to make up for it, but I’m scared you’ll slap me.”

“Correct.”

“But I still want to kiss you.”

“…Fine. One kiss. One.”

Kazuha beamed, leaned forward...and got flicked in the forehead instead.

Sakura smiled. “Punishment first. Romance later.”

“Savage,” Kazuha whispered, holding her face.

Eunchae popped her head back into the room, phone out.

“Smile!”

Click.

“EUNCHAE NO!”

“I’m sending it to our group chat,” she said proudly.

Chaewon pointed at her. “If that goes public, I’m duct taping you to Yunjin for 48 hours.”

“Bet,” Eunchae said, already skipping away.

Sakura sighed and stood. “Let’s go, lovebirds. Pancakes are getting cold.”

Chaewon stood up, ruffling Yunjin’s hair. “After breakfast, you’re cleaning the van.”

“What?!”

“You threw up on it.”

“…Fair.”

Kazuha groaned. “Can I just shower and pretend last night didn’t happen?”

“Nope,” Sakura said. “You flirted with a ficus plant.”

“I thought it was you. It had presence.”

“Unbelievable.”

As they all exited the room, Yunjin still clinging to Chaewon’s arm like a koala and Kazuha trailing behind with puppy eyes at Sakura—they could hear Eunchae from the kitchen yelling:

“Who wants hangover soup and regrets?!”

Yunjin groaned into Chaewon’s shoulder. “Kill me now.”

“You still have to clean the van.”

“Ughhh.”

But even then, even with the chaos… it was kind of perfect.

Because despite everything, this weird, wonderful, unhinged little group?

They were home.

---

Chapter Text

The arena was mostly empty now, stage lights dimmed low, humming faintly overhead. Crew moved like ghosts, quiet, efficient, already preparing for the next city, the next show. A few staff huddled in conversation near the side curtains.

He stood off to the side, pretending to rehydrate, posture casual, expression unreadable. But his eyes were locked on her.

Kim Chaewon.

She sat on the stage floor in her usual quiet strength, legs folded neatly beneath her, elbows resting on her thighs. Her hair was loosely tied, framing her face in soft strands. She looked tired, sweat still clinging to her temples from rehearsal, but beautiful, in that irritating, effortless way.

And in her lap—of course—was her.

Huh Yunjin.

Yunjin was sprawled across Chaewon’s legs like she belonged there. Her head rested on Chaewon’s thigh, red hair spilling out like a curtain of flame across the black fabric of her hoodie. Her arm lay across her stomach, rising and falling slowly with each breath. Her face? Peaceful. Relaxed. Like she wasn’t surrounded by a stage full of people. Like she didn’t care.

But what irritated him—what burned—was Chaewon’s hand.

It moved gently through Yunjin’s hair, over and over. Fingers gliding in absentminded strokes, sometimes pausing to scratch lightly at her scalp. Comforting. Familiar. Almost instinctual.

She wasn’t just petting her. She was soothing her. Like it was second nature.

He swallowed hard, the water bottle crinkling slightly in his grip.

What was this?

Was this some weird leader–member bonding thing? Is this favortism? It didn’t feel like it. It felt… too much.

Too intimate.

Too soft.

He had watched Chaewon for weeks, studied her, admired her. She was exactly the kind of woman men wanted but could never touch. Quiet but commanding. Dignified. Controlled. Beautiful in a classic way, with the kind of face you saw in perfume ads and marble statues.

Every move she made had this calm authority, this impossible grace. And underneath it all—he’d seen it, imagined it—was a body sculpted by years of training. Lean lines. Toned arms. A dancer’s waist. She was fit, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about what she might look like with less on.

That was what made her such a challenge.

So unreachable. So untouchable.

And yet here she was, touching Yunjin like she was something precious.

He clenched his jaw.

He had tried flirting. Polite compliments. “Your stage presence is amazing, Chaewon.” “You really command the floor.” Things most girls loved to hear from a guy like him.

But she’d just nodded. Smiled politely. Moved on.

Didn’t even remember his name.

And yet, when Yunjin flopped into her lap like a child and closed her eyes, Chaewon lit up.

Not visibly. Not in some over-the-top way. But he saw it.

In the soft twitch of her lips.

In the way her other hand gently adjusted the hair clinging to Yunjin’s cheek.

In the small tilt of her head as she listened to the stage manager talk—like she was still paying attention, but also making sure the girl in her lap stayed relaxed, unbothered.

It made no sense.

Yunjin wasn’t even that exceptional.

Sure, she was attractive. Loud, confident, always pulling focus. But not in a way that made her seem elegant. She wasn’t poised like Chaewon. She was flashy. Undisciplined. American.

And yet… Chaewon let her in.

The dancer couldn’t make sense of it. Couldn’t figure out what invisible thread connected them, what unspoken bond gave Yunjin permission to touch and take up space like that.

He didn’t see love.

He only saw someone in his way.

Someone who had something he wanted. No—someone he wanted.

Because it wasn’t about feelings. It wasn’t about connection. He didn’t dream of holding Chaewon’s hand or watching sunsets. He wanted to own her attention.

Wanted to see that body he’d imagined a hundred different ways. Wanted her eyes on him for once. Wanted to feel what it would be like to make someone like her melt under his touch. 

He wanted her. Her beauty. Her body. Her attention. The way she seemed so untouchable on stage and yet gentle off of it. The way she carried herself like she didn’t need anyone, and the insane need he had to be the one she let in.

He could already picture it—Chaewon saying his name in that low, private voice. Letting him close. Letting him have her. But every time he imagined it, Yunjin was in the way.

Smiling.

Laughing.

Lying in her lap like she belonged there.

He didn’t understand it. Couldn’t make sense of it.

Because Chaewon didn’t act like that with anyone else. Not with staff. Not with fans. Not with her own members, even.

Only with her.

And the worst part?

He hadn’t even heard her laugh like that for anyone else. But when Yunjin said something stupid in passing, Chaewon smiled. A real one. The kind where her nose scrunched a little and her eyes went soft like she was the only person on Earth who could read between the chaos.

That girl—Yunjin—was in the way.

A barrier.

A wall.

A problem.

He watched Chaewon now, brushing a few stray strands away from Yunjin’s face, and something snapped.

That should be me.

Not her.

Not that overbearing American girl who acted like she ran the place. Not the one who stumbled around like a lovesick puppy and still got rewarded with Chaewon’s hands in her hair.

What did she have that he didn’t?

What spell had she cast?

What game was she playing to keep Chaewon so locked in?

He stared, jaw tight, chest burning. And in that moment, the jealousy twisted into something sharp. Ugly.

He wasn’t going to lose. He wouldn’t give up just because things looked impossible. He would get Chaewon’s attention. Her focus. Her gaze. Her body. Even if it meant removing the obstacle standing in his way.

No one would even suspect him.

And if something—anything—happened to Huh Yunjin…

Then maybe Chaewon would finally open her eyes.

And see him.

Yunjin stood off to the side of the rehearsal hall, fingers wrapped tightly around her water bottle as she took another sip she didn’t need. The cool liquid hit her throat, but it didn’t soothe the tension crawling under her skin. Her fingers curled tighter around her water bottle, the plastic crinkling slightly in her grasp. Her heart had started beating a little too fast. For no reason. Or at least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

She tried to shake it off. Tried. But, the feeling wouldn’t leave.

That creeping, stifling awareness. Like eyes were on her again. Like someone was staring, not admiring, not curious, but watching in the kind of way that made your spine stiffen and your body coil tight, ready to move, to run.

Her tongue felt dry. She sipped from her bottle again, too fast this time, and coughed into her sleeve. She scanned the room carefully.

Her members were scattered, Sakura chatting with staff, Eunchae stretching on the mats, Kazuha off near the mirrors. 

Then there was him. That dancer. Min-ho. 

Standing on the far end of the stage, leaning against the rigging equipment, head tilted slightly, eyes on her. Again. His arms were crossed, expression blank, but that didn’t comfort her. It never comforted her.

There was something cold behind that stare. Something twisted in the way he seemed to look straight through her, like she was in the way. Like she was something to endure. Or erase.

Yunjin looked away quickly, trying to mask the sudden chill crawling over her skin.

You’re imagining things. Maybe he’s just tired. Maybe he zones out like that. Maybe he’s looking at the wall behind you.

But she didn’t believe herself anymore. Not after the last few days.

Min-ho was friendly enough around Chaewon—too friendly. He laughed with her, leaned in close, complimented her dancing, asked questions during breaks, even offered to grab her water sometimes. His voice got lighter, sweeter. Yunjin had watched it all.

He wasn’t like that with her.

He wasn’t like that with anyone else.

With Sakura, Eunchae, Kazuha, he was polite. Neutral. Professional.

But with her?

He was different. Colder. Stiffer. He never smiled at her. Never greeted her unless it was forced. And when he looked at her...

There was something else in his eyes.

Resentment?

Contempt?

Why? Yunjin couldn’t think of a single thing she’d done to him. Had she bumped into him one day? Said something wrong in passing? Had she laughed too loud nearby and accidentally annoyed him?

She didn’t know.

But she felt it.

Every time he was near, her body knew.

Yunjin told herself it was just nerves. She was tired. Overthinking. Maybe the post-concert adrenaline hadn’t fully faded. But that explanation had started to feel like a lie even she didn’t believe anymore.

Because every time she looked over her shoulder...

Min-ho was there.

Always nearby. Always silent. Always watching.

The first time she noticed, he was standing too close backstage, close enough to hear the private words she was whispering into Chaewon’s ear. He’d smiled at her when she looked up, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

The second time, she caught him in the mirror.

She’d been fixing her in-ears, distracted, laughing with Sakura. But in the reflection, Min-ho was staring. Not in awe. Not with the admiration fans sometimes showed. No, this was darker. Sharper. His gaze was fixed and unreadable, his mouth a tight line, jaw flexed. It wasn’t even neutral, it was angry.

At her.

And only at her.

Her stomach tightened. Her muscles tensed without her meaning to. Her jaw clenched just slightly, her tongue pressing to the roof of her mouth as if bracing herself for something. Every time she stepped into the rehearsal space and saw him, that invisible weight settled across her shoulders again.

A heaviness she couldn’t shake.

She was halfway through telling herself again that maybe she was overreacting. 

When she looked up and saw him. Min-ho was walking straight toward her.

Her stomach twisted.

He wasn’t walking fast, just calmly, like anyone else crossing the floor, but her body stiffened all the same. Every inch of her told her to move. To step back. To hide.

She didn’t.

Couldn’t.

He passed her with inches to spare, and in that brief, charged moment, their eyes locked. His expression was unreadable, blank, almost, but his stare was sharp. Too sharp. Like a scalpel glinting under dim light. His eyes didn’t just meet hers; they searched.

Dissected.

Hated.

Yunjin’s breath caught in her throat.

He didn’t say anything. Not a single word. Just shouldered into her as he passed, hard enough to send her stumbling one step sideways.

The water bottle slipped in her hand. Her heart jolted.

He kept walking. No glance back. No apology.

Like she was invisible. Like she was in the way.

Yunjin stood frozen, the dull ache in her shoulder blooming beneath her hoodie.

It wasn’t nothing.

It wasn’t in her head.

She didn’t know what she’d done, or what he thought she’d done, but something was wrong. Very wrong.

And for the first time in a long time, Huh Yunjin was scared.

Not the kind of scared that came with stage nerves or choreography mistakes.

The kind that lived under your skin and whispered: “You’re being hunted.”

Yunjin made her way back toward the stage, each step heavier than the last. She kept her head slightly down, pretending to study the floor as her fingers absently twisted the cap on her water bottle.

Don’t think about it. Just smile. Breathe. You’re fine. It’s fine.

But her hands were still shaking slightly.

The buzz of chatter, laughter, and casual rehearsal noise filled the air again, comforting in its normalcy, but it felt like she was moving through static. Like she didn’t quite belong in the moment.

When she saw Chaewon sitting in one of the folding chairs near the stage monitors, scrolling calmly on her phone, something loosened in Yunjin’s chest. Her heartbeat didn’t slow, but her feet carried her forward anyway, as if her body knew that if anywhere was safe right now… it was her.

Chaewon looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Her face instantly lit up, soft and sweet, the way it always did when she saw Yunjin, but that smile slowly faded when her eyes narrowed.

Her brows furrowed as she noticed the distressed expression clouding her girlfriend's face.

“Yunjinnie?” she called gently.

Yunjin blinked like she’d just been pulled from underwater.

“Yeah?” Her voice was just a little too high. Her eyes too wide.

Chaewon’s phone dropped to her lap. She studied her carefully, how Yunjin's smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, how the tension still sat in her shoulders, how her fingers clutched that poor water bottle like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, voice low but firm.

Yunjin hesitated, and then sighed.

Chaewon reached out without another word and took her hand. “Come here.”

Before Yunjin could respond, she was gently tugged forward and down.

“Wait—Chae—”

Chaewon pulled her onto her lap with practiced ease, arms wrapping around her waist until Yunjin was seated facing her, legs straddling her thighs, the two of them chest to chest.

Yunjin let out a startled shriek. “Yah! You’re too small for this! I'm too big! You’re gonna fold in half—”

“I’m fine,” Chaewon said calmly, ignoring her complaints as she settled her grip, hands firm on Yunjin’s waist like she wasn’t going to let go anytime soon.

Yunjin scowled, cheeks flushed. “You can’t just grab people like that. You’re literally five foot—”

“Jin-ah.” Chaewon didn't usually use that nickname unless she was worried. Her voice had turned soft now.

All teasing gone.

Yunjin looked down.

Chaewon’s gaze was searching, quiet, so impossibly tender. The kind of look that didn’t demand answers, it invited them. Gently. With patience. With care.

“I know something’s bothering you,” she said.

Yunjin’s lips pressed together. She bit her bottom one.

Her body shifted slightly on Chaewon’s lap, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her own shirt, unsure. Should I say it? She didn’t want to ruin the mood. Didn’t want to be the anxious one. Didn’t want to burden Chaewon with something she couldn’t even fully explain yet.

But then she would give her that look again.

Those eyes.

Warm. Steady. Unshakable.

And suddenly, Yunjin wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep pretending she was fine.

“Jin-ah,” Chaewon called again, this time softer, but with a thread of worry unmistakably laced in her voice.

Yunjin’s gaze shifted, just for a second. She looked past Chaewon’s shoulder, to the spot where she had been standing earlier… the exact place where Min-ho had bumped into her. Her shoulder still tingled from the weight of it, the brush of his cold presence still clinging to her like cobwebs. She clenched her jaw, then turned back to her girlfriend, exhaling slowly through her nose.

“Does… Min-ho seem weird to you?” she asked, voice careful.

Chaewon blinked. “Who?”

Yunjin’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Choi Min-ho?”

There was a blank pause. Chaewon tilted her head slightly, brows pinched in confusion.

“The dancer,” Yunjin prompted. “You know—his shoe flew off that one time he tried break-dancing and almost took out one of the lighting rigs?”

Chaewon’s eyes finally lit up. “Ohhh. Him.”

Yunjin let out a little breathy chuckle, something soft and stunned. She was genuinely surprised Chaewon didn’t know his name, didn’t even recognize who she was talking about at first.

Somehow… that made her feel better. Just a bit.

“What about him?” Chaewon asked, eyes narrowing slightly now in curiosity, her hand rubbing small, absentminded circles into Yunjin’s waist.

Yunjin hesitated. “I was just asking if… I don’t know. If he seemed kinda weird to you?”

Chaewon shrugged. “I guess? I don’t really pay attention to him that much.” She said it so casually, like talking about a stranger at the bus stop. Her voice wasn’t dismissive, exactly, but it was clear. Unbothered. Detached.

“In my head, I just assumed he has a bias or something,” she continued with a slight roll of her eyes. “He keeps approaching me or complimenting something random. Like my shoes. Or… my water bottle, one time?” She gave a small, dry laugh. “He’s probably just one of those guys who shoots his shot with every pretty girl he sees.”

Yunjin’s lips twitched upward, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Chaewon’s fingers tapped gently against her hip. “But I don’t really care. He’s irrelevant to me.”

That word—irrelevant—echoed in Yunjin’s chest like a shield.

Still, she bit her lip.

Should she tell her?

Should I tell her that he looks at me like he’s got something to prove? That it’s not just indifference, it’s hostility?

Should I tell her that I feel watched? Hunted, even?

But if she did… Chaewon would act.

That much Yunjin knew for certain.

Chadewon would report it. She would confront him. And if it turned out to be nothing but Yunjin’s overactive nerves, the kind of blurry discomfort that didn’t hold up under professional scrutiny… it would become her word against vague vibes.

That could backfire. On both of them.

So Yunjin smiled. Just a little. Just enough.

“Nothing,” she said. “I was just overthinking.”

Chaewon tilted her head, not entirely convinced. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Yunjin nodded, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from Chaewon’s cheek. “I think I’m just… worried about my performances. I haven’t been sleeping well. I keep second-guessing myself.”

Chaewon’s expression softened immediately.

Her fingers squeezed gently at Yunjin’s waist, and then one hand rose to cradle her cheek. “Baby,” she murmured, voice all velvet and warmth. “You’re doing amazing.”

“I don’t know…”

“No. I do know,” Chaewon said firmly, brushing her thumb under Yunjin’s eye with the lightest touch. “You’re the heart of this stage. You light it up. Every single time.”

Yunjin’s breath caught a little in her throat.

Chaewon leaned in and kissed the corner of her lips. “And I see how hard you’re working.”

Another kiss, this time to her temple. “And how much you care.”

A final kiss, placed delicately just between her brows. “So give yourself a little grace, alright?”

Yunjin exhaled shakily, leaning her forehead against Chaewon’s.

“I’ll try,” she whispered.

“Good.” Chaewon smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “And if you forget, I’ll remind you. As many times as it takes.”

And just like that, the tension in Yunjin’s chest unraveled slightly, not gone, but eased, even if just for now.

But somewhere in the back of her mind… Min-ho’s cold gaze lingered.

And Yunjin wasn’t sure how long she could keep that fear hidden.

It was just after dance practice when Min-ho made his first real move.

Chaewon was stretching quietly in the corner, tying her hair up, a sheen of sweat on her collarbone. She was minding her business, headphones in, water bottle at her feet, when he crouched beside her and tapped her elbow lightly.

She blinked, pulling one earbud out.

“You’re… incredible,” he said. “The way you carry the stage. There’s this… commanding aura to you. It’s… attractive.”

Chaewon tilted her head. “…Thanks?” She didn’t sound moved. Just startled, like she’d been pulled out of a nap too fast.

Min-ho tried to hold her gaze. “Seriously. I’ve worked with a lot of performers, but you? You’re different.”

Chaewon blinked again, then nodded once and smiled politely. “Appreciate it.”

She reached for her water bottle, the conversation clearly over.

Behind them, Yunjin—who had paused mid-shoulder roll—stiffened. Her lips were parted slightly, like she was going to say something but didn’t. She just turned around, walking away slowly, clutching her drink like an anchor. She didn't know why she felt guilty for hearing that.

During choreo drills, Min-ho slid toward Chaewon again, subtly switching places with another dancer to end up beside her.

Chaewon looked confused. “Wait—weren’t you behind Kazuha?”

“She said it was fine,” he lied. “Figured I’d get a better feel for your rhythm this way.”

Yunjin, mid-step across the floor, tripped slightly when she noticed. Her breath caught in her throat. Again?

Before Chaewon could answer, Kazuha suddenly appeared, hands on her hips, ponytail swaying.

“Actually,” Zuha said coolly, “I told you to stay in the back. We’re redoing my transitions.”

Min-ho blinked. “Oh. Uh—”

“Back,” she said again, and the look in her eyes made it clear she wasn’t asking.

He returned to his spot.

Yunjin watched that whole thing happen with wide eyes. Later, she quietly pulled Kazuha aside.

“You okay?” Yunjin asked.

Kazuha shrugged. “That guy’s annoying.”

Practice was brutal. The air inside the studio was heavy with sweat and the low hum of the overhead AC. Everyone was catching their breath.

Yunjin lay on her back, head comfortably pillowed on Chaewon’s lap. Her long limbs were sprawled like a lazy starfish across the scuffed marley floor, chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. Her eyes were closed, but her mind wasn’t quiet.

Chaewon sat upright with her back against the wall, legs folded beneath Yunjin, one hand holding her phone, the other absentmindedly brushing through her girlfriend’s damp bangs with a soothing, rhythmic touch. Her expression was soft. Zoned out. Calm. It was the most peace either of them had felt all day.

That peace didn’t last.

Footsteps approached, slow, deliberate, and stopped just to the left of Chaewon’s foot.

A throat cleared.

Yunjin tensed, eyelids flickering but not yet opening. She already knew who it was.

Min-ho.

Chaewon blinked out of her scroll and glanced up, mildly startled by the sudden presence.

He held out a stick of gum between two fingers.

“Want one?” he asked, eyes on her. “Post-practice breath can be... strong. Never know who might try to steal a kiss, right?”

His tone was teasing. Light. But there was something wrong with his smile. Something off in the way his eyes lingered too long. Too intently.

Yunjin’s eyes opened slowly, the pit in her stomach blooming into a quiet storm.

Chaewon just looked… confused.

“No thanks,” she said, tone flat but polite.

She didn’t get it. Not really.

Min-ho didn’t move. He tilted his head like a puppy waiting for a reaction that wasn’t coming.

“You sure?” he pressed, smiling wider. “Could come in handy. Someone might be watching...”

His words were coated in suggestion, but wrapped in enough ambiguity that Chaewon still didn’t clock it.

Yunjin did.

Her fingers curled slightly against Chaewon’s thigh. Her breath caught, almost inaudible, but not unnoticed.

Min-ho’s eyes flicked down to her then. For a split second.

Yunjin’s throat went dry.

She saw it again—that look. That ugly, dark resentment. Not directed at Chaewon, but at her.

She wasn’t imagining it. Not this time.

But she still couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Her body froze like her voice had locked itself somewhere behind her ribs.

Min-ho opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could utter a word—

“Min-ho-ssi.”

The voice sliced clean through the tension like a blade dipped in ice.

It was Sakura.

She had appeared like a shadow at his side, arms crossed, expression unreadable—but her tone was anything but neutral.

He turned, startled. “Oh, hey—”

“Do you always interrupt people’s break time,” she said, head tilted, “or are we just lucky?”

He blinked. “Just trying to help.”

“Then help by going away,” she replied without missing a beat.

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Something cold settled between them. He stood there for one more second too long, trying to salvage face, before finally offering a tight chuckle and backing off.

“Alright. Message received.”

He turned and walked away, not before sneaking one last glance toward Yunjin—who caught it.

Chaewon, seemingly unbothered, looked back down at her phone.

But Yunjin... couldn’t stop the tremble in her hand.

It was slight. Barely there.

But Sakura saw it.

She looked down at the younger girl—really looked. Noticed the stiffness in her limbs, the tension in her jaw, the fact that her fingers were clenching into the fabric of Chaewon’s sweatpants now like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

Their eyes met.

Sakura’s expression softened instantly.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

It was a silent promise.

I saw that. I saw him. And I’ve got you.

Yunjin blinked, nodded once, then turned her face into Chaewon’s thigh and closed her eyes again, forcing her body to relax, even if her mind was still a mess.

Above her, Chaewon kept brushing through her hair, utterly unaware of how much that small, tender motion was saving Yunjin from spiraling completely.

The rehearsal hall had dimmed with the setting sun, only half-lit by the ceiling fluorescents overhead. Yunjin stood near the mirror wall, arms folded over her chest, earbuds in, music low. Her reflection looked tired, eyebags, skin glowing faintly with sweat, shoulders a little hunched.

She wasn’t really listening to the song. Not entirely. She was trying to calm her nerves. The feeling had come again. That crawling sensation on the back of her neck. The prickle that told her someone was watching.

And then, like he’d been summoned by the unease itself, Min-ho walked past behind her. Not directly. Not enough to count as an approach. Just close enough to be felt.

He spoke under his breath, like a whisper aimed straight at the back of her head. “You’re always hovering around her.”

Yunjin flinched. Her brows furrowed as she slowly turned, yanking one earbud out. “…What?”

Min-ho barely looked at her. His gaze skimmed her like she was dust on a lens. His lip curled slightly, not quite a sneer, but something unsettling.

“You afraid she’ll forget about you if you’re not in arm’s reach?”

The words struck hard, low and unkind. Her stomach twisted. Her fingers tightened around the wire of her earbuds.

What was she supposed to say to that?

Before she could even gather a response, another voice sliced in, calm but dangerous.

“You have something to say?”

Min-ho’s posture stiffened as he turned, and came face to face with Kazuha.

She stood just behind him, arms crossed, expression unreadable, eyes locked dead on his. She hadn’t raised her voice, but there was steel in her tone. Cold, elegant steel.

Min-ho blinked. “Just teasing,” he said too quickly.

Kazuha didn’t smile. “You’re bad at it.”

Min-ho stepped away, hands up slightly in mock surrender. He walked off like he hadn’t just been caught doing something venomous.

Yunjin stood frozen in place.

Her heart was racing.

She didn’t even know how long Kazuha had been standing there.

“…Thanks,” she whispered quietly.

Kazuha just gave her a nod, then gently bumped her shoulder. “Ignore him.”

Later, as they walked out into the cooler night air, the five members huddled close. The energy was lighter now, but there was still a weight hanging on Yunjin’s chest.

She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t.

But Eunchae did.

She leaned toward Chaewon, voice low, a serious look softening her normally bright features.

“That guy’s giving off weird energy.”

Chaewon looked down. “Min-ho?”

“Yeah. He keeps watching you. And not in the cute ‘fanboy’ way.”

Chaewon’s brows drew together slightly. “...I’ll keep an eye on it.”

The next time it happened, it was less subtle.

They were between takes now, filming for a behind-the-scenes stage video. Chairs were scattered around the prop-littered edge of the stage. Hair and makeup had long worn off. Everyone was tired.

Chaewon and Yunjin were seated together on a folding bench. Yunjin leaned slightly against her, sipping from her water bottle while scrolling absently on her phone. Their legs were touching. It was casual, natural.

Yunjin had finally started to relax again.

Then a shadow approached.

“Hey, Chaewon,” Min-ho called, way too familiar, stepping into their space like it was his. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

Chaewon looked up, blinking once. “Hm? What for?”

He smiled that same unconvincing smile.

“Just thought you might want to hear how amazing your last take was.” His voice was light, too polished. “The way you command the stage—makes me wonder if you even need a group behind you.”

Chaewon paused.

“…Thanks?” Her tone was flat. Suspicious. “That’s a weird thing to say.”

Min-ho tilted his head slightly. “Is it? Just an observation. You shine all on your own.”

The air shifted. Yunjin stiffened like she’d been hit.

That wasn’t a compliment. That was a dig. A knife slipped between the cracks of the group dynamic, and it landed near her.

Chaewon didn’t miss her flinch this time.

Her eyes narrowed. Her expression didn’t change much, but her voice dropped a degree.

“I like being part of a group,” she said. “And I don’t need compliments that sound like insults toward my members.”

He raised both hands in mock defense. “Whoa—wasn’t saying that.”

“Then be clearer next time. And, it's either Leader-nim or Miss Kim to you, Choi Min-ho.” Chaewon didn’t even look at him after that. She turned back to her phone, body language completely closed.

Yunjin didn’t look up either. Her hands were balled in her lap now, knuckles pale.

Min-ho stood there awkwardly, waiting like someone hoping for a do-over that wouldn’t come.

“She said she’s good, Min-ho-ssi.” Sakura muttered. She had walked up silently behind him, her expression calm, but her gaze sharp and cutting.

There was a loaded weight behind the way she said his name.

Min-ho’s mouth opened like he wanted to say something smart, but one glance at Sakura’s face changed his mind.

He left, jaw tight.

Yunjin jogged lightly down the hallway, breath soft and quick, her footsteps muffled on the linoleum. The others were already waiting on stage for mic check, but she’d forgotten her pack in the dressing room. Just a quick grab and go.

She rounded the corner.

Then stopped.

Min-ho was leaning casually against the wall near the exit—just far enough from the doorway to not look suspicious, but close enough that it felt… deliberate. Too deliberate.

His arms were crossed, his head down slightly like he’d been waiting for something. Or someone.

When he looked up, their eyes locked.

Yunjin’s pulse jumped immediately. Her fingers curled slightly around the strap of her water bottle.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t nod.

He didn’t even blink.

He just stared at her with a look that was too still, too unreadable.

Then, in a voice far too calm for the silence around them, he said, “You know, you should be careful where you stand.”

Yunjin stopped walking.

Her brow furrowed. “…What?”

Min-ho tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable, eyes still boring into hers.

He didn’t clarify.

Instead, he said, almost casually, “Sometimes… being too close to someone just makes you easier to trip.”

He held her gaze a moment longer.

Then turned and walked away.

Yunjin stood frozen in place. The weight of her mic pack was still in her hand, forgotten. Her heart was pounding—too fast, too loud in her ears.

Was that…?

A threat?

Her first instinct was to laugh. To tell herself she was imagining things. He didn’t say anything clear. He hadn’t threatened her outright. He could’ve been talking about blocking on stage. Could’ve meant anything.

But it didn’t sound like that.

It sounded like… something else.

The tone. The precision. The way he didn’t blink. The way his gaze didn’t carry annoyance—but calculation.

Yunjin’s hands were shaking slightly as she readjusted her grip on the mic pack. She bit her lip hard, the pain grounding her for a second, then turned and walked briskly back toward the others. Her lungs felt smaller.

The rehearsal room was filled with soft harmonies and idle humming as the members gathered for warmups. Yunjin stood near the piano, bouncing gently on the balls of her feet as the vocal coach gave them instructions. She tried to focus, eyes on her sheet, posture right, but her mind was elsewhere.

That voice was still in her head. “Easier to trip.”

Her fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against her thigh. And then she heard him.

“You know, Chaewon,” Min-ho said from somewhere behind her.

She didn’t even need to turn around to know where he was. The air shifted every time he got too close.

“I’ve seen idols who keep certain people around because they’re comfortable, not because they’re compatible.”

The air left Yunjin’s lungs. She stiffened.

Chaewon, mid-text on her phone, looked up slowly. “What?”

Min-ho shrugged, tone light, like he was just making friendly conversation. “Just saying. Sometimes people stick with what’s familiar. Doesn’t mean it’s what’s best.”

Across the room, a soft clack broke the quiet. Sakura had set down her water bottle a little too hard. Her eyes had snapped up, gaze razor sharp. She stood up slowly.

“Sounds like you’re talking about someone specific,” she said, voice calm, too calm. The kind of calm that precedes a storm.

Min-ho blinked. “It’s just general advice.”

Sakura smiled, small and dangerous. “Unsolicited advice is like expired milk. No one asked for it, and it smells like shit.”

The room went silent.

Min-ho didn’t reply this time. He looked between Sakura and Chaewon, then flicked his eyes briefly—too briefly—to Yunjin. And then he turned, walking off like nothing happened.

But the silence he left behind was loaded.

Chaewon watched him go, then turned back to Yunjin.

Yunjin’s face was blank, but her grip on the sheet music was too tight. Her knuckles were pale.

“…What was that about?” Chaewon asked softly, brows drawing in.

Yunjin’s eyes darted toward Sakura, then to the floor. Her throat felt tight.

Don’t make a scene. Don’t jump to conclusions. Don’t look paranoid.

He didn’t say anything directly, right?

She forced a small laugh. “Don’t worry about it,” she muttered. “Probably just… joking.”

Chaewon didn’t look convinced. But, she let it go.

It wasn’t that Chaewon had been oblivious.

She noticed things. She always did.

But she hadn’t wanted to notice this. Not really.

Not when her schedule was full, her body exhausted, and her mind buried under endless rehearsals and deadlines. Not when the signs were easy to explain away as someone being awkward or overly enthusiastic. Not when she was used to brushing off strangers with harmless interest.

But after the fourth weird encounter in a week…

After catching Min-ho hovering again, arms crossed, eyes locked on Yunjin like he was watching prey move just out of reach…

After watching Yunjin visibly shrink in on herself the second he walked in, her posture folding tight like she was bracing for something—

Something in Chaewon snapped into place.

She hadn’t missed it.

She’d just been too generous in her assumptions.

She stood on the side of the room, towel slung around her neck, sipping from a half-empty bottle of water. Yunjin was tying her shoes by the mirror, talking softly to Kazuha.

And Min-ho?

He was staring again.

Not at Chaewon. Not at Eunchae. Not at any of the crew.

Only Yunjin.

And there was no curiosity in it.

No admiration.

No professionalism.

Just a hard, simmering weight. Like someone stewing in a thought they couldn’t let go of.

That was all Chaewon needed to see.

The hall lights buzzed above as the last of the staff filtered out. Yunjin had gone ahead to find her water bottle. The others were still packing up equipment.

Min-ho lingered by the side doors like he was waiting for someone.

He didn’t see Chaewon coming until she was right in front of him.

“Can I help you with something?” she asked. Her voice was cool. Even. Lethally polite.

He blinked, caught off guard. “Sorry?”

“You keep hovering,” she said simply. “Around me. Around Yunjin. Around the group.”

Min-ho gave a light, airy chuckle, like he thought it might soften things. “Didn’t realize I needed permission to breathe.”

Chaewon stepped closer, gaze flat.

“You don’t.” She paused. “But, you do need to stop talking about my members like you know them. Or like you get to weigh in on their worth.”

The humor in his face faded just a little.

He opened his mouth, maybe to defend himself, maybe to twist her words, but Chaewon lifted a hand, silencing him.

“And for the record,” she said clearly, tone firm and low, “Yunjin is more valuable to this group than you’ll ever be.”

He flinched.

Chaewon’s eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t waver.

“So if I ever catch you making her uncomfortable again…” Her voice dropped an octave. “…It won’t be Sakura you’ll need to deal with.”

She turned on her heel and walked away, slow and deliberate, not sparing him another glance.

He stood frozen behind her, jaw tightening.

The air outside had cooled as the girls packed up. Their coats were draped over their arms, bags half-zipped and water bottles swinging loosely from tired hands.

Yunjin was rubbing at her temples as she stood by the back door, searching the floor for her jacket.

Kazuha came up behind her, holding it out. “You okay?”

Yunjin blinked and took the jacket with a grateful smile, but it was faint. Her fingers trembled slightly as she slid one arm through.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Just… tired.”

Her voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

Kazuha didn’t press. She just offered a gentle squeeze to her shoulder and walked with her toward the van, quietly keeping pace.

In the shadows by the exit, Min-ho watched them go.

His eyes trailed not on Chaewon this time, but on Yunjin.

And something cold and bitter curled at the corner of his mouth.

Inside the hallway, Eunchae was zipping her hoodie when she leaned into Sakura’s side and whispered, “Unnie… is it just me, or is that Min-ho guy, like… kinda obsessed with Chaewon-unnie?”

Sakura raised an eyebrow, her face unreadable for a beat.

Then she crossed her arms tightly and muttered, “It’s not just you.”

Her voice was low. Sharp. “And if he keeps running his mouth the way he does, I’m gonna knock his teeth in with my mic stand.”

Eunchae blinked. “You’re kidding.”

Sakura didn’t smile. Not even a little.

“Try me.”

---

Chapter Text

The dressing room for the backup dancers buzzed faintly with chatter, rustling bags, and the clatter of costume shoes hitting the floor. The show was fast approaching, energy should’ve been high. Excited. Electric.

But in one corner, Min-ho sat hunched low on the bench, his phone gripped tight in his hands, the screen lit dimly. Not texting. Not checking cues. Not even listening to the final notes of the warm-up track looping outside.

He was staring at photos.

Secret ones.

Zoomed-in, poorly lit, slightly blurry, but he knew what they were. What they meant.

One was of Chaewon mid-laugh during a rehearsal break, her mouth parted just enough to show her teeth, her ponytail falling loose. Another showed her leaning back against the mirror wall, towel around her neck, a rare moment of calm, headphones still in. Another, his favorite, was of her mid-turn during a routine, powerful, elegant, every muscle in sync.

She didn’t know he had taken any of them.

Min-ho's thumb hovered over the screen, unmoving, as his jaw worked slowly.

“Bro.” A pair of hands clapped suddenly onto his shoulders from behind, shaking him roughly.

Min-ho jumped, nearly dropping his phone.

He turned sharply to see one of the other dancers, Jae, grinning at him with an open soda can in one hand and a mocking smirk on his face.

“You’re still trying to get Leader-nim’s attention?” Jae laughed. “Man, you're persistent.”

Min-ho scowled and turned his body slightly, shielding his screen as he locked it.

“I wasn’t—”

“C’mon.” Jae leaned against the wall beside him, slouching with the comfort of someone who didn’t know when to shut up. “You don’t have to lie. I saw those pics. You’ve been on that ‘Chaewon grind’ since the second week.”

Min-ho said nothing. His fingers dug into the curve of his phone case.

Jae glanced toward the hallway where the main dressing rooms were. “I don’t get why she won’t notice you, though. You’re not exactly ugly.”

Min-ho didn’t answer. He didn’t blink.

He clenched his jaw.

“Maybe it’s because of Miss Huh,” Jae muttered next, like reading his mind. “They’ve been close ever since that night. You remember? When they came in soaked? Leader-nim was carrying her like a damn k-drama hero.”

Min-ho’s knuckles turned white around the phone.

Of course he remembered.

Rain.

Thunder.

The slick of wet asphalt.

Chaewon, sprinting across the lot, her arms full.

Huh Yunjin, drenched, relaxed in her hold, carried bridal-style.

That was the day it started.

The day she looked at Yunjin like she was the only person on earth.

The day he realized something was in the way.

He’d been the first one standing in the hallway when the door burst open, water dripping from their clothes, Chaewon’s face carved with panic, her arms tight around Yunjin’s waist.

The way she looked at her.

The way Yunjin leaned into it.

That image haunted him.

It was the exact moment his resentment cracked open, and bloomed into something foul.

“She doesn’t even look at me,” he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing.

Jae raised a brow.

Min-ho stared down at the phone in his lap. The screen had gone dark. But he could still see her face in it.

Jae sighed, rubbing his temple. “Dude. You should give up. She’s obviously not gonna notice you, not with Yunjin glued to her side every five minutes—”

“I said I’m not giving up.”

The room quieted around them. Even the other dancers seemed to flinch at his tone.

Min-ho’s voice had dropped. Not loud. Not angry. Just final. His eyes were locked on nothing, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

He wasn’t interested in love. Or in Chaewon as a person. He just wanted to win.

To prove he could have the prettiest, the strongest, the most unattainable.

And right now, Huh Yunjin was in the way.

A sudden burst of giggles shattered the low hum of conversation in the backup dancers’ room, followed by frantic shushing and the thump of footsteps just outside the door.

Jae groaned, head knocking back against the mirror. “Is that Nari and Ara again?” he muttered, exasperated. “Trying to sneak into the members’ hallway for autographs like it’s a damn fan-meeting?”

Min-ho didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile.

He was already on his feet, something sharp twitching in his jaw.

“Probably,” he said, brushing a hand through his hair. “I’ll check it out.”

He stepped into the hallway, expecting the usual, the girls giggling over idol proximity, maybe filming TikToks like they weren’t on shift. Something harmless.

But the second he turned the corner...he stopped.

Everything in him froze.

The light dimmed. The air vanished.

There, barely ten feet away…

Chaewon.

And Yunjin.

Pinned against the wall.

Locked in a kiss so deep, so breathless, it felt obscene to look at. They were breathing each other in like oxygen. Like gravity. Like need.

Chaewon’s hands gripped Yunjin’s waist, fingers flexing possessively like she was holding onto something she couldn’t bear to lose. Her expression—god, her expression—wasn't just lust or affection.

It was reverence. Like she was kissing someone sacred.

Yunjin, pliant against her, moaned softly into her mouth. Her arms wrapped tight around Chaewon’s neck, one hand lost in her damp hair, the other fisting her shirt like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to earth. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips red, her head tilted back in complete surrender.

They didn’t notice him. They didn’t notice anything. They were in a world of their own.

A slow, sickening wave of heat crept up his neck. Not the warm kind. The burning, shameful kind.

Min-ho stared, his mind reeling. No. No, this wasn’t—

They're dating..?!

Since when?

Since when had this been happening?

The way they touched. The way Chaewon always softened around her. The way Yunjin’s eyes darted when he got too close—not out of guilt, but because she had something to protect.

Everyone else must’ve known.

Sakura. Kazuha. Even the youngest one, Eunchae. Probably their manager. The staff. The choreographer.

How hadn’t he seen it?

Why hadn’t anyone told him?

Was he the only one this clueless?

Did they all laugh behind his back? They all let him stand there like a fool, letting him make move after move in a game that was never his to win.

His chest heaved. A bitter taste crawled up the back of his throat.

She had won.

Yunjin had always been in the way. Always standing between him and what he wanted. Always getting in first, louder, brighter, bolder. First to shine. First to reach Chaewon.

She had her. All of her.

Chaewon wasn’t just taken, she was devoted.

To Yunjin.

That was the final blow.

That was the moment something inside Min-ho fractured.

A deep crack through reason.

His hands curled into fists. He didn’t even realize his nails were digging into his skin until he felt the sting. His breathing grew uneven.

She was never supposed to have her.

He clenched his jaw so tight his teeth hurt. His whole body trembled, not from heartbreak, but from fury.

This wasn’t heartbreak.

This was war.

The girl he wanted—Chaewon—was being touched, kissed, claimed by someone who should’ve been beneath him. Someone who should’ve been replaceable.

But no.

No matter what he did, smiles, compliments, presence, persistence, Chaewon never even looked his way.

And now he understood why.

Because Yunjin was always there.

Always watching. Always hovering. Always clinging.

And now…

Now, she was the reason he couldn’t have what he wanted.

Min-ho’s eyes darkened. A shadow passed behind them that hadn’t been there before. He stepped back silently, unnoticed, slipping into the corridor again. His thoughts spun.

The door to his rational mind slammed shut. All he could hear was one word, pulsing like a drumbeat behind his eyes.

Remove her.

She was the obstacle.

She was the threat.

She was the problem.

And he would do anything to get rid of the problem.

No matter the cost.

Huh Yunjin had just made herself his enemy.

The door to the backup dancers' dressing room slammed open so violently it rebounded off the wall with a deafening BANG.

Jae flinched so hard he almost knocked over the coffee in his lap. “Yo, what the hell?”

Min-ho stormed in, eyes wide and bloodshot, his chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. But there was no exhaustion on his face. Only fury. Uncontrolled. Untethered. Ugly.

His jaw was clenched so hard it pulsed, like the muscles were about to snap from the pressure. His fists twitched at his sides. His brows were furrowed so deep it was like his rage had carved trenches into his face.

He looked unwell. But not in a sick way. In a dangerous way.

“Min-ho?” Jae tried again, rising a little from his seat. His voice was cautious now, laced with a nervous chuckle. “Dude… are you good?”

No response.

Min-ho didn’t even look at him.

He was pacing now. Back and forth. Short, tight strides, like a cornered animal searching for a way out, or a target to strike. His breathing wasn’t calming. If anything, it was getting more erratic. His lips were moving, but no words came out. Just fragments. Whispers to himself. Rage-filled mantras that didn’t make sense to anyone but him.

Chaewon kissing Yunjin.

Chaewon holding Yunjin.

She chose her. She chose her. SHE CHOSE HER—

His thoughts spiraled into static. The image burned into his skull like a brand.

And no one told him. Not a single person had warned him.

He’d been chasing after a fantasy while everyone else had known the truth. A joke. A walking joke. All those times he’d flirted. Complimented her. Tried to impress her. The sly grins. The convenient partnerships during rehearsals. The fake charm. Useless. All of it.

Because in Chaewon’s world, there was already someone. Already a center. Already a priority. And it was her. Yunjin.

His lip curled in disgust. She had ruined everything. Like she always did.

That girl had taken what should’ve been his.

He could barely hear the blood pounding in his ears. His stare flicked across the room...and stopped.

There, propped in the corner, mostly hidden behind a pile of stage crates and costuming props. A baseball bat. Plain. Heavy. Unremarkable… and perfect.

Min-ho stilled. The pacing stopped.

Jae noticed the shift immediately. “Min-ho?”

There was a stillness to him now. But it wasn’t calm.

It was the eye of a storm.

Min-ho turned slowly, eyes locked on the bat like it had whispered to him. His voice, when it came, was low and almost casual. Like a bad joke told in a library.

“Hey,” he murmured. Too light for the storm brewing behind it. “Yunjin’s the one with the bad back, right?”

Jae blinked. “…What?”

“Her back,” Min-ho said again. “She had an injury a while ago, right? What was it—spinal something? Slipped disc?”

Jae looked hesitant. “I—I don’t know all the details. I wouldn’t say it’s bad anymore. I heard she healed.”

Min-ho waved it off. “Yeah, yeah, but it left damage, right? Imprint or something? That kinda thing doesn’t just go away.”

There was a pause.

Jae’s brow furrowed. “…Why are you asking?”

Min-ho didn’t answer right away. He was staring at the bat now. Not just looking. Staring. Jae followed his gaze, and his stomach twisted.

“So, hypothetically,” Min-ho muttered, “if something heavy were to hit her back, hard, she’d be… what? Out of the game? Like gone?”

He looked at Jae. His eyes were gleaming. Cold. Detached.

Jae recoiled slightly, unsure if he was hearing things right. “Gone?” he repeated. “Why do you mean by that? Like… dead?”

Min-ho didn’t reply. He just chuckled. A low, humourless, horrifying sound.

Then he turned on his heel and walked out.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Jae sat frozen in place for several seconds, a chill crawling up his spine.

“…What the fuck was that?”

Yunjin was still catching her breath.

The taste of Chaewon lingered on her lips, the burn of it still warm on her flushed skin. She was dazed, still coming down from the kiss that had left her legs shaky and her heart pounding in her ears. Her fingers ghosted over her jaw, over her neck, where she was certain Chaewon had left a love mark that would make any stylist scold her. Lipstick was smudged at the corner of her mouth. Her shirt was tugged crooked.

She didn’t care. She felt alive. She felt loved.

The stage crew buzzed in the background, voices distant as she headed down the hallway, weaving through warm-up dancers and stylists preparing for curtain call.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her mic pack. Just a quick change. Then it would be lights up, crowd screaming, music flooding the air. She reached for her dressing room handle, and was yanked back.

Hard.

“Wha—?!”

A hand wrapped around her wrist like a clamp, jerking her backwards so fast she couldn’t even scream. Before she could react, before she could think, a rough hand slammed over her mouth, smothering her gasp, silencing her terror.

She was shoved violently against the wall. Her back collided with it hard—so hard her breath left her body in a sharp, broken whimper. Pain shot down her spine, blooming like heat under her skin.

Her mic pack hit the ground. Her legs nearly gave out.

Her heart dropped with it. Her vision blurred for a second from the impact, but then it sharpened.

And what she saw made her blood freeze.

Min-ho.

His face was far too close, and his eyes, they weren’t just angry. They were unhinged.

Wild. Bloodshot. Almost… empty.

Yunjin’s heart punched against her ribs.

She tried to move, kick, twist, scream, but she couldn’t. One of his hands had both of hers pinned above her head, and the other was still pressed tight over her mouth.

She couldn’t breathe properly. Her lungs shrank with panic. Her thoughts spiraled.

This isn’t happening.

This can’t be happening.

“Shh,” he hissed, like she was the one disturbing the peace. “Don’t fight. You’re just making this harder on yourself.”

Terror clawed up her throat.

Min-ho’s eyes roamed her face, then dropped to the side of her neck where a faint hickey bloomed. His face twisted.

“Of course,” he muttered, like venom dripping from his tongue. “She leaves marks on you. Of course she does.”

Yunjin let out a muffled sob. Her arms strained uselessly under his grip.

His eyes met hers again, sharp and hateful.

“What the fuck does Chaewon see in you?!”

Yunjin flinched.

He laughed, but it was bitter. Ugly. “You’re not even that special,” he sneered. “Just another soft little thing playing pretend. You’re nothing. Just a slut with a pretty face who got lucky.”

His grip around her wrists tightened, digging into her skin.

Yunjin cried out under his hand, pain flaring in her joints. Tears streamed down her face. Her lips trembled under his palm.

“I’ve been patient,” he growled. “I tried everything. Compliments. Being nice. Waiting. But no. She only sees you. She only ever fucking sees you.”

Yunjin shook her head. She didn’t know why, denial, fear, begging, but she shook and shook until her legs gave out again.

“You’re in my way,” Min-ho spat. “You’ve always been in my way.”

And then, quieter, a whisper soaked in something vile: “I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you’re not anymore.”

Yunjin's heart stopped. Her body went still.

It wasn’t just anger anymore. It was a promise.

Then he leaned in to her ear.

His voice was soft, too soft. “And if you tell anyone about this…if you don't cooperate...”

She whimpered.

“…I won’t come after you.”

Yunjin’s entire chest seized up.

“I’ll come after Chaewon.”

Her eyes blew wide in horror.

“You wouldn’t want your precious girl to end up hurt… would you?”

Yunjin's entire body stiffened. Her eyes blew wide, her heart stopped. Her wrists were burning now, her lungs heaving with terror. Her mind went blank, every possible thought wiped out in one breath.

Min-ho stared at her for a beat, then let go.

Yunjin's legs gave out, her back slid down the wall, and she hit the floor hard, shoulders curling inward, arms weak and shaking as they wrapped around herself. Her breath came in jagged sobs she tried to suppress. She didn’t want to make a sound. She didn’t want to move. She didn’t want to exist.

Min-ho looked down at her.

“Pathetic,” he muttered.

Then he walked away, leaving her on the cold hallway floor.

And Yunjin stayed there, bruised, broken, and terrified.

Jae hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

Not really.

He just… had a bad feeling.

Min-ho had stormed out of the backup dancers’ room with that look in his eyes again. That too-quiet, too-focused stillness, like his brain had detached from the rest of the world and left something worse in charge. Jae had seen it before, small flashes of something wrong beneath Min-ho’s smugness. But never like this.

So when the door slammed and his gut twisted, Jae found himself following. Quiet. Careful. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing. Maybe it was instinct.

But then he heard it.

A loud, sharp thud. The kind of sound flesh makes when it hits plaster too hard. A gasp.

Something was wrong.

Jae’s body reacted before his mind did, and he ducked behind the corner, peering around it.

What he saw stopped his heart.

Min-ho had Yunjin pinned to the wall. One hand over her mouth. The other holding her wrists above her head.

Yunjin’s body was rigid, frozen in place. Her eyes wide with unmistakable terror. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t fight back, he had her completely trapped.

Jae’s blood ran cold.

His heart thundered. His breath caught in his throat. He clamped a hand over his own mouth, like that could stop the noise trying to break free.

This couldn’t be real.

Min-ho’s face… he wasn’t even himself. His expression was twisted into something wild and fevered—rage, bitterness, obsession all tangled into a storm of something Jae couldn’t recognize. Something dangerous.

Yunjin didn't just look just scared. She looked shattered.

Jae felt his stomach lurch as he listened.

“What the fuck does Chaewon see in you?”

“You’re in my way.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes—”

That one stuck.

Jae’s eyes widened.

The longer he listened, the more sick he felt. And then the worst part—Min-ho’s voice dropped lower, closer to Yunjin’s ear. Jae couldn’t hear the full sentence, but he caught the words “tell anyone” and “Chaewon.”

That name. That threat.

His whole body locked up.

Min-ho wasn’t just being gross or angry or weird anymore. He was threatening her. He was threatening Yunjin.

Jae’s breath hitched. He stumbled back from the corner, bumping into the wall behind him, his heart pounding so hard it hurt. He had to press a hand to his chest to stay grounded.

What the hell was this?

What had Min-ho just done?

Why? Why would anyone go this far? Because of jealousy? Because of rejection?

He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t unsee it. Yunjin’s shaking hands. Her silent tears. Min-ho’s voice full of venom and entitlement.

He wanted to move. Do something. Say something. But, the fear was real.

What if Min-ho came after him too? What if this made it worse?

Still, Jae peeked again, hands trembling.

Min-ho was walking away now, calm as ever, like nothing had happened.

And Yunjin? Yunjin was still crumpled against the wall. Shoulders trembling, face turned toward the floor.

Jae didn’t breathe.

Then, slowly, achingly, he watched her pull herself up.

Her arms shook. Her knees nearly buckled. But she pushed herself upright. Wiped the tears from her cheeks with the backs of her hands. Took one, two, three deep breaths. Then she fixed her hair. Straightened her jacket. Reached down to grab her mic pack with fingers that barely stopped shaking.

And then she smiled. Not a real smile. Not even close. But something that looked good enough. Something that could survive under stage lights.

Something that said, I’m fine, even though she wasn’t.

Just then, the overhead speakers crackled: “Final call. LE SSERAFIM to backstage. All dancers to position. Five minutes to open.”

Jae stayed hidden.

And Yunjin walked forward. Like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just been terrified into silence. Like she wasn’t still shaking under that mask.

Because that’s what idols do. Because the show must go on.

Jae pressed himself back against the wall, chest heaving.

He’d seen it. He knew what Min-ho was now.

And he couldn’t un-know it.

His hands were still trembling as the hallway cleared. Dancers passed, unaware. Crew rushed past, busy. Everyone moving on. Everyone blind. But, Jae stood frozen, breathing too fast, panic crawling under his skin.

Min-ho was capable of this. Min-ho did this. And if he’d gone this far once, what if next time… it was worse?

Jae closed his eyes.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

The final chorus rang through the stadium like a roar, the crowd on their feet, lights swirling, camera flashes erupting like fireworks. Yunjin hit every note, every step, every glance at the audience with precision. Her voice didn’t shake. Her smile didn’t slip. She bowed with the rest of the group. She waved. She even blew a kiss.

To the thousands of fans screaming their names, Huh Yunjin was radiant.

But to the people who knew her—really knew her—something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Kazuha noticed it first.

She’d seen the way Yunjin’s hands trembled slightly when they were holding their mics during the second verse. How her smile looked too stiff. How she didn’t nudge her playfully mid-dance like she always did.

Sakura picked it up in the way Yunjin hadn’t responded when she whispered a joke backstage during the quick change — usually Yunjin would giggle and shoulder her, but instead, she just nodded, eyes distant, focused on something… else.

Even Eunchae felt it. A weight. An invisible cloud hovering around her unnie’s usually bright energy. There had been no teasing, no inside jokes, no chaotic stifled laughter mid-dance. Just silence in the spaces where Yunjin usually filled the air with life.

And Chaewon… Chaewon felt it like a punch to the gut.

From the second the show began, her eyes had kept flicking to Yunjin. Something in her body language was off. She was stiff. Controlled in a way that wasn’t natural. Too measured. Too guarded.

Yunjin never danced like she was holding back. But tonight, she had.

Still, she performed. Perfectly.

And then she disappeared.

The show ended, lights dropped, and the girls filed backstage, breathless and glitter-drenched, hearts pounding from the adrenaline. But, as they gathered in the wings, panting and wiping sweat from their brows, Chaewon looked around and her chest seized.

“…Where’s Yunjin?” she asked, voice louder than she meant.

The other four looked around instinctively.

No one answered.

“She was right behind me, I thought…” Kazuha said, trailing off.

“I think I saw her going back to her dressing room,” Eunchae spoke up.

A moment of silence passed. Heavy. Unsettled.

“…Did anyone else think she seemed off tonight?” Sakura asked carefully.

Four hands rose at once.

“Something was bothering her,” Kazuha murmured.

“She was way too quiet during makeup,” Eunchae said.

Chaewon clenched her jaw. Her heart was now pounding for a different reason. “Why didn’t any of us—”

“I tried to ask her,” Sakura cut in. “She waved it off.”

Eunchae looked around, her voice small: “What if something’s wrong?”

It was in that exact moment, during the swirling panic and realization, that a voice started trying to break through.

“Um—excuse me,” came a nervous cough.

No one noticed.

“Uh… guys?”

Still no response.

Jae hovered a few feet away, awkwardly wringing his hands, looking like he didn’t belong. His eyes flicked between the members, trying to pick the right one to talk to, maybe Kazuha? Sakura? Anyone who didn’t scare him half to death?

“I… I need to say something,” he tried again.

Still drowned out by the group’s conversation, worry buzzing like a livewire in the air.

Jae opened his mouth again but faltered. He felt ridiculous. And small. Even though he stood almost a full head taller than all of them, standing in their presence made him feel like a teenager in trouble.

Just as he was about to give up, one voice cut through.

“Girls, I think one of our backup dancers is trying to gain our attention.” Eunchae had noticed.

Four heads turned sharply.

He suddenly felt very, very small.

The weight of six pairs of eyes locked onto him made Jae’s throat tighten. The dressing room air—once full of residual post-concert buzz—now felt too still, too hot, too small.

His stomach twisted. He didn’t know where to start.

Chaewon narrowed her eyes, her voice like a blade. “Can we help you?”

That snapped him out of his spiral. Jae’s chest heaved as he forced the words out. “It’s… it’s about Yunjin.”

The shift in the room was immediate. Kazuha straightened up, her back going rigid. Sakura’s arms slowly unfolded. Eunchae went completely still, her expression tight with dread. Even the hum of the hallway seemed to fade.

Everything froze around those five words.

“What do you mean?” Kazuha asked softly, though her voice was strained, like she was bracing herself.

Jae’s eyes darted to each of them. He could see the tension tightening in their jaws, the sheer stillness that took hold of Chaewon, who hadn’t blinked once.

“I… do you guys know Min-ho?”

The answer came in near-unison nods. But the mood only darkened.

Kazuha looked confused. Eunchae looked concerned.

Sakura scoffed, a bitter sound. “Unfortunately.”

Chaewon’s voice was clipped. “What about him?”

Jae hesitated, but there was no more time to stall.

“He’s been… obsessed with you. For a while,” he said carefully, looking directly at Chaewon.

Her face twisted. “That’s disgusting.”

Sakura exhaled sharply, almost a growl. “Knew he gave off creep vibes.”

“But it’s not just that,” Jae continued, his voice lowering. “It’s more than a crush, actually it's not even a crush. It’s lust—fixation. And he… he blames Yunjin.”

The silence that followed felt deafening.

Sakura’s head snapped around. “He what?”

Jae swallowed. “He thinks Yunjin’s the reason you don’t pay attention to him, Leader-nim. Like… she’s in the way.”

“That’s so—” Kazuha started, but her voice cracked off.

“Stupid,” Sakura finished harshly. “That’s so fucking stupid.”

Chaewon narrowed her eyes, clearly disturbed. “Why would he blame Yunjin when I’m the one not interested?”

Jae nodded quickly. “I know, I said that too. But he’s… he’s not thinking straight. He’s one of those guys who can’t take no for an answer. Today, before the show, he was different. Like, angry. Really angry. Pacing. Muttering to himself.”

The room grew colder. Something shifted in the atmosphere, a creeping dread sliding under their skin.

Jae’s voice dropped. “He asked me about Yunjin. About her back.”

No one breathed. Kazuha’s mouth parted slightly. Eunchae took a step closer to Chaewon, like instinct was guiding her there. Sakura’s shoulders squared, but her eyes… her eyes turned cold.

“He asked if… since she was injured before… if she’d still be fragile. Still easy to hurt. Easy to get rid off...”

Eunchae’s face drained of colour. Her voice shook. “W-what?”

Kazuha visibly paled. “You’re joking. Please tell me you’re joking.”

Sakura’s body went rigid. Her jaw was locked so tight, Jae could hear the faint sound of her teeth grinding.

Chaewon took a step forward, her voice suddenly flat and cold. “What do you mean by get rid of...?”

Jae’s mouth opened, but no words came out. His hands trembled at his sides.

“After the show ended… I saw him again.” Jae’s voice cracked the air like a live wire.

Everyone’s heads snapped toward him, sudden, sharp.

Chaewon turned so fast her hair whipped across her shoulder, her eyes drilling into his. “What do you mean?” she demanded, already halfway toward him.

Jae looked like he might be sick. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper, yet it hit them like a bomb.

“He—he was holding something.”

Sakura took a slow step forward, eyes narrowing. “Holding what?”

Jae hesitated.

That split second was all it took.

One beat. One pause.

And everyone felt their stomachs plummet.

He looked up, guilt thick in his voice.

“A baseball bat.”

Silence.

Painful, deafening silence.

The kind of silence that fills your ears with your own heartbeat.

The kind that vibrates in your bones.

Eunchae staggered back like she’d been physically shoved. Her hand shot out blindly to steady herself against the wall. Kazuha’s eyes widened, lips parting soundlessly as her lungs stopped working. Sakura’s face went sheet-white. Her fists curled so tight her knuckles cracked.

Chaewon… didn’t move. Not at first.

Then she took one step forward, her entire frame stiff, rigid, like her body was the only thing keeping her from falling apart. Her voice was razor-thin. “Where?”

Jae didn’t answer right away.

So she snapped louder, harsher. “Where the fuck was he going?”

Jae flinched. Then, slowly, trembling, he raised a shaking hand and pointed down the hallway.

All of them turned at once.

Toward the corridor.

The one that led directly to—

“…That’s where Yunjin’s dressing room is,” Eunchae whispered, her voice cracking mid-sentence.

The words hit like thunder.

Like ice water. Like death.

A bolt of terror shot through every one of them.

“No,” Sakura breathed, almost a prayer.

Then everything exploded.

Chaewon shoved past them, hard enough to rattle the wall. Her feet were moving before her mind could even form the words. “YUNJIN!!” she screamed, her voice echoing off the hallway like a gunshot.

“Unnie?!” Eunchae cried, panicked, chasing after her without thinking.

“MOVE! MOVE!” Kazuha yelled, pushing people aside as she tore after them, her lungs burning.

Sakura froze for one half-second—just one—her face twisted in a mixture of horror and pure, seething rage. Then she snapped out of it and sprinted.

The hallway blurred past them. Every thudding footstep was a countdown. Every breath was agony.

Chaewon’s heart pounded so hard it felt like it might explode. Her mind was spiraling, scenes she didn’t want to imagine flashing in front of her eyes. Her chest burned. Her throat tightened.

Please. Please. Let her be okay.

Let me get there in time.

The silence ahead felt like a warning. They didn’t speak as they ran. Couldn’t. There wasn’t time. There wasn’t air.

Just one shared, sickening thought, pounding in every head like a war drum: What if they were too late?

If Min-ho had touched her. If he had hurt her.

If they were too late—

No.

No, that wasn’t an option.

That couldn’t be an option.

Not for Yunjin.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

---

Chapter Text

Yunjin sat motionless in front of the vanity mirror, the harsh fluorescent bulbs above casting sterile light across her features, draining them of warmth, of life. The rest of the room was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that hummed loud in the ears. That pressed in from the walls like it was trying to smother her.

Her stage costume lay discarded on the back of a nearby chair, crumpled like yesterday’s memory. In its place, she wore an oversized black hoodie and a pair of leggings that used to feel like home. Her comfort clothes. Her second skin.

They didn’t help tonight.

Nothing felt safe.

Not when she could still feel his breath near her ear. Not when the echo of his words—his threats—scratched at the inside of her skull like rusted nails. Not when her wrists throbbed with a dull ache from where his fingers had pinned her, bruises blooming just beneath the surface like wilted violets. Her back still pulsed from that earlier slam against the wall, deep beneath the muscle, where the bones remembered what it was like to be slammed and helpless.

She didn’t move. Barely breathed.

She wasn’t looking at herself in the mirror. She was watching. Waiting. For what, she wasn’t sure. For her heartbeat to slow? For someone to knock on the door and remind her the world outside still existed?

No.

She was listening.

Because he was there.

She knew it. She felt it like static in the air. The way the temperature had dropped slightly. The way the hallway beyond the door had fallen into a silence so unnatural, so calculated, it could only mean one thing:

He was waiting.

She didn’t need to see him to know. Monsters weren’t shadows under the bed anymore—they breathed just outside the door. They watched and waited and calculated. And he had followed her again.

He was out there. Just beyond the wall.

And somehow, Yunjin wasn’t shaking. Not anymore.

The fear hadn’t disappeared, it had evolved. It sat deeper now. Thicker. A fire low in her chest, a pressure that burned the longer she stayed silent. Her eyes locked with her reflection. Her lashes were clumped with remnants of mascara. Her lip was swollen. Her skin pale under the mirror’s cold light. But none of that mattered.

Because it wasn’t what she saw that terrified her.

It was what he had threatened.

Her. Chaewon.

Yunjin’s eyes burned, not from tears, but from rage.

How dare he. How dare he think he could touch her, corner her, reduce her to silence. How dare he make her body shake like that earlier—make her afraid to speak, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

But worst of all—how dare he use Chaewon as leverage.

The memory struck hard—his voice whispering threats with casual cruelty, promising that if she spoke, it would be Chaewon who paid the price. Her Chaewon. Her love. Her peace. Her fighter. The girl who held her hand without asking. Who waited outside therapy sessions without complaint. The girl who never flinched when Yunjin fell apart.

And now some deranged, obsessive, pitiful coward had dared to even utter her name with such venom?

The heat spread from Yunjin’s chest to her fingertips.

Slow. Controlled. Deadly.

Her grip tightened on the vanity edge until her knuckles turned bone-white. She could feel her heart pounding, not with fear, but with clarity.

If she had to bleed for Chaewon, she would. If she had to throw every bone in her body into a fight to protect her, she would. Because, there was no world in which she stood by and let him touch her.

None.

She stood, the chair legs scraping against the tile with a sound sharp as a blade. It echoed in the quiet like a battle cry.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.

She reached up and zipped her hoodie higher, hands moving slowly, deliberately, an armor against the cold. Her shoulders squared. Spine straightened. That ache in her back meant nothing now. Her body might’ve been sore, exhausted, covered in quiet bruises, but it wasn’t broken.

Not even close.

She turned to the door. One step. Another.

The hallway was silent on the other side, but it didn’t feel empty. The presence beyond that door was thick, cloying. Waiting. But he could wait all he wanted. He wouldn’t find the same Yunjin he cornered in that hallway.

Yunjin reached for the handle, and in her mind, one name repeated like a heartbeat. Chaewon.

Every step forward was for her. Every ounce of fire was for her.

He could bring all the rage, all the madness, all the sick obsession in the world—

And Yunjin would still burn brighter.

She didn’t need to scream. She’d show him. With every breath. With every move. With every ounce of fight in her body.

'You should’ve picked someone weaker,' she thought bitterly, lips curling.

Because if you touch her—I will end you.

The fear of his power was still there.

But, it wasn’t in charge anymore.

Not tonight.

Not ever again.

Not when Chaewon’s name was on the line.

The members' shoes pounded the floors, every slam of foot against tile echoing like gunshots through the long, narrow corridor. The hallway to Yunjin’s dressing room stretched out like a tunnel of dread, pulsing with fluorescent light that flickered far too slowly, like the universe itself was holding its breath.

Chaewon led the pack, heart thundering so loud it threatened to rupture her chest. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Every second was an eternity.

She’s in there.

She’s  in there and he’s in there and we don’t know what he’s doing—

Her fists clenched. Her legs moved faster.

“YUNJIN-AH!” she screamed, throat tearing.

No answer.

Kazuha pushed forward beside her, eyes wide with panic. Eunchae’s breaths came in sharp sobs, and Sakura looked ready to kill something.

Then, like lightning splitting the air, Sakura shouted—“WAIT!”

Everyone skidded to a halt. Kazuha stumbled slightly. Chaewon looked like she might punch the wall from the momentum alone.

Sakura turned, face flushed and serious. “We can’t just burst in blind—what if he’s already got her cornered? What if we scare him into doing something?!”

Chaewon’s chest rose and fell rapidly. “You want me to wait? If he’s hurting her right now?!”

“I’m saying we need to be smart,” Sakura snapped back, voice trembling with fear buried under logic. “We all want to get to her, safely.”

Chaewon’s nails dug into her palms. “I don’t care about safe, I care about getting to her before he does something permanent.”

Eunchae’s voice cracked. “We’ll need managers. Staff. People who can actually help if something’s… if something’s really wrong.”

Kazuha swallowed hard, her voice low. “And we’ll need emergency services. In case—” Her breath hitched. “In case she’s hurt.”

No one said anything for a second. The silence ached. The air felt too thick to breathe.

Finally, Sakura sucked in a sharp breath and squared her shoulders. “Alright. We split up.”

She pointed. “Eunchae, go. Find the managers. Bring them to Yunjin’s room and explain everything. Don’t let them brush you off—scream if you have to.”

Eunchae’s face was pale but determined. “Got it.” She took off running, no hesitation in her sprint.

Sakura turned to Kazuha. “You and I are going to the medical station. Emergency services. If we don’t find help there—we go bigger. Authorities if we need to.”

Kazuha’s jaw was clenched so tight it was trembling. “If they don’t move fast, I’ll make them.”

Sakura didn’t doubt her. Then she turned to Chaewon. “And you—”

“I know.” Chaewon’s voice was a blade. Steady. Final. “I’m going to Yunjin.”

They all nodded.

And then they ran.

But, Chaewon ran fastest. Her body screamed at her to slow down but her soul told her to move. Her thoughts weren’t thoughts anymore—just images.

Yunjin, bleeding.

Yunjin, calling out for her.

Yunjin, too late.

No.

She gritted her teeth. Every corner she turned felt longer, every light above her flickering too slow. Her body ached but she didn’t stop.

And under her breath, barely more than a whisper but soaked in venom, fury, and raw protective fire, she growled:

“Just you fucking wait, Choi Min-ho… I’m gonna slice your dick off and feed it to Shiro.”

And she meant every goddamn word.

The door creaked as Yunjin pulled it open.

A breath caught, tight and sharp, in her throat.

Nothing.

Just the hallway.

Dim. Claustrophobic. Buzzing faintly with a few half-dead fluorescent strips overhead, flickering like the heartbeat of something already dying. The light cast long, unnatural shadows that stretched across the walls like grasping fingers. There was no noise. Not even footsteps. Not even the hum of life backstage.

It was too quiet. Wrong quiet.

The kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but watching.

She stood still in the doorway, one foot forward, barely breathing. Her ears strained past the thunder of her own pulse, trying to catch anything—movement, breathing, whispering. A footstep. Anything.

But there was nothing.

Still, she knew. He was here.

The air was heavier now. Like it was pressing on her shoulders. Like it knew danger was near. The instinct rose sharp in her gut. Not panic. Not yet.

She took a step forward. Then another. Her spine held straight. Chin high. But every nerve in her body was screaming.

Her eyes darted over the hallway, each flickering shadow, every partially open door, the cracks in the tiles. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails biting her palms. Her legs were stiff but steady. The way a soldier’s might be on the front line.

A blur. A whisper of movement in the corner of her vision.

SWOOSH.

A fist came out of the dark, slicing through the air where her head had been just a breath ago.

Yunjin ducked purely on instinct. Her lungs seized. The wind from the swing rushed past her ear like a blade. The force was enough to make her stumble sideways, sneakers slipping on the smooth floor.

Then she saw him.

Min-ho. No mask. No smirk. No restraint.

He looked deranged, eyes bulging, bloodshot and glassy, teeth bared in a crooked snarl. His body hunched like a beast, soaked in sweat, muscles twitching with every shallow breath. There was no strategy in his stance. No hesitation. Just raw, explosive rage.

“You bitch,” he spat, voice low, ragged, shaking with fury. “You think you’re smart? You think you’re better than me?” Spit flew from his mouth. His eyes were wild. A storm.

Yunjin didn’t speak. She moved.

A second swing tore through the air, and she ducked again. Her shoulder clipped the wall as she rolled past him, her body grazing cold tile.

He lunged, sloppy, unbalanced. She sidestepped.

His arm swung wide, and momentum carried him forward—smack into the hallway wall. A loud crack. His fist had hit metal. He grunted. Shook it off. Didn’t even feel it.

Her breath came fast now. Shallow. But her mind—her mind was sharpening. Every movement felt clearer. Brighter. Her vision tunneled on him, hyper-aware of where his arms were, where the wall was, where she could go if she needed to run.

But she wasn’t running. Not this time.

He threw another punch, snarling, teeth grit so tight she thought they’d crack.

She ducked. Spun. Slipped behind him. Her elbow slammed into his back, and he lurched forward.

He wasn’t just angry now. He was spiraling. His movements lost all precision. His footing was bad. His aim worse. Rage had eaten his sense.

And that gave her the advantage. A pause. A hitch in his breath. He over-rotated. Exposed his side.

Yunjin didn’t hesitate. Her fist collided with his jaw—CRACK.

The sound echoed down the hallway.

Min-ho’s head snapped to the side, a spray of spit and blood flying from his mouth. He staggered, dazed, blinking like he’d just been hit by lightning. He looked at her—not with pain, bug disbelief.

“You little—”

She cut him off. Charged forward. Slammed her palms into his chest and shoved him hard into the wall.

“You don’t get to touch me,” she spat, her voice vibrating from the strain in her throat.

Another hit, her fist to his shoulder.

“You don’t get to talk about her,” she growled, almost breaking on the last word. Her. Chaewon. Her light. Her person. Her everything.

She drove her knee into his side. He gasped. And she kicked him. Square in the ribs.

He fell to the side, coughing, spitting blood. Not out. But, shaken. Rattled.

She backed away, chest heaving, sweat sticking to her temples. Her hands trembled, not from fear anymore. From the force of her own rage. Her knuckles throbbed. Her elbow burned.

But, she stood tall. Legs wide. Unmoving. The pain didn’t matter.

He was down.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said, her voice low, cutting through the silence like a blade.

Min-ho wheezed. Tried to sit up.

She saw the cut on his cheek. The blood in his teeth. His shirt half-untucked, filthy, clinging to him. But that wasn’t what made her freeze.

It was his eyes. Still blank. Still empty. Still wrong.

No guilt. No fear. No hesitation.

Just… obsession.

For a beat, the world went still.

Yunjin’s arms screamed with strain, her shoulders trembling under the weight of adrenaline. Her legs, unsteady and sore, threatened to fold beneath her with each uneven breath. Her lungs burned, raw from the endless cycle of gasping and fighting to survive. But still, she stood. Bruised, shaken, and barely upright, she faced him without retreat.

Her fists remained clenched at her sides, blood pulsing hot in her palms. Every nerve in her body begged her to collapse, to surrender, but her mind—the only thing still sharp—refused.

Then Min-ho shifted. His chin lowered slowly toward his chest. His shoulders fell into a slack curve, rising and sinking with his rapid breaths. The fury in his body, the chaotic energy that had driven every blow, seemed to drain out of him all at once.

Yunjin didn’t move. Her eyes narrowed, cautious, unsure. Her heart pounded against her ribs with slightly less violence, still fast, still heavy, but a rhythm she could almost think through now.

Was that it?

Had she done it?

Had she finally broken through whatever sickness poisoned him—drained him of that violent drive long enough to let him crumble?

Maybe it was over. Maybe she could step back. Walk away. Breathe. Maybe—just maybe—she had won.

But then...he moved again. Not toward her. Not up. Down. His hand reached behind his ankle.

And her blood went cold. A pit opened in her stomach, and dread poured in like ice water flooding her lungs. Her eyes dropped, and she saw it.

Long. Dark. Metal. The way it caught the hallway light—just barely—like it had been waiting in shadow this whole time. Forgotten by her. Remembered by him.

Yunjin’s breath caught hard in her throat, tearing at her vocal cords on the way up.

No.

The sound didn’t leave her lips, but it screamed inside her head.

Min-ho’s fingers curled slowly around the bat’s handle like he was greeting an old friend. His posture straightened, vertebrae stacking one by one. He didn’t rush. He didn’t shout. He didn’t even blink. He just looked up at her with that same hollow, lifeless stare.

And then… he smiled. Not a smirk. Not triumph. Certainty. 

Like he already knew how this ended. Like this was always how it would end.

The bat rose, just slightly, and he dragged it through the air once in a long, deliberate arc. The air screamed as the metal sliced through it. The sound was sharp, pure, unnatural, like the world itself was being cut in two.

Yunjin’s entire body flinched. She didn’t mean to. It was instinct. Her shoulders jumped. Her jaw locked. The wind from the swing grazed her cheek, cold and close enough to feel. It wasn’t a near miss. It was a warning.

He stepped forward. The bat lowered, only to be lifted again with more speed this time.

The hallway was closing in around her. The walls too narrow. There was no more room to move. The space felt like it was shrinking with every step he took toward her.

Yunjin’s feet shuffled backward, one clumsy step at a time. The next swing came faster—too fast—and she dropped her weight just in time.

The bat screamed past her shoulder. It slammed into the wall behind her with a deafening crack.

The tiles shuddered from the impact, a spiderweb of fractured paint spreading across the plaster. A pipe shook beneath the blow, trembling in its bracket. Dust rained down in slow, lazy clouds.

Another swing, left to right. Fast. Desperate.

She twisted out of the way, but not fully. The edge of the bat clipped her arm. White-hot pain tore across her skin like she’d been branded. Yunjin gasped through gritted teeth, clutching her elbow for a second too long.

But, she didn’t fall. She couldn’t.

Her vision blurred at the edges. Her hearing pulsed in and out, like her own heartbeat was controlling the volume. But her eyes stayed locked on him. Focused. Alive. Determined. Even if everything else in her body was threatening to shut down.

She couldn’t keep this up. Her muscles weren’t responding fast enough. Her arms were heavy. Her legs sluggish. Her balance unsteady. One wrong move and that bat would shatter her. 

The hallway felt like it was shrinking.

Every footfall Yunjin took felt heavier than the last, her legs nearly buckling beneath the weight of her own battered body. Her lungs strained, pulling at air that refused to come, like she was drowning in a space that should’ve held breath. Her muscles screamed with each motion, a burn spreading down her arms and calves, not just from exhaustion, but from desperation. She wasn’t just tired. She wasn’t just sore.

She was nearing the edge. The absolute brink. She felt it. In her bones. In her trembling fingers. In the way her vision started to pulse in and out at the edges.

This man a boy unraveling anymore. This was a predator. Calm. Intent. Precise. A weapon now in his hand, and murder in his eyes.

Yunjin’s jaw clenched. Her breath hitched. She braced herself as tightly as she could, even as her limbs trembled under the weight of her own fear.

Another swing came like lightning. It tore through the air with a sound so sharp, it sliced right through her sense of time. She ducked, barely—just barely—in time. So close she felt the whistle of wind kiss her temple, a breath away from shattering her skull.

The bat passed by harmlessly, but the fear didn’t. Her heart launched into her throat. Her breath lodged somewhere beneath her ribs.

She staggered back, feet scrambling for stability, when her heel caught. Her sneaker rolled over itself, and her balance broke.

Shit.

Her arms flailed in the air, reaching for something that wasn’t there. Her body pitched backward, weightless for one second too long. And in that exact moment, before she could recover, Min-ho swung again.

The bat came back around. And this time, it didn’t miss.

THWACK.

Metal collided with her abdomen in a sickening, bone-deep crack.

Yunjin’s mouth flew open, her eyes widened, but no sound emerged.

The blow had stolen the breath from her lungs in a single violent instant. It was like the floor had been yanked out from inside her chest. Her spine curled inward as her stomach convulsed. She doubled over violently. Her knees buckled, giving way beneath her.

One hand flew to her stomach, fingers gripping instinctively at the pulsing epicenter of pain. The other hovered midair, shaking uncontrollably, trying to catch herself as the hallway tilted sideways.

She gasped. Once. Twice. No air came. Only a tight, desperate rasp. High-pitched. Guttural. It was like breathing through a closed fist. Like drowning inside her own body.

The pain didn’t stay in her stomach. It radiated outward, hot and stabbing and blinding. It rippled through her ribs, up her throat, down her thighs. Her vision exploded into stars.

And then came the kick.

CRACK—his boot drove into her ribs with a force that felt lethal.

A scream tore from her throat, ragged, broken, too raw to even sound human. It felt like something inside her had actually broken. Not metaphorically. Literally. She didn’t know if it was a rib. Or two. Maybe more. But something was wrong.

The pain made her convulse, made her limbs twitch and seize as she twisted and hit the ground fully now, no resistance left.

She landed on her back, her body sprawled out in a mess of tangled limbs and tremors. Every nerve ending in her body shrieked. Her lungs clawed at the air again. Still nothing. Just wheezing, thin, useless gasps.

Her vision was swimming now, blurred from tears, pain, and shock all colliding at once. Her pupils dilated, her pulse a hurricane. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. Her brain couldn’t focus. Everything was too fast, and yet frozen.

She could taste blood. Taste metal. Her stomach twisted like it was turning inside out.

And above her, looming, monstrous, unholy, was Min-ho. His face was no longer human. It had transformed into something animalistic. Something perverse and wrong. His mouth was curled into a grotesque grin, wide, unsettling. Blood from where she’d struck him earlier had dried along his jaw, flaking at the corners, but his teeth flashed through it.

His breathing was wild now. Loud. Like panting. Like he was high on it. Foam gathered at the corner of his mouth, spittle flecking down his chin with each exhale. His eyes were blown out, glassy, far gone.

And in his hands—the bat. Still warm. Still raised. He gripped it now with both hands, like it was an extension of himself. His stance shifted. Solid. Ready. No longer flailing. No longer wild.

He raised it again, high. Steady. A perfect, calculated arc.

Yunjin knew what this was.

The final blow. The one meant to end it.

She stared up at him, her vision tunneling. Her body had gone cold, her nerves numb. Even the pain—unbearable just moments ago—felt distant now. Faded. Like her body was trying to protect her from its own end.

Her heart slowed. Her fingers twitched once. And then her mind…drifted.

It was like someone flipped a switch in her brain. She was no longer here. She was remembering.

Flashes. Echoes. Emotions. Not in order. Not with logic.

Just love.

She saw Chaewon’s laugh in the green room, head tilted back, sunlight pouring over her cheeks. She saw Sakura’s hand gripping hers during their first live show, whispering “you’ve got this” with tearful eyes. She saw Kazuha dancing beside her in perfect sync, their shoes hitting the floor at the exact same beat. Eunchae chasing a camera through the hallway with frosting all over her nose.

She saw Rachel—her sister’s arms open wide in their childhood living room, yelling “JenJen!” with her soft American accent. Her mother’s warm hands cupping her cheeks and giving her warm hugs. Her father’s eyes, quiet and proud, as he told her he missed her voice.

And then—Chaewon. The girl who kissed her like she was something fragile. The girl who held her like she was a map she’d memorized by heart. The girl who said “I love you” with reverence in the dark, when no one else could hear it.

Yunjin’s chest heaved, barely. A weak flutter of breath. She hadn’t said goodbye. She hadn’t said thank you. She hadn’t told her just how much she loved her. How much she had saved her. Again and again and again. She would never get the chance now.

Her lips parted in a broken exhale. Her fingers curled weakly into the floor.

They say in the final minutes before death, your brain replays your best memories. Compresses a lifetime into a final, desperate gift.

Yunjin knew, without doubt—Chaewon would take up the majority.

A small, broken smile curled on her lips as her eyes fluttered shut.

The bat hovered.

A shadow of death suspended above Yunjin’s bruised, gasping body.

It didn’t sway. It didn’t tremble. It stayed there, still, poised, ready to descend like the final judgment of a nightmare that had spiraled too far into reality.

Min-ho’s face twitched. His eyes, wide, bloodshot, unblinking, shone with a rabid, gleeful light, like this was a game he’d already won. A grin stretched across his cheeks, too wide, too sharp. It pulled at his skin like it didn’t belong there, like his mouth was trying to mimic joy and failing. There was nothing human in the way he smiled.

Only madness.

His fingers curled tighter around the bat’s handle, his knuckles turning white. His breath came out in ragged huffs, spit foaming at the corners of his lips. He was drunk on it—the power, the control, the violence. Every muscle in his arms tensed, preparing to swing with everything he had. To finish it. To silence her.

To end her.

Yunjin couldn’t move.

Her body was no longer hers. It was a vessel of pain, shaking and broken. Her lungs clawed at the air but couldn’t hold it. Each breath she tried to take caught mid-throat and collapsed. Her stomach spasmed again, twisting deep inside her like it was turning itself inside out. Her ribs pulsed with white-hot agony. She could feel blood in her mouth, thick, warm, metallic. It coated her tongue. She tried to swallow but couldn’t.

Her brain was fogged. Hazy. Flickering between now and not-now. Her thoughts fractured, split across a hundred fraying threads that she could no longer hold onto.

“YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!”

The hallway detonated. The scream didn’t echo, it shattered. Sharp. Uncompromising. Carved from raw, blinding fury. It tore through the silence like a blade dipped in fire and sliced reality down the middle.

Yunjin’s eyes snapped open.

Her vision blurred. Her ears rang. But she heard it. She knew that voice.

Min-ho froze. The bat stayed midair. Arms locked, motionless. He didn’t turn. He didn’t move. But, the smirk vanished.

Thundering footsteps followed. Heavy. Unrelenting. Each one growing louder. Closer. Like the hallway itself was shaking beneath the weight of them. Like something unstoppable was coming.

Yunjin turned her head.

It hurt. Her neck was stiff, her head swimming, her skin cold with sweat, but she turned.

CRASH.

A body collided with Min-ho’s back, so violently it launched him forward like a rag doll. The force of the impact knocked the air clean from his lungs—he choked, a dry, startled gasp tearing from his throat.

The bat clattered from his hands. It hit the floor with a metallic screech, spinning, skidding across the tiles before crashing into the wall. Useless now. Out of reach.

Min-ho tried to react. To turn. To scream. But, a hand tangled in his greasy hair, yanked with unforgiving strength.

He shrieked. Not a snarl. Not a growl. But a panicked, high-pitched scream. The sound of someone caught. Cornered. Exposed.

He flailed, but it didn’t matter.

The person behind him drove a sharp, vicious knee into the back of his legs, just under the bend.

His knees buckled instantly, and he dropped. His body hit the floor with a sickening thud, his arms flailing out to catch himself. His face contorted in pain, confusion, disbelief.

"AH—FUCK!"

WHAM.

A punch. No warning. No hesitation. A full-force blow directly to his face.

His head snapped sideways from the impact, spit and blood spraying across the tile. His body jerked and slammed against the floor again, harder this time. He groaned. Loud. Wounded. Stunned.

Yunjin flinched.

Everything had happened so fast. Too fast.

She blinked. Her vision spun. The ringing in her ears was deafening, but the quiet after the storm was louder. The silence that followed the chaos made her heart thud even harder.

Slowly, blurrily, her eyes focused.

There, standing above Min-ho’s crumpled body.

Breathing like she had run through fire. Her chest rising and falling in sharp, heavy bursts. Her hands trembling—not with fear, but with the sheer force of the adrenaline burning through her veins. Her knuckles red from impact. Her jaw clenched so tight her teeth might’ve cracked. Sweat glistened at her brow, strands of hair stuck to her skin, but her gaze never wavered.

Kim Fucking Chaewon.

In all her glory. 

Chaewon stood still. Just for a second.

Just long enough for the air to thicken around her.

Her frame trembled, subtle, but it was there. Not from exhaustion. Not from fear. It was restraint. The sheer, crushing effort it took to hold herself back from doing more. Her fists stayed clenched, the knuckles already raw and reddened from the blows she’d delivered. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, seething bursts, like her lungs were struggling to contain the fire still roaring inside her.

But her eyes—her eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t stray. They were locked on Min-ho’s body. His pathetic, crumpled form splayed across the floor like a stain. A rotting shadow. A disgrace she hadn’t quite finished erasing.

She took a step forward. The echo of her boot against the tile rang out like a gunshot. Sharp. Final. Then another step. Louder this time. More deliberate. And another.

Min-ho stirred. Barely. A sluggish shift, a breathy groan slipping from his throat as he rolled to one side, dazed and disoriented. He twitched like he might rise.

That was all it took.

Chaewon’s voice sliced through the space, colder than the steel bat he’d dared to swing. Deeper than she’d ever spoken before. It wasn’t loud. But it didn’t need to be. Because, this wasn’t a warning. It was a death sentence.

“If you even think,” she said, every syllable slow, deliberate, deadly, “about laying another fucking finger on her—” she stepped again, the toe of her boot brushing against his curled leg. Her shadow now stretched over him.

“I swear to every god that ever existed, I will fucking end you.”

Min-ho groaned, weakly bracing an arm beneath him. He shifted again, a pathetic attempt to rise.

Her foot moved.

He flinched. Just that—just the twitch of her boot—and he recoiled like a cornered animal.

Her voice rose like a tidal wave, crashing with fury that had finally found its release. “YOU USED HER!!” she screamed, her breath hitching mid-sentence. “You threatened her!! Just to feed your own pathetic obsession!?!” Her fist lashed out again, faster than he could see.

Crack.

A sickening, brutal collision against his jaw. His head whipped to the side, the impact jarring his whole body. A broken cry escaped his mouth—somewhere between a yelp and a gasp.

Blood spilled from his lip.

Chaewon didn’t blink.

“You used me,” she seethed, her voice shaking, “as fucking leverage?!” Her foot came down again. Hard. Right into his ribs.

He gasped—wheezed—choked on the pain, curling instinctively as his arms scrambled to protect his sides.

“And you DARED—” she growled, her tone razor-sharp, stepping over him now, her shadow falling directly across his face, “you DARED to touch her?!”

Another kick. This one vicious. Wild.

His body twisted, another scream ripping from him, echoing against the hallway walls.

“After everything she’s survived—everything she’s fought through...” her voice cracked. Not from weakness, but from rage too big to be contained in a single breath. “You thought you could just come in and try to break her?!”

Her fist slammed against his face again, harder this time. A thud so loud it drowned out his whimper. His head snapped sideways, his mouth slack, blood now smeared along his cheek.

“You thought—” she gasped, staggering slightly from the force of her own fury, “you could dangle me over her head like some fucking leash?” A kick. Brutal. Lower.

He howled, his spine arching in reflex, body spasming as his arms folded beneath him like wet paper.

“You thought I wouldn’t find out?” her foot crashed into his side again—flesh against bone—and his body buckled, folding in on itself like a dying star.

“You thought I’d just stand by while you HURT HER?!” That last word was a scream. A raw, soul-splitting roar that reverberated down the corridor, shaking the walls, scattering the dust overhead. Her rage wasn’t a flare—it was an earthquake.

Min-ho whimpered. There was no fight left in him now. Just pain. And fear. His limbs twitched, feebly trying to drag himself back. A smear of blood trailing behind him.

He tried to rise. Slowly. Pathetically. One elbow trembled beneath him, shaking. One knee dragged upward.

But Chaewon didn’t hesitate. Her leg snapped forward.

WHAM.

Her boot slammed into his ribs again, with such force that the breath was blasted from his lungs.

He choked, mouth agape, eyes bulging, and collapsed face-first to the floor, his cheek scraping against the cold tile.

“No,” Chaewon spat, stepping over him again, boots steady, voice low and venom-laced. “You don’t get to move.”

Her boot came down on his chest. Firm. Crushing. Pinning him in place like the pathetic insect he was.

“You. Stay. Down.” she snarled, each word slow, feral, final. Her foot pressed harder, not enough to break, just enough to remind him he’d already lost.

Chaewon’s knuckles were still curled, trembling with the force of her fury, every muscle in her arm coiled like a spring ready to snap. She stepped forward, breath sharp, chest heaving, the sole of her boot hovering above Min-ho’s side, the weight of her wrath ready to come crashing down.

She didn’t care where it landed. His ribs. His stomach. His face. It didn’t matter. She just wanted him gone.

Her foot began to lift, her whole body shifting into motion—

“Chaechae…”

The sound was quiet. So quiet it almost vanished into the electric hum of the flickering hallway lights above. Barely a breath. Barely a sound.

But, it was enough.

Chaewon froze. The fury that had wrapped itself around her spine, burning in her bones, collapsed all at once—like it had never been there. Her shoulders dropped. Her body locked.

That voice. Broken. Breathless. So soft it cracked under its own weight.

Her head snapped toward it, instantly, violently.

And there, near the wall, was Yunjin.

Her Yunjin.

Her eyes locked on the crumpled form near the base of the wall—her Yunjin, trembling, hunched, face twisted in pain and eyes glassy with tears. Her voice had been weak, almost too fragile to reach, but somehow it still found Chaewon like a magnet.

Her body was hunched in on itself, one arm gripping her ribs, the other barely propping her up. Her face was tight with pain, pale with exhaustion. But it was her eyes—those wide, shimmering eyes—that shattered Chaewon’s chest into pieces.

“Yunjinnie…” she breathed out, her voice no longer steady. It cracked. Shook. Fell apart. Then louder, as if saying her name could somehow undo all of it, as if summoning her closer could fix what had been broken. “Oh my god—Yunjin!!”

Chaewon didn’t move, she dropped like gravity didn’t give her a choice.

Her knees hit the floor beside her girlfriend like the earth had yanked her down, demanding she stay close. She reached out instantly, but her hands froze midair, suspended between impulse and fear.

She didn’t know where to touch. Where it was safe. Where it didn’t hurt. She wanted to hold her—God, she needed to hold her—but Yunjin’s body looked so fragile now, like even a breath in the wrong place would undo her.

"Where—where did he—? Yunjin, where does it hurt? What do I do?” Chaewon’s voice broke again, choked by tears she hadn’t realized were still building. “Please, baby, talk to me, please…”

Her words came fast. Frantic. Each one more breathless than the last. Her eyes darted wildly over Yunjin’s body, looking for any sign—bruises, cuts, blood, anything—to tell her how to help.

But Yunjin didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t. Her body was too heavy. Her lungs too sore. The pain too loud. The tears just kept falling.

Until finally, her lips parted. Her voice, barely a whisper, pushed past the burn in her throat.

“You… you came…”

Three words. That was all it took.

All of Chaewon’s strength crumbled.

Her breath hitched like she’d been punched in the chest. Her eyes widened, then welled. Her lips parted in shock, in disbelief, in something deeper. And then, without warning, the tears slipped free. And she didn’t wipe them away.

“Of course I came,” she whispered, barely able to speak around the lump in her throat. “Always. I'm always here, Jin-ah.” she reached out again. This time, she didn’t hesitate.

Her hands found Yunjin’s face, shaking still, but so gentle it was barely a touch. Her thumbs moved automatically, brushing away the tear tracks on her cheeks, sweeping aside the strands of sweat-matted hair. Her palms cupped her face like it was the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

Even bruised and battered and barely able to sit upright, Yunjin was still—somehow—the most beautiful thing Chaewon had ever seen.

“I’ve got you,” Chaewon whispered, voice unsteady, thick with emotion. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

Yunjin blinked slowly, her lashes wet, her pupils dilated with pain, but she leaned into the touch. Weakly. Softly. Desperately. Like it was the only real thing anchoring her to this world.

And Chaewon swore she would be that anchor. Her fingers carefully threaded through Yunjin’s hair, sweeping it gently back from her forehead, touching her like she was something sacred. Her hands memorized the curve of her jaw, the shape of her cheekbones, the warmth of her skin beneath the tears.

She took in every feature. Every cut. Every bruise. Every flicker of pain that crossed her expression. As if memorizing it all would somehow mean she’d never let it happen again.

“I’m never leaving you again,” Chaewon whispered, so soft it cracked at the edges. “Ever.”

And with that vow still trembling on her lips, she leaned in, pressing a kiss—light as air, trembling with grief—to Yunjin’s forehead. Her eyes closed. Her hands never moved. And her whole body curled protectively around the one she loved most in the world.

Unaware to the couple, entwined in pain, sinking into the quiet between shattered breaths and unspoken I love yous, something shifted behind them.

A scrape. A grunt. The wet, dragging shuffle of limbs against tile.

Min-ho.

He hadn’t stayed down.

He rose, not like a man, but like something monstrous, something bred from vengeance and obsession rather than bone and blood. His body shouldn’t have moved, not after the blows, the screaming, the way his face had been painted in bruises and blood. But somehow—driven by nothing but a sick, festering fixation—he forced himself upright.

One arm trembled beneath him. His hand clawed at the floor, knuckles skidding on tile. His other arm bent crookedly behind him as he dragged it forward. His lip was split in two directions. Blood coated his chin like ink splatter. His nose was swollen and crusted with dried red. He wheezed, ragged and animalistic. Yet still, he moved.

Still, he came, and he rose. A shadow behind them. Silent at first. But rising like a nightmare re-born.

His eyes weren’t just bloodshot, they were deranged. Nothing left of reason. Nothing left of restraint. They latched onto Chaewon with a single-minded tunnel vision, not even blinking. No confusion. No remorse. No pause.

There should have been hesitation—there should have been—but what replaced it was worse. It was darker. It was certainty.

Yunjin blinked. Her vision was a mess, blurry, swimming, but in that moment, clarity returned like lightning striking the middle of a storm. Her body screamed in protest. Her ribs pulsed with white-hot agony. Her lungs shrieked for air. But none of that mattered.

Her pupils shrunk. Her heart stopped. Her lips parted.

“Chaewon—”

But it was too late.

Min-ho’s hand whipped forward, faster than it should have. His fingers curled around the back of Chaewon’s sweater—right at the hood—gripping the fabric so tightly it strained under his knuckles. His fist yanked, hard, jerking her backward with a force that felt like it tore her straight out of Yunjin’s arms.

It was so violent, so sudden, Yunjin thought she heard something inside herself snap.

“NO!” The scream tore from her throat like it had been living there for years, buried beneath fear and trauma and grief, and now it erupted all at once.

Chaewon didn’t scream at first. She didn’t have time. There was no warning, no breath, no blink before Min-ho hurled her. He didn’t just push, he threw her like she was nothing. Like she wasn’t human. Like she was disposable.

Her body slammed against the opposite wall.

The scream. It didn’t sound like Chaewon.

It sounded like something primal, something wrenched from the very center of her soul. It was high and guttural and raw. It rang in the air, slicing through the corridor like a knife through open skin. It echoed through the hallway like thunder through a tunnel, bouncing off every surface.

Yunjin’s entire being recoiled. Her soul split open.

“No, no, no—!” she choked, the words barely forming between sobs and pain. Her hand reached out automatically, trembling, desperate to grab her, to pull her back, but her body betrayed her.

The second she tried to move, white-hot agony exploded through her back and spine, rippling outward like a fire lit beneath her skin. Her body folded on itself.

A strangled sob caught in her throat. “CHAE—CHAEWON…!” she gasped. Her voice broke entirely on the second syllable.

Chaewon didn’t answer. She didn’t move. She had slumped at the base of the wall. Her body had collapsed on itself, head drooped forward, shoulders curled, legs twisted. 

Yunjin couldn’t see her face. And that terrified her more than anything.

Min-ho’s shadow loomed now, no longer behind them, but over her. His steps were uneven, but deliberate.

Yunjin’s back pressed into the wall behind her. Her body flinched, instinctively trying to shrink away from him, but the pain was too much. Her ribs screamed. Her limbs wouldn’t listen.

He towered over her like a stormcloud with no warning. His face blotched and swollen, blood on his chin, crusted along his nose, but his grin had returned. That same sick, lazy grin.

“You see?” he rasped, voice strained and gravel-thick, like it hurt just to speak—but he was still smiling. “I told you she’d get hurt if you didn’t cooperate.”

There wasn’t an ounce of remorse in his voice. Not a shred of hesitation. Only twisted satisfaction. As if this had all gone to plan. As if hurting Chaewon—her Chaewon—was just another step toward breaking Yunjin in two.

And worst of all…there wasn’t a flicker of doubt in his eyes. No regret. No confusion. Just cold, wild certainty. He had thrown the girl he obsessed over. Slammed her against a wall hard enough to make her scream like she was dying. And he still felt nothing.

Yunjin stared up at him, her breathing shallow and uneven. Her chest ached with every inhale. Her hands clenched at her sides. And her heart—her heart broke all over again.

He didn’t care, and that made him even more dangerous than before.

Min-ho walked toward Chaewon.

And Yunjin’s chest caved inward like glass under pressure.

Terror gripped her lungs so tightly she could hardly draw air. Her fingers clawed at the floor as if dragging herself forward by inches might be enough, but it wasn’t. Her legs refused to respond. Her ribs were screaming. Her spine flared with agony every time she tried to move. But none of that pain, not the bruises, not the sharp splinters of bone grinding with each shallow breath, compared to the suffocating, choking panic that now clawed up her throat.

Not when she couldn’t reach her. Not when he was getting closer.

Chaewon—somehow still conscious, somehow still present—lifted her head with the strength of someone refusing to give in. Her face was pale, her skin slick with sweat, a tremble running through her jaw, but her eyes… her eyes burned. Tight with pain, yes, but holding something even stronger: defiance. A quiet, desperate kind. The kind that didn’t need volume to be felt.

She glared at Min-ho, not with fear, but with fire.

His gaze met hers. And her breath caught mid-exhale.

It wasn’t rage written across his face. Not the kind of rage she could brace for. It wasn’t mindless violence. It wasn’t chaos. It was something far worse. It was want...lust.

Twisted. Wrong. Hollow and consuming. It dripped from the way his pupils dilated. The way his lips curled, not in fury, but in satisfaction. The way his head tilted like he was admiring something he believed belonged to him.