#that one's part of something longer and this one might be too | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eunseoksimp · 2 days ago

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west coast — p.wb [vol 3]

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 lead singer park wonbin, bass guitarist reader, angst, songfic

synopsis: getting over park wonbin was supposed to be the final verse, the closing note to a song that never belonged to you. you’ve buried every unspoken feeling in music, poured every lingering ache into the strings beneath your fingertips. and then beomgyu arrives—effortless, magnetic, a new harmony in a melody that was never meant to be yours alone. but the closer you move toward something new, the more wonbin begins to unravel, caught between the distance he created and the realization that it was never you who needed to let go. it was him. and now, he might be too late.

WARNINGS: more alcohol consumption (i promise i'm not an alcoholic), brief mention of substance abuse, swearing, more hopeless pining, wc is somehow now 32k which is crazy, wonbin is a little bit of an idiot

part 1 | part 2 a/n: thank you so much for enjoying the last two parts, i've enjoyed reading your comments. i originally intended for this to be the final part but i got far too carried away (as you can tell by the 32k word count), so think of this as the prelude for the finale :)

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the kiss is still there.

not just on your lips, but in the hollow of your chest, in the marrow of your bones, in the quiet spaces where breath should be, but isn't.

it lingers, wrapping itself around your ribs like a vice, threading through your veins like something poisonous—slow, steady, inescapable. it doesn’t fade with time. if anything, it deepens, carving itself into you like an echo of something you were never meant to hold onto.

you think about how he tasted—like warmth and something intoxicating, like all the things you told yourself you didn’t need but still reached for anyway. you think about the way his fingers curled against you, just enough to make you believe that maybe, for once, you weren’t the only one feeling this.

and for the briefest, most devastating moment, you had believed it, but hope is cruel.

it is insidious, creeping in through the cracks no matter how hard you try to keep it out. it takes root in the deepest parts of you, whispering its sweet lies, convincing you that maybe, just maybe, you were wrong. that maybe this was something more than a moment, more than a fleeting indulgence. but it wasn’t. it never was.

and now, in the quiet aftermath, all that’s left is the weight of it pressing against your skin, sinking into your lungs, making it hard to breathe. it sits heavy in your throat, an ache you cannot swallow down, a grief so sharp it cuts through you like glass. you close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. the memory of him is burned there, seared into the backs of your eyelids, an imprint you cannot shake.

you tell yourself this is the end. that whatever thread of longing still tethers you to him must be cut, no matter how deeply it severs your soul. because if you don’t let go—if you cling to this last trembling shred of hope—you know it will destroy you piece by piece.

and you cannot survive loving him one heartbeat longer.

the studio is the same as it’s always been—four walls soaked in the echoes of late-night recordings, the scent of old wood and metal, the faint vibration of a bassline bleeding through the floor. but today, it feels different. today, it feels like a cage.

your guitar rests heavy in your lap, the strap biting into your shoulder, the callouses on your fingers pressing into the strings. it should be comforting, grounding. but nothing is. not today. the weight in your chest is heavier than the instrument in your hands, a hollow, aching thing that no amount of music can smooth over.

you sense the others in the periphery, their voices rising in half-laughed jokes and half-formed plans. their words reach your ears as though submerged in water: distorted, distant, unreal.

you know you should join them, at least offer a nod or smile, but the simple act of speaking feels insurmountable. instead, you stare at your own hands, flexing your fingers to chase away the tremor that won’t quite fade. when it grows too strong, you close them into fists, as if to trap your own unraveling inside.

you tell yourself to focus. on the music. on the work. on anything but the way his presence stretches across the expanse of your mind, a gravitational pull you refuse to acknowledge.

when the door swings open, the air in the studio shifts so subtly that no one else seems to notice, but you do—like a single drop of ink bleeding into water, it spreads through your senses with dizzying inevitability.

your breath snags, and a tremor ripples through your bloodstream as the walls seem to inch closer. everything around you tightens, and for an unnerving heartbeat, it feels as though you’re drawing in less and less oxygen, like the atmosphere itself is conspiring to steal your composure.

wonbin steps inside with that calm assurance that has always set him apart. nothing about him betrays any hint of turmoil, and it’s infuriating how his every movement looks effortless. his dark hair, styled in a way that accentuates the sharp angles of his face, catches the overhead light, and there’s a sculpted symmetry to his features that feels almost inhuman in its perfection.

even his eyes—dark, fathomless, and framed by lashes that seem almost too long—carry a magnetism that draws attention whether you want it to or not.

he is all devastating beauty and disarming grace, the sort of presence that makes you want to stare even as you force yourself to look away.

you can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. one glimpse of that face—one flicker of those eyes—and you know you’ll come undone. instead, you grip your guitar until your knuckles whiten, your fingers pressing so tightly into the frets that the steel strings cut into your skin.

normally, the instrument feels like an extension of yourself, a lifeline to something steadier than your own heartbeat. but right now, it’s as though the resonance is muffled beneath the roar of the emotions you’re trying so desperately to suppress. each note you test feels like it’s being played underwater, distorted and dull, incapable of drowning out the pang in your chest.

your throat constricts, a rush of bile climbing upwards, hot and acidic, until you force it back down with a harsh swallow. you stare fixedly at the curve of your guitar’s body, trying to remember what it felt like to be calm, to be confident, to be unaffected by his presence.

you inhale, exhale, and inhale again, mentally chanting that this is exactly what you asked for—to move on, to be indifferent, to unchain yourself from all those treacherous hopes.

yet it’s so much harder than you imagined. with every slow step wonbin takes into the room, the tension inside you twists tighter, threatening to snap. you keep your head down, straining to maintain even a veneer of composure, and pray that no one else can sense the frantic thunder of your pulse.

you tell yourself this is how it has to be, that you wanted this distance, that you chose this detachment. but as you force your fingers into position on the fretboard and pretend to tune the strings, you can’t ignore the gnawing sense that each second you spend in his orbit only deepens the ache that’s tearing you apart.

“morning.”

the single word drifts into the room, warm and easy, yet somehow jarringly out of place. you hear wonbin’s greeting directed toward everyone at once, spoken in that gentle, laid-back tone he’s always had—like the world hasn’t been flipped on its axis, like the ground didn’t fracture beneath your feet the last time the two of you were alone.

from the corner of your eye, you catch a hint of him moving closer: the casual stride, the subtle brush of fabric, the rhythmic tap of soles on the floor. he stops right in front of you, and the air turns thick as syrup. your pulse thrums in your ears, drowning out the rest of the band’s chatter.

then you hear it—your own name, quietly shaped by his lips. he says it like he’s testing the fragile calm you’re clinging to, like any misstep might shatter what little resolve you have left. the guitar in your lap feels like a dead weight; your hand is locked around the neck, strings biting into your fingers.

you want—need—to look up, to meet his gaze with something resembling composure, but your eyes remain fixed on the scuffed floor. suddenly, the room seems too small, the walls pressing inward, leaving barely enough space to breathe.

you force a sharp inhale through your nose, summoning what remains of your courage to speak, to pretend that everything is perfectly fine, but your throat constricts, and the words refuse to form.

not when wonbin stands so close, not when the space between you feels like a gaping wound still raw and exposed, like a chord left unresolved—hanging in the air, vibrating on a note you can’t bear to let go.

he says your name again, his voice quieter this time, so tentative it feels like he’s reaching out with trembling hands, uncertain of what he’s grasping for. instinctively, you tighten your hold on the guitar’s neck, as though the firm press of steel strings against your fingertips could somehow tether you to reality. you focus on that bite of metal and the ridges beneath your calluses, desperate to drown out the way his voice caresses each syllable—a sound at once familiar and utterly wrecking.

you don’t need to look at him to know what expression he’s wearing. you’ve seen it countless times before, an intensity in his gaze that demands a response you can’t muster. it’s suffocating, the weight of it pressing against your chest, threatening to crack the fragile shell of composure you’ve managed to piece together. with your ribs barely containing the storm of turmoil inside you, you can’t afford to let him see even a fraction of what you’re feeling.

but for some reason—maybe habit, maybe masochism—you glance up. it lasts all of a breath, but it’s long enough to register the dark, searching depths of his eyes, just as they were that night. something raw flickers there, hidden behind unreadable shadows, and it knots your stomach in a violent twist of memory and regret.

not long ago, you would have let yourself sink into that look until it consumed you completely. never again, you tell yourself.

you choke down the tightness in your throat and manage a smile so thin it barely qualifies—just a hushed “hi” that sounds hollow, like it belongs to someone else.

before he can respond, you tear your gaze away, pretending that the guitar’s tuning pegs suddenly require your undivided attention. it’s a flimsy defense, but it’s all you have.

even without looking, you can sense the small furrow that forms between his brows, the slight tension drawing his features together. you feel the pause that settles around him, heavy and complicated, tinged with an almost unbearable fragility.

and for the first time since you met him, you allow that silence to stand. you make no move to bridge the gap, to smooth over the discomfort. you simply let it exist, a quiet testament to the wound between you—still raw, still bleeding, and impossible to ignore.

hongjoong clears his throat, the sound slicing cleanly through the suffocating silence like a blade meeting taut string.

“alright,” he says, keeping his voice deceptively light yet carrying that familiar edge of authority—the same tone he uses whenever he senses the delicate balance in the room is about to tip.

“let’s get into positions. we’ve got a lot to run through.”

the energy shifts in an instant.

gunil responds with a dramatic groan, scuffing his feet against the floor as he trudges toward his drum kit. minjeong mutters something inaudible, likely another complaint about how early it is for “all this emotional tension,” and yunjin silences her with a sharp look, before she glances back and forth between you and wonbin. her quick, discerning eyes flick over the two of you, sensing the undercurrent that crackles in the air, thick as humidity before a storm.

but wonbin doesn’t budge. he lingers where he is, gaze fixed on you with a quiet intensity that makes your pulse stumble. it’s as if he’s waiting for a sign—for your eyes to lift, for some unspoken acknowledgement that might mend the rift between you or at least let him know where you stand.

you keep your attention riveted on your guitar, every muscle in your body locked, determined not to surrender an inch of composure.

eventually, you hear him exhale. the sound is caught somewhere between disappointment and acceptance, a delicate mixture of frustration and resignation that pricks at your heart even as you force yourself to remain still.

“yeah,” he murmurs under his breath, raking a hand through his hair before taking a measured step back.

without another word, he turns toward the mic stand at the front of the room, moving into position with a forced nonchalance that does nothing to mask the tension simmering between you.

and just like that, the rehearsal moves forward—everyone falling into their roles, the crushing weight of unresolved feelings hovering in the space you refuse to share.

the instant he steps away, the grip around your lungs loosens, and you finally manage a tremulous inhale. that’s when you feel it—a warm, steady hand on your shoulder. you glance up, and there’s hongjoong, gaze calm but threaded with concern.

“you sure you’re okay?” he murmurs, his voice pitched low enough that only you can hear, asking the question again.

you nod—too fast, too reflexive.

“yeah. fine.”

his fingers linger a beat longer, a gentle pressure that speaks of quiet understanding. he doesn’t push for more, doesn’t pry into the whirlwind of emotions you’re struggling to keep hidden. he simply offers another gentle squeeze before releasing you, moving back to adjust his guitar strap as though the moment never happened.

he wasn’t there that night; he never witnessed the wrenching intimacy that now weighs on every breath you take. but somehow, he knows. he sees the fracture lines you’re trying to spackle over with silence. and for now, his simple acknowledgement—that unspoken kindness—is enough to steady you just a little longer.

the first notes ripple through the room, filling every inch of space, but they feel distant—like something playing from another lifetime, slipping through your fingers before you can grasp it. your hands move on autopilot, fingers pressing against the familiar grooves of the strings, but the music doesn’t reach you, doesn’t settle into your bones the way it should.

it feels like playing inside a dream, a step removed from reality, floating somewhere just outside of your grasp. and you know exactly why.

he’s there. he’s always there. just a few feet away, standing at the mic with his head dipped low, dark strands of hair falling across his forehead, his fingers curling loosely around the stand in a way that should seem effortless but doesn’t. there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before, a weight in the air between you that makes your breath come just a little too fast, your heart beat just a little too loud.

you try not to look at him, try to drown yourself in the melody, in the steady pressure of steel strings against your fingertips, but your body betrays you. your eyes flicker toward him without permission, and he’s already watching.

the second your gaze meets his, the world tilts.

it’s barely a glance, a flicker of a moment that shouldn’t hold so much weight, but it does. his brows knit together slightly, a crease forming between them, and there’s something there—something searching, something unreadable.

but you can’t do this. not now.

you force your gaze away from him, willing your attention back to the guitar in your lap and the rhythmic rise and fall of your own breath—anything to ignore the way his stare seems to linger, as though he’s perched at the edge of a confession he can’t quite put into words.

but then the chorus arrives, your cue to join in, to braid your voice with the melody the way you’ve done a thousand times before. except this time, the words lodge in your throat. they stick, trapped under the ache in your chest, and your fingers slip just enough to produce a sharp, dissonant chord. the sound cleaves through the music like a fracture through glass, and everything stutters to a halt.

hongjoong’s head snaps up first, his expression pointed with a sudden awareness. minjeong’s posture shifts, and though she doesn’t speak, her scrutiny is palpable, reading the tension in every rigid line of your body. the amps still hum in the silence, but nobody rushes to fill it.

not until wonbin’s voice—lower than usual, quiet enough to feel private—trembles through the room:

“hey, are you alright?”

his words catch you off-guard, pressing into the rawness you’re desperately trying to hide. for a moment, you can’t breathe. he’s not too close in a physical sense, but the concern in his gaze closes the distance regardless, wrapping around you with a weight that leaves no space for air.

it’s as though he sees more than you’re ready to show, and your heart buckles under the intensity of it. you curl your fingers around the guitar’s neck until they sting, forcing a semblance of a smile. it feels flimsy and hollow, but you hope it’s enough to satisfy him.

“sorry,” you whisper, voice tight, forcing yourself to exhale the static that’s clawing at your mind.

“just lost focus for a second.”

hongjoong looks to yunjin, something subtle and unspoken passing between them, but neither calls you out. and wonbin—he doesn’t so much as budge, his gaze still pinned on you with that unsettling blend of uncertainty and resolve. you can almost sense him gathering questions he doesn’t know how to ask.

refusing to meet his eyes for any longer than necessary, you adjust your grip on the guitar and find your breath.

“let’s go again,” you say, your words firmer now, as though you can brute-force the tremor from your voice. “i’ve got it.”

there’s a pause—the faintest hesitation—before hongjoong nods and resets his hands on the keyboard, yunjin aligning herself at the mic with one last worried glance in your direction. wonbin doesn’t argue, but you feel the weight of his stare as he lifts his own mic, the barest flicker of doubt in his eyes.

then the music swells once more, and you cling to the sound like a lifeline, hoping it drowns out the jagged reminder of how precariously everything hangs between you.

practice finally grinds to a halt in a discordant blur of unfinished chords and awkward silence. all eyes land on you—the one who never falters, the perfectionist who can coax flawless sound from six strings without so much as a glance.

and yet, you faltered. you, the one who normally spots everyone else’s slip-ups, are suddenly the center of concerned stares. a heated flush creeps up your neck as you blink rapidly, pretending to fuss over the tuning pegs of your guitar. it’s easier to focus on the tiny adjustments, to count the turns and pretend each one steadies your heart rate.

still, you can feel their gazes piercing your peripheral vision, scrutinizing you with a mix of confusion and worry. you swallow hard, pressing your lips into a tight line, hoping the rush of blood in your ears drowns out the unspoken questions hanging thick in the air.

gunil taps a drumstick against the edge of his snare, lifting his eyebrows with a mischievous smirk.

“well, well,” he drawls, “guess little miss perfect finally joined the club, huh?” he waggles the drumstick in your direction.

“nice to know you’re human after all.”

he barely finishes the sentence before minjeong’s hand darts out, delivering a sharp slap to the back of his neck—her silent command for him to stop talking. a startled laugh dies in his throat, and the studio settles into another strained hush.

gunil rubs at the sting, muttering, “alright, alright,” under his breath while trying to salvage a shred of dignity.

amid the tension, you become acutely aware of wonbin.

his grip on the mic wavers, knuckles white with urgency as he tries to mount it onto the stand. it only half latches in place, nearly tipping over before he catches it, eyes never leaving you. the concern in his features is raw, unguarded—completely at odds with the polished frontman you know.

your pulse rattles in your ears as he starts toward you, closing the distance with deliberate strides. it’s as though the rest of the band ceases to exist; every inch of him focuses on you and the inexplicable break in your usual composure.

your heart thrums a frantic warning—too close, too soon, too much.

“uh… i need some air,” you blurt, pulling your guitar strap over your shoulder.

the words tumble out so fast they almost sound like one, not waiting for a response as you slip past yujin’s concerned gaze, past gunil’s half-formed protests and the weight of everyone else’s eyes.

you don’t stop until the studio door clicks shut behind you, sealing in the static hum of amplifiers and half-swallowed tension. out here, the hallway is nearly silent—just a muted throb of lingering music bleeding through the walls. you lean against the cool cement, letting the chill press hard into your back, a sharp contrast to the heat in your cheeks.

your palms drift to your face, fingertips skimming over the contours of your skin as if you could somehow rub away the ache that’s lodged itself beneath your ribs. the chill is biting, but it does nothing to ease the heaviness clinging to your lungs.

beyond the door, you can still hear the faint buzz of bandmates reorganizing themselves for another run-through, their muted chatter rising and falling like distant thunder. that gentle hum of routine only makes the ache sharper; it’s a reminder that they’ll go on, that the music will continue, even while you’re out here trying to hold yourself together with breath after shaking breath.

you close your eyes and pray this moment of solitude will be enough to keep you from fracturing completely—just a heartbeat of silence in which to remember how to breathe.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

you used to believe that music could mend any wound, that every chord change and carefully chosen lyric was a kind of alchemy—turning your deepest aches into art. and now, it’s the only thing holding you together.

late into the night, long after your bandmates have left the studio, you stay behind, coaxing heartache into melodies that shimmer with vulnerability. you press your fingertips against the strings until they’re raw, shaping chords that vibrate with longing, pouring every unspoken thought and jagged emotion into the mic.

the result is a collection of songs so nakedly honest, they leave you trembling in the aftermath of each recording—yet they are undeniably beautiful in their pain, a tangible testament to the heartbreak you can’t seem to escape.

and so the lyrics take on a life of their own, sprawling across the pages of your notebooks in fevered handwriting—scribbled lines that map out every pang of sorrow, every ounce of desperation you’ve wrestled with in the still hours of the night. you catch yourself pouring over them at odd moments, fingertips grazing the ink as if touching the words might somehow ease the heaviness clamped around your heart.

it doesn’t, of course—but writing them down becomes the only breath of relief you can find. these fragile sheets of paper become your confessional, a safe space where grief can take shape without censure, where heartbreak is allowed to be as overwhelming and unrelenting as it truly is.

it’s not about seeking closure, not yet; it’s about survival. because in the wake of love that slipped through your fingers, every chord progression, every line of verse, feels like a tether keeping you from drifting into a darkness that threatens to swallow you whole. the pain might be soul-crushing, but channeled through pen and strings, it transforms into something almost beautiful—if only because it’s the raw, undeniable truth of how deeply you once dared to feel.

at night, when the city is hushed and every streetlight seems to glow with its own private sorrow, you find yourself wide awake, thoughts circling like moths around a single flame. sleep becomes an elusive dream, trailing just beyond your grasp.

but instead of lying there, suffocated by what-ifs and never-weres, you reach for your notebook. in the thin glow of a bedside lamp, you let each lingering thought of him trickle down your arm, gathering ink at your fingertips until it spills onto the page.

there’s a catharsis in it—in scribbling down memories that ache like fresh bruises, in shaping them into words and phrases that pulse with hidden yearning. whenever the pain gets too close to unbearable, you scrawl another line, another verse, until the torment feels contained, anchored by the weight of ink on paper.

and in that fragile, solitary ritual, you discover that maybe, just maybe, these sleepless nights hold the key to something transcendent: turning heartbreak into art, grief into something that can be sung instead of silently endured.

yunjin and minjeong notice the way your gaze drifts off during rehearsals, how your fingers itch for the pen tucked behind your ear instead of the instrument in your lap. they exchange glances full of quiet concern, and sometimes, one of them will call your name softly, as if hoping to coax you back from wherever your thoughts have taken you.

“everything alright?” minjeong tries one afternoon, leaning in close and tapping a gentle rhythm on your notebook.

you force a small smile, nodding in what you hope is a reassuring way. “i’m good,” you murmur, your voice catching on the lie. “just… working out some ideas.”

it isn’t that you don’t appreciate their worry. in fact, a part of you aches with gratitude for friends who care enough to ask. but you’ve come to prefer this realm of ink and paper—a sanctuary where you can shape the pain, control its borders, and hush the roiling anguish inside you.

here, in the hush of your own scribbled words, you can be honest about how lost you feel. out there, in the real world, that honesty threatens to splinter you wide open in front of people who might never understand. so you keep your eyes down, scrawl out another line, and let the comfort of creation shield you from the weight of a reality you’d rather not face.

another day, another unsteady round of practice filled with frayed nerves and half-formed ideas. drums stutter to a stop, and the hiss of an amplifier crackles into silence. hongjoong scrubs a hand over his face, frustration evident in the downward curl of his lips.

“we’re stuck,” he mutters, glancing around at everyone.

“i don’t know if we’re burnt out or just missing something, but…” he trails off, his gaze landing on you in silent question.

you feel your pulse quicken—your notebook is clutched protectively in your arms, pages overflowing with songs you’ve written in the lonely hours, words you’ve never shown anyone.

minjeong notices the hesitation in your eyes and nudges your elbow.

“come on,” she says softly. “it can’t hurt to share.”

your heart hammers against your ribcage, and for a moment, you almost refuse. these lyrics aren’t just scribbles on paper—they’re pieces of you, soaked in raw, unfiltered heartbreak.

but the band’s desperation presses in on you, thick and urgent, and you catch the flicker of hope in hongjoong’s gaze. with a shaky breath, you loosen your grip on the worn cover.

“it’s… it’s not exactly polished,” you whisper, voice trembling. “but maybe there’s something you can use.”

hongjoong nods, expression solemn. “we’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

carefully, you hold out the notebook, fingers reluctant to let go even as you extend it his way. when he finally takes it, you swear you feel a piece of your heart leaving your hands. he offers a small, grateful smile—a delicate gesture of trust that makes your chest tighten painfully.

you step back, arms folding around your middle as if to protect the hollow ache still pulsing inside you. someone flips the pages, scanning lines of ink etched by your sleepless nights, and the room goes quiet—respectful, expectant, and heavy with the vulnerability you’ve just laid at their feet.

a hush falls over the room, the quiet so deep it nearly rattles you. your pulse thunders in your ears, and a tremor curls around your spine—the urge to snatch the notebook back from hongjoong’s hands is almost more than you can bear. you can’t decide if it’s dread or hope swelling inside your chest, a tension so taut you wonder if everyone else can feel it, too.

hongjoong turns another page, eyes flicking across your scribbled verses with a kind of reverent intensity. finally, he looks up at you, and what you see in his expression leaves you breathless: a glimmer of recognition that feels both comforting and terrifying, as though he’s glimpsed the raw nerve pulsing behind your words.

he exhales slowly, lips parting in something close to wonder.

“it’s beautiful,” he murmurs, voice hushed but brimming with emotion. “really. you’re a genius.”

the words collide with your heart, sending a quiver through your stomach that’s equal parts pride and panic. you press your lips together, overwhelmed by a swirling tangle of relief, fear, and the faintest spark of validation.

you’ve spent so long scribbling confessions into these pages—never imagining they’d be read with such understanding. yet here hongjoong stands, holding your deepest ache in his hands like it’s something precious.

a collective urgency ripples through the room as minjeong and gunil close in, desperate to see what has their usually composed leader looking so struck by emotion. they crowd around, leaning in over hongjoong’s shoulder, scanning your words with hushed exclamations. the air thickens with excitement, almost electric.

in any other context, the band’s awe would send warmth flooding through your veins. but now it feels like a spotlight, burning through every carefully built defense. their voices rise, echoing with praise, and you force a small, shaky smile.

part of you craves their acceptance, their validation that you can create something worth hearing. yet another part reels at the thought of them glimpsing the bruised core of your heartbreak, spelled out in verse and chord progressions.

your gaze drops to your feet, and a flush heats your cheeks. for a fractured moment, all you want is to run—to yank the notebook free and hide your confessions away forever. but you don’t.

you stand there, arms folded across your chest, absorbing their words as best you can, torn between the desperate need to keep your secrets safe and the faintest spark of hope that, maybe, they finally get it.

it’s not until the others step away that wonbin finally moves in, slow and measured, like he’s bracing himself for whatever he might find between those pages. you can’t look at him. your heart is already pounding at the base of your throat, each beat warning you of the closeness—the possibility that he might realize the truth behind your words.

yet as he takes the notebook, something gentle lights in his expression, a quiet awe that forces your breath to stutter. he flips through the lines one by one, dark eyes scanning with a calm intensity that makes your nerves tingle.

for a moment, no one else seems to exist. the hush feels louder than any applause you’ve ever heard, your pulse hammering an unsteady rhythm against your ribcage. then he looks up and, slowly, hands the notebook back to you.

“he’s a lucky guy, whoever he is,” wonbin says, voice low and laced with a hint of warmth.

the words stagger through your chest, colliding with the painful realization that he doesn’t understand. he doesn’t see that he is the one you’ve been tearing your heart out for.

there’s a flicker in his gaze—something almost vulnerable, almost questioning—before it smooths over into his usual calm. your stomach drops, your fingers curling around the worn edges of your notebook like a lifeline.

if he felt anything at all, it’s swallowed by his assumption that these are just words spun from a distant heartbreak, a story that couldn’t possibly be about someone standing right in front of you. and the pain of it—of knowing he thinks your confessions belong to someone else—chisels deeper into the crack in your chest.

you feel your shoulders sag the instant he turns away, a wave of hollow disappointment robbing you of breath.

of course he wouldn’t guess the truth. why would he?

you’re barely keeping your own emotions stitched together, let alone brave enough to let them spill beyond the safe confines of your notebook. part of you wants to laugh at the absurdity—to mock yourself for the audacity to hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d see through the ink and realize you wrote each line for him.

instead, your heart throbs with the realization that this one-sided longing has become your own private prison. you clutch the notebook to your chest, foolish for ever believing its words could speak louder than the walls you’ve built around your longing. even your own pulse feels like a betrayal, still hammering for someone who might never feel the same.

for a fleeting moment, it had seemed possible—he might see the truth beneath the metaphors, might hear his name in every chord you’d strummed until your fingertips bled. but his departure, casual and unknowing, leaves behind a cavernous emptiness. reality crashes over you, brutal and unrelenting: he doesn’t realize you wrote those words for him, and maybe he never will.

a ragged exhale rattles through you, and in the quiet that follows, you feel something inside you break. because if he can’t see it now—if he can’t sense that the music you’ve spun from sleepless nights and unquenchable longing belongs to him—then there’s no point in clinging to the tiny, wavering flames of hope.

you press your lips together as tears threaten to spill, willing them back because crying here, now, might tear you apart completely.

you tell yourself it’s time to stop, to tear yourself away from the gravitational pull of his smile, his voice, his unknowing presence in every note you play. it’s time to let go of a future that was never meant to be.

and in that moment, the resolve sinks in—heavy, devastating, final. pain coils around your heart, searing and sharp, and you can almost taste the loss in the back of your throat. yet you cling to it with white-knuckled determination, because moving on is the only way to survive a love that leaves you hollow.

so you choose to let him go—even if it means leaving a piece of your soul behind with every chord you’ll never again write for him. you close your eyes against the ache, telling yourself that it’s for the best, that the agony of walking away is easier to bear than the agony of hoping in vain.

and in that moment, a single silent promise reverberates through your mind: you will learn to breathe again, even if it feels like dying first.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

you do everything in your power to sever the connection between you and park wonbin—a polite nod in passing, a half-muttered reply when he asks a question, your gaze skittering away the instant his dark eyes threaten to snare you.

it’s exhausting, pretending you don’t still feel the ghost of him in every chord you play. some part of you wants to give in, to let your guard slip just enough to catch that crooked smile, but the memory of how devastating it felt to realize he would never truly be yours keeps you resolute.

so you steel yourself with shallow breaths and quick goodbyes, forcing your heart to accept a distance that chafes with every moment spent in the same room. it’s not easy—your pulse kicks every time he crosses your line of vision, and you find your hands trembling on the fretboard when he stands too close.

yet you cling to this self-imposed barrier, convinced that holding him at arm’s length is the only way to reclaim the parts of yourself you’ve been bleeding into unrequited love. slowly, you pray, the ache will fade into something more bearable, and you’ll finally be free from the weight of loving someone who can’t—won’t—hold you in return.

he steps toward you at the end of today’s rehearsal, hair damp and clinging to his brow in a way that feels almost too intimate for the moment, shirt hanging from his shoulders as though it might slip free if the tension snapped any tighter.

the pungent mix of stale coffee and sweat-soaked air hovers like a suffocating blanket, amplifiers still humming with the echo of that half-finished bridge you never quite nailed. he draws in a breath, and his voice resonates with the adrenaline of performance, tinged by a confusion he can’t quite hide.

“we sounded off during that last part,” he murmurs, eyes darting between you and the rest of the band, “should we run it again?”

the question sets your pulse tapping wildly against your ribs, but you keep your gaze pinned on the guitar cable you’re meticulously looping between your fingers. each coil feels like a lifeline—a distraction from the heat radiating off him, from the quiet scrutiny you can sense in his stare.

“ask hongjoong,” you snap, a hardness in your tone that almost surprises you.

“he’s the leader.”

it’s a single strike, like a pick snapping against a string, and the look on his face wavers, uncertainty mixing with an unspoken plea you refuse to acknowledge. around you, the others fall silent, the air so thick with tension it feels like a physical pressure against your chest.

you sling the coiled cable over your shoulder, letting it pull you back a step, aware that the distance between you and him is more than just a few feet of studio floor. the unspoken tension in the room presses in, like the unresolved chord progression still ringing in your ears, waiting for a resolution that, in this moment, you can’t—or won’t—provide.

he stays exactly where he is, rooted to the spot as though your clipped response has momentarily robbed him of speech. his brows pull together in a way that makes your heart lurch, like he’s sifting through every subtle shift in your demeanor for answers you can’t afford to give.

the final chords of rehearsal still hang in the air—a phantom echo blending with the metallic taste of adrenaline on your tongue—and you force yourself not to inhale too deeply, not to catch the faint trace of cologne and sweat that clings to him. you can feel the electricity of his presence, almost see it crackling in the space between you, and it takes every fiber of your being not to let that pull unravel your carefully maintained composure.

“was there anything else?” you say, sharp and hollow, injecting as much distance into those two words as you can.

there’s no denying how your pulse stutters when you glance at him—damp hair tousled in a way that borders on heartbreakingly angelic, the overhead lights turning the faint sheen of sweat on his skin into something luminous.

for a second, you hate how effortlessly beautiful he is, how he can appear so ethereal even in the gritty aftermath of practice. you hate, too, how your own heart thrums in response, as if it’s trying to remind you of all the reasons you once let your guard down around him.

he opens his mouth as if to speak, then hesitates. the furrow between his brows deepens, a crease of confusion and maybe a trace of hurt. you half expect him to question you—to demand to know why you’re shutting him out, why your tone bristles with a chill that could freeze the sweat on your skin.

but he says nothing.

his silence seems to hum in your ears, louder even than the faint static from the amplifier behind you. your grip on the coiled guitar cable tightens, a too-familiar tension building at the base of your spine, and you silently beg your trembling knees not to give way beneath the weight of this moment.

somewhere behind you, a door hinges open, letting in a rush of cooler air, but neither of you move. it’s as though the rest of the world has receded, leaving just the two of you in this charged standoff. you feel the erratic beat of your heart like a distant drum solo, rattling inside your chest, threatening to betray the calm façade you’re fighting to maintain.

you consider walking away—taking two steps back into the hallway, anywhere he isn’t, so you can pretend it doesn’t feel like you’re being torn in two. but a stubborn part of you refuses to budge first, refuses to give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he can still unsettle you.

at last, he exhales, dropping his gaze to the floor in resignation. the thick tension between you doesn’t vanish so much as shift, contorting into something painfully unresolved, like a chord progression forever missing its final note. he runs a hand through his hair, damp strands raking back from his forehead, and it’s almost too much to bear—seeing him look so human, so caught in the fallout of whatever invisible line you’ve drawn.

your chest feels too tight; even breathing is a conscious effort. for a heartbeat, you consider reaching out, bridging that gap just to smooth the worried crease in his brow. but the memories of what was—and wasn’t—come rushing back, and your resolve snaps into place like a shutter slamming down over your features.

“i’ve got to get back to playing,” you mutter, voice tense enough to cut the thick air.

wonbin’s lips part, breath hitching like he’s about to say something—maybe an apology, maybe the question you’re dreading—when the door bangs open and your manager barrels in, derailing the moment with brisk efficiency.

“alright, perfect, you’re all here,” he exclaims, voice echoing across the room.

in his wake follows a figure whose presence seems to steal the remaining oxygen: he strides into the room with a quiet, self-assured grace that seems to pull every pair of eyes his way. at first glance, you notice he’s tall—easily six-foot-two, towering over most of you without even trying.

he exudes an aura of restless artistry and enigmatic charm, like a storm frozen in time.

his auburn hair cascades in unruly waves, catching the light like wildfire trapped in his tresses, each strand whispering tales of rebellion and untamed freedom. the messy layers frame his sharp jawline, a sculpted edge that speaks of quiet intensity, while his pale skin glows with an ethereal softness, as if he’s just stepped out of a dream.

a nose piercing flashes against his sun-kissed skin, a tiny spark of silver that gleams even in the shadowy corners.

his eyes, deep pools of unsaid emotion, are a contradiction of vulnerability and defiance—twin galaxies reflecting both the burden and beauty of chasing greatness. they seem to catch every glint of light, pulling you into their orbit, while the shadows in their depths whisper secrets he may never share. the tilt of his lips, soft and melancholic, carries a haunting allure, like a love song left unfinished, hanging on the edge of bittersweetness.

he wears a crisp white shirt that skims his lean frame, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal muscled tattoed forearms and a hint of band-aids wrapped around two or three of his fingers—little badges of hard work that suggest he’s no stranger to late-night guitar sessions.

there’s an electricity about him, a raw, magnetic energy that feels like the moment before a guitar string snaps—a tension that holds you captive, waiting for the inevitable crescendo.

as he steps closer, you catch sight of a delicate trail of moles that sweeps along the column of his neck like tiny constellations scattered across a sky at dusk. for a heartbeat, the room seems to hold its breath; even the usual hum of amplifiers and squeak of cables recedes into the background, enthralled by his unexpected arrival.

minjeong and yunjin exchange quick looks—part curiosity, part fascination—while hongjoong straightens up, offering a polite greeting.

but you barely register their reactions, too aware of how his gaze drifts your way, a soft smile curving his lips. it’s a smile that promises sincerity rather than arrogance, a subtle invitation to be at ease around him despite his striking looks.

unbeknownst to you, wonbin’s attention sharpens at your side, his expression unreadable as he notes the slight widening of your eyes, the faint hitch in your breath. you can practically feel that tension coil in the air like a drawn bowstring—ready to snap at the slightest push.

but you’re drawn to this guy’s easy confidence, the way he shifts his guitar case, the utter lack of pretension in his movements. even the quiet hush that settles over the space seems charged with possibility, making your pulse skip in a way you thought you’d forgotten.

“the company finally heard our prayers, he’s our new rhythm guitarist.”

“hey,” he finally says, directing his voice squarely at you, his tone warm and genuine. “i’m beomgyu. been following this band for a while—especially you.”

his gaze locks onto yours, open, genuine, the weight of the words settling in the space between you before he adds, almost like an afterthought, “huge fan.”

he offers his hand, slender fingers marred by those band-aids, and the gesture feels strangely personal, deliberate.

there’s a beat of hesitation before you take it, fingers brushing against the rough patches of his skin, against the heat that lingers beneath the bandages. for a second, the world narrows to the contrast of textures—the callouses against your smoother fingertips, the faintest tremor that isn’t quite nerves, but something else entirely.

“glad to have you in the band,” you say softly, forcing your voice to stay even, to mask the swirl of emotions in your gut.

the rest of the room stills, the shift almost imperceptible, yet undeniable.

from the corner of your eye, you see the way minjeong watches with quiet curiosity, yunjin with barely veiled amusement. gunil has his arms crossed, a knowing smirk already playing at his lips. it’s not lost on anyone, this moment stretching between you and beomgyu, the way his hand lingers just a fraction too long before he finally pulls back, tucking a stray strand of golden-brown hair behind his ear, revealing the constellation of moles scattered across the line of his throat.

“hope we can make something great together,” he murmurs, as if it’s the simplest truth in the world.

behind him, your manager beams, launching into a monologue about tours, albums, and new beginnings. but your attention wavers between the newcomer’s confident stance and the barely contained tension rippling through wonbin, who remains rooted in place, shoulders tight, gaze flicking between you and beomgyu as if the new guitarist’s arrival has thrown open a door he wasn’t ready to face.

there’s a momentary lull in conversation—just long enough for gunil to pipe up with a mischievous grin, drumming his fingers on the nearest amp.

“careful, wonbin,” he teases in a sing-song tone, “looks like pretty boy is about to take your spot.”

the quip lands in the still-charged air like a spark in dry tinder, the unintentional double meaning not lost on either of you.

you watch it happen—the flicker of something sharp passing through wonbin’s expression, the way his fingers flex at his sides, the near-imperceptible clench of his jaw. it’s brief, a flash of heat before the mask settles back into place, but you see it, and so does beomgyu.

he doesn’t say a word, but the shift in his posture is unmistakable, a simmering kind of frustration that betrays more than he likely intends. even beomgyu catches it, eyes flicking between wonbin’s stony expression and gunil’s attempt at levity.

as the laughter from gunil's joke fades, the manager swiftly intervenes, redirecting the focus back to business. he launches into the practicalities of band life—rehearsal schedules, upcoming gigs, studio expectations—guiding beomgyu through the nuances with the ease of a seasoned conductor.

the session winds down, the sharp clang of cymbals and the soft rustle of cables being coiled into loops filling the space with a familiar, rhythmic dissonance. cases click shut, tuning pegs are given last-minute adjustments, and the hum of idle chatter wraps around the room like the lingering reverberation of a final note that refuses to fade.

in the midst of it all, yunjin sidles up to you, her movement fluid, seamless—like she’s been waiting for the right moment to slip in unnoticed. she leans in close, her perfume a soft contrast to the stale scent of sweat and metal that clings to the air, her gaze flicking from beomgyu, who is effortlessly charming his way through conversation with gunil, then back to you, the glint in her eyes unmistakable.

with a discreet wiggle of her eyebrows, she murmurs just low enough for only you to hear, "he's definitely hot, right?"

there’s a teasing lilt to her voice, lighthearted on the surface, but you know yunjin—know the way she watches, the way she picks up on the smallest shifts in dynamics before anyone else even registers them. this isn’t just idle commentary. this is her testing the waters, waiting to see if something in you cracks open, if there’s something worth prying into.

you pause, fingers still curled around the neck of your guitar, debating your response. beomgyu is attractive—undeniably so—but acknowledging that feels like stepping onto shaky ground, like introducing something you’re not sure you’re ready to entertain. so instead, you settle for a small, noncommittal smile, tilting your head in vague concession.

yunjin, never satisfied with half-hearted reactions, nudges you lightly with her elbow, her grin widening. “oh, come on,” she presses, voice barely above a whisper but still somehow managing to sound incredulous. “don’t act like he isn’t.”

you exhale a soft laugh, lifting your hands in mock defense. “i didn’t say anything.” the gesture is both a concession and a deflection, an admission that, yes, the new guy has a noticeable allure without giving away anything more personal about your thoughts.

“exactly.” she narrows her eyes at you, a knowing gleam sparking in them, as if she’s already forming her own conclusions regardless of what you do or don’t say.

the exchange lasts only a few fleeting seconds, but as your gaze flickers instinctively across the room, it snags—inevitably—on him.

wonbin stands a few feet away, his back straight, arms loosely crossed, posture seemingly at ease. but you know wonbin. you know the sharpness in his jaw when he’s tense, the way his fingers twitch against his biceps when he’s holding something back. he’s listening, even if his eyes remain on the manager, even if he looks entirely unaffected.

hongjoong, ever the diplomat and peacemaker of the group, seizes a moment of calm to usher in a new tradition.

“team lunch,” he announces with an authoritative nod, his voice carrying over the residual noise of packing. “it’ll be good to get to know beomgyu.”

the idea is met with a chorus of enthusiastic approvals, the underlying unspoken truth being that hongjoong is famously generous when the bill arrives—his treat often being the sweetener that draws unanimous agreement.

as the band members start to chatter about where they might go, you focus on securing your guitar in its case, fingers working deftly at the latches. yunjin is still hovering, her presence a reminder of the conversation you’d rather let fade, when beomgyu approaches again.

his timing is impeccable or perhaps intentionally calculated to catch you alone, just as you linger by your guitar case, about to close it, beomgyu circles back to your side, his approach quiet but intentional.

he pauses, nodding towards your instrument with an appreciative tilt of his head.

“mine’s black too,” he comments, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “best color there is, right?”

his tone is light, yet there's a nuanced undertone of camaraderie, as if this small shared preference might bridge the gap between newcomer and established band member.

you look up, caught slightly off-guard by his proximity and the unexpected warmth in his voice.

“yeah, it’s classic, probably my favourite colour” you respond, your words measured, but not unfriendly.

beomgyu doesn’t step away, doesn’t shift back into the polite distance most new members might maintain. instead, his fingers brush against the case’s handle, grazing your own in a fleeting touch that lingers longer than it should..

“let me help with that,” he offers, and before you can protest, he lifts the guitar with effortless grace, his other hand gesturing towards the instrument room. the ease with which he hoists the weight makes it seem as light as air, a display of strength that doesn't go unnoticed by yunjin who watches, her eyes wide and a bit dreamy, from a few steps away.

you follow him, your steps matching the rhythm of his, aware of every glance thrown your way by the other band members. the corridor to the instrument room stretches out, lined with the muted colors of the studio walls, a backdrop that suddenly seems to highlight beomgyu’s presence—a vibrant contrast, like a vivid stroke of paint on a dull canvas.

inside the instrument room, the air is cooler, filled with the scent of wood and metal, the sacred quiet of a space dedicated to the tools of your craft. beomgyu sets the guitar down gently, handling it with the care of a true musician respecting the soul of another’s instrument.

“you have a great setup here,” he observes, turning to scan the array of gear and instruments, each piece a testament to countless hours of practice and performance.

his comment draws a nod from you, the simplest acknowledgment, yet there's a depth to the exchange, a sense of shared understanding about the life of musicians bound to their art

“thanks,” you say, feeling the space between you charged with an unspoken recognition of your mutual dedication. “we’ve built it up over the years.”

beomgyu's eyes meet yours again, and in that moment, the room seems to shrink, the walls inching closer as if to eavesdrop on this quiet moment of connection.

“i’m really looking forward to adding to it,” he says, his voice a soft murmur, almost lost in the hush surrounding you.

his gaze is steady, inviting a level of sincerity that you hadn’t anticipated, pulling you into a narrative that suddenly includes him in ways you’re still trying to understand. you manage a smile, small but genuine, touched by the earnestness in his tone.

as you and beomgyu emerge from the instrument room and reenter the main studio, there's a palpable shift in the atmosphere. the others are clustered near the door, seemingly caught between preparing to leave and the palpable buzz of curiosity about the new dynamic you and beomgyu might bring.

you catch the tail end of a shared chuckle, their heads turning toward you with an array of mischievous grins. it's as if they've been waiting for this very moment to tease you about the apparent ease with which you and the new member have started to bond, their eyes sparkling with the kind of playful complicity that usually prefaces a round of good-natured ribbing.

however, amidst the laughter and whispered side conversations, wonbin stands slightly apart, his attention tethered to his phone. his fingers swipe absently across the screen, a frown knitting his brow as if he's engrossed in something far removed from the light-hearted banter filling the room.

every so often, his eyes flick up, scanning the room with a detachment that borders on disinterest.

why would he care? the thought stabs at you with an unexpected pang of regret.

despite everything—the tension, the past connection, the unresolved words hanging between you—it stings to see him so deliberately disconnected from the moment, so unaffected by the camaraderie that has always been a cornerstone of the band's spirit.

you pause, the weight of his indifference settling over you like a cold shadow. in contrast, the others seem almost eager to draw you further into the fold, their laughter a warm invitation back into the light.

minjeong nudges you gently, leaning in to whisper with a conspiratorial wink, "looks like someone made quite the impression."

her gaze flicks meaningfully toward beomgyu, who is now chatting with hongjoong about potential song ideas, his enthusiasm palpable even from a distance.

"give it a rest," you mutter, though your words lack real heat. despite yourself, a reluctant smile tugs at the corners of your lips, softened by the familiar comfort of your bandmates' teasing.

meanwhile, wonbin's isolation grows more pronounced, his presence like a note held too long in a song, creating a dissonance that even the laughter around you can't quite drown out. it's clear he's made his choice to remain aloof, perhaps as a shield against the complexities of change or as a defense against a pain he won't acknowledge.

as the group begins to move toward the exit, chatting about where to go for lunch, you cast one last glance at wonbin. his eyes meet yours briefly, a flash of something indecipherable crossing his features before he looks away, turning back to the inscrutable safety of his phone screen. in that fleeting moment, the distance between you feels wider than ever, filled with unspoken truths and missed connections.

the evening air is thick with the remnants of summer, warm and heavy, curling around your skin like a second layer. the sky is a dusky violet, the city stretching long and endless in front of you, neon signs flickering like distant constellations against the deepening horizon. the band walks together, clustered in pairs, their voices filling the streets with easy laughter and lingering conversation. there’s something familiar about it, the way the five of you fit together like notes in a song, but tonight, there’s a new rhythm beneath it all—one that wasn’t there before.

beomgyu walks beside you, his long strides effortlessly matching yours, the warm streetlights casting golden reflections in his brown hair. his hands are stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, his figure relaxed but somehow still commanding, the sharp angles of his jawline softened by the glow of the city. he nudges you lightly with his shoulder, an action so casual you almost don’t register it until he speaks.

“tell me, how did you get into playing guitar?,” he asks, voice smooth, tinged with genuine curiosity. his eyes flick toward you, searching, like he actually cares to hear the answer.

you hesitate, caught between the comfort of the conversation and the weight of an audience you don’t quite trust yourself to forget.

“it's a long story,” you deflect, but there’s no real reluctance behind your words.

beomgyu hums, tilting his head. “i’ve got time.”

you exhale, glancing ahead at the others. yunjin is caught up in an animated conversation with hongjoong, hands gesturing wildly as she argues about something that makes gunil bark out a laugh. but Wonbin—he’s quieter, walking slightly ahead, shoulders taut, his gaze flicking back every so often, lingering in a way that’s almost imperceptible. almost.

still, you return your focus to beomgyu, offering him a small smirk.

“my uncle used to play. when i was little, i’d sit in the corner of the living room just watching him. he’d never let me touch his guitar, said i had to earn it first.”

you glance down at your fingers, trailing them absently along the strap of your bag. “so I taught myself on a cheap secondhand one. it was awful—buzzing strings, action so high i thought my fingers were gonna bleed.”

beomgyu grins, clearly entertained. “let me guess—bar chords were your mortal enemy?”

“they still are,” you admit with a laugh, the sound light, almost foreign coming from you lately. it feels easy, talking like this, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your chest isn’t weighed down by something you can’t quite name.

“you got there, though,” beomgyu points out, nudging your elbow. “and now you’re playing in one of the best bands i’ve ever heard.”

“are you two planning on getting lost back there?”

wonbin.

his voice isn’t harsh, but there’s an edge to it, something controlled, clipped. you glance up, catching the way his eyes dart from you to beomgyu and back again, his features unreadable. his phone—his ever-present distraction—is nowhere in sight now, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders drawn just a little too tight.

you blink, thrown off by the sudden intrusion. “relax, we’re right behind you.”

he doesn’t respond, just lets out a breath, turning away as if the conversation already isn’t worth his time. but the tension lingers, curling like smoke in the air, and when you step forward to match pace with the rest of the group, you swear you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

beomgyu doesn’t seem fazed. if anything, his lips twitch, amusement dancing in his eyes like he’s just found something interesting—something he intends to figure out.

wonbin stays near the front, his posture composed, his expression unreadable, just as he’s been since beomgyu arrived. he doesn’t joke with the others as much as usual, but no one seems to notice except you. you tell yourself you’re imagining things, that the momentary glance he cast your way was nothing, that the way he cut into your conversation with beomgyu was merely coincidence.

beomgyu, however, is as relaxed as ever, unfazed by anything, his presence effortless as he continues walking beside you. as you near the restaurant, he leans in slightly, voice pitched just for you.

“that neon sign’s about to give up on life,” he muses, nodding toward the flickering glow above the entrance, a smirk tugging at his lips.

you snort, shaking your head. “looks like it’s been dying for a while.”

his laugh is easy, rich, and as the two of you step forward, you don’t notice Wonbin’s fingers twitch subtly at the hem of his sleeve, his gaze flicking—just for a second—toward where Beomgyu stands at your side.

the restaurant glows with a warm, golden ambiance, the soft hum of conversation and clinking silverware filling the space as you all approach the entrance. just before any of you can reach for the handle, beomgyu jogs ahead, his long legs covering the distance effortlessly. he pulls the door open with a small flourish, grinning as he gestures for everyone to step inside first.

“after you,” he says smoothly, his voice rich with easy charm.

gunil claps him on the back as he passes. “oh, he’s one of those guys. i see how it is, trying to win over our girls”

beomgyu only smirks, but when you step up, his expression softens just a fraction, the warmth in his eyes lingering just a second longer.

“for you, especially,” he murmurs, and there’s something playful, almost teasing in the way he says it, but it still manages to send a ripple of awareness through you.

you barely notice the figure at the back of the group, the one who’s watching in silence. wonbin, arms still tucked into his hoodie, remains near the entrance, his lips pressing into a faint frown before he steps inside last, the shadows of the doorway trailing behind him.

once inside, the group weaves through the crowded restaurant, past candle-lit tables and the scent of sizzling food drifting from the kitchen. hongjoong leads you toward a long table near the window, and before anyone can claim a seat, gunil claps his hands together, loud enough to make a few nearby patrons glance over.

“alright, new guy,” he declares, rubbing his hands together like he’s about to orchestrate something truly chaotic.

“since it’s your first official meal with us, you get the honor of choosing who you want to sit next to.”

beomgyu barely hesitates. with an easy grin, he pulls out the chair right beside him—your chair. he tilts his head toward you in invitation, fingers curled lightly around the back of the seat.

“do me the honours,” he says easily.

the reaction is immediate.

minjeong lets out a dramatic gasp, yunjin waggles her eyebrows with zero subtlety, and gunil downright howls, throwing his head back as he clutches his chest. “ohhh, smooth,” he groans, while hongjoong shakes his head in amused disbelief.

“jesus,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as you slide into the chair, ignoring the exaggerated reactions happening around you. “you guys act like i’ve never sat next to a guy before.”

beomgyu only laughs, dropping into the seat beside you with a smug ease. “i don’t know,” he muses, resting his chin in his palm. “you do seem pretty flustered.”

you whip your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. “i—what? i am not—”

but it’s already too late. the table erupts in laughter, gunil banging a fist against the wood while yunjin throws a knowing glance toward minjeong, who looks downright delighted by your reaction.

and somewhere, in the middle of it all, you fail to notice the way wonbin sits stiffly across from you, gaze dark and unwavering as he observes the entire exchange without a single word.

the restaurant hums with a comfortable buzz, a blend of distant chatter and soft instrumental music filtering through the warm air. the scent of grilled meat and spices lingers, curling around you as menus are passed around and drinks are ordered. but despite the distractions, it doesn’t take long for the teasing to start again, because gunil—predictably—has no self-control.

“so,” he drawls, leaning forward on his elbows, eyes flickering between you and beomgyu with unmistakable amusement.

“do we think the new guy’s a natural flirt, or is he just awfully smitten with—”

you shoot him a warning look, already bracing for impact. “gunil.”

he grins, unfazed. “what? it’s a valid question! beomgyu, be honest—was this a strategic choice? or are you just naturally drawn to our very own resident rockstar?”

minjeong chokes on her drink. yunjin smacks a hand against the table dramatically. “oh, he definitely planned this,” she declares, and gunil nods enthusiastically in agreement.

beomgyu—who thus far has taken everything in stride—simply exhales, shaking his head as if in deep contemplation. then he turns to you, expression far too pleased.

“you know,” he muses, tilting his head, “i could say it was coincidence, but i don’t think you’d believe me. not with the way she’s looking at me.”

you narrow your eyes at him, fighting the heat threatening to creep up your neck. “wherever he came from,” you mutter, flipping through the menu with unnecessary force, “we need to send him back. i can’t deal with a gunil 2.0.”

gunil gasps, pressing a hand to his chest as if you’ve physically wounded him. “i am deeply offended,” he proclaims, but then immediately beams at beomgyu, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“but also, what an honor! welcome to the club brother.”

beomgyu leans into it, smirking. “happy to be here.”

“oh my god,” you groan, slumping back in your chair while the rest of the table bursts into laughter. even hongjoong—who usually tries to be the responsible one—shakes his head with an exasperated chuckle, muttering something under his breath about how he already regrets bringing everyone out.

meanwhile, across from you, wonbin remains quiet, idly stirring the ice in his drink. his posture is relaxed, his expression unreadable, but his eyes flicker toward you and beomgyu every so often—quick, barely perceptible glances.

if anyone else notices, they don’t comment on it.

the night continues, the teasing persists, and beomgyu continues basking in every bit of attention thrown his way, playing along like he was always meant to be here. you exhale, setting down your menu with a finality that makes yunjin smirk at you.

this is going to be a long night.

the arrival of the food brings a brief but welcome pause to the relentless teasing, the scent of sizzling beef and rich spices stealing everyone’s focus. plates are set down with soft clinks, and for a while, the only sounds that fill the table are the clatter of utensils and the occasional satisfied hum from someone enjoying their meal. the conversation quiets, replaced by the rhythmic lull of eating, the warm air thick with the comforting aroma of grilled meat and simmering broth.

you shift in your seat, concentrating on your plate, but the beef in front of you proves to be more of a challenge than expected. the cut is thick, the texture a little tougher than you’d anticipated, and you find yourself struggling against the resistance of the meat as your knife barely makes a dent.

you huff, gripping the handle a little tighter, trying not to draw attention to your struggle, but before you can wrestle with it any further, a hand reaches into your space.

beomgyu, wordless and unbothered, plucks the knife and fork from your grasp with effortless ease. he doesn’t say anything—doesn’t even glance at you—just presses the edge of the blade into the meat and slices through it with a few smooth, practiced movements. the precision is almost irritating, as if the food is bending to his will out of sheer respect. you blink, stunned into silence as he casually transfers the perfectly cut pieces back onto your plate like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

gunil sees—because of course, he does—but, mercifully, the food in his mouth saves you from whatever wild remark was undoubtedly forming behind it. you watch as he raises an eyebrow, as if making a mental note to circle back to this later, but he’s too occupied stuffing another bite past his grin to comment right away.

however, what you don’t anticipate is yunjin, who swallows a sip of her drink, tilts her head toward beomgyu, and asks, far too casually, “do you have a girlfriend?”

the question lands like a drumbeat in the middle of the table, and suddenly, all attention shifts back to him. minjeong pauses mid-chew, hongjoong’s chopsticks hover in the air for half a second longer than necessary, and gunil, despite still chewing, makes a muffled noise of interest.

beomgyu, unfazed as ever, finally looks up from his plate, lips curling in amusement.

“that’s kind of a loaded question,” he muses, wiping the corner of his mouth with his napkin.

yunjin doesn’t blink. “it’s really not.”

he laughs at that, shaking his head. “no, i don’t,” he admits, resting his elbow against the table as he leans in slightly. “but if i did, would that change the way you’re all looking at me right now?”

gunil swallows dramatically. “i’d be devastated, personally.”

the table bursts into laughter, even hongjoong chuckling as he shakes his head.

the table is still buzzing with laughter from beomgyu’s response when gunil, in his never-ending quest for chaos, suddenly shifts his attention across the table. his eyes narrow slightly, as if just now noticing something off in the atmosphere.

he leans forward, elbow propped on the edge of the table, and calls out, “hold on a second. why is wonbin so quiet tonight?”

at that, the laughter trickles off slightly. a few pairs of eyes flick toward wonbin, who has barely spoken since you all sat down. he had been eating at an even pace, head down, shoulders relaxed—but now that the attention is on him, he moves with deliberate ease, taking a slow sip of his drink before setting it back down, as if completely unfazed.

hongjoong shoots gunil a sharp look across the table, the warning subtle but clear: drop it. but gunil, ever the instigator, is oblivious as usual.

“seriously, man,” gunil continues, grinning. “you usually have something to say. what’s up?”

wonbin exhales through his nose, casual as ever, and shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “didn’t get much sleep,” he mutters, the words smooth, effortless.

his face gives away nothing, his expression a mask of nonchalance as he stirs the ice in his glass with his straw.

gunil’s eyes immediately light up with mischief, his mind already running wild with the implications of that statement. “ahh,” he hums knowingly, leaning in like he’s just uncovered some great secret.

“not enough sleep, huh?”

you groan, already knowing where this is going.

“bet i know why,” gunil continues, undeterred. “some girl kept you up last night, didn’t she?” he wiggles his eyebrows exaggeratedly before turning to beomgyu, throwing an arm around his shoulder like they’ve been best friends for years.

“since you’re new here, let me introduce you properly. this—” he gestures dramatically toward wonbin, who merely watches him with an unreadable expression, “—is the real casanova of the group. he’s the original heartbreaker, the pretty boy, the one the girls are always lining up for.”

beomgyu, playing along effortlessly, raises an intrigued brow. “oh? the original?” he flicks a glance toward wonbin, his smirk teasing but unreadable. “so, you’re my competition?”

wonbin scoffs, shaking his head as he finally lifts his gaze from his drink, but there’s something else in his expression now—something too subtle for anyone to name, but just sharp enough for the energy at the table to shift.

he meets beomgyu’s eyes, dark and unreadable, and for a split second, something flickers beneath his usual apathy.

then, with a lazy shrug, he mutters, “i’m not competing with anyone.”

gunil howls at that, clapping his hands together like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all night.

“classic wonbin,” he cackles. “always pretending he doesn’t care.”

the others chuckle along, and just like that, the tension dissolves into playful laughter again. as the teasing finally dies down, the conversation shifts naturally toward the one thing that binds you all together—music.

hongjoong, ever the responsible leader, leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “alright,” he says, voice steady, cutting through the last remnants of laughter. “before we all get too full and lazy, let’s go over practice schedules again. we’ve got a lot to fine-tune before the showcase next month, and we can’t afford to slack.”

there’s a collective groan from gunil and yunjin, but it’s half-hearted at best—they all know hongjoong is right. minjeong nods in agreement, already mentally calculating her schedule.

“we’re still aiming to finalize the album recordings by the end of next month too, right?” she asks.

“yeah,” hongjoong confirms. “and i want everyone at the studio early on friday. we’ll do a full run-through of the setlist with beomgyu this time and some recording too.”

at the mention of his name, beomgyu straightens, and for the first time since he walked through the doors of the studio earlier today, that playful glint in his eyes fades into something else—something sharper, more focused. his posture shifts ever so slightly, no longer that of the carefree flirt basking in the attention of his new bandmates, but of a musician, a professional. the change is subtle but striking, and when he speaks, his voice is filled with something undeniably passionate.

“i’ll be ready,” he says, his fingers tapping absently against the table. “i’ve already gone through most of the recent setlists. i’ll put in extra hours to catch up on anything new, just send me whatever tracks you want polished by friday, and i’ll make sure i’m up to speed.”

the sheer determination in his voice catches you off guard. you weren’t expecting him to take things lightly, of course—no one makes it to this level without hard work—but seeing the shift happen in real time, watching the flicker of ambition light up behind his eyes, is something else entirely. admirable. maybe even a little intoxicating.

you don’t realize you’re staring.

it’s a bad habit, one that hongjoong recently pointed out with an exasperated sigh and an amused, “you really need to work on not getting lost in thought while making direct eye contact. it gives people the wrong idea.”

and yet, you do it again, caught in the quiet force of beomgyu’s intensity, the way his expression softens just slightly when he notices your gaze lingering.

but he doesn’t tease. he doesn’t smirk or make a snarky comment. he just smiles, warm and knowing, and then—without hesitation—reaches over and gives you a light pat on the head.

the gesture is brief but firm, enough to jolt you out of your daze. it’s also enough to send the entire table into another round of chaos.

“i love this guy,” gunil cackles, wiping at his eyes as if the moment was too much for him to handle.

yunjin leans into hongjoong, gripping his arm as if she’s about to faint. “hongjoong, do something, i can’t—”

you, meanwhile, are left gaping at beomgyu, blinking in disbelief. “what—what was that?”

beomgyu shrugs, entirely unbothered. “you were staring.”

your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “i—”

“anyway,” hongjoong interjects loudly, fighting a losing battle against the chaos unfolding at the table. He lifts his glass, signaling for everyone to settle down.

“before we all spiral into madness, let’s wrap this up properly.” he turns to beomgyu, giving him a nod of approval. “welcome to the band.”

everyone follows suit, raising their glasses, the clinking sound ringing warm and bright between you all.

“welcome to the band,” they echo, voices overlapping, some dramatic, some genuine, but all filled with the same shared sentiment as beomgyu grins and lifts his own glass.

you watch as the drinks are tipped back, laughter spilling into the dim-lit restaurant, the camaraderie between you all settling into something real, something permanent. as beomgyu meets your gaze one last time over the rim of his glass, you feel it—the shift.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the studio hums with quiet energy, the soft buzz of amplifiers and the faint clicking of drumsticks against the rim of gunil’s snare drum filling the space as everyone settles into another late-night session.

three weeks have passed since beomgyu joined the band, and in that time, he’s more than proven himself. what started as a cautious integration has transformed into something seamless—effortless, even. he’s blended in like he’s always belonged, picking up the intricacies of your sound with a sharp ear and an undeniable talent that keeps surprising even hongjoong.

even minjeong, typically reserved and hard to impress, has warmed to him. there’s a lightness to her now, a softer curve to her lips whenever beomgyu cracks a joke or nudges her playfully during rehearsals. he has that effect on people—making them feel like they’ve known him forever, like it’s impossible to imagine the band without him now.

and you? you’ve grown closer to him in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

music, as it turns out, is more than just a shared passion between you—it’s a language you both speak fluently, an unspoken connection that keeps pulling you into late-night jam sessions long after everyone else has gone home. he challenges you in ways no one else has, pushing you to refine your riffs, encouraging you to experiment, to play outside the lines you’ve drawn for yourself. his presence is magnetic, not just because of his charm, but because he understands—really understands—what it means to live and breathe music.

“alright, let’s run it again from the top,” hongjoong calls out, adjusting the levels on the mixing board.

beomgyu, leaning against his guitar, glances at you with an easy smirk. “ready to show me up again?”

you roll your eyes, adjusting the strap over your shoulder. “oh, please. you’ve been trying to outplay me since day one.”

he grins, fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the body of his guitar. “maybe i just like the challenge.”

the words are lighthearted, teasing, but there’s something about the way he says them that makes your fingers tighten around the fretboard, a heat creeping up the back of your neck. before you can respond, gunil counts off, and the studio is filled with sound, drowning out everything else—except for the sharp awareness of the man sitting across the room.

wonbin is leaning back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, his other hand idly toying with the condensation on his water bottle. he hasn’t said much all night, but now, as beomgyu leans in just a little closer to show you something on the fretboard, his voice cuts through the space between songs.

“you two lovebirds done flirting?” he quips, his tone smooth, offhanded—meant to be just another easy joke, like the ones he used to make with you before everything started feeling like this.

but the reaction isn’t what he expects.

you don’t laugh, don’t even roll your eyes the way you once might have. instead, you barely acknowledge the comment at all, offering only a fleeting glance in his direction before refocusing on your guitar.

“let’s just run it again,” you murmur, adjusting the strap on your shoulder, your voice steady but distant.

something sharp tugs at the edges of wonbin’s composure.

he tells himself it’s nothing. that you’re just focused. that you didn’t mean to brush him off like that. that whatever this weird distance is—it’s temporary, just a passing thing. he leans back further, plastering on an easy grin, masking the nagging weight in his chest with the same lightness he always does.

“damn,” he muses, swirling his water bottle absently between his fingers. “didn’t realize i’d be a third wheel in my own band.”

gunil snorts, beomgyu just smirks, and you don’t react at all.

wonbin exhales through his nose, forcing himself to keep his posture relaxed, to wear his usual air of indifference. but something feels off—has felt off for weeks now, but he’s only just starting to acknowledge it.

it’s the distance. the subtle, creeping realization that things aren’t the same between you.

you don’t linger near him in the studio anymore. you don’t joke around with him between takes like you used to. the moments you once stole in passing—trading lazy comments, nudging each other in between sets, sharing quick smirks over inside jokes no one else caught—those moments are gone.

and, if they still exist at all, they don’t belong to him anymore. they belong to beomgyu.

wonbin isn’t stupid—he’s watched it unfold with his own eyes. beomgyu is the one you walk into practice with now, your conversations bleeding into the room long before the rest of them arrive. he’s the one you stay late with, bent over notebooks, strumming through ideas until the rest of the world disappears. the one standing next to you when hongjoong gives new instructions, the one laughing beside you when gunil cracks some dumb joke, the one moving into the space where wonbin used to be.

it’s a shift he didn’t notice at first. or maybe, if he’s honest with himself, it’s one he refused to notice. but it’s impossible to ignore now, the proof laid out in front of him in every lingering glance, every shared smirk, every small touch that passes between you and beomgyu like second nature.

the closeness unsettles him. it shouldn’t—he knows that. he has no reason to care, no claim to stake, no right to question it. but it does bother him, even if he doesn’t understand why.

so he does what he’s always done—masks it in ease, drowns it in something weightless, pushing his emotions down.

the moment rehearsal starts, the studio transforms. the lingering weight of conversation, the undercurrents of tension—all of it is swallowed by the sheer force of sound.

beomgyu settles into the music effortlessly, his rhythm weaving seamlessly alongside the steady thrum of minjeong’s bass and the deep, pounding heartbeat of gunil’s drums. it’s uncanny, the way he fits into the structure of the songs like he’s been here all along, like his presence was always meant to fill the spaces between each note. every chord he plays is precise but never mechanical, carrying the weight of a musician who doesn’t just play music—he feels it, breathes it, lets it seep into his bones.

wonbin watches from the corner of his eye, keeping his voice steady as he sings, but the tightness in his chest remains. he can’t deny it—beomgyu is good. frustratingly good.

his timing is impeccable, his execution flawless, but it’s more than that. it’s the way he connects—how he doesn’t just play the right notes but moves with the song, like he understands every nuance without needing to be told.

then comes the second song, your song.

the one where your guitar takes center stage, where your fingers move effortlessly over the fretboard, pulling sharp, electric notes from the amp with practiced ease. the kind of solo that demands attention, commands the room with its precision and fire. you lean into it naturally, your body moving with the pulse of the song, feeling the music instead of just playing it.

but this time, you’re not alone.

beomgyu catches your movement, a flicker of something playful crossing his face. he shifts slightly toward you, fingers skimming his own fretboard with the same effortless confidence, matching your energy beat for beat. he mirrors you—not just technically, but in spirit, taking up the unspoken challenge like it’s second nature.

the air crackles between you, charged with something unspoken, something electric. the sound of your guitars twists together, harmonizing and clashing all at once, the melodies dancing between your fingers like lightning against a dark sky. your bodies move in tandem, drawn into the same rhythm, the same pulse of sound that vibrates beneath your skin.

gunil, catching onto the moment, grins behind his drum kit and drives the beat even harder, pushing the tempo just slightly, challenging the two of you to keep up. minjeong watches with an amused smirk, barely needing to adjust as she follows your lead, letting the bassline ground the wild energy sparking between you and beomgyu.

when the song finally crashes to a close, leaving the studio buzzing in the aftermath of reverberating notes, there’s a pause—a beat of silence where everything settles, leaving only the faint hum of amplifiers in its wake. The air is thick with something electric, something raw, the kind of energy that lingers even after the music has stopped.

beomgyu exhales, flashing you a grin.

“not bad.”

you scoff, shaking your head as you adjust the strap on your shoulder. “you’re getting cocky.”

he tilts his head, considering. “or maybe i just think we bring out the best in each other..”

before you can respond, a loud, exaggerated sigh fills the room.

gunil, still seated behind his drum kit, leans back with his sticks resting against his thighs, shaking his head dramatically.

“man,” he drawls, “i don’t know what kind of soulmate-level connection you two just tapped into, but i think i actually felt something. i was moved.”

minjeong chuckles, rolling her eyes. “gunil, shut up. you’re so dramatic.”

“no, seriously,” he insists, grinning. “it was like—bam, musical telepathy. the chemistry? undeniable. i think i might start believing in fate or some shit.”

beomgyu lets out a breathy laugh beside you, bumping his shoulder into yours in playful agreement. “guess we make a pretty good team, huh?”

you laugh softly, shaking your head at their antics—but it’s only when you hear them, really hear them, that something shifts in your chest.

it was the first time you had played that song—the one you wrote for wonbin��and your chest hadn’t tightened. no lump had risen in your throat, no invisible weight had pressed down on your ribs. it had been just another song, just music, or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

but then, without thinking, your eyes flicker across the room—to him. wonbin..

the world doesn’t stop spinning, but it feels like it does. for just a moment. for just the stretch of a single breath.

his gaze isn’t piercing, isn’t burning with anything sharp or scathing. no, it’s something else entirely—something unreadable, something that tightens in your chest like a slow-building crescendo, pressing against ribs that have already known too much ache.

this is the moment where he should say something. where he’d usually saunter over, voice low and teasing, an easy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he murmured, “damn, you really are my favorite little rockstar.”

where he’d nudge you just enough to make you roll your eyes, to make you swat him away only for him to stay close anyway. where he’d remind you—without ever really saying it—that he sees you.

but he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. just stares. and it hurts.

it’s a quiet, gnawing pain, the kind that doesn’t strike all at once but settles deep, threading itself into old wounds that never fully healed. you’ve spent weeks trying to break free of the weight he left behind, trying to scrape the remnants of him out of your skin, out of your lungs, out of the spaces in your mind that still whisper his name when you’re alone.

and yet, with a single look, it all comes rushing back. you shouldn’t care, but you do.

you do, because for all the ways you’ve tried to let go, there’s still something in you that aches for him to notice. to say something. to remind you that he was once the one who knew you best, who stood by your side, who made you feel like you belonged before everything cracked and left you trying to piece yourself back together.

instead, silence stretches between you like an unplayed note—dangling in the air, unresolved. then, a hand on your shoulder.

beomgyu.

his touch is light, grounding, but it doesn’t break the tension—it only makes you more aware of it. “come on,” he murmurs, voice softer than before, as if he senses the shift, even if he doesn’t understand it.

“water break.”

you don’t respond, just let him steer you toward the bottles laid out on the other side of the room. and still, wonbin doesn’t look away. he doesn’t stop watching. he doesn’t say a single word.

the laughter from the others continues behind you, filling the space you leave behind, but as you reach for the cold plastic of the water bottle, the chill sinking into your fingertips, you feel it—that quiet, aching twinge deep in your chest.

the cool water slips down your throat, but it does little to soothe the fire simmering beneath your ribs. It’s not the kind that burns bright and all-consuming—it’s slower, deeper, the kind of heat that lingers long after the flame has been snuffed out. the kind of ache that settles into your bones, into the spaces between your lungs, making it harder to breathe without feeling it pressing there, unshakable.

beomgyu settles beside you easily, his presence a stark contrast to the storm still curling in your chest. he exists in a way that doesn’t demand anything of you, that doesn’t make your wounds feel like open targets. you should be grateful for that. maybe you are.

but when hongjoong speaks, your pulse stumbles over itself, because his words are about to crack open something you aren’t sure you’re ready to face.

“alright,” he starts, voice dipping into something serious, steady. “the showcase is in a week, and i’ve been thinking—we should introduce one of the new songs, my personal pick is flatline.”

“it would be good to get people excited about the album.”

the moment fractures.

a week. that’s all the time you have left before you’ll be standing on a stage again, before the weight of every chord, every lyric, every heartbeat you’ve ever poured into your music is laid bare under blinding lights. it wouldn’t be the first time. performing is second nature to you.

but this—this—feels different, because the song hongjoong is talking about isn’t just another track in your repertoire. it’s not something you wrote in passing, not a melody plucked from thin air.

it’s a song for him.

for the love you lost before you ever truly had it. for the nights you spent drowning in the silence he left behind. for every almost, every nearly, every whisper of something real that never quite reached the surface. it’s ink and blood, strings and scars, stitched together into something that still feels too raw to touch.

the air shifts and the hesitation is almost tangible. hongjoong notices it too, catching the flickers of unease from the others before his gaze finds you. he hesitates, as if suddenly realizing the weight of what he’s suggesting.

“i mean—we don’t have to,” he amends quickly. “i just thought—”

“no, it’s fine.”

the word leaves your lips before you can second-guess it. it rings louder than you expect, unwavering, slicing through the hesitation thickening the air like a blade.

for a second, you wonder if it’s a mistake. if you’ve said it too quickly, too forcefully. if it’s a lie. but it isn’t, because the truth is—if you don’t do this now, you never will.

if you keep avoiding the song, if you let the ghost of wonbin’s presence dictate the things you create, you’ll never really be free of him. you’ll always be running, letting his absence linger in the spaces meant for music, meant for you.

and you’re so, so tired of running.

“it’s a good idea,” you say, this time softer, but still sure. “we should play it.”

there’s a beat of silence, but before the silence can stretch too far, hongjoong nods. “alright. we’ll lock it in, if everyone else agrees”

a murmur of agreement ripples through the group, but you barely hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat hammering against your ribs. because now, for the first time, it’s real.

the song is no longer just a relic of your grief, buried within the pages of your notebook. it’s going to be sung and wonbin is going to hear it.

the studio is winding down, the charged energy of rehearsal unraveling into something looser, more relaxed. the clatter of cases being latched shut, the zip of backpacks slung over shoulders, the murmur of voices blending into the low hum of amplifiers still cooling from the heat of performance. it’s familiar, routine. but even in the comfort of familiarity, there’s something else simmering beneath the surface—something unspoken.

you’re winding your guitar cable with slow, practiced movements when you feel them before you see them—yunjin and minjeong, hovering just close enough to make their presence known. they’re watching you like they know something you don’t, eyes sharp, lips poised on the edge of mischief.

"what's the plan for tonight?" yunjin asks, arms crossed as she leans in slightly, the movement casual, but her expression anything but.

"we were thinking of grabbing food—maybe that rooftop bar after. you in?"

minjeong tilts her head, studying you with that quiet, knowing gaze of hers, the kind that makes it impossible to lie. there’s something expectant in her stare, like she already knows the answer before you give it.

you shift your guitar case higher on your shoulder, wincing slightly. "i promised beomgyu i’d stay behind," you admit, not missing the way their eyes immediately flicker toward each other, like two sharks scenting blood in the water.

"we wanted to go over a few things for the showcase."

"even better," minjeong hums, her smirk unfurling slowly, curling at the edges of her lips like smoke.

yunjin grins in agreement, rocking back on her heels as if she’s just won something. "if anything, this is a step in the right direction."

your stomach twists at the implication, but before you can argue, a burst of laughter echoes from across the room.

beomgyu.

his voice is warm, rich with amusement as he throws a casual arm around gunil’s shoulder, grinning at whatever conversation they’re tangled in. he fits into the space like he was meant to be here all along, moving between everyone with effortless ease. his presence is a stark contrast to the space left behind—the empty seat, the missing words, the silence that used to be filled with someone else.

yunjin follows your gaze, then nudges you with an exaggerated wiggle of her brows. "he's cute," she whispers, just loud enough for you to hear. "and not him."

you know exactly who him is and you don’t respond, but the absence of protest is answer enough.

minjeong steps closer, voice lower now, softer, like she’s trying to ease you into something you haven’t fully accepted yet. "look, we're just saying—he’s good for you. you guys seem to get along so well and he definitely isn’t bad on the eyes. and if he’s not, at least he’s something new. something that won’t keep you depressed and in your room for weeks on end"

there’s a weight to her words, something that makes your breath hitch for just a second too long. because new means moving forward. it means carving out a path that doesn’t end with the same heartbreak, the same regret.

it means leaving the past behind.

you exhale, shaking your head, feigning exasperation as you shove your coiled cable into your bag. "you guys are ridiculous."

"and right," yunjin corrects, her smirk widening.

but the teasing fades as she studies you, as if she’s peeling back the layers of your hesitation, reading the reluctance in your body language, the way your fingers still tense when wonbin’s name is even implied.

and the truth is—you don’t know what this is.

you don’t know if beomgyu is anything more than a distraction, if the comfort of his presence is anything more than a temporary bandage over something that still bleeds.

the moment is barely yours before yunjin seizes it, ever the dramatist, ever the instigator.

“oh, leave the lovebirds alone,” she declares, voice cutting through the air like a cymbal crash, exaggerated enough that it echoes off the studio walls.

your shoulders stiffen, but beomgyu only snickers beside you, unbothered, used to their antics by now. the rest of them follow her lead, one by one filing toward the exit, slinging backpacks over their shoulders, chatting amongst themselves about late-night plans, about food, about anything but the weight lingering in this room, in the space that stretches between you and the man who hasn’t left yet.

wonbin stands near the doorway, slower to leave than the others, gaze flickering between you and beomgyu with something unreadable in the dim lighting. there’s nothing playful in his stance, nothing lighthearted in the way his fingers curl slightly at his sides.

then, casually—too casually—he speaks.

“do you guys need a singer?” his voice is smooth, but there’s an edge to it, something careful, like a hand hovering over a flame, unsure whether to pull back or press forward.

“i wouldn’t mind staying back if so.”

beomgyu barely hesitates, his answer coming as easily as his smirks, effortless but firm. “wouldn’t want to keep you from your friday night plans,” he muses, adjusting the strap of his guitar, his tone playful but not entirely weightless.

then, with a glance toward gunil, who had been the loudest voice at practice earlier, he adds, “he told me about the girl you’re supposed to be meeting.”

the words drop into the space between you like a stray note—just sharp enough to cut and you freeze.

everything in you locks up—your breath, your pulse, the way your fingers suddenly feel too heavy where they rest against your guitar.

friday night plans. a girl.

of course. of course, he’s meeting someone. of course, there’s another name, another voice waiting on the other side of his time. because that’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it? wonbin is charming, wonbin is untouchable, wonbin is everyone’s favorite—the guy who belongs to no one but still manages to leave his mark on everyone.

but the worst part isn’t that he has plans, it’s that it hurts.

because even after all the nights spent convincing yourself you’re done grieving him, done chasing something that was never yours to keep—your body betrays you. your stomach knots, your lungs squeeze too tight, your gaze drops to the floor because you can’t—can’t—risk looking at him right now, not when the ache is raw and too exposed.

there’s a beat of silence and then, movement.

wonbin steps forward, but not toward beomgyu. toward you.

your breath stutters, but you don’t lift your head, don’t meet his gaze, don’t acknowledge the fact that he’s close enough for you to smell the faint traces of whatever cologne he wears—the same scent you still associate with late-night drives and half-finished conversations, with laughter pressed against your temple, with the fleeting ghost of something that once felt like home.

he doesn’t speak right away, just reaches into his bag, the sound of the zipper barely registering past the static in your head. and then—gently, carefully—he presses something into your hands.

a bread snack, something from the vending machine down the hall.

“don’t forget to eat a proper meal after,” he murmurs, quiet, almost like a secret. his voice doesn’t hold its usual teasing lilt, doesn’t carry the arrogance of someone who knows he’s impossible to ignore. it’s just soft, like the wonbin you know behind all of the rockstar fame and string of girls. the one who stayed behind that night of tour to make sure you were eating well. the one who always seems to notice when you slip out of a room.

your fingers tighten around the wrapper, but you say nothing. you can’t say anything.

because your heart is pounding wildly, chaotically, like a song with no tempo, no rhythm, no way to steady itself. and then—just as quickly as he came—he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving only his words, his scent, his absence pressing heavy against your ribs.

the door clicks shut, and the weight of wonbin’s absence presses into the room like an echo, something unseen but impossible to ignore. the silence stretches, stretching over your skin, curling in the spaces between your ribs. your heart refuses to still, still beating in a frantic, uneven rhythm, as if trying to process what just happened, as if trying to make sense of the way his voice still lingers in the air, soft and careful, like a melody that refuses to fade.

you stare at the bread in your hands, the crinkled plastic now warm from your grasp. your fingers curl around it too tightly, knuckles stiff, as if the pressure might somehow ground you, might steady the way your stomach churns, the way your mind spins in too many directions at once.

across from you, beomgyu watches.

he doesn’t speak right away, doesn’t press, doesn’t even shift where he’s standing. he just observes.

then—carefully, lightly, like he’s testing the weight of his words before letting them fall—he asks, “hey. is everything alright?”

his voice is gentle, void of teasing, void of the easy smugness he usually carries. it’s a simple question, but it feels heavier than it should, like it’s laced with something more, something close to understanding.

your grip tightens, fingers stiff against the plastic and you don’t want to answer. because no, you’re not alright. you haven’t been alright for a long time. not when it comes to him.

but that’s not something you can say, not now. not when beomgyu is looking at you like he’s waiting for something you’re not ready to give.

so you force a small, stiff shrug, lowering your gaze as you tear open the packaging, letting the sound of crinkling plastic fill the air instead of the things you should say.

“i’m fine,” you murmur, the words flat, hollow. “probably just the lack of food.”

the silence returns, thick and unmoving, stretching between you like an unresolved chord, something waiting to be resolved but never quite landing. beomgyu doesn’t fill it with another joke, doesn’t move to distract or shift the subject. he just stands there, quiet, watching.

the weight of his gaze isn’t suffocating—not like wonbin’s. it doesn’t wrap around you like a vice, doesn’t make your throat close up or your heart trip over itself in confusion. it’s patient. steady. like he’s waiting for the right moment, for the right words to come to him.

and when he speaks, his voice is softer than before, careful in a way that makes your chest tighten.

"is there something going on between you and wonbin?"

your fingers freeze mid-motion, bread half-raised to your mouth. the question hangs there, heavy and unrelenting, pressing into the walls, into the air between you, into the rapid pulse thrumming just beneath your skin.

for a moment, you don’t breathe.

he says it like he already knows the answer. like he’s just confirming something he’s already pieced together in the quiet moments, in the glances he’s caught when he thought you weren’t looking, in the way your name sounds different when it falls from wonbin’s lips.

you should deny it, should laugh, should scoff, should say no, of course not, don’t be ridiculous.

but you don’t because the words don’t come. because you don’t know what to say.

the silence stretches, long enough that it should be uncomfortable, but again he doesn’t fill it. he just watches, the question still hanging in the air between you, waiting, waiting, waiting—like he already knows you won’t answer.

and when you don’t—when the words sit frozen on your tongue, too tangled to unravel—he exhales softly, tilting his head slightly, his gaze never once leaving yours.

“and those songs,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, but no less sure. “the ones you showed me?”

his fingers drum absentmindedly against the body of his guitar, slow, deliberate. he doesn’t sound accusatory, doesn’t sound like he’s trying to pry something out of you that isn’t already there. if anything, his voice holds something closer to realization, like he’s only now putting the last pieces of the puzzle together.

“they’re about him, aren’t they?”

your breath catches because it’s not a question. not really. it’s a statement.

a truth, laid out plainly in the dim light of the studio, in the spaces between your hesitation and the way you keep gripping that damn bread like it’s an anchor keeping you tethered.

and still, you say nothing, because what would be the point in denying it?

he’s seen the way your hands shake when you play certain chords, heard the way your voice wavers when you sing the words you wrote with him in mind. he’s watched you shift, hesitate, look away when wonbin enters a room, has caught the way you try too hard to seem indifferent when his presence pulls at you like gravity.

beomgyu isn’t stupid, he’s known, even before this moment.

but now, he’s asking you to say it, to admit it

the room feels smaller now, the air heavier, pressing against your lungs like a weight you can’t shake. the bread sits in your mouth, tasteless and dry, lodged in your throat like the emotions you’ve spent weeks—months—trying to swallow down.

you don’t speak you can’t. instead, you nod. slowly. it’s a small movement, barely there, but it’s enough, enough for beomgyu to see what you can’t bring yourself to say aloud. enough for him to understand that every lyric, every melody, every carefully placed chord in those songs wasn’t just music—it was him. it was all him.

wonbin is the grief in your harmonies, the ache in every verse, the echo of something unfinished ringing between the notes, the weight of him still stuck in your chest, clinging to your ribs like an old melody you can’t unlearn.

you swallow thickly, forcing the bread down, but it doesn’t go down easy.

beomgyu doesn’t react right away. he just watches you, his eyes tracing the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers curl tightly around the plastic wrapper, the way your breath comes a little too shallow, like you’re fighting to keep something buried.

when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, measured, as if he’s choosing each word carefully before letting it slip into the space between you.

“i won’t press,” he murmurs, his tone gentle but steady. “i won’t ask for details. i can already tell how hard it is for you to talk about this.”

you keep your eyes fixed on the floor, forcing your breath to even out, forcing yourself to swallow past the lump forming in your throat.

beomgyu exhales, a slow, thoughtful breath, and then, almost as if speaking to himself, he murmurs, “unrequited love sure is a killer.”

there’s something in the way he says it, something weighty and familiar, that makes your fingers tighten reflexively around the bread in your lap.

it’s not just an observation, it’s an admission. a confession without a name, without a past attached, but you hear it for what it is.

you finally lift your head, just a fraction, just enough to meet his gaze, and for a moment, there is nothing but shared understanding—a quiet recognition of two people who have suffered the same ache, carried the same weight, swallowed down the same grief in silence.

he doesn’t pity you and you don’t pity him.

because you both know that nothing about this kind of pain warrants pity, only endurance.

“he’s a lucky guy,” beomgyu says after a long pause, voice barely above a whisper.

“to have songs written about him like that. to have someone feel so much for him that they carved it into melody, into words, into something permanent.”

you look away again, because the lump in your throat is threatening to choke you.

but then he exhales softly and adds, “but from what i’ve read… he’s a fool too. the kind that only realizes what he had once it’s already gone.”

a breath leaves you, sharp and unsteady, something between a laugh and a sob, something too raw to be controlled.

beomgyu doesn’t push any further. he doesn’t try to make you talk, doesn’t try to unravel what’s left of you tonight.

instead, he just reaches out, gives your shoulder a small, firm pat—not comfort, not reassurance, just a silent promise that he understands.

and then, as if sensing that the air between you is far too heavy, far too fragile, he leans back, shifting the conversation towards something lighter, something safer.

you don’t thank him, but when you finally lift the bread to your lips, taking a small, hesitant bite, you think maybe he already knows.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the air hums, thick with the promise of something electric, something on the verge of breaking open. the crowd is restless, shifting in waves, anticipation crackling through them like static before a storm. the scent of sweat, liquor, and faint traces of cigarette smoke curls through the space, mixing with the neon glow that flickers against the walls, casting everyone in ephemeral reds and blues—colors of heat and longing, of something fleeting yet unforgettable.

this is the moment before the plunge.

the moment where everything still belongs to you, before the first note rings out, before the music swallows you whole. it’s a delicate thing, this stillness before the sound—like standing at the edge of a cliff, toes curling over the drop, the wind whispering at your back, coaxing you forward.

your fingers tighten around the neck of your guitar, the weight of it an anchor, grounding you when the chaos threatens to pull you under. it should feel the same as it always does—should soothe the nerves that tangle in your stomach, should remind you that once you start playing, once the music floods your veins, there will be nothing else.

but tonight is different, because tonight, beomgyu is beside you.

he steps into place, his presence settling next to yours like it’s always been there, like the space he’s filling was never empty to begin with. where there used to be a breath of distance, now there is only proximity—his shoulder brushing against yours, a warmth that seeps in despite the cool bite of adrenaline in your veins. he leans in, just slightly, voice dipping low beneath the crowd’s rising roar.

"you ready?”

the words should be reassuring, should be nothing more than habit—because this is what he used to do. this is where he used to stand, where he used to murmur a lazy, knowing "don't mess up, little rockstar," just to see you roll your eyes, just to hear you scoff before the first note.

but now, it’s beomgyu.

before you can answer, before you can swallow down the tangled feeling rising in your throat—his hand finds yours. it’s brief, fleeting, barely a squeeze, but it roots you. a silent promise. a reassurance that you’re not stepping into the unknown alone.

and from across the stage, wonbin sees it.

he’s standing just a few feet away, yet it feels like a world apart. the mic stand is loose in his grip, his posture relaxed, unreadable—but his eyes linger, fixed on the space where beomgyu’s fingers curled over yours.

where he used to be, where he used to stand.

the moment stretches, tension weaving itself into the dim-lit space between you, thick and suffocating. but then, the house lights drop, and the crowd erupts, and there’s no more room for hesitation.

a sharp pulse of bass rolls through the speakers, reverberating against the walls, sinking into the marrow of your bones. the stage floods with light, neon blues and deep purples casting long shadows, slicing through the dark like lightning fracturing the sky. the crowd erupts, a wild, breathless wave of noise—screams, cheers, the unmistakable pulse of a hundred bodies moving as one.

hongjoong steps forward, claiming the moment with the ease of a frontman who knows exactly how to wield the weight of anticipation. he lifts the mic to his lips, and even before he speaks, the response is deafening.

"we missed you, you crazy motherfuckers!"

the crowd roars, fists pumping in the air, voices crashing against each other in a feverish symphony. the venue is alive, pulsing, breathing—fueled by adrenaline, by the promise of the music about to tear through the room.

then, hongjoong grins, his voice dipping lower, laced with something playful, something teasing.

"now, before we blow your minds, we’ve got a new face on stage tonight."

the screams rise in pitch, high and electric.

beomgyu, beside you, shifts slightly, rolling out his shoulders, the dim stage lights catching the glint of his silver piercing, the streak of sweat-darkened strands falling into his eyes. if he’s nervous, he doesn’t show it. there’s an ease to the way he stands, the way his hand rests on the curve of his guitar, the way his lips quirk into a smirk just before hongjoong makes it official—

"give it up for our new rhythm guitarist—choi beomgyu!"

and the response is instantaneous, the moment beomgyu’s name leaves hongjoong’s lips, the venue erupts.

the sound is deafening—high-pitched screams rolling through the space like a wave, wild and relentless. his presence is magnetic, his confidence effortless, the energy around him swelling with every second that passes. he stands beneath the stage lights like he was built for this, basking in the feverish adoration pouring from the crowd, a smirk tugging at his lips as if he already knew this was coming.

and for the first time, someone else is rivaling the presence that once belonged to wonbin alone.

because wonbin—on stage, wonbin commands the space like a golden god, every movement deliberate, every note he plays dripping with an effortless cool that sends shivers down your spine. he has always been larger than life under the lights, a force that burns and soothes all at once, the weight of him undeniable. the lights catch the sheen of sweat on his brow, illuminating him in a way that makes him look untouchable, like he’s been kissed by the gods themselves, his existence a thing of myth and legend.

but now—now, the stage has another presence.

beomgyu doesn’t just hold himself well—he owns the moment. he stands tall beneath the golden wash of the overhead lights, his long hair catching the soft glow, his silver piercing glinting with every tilt of his head. he moves with ease, with certainty, like he already knows the crowd will adore him.

and they do. they devour him, the way they used to devour wonbin.

the shift is undeniable, like the stage itself is recalibrating, realigning the way it breathes, the way it pulses beneath your feet. and for the first time, wonbin isn’t the one standing in the brightest light.

you don’t have to look to know he’s aware of it.

before the weight of it can settle, before the tension can coil any tighter, hongjoong throws his fist in the air, signaling the start of the set.

the moment the first chord rips through the air, the venue explodes.

the drumline is relentless, a pounding heartbeat that syncs with the wild energy of the crowd, fueling their movements, their screams, their desperate need to be consumed by the music. the bass thrums low and deep, shaking the floor beneath your feet, while the wail of guitars cuts through the chaos, sharp and electric.

and at the center of it all—you and beomgyu move like a force of nature.

the shift is subtle at first, effortless in the way that only comes with instinct. it’s in the way you lean toward him during the opening riff, in the way he mirrors the movement without hesitation, playing off your energy as if the two of you have been doing this forever. the chemistry is instantaneous—a back-and-forth exchange of sound and motion, a conversation spoken through fingers against strings, through the way your bodies pull toward each other in perfect rhythm.

the crowd notices. they feel it.

the pitch of their screams rises, sharp and frenzied, a reaction to the unspoken electricity crackling between you and beomgyu on stage. when you step forward, he meets you halfway. when you tilt your guitar upward, he angles his in the same way, the two of you lost in the moment, lost in the music. it’s intoxicating, the way it flows so naturally, the way it just works.

a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, just barely visible in the shifting lights, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he takes it further, crowding into your space just enough to drive the audience into a frenzy. he’s teasing them, teasing you, pushing the dynamic to its edge. he plays with a kind of confidence that borders on reckless, grinning as the crowd screams louder, as they feed off the connection you’re giving them.

your eyes meet beomgyu’s, and it’s like striking a match—instantaneous, dangerous, impossible to ignore.

his gaze is wild, untamed, burning with something reckless as his fingers dance effortlessly up and down the strings of his guitar. the glint of the stage lights catches on the silver of his noise piercing, on the damp strands of his hair sticking to his forehead, on the raw, exhilarated grin tugging at his lips. he’s thriving in this moment, in the way the music swallows everything whole, in the way the energy between you pulls tighter, tighter, a thread stretched to its limit.

then, the silent challenge begins.

you push yourself further, fingers sliding over the fretboard, pressing harder, moving faster, your guitar wailing in response. beomgyu doesn’t hesitate—he matches you, keeping pace with ease, teasing the melody just enough to goad you, just enough to dare you into pushing beyond the edge.

the music drives you together, bodies drawn into the rhythm like magnets, until there’s barely any space left between you. the heat of the lights, the fevered pulse of the crowd, the sheer intensity of the moment—it’s intoxicating, drowning out everything else, everything that isn’t this.

the rest of the band? they feel it too.

gunil pounds the drums harder, the beat slamming through the venue like thunder rolling across an open sky. minjeong’s bass vibrates low and heavy, a pulse that thrums deep in your chest, anchoring the chaos, keeping the storm contained. hongjoong and yunjin’s voices rise above it all, their harmonies growing rougher, more unruly, feeding into the wild, raw energy tearing through the set.

it’s a performance unlike any before—untamed, unhinged, an awakening of something new, something raw, something the crowd can’t get enough of.

but just beyond the heat of the lights, just past the charged space between you and beomgyu—wonbin is still watching,

wonbin has never been just another piece of the stage.

he’s always been the moment, the gravitational force pulling every gaze, the golden focal point of the band’s energy, the one who commands attention without even trying. his presence alone has always been enough—his voice, his movement, the way he bends the music to his will. he has never had to chase the spotlight, it’s always belonged to him.

but tonight, he is not the one they are watching. for the first time, wonbin fades into the background and he hates it.

his grip tightens around the mic stand, knuckles whitening, his jaw locked so tight it aches. he tells himself it’s just the music, just the adrenaline—that’s why his pulse is hammering in his throat, why his body feels wired, off-kilter, out of sync. but the more he watches, the more he realizes it’s not the music that’s throwing him off.

it’s you. it’s beomgyu.

it’s the way you two move—effortless, in sync, pulling toward each other like magnets caught in the same orbit. it’s the way your bodies lean into the rhythm, the way your eyes meet with something charged, something unspoken, something new.

it’s the way he matches your energy, challenges you, dares you to push harder, play faster, lean in closer. the way the crowd sees it, feels it, screams louder because of it.

it’s the way he—wonbin—isn’t part of it. the realization unsettles him more than it should.

he shifts his weight, trying to shake it off, trying to slip back into the moment, back into the role he’s always played with such ease. but it’s not the same. the energy of the stage is shifting, the music bending in a way that doesn’t center around him anymore. and it’s not because of the crowd.

it’s not even because of the music. it’s you.

you, who used to seek him out during performances without even thinking. you, who used to turn to him during the high points of a song, locking eyes in the way that made it feel like the stage belonged to just the two of you.

but tonight, you’re not looking at him, you haven’t looked at him once.

wonbin swallows, throat dry, frustration curling hot and tight in his chest. he doesn’t even realize how stiff he’s become, how his grip on the mic stand has turned iron-clad, how his body is thrumming with something he doesn’t want to name.

for the first time, he’s losing something on stage and the fact that he doesn’t know why it bothers him so much—why this is different—only makes it worse.

the music swells, rising toward the inevitable climax, and the stage becomes something untamed—alive, unhinged, drenched in heat and motion.

your fingers blaze over the fretboard, coaxing a wail from your guitar that rips through the heavy, pulsating air like a jagged streak of lightning cracking open the night. the solo is yours—no, the stage is yours—and beomgyu knows it. he steps back, hands lifting from his own instrument, offering the spotlight like a silent tribute to a god. but

he doesn’t leave, he doesn’t retreat.

instead, he leans in.

close. too close.

the breath between you is shallow, trembling, and the space that separates you shrinks until it feels like the entire universe has narrowed down to just this moment, just him. his presence is a force, a magnetic pull that wraps around you, suffocating and electrifying all at once. you can feel the heat radiating from him, the weight of his gaze locked onto you—onto your fingers dancing across the strings, onto your lips parted in focus, onto the way your body twists and moves, reckless and raw, with the music that’s tearing through you.

his eyes burn, and he’s drinking you in like he’s starved for something only you can give.

and when you think he’ll relent—when you think he’ll step back, give you the air you so desperately need—he does the opposite.

he dips his head, his breath grazing your ear, his voice cutting through the chaos like velvet sharpened into a blade. “let it out.”

it’s not a suggestion. it’s not a plea. it’s a command wrapped in a dare, spoken like he knows you’re capable of unraveling the world if you just tried.

something ignites deep inside you—something volatile, something electric, something that feels like it could burn you alive if you let it. his eyes are still on you, dark and devouring, watching you like you’re the only thing in existence, and it’s too much. it’s suffocating. it’s intoxicating.

and then you snap.

your fingers fly over the fretboard with a fury you didn’t know you had, each note searing through the air, leaving fire in its wake. the sound is untamed, filthy, and the tension between you and beomgyu swells, thick and almost unbearable, like a storm gathering strength. he doesn’t back away; instead, his body moves with yours, mirroring your rhythm, matching your energy, as if you’re tethered by something invisible but unbreakable.

the crowd loses themselves, their screams fusing with the music, but they’re background noise now. nothing exists except for the heat spiraling between you and the boy standing so close it hurts, so close it feels like he’s burning into you, watching you like you’re the only thing that exists.

the solo crescendos, wild and relentless, and for a moment, it feels like the whole world might come undone under the weight of it—the sound, the crowd, the suffocating gravity of his presence..

the energy of the concert shifts as the final notes of the previous song fade into the air, the crowd still riding the high of the relentless tempo, their cheers echoing through the venue like a roaring tide. the stage lights dim, washing everything in a softer glow, cooling the fever pitch just enough for something more intimate, more vulnerable to slip in.

this is the moment you knew was coming.

and then the first notes ring out, soft, aching, unmistakable.

"flatline"

your song.

the one you wrote in the dead of night, with fingers trembling over the strings, with your heart cracking open beneath the weight of every lyric. the one that poured from your chest like a confession, like an unraveling, like something too raw to touch but too important to keep buried.

the opening chords of the song hum softly, a melancholic thread weaving through the noise, pulling everything into focus. the crowd’s energy doesn’t drop—it changes. they sway now, their voices quieter but still present, singing along to the melody that holds the weight of something fragile, something broken.

your fingers tremble slightly as you play, but you hide it well, forcing yourself into the rhythm, letting the music guide you. this song—it’s yours in every sense of the word. the lyrics, the melody, the ache woven into every note—it’s the confession you could never say out loud.

the confession that still lingers between you and him.

and though you try to focus on the crowd, on the stage, on the way the music feels beneath your fingertips, you can’t ignore the weight of wonbin’s presence just a few feet away.

it’s in the way his voice curls around the first verse, warm and honeyed, just rough enough to carry the ache. the words sound different when he sings them—like they mean something else, something entirely his own. but you know the truth.

he doesn’t know.

to him, this song is just another piece of the setlist, another melody to pull the crowd deeper into the performance. he doesn’t hear the confessions stitched into the lyrics, doesn’t see the raw edges of your heart still bleeding beneath the surface.

“you call my name like a bad habit, like a cigarette at dawn light me up, breathe me in, then forget that i was ever gone…”

the words slip from your lips, barely above a whisper, but they are heavy—drenched in something raw, something unspoken. the weight of them pulls you back to that night, the one you’ve tried to erase from memory, the one that still clings to you like an old bruise refusing to fade.

curled up in your bed, sheets tangled around your limbs, chest rising and falling in shallow, stuttered breaths. the ceiling above you had blurred, your vision swimming, hot tears slipping into your hair as you begged—to what? to god? to the universe? to something unseen that could wrench the ache from your chest and leave you hollow enough to move on?

"morning will come and i'll do what's right just give me till then to give up this fight..."

wonbin’s voice threads into the song, seamlessly slipping into harmony with yours. it should be beautiful. it should be effortless, like all the other times before.

but it’s different now, because he’s still singing a song he doesn’t know is about him.

"there's a million things there's a million things i could say..."

your hands tighten around the neck of your guitar, the callouses pressing deep against the steel strings, grounding you in something tangible, something that doesn’t slip through your fingers like he did.

there were so many words left unsaid. so many almosts, so many if onlys.

you should have told him. you should have let the words escape when they burned at the back of your throat, should have let them tumble out when his fingers brushed yours, when his gaze lingered too long, when he stood close enough for his breath to warm your skin. but you never did.

"but you never really knew that but you never really knew i felt this way..."

wonbin’s voice is steady, unaware, untouched by the meaning woven into every lyric. he doesn’t flinch as the words leave his mouth. he doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate the way you do.

because to him, this is just a song.

"wanna take it back wanna take it back to when we had it just like that, had it right on track..."

you blink, forcing yourself back into the present. beomgyu is beside you, fingers moving fluidly over his guitar, his presence a steady rhythm against the turmoil brewing beneath your skin.

the crowd is swaying, lost in the moment, unaware of the battlefield unfolding within you.

"and i keep falling in this darkness..."

the final note lingers in the air, fading into the roar of the crowd, a crashing wave of voices screaming their devotion, their exhilaration, their need for more. the stage is bathed in golden light, the remnants of something electric still crackling in the space between your fingers, between the breaths you haven't quite steadied yet.

hongjoong steps forward, lifting his mic one last time, his voice cutting through the haze of sound. "you guys were fucking insane tonight!" his words are met with another deafening wave of screams, bodies surging, hands reaching, voices raw with the aftermath of something unforgettable. "we’ll see you soon, west coast—until then, keep the music loud and the nights even louder!"

the lights dim, the energy of the stage shifting, pulling back, retreating into the shadows as you all step away from the edge, away from the blinding heat of the crowd.

and just like that, it’s over, your first showcase since the tour.

the second you’re backstage, the weight of it all comes crashing down—the adrenaline, the exhaustion, the sweat clinging to your skin in damp rivulets. your body hums from the performance, from the music that still thrums deep in your bones, but more than anything, you feel the ache of that song, the ghost of it still pressing against your ribs like it doesn’t want to let go.

your fingers move automatically, yanking out your earpiece, the sensation of it still ringing in your head even as you toss it onto the nearest surface. beomgyu is beside you, pulling at the collar of his shirt, letting out a breathless laugh as he runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.

"holy shit," he mutters, still buzzing, still alive with it. "that was insane."

before you can respond, gunil claps a hand on your shoulder, grinning like he’s been waiting for this moment. "oh, and don’t think we didn’t see that—"

you blink, still half-lost in the haze of the performance. "see what?"

gunil’s smirk deepens, eyes flicking between you and beomgyu with something obnoxiously knowing. "that sexual tension. you two were all over each other."

heat rushes to your face faster than you can process, your pulse skipping in a way that has nothing to do with the performance.

beomgyu, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat—just leans in slightly, tilting his head toward you with a teasing lilt in his voice. "yeah?" he muses, a grin playing at his lips. "didn’t hear any complaints from her side."

you narrow your eyes, shoving at his shoulder, but the laughter from the others—the way gunil howls, the way yunjin snorts into her water bottle—tells you the damage has already been done.

wonbin is standing a few feet away, half-turned toward minjeong’s open guitar case, his movements slow, deliberate. he’s not joining in on the teasing, not cracking a joke or rolling his eyes. he’s just watching.

and when your eyes finally meet—just for a second, just long enough for something unreadable to flicker across his features—he looks away.

but not before you see the way his fingers tighten against the edge of the case, the way his jaw tenses, the way his entire body reacts to something he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

and suddenly, the heat from the stage isn’t the only thing making your head spin.

the room erupts into celebration, laughter spilling into the air as bottles are passed around, the sharp pop of champagne punctuating the moment like the final note of a song still lingering in the air. the energy is still electric, still thrumming with the aftershocks of the performance, the adrenaline not yet burned out from your veins.

but something is off.

it happens so fast you almost miss it—wonbin, who should be here, at the center of it all, basking in the aftermath of the stage, is slipping away.

no words, no offhand remark, no teasing jab at gunil’s terrible attempt at pouring champagne without spilling it. just quiet. a subtle shift, a retreat into the shadows when no one is looking.

but you see it.

the way his fingers curl into fists at his sides. the way his shoulders are drawn tight, like he’s bracing against something unseen. the way he doesn’t belong in this moment anymore, like it’s slipping through his fingers, like you’re slipping through his fingers, and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

and against your better judgment, against the logic that tells you to stay, to let him walk away, to not follow him down whatever road this is leading to—you go after him.

it feels too familiar, too much like déjà vu, like history folding over itself and replaying the same scene with different colors, different wounds.

the last time, it had been you slipping away first, heart aching, lungs squeezing too tight as you had left the waiting room, the celebration ringing hollow in your ears. the weight of your feelings had been too much, had pressed too heavily against the raw edges of your heart, and you had run before it could suffocate you.

and now—now, wonbin is the one leaving. and you don’t know why, but you need to.

the hallway is dim, the only light spilling in from the gaps beneath the dressing room doors, casting long, stretched-out shadows against the walls. the air is cooler here, untouched by the feverish heat of the performance, but it does nothing to ease the fire simmering beneath your skin, the one still burning from the way he had looked at you on stage, from the weight of his absence in that room.

wonbin stands at the far end of the corridor, half-leaning, half-bracing against the wall, arms folded tightly across his chest. his knuckles press against his ribs, white from the force of it, as if holding himself together through sheer will alone. but his breathing is shallow, uneven, like it’s taking effort to keep standing, to not collapse under the weight of whatever storm is raging inside him.

you’ve never seen him like this before.

wonbin, who walks through life with the kind of effortless ease that makes the world bend to his rhythm, who commands attention without ever demanding it, who never lets anyone see past the façade—now looks like he’s barely keeping it together.

and it terrifies you.

the cold wall against his back should be grounding, should anchor him, but the tremble has already started—deep, uncontrollable, unraveling him thread by thread. he swallows hard, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling in tight, shallow movements, like he can’t quite get enough air.

and when he finally lifts his gaze, when his eyes meet yours—it’s not the wonbin you know. it’s not the golden boy of the stage, not the effortless flirt, not the boy who grins like the world belongs to him.

it’s someone else, someone breaking.

"what are you doing out here?" his voice is quieter than you expect, rough at the edges, like the words are scraped from the back of his throat.

you take a step closer, pulse pounding. "i could ask you the same thing."

his laugh is hollow, humorless. "go back inside. you should be celebrating. you and beomgyu killed it today."

“wonbin-”

your mouth opens, ready to argue, but then—you see it.

it started as a faint hum in wonbin’s chest, a restless vibration he couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore. it slithered up his spine, creeping beneath his skin, an insidious thing that whispered something is wrong before he even knew what was happening. the feeling spread like wildfire, setting every nerve alight, an unbearable tightness blooming in his ribcage until his heart began to race—erratic, frantic, thunderous—beating so fast it felt like it might tear itself apart.

his breath hitched, coming in shallow, sharp bursts—too fast, too little, not enough. it was like trying to inhale through a pinhole, like no matter how hard he sucked in air, his lungs refused to expand.

then the room tilted. the walls warped and stretched, blurring into meaningless shapes, and his pulse spiked, his body betraying him in real time. his palms pressed against the cold surface of the wall, desperate for something solid, something real, but even that felt distant—his own fingers tingling, numb with static. the oxygen in his brain depleted too fast, turning everything hazy, unreal.

he clutched his chest, sure his heart was breaking apart.

he could hear his own blood rushing in his ears, his knees trembling beneath him, his muscles locking up. sweat slicked his temples, dripping cold down the back of his neck despite the heat burning inside his body. the panic was swallowing him whole, dragging him under with clawed fingers, whispering the kind of terror he couldn’t fight off—you’re dying. you’re dying. this is it.

"make it stop," he whispered hoarsely to no one, his voice breaking, barely audible. but the panic didn’t listen.

it never did. and then—hands. soft, warm, real.

they landed on his arms, firm but careful, grounding. a voice, steady and low, cut through the storm, slicing through the chaos like a lifeline tossed into the dark.

"wonbin—look at me."

he tries, but his vision swims, colors bleeding into one another.

“i-i think i- i’m d-dying.”

"you need to slow down. just focus on me, okay? you’re not dying. it’s a panic attack."

he let out a strangled breath, shaking his head, because it felt like dying, because his chest hurt like something was caving in, but then, fingers curled around his wrists, gentle yet insistent. anchoring.

"breathe with me. follow my rhythm."

he felt it before he could see it—the steady rise and fall of your chest, the deliberate slowness of your breathing, the warmth radiating from your hands, grounding him in something outside of his own unraveling mind.

slowly, painfully slowly, he tried to match it.

in—one, two, three.

out—one, two, three.

"that’s it," you whispered, your voice softer now, steady as a heartbeat. "just keep going. i’ve got you. i’m right here."

the words nearly undo him.

his back slid further down the wall, his muscles giving up under the sheer exhaustion, his trembling hands gripping at the edge of the floor like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. the storm was ebbing, the jagged edges smoothing just enough for him to take in a breath that didn’t feel like a knife to the lungs.

but the aftermath was just as heavy. his limbs felt useless, his body aching like he had run miles just to end up in the same place.

and through it all, you never let go.

you stayed, your presence unmoving, unwavering, your hands still curled around his wrists, your breaths still slow, even, guiding him back to something solid.

"you’re okay," you murmured again, quieter now, a reassurance just for him.

wonbin exhales, slow and uneven, his body slumping forward as if the last bit of fight has drained out of him. the tension that had held him together, that had kept him upright despite the weight of his own unraveling, finally snaps.

and he leans into you.

at first, it’s hesitant—like he’s not sure he’s allowed to, not sure if you’ll pull away, not sure if it’s okay to need someone like this. but when you don’t move, don’t stiffen or break the moment, he gives in completely.

his head presses against your chest, his breath warm and damp against the fabric of your shirt. his arms, shaky but firm, slide around your waist, pulling you closer—like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground, like if he lets go, he’ll disappear into the vast, terrifying nothingness that had swallowed him moments ago.

your arms wrap around him, one hand slipping into his hair, fingers threading gently through the damp strands, the other resting lightly against the curve of his back, feeling the unsteady rise and fall of his breaths. his heartbeat is still too fast, thudding erratically against your ribcage, but it’s slowing. steadying.

the silence between you is thick, weighted with all the things neither of you are ready to say, all the things that are being said without words. it’s intimate in a way that steals the breath from your lungs.

not in the way you once imagined it would be—not in the way your heart once ached for. this is something different, something raw, something fragile.

it’s in the way his body softens against yours, like he’s giving himself permission to let go. it’s in the way he buries himself deeper, his nose brushing against your collarbone, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. it’s in the way neither of you move, just existing in the moment, letting the quiet hold you together.

his voice is quiet when it comes, so soft you almost think you imagined it, muffled by the rise and fall of your chest against his cheek.

"you don’t speak to me anymore."

the words settle between you, fragile yet heavy, like glass balanced on the edge of a table, waiting to shatter. your fingers still in his hair, your breath catching for just a second too long.

because of course he noticed.

you don’t know why that surprises you. maybe you thought he never would, that he’d be too wrapped up in his own world to feel the growing space between you, the widening gap that you’ve so carefully constructed.

you hesitate, lips parting, but you don’t know what to say because he’s right. you have been pulling away, you have been distancing yourself. and now, here he is, raw and vulnerable in your arms, forcing you to acknowledge it in a way you weren’t ready for.

"it’s like you want there to be distance, like you don’t like being around me anymore" he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, his arms still wrapped around you, his body still pressed against yours like he doesn’t want that space to exist at all.

there’s something almost broken in his voice, something hesitant, like he doesn’t quite understand it himself. like he’s trying to piece it together, to make sense of the space he swears wasn’t always there.

your throat tightens because you could tell him the truth.

that you do want distance, that you have been pulling away, because what other choice did you have? because your heart couldn’t take the way it felt to be close to him, to want him and never have him, to always be caught in his gravity but never in his arms. because the alternative was unbearable, because staying meant hurting and leaving meant surviving.

but instead, you say nothing.

"talk to me, please angel. help me make things right." his voice cracks, just slightly, but it’s enough.

enough to make your chest tighten, enough to make your fingers twitch where they rest against his back, enough to make something deep inside you waver, just for a moment.

he whines it, breathy and desperate, like he’s starving for something—like your silence is the thing unraveling him now, not the panic attack, not the weight of the night, but you.

you want to speak, you do.

but how are you supposed to, when your thoughts are a tangled mess, when every word that tries to rise to the surface gets caught somewhere in your throat, refusing to take shape?

wonbin doesn’t let go, doesn’t move, just holds on, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens even a little. he’s never been like this before—never been anything other than confident, than effortless, than so sure of himself.

but right now, with his head against your chest, his body still trembling slightly from the aftershocks of his panic, his words spilling out with no filter—

he’s just wonbin. not the golden boy, not the untouchable performer, not the center of every room. just him. and he’s begging for something from you but you don’t know what to give him.

your lips part, but nothing comes out, the words still tangled somewhere between your mind and your mouth, unspoken, unformed.

you don’t know how to speak to him.

wonbin sighs, the sound barely more than a breath, but you feel it—the weight of it, the way it presses against your skin, the way it settles between you like something unfinished, something breaking.

he knows you won’t reply.

he lifts his head slowly, his arms loosening around you just enough to put space between your bodies, but not enough to let go. and when his gaze finally meets yours, the sight knocks the air from your lungs.

his eyes glimmer, the soft promise of tears lining his lashes, though none have fallen. there’s something unbearably fragile about him in this moment—his breath uneven, his chest still rising and falling just a bit too fast, his lips slightly parted like he wants to say something, like the words are right there, just waiting to spill.

then, the pout forms—small and barely noticeable, but there, pressing against his lips in frustration, in hesitation, in the quiet kind of sadness that lingers long after the moment has passed.

he opens his mouth—stops. shakes his head.

then, in the way only wonbin can, he forces a smile. it doesn’t reach his eyes, doesn’t hold the usual cocky lilt, doesn’t brim with mischief or charm. it’s small, weak at the edges, faltering even as he tries to hold it in place.

"go back in, before gunil wastes all of the champagne" he murmurs, voice softer now, the weight behind it making your stomach drop. "i’ll be fine."

"but wonbin—"

you don’t even know what you’re protesting, not really. maybe it’s the way his voice sounds when he says it, too light, too hollow, like he’s trying to convince himself more than you. maybe it’s the way he’s already slipping away, like this moment never happened, like the way he held onto you for dear life was just a fleeting mistake.

but before you can say anything else, he’s already moving, already peeling himself away, already putting that distance back between you.

the warmth of his body disappears as he pushes off of you, straightening his posture, rolling his shoulders back like he’s shaking the vulnerability off. His hands drag down his face once, quick and sharp, as if trying to erase the evidence of whatever just unraveled between you.

just like that—he’s fine again. or at least, that’s what he wants you to believe.

"i’’m fine now," he says, flashing you a small, easy grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. his voice is steadier now, smoother, slipping back into the effortless cool that he wears like armor.

"seriously. just needed a second to breathe."

you don’t buy it. not when his hands are still stuffed into his pockets a little too tightly. not when the faintest trace of unsteadiness still lingers in his breath. not when his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back.

"i’ll join you in a minute, i promise" he says, voice so casual it almost sounds convincing.

before you can argue, before you can make him talk to you, make him admit that he’s not okay, he turns his head slightly, avoiding your gaze, as if that alone will make you drop it.

and maybe that’s the worst part of all—that even after everything, after the way he had clung to you just moments ago, after the way his breath had stuttered against your skin, after the way he had begged you to talk to him—

he’s still choosing to lock you out.

every instinct in you screams to stay, to push, to demand more—more honesty, more answers, more anything that isn’t this half-hearted deflection, this quiet retreat back into the version of himself that he wants you to see.

but you don’t. because you know wonbin. and you know that once he’s decided to put his walls back up, there’s no breaking through them.

so, against every aching part of you that wants to reach for him again, you force yourself to step back, to respect the distance he’s asking for—even if it feels like a knife between your ribs.

the hallway feels colder now, emptier, like whatever fragile thing had bloomed between you just moments ago has already been erased, buried beneath the weight of his carefully composed indifference.

you swallow hard, turning toward the door, toward the muffled laughter and clinking of champagne glasses waiting for you inside. your hand lingers on the handle for just a second too long, fingers pressing into the metal like you can ground yourself with it, like you can hold onto something solid when everything inside you feels like it’s slipping through your fingers.

wonbin is still standing there, still leaning against the wall, his head tilted slightly downward. he’s staring at the floor, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his shoulders drawn tight, like he’s holding something in—like he’s holding everything in.

for all the distance he’s putting between you, for all the words left unsaid—

he looks so incredibly alone.

your chest tightens, but you say nothing. you just watch him for one last moment, letting the silence between you settle, heavy and final.

then, with a deep breath, you turn away, stepping back into the waiting room, back into the noise, back into a world that hasn’t shattered the way yours just has.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

a week has passed, but the shift in him lingers like an open wound, raw and impossible to ignore.

the unraveling starts slow, so slow that even wonbin himself doesn’t notice at first. it’s just a shift, a minor dissonance in the otherwise effortless rhythm of his life, an unspoken imbalance he convinces himself is temporary. but temporary things are supposed to fade, and this—this only festers.

at first, it’s just the sleepless nights. the ones where he lies awake, staring at the ceiling, mind running in loops he can’t escape. he tells himself it’s fine, that exhaustion is nothing new, that it’s just a phase, a passing restlessness. but then the days start to blur, a slow erosion of time slipping through his fingers. the world moves around him, conversations flow, laughter spills from the mouths of his bandmates, but it all feels distant, like watching through glass.

and then there’s the drinking.

it starts with one, just something to take the edge off, something to quiet the relentless thoughts, something to dull the sharp ache that settles too deep in his chest to shake off. but one turns into two, then three, and suddenly the bottom of a glass becomes familiar, the burn of whiskey a comfort he never thought he’d need. he drinks to forget, but it only makes everything more vivid—the way you used to look at him, the way you don’t anymore, the way beomgyu is always there, always close, always in the space that once belonged to him.

the more he drinks, the less control he has, and control has always been wonbin’s lifeline. he’s spent his whole life making sure no one gets too close, keeping the world at arm’s length, making sure that nothing touches him deep enough to matter. but it does matter. you matter. and the realization is suffocating.

it spills over into rehearsals, where his focus wavers, where his voice catches at the wrong moments, where his fingers press too hard against the mic stand like he’s trying to ground himself in something tangible. the others notice, their glances stretching longer, their murmurs more frequent. hongjoong watches him like he’s waiting for him to break. gunil isn’t subtle with his frustration. yunjin, despite her usual teasing, has started to hold back, as if sensing that whatever this is, it’s beyond a joke now.

beomgyu doesn’t say much, but wonbin catches the looks, the way his gaze lingers in quiet assessment, the way his mouth twitches like he wants to say something but doesn’t. and maybe that pisses him off the most—how composed he is, how unshaken, how he doesn’t seem to feel the same weight crushing him from the inside out. it makes wonbin reckless, makes his fingers tighten into fists when no one is looking, makes him crave the rush of something that will make him forget, even if only for a moment.

the parties get longer. the nights stretch into early mornings, bodies pressed too close, lips that aren’t yours brushing against his skin, hands that don’t mean anything pulling him in, and yet none of it sticks. none of it fills the empty space inside him. he surrounds himself with people, with music loud enough to drown out his thoughts, with drinks strong enough to blur the sharp edges of reality, but nothing—nothing—feels right.

and then there’s the substances.

wonbin has always known where his limits are, has always been the one with a handle on things, but now? now he’s not sure he cares. there’s something about the haze, about the way his mind drifts just far enough away that he doesn’t have to feel anything at all.

it’s reckless, dangerous, and somewhere deep down, a part of him knows this isn’t sustainable, that he’s unraveling faster than he can hold himself together. but he doesn’t stop. he doesn’t want to stop. because stopping means thinking, and thinking means remembering, and remembering means facing the one thing he can’t afford to admit.

he’s losing you.

not in the way he lost the others, not in the way he’s used to, not in the way that’s easy to brush off with a laugh and a careless shrug. this loss is different. this loss is slow and painful, a knife twisting in real time, an ache that doesn’t dull no matter how much he tries to drown it. because it’s not just your warmth that’s gone—it’s the way you used to wait for him, the way you used to look at him with something close to devotion, the way your presence had always felt like something certain, something his.

and now, beomgyu is in the space he didn’t even realize he had taken for granted.

now, when you walk into a room, you aren't looking for wonbin first. now, when you laugh, it’s beomgyu who leans in closer. now, when you smile, it’s not for him.

he’s a mess.

the tabloids have started whispering, the grainy photos of him spilling out of clubs at ungodly hours surfacing too frequently now. the stories are always the same—drunk beyond recognition, slurring words against the lips of another girl, another distraction, another body to fill the space that’s eating him alive.

wonbin, who never drank beyond control, is drinking himself to death.

wonbin, who was always the last to leave the studio, is stumbling in late, sunglasses perched on his nose, wincing at the sharp clang of drumsticks hitting metal, flinching at the sound of his own name.

today is no different.

he enters practice almost an hour late, sunglasses shielding whatever wreckage lies beneath, the collar of his hoodie pulled high enough to hide the bruising exhaustion carved into his skin. there’s a heaviness in the way he moves, like even his limbs are weighed down by something unbearable, like gravity has its claws in him and won’t let go. he doesn’t greet anyone, doesn’t acknowledge the way every conversation halts the second he steps in, doesn’t even pretend to care that the air is suffocating with tension.

gunil is the first to break the silence, clearing his throat, but his voice lacks its usual playfulness. "rough night?"

wonbin barely reacts, just drops into his seat like he’s been holding himself up for too long, like he doesn’t trust his own legs to keep him standing. "you could say that."

the words are lazy, slow, like they barely belong to him. his voice is rough, scratchy at the edges, like he’s swallowed a pack of cigarettes and washed it down with something stronger. there’s something eerie about it—how detached he sounds, how far away he feels even though he’s sitting right in front of them.

no one laughs. no one even smiles. because it’s not funny.

and then—his sunglasses slip slightly down his nose, revealing eyes so bloodshot they look like they hurt. not just from the lack of sleep, not just from whatever he drowned himself in the night before, but from something deeper, something hollow, something broken.

he doesn’t push them back up, just exhales heavily, dragging a hand through his disheveled hair, fingers trembling just slightly, a ghost of the damage trailing behind him like a shadow. the moment gunil’s drumsticks tap against the rim of the snare, he visibly winces, his entire body flinching like the sound physically hurts.

"can we not?" wonbin mutters, squeezing his temples between his fingers, his voice quieter now, frayed at the edges.

the silence stretches too long, thick with unspoken words, with the weight of everything wonbin refuses to acknowledge, with the worry and anger that has been festering in the room for weeks. everyone is waiting for him to snap out of it, waiting for him to explain himself, waiting for the version of wonbin they all know to reappear, to shake this off like he always does, like nothing ever touches him too deeply.

but this time, he doesn’t. this time, it lingers.

"jesus christ, wonbin."

minjeong, always the first to say what everyone else is thinking, leans against her bass with arms crossed, her expression twisted somewhere between disbelief and irritation, but there’s worry there too, buried beneath the sharpness. "you look like hell."

wonbin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even lift his head. just smirks lazily, a half-hearted, empty thing, the kind of smirk that’s more armor than amusement. "good to know. minjeong, forever the oracle of truth."

hongjoong exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, his frustration barely restrained beneath the forced composure of someone who’s been holding himself back for too long. "this isn’t sustainable, wonbin. we can’t keep pretending like you’re fine when you show up like this."

wonbin finally lifts his head, but the movement is sluggish, like every second is costing him more than it should. "you worried about me, hongjoong?" his voice drips with sarcasm, but it falls flat, cracks at the edges like brittle glass.

the response is immediate, sharp, like a blade cutting through air. "yeah, actually. we all are. but i don’t think you care enough to do anything about it."

that, at least, earns a reaction. wonbin’s smirk falters for a fraction of a second before he scoffs, shaking his head, tapping his fingers against the table beside him as if the conversation bores him. but his hands are still shaking.

"you don’t get it," he mutters, almost to himself, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the words are slipping out before he can stop them. "none of you do."

but yunjin has had enough.

"then help us understand, wonbin." her voice isn’t loud, but it’s steady, firm, laced with something raw, something real, something that cuts through the haze clinging to him. "because all we see is you destroying yourself. and we’re supposed to just sit back and watch?"

wonbin doesn’t answer.

he doesn’t have one.

yunjin exhales sharply through her nose, not as blunt as minjeong, but her frustration simmers just beneath the surface, restrained only by the sheer weight of her concern. "you’ve been doing this every night, huh?" she mutters, shaking her head, like she already knows the answer. "how long are you gonna keep this up?"

wonbin shrugs, slow and indifferent, like it’s not even a question worth considering. "until it stops working, i guess."

"working?" hongjoong’s voice is quieter now, but there’s something sharp beneath it, something like disappointment, like exhaustion. "you call this working?"

wonbin finally reacts to that, tilting his head just slightly, pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose to reveal the tired, bloodshot eyes beneath. for a second, he just looks at hongjoong, gaze unfocused, pupils blown too wide, as if he’s trying to process the weight of the words but can’t quite grasp them.

"what’s your point?" his voice is almost teasing, almost playful, but it rings hollow, stretched too thin to hold any real weight.

"my point is that you’re barely here, wonbin," hongjoong says, exasperation bleeding into his tone, his fingers drumming against the edge of the piano. "you show up late, you don’t focus, you can’t even keep your head up half the time. we have a showcase coming up. our album is basically done. this isn’t just about you."

the words should cut, should get through to him, should force him to care.

but wonbin just scoffs, leaning back against the couch, arms spreading out like he’s weightless, like he’s untouchable, feigning a nonchalance so flimsy it barely holds together. "relax. i’ll be fine when it matters."

gunil, who had been mostly quiet, finally exhales and tosses his drumsticks onto his snare with a sharp clack. "do you even hear yourself?" his voice is laced with frustration, but underneath it, there’s something softer—something dangerously close to fear. "you’re not fine, wonbin. and you know it."

wonbin stills for half a second.

it’s barely noticeable, but they all see it.

the way his fingers twitch against his thigh, the way his jaw locks just a little tighter, the way his breath comes in just a fraction too shallow before he forces a slow exhale through his nose.

but then, just like that, he shakes it off, slipping back into the role of someone who doesn’t care, who can laugh this off, who can pretend he isn’t unraveling thread by thread.

"look, can we just get through practice?" his voice is lighter now, like the conversation is nothing more than an inconvenience. he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, looking straight at hongjoong. "i know i’ve been off, but i’ll clean it up in time. just drop it, yeah?"

nobody looks convinced. and neither does he.

but hongjoong doesn’t press further. he just sighs, rubbing at his temples, nodding once before adjusting the height of his piano bench.

"fine. let’s get to work."

but the conversation doesn’t die there—not really. the tension lingers, stretching into every note played, into every pause between songs.

the final note after practice lingers in the air, fading into the steady hum of amplifiers, the only sound breaking the silence that stretches too long, thick with unspoken words and the heavy weight of exhaustion that isn't just physical.

normally, rehearsals end with laughter, with the band still buzzing from the energy of the music, with gunil flipping his drumsticks between his fingers and minjeong muttering about how he’s bound to break another one, with yunjin slinging an arm around you and making some offhanded comment about how you went too hard on that last riff, with wonbin—wonbin—somewhere in the middle of it all, that lazy smirk on his face, his presence as natural as breathing.

but tonight, the moment the last note fades, he moves like he can’t get out fast enough, his hands working quickly to unplug his mic, winding the cable in tight, controlled circles, shoving it into his bag with a sharp efficiency that makes something curl uneasily in your stomach. he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a single sarcastic remark, doesn’t offer even the barest acknowledgment of the tension that has taken residence in every corner of the room.

he simply pulls his hoodie over his head, sunglasses still perched on his nose despite the fact that there’s nothing but dim studio lights casting a soft glow over the space, and slings his bag over his shoulder before walking out.

the door clicks shut behind him, quieter than you expected, and the silence he leaves in his wake is suffocating.

minjeong exhales first, the sharp sound cutting through the air like a blade. “okay, that was fucking depressing.”

yunjin mutters, running a hand through her hair before shaking her head, arms crossed over her chest in frustration.

“no shit. he barely made it through practice. it’s like he doesn’t even want to be here.”

gunil runs a hand through his hair, stretching his arms out in an attempt to ease the tension in his shoulders, though it does nothing to dull the lingering frustration in his voice. “this is bad. he’s never been like this before.”

hongjoong doesn’t say anything right away, his fingers resting idly against the cord of his microphone, the look in his eyes far away, lost in thought. when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than usual, but there’s a weight to it that makes the words settle heavily between all of you.

“he’s spiraling.”.

beomgyu, who has been unusually quiet, finally shifts in his seat, his fingers tapping against the wood of his guitar before he finally speaks. “has something happened to him recently?”

gunil sighs, shaking his head. “not that we know of. but it’s not like wonbin to act like this.”

not this self-destructive, not this reckless, not this distant. wonbin has always been larger than life, the kind of person who could light up a room without even trying, but now, it’s like he’s actively trying to dim himself, trying to disappear into the chaos he creates, trying to outrun something none of you can see.

yunjin leans forward, her brows furrowed in frustration, but her voice is lined with concern. “he’s out every night. have you seen the pictures? he’s drinking like he’s trying to drown himself.”

you’ve seen every blurry paparazzi photo, every tabloid headline detailing his reckless nights, every video that captures the way he stumbles out of clubs in the early hours of the morning, draped over another stranger, another distraction, another temporary fix that will never actually heal anything.

you’ve seen the hollow look in his eyes, the way he smiles without meaning it, the way he carries himself like he’s untouchable, like nothing matters, but it’s obvious to anyone who’s paying attention that it’s all just an illusion, that beneath the surface, he’s barely holding himself together.

whatever wonbin is trying to drown, whatever weight is sitting on his chest, whatever demons are clawing at his ribs—none of it is going away. it’s festering, sinking deeper, poisoning him from the inside out.

hongjoong sighs, standing up, stretching his arms over his head, but it does nothing to shake the exhaustion weighing on him. when he speaks, his voice is quieter than usual, heavy with something resigned. “he’ll be at the party tomorrow night. looking just as wrecked, if not worse. at least if we’re there, we can stop him from doing something too stupid.”

gunil drums his fingers against his knee, the rhythm sharp, restless. “at least it’ll be contained,” he mutters, but the words don’t hold any conviction.

the room is still. no one speaks. but the weight of it all lingers—thick, suffocating, inescapable.

wonbin has always been the center of this band. the gravitational pull that keeps everything steady, the force that holds it all together, the one who lights up every room without even trying.

but now, that pull is weakening, slipping away, unraveling thread by thread.

and you can feel the distance widening between you, feel him slipping through your fingers like something intangible, something fleeting, something you don’t know how to hold onto anymore—no matter how much you want to.

later, the air in the venue is thick with celebration, laughter spilling from every corner, the scent of champagne clinging to the walls, and the low pulse of bass-heavy music reverberating through the floor, but none of it reaches you—not really, not in the way it should, not in the way it does for everyone else who is lost in the high of the night, in the thrill of the album finally being finished.

the weight in your chest presses heavier the moment your gaze lands on him. he’s slouched against the bar, a glass dangling loosely from his fingers, the remnants of something dark clinging to the ice at the bottom.

but it’s not just the alcohol that makes your breath catch—it’s the mess of him, the disheveled, undone way he exists in this space, like he doesn’t belong here, like he’s something misplaced, a fallen idol with a cracked crown, still beautiful, still magnetic, but in a way that feels almost tragic.

his hair, always so carefully styled, is an unruly mess, strands falling into his eyes as if he’s run his fingers through it a thousand times out of frustration or exhaustion or something you don’t want to name, and his shirt, unbuttoned just a little too much, clings to his frame in a way that suggests he couldn’t be bothered to dress with the usual effortless precision he’s known for.

but it’s his eyes that undo you the most.

wonbin has always carried himself with an ease that made him untouchable, with a gaze that always seemed to know exactly what he was doing. every glance carefully measured, every smirk deliberate, every movement drenched in an effortless confidence that made the world bend to him, but this—this is different.

this isn’t control. this isn’t the golden boy who commands attention without trying, who holds the stage like it belongs to him, who lives like he is incapable of faltering.

this is someone lost.

his eyes are heavy-lidded, unfocused, drifting from the rim of his glass to the woman pressed against his side, her fingers ghosting along his forearm, her laughter loud and empty, ringing false in the way that makes your stomach churn.

because he isn’t listening, he isn’t present, he isn’t there. he’s detached, watching everything unfold around him as if he’s separate from it all, like he’s floating somewhere above his own body, too far gone to care, too far gone to stop whatever self-destruction he’s spiraling into.

and yet, despite the dull glaze in his gaze, despite the way his body sways slightly as he lifts the glass to his lips, there is a sharpness that returns the moment he sees you, a slow shift in his posture, an almost imperceptible tightening in his grip as his gaze latches onto yours.

he doesn’t look away. for the first time in a week, he doesn’t run.

he just stares, long and unblinking, his expression unreadable, something tangled and raw sitting just beneath the surface, something that makes your chest tighten, something that makes it impossible to move, impossible to breathe, impossible to pretend that you don’t feel it too.

the room is still loud, the celebration still pulsing all around you, but in that moment, in the space that exists between you and him, there is only silence, thick and suffocating, the unspoken words of an entire lifetime pressing into the air like a storm waiting to break.

beside you, beomgyu shifts, passing you a drink you barely register, his voice low and careful, laced with something knowing.

"well, that’s a disaster waiting to happen."

you don’t answer, can’t answer, fingers tightening around the glass, your throat suddenly dry despite the drink in your hand, because you know he’s right, know that this is something fragile and dangerous. something sharp-edged and ruinous, something that has been teetering on the edge for too long, waiting for the moment it finally crashes down.

as wonbin lifts his glass to his lips, his gaze still locked onto yours, dark and heavy and utterly unreadable, you know—you know—that tonight, it’s going to happen.

the party moves around you in waves, a blur of champagne flutes clinking, voices rising in laughter, the steady thrum of bass-heavy music vibrating through the air, but none of it registers—not fully. not when every nerve in your body is tuned to the presence of the man across the room, the one you should be ignoring, the one who hasn’t taken his eyes off you since the moment you walked in.

wonbin is drinking. hard.

it starts as a slow build, the kind of indulgence that could be mistaken for celebration, for letting loose after months of work. but you see the way hongjoong watches him warily, the way yunjin subtly switches his drinks for water when he isn’t looking, the way gunil mutters something under his breath when wonbin stumbles slightly while leaning in to say something to a passing label executive.

they all see it, the way his fingers tighten around the bottle he’s holding, the way his smiles don’t quite reach his eyes, the way he tips his head back too easily, swallowing down the burn of alcohol like he’s chasing something, like he’s running.

maybe he is. maybe he’s been running for weeks now, drowning himself in anything that makes him forget, in anything that makes him numb.

but it’s not working.

not when he keeps looking at you like that, not when every sip of liquor only seems to make the tension in his shoulders grow heavier, the weight behind his gaze more volatile.

and you—god, you—you can feel it sinking into your skin, into your lungs, into every breath you try to take, the air suddenly feeling too thick, too constricting, pressing down on you like an invisible force. you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists, attempt to focus on anything other than the way wonbin’s attention burns into the side of your face, but beomgyu, ever perceptive, ever attuned to your unease, notices.

you feel him shift beside you, the warmth of his presence suddenly closer, the scent of cologne and something inherently him enveloping you as he dips his head just enough for his breath to fan against your temple.

“you seem off. what’s going on?” he murmurs, his voice smooth, laced with something gentle but firm. his lips barely move, his tone low enough that no one else hears, a quiet offering just for you.

“come outside with me. let’s get some fresh air,” he says, before you can even give him a half hearted response that he knows will be a lie.

the suggestion is simple, harmless, but the proximity—the sheer closeness of him—makes something in your chest stutter. his gaze flickers down to yours, warm and steady, his face only inches away, his posture relaxed yet entirely present, entirely aware of the tension coiling in your muscles.

maybe it’s the exhaustion catching up to you, maybe it’s the weeks of unraveling, of pretending, of biting your tongue until it bled, but you find yourself nodding before you can think twice, letting out a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding.

"yeah," you murmur, already turning towards the doors that lead to the balcony. "that sounds—"

you don’t get to finish as a hand wraps around your wrist. firm. unrelenting.

it’s not forceful, not bruising, but the grip is strong enough to halt your movement entirely, strong enough to send a sharp jolt of something electric straight to your spine. the contact stills you, freezes you mid-step, and when you turn—when you look up—your breath snags in your throat.

wonbin.

he’s closer than you expected, closer than he’s been in a week, and though the scent of alcohol lingers on his breath, on his skin, it’s his eyes that hold you captive—the way they burn with something untamed, something raw, something dangerously close to breaking. for the first time in so long, he looks fully present, fully here, though you almost wish he wasn’t.

because his expression—god, his expression—it’s unreadable, but charged. dark and burning, something untamed flickering behind them, something raw, something fraying at the edges, barely contained. his lips are parted slightly, his jaw tight, the muscle feathering beneath his skin as if he’s grinding his teeth, as if he’s forcing himself to stay still.

"where are you two going?" his voice is low, rough at the edges, words slurring just slightly, but the grip on your wrist doesn’t waver, doesn’t loosen, doesn’t let you go.

you hesitate, pulse kicking against your ribs, the weight of his fingers searing into your skin, and for a moment, you can’t find the words, can’t force them past the sudden tightness in your throat.

but then beomgyu steps forward, voice steady but cautious. “she just needs some air, man.”

wonbin’s jaw tics, his fingers flexing around your wrist before his grip tightens—not painfully, but enough to make a statement, enough to say not with him.

"you don’t need air," he murmurs, and it’s not just the words that shake you, but the way he says them—quiet and strained, like he’s pleading, like he’s not talking about fresh air at all.

like he’s talking about you leaving. like he’s talking about you leaving him.

suddenly, the party around you fades, the music, the laughter, the chatter—it all melts away, leaving only the sound of your heartbeat pounding against your ribs, only the weight of his touch, only the look in his eyes that says don’t go.

the air around you feels thinner, suffocating, pressing in from all sides. not from the crowd, not from the thick perfume and alcohol in the air, but from him—from the way his fingers are still wrapped around your wrist, from the way his grip tightens the more you hesitate, from the way his gaze burns into yours, dark and unreadable, something tangled and frantic flickering behind the whiskey-stained haze in his eyes.

you swallow, chest rising and falling too quickly, something heavy pressing against your ribs, an unbearable pressure you can’t escape, and suddenly, the words slip past your lips before you can stop them, barely more than a whisper, but they cut through the space between you like a blade.

"wonbin, i can’t do this. i can’t breathe."

his expression doesn’t shift right away, his fingers still clutching onto you like he needs to, like letting go isn’t an option, like he’s holding onto something more than just your wrist, like if he loosens his grip even a fraction, you’ll disappear into the night, into him, into someone else, and he won’t be able to stop it.

"no." his voice is hoarse, barely above a murmur, but there’s a desperation threaded through the single syllable, a quiet plea disguised as refusal.

then, as if something inside him snaps, his jaw clenches, his chest rising and falling unevenly as his grip hardens, not painful, but possessive, his knuckles white where his fingers press against your skin.

his gaze flickers past you, to the figure still standing at your side, and suddenly, his expression twists—the rawness, the vulnerability, the broken look in his eyes morphing into something sharper, something furious.

"you’re leaving me again." his voice drops, rough and bitter, the words tasting like poison on his tongue.

then, his glare locks onto beomgyu, and his lips curl, resentment dripping from every syllable, from every jagged edge of his words as they fall from his mouth like something venomous.

"for him."

the way he spits it out, like it’s an accusation, like it’s a crime, like beomgyu is his mortal enemy and not his bandmate, not your friend, not someone who has simply been there in all the ways wonbin refuses to be—it makes something in your stomach churn, makes your heart lurch painfully against your ribs, makes your pulse thunder in your ears.

because it’s not true, it’s not fair, and yet, with the way he looks at you, with the way his body vibrates with something close to anger, close to desperation, close to grief, you know that he believes it.

he believes that you’re the one slipping away from him.

and worst of all, he thinks you’re doing it for someone else. as if you didn’t spend months, years, breaking yourself apart trying to stay close to him, trying to matter to him. as if you weren’t the one left behind, always the one left behind.

and suddenly, your chest tightens again, but this time, it’s not from the weight of his touch.

beomgyu shifts beside you, the tension rolling off of wonbin thick enough to suffocate, crackling like static in the air, sharp and unpredictable. he moves cautiously, hands lifting in a gesture of calm, his voice measured but firm, his tone laced with the same quiet patience he always carries, but this time, there's something beneath it, something warning, something protective.

"wonbin, let her go. you’re drunk," he says, careful but unwavering, his eyes flicking to where wonbin’s fingers are still wrapped around your wrist.

wonbin doesn’t move. doesn’t blink. doesn’t acknowledge anything but the storm raging inside him, the one that has taken over completely. the one that makes his grip tighten even as his breathing grows more erratic, his shoulders rising and falling like he’s trying to contain something uncontainable, like he’s one wrong word away from shattering completely.

he laughs.

but it’s not real, not amused, not even close.

it’s hollow, sharp at the edges, bitter enough to leave an aftertaste, his lips curling into something resembling a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. his head tilts slightly, gaze flickering up and down beomgyu with something cold, something calculating, something that makes your stomach twist with unease.

"look at you," wonbin murmurs, voice low, almost mocking. "so fucking noble."

beomgyu stiffens, his jaw clenching, but he doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t react the way wonbin wants him to. instead, he takes another step forward, slow and deliberate, his movements careful, his expression unreadable.

"you’re drunk, man." beomgyu’s voice is steady, too steady, the kind of forced composure that only someone fully aware of how bad this could get would use. "let go of her."

that’s what sets wonbin off.

maybe it’s the implication that he isn’t himself, that he’s lost control, that someone else—someone like beomgyu—has the audacity to stand in front of him like he knows better, like he understands something about you that wonbin doesn’t.

or maybe it’s the simple fact that beomgyu is right.

either way, it happens too fast.

the moment wonbin’s fist collides with beomgyu’s jaw, the world around you fractures, the once-muted pulse of the party fading into nothing but the sickening sound of impact, of flesh meeting flesh, of a mistake that can never be undone.

everything feels slower, heavier, the weight of the moment settling in your bones even as the force of the hit sends beomgyu stumbling back, his head snapping to the side, his balance shifting for just a fraction of a second before he rights himself, rolling his jaw as if to test for damage.

before anything else can happen, before wonbin can even take another breath, before he can react to what he’s just done, before his own mind can catch up to the reckless destruction his body has already enacted, strong hands are already gripping him from both sides, pulling him back with force, holding him steady before he can spiral any further.

"what the fuck, wonbin?" hongjoong’s voice cuts through the thick silence like a blade, his hands digging into wonbin’s shoulders as he shoves him backward, the sheer force enough to send him reeling, barely staying upright as gunil moves in, gripping his other arm, his hold just as firm, just as unrelenting.

gunil’s expression is unreadable, but his grip tells you everything—this is enough, this is over, this cannot go any further. his fingers dig into wonbin’s bicep, the tension in his jaw visible even beneath the dim lighting of the venue, his brows furrowed deep, his frustration palpable, but there’s something else beneath it, something like shock, something like disbelief.

wonbin doesn’t fight them, doesn’t struggle, but his breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic movements, his fingers twitching at his sides as if they don’t know what to do, as if they’re still trying to hold onto something—onto you.

his eyes are wild, unfocused, flickering between beomgyu and you, his lips parting like he wants to say something, like he wants to justify the unjustifiable, like he wants to pull himself out of the wreckage he’s just created, but no words come, nothing but the sound of his unsteady breath and the quiet tremor in his shoulders that not even the alcohol can mask.

but you don’t have time to think about him.

because beomgyu is still standing there, his hand pressed against his jaw, fingers tracing the bruising skin, his expression unreadable as he exhales slowly, deliberately, as if trying to contain something sharp, something dangerous, something that, if let loose, would burn through this entire moment like wildfire.

you don’t hesitate, don’t think twice before stepping closer, your hands moving on instinct, reaching for him with careful, urgent movements, the touch gentle but intentional, checking for injury, for anything deeper than the surface-level damage that already begins to bloom in shades of red and purple beneath his skin.

"shit beomgyu. let me see—does it hurt?" the words slip out before you can stop them, before you can even register them, but they are real, they are raw, laced with concern that you don’t have the energy to hide, because right now, none of the tension, none of the complicated emotions you’ve spent weeks suppressing, none of the chaos swirling around you matters more than the fact that beomgyu is standing here, having taken a hit he never should have had to take.

he exhales through his nose, his hand dropping from his jaw as he meets your gaze, and for a second, just a second, something softens—his eyes still dark, still laced with something unreadable, but no longer sharp, no longer challenging, just tired.

"it’s cool," he murmurs, though his voice is lower than usual, quieter, like he doesn’t fully believe it himself, like maybe he’s saying it more for your sake than his own.

you don’t believe him.

not when you can see the way he’s rolling his shoulders, the way his fingers are still flexing at his sides, the way his jaw tightens again when he swallows. but you don’t push, don’t press, don’t say anything else, because the moment between you is already too fragile, too delicate, and the weight of wonbin’s gaze, despite everything, despite everyone, is still burning into the side of your face.

the air is still charged, thick with tension that clings to your skin like humidity, making it harder to breathe, harder to think, harder to stay. the weight of everything—the punch, the way wonbin had looked at you with something closer to devastation than anger, the fact that you had to choose in a moment that should have never happened—settles heavy in your chest, but right now, all you can focus on is getting beomgyu away from it, away from the mess that was left in the wake of wonbin’s unraveling.

you don’t say anything as you grab beomgyu’s wrist, your grip firm but not forceful, guiding him through the crowd that is already whispering, already buzzing with speculation, their eyes darting between the scene that had just unfolded and the three of you—like they are watching a tragedy play out in real time, desperate for the next act.

he doesn’t resist, doesn’t protest, just follows, his steps easy but measured, his other hand still pressing lightly to his jaw, his expression unreadable beneath the dim lights of the hallway as you pull him into one of the private backrooms, the door clicking shut behind you, sealing you away from the noise, from the weight of all the eyes still watching.

you exhale slowly, pressing your palms against the cool marble counter for a brief second before turning back to him, taking in the way he leans back against the counter, his legs slightly spread for balance, his hands gripping the edge like he’s bracing himself.

the luxurious space around you is a stark contrast to the scene outside—low lighting, sleek fixtures, the kind of expensive décor that belongs to people who don’t flinch at the sight of chaos, but none of it matters, none of it registers, because all you can see is him, the way the bruise is already beginning to bloom along his cheekbone, darkening against his sun-kissed skin.

"sit up here," you murmur, motioning toward the counter beside you, and beomgyu lifts a brow but obeys, gripping the edge as he hoists himself up, the movement easy despite the soreness that must be settling into his jaw.

you step closer, pressing an ice pack—found in the minibar—to his cheek with careful fingers, watching the way his lips part slightly at the initial shock of cold before his expression evens out, his lashes fluttering briefly as he adjusts to the sensation.

"you didn’t have to do that, you know," you say after a beat, your voice softer now, lower, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins but dulling into something more manageable, something tired.

he lets out a quiet chuckle, though it comes out a little rough, a little worn, a little strained from the tension still lingering between you. "what, take a punch for you?" his lips twitch slightly, his usual playful glint returning just enough to remind you that he’s okay, that despite everything, he’s still him.

you shake your head, pressing the ice pack a little more firmly against his cheek, watching the way his brows furrow slightly at the sensation before continuing. "step in. try to talk him down."

beomgyu exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly into the ice, his voice dropping into something more contemplative.

"he was hurting you."

the words settle between you, weighted, laced with something unspoken, something that neither of you are willing to unpack right now.

outside the room, standing in the dim, sterile glow of the hallway, wonbin watches you leave.

his chest still heaves from exertion, from the anger that has nowhere left to go, from the alcohol burning through his veins, making everything feel too sharp, too blurred, too much. his hands curl into fists at his sides, not out of rage, but out of something else entirely—something hollow, something aching, something that claws up his throat and sits heavy on his tongue, suffocating him with the weight of everything he hadn’t said, hadn’t done, hadn’t been fast enough to fix.

wonbin barely registers the hands gripping his arms, barely hears hongjoong’s voice telling him to breathe, barely notices the way gunil steps in front of him like a barricade, trying to ground him, to stop him, to keep him from unraveling further. but it’s already too late—his head is spinning, his breath is shallow, the walls of the room shrinking around him, and every desperate inhale burns like he’s choking on the weight of something he doesn’t know how to hold.

because this is what drowning feels like.

not the kind where water fills your lungs, but the kind where something inside you is collapsing, pulling you under, dragging you deeper into something dark, something inescapable, something you can’t fucking fight because you don’t even understand when it started.

don’t even understand when it started.

but now—now he understands.

now, as he stands there with the ghost of your wrist still burning against his palm, with the dull ache of his own reckless violence pulsing in his knuckles, with the image of you tending to beomgyu playing like a cruel loop behind his eyes, he knows.

it was you. it had always been you.

you were the reason for the unease, the sleepless nights, the sudden hollow ache where something unnamed used to be. you were the reason why every breath felt heavier, why his chest tightened when he saw you laughing with someone else, why his stomach twisted when you stopped looking at him the way you used to. you were the reason why nothing felt right anymore, why he felt like he was chasing something he’d already lost, why the space beside him—where you should be, where you had always been—felt empty.

and now, with the taste of whiskey thick on his tongue and the weight of realization slamming into him like a freight train, wonbin finally, finally understands the one thing he had been too blind—too stupid—to see.

park wonbin, golden boy, untouchable, adored, reckless with hearts that were never his to keep—had finally fallen in love, after years of convincing himself that love—real love—was something fleeting, something temporary, something meant for other people, but never for him. he had made a habit of keeping people at arm’s length, of moving from one touch to the next, never lingering, never holding on, because holding on meant attachment, and attachment meant vulnerability, and vulnerability—god, vulnerability meant giving someone the power to leave.

the thought makes his pulse stutter, makes his knees threaten to buckle, makes his vision blur at the edges, and suddenly, the room isn’t big enough, the air isn’t enough, the walls are closing in too fast, too violently, suffocating him, crushing him, forcing him to face the one truth he cannot outrun.

he stumbles back, hongjoong calling his name, gunil reaching for him, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn, doesn’t breathe—because if he stays here, if he sees you touch him again, if he sees you smile at him, if he has to watch beomgyu be the one standing beside you, with you, while he stands here alone—

he might break apart completely.

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