You’d known Bang Chan long before the lines blurred.
Not in the glamorous, stage-light way people imagined. Not in the “idol” way. You knew him in the 3 a.m. studio exhaustion, in the quiet car rides after schedules, in the version of him that sighed too much when he thought no one noticed.
You met during trainee days — back when everything felt uncertain and everyone felt replaceable. You weren’t a trainee, but you were around often enough through mutual friends. You saw the pressure before the fame, the way he carried responsibility even when no one asked him to.
He was the type who took care of everyone.
And somehow, over time, you became someone he let take care of him.
It didn’t happen all at once.
It was subtle.
The way he started texting you first after long practices.
You up?
The way he’d send you unfinished tracks and say:
“Don’t tell anyone. I trust your opinion.”
The way he’d fall asleep on the couch while you were over — and instead of moving, he’d shift closer, like he trusted you to stay.
Then came the touches.
Not obvious ones.
His hand resting on your lower back when guiding you through a crowd. His fingers hooking around your sleeve absentmindedly. His knee pressed against yours during movie nights — never moving away.
Every time you tried to tell yourself it was friendly.
But then he’d look at you.
Not casually. Not like he looked at others.
It lingered.
It was late. Rain tapped against the windows of the studio. The building was mostly empty.
You were sitting cross-legged on the couch while he worked, hoodie sleeves covering your hands. You’d been there for hours, just keeping him company.
“You don’t have to stay,” he said without turning around.
“I know.”
You stayed anyway.
After a while, he removed his headphones and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
“Do you ever think about how different everything could’ve been?” he asked quietly.
“All the time.”
He swiveled toward you.
His eyes were softer than usual. Tired. Honest.
“You’re one of the only constants I’ve had.”
Your breath caught.
“That’s… a lot of pressure.”
He smiled faintly. “You handle it.”
Then he stood up and walked over.
He didn’t sit beside you.
He sat close.
His thigh pressed against yours. His arm stretched along the back of the couch behind you. Not quite around you — but almost.
“You know,” he said, voice low, “I don’t let people this close.”
Your heart started racing.
“Chan…”
His gaze dropped to your lips.
Time stretched.
For a split second, you were sure he was going to kiss you.
Instead, he leaned back.
“Anyway,” he cleared his throat, standing abruptly. “I’m overthinking.”
And just like that — it was gone.
Like it never happened.
The next day, he was different.
Friendly. Playful. Leader-mode activated.
He high-fived you instead of brushing your hand. He called you “buddy” in front of the others. He didn’t sit next to you during lunch.
You felt ridiculous for feeling disappointed.
Maybe you imagined it. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe you read into everything.
But then—
During rehearsal, you laughed at something another guy said.
Chan’s movements stilled.
Just slightly.
His jaw tightened.
Later, when everyone was packing up, he cornered you by the mirrors.
“You seemed close with him.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “What?”
“Nothing.” His tone was controlled. Too controlled. “Just noticed.”
“You don’t get to be territorial if we’re just friends.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Silence.
His eyes darkened — not angry, but conflicted.
“I never said we were just friends.”
Your pulse spiked.
“Then what are we?”
There it was.
The question that had been sitting between you for months.
He looked at you like he wanted to answer.
Like he was about to.
Instead—
“I don’t want to ruin what we have.”
The safest answer. The most frustrating answer.
That was how it went after that.