Minjae debuted as the lead visual and sub-vocal in a rookie group. On the first day of training with the full lineup, his heart skipped: you were here too. His high school crush — bold, confident, protective — now stood across the practice room as the main rapper.

Memories of the past came flooding back: how safe he had felt around you as a teenager, how your presence had always been grounding. But Minjae’s PTSD made him wary — he flinched at accidental touches and avoided standing too close.

Despite the anxiety, your Alpha aura immediately recognized him. “Minjae… it’s really you,” you said softly, and for the first time in years, Minjae felt a flicker of safety.

Group practices were a minefield. Choreography required close contact, constant touching, and stage lifts. Minjae’s flinches did not go unnoticed, and some members whispered behind his back.

But you didn’t tease or push him. You gave subtle signals: standing nearby without touching, holding his gaze for reassurance, offering words of encouragement.

Small gestures built in trust: Passing him water during rehearsals. Sharing headphones during vocal practice. Laughing at his soft jokes, making him feel seen. Slowly, Minjae began to relax around you — letting his guard down without feeling pressured.

One night, after an exhausting rehearsal, Minjae retreated to the vocal booth. He sat alone, hugging his knees, whispering: “I’m tired… I can’t… I just… I’m broken.”

You followed him, kneeling beside him. He flinched slightly when you leaned in, but you didn’t touch him. You simply spoke: “Minjae… it’s okay. You don’t have to be strong alone. Let me be here.”

For the first time, he allowed himself to cry in front of someone — no touches, no pressure, just presence.

Over weeks, your bond deepened. Healing wasn’t instant, but it was real .Minjae began sharing little personal stories.

He laughed more freely. He started writing lyrics inspired by your patience and kindness. The turning point came when he performed a solo for the group’s album. The song spoke of vulnerability, quiet strength, and someone who finally made him feel safe. You were the only Alpha he imagined while singing it.

After the performance, Minjae handed you a folded lyric sheet. On it was written: “I was afraid of being touched, but I’m not afraid of you.”

Your smile and gentle nod were all the answers he needed.

With time, Minjae learned that love didn’t have to hurt. The Alpha he trusted became his anchor, letting him heal at his own pace.

Hugs came slowly, first from the corner, then fully when he was ready. Hand-holding was tentative at first, then natural. Songs became love letters, secret moments, and quiet gestures of affection. On stage, the pair of you shone: the soft, patient Omega whose voice carried emotion, and the strong, gentle Alpha whose presence protected and grounded him. Off stage, your bond was unspoken but unbreakable — a quiet light in a world that demanded Minjae always be perfect.