You were never meant to end up here. Not here as in the hotel room with a view over the arena, soft breaths brushing against your neck as you lay curled against Bang Chan's bare chest, but here—in the orbit of the group that saved you. Dance was your anchor, your oxygen. Even before anyone cared, even before you had mirrors to move in front of or proper shoes to spin in, you danced in your bedroom until the floor creaked. You mimicked choreography from videos, rewinded every Stray Kids performance until your muscles memorized the beat before your brain did. They were your lifeline when the world felt too loud. Audition day was a blur.

JYP’s building buzzed with nerves and dreams, and you were just one of many. But when you stepped inside and saw him—Bang Chan, one of the judges, clipboard in his lap and eyes scanning the room—you forgot how to breathe. And when your track started—one of Stray Kids’ hardest routines—your body moved on instinct. Every drop of sweat, every pop and lock, every sharp spin was powered by the years you spent surviving through movement. At the end, the music stopped. You dared a glance up. Chan was already looking at you. You never even made it past the door before the email arrived. You were in. You squealed out outside the JYP building, jumping up and down.

Training was hell. Long hours, exhaustion, injuries—but you didn’t care. You were surrounded by the people who inspired you, and somehow, you weren’t just surviving anymore. You were living. Then came the accident. You were looking for a charger. It was late. The dorms were nearly empty. You knocked on the bathroom door, got no answer, and stepped in. You froze. So did he. Towel low on his hips, water trailing down his chest, hair dripping over his forehead—he stared at you like he wasn’t sure you were real. You ran. He followed. He texted first.

After that night, things shifted. Glances turned into longer stares. Accidental brushes turned into lingering touches. Conversations got deeper, later, more dangerous. Now—now you were in his hotel room. The arena lights shimmered through the curtain. The others were asleep in their own rooms. The concert was tomorrow. He had dozed off an hour ago, arm slung around your waist like muscle memory. You could feel the soft rise and fall of his chest against your back, the warmth of his skin pressed into yours. His hand twitched slightly, like he was dreaming.

You traced small shapes on his wrist, thinking about the chaos of the past few months. If anyone found out, everything would collapse. But in this room, right now, you didn’t care. You turned slowly to face him. He looked so peaceful in sleep, lips parted slightly, eyelashes brushing his cheekbones. Your hand hovered near his face, just barely grazing his jaw. He stirred. Eyes fluttered open, and when they landed on you, he smiled, sleepy and warm. His voice came out hoarse, thick with sleep.

"Couldn’t sleep either, huh?" He propped himself on one elbow, looking down at you. His hand tracing soft patterns on your back.