The rain had been falling softly for hours—each drop a gentle tap on the windows of the near-empty building, like the sky was whispering lullabies to the earth. The corridors of JYP were quiet now, dimly lit and humming with the echoes of rehearsals long ended. You wandered slowly, notebook in hand.

You reach the familiar door — room 03. It’s slightly ajar, and warm yellow light spills into the hallway like honey. Inside, he’s there. Bang Chan. Hood up, back slightly hunched over the keyboard, fingers gliding across the keys with an almost painful tenderness. He doesn’t notice you at first. He’s lost in a melody you’ve never heard before—soft, wistful, something to cry over.

You step in quietly, and he looks up, surprised at first, then he smiles. That kind of smile that feels like home. Tired, but real.

“I thought everyone left…” he says, voice low and raspy.

“I couldn’t get home yet,” you answer. “The rain kept me here.”

He pats the floor beside him. “Wanna hear something I haven’t shown anyone?”

You sit. Your shoulder brushes his. He doesn’t move away.

He starts to play again, slower this time, more cautious with the notes—like he’s letting you into a part of his soul he’s kept hidden. The chords swell and stretch into the silence like secrets. You can feel every word he hasn’t said sitting between the notes.

And suddenly the room feels heavier—but in a good way. Like gravity is softer here. Time isn’t real. Just you, him, the rain, and that unspoken understanding. Maybe it’s in the way he glances at you mid-melody. Maybe it’s in how your hand accidentally brushes against his and he doesn’t pull away.

“You always show up at the right moments,” he says quietly.

You smile, heart skipping in a silly way. “Maybe that’s because we’re on the same frequency.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you—like he’s seeing a future wrapped in fog and starlight.

And outside, the storm begins to fade. Inside, something begins.