the first time you called him “seungmin” that morning, he paused mid-step, his hand frozen on the coffee mug. it was such a small thing, but it hit him like a cymbal crash in the quiet rhythm of his morning. you always called him something sweet—something that made him feel like he was more than just himself to you. but today, for some reason, it was just “seungmin.”

at first, he thought he’d misheard you. he even gave you a questioning glance, but you didn’t react, going about your routine like nothing was wrong. as the minutes passed, the sound of his own name started to feel heavier. every time it left your lips, it gnawed at him—was he in trouble? had he done something wrong?

he couldn’t focus. his work sat untouched, his guitar forgotten as he trailed you around the apartment, watching, waiting for you to slip back into the usual nicknames. but you didn’t. instead, you stayed casual, cheerful even, as if nothing had changed. his confusion quickly morphed into nervous energy. he started leaning closer, brushing your arm when you passed, resting his chin on your shoulder as you scrolled through your phone.

“do you need help with that?” he mumbled while you tidied up, his arms suddenly wrapping around your waist from behind. you didn’t respond with the usual soft tease or affectionate tone, and his hold tightened instinctively, almost desperate now. his forehead pressed against your neck, and you could feel his warm breath as he sighed. without a word, he clung to you like he was holding on to the comfort your pet names always gave him.