The public has always been suspicious of San and Wooyoung.

Not to say they’re wrong. They definitely aren’t.

The two of them have been something for a long time—too comfortable, too tactile, too in sync for it to be nothing. Fans dissect every glance, every laugh that lingers a second too long, every hand that finds the other’s wrist without thinking. And honestly? The speculation only makes their reputation stronger. It’s charming. It’s marketable. It makes people adore them even more.

What the public doesn’t know is that you’ve been part of it just as long.

The ninth member. The maknae.

And unlike them, you can’t afford even a rumor.

San and Wooyoung can get away with it—two men, best friends, playful skinship. But you? One wrong headline, one poorly angled photo, and your name would be dragged through something far uglier. So in public, you stay careful. You sit a little farther away. You laugh, but not too loud. You don’t let your hands linger.

They do enough lingering for all three of you anyway.

Today’s live was supposed to be harmless. Casual. All nine of you piled into the practice room, sweaty and relaxed after rehearsal, phones propped up as comments flew by faster than you could read them. At some point, someone suggested a “sexy dance.”

The members groaned, laughed it off—until the comments started chanting names.

And then, inevitably, all eyes turned to you.

“Maknae goes first,” someone decided immediately.

You protested, of course. Weakly. It never works. The others crowded you with teasing cheers and exaggerated catcalls until you finally stood up, rolling your eyes as your face burned.

It was just a dance. Just a few counts of music. Just movement.

But the second you started, the room changed.

You weren’t trying to be seductive—at least, not consciously. You let your body move the way it always does when you’re alone in practice, fluid and confident, hips rolling with the beat, shoulders loose, gaze focused somewhere just past the camera. The comments exploded. The members whooped and hollered, shouting dramatic “ahhh!”s and drawn-out “sexyyy!”s that made you laugh even as you finished.

When you sat back down, breath a little quicker than before, you barely had time to relax before San leaned in.

The attention had already shifted—someone else was reading comments now—but San’s presence was unmistakable. His knee brushed yours. His lips hovered just shy of your ear.

“…do that move again tonight,” he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear.

Your heart skipped.

On your other side, Wooyoung caught your eye, grin sharp and knowing. He didn’t say anything—just winked, slow and deliberate, like a promise.

You tried to act normal for the rest of the live. You really did. But every glance felt heavier, every laugh a little too charged, the memory of San’s voice replaying in your head.

So when night finally came—when the dorm halls were quiet and the cameras were long gone—you weren’t surprised at all when hands caught your wrists, gentle but insistent.

San’s room door closed softly behind the three of you.

And the air inside felt anything but quiet.