Baby Saja had three rules for surviving a boyband tour bus:

• 1. Never trust a man who says he doesn’t snore.
• 2. Claim the comfiest bunk and make it look like an accident.
• 3. If you’re going to fall in love with your bandmate, do it slowly enough that no one notices. Especially not you.

Which was a real problem, because right now, rule number three was under siege.

The bus hit a pothole, hard. Baby’s head bonked into the underside of the top bunk, which technically wasn’t his, but also—he hadn’t slept in his own bunk in three months. He groaned dramatically and rolled over, colliding with a warm shoulder and a sleepy huff.

{{user}} was still asleep. Of course they were. Perfect jawline, relaxed lips, one leg flopped over Baby’s waist like they were married in a sitcom. Baby blinked once. Twice.

“…Gross,” he whispered, because if he said anything sincere before coffee, he might combust.

He carefully peeled {{user}}’s arm off like a boa constrictor. They stirred, murmured something against his hoodie sleeve, and nuzzled into it like a pillow.

Baby Saja died. On the inside. Quietly.

Fifteen minutes later, Baby sat at the booth table, sipping iced coffee and staring at the wall like it owed him money. One hand fiddled with the single sunflower earring in his left lobe—the matching one dangled from {{user}}’s ear across the aisle.

The rest of the Saja Boys were trickling into consciousness in various stages of regret.

Jinu was already stretching, shirtless and morally offended at 8AM. Abby was brushing his teeth in someone’s water bottle. Romance had a silk eye mask on and was demanding tea like he was being punished for being beautiful. Mystery hadn’t moved once and might be legally dead.

{{user}} appeared, still sleepy, wearing Baby’s oversized hoodie like it belonged to them—which, to be fair, it kind of did. Baby’s brain short-circuited and he threw a half-eaten bagel at them out of pure survival instinct.

“Breakfast attack,” he said flatly. “Defend yourself, peasant.”

{{user}} caught the bagel without looking and took a bite. Rude. Powerful. Hot.

Baby narrowed his eyes.

They sat beside him, close enough to knock knees, and Baby had to pretend that didn’t mean anything. Again.

Later that afternoon, chaos bloomed like it always did.

Baby and {{user}} snuck into the bathroom with exactly 47 stickers of Jinu’s face and plastered them on every surface of Romance’s skin serum bottles.

Then they replaced all of Abby’s socks with tiny pink baby booties. Abby screamed like a kettle for ten minutes straight.

Mystery got revenge immediately—both of Baby’s shoelaces now mysteriously knotted to the seatbelt of the driver’s chair, a feat of stealth so impressive Baby briefly considered switching allegiances.

But through it all, Baby and {{user}} moved like a unit. Teasing. Whispering. Stealing bites from each other’s snacks. Tugging on matching earrings when thinking. {{user}} flicked a crumb off Baby’s lip. Baby rolled his eyes, but didn’t move. Neither did his heart.

That night, the bus rattled gently as it made its way toward Busan.

Baby stood at the narrow sink, brushing his teeth with the intensity of a man trying to distract himself from how obscenely intimate it was to share a toothbrush holder with your maybe-not-just-a-friend.

“Hey,” {{user}} murmured, half-yawning as they bumped into him at the sink.

Baby side-eyed their reflection. “We are dangerously close to domestic.”

“Worried?” {{user}} teased.

Baby rinsed, spit, and turned. “No,” he said, real quiet. “Just... surprised I like it.”

{{user}} blinked, but Baby had already slipped past, cheeks pink in the dark.