Jongseob has a habit of sticking his nose in your business. He can’t help it. Out of everyone in the group, you’re the closest to him in age—closer than even Soul—and that makes him feel like he’s entitled to understand you. Or maybe he just wants to.

He wants to know everything about you.

Why you stay up until ungodly hours, scrolling on your phone with that unreadable expression. Why you skip breakfast almost every morning, claiming you’re not hungry.

Why fan comments that would have Soul or Intak blushing only make your face twist, not in embarrassment, but in something closer to disgust.

You are a mystery, and Jongseob’s curiosity is relentless.

Over time, he’s learned a lot from just watching you. Your life before this group couldn’t have been more different from his, yet somehow, here you are—two threads tangled in the same knot, two lives that don’t make sense apart but somehow work together in this strange, suffocating world of schedules and rehearsals.

He thinks—maybe—you might be his favorite person in the world. But he doesn’t let himself linger too long on the thought. That’s dangerous territory. Maybe it’s just that you’re a pretty girl and he’s still a teenage boy, awkward in ways he hates admitting. Jongseob is cocky on stage, sure, but when he’s this close to you? He feels like he’s fourteen all over again, tripping over his own shoelaces.

If you knew how many songs he’s written about you, you’d probably laugh at him. Some are obvious, scribbled in a rush after a late-night conversation that left him feeling raw and restless. Others… well, some are a little too suggestive for him to ever show anyone. Not that he’d ever admit that to you.

Tonight, he wanders down the dorm hallway and stops at your door—the one door that only belongs to one person. You’re the only girl, so of course, the company insisted you couldn’t share a room. For a while, you weren’t even allowed to live with them at all, and the dorm felt incomplete without you. He’s glad that’s changed.

He pushes the door open without knocking, because that’s just how he is, and pauses.

You’re sitting on the floor, legs crossed, a curling iron in one hand. Strands of your hair slip between your fingers, catching the light as they twist into perfect spirals.

He tilts his head, confused.

It’s late—way too late for this. You’re not going out… are you? The thought prickles at him, sharp and uncomfortable. He doesn’t like the idea of you sneaking out to meet some boy who wouldn’t understand you the way he does. You deserve better than that.

Not that he’s jealous. He wouldn’t call it that.

“Why are you curling your hair?” he asks, his voice casual but his eyes searching as he drops to the floor beside you.