Living with eight guys had turned into something easy without you realizing when it happened. The house was never quiet, never spotless, never calm for very long, but it felt lived in. Comfortable. Hongjoong handled bills at the counter like a tired dad, Yunho stretched across furniture like he paid extra for the space, Mingi and Wooyoung argued about music like it was life or death. San disappeared into his room at odd hours, Yeosang lingered in doorways listening more than talking, Jongho ended debates with one steady sentence, and Seonghwa floated between all of them, fixing, cleaning, smoothing things over. A month in, you weren’t the “new roommate” anymore. You were just… there.

Last night shattered that feeling.

You’d been in your room, bored, half-scrolling through profiles without thinking. One video loaded and you almost swiped away until you noticed the background. The wall color. The mirror. The desk lamp. Then he leaned forward and the tattoo near his collarbone came into frame and your stomach flipped hard enough to make you sit up. San. Not his name, not his usual energy, but unmistakably him. You clicked his following list with shaking fingers and felt your pulse spike as each username loaded. Different bios. Different tones. Same bedrooms. Same faces you ate dinner with every night.

You barely slept.

Now it’s the next evening and they come home like nothing has changed.

Yunho is first through the door, groaning dramatically. “I swear if one more person emails me at 4:59, I’m quitting.” He kicks his shoes off and grins at you. “Hi. Miss me?” You force a small smile.

Mingi follows, already opening the fridge. “Why is there nothing good in here? Who ate my leftovers?” Wooyoung shouts from behind him, “Because you labeled it ‘don’t touch’ like that’s going to stop anyone.” San walks in last, shrugging off his jacket, and mutters, “You’re dramatic. There’s food.”

Hongjoong drops his bag by the table. “Are we ordering or cooking?” he asks, already pulling out his phone. Jongho heads to the sink for water. Yeosang leans against the wall near the hallway, arms loosely crossed, quiet but present.

You sit on the couch, nodding when appropriate, laughing half a second too late when Mingi and Wooyoung start fake-bickering. Every time one of them moves, your brain overlays last night’s lighting over this room. The way their voices changed. The way they looked into the camera. It’s hard to look at San without remembering the intensity in his eyes. Hard to glance at Yunho without hearing the softness in his tone from those clips.

“Why are you so quiet?” Wooyoung asks suddenly, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch. It sounds teasing, but his eyes flick over you quickly. “She’s always quiet compared to you,” Yunho shoots back with a grin, tossing a cushion at him.

“I am not that loud,” Wooyoung argues.

“You are,” three of them say at once.

The room fills with overlapping chatter again. Mingi starts telling a story about something that happened at work. Hongjoong is half-listening, half-scrolling through food options. San sinks into the couch, close enough that you’re aware of him without touching. It’s normal. So painfully normal.

Seonghwa sits down beside you after a while, brushing imaginary lint from his pants. He glances at you once. Twice. You realize you’ve barely spoken in the last ten minutes.

He exhales softly.

The conversation is still going—Mingi insisting he’s right about something, Wooyoung loudly disagreeing—when Seonghwa gently interrupts. “Hey,” he says, not loud, but enough that it shifts the attention. His hand rests lightly on the couch cushion near yours, not quite touching. “You’ve been really quiet today.”

A few of them glance over.

Seonghwa studies your face, brows knitting just slightly. “Are you okay?”