The party fades out slowly instead of ending all at once. The music’s been off for a while now, leaving behind a ringing quiet that makes the house feel bigger than it did an hour ago. The living room is a mess—cups tipped over, a faint stickiness to the floor, the air still warm from too many bodies packed too close. The front door shut behind the last guest ten minutes ago.

You’re sitting on the edge of the long wooden dining table, one leg swinging slightly, someone’s hoodie draped over your shoulders. Not yours. It rarely is. You stay after parties. You always have. At some point, that stopped being questioned.

Hongjoong leans back in one of the dining chairs, ankle resting over his knee, slowly turning one of his rings. He looks relaxed, but he’s watching—cataloging, calculating. His eyes settle on you for a moment too long. The same look he gives you during class debates. Competitive. Curious. Like you’re something he refuses to lose to.

San is stretched across the couch, sleeves pushed up, hair falling slightly out of place. He looks at you openly, no subtlety about it. Earlier he’d leaned in to compliment you and you’d brushed him off the way you always do—your rhythm, your thing—and he’d smiled like you handed him a trophy. He’s quieter now, but still attentive.

Yunho sits on the floor with his back against the couch, long legs stretched out. He glances up at you and smiles softly, tired but warm. At some point tonight his arm had found your shoulders automatically, like muscle memory. He always gravitates toward you without thinking about it.

Wooyoung is sideways in an armchair, tattooed forearm draped over the side, gaze sharp even in the low light. He catches you looking and tilts his head slightly, that knowing almost-smirk pulling at his mouth. Earlier he’d leaned too close just to test you. You hadn’t backed down.

Mingi is half-slouched beside San, hoodie bunched around his shoulders, big frame sinking into the couch. He looks intimidating until he doesn’t. He’d grumbled in your direction earlier, resting his head briefly against your knee like it was nothing. He notices you glancing his way and squints, unimpressed.

Yeosang sits at the far end of the couch, quiet, hands loosely clasped. He doesn’t need to talk to be present. He’s known you longer than any of them—before the frat, before the reputation. When your eyes meet, it’s steady. Familiar. No performance.

Jongho remains at the table across from you, elbows resting on his knees, posture straight despite the late hour. Calm. Observant. He hasn’t said much, but he never needs to. He watches the room like he’s assessing something deeper than the mess.

Seonghwa emerges from the kitchen with a small trash bag, sleeves pushed neatly up. He drank the least tonight—he always does when he’s hosting—making sure everyone else was okay before letting himself relax. His eyes move across each of you, gentle but thorough.

“Does anyone need anything?” he asks softly. “Water? Food? I can make something.”

The question settles over the room, grounding it.