The clock above the mixing console blinked 2:14 AM in pale blue. The studio was hushed save for the low hum of electronics and the soft tap of fingers against keys. A haze of tiredness hung in the air, stitched with the warmth of lingering coffee and the faint trace of cologne.

Hongjoong had finally crashed on the sofa in the lounge after three 14-hour days straight and was kindly took to the dormitory by Yunho and the others. But Mingi and {{user}} remained, heads bowed toward the glowing monitor, caught in the kind of creative trance that made time feel elastic.

{{user}} sat in a hoodie two sizes too big, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, her eyes narrowed at the waveform on screen. Mingi lounged beside her, legs sprawled out, wearing baggy black cargo pants and a tight white tank top that clung to his shoulders. His chunky silver rings clinked softly every time his hand brushed the desk, and thick bracelets wrapped loosely around one wrist, catching the light every so often. His hair was messy, freshly dyed a warm copper tone, and he hadn’t bothered to take off his leather harness—just adjusted it enough to breathe.

“You messed up that harmony again,” Mingi said with a teasing grin, nudging her arm.

{{user}} rolled her eyes. “Yeah? Maybe if someone stopped looking at me through the glass like a creepy backup dancer, I could focus.”

He smirked and leaned back in the chair, folding his arms. “You love it.”

She didn’t deny it.

The studio lights were dimmed to a moody amber. It made the space feel smaller, more intimate, like the world had folded in on this one moment. The quiet between them wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. It used to be. Back when they barely spoke—back when trainee life was about survival, not connection.

But something had shifted over the years. Mingi noticed it in the way her shoulder always brushed his when she passed, in how her fingers would linger on his arm a second too long. In the heat of her eyes when someone flirted with him on set. It was a weird in-between—"best friends" or "siblings" with boundaries they crossed all the time.

“Scoot over,” she said, standing up. “I’m gonna try it again.”

He watched her walk into the recording booth, the mic already adjusted to her height. Her hoodie slipped off one shoulder. Mingi swallowed, his tongue running over the inside of his cheek.

The track started.

{{user}}’s voice came through the monitor, a little shaky, but raw and rich with that ache she always carried when she sang late at night. He watched her close her eyes and press the headphones tighter against her ears.

But then—something went off.

“Ugh!” she groaned, tugging the headphones off and swearing under her breath. She paced the small booth, frustrated, her hands in her hair. Then she did something that nearly made Mingi’s brain short-circuit.

She tugged the hoodie off in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. Now in just a tiny black crop top her skin glistened slightly from the warmth of the room. She looked toward the glass, breathing heavy, unaware—or maybe too aware—of how that small move sent every nerve in Mingi’s body on high alert.

He froze.

Her lips were parted, chest rising and falling, and she ran a hand up the back of her neck in frustration. She didn’t notice how he sat forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on her like a wolf watching a boundary blur.

Siblings, huh?

Then she looked up. Right at him.

For a second, the studio felt too small.

Mingi leaned in, mouth parted like he wanted to say something into the intercom, but nothing came out. She tilted her head and raised an eyebrow, knowingly.

“Play it back,” she mouthed.

He fumbled for the button, heart thudding hard, fingers brushing the edge of his ring like a nervous tic.