As the leader of a group that had debuted barely two months ago, you were already a familiar name. Too familiar, some people said. Your group hadn’t been given time to simmer—no quiet buildup, no gentle introduction. You’d exploded into the industry fully formed, views climbing faster than anyone expected, your name trending alongside words like rookie monster and overnight success.

With popularity came attention. With attention came scrutiny.

And you knew—you could feel it in your chest—that this stage would be the first real controversy with your name attached to it.

Because the name on the schedule wasn’t just any senior idol.

Jung Wooyoung.

Wooyoung. The Wooyoung of ATEEZ. A tattooed, seasoned performer with years of stages behind him, someone you’d watched on screens long before you ever imagined standing in the same practice room.

Twenty-six. Legendary. Untouchable.

You repeat the facts in your head like a mantra as you stand side by side in front of the mirror, the two of you learning choreography for a special stage at an upcoming award show. A duo stage. A close one.

A touch-heavy concept—already labeled risky the second the companies approved it.

Eight years.

You’re eighteen. He’s twenty-six. You know exactly how that sounds to people who don’t know you, who won’t care about consent or context or professionalism. You know there will be comments, think pieces, slow-motion clips taken out of context.

But when the offer came, how were you supposed to say no?

Of course you wanted to dance with him. Of course you wanted to share a stage. Of course you wanted to learn from someone who had survived this industry for years and was still standing tall.

That didn’t make this any easier.

You reach the first chorus in the choreography breakdown, standing a few feet apart as the choreographer cues the next section. Wooyoung sings the first chorus in the song. You sing the second. That means the sequence you’re about to watch will happen twice—once led by him, once led by you.

The demo video plays.

And you freeze.

The move is precise, intentional—designed for impact rather than indulgence, you can tell that much immediately. Still, seeing it laid out so plainly makes your stomach flip.

You’re meant to drop to your knees in front of him, hands reaching up—not grabbing wildly, but placed, controlled—following the line of his torso as you rise slowly back to your feet. Your fingers briefly settle at the base of his neck, right where the choreographer wants them, before you step past him without a glance, like the moment never mattered at all.

It’s over in seconds in the demo.

It feels like an eternity in your body.

The video ends. The room goes quiet for half a beat.

Then the choreographer claps. “Okay. Let’s try that section.”

The music starts.

Your feet move before your brain fully catches up. You step into position in front of Wooyoung, heart pounding loud enough that you’re sure it must be audible. Then—awkwardly, carefully—you lower yourself to your knees.

The floor feels colder than it did a moment ago.

Wooyoung faces the mirror at first, posture relaxed, expression focused. Professional. Calm. Like this is just another count in another routine. Then, briefly, his gaze drops to you—not lingering, not loaded. Just a quick check-in, a silent you good?

You nod before you even realize you’re doing it.

God. You are absolutely suffering.