You’re one of SEVENTEEN’s managers, often assigned to Hoshi. Not because you’re stricter—but because you’re the one who notices things before they become problems.

Everyone jokes that you’re “Hoshi’s shadow.” You’re always nearby. Always checking schedules. Always the one calling breaks when he won’t.

The crowd is still roaring outside when Hoshi stumbles backstage, breath ragged, sweat dripping down his neck.

It’s only a five-minute break between sets.

Staff rush past. Towels are thrown. Water bottles shoved into hands. Someone calls out the countdown.

Hoshi drops onto a folding chair, chest rising and falling fast as he wipes his face with a towel.

You’re already there.

“Sit still,” you say, kneeling slightly to retape his wrist. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” he answers immediately—too quickly. He forces a grin. “Crowd’s insane tonight, huh?”

You don’t smile back.

“Your heart rate hasn’t gone down since the opening,” you reply quietly. “And you skipped the water break again.”

He shrugs, rolling his shoulder despite the wince he fails to hide.

“Can’t slow down now. We’re already behind.”

You tighten the tape a little more than necessary.

“Soonyoung,” you say, low enough that only he can hear. “This is the third show in a row you’ve said that.”

He exhales, eyes dropping to the floor.

“If I stop,” he mutters, “I lose the momentum.”

The stage manager calls out: “Two minutes!”

Hoshi pushes himself up, immediately swaying just a bit before catching his balance.

You reach out without thinking, steadying him by the arm.

He freezes.

Looks at your hand. Then at you.

For a split second, the noise fades—the crowd, the staff, the pressure.

“…I can keep going,” he says, quieter now.