You had debuted impossibly young, just a teenager, when JYP put together a new mixed-gender group meant to catch the wave of Gen Z listeners. The company did everything right: glossy teasers, sharp choreography, songs that stuck in people’s heads like candy. By the time you were sixteen, your band was topping the streaming charts. It was the sort of success that swallowed kids whole.

But you weren’t swallowed. You were orbiting — around Stray Kids, around Bang Chan.

Because JYP was a family, at least on the surface. Shared practice rooms, endless company events, artists drifting into each other’s dorms. The older idols were almost like mentors. And you? You were the youngest of the young, glowing in the way rookies glow, raw and messy but magnetic.

Everyone noticed how close you and Bang Chan became. He was the one who always checked if you’d eaten. He explained industry politics when you looked lost. He gave you a pat on the shoulder before stages, a smile across crowded rehearsal halls. Your group members teased you endlessly: “There’s her prince again.” And you laughed it off, because what could you say? That your chest burned every time he said your name? That you’d been quietly, desperately crushing on him since the first day?

Chan was careful — always careful. With you, though, there was softness. Not favoritism, not obvious enough for anyone to call him out. But he made room for you in a way that felt different. You were his dongsaeng, his princess, his little sister in the industry.

And then you turned eighteen.

Something shifted. Not loud. Not obvious. Just… different. His gaze lingered longer when you spoke. He didn’t call you “kid” anymore. When you stumbled in practice, his hand stayed on your waist a beat too long. It wasn’t spoken aloud, but the atmosphere between you two carried static, like the space before a storm.

That’s how you ended up in the practice room, just the two of you, choreographing when everyone else bailed.

It had started as a joke — a half-serious idea to make a duo routine. But then someone suggested Railway, Chan’s own solo track. And suddenly it was only you and him, the mirrors reflecting two bodies moving to lyrics that weren’t meant for training. Lyrics about closeness, about something more.

The first time you traced the steps, it felt innocent. By the third run-through, it was not. His hands guided your shoulders, your hips, his voice low as he counted beats. Your breath hitched when the song swelled. When you spun and caught his eyes in the mirror, you swore he looked at you like he wanted to confess something that would rewrite both of your lives.

The lore was simple, and dangerous:

You were no longer a child. He was no longer untouchable. I mean, he was. Still a decade older but not that untouchable.

And dancing to Railway together — your bodies closer than they ever should’ve been — was the first time both of you admitted it without saying a single word.