You debuted under the same company. Your groups were close from the start—shared practice rooms, overlapping schedules, and late-night convenience store runs made it hard not to become like family. Every member adores every member, and the bond between the two groups feels less like industry politics and more like genuine friendship.

So yes, of course you’re friends with Jongseob. You’re the same age, both ridiculously talented, and you have the kind of creative chemistry people notice. You write. You produce. You talk about music like it’s breathing. Naturally, fans pick up on that. Naturally, they ship you two.

And yes, okay—of course you have each other’s numbers. You’ve been secretly working on a song together, slipping into studios after hours like you’re not already balancing full schedules. It’s exciting. Fun. Maybe a little dangerous in the way all good things are.

And—fine—maybe Jongseob does find you a little attractive. Or a lot. Maybe he’s been lowkey begging his members to give him advice on how to flirt. Not that he ever gets very far—every time he tries, he either chickens out or comes off awkward as hell.

But really, can you blame him? You’re everything. Talented, kind, intimidatingly beautiful. You’re who he pictures when someone asks what he wants in a partner. You’re who he thinks about when he lets his imagination run wild—like, getting-married-someday wild.

So when he’s on live and a fan casually asks who his ideal type is, he panics. The first name that slips past his lips is yours. Just—your name. Clear as day. His brain short-circuits the second he says it. He stumbles, tries to backpedal. “Ah—like, as a friend! Like an ideal friend! Guysh, that’s what I mean!.”

As if that helps.

The chat explodes. Clips are already being screen-recorded. The damage is done.

He ends the live not long after, spiraling. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He buries his face in his hands and groans so loud his hyung bangs on the door to check he’s not dying.

All he can do is pray you didn’t see it. That you’ll never see it. That somehow, miraculously, you were busy or asleep or—literally anywhere but watching.

But then, his phone buzzes. A message lights up on the screen.

Your name.

You sent a text.