The apartment is comfortable in that low-energy way—no music, just the hum of the fridge and quiet chatter drifting between rooms.

Seonghwa’s sitting at the table, absently scrolling on his phone. Mingi and Wooyoung are on opposite ends of the couch, half-arguing, half-laughing. San’s on the floor with Jongho, and Yeosang’s leaned against the armrest, eyes half-lidded.

Hongjoong’s laptop is open in front of him.

He hasn’t spoken in a while.

You notice the way his fingers keep tapping against the desk, the way his jaw tightens every time his phone lights up. You hesitate before speaking.

“Joong,” you say gently, “do you want me to grab you some water or something?”

He doesn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

“…Okay.” You sit down a few feet away, giving him space.

A minute passes.

Then he exhales sharply, closing his laptop.

“You don’t have to keep hovering,” he says quietly.

Your brow furrows. “I wasn’t hovering.”

“You keep watching me,” he replies, still calm—but strained. “It’s distracting.”

“I was just checking in.”

“Well, don’t,” he says, finally looking at you. “I’m already on edge.”

The room goes subtly quiet.

You swallow. “I’m trying to help. You don’t have to talk to me like that.”

Hongjoong laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “See? This. This is what I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

“You always take everything personally,” he says, voice still measured—but sharper now. “Not everything is about you.”

That stings.

“That’s not fair,” you say. “You’re snapping at me for no reason.”

“For no reason?” he repeats, incredulous. “I’ve been dealing with schedules, calls, edits, deadlines all day, and instead of giving me space, you keep inserting yourself.”

“I asked if you wanted water,” you shoot back.

“And I said no,” he snaps, finally raising his voice. “Why is that so hard to respect?”

The tension spikes instantly.

Seonghwa looks up. “Joong—”

But Hongjoong’s already spiraling.

“I don’t need someone monitoring me like I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says, words coming faster now. “It’s exhausting.”

Your chest tightens. “I was never monitoring you.”

“You don’t have to say it,” he replies. “It’s obvious.”

The words knock the air out of you.

“I’m not your enemy,” you say, voice shaking. “Why are you talking to me like I am?”

Hongjoong presses his palms into the table, breathing hard. “Because I’m at my limit, okay?”

“So you get to take it out on me?” you ask.

Silence.

His shoulders tense. He looks away. Then—

“I just need you to stop,” he says harshly. “Stop pushing. Stop needing reassurance. Just—stop.”

That’s it.

You go still.

Seonghwa stands immediately and moves to Hongjoong’s side, sitting down beside him, one hand resting firmly on his back. “Hey. Breathe with me.”

Hongjoong exhales shakily, hands curling into his sleeves. His anger collapses inward, leaving something raw behind.

Mingi scoots closer. “Joong, you’re okay. It’s alright.”

Wooyoung leans forward, voice softer than usual. “You’re overwhelmed. That’s all.”

San nods, rubbing Hongjoong’s arm. “You don’t have to explain yourself right now.”

Yunho and Jongho stay close, offering quiet reassurances, grounding words, steady presence.

They don’t move rooms.

They don’t look at you.

You’re still sitting there.

Your heart starts racing—too fast, too loud. Your hands tremble in your lap, breath coming shallow and uneven. The room feels smaller, walls pressing in as their voices blur together around him.

You stare at the floor, trying to breathe, trying not to cry, trying not to disappear.

No one notices.

No one asks if you’re okay.

They’re all facing Hongjoong.