It always felt a little unreal to you that you were in this world at all. One day you were just Seungmin’s stepsister — half-European, half-Korean, a bit out of place in Seoul but still finding your rhythm — and suddenly you were part of the Stray Kids family orbit. You were at their practices, waiting in the studio with your headphones on, tagging along at events, concerts, hotel lobbies, late-night dinners.

At first, you thought it would be awkward. You were younger, a little different, carrying curves and height that stood out in a scene where everyone seemed so… standard. But you never really had to try. They pulled you in naturally. Jokes with Han, debates with Seungmin, Enid-level chaos with Felix. But Bang Chan… he was something else entirely.

He was the leader, the one who always had weight on his shoulders. And yet, with you, it was different. He could exhale. He didn’t always have to be “Bang Chan of Stray Kids.” He could just be Chris — laughing too loudly when you destroyed him at Mario Kart, half-rolling his eyes when you teased him about the number of hoodies he owned, humming when you carelessly sang in the hotel hallways.

You both ignored the tension for as long as possible. More than decade between you was an invisible barrier, one he carried like armor. Whenever someone teased him about acting like your guardian, or when age slipped into the conversation, his jaw would tense. He’d laugh it off, but his gaze would dart toward you, quick and guilty, like his mind was already racing ahead to places he shouldn’t let it.

Tonight, it was the eve of a European concert. You were all holed up in a hotel — one of those big chain ones with beige walls and too-bright lamps — and you ended up in his room. The others were scattered, doing their own thing, but somehow you and Chan gravitated back to each other like always.

The PlayStation hummed, controllers in your hands, his knee brushing yours every time he shifted. His laugh filled the room when you beat him — again — and you leaned back, smug and grinning.

“You’re cheating,” he said, accusingly, throwing his head back against the couch.

“You’re just old,” you teased, nudging his shoulder.

He gave you that look — the half-smile, half-grimace that always came out when age got mentioned. But instead of brushing it off, he leaned closer. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I’ll show you just how old I am.”

It was playful, on the surface. But underneath, it hummed. His hand lingered on the back of the couch, close enough that if you leaned just an inch, you’d brush against him. The game sat forgotten on the screen, some menu music looping in the background.

You didn’t have to say it aloud, but it was there: that something unspoken, slipping into all the cracks of your friendship. The way his gaze lingered too long when you laughed. The way your heartbeat jumped whenever his voice dropped low. The way both of you, despite logic, despite responsibility, couldn’t quite pull away.

And maybe it was wrong. Maybe it was dangerous. But in that moment — the quiet hotel room, the hum of the city outside, the thrum of music waiting for tomorrow’s stage — it just felt like you and him. Always circling closer. Always finding each other.