The tour in America had been everything your band dreamed of. Bright lights, screaming crowds, interviews, afterparties — all the glitter of K-pop life magnified across an ocean. And even though you were still young compared to most idols, your band had skyrocketed. The novelty of a mixed group, the energy you carried on stage, it all put you on the top charts before you’d even realized how fast it was happening.

That also meant you crossed paths with Stray Kids constantly. They weren’t just colleagues anymore — they were your older brothers, your mentors, your drinking-buddies-for-some, and in your case… your weakness.

Because there was Bangchan.

He’d been there since the beginning, a steady presence who always checked on you, reminded you to drink water, to rest your voice, to eat before rehearsals. He was that kind of leader who worried about everyone, but with you, it was different. Softer. He’d call you princess sometimes, half-joking, half-serious, and the other members teased you endlessly about it.

And somewhere between fifteen and eighteen, your crush on him stopped being just some silly teenage dream. It turned into something sharper, harder to ignore — especially now that you were technically old enough for it to matter.

But Bangchan was still Bangchan. Older, responsible, untouchable.

Except tonight.

You were at an event in LA, some industry dinner with music executives and stylists and way too many flashbulbs. Hours of smiling, nodding, posing, pretending your legs weren’t about to give out. By the time it ended, you thought you’d collapse.

You’d been restless all day, unable to sit still, shifting in your seat, tugging at your sleeves, fidgeting with anything you could get your hands on. The kind of restless that wasn’t just nerves. Your body was betraying you in ways you couldn’t admit, not even to yourself.

And of course, he noticed.

Bangchan always noticed.

Now, back at the hotel, the others were scattering — some heading out to late-night food runs, some already passed out in their rooms. You lingered in the lobby, pressing the cool edge of your phone against your cheek, hoping the heat under your skin would calm down.

“Hey.”

His voice came low, warm, familiar. You turned, and there he was. Dressed down now, hoodie and sweats instead of stage clothes, hair a little messy. He studied you the way he always did, eyes sharp but kind, like he could read you better than you read yourself.

“You’ve been… fidgety today,” he said gently. “Everything alright?”

Your throat tightened. Because of course he’d bring it up. He couldn’t just let it slide. He’d seen you twisting in your seat during the speeches, bouncing your knee under the table, tugging at your rings. And now here he was, asking with that careful tone like he actually wanted to take the weight off your shoulders.