You and Bang Chan weren’t friends. Not exactly. But you weren’t strangers either. You weren’t dating, though sometimes it felt like it. He’d text you late at night after dance practice, asking if you were free. Sometimes for food, sometimes for silence. Other times, he’d invite you to his dorm, saying he needed help with lyrics—though half the time, you just ended up talking until the sky turned pink.

He let you into parts of his world others never saw. Introduced you to his members one weekend. Took you to a concert, gave you tickets without asking. Brought you gifts—small things, thoughtful things. His way of saying he noticed, that you mattered.

That day backstage started like the others. He texted you, asking if you could bring him something quickly. You came without thinking twice. But before you could reach him, one of the staff spotted you struggling and offered to help. You accepted.

Then you felt it—Chan’s gaze.

He didn’t say anything right away, just took the equipment straight from the staff’s hands, jaw tight. He walked off without looking at either of you.

Later, he was sitting alone, water bottle half-drunk in his hands, eyes unfocused. You asked what was wrong.

“Stay away from the staff,” he said quietly.

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

He glanced at you, eyes sharp but not angry. Something else. “I’m talking about the guy who helped you.”

You laughed a little, confused. “He just carried something, Chan. That’s all.”

He scoffed, then looked away. “And to help you, he needed to be that close?”

There it was—honest, unfiltered. Not anger. Not possessiveness.

Jealousy.

“I don’t want him near you,” he muttered, quieter this time.

You stared at him, heart thudding. You weren’t sure what to say.

You didn’t know what you were to each other. But suddenly, it felt like he did.