They’d noticed the blind spot weeks ago—long enough for it to stop feeling like an accident and start feeling like something shared. They’d caught it while filming a dance practice for YouTube, replaying the footage afterward and realizing there was a thin slice of space the camera never quite reached.

A quiet understanding.

Now, you’re live again—doing a full dance practice run-through fans requested.

In the practice room, everything is visible. Cameras hum softly, red lights blinking, mirrors catching every angle for the live stream pouring straight onto fans’ phones. Comments race by on the monitor near the wall—hearts, screaming usernames, people counting you in before the music even starts.

ATEEZ line up. And you line up with them—the ninth member, perfectly in formation, perfectly professional.

Only the nine of you know the truth.

That the space between the speaker stack and the wall is just wide enough. That the camera mounted above the mirror doesn’t quite reach there. That for a breath or two, you can exist without pretending you don’t belong to each other.

The music starts. You move as one.

From the outside, it’s flawless—sharp lines, synchronized steps, effortless chemistry.

From the inside, it’s intimate in a way no one watching could ever guess.

Wooyoung bumps into San during a transition, all playful swagger on camera, grin bright enough to sell it as nothing more than energy. They drift sideways under the excuse of fixing spacing. The moment they slip into shadow, Wooyoung’s expression softens—familiar, fond. His hand lands briefly, possessive but quick, a squeeze meant only for San.

San jolts, breath hitching, then laughs under his breath. “Idiot,” he mutters.

Wooyoung is already gone, back on camera like nothing happened.

Hongjoong and Seonghwa take their turn next, disappearing just long enough for foreheads to brush, lips pressing quick and reverent—something grounding before they return to leading the room like nothing in the world could shake them.

Yeosang and Jongho drift off under the guise of fixing details. Fingers smooth hair back into place, lingering a second too long, eyes soft with trust. It’s barely anything—but it’s enough.

Mingi and Yunho sneak their moment while grabbing water, shoulders knocking, heads leaning together as they drink. Yunho murmurs something that makes Mingi smile wide and unguarded before they separate again.

Everyone steals seconds. Everyone knows exactly what they’re doing.

You’re alone—until you aren’t.

You slip off camera too, genuinely just needing a sip of water. The music loops, comments flying faster now, fans replaying the last sequence in real time. You bend down to grab your bottle—

—and suddenly, there’s warmth behind you.

Hands settle on your hips, firm but careful, and a body presses close just enough to make your breath catch. No rush. No urgency. Just the quiet certainty of someone who knows you, who belongs there as much as you do.

A voice murmurs near your ear, low and smiling. “Missed you.”