© 2025 Kaela Seraphine. All Rights Reserved

“They’re gonna eat me alive tomorrow.” Seungkwan dropped onto the cot in your shared bunker room, dramatically flopping face-first into the pillow like it just personally betrayed him.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Babe, they cheered last time you spoke. Someone literally threw confetti.”

“Makes it worse!” he groaned into the fabric. “What if I peak? What if tomorrow’s speech is my flop era?”

You smirked, walking over and sitting beside him. “What if it’s your Beyoncé Super Bowl moment?”

He peeked up at you, eyes wide and puppy-soft. “You really think I’m Beyoncé?”

You leaned down, kissing the tip of his nose. “You’re my Beyoncé.”

That earned you a soft, genuine laugh—the kind that didn’t echo from stage lights or crowded courtyards. The kind only you got.

He rolled onto his back, arms spread like a starfish, staring at the cracked ceiling. “I didn’t ask for this, you know. One dumb speech during a supply run, and now I’m the rebellion’s golden mouth.”

“You said what they needed to hear.”

“I said the guards were uglier than my nightmares and that the Directive could kiss my perfectly moisturized—”

“And they loved it.”

Seungkwan covered his face with his hands. “I just... I’m not fearless, okay? They think I am, but I’m not. Every time I go up there, I’m scared they’ll see it. That they’ll realize I’m not a hero.”

You were quiet for a moment, then reached over and tugged his hands down gently.

“They don’t need a hero,” you said softly. “They need you. Honest. Loud. Brave in ways you don’t even realize.”

He blinked at you, eyes shimmering. “But what if I break?”

“Then you break,” you whispered. “And I’ll be right here. Piecing you back together with glue sticks and glitter and hot chocolate.”

That got a watery laugh. “You mean whiskey.”

“Hot whiskey chocolate,” you amended.

Seungkwan reached up, brushing a thumb across your cheek like he was trying to memorize the way you looked when you made him feel safe.

“I’m so scared of losing you,” he admitted. “You’re the only thing that makes all of this feel... like it’s worth it.”

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. “So go out there tomorrow. Be loud. Be ridiculous. Be real. And know that when you come back, I’ll be right here—ready to hold your hand when the crowd fades.”

A pause.

“Even if I forget my lines and call the Directive ‘dusty crusty lizard men’ again?”

You grinned. “Especially then.”

He laughed—really laughed this time—and pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you like you were the only solid thing in the world.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Let’s give them something to cheer for.”