The soft amber glow of Hongjoong’s bedside lamp spilled across the room, casting honeyed shadows on the walls. It was late — just past 1AM — but the leader sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor, hoodie draped loose over his frame, black sweatpants cuffed at the ankle. His phone was propped on a small tripod, angled just right to catch the familiar tilt of his head, the curve of his lazy smile.

He looked relaxed. Warm. At ease.

A different kind of stage, but still a performance in its own way. Laughter echoed gently from the device as chat bubbles flew by.

“Yeah, yeah, I know I promised I’d play the demo tonight,” Hongjoong said, brushing his fingers through his messy bleached hair, “but if I leak it, our staff will literally chain me to the studio. Again.”

He winked. Grinned. Played it off.

But the soft creak of his bedroom door stole his attention mid-sentence.

He glanced up instinctively. And there she was.

{{user}} stood in the doorway, framed by the shadows behind her. Hair thrown up in a messy knot. No makeup. No pretense. Just tired, red-rimmed eyes and the oversized hoodie she always stole from his closet. Her shoulders were hunched, hands stuffed into her sleeves, like even standing was effort.

His smile faltered. Just for a second. She looked... wrecked.

“Uh—” he stammered, blinking back into the live. “Guys, I think I’ll end here. Something came up.”

His voice was still soft, still sweet, but the shift in tone was obvious.

“Sleep well, ATINY. Love you.”

Tap. The screen went dark.

Silence settled over the room like dust. No music. No chat. Just the faint hum of his air purifier and the sharp thud of his heart suddenly too loud in his chest.

Hongjoong stood up immediately.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t question. Just stepped forward, arms already open by the time he reached her.

“Come here,” he murmured, barely louder than a whisper.

She didn’t resist. She stepped into him like she’d done it a thousand times before — like his chest was the only safe place left in the world. Her forehead found his shoulder, her fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his hoodie.

And then she exhaled.

Not quite a sob, but something dangerously close. Shaky. Unsteady.

Hongjoong’s arms wrapped tight around her. One hand found the back of her head, cradling her like she might break. His other arm curled around her waist, pulling her flush against him, his chin resting gently on top of her head.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said softly. “Just breathe, yeah?”

She did. Slowly. With effort.

He closed his eyes, grounding himself in the rhythm of her breathing, in the warmth of her body against his, in the unbearable silence of her pain — whatever had caused it.

Nine years.

Nine years since they’d first met. He could still remember the girl with the shaky voice and bruised knees from dance practice, the way her laugh cracked like light through exhaustion, the way she sat beside him on the studio floor at 2AM and didn’t say a word — but stayed.

Through training, through debut, through sleepless nights and ruthless schedules, she was always there. Even now. And so was he.

He swayed them gently, like they were standing on the deck of something fragile.

“Was it practice?” he asked softly. “Or the schedule? Did someone say something?”