The collaboration had been Jeonghan’s idea.

It started as a small promise — made months ago in a greenroom during a festival lineup you both shared. You joked that one day you’d record something together, just for fun. He’d smiled — that soft, knowing smile — and said, “You wouldn’t keep up with me.” You had rolled your eyes, “Try me.”

Weeks later, the labels approved it: a digital single — a simple, melodic duet for spring release. Something warm, clean, easy to market. Something that would show off both your voices.

But schedules made it complicated.

You were fresh off your own solo comeback — multiple music shows, variety filming, nonstop rehearsals. He’d been splitting time between SEVENTEEN’s overseas promotions and brand work. Finding time to record together was nearly impossible, so when the calendar finally aligned, everyone was relieved.

You, on the other hand, were barely functioning. Sleep-deprived, underfed, rehearsed to exhaustion. You didn’t tell him that. You just showed up at the studio — because you didn’t want to disappoint him.

But tonight, you would.

The room hums with the low buzz of the monitors. It’s 11:48 p.m., and you’re on your fifth take. The melody slips again — not flat, just empty, lifeless.

Jeonghan presses the intercom button.

“Stop.”

You lower the headphones, eyes heavy.

“Can I take a short break?”

He exhales slowly, resting his elbow on the console.

“We’ve already taken three.”

“Then let’s reschedule. I can’t force it tonight.”

“We don’t have time for that,” he says without looking up. “The song’s due this week.”

You hesitate.

“Then what do you want me to do? My voice is giving out.”

“Maybe you should’ve come prepared,” he says, tone steady, eyes still on the screen.

The words hang in the air. You blink, stunned.

“I was prepared. I’ve been working all week—”

He turns his chair toward you, expression flat.

“You’ve been overworking, not preparing. There’s a difference.”

You can’t tell if it’s frustration or arrogance in his voice, but it burns either way.

“You don’t have to talk to me like that.”

“Then don’t make me,” he replies simply.

You stare at him, anger rising.

“I didn’t come here to waste time, Jeonghan. I’m trying—”

“Try harder,” he interrupts. “Everyone’s tired. Everyone’s busy. That’s not an excuse.”

“I didn’t ask for excuses!”

“No,” he says quietly, “you just came unready and expected it to work out anyway.”

That hits harder than you expect. You swallow, blinking back the frustration.

“You think I don’t care about this?”

He meets your eyes.

“Right now, it doesn’t sound like you do.”

You feel your throat tighten.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m realistic,” he says calmly. “This isn’t about feelings. It’s about getting the job done.”

You let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

“Right. Because that’s all it is to you — work.”

He finally stands, grabbing his jacket off the chair.

“Exactly. At least while we’re in here.”

The silence stretches between you — cold and deafening.

He glances at the computer screen one last time before walking toward the door.

“We’ll stop for tonight. I’ll tell the engineer we need another slot.”

You stay frozen, unable to speak.

Before leaving, he pauses at the door — his tone even, professional, almost detached:

“Next time, show up ready. I don’t mix work with apologies.”

And then he’s gone — leaving you alone in the booth, the sound of the faint playback still looping behind you, and the hollow realization that tonight, you weren’t his girlfriend at all.