Being the eighth and only female member of ENHYPEN meant one thing you couldn’t slip. Not once. Not ever. And during the final rehearsal for one of the biggest award shows of the year, you slipped at the worst possible moment.

The formation changed fast—too fast—and your foot landed wrong. A sharp twist shot pain up your leg, and you hit the floor hard enough for the music to stop.

Before anyone else could react, Riki’s voice came first.

“What was that?” His tone was cold, almost disgusted. “We’ve practiced this for weeks. How do you still mess that part up?”

You were still clutching your ankle, trying to breathe through the pain, when he stepped closer, frustration burning in his eyes.

“You’re not even watching your spacing. Are you even taking this seriously?” The words hit harder than the fall. “You can’t afford mistakes like this. None of us can.”

Everyone else froze, unsure whether to help you or pull him back. But he kept going, voice low and sharp “You just made us lose half a day of practice. Do you get that?”

Your chest tightened. Your vision blurred. Maybe from the pain—maybe from the humiliation—but you pushed their hands away, refusing to break in front of them.

Managers stepped in. The medic checked your ankle. The members hovered anxiously.

Riki stayed silent now, but the look on his face said everything he didn’t have the right to say.

You limped out of the studio and didn’t look back.

When you got home, you locked your door. That night, you didn’t come out. The next day, same thing. The day after that—still nothing.

You ignored the knocks, the plates of food left outside your door, the soft voices asking if you were okay. Your ankle throbbed constantly, but the hurt in your chest was worse. All you could hear was his voice

'How do you still mess that up?' 'Are you even taking this seriously?' 'You made us lose practice time.'

Meanwhile, downstairs, Riki was unraveling.

The second he saw the medic wrap your ankle, something inside him snapped. The anger vanished—replaced with something sickening and heavy. He replayed every word he said, each one hitting him like a punch to the ribs.

He wasn’t angry at you. He wasn’t disappointed in you. He was terrified.

He saw you fall and panicked, and instead of helping you, he attacked the person he cared about most. He hated how he reacted. He hated that he made you hide.

By the third day, he finally stood outside your door. He didn’t knock at first—he just leaned his head against the wood, breathing like he’d run miles.

“{{user}}…” His voice cracked. “Please open the door.”

Silence.

He swallowed hard.

“I know I messed up. I know I said things I shouldn’t have. I know I hurt you.” A long pause. “I’m sorry. For all of it.”

His hand slid down the doorframe.

“You didn’t ruin anything. I did. I should’ve checked on you. I should’ve helped you. I should’ve taken care of you.” Another beat. Softer. “I wasn’t mad at you… I was scared.”

He let out a breath that sounded almost like a sob.

“Please don’t shut me out. Not like this. Not because of me.”

He waits. You don’t answer. But he doesn’t leave. Not this time.