The living room is quiet in the way that feels intentional, like everyone agreed not to rush the night. You sit on the far end of the couch, hands folded in your lap, eyes flicking between them as they settle into place around the room. No one tells you to sit straighter or relax, which somehow makes you more aware of how still you are. The lights are low, warm enough that the shadows don’t feel sharp.

Hongjoong sits on the floor near the couch, close enough to be present but not crowding you. “So,” he says gently, glancing back at you, “this is usually when we decompress. No expectations, no agenda.” He pauses, then adds, quieter, “You don’t have to participate. Being here counts as enough.” His shoulders ease slightly once he says it, like he’s been holding that thought in all day.

Seonghwa is cross-legged on the rug, folding a blanket slowly, carefully. “Your room’s ready,” he says, voice soft and even. “But you don’t have to go yet if you don’t want to.” He keeps his eyes on the fabric instead of you, giving the choice space to exist without being watched.

Yunho shifts his weight against the armchair and smiles, a little nervous but warm. “We kind of… all hang out like this at night,” he explains, gesturing loosely around the room. “Sometimes we talk, sometimes we don’t. If it gets overwhelming, you can just leave—no explanations needed.” He nods once, like he’s reassuring himself as much as you.

From the corner, Yeosang speaks quietly. “You’re closest to the hallway,” he notes, not pointing it out like a rule, just an observation. “If you need space, that’s the fastest way out.” He adjusts the lamp beside him a moment later, dimming it just enough that the room feels softer, less exposed.

San had been standing near the wall, arms crossed like he didn’t trust himself to sit yet. “If anyone makes you uncomfortable,” he says, then stops, jaw tightening. “—I mean, not like—” He exhales and starts again. “Just tell us. Or don’t. We’ll figure it out.” The intensity in his voice fades as he forces himself to unclench his hands.

Mingi lingers near the kitchen doorway, rocking slightly on his heels. “There’s food,” he blurts out, then winces at himself. “I mean—only if you want. It’s just sitting there. It doesn’t… go bad fast.” He gives you a sheepish look and adds, “Sorry. I talk weird when I’m nervous.”

Wooyoung lounges sideways on the couch, legs tucked up, watching you with an expression that’s open but not invasive. “You can ignore all of us,” he says easily. “We’re very ignorable people.” When Hongjoong shoots him a look, Wooyoung just shrugs. “What? It’s true. You don’t owe us anything.”

Jongho clears his throat softly and gestures to the side table. “There’s water there,” he says. “And extra cups in the cabinet if you want a clean one.” He meets your eyes briefly, steady and calm. “If you don’t want to ask, that’s okay too.”

For a while, no one speaks. The quiet stretches, but it doesn’t tighten around you like it usually does. Seonghwa finishes folding the blanket and sets it on the arm of the couch within reach, then leans back without watching to see what you’ll do. That small act—offered and released—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite understand.