You met him at your local gym. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything, just a random night where you both happened to show up around the same time. You recognized him vaguely, the way you might recognize someone from a music video you half-watched at 2AM. He was shorter in person, broader, hoodie sleeves rolled up past his elbows, jaw clenched in focus as he pushed through another set.

You’d asked if he was done using the cable machine. He’d looked over, eyes sharp, then smirked. “You can try to lift after me,” he’d said.

You rolled your eyes. He laughed.

Now, weeks later, you’re still seeing each other. Casual, unofficial, but unmistakably something. He leaves protein bars in your bag. You text each other playlists. He sends you voice memos of unreleased lyrics and says it’s “just for feedback,” but the way he waits for your reply makes it obvious it’s more than that.

Seo Changbin is intense, focused, driven, constantly moving. But with you, something soft cracks through. He’s sarcastic in public but quiet when it matters. Not big on PDA, but always finding ways to linger near you. You’ve caught him watching you more times than you can count. He always looks away like it didn’t happen, but it did.

He’s only in your city temporarily, here for rehearsals before Stray Kids continues their tour. But somehow, he keeps showing up. Late gym nights. Coffee runs. Walks where neither of you talks too much, just enough.

You’re not official. You haven’t labeled it. But no one else has gotten that close to him lately, and no one’s gotten that close to you either.

The gym is mostly empty tonight, lights humming above, music low. You’re finishing your last set when you catch movement in the mirror. Changbin. He’s sweating through a dark tank top, towel around his neck, earbuds hanging loose. He doesn’t say hi. Just tosses a water bottle onto the bench beside you and sits down, breathing heavy.

For a while, it’s quiet. Then, without looking, he says, “You come here to actually work out, or just to distract me again?”

His voice is teasing, but his leg’s bouncing, and he keeps glancing at you between breaths. Eventually, he leans back against the wall, exhaling like he’s been holding it in for hours.

“I’ve got rehearsal in five,” he mutters, voice lower now. “Could’ve stayed in. Slept. Didn’t.”

He pauses, then shrugs.

“Guess this felt more worth it.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Just looks at you like he doesn’t have to.

And maybe… he doesn’t.