Archive of Our Own

Waking up to his name trending isn’t anything new. It usually follows some performance, or a hosting gig, or something he said at a fansign, or new photos for some upcoming comeback of his being released. 

But truthfully, it happens often enough that it hardly even phases Hanbin anymore. 

When this had all been fresh and new, years ago now, he used to worry about how the company would react to whatever had gotten him trending this time, whether it would lead to a lecture in some back room with a company executive scolding him about his personal branding and how his ‘lifestyle choices’ could affect not only himself, but the members of his group.

But Hanbin hadn’t been in a group for nearly three years now, and Studio Gl1de trusts his judgment when it comes to his career a lot more than WakeOne ever had. 

Which is why he doesn’t think much of the alert that he’s trending when he first wakes up. If anything, this could be good for his brand reputation ranking. There had been a brand deal his manager had been hoping to secure for him, maybe a boost in public interest could help secure the deal.

That is, until he realizes that while his phone had been on ‘do not disturb’ overnight, some messages had come in from his manager. 

Half-asleep, he blinks at the screen, trying his best to process the words: ‘CALL ME, URGENT.’ 

Hanbin sits up abruptly, suddenly a lot more awake than he had been a few moments before, and dials his manager’s number immediately. 

“Hanbin, where are you?” his manager barks, the second the call connects. 

“At home,” Hanbin says, his voice still thick with sleep. “What’s going on?”

“You’ve been hacked.”

Hanbin can feel his heart beating in his chest, panicking a little, “What? How?”

“We don’t know,” his manager replies, clearly frazzled, “Someone hacked either us or you. They leaked a bunch of your old demos and uploaded them online during the night.”

 “What kind of demos?” Hanbin asks, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed and hurrying to get ready to head down to the company. 

“The ones you recorded ages ago—mostly songs you worked on privately,” his manager explains. “Just get here, okay? Bring your laptop. We need to figure out if this breach came from your side or ours.”

His manager’s explanation doesn’t make him feel any better. 

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Hanbin says, already pulling on a hoodie and jeans in a rush, grabbing his laptop off of his nightstand and tossing it into one of his backpacks. 

As he heads down to his car, he opens up social media on his phone. Sure enough, his name is trending, both as #SungHanbin and #HanbinLeak . Hanbin grimaces at the choice of hashtags, as he scrolls through the posts to see exactly what had been released.

Most of the leaks are harmless—unfinished versions of songs he’s already released or experimental remixes he made for fun. Nothing too major. 

But then his thumb freezes over one song name.

Only You.

His stomach drops.

Hanbin stares at the title, his heart racing.

Only You isn’t just another demo of some song that he eventually reworked and released. It’s the only song among the leaks that never had any part of it released. 

It’s a song he hasn’t thought about in years, a song that he never intended anyone else to hear.

It was personal— too personal.

Too full of memories that Hanbin no longer wished to think about. 

His fingers tremble as he presses play on the leaked audio. The soft, raw opening chords spill through his phone’s speakers. The recording is rough, unpolished, but it’s unmistakable. His voice comes in first, low and trembling with emotion for the first first, and then another voice follows. 

Zhang Hao ’s voice. 

The memory of recording the song hits him, overwhelmingly so. 

It had been years ago when this song had been recorded, late at night, back in the dorm they shared together. The two of them had written Only You together in secret, pouring every unspoken feeling into the lyrics. Their voices weaving together in a way that felt more intimate than anything else they’d ever done. A song for just the two of them.

But that was years ago. 

Before the disbandment of ZeroBaseOne.

Before Hao’s solo career in China. 

Before the long-distance relationship that had crumbled under the weight of their combined and conflicting schedules and personal ambitions. 

Before the messy breakup that left Hanbin’s heart bruised.

And now, somehow, this song— their song—is out there for the world to hear.

Hanbin’s chest tightens as he scrolls through the reactions online. Fans are losing their minds over the leak, dissecting every lyric, every note, every emotion. For the first time in years, #Haobin is trending again.

Hanbin exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. 

The company has always been supportive of his sexuality—as long as it didn’t interfere with his career, they don’t care who or what he does in his own private time. 

As long as it didn’t become their problem.

And this…. This is going to complicate things.

*

“When was the last time you and Zhang Hao spoke to each other?”

Hanbin sits stiffly in the conference room, the air heavy with tension. 

His laptop sits open in front of him, a tech specialist from Studio Gl1de carefully examining it. His manager, Daeyoung, sits beside him, flipping through notes on his tablet. Across the table, one of the company’s senior executives watches everything with a practiced calm look on her face.

Hanbin fidgets with the hem of his hoodie, feeling a little nervous as he answers, “Uh… earlier this year, I think? There was some brand event in Paris we were both invited to. We stood next to each other for a few photos for the fans. I think I asked him how he was enjoying the weather, and that was it. We didn’t say anything more than that.”

Daeyoung nods, jotting something down. “And before that?”

Hanbin exhales sharply, leaning back in his chair. “God, I don’t know. We haven’t had a proper conversation since we ended things—right after ZB1 disbanded.”

It wasn’t as though his manager didn’t know that he and Hao had been seeing each other before. 

It had been Daeyoung who helped cover for them during those fleeting months when Hanbin and Hao had tried to make their relationship work despite the distance. He’d help Hanbin to arrange for stolen moments of privacy and conveniently overlapping schedules. But after four months of strained long-distance communication and mounting pressures from both of their companies, Hanbin had told him to stop bothering to try. 

The topic of Zhang Hao had never come up again between Hanbin and his manager.

Until now. 

The tech specialist closes the laptop and looks up, “Nothing on his device suggests the breach came from him.” 

“Well, that’s good at least,” the company executive says, giving the tech specialist a polite smile, as she tells him, “You’re excused for now.” 

There’s a long moment of silence once the tech specialist leaves. His manager and the company executive seem to be having some sort of silent conversation through their eyebrows and tense looks, some conversation that Hanbin isn’t fully privy to just yet.

Hanbin drums his fingers against the conference table nervously, breaking the silence to ask, “What happens now?”  

“I’ll have our tech team sweep the company for any signs of the leaker,” she answers him. “If and when we find them, they’ll be fired immediately.”

“That’s great, but what about me? What about my career?”

At this, she hesitates, folding her hands on the table. “Obviously, we’re going to do some damage control. We’d like to deny the dating rumors, especially since the two of you aren’t dating.”

“However,” Daeyoung interjects, with a grim expression. 

Hanbin narrows his eyes, his posture stiffening as he echoes the word, “...However?”

Her lips press into a thin line before she answers, clearly choosing her words carefully. “Well, Yuehua Entertainment reached out to us earlier this morning. They want to make a statement.”

Hanbin straightens in his chair, his brows knitting together in confusion, “What kind of statement?”

She exhales, glancing briefly at Daeyoung before continuing. “Their boy group, Eclipse , has been struggling to reach the level of popularity they’d hoped for.”

Hanbin frowns, already aware of this much. 

He hadn’t exactly been keeping tabs on Hao since their breakup, but Eclipse wasn’t just Hao’s group—it was also Gyuvin, Ricky, and Yujin’s group. Hanbin cared about them all enough to tune into their new releases, even if it sometimes felt like picking at an old wound, missing all four of them more than he was really ready to admit. 

The group’s popularity had started out strong, bolstered by their impressive debut and the lingering fame that they carried over from their time in ZeroBaseOne, and the fans Seungeon and Yunseo brought with them from Evnne. 

But Yuehua’s strategy—or lack thereof—had quickly become their downfall. 

By focusing heavily on promoting certain members as soloists in China and only bringing the group back to Korea for brief comeback periods once or twice a year, they’d stifled the group’s momentum. And when Eclipse failed to secure any rookie awards during their debut year, it became painfully clear that Yuehua had shelved them. The group had faded into the background, their potential overshadowed by mismanagement and poor planning. 

He couldn’t even say for sure when their last comeback had been. 

“Okay… and what does that have to do with any of this?”

She sighs, before explaining, “They believe capitalizing on this moment could bring new fans to their group—and more eyes to your solo career.”

“What do you mean, capitalizing ?”

“They want to confirm the rumors.”

“What rumors?”

“The dating rumors between you and Zhang Hao.”

“But we’re not dating,” Hanbin says, incredulously, “We haven’t been dating for years.”

It’s Daeyoung that answers him with a grim expression, “We know this. However, Yuehua would like our companies to make a joint statement that you’ve been… meeting with good feelings for years.”

Hanbin isn’t a fool. 

He knows exactly what ‘ meeting with good feelings ’ means.

Still, the idea of it is so ridiculous that Hanbin can’t help himself from asking, “Are you saying that they want us to pretend to be dating to try and boost his group’s popularity?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, the room is silent. Hanbin’s heart pounds in his chest. 

It’s not that he’s ashamed of who he is—he’s known he was gay since he was young, and he’s sure he’s taken himself in and out of the closet more than a few times depending on circumstances. But being publicly out has never been something he could consider since his career launched.

It was an open secret, sure. Everyone in the industry knew. Most fans had correctly guessed his sexuality. But he still said “girl” in all his songs, and he still committed to the fanservice.

And now they wanted him to fake a relationship—with someone he wasn’t even with anymore.

Outing himself, publicly, in a way that there was no going back from, over a lie seems ridiculous. 

How could this really be Yuehua’s plan?

It wouldn’t just be outing him, but outing both of them. Hao isn’t technically out either, though his plausible deniability has always been a lot weaker than Hanbin’s had. Out of the two of them, Hanbin had always been better at pretending to be straight for the public eye. When they’d been together, Hao’s unwillingness to hide parts of himself had made Hanbin more comfortable letting hints of his true self slip through the cracks of the persona his company had helped him build.

But this… This is more than just letting something slip through the cracks. 

“No,” Hanbin says firmly. “I won’t do it.”

“This is the best option we were presented with, Hanbin,” Daeyoung explains. 

“How is me being outed the best option?”

The staff members look at each other with tense glances, before his manager speaks, using a delicate tone as if worried of frightening Hanbin as he explains, “Yuehua has messages the two of you exchanged years ago. They’re willing to expose them in a narrative that you had been coming onto him and that your friendship dissolved because you were pressuring him… homosexually.”

Hanbin’s stomach drops.

That narrative would ruin him.

Coming out would hurt some of his popularity, but this… This would be the end of his career. 

 “That’s… They’re bluffing. They can’t—”

“As much as I would like to believe that they wouldn’t actually stoop that low. I wouldn’t put it past them,” the company executive interrupts. “And unless we agree to their plan or offer a convincing enough counterproposal, this is what they’re threatening to do.”

“Okay, yeah, counterproposal let’s figure that out,” Hanbin says, a sort of manic desperation slipping into his voice now. 

He needs there to be some solution that isn’t this .

That isn’t the end of everything he’s been working so hard to build. 

“We’d like to suggest that the two of you are simply friends,” she says after a moment, “That this is a song about your friendship—one you wrote for each other after reconnecting a few months ago in Paris, was it?”

Hanbin nods numbly.

“We’ll say the song is a demo for a collaboration that was due to be released on your upcoming mini-album. Due to the leak, it will now be released early as a special collaborative pre-release between you and Zhang Hao.”

Hanbin’s mouth twists. “Everyone’s going to see through that. The song is… it’s very clearly a love song.”

“Yes,” she admits. “Probably. But we still have a chance to deny things. We can salvage some of your career by showing your friendship and positioning this as a professional collaboration.”

A collaboration.

To be released soon, between him and the person he once loved enough to write a love song for.

It sounds like a nightmare come true, and yet… 

“There’s no better option, is there?”

“No. Not really.”

“Fine. Do it.”

*

Hanbin isn’t a big drinker.

Sure, he’ll indulge if the occasion calls for it—a celebratory toast, a party, maybe the occasional drink after a long day. 

But this? 

This is different. This is bad, and the burn of soju down his throat is the only thing keeping him grounded right now as he sits alone in his apartment. 

His phone buzzes on the coffee table, the screen lighting up with a new notification. Hanbin hesitates, staring at it for a moment before picking it up, reading the text from Daeyoung that seals his fate: ‘ Yuehua agreed. Articles are already dropping.’

Hanbin doesn’t bother responding. 

He should feel relieved, this is better than the alternative, after all, but instead he just feels vaguely numb as he opens the news app, and there it is—headline after headline.

Planned Collaboration Between Hanbin and Zhang Hao Confirmed for Upcoming Album
Hanbin’s Pre-Release Single to Feature Zhang Hao of Eclipse
Exclusive: Hanbin’s Song About Friendship with Zhang Hao Leaked Early!

He scrolls through the articles, his stomach twisting tighter with each word. 

They’re already spinning the narrative, crafting a story about his ‘longstanding friendship’ with Zhang Hao. There’s even a published release date for the recording and music video—something no one bothered to consult him about. Not that he supposes they would have listened to his opinions on any of this in any case. 

Hanbin downs the rest of his drink and sets the bottle down with a dull thud. 

His hand shakes slightly as he reaches for his phone again, but instead of checking more articles, he opens his photo gallery.

He doesn’t know why he does it—maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the weight of the situation pressing down on him—but he starts scrolling.

There they are.

Photos from years ago, of him and Hao together.

There’s one of them at the beach, sunburned and laughing as Hao tries to shield himself from the camera with a towel. Another from a late-night convenience store run, their faces squished together in a blurry selfie. And then there’s his favorite—a candid shot of Hao leaning against the dance studio wall, a soft smile on his face as he watches Hanbin. 

Hanbin swipes to the next photo, and the next, until his thumb hovers over the screen.

He’d like to say it’s been years since he even thought of Hao, but that’s not true.

He tried to talk to him earlier this year, at that brand event in Paris. It had been awkward, but Hanbin had worked up the nerve, weaving through the crowd to approach him. Hao had looked at him for a brief moment, his expression unreadable, before stepping around him without a word.

Hanbin had chalked it up to them being in different places in their lives now.

Friendship or love—whatever had existed between them—was gone. 

The passage of time had eroded it, leaving only faint traces of what once was.

But now…

Hanbin exhales sharply, his chest tightening.

This is going to bring it all back up again.

The articles, the song, the fake narrative—they’re reopening old wounds he thought had long since healed. He stares at the last photo on his screen, his vision blurring slightly. 

It’s a group shot from the night they’d celebrated Eclipse’s debut, everyone smiling and full of hope for the future.

Hanbin locks his phone and sets it down, leaning back against the couch. His head tilts up, eyes closing as he lets the alcohol buzz settle over him.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to get through this.

But he knows one thing for sure, that pretending to be okay is going to be harder than he thought.

*

The atmosphere in the conference room is tense to say the least. 

It’s the first time Hanbin has seen Hao in months.

It feels a little tragic that it’s here, surrounded by a mix of staff from both companies, their voices blending into a low hum of logistics and planning. With Hanbin sitting at one end, his hands clasped in front of him, while Hao is seated at the opposite end, straight-backed and poised.

Hanbin tries to focus on the meeting, he really does, but it’s all been a bit of a blur. 

Their respective management teams are throwing out dates for recording sessions, joint dance practices, stage promotions, and photoshoots. It’s a whirlwind of planning, and Hanbin finds himself nodding along, agreeing to it all without really processing what he’s committing to. 

Instead, all of his attention is on the person sitting across from him.

Hanbin’s gaze flickers over him, taking in the sharp lines of Hao’s tailored blazer, the subtle sheen of product in his hair that can be seen under the fluorescent lights of the conference room, and the way he holds himself with a sort of calm, unshakeable expression. 

This is Zhang Hao the professional, so very different from the warm and happy Hao that Hanbin once knew. 

Hao, for his part, doesn’t even look at Hanbin, his attention fixed on the staff member speaking beside him the whole time. He speaks occasionally, his tone a near whisper, offering input in Mandarin to his team. Hanbin catches a few words here and there—familiar phrases Hao had once taught him—but he’s long since fallen out of practice.

The staff member beside Hao turns to the group, “Zhang Hao would like to adjust the timeline for the photoshoot to accommodate one of his personal schedules in Shanghai.”

Hanbin’s jaw tightens, the words slipping out before he has time to think, “He can’t speak for himself?”

The room goes silent. 

And finally, Hao looks at him. 

The coldness in Hao’s eyes is like a slap, so different from the warmth he remembers.

Hanbin regrets wanting his attention. 

Hao’s voice is low but cutting, “I didn’t realize I needed your permission to speak.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Hanbin says quickly, his cheeks flushing a little in embarrassment as everyone in the room continues to look at him. 

“Then what did you mean?” Hao asks, his tone clipped.

“I—” Hanbin starts, but the rest of the sentence dies in his throat.

How could he possibly admit the truth? 

That all he’d wanted was to hear Hao’s voice, to have even a sliver of his attention, even if it was laced with disdain. 

That wasn’t something you said in a room full of people—not without looking like a fool.

Hao lets out a soft, derisive huff, his lips curving into something that isn’t quite a smile. He rolls his eyes, a deliberate and dismissive gesture that twists the knife a little deeper. He murmurs something to his team in Mandarin as he stands, his movements unhurried, as though he’s above it all, while he gathers up his belongings.

When he finally addresses Hanbin again, his voice is cold, detached. “I trust our teams can sort out the rest of the details. I have other commitments and no reason to stay here any longer.”

Hanbin watches Hao leave, the sound of his polished shoes against the floor echoing in the otherwise silent room. 

 Leaving Hanbin sitting there, feeling small and utterly out of place in a room full of people.

*

“Ready when you are.”

Hanbin exhales slowly, the lyrics sheet trembling slightly in his hands.

The words stare back at him.

Words he’d written years ago, when he’d been young and foolishly in love. 

He’d written the song in a feverish haze, pouring everything he felt for Hao into each line. The longing, the certainty, the way it had felt like the universe had finally clicked into place when Hao was by his side—it was all there, raw and unfiltered.

Now, years later, the words feel like a ghost, haunting him.

At least for the recording, he didn’t have to have Hao here with him. They’d each be recording their own parts at their respective companies, before sending it to one of their sound engineers for mixing. 

Though he swears he feels the phantom presence of Hao here still, even if he isn’t physically in the same room.

He’s here on the sheet of paper, trapped in the words Hanbin had written about him. 

The music starts, the gentle instrumental washing over him. 

It’s familiar, almost painfully so, and as he begins to sing, his voice falters on the first verse.

“I didn’t know what I was missing,
Until you walked into my life,
A piece of me I didn’t know was broken,
Finally fit, finally right.”

The words catch in his throat, and he waves a hand to stop the track.

“Sorry,” he says into the mic, his voice tight. “Can we go again?”

“Take your time,” the sound engineer replies.

Hanbin closes his eyes, trying to block out the weight of the past. 

It’s just a song, he tells himself. 

Just words on a page.

They don’t have to mean anything, not anymore.

The track starts again, and this time he forces himself to push through. 

His voice is steady, but it lacks the warmth and conviction it once held, back when he first recorded the demo. He can hear it in the playback—the emptiness where there used to be love so strong that he could hear it in the tremor of his own voice.

By the time he reaches the chorus, his chest feels tight.

“With you, I’m home,
With you, I’m whole,
Every step I take, it’s you I follow.
Even if the stars fade,
Even if the world breaks,
I’ll find my way back to you.”

He stops again, pulling the headphones off and running a hand through his hair.

This was supposed to be easy. 

He is supposed to be a professional. 

He’s sung plenty of songs with lyrics that mean nothing to him without an issue, but this… this one is so much harder.

It’s not like any of those songs. 

“Hanbin?” the sounds engineer prompts cautiously. “You alright?”

“I just need a minute.”

But he knows, even as he says the words, what he needs is more than just a minute.

It’s a time machine that he needs, one to take him back to the very beginning so he could do it all over again and not make the mistakes that led him here.

Trying to sing a love song for a man he no longer loves. 

*

The solo shots had gone smoothly. 

Hanbin had slipped effortlessly into his poses, photoshoots were easy for him and usually one of his favorite parts about preparing for a comeback. There was something about a camera that Hanbin just naturally took to. 

And photographers always seem to love him.

But while the solo shots had been easy, the duo shots are anything but that. 

“Alright,” the photographer calls out, gesturing for them to take their places once more. “Let’s get some energy here—show us the chemistry!”

Chemistry.

That word feels like a joke.

Hanbin moves to the bench, sitting at one end, while Hao lowers himself onto the other. 

The set is styled to make them look as if they’re out at a park somewhere, enjoying a cool winter’s day, fake trees covered in fake snow around them. 

Though the chilliest thing on set is probably the two of them. 

The photographer frowns, lowering his camera. “Closer, please. You’re supposed to look like two actual friends.”

Reluctantly, Hao shifts a little closer, his expression unreadable. Hanbin mirrors the movement, though his shoulders remain tense.

“Okay, good. Now, Hao, rest your arm on the back of the bench. Hanbin, lean in slightly—like you’re having a private moment.”

Hao complies, draping his arm over the back of the bench, but when Hanbin leans in, it still looks stiff and unnatural, and the camera captures none of the ease or connection the photographer is hoping for.

The photographer sighs audibly. “No, no. This isn’t working. You both look like you’re at a business meeting, not promoting a song reminiscing on your years of friendship.”

That’s probably because they don’t actually have years of friendship.

Or well, they had.

Once.

Long ago. 

Hao’s manager steps forward, arms crossed, her voice sharp, “Can the two of you at least pretend to like each other? Just for the photos? So we can get this over with?”

The room goes quiet, tension thick in the air. Hanbin glances at Hao, whose jaw tightens slightly at the comment, though his expression remains composed.

“I’m trying,” Hanbin mutters under his breath, though he’s not sure if he’s trying to convince himself or everyone else.

Hao exhales sharply, his gaze flicking to the photographer, “What do you need from us?”

“Something natural,” the photographer replies, exasperated. “A smile, a laugh, even just a look that doesn’t scream, ‘I’d rather be anywhere else.’”

“Fine. Let’s try again.”

Hanbin feels a flicker of something—irritation, guilt, maybe both—but he nods. 

They reposition themselves, and this time, Hao leans in just a fraction closer, draping his arm over Hanbin’s shoulder, the tips of his fingers brushing ever so lightly against the back of Hanbin’s neck as he does so. It’s subtle, but the contact sends a jolt through Hanbin, his breath catching for a moment.

The photographer snaps a few shots, nodding slowly. “Better. But we still need more connection. Hao, look at Hanbin. Hanbin, meet his gaze.”

Hanbin hesitates, but Hao turns to him, his dark eyes steady and piercing. Hanbin forces himself to look back, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the room fades away.

It’s the first time they’ve made proper eye contact in years, and Hao’s eyes seem to sparkle a little with something that makes Hanbin’s chest ache. 

Hao’s eyes flicker downwards, breaking the eye contact to look at Hanbin’s lips, and it’s so familiar that Hanbin parts his mouth instinctively, taking in a small breath.

“Good,” the photographer says, his tone softer now. “Now hold that. Just a little softer, Hanbin. Like you trust him.”

Hanbin almost laughs at the irony but catches himself.

He shifts his expression, softening the edges of his gaze, trying to do as the photographer asks, despite how loud his heart suddenly seems to be pounding in his chest. 

“Perfect,” the photographer says, stepping back. “That’s the shot.”

When the flash fades, Hao pulls back immediately, his composure snapping back into place like a shield. All pretense of warmth dropped instantly, as Hao drops his arm from around Hanbin and moves to put distance between them. 

Hanbin stays frozen for a second longer, his mind replaying the moment their eyes met.

The spark that he swears he couldn’t have been the only one to feel. 

*

The newly mixed version of Only You fills the space, as Hanbin’s body moves on autopilot, his steps hitting the beats, but his mind feeling a million miles away.

Normally, this would be his element. 

Dance has always been his escape, his passion. 

If he wasn’t an idol, he’d be a choreographer—he’s always known that. 

But not this time. 

This time, he couldn’t bring himself to create. 

He’d spent hours lying on the floor of this very room, staring at the ceiling, completely stumped on what moves felt right for this song. In the end, they’d pulled in someone else from the company to choreograph the routine.

That choreographer had left hours ago, though, leaving just him and Hao behind now.

Hao stands a few feet away, watching the video playback that the choreographer had left them with the same unreadable expression he’s worn all week. His movements are precise, clean, as if he’s already memorized the routine. Hanbin, on the other hand, keeps stumbling, his body rejecting the intimacy of certain moves.

A stranger watching their practice would never believe that out of the two of them, Hanbin was the one whose speciality was dance. 

As they reach the bridge, Hanbin freezes in place, no longer following the music.

The choreography here is a callback to the Boys Planet signal song—a moment where Hanbin’s arm rests on Hao’s shoulder, their bodies turning in sync, eyes meeting for just a heartbeat. 

It’s subtle, but the intimacy of it is undeniable.

A callback to all of their history, that he knows fans will go crazy to see once more, nearly six years from the first time the two of them performed a far too similar move.

“I can’t do this. We need to change this part. I’ll text the choreographer and explain,” Hanbin says, already moving across the room to grab his phone from his bag. He’s sure their choreographer will understand—she trusts his judgment.

However, Hao does not seem to agree. “Why? It’s fine the way it is.”

“It’s not fine,” Hanbin snaps, “I can’t—” He cuts himself off, running a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable.

He won’t admit it, not willingly, but the truth is, being in such close proximity to Hao feels unbearable. 

Hanbin can’t just pretend everything is fine, that they’re the same people they were before. Hao’s icy demeanor only makes it harder. It’s as though every glance, every word, chips away at the good memories Hanbin once held so tightly. Even after their break up, he had never held any ill will towards Hao, but this version of Hao feels like a stranger to him, a not so kind stranger. 

And this choreography—it’s too much. 

The bridge of Here I Am used to be one of his favorite parts to perform. 

On tour, when they’d started improvising during the bridges, those moments had felt electric. One night, Hao had leaned in so close during the bridge, almost kissing him in front of thousands of fans. At the time he’d been flustered and embarrassed, especially considering his parents had been attending that concert, but afterwards, Hanbin had carried that moment with him for years, replaying it like a treasured keepsake.

Was it really so bad to want to keep those memories untouched? 

To not dredge them up and risk tainting them with the awkwardness of their current relationship?

But Hanbin says none of that. 

He stays silent, and in the absence of an explanation, Hao speaks up, “Can’t you trust the choreographer? Or does letting someone else decide what you’re dancing offend you that badly?”

“Oh please, give me a break,” Hanbin snaps, not bothering to hide his displeasure. “I’m the one who asked for a choreographer in the first place!”

“Then what’s the problem?” Hao presses, his voice rising slightly. “Do you hate being around me that much?”

Hanbin exhales sharply, his frustration boiling over. “Look, if I had my way, we wouldn’t even be doing this at all. The song leaked without my consent. We could’ve just buried it and never seen each other again.”

Hao flinches, just barely, but enough for Hanbin to notice. His voice is quieter now, tinged with something Hanbin can’t quite place. “It was your company’s idea to have us promote the song together. If you really hated the idea of working with me again so much, you should have told your company that instead of letting them suggest the collaboration.”

Hanbin lets out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow.  “Like I really had a choice in the matter?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Oh, you don’t know?” Hanbin says bitterly, his voice cutting. “Of course you don’t. Why would they tell you? It’s not your reputation they were planning on dragging through the mud!  Your company is the one that gave us the ultimatum that unless we came up with an option to help boost your reputation for this, that they would spin the leak like I’m some kind of—some kind of gay sexual predator,” Hanbin tell hims, his voice low, simmering with anger. “Like I manipulated you back then, like this whole thing is my fault.”

Hao’s face goes blank, the color draining from his cheeks, all of the fight disappearing from him in an instant. For the first time, Hanbin sees something other than indifference on Hao’s face—shock, disbelief, and maybe even guilt. 

“They… they said that?”

Hanbin nods, “I didn’t want to do this, but what was I supposed to do? Let them ruin me? Ruin us?”

“Hanbin—” Hao starts, but his voice falters. He looks genuinely shaken, his usual cool demeanor cracked. “I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do. So don’t act like this is some vanity project for me,” Hanbin tells him, “I’m just trying to survive in an industry that’s already stacked against people like me.”

“Like us ,” Hao corrects quietly. 

Hanbin’s lips press into a thin line, his gaze dropping to the floor. 

“I didn’t realize… I didn’t realize this was about more than just the song. Hanbin, I—” Hao hesitates, then shakes his head. “I didn’t think they’d stoop that low. I’ll talk to my company and we can call the whole thing off.” 

Hanbin exhales, his anger deflating slightly. “It doesn’t matter. It’s too late now. Calling this off would just make it look worse. We just need to get through this and be done with it all.”

Hao looks up at him, his expression softening. “I’m sorry. For what they did. For putting you in this position. I had no idea.”

“Yeah, well… now you do.”

Hao is silent for a long moment, his eyes seeming to watch Hanbin, and considering what to say. When he does speak, his voice is soft, wounded almost.  “Do you really think I’d let them say that about you if I knew?”

Hanbin doesn’t respond with anything more than a small shrug. 

“I suppose I deserve that,” Hao says, with a small sigh, before returning to what started this discussion in the first place. “The bridge… that’s why you wanted to change it, isn’t it? Because of what it used to mean to us.”

“It’s just… hard. That part of the song, it used to be one of my favorite things. When we performed it on tour, when we let loose on stage… you almost kissed me in front of all those fans during more than one of those bridges.”

Hao’s lips twitch into a faint smile. “I remember.”

“Do you?” Hanbin asks, his voice softening, the edge of anger giving way to something more vulnerable. “Because it feels like you’ve been trying so hard to forget everything about us.”

“I haven’t forgotten. Not a single thing.”

The admission catches Hanbin off guard, and for a moment, the air between them feels different—less charged, more fragile.

Hanbin swallows hard, searching Hao’s face for something, anything, to explain the sudden shift. His heart pounds in his chest, and he doesn’t know if it’s from anger, frustration, or the faint flicker of hope that refuses to die no matter how much he tries to bury it.

He opens his mouth to respond but finds no words. 

What could he even say? 

That he hasn’t forgotten either? 

That every song, every step, every late-night rehearsal feels like a cruel echo of what they used to have?

Instead, he exhales, long and tired. 

“Look, it’s late,” he says finally, his voice weary. “I’m done for today. I’m tired of practicing, I’m hungry, and I’m leaving. We can keep the bridge and try this again tomorrow.”

“Can I come with you?”

Hanbin blinks, startled. “What?”

“I’m hungry too,” Hao says simply, his voice softer now, almost tentative. “We could get dinner. For old times’ sake.”

Hanbin stares at him, ready to reject his offers. But there’s something in Hao’s expression—a flicker of vulnerability that Hanbin hasn’t seen in a long time. It makes his chest ache in a way he’s not ready to unpack.

“Sure,” Hanbin says, the words even surprising himself as he says them. 

It’s worth it, for the way Hao smiles at him as he says, “Do you still like that one noodle place? The one with the spicy broth?”

*

The noodle place is dimly lit, a small, quiet place tucked away from the bustling streets outside. 

It’s one of places that they used to sneak away to during their ZB1 days, when the world felt smaller, and their lives, simpler. Back then, Hao would always insist it was his treat, flashing a grin as he’d say, “Gege’s treat.”

But it’s different now. 

The air between them is heavy, weighed down by years of not seeing each other. 

Hanbin pokes at his bowl of soup, the steam curling up and fogging his glasses slightly. Across from him, Hao eats quietly, his own movements almost mechanical. 

Neither of them speak, the silence broken only by the clink of utensils against ceramic.

Hanbin has already noticed a few people snapping photos of them from across the room. He knows the company will spin it into something harmless—two old friends grabbing food after rehearsing their ‘friendship song.’ 

But the reality feels far from harmless.

“Hanbin,” Hao starts, finally breaking the silence, his voice low, careful, as he sets his chopsticks down, “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I really had no clue my company had threatened to spread those rumors about you.”

Hanbin looks up, startled by the sincerity in Hao’s tone. He studies Hao for a moment, searching for any sign of deceit, but finds none. 

Hao is many things—calculated, sharp, sometimes frustratingly stubborn—but a liar isn’t one of them.

“I believe you.”

Hao’s shoulders relax slightly, though the tension in his jaw remains. 

“You know, despite how things ended between us,” he continues, his gaze steady, “I never held any ill will towards you, Bin-ah.”

Hanbin flinches at the familiar nickname, a pang of something bittersweet tugging at his chest.

“I wish we’d gotten to meet again under better circumstances,” Hao says, his voice quieter now. He hesitates, weighing his next words carefully. “I’ve missed this. I’ve missed you.”

Hanbin pointedly doesn’t mention that there had been a chance to do so, months ago, at that brand event in Paris where Hanbin had tried to make conversation with him, and Hao had brushed him off. 

Instead, he nods, his eyes fixed on his bowl. 

“I’ve missed this too.”

*

Hanbin sits on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, scrolling through the endless stream of tweets under the #Haobin hashtag. Photos of him and Hao at the restaurant last night are everywhere—blurry candids of them sitting across from each other, the dim lighting making their expressions hard to read. 

The captions range from speculative to outright dramatic:

"so the haobin reunion era is real??"
“I AM NO LONGER A CHILD OF DIVORCE”
"The tension, the angst, the history. We’re eating good tonight, Haobin stans."
"Haobin getting back together was NOT on my 2028 bingo card! But i’m not complaining!”

He sighs, tossing his phone onto the bed for a moment before picking it up again when it buzzes with a new message.

Hanbin had expected it to be his manager texting him in regards to the current trend that he started by getting dinner with Hao, but rather than Daeyoung’s contact information appearing on the screen, it’s Matthew’s message that reads ‘ so… you and hao again, huh??? ’ 

Hanbin groans, running a hand through his hair. He types back quickly, ‘Apparently…’ 

Matthew’s reply comes almost instantly, ‘ you two getting back together?’

Hanbin stares at the screen, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. 

He knows the answer is no—should be no—but his mind drifts back to last night. 

Hao had been... kind. Softer than he’d been at the photoshoot or during any of their prior rehearsals. 

The way he had said that he’d missed Hanbin still echoes in Hanbin’s mind, leaving him more unsettled than he wants to admit.

Still, in the end he tells Matthew, ‘No’ before adding in a second message ‘Though… dinner was nice. ’

The typing bubble appears immediately, ‘i m here for you, bro!!! if you ever need to talk, love expert seok matthew is just one call away. no matter the time! ’ 

Hanbin huffs out a laugh at Matthew’s enthusiasm, ‘ No matter the time? Aren’t you in Canada right now? What time is it there??? ’

He can imagine the words spoken in Matthew’s voice perfectly, as Matthew replies, ‘i mean, yeah, like 4am, but ignore that. friendship is more important than time zones. and i know this can’t be easy for you ’

Hanbin just shakes his head to himself, as he types back, ‘ Go to sleep, Matt. We can talk when it’s not the middle of the night for you. ’

Hanbin sets his phone down again, leaning back against the headboard. 

Matthew’s words had hit a little close to him. It is true that none of this is easy. 

The song, and the choreography, and the photoshoots, and the hashtags. 

And Hao. 

*

When it comes time to record the music video, most of the day is spent on solo shots and intricate dance sequences. 

The choreography is grueling but familiar, offering Hanbin a chance to lose himself in the rhythm and movement. 

It’s easier to focus on the technicality of the steps than the emotions swirling around him.

But then come the duo scenes.

The opening notes of Only You play softly in the background, as the director calls out instructions. 

He’s supposed to look wistful, as if he’s searching for something—or someone—he’s lost in a snow covered park, or well, the replica of one that’s been made inside the studio. 

The first duo shot is him finally finding Hao, sitting there on the bench waiting for him, a crumpled up letter in his hands. 

“Hanbin, lean forward a bit,” the director instructs. “Hao, let your expression soften as you look at him—like you’re letting your guard down.”

The director calls, “Action!”

The scene is silent, just the two of them looking at each other, but it feels deafening. 

Hanbin’s chest tightens as he notices the way Hao’s lips part slightly.

And when the director finally yells, “Cut!” Hanbin sits back quickly, avoiding Hao’s gaze as the crew moves in to adjust the set.

The next scene is more intimate.

This one is set in a dimly lit room, with a single spotlight casting shadows around them. 

The choreography here is slower, more deliberate, as if they’re moving in slow motion. 

They’ve rehearsed the bridge what feels like a hundred times in the practice room, but it feels different here. 

Hanbin’s hand is supposed to graze Hao’s shoulder before they turn toward each other, their movements synchronized as if they’re drawn together by an invisible thread.

Hao, for his part, seems at ease. 

He doesn’t pull away or tense up under Hanbin’s touch. 

Instead, he meets Hanbin’s gaze with an openness that catches him off guard.

Enough so that Hanbin stumbles, losing his position. 

“Let’s run it again,” the choreographer calls out, and they move back into position.

This time, as Hanbin’s hand brushes Hao’s shoulder, their eyes meet, and something shifts. 

It’s subtle, but it’s there—a flicker of understanding, of shared history, of something that feels dangerously close to hope.

This time, they both execute the move without failing. 

“That’s perfect,” the director calls out, this take having gone successfully. 

Hao nudges him lightly with his elbow. “You’re doing well.”

“Thanks,” he mutters.

There’s a pause, and then Hao adds, “It’s easier when we’re not at each other’s throats, isn’t it?”

Hanbin huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, it is.”

*

The knock at Hanbin’s door comes at 11:45 PM. 

Hanbin wasn’t expecting anyone, least of all him.

When Hanbin swings the door open, Hao is standing there, bundled in a dark hoodie, baseball cap, and a pair of glasses, despite the later hour, with his hands tucked into the front pocket. 

He looks casual, almost uncharacteristically so, but his eyes hold the same intensity Hanbin has spent the last week trying to ignore.

“Hao?” Hanbin asks, his voice low with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Our song comes out at midnight,” Hao says simply, already inviting himself into Hanbin’s apartment, stepping around Hanbin to take off his shoes, “I wanted to watch the music video with you.”

Hanbin blinks, caught off guard by Hao’s forwardness. 

He’d planned to sleep through the release, maybe check the reception tomorrow morning once he’d had coffee and a moment to steel himself. But now Hao is here, walking through Hanbin’s apartment towards his living room, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And Hanbin can’t bring himself to stop him.

The apartment feels smaller with Hao in it, his presence filling every corner of Hanbin’s carefully built space. 

Hanbin sits stiffly on the couch, the TV remote in his hand as he navigates to the scheduled premiere of the music video. Hao takes the spot next to him, close enough that their knees almost touch.

The countdown ticks down on the screen.

Hanbin can feel his heart pounding. 

He sneaks a glance at Hao.

He may look calm, but Hanbin knows him well enough, even after all these years, to notice the subtle signs of nervousness—the way Hao’s fingers tap against his thigh, the slight twitch of his lips.

Finally, the video begins.

It never stops feeling surreal, no matter how many times he’s watched himself on a screen. There’s a sort of strange out of body feeling about it. This other version of him exists for the public’s gaze. 

But for the first time in three years, it’s not just him existing on the screen, but both of them. 

Hanbin watches the video with attentive eyes, careful to look for any mistakes. But the choreography that had felt so intimate in the practice room—it’s all there, polished and perfect now. 

Their fans watching this will never know how much they had struggled to get things right in the practice rooms. 

Nor will they ever understand the lyrics, that were written in a time when they were in love, in the way that he and Hao can. 

“I really like this lyric,” Hao says, his voice soft as the bridge plays.

Hanbin looks away from the vision of the two of them on screen together, “Yeah?”

“I remember when you wrote it,” Hao continues, his eyes fixed on the screen. “You were so nervous for me to hear it. Like you were writing wedding vows or something.”

Hanbin lets out a quiet laugh, though it’s tinged with a hint of melancholy. “It kind of felt like that at the time.”

The Hanbin of three years ago would have married Hao if he’d had the chance.

He’d poured everything he had in his soul into these lyrics. 

The video ends, the screen fading to black as the suggested videos pop up, most of them are his solo songs, but neither of them moves to turn the tv off. 

The silence stretches between them, heavy and expectant, until Hanbin finally breaks it. “What happened between us?”

Hao doesn’t answer immediately. 

Instead he looks away from Hanbin, staring back at the television screen, taking the remote to press play on one of Hanbin’s solo songs, so that the sound can fill the silence. 

“We both just got busy,” Hao says eventually, “You were preparing for your solo debut. I was juggling my own solo schedules and schedules for the group. There was never enough time.”

Hanbin leans back against the couch, letting his head fall against the cushion, as he watches himself on the screen, asking Hao, “Do you have any regrets?”

“Yes,” Hao replies without hesitation.

“What kind of regrets?”

“I regret letting us drift apart,” Hao tells him. “I regret not fighting harder to make time for you—for us.”

Hanbin closes his eyes briefly, the honesty cutting through him. 

“I regret it too,” he admits. “But… I don’t know if it would’ve changed anything. Everything was moving so fast back then.”

“It still is,” Hao says, a bitter edge to his voice. “But somehow, I thought we’d find a way. I thought…” He trails off, shaking his head.

Hanbin sits up, turning to face him more fully. “Thought what?”

“I thought we were stronger than that,” Hao says, his voice barely audible. “Stronger than the industry. Stronger than the schedules. But I guess I was wrong.”

Hanbin’s throat tightens. 

He wishes that they had been. 

That somehow, despite the odds being against them, that they had managed to make things work. 

“It’s not like we didn’t try,” he says finally, “We just… didn’t know how to hold on when everything else was pulling us apart.”

“I think that’s what hurts me the most,” Hao says, his expression unreadable, “That we didn’t fight for it—not really. We just let it slip away.”

“Maybe we thought we’d have more time.”

“Maybe,” Hao murmurs, “Do you ever wonder what it would’ve been like if things had gone differently? If we’d made different choices?”

“All the time,” Hanbin admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve thought it through in my head over and over again, and yet…”

Hao glances at him, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, as he finishes Hanbin’s sentence for him, “And yet here we are. Still trying to figure it all out.”

Hanbin chuckles softly, the sound tinged with a bittersweet edge. “Yeah. Here we are.”

He’d never thought that they’d end up here.

Back in the same room, years later.

Hao, sitting on his couch with him, in the apartment he hadn’t even lived in when they’d broken up.

Watching the music video of a song that they made together, just the two of them, with a song they wrote themselves. It was the sort of thing that Hanbin used to dream of back when they’d been in ZB1 together. 

It was the sort of thing that he’d thought could only ever be a dream . 

“I didn’t expect my solo career to take off like this,” Hanbin says, after a moment, “It’s been… amazing, but also lonely. Everything feels bigger, but emptier too.”

“I’ve felt that way too, in a different sense. My group—” Hao pauses, searching for the right words. “It’s hard not to feel like I’ve failed them somehow.”

“You haven’t failed them,” Hanbin says firmly. “You’re one of the most talented people I know, Hao. Anyone who’s worked with you knows that.”

“And yet, somehow it wasn’t enough.” 

“That’s your company’s incompetence, not yours.” 

Hao laughs at that, the sound seeming to startle him as it spills out of him.

And Hanbin finds himself grinning in return, pleased to have brought a happier reaction out of Hao. 

When Hao speaks again, it’s to change the topic a little, asking a question that startles Hanbin a little, “Have you seen anyone since we broke up?”

“No,” he admits, “I’ve been too busy. I mean, there’ve been… hookups. But nothing serious.”

Hao nods slowly, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I did.”

Hanbin’s chest tightens. Hao’s confession stinging a bit more than he had expected. “Oh?”

“But he wasn’t you,” Hao says, “And when he was touching me, all I could think of was you.”

Hanbin’s breath catches, his heart pounding in his chest.

Hao looks up, his eyes meeting Hanbin’s. “I know it’s been a long time. And I know things are different now. But I never stopped…” He stops himself, shaking his head as if trying to dismiss the thought.

“Never stopped what?” 

“I never stopped loving you.”

“I…” Hanbin starts, his voice faltering. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Hao says, leaning forward slightly. “Just tell me if I’m reading this wrong.”

Hanbin doesn’t answer. 

Not with words. 

Instead, he closes the gap between them, his lips finding Hao’s in a kiss that feels both desperate and inevitable. 

As if it was always meant to happen. 

As if everything that’s been happening these last few weeks since their song leaked had been leading up to this moment. 

Hao on his couch, in the middle of the night, kissing him like it was three years ago.

Like they’d never broken up at all.

It’s soft at first, tentative, but the moment Hao kisses back, it turns desperate. Both of them trying to make up for lost time. 

Hanbin’s hands find their way to Hao’s waist, pulling him closer, and Hao threads his fingers through Hanbin’s hair, tilting his head to deepen the kiss.

It feels like almost no time has passed at all, like they’re still those two young, reckless boys, sneaking away to steal moments like this. 

When they finally pull apart, their breaths mingling in the small space between them, Hao presses his forehead against Hanbin’s, whispering, “I really have missed you so much.”

*

He never thought he’d stand on a stage with Hao again. 

Side by side, ready to perform a song that feels like a mirror to their past and present.

The intro begins, and Hanbin’s gaze sweeps over the sea of lightsticks—his solo career’s lightsticks glowing green, interspersed with the warm hues of lightsticks from the Eclipse fans. But then, his eyes catch a flash of blue, the unmistakable shape of a ZB1 lightstick, the iconic blue rose glowing in the crowd.

His breath catches. 

For a moment, he stares at it.

The lightstick feels like a ghost of their past.

Like a reminder of everything that they once had built together.

And everything they had lost. 

Oh, what fools we’ve been, to wait this long to come back together again.

Performing with Hao feels natural, like slipping into a second skin. 

Their voices blend effortlessly, like they always used to. Their movements are all perfectly timed. 

For a few minutes, when they’re on stage together, it feels like they’re back in a time when things were simpler.

Like when they first met.

Two boys, chasing the same dream.

Two boys, whose only goal became to make it to that final stage together. 

They’d made it back then.

They’d made it, and lost themselves. 

It’s not the same. 

It can’t be. 

The weight of everything that’s happened, everything they’ve said and left unsaid, lingers in the spaces between each verse. 

But as they reach the bridge, and the choreography brings them closer, their faces mere inches apart as they turn toward each other, Hanbin forgets the crowd, the cameras, the bright lights. 

All he sees is Hao.

And then it’s over. 

The final note fades, and the crowd erupts into cheers and chants.

And Hanbin feels a strange mix of emotions—relief, pride, and something he’s not ready to name. 

But something he fears, he has to name.

Now.

Before the chance slips him by. 

The words are out of his mouth before Hanbin can second-guess them, the second that they step off of the stage, “Can we start over again?”

Hao blinks, startled. “What?”

“Not as a publicity stunt,” Hanbin continues, his voice trembling but steadying with each word. “Not for the cameras, or the fans, or the industry. But as two people who once meant everything to each other. Two people trying again.”

Hao looks at him, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes are searching, he looks at Hanbin like he’s trying to decide if this is real.

If Hanbin is serious.

If it’s worth risking everything all over again.

“Do you really want that?”

Hanbin nods, his throat tight. 

“I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.” 

Hao exhales a shaky breath, before he reaches out, his hand finding Hanbin’s, linking their fingers together. 

“I’d like that,” Hao says softly, “I’d like to try again.”

 This time, they’ll do it right. 

Together.