Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started with a sudden impulse.

Jeonghan rarely visited the trainee floor anymore. Not because he didn’t care, but because he trusted his team—his people. His system worked. He built it to work. But that morning, something tugged at him. It's like saying that he needs to personally go to the training rooms to check on the trainees.

So he went. Quietly. Without announcement.

He stood in the farthest corner of the practice room, half hidden behind glass, watching the trainees run through their monthly evaluations. That was when he saw him.

A boy who stood out not because he tried to—but because he didn’t. He wasn’t the loudest, the flashiest, or the most confident. But there was something in the way he held the center position. Something in the kid’s voice, the hunger in his eyes, the determination underneath his skin.

Something… familiar.

Jeonghan couldn’t look away. So he called Eunbi immediately and asked for the boy’s name. His assistant blinked, confused. “You mean Hong Jongseo?”

Hong.

And everything inside Jeonghan stilled. He wasn’t so sure about what to do. Coincidence? Maybe.

He didn't know. He wants to believe that this kid, Hong Jongseo, is not related to Joshua.

But something inside him is screaming. Begging. Aching. So he asked for his audition tape—not out of protocol, but something personal. Something instinctual. He watched it in his office, alone, long after the staff had gone home. The boy was younger in the clip. Nervous. Trying so hard not to show how much he wanted it.

And still— those eyes. He’s certain. They were Joshua’s.

He’s just like Joshua. No—he is Joshua. He sees it in every move the kid makes. In the way he sings like he’s been carrying something heavy all his life. In the way he lets go of emotion, like it’s muscle memory. In the way he dances, not perfect, but familiar. Too familiar. In the way he smiles and laughs? He’s like him.

And suddenly, it hurts to look. Because how do you face a ghost that doesn’t even know he’s haunting you?

His fingers curled into fists. The audition tape had been playing on loop.

Jeonghan stayed motionless in his seat, a pen frozen between his fingers, long since forgotten. On the screen, the boy bowed after his performance, chest heaving from the dance he poured his soul into. But it wasn’t just the technique. It wasn’t just the vocals or the precision. 

It was the eyes. Those eyes.

Jeonghan leaned forward, rewinding again. His heart raced as if it recognized something his mind was still refusing to admit. The tilt of the head. The curve of the smile, crooked in a way that only one person had ever smiled at him before. The boy’s name?

Hong Jongseo.

Age: Sixteen (16)

Birthday: May 22, 2025

Current trainee period: 4 months.

Father: Hong Joshua.

And it hit him like a punch to the chest—sharp, breath-stealing, cruel. Because the boy’s last name was Hong. And there is no fucking way, no goddamn way, that this kid isn’t related to the love of his life. No way he is Joshua’s. Not with those eyes. Not with that laugh. Not with every movement, like he was born carrying someone else's unfinished story.

And suddenly, Jeonghan wanted to cry. Because how do you prepare yourself for a truth you spent years trying to forget? How do you stand still when the past walks in, wearing the face of the only man you ever loved—only smaller, younger… and calling someone else Dad?

Jeonghan swallowed hard, bile rising in his throat as his fingers trembled toward his phone—toward a name that had never left his screen: “J.” He never changed it, never deleted it, not even when it hurt to see. Years had come and gone, dragging silence with them, each one whispering that it was time to let go. But he never could. That number—outdated, probably dead—remained untouched, like some thread tying him to a version of himself that still believed in second chances. Because deleting it would make it real. It would mean Joshua was never coming back. And Jeonghan wasn’t ready for that—not then, not now, not when a boy with Joshua’s eyes just walked into his life like a question he’d never prepared to answer.

He didn’t expect it to ring. But it did.

Once. Twice. Thrice. And then, “Hello?”

It was Joshua. The voice stopped time. He couldn’t breathe, but he pushed the words out anyway.

“Your son passed the audition.”

There was silence on the other end. And Jeonghan hated that silence. Because it sounded exactly like the one Joshua left him in years ago.

“He auditioned without telling you, didn’t he?” Jeonghan whispered. “He’s been working himself raw. Pushing harder than most. It’s like… like he’s chasing something he was never told he had.”

You didn’t even notice your own son was breaking himself trying to be what you gave up on.

Still, no reply. So Jeonghan kept going. Because if he stopped, he’d break.

“Joshua... He looks like you. Acts like you.” he breathed, “He’s exactly a carbon copy of you.” he laughed, so fucking small—feeling ever fiber of his human being crushed. “You told me once… if you ever had a kid, you’d want him to look like you,” Jeonghan whispered, the words clawing their way out of his chest. He paused, eyes stinging, breath catching in his throat. 

…but you also said you’d want him to have my personality.

He let out a bitter laugh that didn’t sound like laughter at all—more like something breaking open.

Joshua… and a son. Of course. Of fucking course.

Fate really knew how to twist the knife, no? Giving Joshua everything he once dreamed of, just not with him.

The silence deepened. And somehow, that told him everything. Jeonghan’s eyes burned. The office suddenly felt too cold, too hollow. The memory crashed back into him so vividly, it nearly knocked the breath out of his lungs.

Two boys. A cramped practice room with mirrors fogged from sweat and dreams. They were sitting on the cold wooden floor, legs tangled, their backs pressed against the wall, panting from hours of rehearsals.

Jeonghan looked over, heart hammering. “Shuji.... I’m so tired.”

Joshua laughed, breathless, eyes soft. “And I told you if you want to stop, we will.” Joshua held Jeonghan’s hands, “Okay?”

“I’m not joking…” Jeonghan said it like it was gospel. “I’m serious, Shuji. I’m not doing this if you’re not beside me. If you quit, I quit.”

Joshua leaned his head on Jeonghan’s shoulder, quiet for a moment. Then, “Then let’s never quit, Jeonghan-ah.”

But they did.

They had debuted at the same time—Jeonghan and Joshua—two boys chasing the same dream but with different groups. And while Joshua’s group struggled in the shadows, Jeonghan’s took off like wildfire. His group became the face of the company, the name on every award show, the sound on every radio. More famous. More successful. More everything.

And as Jeonghan stood beneath blinding stage lights, collecting trophies with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he kept looking, hoping , for the one person who promised they’d always be there. But Joshua wasn’t in the crowd. He wasn’t at the after parties. He wasn’t anywhere.

Because Joshua’s group disbanded a year later—swallowed by controversies and internal disputes he never dared explain—he vanished without a trace. One day, he just stopped showing up. Left the dorms. Changed his number. No messages. No goodbye. Just silence, thick and unforgiving.

Just gone. And Jeonghan never got to ask why.

But Jeonghan waited.

Waited until waiting became a sickness, until he turned his grief into rage and his rage into ambition. He clawed his way up from the bottom, built an empire not to prove he could—but to create a space Joshua would’ve been safe in. Would’ve survived in.

And now here he was.

Holding the phone, speaking to the ghost of the man who left him behind… and to the father of the boy who didn’t even know who Jeonghan was to him.

He got nothing in return but shallow breathing. Trembling.

And suddenly, everything made sense. Every piece. Every ache. Every look in that boy’s eyes. Everything Jeonghan had tried to forget. 

16 years ago.

His voice dropped. “Is this why… your group disbanded before?”

The line went dead. 

Jeonghan sat in the dark, swallowed whole by the weight of it all—the silence, the years, the truth. The person he had built an entire world for… was the same person who left him buried in it. Joshua didn’t just walk away—he erased him, left him clawing at memories that no longer had a place to live.

Jeonghan ran a hand down his face, fingers trembling. He couldn’t shake the feeling—not just of grief, but of being robbed. Of time. Of memories. Of the life they swore they'd build.

And now, the kid—the one with Joshua’s eyes—that boy is his child. 

His.

He can feel it.

And it was like Jeonghan had been shot and left bleeding in a room no one else could see. Because here he is, eight years later, with an empire under his name. He built the company he wished had existed for them. A place that wouldn’t spit out kids like broken machines.

He saved everyone. Protected everyone. And now the son he never knew he had was here—growing under the very system Jeonghan had bled to create. And he had no idea.

Funny isn’t it? The universe had played the cruelest trick of all. It had given him a son but too late. It had brought Joshua back, without bringing him back at all.

And the one thing he would’ve spent his whole life protecting… was the one thing he never even knew he had.

Jongseo probably hated his father. And if Jeonghan were honest—a part of him did too—because Jongseo doesn’t even know that the man pushing him to be better is the same man who would’ve died for the chance to hold him once.

And God, didn’t that just break him all over again.

Chapter Text

The phone call was brief. Just a few words. But it clung to Joshua’s chest—haunting him.

“Your son passed the audition.”

He couldn’t even respond. Couldn’t even breathe. Because the voice on the other end wasn’t just anyone.

It was him.

Jeonghan.

His voice hadn’t changed. Still smooth. Still sharp. Still the one voice Joshua had memorized in every form—tired, happy, furious, broken.

But he hadn’t heard it in years.

Joshua stared at his reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing himself anymore. Not the boy who once dreamed of stardom. Not the man who ran away.

His hands trembled as he pressed his phone against his heart. Like if he held it hard enough, he could rewind everything. Take it all back. Rewrite the moment he walked away.

He remembered the day his group disbanded.

Not because of the press release or the sudden disappearance of their name from the company’s social media pages, but because of how violently quiet that day was. No camera flashes. No goodbye stages. Just… nothing. A silence so sharp it carved itself into his ribs. It was a memory he tried to bury, deep beneath the layers of his muffled cries, but it always clawed its way back up—especially on nights like this, when the world was too quiet and the weight of what he’d lost pressed into his whole being.

He was thirteen back then—until he was nineteen.

Joshua was alone in the practice room, the floor cold against his knees, his palms trembling where they pressed against the wood. The mirrors around him offered no comfort—only reflections of someone he barely recognized anymore. Eyes hollow, lips chapped from biting down sobs, his chest heaving, not from the choreography, but from holding everything in for far too long.

He waited. Like a fool, he waited. Waited for Jeonghan.

Waited like he always did—because Jeonghan had always found him, always pulled him back before he could fall too far. But this time… he never came. The door never opened. His phone never lit up.

He curled in on himself, arms wrapping around his middle as if it would offer any warmth, any protection from the pain that was splitting through his spine.

It wasn’t supposed to end like that.

There were six boys. They were supposed to stand together on bigger stages, bigger dreams. He remembered their first group hug—sweaty, breathless, laughing about the future. 

But the disbandment wasn’t just abrupt. It was surgical. As if someone had pulled the knife out from his rib and left him to bleed out in the aftermath.

It all started with a single moment of trust. He had told one of the members—someone he considered family, someone who used to cry in the same dressing rooms and share late night meals with him. 

He hadn’t meant to say it. The fear had just been too much, and his hands were shaking, and he thought maybe—just maybe—that person would understand.

“I think I’m pregnant,” he whispered, barely audible. “I don’t know what to do.”

Joshua hadn’t meant to tell him. It just slipped—he was scared, he needed someone to talk to, someone who might understand. He never mentioned Jeonghan’s name, only said he was pregnant. That he didn’t know what to do. That he was terrified.

But within hours, it spread like fire behind closed doors.

The stylist cornered him first. Her tone wasn’t cruel, but her words were venom. “We can’t protect you if you keep this baby. Maybe if you… take care of it quietly, no one has to know.

Her words weren’t laced with concern. “You think you’ll survive this? You think they’ll let you keep the baby and your career?” she had asked, eyes flicking down to his still flat stomach like it was a problem to be solved.

The threat came quietly, but it landed like thunder. “If you don’t do something about this, I’ll make sure everyone finds out. All of it.”

Joshua remembered how the floor tilted beneath him—how his ears rang, how he couldn’t breathe, not because she yelled—but because she didn’t and she didn’t flinch. Because to her, this wasn’t devastating. It was inconvenient. He remembered the way her eyes flicked to his stomach, as if the life growing inside him was already an inconvenience.

Then came the manager. Then the CEO. Then the crushing choice.

“We’ll dissolve the group quietly. The others will sign with new companies—we’ll make sure they debut again.”

“...But you have to disappear. You’re a liability now, Joshua.”

“The public won’t be kind. They’ll ruin you. And Jeonghan, too, if they ever find out.”

“End it. It’s better for everyone.”

And then the ultimatum.

“Or if you keep on pushing this, I will make sure to ruin Jeonghan in all ways too.”

Joshua didn’t even cry then. He just stood there, frozen, their words ricocheting inside his skull like bullets. They made it sound so clean and so logical, like ending his baby’s life was a line on a checklist.

And when they told him that this could all go away with a single appointment at a clinic, he whispered a word that sealed his fate, “No.”

No, he wouldn’t end his baby’s life.

But the moment that “no” left his mouth, the world turned its back on him. And they looked at him like he had chosen the wrong path, like he was the selfish one.

So they disbanded. Just like that. 

The company scrubbed their group from its roster, wiped their existence clean. The others didn’t say goodbye. Some couldn’t even look him in the eye. Maybe they were told not to, maybe they were angry, or maybe they were just relieved it wasn’t them.

He watched them all leave. One by one. Carrying their dreams in shiny new contracts while he was left behind with nothing but his quiet refusal and a heartbeat inside him that reminded him why he’d chosen this pain.

And Jeonghan? He never called. Never texted. Never showed up.

Joshua kept checking his phone even when it stopped ringing. Even when the screen cracked from being dropped too many times in trembling hands. He waited by the places they used to go. He waited until it was humiliating.

Until even the baby inside him seemed to quiet, as if mourning, too.

The worst part wasn’t the betrayal from his company. It wasn’t even the silence from Jeonghan, though that hurt more than words could capture.

It was loneliness. The unbearable, suffocating loneliness of carrying a life while feeling like his had just been ripped away; he’s humming lullabies through clenched teeth because he had no one left to sing them to until Jongseo was born, of watching the others debut–smiling on screen like nothing had happened, like he was never part of it, like he never mattered.

He remembered that night vividly. How his sobs echoed in the empty practice room, how the cold from the floor seeped into his bones and stayed there until now, how he whispered Jeonghan’s name like a prayer, like a plea, like a goodbye. Like a fucking mantra.

Until his throat burned, until his fists bruised from pounding the floor, until the only sound left in the room was the broken sound of his sobs.

He wondered what Jeonghan would’ve said if he knew. Would he have been angry? Terrified? Would he have begged Joshua to reconsider? Or worse—would he pretend he was not a part of Joshua’s life?

Sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep, he imagined a different version of that day. One where Jeonghan barged into the practice room and pulled him off the cold floor. One where he kissed Joshua’s tear streaked face and promised, “We’ll figure this out together. You quit, I quit, right?”

But that version never came.

He knows that Jeonghan is getting everything now. Fame, money, name, secured future, a good fucking life.

Even so, he waited. But Jeonghan never came. And so Joshua stayed. Alone. On his knees. Heart shattered. A future rewritten. A child growing inside him while everything else around him fell apart.

And all he could do was hold on, even when there was nothing left to hold onto.

Not because Jeonghan didn’t care—Joshua knew that. But because Joshua never called. Never explained. Never gave him the chance.

He just… disappeared.

Because he couldn’t face Jeonghan with empty hands and broken dreams. Because all he had left was guilt and shame—and he knew Jeonghan would see right through him.

He couldn’t stomach the thought of Jeonghan losing his dream too. Not after everything. Not after the years they spent chasing the dream. So he convinced himself—maybe it was enough. Maybe if Jeonghan got to live it, both of them would. Maybe if Jeonghan stood on that stage, smiled that same old smile, and carried the weight they once bore together, then the sacrifice wasn’t in vain. He told himself that every time Jeonghan sang, he was singing for both of them. That every spotlight that bathed him was meant for two—for Jeonghan and for him.

He told himself this until it bled. Until it ached.

He thought he was protecting them—Jeonghan and the child they never planned. He thought distance would dull the pain. But years passed, and the ache never left and it just changed shape; from grief to guilt, and from longing to shame.

Jongseo had stopped asking about his other parent, his other father, when he turned fifteen. It hurt Joshua because he knew he was selfish for not–never answering. He dodged, avoided, and redirected. Always too afraid to name the person he hurt the most.

Jeonghan.

And now, fate had thrown them into each other’s orbit again. Funny as it is, it is through Jongseo. Their own flesh and blood.

Joshua stood up, heart thudding violently. He walked to his drawer, pulled out the dusty box he never touched. Inside were pieces of a life he buried—old photos, old letters, old dreams. At the very top, folded with care, was a piece of paper that still smelled faintly like cheap ink.

Their promise. Handwritten—sloppy. “If you quit, I quit. That’s how we keep each other alive.” Jeonghan wrote that and Joshua had signed it like it was a contract.

Funnily enough, he broke it the moment he left.

He pressed the paper to his forehead, eyes burning. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “God, I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t even know why he was crying anymore. For Jongseo? For Jeonghan? For the boy he used to be—naive and hopeful and in love? Or maybe… because deep down, he knew what Jeonghan’s call truly meant.

He didn’t call just to inform him. He called to confront him. Because even now, Jeonghan could still read between his silences. Still catch the words he couldn’t say.

Joshua’s phone buzzed again.

Unknown number. One message.

He smiles like you. Laugh like you. Works like he’s proving himself to someone… like you did before. I wonder who taught him that?

Joshua broke. And just before the tears fell again, another message came. 

But he’s so much like me too, Shuji.

And Joshua, alone in the silence of his apartment, finally said the name that had lived in his throat for a decade.

“Jeonghan…”

Just once. Just to feel it again. But the name didn’t bring warmth. It was cold and seeped through him like the ache of everything he lost for a love that never looked back.

Later that night, Jongseo stood outside their door with his keys in hand, heart beating a little too fast. He wasn’t nervous about talking to his father—not really. But something about this felt bigger than just a reality show.

He stepped in, the scent of his father’s favorite cinnamon candle hanging in the air. Joshua was curled up on the couch, one leg tucked under him, glasses perched low on his nose as he read.

“You’re home early, my love.” Joshua said, looking up.

“I heard that our CEO talked to our parents.” Jongseo walked over, then sat beside him, unusually quiet.

Joshua glanced up from the book he was reading, pausing mid-motion. He turned to his son, brows slightly furrowed. He forced a small smile, setting the dish down. “Yeah,” he said carefully. “He did.”

“Da..” Jongseo looks at him, “Dada…”

It was strange, really, how Jeonghan Yoon, of all people, had chosen to frame it like some generic company routine. “We’re reaching out to all the parents for the show.” A white lie wrapped in that voice Joshua used to dream about.

But Joshua wasn’t stupid. He knew. He knew that Jeonghan hadn’t called everyone else’s parents.

He hadn’t needed to. Most of the trainees had guardians actively involved in their training, showing up during evaluations, sending gift sets to the staff. But Joshua had been absent—because he was clueless.

But still, he should’ve known.

Joshua moved closer to Jongseo. His heart was beating harder than it should’ve. “So…” he started, voice careful. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Jongseo looked away. Guilty. “I was going to. I just… didn’t know how.”

Joshua stayed quiet. He didn’t want to push. Not yet. Jongseo pulled his knees up to his chest, hugging them. He didn’t look like a trainee anymore—he looked like the little boy who used to cry when the power went out. The same boy who crawled into bed with him during thunderstorms, who clung to his shirt and whispered, “Don’t leave me, Dada.”

“I made it into the final lineup,” he said at last. “I’m debuting.”

Joshua closed his eyes for a second. Of course he was. Of course he was debuting. He had always known it would happen, because Jongseo showed interest in kpop idols when he turned thirteen, to this industry. He knew that this day would come—but somehow, hearing it like this, without warning, without being there, made something twist painfully inside his chest.

“You auditioned?” Joshua asked quietly.

Jongseo nodded. “Last year. Secretly.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Jongseo swallowed. “Because I knew you’d worry. I knew you’d try to talk me out of it. And I didn’t want you to protect me from it. I wanted to do this on my own.”

Joshua stared at his son, and for a second, he didn’t know what to feel. There was anger—anger that he had missed it—that he hadn’t been there in the front row, cheering, crying, shaking as his son chased the very thing he gave up so long ago.

But underneath that, there was something else.

Grief.

God, it hurt. He had given up everything for Jongseo; hid from the world, buried his name, his past, his dreams. He gave all of it up so his son would never have to know what it felt like to be discarded. And now the very thing he sacrificed was the thing Jongseo was chasing.

And he did it alone.

“I’m a little angry,” Joshua said softly.

Jongseo stiffened, startled.

“I’m angry that you didn’t tell me,” he continued, his voice tight but steady. “Angry that I wasn’t there when you walked into that audition room. That I wasn’t outside holding your bag or waiting in the hallway with a stupid banner.”

Jongseo’s shoulders trembled. “Dada…”

“I’m angry because I wanted to give you everything,” Joshua said, voice cracking. “Support you, fight for you, believe in you. That’s what parents are supposed to do, right? That’s what I’ve tried to do, ever since I held you for the first time.”

Silence. And then, softer, he smiled at him. “But more than that… I understand.”

Jongseo looked up, eyes glassy.

“I understand that this is your dream, and that you need to do it your way. And I’m proud of you.” Joshua’s hand reached out, brushing lightly against Jongseo’s shoulder. “So proud it hurts.”

Jongseo didn’t speak. He just moved forward, burying himself in his father’s chest, arms wrapping tight around his frame. “I was scared, Dada,” he whispered. “So scared.”

Joshua blinked back the burn in his eyes. “I know.”

“I didn’t want you to think I was throwing away everything you gave me.”

“You’re not,” Joshua murmured into his hair. “You’re becoming everything I hoped you would.”

Joshua looked at him more closely now. “Do you love where you are right now?”

Jongseo swallowed. “We’re debuting, Dada.”

Joshua blinked. “I know. But do you love what you’re doing right now?”

He nodded. “Yes, and they’re filming a reality show. Six episodes. Leading up to it.”

Joshua’s shoulders tensed slightly, but he said nothing.

“And for the last one… they want to film with our families. Or guardians.”

Joshua blinked again. “You mean, they want to film… me?”

“Yeah. But more than that, they want to meet you. The CEO especially. He said he wants to talk to you directly.”

Joshua stiffened. “…The CEO?”

“Jeonghan Yoon,” Jongseo said, as if it was nothing. “You probably know the name.”

Joshua froze. The air left his lungs all at once. He tried to smile. He failed.

“He said it’s important to him,” Jongseo continued, not noticing the way his father’s hands had begun to tremble. “That he wants to understand who raised me.”

Joshua stared ahead, vision blurring. Of course he wants to know, he thought bitterly. He should have known a long time ago.

But he didn’t say that. Couldn’t. Instead, he asked, barely above a whisper, “And… you want me to go?”

Jongseo nodded. “You don’t have to be filmed if you don’t want to. Just come to the company. Talk to them. To him.”

Joshua turned his face away. “Right.”

The name Jeonghan hadn’t left his mind since it fell from Jongseo’s lips. It had been over a decade, and still—still it cracked him open like it happened yesterday. 

And now he was supposed to walk into his company, carrying the secret of a lifetime, and then stand in front of the man who he left to break, and say what? That he raised the boy who bore his personality?

He wasn’t ready. He might never be.

But he looked at Jongseo—and he saw all the pieces he had spent years protecting. His son. His reason. His entire goddamn world.

So Joshua nodded. “I’ll go.”

And even though his voice was steady, his heart was screaming.

The lobby of YJ Entertainment was modern, and impossibly clean—its walls dressed in white and a hint of yellow marble. He hadn’t been here before. Not this building. Not this world. But everything about it felt… too familiar.

The last time Joshua walked into a building like this, he was thirteen—hopeful, bright eyed, optimistic, and foolish enough to think love and trust could survive the weight of dreams.

Now, everything felt heavier. The air. His heart. Even the steps he took beside Jongseo felt like walking into a battlefield he didn’t know he’d ever return to.

It wasn’t the same building where his past ended. This one was peaceful. A symbol of how much Jeonghan Yoon had accomplished—how far he'd come without him.

He kept his head low as he walked beside Jongseo, but he felt it—eyes, glances, whispers that carried just a little too long. One receptionist straightened in her seat, blinking twice as if trying to confirm something in her memory. A passing vocal coach slowed her pace, subtle, but enough to make Joshua’s skin prickle.

He caught fragments.

“Wait, isn’t that—?”

“Looks like him, right?”

“Isn’t he the one who—?”

Recognition. Half remembered names from passing lips. People paused and tilted their head as if putting a name to the face they hadn’t seen in years–almost two decades.

He wasn’t a ghost. He was a rumor come alive. But none of it mattered. Not now. Not with Jongseo walking beside him, unaware of the weight pressed into Joshua’s chest. Joshua ignored them all, focused on the elevator ahead, on Jongseo beside him who walked like he belonged here. Confident and proud like he wasn’t just a boy anymore.

“You okay, Dada?” Jongseo asked, eyes glancing up at him.

Joshua nodded, offering a thin smile. “Yeah. Just… nerves.”

Truth was, he didn’t know how to breathe in this building.

When they stepped out, Jongseo led him through the executive floor and stopped in front of a dark wooden door.

CEO – Yoon Jeonghan was engraved on the gold nameplate.

Joshua's stomach twisted.

Jongseo knocked once.

“Come in,” came the familiar voice—measured, exactly as Joshua remembered yet somehow nothing like it at all.

Joshua forgot how much it haunted his dreams; how many nights it echoed into the hollow parts of him that never healed. 

They entered.

The office wasn’t large, but it felt wide. Glass walls and soft gray couches. A tall bookshelf lined with awards and curated pieces, with a wilted daisy framed beside it. There are daisies everywhere—framed daisies on the bookshelf, on his desk, on the table between the small couches. And behind the desk, seated with perfect posture, was him.

Yoon Jeonghan.

He hadn’t changed.

That made it worse.

His face was sharper now, jaw more defined, dressed in a black suit that made him look older than the boy Joshua used to kiss behind closed doors. But his eyes—those eyes—were still painfully gentle. 

He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak right away.

His eyes moved over Joshua slowly, carefully, like he was still trying to believe what he was seeing. It had been years—but time hadn’t erased off the familiarity between them.

“Thanks for coming,” Jeonghan said, finally shifting his gaze to Jongseo. “Have a seat. Both of you.”

Joshua sat, stiff, and silent beside Jongseo. The tension in the room is thick and quiet. Joshua could hear the tick of the clock on the wall.

“I just wanted to personally tell you how proud I am,” Jeonghan began, voice directed at Jongseo. “You’ve done exceptionally well. The team’s excited. The documentary is going to move forward. We’ll be announcing the debut lineup soon.”

Jongseo smiled, quietly pleased. “Thank you, sir.”

Joshua could barely breathe.

He raised that boy; held him through fevers, sung lullabies when the world got too loud, gave up everything he had so Jongseo could believe he was loved, even when Joshua couldn’t afford to love himself. Anymore.

And now he was watching Jeonghan praise him—his father—without knowing.

Jeonghan nodded. “But before that… we want to be respectful of everyone involved. So we decided to inform the parents personally—those who are present, at least.” His eyes flicked to Joshua. “Which is why I asked your father to come today.”

“Because I also wanted to inform all the parents in person,” Jeonghan continued. “We’re handling this debut with care. Respect.”

Joshua wanted to laugh. It stuck in his throat like broken glass.

Only one parent was called. Only one mattered.

Joshua managed a nod. “I appreciate that.”

“Now,” Jeonghan continued, voice softening, “I need to talk to Mr. Hong privately. Just for a few minutes. Is that alright?”

Jongseo stood up immediately. “Of course.”

Jongseo glanced at his father one last time before stepping out and gently closing the door behind him.

Silence.

The one that kills.

Jeonghan didn’t move. Joshua didn’t either.

He just stood there, looking at Joshua like a man who’d just seen a ghost walk into his life, asking for nothing but air.

“He’s mine, right?”

Joshua flinched. “What?”

Jeonghan exhaled slowly. “Jongseo. He’s mine. Isn’t he?” he added, voice cracking under the weight of too many years.

Joshua’s jaw tensed. His hands curled into fists in his lap. “You’re not even going to pretend you don’t know anymore,” he muttered.

“I did pretend,” Jeonghan replied, voice low. “I told myself it wasn’t possible. That I was being delusional. That I missed you so much I was trying to see myself—yourself. Fucking hell, I see us, in his face, Joshua.”

He stood now, slowly stepping around the desk, closer. “And then I saw how he walked. How he talked. How he argued with other trainees in the hallway just like you used to. And then I saw how you looked at him today.”

Joshua looked away, lips pressed tight.

Jeonghan took another step. “You vanished and now you're here, with him, and I- I just need to know.”

Joshua’s voice cracked. “Why does it matter now?”

“Because I need to know what I lost,” Jeonghan said, louder this time. “I need to know what you took with you.”

Joshua stood too, eyes sharp and broken. “You think this was easy for me? You think I wanted to raise a child in hiding? You think I wanted him to grow up without answers?”

You think I didn’t want to? You think I didn’t lie awake every night imagining what it would’ve been like if things were different? If you were there?

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Jeonghan’s voice trembled. “Why didn’t you let me fight for him—for you?”

“Because there was no fight,” Joshua hissed. “I told one person,” Joshua whispered. “And the whole world almost shattered around me. He told the manager. The stylist. Everyone. The stylist threatened to go public. The company panicked.” Joshua stopped and closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing–remembering this much was too traumatic for him. “And you—you weren’t there. You didn’t even know. I was told to disappear, to abort him–”

Jeonghan’s knees buckled slightly as he leaned against his desk like the truth physically knocked the hell out of him.

“—and I said no. I left because I had to choose. And I chose him. I chose my son, I chose Jongseo, Jeonghan.”

“They told me you were going to make it to the top and then my members will debut with a new group. A new company. That if I left quietly, they’d make sure you got everything. That my  members would still have a shot if I vanished.” he continued.

“And you just let me go?” Jeonghan choked.

Joshua stepped forward now, shaking. “I didn’t let you go,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I had to give you up. I gave us up because I loved you too much to ruin your life.”

Tears ran down Jeonghan’s cheeks now, silent and unrestrained. “I didn’t know,” he whispered. “I swear, Joshua. I didn’t know.”

They stared at each other—both of them hurting, both of them too late. 

“I missed everything,” Jeonghan choked out. “His first steps. His voice. His birthdays. I missed everything.”

Joshua’s heart cracked wide open. Tears streamed down his face. Joshua’s voice broke. “I used to sit in the dark and wonder if he’d grow up to look like you. If he’d smile like you. If he’d hate me for taking that choice away.”

“You…” Jeonghan choked out, “You should’ve told me.” he said, this time lower. “I told you…”

“I told you as long as you listen to me, it will all work out. As long as you talk to me. As long as you don’t keep secrets from me. As long as you trust me.”

Jeonghan looked like the floor had been ripped out from under him. His eyes were wild now, bloodshot, hands trembling ever so slightly where they gripped the edge of the desk as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.

“I didn’t ask for this-” Joshua’s voice broke, his breath coming in ragged gasps, barely keeping his emotions at bay. God, he wanted to scream, cry, undo every step that led them back into this room together. Because nothing could prepare him for this—the way Jeonghan looked at him like he was a miracle and a hurt all at once.

“I did! I do!” Jeonghan’s desperate voice was roaring now, but it rang with an undeniable rage and desperation. “I begged the universe to bring you back. I built this company, this life, looking for you in every person, Joshua! Every hopeful kid with trembling hands, I wondered, was he yours? Is this kid yours?” His voice cracked, the weight of it sinking into the silence between them.

Jeonghan took a step back, as if the air had become too heavy to breathe. He stood there, letting the words settle, a slow, consuming sting spreading through his whole system. He let the moment pass by, each second a wound in itself. 

The silence of almost twenty years pressed on him, suffocating, unrelenting, helplessly. His eyes burned as he took a breath, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. “You knew enough to keep him. To love him quietly. To raise him in silence. But never once... never once did you think to tell me?”

Joshua’s expression twisted, his eyes with guilt and something deeper—something Jeonghan couldn’t place. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. It was enough to shatter Jeonghan.

“You think I didn’t want to?” Joshua finally whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of all the years spent keeping a secret that had never been his alone to keep.

“I think you didn’t think I deserved to know.” Jeonghan’s words were soft, yet they tore through Joshua like he's stating a fact that he didn't want to accept, at all.

He moved forward again, his steps slow but purposeful, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely a breath. “And maybe I didn’t,” he admitted, his voice trembling with the weight of too many years alone. “Maybe I deserve the heartbreak, and the silence, and the years of wondering if you ever looked back. If you ever think that I was… that I am worth it.”

His eyes closed for a moment, the pain threatening to consume him whole. When they opened again, they were filled with an emotion too thick to name.

“But he is mine too.” Jeonghan choked on the words, his hands trembling as they reached for the space between them, though they couldn’t bridge the gap.

Joshua looked away, unable to meet his eyes, and Jeonghan’s heart shattered into pieces he didn’t think he could ever put together again.

The words tore from Jeonghan’s chest, each syllable like shards of glass dragging against his insides, slicing deep into the empty places he’d been hiding. His breath faltered, caught in the rawness of it all, as his hands reached for something—anything—between them. They trembled violently, but not from the cold but from too much loss, too much pain. It made him feel like his world was collapsing in on itself, a pressure so deep it left no room to breathe.

“I could’ve– I would’ve–” He swallowed hard, but the words were stuck, lodged in his throat with everything else he’d never been able to say. His chest was so tight, he felt like his heart was squeezing itself, suffocating him.

“God, I would’ve loved him, Joshua.” His voice cracked, breaking as if it had been holding up something too heavy for too long. “All of him. Every version. Even the one that looks like you.”

His eyes blurred, but he didn’t care anymore. Tears were in the corner of his eyes, but they didn’t come, not because he wasn’t hurting enough to cry, but because the agony had gone past that. It was deeper than sorrow. It was raw, a deep wound inside him that couldn’t be healed. 

Joshua stood there, frozen, the weight of what he’d done—what they’d lost—hanging between them, too wide to cross.

Jeonghan’s heart thudded painfully in his chest, a reminder of how much he had missed. All these years, all this time, he had wanted to know him, wanted to be there—but he had been robbed of that. His son. Their son.

He would have loved him. He would have been enough. But he wasn’t given the chance.

“I spent years with questions stuck in my chest like a knife.” Jeonghan cried.

Joshua’s lips parted, but nothing came out. His knees felt weak. His heart shredded at the edges.

“I hated you,” Jeonghan whispered, “because you left. But I hated myself more because some part of me always knew something was missing. And when he walked into this company—I felt it. I felt him.”

Joshua blinked hard, biting back the sob clawing its way out. “I was just trying to survive.”

“I know,” Jeonghan said, voice so soft now it could barely stand upright. “And I was trying to forget you. But I never could.”

Joshua’s heart skipped a beat as Jeonghan did something he never expected.

He crumbled.

Right there, in front of him—Jeonghan’s shoulders shaking as they gave way to the weight of everything Joshua had thrown at him. His head fell into his hands, fingers digging into his scalp, and a choked, desperate cry tore its way from his chest.

It was raw and it was everything Joshua didn’t want to see—didn’t want to feel.

For a moment, time stood still. The air was thick and suffocating, like it was pressing in from every angle.

Joshua didn’t move as he didn’t know how to. His eyes stayed fixed on Jeonghan, as if the very sight of him breaking apart in front of him could destroy whatever was left of Joshua’s sanity.

Jeonghan should have hated him. He should’ve been relieved—this was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To see Jeonghan hate him.

But there was nothing like that. There was no satisfaction. No triumph.

Instead, something deeper tugged at Joshua’s chest—something he couldn’t put a name to, but it was there, sinking its teeth into him. It was ache .

It ripped through him straight into the knowledge that he couldn’t undo any of this– couldn’t take back the words, the years, the pain, couldn’t unsee the hurt in Jeonghan’s eyes—hurt that Joshua was the one who put him there, just by being alive.

And yet, even after everything... Jeonghan still loves him.

Joshua’s throat tightened. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he couldn’t fight the sting that built up in his eyes. The shame. The regret. 

I shouldn’t ask more from him, Joshua thought. I shouldn't. Not after everything we've been through.

And that was the cruelest thing of all. The fact that, no matter how much time had passed, no matter how many lies they’d told themselves, no matter how many times Joshua had tried to forget him—he still wanted Jeonghan. He still craved him. He still needed him.

Joshua closed his eyes for a brief second, the weight of the realization nearly crushing him under its gravity. He should be the one to fix this. He had the power to mend the broken pieces between them.

God, he wanted to. So badly.

And it terrified him. Terrified him more than anything ever had in his life. Because after everything—he still loves him.

Jeonghan’s sobs filled the room, and Joshua’s chest heaved, as if the air itself had been stolen from him. The room was closing in, and he couldn’t breathe. He wanted to walk over, to reach out, to hold him—but he just could not.

So, Joshua stood there, paralyzed, listening to the sound of a man who had spent years looking for him and from everything finally broke in front of him.

And there was nothing he could do to stop it. There was nothing he could do to stop Jeonghan from breaking apart all over again.

It hurt too much to bear.

“Dada?”

Chapter Text

Jeonghan swallowed hard. “You weren’t a mistake.”

The words fell heavy. Jeonghan’s voice was low, as if he was holding it together only by a thread, and even then, it frayed with every word. He could barely look at Jongseo—not because he didn’t want to, but because doing so felt like staring directly into the very thing he’d been missing his whole life.

He hadn’t rehearsed every word, hadn’t even planned to say them—because how could he? There was no manual for moments like this. No script to follow when you were face to face with your child for the first time… and he was already broken.

Jongseo sat with his back pressed to the wall, knees curled to his chest, like he was trying to make himself smaller, like if he tucked himself in far enough, the pain wouldn’t reach him. 

But it already had.

“Then what was I?” he whispered, voice barely loud. “A secret? An afterthought? An aftermath of a mistake?” Jongseo didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. But his eyes—god, his eyes—were wrecked.

The question stabbed something in Jeonghan. He dropped to his knees without thinking. It was the only thing that made sense. The only thing his body could do.

“No.” His voice cracked. “You were everything we ever had. Everything we ever dreamed of.” But the words felt empty in the air between them, like they were too late to matter. Like they should’ve been whispered into newborn skin, not gasped into the ruins of a truth sixteen years too late.

He didn’t even realize he was crying until he blinked and the tears blurred Jongseo’s face—a face that looked too much like Joshua when he was younger. And the shape of his eyes—his eyes were Joshua’s. His pain. His blood. His son.

How many years had gone by without him even knowing? How many birthdays, how many fevers, how many laughter, how many terrified moments, how many mornings had Jongseo woken up alone in a room that Jeonghan never entered? He should’ve been there.

But he wasn’t. And now he was kneeling in front of a boy he didn’t know how to reach, trying to sew together a history he never even got to live.

Jongseo looked up at him. His eyes were glassy, wide, and lost. He tried to wipe the tears away roughly, angrily, but they kept falling, like they had waited years for permission. His shoulders trembling under the weight of something he hadn’t yet figured out. He looked so small and Jeonghan hated himself for being part of the reason he had to cry like that.

He wanted to take it back—all of it. The silence. The years. The pain. He wanted to go back to whatever moment in time had cursed them and drag his past self by the collar until he screamed “Look. Look at what you’re leaving behind.”

But there was no going back. 

“I would’ve loved you,” Jeonghan whispered, voice shaking with a feeling he had no idea how to contain anymore. “If I had known. From the very first moment—I would’ve been there. I would’ve stayed.”

“...I would’ve chosen you over everything.” His voice trembled with truth, with grief, with regret. And Jongseo just stared, like he couldn’t decide if those words were healing or cruel.

And Jeonghan couldn’t blame him. Because where had he been when Jongseo took his first steps? When he got sick and needed someone to hold his hand in the middle of the night? Where had he been when he cried alone in his room, wondering why it felt like he was always missing something—someone?

He had been building stages. Signing contracts. Smiling for cameras. Filling the emptiness with strangers.

And meanwhile, his son had been learning how to live without him.

“I don’t know how to hate either of you,” he said after a long, breaking silence. “But I don’t know how to forgive you yet, either.”

The words bleed through Jeonghan—not because they were cruel, but because they were fair. Because forgiveness was a gift, and Jeonghan hadn’t earned it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“You don’t have to,” he said gently, folding in on himself, trying not to sound as broken as he felt. “Not now. Not ever, if it hurts too much.”

Because forgiveness was never owed and pain didn’t dissolve just because the truth had come out. Sometimes, the truth was the pain. And maybe it is. Because Jongseo’s voice was shaking when he asked, “Then why does it hurt anyway?”

He wanted to answer. Wanted to say something—anything—that could make it better. But the truth was… he didn’t know. Maybe it hurt because love and absence were two sides of the same coin. Maybe it hurt because some wounds didn’t bleed until you pressed on them. Maybe it hurt because they had finally found each other and realized just how much time they’d lost.

Jeonghan didn’t have an answer.

Because there was no answer that could make sense of a life stolen by silence. No answer for why the universe chose to keep them apart for so long. No answer for why he had built a good life while trying to find something he didn’t even know he’d lost—only to realize it had been alive all this time, growing up without him.

There was only the pain. And the boy in front of him, trembling.

So Jeonghan didn’t speak, but he moved closer, just enough that Jongseo could feel the warmth of his presence, if not yet the comfort of it. And he stayed there—knees on the cold floor, heart wide open, grief pouring through every fracture of his being.

He stayed as the boy–his son cried. As he wiped at his tears with the sleeves of his too-thin sweater. 

He stayed, because that’s what fathers do.

Even when they’re too late. Even when they’re not sure they deserve to be called one. Even when they don’t know how to carry the weight of what they missed.

He watched as Jongseo cried—not loudly, not violently, but quietly. Like it had been bottled up for years. Like he didn’t even know how to fall apart properly. Like a part of him was still scared that if he let go, no one would be there to catch him.

Jeonghan wanted to reach for him. To wrap him up in his arms and never let go. But he didn’t.

Because Jongseo hadn’t asked to be held. He’d asked to feel. And Jeonghan had taken too much from him already.

His hands hovered between them, trembling, unsure of where they belonged. On Jongseo’s shoulder? His hands? His hair?

No. He didn’t have the right—not yet.

The boy—his little boy—sat a breath away but felt lightyears distant. Jongseo had turned his face away slightly, but Jeonghan could still see the tear tracks shimmering on his skin. His chest rose and fell too fast, like his body didn’t know what to do with everything that had just broken loose inside him.

And still, selfishly—so damn selfishly—he wanted to close the distance.

Even so, Jeonghan could do nothing but bear witness and stay.

He stayed. But god, he hoped one day it would be enough.

“I missed everything,” Jeonghan finally said, voice hoarse. “Your first words. Your first step. Your first tooth. All of it—I missed it all.”

Jongseo didn’t respond but his breath hitched.

Jeonghan leaned forward, slowly, his hands bracing against the floor. “I used to imagine what our future child—you might look like. If your eyes would be like Joshua’s or mine. I used to lie awake at night wondering if your father is safe and if he thinks like this too.”

He laughed—quiet and empty. “Turns out I have a son, and the universe let me find him, just late enough to know how much I’ve missed.”

Jongseo sniffled again, finally turning to face him fully. His expression was unreadable—anger, sadness, confusion all woven into something Jeonghan didn’t dare name. But behind the exhaustion, behind the trembling and tears, there was still a shine of something far more dangerous.

Hope.

And Jeonghan didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

“I used to wonder,” Jongseo said, his voice so quiet it was barely a sound–as if scared to utter a word. “Why did it feel like half of me was always missing? Even when I was with Dada, even when I was happy. There was just… a space. And I didn’t know why.”

Jeonghan’s heart pinched so violently it felt like it was trying to claw its way out of his chest. “You should’ve never had to feel that.”

“I didn’t even know what it was I was looking for,” Jongseo whispered. “But the first time I saw you… there was something. Something I didn’t understand. It scared me.”

He’d wondered about this his entire life. Alone. Don’t get him wrong, his Dada Joshua had been a good father. The best father. The one who always remembered to pick him up on time, who cooked his favorite meals on hard days, who kissed his forehead like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.

But still. There was always a part of him missing. A name. A face.

When he was six, he had asked Joshua, quietly and curiously, while sitting on the kitchen counter as his dad cut fruit.

“Where’s Papa, Dada?”

Joshua had dropped the knife. Not dramatically—but enough that Jongseo noticed. Enough that the question was never really answered.

After that, every time the subject came up, his Dada would find a way to dodge it. “You have me, don’t you?” And he’d smile, like it was enough.

At six, maybe it was. But the question never really left him.

Because the other kids at school had answers. They had pictures and stories and bedtime stories of what their parents were like when they were younger. He had silence. A silence so loud it rang in his ears when he lay in bed at night, wondering what it meant to have a father he’d never met.

By seven, he stopped asking. Not because he didn’t want to know, but because he saw how his Dada’s smile got thinner every time he did. How his voice came out like it was built on a glass ledge, and how his shoulders tensed like he was bracing for impact.

So he tucked it away.

By the time he turned eight, he only asked in his head. Were you nice? Did you look like me? Were you funny like Dada? Did you leave? Did he make you leave? Did you love me?

Joshua never talked about it. Not once.

He’d wrap Jongseo in love so warm and comfortable it felt like the safest thing in the world, and maybe that was what made it harder—knowing he was loved this much by one parent, and yet not knowing the name of the other.

It made him feel greedy. Ungrateful.

So he stopped asking altogether.

He made up stories in his head instead. That his other parent was some traveler who got lost in time. That maybe they were an explorer, or an astronaut, or a secret agent, or a spy. Sometimes, when the nights were particularly long and Joshua looked extra tired, he told himself maybe they were a hero, and maybe they were protecting them from afar.

But by the time he was nine, those fantasies stopped being enough.

Because it hurt to wonder. It hurt to feel like half of him was missing and no one wanted to tell him why.

By the time he was ten, he convinced himself it didn’t matter.

And for a while, it really did not. But the older he got, the harder it became to ignore the emptiness. 

By the time he turned thirteen, the curiosity had turned into something sharper and deeper. Something he couldn’t admit out loud.

Then came the night his tipsy Uncle Soonyoung tucked him into bed while his Dada worked late, the blanket not enough to distract him from the restlessness and curiosity. He remembered how casually his Uncle Soonyoung had said it—giggling, shaking his head, and sniffing at the same time —“Your dad… your other one… he was from the industry too, you know?”

Jongseo had frozen.

“The… what?”

Soonyoung had blinked, realized his mistake too late. He swore him to silence before Joshua could even get home.

But it was too late. From that night on, Jongseo’s life was determined. He stared at the ceiling and thought about how many times his Dada had told him that they were enough. That they were complete.

And suddenly, he wasn’t sure anymore.

He started listening to idol music and watched videos—not just the polished performances—the behind the scenes content, the interviews, the raw moments where people laughed, cried, and broke them.

He didn’t even know who he was looking for. A face? A smile? A voice that sounded like his?

He never found it. 

But he found something else. A dream. He wanted to stand on stage. He wanted to feel closer to a world that had once held someone important—someone whose shadow had always followed him, even when he didn’t have a name to call it.

He auditioned in secret and trained in silence. He told himself it was for himself but a part of him—a selfish part—wanted to be found.

He wanted someone to look at him and recognize him. Call him mine , because maybe—just maybe—if he stood in the spotlight long enough, someone would recognize him.

Someone might say, “You look like someone I used to know.” or worse—better—someone might say, “You look like me.”

Jongseo wiped his eyes roughly, but the tears kept coming.

Jeonghan blinked back the tears that blurred his vision. “I was scared too.”

“I don’t want to be,” Jongseo said, eyes shining. “But I am. I don’t know how to let you in when I don’t even know what that means.”

And it hurt. God, it hurt.

Because Jongseo knew that his Dada Joshua loved him so deeply, so completely, that it almost felt like betrayal to want more.

But he did. He did want more. He wanted the truth. He wanted the name of the man who gave him half of his face. He wanted to know why he left. Or if he even knew he existed.

And for the longest time, he hated himself for wanting it. But no matter how much he tried to bury it, that longingness and yearning never left.

It lived through him and his dreams. It sang through every note he practiced, every dance he memorized. It stood behind him in the mirror every time he stared at his own reflection and thought—do you know me? Would you recognize me if I stood in front of you?

“You don’t have to,” Jeonghan said, his voice barely holding together. “Just… let me stay. Even if you never call me anything but Jeonghan. Even if you never forgive me. Just let me stay in your life, even if it’s only at the edge.”

There was a long pause and it made Jeonghan feel like he was standing on the linn of everything—fatherhood, redemption, love, forgiveness, guilt, regret, second chances—and could fall at any moment.

Jongseo’s lips parted, and for a second, Jeonghan braced himself for rejection. But instead, the boy whispered, “Do you think he’ll forgive you?”

Joshua. The name didn’t have to be said.

Jeonghan looked down, unable to meet his son’s eyes for the first time. “I don’t know.”

“Are you mad at him?”

“No,” he whispered, like a plea, as if he was begging from himself not to feel mad, that he did not deserve to feel all those emotions at all.

It was the truth.

But it didn’t stop him from hoping. Just like he hoped Jongseo would one day stop crying when he thought about what he never had. Just like he hoped this moment—this painfully quiet, fragile beginning—would be enough to start again.

“I don’t know anymore, son,” Jeonghan breathed, softer this time. “But it does not matter because I’ll never stop trying to be someone he and you can forgive.”

Jongseo didn’t respond right away and Jeonghan hated the reminder of everything he'd missed, hated that he couldn’t undo it, hated that this moment was the only thing he could offer instead of a childhood.

Then, quiet and uncertain, Jongseo moved just slightly closer. Not much. Barely enough to notice. 

Silence.

Jeonghan felt like there was something about silence that felt louder when your child was breaking beside you–finally in front of you—but not quite yours. Yet.

And Jongseo didn’t know how to carry the weight of this—how to steady his breathing when Jeonghan was holding his own breath across from him, as if afraid to move, afraid he’d break whatever fragile thread was pulling them closer.

The quiet wasn’t empty.

It was covered with everything they never got to say. Sixteen years’ worth of questions that had grown emotions–deep ones; of childhoods that never overlapped, of moments Jongseo had watched other kids have—holding their fathers’ hands, dragging them through parks, laughing over dinner—and wondering, always wondering, why he had to imagine those things instead of live them.

And maybe that was what made it unbearable now. That Jeonghan—his father, was right there.

Within reach. But not yet.

Jongseo’s fingers curled slightly into his palms, trembling. He stared at the floor, his voice too soft to meet Jeonghan’s eyes. “I used to make up stories,” he said. “About what you were like. I told myself you were probably a doctor. Or an astronaut. Something cool. Something good. Because I thought… if I was loved… then the one who left must’ve had a good reason.”

Jeonghan’s lips parted, but no words came. Just a trembling breath.

“I thought maybe you were a firefighter. Or a soldier. Someone brave. Someone who left because they had to. Because they were saving people. Because they were good.”

He swallowed. Hard.

“I needed to believe that,” Jongseo went on. “Because it was easier than thinking you didn’t want to stay.”

“I did,” Jeonghan said, hoarse. His eyes blinked slow and wet, his throat curling around the silence like he was trying to hold something back and losing. “God, I did.”

“I know that now.” Jongseo looked up at him finally. “But for thirteen years, I didn’t.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

And Jeonghan broke again. Right there. His chest heaving, not in loud sobs, but in slow agonizing pain that came from holding in too much for too long. Like his body was remembering all the ways he’d kept himself together while everything else fell apart.

And then barely, just barely, Jongseo moved closer again.

This time, Jeonghan noticed the distance lessened not only in inches, but also in the way the air between them softened and how the walls seemed to lower a bit.

“I don’t know how to call you that,” Jongseo said quietly. “I don’t know how to say it without feeling like I’m betraying the man who raised me.”

“Then don’t,” Jeonghan whispered. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Jongseo stared at him. “But what if… one day, I want to?”

Jeonghan’s eyes fluttered shut. Like that single sentence was more than he’d dared hope for. “Then I’ll be here. Waiting… celebrating.”

There was a pause. And then, slowly, Jongseo moved again, until his knee brushed against Jeonghan’s. 

Skin to skin—just like the way newborns are held to their father’s chest. Their warmth and weight and breath. The simple proximity of existence. Of proof.

Jeonghan didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He was afraid to, as if any sudden motion would startle this moment away.

But Jongseo didn’t pull back.

Instead, he leaned just a little more. He rested his head against Jeonghan’s shoulder, hesitant and unsure, like a boy who wasn’t sure if he deserved comfort—or was allowed to give it.

And Jeonghan? He wept silently.

For the years he missed. For the birthdays he couldn’t attend, the nightmares he couldn’t soothe, the scraped knees he couldn’t kiss, the songs he never sang him to sleep, for every “I’m proud of you” he never got to say.

He wept because Jongseo was warm beside him. Breathing beside him and letting himself exist in the space between.

And because for the first time, he didn’t feel like a stranger.

Jongseo didn’t cry. Not this time. He just stayed there, breathing slow, fingers finally still.

And in that silence, Jeonghan didn’t ask for forgiveness. He didn’t beg, but sat still—anchored to his child he never got to hold, but would never let go of again.

Maybe it would take time. Maybe they would break a thousand more times before they learned how to be whole.

But they were here now.

And for the first time in years, Jeonghan felt the beginning of something almost like peace. 

And Jongseo didn’t feel alone. Not entirely. Just enough to hurt, but not enough to walk away.

Chapter Text

A month.

It had been exactly one month since Jeonghan’s world cracked open.

A month since the truth worked out for him like a tightly wound thread finally giving way—fragile, unexpected, inevitable.

And now, he’s inside the largest conference room filled to the brim—rows of chairs lined with department heads, producers, managers, PR specialists, content creators, and even a few junior staff quietly scribbling notes—no  one wanted to miss this meeting, no one could afford to. It wasn’t every day the company held a full scale creative meeting like this, and certainly not for just any group.

This wasn’t just any meeting. This was for RISE.

At the head of the room, the screen shined to life. The title card filled the frame with clean, simple elegance "Debut’s Plan". Beneath it, in smaller letters, A documentary by YJ Entertainment. Not just any documentary, but a full scale, heart-on-sleeve chronicle of the seven boys set to take their first step into the industry.

The CEO, Yoon Jeonghan sat still as stone at the center table, his expression unreadable. He was dressed in soft neutrals, sleeves casually rolled just below his elbows, a silver pen resting between his fingers. Despite his calm demeanor, Jeonghan was deeply invested in this project. He didn’t need to say much for the room to know that.

This wasn’t just business to him.

This is a project where they will present how raw the process of being an idol is if you don’t think of them as machines and money makers only.

This is a vow that the boys under his care would never be reduced to profit margins and streaming numbers. That they would be seen, heard, understood, protected, and genuinely loved. That they would be loved not just for what they could give the world, but for who they were before the world even looked.

This wasn’t just about seven boys.

This was also about his boy.

Jongseo.

A name he hadn’t known for sixteen years. A son he hadn’t raised. A boy he’d passed by in hallways, spoken to in passing during evaluations, praised in meetings, unknowingly watching parts of himself unfold in a stranger’s skin.

He had no idea—not until a month ago. One month. Thirty days. Seven hundred and twenty hours of breathless reckoning.

This was his son’s future group—his goal, his life, his future.

But above all, this was Jeonghan reclaiming the very dream Joshua had once lost.

The dream he shared, once upon a time, with Joshua—the only man who had truly known him, and the only one who he would offer the world with.

And maybe in doing so, Jeonghan could begin to find a way back to the boy he had once called Joshuji—the one who still wanted freedom, still longed for love, and completeness. Now, here he was, sitting in front of a room full of people, putting together the debut of a group that held his son in its heart.

A part of him still couldn’t believe it.

And yet, another part—the part that had felt hollow for so long—finally felt like it was beginning to understand what it had been missing.

The lead producer stood beside the screen, voice even and practiced, but the determination in her tone was visible. “Debut’s Plan will follow RISE from their training days to their official debut. We want to show everything; struggles, breakthroughs, friendships, homesickness, the small moments that will shape who they become as idols and people,”

A montage played briefly. Clips of the boys from their audition piece, training videos, dorm moments, laughter, tears, the grainy joy of becoming something together.

A few whispers of approval spread across the room.

“We’ll be following them for five months straight. Every stage, from training rooms to dorms to their final debut performance. We’ll cover their personal stories too: family, sacrifices, dreams. Each member will have their own feature episode.”

Someone raised a hand. “What about their families? Are we involving them directly?”

Jeonghan finally spoke. “This has to be honest. We’re not selling perfection. We’re showing heart,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “RISE is going to mean something, not just to fans, but to each other, and this documentary needs to reflect that.”

He stopped for a while and looked at the staff who asked the question, “And yes, we are,” he said simply. “With consent, of course. We’re not chasing drama. We’re building a legacy. These boys aren’t products. They’re people, and they have stories that deserve to be heard.”

There was a pause in the room. And then, slowly, heads nodded. Agreement passed like a wave through the sea of staff.

Someone from the PR team asked how personal they were allowed to go. Jeonghan glanced toward the screen, where a placeholder photo of the seven trainees was projected. “Let’s talk to them,” Jeonghan said simply. “And their parents. Let’s ask how much they’re willing to share.”

Jeonghan’s gaze lingered on the last slide, where seven boys smiled awkwardly in a training room selfie.

Jongseo. Hyunmin. Ryo. Yuno. Wonbin. Hyunjae. Sooyeon. Their names were printed neatly below their faces like a promise.

The following day, a more personal setting was chosen. A mid-sized studio room in the company building, transformed temporarily into a family briefing room. A table ran down the middle, covered in bottled waters, handouts of the documentary timeline, and snacks for the families. The overhead lights were softened to make the space feel less formal.

All seven members of RISE sat in the front row beside their parents or guardians, most of them wearing simple company issued black hoodies as they had just finished practicing their piece for an event. The atmosphere was a blend of nervous energy and warm excitement. The parents clutching their sons’ hands under the table, boys whispering jokes between slides.

Jongseo barely contained himself. His knees bounced relentlessly under the table,  eyes sparkled as the staff began presenting the flow of the documentary, fingers drumming against the sleeve of his father, Joshua, who sat beside him.

The staff explained the structure of the documentary again, but this time, with softer language. “You’ll be interviewed separately. There will be quiet days, hard days, breakthrough days. We’ll film training sessions, dorm life, family visits, everything. The goal is to make sure your voices are heard, not just as performers, but as people.”

Each would focus on one of the boys—detailing their past, their motivations, the families they somehow left behind to chase a dream, and the dreams they couldn’t let go of. Training footage. Interview clips. Late-night dorm talks. A special segment featuring candid moments with their families.

When the staff asked if the families were comfortable with such deep involvement, there was a small silence, contemplative, not hesitant. Then, one by one, parents nodded.

Jongseo was the first to whisper to his father. “Dada... do you think they’ll show that time I fell on my face in the middle of the choreo?”

Joshua smiled and nudged his son. “Maybe. But they’ll also show you getting up after.”

Jongseo bit his lip to contain the smile curling at his lips.

Near the back of the room, Jeonghan stood quietly, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, taking it all in. His eyes found Jongseo quickly—how could they not? The boy practically radiated light. Like sunshine. For a moment, his features softened, something clicking in his chest that he didn’t let surface often.

When the meeting ended and families stood to greet and gather their things, Jongseo stayed in his seat. His fingers tapped against the table thoughtfully. Then, with excitement only a teenager could fully embody, he turned to Joshua, tugging on his sleeve.

“Dada,” he whispered, almost giddy, “did you hear that? They're really doing it! Debut’s Plan! That’s us. We’re going to be in it!”

Joshua chuckled softly and ruffled his son's hair. “I heard. You’ll be great. I just know you are.”

Jongseo hesitated for a second, glancing toward the door where Jeonghan was quietly discussing something with a producer. Then he looked back up at Joshua, his voice a bit more tentative now.

“Can we eat dinner with him tonight?” Jongseo asked, voice soft, almost cautious. “With… Sir Jeonghan?”

Joshua blinked.

The request wasn’t unfamiliar. Jongseo had mentioned it before—once in passing, once while looking at his phone a little too long, once when Jeonghan’s name came up during dinner. 

He had been more open with the idea lately, more curious about bridging the quiet distance between the two men who raised him, even if not together- with Joshua being the father figure he is, quite literally, and with Jeonghan who raised him with his team members with love and support.

There was something in the way he said it—not just eagerness, but something warmer. Hopeful. Like he just wanted this day, this moment, to be shared with both of them.

Joshua knew that Jongseo was trying. Slowly, nervously, as if learning how to reach across something invisible but wide.

And maybe that’s what made Joshua hope for more.

Because he had always been the one by Jongseo’s side—the one who stayed when everything else fell apart. He was the one who woke up in the middle of the night to his son’s nightmares, the one who celebrated his small wins, who wiped his tears after things that didn’t go well. He had raised him. He had carried that boy through every storm.

But Jeonghan… Jeonghan had held him in ways Joshua never could. Even without knowing, even from a distance, Jeonghan had given Jongseo something Joshua couldn’t name—the recognition that came from blood, maybe, or just the way Jeonghan loved even if he hadn’t known who the boy truly was yet.

He gave a small smile and nodded. “You sure he’s not too busy?”

Jongseo tilted his head. “Just one dinner?”

Joshua didn’t say anything for a moment. Now, looking at his son’s face, eyes wide with hope, Joshua felt that familiar pang settle deep in his chest.

There was more than eagerness in Jongseo’s question. There was longing. Not just to be seen, but to be share—to be known, not by halves, but whole.

And Joshua could hear what he wasn’t saying: Just one dinner with both of you. Just once, I want to sit between you both and not feel like I’m choosing one over the other.

Then, he looked across the room where Jeonghan was quietly speaking with the producer, head bowed slightly in conversation, a pen tapping thoughtfully against his clipboard.

And then Jeonghan glanced up and met Joshua’s eyes.

A second. Maybe less.

But in that brief moment, something passed between them. A quiet, heavy recognition. And maybe, just maybe, Jeonghan already knew what Jongseo was about to ask. Maybe he had been waiting, too.

Joshua’s throat tightened.

There were things he had no right to ask for. No room left for what ifs or could have beens anymore. He had lived sixteen years carrying the weight of a decision that cost them everything. He had walked away once, thinking he was doing the right thing. But watching Jongseo now—caught between them, trying to knit something whole out of the pieces they left behind—he wondered if he had only broken what didn’t belong to him to begin with.

He forced a gentle smile, even if it trembled slightly. “You can ask him,” Joshua said quietly. “I’ll go grab your stuff.”

They met at a quiet restaurant just outside the city. Nothing fancy, just a small family owned place Jeonghan used to visit during nights where he was alone, tucked away behind a noraebang. This place served as comfort for Jeonghan before as it served kimchi stew that could warm every corner of his exhausted whole being.

Jeonghan arrived last, just as the server was pouring barley tea into their cups. He looked a little tired but relaxed, like less CEO and more just... Jeonghan tonight. His jacket was slung over one arm, his white shirt slightly creased. 

The moment he entered, Jongseo lit up.

“Sir Jeonghan!” he called, loud enough that a few heads turned. The voice was clear, unguarded—full of excitement in a way that made something in Jeonghan’s chest tighten. His gaze had already found the boy waving him over, eyes bright like he had been waiting for this all day.

Jongseo.

It still caught him off guard sometimes, of how effortlessly that name could bring him to a standstill, how it now belonged to more than just a trainee under his care, more than just a promising talent. He wasn’t just another kid in the lineup. He was his.

His son.

The word still sat strange in his mouth when he dared to say it alone. Heavy and unreal as it was a word he had never been allowed to say out loud until a month ago.

Jeonghan smiled, genuinely this time, that only Jongseo seemed to be able to pull out of him lately, and gently placed a hand on his head before sliding into the seat beside him. “Didn’t I tell you not to call me Sir anymore? Jeonghan’s fine, Jong.”

Jong.

He said it so easily now, like it had always been his to say. And maybe, deep down, it had been.

Jongseo grinned, unbothered. “Sorry. I forgot.”

Joshua chuckled softly from across the table. “He’s been talking about this all day.”

That’s when Jeonghan looked at him. Really looked.

It wasn’t the first time they’d seen each other since the truth . Not the first time they shared space, or even a conversation. But every moment like this—every normal moment—felt too fragile to carry everything they hadn’t said.

And yet, here they were. One boy between them, grinning like he had everything he ever wanted sitting right there.

Jeonghan felt something settle in his chest, but it wasn’t peace. Not yet. It was too early for that.

He was still learning how to breathe around it. Still learning how to carry this grief—the quiet, patient grief that didn’t demand to be seen but made its home behind him anyway.

But then, it’s nice to feel that the dinner was warm—literally and emotionally.

They ordered jjigae, grilled mackerel, rice bowls, and endless side dishes. Jongseo chatted on about the documentary, about how he wanted his episode to show the time he messed up a dance and cried, and how he hoped his hyungs wouldn’t tease him when the footage aired, how he hoped his episode wouldn’t make him look weird, and how Sooyeon cried when he found out his grandmother was okay after her surgery.

Joshua laughed, warm and gentle. “They’ll tease you no matter what,” he said, “...but that just means they love you.”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes but smiled as he handed Jongseo another lettuce wrap. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure your episode shows all your good angles.”

“I don’t care about angles,” Jongseo grinned, mouth full. “I just want to show who I am.”

“And I want mine to show my training journal. I’ve been writing in it for almost half a year,” Jongseo continued, “Even if my handwriting’s ugly, I think it’d be cool.”

Jeonghan listened.

He nodded, laughed, chimed in when needed, but mostly, he just watched; Watched the way Jongseo’s eyes lit up, how he leaned closer when Joshua spoke, how he used his chopsticks with the same dominant left hand Jeonghan had always had, how he make random noises when he liked the food. how he dipped his rice into the jjigae first, then picked the tofu last—just like he did.

And God, it hurt. It hurt in a way that felt almost holy.

Because for the first time in years, Jeonghan wasn’t running a company. He wasn’t a CEO or a former trainee or a man hardened by the world.

He was just a father.

Jeonghan looked at him for a long second before nodding slowly. “We’ll show the world how good and dedicated and hard working you are.”

And across from him sat Joshua—the only person who had held all of this alone. The only one who had carried the secret, the weight, the life. Jeonghan wondered if it still hurt him, too. If there were nights he woke up and wondered whether it would’ve changed anything if he had stayed. If he had told the truth sooner. If he had told Jeonghan.

“P… pa,” Jongseo said, nudging Jeonghan’s arm, eyes soft, “Can we do this again? Like… even just once a month?”

Pa.

Jeonghan swallowed the lump in his throat before he could answer. He managed a smile, soft and a little broken. “Yeah,” he whispered, “I’d like that. So much.”

And he meant it with everything in him.

This time, Joshua didn’t look away. He watched the quiet exchange, something in his chest tightening, but not in pain, not exactly in joy either, but something in between. It felt like a recollection of a life finally unfolding.

By the time dessert arrived—just some simple hotteok Jongseo insisted on—their table was filled with laughter, half eaten dishes, and the peace that only comes when three people stop pretending there's nothing tying them together.

When the bill was paid and their plates cleared, the three stepped out into the evening air. Jongseo moved instinctively, slipping between them like he always belonged there. Like some part of him knew . He reached out, unthinking, and took one hand from each of them—one hand to his left, one to his right.

Neither Jeonghan nor Joshua pulled away.

“Thank you for tonight,” Jongseo said, eyes on the sidewalk, voice quiet but sure. “It made me feel better and I’m not that nervous anymore.” He squeezed their hands, just slightly. “I can do this, right?”

Tell me I’m not alone. Tell me I was worth all of it. Tell me I can do this because you see me. Because you believe in me. Because you’re both here.

And somehow, that made both of his fathers pause. Because despite everything, despite the hidden truths, the tangled pasts, and the circumstances that led them here, this boy between them was whole, and brave, and kind.

Jeonghan’s hand tightened gently in Jongseo’s. He felt something cave inward–like his heart, folding in on itself.

“Yes,” Jeonghan finally said, barely louder than anything around them. “You can do this.”

Joshua nodded. “You already are so brave.”

And Jongseo, still holding both their hands, smiled like someone who had just been given the whole world.

Because maybe—for the first time—he had.

Chapter Text

The smell of adobo fills the kitchen. It’s the three of them’s favorite dish, yet something Jeonghan hasn’t tasted in years, but tonight, it feels like the right choice—a simple comfort, a moment amidst everything else.

The table is set in Joshua’s dining room. Jongseo, Jeonghan, and Joshua sit around the table, their plates piled high with the meal, but there’s something else that’s more filling than the food tonight–an unspoken tension. They aren’t just sharing dinner; they’re sharing a moment they never thought would come.

Jongseo’s eyes are focused on the TV, where a documentary is playing. It’s a story about young trainees who rise through the ranks, their struggles and their sacrifices. The screen is filled with behind the scenes footage of practice rooms, rehearsals, and the grueling work it takes to debut. The camera shows the exhaustion in their faces, the sweat beading on their foreheads, the passion burning in their eyes. He knows this journey all too well. It’s his life now.

But the one thing he didn’t expect was for his parents to be here, watching it with him.

Jeonghan leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed but his eyes a little teary. He’s not watching the documentary, not really. He’s watching Jongseo, his son, who has become everything he was too, but in a different light.

Joshua, sitting beside Jongseo, is quieter than usual. He reaches for a spoonful of adobo, his movements slow, contemplative. He hasn’t said much tonight. His eyes switch from the screen to Jongseo, then back to the food in his hands, the awkwardness hanging like a thread between them. His thoughts are a mess—a knot of guilt, longing, yet there’s pride and joy. He wants to say something, anything to break the silence, but the words never seem to come. Not when it matters most.

The documentary starts, showing clips of other trainees going through auditions, the camera zooming in on their faces, capturing the vulnerability in their eyes. Jongseo leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, eyes fixed on the screen. A mixture of emotions plays on his face—something between determination and sorrow, as he’s seeing himself reflected in the faces of those on the screen.

Jeonghan watches him closely, his gaze softening, though he quickly looks away. He hasn’t allowed himself to feel this much in years. He never expected to see this day, watching his son live the life he had once dreamt for him, all while sitting beside a man who wasn’t there for those moments of longing.

He brushes those thoughts away and looks at the TV.

Episode 1. The lights are about to turn off, and a single melody floats through the air. Seven names. Seven dreams quietly taking root.

“Every story has a beginning. Ours starts with seven strangers… Seven boys… Bound not by blood, but by one burning thing: a dream. Inside these walls, legends are born. And today, a new page waits to be written.”

In slow motion, the seven trainees move through the entrance, one by one. Bags hang heavy on their tired shoulders. Nervous smiles across their faces, but beneath those smiles, the seven young boys feel the same uncertainty, the same longing, and same dream. Each step forward feels like a quiet plea for validation, and for the chance to prove something, anything, and everything that they are worth the dream.

They enter the practice room, with an expectation pressed down on them, making their limbs feel stiff and their backs rigid. But despite the nervousness, there’s an unmistakable spark of hope that dances in the corners of their souls.

No names yet. No fame. Just a collection of raw potential, untapped, and unrefined. They are unknowns, but the world will soon learn their names. Jeonghan makes sure of that.

The camera lingers for a moment on each of them, but not as a grand reveal. There are no introductions yet. Only the truth that each one is a story yet to be told.

There’s Jongseo, whose voice carries the weight of the most hidden corners of his heart. The company calls him the “main vocalist”, a title heavy with expectation, but one that fits him as naturally as breathing.

Beside him stands Hyunmin, dancing with an effortless sharpness that feels more like instinct than learned choreography.

And then Ryo, a boy whose movement is less about precision and more about feeling, about telling a story even when no words are spoken.

Yuno, whose versatility is impossible to ignore, easily slipping from stage to stage, voice to voice, moment to moment.

Wonbin, whose athletic past is visible in every powerful line of his body, every driven gaze he casts forward.

Hyunjae, bright eyed and fearless, with a performance energy and aura that grabs your attention and refuses to let go.

And Sooyeon, quiet but unwavering, carrying the raw hunger of a dream born far from neon lights and loud cities.

Seven. Seven beginnings. Seven stories colliding at the starting line.

Episode 2. Their journey as trainees was not painted in easy colors. It was filled with sleepless nights, aching bodies, and silent doubts, and crashing outs. Here, they were tested. Month after month, their growth was captured in the evaluations that cared for everything that will mold them right.

Old audition clips are unearthed; raw, imperfect, brimming with hope. 

The calendar pages pass by, one after another, a blur of time slipping through unnoticed. Each page is marked with a single label and the process stays the same. And so began the monthly test.

Practice. Perform. Be judged. The cycle every trainee knows all too well, a routine of unrelenting pressure, a clock that never stops ticking. It’s like a countdown that never ceases.

The camera moves through the days, capturing the desperate determination on their faces. They practice until the hands on the clock become a blur, their bodies exhausted but their spirits pushing forward. Midnight comes, but still, they remain within the space, filling only the echo of their song and the sound of their shoes.

They fall asleep against mirrors, the cold glass pressing against their skin, offering no comfort, only the reminder of their hunger for more. The instructors observe them from a distance, their eyes sharp as they scribble notes during each evaluation, their judgments helpful and for growth, leaving the trainees a room for growth.

It’s all part of the struggle, the slow grind of self doubt and relentless ambition, and Jeonghan and his company’s goal is to make them feel at ease while reaching for their dreams—they want them to achieve it without losing passion and their love for the dream. They want them to learn and grow, and not lose confidence.

A glimpse into their struggles reveals the raw reality of their journey.

Jongseo sings until his throat burns, coughing into his sleeve as his voice cracks, each note is like a painful reminder of how much further he has to go. Hyunmin misses a beat, the frustration surging through him as he drops his knees into the floor, the anger and self loathing impossible to suppress. Ryo, hunched over a notebook filled with Korean vocabulary words, his head buried in his arms, trying to memorize the language, to become fluent so he won’t feel like an outsider. Yuno, silent but determined, tapes his swollen ankle after twisting it during practice, the pain nothing compared to the determination that refuses to let him quit. Wonbin stares at his fencing medal late at night, a memory of his past, his fingers brushing against it one last time before he carefully puts it away, knowing that this is a new path, a new fight. Hyunjae stands alone on the rooftop, his voice shaking as he calls his sister, the weight of uncertainty in his words, “I don’t know if I can do it.” Sooyeon sketches a stage in his notebook, his hand steady, but his heart racing as he writes under it, “This is for you, Grandma.”

But in this place, the smallest victories mean everything.

The montage shifts, showing the instructors nodding, their praise high and motivating. The boys exchange smiles, their eyes showing the hard earned satisfaction of each small achievement. It’s in the small moments that tell them they are, against all odds, getting closer to something they can almost touch.

In this place, victories are possible. One more beat hit. One higher note reached. One word memorized.

Every step is a victory. Every second a battle won. And yet, the cycle never ends. Each trainee was like a seed planted in a never ending growing soil, reaching toward a sun they prayed would find them.

Episode 3. Outside the practice rooms, there is a life that these trainees are also maintaining. School bags that slung over their shoulders, textbooks never forgotten on desks. YJ Entertainment makes sure that these boys get the quality education they also deserve.

Hyunmin juggled it all. The numbers, the history, the pop quizzes, while something inside him knocks relentlessly toward the next dance practice, the next vocal lesson, the next shot at survival.

His motivation? His father. Hyunmin’s father leaves early for work, an old photo of his son tucked into his wallet like a prayer.

He used to hear piano notes trailing from Hyunmin’s bedroom window; now he hears only the soft static of late night television.

He doesn’t say much when asked about his son’s training. Just nods and pats his head. Just tightens his grip around the steering wheel a little harder when he hears songs on the radio that sound like something his boy would have loved.

Because some fathers love in silence, in the tightening of a jaw, in the steady way they keep the lights on. He works harder just like how his son is doing–both reaching for their dreams–Hyunmin as an idol who would make himself and his father proud; and his father as a small restaurant owner who can hang his son’s photos and achievements on the wall of his restaurant. 

Ryo’s story was quieter, sadder in a way not even he fully understood. He had left Japan with nothing but a suitcase and a dream. Now, in Korea, the alphabet feels foreign, twisting on his tongue like a language from another life.

At school, he watched laughter from the outside, finally able to catch the jokes, the stories, the gossip. At the company, he stayed longer than everyone, studying Korean by the vending machines after practice, whispering new words under his breath until they stopped feeling like strangers.

He missed home. He missed understanding. But more than anything, he missed feeling enough, but thankfully, the members and a teacher (personally hired by the company) are helping him survive. So somehow, it is bearable.

Ryo’s mother sits by a window in Nagoya, a half knitted scarf slipping from her hands. The letters he sends are carefully folded, tucked between grocery lists and utility bills. She does not fully understand the language he speaks now, the Korean words stitched into his sentences but she reads the emotion between the lines. Loneliness, yet there is hope.

The space between them widening with each day he spends across the sea. Still, she smiles when the neighbors ask about him. Still, she brags about her son chasing dreams larger than the city that raised him.

Because love, real love, is learning to be proud even when your arms are empty.

Episode 4. For Wonbin, the sacrifice was physical. He had once held a fencing sword with pride. Poised and ready as a future olympic dream shining at the end of a long, narrow, and reachable path. But fencing was safe and it was expected of him. His heart had wandered elsewhere, and it was into rhythm, into music, into the impossible dream of idol life.

Leaving China had been a fracture that never fully healed. The fencing world called him a fool, saying he had no guarantee that Korea would offer him anything except exhaustion. But the dream mattered more than guarantees.

And he believed in himself because his mother did. Funnily enough, Wonbin’s mother once dreamt of seeing her son wear the colors of the national fencing team. She remembers the shine of medals, the tap of footsteps on gym floors.

And yet... she packed his bags without hesitation when he said he was leaving for Korea. She stitched his coat, she whispered prayers into the folds of his shirts, he hugged his clothes and wished for the better.

She watches fencing matches on television sometimes, long after the world has gone to bed. Not to mourn, but to remind herself that it was never the sword that mattered. It was the fire in his eyes. And that fire, wherever he went, is also hers, no matter what.

Yuno, too, carried his own silent battles. He had been a jack of all trades, flitting through sports, music, and academics, never quite finding a place to land. But in the training rooms, he felt strangely seen. He wasn’t the best singer. He wasn’t the strongest dancer. But he was adaptable, and sometimes, survival isn’t about being perfect but about refusing to fall.

He wants this to work for his grandmother, the one who held him when he felt the world crumbling. His grandmother who would always ask him to work better but never forget his faith and beliefs, and Yuno takes that in his pride.

Yuno’s grandmother lights incense every morning. She places offerings by the family altar: a bowl of rice, a piece of persimmon, a whispered wish for his future.

The old house feels bigger without Yuno, emptier somehow, but she fills it with music, playing his old practice recordings on a dusty CD player.

The neighbors laugh at how proud she sounds when she talks about him. But they do not see the way her hands tremble sometimes, folding laundry no one else wears anymore.

Because pride and missing someone are twin emotions, blooming side by side inside the human heart.

But she knows that Yuno will make it. He always does.

Episode 5. Hyunjae had chosen chaos. He had run away from the life his family had planned for him in Thailand; a plane ticket crumpled in one hand, heart in the other.

For months, his mother didn’t know where he was. So when he finally told her, the world shifted, but not with anger, it was with a heart breaking acceptance only a mother could offer.

She flew to Korea, her heart heavy but her arms open, standing in the audience as he trained, cheering with a heart that must have been breaking every second.

For Hyunjae, home became a face in the crowd, with a silent promise to make all the pain mean something.

And when she needs to go back to Thailand, she saves every photo he sends from Korea. The blurry selfies, snapshots of training rooms, screenshots of countdown timers for monthly evaluations.

He tells his mother every tiny detail: “I ate ramen and gimbap today.”, “I made a friend.”, “I miss you, Ma.”

And his mother listens, and smiles, even when her heart is breaking. And Hyunjae knows it too. That there are goodbyes that happen all at once, in crowded airports with tear streaked cheeks. And there are goodbyes that happen slowly, stretched thin on phone calls and silent hopes.

Like him, Sooyeon’s dream was made together by smaller hopes. He had grown up on Jeju Island, the sea always whispering at his door. He dreamt not of stages, but of cities of Seoul, of bright companies whose names lit up on billboards and in headlines.

And as Sooyeon went to Seoul, his father still goes fishing by the docks of Jeju, alone now.

He catches too much for one person, but he brings the extra home anyway, as if expecting Sooyeon to walk through the door laughing, hungry and asking for his favorite fish.

The ocean smells the same. The wind feels the same. Only the dreams have changed. He watches the Seoul skyline sometimes on the news and wonders if his boy ever stops to look back toward the water.

Because some homes are not places. They are the people waiting at the end of every journey.

And he is still amused, yet proud that Sooyeon came to the city not to actually become a trainee but as a fan who would watch his idol’s own fan meeting, and somehow, the dream caught him instead. He had no grand story. Just a boy who wanted to see, who ended up being seen.

Episode 6. And then there was Jongseo. The boy with the voice too big for his own body. The boy whose dream was stitched into his blood. 

He had known he was meant for the stage when he reached fifteen, not because he wanted fame, but because he wanted connection. He needed it. Like breathing, as if the stage was the only place where he could truly exist. He wanted to find someone. He wanted his voice to reach him—to reach the parts of his own story that had been lost and hidden, because his earliest memory was of his Dada singing softly to him in a language he didn’t understand but comforts him all the time. 

And then he heard that song somewhere. It was a song Jeonghan, his Papa, made. It was called Dream.

The camera moves in to reveal a small necklace hanging around his neck. Hidden beneath his shirt, the pendant has a ring on it, worn and familiar. It’s his Dada’s ring, but what fascinates him the most were the initials carved inside it: JHHJ. The one he never knew he needed until now, the one that ties him to a past he’s barely able to understand.

The silence speaks louder than words as he gently tucks the necklace back beneath his shirt, the comfort a simple necklace brings.

Diary Entry #1. A handwritten diary scan appears on screen, the edges of the paper slightly worn, the ink fading in places but still legible.

Jongseo’s. “If I could meet him once, I’d show him that the dream my Dada left for him was something I picked up. I carried it all the way here, so let me meet him.”

The footage cuts to Jongseo’s trainee days, into his progression of growth. He stands among the others during monthly evaluations, his peers slipping under pressure, but Jongseo remains steady and calm. 

He isn’t the loudest but every time he opens his mouth to sing, the entire room seems to be captivated. His voice is trembling with emotion, too young to carry the emotions of the ballad he sings, but it’s real. They know it is real.

Diary Entry #16. Another diary entry appears, the handwriting more hurried, as if written in the midst of a rush of emotions.

Jongseo’s. “Main vocal. I wish I could tell you that I’m here because of you and Dada. Because even if you forgot about me… I know I will never forget about you.”

The camera cuts to a company meeting, the room heavy with a tense atmosphere. The board members have their eyes fixed on the monitor in front of them. The sound of a click breaks the silence, and the profile photo of Jongseo appears on the screen. A staff member moves the mouse, clicking on his profile, and slowly, the screen begins to fill with Jongseo’s stats: his vocal range, his control, his monthly evaluation results. His numbers are impressive, but it’s the description that catches everyone’s attention: “A voice that speaks beyond the notes.”

A few glances were exchanged but it’s clear that no one needs to say more. The decision is already made. “There’s no question. It’s him. He’s the main vocal.”

And so, as the meeting continues, the members are already thinking ahead, already planning for the next steps. But for now, one thing is clear, Jongseo and Yuno will be the ones to lead them forward. They will carry the weight of the group, and perhaps, even more than that, they will carry the weight of a legacy they are making.

Diary Entry #30. The final diary entry fades onto the screen, Jongseo’s words lighter now and more lively.

Jongseo’s. “We’re debuting. Thank you for being there for me. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for guiding me. Thank you for cherishing me even when you just knew me, Papa.”

Then the camera shifts to Jeonghan, alone in his office. His desk is littered with papers. He sits back in his chair, eyes glued to the screen, watching Jongseo as he sings, moves, breathes. It’s quiet in the room, except for the sound coming out of the computer, and in that quiet, something inside Jeonghan stirs. 

He’s proud, not just of the boy in front of him, but of the whole damn journey; Proud that Jongseo took on this dream, one that’s been passed down without words, without even being spoken aloud. It’s the same dream Jeonghan and Joshua once held, the same one that’s been twisted by time and loss. But it’s different now. It’s real, in a way it hasn’t been for a long time.

Jeonghan runs a hand over his face, the pride swelling in his chest like it might burst. He’s proud that Jongseo’s out there, chasing the dream. He’s proud that the boy who’s his son—even though he's never really gotten to raise him—is the one standing tall, making it happen. He’s proud of everything Jongseo is, and everything he’s becoming.

But what he can’t shake is how much of this; how much of Jongseo’s path, he’s made possible. He’s the one who helped make sure Jongseo had a shot and a chance to reach for it without worrying about losing it. All of this, the company, the stage, the spotlight, it’s not just for the dream of the past. It’s now for Jongseo. This isn’t just about building something to fill the void, to bring Joshua back, but about giving his son a chance at a future without the weight of everything else holding him down. And that feels like enough. Even if everything else has been messy, even if they’re still so far from being whole, he’s given his son something he never had: the chance to dream without the fear that it’ll be taken away.

The camera fades to black and shows, Last episode. Episode 7. Soon.

Joshua finally speaks, “This... this is what you’ve been through, huh, my love?”  He looks at Jongseo, studying his face like he’s hoping to find some trace of the struggle, the hurt that’s been part of this journey. But all he sees is a smile—small, simple, but warm.

Jongseo doesn’t look up. He keeps his eyes down, but that smile stays there, almost like it’s a secret he’s holding close. “Yeah, Dada,” he says, his voice soft but sure. He wants to say more. There’s so much he wants to explain; the loneliness, the doubts, the fear that maybe he wasn’t enough. But right now, none of it feels as important as it once did. In this moment, he feels something different, something complete. He’s not sure if he’s ready to unpack all of it yet, but for now, the smile says everything.

Jeonghan watches them, his chest tight with pride and joy. After a long pause, his voice comes out almost shaky. “I never thought I’d see the day when I could watch you… be where you are, Jong.” He trails off, the words sticking in his throat. There’s so much he wants to say, so much he wants to express, but it’s like the joy and pride are too big to fit into simple sentences.

Jongseo laughs a little as his stomach growls softly, and suddenly, it’s like the heaviness of the conversation lifts.

Jeonghan, sitting beside him at the table, nudges his plate a little closer and, with a grin, scoops more adobo onto his rice. “You need more,” he says, voice warm but teasing, as he adds a generous amount of adobo on his plate. “For the next monthly evaluation, right? Gotta keep that energy up.”

Jongseo laughs, rolling his eyes, but it fills the room with warmth. “I don’t think the evals require this much food, Papa,” he says, trying to sound serious, but his smile betrays him.

Joshua, sitting across from them, chuckles, shaking his head as he picks up the rice bowl and adds more to Jongseo’s plate. “I don’t know, my love. You might need it,” he jokes, giving his son a wink. “You’ve got a lot of talent to fuel.”

Jeonghan chuckles too, nudging Jongseo’s plate even closer, like he’s making sure his son’s getting everything he deserves. “You’re going to need all the strength you can get. We’re not letting you go hungry while you’re busy being amazing.”

Jongseo’s heart swells, a warmth spreading through him that has nothing to do with the food. There’s something in the way they both look at him, something in the way they joke and tease, that feels like more than just love. It feels like a promise, like they’re giving him everything they never had the chance to before. It’s more than just adobo and rice. It’s them giving him a life, a future, where he’s not just surviving, but thriving.

“I’m good, really,” he says, words full of gratitude. He takes the extra rice with a small nod, knowing this is more than just food. This is them wanting him to succeed, not just in his dreams, but in life, in every moment.

Joshua reaches over and ruffles his hair, laughing again, the sound filling the space between them. “You’re lucky we love you so much, huh?”

Jeonghan leans back, a satisfied smile on his face as he watches his son eat, his heart full. “You have no idea,” he says softly, looking at Joshua, then back at Jongseo, his eyes full of love and something deeper, a promise that, no matter what, he’ll always be there. They’ll always be there.

And in this moment, with laughter, food, and the warmth of being together, Jongseo finally understands. This. This is what he’d been missing all along. Not just the success or the fame, but this. The life he deserved, filled with all the little moments that make it whole.

The night moves by, unhurried and soft, until the long day finally catches up to Jongseo. His head dips, his laughter fades into quiet smiles, and soon enough, he’s fast asleep, curled up against the cushions with Jeonghan’s jacket draped over him like a blanket.

Jeonghan sits quietly, watching him. He absentmindedly traces the rim of his coffee cup, a heavy feeling sitting in his chest that he can’t quite explain. Having Jongseo here, this close, feels like a dream he’s afraid to wake up from. He knows every little thing about him now; the way he smiles, the way his nose crinkles when he laughs, the way he calls for his Dada every morning so he could make him coffee and milk for himself, but deep down, he’s still scared. Scared he’ll never be enough to make up for the years he lost.

And then there’s Episode 7.

Jeonghan sighs, his gaze switching over to Joshua, who’s sitting quietly beside him, his own eyes distant. For a moment, Jeonghan doesn’t say anything. His mind races, but the words won’t come.

Joshua notices the silence. “What is it?” he asks softly, his voice low and patient. “You’ve been quiet.”

Jeonghan watches Jongseo, feeling his chest grow tight as he tries to find the right words. The thought of stepping into the spotlight, of standing beside Joshua and telling the world that they are Jongseo’s parents scares him more than he wants to admit. Especially with the past, with everything they had both tried so hard to leave behind. It would be like reopening an old wound, one they had just barely learned to live with.

He rubs a hand over his face, letting out a quiet, frustrated breath. “Shuji… you know how complicated this is. It’s not just about us standing there and saying we’re his parents. It’s about everything that comes with it.”

Joshua’s brow furrows in confusion, but Jeonghan continues, his voice covered with doubt.

“Before... before you left the spotlight, the world knew who you were. But they didn’t just know you as an idol. And then after that, they talked about the fake scandals that the company made so they would hate you and spew shit about you, the rumors... everything. And now, we have to come back. We have to come back for Jong.” he pauses for a second and looks at Joshua’s eyes, “I know it’s not just about us being proud of Jongseo. It’s about the world watching Jong. Watching us. Watching you . And I... I don’t know if I can be okay with that. With bringing all that back into our lives. Your life and eventually his life.”

Joshua falls quiet, the weight of Jeonghan’s words settling between them. He glances at their son, asleep, unaware of the worry of his parents. He’s just a kid, all hope and innocence. And maybe that’s part of the reason why Joshua feels so conflicted too.

“I’m not going to ask for forgiveness from the world, Jeonghan,” Joshua says slowly, his voice heavier than usual. “I’m not asking to be some idol again, to put myself in the spotlight for my own sake. But… for him. For our son. Maybe it’s time we stop hiding. I can clear my name, or not, but I will do anything to make this easy for Jong.”

Jeonghan shakes his head, looking down at his hands. He knows Joshua is right, but the fear of the fallout, most likely would be on Jongseo, holds him back. “It’s not just about hiding, Shuji. It’s about protecting him. Protecting him from all the mess we’re still tangled in. The world’s never been kind to you, to us, and I don’t want this to happen again, not to you, and not to Jong. Let me help and clear everything before it affects our son.”

Joshua’s eyes soften, a small understanding finally seeping through his bones. “Thank you, Jeonghan. Thank you for always thinking of Jong.”

Jeonghan still feels that hesitation, that heavy weight pressing on his chest. He can’t shake the thought of everything Joshua’s past represents—the falsely viewed image of Joshua, the loss, the quiet aftermath of his disappearance from the spotlight. The people who once adored him now carry whispers and gossips, and Jeonghan knows those would inevitably fall on Jongseo’s shoulders too. And he’s so scared that it might fuck things up again for Joshua, for him, for Jongseo, for their family. He just started taking them back and making things right, he can’t fuck this up.

He can’t let people ruin Joshua again.

So then Jeonghan looks over at Jongseo, the way he’s sleeping so peacefully, so unaware of what’s possibly going to happen. His son deserves better than this wariness. He deserves to have both of his fathers by his side, to show the world that he isn’t alone, even if it means exposing themselves, even if it means confronting the past head on.

Jeonghan swallows hard, pushing back the doubts. His fingers brush against Joshua’s hand, a silent reassurance. “I’ll be here. I won’t stay silent unlike before, Shuji. Please let me in so I can be there for you too,” he breathes and gently squeezes Joshua’s hand, “For you. For Jong.” For us.

Joshua’s lips curl into a small, wistful smile. “For him,” he echoes softly. “Always for him.”

There’s a deep breath between them, the silence telling them it’s not just a decision. It’s a promise. A promise to be there for their son, to be seen with him, with no more shadows of the past taunting them.

Jeonghan looks back at their son, his heart swelling with love and guilt, but he knows one thing now: they’re ready. Ready to step out of the darkness and not as the broken pieces of their past, but as a family. And maybe Jongseo can finally have the family he’s always deserved to brag about, to talk about, to show the world about.

He glances back at Joshua, a soft determination settling in his chest. “Let’s do it. Episode 7. We’ll be there. Together?”

Joshua nods, “Together, Han.” Together. Not just on Episode 7.