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The studio was cold that morning, the kind of cold that got into your sleeves and stayed there no matter how many warm-up stretches you did. Lights buzzed overhead, casting a pale yellow sheen over the concrete floor. Extras and crew murmured in corners, eating rice triangles or warming their hands on paper cups of coffee. The sound of rubber soles against the floor echoed in odd places.
Jaewon stood alone near the props table, struggling silently with his jumpsuit zipper. It had caught on the inner fabric just below his sternum, halfway zipped and not going anywhere. His fingers, stiff from the chill, kept fumbling.
He puffed out a soft breath, glasses fogging up slightly. “Seriously?” he mumbled to no one. His shoulder-length hair—still damp from earlier makeup—kept falling into his eyes, sticking to his cheek. He gave the zipper one last, frustrated tug.
It didn’t budge.
Behind him, a familiar low voice broke through the quiet.
“You look like you need a hand.”
Jaewon startled a little, turning toward the voice. Seunghun stood a few paces away, holding a script in one hand and a nearly empty coffee cup in the other. The ridiculous purple hair didn’t make him any less imposing—if anything, it gave him this surreal, otherworldly aura. Like a comic book villain who accidentally wandered into a rehearsal set.
“I don't,” Jaewon said, a little too fast. “I’m just—”
“Struggling quietly. I know,” Seunghun interrupted, stepping closer. “That’s kind of your thing.”
Jaewon blinked at him, unsure if it was meant as teasing or something gentler.
Seunghun tilted his head. “Let me see.”
“I got it—”
“Jaewon-ah.” It was quiet, but firm. Familiar, too. Seunghun rarely used his name out loud unless he was being serious. Or soft.
Jaewon hesitated, then let his hands fall away from the zipper.
Seunghun stepped into his space like it was the most natural thing in the world. His presence was always a little too much—tall, steady, all sharp lines and that lazy kind of elegance that made people stare. But his hands were warm as they reached up to the caught zipper, brushing Jaewon’s collarbone lightly.
The younger actor held still, barely breathing.
“It’s stuck on the lining,” Seunghun murmured, more to himself than anything. He leaned in slightly, peering at it under the studio lights. “You shouldn’t yank it like that, you’ll ruin it.”
Jaewon tried not to laugh. “You sound like a mom.”
“I get that a lot,” Seunghun said dryly, tugging the fabric just enough to ease the zipper loose. His fingers brushed against Jaewon’s chest, slow and careful, not rushing.
Up close, he smelled like a strange mix of coffee, costume dust, and something faintly floral. Not cologne—maybe shampoo. Jaewon could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, but he didn’t dare move.
“There,” Seunghun said finally, tugging the zipper the rest of the way up in one smooth motion. “Fixed.”
But he didn’t move back.
Instead, his hand lingered at the top, thumb brushing the spot just beneath Jaewon’s throat. His gaze lifted from the zipper to Jaewon’s face, eyes locking.
“You always let things get stuck,” Seunghun said quietly. “You don’t ask for help until it’s already frustrating you.”
Jaewon chuckled. His voice came out quieter than he intended. “It’s just a zipper.”
“It’s never just a zipper with you.”
There was a flicker of something unreadable in Seunghun’s expression. Not mocking. Not even teasing. Just… present. Like he was really looking at Jaewon, not just seeing him. And it was enough to make Jaewon’s stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with nerves.
Then Seunghun reached up and gently tucked a strand of hair behind Jaewon’s ear, his fingers brushing the soft skin of his cheek as he did.
“You need a haircut,” he said.
“I like it long,” Jaewon replied.
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Seunghun said smoothly, then—finally—stepped back. He took a sip of his lukewarm coffee, and added without looking, “You’re cute when you’re flustered, though.”
Jaewon’s breath caught. “I’m not flustered.”
“You’re blushing,” Seunghun said, turning as he walked away. “Right down to your ears.”
They barely had time to process the moment before the assistant director called out from the main floor.
“Next setup! Mingle—camera A and B ready, cast get to position!”
Seunghun gave Jaewon one last glance before heading off in the direction of the main set. Jaewon followed a beat behind, tugging at his sleeves as if they could ground him. His heart still hadn’t slowed down. Every time he blinked, he could still feel the ghost of that thumb on his neck. Still hear the soft way Seunghun had said, You’re cute when you’re flustered.
He took a breath and stepped onto the raised platform with the others.
The camera was rolling. The spinning platform creaked under their feet, and the world blurred around them in a disorienting swirl of numbered doors and fluorescent lights. Even after the director had shouted “Action,” everything still felt real. Realer than it should. Maybe it was the cold, or the echo of rubber soles squeaking nervously, or the way Jaewon’s heart thumped with more than just adrenaline.
He stood near the center of the platform, shoulder brushing Jian’s for balance, breath fogging in the chilled air. To his right stood David and Sungwook, both deep in character, eyes scanning the shifting doors around them like panicked animals trying to find the way out. Behind him, Seunghun stood calm and quiet, unreadable as ever, hands tucked into his pockets, his purple hair glowing under the lights like something out of a dream.
The speakers crackled again.
“Ten.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then chaos.
Feet pounded against the metal, sneakers scrambling as everyone scattered toward the numbered doors. Jaewon turned, counted quickly—himself, David, Sungwook, Jian—four. He didn’t recognize the other five that began moving in the same direction, but that wasn’t the point.
Someone yelled, “Room 5!” and the rest of them surged toward the door marked with the faded red number.
Jaewon ran. The spinning platform had slowed just enough to allow footing, but it was still moving under him. He pushed forward, ducking past an elbow, weaving between shoulders. The room was just a few meters ahead, the door wide open, lights flickering inside.
Then someone clipped his heel from behind.
He gasped as his ankle gave out—momentum throwing him forward, breath knocked from his lungs. Time slowed just a fraction. He felt his foot roll sideways. Pain shot up his leg, sharp and white-hot.
He was going down.
Except he didn’t.
A hand caught him. Strong, solid. An arm wrapped tight around his waist and pulled him upright mid-fall, catching all of his weight.
Seunghun.
“Got you,” he said, breathless but steady.
They stumbled together into the room just as the metal door hissed shut behind them with a heavy clank.
“Good job everyone, keep it up.” Jian smiled at them.
The words meant nothing to Jaewon in that moment. His mind was reeling, heart hammering in his chest. His ankle throbbed, a dull pulsing pain that made him wince when he shifted his weight.
Seunghun was still holding him.
Jaewon blinked, trying to reorient himself.
They were crammed into a tiny concrete cell, barely enough room for ten people. Jian was squeezed against the far wall beside David, Sungwook braced near the door. The rest were unfamiliar faces—extras, probably. But no one said anything. Everyone was catching their breath, letting the tension ease off their shoulders now that they were “safe.”
Except Seunghun. His focus was entirely on Jaewon.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his hand still around Jaewon’s waist.
Jaewon nodded automatically, then winced. “I—I think I rolled it.”
Seunghun’s brow furrowed. “Let me see.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m going to,” he said simply, guiding Jaewon gently toward the wall. He lowered him down carefully until Jaewon was sitting, one leg stretched out. Seunghun crouched in front of him, fingers already pressing softly around the swollen joint.
Jaewon bit down on a small hiss of pain.
“Sorry,” Seunghun murmured. His voice had dropped—lower, more intimate. “You’re lucky you didn’t fall wrong. Could’ve twisted it worse.”
“I’m lucky you caught me.”
Seunghun looked up. Their eyes locked. For a second, the crowded room faded around them—the muffled breaths, the scuff of sneakers, Jian whispering something to David in the corner.
Just the two of them.
“You always move like you’re untouchable,” Seunghun said softly. “But you’re not. You’re fragile.”
“That’s not—”
“It’s not bad,” he interrupted, brushing Jaewon’s hair back from his forehead. “You just… don’t act like anyone’s allowed to take care of you.”
Jaewon’s breath caught. “Why do you want to?”
Seunghun didn’t answer right away. He straightened up slowly, eyes scanning Jaewon’s face like he was memorizing it.
“Because you let me,” he said finally.
The lights above flickered—part of the scene. An artificial siren wailed in the distance, signaling the end of the round. The door behind them groaned open, cold air rushing back into the room.
Jaewon limped slightly as they stepped off the platform, his weight still mostly on Seunghun’s shoulder. He was trying his best to downplay it—walking as normally as he could, not wincing when his foot hit the floor wrong—but Seunghun could feel how tense his body was.
“Jaewon!” Director Hwang’s voice rang out across the set.
He approached quickly, clipboard in hand, headset askew around his neck. His eyes flicked down to Jaewon’s awkward gait, then to the way Seunghun’s arm was still firm around his waist.
“What happened?” the director asked, voice sharp with concern.
Seunghun answered before Jaewon could open his mouth. “He tripped running for the door. Rolled his ankle pretty bad, but he kept going.”
Jaewon flushed immediately, waving a hand like it was no big deal. “Ah—no, I’m fine, really. I just… landed weird.”
The director raised a brow.
“You’re limping.”
“It’s not that bad.”
Seunghun gave a quiet snort beside him. “He almost face-planted into the floor.”
Jaewon shot him a betrayed look. “Hyung…”
Director Hwang sighed, rubbing his forehead like he was already adjusting his schedule in his mind. “Alright. Fine. Take him off set. You both can rest to the side for a bit while we reset lighting for the pickups.”
“I really don’t need to—” Jaewon started, eyes wide, voice soft.
“Not up for debate,” the director cut in, already turning to shout something at the lighting crew. “Use the green room. Take the time to breathe. I don’t want a real injury slowing down production.”
Jaewon stood frozen, cheeks burning. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” the director called over his shoulder. “Just don’t make me pay hospital bills.”
Seunghun chuckled and gave Jaewon a gentle nudge. “Come on. I’ll help you sit down.”
Jaewon let himself be guided, biting down on his instinct to argue further. His glasses had slid low on his nose again, and his bangs kept catching in his lashes. Seunghun didn’t comment on it, but the way he adjusted his grip, just a little tighter around Jaewon’s waist, said enough.
As they headed toward the edge of the set, past the rows of monitors and folding chairs, Jaewon murmured, barely audible, “You didn’t have to tell him everything…”
Seunghun leaned in slightly, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Next time don’t almost eat concrete and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
Jaewon groaned into his sleeve, but he didn’t pull away.
The green room was tucked behind one of the massive sliding partitions at the edge of the set—a quieter space, dimly lit, furnished with fold-out couches, fleece blankets, and a mini fridge that hummed softly in the background. It smelled faintly of coffee, lavender fabric spray, and something sweet someone had probably microwaved earlier.
Jaewon shuffled in slowly, one arm around Seunghun's shoulder, the other gripping his own wrist to keep from fidgeting. His ankle still pulsed with heat, but it wasn't just that making his skin feel too warm. It was the memory of ten eyes in that tiny game room. The look Seunghun gave him. The way he hadn’t let go since.
Seunghun guided him toward the couch without saying much, easing him down gently like Jaewon might break. Once Jaewon was seated, Seunghun crouched down in front of him, eye-level.
“Foot up,” he said, all business, nodding at the small ottoman in front of the couch.
Jaewon blinked. “Hyung, I can do it.”
“Jaewon.” His voice was firm but not unkind. “Foot. Up.”
Jaewon sighed and did as told, trying not to look at how ridiculous he probably seemed—glasses askew, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair half-tucked behind one ear and falling in his face. Seunghun grabbed a pillow from the couch and slid it beneath his ankle, then disappeared briefly into the adjoining room with the mini fridge.
Jaewon sat there, fingers tapping against his knee, heart racing for absolutely no good reason.
He didn’t have to wait long—Seunghun returned with a towel-wrapped ice pack and two bottles of water. He kneeled down again, settled the ice gently over Jaewon’s ankle, then folded the towel over to dull the sting.
“You’re surprisingly domestic,” Jaewon mumbled, unable to stop himself.
Seunghun glanced up with a faint smile. “I’ve worked with idols before, even was one myself, remember? You learn how to patch up baby deer.”
Jaewon puffed out a tiny, indignant laugh. “I’m not a baby deer.”
“You are,” Seunghun said simply. “You trip over air.”
“You said you’d stop talking if I didn’t fall.”
“I said I’d stop telling the director if you didn’t fall. This?” Seunghun grinned. “This is bonus content.”
Jaewon tried to scowl, but it cracked halfway through. He looked away, cheeks pink, eyes focused on a scuff mark on the floor.
The room went quiet for a moment, save for the muffled calls from the set outside.
Then Seunghun sat back on his heels and unscrewed one of the water bottles, offering it wordlessly. Jaewon took it, their fingers brushing.
“Thanks,” he said, voice small.
Seunghun’s expression softened. “Why were you trying so hard to pretend you were fine out there?”
“I was fine.”
“You weren’t.”
Jaewon opened the bottle slowly. “Because if I said something, everything would’ve stopped. The camera, the crew, the momentum. Everyone would’ve looked at me. Don't get me wrong, I'm an actor and I'm often on camera and I'm not shy or anything but… you know..”
“They looked at you anyway,” Seunghun said gently. “Because they care. You don’t have to disappear just to make things easier.”
That hit something deep. Jaewon took a long sip of water to buy himself time, then quietly set the bottle down beside him.
“I don’t like being seen when I’m… not good.”
“You think this is not good?”
“I think this is… embarrassing.”
Seunghun’s voice was soft now, closer. “It’s not.”
Jaewon glanced over. He hadn’t noticed how close Seunghun had gotten—knees brushing, his elbow now resting on the edge of the couch, fingers idly curled over the corner cushion. His purple hair was slightly mussed from the earlier chaos. There was a faint sheen of sweat at his temple, and something too calm in his gaze.
“I don’t want you to think I’m weak,” Jaewon said before he could stop himself.
“I don’t,” Seunghun answered immediately. “If anything, I think you’re too strong for your own good.”
That surprised a breath out of him.
Seunghun continued, quiet but steady. “You keep pushing even when you don’t have to. Even when it hurts. Even when there’s someone right here who’d catch you without thinking twice.”
Jaewon blinked hard. “Is that… what this is?”
“What?”
“You catching me?”
Seunghun smiled, this time soft, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his mouth but flooded his eyes. “Maybe.”
They sat in silence for a moment. The ice pack had numbed most of the throbbing by now, but Jaewon hadn’t noticed. Not with the way Seunghun was looking at him. Not with the quiet weight of those words still lingering between them.
Then Seunghun reached forward—slowly, like asking permission without words—and brushed Jaewon’s bangs back from his forehead, tucking them gently behind his ear.
“You don’t always have to fix things yourself,” he said.
“I’m used to it.”
“You don’t have to be.”
Jaewon exhaled, long and quiet, like something in him was finally unclenching.
“I like it here,” he said without thinking. “With you. Like this.”
“I know,” Seunghun murmured.
And maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the comfort. Maybe it was the fact that—for the first time—Jaewon wasn’t pretending to be fine.
But he let his head tilt just slightly until it rested against Seunghun’s shoulder.
And Seunghun didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Just stayed there, warm and still, like an anchor.
Neither of them spoke.
There was no need to.
Seunghun shifted slightly, only to glance down at the ice pack. “It’s probably time to take this off. Any longer and you’ll be more ice than bone.”
Jaewon hummed, eyes fluttering open. “You’re very dramatic, you know.”
“Says the boy who nearly collapsed in a death trap game room.”
Jaewon made a face, and Seunghun chuckled. He carefully lifted the towel-wrapped pack off Jaewon’s ankle and touched the skin with his fingertips, checking the swelling again. His hands were warm. Gentle. Like he was afraid of hurting him.
Jaewon watched him, quiet.
He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Seunghun glanced up and met his eyes.
“You okay now?” Seunghun asked softly.
Jaewon nodded.
Seunghun smiled. Then—slowly, carefully—he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Jaewon’s forehead. Not teasing. Not rushed. Just a small, intentional moment of care. His lips were warm, and Jaewon’s breath hitched, caught between surprise and something deeper he didn’t have a name for yet.
Seunghun lingered there for a second longer before pulling back.
“There,” he said, voice low. “Fixed.”
Jaewon blinked at him, mouth slightly parted, heart thudding unevenly in his chest.
“I…” He swallowed. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.”
Jaewon’s face flushed to the tips of his ears. He ducked his head, suddenly shy again, tucking himself behind his hair like a curtain.
“I’m gonna die,” he muttered under his breath.
Seunghun laughed, low and warm. “Not today. You’ve still got scenes to shoot.”
He stood, stretched, then held out a hand. “Come on. Let’s go show them you’re still in one piece.”
Jaewon took it without thinking.
Their fingers laced naturally—comfortably—and even though Jaewon tried not to read into it, it felt like something had quietly clicked into place between them.
When they stepped back onto the set, no one stared. The cameras were being adjusted, the extras were resetting their positions, and Director Hwang was deep in conversation with the DP.
But the air around them felt different.
Jaewon stood a little closer than before. Seunghun’s hand hovered near the small of his back without ever needing to touch it. Their eyes met once, briefly, and held.
It didn’t have to be loud to be real.
Something had shifted. Quietly. Permanently.
And they both knew it.