Archive of Our Own ^beta

They had just stepped outside the venue after their encore stage—sweaty, tired, and riding the high of another perfect all-kill. The staff was wrapping up, the fans were still chanting from a distance, and MARS gathered near the exit, half-heartedly discussing food.

That’s when they saw Gam, waiting just beyond the barricade, arms crossed, glowing like someone stepped out of a CF.

“P’Gam!” Pepper called brightly, jogging toward her with zero regard for his idol image. “You didn’t tell me you were coming!”

Gam rolled her eyes fondly. “I wanted to surprise you.”

Jun, ever the opportunist and menace, strolled up beside them with his usual lopsided grin. “Are you waiting to have dinner with us?” he asked in a teasing, borderline flirty tone, knowing exactly what he was doing.

Gam raised an unimpressed brow. “What are you talking about? I’m waiting for Pepper—my boyfriend.”

Jun blinked. “Ah,” he said, totally unfazed.

Pepper stepped in front of him, puffing out his chest like a proud guard dog. “Did you hear that?” he said with a playful smirk, tapping Jun on the chest twice. “My girlfriend. Don’t mess with us, okay?”

Jun snorted. “Relax, leader. I’m just being friendly.”

Pepper and Gam headed off arm in arm, waving over their shoulders.

“Have fun being in love or whatever!” Nano yelled after them.

Then, turning to Jun with a face too sweet to be innocent, he asked, “Are you lonely? Do you want someone to feel lonely with you?” He reached out and casually dropped a hand onto Dylan’s shoulder. “This guy’s been whining about being hungry since we left the stage. How about this—just the two of you go eat.”

Jun didn’t even get a chance to respond.

Dylan recoiled like Nano had offered him a plate of skinned lizard. “Me? With him? Ew! No way I’m having dinner with just the two of us.” he said with the most dramatic grimace Jun had ever seen. Then he jabbed a finger toward Nano’s face. “And you—turn off your shipper mode already, alright?”

He flicked Nano’s forehead before stomping two steps away like an angry duck.

Nano, rubbing his forehead and fixing his bangs, said cheerfully, “Alright, alright. I’ll drop everything, okay? Let’s go eat.” He turned toward Thame, who was already dialing his P’Po. “Wanna join us? No? Okay. Then it’s just the three of us. Let’s go!”

Jun didn’t follow.

He stayed behind, arms crossed, expression unreadable as he watched Dylan walk away.

“Ew,” Jun muttered to himself. “Okay, then.”

He cracked his neck, stretched his arms once, and let a slow grin creep across his face.

“If you think I’m that gross,” he said under his breath, “then I’m gonna make sure you choke on your words. Let’s see how long you can keep saying ‘ew’ after I show you what you’re missing.”

Challenge accepted.

Dinner was ramen—because of course it was.

A small shop tucked into the edge of a quiet alley, where the staff recognized them but had the grace not to make a fuss. They took the table in the back, hidden by a curtain and surrounded by low chatter and the soft clinking of bowls.

Nano sat across from Jun and Dylan, still humming happily from the chaos he’d caused like a kid who’d been praised for setting a classroom on fire.

Jun was still thinking about it. “Ew.”

The word echoed in his skull like an annoying ringtone he couldn’t shut off. Not even the smell of pork bone broth or Nano’s running commentary on which topping combo was most “texturally blessed” could distract him from the insult.

“Ew.” Like he was mold. Or a cold french fry. Or the idea of kissing a cousin.

He picked up his chopsticks with unnecessary precision and turned to Dylan, who was scrolling on his phone like nothing happened.

“Brace yourself,” Jun said casually.

Dylan glanced up. “For what?”

Jun leaned in, the corners of his lips twitching into something smug and dangerous. “What’s about to come your way.”

Dylan raised a brow, unimpressed. “Why? You acting on it?”

Jun’s smile sharpened. “I’m giving you one chance to back out from your downfall, Dylan. One chance.”

Dylan set down his phone and leaned back in his seat, arms crossing as a grin slowly spread across his face—wide, infuriating, and so very Dylan.

“Show me what you got.” he said.

Jun hummed. “You asked for it.”

—

Jun wasn’t dramatic. Not usually. He liked to think of himself as rational, measured, maybe a little intense when he believed in something. Like stage formations. Or getting the perfect high note. Or Dylan.

Which was probably why Dylan’s “ew” from the night before was still echoing in his head like a bad remix.

“Me? With him? Ew.”

He could still see Dylan’s face, scrunched up in disgust, like Jun had offered to feed him a plate of dead rats with his hands. All because Nano had suggested they eat together—just the two of them. As if that was the most horrifying concept in the world.

Jun rolled over in bed with a frustrated groan, hugging his pillow like it owed him money. The room was quiet. Dylan wasn’t around. He was probably in the music room or the pantry or out charming some grandma with that stupid, soft face that made people hand him candy.

Fine. If Dylan thought the idea of being alone with Jun was so awful, then Jun would show him exactly what he was missing.

But if he was going to do this right, he had to know his target. Strategically. Scientifically.

He had to know Dylan.

Not just the Dylan who tripped over cords and grumbled about toothpaste. Not just the Dylan who snapped at him when he stole fries and then passed him the last one anyway.

The real Dylan.

And thank god they were idols.

Everything was online.

Jun flopped down on the living room couch, hoodie over his head, and opened TikTok with grim determination. He searched #DylanMARS like it was an intelligence mission. And at first, it was exactly what he expected. Clips from stages. Fancams with dramatic filters. Dylan in black and white, singing under moody lights. One edit had a Lana Del Rey song playing behind his rap verse. Classic. 

But then—Jun scrolled further. And the algorithm took a turn. Suddenly, it wasn’t cool edits or stage videos anymore.

It was… Dylan giggling. A lot. In soft lighting. With sparkles. With bows.

Jun paused on one that had nearly three million likes.

The caption read:

“THIS FAN GAVE HIM SANRIO CLIPS LOOK AT HIS FACE 😭😭 #DylanMARS #babykittenenergy”

The video showed a fan reaching over the barricade during a fansign and carefully clipping a tiny Cinnamoroll hairpin into Dylan’s hair. He laughed so hard he snorted, then clapped his hands over his mouth and waved shyly. His smile was huge.

Jun blinked.

He clicked the profile and scrolled. There were more. Dylan getting excited over plushies. Dylan comparing his favorite hoodie to “a stormy sky.” Dylan being asked his favorite color on a livestream and saying, “Gray. Like… a soft gray. Like clouds before it rains but in a nice way.”

Jun sat up slowly.

Soft gray? He could’ve sworn Dylan liked black. All of his clothes were black. His phone case, black. His microphone, black. His chair—black.

But the more he thought about it… The comforter Dylan stole from the laundry pile was gray. So was the mug he always used. His lyric notebook cover. Even the blanket on the dorm couch he curled under after long schedules—soft gray. Even his hair is soft gray.

How had Jun missed this?

He went back to TikTok. One video compared Dylan’s habits to a Scottish Fold cat. Another to a dumpling with a face, which—in Jun’s full opinion— looks exactly like Dylan. There was even a compilation of Dylan stomping his foot when he lost arguments and games, with sparkles and a glitter sound effect and small pink bows.

Jun didn’t even realize he was smiling until his cheeks started to hurt.

This was dangerous. He wasn’t supposed to fall into the Dylan lore. He was supposed to use it to prove a point. To tease. To get even. Instead, he was learning that Dylan had a favorite cat meme, liked honey toast with extra butter, and cried to Grave of the Fireflies three times. Not once. Three.

Jun whispered to his phone, “You’re supposed to be my enemy.”

But his thumb tapped another video. And another.

By the time Dylan walked into the living room that night—hair wet from a shower, one sock missing—Jun was still on his phone, eyes wide, nose buried in the TikTok vortex.

Dylan squinted. “You look like you just saw god.”

Jun didn’t answer.

Because god, apparently, wore Sanrio hairclips and liked soft gray.

And Jun had only just begun taking notes.

Dylan paused in front of the couch, towel slung over his shoulder, watching Jun like someone who’d just stumbled across an alien invasion.

“You okay?” Dylan asked, arms crossing as he studied Jun’s unblinking stare at his phone. “You look like you’re either high or hypnotized.”

Jun didn’t look up. “Hmm?”

“You’ve been sitting there like a cult member waiting for a vision. Are you watching fan edits of yourself again?”

Jun’s lip twitched. “Tempting. But no. I’m watching you.”

Dylan blinked. “Excuse me?”

Jun finally tilted his head, slowly, like a wolf tracking prey. His grin was sharp, teeth flashing under the hoodie still loosely hanging over his hair. “Or should I say: I’m studying you. Very important work.”

Dylan recoiled. “Why do you sound like a serial killer?”

“Because I’m invested.”

“Invested in what? My downfall?”

Jun placed his phone down like he was setting a sacred text on an altar. “Something like that.”

Dylan rolled his eyes so hard Jun swore he heard a muscle creak. “Whatever. I’m going to my room before you get any more ideas about adopting me like one of those stray cats you feed.”

“I’d name you Dymsum,” Jun called after him.

“I’ll punch you in the teeth,” Dylan called back, slamming his door.

Jun waited until he heard the click of Dylan’s lock before exhaling loudly, flopping onto his back like a man defeated by his own feelings.

“Okay,” he mumbled to the ceiling. “So maybe this isn’t just revenge anymore.”

Because here was the truth, and he hated himself for admitting it—he likes Dylan. A lot. He always had, even when Dylan was being difficult or defensive or calling him an asshole with an ungodly amount of curses by the side.

Especially then.

But liking someone and having them like you back were two very different things. And Dylan didn’t just dislike him—he ew-ed him.

Jun rolled over, face smushed into the arm of the couch. “Why do I like the human equivalent of a cactus in Doc Martens?”

He dragged himself to his room minutes later. The walls were still the same muted tones he preferred—dark gray, a little messy, scattered with posters and shelves of sneakers. His guitar leaned against his nightstand, neglected. The notebook on his desk mocked him.

He needed a game plan. 

Jun sat at his desk, opened his laptop, and typed in:

“How to make someone fall in love with you without them realizing it and also maybe while they think you’re the devil incarnate.”

The results were… not helpful. So he backtracked. Simpler. Clinical. Effective.

“How to show someone you like them”, entered the holy grail.

The Five Love Languages: Words of Affirmation, Acts of Service, Gift Giving, Quality Time, Physical Touch.

Jun stared at the list like it had been hand-delivered by fate itself. “Five love languages,” he muttered. “Right. Easy. I can do this. I’m Jun. I can flirt through a category system.”

But he hesitated. Because Dylan wasn’t like anyone else. Dylan was a walking contradiction. He hated clinginess but craved warmth. He’d bite your head off when he was vulnerable. He kicks you and then leaves candy on your pillow. If Jun threw all five love languages at him at once, Dylan would panic. Run. Call him names. Maybe kill him in his sleep.

Start small, Jun thought. Test the waters. Start with something he can’t argue with.

Acts of Service.

That was safe. Helpful. Invisible, even, if done right. Besides, Dylan had been overwhelmed lately—between the comeback, the fanmeet schedules, the constant pressure to look happy when he clearly wasn’t. Nano mentioned he wasn’t eating properly again.

Jun opened his notebook and jotted down.

Operation: Dylan not ew-ifying me

→ Phase 1: Acts of Service

• cook breakfast

• clean something

• his laundry

• give snacks

• coffee

He reread the list, heart thudding, nerves clawing at the back of his neck.

He wasn’t good at being subtle. Jun loved loudly. He always had. With gestures and teasing and grand statements.

But if Dylan needed quiet love—if Dylan needed patience—then that’s what Jun would give him.

Even if it chokes him to death.

He closed his notes and whispered to the darkness, “Tomorrow, I start ruining your life.”

A beat.

“With kindness.”

Then he pulled the blanket over his head, and tried very hard not to dream of hairclips, honey toast, and gray.

The next morning started the way most of them did in the MARS dorm; with chaos.

Pepper was yelling something about a missing phone charger, Nano was dancing in the hallway with a toothbrush in his mouth, and Thame was asleep on the living room floor using a roll of paper towels as a pillow. P’Po had dropped off snacks at some ungodly hour and left a sticky note with a cartoon drawing of Thame snoring beside it.

And Jun? He was up early. Which meant something was seriously wrong.

He stood in the kitchen, hair still damp from his shower, an apron around his waist—his own apron, not Dylan’s (important detail)—and a determined glint in his eye.

It was time.

The night before, after Dylan disappeared into his room with a huff and a vague threat about locking the door, Jun had laid awake for hours scrolling through twitter articles, psychology tiktok, and Reddit threads, falling deeper and deeper into the question that had started it all: How do I prove to my emotionally constipated, soft gray, secretly adorable arch-nemesis that I’m boyfriend material?

The answer? The internet, in its infinite and terrifying wisdom, offered up something called The Five Love Languages. It sounded like a scam. But Jun read it anyway. Acts of service. Words of affirmation. Physical touch. Gift giving. Quality time. Five different ways to show love, five different ways to receive love.

Dylan didn’t seem like the physical-touch type—unless you counted dramatic shoves and aggressive forehead flicks. Words of affirmation? Not unless sarcasm counted. Gifts? Maybe, but Jun didn’t want to drop three hundred baht on something that would end up in a drawer next to unopened sheet masks and expired cologne samples.

Which left him with two safe-ish places to start: quality time and acts of service.

And this morning was all about service.

Which was why the kitchen smelled like garlic, soy, and smug intentions.

Jun cracked an egg into a pan with more confidence than skill. He was halfway through plating it beside the fried rice he’d just made (with real carrots, not those frozen cubes from last time) when he heard the familiar shuffle of feet down the hall.

Dylan. Of course. Hair a mess. Hoodie halfway off his shoulder. Rubbing one eye with his sleeve like a pissed-off cat who didn’t want to be awake yet.

He stopped short in the kitchen doorway. Jun didn’t look up right away. He was focused. Artistic. Sprinkling a final pinch of green onion like it was a masterpiece, not just two plates of breakfast.

When he did glance up, it was with a devastatingly casual smile. “Mornin’,” he said, like he wasn’t plotting Dylan’s romantic destruction. “You eat yet?”

Dylan blinked. Looked at the food. Then at Jun. Then back at the food.

“What,” he said flatly, “you need psychiatric help?”

Jun gestured at the plate. “I just made breakfast.”

“No,” Dylan said slowly, suspiciously, “you never make breakfast. You burn water.”

“I’m expanding my skills,” Jun said, sliding one plate toward Dylan like a bribe. “Come on. Try it. I didn’t even spit in it.”

Dylan gave him a look. “That’s your baseline for reassurance?”

“Eat,” Jun said, ignoring the glare. “You’ll be less grumpy.”

“I’m not grumpy.”

“You literally growled at Nano this morning.”

“That was because he tried to sit on me like a chair—”

“Sit,” Jun cut in, grabbing Dylan by the wrist and pulling him toward the stool at the counter. “Eat. Accept my selfless, heartfelt gesture.”

Dylan didn’t sit. He hovered. Arms crossed, nose wrinkled. Suspicion radiating from his whole body.

“…Why are you being nice?” he asked, finally.

Jun leaned against the counter, still smiling. “Why are you so suspicious?”

“Because the last time you were this nice, you broke my mug.”

Jun shrugged. “That was a long time ago.”

“It was last month.”

“I’ve grown.”

“Jun.”

Jun sighed, then dropped the act for just a moment. His eyes met Dylan’s, steady and earnest—no smirk, no teasing, no bait.

“I just want you to have a good morning,” he said. “That’s all.”

Dylan squinted at him like the words were fake. “…That’s fucked up.”

But he sat. Slowly. Carefully. Like the rice was going to explode.

He picked up a spoon and took a bite. Then stopped. Jun waited.

“…It’s good.” Dylan mumbled, as if complimenting Jun physically pained him.

Jun beamed. “See? I’m capable of basic survival skills.”

“I mean, the egg’s a little over—”

“Shut up and eat, Your Highness.”

Dylan rolled his eyes, but he didn’t stop eating. He even picked up a piece of sausage with interest and tilted his head like it offended him how much he liked it.

That afternoon, Jun cleaned the shared bathroom.

Not because it was disgusting (though it was), and not because Pepper had been nagging (though he had). Jun cleaned it because Dylan always forgot to do it, and Jun wanted him to notice.

He even organized the drawer Dylan used for his hair gel and shoved all the others’ stuff to the sides so Dylan’s space was pristine. He replaced the empty shampoo bottle with Dylan’s favorite one, the one that smelled like vanilla and guilt combined.

Then he left a post-it on the mirror. In neat, crooked handwriting, 

“Yes, I cleaned this. No, I didn’t die doing it 

—From your shockingly thoughtful and majestically handsome bandmate”

Jun watched from his bedroom later, door cracked open, as Dylan wandered into the hallway and paused in front of the mirror. He read the note. Then frowned. Then peeled it off and stuck it to the inside of his phone case. Jun watched him disappear back down the hall and grinned.

The next morning, Jun woke up before his alarm.

Which wasn’t hard, since he hadn’t actually slept. Insomniac bastard.

He’d spent most of the night watching a video essay titled “The 5 Love Languages Explained” at 1.25x speed while deep-conditioning his hair. Then he fell into a Pinterest spiral looking at matching pajama sets for couples who “aren’t dating, just emotionally tied soulmates.” It was unhealthy. He was thriving alright.

And now? It was time for Laundry Day. Or, more specifically: Dylan’s Hoodie Day. The gray one. Faded, frayed at the sleeves, smells like cedar and regret. Dylan wore it on low-energy days, which—these days—were most days. He hadn’t smiled properly since the preparations for the comeback started. Since he flinched every time someone said the word ‘lyrics’. Since he’d shut his bedroom door more than he used to, and Nano started checking on him more than once a day.

Jun noticed. Of course he noticed.

So he took the hoodie—gently, reverently, like a holy relic—from the pile of dirty clothes in the corner of the living room where Dylan had dropped it the night before. He turned it inside out. Checked the tag. Washed it delicately with fabric softener. Then tumbled it dry for exactly fifteen minutes before hanging it up like it was made of 21k spun gold. He also washed the jeans Dylan wore with it most. Folded them together. Placed them neatly at the foot of Dylan’s bed.

He didn’t leave a note this time. Just the hoodie. Clean. Soft. Folded into the shape of something safe.

Dylan noticed. He didn’t say anything. Not when he walked into his room and saw the clothes. Not when he came out ten minutes later wearing that hoodie, sleeves half covering his hands, hair still damp from his shower. But Jun saw it. The way Dylan tugged the hem with his fingers. The way he smelled it, once, when he thought no one was looking. The way he didn’t yell when Nano tackled him from behind yelling, “P’DYLANNNNNNNN, PEPPER STOLE MY FACE MASK AGAIN!”

He just made a sound halfway between a grunt and a sigh, caught Nano by the arm before they both tripped, and said, “Don’t leave it in the fridge with my name on it next time, dumbo.”

Jun was sitting on the couch, pretending to scroll through his phone. He didn’t say anything. He just smiled.

Later that night, Dylan walked past Jun’s room and paused in the doorway.

Jun glanced up from his laptop.

Dylan was holding a mug. Jun’s favorite one—the one shaped like a dog’s face, with a tail as handle.

He didn’t look grateful. He looked half-asleep, hoodie sleeves covering his hands, eyes narrowed.

But he mumbled, “Made you tea,” and shoved the mug into Jun’s hands without waiting for a reply.

Jun stared at it. Then stared at Dylan. “…You made me tea?” he asked, stunned.

“It was either that or let Nano experiment with spice levels again,” Dylan muttered, backing out of the room like a feral cat. “You’re welcome. Or whatever.”

Jun stared at the doorway long after Dylan left. Then he sipped. It was the exact right amount of honey. He bit back a grin so wide it made his face hurt.

Maybe Dylan wasn’t just accepting his help. Maybe he was returning it.

The next few days turned into a war of quiet kindness.

Jun packed an extra protein bar into Dylan’s bag before practice. Dylan set up Jun’s mic stand before rehearsal without saying a word.

Jun untangled Dylan’s necklace after it knotted during wardrobe. Dylan placed Jun’s water bottle on the edge of the stage every time they had a break—without ever handing it to him directly.

They didn’t talk about it. But Nano witnessed it all. Of course he would.

On the fourth morning, he walked past the kitchen to find Jun pouring Dylan’s coffee just the way he liked it, stirring with a spoon from his side of the drawer, humming something soft under his breath. Nano squinted. Paused. Sipped his own drink. Then called out sweetly, “P’Jun, are you servicing P’Dylan now?”

Jun dropped the spoon to the side with a clatter and nearly burned his hand.

From the hallway, Dylan choked.

Jun cleared his throat. “I’m doing acts of service, thank you very much. It’s a known love language.”

Nano grinned around the straw of his iced milk. “So you are in love.”

Jun opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Dylan, now poking his head into the kitchen with a red face, scowled. “Shut up, Nano.”

Nano just winked at both of them. “Just sayin’. Domestic and defensive? Something’s definitely going on. Trust.”

He sassed off, victorious.

Jun turned back to the coffee, face warm.

Dylan didn’t move. “…Thanks,” he muttered finally, not quite meeting Jun’s eyes.

Jun smiled into the coffee and slid it across the counter.

“You’re welcome,” he said softly. “Now go shower. Your stress sweat is getting all over me.”

Dylan shoved him half-heartedly and stomped off. But he took the coffee with him. And he didn’t stop smiling the whole way down the hall.

—

It started, as most of Jun’s worst ideas did, with him sitting on the kitchen counter at 2AM eating cereal out of a mixing bowl.

The dorm was quiet. The others were asleep or pretending to be, and Dylan—according to Jun’s stalking log (he had a mental log now; it was getting dire)—had gone to bed an hour ago after muttering something about his eyeballs falling out from looking at lyrics all day. Jun chewed his soggy cornflakes and stared at the fridge like it personally offended him.

Acts of service was easy. He liked being useful, liked doing things with his hands. He’d already started that phase with casual precision: picking up Dylan’s laundry before he even asked, cleaning the bathroom, making him coffee. Stealth mode, of course. Dylan hadn’t noticed anything yet, or if he had, he blamed the universe.

But the next step? Gifts. Thoughtful gifts. Personal gifts. Intimate, but not creepy. Obvious, but not too obvious.

He sighed and rested his forehead against the edge of the cereal bowl.

“I should’ve just joined a boy group to dance,” he muttered. “Not emotionally reprogram a man who says ‘ew’ at my existence.”

Still, a plan was a plan. He sat up straight and cracked his knuckles.

“What would make Dylan feel seen?” he asked the mixing bowl. It didn’t respond.

On Wednesday, he replaced Dylan’s broken phone stand—the one Dylan kept propping up with chopsticks and swear words—with a new one in the shape of a sleeping cat. Soft gray, obviously. He left it on Dylan’s desk without a note. No reaction.

Thursday, he slipped a box of the honey butter toast snacks Dylan always pretended not to love into his backpack before rehearsal. Dylan found them halfway through the break, blinked once, then devoured them in under four minutes. Still no comment.

Friday, Jun struck again—this time with a velvet pouch. Inside: a pair of high-quality earplugs. Noise-canceling. Good for sleeping when the dorm got too loud. He left them on Dylan’s pillow.

Later that night, Dylan walked into the kitchen where Jun was cleaning  and held the pouch up like a suspicious artifact.

“You put this on my bed?”

Jun didn’t look up. “Did I?”

Dylan narrowed his eyes. “Did Nano?”

“Would Nano buy something that didn’t come in glitter packaging?”

“…Good point.”

Jun shut the fridge, faced him fully, and leaned back against the counter. “Do you like them?”

Dylan looked at the pouch. Then at Jun.

“They’re… actually kind of nice.” He turned the pouch over in his hand. “They block out Nano’s 3AM kpop openings.”

Jun smirked. “Then my mission is complete.”

“You’re acting weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

“Yeah, but you’re being… like. Kind.” Dylan wrinkled his nose. “Why?”

Jun leaned in slightly, eyes glinting. “What, I can’t be nice to my favorite hater?”

Dylan made a face like he just bit into a lemon. “Don’t say things like that. It makes my skin crawl.”

Jun laughed. But Dylan didn’t walk away. He stood there a second longer, looking down at the pouch, then shoved it in the pocket of his hoodie with a quiet, “Thanks, I guess.”

Jun didn’t say anything, just nodded and returned to rearranging spoons and forks.

But once Dylan was gone, he let himself grin. Progress.

Saturday morning, Jun woke up early. Too early, considering they had no schedule.

He stretched, yawned, and went straight to his hidden drawer of Chaos Planning. Inside are receipts, sticky notes, an old photo booth strip of Dylan scowling at him while Jun grinned with hearts drawn around his own face.

He opened his notebook.

Under “Gift Phase,” he wrote:

• Phone stand (check)

• Snacks (check) 

• Earplugs (check)

• Mug?

He tapped his pen against the page.

The mug.

That stupid, soft gray mug Dylan always used. The one Jun accidentally dropped a month ago and then watched Dylan try to pretend he didn’t care about, even though he clearly did—he’d been using a paper cup like a depressed office worker ever since.

Jun smiled to himself. Maybe it was time to replace it. But not just any mug. It had to be his mug. Dylan’s mug.

He spent the next hour browsing pottery sites like a lunatic, mumbling things like, “Too shiny,” and “This one looks like it would betray me in a storm.”

When he finally found it—soft matte gray, hand-thrown, minimalistic with a little dent that made it easier to hold with one hand—he actually sighed out loud.

He added it to cart. Overnight delivery.

Jun sat back and looked at the notebook again.

“This is either genius,” he said, “or I’m completely in love and doomed.”

Sunday was cloudy, the kind of gray that blanketed the whole city in soft light and made the world feel like it was whispering. Jun took it as a sign.

He got up before the others and padded into the kitchen in bare feet, careful not to wake anyone. The new mug had arrived late last night—he’d nearly broken the front door trying to sneak it in. Now it sat on the counter, still in its box. Simple. Soft. Beautiful. A little flawed.

Just like Dylan.

Jun picked it up again, running his thumb over the slight dent near the handle. It was barely noticeable, but it gave the mug a little character. Something you’d only feel if you were holding it gently.

He hesitated. Then he grabbed a sticky note from the drawer and scribbled:

For your cursed tea and your cursed mornings. No more paper cups pls. save the trees. –J

He stared at it.  Then crossed out his initial and just wrote a small heart instead.

“Coward.” he muttered at himself.

He reboxed the mug carefully and left it on the kitchen table—Dylan always came in last for breakfast, still half-dreaming and always irritated, especially when Nano was humming. Today would be no different. Except now, there’d be a box waiting. And Jun? Jun had somewhere to be. Specifically, not there when Dylan found it.

The dorm was unusually quiet by the time Dylan shuffled into the kitchen, hair sticking up, hoodie two sizes too big. He paused at the doorway, blinking like he wasn’t sure if he was awake yet.

Nano was sitting at the counter, casually eating cereal like someone who hadn’t spent the night plotting TikTok pranks.

“Morning.” he chirped.

Dylan grunted.

His eyes flicked to the table. And stopped.

“…What is that?”

Nano looked over. “Looks like a box.”

“No shit.”

“Open it, Shakespeare.”

Dylan narrowed his eyes, but his curiosity got the better of him. He sat down slowly and pulled the box toward him, glancing around the room like it might be a trap. Nano raised an eyebrow. “You think it’s a bomb or something?”

“Could be. Jun’s been acting weird all week.”

Nano choked on his cereal. “Jun always acts weird. Be more specific.”

Dylan didn’t answer. He just opened the box. And stared. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a soft gray ceramic mug—matte, minimal, gentle in a way that made his chest hurt a little. He didn’t touch it right away. Just looked at it, eyes catching on the little dent near the handle. His voice came out quieter than usual. “This looks like…”

“The one you used to have?” Nano finished, unusually soft now. “Yeah. Kind of does.”

Dylan finally reached for it, fingers brushing the surface. Warmth bloomed up his arm.

He found the sticky note last. He read it once. Twice. Then pressed his lips together tightly. Nano watched him, spoon frozen midair. “…You okay?”

Dylan nodded, but it looked more like a wince. He folded the note and tucked it into his hoodie pocket without a word. Nano smiled, but it was small. “You know it was him, right?”

“I’m not stupid.”

“No, but you’re really good at pretending not to feel things.” Dylan didn’t reply. Instead, he stood up, mug in hand, and moved toward the kettle like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t cradling it carefully. Like his knuckles weren’t white. 

Nano didn’t say anything else. He just kept eating and humming under his breath.

Jun came back around lunch. He pretended not to look for signs. Pretended not to check the table first thing. The box was gone. The mug wasn’t in the sink.

His chest lifted a little—just a little—but then he walked into the living room and nearly dropped his phone. Dylan was sitting on the couch with the mug in his hands, legs tucked under him, sipping tea like it was just another Sunday. No drama. No acknowledgement.

Jun blinked. Dylan didn’t look up. Jun sat on the arm of the couch beside him, leaving space between them, careful not to push too fast. They sat in silence for a while, the hum of the air conditioner filling the room.

Then Dylan spoke, voice low and flat.

“Why?”

Jun looked at him.

“The mug?”

Dylan nodded.

Jun smiled faintly. “Because you looked like your soul was dying every time you used a paper cup.”

Dylan rolled his eyes, but there was no bite in it. “You’re annoying.”

“You keep drinking from it though.”

Dylan didn’t answer. Instead, after a moment, he turned the mug slightly and touched the little dent with his thumb. He didn’t look at Jun when he said, almost too quiet to hear, “…It feels like mine.”

Jun’s heart folded in on itself. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. But he smiled into his shoulder.

—

Jun’s room was too dark, too quiet, too full.

The clock blinked 2:43am in soft red light, and Jun stared at it like if he looked long enough, time might do him a favor and roll backward. He lay flat on his back, one arm across his forehead, the other resting on his chest like he was trying to keep his heart from falling out. His blanket was half off the bed, his ac was whirring too loud, and sleep was… nowhere. His thoughts were shouting over each other.

He had done acts of service. He had given thoughtful gifts. The next thing on his stupid, self-made “Dylan not ew-ifying me” list was quality time.

But how? They lived in the same house. Shared space. Shared work. Shared everything except the kind of time that actually meant something. The kind that was intentional. Quiet. Real.

But if he asked—if he invited Dylan to do something one-on-one—it would sound like a date. Or a confession. Or worse, a trap. And Dylan would shut down. Or deflect. Or walk away.

Jun groaned and sat up, scrubbing both hands down his face. Then he grabbed his hoodie from the chair, his notepad from the bedside drawer, and padded barefoot out of the room. The hallway was cold. The house was still. No voices. No footsteps. Just the familiar weight of everyone else being asleep, and him being… very much not.

He made his way down the hallway to the terrace, heart racing like he was sneaking out of his own home. But the second he opened the door—

He stopped.

There was already someone sitting on the floor of the terrace. Hood up. Blanket around their shoulders. Head tilted up toward the sky like they were trying to count constellations.

Dylan.

Jun blinked, stunned.

Dylan didn’t flinch at the sound of the door. Didn’t look startled or annoyed. Just sat there, quiet, his back against the railing and a pencil resting behind one ear.

“…You okay?” Jun asked softly.

Dylan turned his head lazily. “Can’t write.”

Jun stepped out slowly, closing the door behind him. “Lyrics?”

Dylan nodded. “Stuck on the last verse.”

His voice was rough with sleep, or the lack of it. His eyes were shadowed, not with makeup or mood, just… tired. Human. A little lost.

Jun sat down beside him without thinking. The terrace tiles were cold against his legs, but the silence was soft between them. Familiar.

Dylan pulled the blanket tighter. “You couldn’t sleep either?”

Jun hesitated. “Yeah. Brain won’t shut up.”

“About what?”

Jun didn’t answer. Instead, he opened his notepad and stared at the page with the stupid, embarrassing heading, below it were the things he would never speak out loud.

He bit the inside of his cheek and flipped to a blank page.

Dylan shifted beside him. “You writing something?”

Jun glanced sideways. “Sketching.”

Dylan blinked. “At 2am?”

“I don’t get to pick when my brain decides to work.”

Dylan made a soft, amused sound.

Jun angled his body so Dylan wouldn’t see what he was drawing. He started slow, quick pencil strokes forming soft curves, the slight slump of Dylan’s shoulders, the outline of his blanket-wrapped form.

Dylan staring at the stars.

He didn’t try to make it perfect. Just honest.

“How come you’re stuck?” Jun asked after a while.

Dylan exhaled, almost frustrated. “The song is supposed to be about connection. About how two people are meant to find each other, even if the world tries to pull them apart. But everything I write sounds fake.”

Jun looked at him, Dylan’s eyes were still on the sky. Like he was asking it for answers.

“You’re not fake.” Jun said.

Dylan huffed. “Doesn’t mean the lyrics aren’t.”

Jun watched him. Then said carefully, “Maybe the problem is that you’re trying to write it like it’s obvious. Like fate is loud.”

Dylan turned to him slowly.

Jun added, “But sometimes fate feels like nothing. Like a quiet thread. Something you only notice when it pulls tight.”

Silence stretched.

Then Dylan looked down, voice quieter now. “But what if no one believes in that? In invisible strings. In people being meant.”

“Then write for the ones who do,” Jun said, just as softly. “Even if it’s just one person.”

Dylan didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away either.

Jun’s pencil slowed. He added the faint outline of Dylan’s profile, the softness in his gaze when he wasn’t guarded.

Then he flipped back to the front page of the notebook. Crossed out quality time with a pencil mark so faint it was almost… invisible.

He looked up again. The stars weren’t particularly bright. The air wasn’t especially warm. And there was nothing dramatic about sitting beside someone and not speaking for a while. But it still felt like the most important thing Jun had done all week.

Dylan nudged his shoulder gently. Jun glanced at him. Dylan nodded at the sketchbook. “Lemme see?”

Jun paused. Then, heart stupidly loud in his chest, he turned the page and handed it over. Dylan stared at the sketch. Quiet. Unmoving “…You made me prettier than I look.” he mumbled.

Jun smiled, soft and helpless. “I didn’t.”

Dylan didn’t argue. He held the notebook for a long time. And Jun watched the stars instead, letting the silence stretch—intentional, shared, quietly sacred.

Quality time, after all, sometimes just shows up, you don’t have to force it. You only have to stay.

Dylan didn’t give the sketchbook back right away. He stared at it like he wasn’t sure what he was looking at—like somehow, between the pencil lines, Jun had written down something he wasn’t ready to say out loud.

“…Do you always draw me when I’m not looking?”

Jun didn’t flinch. He didn’t laugh either. He just said, “Only when you’re not running your mouth.”

That earned a snort. “So, like. Once a year.”

Jun smiled, pressing his cheek against the railing behind him. “Exactly.”

They lapsed into quiet again, but this time it felt warmer. Like the kind that happened between people who knew how to sit next to each other and let the moment hold.

Dylan finally handed the sketchbook back, his fingers brushing lightly over Jun’s as he did. Jun’s skin flared warm.

“You ever gonna do anything with those?” Dylan asked. “The sketches.” Jun tilted his head. “What, like sell them?”

“No. Just—keep them. Make something out of them.”

Jun shrugged. “I already did.”

Dylan blinked. “What?”

He looked at Jun, genuinely confused.

Jun tapped his notebook. “This is the something.” There was a pause. Then Dylan’s voice dropped lower. “It’s weird. I’ve known you for years, but it feels like you’ve been… different lately.”

Jun’s heart stuttered. Dylan didn’t sound annoyed or suspicious. Just… curious. Jun fought the panic rising in his throat and forced his voice to stay even. “Different how?” Dylan tucked his arms into the blanket more. “Just more… gentle. Like you’re trying to do things without making a big deal out of them.”

Jun didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because if he did—if he said yes, I am trying, and it is a big deal, and it’s all for you—he didn’t know what Dylan would do. And he wasn’t ready to lose whatever this fragile thing was between them.

So instead, he changed the subject. “Want help with the verse?” Jun asked.

Dylan turned to look at him, surprised. “You’re offering to write lyrics with me? You hate lyrics.”

“I don’t hate them,” Jun said, rolling his eyes. “I just don’t like metaphors about stars and fate and oceans drowning hearts.”

“…That’s literally what the last verse of our comeback song should be.”

Jun groaned. “ass.”

Dylan laughed—a real one this time. Full-bodied and surprised. The kind that made Jun’s chest hurt in the best way.

“Okay,” Dylan said, opening his notebook, “Let’s try this.”

Jun leaned over to read over his shoulder.

There were half-finished lines on the paper, crossed out lyrics bleeding into new ones in the margins. A few words were circled. A few phrases underlined. One line stood alone, rewritten three different ways.

Dylan sighed and muttered, “Okay, what about this—?”

He scribbled quickly, then read aloud under his breath.

Time, wondrous time

Gave me the blues and then purple pink skies

And it’s cool with me…

Jun blinked. “That’s good.”

Dylan looked at him skeptically. “It’s not finished.”

Jun bit the inside of his cheek, then said, “What if you leaned into that? The idea that time isn’t always cruel. That maybe it’s trying. That it gives you something in the end.”

Dylan nodded slowly, his brows furrowed in thought. He shifted the pen in his hand and added another line underneath, quiet as he wrote it:

And isn’t it just so pretty to think

All along there was some

Invisible string

Tying you to me

Jun stared. His heart climbed into his throat so fast he didn’t know what to do with it.

“Dylan,” he said, the name coming out more like a breath than a word.

“What?” Dylan asked, voice suddenly self-conscious. “Is it bad?”

Jun looked at him—really looked, like the way you look at something delicate in a museum you’re not supposed to touch.

“That’s…” he swallowed, “That’s kind of beautiful.”

Dylan’s ears turned a little pink. He ducked his head and murmured, “You think so?”

“I know so.” Jun’s voice was gentle now, reverent almost. “It sounds like a truth no one wants to admit. But everyone wants to believe.”

Dylan was quiet for a second, then he whispered, almost like a secret, “So do I.”

They were quiet again. But this time, the silence didn’t feel full of things unsaid. It felt like something was blooming there. Quiet. Undeniable.

Dylan cleared his throat. “You can go back to sleep, you know. I won’t be out here too long.” Jun looked at the notepad again, then up at the stars. Then back at Dylan. “I’m not tired anymore.”

Dylan looked at him. Then smiled—slow, soft. Like something in him had finally settled. “Good,” he said, and nudged his foot lightly against Jun’s. “Stay, then.”

And Jun did. Just like that, without needing to plan a single thing, he’d found the quiet time he was losing sleep over.

And this—Dylan’s foot resting next to his, the sky above them, the sketch tucked safe in his lap—was the kind of time that didn’t need a name.

It was just… them.

Exactly where they needed to be.

Thame stretched as he padded toward the kitchen, yawning into his hoodie sleeve.

It was barely past 7am, which—by idol standards—might as well have been dawn of the dead. But Thame had early gym duty with their choreographer, and as he passed by the terrace on his way to grab a protein bar, something caught his eye.

He stopped mid-step. Then took two slow, silent steps backward to peek through the sliding glass doors again.

There, bathed in the soft orange haze of early morning, Jun and Dylan sat side by side on the terrace bench. Dylan had his blanket pulled over his head, his cheek smushed gently against Jun’s shoulder. Jun, ever the insomniac, had fallen asleep upright, chin tilted slightly forward so his temple rested lightly against Dylan’s hair.

Their hands weren’t touching. Their legs weren’t intertwined. But their shoulders were leaning together like they belonged. And neither of them looked like they planned to move.

Thame blinked. Then blinked again. Then, like a man on a sacred mission, he turned on his heel and sprinted—silently—down the hallway.

“Nano. Wake up.”

Nano groaned. “No.”

“Get. Up.”

“Unless someone’s dead or P’Dylan dyed his hair blonde again, leave me alone.”

“Jun and Dylan are asleep. Together. On the terrace.”

Nano sat bolt upright. “Physically? Touching?”

Thame nodded, beaming.

Nano was out of bed in three seconds, camera already in hand.

By the time they reached the sliding door, Pepper was sleepily sipping his morning almond milk by the kitchen counter, and Po (who’d stayed the night editing) was peeking groggily over his laptop.

Thame held up a hand to hush them all.

Then slowly slid the curtain aside.

And there they were.

Still asleep. Still leaning into each other like the night had never ended.

Jun’s notepad was resting on his lap, long forgotten. Dylan’s head had shifted slightly with sleep, pressing in closer. Their expressions were calm. Vulnerable, even.

Nano made a strangled noise that might have been a suppressed squeal. Then, with the focus and silence of a trained sniper, he started taking pictures. Po crept up behind them with his phone too. “For archival purposes,” he whispered. “And revenge.”

“Revenge?” Pepper asked, raising an eyebrow.

Po smiled. “For all the times they’ve cockblocked me and Thame.”

Thame choked. “P’Po!”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Damn.”

Nano took another photo. “This is so going on the group chat.”

“Absolutely not,” Thame said immediately. “We post this and Dylan will murder all of us.”

“And Jun will probably cry,” Pepper added.

Nano sighed. “Fine. But I’m making a secret folder. For posterity.”

Po leaned in. “Put it in the ‘We Knew Before They Did’ album.”

Thame glanced at him. “That’s a real album?”

“Oh love,” Po grinned. “You have no idea.”

Just then, Dylan stirred. Jun’s head dipped slightly in response.

The group collectively froze.

But neither of them woke up. They just… shifted closer. As if even in sleep, they could feel the absence of each other’s warmth. Pepper sighed, sipping again. “Okay, but like. Are they dating?”

Nano whispered, “Not publicly.”

Po’s eyes gleamed. “But emotionally? I say married.”

Thame shook his head, smiling as he watched them. “They don’t even realize it,” he murmured. “But they’re actually made for each other.”

Dylan’s brow twitched. Then his nose scrunched, eyes squeezing tighter. Voices. Low ones. Was that… Nano?

He blinked blearily, barely lifting his head. There was something warm against his side. Something steady. Comfortable.

Jun.

Dylan froze.

And that’s when it hit him—he wasn’t in his room. He was outside. On the terrace. On the bench. Leaning against Jun.

A camera clicked.

His eyes snapped open.

“What the fu—” Dylan hissed, bolting upright so fast he nearly elbowed Jun in the ribs. Jun mumbled something incoherent, eyes fluttering but not fully awake.

Nano yelped and staggered back, clutching his camera to his chest like a war journalist under fire. Thame was grinning too wide to be innocent. Po was waving. Pepper looked like he regretted waking up at all.

“Were you guys watching us sleep?!” Dylan barked, cheeks already flushed pink.

“Not the whole time!” Nano said defensively.

Po shrugged. “Just the sweet, clingy part.”

Dylan stood up, blanket sagging off one shoulder, hair a mess, face murderous. “Delete it.”

Nano backed up. “No.”

“Delete it, or I’ll throw your entire hard drive in the shower—”

“Touch my archive and I’ll make you the next scandal article!”

Jun finally sat up, bleary-eyed, and looked around. “…What’s going on?”

“You were cuddling.” Po said helpfully.

Jun blinked at Dylan. Dylan glared at everyone. Po grinned wider.

“I wasn’t cuddling,” Dylan growled. “I was—tired. And it was cold.”

“You literally nestled into his shoulder like a sleepy cat.” Thame pointed out.

“Hell nah!”

“You snored.” Pepper added.

Jun turned his face away, coughing lightly to cover his laugh. Dylan looked like he was ready to jump off the terrace. Nano was snapping one more quick shot. “Okay but this one’s for me.”

“NANO—!”

“Dylan.” Jun’s voice, low and warm, cut in just enough to make Dylan pause.

Jun was watching him, eyes soft in the early light. Still a little sleepy. A little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

Dylan’s shoulders dropped, only a little. “No. Everyone here is a demon.”

“You fell asleep on me first.” Jun said, tone innocent but clearly amused.

Dylan glared. “…never happened.”

“Right,” Po said, scrolling through his phone, “and these twenty photos are of your evil twin.”

Dylan turned to go back inside, muttering curses under his breath and pulling his hoodie up like a blanket of shame. “I’m never falling asleep again.”

Ten minutes later, the chaos had died down. The others trickled out of the kitchen with coffee and morning plans. Only Nano lingered by the counter, scrolling through the photos again with a fond sigh. Jun slipped up beside him, quiet.

“Hey,” he said, not looking directly at the camera.

Nano blinked. “Yeah?”

“…Could you send me that one?” Jun pointed without even touching the screen. “The one where he’s smiling in his sleep.”

Nano arched an eyebrow. “For what purpose?”

“Don’t worry,” Jun said, slipping him a crooked grin. “I’ll deny everything.”

Nano smirked, already tapping the file. “Soft boy.”

“You love me.”

“Bold assumption.”

Jun chuckled, slipping the phone into his pocket as the picture landed in his messages.

Dylan didn’t have to know. Not yet. But Jun would keep this one—a little memory of a quiet night, a shared sky, and the boy he loved, asleep beside him without fear.

Jun didn’t open the photo right away. He told Nano to send it and slipped the phone into his pocket like it was no big deal. But once the others filtered out of the kitchen—Thame dragging Po, Pepper grumbling about laundry, Dylan stomping into his room muttering something about privacy lawsuits—Jun found himself alone by the counter, heart thudding harder than it should. He waited until the house was silent again, the kind of early-morning hush that felt sacred.

Then he pulled out his phone. The message from Nano was there, unread and glowing with mischief, “don’t fall in love or whatever. your choice fine shyt”

Jun tapped it open.

The photo loaded.

And his breath caught.

Dylan, fast asleep, cheek squished gently against Jun’s shoulder, hair messy from the wind, lips parted slightly like he was mid-breath. His hoodie had slipped down just enough to show the curve of his neck. And there was a trace of a smile on his face. A real one.

Jun wasn’t looking at the camera. In the picture, his chin was tilted slightly down, eyes closed, but he remembered the moment—the way he’d tilted his head just barely toward Dylan without realizing it. The way he’d let himself fall asleep because Dylan felt warm and safe next to him.

They looked like…

They looked like a couple.

Jun stared at the photo for a long, long time. His thumb hovered over the screen, almost brushing Dylan’s image. It was just a candid. Just a stolen moment.

But it felt like more. Proof of how far they’d come. Of how Dylan, who used to tense the second anyone touched him, had relaxed against Jun. Of how a boy like him—sharp-tongued, secretive, stubborn—had leaned in close, unafraid, and let Jun carry the weight of him for one night.

Jun swallowed hard. Then quietly, carefully, he saved the photo. Not in his public gallery. Not in any folder the others could stumble on. He opened his password-locked notes app. The one with sketches, lyric scribbles, song titles Dylan would laugh at if he ever saw them. And at the very top, next to the first rough sketch he’d ever drawn of Dylan from memory—just his eyes, back then—he pasted the picture.

He added a caption beneath it, barely breathing as he typed, “Safe with me.” 

And then he sat there a while longer. Just looking. Not planning. Not overthinking. Just quietly, wordlessly, loving him.

Jun sat still for what felt like an eternity, his fingers trembling slightly as he stared at the photo, the warm glow of early morning sunlight filtering through the kitchen window casting soft shadows across his face. He hadn’t meant to save it. Hell, he hadn’t even wanted to admit he liked it—liked him—looking so unguarded, so peaceful.

He slid the photo into his locked notes, the place he hid the parts of himself even the rest of MARS couldn’t see. His thumb lingered over the caption he’d just typed. It felt less like a promise and more like a vow he hadn’t dared voice out loud.

Jun leaned back, closing his eyes, trying to steady the chaos inside. His mind raced, filled with plans and worries and something… softer. Something dangerous.

He was falling for Dylan. And god, the idea was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.

What Jun didn’t know—what no one else did—was that Dylan had the same photo.

Dylan sat cross-legged on his bed, phone clenched tightly in both hands. The screen lit up his face in the dimness of the room, shadows dancing across his sharp jawline. He’d sent Nano a text that afternoon, a vague request that sounded innocent enough, “Hey, can you send me the photo from this morning? You know, the one where I’m asleep or whatever.”

Nano, of course, had replied with a cheeky “Which one? The ‘soft puppy’ or the ‘grumpy cat’?”

Dylan had growled at his phone and demanded the “soft puppy.” Now he stared at it like it was a secret weapon or a dangerous drug.

The same photo Jun was holding.

Except here, on Dylan’s screen, the image was a bomb ticking just beneath his ribs.

He blinked once. Then again. His chest tightened—no, clenched—and he instinctively placed a hand over it, as if to quiet the rapid thudding of his heart.

Fuck. He cursed under his breath, low and rough, the kind of curse that slipped out when you’re trying to convince yourself you’re fine but you’re not.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Because he’d spent so long telling himself to keep his distance, to keep Jun at arm’s length. To stay safe in his own bubble of sarcasm and cold coffee and late-night lyric scribbles. But here it was, undeniable and uncomfortable.

His heart didn’t just race. It ached. The way Jun’s head tilted slightly toward him. The softness in Jun’s closed eyes. The quiet, unspoken surrender of leaning into someone else. It was enough to make Dylan want to punch a face or scream into his pillow.

He swallowed hard, eyes flickering back to the photo.

Why the hell am I falling for him?

He pressed the screen against his chest, clutching it as if it could steady the storm inside.

Because that photo wasn’t just a picture. It was proof. Proof that maybe, just maybe, Jun wasn’t the annoying asshole who mocked him for saying “ew.” Maybe Jun was the one person who could see him. The one person who could hold him without breaking him. His other half of invisible string.

Dylan closed his eyes tightly, biting his lip until it hurt. He hated this feeling. He hated that it made his chest tight and his mind spin and his tongue go dry. He hated that the warmth creeping through his veins was not cold indifference, but something else entirely.

“Fuck,” he muttered again.

“Why the hell am I falling for Jun?”

He was so, so screwed.

—

Jun stared at his notebook like it had personally offended him.

The list was still there—five bullet points, scrawled in colored pens, with doodles in the margins and sarcastic commentary sprinkled between actual plans.

Words of affirmation.

He could sing to a stadium of fans. He could sweet-talk an MC during a variety show. He could throw compliments at staff, stylists, and old aunties selling fruit by the van without blinking.

But complimenting Dylan? That was different. Because Dylan was real. Dylan was right there, always close, always rolling his eyes and calling Jun words god doesn’t have to know, and yet somehow still laughing. Still lingering in the same room. Still letting Jun inch a little closer every day. 

And maybe that’s why it mattered too much. Because if Jun said the wrong thing, Dylan would know. He’d see through the joke. He always did. So Jun did what Jun always did when he was nervous—he winged it.

It started in the practice room. Dylan was tucked into the corner with his lyric notebook open, brows furrowed, headphones around his neck. He was mouthing lines to himself, pencil tapping rhythmically against the page. The rest of MARS was scattered—Nano sprawled on the floor with his phone, Pepper fixing a broken strap on his mic pack, Thame spinning a water bottle like he wanted it to explode.

Jun dropped onto the couch beside Dylan, stretching like a cat. “You look constipated.” he said.

Dylan didn’t even glance up. “Thanks. I’m writing a verse about emotional vulnerability, but by all means, compare me to a man trying to shit.”

Jun smirked. “Just saying, your thinking face is weird.”

“You’ve told me that twelve times. I’m keeping a tally.”

“Well, in that case—” Jun plucked the notebook from Dylan’s lap.

Dylan immediately reached for it. “Jun, I swear to god—”

“Relax,” Jun said, holding it just out of reach. “I’m not reading your diary. I’m admiring the sheer power of your overachiever handwriting.” Dylan gave him a dead stare.

Jun flipped a few pages. Didn’t read. Just glanced.

Then, softer than he meant to, “…You’re really good at this.”

Dylan blinked. “What?” Jun handed the notebook back. His tone was breezy, but he didn’t look away this time. “The way you mess with phrasing? You make words sound like they were meant to be said a certain way. It’s annoying.”

Dylan narrowed his eyes. “That’s not a compliment.”

“It is. It’s just disguised as irritation. Keeps you humble.”

Dylan opened his mouth. Closed it. Then he glanced down at his notebook like it had changed shape in his hands. Jun leaned back against the couch, arms stretched lazily behind his head. “Seriously, though. You’re kind of a lyrical genius. Not in a ‘wow, that guy’s so mysterious’ way. More like… You’re just sharp. Thoughtful. Makes me want to retire early before you start ghostwriting for my enemies.”

Dylan stared at him like he didn’t recognize him. “Are you sick?”

“No,” Jun said, smirking again. “I’m being nice. Savor it.”

Nano, from across the room, squinted. “Are you guys… flirting?”

Jun threw a pen at him. “Mind your own romantic drought, thanks.”

The next time came in the hallway, late at night. They were passing each other—Jun on his way back from brushing his teeth, Dylan heading to grab water from the kitchen. Their shoulders brushed.

Jun paused. “Hey.” Dylan looked up. Jun nodded at his hoodie. It was the soft gray one again. “You look good in that,” Jun said. “Like, annoyingly good.” Dylan raised a brow. “You really are sick.” Jun shrugged, toothbrush still sticking out of his hoodie pocket. “I’m just saying. If we weren’t bandmates, I’d probably still hate you. But I’d also probably ask for your number.”

Dylan didn’t reply. He just stood there for a second too long, blinking at Jun like he’d spoken in a foreign language. Jun gave him a wink and padded off toward the dorm rooms before Dylan could recover enough to respond.

And then it was the third time. At lunch, when Dylan reached for the last piece of grilled pork belly and hesitated, like he was being polite. Jun pushed the plate toward him without looking up. “You always let other people eat first,” Jun said casually. “It’s annoying. Just take it.”

Dylan mumbled, “Thanks,” and started to pick it up with his chopsticks.

“You’re too considerate sometimes,” Jun added, stealing a glance at him. “Makes the rest of us look like assholes. But, like. In a good way.” Dylan almost choked on the meat.

That night, Dylan sat on his bed, phone in hand, messages unread. His lyric notebook sat beside him, closed for once. He couldn’t focus. Not because he didn’t want to write. But because every time he closed his eyes, Jun’s voice echoed in his head.

You’re really good at this.

You make words sound like they were meant to be said a certain way.

You look good in that.

If we weren’t bandmates, I’d probably ask for your number.

You’re too considerate. In a good way.

Dylan clutched the blanket over his lap and stared at the ceiling.

Goddamn him.

Because those words—casual, playful, disguised like a joke—meant something to him. And Dylan hated that he wanted them to mean something.

His heart beat a little too fast. Again.

The morning sunlight sifted through the large windows of the practice room turned temporary dressing area, casting soft, golden beams over the scattered racks of clothes, makeup kits, and half-opened snack boxes. The air buzzed with the nervous energy of an upcoming event—one that carried more weight than usual.

Pepper stood in front of the group, voice clear and confident, hands clasped behind his back. “So,” he announced, eyes sweeping over MARS, “we have a special performance today. P’Gam’s launching a new energy drink flavor.  They want us front and center, the face and soul of the campaign.”

Nano whistled low. “Sounds electric.”

Pepper smiled, amused. “Yeah, and no pressure. Just three songs, some light choreography, and looking flawless.”

Jun’s grin was sharp. “Easy.” But behind the bravado, the team scattered to prepare, each member diving into their own rituals. Phones out for last-minute video checks, stylists bustling through, managers coordinating, and a constant hum of conversations about outfit tweaks and song order.

Dylan was already in the makeup chair when one of the stylists approached with his wardrobe. The fabric was soft in her hands—a knitted, almost delicate shirt, the kind that looked fragile yet hugged the body in a way that felt like a second skin. The color was that signature soft gray Dylan always unconsciously chose—a shade that perfectly matched the calm, quiet edges of his personality.

The shirt had long sleeves that draped off both shoulders, teasing skin subtly but tastefully. It was slightly see-through, just enough to show hints of his abdomen and its curves of his when the light caught it right.

She slipped the shirt over Dylan’s head gently, making sure it rested just right. Then came the faded denim pants, worn but carefully selected to balance the soft top—a casual, laid-back edge. The black flannel tied loosely around his waist was the final touch, along with a simple silver necklace that caught the light as he moved.

Dylan glanced at his reflection, eyes narrowing in a mix of curiosity and discomfort.

It wasn’t the clothes—they were soft, comfortable, and somehow intimate in their fit—but he felt exposed. Vulnerable, even. The shirt clung in ways that felt unfamiliar and strange. The off-shoulder cut drew attention he wasn’t sure he wanted. He tugged slightly at the hem but paused, knowing no one was around to complain to; everyone backstage was swallowed by their own frenzy of preparation. He breathed out, folding his hands neatly in his lap, hoping to steady the flutter in his chest.

Jun caught sight of him from across the room—the way Dylan stood awkwardly, shoulders slightly hunched as if shielding himself from the subtle vulnerability of his outfit.

Jun’s first thought was simple and unfiltered: Damn, Dylan looks so beautiful. Soft. Like something fragile you want to protect.

Jun sauntered over, hands tucked into the pockets of his own outfit—white shirt, red and white racer jacket zipped halfway down, denim jeans, and the signature silver chains hanging from his belt catching the light as he moved.

“Hey,” Jun said, voice low and casual. Dylan turned, eyebrows slightly raised. Jun didn’t waste time with teasing or sarcastic quips. Instead, he looked Dylan up and down, eyes catching the shimmer of the silver necklace, the way the soft gray shirt draped over his frame, and the subtle tension in Dylan’s posture.

“You look… really good,” Jun said, voice quieter now but firm.

Dylan blinked, caught off guard. Jun chuckled softly, the teasing grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not in a ‘you’re making me uncomfortable’ way. More like, damn, you’re soft and beautiful and probably don’t even realize it.”

Dylan’s cheeks flushed a faint pink.

“I can tell you don’t like it much,” Jun continued, stepping a little closer but careful not to crowd him. “But you’re killing it. Honestly, if anyone says otherwise, they’re blind.”

Dylan looked away, biting his lip. Jun nudged him gently with his shoulder. “Hey, you don’t have to say thanks. Just know I’m being serious for once.”

Dylan’s lips twitched into a small smile—something shy but genuine. Jun’s grin widened. “Ready to show them what soft gray looks like on the main stage?” Dylan nodded, more confident now, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with something Jun was starting to recognize as trust.

They walked out together, the backstage noise folding around them, but in that moment, the world seemed a little softer, a little warmer, and a little less intimidating—because Jun saw Dylan. Not just the idol, but the person. And that made all the difference.

The crowd roared like a living thing.

Their final pose still hung in the air, frozen in that electric second before the lights dimmed. The thud of bass still echoed in Jun’s chest, adrenaline still rushing through his veins. He could feel the sweat rolling down his back, sticky and hot under the racer jacket, the weight of the performance clinging to him like a second skin.

Then—blackout. The stage lights dropped, and the MARS members broke formation, heads ducked as they jogged offstage, lungs gasping for air and hearts racing. Backstage swallowed them in a rush of staff voices, soft claps, and the hum of audio feeds being switched off.

Someone handed Jun a towel the second his foot hit the floor. He tossed his head back and wiped down his neck, still high off the performance, ears ringing with phantom cheers. He turned instinctively to look for Dylan—not for any reason, just… habit.

There he was. Dylan stood near the far wall, posture relaxed but breath heavy, sweat glistening at the curve of his neck and along the exposed slope of his shoulder. The soft gray shirt clung to him now, darker in patches where sweat had soaked through. His silver necklace caught the light like a whisper.He was looking down, focused on adjusting the flannel tied at his waist, and maybe wiping his hands on it. His chest rose and fell, his hair damp and sticking slightly to his temples.

Jun watched him for a moment, towel slung over his shoulder. No one else was looking. The staff was focused on cables, the others too busy grabbing their own water bottles or talking through post-performance jitters.

Jun walked over quietly. Dylan didn’t look up. “Hey.” Jun said, voice low. Dylan lifted his gaze, just barely. Jun didn’t ask. He reached up gently and pressed his towel to Dylan’s cheek, then slowly wiped the sweat away—temple, jawline, down the side of his neck. He was careful, his touch light but sure, like he was doing something sacred and didn’t want to mess it up.

Dylan blinked, startled, but… didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His expression didn’t shift into annoyance or one of those eye-rolls he usually reserved for Jun. He just stood there, quiet, letting it happen.

Jun worked in silence, lips slightly parted, not entirely sure what he was doing—only that he couldn’t stop. He wiped the sweat from under Dylan’s jaw, then swept the towel across the side of his neck where the fabric of his shirt had slipped just far enough to reveal collarbone.

His hand lingered. Not too long. But long enough to feel the warmth of Dylan’s skin through the towel. Jun pulled back, folding the towel in his hands. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

And Dylan—he just stared for a second longer. Then gave a small, barely there nod, like… okay. Like that was fine.

No one saw. Not a single person.

No teasing from Nano. No looks from Pepper. No camera flash. No chaos.

Just Jun and Dylan, standing in the soft dim of backstage, heartbeats still echoing from the rush of performance, sharing a moment that didn’t need to be explained.

Jun exhaled slowly, suddenly very aware of how loud his heartbeat was. He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. He just looked at Dylan once more, and then walked away to grab a bottle of water.

But his towel? He kept it folded in his hand, holding it like something precious.

And Dylan—once Jun had his back turned—reached up and touched the spot just under his jaw, the one Jun had wiped so carefully. His fingers lingered there for a long, long time.

—

The dorm was unusually quiet after the performance. The buzz of stage lights and applause had finally dimmed, leaving behind only the soft buzz of the city outside and the sound of showers running in the background.

Jun stood in front of his mirror with a towel around his neck, shirtless, still towel-drying his hair with one hand. His hoodie was folded neatly on his desk chair, a fresh pair of sweats waiting on the bed. The warm water had relaxed his muscles but done nothing to slow the knot of nervous energy curling in his chest.

He sat down heavily on the edge of his bed and glanced toward the open notebook on his desk—the same one he’d started in a fit of annoyance after Dylan had said “ew” like being alone with him was equivalent to stepping in vomit.

It had been a stupid plan, he could admit that now. Childish. Petty. But somewhere between researching love languages and sketching Dylan’s profile under the stars, the joke had slipped too close to the truth.

Jun leaned forward and flipped the page slowly.

Acts of Service.

Thoughtful Gifts.

Quality Time.

Words of Affirmation.

All of them, checked off.

And then, the last one—circled, underlined twice, like his past self had been trying too hard to psych himself up for it,

Physical Touch.

He stared at the words for a long time. His hand reached for the pen, hovering as if checking the box would make it real. But he didn’t mark it. Not yet. Instead, he stood and pulled the hoodie over his head, trying to ignore the way his heart thudded faster with every step toward the living room.

Movie night had become a sort of unspoken ritual. It wasn’t planned, it just happened. A quiet kind of togetherness that none of them ever questioned. By the time Jun got to the living room, the lights were dimmed, and the projector was casting soft flickers against the wall.

The couch was half-filled—Nano sprawled sideways with popcorn he kept accidentally spilling, Pepper curled against a cushion, already yawning, and Thame grumbling about subtitles again. Dylan sat at the far end, half-bundled in a blanket, scrolling through his phone, head slightly bowed.

Jun walked over and sat beside Dylan like it was the most natural thing in the world. No one looked. No one commented.

And Dylan, without lifting his eyes, reached for the blanket draped over his own lap and offered it—casual, thoughtless.

But Jun felt the weight of that small gesture settle in his chest. He pulled the blanket over himself and tried to focus on the movie. Something artsy. There was a lake, a girl walking slowly in silence, a soundtrack that was more wind than music.

Jun barely registered it. Because Dylan’s thigh was pressed lightly against his. Their arms brushed now and then. Not enough to be intentional. But not enough to ignore either.

Jun sat frozen under the blanket, pulse rabbiting in his throat. His hand, resting flat on his lap, twitched slightly.

Just once.

Then again.

The blanket shifted slightly as Dylan adjusted his position, leaning the tiniest bit closer. Not into Jun, not fully—but enough that their shoulders kissed.

Jun’s heart stuttered. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t not do this.

Slowly, breath hitching, he moved his hand a little to the right. Just a bit closer to Dylan’s.

He stared straight ahead, pretending to watch the screen. But every nerve ending in his arm was hyper-aware of the space between their fingers. Just a breath of distance.

Then, softly, like he was reaching into a memory he didn’t want to disturb, Jun slid his hand next to Dylan’s—closer, closer, until their pinkies touched.

Dylan didn’t flinch.

Jun waited.

Seconds stretched.

Then he moved again—his palm shifting until it rested over Dylan’s, warm and tentative. His fingers didn’t close right away. He just let the contact linger, waiting for a sign, for a jolt, for Dylan to pull away.

It didn’t come.

Jun’s breath left him in a slow, quiet exhale.

The movie played on. Nano said something about the plot being “depressing in a sexy way.” Nobody laughed.

Jun couldn’t move.

And then—he felt it. Dylan’s fingers, subtle and deliberate, flexed beneath his. A soft movement. Not resistance.

Acceptance.

Jun dared to glance sideways. Dylan’s face was turned toward the screen, unreadable in the dim light. But his body told a different story—he was leaning, more fully now, the soft weight of his arm resting against Jun’s. His head shifted, brushing lightly against Jun’s shoulder.

And under the blanket, his fingers laced slowly, deliberately, with Jun’s.

The pressure was light. No squeeze. No dramatic gesture.

Just the quiet decision to stay.

Jun’s mouth went dry. He closed his eyes for a second, focusing on the feeling of their hands—warm, hidden, honest.

He’d imagined this a thousand different ways. Some stupid. Some flirtatious. Some in revenge. None of them had prepared him for this. Dylan, wordless, gentle, trusting. A hundred thoughts raced through Jun’s head, but he didn’t say any of them. He just let the moment stretch.

Dylan’s breathing had slowed. He hadn’t moved away. His body was relaxed against Jun’s side now, like he was tired. Or maybe like he finally felt safe.

Jun tightened his grip just slightly. And beneath the blanket, Dylan didn’t let go.

The credits rolled.

Soft, ambient music drifted from the speakers as names scrolled down the screen—white against black. A quiet signal that the story had ended, though no one moved right away. They sat there like the stillness after rain, unwilling to break whatever fragile peace had settled over the room.

Jun hadn’t let go.

Neither had Dylan.

The warmth between their hands felt less like victory now and more like… a secret. Something too tender to acknowledge aloud. Jun hadn’t said a word since his fingers slid into place. He hadn’t even dared to breathe too deeply, as if doing so would shake Dylan out of it. But now that the movie was over, the silence grew heavier, aware.

Nano groaned from the other end of the couch and stretched with both arms above his head. “That ending was criminally vague. Like, at least give me closure.”

Pepper yawned, rubbing his eyes. “It’s supposed to be open-ended. That’s the point.”

“Yeah, well, the point can kiss my—”

Thame threw a pillow at Nano’s face before he could finish, and they broke into a soft scuffle, legs tangling on the floor, popcorn rustling, whispers turning into stifled laughter.

Jun didn’t move. Neither did Dylan.

Their part of the couch was still, like an island untouched by the chaos on the other end.

Jun tilted his head just slightly to glance at Dylan. His eyes were open, staring forward. His mouth was set in that tiny pout Jun had started recognizing—something between focused and distracted.

Jun leaned a little closer, voice low so the others wouldn’t hear. “You didn’t hate the movie, did you?”

Dylan blinked and looked up at him, eyes clear. “It was okay.”

“Okay?” Jun echoed, smirking. “You didn’t complain once.”

Dylan shrugged, and Jun felt the motion through their shoulders. “Didn’t want to ruin it.”

“Ruin what?”

“This,” Dylan said, so quietly Jun almost thought he imagined it. He didn’t elaborate, but his fingers tightened the smallest bit around Jun’s under the blanket.

Jun’s stomach flipped.

He swallowed hard. “You’re such a sap when you’re sleepy.”

“Shut up,” Dylan muttered, but there was no real bite in it. “You’re warm. I’m just using you as a heater.”

“Ah, of course. I’m being objectified.”

“Human radiator. That’s all you are.”

Jun bit back a grin, letting the words slide off his chest like steam. He shifted, just enough to let Dylan rest more comfortably against him. “Then I expect payment.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “In?”

Jun tilted his head. “Maybe compliments. Or more hand-holding. I’m flexible.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re still holding my hand.” Jun murmured.

He felt Dylan freeze for a split second. Then, with exaggerated slowness, Dylan turned his face slightly to the side—eyes meeting Jun’s fully now in the dim light of the room.

“No one else saw, right?” he asked.

“Not unless they’re psychic.”

Dylan looked down toward the blanket, at the spot where their hands met. His thumb moved slowly against the side of Jun’s, thoughtful. Then he nodded once, quiet. “Okay.”

That was all. But Jun felt it. Felt it like a knock against his ribs. “Okay.” he echoed.

They stayed like that as the others started moving, voices rising again as the projector clicked off and the overhead light turned on.

Nano blinked like a gremlin caught in sunlight. “Movie’s over, lovers. Time for clean-up.”

Pepper groaned. “Don’t say ‘lovers.’ They’ll start throwing things.”

Jun braced for the teasing, but Dylan was already slipping his hand out from under the blanket, quick and subtle. Their warmth broke, but the fade of it lingered in Jun’s palm. 

He glanced at Dylan, wondering if he looked as dazed as he felt. But Dylan stood up smoothly, stretched once, and ruffled Nano’s hair on his way out of the room. “Clean it yourself. You picked the movie.”

“WHAT—” Nano yelled.

Dylan hadn’t looked back at Jun once. But as he reached the hallway, he paused briefly—just long enough for his fingers to brush the edge of the doorway—and said, half over his shoulder, “Goodnight, radiator.” Then he was gone.

Jun stared after him. Then leaned back into the couch, clutching the blanket in one hand and pressing his other palm to his chest, still warm from where their fingers had touched.

His heart wouldn’t slow down.

Physical touch.

He hadn’t even ticked the box yet. But it felt like something had just started. And it wasn’t a game anymore.

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting long, pale shadows across the room. Jun stirred first, eyes fluttering open to the quiet sound of the house waking up. His body still remembered the warmth pressed against him the night before—the subtle pressure of Dylan leaning in, the ghost of their fingers intertwined beneath the blanket. He blinked slowly, his heart still hammering faintly in his chest like a secret drumbeat.

For a moment, Jun just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the memory settle into something neither sharp nor urgent, but steady and strange—like the first tentative step into unfamiliar territory.

The others were stirring in the next room. Faint laughter and sleepy murmurs drifted through the walls. Nano was probably already pestering someone about breakfast. Pepper’s calm voice likely issuing orders somewhere in the kitchen. The usual chaotic morning of MARS.

Jun pulled his notebook onto his chest and opened that page. The list was still there, neat and half-checked off:

• Acts of Service ✔
  
  
• Thoughtful Gifts ✔
  
  
• Quality Time ✔
  
  
• Words of Affirmation ✔
  
  
• Physical Touch
  
  

He smiled to himself, then closed the notebook. The progress felt less like a checklist now and more like an evolving map—one that led somewhere unexpected.

Jun stretched, sat up, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He wasn’t sure how Dylan was holding up, but something told him that last night had shifted things between them, even if neither of them was ready to say it aloud.

He stood and padded quietly out to the living room, half expecting Dylan to be there already. But no—just a few scattered cushions and the faint smell of cold coffee left on the table.

Jun’s thoughts raced. Did Dylan think about it too? Was his heart beating faster, just like Jun’s? Or was this just another moment Jun had made bigger than it was?

A knock at the door interrupted the silence. “P’Jun!” Nano’s voice called from outside. “Breakfast is ready! P’Per’s cooking something fancy this time, so come eat before it gets cold!”

Jun grinned and jogged to open the door. “On my way.”

As he walked toward the kitchen, his mind wandered to Dylan. When would they talk? Would they? Could they? He didn’t have answers yet. But one thing was clear: Whatever this was, Jun was willing to see it through. Because now, there was no turning back.

The kitchen was a storm of sound and smell—pans clattering, eggs sizzling, someone chopping aggressively at the cutting board.

Jun stepped in and was immediately greeted by the scent of garlic and something vaguely buttery.

Nano, hair still a mess from sleep, was perched on the counter with a fork already in hand. “He lives,” he said, eyes glinting. “I thought we’d have to poke you with a stick to make sure you didn’t dissolve after last night.”

Jun narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”

Nano just wiggled his eyebrows and stuffed a piece of toast into his mouth. Thame was flipping something on the stove, wearing Pepper’s oversized apron that said “Too Hot to Handle” in bold red print, which he treasures so much because his girlfriend gave it to him. Pepper, across the room, was mixing some kind of sauce with clinical precision, sleeves rolled up and brows furrowed in focus.

“Sit,” Pepper said without looking up. “Breakfast’s almost ready.”

Jun took his usual seat at the table, glancing around. “Where’s Dylan?”

Nano pointed vaguely toward the hallway. “Woke up before me. Went to shower or something. Or maybe he’s hiding from you.”

Jun stiffened. “Why would he hide from me?”

Thame glanced over from the stove, amused. “Maybe because you held his hand like you were filming a slow-burn drama?”

Nano gasped dramatically. “The blanket! The lean! The tension!”

“Didn’t we all agree not to bring it up?” Pepper said, not looking up from his sauce.

“I didn’t agree.” Nano said.

“You never agree to anything.”

Jun groaned and dropped his forehead to the table. “You’re all demons.”

“Dylan didn’t seem to mind.” Thame offered.

Jun’s ears went warm. He lifted his head just in time to hear soft footsteps entering the kitchen.

And then—there he was. Dylan stepped in with damp hair curling slightly at the ends, wearing a soft blue hoodie that looked like it had been through the wash a thousand times. His eyes swept across the room and stopped, of course, on Jun.

Their eyes locked. Jun blinked. Dylan raised a brow like nothing had happened. “You’re up late.” Jun scrambled to sound normal. “You’re up early.”

“I was hungry.”

“You could’ve woken me up.”

Dylan moved past him toward the counter. “You looked too comfortable to bother.”

Nano made a strangled noise like he was holding in a scream. Thame subtly kicked him in the shin.

Jun stared at Dylan’s back as he poured himself a glass of water. He looked calm. Normal. Maybe too normal. Jun couldn’t tell if that was a good sign or a very bad one.

They sat down for breakfast together, as they always did. Talk shifted toward the day ahead—Pepper reminded everyone about the photoshoot tomorrow, Thame complained about wardrobe, Nano asked if they could stop for bubble tea on the way back.

Dylan, meanwhile, ate quietly. Every now and then, his shoulder would brush Jun’s.

Jun could hardly eat. Not because he wasn’t hungry—but because his mind was stuck in some purgatory between Did it mean anything? and Please let it mean something.

When breakfast ended and the group began clearing dishes, Dylan lingered at the sink, washing his plate without a word.

Jun stepped up beside him with his own. Dylan didn’t look over, but his voice was casual. “You sleep okay?” Jun nodded, watching the water swirl down the drain. “Yeah. You?”

A pause. Then, “Yeah.”

It was nothing. It was everything.

Jun looked at him, and for a second, Dylan looked back. Their eyes held. And Jun swore the corners of Dylan’s mouth twitched—just a little.

Then Pepper called for everyone to grab their bags, and the moment passed like a breeze through a window left open.

They piled into the van half an hour later, packed between bags and wires and schedules. Dylan sat beside the window this time, hood up, earphones in, head leaning against the glass. Jun sat beside him, just close enough for their knees to bump when the van hit a bump.

He didn’t move away. Dylan didn’t either. And maybe it was nothing. But Jun tucked that tiny, silent agreement away like a jewel.

They were still moving forward. And today wasn’t over yet.

The dance studio was a blur of bodies and motion, the air thick with heat and the scent of fabric softener and sweat. Music still echoed faintly from the speakers, though no one was actively practicing anymore. The first part of rehearsal had ended, and MARS had scattered to their usual orbits.

Nano was front and center, rewinding and replaying the dance video on his tablet with furrowed brows, muttering corrections to himself. Occasionally, he’d throw a finger into the air and mimic the steps, shoulders twitching in frustration as he tried to isolate one movement from the rest.

Thame was in the corner with his earphones in, eyes closed, mouthing the bridge of a song over and over, clearly trying to rework the phrasing of a run that had annoyed him earlier. His foot tapped the floor in time, and he didn’t look up when Jun called his name.

Pepper sat by the mirror wall with his planner open and phone cradled between his shoulder and ear, deep in a conversation with P’Mick about shoot schedules and travel delays. His voice was calm, but his pen was moving furiously across the page.

And Jun was on the floor, back against the mirrored wall, towel draped around his neck, water bottle balanced between his knees. Beside him, just as drained and just as glowing, sat Dylan. Their shoulders brushed. Their heads tilted toward each other, closer than usual. Their voices barely above whispers.

“I swear, if Nano starts clapping at us one more time, I’m going to glue his shoes together.” Dylan muttered, tone casual but his eyes bright with amusement.

Jun smirked. “If you do that, we’ll never get through formations.”

“Maybe that’s the point.”

They laughed—quiet and just for them. Jun didn’t realize he was grinning until Dylan’s fingers brushed against his hand.

At first it was subtle. Dylan’s hand landed near his on the floor, close enough for the backs of their fingers to touch. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, Dylan tilted his hand slightly and let his fingers skim along Jun’s knuckles, tracing the rings Jun still hadn’t taken off since morning.

“You always wear these.” Dylan said, turning Jun’s hand over so his palm was exposed.

Jun looked down at their hands, at the way Dylan’s thumb ran absentmindedly along the silver ring on his index finger. “They look cool.” Jun replied, his voice a little too light.

Dylan hummed. “They do. But I think I like them more because they’re on you.”

He looked up sharply, but Dylan was still focused on his hand, now rolling one of the rings between his thumb and forefinger, like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

And then Dylan glanced up, lips curling. “Wanna ditch?”

Jun blinked. “What?”

“Let’s sneak out. Everyone’s distracted. No one will notice.”

Jun tilted his head. “You want to sneak out of dance practice?”

Dylan nodded.

Jun leaned in, grin pulling at his mouth. “Is this your way of asking me out on a date?”

A pause. Dylan looked him in the eye, calm, unreadable—and then smiled like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Maybe.”

Jun’s heart tripped.

He stared, and for once, couldn’t find anything clever to say.

So instead, he lifted his hand between them, palm open in offering. Dylan’s eyes flicked to it. Then, without hesitation, he laced their fingers together and held on.

Jun stood, gently tugging Dylan up with him. Dylan followed with a soft huff of laughter, letting himself be pulled to his feet like something out of a half-remembered dream.

They didn’t say anything else. No signal. No plan. Just silent agreement and the creak of the studio door as they slipped out like ghosts.

And in the quiet hum of the hallway outside, Jun thought—not for the first time—

He was in trouble. But for once, it didn’t feel like a bad thing.

They didn’t call it a date. Not out loud, anyway.

Jun didn’t say it when they slipped out the side door of the practice building with their hands still loosely entwined. He didn’t say it when they ducked behind the parked manager van to avoid the CCTV camera Nano always warned them about. He definitely didn’t say it when they walked into the nearest 24-hour convenience store like they were on a snack run, even though both of them knew it wasn’t about the snacks.

But it was a date. Jun knew it. Dylan knew it.

There was no other way to describe the strange quiet between them as they walked—electric, nervous, soft around the edges. It clung to Jun’s skin more than the sweat from practice ever did. He could feel it in the weight of Dylan’s fingers against his, the way neither of them had let go.

They ended up on the rooftop of a different building two blocks down, a shortcut Dylan knew. A storage company’s office, closed at night, whose fire escape ladder was just low enough for Dylan to jump and climb.

Jun followed him up without hesitation, laughing under his breath when Dylan scolded him to be quieter. “What? You already dragged me halfway across the neighborhood. Might as well go full outlaw.”

“You’re so annoying.” Dylan said—but he smiled when he said it. He looked back over his shoulder once Jun reached the top and offered his hand again without thinking. Jun took it.

The rooftop was empty. The kind of place that didn’t feel real at night, like it only existed in stories or indie films. There were stray crates in one corner, a dusty folding chair, and a wide view of the city lights glittering in the distance. Not perfect, not pretty.

But Dylan sat cross-legged on the ground like it was exactly where he wanted to be, cracking open a can of peach soda and holding out another one for Jun.

They didn’t talk at first. Just the quiet fizz of the drinks and the sound of wind brushing past the antennas and duct vents. Dylan leaned back on his hands. Jun sat with his knees up, arms draped over them, side-eyeing Dylan in the soft light of a nearby billboard.

“Why here?” Jun finally asked, voice low.

Dylan took a sip, then shrugged. “I come here when I don’t want to think about stuff.”

“And yet you brought me.”

“You don’t make it worse.”

Jun blinked, slowly turning his head to look at him.

“Most people talk too much when things are quiet,” Dylan said, now focused on the can in his hand. “You don’t. You just… exist. Loud sometimes, but not in a way that fills up space. You just… fit.”

Jun didn’t respond for a second. He took a long drink of his soda instead, letting the sugar fizz hit his tongue and numb the part of his brain that wanted to scream.

“Wow,” he said lightly. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Sure it wasn’t.” Jun nudged Dylan’s leg with his own. “You’re just mad I finally made you like me.”

“I don’t like you.” Dylan said, deadpan. But he didn’t move away when Jun’s knee bumped his again. He didn’t move away when Jun shifted closer, their shoulders brushing.

Jun looked at him then, full on. Dylan’s profile was softer under the nightlights. No stage lights, no fansigns, no stylists or product launches. Just Dylan, sweat-damp gray hair falling slightly over his brow, silver necklace catching a gleam of distant neon. And Jun thought, helplessly, that Dylan was dangerous.

Because he was starting to look at him the way he looked at stages. Something beautiful. Something that made his chest tight with the need to be seen and remembered and understood. 

Jun swallowed. “You know,” he said after a pause, “this was supposed to be the part of my plan where I do the fifth step.”

“Fifth step of what?” Dylan asked, suspicious.

Jun smiled, crooked. “You don’t wanna know.”

Dylan stared at him, narrowing his eyes. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“You already said maybe to a date with me. You don’t get to call me that anymore.”

Dylan made a face. “I thought we weren’t calling it a date.”

“You said maybe, it’s closer to a yes than to a no.” Jun said smugly. “You can’t take it back.”

Dylan groaned and leaned forward, hiding his face in his hands. “I hate you.”

Jun tilted his head and said, almost too softly, “No, you don’t.”

The air between them thickened, subtle and warm. Dylan peeked at him through his fingers. “Okay,” he mumbled, “maybe I don’t.”

And maybe that was all Jun needed. He didn’t lean in. Didn’t do anything stupid. Just let the moment settle between them like dust in a golden beam of light.

They sat like that for a while, legs tangled, soda cans forgotten. The city pulsed around them, but up here, time moved differently. Jun stole a glance at Dylan when he thought he wouldn’t notice. Dylan’s lashes were lowered, smile tugging at his mouth like he was trying to fight it off. Jun could see the soft gray shirt stretching gently over his frame every time he shifted.

Jun’s hand itched to reach for him again. Not just under a blanket this time. Just… to hold him. Without the excuse of darkness or movie night or cold.

But instead, Jun leaned his head back, looked up at the stars, and murmured, “This counts as quality time, right?”

Dylan didn’t answer immediately. But then he rested his head lightly against Jun’s shoulder and said, “Yeah. It does.”

And Jun thought, a little dazed, a little terrified..

God, I’m in so much trouble.

The quiet stretched between them again.

It wasn’t awkward—not like it used to be, not like it might’ve been weeks ago when one sharp look from Dylan could send Jun spiraling into defensive teasing. Now the silence felt full. Like an open space made for breathing. For waiting. For choosing when to speak and when to just… stay.

Dylan’s head was still resting on Jun’s shoulder, soft and steady. He hadn’t moved, but Jun could feel a tension in his body that hadn’t been there before. Subtle. Small. Like he was bracing for something.

Jun turned his head slightly. “You okay?”

There was a pause. Then Dylan exhaled—slow, almost tired. “I don’t know.” he said. Jun’s chest tightened. “What does that mean?” Dylan shifted, just a little, until he could look up at him without lifting his head entirely. The corner of his mouth twitched like he wanted to smile, but it faltered too quickly.

“I mean…” he hesitated. “This. You and me. I don’t know what we’re doing.” Jun stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“I’m not saying stop,” Dylan added quickly, like he needed to clarify. “I just… I don’t want this to be some game. I know you mess around a lot. With people. With feelings. I’ve seen it.”

Jun felt that like a sharp jab to the chest. But Dylan wasn’t angry. He looked—if anything—nervous. Vulnerable. Like he was putting a piece of himself out there, and waiting to see if Jun would shatter it.

Jun sat up a little straighter. “Dylan.”

Dylan didn’t look away, even though his eyes wavered.

Jun didn’t joke. Didn’t smirk. Instead, he reached over slowly, carefully, and cupped the side of Dylan’s face with one hand, his thumb resting just below his cheekbone.

“I’ve never done this before,” Jun said, quietly. “Not like this. Not with anyone.”

Dylan’s brow furrowed. “Done what?”

“Wanted someone this badly and not known what the hell to do about it.”

The words hit the air with weight. Honest. No performance, no teasing. Just Jun, heart open and voice rough around the edges.

“I planned everything because I was scared I’d screw it up,” Jun admitted. “I made a list. With actual bullet points. Because I didn’t know how else to show you that I’m serious.”

Dylan blinked. “You made a list?”

“Color-coded,” Jun said with a breathy laugh. “It’s embarrassing.”

“No, it’s—” Dylan shook his head, smiling faintly. “That’s kind of insane.”

“Yeah. But I wanted to figure you out. I wanted to get it right.”

He dropped his hand from Dylan’s face and instead took his hand, fingers intertwining slowly, securely. He looked down at their joined hands before glancing back up.

“I’m not playing,” Jun said. “Not with you. I swear.”

Dylan was quiet. His gaze dropped to their hands. His thumb moved gently over Jun’s knuckle.

“Sometimes I still don’t trust you,” he admitted.

Jun nodded. “You don’t have to. Not all at once.”

“But I want to.”

That was when Jun’s heart cracked open all over again. He squeezed Dylan’s hand, not hard, just enough to ground them both.

“Then I’ll give you every reason to,” Jun said. “And if I mess up, you tell me. If you get scared, you tell me. If you need me to back off or shut up or be better, you tell me.”

Dylan finally looked at him again. This time, his eyes were soft. Glassy in the corners.

“And if I need you to stay?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Jun’s breath caught. Then he smiled—no lopsided smirk, no smug curl. Just a quiet, earnest thing that tugged at the corners of his mouth like it belonged there all along.

“Then I stay.” he said.

Dylan didn’t reply right away.

He just leaned forward and rested his forehead against Jun’s shoulder again, tighter this time. Not tentative. Not half-hearted.

Jun closed his eyes and let the rooftop go quiet again, just the two of them in the world. The stars above them. The lights of the city below. And a promise sitting gently between their joined hands.

He didn’t need the list anymore.

Jun felt Dylan melt into him, warm and heavy and safe. There was still so much unsaid between them, but the air didn’t feel heavy anymore. It felt… cracked open. Like something honest had finally passed between them and decided to stay.

They sat in that stillness for another long moment, just their breathing and the far-off hum of traffic below. Jun had one hand in Dylan’s, the other lightly resting on the fabric of Dylan’s sleeve, fingers curling like he wanted to keep him tethered there.

But—because he was Jun, and because too much softness all at once made him itch—he leaned in just slightly, nudging Dylan with his shoulder.

“…So,” he said, voice low and teasing. “I’m not ‘ew’ anymore?”

Dylan snorted, his head still on Jun’s shoulder. Then he pulled back just enough to glance at him, eyes bright with amusement.

“‘Ew’?” he repeated. “Please. You passed ‘ew’ three love languages ago.”

Jun grinned. “Oh? So where am I now? ‘Tolerable’? ‘Mildly attractive’?”

Dylan gave him a long, thoughtful look. Then, biting back a smile, he said, “You’re now an ‘oh my goodness.’”

Jun blinked. “That sounds fake.”

Dylan laughed—really laughed, the kind that crinkled his eyes and made his whole body shake a little against Jun’s side.

“I’m serious,” he said between laughs. “‘Oh my goodness’ as in—oh my goodness, why do I feel like this when you smile at me? Oh my goodness, why are you actually kind of sweet? Oh my goodness, I think I might want to kiss you and that’s terrifying.”

Jun’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. And then he let out a groan and buried his face in his hands. “God, you’re worse than me.”

“Nope.” Dylan beamed, unapologetic. “You started it. You tried to seduce me with laundry and high-effort love language campaigns.”

“I researched, Dylan,” Jun said, peeking through his fingers with a groan. “I took notes. I went to war with tiktok over your favorite scent.”

Dylan’s laughter softened into something quieter. “Yeah,” he said, after a pause. “And I noticed.”

Jun lowered his hands. Dylan looked at him—earnest again, the teasing stripped away. “I really noticed, Jun.”

Jun swallowed. The rooftop air suddenly felt thick again, but not with tension. With something sweeter. Lighter. Like standing at the edge of something you wanted to jump into.

“…Okay,” Jun said, voice softer. “But just for the record, if I ever do become a full ‘oh my god,’ you’re gonna have to let me know.”

Dylan grinned. “You’ll be the first to know.”

Jun tilted his head. “Before Pepper?”

Dylan leaned back in, eyes fluttering shut as he rested against Jun again.

“Way before Pepper.” he mumbled, the words half-lost in fabric and warmth and something dangerously close to contentment.

Jun looked up at the stars, heart hammering quietly in his chest, and whispered to no one, “Oh my goodness.”

And he didn’t even mean Dylan this time.

He meant himself.

The stars were quieter now. Not that they made sound to begin with—but the way the night had settled around them, how Dylan was curled lightly into Jun’s side and Jun’s arm was still wrapped securely around him—it all felt like a moment sealed off from noise, from consequence, from everything that would come after.

Jun kept his gaze on the sky for a beat longer, watching one tiny blinking dot drift lazily across the darkness. A plane, probably. Someone going somewhere. He tried to imagine explaining this to someone in a different time zone. Two idols half-curled into each other on a rooftop at midnight, trading words like confessions and teasing like promises.

His heart had finally stopped racing. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t still loud.

He looked down at Dylan. His face was tilted toward the horizon, eyes closed, mouth curved in the faintest trace of a smile, like the wind itself was singing something only he could hear.

And maybe that should’ve been enough. Maybe Jun should’ve let it be. Let this be another fleeting, perfect thing.

But.

“Hey,” he said, quiet. Not quite tentative, but not confident either.

Dylan hummed. “Mm?”

Jun looked at him fully. The soft gray of his hair catching silver from the moonlight. The curve of his lashes. The tiny chain around his neck glinting faintly with each breath.

“What are we?” Jun asked.

Dylan opened his eyes.

For a long second, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at Jun, really looked at him, like the question had peeled something back he wasn’t sure he wanted exposed just yet.

Jun held his gaze, but it took effort. He didn’t try to fill the silence with a joke this time. Didn’t nudge. Didn’t soften it. He wanted to know. Needed to know.

Because he’d spent days chasing Dylan with love languages and late-night sketches and jokes that were too sincere to be just jokes—and Jun was okay with being patient, but he wasn’t okay being confused.

Dylan sat up just slightly, enough to shift his weight, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, his knee bumped closer to Jun’s.

He exhaled slowly. “I don’t know if I have the perfect answer yet.”

Jun blinked. “Okay.”

“But,” Dylan added, voice steadying, “I can tell you what we’re not.”

“We’re not strangers anymore,” Dylan said, eyes still on him. “We’re not just bandmates. We’re not just bickering idiots with too much stage presence and bad impulse control.”

Jun cracked a faint smile at that. “Can’t argue with the last one.”

“And we’re definitely not a joke.” Dylan said.

Jun felt that one hit in his chest. Solid. Real.

“I don’t want this to be vague,” Dylan continued, words slower now, like he was trying them out carefully as he went. “But I also don’t want to name it just because we feel something. I want to name it when we’re both ready to choose it.”

Jun nodded slowly, processing.

“But,” Dylan said again, and this time his voice dropped a little lower, “if you’re asking me if I want you—if I want this?” He reached over. His fingers curled around Jun’s again, deliberate.

Then he leaned in and pressed his forehead gently to Jun’s, breath soft between them. “Then yeah,” Dylan whispered. “I want you.”

Jun didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until it stuttered out of him in a quiet exhale. He closed his eyes. Held onto Dylan’s hand. And let the answer settle somewhere deep in his chest like a warm anchor.

“Okay,” Jun whispered back. “That’s more than enough for now.”

And for the first time in a long time, the not-knowing didn’t scare him.

The rooftop had fallen into a rare, golden silence. The kind that made Jun want to bottle it and tuck it into his jacket pocket—something he could pull out and rewatch whenever the world started spinning too fast again.

Dylan was still close, still warm, still holding Jun’s hand, their fingers loosely twined together in the quiet aftermath of everything they’d said. He hadn’t let go, and Jun hadn’t asked him to. That, in itself, felt like a declaration louder than anything else.

Then Dylan’s phone rang.

They both flinched.

The ringtone was loud—cheerful, annoying. Some meme audio Nano had made him set as a contact alert.

Jun groaned. “God, tell me that’s not—”

“It is,” Dylan muttered, fishing the phone out of his back pocket. He winced when he saw the screen. “It’s Nano.”

Jun sighed dramatically and leaned back, hand finally slipping from Dylan’s as he flopped against the ledge. “Of course it is.”

Dylan answered the call and put it on speaker, probably out of habit.

“Nano, I swear to god—”

“I’m STARVING,” Nano wailed exaggeratedly before Dylan could finish. “I’m going to die and it’ll be your fault and I’m going to haunt you until you’re eighty and married and sad!”

Jun sat up instantly, cracking a grin. “Hey Nano.”

“DON’T ‘hey Nano’ me! This is betrayal. This is treason. P’Dylan, you’re my favorite phi. You’re my safe space. You make me garlic rice. I don’t ask for a lot!”

“You ask for so much,” Dylan said, half laughing, half mortified. “I’ve literally seen you put yourself on a waitlist for a thousand baht kpop photocard and then cry about taxes.”

“AND I’D DO IT AGAIN,” Nano snapped. “But that’s not the point. The point is you’re on a date—don’t think I don’t know—and I’m hungry and you’re not home and I didn’t eat lunch because I thought you were gonna make pasta tonight like you promised—”

Dylan covered his eyes with one hand. “Jun, can I jump?”

“You’d land on the security guard’s chair,” Jun said. “He’s probably eating crackers right now. Don’t ruin his night.”

“Then you make Nano dinner.”

“Nah.”

Nano groaned so loudly it sounded like he was actively lying on the floor and dragging the phone with his face. “Please, P’Dylan. I’m going to cry. Like, actual tears. I’m opening the fridge right now and there’s nothing in here except expired canned something and two sad eggs.”

“Eat the eggs.” Dylan muttered.

“I don’t want eggs, I want LOVE!”

Jun was laughing now, a full, shoulder-shaking kind of laugh that made Dylan’s face flush red. Dylan pointed a warning finger at him while still on the call.

“I’m coming home,” he said into the speaker. “But I swear to god, if you’re lying about the eggs just to guilt trip me—”

“I’m not!” Nano sniffled. “And also… thank you. I love you. Please make the one with the crispy basil, I’ll give you a shoulder massage and let you pick tomorrow’s movie—”

“Bye, Nano.” Dylan said, and hung up before the begging could get worse.

He groaned again, shoving the phone into his pocket, and turned to Jun with an expression of a man who had just been emotionally blackmailed and spiritually bullied.

Jun was still smiling. “So,” Jun said, stretching slightly. “You’re a personal chef now?”

Dylan rubbed his face. “Only for emotionally unstable men with obsession issues and no cooking skills.”

Jun nodded. “Hot.”

Dylan gave him a shove on the knee but didn’t deny it.

There was a beat of silence before Jun said, softly, “I’ll walk you down.”

Dylan looked at him.

Jun shrugged, trying not to seem too eager. “I want to see you off like a proper almost boyfriend.”

Dylan rolled his eyes, but he was already smiling as he stood. “You’re the worst.”

“Yeah,” Jun said, reaching for his hand again as they started toward the stairwell, “but I’m your ‘oh my goodness,’ remember?”

Dylan groaned. “I’m never living that down, am I?”

“Not a chance.”

And they disappeared down the steps—one still grumbling, the other quietly glowing.

Jun practically lumbered into the apartment with an armful of groceries, the paper bags wrinkling under the weight of ingredients they’d picked up on the way home. His other hand was already reaching out, fingers twitching to touch Dylan’s back, but he caught himself just in time.

Dylan was at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, already chopping garlic and stirring sauce with practiced ease. The scent of olive oil and tomatoes filled the air. Jun leaned against the doorway, watching like he was inspecting some rare and beautiful artifact, though the amused, slightly mischievous sparkle in his eyes betrayed his actual thoughts.

“You’re really doing this, huh? Chef Dylan in the house.” Jun teased, voice low and smooth.

Dylan glanced over his shoulder with a small, amused smile. “Well, I figured if I’m gonna get guilt-tripped by Nano, I should at least make it worth it.”

Jun laughed softly and took a slow step forward, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets but inching closer nonetheless. “You know, watching you cook? Honestly, it’s kind of… distracting.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment or a threat?” Dylan asked, arching one brow but not stopping his rhythm. Jun grinned. “A little bit of both.”

They fell into an easy rhythm — Jun watching every movement, the way Dylan’s hair flopped over his eyes when he leaned down to taste the sauce, the slight flush on his cheeks from the kitchen heat. Jun couldn’t stop himself from whispering little comments under his breath, like, “Look at you, all soft gray and delicious.”

Dylan rolled his eyes but laughed, and that sound—light, genuine—was like music to Jun’s ears.

Meanwhile, in the living room, the rest of MARS lounged with snacks and drinks, half eavesdropping and half just enjoying the calm.

Pepper shook his head in disbelief, voice low and fond. “Never in my lifetime did I expect soft JunDylan. It’s… kind of magical.”

Nano grinned like he’d won some inside bet. “I told you guys, I saw it way before any of you even noticed. Jun’s been trying to hide it forever but failed spectacularly.”

Thame laughed, nodding. “Yeah. Jun’s terrible at hiding his feelings. Remember back when he acted all cool but couldn’t stop staring at Dylan every chance he got?”

Pepper sipped his drink, eyes soft. “They really fit each other.”

Nano leaned back with a satisfied smirk. “Like pieces of a puzzle that nobody expected to match so perfectly.”

Back in the kitchen, Jun finally decided to “help” — which mostly meant he hovered, occasionally grabbing a spoonful of sauce for a taste test or stealing a stray noodle off Dylan’s plate. Dylan only smiled, shaking his head but clearly enjoying the attention.

The room felt warm, soft, and somehow exactly right.

Jun caught Dylan’s eye, grinned, and whispered, “You make me wanna be better at this… whatever this is.”

Dylan’s answer was a teasing smile and a gentle nudge against Jun’s side, the kind of quiet, perfect moment that made the whole chaos of their lives fade away.

The dining table was full—of food, of laughter, of something else unspoken but warm that had started lingering in the MARS dorm lately.

Pasta bowls clinked against plates, the scent of roasted garlic and sweet tomato wafting through the air as the boys dug in like they hadn’t just eaten lunch a few hours ago. Dylan sat at the far end, Jun right beside him, close enough that their knees occasionally bumped beneath the table. Neither of them moved away.

Thame twirled his spaghetti with exaggerated flair and arched a knowing brow. “This is good. Like, suspiciously good. Dylan, you sure Jun didn’t just seduce you into cooking this?”

Dylan didn’t look up, but the tips of his ears went pink. “I always cook when Nano demands it.”

“Uh-huh,” Pepper drawled from across the table, resting his chin on his hand. “And Jun just happens to help out when you’re doing it, huh?”

Jun gave an innocent blink. “What can I say? I’m supportive.”

Thame’s head snapped toward him like a meerkat. “Supportive? You didn’t even chop a single onion. You were too busy staring at Dylan like he was a crème brulee you weren’t allowed to touch yet.”

Jun shrugged, utterly shameless. “I was providing emotional encouragement.”

Pepper nearly choked on his drink. “You were practically making out with your eyes.”

Jun opened his mouth to fire back with something even more suggestive—but before he could, Nano suddenly slammed his fork down with a dramatic clatter and slapped both hands over his face.

“Oh my God.” he wailed.

Everyone turned to him in alarm.

“Nano?” Pepper asked, half-rising from his seat. “Did you choke?”

“No!” Nano said, voice shaking. He peeked through his fingers, eyes already glassy and red-rimmed. “I’m just—” His bottom lip wobbled. “My ship. My ship finally sailed.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then Thame groaned. “Are you crying?”

“I’m emotional!” Nano sniffled, waving a hand toward Jun and Dylan. “Do you know how long I’ve suffered in silence? Watching you two hate-flirt across the dorm like it was a sport? Sitting through P’Jun’s weird obsession with P’Dylan’s hands? Watching P’Dylan try not to smile when P’Jun was being annoying on purpose?”

“I was not—” Dylan started, but Jun was already laughing.

Nano let out a hiccup. “And now you’re sharing pasta and bumping knees and looking like you’re two seconds away from adopting a golden retriever together, and I just—” He burst into full-blown sobs, collapsing dramatically onto Thame’s shoulder.

Thame looked horrified. “Don’t cry on my hoodie. P’Po gave me this.” slightly pouting.

Pepper, however, was smiling, soft and content as he leaned back in his chair. “Well, I guess it’s official. JunDylan has entered its soft era.”

Jun turned to Dylan with a grin that could split the sky.

“Should we tell them we’re planning to get matching aprons next?” he whispered, low enough for only Dylan to hear.

Dylan groaned through his laugh, elbowing him lightly. “Don’t push it.”

But Jun could feel it—there, in the warm pulse of shared glances, in the quiet pressure of Dylan’s leg against his own, in the way Dylan didn’t pull away when Jun’s hand brushed his again beneath the table.

Nano’s ship had sailed, alright.

And from the way Dylan looked at him—eyes bright, mouth twitching like he was holding back something bigger than a smile—Jun was certain they were headed somewhere good.

The clinking of dishes and the muffled hum of post-dinner chatter floated from the kitchen like a cozy background track to a domestic evening.

Inside, Thame and Pepper stood shoulder to shoulder at the sink, Pepper in sleeves rolled up, Thame half-focused and already distracted by his phone between rinses. Nano, meanwhile, had appointed himself as their emotional support, seated on the counter with his feet swinging, holding a spatula like a microphone as he belted out a dramatic rendition of a power ballad.

“You guys are doing amazing, sweeties!” Nano announced, voice cracking on the high note. “Left plate, right plate! So synchronized. Honestly, the chemistry? Better than my parents!”

“Do you want to help or not?” Pepper asked flatly, flicking a stray bubble of soap at him.

“I’m contributing morale.”

“Then contribute from the floor.”

While chaos continued in the kitchen, the terrace doors slid open with a soft whisper, letting in the night breeze—and Jun and Dylan stepped out into the cool, quiet dark.

The air smelled like distant rain and city stone, and the stars peeked through the smoggy veil above them. A single warm fluorescent cast an amber glow across the terrace, soft enough to feel like a dream, the kind you hope never ends.

Jun sat on the cushioned bench beneath the trellis, sketchpad in his lap, pencil tucked behind his ear. Dylan was curled beside him, legs crossed, body tilted sideways, their hands interlinked between them like they belonged that way. Their fingers played absentminded games—thumb over thumb, gentle squeezes, lingering touches like new language.

Dylan had been rambling for minutes now, switching from one topic to another without any real plan. “And I told him, right, like the gray hoodie isn’t cursed, it’s just… unlucky,” he was saying now, voice light, thoughtful. “It’s not my fault weird stuff keeps happening when I wear it. It’s coincidence. Or karma. Or revenge but in fashion, ya know?”

Jun hummed, amused but mostly focused, eyes flicking down to his sketchpad and the lines slowly forming there. He was drawing their hands again—his slightly bigger, more angular; Dylan’s more delicate, rings catching the terrace light like stars of their own. The touch between them was so subtle, so sure now, and Jun wanted to get it right. Wanted to remember it exactly as it felt: grounding, ridiculous, real.

“Hey,” Jun said quietly, gaze still on the page.

Dylan turned his head, the curve of his cheek catching the light. “Hm?”

Jun looked up from his sketchpad and straight into Dylan’s eyes. “I’m giving you one chance to back out.”

Dylan blinked, brows pulling together in confusion before smoothing out into amusement. He smiled slowly. “What is this, déjà vu? You reminiscing or something?”

“No,” Jun said, voice lower now. He leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee, fingers still tangled with Dylan’s. “I’m giving you one chance. Right now. To back out… before I kiss you.”

For a second, all the breath in the air seemed to pause. Dylan’s heart thudded once, hard. And then again, like a drumroll behind his ribs. But his face—his face lit up in the way only Dylan’s could: bright, mischievous, brave.

“Show me what you got.” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Jun didn’t hesitate. He closed the space between them slowly, deliberately, gaze flicking down to Dylan’s lips once before leaning in and pressing his mouth to Dylan’s in a kiss so soft, it felt like a secret.

It wasn’t rushed or frantic or uncertain—it was slow, sure, and full of everything Jun had never said aloud. Their hands tightened around each other’s. Dylan made a sound in the back of his throat, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, and Jun tilted his head just slightly, deepening it, not to make it hotter—just to make it last.

When they finally parted, Dylan’s lashes fluttered against his cheeks, and he let out a shaky breath, still smiling.

“I’m choosing to be ready.” he said quietly.

Jun’s heart throbbed.

“Are you sure?” Jun asked, brushing his thumb against the back of Dylan’s hand.

Dylan nodded. “I’m sure.”

Jun took another breath, trying to keep it steady. “So… what are we?”

Dylan looked at him, eyes crinkling, nose scrunching slightly in that way that made Jun weak.

“We’re an ‘oh my god.’” Dylan said.

Jun groaned. “Dylannn—”

Dylan rolled his eyes with a grin, leaned in and squeezed his hand tighter. “Fine. We’re boyfriends. For real now.”

Jun couldn’t stop the smile that stretched across his face if he tried. It was too big, too full of everything he’d been bottling up since that “ew.” He leaned forward again, cupped Dylan’s face with one hand, and kissed him again—quick, this time, giddy.

Somewhere near the terrace door, a click echoed. And another.

They both turned their heads, startled.

Nano stood there, phone in hand, tears streaking his cheeks like he’d just watched a proposal at a concert.

“I swear to God,” he whispered, “I will never recover from this.”

Dylan let out an actual yelp, face instantly flushing red as he dove forward to hide against Jun’s chest. “I hate him.” he mumbled into Jun’s hoodie. “I’m going to delete his existence.”

Jun, however, just burst out laughing, arms wrapping around Dylan automatically, fingers brushing through his hair and rubbing the back of his head with that same easy affection that had become second nature.

He leaned down and kissed Dylan’s cheek again—gentle, fond, ridiculous.

Dylan slapped his chest weakly. “Stop being soft!”

“You’re the one hiding in my arms.” Jun teased.

Nano sniffled dramatically. “This is cinema. This is romance. This is fanfic levels of character development—”

Jun and Dylan both laughed, warm against each other beneath the stars.

And somewhere behind the door, the rest of their world kept moving—but right there, in that pocket of quiet, everything had fallen into place.

The night stretched on, slow and forgiving. The stars blinked overhead as if they too were trying to memorize the sight of Jun and Dylan—tangled together in quiet laughter, soft declarations, and a kind of happiness that didn’t need to be loud to be real.

They eventually left the terrace, Nano tearfully waving them off like a proud mother sending her sons to prom, still sniffing as he flipped through the dozens of photos he’d just taken. Jun muttered something about deleting half, but even he couldn’t stop himself from asking Nano to send him one—the one where Dylan was mid-laugh, head tucked into his shoulder, the world around them blurred like nothing else mattered.

Back in their shared space, the dorm was still lively. Music buzzed from someone’s phone, the dishes were finally drying in the rack, and the others were sprawled out in the living room, talking lazily over leftover garlic bread and stories from the day.

Jun and Dylan sat on the floor near the couch, shoulder to shoulder again, but this time, their joined hands weren’t hidden under a blanket. They weren’t subtle anymore. They weren’t trying to be.

Dylan had his cheek pressed lightly to Jun’s shoulder, and Jun occasionally tilted his head just slightly to rest against Dylan’s hair. Their fingers were still laced—gentle, steady, sure.

There was something sacred in the simplicity of it.

When the others finally drifted to bed one by one, it was Dylan who stood first, pulling Jun up with him. They brushed their teeth side by side, Dylan humming a song Jun recognized as one of the older demos they never released—soft and slow and full of memory.

In the bedroom, the lights were dimmed, the moonlight casting pale shadows across the floor. Dylan changed into one of Jun’s oversized shirts without asking, and Jun didn’t comment on it—he simply watched as Dylan curled into his side of the bed, dragging the blanket up to his chest like he always did when he was trying to feel safe.

Jun stood by the window for a while after that, looking out into the silence of the night.

This was it, wasn’t it?

The ending that wasn’t really an ending at all. The kind of ending that felt more like a beginning.

He thought about everything that led them here—every awkward silence, every teasing joke, every glance that lingered a little too long. He thought about his dumb plan, the five acts of love he’d decided to offer Dylan like a challenge, only to realize halfway through that it wasn’t about proving anything anymore. Somewhere between the notes and the late-night talks and the quiet gestures, he’d stopped trying to make Dylan regret the “ew”—he just wanted to make him smile.

And now… here they were.

Jun padded quietly across the room and slipped under the blanket beside Dylan. He barely got settled before Dylan rolled over, sleepy eyes fluttering open just enough to register him.

“You okay?” Dylan asked, voice hoarse with sleep.

Jun nodded. “Yeah.”

Dylan reached out blindly and found Jun’s hand under the covers. He tugged it close, held it against his chest.

“You thinking too much again?” Dylan murmured.

Jun smiled faintly. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”

A soft scoff. “Fucking cheesy, dude.”

“True, though.”

Dylan’s eyes closed again, but he didn’t let go. “I was the lucky one first.”

They lay like that for a while, the quiet stretching between them like a lullaby. Jun listened to Dylan’s breathing even out, his body relaxing completely, like he’d finally found the place where he could rest.

Jun leaned forward and kissed the crown of Dylan’s head.

“I love you.” he whispered, unsure if Dylan was awake enough to hear.

But a soft squeeze of his hand answered him.

“I know,” Dylan murmured. “Me too.”

The words curled in Jun’s chest like warmth. He looked down at Dylan, eyes fluttering in dreams, and let the moment settle deep in his bones.

He thought of the sketchbook on his desk, still open to that page—two hands drawn in soft pencil, knuckles pressed together, lines smudged from how many times he’d touched it. He’d finish that drawing tomorrow. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d just keep it like that, imperfect and unfinished, like a living memory he didn’t want to end.

Because this wasn’t the end. This wasn’t a grand finale or a dramatic fade to black.

It was a quiet promise under moonlight. A slow-burn softness. The kind of love that doesn’t need a spotlight to be real.

And as Jun let himself drift into sleep beside the boy who used to call him “ew,” he realized something with quiet certainty:

They were never going to be just a phase or a footnote. They were going to be everything.

end.