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It really hadn’t even been that bad — just a slip-up, a mistake. A small, wrong move during practice. His weight had shifted a beat too early in the chorus, and for a second, he’d nearly crashed into Woongki mid-turn.
Steven caught it immediately, attentive as always. But his voice was calm. “It’s okay, Juwon. Let’s run it one more time.”
That was it.
No scolding. No frustration. Just another run-through.
But it stuck.
It stuck with Juwon for the rest of practice — even when the others moved on, even when Han clapped him on the back after and told him good job. It stuck with him on the car ride back to the dorm, on the quiet elevator ride up to their floor, even as the others ate dinner in the kitchen and argued over who finished the kimchi.
It followed him all the way to bed.
Now he lay awake in his bunk, staring at the ceiling, every creak of the mattress sounding too loud in the dark. The dorm was quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the occasional shift of blankets from the other bunkbed in the corner. Everyone was fast asleep. Juwon should be too.
He rolled onto his side. Then onto his back again. And then—
“…You okay?” came JL’s voice, low and hushed, floating up from below.
Juwon flinched, barely catching his breath before replying. “Yeah.”
“You’re not sleeping.”
“You aren't either.”
JL laughed softly. “You toss like you’ve had too much sugar..”
Juwon pressed his knuckles against his mouth, embarrassed. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
There was a pause. Then the sound of JL shifting underneath, a gentle thud as his elbow knocked the bunk’s wooden frame.
“You're okay, Juwon,” he said quietly. “No one's mad. We all make mistakes.”
“I know,” Juwon murmured. “I just… I don’t know. It won’t stop looping in my head.”
JL didn’t answer right away. Juwon could hear the soft rustling of blankets below, the creak of JL’s bed as he adjusted. Then:
“You’ve messed up before.”
“Thanks.”
“No,” JL said with a smile in his voice, “What i mean is, —I've also messed up, and Steven has, and Han, and Daisuke, and everyone else. It's okay to mess up, we're just human.”
Juwon stayed quiet, blinking up into the dark.
“It’s the comeback, isn’t it?” JL asked after a whole. “Getting to your head, messing with you.”
“…Maybe.”
Another pause. Then: “Want me to come up there?”
Juwon’s heart stuttered.
The bunk was narrow. Too narrow for two grown boys, too narrow for the lingering tension between them. But that's never seemed to stop them before.
“…Okay,” he whispered.
It only took a second — a rustle of sheets, a foot on the ladder rung, a creak of wood. Then JL was sliding in beside him, their shoulders pressing together, warm and solid in the dark.
“Move over,” JL murmured.
“You move over.”
They both laughed under their breath, the kind of laugh you only shared in the dark — the kind that didn’t need an audience.
Juwon’s chest finally started to a little unclench. The weight that had been coiled tight behind his ribs since practice loosened, just a bit.
JL didn’t say anything at first. He just let his arm rest between them, close but not touching. He didn’t need to fix it. He just needed to be there.
The bed was too small for both of them, really.
JL’s knee was already bumping against Juwon’s thigh, and Juwon’s foot had nowhere to go except to rest lightly against JL’s ankle. The blanket didn’t quite cover them both unless they stayed close — and so they did. Not pressed together, not exactly, but close enough that each shift went noticed by the other.
Juwon stared up at the slats of the ceiling, letting his breathing match the rhythm of JL’s.
“You always do this,” Juwon said quietly.
“Do what?”
“Make me feel stupid for being in my head.”
JL gave a soft snort. “You’re not stupid. You’re dramatic.”
Juwon elbowed him, half-hearted.
JL gasped, exasperated, and elbowed him back, "I’m serious, though," JL added, voice lower now, softer. “You put like way too much pressure on yourself. You always have, ever since Universe League.”
There was a pause. The kind that meant Juwon was thinking too hard again.
“I think it’s ‘cause I care too much,” Juwon whispered.
JL didn’t respond right away. His fingers shifted under the blanket, brushing lightly against Juwon’s wrist for just a second before moving back.
“Caring isn’t a flaw,” JL said, voice soft.
That made Juwon freeze a little. Just for a moment. Then he laughed — too quietly, too late — and turned onto his side to face him. “You’re getting soft.”
“It’s the hour,” JL said. “And your sad little sighs.”
“They weren’t that sad.”
“They were pitiful.”
Juwon grinned in the dark, and JL felt it before he saw it — that shift in the air, the warmth of it. Juwon always smiled with his whole body, even when he was trying not to.
They stayed like that for a while. Side by side, nothing between them but shared space and unsaid confessions.
Juwon’s hand shifted just slightly under the covers. His fingers hovered, then barely grazed the back of JL’s.
Neither of them moved.
And that was the strange thing — how easy it was, how natural. Like they’d always been quietly circling something unnamed, like this closeness had been inevitable.
“I like it when you’re here,” Juwon said, voice almost inaudible.
“I’m always here,” JL replied.
Juwon blinked up at him, lashes fluttering in the dark.
“No,” he said, barely a whisper. “I mean… like this.”
JL didn't laugh it off like he usually did, he didn’t answer at all, for a few moments. The only indicator that he'd heard it at all was his breath hitching just slightly — enough for Juwon to hear it, to feel it, before he caught himself.
“Yeah,” JL said finally. “Me too.”
And that was all.
They didn’t have to name it. Not yet. Not tonight.
Time slowed in the dark. Their silence stretched on for a while.
JL could hear the soft hum of the heater, the distant whir of a car passing on the street outside. But mostly, he heard Juwon — his breathing, his faint shifting, the restless energy that hadn’t quite let go of his body yet.
He was facing JL now, just a sliver of moonlight from the window catching on his cheekbone. His eyes were open, but lidded — not quite sleepy, not quite awake.
JL stayed where he was, careful not to let his arm shift too far under the blanket. Careful not to touch him again on accident.
“You’re not asleep,” Juwon said softly, almost smiling.
JL gave a quiet laugh. “Didn’t want to crush you.”
“I’m not that fragile.”
The silence stretched between them, Jeongwoo's quiet snores the only thing breaking the silence.
“You’d tell me if I was messing up, right?”
“I’d never lie to you.”
“You used to. On the show.”
JL raised an eyebrow. “When?”
“You told me I sounded good when my voice cracked during practice.” Juwon huffs, playful pouts adorning his face
JL shrugged. “You looked like you were gonna cry. What was I supposed to do, not lie?”
Juwon laughed — really laughed, small and warm, his shoulders shaking just a little under the covers.
JL watched him. Watched the way his eyes closed when he laughed. The way his voice softened after midnight. The way he always, always curled in toward him without meaning to.
They’d been like this for months now. Since the early days, since the hotel mattresses and shared practice hoodies and the silence of eliminated friends. Since universe league, when everything was too bright and too fast and the only thing JL had security in was Juwon, who sat next to him every single time.
Juwon had never gone away. Not willingly, at least.
And JL had never had the courage to tell him why that mattered so much.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Juwon murmured suddenly, eyes fluttering open again. “I just… I wanted to hear it.”
JL furrowed his brow. “Hear what?”
“That I’m doing okay.”
JL went quiet again. Then he reached out — slowly, like he was offering Juwon a way out, and rested his hand gently against Juwon's under the blanket.
“You’re doing great,” JL spoke, almost like a promise.
And then, lower: “More than great."
Juwon didn’t answer. His finger moved just enough to intertwine their pinkies.
It was nothing. It was everything.
It was a silent promise. A question neither of them would ask. Not yet. Maybe they wouldn't ever.
“Stay,” Juwon whispered.
“I’m not going anywhere,” JL laughed softly.
Neither of them moved.
The silence had shifted — not awkward, not heavy. Just full. Like the air between them had taken on weight, like the space had shrunk to nothing but their shared breath, the warmth, the closeness that neither of them had courage to define.
Juwon shifted slightly, his head tucking further into the pillow. “You’re warm,” he murmured.
JL huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re always cold.”
“Am not.”
“You’re like a lizard.” JL joked, a teasing hilt to his voice.
“You’re a lizard.” Juwon shot back almost instantly.
There was no real bite to any of it. Just the easy rhythm of something familiar — a conversation they’d had in different forms, over different nights. This one just felt closer.
They both giggled, too tired to laugh properly now. The kind of sleepy softness that came after the weight had lifted just a little more — not gone, but eased.
The blanket had slipped a little; JL reached down to pull it up again. His hand brushed Juwon’s waist in the process — a fleeting, accidental touch that neither of them commented on.
Juwon watched him quietly in the dark. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before.
“You think we’ll be okay?”
It wasn’t clear what he meant. The comeback. The group. Them.
JL didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full of heartbeat and closeness, of things they couldn’t say without making this real in a way that might break it.
JL’s eyes had started to close, lashes soft against his cheek. Juwon didn’t look away.
He wanted to say something. I’m scared. I’m tired. I feel too much when you’re near me.
But none of that would come out right. And maybe JL already knew, anyway.
A beat passed, and then, Juwon’s voice, smaller than before: “Thanks.”
JL didn’t say anything at first. He just nudged Juwon’s ankle gently under the covers — a quiet reassurance, the kind you gave when words felt like too much.
“Anytime,” JL murmured.
Juwon breathed in, then out.
“Good night, hyung.”
The quiet stretched again. Safe. Still.
JL’s chest fluttered — the way it always did when Juwon called him that, like it was both habit and something tender. Something sacred.
He let the words linger before replying, steady and warm. “Good night, Juwonie.”
And slowly, finally, the tension in the room began to fade — it didn't disappear, just settled.
JL didn’t say anything after that.
His breathing had begun to slow — soft and steady, the way it always did when sleep started to pull him under. Juwon lay still beside him, but his eyes stayed open.
He turned his head slightly, just enough to face JL more fully. The dorm was quiet, but the bunk was quieter — a small world carved out of warmth and stillness, just for the two of them.
JL’s features always softened like this when he slept. Without stage lights, without the pressure of cameras or practice or watching eyes, he looked different. His brow was smooth. His lips parted just slightly on every quiet exhale. His lashes rested gently against his cheeks like they had never known stress or strain.
He looked… calm. Tired, but safe.
Juwon let his gaze linger longer than he usually allowed himself. Just watching. Memorizing. Tracing every quiet detail like it might disappear by morning.
It wasn’t fair, he thought — how someone could carry so much of his heart without even realizing it. How JL could speak so gently, move so carefully, be so close… without ever knowing how much Juwon wanted to reach for him. Stay near him. Be more than just what they were allowed to be.
His hand twitched under the blanket — a quiet, instinctive movement. But he stopped himself before it could go anywhere. Instead, he curled his fingers into his palm and tucked them beneath his pillow.
He didn’t need more. Not tonight.
It was enough that JL had come. That he’d climbed up into the top bunk without hesitation, without questions. That he’d stayed — just like he always did.
Juwon’s chest ached with the quiet weight of it — that tender kind of love, the kind that didn’t need to be named to be real. The kind you carried silently, like a secret too precious to speak aloud.
JL was so close. Closer than anyone ever got. Closer than Juwon knew how to handle.
He could see the soft curve of JL’s nose, the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath the blanket. The faint dip of his collarbone where his shirt had shifted out of place. His lips — parted slightly, unguarded in sleep — like they didn’t know what it meant to hold back.
And it hurt, somehow. That something so simple could make his chest feel like it might cave in.
He shouldn’t be looking like this. Shouldn’t be letting himself feel this much. But he was too tired to lie to himself tonight. The walls he usually kept up — the jokes, the teasing, the half-casual touches — had gone thin in the dark.
Here, in this quiet space, he could love JL the way he really did. With nothing held back.
His eyes traced the gentle line of JL’s cheek, the way his hair curled softly at the edges, still messy from the climb up. He looked so real like this. Not an idol. Not a member. Just JL. Just the boy who had gripped Juwon’s hoodie during team trading, who had always known how to say you’re okay without words. Who always showed up, no matter what.
And Juwon — he wanted.
Not just the way JL looked, but everything he was. The steadiness. The quiet strength. The way he saw Juwon, even when no one else did.
It overwhelmed him, the sheer size of it. What he felt.
He shifted slightly, curling in on himself with a tight inhale — like the love had nowhere left to go. Like it filled up his lungs and pressed hard behind his ribs, trying to escape.
He wanted to say something.
Just one thing.
I love you.
Or maybe, I wish I could.
Or maybe just stay, in a way that meant forever.
But JL was already asleep. And even if he weren’t, Juwon didn’t think he’d be brave enough.
So instead, he said nothing. Let the silence hold it all for him.
Let the love stay where it always did — quiet, constant, unsaid.
His hand twitched again under the covers, aching to reach out. To brush fingers, to link them. To stay close — really close.
But he didn’t.
He just breathed — slowly, carefully, like if he moved too much, it might all pour out of him.
JL shifted in his sleep, just a little, and leaned closer.
And Juwon’s heart stuttered.
He closed his eyes, swallowing the ache.
He kept still — body tucked close to the wall, head resting just barely on the edge of his pillow — but his thoughts stayed wide awake. The dorm was silent now, save for the soft hum of the heater and JL’s even breathing beside him.
He could feel that warmth again — not just the kind that clung to the space between them, but the kind that always came from JL himself. He was always warm, somehow. Like he carried the sun with him.
Juwon didn’t know when he’d first noticed. Maybe back during those long training nights, when JL would wordlessly hand him a hoodie after practice. Or when they’d fallen asleep side by side on the studio couch, and Juwon had woken up halfway through the night with JL’s jacket draped over his chest.
He’d always noticed. Maybe more than he was supposed to.
Now, JL lay just inches away — shoulders rising gently beneath the blanket, fingers relaxed where they’d curled in near the edge of the mattress. His face was turned slightly toward Juwon in sleep, soft and open in a way that was different from their waking hours.
There was something about seeing him like this. Unfiltered. Real. Something about the way his lashes cast tiny shadows across his cheeks, or the way his brow had smoothed out, no trace of worry or effort.
Juwon’s heart ached a little — not all at once, just in that slow, familiar way. The way it always did when he let himself love his best friend in silence.
Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? Love. In all the quiet ways it could exist.
It was in the way he listened when JL talked, even when the room was loud. It was in the way he knew JL’s footsteps just from the way they landed on the dorm floor. It was in the way he could tell from a single glance whether JL had slept well, or if he’d overthought things again.
It was in everything. Small, steady, unspoken.
He let his eyes drift closed again, just for a moment — breathing in the quiet. Letting the warmth of JL’s nearness settle in his chest like something sacred.
He didn’t need to reach for his hand. He didn’t need to say a word. Just this — just being here — was enough tonight.
Enough to hold onto.
They stayed like that — tangled in too-small sheets and too-big feelings, pretending this was still just friendship. Pretending their hearts hadn’t already given themselves away.