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The Dream dorm was unusually quiet.
Not the comfortable kind of quiet, filled with laughter muffled behind bedroom doors or Jaemin’s late-night blender massacring fruit in the kitchen. No — this was the hollow kind. The kind that pressed against the walls until it felt like the entire place was holding its breath.
Most of the members had gone out. Some to practice — Renjun muttering about vocal runs, Jaemin promising “just thirty minutes, tops” — while Chenle dragged Mark out on a convenience store run, citing a craving for instant ramen at 11 p.m. That left the dorm strangely empty.
Strangely still.
Only Haechan and Jisung remained.
Haechan had claimed the couch as his throne, sprawled out in the most obnoxious position possible: his head tilted back, one leg dangling off the armrest, the other stretched out dangerously close to Jisung’s shoulder. His phone rested on his chest, abandoned in favor of staring at the ceiling with a dramatic sigh every few minutes.
On the floor, Jisung sat cross-legged, hunched slightly as he scrolled on his phone. His long fingers moved absently, the faint blue glow reflecting off his face.
Haechan cracked one eye open. The silence itched at him. “You look like a sulky kid who got left behind on the playground.” His lips curled into a grin. “Want me to buy you ice cream, Jisung-ah? Maybe a balloon too? I’ll even tie it to your wrist so you don’t lose it.”
Jisung didn’t even glance up. “No, thanks.”
The answer landed wrong. Too soft. Too… empty.
It made Haechan pause.
Normally, that kind of jab would earn him an exaggerated groan, or a muttered ‘hyung, please,’ or — if he was really lucky — a startled splutter and offended glare. Tonight, though, Jisung’s voice held none of its usual color. It was quiet, almost careful, as though the words were being weighed before they left his lips.
Haechan pushed himself upright, feet planting on the floor. “Wow. No backtalk? That’s new. Did someone crush your spirit? Did Chenle roast you too hard again? Or—” His grin faltered when Jisung finally looked up.
The maknae’s gaze was soft, yes — but shaded. A faint shadow rested in his eyes, so subtle most people wouldn’t have noticed. But Haechan noticed. He always noticed.
“Hyung…” Jisung’s voice dipped, fragile as glass. “Don’t you ever get tired?”
The question caught him off guard. Haechan blinked. “Of what?”
“Of pretending everything’s fine all the time.” Jisung’s voice was almost too gentle, as though he was afraid of pressing too hard. The words sliced through the air, quiet but devastating. And for the first time in a long time, Haechan didn’t have a joke ready.
For a moment, Haechan didn’t know how to answer.
“That’s a heavy question for someone who still trips over his own shadow,” he said lightly, but his voice lacked its usual brightness. Teasing was easier. Jokes were safer. Yet Jisung — the same kid he’d watched grow from a wide-eyed trainee into someone taller than him — had just sliced right through his armor with a single, quiet observation.
Before he could form a real answer, the front door rattled.
The sound was sharp. Uneven. Wrong. Not the usual slide of a key or impatient shove of a member rushing in. This was sharp. Uneven. A shove against the doorknob, the metal clattering as though someone was trying to force their way inside.
Every muscle in Haechan’s body snapped taut. His lazy sprawl vanished in an instant. He shot to his feet, phone sliding to the floor, and reached instinctively for Jisung, grabbing his wrist and tugging him behind.
His body shifted automatically, squaring himself between Jisung and the door. His voice dropped low, steady as a blade: “Stay back.”
Jisung’s heart lurched against his ribs. “Hyung—”
“Quiet.”
The doorknob twisted again, rattling hard. The sound dug into the silence, sharp enough to make the air feel brittle.
Haechan’s gaze flicked to the side table. The nearest thing with weight — a lamp, solid and heavy. He yanked it free, fingers tightening around its base like it was a sword instead of a piece of furniture. His stance was firm, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the door as if willing it not to open.
The rattling grew louder. Harsher. Jisung’s fingers tightened instinctively into the back of Haechan’s shirt, knuckles white.
For a long, suffocating moment, it felt like the lock might actually give.
Then — voices. Urgent, breathless voices spilling down the hall. Footsteps pounding closer.
The rattling stopped.
“Guys!” Renjun’s voice rang out, urgent from the other side. “Lock the windows, quick! The building reported break-ins tonight!”
For a moment, neither Haechan nor Jisung moved. The adrenaline was too thick. The words didn’t register. Haechan stayed rooted, lamp raised, gaze still fixed on the trembling doorknob as if it might twist again.
Only when Renjun’s familiar knock followed — their quick, precise signal — did Haechan finally breathe. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered the lamp, though his hands still trembled faintly. His face stayed calm. Masked.
“You can come in,” he said, voice even.
The door opened to Renjun’s pale, serious expression, Chenle hovering close behind with wide, frightened eyes. “False alarm,” Renjun explained, still catching his breath. “They said some guy tried a few units but ran off. Security’s handling it.”
The relief was palpable. Mark and Jaemin returned not long after, chatter and nervous laughter filling the space again. The dorm’s silence broke, tension dissolving into half-hearted jokes about snacks, burglar deterrents, and who would’ve won in a fight: Haechan with a lamp or Jaemin with his bare hands.
But Haechan didn’t laugh.
His eyes kept drifting back to Jisung, sharp and steady, scanning him over and over, as if to confirm he was still there. Whole. Unharmed.
Later, when the dorm finally quieted again, Jisung padded back into the living room.
Haechan was still there. He sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands pressed together like he was holding something in place. His expression was unreadable in the dim light.
“You were really ready to fight a burglar with nothing but a lamp,” Jisung said softly, leaning against the doorframe. His lips curved faintly, though his chest still buzzed with leftover fear.
Haechan snorted, forcing out a breathy laugh. “My attitude plus the lamp. Deadly combo. Nobody stands a chance.” His tone tried for lightness, but the hoarseness in his voice betrayed him. And in his eyes — raw, unguarded — something trembled.
Jisung hesitated, then stepped closer, until the space between them felt fragile with unspoken words. “Hyung… you don’t have to act so tough all the time.”
Haechan’s jaw tightened. He looked away, as if staring at the shadows might steady him. “If I don’t, who will?” The words were sharper than he intended, cutting through the quiet. “You think I can just… let things happen? To you guys? To you?”
The words slipped out sharper than he intended.
The silence that followed was heavy. Too much and not enough all at once.
But Jisung didn’t flinch. Didn’t shrink away from the edge in Haechan’s voice. Instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing the sleeve of Haechan’s hoodie with the lightest, most hesitant touch.
“You’re allowed to be scared too,” he whispered. “You’re allowed to rest. I’ll still be here.”
Something inside Haechan buckled. The wall he always held up — the teasing, the laughter, the armor — cracked. His laugh came out shaky, thin, more a sigh than amusement. “You’re really too soft, Jisung.”
“And you,” Jisung answered quietly, almost smiling, “are softer than you let anyone see.”
The silence that followed wasn’t suffocating anymore. It settled around them like a blanket, warm and fragile, woven with the intimacy of words neither of them were ready to fully name.
Haechan reached out and ruffled Jisung’s hair, his grin lopsided, his eyes betraying the redness he tried to hide. “Don’t get used to this, maknae. Tomorrow I’m back to teasing you until you cry.”
Jisung smiled, small but certain, eyes unwavering. “I’ll hold you to that.”
When Haechan finally leaned back against the couch, Jisung sank down beside him. Close enough that their shoulders brushed. Close enough to remind him, without words, that he didn’t need to carry everything alone.
For the first time all night, Haechan let himself rest.