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The Dream dorm was never truly quiet. If it wasn’t Jisung rummaging through the pantry like a scavenger, it was Jaemin humming while setting up the console, or Jeno sighing in resignation as he cleaned up after everyone else.
But none of those sounds compared to the constant, unrelenting noise that filled every corner of their shared space:
Haechan and Renjun arguing.
“You left the sink full again,” Renjun snapped, arms folded, glare sharp enough to cut glass. He stood by the kitchen counter like a prosecutor presenting evidence. “Do you think the dish fairy’s going to come and scrub it for you?”
On the couch, Haechan sprawled like a king in his court, legs kicked up, head tilted, smirk firmly in place. “Maybe she already did,” he said smoothly. “Her name’s Huang Renjun. Thanks, by the way. You’re really good at scrubbing.”
Renjun’s mouth fell open, outrage flashing across his face. “Unbelievable.”
“Adorable,” Haechan shot back instantly.
“Insufferable.”
“Sexy when you’re mad.”
The pillow hit him square in the face before he even finished laughing. He caught it on the rebound, still chuckling, while Renjun stomped off with his ears tinted pink.
From the dining table, Jaemin rested his chin on his hand, watching with lazy amusement. “They’re literally an old married couple.”
“Old?” Haechan shouted back, hearing him. “Excuse you, I’m timeless!”
Renjun’s voice floated from the kitchen. “Yeah, timelessly annoying.”
Jisung, crunching cereal at the table, muttered through a mouthful, “Does this mean we’re the kids in this divorce or…?”
Mark glanced up from his phone, expression flat. “Don’t even joke about that, Jisung-ah.”
The room broke into laughter. For the members, it was background noise by now. For Haechan and Renjun, it was daily life — sparks flying so often it had become the rhythm of the apartment.
And to the rest of the group, it was painfully obvious. The constant bickering, the way they gravitated toward each other no matter where they sat, the fact that their eyes lingered just a fraction longer than necessary after every spat.
Jisung had even said it outright once: “Why don’t you two just date already?”
The living room had gone silent.
“Ew.”
“Gross.”
Both at the same time.
The synchronized denial only made everyone laugh harder. Renjun’s ears betrayed him with a crimson flush, and Haechan’s grin faltered into something much softer before he smothered it back into his usual smirk.
Most of their fights were harmless, more playful sparks than actual flames. But sometimes, they crossed the line.
One night in the practice room, fatigue clung to everyone like a second skin. Renjun, ever the perfectionist, was nitpicking footwork for the third time. Haechan, sweaty and irritable, finally snapped.
“Not everyone can be a control freak like you, okay? Some of us actually like being human.”
The words came out sharper than he intended, but the damage was instant. Renjun froze, jaw tight, shoulders stiffening.
“At least being a control freak means I don’t half-ass everything,” he bit out, voice clipped.
The air shifted. Even the faint hum of the speakers felt muted.
Jaemin glanced at Jeno, whispering, “We should leave.”
“Yeah,” Jeno muttered back. “Before someone cries or murders someone.”
Mark dragged a hand down his face. “Too late. Damage is done.”
Haechan’s chest tightened. He wanted to take it back, to lace the edges of his words with a joke, but his throat locked up. Renjun’s expression—hurt masked with anger—was harder to face than any comeback.
For the first time, their banter didn’t sound like banter at all.
That night, they went to bed without speaking.
The silence stretched into the next day. Haechan, stubborn as ever, decided to outrun it. He pushed himself in practice, every step sharper, every move bigger, as if dancing hard enough would erase the guilt.
But exhaustion hit faster than pride. His lungs burned, his legs ached, and when his vision swam, he stumbled.
Before he could hit the floor, someone grabbed him.
“Idiot!” Renjun’s voice cracked, raw with panic. His arms locked around Haechan’s shoulders, steadying him. “Why didn’t you say you were this tired?”
Haechan blinked up at him, breath ragged. The sight startled him more than the stumble—Renjun’s face pale, eyes wide, his grip trembling as if the thought of Haechan collapsing terrified him.
For once, there was no sarcasm in his voice. Just fear. Just care.
“Renjun…” Haechan’s throat bobbed. The name felt different on his tongue.
Realizing what he’d revealed, Renjun quickly pulled away, his walls snapping back up. “Seriously. You can’t even stand without making it dramatic.”
But Haechan heard it—the slip. The softness Renjun tried to bury under sharp words. And he couldn’t stop replaying it in his mind.
Something shifted after that.
Renjun still rolled his eyes, still called Haechan unbearable, but the edges had softened. And Haechan started noticing the quiet gestures: how Renjun handed him water first, how he fixed his mic cord without being asked, how he stepped in to defend Haechan’s ideas in front of the managers.
It was care hidden in plain sight.
And Renjun noticed things too—how Haechan’s teasing came with softer smiles, how he lingered a second longer in Renjun’s space, how his laughter sounded warmer when it was directed at him.
The others noticed everything.
“They’re so obvious,” Jaemin whispered one night, smirking behind a handful of popcorn.
“Still in denial,” Jeno muttered. “Give it time.”
Chenle snorted. “I’m giving it two weeks before they kiss or kill each other. Fifty-fifty chance either way.”
It finally happened during something as ridiculous as a movie night.
The group was huddled in the living room, snacks scattered everywhere. A single blanket had somehow survived the chaos—and both Haechan and Renjun wanted it.
“It’s my turn,” Haechan insisted, tugging it toward himself.
Renjun yanked it back, eyes blazing. “You hogged it last time!”
“Because you’re a blanket thief!”
“You’re a menace!”
The tug-of-war escalated until Renjun, frustrated beyond reason, blurted without thinking:
“Do you even realize how much I care about you?!”
The room fell silent.
Chenle dropped a handful of chips onto the floor. Jaemin sat up straighter, practically vibrating. Mark whispered, “Oh my god.” Jisung’s jaw dropped so wide it looked painful.
Haechan froze, the blanket completely left forgotten in his hands. His smirk slipped away, replaced by stunned silence. “…What?” His voice was softer than anyone had ever heard.
Renjun’s eyes widened, horror washing over him. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“Say it again,” Haechan interrupted.
The words hung in the air, heavy and charged. For once, there was no teasing in his eyes—just a quiet, aching hope.
Renjun swallowed hard. His voice was barely a whisper. “…I care about you. More than I should.”
For a moment, time stopped. Then Haechan let out a breathless laugh, somewhere between disbelief and relief. Slowly, a grin tugged at his lips—gentler than his usual smirk. “Finally. Took you long enough.”
Renjun buried his face in his hands, groaning. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” Haechan said, voice warm.
And for once, Renjun didn’t argue.
Life in the dorm didn’t change overnight. They still bickered, still hurled insults across the room. But beneath every sharp word was a softness neither could hide anymore.
The others had caught them sharing food without protest, shoulders brushing closer, banter laced with smiles instead of scowls.
One morning, Renjun shoved a cup of coffee into Haechan’s hands and muttered, “You’re still insufferable.”
Haechan grinned, sipping it. “And you’re still sexy when you’re mad.”
Renjun rolled his eyes, but the faint blush across his cheeks betrayed him.
From the couch, Jaemin smirked at Jeno. “Told you so.”
Jeno sighed, already resigned. “Yeah, yeah. You win.”
Chenle raised his cereal bowl like a toast. “Congrats, you’re both disasters.”
The dorm, for all its chaos, felt a little warmer that day.