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The rooftop was quieter than Junseo expected.
It wasn’t really meant to be a place where anyone lingered, just a stretch of gray concrete with a waist-high railing and a half-forgotten bench shoved against the wall. But after weeks of dormitories filled with boys, managers, staff, and cameras, the emptiness felt almost unreal. Only the city hummed below him, a constant rush of traffic and neon signs cutting through the night.
Junseo tugged his hoodie closer, shoving his hands into the pocket. The air had the bite of autumn, crisp and a little too sharp against his skin, but it felt good. Real. Grounding. After the finale, the stage lights had made everything dreamlike—cheers deafening, spotlights blinding, his own name echoing like it belonged to someone else. Here, on the roof, he could finally breathe.
Except he couldn’t sleep.
He’d tried. He’d lain in the hotel bed, phone buzzing with messages he couldn’t bring himself to open, ears ringing with everything the MC had said. Alpha Drive One. Their group name. His group name. The words looped in his head like a song he hadn’t learned to love yet.
And Jiahao’s face. The flicker of surprise when Junseo had said his name, during the pajama party, around the sixteen last trainees, when asked which trainee intrigued him the most.
Junseo rubbed at his eyes. He hadn’t even planned on saying it. But the words had slipped out, raw and unfiltered, the way exhaustion sometimes made him reckless.
The rooftop door creaked behind him.
He turned, startled.
A figure stepped out, shoulders squared as if bracing against the cold. The light from the stairwell framed him for a moment, soft and gold, before the door swung shut. Jiahao.
Junseo blinked. “Oh. Uh. Hi.” His voice came out rough, like he hadn’t used it in hours.
Jiahao hesitated, gaze flicking between Junseo and the empty bench, as if weighing whether he should retreat. Then, slowly, he walked over. His hair was still damp from the shower, auburn strands clinging to his forehead. He wore a loose T-shirt under a zip-up jacket, the kind of casual clothes that looked too soft for rooftops and too private for cameras.
“You couldn’t sleep either ?” Junseo asked, scooting over on the bench without thinking.
Jiahao shook his head. His Korean, when he answered, was careful. “Too much noise. In my head.”
Junseo huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Same.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, the kind that wasn’t heavy so much as tentative. Below them, the city stretched endlessly, headlights winding like rivers of light. Above, the sky was still a deep navy, but the edges at the horizon were softening, pale streaks hinting at dawn.
Junseo exhaled, watching his breath fog in front of him. “Should’ve brought blankets,” he muttered. “Or hot packs. Something.”
Jiahao’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Our manager would be angry if we stole hotel blankets.”
“Yeah, but imagine the photos. ‘Idols arrested for petty theft before debut.’” Junseo grinned at the mental headline. “That’s how we go viral.”
This time, Jiahao smiled. A small, fleeting thing, but real.
The sight loosened something in Junseo’s chest.
“You know,” Junseo said, words tumbling out before he could second-guess them, “I keep thinking this isn’t real. Like I’m going to wake up and still be in the trainee dorms, and the finale was just a dream.”
Jiahao tilted his head. “You don’t believe it ?”
“I do,” Junseo said quickly. Then softer, “I just… don’t trust it yet. It feels too big.”
He half expected Jiahao to give one of those polite, distant answers trainees sometimes used, the ones that sounded good on camera but meant nothing. Instead, Jiahao folded his hands in his lap, considering.
“I know,” he said finally. “When they called my name, I thought maybe… maybe it was a mistake. Or maybe I didn’t hear right.” His voice dipped low, quieter than Junseo had ever heard it in interviews. “Even now, I think, ‘Maybe I don’t belong.’”
Junseo turned, startled. Jiahao’s expression was calm, but his hands were clenched tight together, knuckles pale.
“You do belong,” Junseo said, more fiercely than he intended. The words carried in the still air. “You’re part of this group now. Our group.”
Jiahao blinked at him, surprised. Then the corners of his mouth curved upward, faint but unmistakable.
The moment lingered, warm despite the cold air.
Junseo looked back out at the city, trying to ignore the sudden thrum of his pulse. He wasn’t used to this—words spilling out unfiltered, silence stretching between them without the pressure of cameras, of performance. It felt like standing at the edge of something he couldn’t name.
The horizon brightened, faint streaks of orange and pink bleeding into the navy. Dawn was coming.
***
Junseo stretched his legs out, sneakers tapping lightly against the concrete, like he couldn’t sit still for too long. He always did that—filled silence with movement, with sound. It was different now, though. There was no stage director ready to hiss at him for fidgeting, no camera to catch him mid-gesture. Just Jiahao, sitting steady beside him, hands folded, eyes tilted toward the horizon as if the sunrise might answer something he hadn’t yet asked.
“I didn’t think they’d call my name,” Junseo blurted.
Jiahao glanced over, brows raised slightly.
Junseo shook his head, laughing without humor. “No, seriously. When it got to the last few spots, I kept thinking, It’s not me. No way. Not with so many people who deserve it more. My heart was beating so fast I thought I’d pass out right there on stage. Would’ve made a great broadcast though.”
Jiahao gave him a look that was equal parts patient and unimpressed. “You’re not serious.”
“I am.” Junseo sat up straighter, defensive. “You think I wasn’t terrified ? That stage, the lights, all the cameras, it’s supposed to make you feel like you made it, but it just made me feel small. Like I didn’t deserve to be there at all.”
His words tumbled faster, exhaustion loosening them from his chest. “Even when they called my name, I thought… maybe they’ll change their mind. Maybe the votes were wrong. Maybe the crowd will boo. Stupid, huh ?”
Jiahao’s expression softened. “Not stupid.”
Junseo blinked. “No ?”
“I thought the same,” Jiahao admitted quietly. “Every round. Even when I worked hard, I thought it wouldn’t be enough. My Korean isn’t perfect. My words… they get lost. Sometimes I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.” He paused, gaze lowering. “On stage, I worried they only saw me as… quiet. Pretty face. Nothing more.”
Junseo frowned. “That’s not true. You—” He stopped himself, realizing he was about to ramble. But Jiahao was watching him, waiting. “You’re not just quiet. You’re… different. The way you move, the way you focus. It’s not boring, it’s… it pulls people in.”
Jiahao tilted his head, as if trying to decide whether Junseo really meant it.
Junseo flushed under the scrutiny. “I mean—ugh. This is why I shouldn’t be allowed to talk when I’m sleep-deprived.” He dropped his face into his hands, muffling his groan. “I just say whatever comes out.”
Jiahao chuckled softly. It was rare, Junseo had heard him laugh before, but always polite, always measured. This one slipped out before Jiahao could catch it, a little rough, a little unguarded.
“I like it,” Jiahao said.
Junseo peeked through his fingers. “You like what ?”
“When you talk too much,” Jiahao said, his accent softening the words. “It makes me feel… less nervous. Like I don’t need to think so hard.”
Junseo lowered his hands slowly. His chest tightened, not unpleasantly. “Really ?”
“Really.”
They sat in silence for a moment, but it wasn’t heavy. The city sprawled beneath them, headlights weaving across bridges, streetlamps flickering out one by one as the sky grew lighter.
Junseo took a shaky breath. “You know, when they asked me during the night who intrigued us the most…” He trailed off, realizing too late what he was saying.
Jiahao’s head turned toward him. Waiting.
Junseo’s ears burned. “I didn’t plan to say your name.”
Something flickered in Jiahao’s expression—surprise, yes, but also something steadier, like quiet curiosity.
Junseo rubbed the back of his neck, words spilling faster. “I mean, not because you don’t intrigue me. You do. A lot. I didn’t want to admit it, because then it’s real, right ? And everyone’s watching. But when I was up there and the question came, I couldn’t stop myself. It was just—your name. Like it had been sitting on my tongue the whole time, waiting.”
His heart was racing now, like it had on stage. He wanted to take it back, to laugh it off as nothing. But Jiahao’s gaze stayed on him, steady, unflinching.
“I… didn’t expect it,” Jiahao said slowly.
“Yeah, me neither,” Junseo admitted, voice small. “But I meant it. Every word.”
The rooftop seemed to shrink around them, the chill air sharp in Junseo’s lungs. He wondered if he’d said too much, if tomorrow Jiahao would pretend none of this happened, if he’d ruined something before it even began.
But then Jiahao spoke again, voice low. “I noticed you too.”
Junseo blinked. “You—what?”
“You were steady. Sometimes it feels like you showed up more for others than yourself.” Jiahao’s lips curved, not unkindly. “But it made me feel less alone, each time. Even when we didn’t talk, I felt… like you saw me.”
Junseo swallowed hard, words catching in his throat. He hadn’t expected an answer like that — not tonight, not ever.
The sky was bleeding gold now, streaks of light cutting through the darkness. Their shoulders brushed, just barely, as they leaned forward against the railing. Neither moved away.
***
The wind picked up, tugging at the edges of Junseo’s hoodie. He pulled the hood tighter, staring out at the horizon as if he could hide the heat rising in his face. Beside him, Jiahao sat steady, his profile sharp against the growing light.
For a while, neither spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—more like a pause in music, holding space for what would come next.
Junseo broke first. He always did.
“You know what’s funny ?” He leaned forward on his elbows, chin propped in his hand. “I’m the oldest. I should be… confident. Reliable. The one who has it together.” He huffed a laugh that wasn’t quite a laugh. “But I was the last one called. Eighth. I almost didn’t make it at all.”
He remembered it too vividly—the stage lights blinding, his knees locked in place, the MC’s voice dragging out the suspense until his chest felt hollow. And then—his name. Relief so sharp it hurt.
Junseo clenched his hands. “Everyone says, It doesn’t matter when you are called, you’re still in the group. But it matters. It matters to me. Because I’m supposed to lead people younger than me, and what if I’m not good enough ? What if I’m only here by accident ?”
The words spilled unfiltered, raw. He hadn’t admitted this to anyone—not his family, not his other members, not even himself, not really. But here, under the fading night sky with Jiahao, it felt safe.
Jiahao didn’t interrupt. He listened the way he always did, head tilted slightly, gaze fixed not on the skyline but on Junseo himself.
Finally, he said, “Fifth place doesn’t feel safe either.”
Junseo turned, startled. “What?”
“They called my name earlier. People think that means I’m strong, popular.” Jiahao’s voice was quiet, careful. “But I felt… trapped. Like now I must prove it every day. And I don’t know if I can.” His fingers twisted together, knuckles pale. “Sometimes I think people only chose me because of my face, some weird quota or my relation with Anxin. Pretty boy from overseas. Not because I have talent. Not because of me.”
Junseo’s chest tightened. He recognized the look on Jiahao’s face, the one he tried to hide in practice rooms when cameras weren’t rolling—the weight of being both seen and unseen.
“That’s not true,” Junseo said fiercely. “You’re not just… a pretty face. You worked harder than anyone. I saw it. Every day. Even when you didn’t say much.”
Jiahao blinked, his expression unreadable.
Junseo pressed on, heart pounding. “You think you’re quiet, but it’s not emptiness. It’s… deliberate. Like every time you choose to speak or move, people notice. I notice. You don’t need to shout to be important.”
The rooftop air felt charged, colder and warmer all at once. Junseo exhaled shakily, realizing he’d said more than he intended.
But Jiahao’s lips curved, small and sincere. “You notice a lot.”
Junseo laughed nervously, rubbing his neck. “Maybe too much. My brain doesn’t shut up.”
“I don’t mind,” Jiahao said simply.
The words landed heavier than they should have. Junseo glanced at him, and their eyes caught, held. For a heartbeat, neither looked away.
Then Junseo broke the tension, leaning back with a groan. “Ugh, listen to us. Two rookies whining on a rooftop. We sound pathetic.”
“Not pathetic,” Jiahao said. “Honest.”
Junseo’s throat tightened again. He wanted to make a joke, to lighten the mood, but the sincerity in Jiahao’s gaze pinned him still.
The sky was shifting fast now—deep navy melting into violet, streaks of pale gold bleeding at the edges. The city below was stirring, headlights denser, the first hints of morning traffic humming through the streets.
Junseo swallowed. “I’m glad it’s you.”
Jiahao tilted his head.
“Tomorrow, I mean,” Junseo rushed on. “Debuting. Starting this… crazy ride. I’m glad you’re there. Even if we drive each other insane later.” He tried for a grin, but it wobbled.
For a moment, Jiahao didn’t answer. Then he nodded slowly. “Me too.”
Something unspoken stretched between them—fragile, tentative, but real. Their shoulders brushed again, lingering longer this time, neither of them shifting away.
Junseo let his eyes drift shut, just for a second, the exhaustion finally catching up. The cold air stung his cheeks, but the warmth of Jiahao’s presence beside him was steady, grounding.
When he opened his eyes again, the horizon was brighter. The night had ended without him noticing.
And maybe, Junseo thought, something else was just beginning.
***
At some point, Junseo tilted his head back against the low wall and blinked at the paling sky. The stars were dissolving, one by one, as the faintest streak of gold tugged at the horizon.
“It’s morning already ?” His voice was raspy, weighed down by exhaustion but threaded with disbelief.
Jiahao followed his gaze. The skyline was shifting, painted in fragile shades of lavender and pink. The first warmth of sunlight curled up the buildings like it was stretching after sleep. He exhaled slowly, then smiled soft, instinctive, almost shy.
“Guess we talked too much,” Jiahao murmured.
Junseo turned his head to look at him, eyes crinkling. “No such thing.”
Jiahao dropped his eyes, fiddling with the hem of his hoodie, and Junseo let out a quiet laugh. Not mocking—fond.
“You always do that,” Junseo said.
Jiahao blinked. “Do what ?”
“Hide when you feel too much.”
Jiahao froze, then turned to find Junseo already looking at him, gaze steady, unflinching. The sunlight was catching the edge of his profile now, illuminating his jaw, his cheekbones, the quiet seriousness in his expression. For a moment, Jiahao couldn’t breathe.
“Junseo…” His voice cracked, the weight of the night finally catching up to him. “Why are you so—” he searched for the right word, failing, so he settled with a helpless laugh— “so you?”
Junseo shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Because you make it easy.”
It was simple. Too simple. Jiahao’s chest squeezed painfully, warmth spilling through his ribs until he thought it might break him open. And before he could stop himself, before doubt could creep in, he whispered “I really like you.”
The sunrise had broken fully now, painting their faces gold. For one suspended second, Junseo just stared at him, stunned, as if the world had paused. Then his mouth curved into something Jiahao had never seen before—something unguarded, radiant, impossibly soft.
“Good,” Junseo said finally, almost a laugh, almost a sigh of relief. He shifted closer, their shoulders pressing fully together, solid and sure. “Because I really like you too.”
That wasn’t a grand dramatic demonstration of affection, just some honest words between two people starting a new path together.
Jiahao felt a laugh bubble up in his throat, unsteady from the storm of emotion rushing through him. He leaned his forehead against Junseo’s shoulder, hiding the smile he couldn’t contain. Junseo didn’t pull away; instead, he tilted his head just enough to rest his chin lightly against Jiahao’s hair.
Below them, the city was waking up. Cars trickled into the streets, birds wheeled across the golden sky, and the rooftop that had held their secrets all night now witnessed their tiredness settle in.