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There are various kinds of chaos in Katseye. Two of which are more palpable these days, especially for the dearest maknae.
One: Megan says good morning and Yoonchae forgets how to breathe, which is insane because lungs are supposedly involuntary organs.
Two: Lara exists.
The difference is obvious to everyone except maybe Yoonchae, who insists—loudly—that she’s fine. Which is a lie so big Sophia could frame it for the living-room art wall.
The other difference, newly observed by the entire dorm: Megan plays it cool in public, lets the teasing roll off like glitter, and then turns around and aims a Category 5 flirt-storm directly at Yoonchae with eerie precision. Everyone knows. Only Yoonchae survives the full blast. Barely.
8:02 a.m. The kitchen smells like coffee and impending disaster. Megan pads in wearing a slate-blue hoodie that is absolutely, unquestionably, irrevocably Yoonchae’s. She’s got the sleeves tugged over her hands and the zipper half-done over a cropped ribbed tank that should be illegal before noon.
“Morning,” Megan rasps, voice soft with sleep, and then—because she’s a menace—she hops up on the counter, knees swinging, stealing the sunbeam like it was meant for her.
Yoonchae’s spoon misses her cereal and clinks off the table. “You... you’re stealing,” she says, aiming for judge-jury-executioner and landing on flustered-bunny-with-a-gavel.
Megan looks down, fingers smoothing the hem like she’s model-styling it. “It’s not stealing. It’s a… demonstration.” She stretches her arms overhead, abs flickering like a threat. “See? Yours fits better than mine. Want me to prove it?” She leans forward conspiratorially. “I could try on all your hoodies. Scientific method.”
The last two words arrive with a wink. Yoonchae’s soul unplugs itself from the wall.
“I—” She attempts dignity. It flees. “Return by end of day,” she mutters. “With interest.”
“What’s the interest rate?” Megan asks, bright-eyed.
“I—uh—” Yoonchae blinks, flusters. “A—compliment?”
“Done.” Megan slides down, steps into Yoonchae’s space with that smooth gravity, and crooks a finger under her chin. “You look very, very cute when you’re pretending to prosecute me.”
The spoon hits the table again.
From the hallway, Dani whispers, “Maknae.exe has stopped responding.”
Sophia, delighted: “Control-alt-del is a forehead kiss.”
8:04 a.m. The door opens. Lara strolls in, rain-damp hair, keys twirling, attitude at a simmer. She takes in Megan on the counter, Yoonchae combusting, the hoodie.
“What am I looking at,” Lara says, deadpan.
“A rental,” Megan answers, unbothered.
“Grand theft wardrobe,” says Yoonchae, cheeks blazing.
Lara eyes the coat rack, yanks down the grey hoodie—also Yoonchae’s—and shrugs into it like it’s armor. “Timeshare.”
“Take that off!” Yoonchae barks, instantly feral. She steps forward like she’ll tackle. “That’s mine.”
“Make me.” Lara grins, already enjoying the chaos.
Megan sips coffee, serene as a lake. “For the record,” she says mildly, “I asked first. She lent it to me because she likes me better.”
That is gasoline. The room watches Yoonchae catch fire in real time.
“I DO NOT,” she yelps, then whips toward Megan, instantly soft: “I mean—you’re—fine. You asked nicely.”
“Interesting,” Lara drawls. “So if I say please—”
“Still no!”
Manon claps. Sophia, stage-whispering: “Different battlefield, same casualty.”
“Who’s the casualty?” Dani asks.
Megan, smiling and winking at Yoonchae: “Me.”
Lara, smirking and scowling at the same girl all at once: “Me.”
Yoonchae, incandescent: “ME.”
Rehearsal melts everyone into damp, human-shaped puddles. The mirrors sweat; the speaker wheezes; Yoonchae, hair sticking to her temples, looks like a music video crawled out of a thunderstorm and decided to win.
Megan notices. Megan always notices.
“Chae-chae,” she calls, crossing the room with that loose-hipped, unhurried glide that makes everyone else look staged.
“Mm?” Yoonchae fights with a hair tie, mouth slightly open, treacherously pretty.
Megan crouches to her level, smile small and dangerous. “You look like trouble that learned choreography.”
“That’s not a real sentence,” Yoonchae says faintly.
“You’re not a real sentence,” Megan counters, delighting in her own chaos. She gently catches the escaping strand, breath close to Yoonchae’s cheek. “Permission to touch?”
She is already touching. Yoonchae nods anyway, weakly. “Granted.”
“Thank you, Your Brattiness,” Megan murmurs, tucking the strand behind her ear. “If you were a count, you’d be the beat everyone misses.”
“That’s—stop—” Yoonchae’s brain bluescreens. “You can’t just say that!”
“I can.” Megan leans in an inch. “And I do. And you love it.”
Across the room, Lara slides by, towel around her neck. She clocks the proximity, the flushed ears, the meltdown. “You look like a wet cat,” she says, not unkindly.
“At least I’m cute!” Yoonchae snaps, instantly re-armed.
“Debatable,” Lara returns.
“Come here and debate it!”
“Gladly.”
They orbit each other, snapping like static. Megan watches, amused, then stands and simply places her palm over Yoonchae’s sternum—gentle. “Breathe.”
Yoonchae inhales. Exhales. Mega-obedient. She peers at Lara over Megan’s shoulder with a look that says: see? I can stop for her. Then—because she is herself—she sticks her tongue out.
“Whipped,” Lara sing-songs.
“I am not,” Yoonchae says to the mirror, to God? Then, catching Megan’s eyes, totally betraying herself: “I’m… respecting excellence.”
“From Megan,” Dani supplies.
“From Megan...” Yoonchae echoes, utterly doomed.
The living room becomes a pit of cushions and shouts. Charades turns performers into lunatics. Megan claims the arm of the sofa like a throne and, with royal impunity, leans half her weight against the back so she can murmur things into Yoonchae’s ear at will.
Yoonchae draws a card, drops to all fours, tilts her head, wags an imaginary tail.
“Dog,” Manon says instantly.
“Too easy,” Dani groans.
“Specific small dog with delusions of grandeur,” Sophia refines.
“Gremlin,” Lara says, promptly.
Yoonchae freezes. “That wasn’t the word.”
“Wasn’t it?” Lara deadpans.
“Lara,” Megan warns, grin audible.
“What? I’m participating.”
Megan crooks a finger at Yoonchae, beckons her closer—closer—until Yoonchae is inexcusably tucked between Megan’s knees. “Puppy energy suits you,” Megan says, voice pitched just for her. “Show me the wag again.”
“Don’t—” Yoonchae squeaks, then, treacherously, wags. Too enthusiastically. Almost falls into Megan’s lap.
“Perfect,” Megan purrs, steadying her at the waist. Then, to the room, innocent: “She’s a biter if you tease her too much.”
Everyone screams. Megan looks unbothered, sipping her drink.
Lara folds her arms. “We’re playing charades, not… whatever this is.”
“This is charades,” Megan says calmly, eyes laughing. “She’s acting like she’s not in love with me.”
Yoonchae disintegrates into sputtering noises. The room implodes.
Later, Lara accidentally lets slip: “Ugh, so adorable.” And the world stops.
Yoonchae crows, “See, you LIKE me,” and Lara, horrified at herself, mutters, “I dislike you… less.”
Megan pats the cushion beside her like she’s running a talk show. “Welcome to growth.”
Footwork day. Lara’s laser-focused; Yoonchae’s a firecracker; the half-beat keeps dying a noble death.
“Three-and-four,” Lara taps the mirror. “Stop eating the half-beat.”
“I’m spicy,” Yoonchae argues.
“You’re sloppy.”
“Says the broom.”
Lara blinks. “Did you just call me a broom.”
“An elegant broom,” Yoonchae says, which somehow makes it worse.
“Okay,” Lara says, stepping in, palms hovering near Yoonchae’s waist and wrist, teacher-precise. “Stop pretending you don’t want help.”
“I don’t,” Yoonchae lies, just as the door opens.
“Hydration and peace treaties,” Megan sings, entering like a weather system. She tosses a bottle to Lara without looking and crosses straight to Yoonchae. “My baby first.”
The simplicity wrecks Yoonchae. Her fingers brush Megan’s; the circuit completes. “Th-thanks.”
Megan crouches, thumbs grazing her ankle bone, adjusting weight with surgical care. “You’re overloading your right,” she murmurs, gaze flicking up. “Unless you like me this close.”
“I—” Yoonchae makes a strangled sound.
“Great,” Megan says cheerfully, not moving away. “Now hit it again.”
Yoonchae does. She hits it perfectly. Lara raises a brow, impressed despite herself.
From the wall, Megan considers, then—deadpan to Lara—“No, she was right earlier. You are the broom.”
Lara glares. “Excuse me?”
“You keep sweeping her off her feet.”
There is a full second of stunned, insulted silence before Lara exhales through her nose, almost a laugh. “I hate you.”
“You adore me,” Megan replies, unbothered. “Focus on her heel.”
Yoonchae is pink to her ears and dangerously efficient for the next twenty minutes.
Backstage hums with powder and lights. Sophia studies the run sheet, nodding along. The staff fawn, the members tease.
“Today’s goals,” she recaps. “Tease upcoming stuff. Don’t fight on camera.”
“Define fight,” Lara says.
“Define tease,” Yoonchae mutters, glaring at Megan’s reflection because Megan is adjusting a choker that does not need to be that tight.
Red light on. Smile mode.
“Favorite track to perform live?” the host asks.
Megan’s smile slides warmer. “Recently, Debut,” she says. “I get to watch our maknae light up like a beast on stage during the dance break. It’s… addictive.”
Social media explodes. So does Yoonchae, quietly—mouth open, eyes wide, persona cracking. “Me?”
“You,” Megan says, cool as marble.
Lara deadpans into her mic. “My favorite track is whichever one doesn’t have a Yoonchae ad-lib in rehearsal.”
“Brand,” Sophia hisses, but fans are already wheezing.
Yoonchae inhales, pivots like a pro. “I’ll ad-lib your heart,” she chirps, then sends a kiss straight into the lens.
Megan, who did not see that coming, makes an undignified noise and tips her head back to laugh. On camera, it reads as effortless charisma. Off camera, it’s pure impact.
When the stream cuts, Yoonchae presses her forehead into Megan’s shoulder, whispering scandalised: “You can’t just flirt like that on live.”
“What did I say?” Megan murmurs, hand at the small of her back. “Truth?”
“That I light up,” Yoonchae says, devastatingly sincere. “Do I?”
Megan’s voice gentles further. “Every time.”
Across the room, Lara mock-gags—and then, betraying herself: “Yeah. She does.”
“WHAT,” Yoonchae squawks.
“Nothing,” Lara says, fleeing.
Megan shakes with silent laughter, unbothered, and kisses the top of Yoonchae’s hair in the shadow of the lighting rig where nobody’s looking.
The burger joint is loud and sticky and perfect. Megan and Yoonchae share a booth side-by-side; this is not up for debate. Lara sits across because she prefers the vantage point (and because she enjoys suffering).
Megan turns feeding fries into performance art. “Say ah,” she coos, all innocent malice.
“Stop—people are—” Yoonchae starts, then opens anyway. Reflex. Tragedy.
“Good girl,” Megan says under her breath, just for her.
Yoonchae short-circuits so violently she has to take a sip of water just to rejoin this plane of existence.
“You’d fight me over fries but let Megan spoon-feed you?” Lara asks, genuinely curious about the hypocrisy.
“Because she asks nicely,” Yoonchae says, treacherously dreamy.
“So if I say please—”
“Still no.”
Lara leans forward. “Please.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“NO.”
Megan selects a fry, holds it between forefinger and thumb, and tilts it toward Lara with ceremonial gravity. “She only accepts fries seasoned with love,” she says. “Company policy.”
Lara stares at the fry, then at Megan, then at Yoonchae. Slowly, like she’s bracing for a trap, she plucks one from Yoonchae’s plate.
“Thank you,” she says, and it’s almost sheepish.
“Don’t make it weird,” Yoonchae grumbles, but her smile is smug for the next five minutes.
Under the table, Megan hooks their ankles together and leaves them tangled. Every time she shifts, the contact drags. Every time it drags, Yoonchae forgets whatever sentence she was in the middle of, which is a problem because the waiter is asking about sauces and she’s just said “love” twice.
The movie is noise. The couch is a tangle. The city leaks light down the windows like gold.
Lara and Yoonchae bicker mid-plot about nothing. Volume climbs. Megan lets it crest, then leans into Yoonchae’s ear and whispers, “I love when you’re mean. You get all pink.”
“I’m not—” Yoonchae hisses, then touches her cheek, betrayed by biology.
“You always start it,” Lara mutters when the third skirmish ends.
“I do not,” Yoonchae argues, sprawled over Megan like a happy cat.
“You do,” Megan says, lazy fingers drawing circles over the back of her hand. “But you always finish it, too.”
“Validation,” Yoonchae announces to the ceiling.
“Co-dependency,” Dani whispers to Manon.
“Family,” Sophia says, decisive, and the word settles over them like a blanket.
On screen, the thief confesses. Off screen, the room quiets. Megan dips her head and kisses the crown of Yoonchae’s head with a tenderness so clean it rewrites weather patterns.
“Hey,” Lara says softly from the far cushion.
Suspicion flickers. “What...” Yoonchae answers, wary.
“You did good,” Lara says, tone like she’s paying a debt. “On the counts. You fixed it.”
The room holds still, respectful of the rarity.
“Oh,” Yoonchae says, small. “Aww thank you unnie.”
Lara immediately flicks a pillow at her. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
“Too late,” Yoonchae says, recovering with a grin that turns into a smirk. “Penthouse.”
“Disgusting,” Lara says, smiling despite herself.
Megan squeezes Yoonchae’s fingers, quick and secret, and Yoonchae decides she’ll learn every count on earth if it buys her this—sharp and soft in the same day, fire and gravity within reach.
Past midnight. The apartment hums. Yoonchae tiptoes for water, takes Megan's mug; the city’s pulse thrums in the kitchen.
“Thief,” Megan says behind her, and plucks the cup from her hand to steal a sip. She’s in that hoodie again, hood up, looking like a sin and a solution.
“You’re trouble,” Yoonchae tells the sink, because making eye contact would be fatal.
“You like trouble,” Megan returns, stepping into her space without apology. “Or, more accurately, you like me.”
Yoonchae’s laugh knocks into her own palm, helpless and bright. “Shut up,” she says, which is Yoonchae for don’t stop.
From down the hall, Lara’s voice: “No flirting in shared spaces!”
“Stop eavesdropping with bat ears!” Yoonchae fires back.
“Both,” Sophia calls, maternal doom, “sleep!”
“Goodnight,” Megan murmurs, knuckles brushing the inside of Yoonchae’s wrist like a promise. When Yoonchae doesn’t pull away, Megan tilts her head, studies her with that unbearable fondness, and says casually, devastatingly: “You know everyone teases me too.”
“But you’re unbothered,” Yoonchae says, heart rabbiting.
Megan smiles. “Of course. They only know the preview.” She leans in, mouth at Yoonchae’s ear, voice dropping electric. “You get the director’s cut.”
Yoonchae’s knees consider giving in their resignation. She shoves Megan’s shoulder—gently, uselessly—because that’s all the defense she has left. “Go to bed.”
“Make me,” Megan says, delighted.
Yoonchae huffs, turns to go—then pauses in the doorway, cheeks hotter than the moon. “Keep the hoodie,” she mumbles. “Permanent rental.”
Megan’s grin is slow and feral. “Interest rate?”
Yoonchae swallows. “You can kiss me when you want,” she blurts, instantly horrified at herself. “I mean—someday! Not now! Not—”
Megan tips her head, eyes bright and wild and tender all at once. “Someday’s overrated.”
The air between them crackles. For a second neither of them moves; it’s just the hum of the fridge, the soft city light painting her hair silver. Then Megan leans in, careful and sure, and Yoonchae’s whole world tilts.
The kiss lands light at first—just the edge of Megan’s smile brushing hers. Then again, slower, deeper this time, Megan’s hand finding the side of Yoonchae’s neck, thumb resting just below her jaw. It’s not rushed or claiming—just steady, certain, impossibly gentle.
Yoonchae’s fingers twist in the fabric of the hoodie—her hoodie—pulling Megan just a little closer.
The second kiss lingers, breath mingling, laughter ghosting between them when Megan whispers against her mouth, “You’re redder than my lipstick.”
“Shut up,” Yoonchae murmurs, smiling into her.
“Make me,” Megan says, softly daring, before stealing one last kiss that lands halfway between tease and confession.
When they finally pull apart, they stay close, foreheads nearly touching, both of them quietly stunned at how natural it feels.
“You... you cashed it in early,” Yoonchae whispers, voice a tiny flutter.
“Early-bird discount,” Megan says, grinning against her skin. “Now the rate compounds.”
Yoonchae laughs, dizzy and pink and glowing. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” Megan says, brushing her thumb delicately over Yoonchae’s lower lip, “are worth the fine.”
The hallway lights hum. Somewhere down the corridor, Lara groans, “I heard that!”
“Go to sleep!” Megan and Yoonchae yell together—then dissolve into laughter that melts into another tiny, breathless kiss neither of them planned but both of them mean.
And that’s the daily weather in Katseye: Sweet, shameless flirty chaos when Megan smiles and rains hurricane charm exclusively on one maknae; fiery brat chaos when Lara walks in and lights a match; and everyone else perched like delighted audiences, popcorn in hand, gleefully watching the forecast.
Two kinds of chaos. One kind of home.