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The first night was an accident—or so Sanghyeon told himself.
The radiator had been clanking since 11:47 PM. He counted every metallic clang like a metronome, blanket pulled over his head, while Geonwoo's soft snores drifted down from the other side. By 1:13 AM, the noise had drilled behind his eyes.
He sat up, hoodie twisted around his waist, and stared at the dark ceiling. Just one night, he thought. They won’t mind.
The hallway felt colder than their room, floorboards cool under his socks. Their door stood ajar—Xinlong always forgot to lock it after late-night snack runs. Sanghyeon nudged it open with his shoulder. The projector’s glow washed the room in shifting blues.
Xinlong sprawled across the left bed, one arm flung over his eyes, mouth slightly open. Anxin sat against the headboard on the right, earbuds in, scrolling his phone with the volume low enough for Sanghyeon to hear the faint tap-tap of his thumbs. The beds were pushed together into one wide expanse of blanket and mismatched pillows.
Sanghyeon hovered, toes curling into the rug. “Hyungs?”
Anxin’s head snapped up first. He tugged out an earbud. “Sanghyeon-ah? It’s—” He glanced at the nightstand clock. “—1:20. Everything okay?”
“The radiator,” Sanghyeon mumbled. “It’s… loud. Like a dying robot. Leo hyung said it’s fine, but I can’t—” He gestured helplessly, cheeks burning. “Can I… just tonight?”
Xinlong’s arm slid from his face. He squinted, hair sticking up in tufts. “You’re already in pajamas. So c’mon.”
Anxin shifted over without a word, patting the narrow strip of mattress between them. Sanghyeon’s heart twisted—half relief, half terror—as he climbed in.
The space was tighter than it looked. His knee bumped Xinlong’s thigh; Anxin’s elbow grazed his ribs when he dimmed the projector to 5%. The blanket carried their shared detergent and something warmer—Xinlong’s cologne, perhaps, or the heat already trapped beneath the fabric.
Sanghyeon lay stiff on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling’s faint reflection of drifting clouds from the screensaver. Don’t move. Don’t breathe too loud. Don’t—
Xinlong rolled onto his side, facing away, but his foot found Sanghyeon’s ankle under the blanket and stayed there, a casual anchor. Anxin settled too, close enough that Sanghyeon felt the rise and fall of his breathing.
“Movie?” Anxin whispered.
Sanghyeon shook his head. “Just… sleep.”
The projector clicked off, plunging them into darkness broken only by the city’s orange glow through the blinds. The silence here was thicker, softer—no clanking radiator. Just the rustle of sheets when Xinlong shifted again, his shoulder brushing Sanghyeon’s.
Sanghyeon’s eyes burned. He blinked hard, focusing on the warmth seeping in from both sides. One night, he reminded himself. Just one.
He didn’t remember falling asleep. Only that later, he woke to Anxin’s quiet humming—a lullaby from their vocal coach—and Xinlong’s hand resting unconsciously on his wrist, like it belonged there.
The radiator in his dorm clanked on without him.
The second night, practice had dragged on until the mirrors fogged and the floor thrummed with bass. When Leo finally called it, Sanghyeon’s legs carried him past his own room on instinct. The door was cracked open, warm projector light spilling into the hallway like an invitation.
Inside, Xinlong sprawled across the joined beds, one arm dangling off the edge, controller loose in his fingers. Anxin sat cross-legged at the foot, scrolling movie options with the remote balanced on his knee. The room smelled of citrus detergent and faint vanilla from Anxin’s face cream.
Sanghyeon lingered in the doorway. “Hyungs… can I crash here tonight? Our room’s—” He waved vaguely. Grated, Leo hyung had called the radiator’s noise.
Xinlong didn’t look up from his paused game. “You’re already halfway in.” he said softly.
Anxin patted the space between them without checking if it was big enough. It wasn’t. Sanghyeon’s shoulder brushed Xinlong’s chest as he climbed over; Anxin’s hair tickled his neck as they settled. The projector cast blue light across their faces—some old Studio Ghibli film none of them watched.
He fell asleep to Xinlong’s heartbeat under his ear and Anxin’s quiet humming along with the credits.
The third night, he asked, he knocked. By the seventh, the knocking stopped.
They’d return from schedules to find Sanghyeon already burrowed under their weighted blanket, Switch in hand. His blue toothbrush stood beside Anxin’s green one. A too-big hoodie hung off the desk chair.
Xinlong would sigh, but his hands were already ruffling Sanghyeon’s hair. “You’re worse than a dog.”
Anxin laughed softly and started their ritual: lights dimmed to 10%, projector queued to whatever drama they pretended to follow, the space between the beds already warmed by Sanghyeon’s presence.
Some nights, he arrived first. He’d let himself in with the spare key Anxin had given him weeks ago—“for emergencies,” though they both knew better. The closet had become a puzzle of clothes: Xinlong’s oversized jackets, Anxin’s pastel sweaters, Sanghyeon’s hoodies and shorts claiming the bottom shelf.
He’d change into the softest shirt he could find—usually Xinlong’s, scented with detergent and spice—brush his teeth, and crawl into the middle before the others kicked off their shoes.
The first time they found him asleep, Xinlong froze in the doorway. Sanghyeon was curled on his side, one hand under his cheek, the other clutching Anxin’s pillow.
Anxin whispered, “He looks small.”
Xinlong’s reply was gruff. “He’s always small. Move over—I’m not sleeping on the edge again.”
They climbed in carefully, bookending him. Sanghyeon stirred once, mumbling “five more minutes, hyungs” before burrowing deeper.
The members noticed, of course.
Junseo caught him sneaking out at 2 AM, toothbrush clenched like a bone. “Again?” he asked, eyebrow raised.
Sanghyeon grinned, toothpaste at the corner of his mouth. “Their bed’s bigger.”
Leo stopped asking after seeing the dark circles that only appeared after nights in his own bed.
One night, the power went out.
The projector died mid-scene, plunging them into darkness broken only by the city glow through the blinds. Sanghyeon whimpered—actually whimpered—and both hyungs moved without thinking. Xinlong’s arm came around his waist from behind, Anxin’s hand found his in the dark.
“Storm,” Anxin murmured against his temple. “Just a storm.”
Thunder rolled overhead. Sanghyeon pressed closer, nose buried in Anxin’s neck, fingers tangled with Xinlong’s. The bed creaked as they shifted, three bodies finding space where there shouldn’t have been any.
When the lights flickered back on hours later, they were still tangled. Sanghyeon’s leg thrown over Xinlong’s hip, Anxin’s forehead against his collarbone, Xinlong’s chin hooked over Sanghyeon’s shoulder. The projector hummed back to life on the home screen, but none of them moved to restart the movie.
Eventually, it stopped being sneaking.
The spare toothbrush became his toothbrush. The hoodie on the chair became his hoodie. The middle of the bed became his spot, claimed with the quiet certainty of routine.
Some nights, Xinlong would come back late from the studio and find them already asleep—Anxin on his side facing the wall, Sanghyeon starfished across 80% of the mattress, one foot kicked out from under the blanket. Xinlong would stand there for a long moment, something soft and aching in his chest, before wedging himself in on the edge and letting Sanghyeon’s unconscious cuddling pull him the rest of the way.
Anxin never complained about the lack of space. He’d just smile in the morning, hair sticking up in seventeen directions, and ask if Sanghyeon wanted the left or right side of the shower schedule.
°~°
Eight bodies sprawled across the dorm like forgotten laundry. Leo dozed on the beanbag, Switch on his chest. Xinlong and Anxin bickered over the last shrimp chip. Sangwon scrolled on the couch, feet in Jiahao’s lap. Geonwoo sat cross-legged on the floor, back against Sanghyeon’s shins, pouting dramatically.
Geonwoo twisted around, chin on Sanghyeon’s knee. “Yah, Sanghyeon-ah.”
Sanghyeon paused his scrolling. “Hm?”
“You don’t love me anymore.” Geonwoo’s voice was teasing syrup, but his eyes were round. “Seventeen days. I counted. Calendar with sad faces.”
Junseo snorted. “Color-coded.”
Geonwoo ignored him. “Radiator’s fixed. The room's cold. I talk to your pillow now. It’s rude—doesn’t answer.”
Sanghyeon’s ears pinked. “I still come back to change and stuff.”
“Stuff,” Geonwoo echoed tragically. “Stuff isn’t cuddles or you bickering with me.”
Laughter rippled. Sanghyeon mumbled, “I don’t sleep there that much,” eyes on his socks.
Silence turned fond and merciless. Leo cracked an eye. Junseo raised brows. Sangwon mouthed liar.
Geonwoo flopped back, head in Sanghyeon’s lap. “Fine. I’ll adopt a body pillow named Sanghyeon Two. It’ll smell like you.”
Sanghyeon shoved his forehead, cheeks burning. “Shut up.”
But the seed was planted.
Three nights later Sanghyeon lay in his own bed, Geonwoo breathed steadily from the other side. The radiator was silent. Everything was fine.
He flipped sides restlessly. The sheets were cool, wrong, too spacious—no knee in his back, no elbow in his ribs, no murmur of Xinlong telling Anxin to stop hogging the blanket.
At 2:18 AM, he pressed palms to his eyes until stars bloomed. You’re not a burden.
He stayed.
On Day six
Morning practice is brutal. Sanghyeon’s counts are half a beat late; his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. The shadows under them are bruised lavender.
Junseo nudges him during water break. “You look like you lost a fight with a raccoon.”
Geonwoo appears at his elbow, concerned now instead of pouty. “You okay? You didn’t even steal my ramyeon last night. That’s— that’s unnatural.”
Sanghyeon forces a laugh. “Just tired.”
Day nine
They corner him in the hallway outside the laundry room, Anxin’s hand gentle on his wrist, Xinlong blocking the path back to 2-A with the casual bulk of his body.
Anxin’s voice is soft. “Talk.”
Sanghyeon’s throat clicks. “I’m fine—”
“You’re not,” Xinlong cuts in. His eyes are sharp but not unkind. “You snore when you’re actually asleep. You haven’t snored in over a week. That’s a crime.”
Sanghyeon tries to laugh; it cracks. “Geonwoo hyung missed me. And I just— I don’t want to keep invading your space like some stray c—”
Anxin’s grip tightens. “You’re not a stray. You’re—” He glances at Xinlong, who nods once, decisive.
“You’re ours,” Xinlong says simply. “The bed’s too big without you in the middle. Anxin keeps rolling into the dip you left and complaining his back hurts. I had to listen to that for nine nights. Do you know how whiny he gets?”
Anxin elbows him, but he’s smiling. “We miss you, Sanghyeon-ah. The toothbrush is lonely. Your hoodie smells like fabric softener instead of you. It’s depressing.”
Sanghyeon’s eyes sting. He looks at the floor, at Xinlong’s mismatched socks, at Anxin’s fingers still curled around his wrist. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not,” they say together, like they rehearsed it.
Xinlong softens. “Come home tonight. Please.”
Anxin adds, quieter, “The projector’s on the movie that you like. We saved the middle spot.”
Sanghyeon’s laugh is watery. He nods once, small.
That night
The room is lit only by the thin strip of city light that sneaks between the blinds, cutting silver across the pushed-together beds. The air smells like warm cotton and the faint trace of Anxin’s vanilla lotion, the same scent that’s lived under Sanghyeon’s collarbone for weeks.
He stands just inside the door, fingers curled around the hem of his hoodie (Xinlong’s, technically, stolen months ago and never returned). His heart is a trapped bird against his ribs.
Anxin is sitting on the edge of the left mattress, knees drawn up, watching him with the kind of quiet that feels louder than words. Xinlong leans against the headboard on the right, arms loose at his sides, but his eyes don’t leave Sanghyeon’s face.
“Come here,” Xinlong says, voice low enough that it doesn’t break the hush. Not a command. A request. A plea wearing armor.
Sanghyeon’s feet move before his brain catches up. The mattress dips under his weight, and then Anxin is reaching—not to pull, just to touch, fingertips brushing the inside of Sanghyeon’s wrist like he’s checking for a pulse. When he finds it, fluttering too fast, his thumb settles over the vein and stays.
“You stopped breathing in here,” Anxin whispers. “The room forgot how to hold its shape without you.”
Sanghyeon’s throat works. “I thought—”
He can’t finish. The words I thought you’d be relieved die behind his teeth.
Xinlong shifts, the bed creaking softly. He doesn’t crowd; he simply opens the space between them, an unspoken come. Sanghyeon folds into it like paper returning to its crease. His forehead finds the hollow of Xinlong’s collarbone, and the sound Xinlong makes—half sigh, half prayer—vibrates through both of them.
Anxin moves last, sliding in behind Sanghyeon until there’s no space left for doubt. His chest to Sanghyeon’s back, arm curling over Sanghyeon’s waist to link fingers with Xinlong across his ribs. A closed circuit.
Sanghyeon’s first breath is shaky. The second is deeper. By the third, tears have slipped free, silent, soaking into Xinlong’s T-shirt.
“I missed the way you steal the blanket and then apologize by tucking it around us,” Xinlong murmurs against his temple. “Missed the way you hum when you’re half-asleep and think no one’s listening.”
Anxin’s lips brush the nape of Sanghyeon’s neck, feather-light. “Missed the weight of you in the middle. Like the bed was missing its heart.”
Sanghyeon’s voice cracks when it finally comes. “I was scared I was too much.”
Xinlong’s answer is immediate, fierce. “You are exactly enough. You are the reason the dark feels safe.”
Anxin’s fingers tighten over theirs. “Stay,” he says, and it’s not a question.
Sanghyeon nods against Xinlong’s chest. The movement is small, but it shifts the entire room—like a puzzle piece sliding home.
Outside, a siren wails and fades. Inside, three heartbeats find the same rhythm. Sanghyeon’s eyes close, and for the first time in over a week, sleep doesn’t feel like a battle.
It feels like surrender.
It feels like love.
°~°