Chapter Text
PART 1
Hanbin’s POV
The studio hummed with its usual pre-shoot energy – assistants tweaking lights, camera operators testing angles, the choreographer scribbling last-minute notes on his clipboard. Hanbin leaned against the equipment rack, watching it all unfold around him.
Blue was going to be their next comeback’s title track. Management had pitched the fight scene between him and Matthew as a “falling out between friends – something with real heat behind it.” Hanbin had drummed his fingers against the conference table and said sure, they could do that.
Standing here now, though, he was way more wired than he’d expected.
Two people who’d never exchanged anything sharper than playful ribbing, suddenly supposed to sell a convincing confrontation. He’d imagined a few wasted shots of awkward choreography, the kind of behind-the-scenes laughter that would make this another memory to look back on years later.
After all, it was just Matthew. His best friend. How hard could it be?
“Ready to get your ass kicked, hyung?” Said best friend appeared at his elbow, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.
Hanbin snorted. “In your dreams. If we actually fought, I’d win.”
“Have you seen these arms?” Matthew flexed.
“Yes, I have. And?”
“I’d totally beat you.”
“If you say so, Mashu.”
They’d stumbled through the sequence once already in the practice room, laughing at their own gracelessness. But now, with the lights blazing and three cameras tracking their every move, the air felt heavier. He wiped his palms against his pants.
Pressed a hand to his sternum. This was pretend. Professional. They’d be fine.
“Alright, positions!” The director’s sharp clap got everyone’s attention.
Matthew caught his eye and nodded. “Let’s make this good.”
“Yeah,” Hanbin replied, steadying his voice. “We’ve got this.”
The slate clapped. Someone called action.
At first, it went exactly like rehearsal – Hanbin grabbed Matthew’s collar, Matthew shoved his arm away and stared him down, their feet hitting marks they’d memorized that morning. He channeled what he imagined anger should look like: jaw tight, shoulders squared, hands swinging and gesturing without ever connecting.
Then something shifted. Matthew stood before him with a look Hanbin had rarely seen – focused, almost predatory, and it hooked into something low in his stomach.
This wasn’t the Matthew who stole his clothes or protested childishly about following instructions. This was someone else entirely, and Hanbin couldn’t look away.
The choreography went out the window. His hands found Matthew’s chest suddenly, and he shoved. Matthew’s back hit the wall hard enough that Hanbin felt the impact through his palms, heard the breath punch out of him. His other hand followed, palm slamming flat against the wall beside Matthew’s head.
Mistake. The word flashed through his mind the second he realized how close they were. Too close. Close enough to hear Matthew breathing, to see the jump of his pulse beneath his jaw. Natural light cut across Matthew’s face, leaving half of it in shadow.
Hanbin’s fingers curled against the wall. He couldn’t process anything except the space between them that felt simultaneously too much and not nearly enough. His eyes locked with Matthew’s – eyes he’d known for years, eyes that had seen him at his worst and celebrated him at his best. And of course he’d looked at Matthew countless times before. But never like this.
What’s happening?
He could feel his heartbeat everywhere, even in his temples.
The concrete was solid under his palm. Matthew’s neck was warm. His chest rose and fell with each measured breath while Hanbin’s own felt like it might break open.
This is acting, he told himself. You’re just acting.
But his body wasn’t listening.
Because Matthew’s gaze held him captive, and whatever he saw there felt too real to be part of any script. Challenge, steady and unflinching. That sent another unexpected flutter through his stomach.
He’d caged Matthew in without meaning to. Six inches, maybe less. It would’ve been so easy to lean in. Close the distance. See what would happen just for the heck of it.
“Cut! Perfect, boys!” The director’s voice shattered the moment.
Hanbin jerked backward, his heartbeat still erratic. Matthew snapped back to himself instantly – pulled Hanbin into a casual hug immediately, laughing and apologizing for the “intense fake fight.”
Hanbin’s arms came up automatically, but his hands stayed loose. His mind was still back there.
Six inches away from Matthew’s face.
Three days after the shoot, Hanbin still couldn’t shake it.
Whatever had happened back there clung to him, showing up in quiet moments when he least expected it.
Every time he closed his eyes, Matthew’s face was there – not smiling or joking around, but wearing that look from the shoot. Focused. Daring.
The confidence in that gaze haunted him. It had been too intimate, too real, something outside the boundaries of their friendship. Their usual dynamic. Hanbin had always known Matthew like the back of his hand – every laugh, every quirk, every gesture was familiar territory. But this? He had no map for this.
Just a moment, he reminded himself. Part of the job.
The thought didn’t stick.
His body continued betraying him anyway. His attention found Matthew more often during group meetings – tracking Matthew’s hands as they gestured, the flex of his fingers when he got excited about an idea. His ears picked out Matthew’s laugh from down the hallway without trying. In dance practice, he caught himself mirroring Matthew’s movements in ways he’d never noticed before.
It was subtle enough that Hanbin dismissed it as coincidence. Maybe he was tired, or stressed about upcoming stages.
A week passed, then another.
Then Matthew showed up to practice with a new haircut.
Nothing dramatic – just an undercut, the sides buzzed short. But Hanbin stared long enough for Gyuvin to notice and tease him about spacing out.
“Hyung, you okay?” Matthew had asked after, reaching out to touch Hanbin’s forehead with the back of his hand.
Heat shot down Hanbin’s spine. He sprang backward, muttering something about static from the dry air.
That simple touch – the kind they’d shared hundreds of times before – felt different. Significant somehow.
And the next afternoon, when Matthew caught his eye from across the practice room and flashed that familiar smile that suddenly didn’t feel familiar at all… Hanbin immediately felt a flush crawl up his neck and into his face. He ducked his head, cursing under his breath.
Why does he have this effect on me now?
Everything that had been easy between them wasn’t anymore.
He grabbed his bag and mumbled something about needing air. He was gone before Matthew could respond. He felt eyes on his back but didn’t turn around.
The distance didn’t help.
Despite his best efforts, Hanbin couldn’t stop himself from noticing more details.
Matthew stuck his tongue out when he concentrated on choreography. His laugh sounded different when he was genuinely amused versus just being polite. His voice shifted when he was teasing versus being sincere.
These weren’t new things. Matthew had always done them. But now Hanbin was filing them away in pockets of his mind he didn’t know existed.
He tried convincing himself he was just being observant. That it was only right to notice things about people you spent every day with. Completely normal.
What wasn’t normal was how his stomach flipped when Matthew texted him late at night. Or feeling disappointed when Matthew sat next to someone else during meals.
He replayed that day from the MV shoot over and over, searching for meanings that probably weren’t there. He could still feel the texture of the wall under his palm, rough concrete that had nothing to do with how Matthew looked right into his soul.
Two weeks into this new awareness, there was that van ride home from a music show.
Matthew’s head drooped sideways, jerked upright once, twice – each time his eyes would flutter, trying to stay awake. The third time, he gave up. His temple found Hanbin’s shoulder with a soft thump, and his breathing evened out immediately.
Hanbin’s whole side froze up. Trapped by the confines of the vehicle, nowhere to run.
Forty-three minutes. He counted every one, hyperaware of the weight against his shoulder, the tickle of Matthew’s breath against his neck, the way Matthew’s hand had landed on his thigh and stayed there. His own gripped his other thigh just to keep from moving.
And when Matthew finally stirred awake, he smiled up at Hanbin – eyes still hazy with sleep – and murmured, “Thanks, hyung.”
Something in Hanbin’s chest turned over.
That was the moment everything clicked in his head, and the panic followed immediately after.
Because this wasn’t just noticing Matthew more.
I have feelings for him.
The thought terrified him. Acknowledging it made it real.
He’d prepared himself for everything this industry could throw at him. The competition, the criticism, the constant scrutiny.
But not this.
Not Matthew. In this way.
Now he stared at the ceiling at 2 AM, Matthew’s sleepy face still burned into his mind. Too close and not close enough.
How the hell was he supposed to look at that face every day now?
Screwed. He was so screwed.
PART 2
Hanbin’s POV
The paranoia set in within days.
Matthew had been laughing at something Gyuvin said, head thrown back, the afternoon light catching in his hair – and Hanbin’s chest had seized with something so overwhelming he’d had to look away. Not before Matthew turned to him, though.
What are you looking at, hyung? He'd mouthed across the room.
Hanbin fled to the bathroom and spent ten minutes gripping the sink, willing his pulse to stop racing.
That’s when he knew: this distance wasn’t enough. He needed to be further. If Matthew got too close, something would slip. He’d look at him wrong, or too long, or– something. He’d give himself away.
So he began positioning himself strategically.
At practice the next day, Hanbin arrived early and claimed the spot by the far mirror. When Matthew walked in and started toward him – habit, probably, they always stretched together – Hanbin suddenly became very interested in his shoelaces.
“Hyung, you want to–”
“I’m good here,” Hanbin said, not looking up.
The silence lasted three seconds too long. Then Matthew’s footsteps retreated.
Hanbin only looked up when he was sure Matthew had moved to the other side of the room.
It was the way it had to be from now on.
But distance only amplified everything. Every stolen glance at Matthew sent the truth ricocheting through his chest like a bullet he couldn’t dig out. The worst part was how easy Matthew made it look – existing in the same room, breathing the same air, acting like Hanbin’s entire world hadn’t just inverted itself.
He didn’t want to lose what they had. But he didn’t know how to keep it when his hands went clammy every time Matthew said his name. When his heart did a dance at each “hyong” he received his way.
He started tracking Matthew’s schedule. If Matthew had a vocal lesson at 3 PM, Hanbin made sure he had somewhere else to be at 3:15 PM. If Matthew was in the kitchen, Hanbin suddenly remembered he needed to call his mom. When they were forced to work together on choreography, Hanbin clung to professionalism like a life raft – counting beats out loud, correcting angles, anything to avoid meeting Matthew’s eyes.
And Matthew noticed. Of course he did.
Hanbin could see it in the way Matthew’s smile would falter when he looked away too quickly. In the way Matthew’s hand would freeze mid-reach whenever Hanbin pulled back from an accidental touch. Matthew was trying to act normal – laughing with Taerae, teasing Gunwook – but there was a new hesitation in the way he approached Hanbin now. Like he was cautious of getting too close.
Hanbin had done that. He’d made Matthew afraid of him.
The worst part was that he wanted to explain. Wanted to tell Matthew everything, that these feelings had ambushed him and he didn’t know how to carry them. Yet he stayed silent, and watched the hurt bloom across Matthew’s face every time he pulled away.
It was killing him. But it was just safer like this.
It had been about a month into this careful tiptoeing. The members collapsed into the common room like dominoes, just like they always did after practice on a Friday. Jiwoong had ordered enough fried chicken to feed a small army. Taerae’s guitar leaned against the couch, and Ricky was scrolling through his phone, occasionally reading out funny comments from their latest post.
It should have felt easy. Safe. He should’ve been used to it by now. Adapted.
Instead, Hanbin felt like his skin was pulled too tight.
He wedged himself into the corner of the couch, phone in hand. He opened Instagram, closed it. Opened their group chat, scrolled up to a week-old conversation, learned nothing. His jaw ached from clenching it.
When Matthew dropped onto the cushion beside him – close enough that Hanbin could smell his shampoo – every muscle in his body screamed move.
“Hyung, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” Hanbin didn’t look up from his phone screen, even though he wasn’t reading a single word.
Matthew leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”
The softness in his tone, the concern – it crawled under Hanbin’s skin. Matthew’s knee bumped against his. It might have been an accident. Might not have been. He couldn’t breathe. Being in Matthew’s presence felt like setting himself on fire and having to pretend not to burn.
“I said I’m fine.” The words came out sharper than he meant. He stood abruptly and walked away.
He didn’t look back. Didn’t stop until he reached his room and could finally close the door between them.
Only then did he let himself breathe. His hands were shaking. He pressed his palms flat against the door, forehead following, and counted to ten.
Then twenty.
Then he gave up counting and just stood there, feeling like the worst person in the world.
Matthew’s POV
It started small.
He’d been scrolling through his phone during a break, saw a meme that was so Hanbin hyung it hurt, and turned to share it – only to find the space beside him empty. Hanbin was already making his way swiftly across the room, suddenly very invested in a conversation with Hao.
Weird. But maybe coincidence.
A week later, Matthew tried again. “Hyung, want to go have meat after practice? That place you like–”
“Can’t, sorry. Have a thing.”
Hanbin was already walking in some other direction before Matthew could ask what thing.
Two weeks after that, Matthew suggested a movie night in his room. Hanbin said he was tired. The next day, Matthew heard him in Gyuvin’s room at 3 AM.
Okay. So maybe not that tired.
By the end of the first month, the pattern was impossible to ignore. Hanbin had started sitting on the opposite side of the van during schedules. Their usual spot on the couch – Matthew’s corner, Hanbin always next to him – stayed empty. Someone else would fill it, and Hanbin would be across the room on his phone.
Matthew made excuses in his head for all of that.
The second month was worse.
They got paired for a variety show interview, the kind where they used to riff off each other so easily the staff would joke about giving them their own segment. This time, Hanbin barely looked at him. Answered questions in that polite, media-trained way that made everything sound rehearsed. When Matthew tried to joke around like normal, Hanbin’s laugh came out forced.
The hosts noticed. Matthew could tell by their confused glances, the way they tried to redirect energy back to them. It was humiliating.
“Did I do something?” Matthew finally asked one night, catching Hanbin in the kitchen.
“What? No. Why would you think that?”
“Because you’ve been avoiding me.”
“I haven’t been avoiding you.” Hanbin wouldn’t look at him. “I’ve just been busy.”
“Too busy to talk to me? We live across from each other, hyung.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say. I just have a lot on my plate now, okay?” Hanbin poured water into a glass, took a long drink, set it down carefully. “I’m going to bed.”
He walked past Matthew, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed, but Matthew stepped aside at the last second.
And that was it. Conversation over.
The third month was when Matthew started to feel it in his chest – this constant, dull ache that sat right under his ribs.
They used to talk for hours. Matthew would take over Hanbin’s bed after practice, complaining about the choreography or sharing weird videos, and Hanbin would listen with that soft smile that made Matthew’s chest feel warm.
Now it was so quiet. It wasn’t brooding-quiet or stressed-quiet. This was absence. Like Hanbin had removed himself from their friendship and left a cardboard cutout in his place.
Every conversation they did end up having felt like he was forcing Hanbin down to pull his teeth out.
“Hyung, did you see the schedule for next week?”
“Yeah.”
“Pretty packed, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“…Okay.”
Matthew didn’t know when monosyllables became Hanbin’s first language, but he was getting really tired of it.
He tried to talk to Gyuvin about it once. “Has Hanbin hyung seemed off to you?”
Gyuvin had looked at him strangely. “Off how? He seems normal to me.”
Because he was normal with everyone else. That was the part that hurt most – watching Hanbin nag Hao, joke around with Gunwook, tease Yujin, listen patiently to Gyuvin’s stories. The warmth was still there. Just not for Matthew.
“Maybe you should talk to him.” Gyuvin suggested.
Yeah. He was trying. But you couldn’t have a conversation with someone who kept walking away.
He’d done something wrong. He must have. People didn’t just stop caring about you for no reason.
But every time he tried to figure out what, his mind came up empty. They’d been fine. Better than fine. And then suddenly they weren’t, and Hanbin wouldn’t tell him why.
By now, Matthew was seriously considering giving up.
Then their choreographer paired them for a new unit stage.
Matthew watched Hanbin’s face go carefully blank when their names were called together. They’d run through the choreography three times, and Hanbin hadn’t looked at him once – just counted beats out loud like Matthew was a stranger who needed guidance.
When practice finally ended and the others filtered out, Matthew stayed behind. Through the glass doors, he could see Hanbin standing alone by the windows, silhouette dark against the city lights.
He pushed through the doors before he could talk himself out of it. He’d never been one to back down from difficult conversations, especially not with Hanbin. They’d navigated disagreements before. What made this any different?
“Hyung.”
Hanbin’s shoulders drew up, but he didn’t turn around.
Matthew took another step closer, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Can we– can we talk?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Really?” The word came out harsher than Matthew intended. He softened his voice, tried again. “You don’t see any problem with this – us – right now?”
Silence. Then Hanbin’s reflection in the window showed him closing his eyes briefly, jaw working like he was trying to swallow something down.
“I just need time to figure some things out.”
Matthew searched his face, desperate for something, anything that made sense. “Can I help?”
“You can’t.” Immediate. Final. Then, quieter, almost to himself: “Especially not you.”
And then Hanbin was walking past him, around him, leaving Matthew standing alone in the practice room with more questions than answers.
Especially not you.
What did that mean?
For the first time in their friendship, Matthew was scared. Not the stage-fright kind, or the what-if-we-fail kind.
He was scared that he’d already lost his best friend without knowing why.
He stood there until the automatic lights clicked off, plunging him into darkness.
Especially not you.
He still didn’t know what it meant, even if he was starting to suspect it truly was what he’d feared. By the time he made it back to the dorms, he almost convinced himself he was overreacting.
Almost.
But then he passed Hanbin’s laughter behind the closed door to the apartment he shared with Gyuvin and Hao – and the fear developed into certainty:
Something had broken between them. And Matthew had no idea how to fix it.
Hanbin’s POV
Matthew had limits. And Hanbin had finally found out where they were.
He’d been naive to think it could go on forever.
Practice had run late that evening, most of the members already having headed back to the dorms. Matthew cornered him in the empty hallway, and this time, there was no escape route.
“Hyung.” Matthew’s voice was fierce, something determined in his tone that made Hanbin’s stomach drop. “I need to know what’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on,” Hanbin managed.
Matthew’s hand touched his arm, gently but firmly turning him around. The contact sent shockwaves through Hanbin’s system, but he forced himself to look at Matthew.
What he saw made his chest constrict.
Matthew looked exhausted – shadows smudged purple under his eyes, a tremor in his hands when they fell away. His shoulders curved inward, making himself smaller. And his eyes – bright with tears that hadn’t fallen yet – held something Hanbin never wanted to be the one to put there.
Desperation.
“Come on,” Matthew whispered. “Just tell me what’s wrong. I’ll make up for it – I’ll change.”
It’s not your fault.
Hanbin wanted to say it out loud – wanted to explain that Matthew was perfect and the problem was entirely his own. That every moment of distance was killing him too. But the words wouldn’t come.
Instead, he took the coward’s way out.
“I just need space.” Hated himself for every word.
Matthew’s face crumbled, his hand falling from Hanbin’s arm as he stepped back like he’d been struck. “Is that what you want? Space? From me?”
Hanbin saw it – the exact moment Matthew’s hope started to break.
“I’ve been giving you space for months! Waiting for you to talk to me, waiting for you to come back.” Matthew took a shuddering breath, trying to compose himself, but the tears had already slid down his cheeks. “But you just keep walking further away and I’m the biggest fool standing still, watching you go.”
“That’s not–” Hanbin started, but Matthew cut him off.
“I don’t even know what I did, or why you’re doing this!” His voice rose. “You won’t tell me anything, and I’m just supposed to– how am I supposed to fix something when you won’t even tell me what I did?”
“I can’t.” It came out barely above a whisper.
“You can’t what?”
“I just…” Hanbin stopped.
The truth sat behind his teeth, impossible to force out. Because I can’t be around you without wanting things I shouldn’t want. But saying it would ruin everything in a different way – a permanent way.
Matthew waited, but whatever fragile hope remained in his expression crumbled to dust with Hanbin’s continued silence.
“Why don’t you want me anymore, hyung?” The question came out small, defeated. “What did I do that was so wrong?”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Hanbin said quickly. “You couldn’t.”
“Then why–” Matthew’s voice broke. “Why are you throwing our friendship away? Because that’s what you’re doing.”
“I’m sorry.” It was all Hanbin could manage, pathetic and inadequate.
“Sorry doesn’t explain anything.” Matthew wiped roughly at his face. “Sorry doesn’t tell me why my best friend suddenly can’t stand to look at me.”
He turned toward the door, but stopped at the threshold.
“I told myself that–” Matthew’s voice went so low Hanbin had to strain to hear it. “That this was the last time I was going to try.” He shook his head sharply. “Just one more time.”
“Seokmae-ah...”
Matthew scoffed to himself. “You’re not coming back, are you.”
Not a question.
“I wish you would’ve just told me that I still mattered to you, hyung.” All the warmth had drained from his voice now. “That’s all I needed to hear.”
“Matthew, I really–”
“You can have all the space you want.” Matthew’s hand tightened on the doorframe. “Because I’m not doing this anymore.”
The door closed behind him. The soft click of the latch might as well have been knife to the chest.
Hanbin stared at the empty space where Matthew had been standing seconds ago. His apology sat useless behind his teeth.
He could still see Matthew’s face in those final seconds – that terrible moment when his expression had gone completely blank. Like he’d spent every ounce of energy trying to reach Hanbin and had nothing left to give.
His phone was in his hand. He didn’t even remember pulling it out. Matthew’s contact glowed up at him – one of the photos they took the day they went back to Cheonan. His thumb hovered over the call button.
He could fix this. One call. One conversation to undo the last ten minutes, where he actually told the truth.
He locked the screen instead. Pocketed the phone. Walked back to his room on legs that felt borrowed from someone else’s body.
He’d gotten exactly what he’d been pushing for, what he thought was needed – Matthew finally walking away. Giving up. Leaving him alone. Actual distance.
So why did it feel like he’d just made the worst mistake of his life?
PART 3
Matthew’s POV
The days blurred together as Matthew perfected the art of existing in two worlds. The persona he wore for cameras – all sunshine smiles and the kind of effortless laughter that made fans scream his name. And then the emptiness that became him when the lights went down.
He’d mapped new routes throughout the dorm building and at the company, avoiding anywhere that put him in Hanbin’s vicinity if it wasn’t for official group matters. The kitchen at certain hours. The couch where they used to–
He’d become exactly what he’d been fighting against and wasn’t that just goddamn ironic. An expert at distance, just like Hanbin.
Five weeks and four days. The number lived in his head, even though he didn’t know what he was counting toward.
His phone buzzed one afternoon.
Sis: oi matt, you look like shit in some of the photos. you good or do you need big sis to pull up?
Matthew stared at the screen, thumb hovering. His lips twitched – the first real reaction in a while.
I’m fine felt like a stretch.
Matthew: just busy with schedules, stay in Canada you menace…
The dorm’s familiar sounds – Ricky’s laughter from down the hall, some drama on the TV – felt too loud, made his head ache. He’d started pulling his headphones on even though nothing was playing.
He’d taken to staying up later, nursing bottles of soju that burned less than the tightness in his chest. He’d never been much of a drinker before. Turned out heartbreak changed your tolerance for a lot of things. One became two, two became however many it took to blur his own thoughts. Just enough.
There was one night when that fourth bottle was a mistake. He knew it even as he twisted the cap, even as the burn hit his throat and made his eyes water.
A message chime.
Gunwook: hyung where are you? i’m working on my song, wanna come hear?
The screen’s glow made his temple throb. Matthew squinted at it, tried to make his fingers cooperate.
Matthew: can’t sleep. walking it off. tomorrow?
He wasn’t walking anywhere. He was sitting on the bathroom floor, tile cold through his sweatpants, the door stopper digging into his hip. The bottle hung from his fingers between his knees, half-empty, and the room tilted slightly when he turned his head.
It slipped from where he held it, hitting the ground with a sound that ricocheted through his skull.
“Shit.” The word came out thick, unfamiliar in his own mouth.
After that, he kept it to two. Most nights.
The alcohol helped him sleep, at least. During the day, he found other ways to stop thinking.
The gym became his second home – or maybe his first. The only place he could go to stop thinking, which meant he never stopped going. He spent five hours there yesterday. Six today. The company trainer cornered him after his second session in twelve hours.
“Rest is important too, you know.”
Matthew smiled and deflected like he’d practiced. “Just want to be in the best shape for the tour.”
Of course he didn’t say that the pain in his muscles was easier to deal with than what was in his chest. That if he could make his body hurt enough, maybe it would drown out everything else.
“Mashu, hey...”
Gyuvin’s voice broke through the rhythmic clang of weights one night, but Matthew didn’t stop. Didn’t even acknowledge him.
“Matthew hyung.” Firmer now, the tone Gyuvin used when he was genuinely worried. “You’re gonna hurt yourself. Seriously.”
“I’m fine.” His grip tightened until the bar bit into his palms.
But Gyuvin had never learned how to walk away from people he cared about. He stepped closer. “No, you’re not fine. You haven’t been fine in a while.”
Matthew wanted to argue, to insist that the tremor in his hands was just fatigue and the hollow look in his eyes was just stress from their packed schedule. But lies required energy he barely possessed anymore.
“I’m just trying to stay busy, alright?” he managed. “Let… let me have this.”
“I’m not leaving,” Gyuvin said simply, settling onto a nearby bench.
Of course you’re not. Matthew almost smiled as he saw the stubborn set in Gyuvin’s jaw which he’d come to both love and fear. Gyuvin meant well, he knew that. Just couldn’t feel it past the ache, that's all.
“You don’t have to worry about me, Gyuvinnie. I know you care but I’m handling it,” he muttered, attempting to lift the barbell again.
“Is this about Hanbin hyung?”
The name stole the breath from his lungs and the strength from his arms.
“Don’t.” The word came out strangled. The barbell wavered in his grip, suddenly impossible to hold. “Don’t talk about him.”
Matthew blinked rapidly. The barbell clattered as he dropped it back down.
“So it is Hanbin hyung.”
And just like that, the dam broke.
“I don’t–” Matthew’s breath caught in his throat, his next words tumbling out before he could stop them. “We were fine. And then one day we just… we weren’t, and I don’t know why. I asked him what went wrong and he couldn’t even look at me.” His voice cracked. “Like we never–”
His hands curled into fists. Then shook as he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to force the tears back. But they came anyway, hot and so humiliating.
“Sorry. That was– uh, I don’t know what that was.” Matthew straightened abruptly, forcing his face into something that might pass for okay. Then he stood. “You’re right. I’m done for today.” He managed a weak smile, ruffling Gyuvin’s hair. “See you at home, okay?”
“Mashu– hyung, wait.”
But Matthew was already moving. He knew if he stayed any longer, Gyuvin’s kindness would pry him open eventually, and he couldn’t afford that. Not here.
The elevator doors closed with a soft ding, sealing him in silence. He slumped against the wall, letting his head fall back.
His phone buzzed – probably Gyuvin checking on him. Matthew ignored it. Tomorrow could wait. Tonight, he just wanted to be sad.
Gyuvin’s POV
The gym fell silent after Matthew left, the echo of clanging weights fading into oppressive quiet. Gyuvin remained on the bench, staring at the door Matthew had disappeared through, jaw tight with frustration.
He’d been watching this unfold for weeks now, collecting details like evidence.
It started with things like Hanbin seeking him out more often – sitting next to Gyuvin during meals when Matthew was on his other side, asking about his day with an intensity that felt almost suffocating. Filling silences with conversation that seemed designed to avoid other conversations.
At first, Gyuvin thought Hanbin was just being a really good hyung. Checking in. Being present. t wasn’t unusual, he did this a lot day-to-day.
Then he noticed the pattern.
Hanbin would laugh at Gyuvin’s jokes, but his eyes would track Matthew across the room. He’d start stories about their trainee days, then stop mid-sentence when Matthew walked by. He’d ask Gyuvin about his schedule, but mostly on days when Matthew was free.
It was like Hanbin had all this care and attention – Matthew-shaped care and attention – and didn’t know where to put it anymore. So he poured it onto Gyuvin instead, and Yujin, and anyone else that wasn't Matthew.
That’s when Gyuvin started watching his other hyung more carefully.
The changes were harder to spot at first because Matthew was better at hiding. But once Gyuvin knew what to look for, they were everywhere.
Matthew at the gym until midnight, every single night. Matthew’s usual brightness dimming to something that looked like it took effort to maintain. The way he’d smile at them and then let his face go blank a split second before he turned away. And Matthew had always been bright – the kind of person who made rooms feel bigger just by walking into them. Watching that light flicker out slowly was painful.
And the way his two hyungs existed in the same space now – never colliding, held apart by some invisible force.
He remembered Matthew asking him once some time ago if he thought Hanbin was acting strange. Gyuvin didn't think much of it then.
Now it was clear something was wrong.
Watching Matthew fall apart in the gym tonight was just confirmation.
Gyuvin stood slowly. “Aish,” he muttered to himself.
He’d seen enough.
The practice room emptied in ones and twos – Ricky first, then Taerae and Yujin together, Gunwook with his headphones already in. Until only Hanbin remained, hunched in the corner like he was trying to hide until everyone left.
Gyuvin waited until the last footsteps faded in the hallway.
“You need to stop this, hyung.”
“Stop what?”
The indifference in Hanbin’s voice bewildered Gyuvin. “You’re hurting Matthew hyung, and you don’t even seem to care.”
That got a reaction.
Hanbin’s fingers fisted his sweatpants. But still, nothing. Still maddening silence.
“I talked to him yesterday.” Gyuvin stepped closer, frustration bleeding into his voice. “He didn’t say much – you know how he is – but he didn’t need to. He’s at the gym until midnight almost every night. He’s not sleeping. He barely eats. Whatever happened between you two – it’s not worth this.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Hanbin mumbled.
“Exactly! You’re doing nothing. You’re treating him like he doesn’t matter to you, and we all know that’s not true.”
Hanbin’s head snapped up, eyes blazing. Guilt, maybe. Or exasperation. Probably both. “You don’t know what you’re talking about–”
“Then help me understand.” Gyuvin squatted down in front of Hanbin, close enough now to see the exhaustion carved into his face. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re punishing him for something he doesn’t even know he did.”
“I never meant to hurt him,” Hanbin’s voice came out rough. “I never wanted any of this to happen.”
“Then you have to fix it.”
The practice room door creaked open. Gyuvin didn’t turn – he knew Jiwoong’s footsteps by now, had probably known he was out there listening. Good. Hanbin needed to hear this from more than one person.
“Gyuvin’s right,” Jiwoong said, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He carried the kind of quiet authority that made everyone listen. “I’ve been watching Matthew run himself into the ground. Was planning to step in to find out what was bothering him this much. I guess… it wasn’t a what, but a who.”
“I know. I know I’ve hurt him, but it’s not that simple–”
“It doesn’t have to be this complicated, though.” Jiwoong interrupted gently.
Hanbin’s next words came out broken: “What if I’ve already lost him?”
Gyuvin glanced at Jiwoong.
“You haven’t.” Gyuvin’s voice softened. “But you will if you don’t do something soon.”
Hanbin’s expression changed, like he something finally made sense.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “God, I don’t know what I was thinking…” He stood slowly, running shaking fingers through his hair. “I’ll fix this,” he said. To them. To himself.
Then he was gone.
PART 4
Hanbin’s POV
The walk to Matthew’s room took forever. Each footstep felt too loud in the empty hallway, and Hanbin’s shirt stuck to his back even though the dorm was freezing. His heart wouldn’t slow down – just kept pounding like it knew something he didn’t want to face.
What if I’ve waited too long?
The thought made his stomach churn.
More questions came and they wouldn’t stop, eating away at whatever courage he’d managed to build on the walk over.
But Gyuvin was right. He owed Matthew this much. An explanation. An apology that actually meant something.
He knocked so quietly he wasn’t sure Matthew would even hear it.
“Come in.”
Hanbin pushed open the door to find Matthew perched on the edge of his bed. And when their eyes met, Hanbin’s stomach dropped. There was no anger – anger would have been easier.
Instead, there was surprise, quickly replaced by resignation. Matthew looked at him the way you’d look at someone who kept making promises they never kept.
“Can we talk?”
The question hung there, unanswered. Matthew’s expression didn’t change.
“You want to talk now? After all this time?” Each word was measured, careful. They carried the weight of every unanswered text, every avoided glance, every moment Hanbin had chosen silence over courage.
“I should’ve come to you sooner.”
Matthew held himself stiffly, shoulders drawn in like he didn’t want to take up too much space. This was Matthew, who used to look at Hanbin like he hung the stars. Now he wouldn’t even look at him properly.
“It feels like you’ve already made up your mind about me.”
“No.” The denial tore out of Hanbin. “I never wanted you to feel unimportant. You have to believe me.”
“Then what did you want?” Matthew’s composure was starting to break. “You can’t just disappear on me and then waltz right back in again. No explanation, nothing.”
Hanbin opened his mouth to explain. To tell Matthew about the fear that had been his constant companion since that day on set. About how his world started rotating the other way round when he realized he didn’t see Matthew as just his best friend anymore.
But how?
“I was scared because... we were–” The words stuck, refusing to form.
“See?” Matthew pushed off the bed. “You still can’t tell me the truth.”
It cut, but Hanbin couldn’t deny it. He was still hiding, still choosing the safety of half-truths over the vulnerability of honesty.
“It doesn’t matter anymore, hyung. I was literally right there the whole time. But now...”
He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was monotone.
“Now I don’t matter.”
“Don’t say that,” Hanbin pleaded, taking a step closer. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“Kinda feels like you already did.” Matthew moved past him to grab his jacket off the chair, movements jerky. “I’m going out. I need you to leave by the time I get back.”
“But–”
“I mean it.”
Then he was gone.
Hanbin stood there for a minute, maybe longer. The room still smelled like Matthew’s laundry detergent. His Ditto plushie sat on the desk, the one Hanbin had won for him at that arcade in Hongdae.
He was too late.
He made it one floor down before his legs gave out. He caught himself against the wall, breathing hard.
Couldn’t stop hearing Matthew’s voice – you already did.
Past tense. Final. Like Matthew had finally decided Hanbin wasn’t worth the effort anymore.
He found himself outside Jiwoong’s room, his hand hovering over the handle. He needed... something. Someone who might understand.
The door swung open before his knuckles hit wood. Jiwoong stood there in an old t-shirt, hair mussed, taking one look at Hanbin’s face and asking “What happened?” His sounded unsurprised.
He stepped aside without question, and Hanbin stumbled into the room like he might find an answer there.
“I ruined it, hyung. I messed up so badly. I’ve been such an idiot. Running away from the one person who matters the most because I was afraid.”
“Of Matthew?”
“Not exactly. I…” And then everything came spilling out. “Something changed when we filmed that fight scene for the Blue MV. Something changed for me and I started feeling things. It scared the hell out of me. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I just– I thought if I kept my distance, it would fade. But it didn’t go away, hyung. It just got worse, and now–”
His voice broke off.
“Now he doesn’t even want to talk to me. All I could do was apologize, and it wasn’t enough.”
“Hanbin-ah, did you really think this could be solved with one conversation? Trust isn’t a light switch – you can’t just flip it back on. You know that.”
The words cut through his panic, simple as they were. In his haste, he’d been thinking like a child – like one good conversation could erase months of shutting Matthew out. Rejecting his presence.
“Then I’m really going to lose him.”
“You have to prove to Matthew that you’re here for the long haul,” Jiwoong continued. “You prove it by showing up. Not once, not when it’s convenient. Every day. Every time it matters. You rebuild trust the same way you build anything worthwhile – one choice at a time, over and over again.”
It sounded impossible and obvious at the same time. No grand gesture would fix this. Just… showing Matthew that he was going to be there. No running away.
“Do you think it’s too late?” Hanbin asked, his voice small.
Jiwoong’s expression softened. “I actually don’t. But you have to be patient, and you have to be consistent. I think Matthew’s really hurt.”
Hanbin nodded slowly. Something settled in him, more certain.
“Then I’ll fight for him,” he said quietly as he got up to leave. “Thanks for listening, hyung.”
But Jiwoong’s voice stopped him at the door. “Hanbinnie.”
“Yes?”
“I know what it’s like to… make a terrible mistake with someone you care about. To hurt someone you really care about. To think you’ve lost your chance.”
Something flickered across his face – old regret, maybe. Or hope.
“But you haven’t. Not unless you quit now.” A pause. “And you’re not the quitting type, are you?”
“I'm not,” Hanbin said, and meant it. “I won't give up… I’m all in.”
For the first time since this nightmare began, he knew what he needed to do.
PART 5
Hanbin’s POV
Matthew’s bottle of water sat untouched on the bench between them, condensation beading down the sides. Hanbin had tried to make him take it fifteen minutes ago – casual, like he used to – but Matthew looked at the bottle, then past Hanbin. He finally picked it up and handed it to Gyuvin instead.
“Here, you look thirsty.”
Didn’t say a word to Hanbin. Didn’t have to.
Gyuvin shot him a sorry look as he returned the water once Matthew had his back turned.
Hanbin had been trying to be subtle about it at first: lingering during water breaks, dropping into the empty seat beside Matthew at meals with the kind of intentional nonchalance that probably fooled no one.
He waited outside the practice room after late sessions, offered to run beside Matthew at the gym, left his favourite protein bars right by his bedside after those punishing late-night workouts. Even attempted to restart their old conversations.
But Matthew barely acknowledged these attempts. Walked the other direction whenever there was an opening, dropped the protein bars in someone else's bag knowing that Hanbin would find out somehow. Or simply turning away when the other members weren’t watching.
The hoodie was probably what stung the most so far. He’d found it on the back of a random chair in one of the rec rooms. His navy one. The one he’d draped over Matthew’s shoulders two days ago when he’d been shivering from exhaustion, the one Matthew always used to steal on cold days because it was the softest.
Matthew had taken it off and left it behind.
Hanbin picked it up. The fabric had gone cold, all trace of Matthew gone from it. He stood there, holding it in both hands. Weeks of this. He’d lost count. Weeks of leaving things for Matthew – drinks, food, once-shared clothings, pieces of himself – and watching them go untouched or discarded. Weeks of Matthew looking through him like he was invisible.
Like Hanbin was just another member now. No, actually worse. And definitely not his best friend. Not the person who had once known the exact cadence of his laugh.
It was unbearable.
Jiwoong had been right. This wouldn’t be fixed with one conversation, a couple of apologies, and desperate bids for absolution. Matthew wasn’t going to just let him back in. Why would he? Hanbin had been the one to walk away first.
Hanbin had stationed himself in the living room at two in the morning on another sleepless night, knowing Matthew’s current habit of returning late from the gym. The front door clicked open like clockwork, and Matthew’s shoulders went rigid the moment he spotted Hanbin there.
No surprise in his expression. Just that flicker of something – annoyance? exhaustion? – quickly smoothed away.
“You’re back late,” Hanbin said.
Matthew shrugged, toeing off his shoes with practiced quiet. “Yeah.”
“Did you eat?”
Another shrug, this one more dismissive. “Wasn’t hungry.”
The lie was obvious, but remained unchallenged. Hanbin’s chest tightened. He stood slowly, each movement careful. “Matthew–”
“Don’t.” Matthew’s voice was flat. He didn’t look up from his shoes. “Whatever you’re about to say, just don’t.”
“I need– we need to talk about what happened. Can we at least try–”
“Why?” Matthew’s head snapped up, and his eyes were dark, fierce. “So you can feel better? So you can check ‘apologized to Matthew’ off your list and move on?” He shook his head. “There’s nothing to talk about. That's what you said right?”
“It wasn't–” Hanbin swallowed hard. “I hurt you. I know I did, and I just want to–”
“You knew?” Matthew barked out an empty laugh, nothing like the real thing. “Then why did you do it?”
The question gutted him.
“I–” Hanbin opened his mouth, but Matthew was already moving past him, shoulder angling away like Hanbin was contagious.
“Forget it.”
“I’m not giving up.” The words burst out of Hanbin before he could stop them. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails biting crescents into his palms.
Matthew stopped. Didn’t turn around, but stopped.
“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” Hanbin continued, stepping into the space Matthew had just vacated. “And I’m not expecting it right away. But I’m going to keep showing up. I’m going to keep trying.”
Matthew released a heavy breath, like he was too tired to fight. Then he disappeared into his room.
The weeks that followed became a pattern Hanbin could chart in his sleep: wake up, check if Matthew had already left for the gym (he had), leave a granola bar on his study table (ignored), practice (Matthew on the opposite side of the room), meals (Matthew arriving late, leaving early), late nights waiting in the living room (Matthew’s face shuttering the moment he saw Hanbin there).
He became a ghost haunting Matthew’s periphery – always hovering, always trying, always failing. And Matthew responded with the same indifference, building higher walls to fortify those that Hanbin had constructed first.
Another evening, Hanbin found Matthew in the practice room long after everyone else had returned to the dorms. The lights were dimmed to half-power, throwing long shadows across the floor. Matthew moved through familiar choreography, each motion technically flawless but drained of something essential – the spark that used to make him magnetic.
He looked like a music box ballerina going through its rotations, beautiful but hollow.
Hanbin stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame.
“That’s enough for today,” he said finally.
“I’m fine.” Matthew didn’t stop. Didn’t even glance over.
“Matthew.”
The name felt foreign on his tongue now – careful, tentative. He used to say it so easily.
Matthew finally stopped, breath coming hard, sweat tracking down his temple. “What do you want?”
“I just want to talk.”
“Funny.” Matthew’s laugh was all edges. “So it’s fine when you don’t want to talk, but God forbid I don’t want to hear your voice.”
Hanbin flinched. He deserved that. Deserved worse. “I know,” he said.
“You just…” Matthew’s voice wavered. “…decided one day that I wasn’t worth your time anymore. So no, you don’t know. You shut me out of your life overnight, like–” He paused, taking a deep breath. “And now you want to act like everything’s normal.”
“No,” Hanbin said quickly. “I just want a chance to fix this.”
“I don’t think you can.” Matthew’s voice had gone quiet, shoulders sagging.
“I have to try. Even if you don’t believe me yet. I told you – I’m not going anywhere.”
Matthew’s jaw clenched, the only sign he was even listening. He didn’t respond, and Hanbin knew the conversation was over before it had really begun. Matthew grabbed his bag and headed for the exit. When he stopped beside him on the way out, Hanbin thought – hoped – but Matthew merely reached past him to flip off the lights.
The room plunged into darkness.
“Go home.”
The pattern continued. Failed attempt after failed attempt, each rejection building on the last until Hanbin felt like he was drowning in his own hopelessness. He couldn’t live like this. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough until Matthew let him in.
Another night, another futile shot.
When Matthew returned from the gym past midnight yet again, he literally averted his gaze to the floor rather than look at Hanbin.
“Hey,” Hanbin tried.
Matthew sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. “What? For the love of– what?”
“You should eat something. I know you haven’t had dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You say that every time,” Hanbin said, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Seokm–”
“Don’t call me that.”
Hanbin reached out before he could think, fingers curling around Matthew’s wrist – not tight, not forceful, just… holding. Desperate for any connection.
Matthew stilled. For a second, just a second, Hanbin thought maybe he would stay. Maybe they could have a real conversation, maybe Matthew would let him explain–
But Matthew gently pulled his wrist free, deliberately.
“Go to sleep.”
His door clicked shut. The lock turned a second later.
Matthew’s POV
Matthew lay awake that night, willing his heart rate to slow.
He didn’t know what to do with Hanbin’s sudden, relentless presence.
For months, he’d been suffocating under the weight of distance Hanbin had carved between them. And now Hanbin was just… there. Everywhere. Leaving traces of care that felt more like salt pressed into wounds that hadn’t scarred over yet.
He was suffocating either way, just under different weights.
Matthew wanted to ignore it all – pretend it didn’t matter, that it didn’t shake something loose behind his ribs every time he rounded a corner and found Hanbin waiting. But it did matter. It made him furious actually, this wave of small kindnesses that felt too late.
Because living in such close proximity felt like having a wound constantly reopened – Hanbin stopped the bleeding, but the pain never went away. He was making it impossible to move on with all the showing up. Acting like he could still save them.
Hanbin didn’t get to just decide to come back now. He didn’t get to fix this just because he chose to one day.
And Matthew wanted to believe him. God, part of him still wanted to reach out. Still wanted to believe that this time, Hanbin would stay. But he wasn’t sure he could take another fall. And deep down, he was terrified that if he gave him time, Hanbin would prove him right.
He’d leave again, because Matthew clearly wasn’t worth staying for.
He curled onto his side, hating himself for still wanting to try.
One particularly vexing evening – after Gunwook had pulled him aside to ask if he was okay, after he’d snapped at Taerae over nothing and had to apologize, promise to buy him meat to make up for it, after he’d run the same sequence twenty times and still couldn’t get his body to cooperate – Matthew found himself walking.
He didn’t plan a destination. Just walked until the dorm was behind him and the streets grew quieter, narrower. He ended up in an alley a few blocks over, the kind of forgotten space between buildings where delivery trucks idled and streetlights barely reached. The brick bit cold through his shirt when he leaned back, and the sharpness of it helped somehow. Grounded him.
He pressed both palms flat against the wall, felt the rough texture bite into his skin, and tried to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
Honestly, he wanted to scream. Wanted to collapse under the weight of everything that wouldn’t fit back into the neat boxes he’d built for it. Instead he just stood there, staring at cracked pavement.
“Matthew.”
The voice made him jolt. He turned his head slowly and found Hanbin emerging from the mouth of the alley. Hanbin looked like he’d been running – chest heaving, hair disheveled.
Of course. Of course Hanbin had followed him.
His mind was already throwing up defenses. Don’t let him see. Don’t make it worse. He’s not your comfort anymore.
“What are you doing here?” The words came out flat, carefully empty.
Hanbin took a few steps closer, and even in the dim light Matthew could see the discomfort on his face, the way he looked like he wanted to reach out but didn’t know if he was allowed. “I saw you leave. I’ve been– I was looking for you.”
“Well, congratulations. You found me.” Matthew pushed off the wall, intending to walk past, but Hanbin’s hand shot out – not grabbing, just hovering near his elbow.
“Will you just… can you hear me out? Please?”
The please almost broke Matthew’s resolve. He stopped, but didn’t trust himself to look at Hanbin’s face right now.
“I never stopped caring about you,” Hanbin continued, almost pleading. “I need you to know that.”
And there it was – the thing Matthew should feel relieved about. That Hanbin was trying. Hanbin cared.
But all Matthew could think about were the months Hanbin had spent running. How it had felt like losing a part of himself he didn’t even know he needed until it was gone. How he’d tried to fill the emptiness with anything: gym sessions until his muscles screamed, drinking just enough for the temporary blur of not thinking, pretending he was fine until even he almost believed it.
Where was this when I needed it? Where was Hanbin during those nights when he replayed every interaction like evidence at trial, searching for the exact moment things had gone wrong? When he’d had to learn that missing someone could become as constant and involuntary as breathing?
“Then what?” Matthew turned slowly, and Hanbin was looking at him with those regretful eyes – the ones that always made him remember exactly what it felt like to be left behind. Anger rose hot and acidic on his tongue. “What happened in between? Because one day we were best friends, and the next you didn’t even want to be around me. Did I make it weird? Was I too much? Not enough?”
“You were just…” Hanbin’s breath shuddered out. “You. That’s what made it hard. You mean too much to me.”
Matthew stared at him. Then he laughed, loud and disbelieving, and drove his fist into the brick wall – not hard, just a quick burst of frustration, the impact barely registering against the mess he felt inside him. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Matt–”
“What does that even mean? I mean too much so you decided to cut me out? That makes no sense, literally zero sense!”
“I know it doesn’t. I know. I’m trying to explain, I’m trying my best here–”
What if he leaves again?
Matthew stopped him there, “Good luck with that.”
The words came out cruel and cutting, and he watched them land. Watched Hanbin’s face crumple slightly before he schooled it back into something less hurt. Hanbin’s hand hovered between them for a second, fingers half-curled like he might reach out again, but then he dropped it.
Matthew left for the mouth of the alley, knuckles aching where he’d hit the wall earlier. Nothing serious, just a dull throb that would fade by morning.
But his hands shook – from anger or pain or adrenaline, he couldn’t tell. Didn’t want to know either.
Hanbin’s POV
Hanbin tossed and turned in bed, blanket twisted around his legs.
The conversation tonight had ended like all the others – with Matthew pulling away, back turned, rejection cutting clean right over Hanbin’s heart.
For so long now, he’d been chasing something. Trying to force a breakthrough, strategize a perfect moment where Matthew would finally understand, would finally let him explain properly. He’d thought if he could just get Matthew to talk, if he could just get him to stay long enough to get everything out–
But that was the problem.
He’d been making Matthew. Cornering him. All he’d done was push and push and push, too hard and too fast. Demanding something Matthew clearly wasn’t ready to give, and calling it trying.
Hanbin knocked his knuckles against his temple. What the hell had he been thinking?
Every attempt to fix things had only widened the gap between them. Every conversation had backed Matthew further into corners. He’d been so focused on proving himself, on showing Matthew he’d changed, that he’d missed the obvious: Matthew didn’t need late-night confrontations or constant reminders of what they’d lost.
He needed room to breathe. Space to heal. Time to see for himself, if he ever wanted to look. The choice to come back on his own terms, or not at all.
Hanbin had been going about this completely wrong.
He wasn’t sure why it had taken him this long to see it, but it was clear now, no matter how uncomfortable.
He needed to stop chasing. Stop pushing. Stop manufacturing conversations that went nowhere. Stop waiting outside doors. He would just… be there. Present if Matthew needed him. Absent when he didn’t. No expectations. No demands. No pressure.
He wasn’t giving up. He was finally learning how to fight the right way.
And maybe – maybe – this time it would be enough.