Chapter Text
The morning begins with a headache.
Not the kind that hurts physically—more the kind that happens when you stay up until 4 A.M. tweaking a song you swear you’re going to delete five minutes later. Jisung rolls over in bed, face smushed into his pillow, and groans.
He should have gone to sleep earlier.
He should have closed his laptop instead of scribbling lyrics until his hand cramped.
He should have eaten something other than instant jjapaghetti and a protein bar.
He especially should not have opened X.
But he does anyway.
His eyes squint at the blinding screen. Notifications are blowing up his phone. Normal for any idol, sure, but this is a different kind of intense. A kind of intensity that feels sharp. Focused.
He blinks again.
One notification preview jumps out:
“??? HAN’S NEW LEAKED DEMO ABOUT LEE KNOW??? WHAT IS THIS 😭😭”
Han sits up so fast he gets dizzy.
His thumb fumbles on the screen, accidentally liking the tweet. He unlikes it immediately, heart hammering so hard he feels it in his throat.
He clicks the tweet.
And there it is.
A low-quality audio clip, clearly ripped from inside his WORK folder, his PRIVATE work folder. The one he keeps buried under three layers of badly labeled subfolders, names like “dontopenpls” and “scrapsdontjudgeme.”
The clip begins with him humming, rough and breathy, before soft vocals settle in:
“You’re colder than rain,
but warm when you think no one sees.
If you ever let me in,
maybe I could finally breathe.”
Han freezes.
His skin prickles. His ears burn. His chest feels like it caves inward.
That is NOT a public track. That is not even a demo he intended to show Chan yet. That is not a song meant for ANYONE—except the one he wrote it for.
He tries to swallow, but his throat is painfully dry. His mind races uselessly, sparking with half-formed thoughts that crash into each other.
How did this leak?
Did someone hack something?
Did he accidentally upload this somewhere?
Did he sleep-post it somehow?
Is the universe personally hunting him?
He clicks the replies.
“THIS IS ABOUT LEE KNOW I SWEAR TO GOD.”
“Cold but warm inside?? If that’s not him idk who is 😭”
“JISUNG BE SERIOUS THIS IS A CONFESSION.”
“Do they know they’re dating or do we have to tell them???”
“The way the lyrics scream Minho…”
“THIS ISN’T EVEN SUBTLE.”
He scrolls more, panic tightening with each line.
Someone posted side-by-side screenshots:
the lyric “warm when you think no one sees”
next to a candid photo of Minho smiling softly at Jeongin behind stage.
Another tweet shows a GIF of Minho patting Han’s head with the caption:
“Explains everything tbh.”
Han feels his soul leave his body.
He drops his phone onto the blanket, staring at nothing. He wants to disappear into the mattress. He wants a wormhole to swallow him. He wants—
A knock at the door.
“Han?”
Changbin’s voice.
Great.
Han scrambles, shoves his phone under his pillow like that will erase the internet somehow.
Changbin pushes the door open without waiting.
“You alive?” Chan asked.
He stops.
Han knows that face. It’s the “what did you do” face.
“…Bro,” Changbin says slowly. “Why do you look like you set the kitchen on fire?”
“I didn’t!” Han blurts. “I didn’t burn anything—this time.”
Changbin narrows his eyes. “What happened?”
“Nothing!” Jisung squeaks.
Changbin lifts a brow.
Han wilts.
Changbin makes his way over to the bed and sits down.
“Show me.”
Han groans into his hands. “No.”
“Show me,” Changbin repeats, gentler.
Han sighs, defeated. “Fine.”
He hands over the phone. Changbin presses play.
There’s a long pause. The only sound is the fragile, shaky vocal pouring from the phone speaker. The kind of voice Han only uses when he’s deeply in his feelings, when no one is supposed to hear him.
Changbin blinks slowly.
“…Damn,” he says finally. “You really went through it last night.”
“That’s not the point!” Han practically wails.
Changbin scrolls through the replies, and his eyebrows rise steadily.
“Oh,” he says. “Ohhh.”
“Don’t ‘oh’ me.”
Changbin stifles a laugh. “You gotta admit; they’re not wrong.”
Han clutches his pillow in agony. “I’m gonna jump out the window.”
“That’s not even a first-floor window,” Changbin reminds him.
“Then I’ll jump out headfirst!”
Changbin pats his back, trying not to smile.
“It’s not that bad. It’s just a leak. Happens sometimes.”
“It’s not just a leak,” Han whimpers. “It’s that leak.”
“And?” Changbin asks, shrugging. “It’s a good song.”
Han yanks the pillow over his face. “I hate everything.”
Changbin opens his mouth to say something else, probably another teasing comment, but a voice echoes from down the hall:
“Is everyone awake?”
Han heart leaps into his throat.
Lee Know.
Minho.
MINHO.
No. No no no no—
The door pushes open.
Minho stands there in a soft grey sweatshirt and black sweatpants, hair a mess, brows furrowed slightly but eyes warm with sleep. He looks unfairly good for someone who literally just woke up.
And then he sees Changbin holding Jisung’s phone.
And Han hiding under a pillow.
And the tweet on the screen.
Minho stops walking.
“…What’s going on?” he asks.
Han nearly suffocates himself with his pillow.
Changbin clears his throat, scooting away like he refuses to be involved.
“Uh,” Changbin says. “So. Funny story. Han’s, uh… song leaked.”
Minho tilts his head. “What song?”
Han weakly flails. “It’s nothing—just some boring—don’t listen—please don’t—”
Too late.
Changbin hands Minho the phone.
Han sits there helpless, hands trembling as Minho taps play.
Silence fills the room.
Minho’s face is unreadable at first. He listens with a stillness that makes Jisung’s stomach twist. His eyes soften halfway through, then narrow slightly, then flicker with something subtle and private.
When the clip ends, Minho doesn’t immediately speak.
He inhales slowly, thumb resting on the phone screen.
“…You wrote this.”
Not a question.
Hqn nods faintly.
Minho lifts his gaze. “When?”
“Uh… a while ago,” Han says, voice cracking.
Minho studies him—long, deep, thoughtful.
Jisung wishes he could melt through the floor.
Finally, Minho asks:
“Who’s it about?”
The room becomes vacuum-silent.
Han’s brain catastrophically misfires. His ears ring. His face heats so fast he thinks he’s having a medical emergency.
“I—uh—what—who—no one—songwriting—metaphor—random—”
He stops.
He’s making it worse.
Minho’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes.
Before either can speak again—
“GROUP MEETING!” Chan shouts from the living room. “Right now! You too, Leeknow!”
Minho hands the phone back to Jisung gently.
He pauses for half a breath, eyes lingering on him.
“You should finish the song,” Minho says quietly.
“It… suits you.”
Han’s heart goes feral in his chest.
Minho leaves the room.
Han falls backward onto the bed, face buried in the pillow.
Changbin pats his leg sympathetically.
“…Well,” Changbin says. “At least he didn’t say it sucks.”
***
The thunder outside had finally quieted by the time Han finished the last line of the second verse. The apartment had settled into that soft, post-storm silence—the kind that made him hyper-aware of everything: the hum of the air purifier, the faint rattle of the balcony door, the uneven beating of his own heart.
He let the pencil roll out of his fingers. It landed beside the notebook with a muted clatter, barely audible but enough to make him wince.
Too loud.
Everything felt too loud.
He pushed away from the table, swiveling slowly in the chair like even fast movement might trigger something inside him. His anxiety had been simmering quietly all day, but writing always sharpened it. Made it real. Forced him to acknowledge every feeling he tried to bury under jokes and snacks and manufactured cheer.
The leaked demo had accelerated everything. He hadn’t even meant to release it, hadn’t even meant to finish it. It was supposed to be a private song, something to shove at the back of his folder and never open again.
And yet, here he was, trapped by it.
He got up and wandered into the living room, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands. His apartment was dark except for the kitchen light he’d forgotten to turn off. The storm clouds outside hadn’t entirely moved on; the sky pulsed a dull blue-gray, casting soft shadows across the couch.
He wasn’t tired. God, he wished he was. Being tired meant you could sleep. Being anxious meant you were exhausted but still awake.
He sank onto the couch, leaning back until his head rested on the cushion. He closed his eyes.
The demo lyrics flashed in his mind immediately like they were printed on the inside of his eyelids.
"You tilt my world in a way I’m scared to name…"
"You stay just out of reach, but I keep walking your way…"
He groaned softly, pressing the heels of his palms over his eyes.
“Why did I write that,” he whispered to himself.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly why. He just didn’t like the answer.
Somewhere underneath the layers of metaphors and self-deprecation, the song was undeniably, unavoidably, embarrassingly about Minho.
A breath shuddered out of him.
Minho, who always noticed the things no one else did.
Minho, who scolded him like a cat but softened like one too.
Minho, whose teasing made his stomach twist in ways he tried very hard to ignore.
Always.
Han sat up suddenly, rubbing his face. He couldn’t think like this. Not while his nerves were stretched thin like a wire that might snap if he even breathed wrong.
He stood and paced the room.
He should sleep.
He should eat.
He should text someone—Chan, Seungmin, even Minho—but he did none of those things.
Instead, he walked over to the window and leaned his forehead against the cool glass. The streetlights below were still reflecting off the drenched pavement. Cars passed slowly, cutting thin ribbons of sound through the quiet.
Maybe if he stared long enough, his brain would empty itself.
Maybe he could forget—
His phone vibrated sharply on the table.
He froze.
For a split second, the back of his throat went dry.
What if it was—
He forced himself to turn around slowly, like the phone might explode if he startled it. He picked it up and glanced at the notification.
Minho: “Did you eat?”
A simple message. Routine, even. The kind Minho sent without thinking.
But to Han right now, it felt like being struck by lightning.
His pulse kicked up. He stared at the text like the letters might rearrange into something else.
He should reply. He should say yes, even if it was a lie.
But he couldn’t bring himself to type anything.
Instead, he set the phone back down and stepped away from it like it was dangerous.
Because it was.
Talking to Minho right now felt like poking a bruise. Tender, sore, too revealing.
He walked toward the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared inside for a long moment without processing anything. He wasn’t hungry. His stomach was twisted up too tight for food.
He shut the fridge again.
His anxiety, which had been simmering low all day, flared subtly—tightening the back of his neck and making his fingers twitch. He curled them into fists.
Breathe.
He needed to breathe.
Three seconds in, four seconds out.
Or was it four and six?
He could never remember when he was actually anxious.
He pressed a palm flat against the counter.
“You’re fine,” he whispered to himself.
It wasn’t convincing.
His phone buzzed again.
Another message.
This time he didn’t move to check it. He didn’t need to. Minho had a habit of texting twice when he was mildly annoyed or mildly concerned: two emotions he often expressed the exact same way.
Han exhaled shakily.
Maybe Minho wasn’t even thinking about the song. Maybe he was just checking in because the members always checked in with each other. Maybe Han was reading too much into everything.
But the weight sitting on his chest refused to budge.
He grabbed a cup from the cabinet and filled it with water, hoping the cold would jolt him back into reality. It didn’t. It sat uselessly in his hands before he set it back down.
He wandered to the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed without bothering to change. He pulled the blanket halfway over his head, letting the soft cotton muffle the world.
His mind didn’t quiet.
He thought about the leaked demo again. He thought about Chan texting him earlier, asking gently if he was okay. He thought about fans dissecting every line of the song with frightening accuracy.
He thought about Minho listening to it with that unreadable expression—the one only Han could interpret sometimes, and sometimes not.
And then he thought about the way Minho had looked at him recently. Soft. Curious. Hesitant. Like he was waiting for Han to say something Han didn’t know how to say.
His chest tightened.
He didn’t know how long he lay there—ten minutes, an hour—before the exhaustion finally pulled him under. His mind didn’t stop buzzing, but his body forced itself to shut down.
His last conscious thought was the same one haunting him all day:
I hope Lee Know doesn’t hate me for this.
***
The next morning, Han woke to the sound of his phone vibrating aggressively on his nightstand.
His heartbeat lurched. He scrambled upright and grabbed it, blinking at the brightness of the screen.
17 notifications.
Mostly group chat messages. A few from Chan. Two from Seungmin.
And one from Minho.
He swallowed, thumb hovering over it.
Minho: “We have practice. Don’t be late.”
A normal message. Impersonal. Efficient. Completely Minho.
Han let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
He pushed himself out of bed and went to wash his face, splashing cold water until his reflection looked less like a worried ghost. His eyes were puffy. His cheeks a little pale.
He rubbed a towel over his face and stared at the mirror.
“You’re fine,” he murmured again.
Still not convincing.
He changed clothes and grabbed a hoodie, slipping out of the apartment into the crisp, post-rain morning. The air smelled clean. Cars hissed over wet pavement. It should’ve helped his anxiety.
It didn’t.
By the time he reached the practice room, his stomach was already knotting itself into familiar tangles.
He hesitated at the door.
He could hear voices inside—laughter, teasing, the usual chaos. A comforting sound, most days.
But today, it made his palms sweat.
He pushed the door open quietly.
“Hannie-ah!” Felix beamed immediately. “You’re not late for once!”
“Hyung,” Jeongin added dramatically, “are you sick? Should we call someone?”
Han forced a laugh. “Wow, okay, attack Han day. I get it.”
The others laughed, the room warm and familiar, but his shoulders didn’t relax.
His eyes scanned the room without meaning to.
He found Minho sitting on the floor near the mirror, stretching. His expression was unreadable. Calm. Focused.
For a second, their eyes met.
Minho blinked once.
A simple acknowledgment.
Not warm, not cold.
And then he looked away.
Han’s heart sank a little despite himself.
He walked over to drop his bag by the wall, fingers trembling slightly without him meaning to. He hid it by shoving his hands into his pockets.
Chan came up beside him.
“You alright?” Chan murmured quietly.
Han gave the default answer. “Yeah.”
Chan’s look said he didn’t believe him.
But Chan didn’t push. He squeezed Han’s shoulder once before returning to the center of the room.
“Alright,” Chan called out, “ten-minute warm-up and then let’s get into it.”
Everyone moved into position.
Han took a breath and followed.
Warm-up was muscle memory. Stretch, breathe, roll shoulders, loosen joints. Usually, it relaxed him.
Not today.
Every time someone laughed, especially when Minho’s voice joined in, Han’s chest tightened. He didn’t know if Minho was annoyed with him. Didn’t know if the song had made things weird. Didn’t know anything, and not knowing made his thoughts spiral.
He tried to focus on the warm-up.
Focus on breathing.
Focus on movement.
Focus on anything except the sharp awareness of Minho’s presence.
But whenever Minho moved, whenever Han caught the slightest peripheral glimpse, it drew his attention like gravity.
And when Minho brushed past him to grab a towel, their shoulders touched briefly.
Han’s breath hitched.
Minho didn’t say anything. Didn’t even pause.
Just kept walking.
It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t warm.
It was… neutral.
Too neutral.
That neutrality gnawed at Han more than anything else.
Practice began. Music boomed from the speakers. Choreo filled the room. Everyone fell into sync, bodies moving in practiced patterns.
Han tried to drown himself in it.
Count the beat.
Find the rhythm.
Push through the motions.
But halfway through the second run, he caught Minho observing him through the mirror. Just for a second.
Minho’s eyes softened—barely, almost invisible—but Han saw it.
And his chest tightened.
He stumbled slightly on the next step.
“Careful,” Hyunjin murmured beside him.
“Sorry,” Han whispered.
They kept moving.
He kept pretending he didn’t notice the way Minho watched him again. And again. And again.
Like Minho was trying to read him.
Like Minho knew something was wrong.
Like Minho wanted to say something but wouldn’t.
And Han—
Han wanted to talk.
Wanted to ask if Minho heard the demo.
Wanted to know what he thought.
Wanted to know if the silence meant anything.
But every time he even tried to form the thought, his throat closed up.
***
After an hour, Chan clapped his hands.
“Break,” he announced. “Ten minutes.”
Everyone collapsed to the floor with groans. Han sat by the wall, pulling his hoodie sleeves over his hands again. His heartbeat was loud in his ears.
He had barely taken a sip of water when Minho walked past him.
Their eyes met for half a heartbeat.
Again, Minho looked away first.
And walked out the door.
Han’s chest sank.
He didn’t know why it hurt.
Or maybe he did.
He curled his knees up, wrapping his arms around them.
His breathing began to hitch.
He didn’t want it to.
Not here. Not in front of everyone.
Not because Minho walked away like he always did.
He closed his eyes.
Breathe.
One. Two. Three.
His fingers trembled.
Breathe.
His lungs tightened.
Breathe—
The edges of his vision fuzzed.
No, not now. Not here.
He pressed a hand over his chest, trying to steady himself. His thoughts scattered like marbles rolling across the floor.
He didn’t hear Jeongin call his name.
He didn’t hear Chan say something from across the room.
He heard his own heartbeat.
Too fast. Too loud.
Too much.
He leaned forward, head dropping between his knees.
His breath stuttered.
His hands shook harder.
Everything blurred.
He didn’t notice the door crack open again.
Didn’t notice Minho standing there.
Didn’t notice Minho staring at him with alarm tightening his expression.
Han only knew he was losing control—again.
And he hated it.
And then—
Everything went dark.
***
Slowly, sound leaks back in.
Muffled voices. A whisper. Someone’s breath catching like they’re trying not to panic.
Han’s eyelashes flutter, brain foggy, limbs heavy. For a second he can’t remember where he is. He just feels weight, warmth, and something pressed against his forehead.
Then he hears it.
“Han. Hannie. Hey. Please wake up.”
Han’s eyes snap open like someone yanked a string.
He’s lying on the couch, head propped on a folded hoodie, a cold pack slipping down his temple. The living room lights are dimmed. Someone must’ve turned them down because he was… because he…
He passed out.
Oh god.
Chan is crouched nearby, watching with that soft-hurt worry he gets. Seungmin hovers with a glass of water. But Minho is the closest, kneeling beside the couch, one hand hovering close like he’s scared to touch but even more scared to move away.
The moment Han stirs, Minho exhales—sharp, relieved, shaky.
“You scared the hell out of us,” he murmurs, voice low but tight. “Don’t do that again.”
Han tries to sit up. The room tilts. Minho’s hand shoots out immediately, steadying his shoulder.
“Slow,” he says, gentler than Han has ever heard him. “You hit the floor pretty hard.”
The memory slams back into Han like a truck.
The song.
The stares.
Minho listening.
Minho knowing.
And then—nothing.
Humiliation floods him so fast his eyes sting.
“I—I’m fine,” Han croaks, even though he obviously isn’t. His chest still feels like a collapsing paper bag. “Sorry. Sorry, I just— I don’t know what happened. I’m fine.”
“You fainted,” Seungmin says bluntly. “That’s what happened.”
Minho shoots Seungmin a glare sharp enough to kill.
Han squeezes his eyes shut, dragging in a shaking breath. “Great. Cool. Love that for me.”
He tries to pull away from Lee Know’s hand. It doesn’t work; Minho doesn’t let go.
“Han.”
Soft. Firm. Too honest.
“Look at me.”
Han can’t. Absolutely cannot. The memory of Minho’s face while the song played is burned into his skull.
But Minho waits. Patiently. The others quietly slip back, giving space without saying it. It’s just the two of them now.
Han finally forces himself to meet Minho’s eyes.
And it’s a mistake.
Because Minho isn’t mocking him.
He isn’t confused.
He isn’t angry.
He’s… shaken.
Concerned.
And something else Han can’t survive looking at directly.
Minho swallows. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Those five words punch Han harder than the fall.
“I— It’s not— I wasn’t— it’s just a song,” Han stammers, voice cracking. “People write stuff. It doesn’t mean anything. You don’t have to— to think—”
“Hannie.”
Quiet.
Wrecking him.
“I heard the lyrics. I know exactly what they mean.”
Han’s breath catches. His fingers curl tight in the blanket someone threw over him.
Minho leans in ever so slightly, not enough to touch, but close enough that Han can feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough that his own pulse starts sprinting.
“You scared me,” Minho whispers. “Not the song. Not the lyrics.”
Han blinks, startled.
“You,” Minho continues, voice trembling with emotion he rarely shows. “Falling. Hitting the ground. Going completely still. Don’t do that again.”
Han’s chest caves inward. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“I know.”
And Minho says it like it hurts him.
They sit in silence for a beat—thick, charged, painful.
Then Minho speaks again, softer, almost fragile.
“I want to ask you about the song. I really do. But not right now.”
His gaze drops to Han’s trembling hands.
“Right now I just need to know you’re okay.”
Han opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. Just a shaky inhale.
Minho gently adjusts the ice pack against his temple. His fingers brush Han’s hair.
Han almost stops breathing.
“Rest,” Minho says. “We’ll talk later. When you’re steady.”
Later.
Not “never.”
Not “pretend it didn’t happen.”
Later.
Han is so doomed he could scream.
But exhaustion pulls at his eyelids, and Minho’s hand, resting warm on the edge of the couch, feels like gravity.
As he drifts, Han thinks:
He knows.
He knows, and he didn’t pull away.
And that thought terrifies him
just as much as it
hurts
and
beautifully, horribly
calms… him.