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The late-night hush of the dorm was broken only by the rhythmic, mechanical clicking of Seonghyeon’s keyboard. The studio light cast a cool blue glow over his sharp profile, highlighting the focused intensity in his eyes as he scrubbed through a vocal layer for their upcoming B-side.
"Hyeonie, I’m hungry," Keonho groaned. He was sprawled across the sofa in the corner of the room, his long limbs dangling off the edge. He’d been staring at visual mood boards for three hours, and his stomach was finally staging a protest. "I’ve reached the limit. My brain is officially fried."
Seonghyeon didn’t look up immediately, his slender fingers dancing across the midi controller to adjust a synth swell. "I’ll order something," he murmured, his voice soft and melodic even when he was exhausted. "I’ll check the apps. Maybe that spicy rice cake place is still open?"
Keonho’s face fell into a deep, exaggerated pout. He wasn't even sure what he was annoyed at—maybe the fact that Seonghyeon’s eyes were still glued to the monitor instead of him. "Forget it. I'll just starve," he muttered, pushing himself up with a huff. He gave the back of Seonghyeon’s chair a tiny, childish kick as he trudged out of the room, heading for the darkness of the living room to wallow in his hunger.
He sat on the darkened living room floor for nearly twenty minutes, checking his phone and waiting for the notification that a delivery driver was on the way. But the dorm remained strangely quiet. No buzzing phone, no doorbell.
Frowning, Keonho stood up and padded back toward the kitchen on quiet feet. He expected to find Seonghyeon scrolled deep into a food app, probably distracted by a new melody and forgetting to hit 'order.'
Instead, he stopped dead in the doorway.
The kitchen was bathed in the amber glow of the stove-top light, creating a pocket of warmth in the middle of the dark apartment. The air was heavy and sweet, smelling of toasted dough and warm red bean paste.
Seonghyeon was there, standing over the stove. He had tucked his oversized sleeves back, revealing wrists that looked almost fragile under the light. There was an effortless, delicate beauty to the way he moved—the tilt of his head as he checked the heat, the way his fine hair fell into his eyes, and the careful precision of his hands. He looked less like a tired producer and more like something ethereal, a secret hidden in the middle of the night.
He wasn't on his phone. He was holding a heavy, fish-shaped cast iron mold over the flame.
"The delivery apps said an hour wait for anything good," Seonghyeon said softly, not even needing to turn around to know Keonho was standing there. He carefully flipped the mold, his movements graceful and sure. "And I remembered we had the batter mix and the red bean in the pantry. You said last week you missed the street stalls, didn't you?"
He finally turned, a small, tired but incredibly sweet smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He looked so pretty in the dim light that Keonho felt the air leave his lungs.
"Come here," Seonghyeon beckoned with a slight nod. "This first batch of bungeoppang is almost crispy enough for you."
Keonho remained frozen in the doorway, his heart performing a strange, frantic rhythm against his ribs that had nothing to do with hunger. He had seen Seonghyeon in the spotlight of a thousand stage lights, but something about him here—standing over a stove in a messy oversized sweater, surrounded by the scent of sweet dough—felt dangerously more intimate.
The silence stretched a beat too long.
Noticing the lack of movement, Seonghyeon’s head tilted. He shifted his weight, his slender fingers tightening slightly around the handle of the mold. Slowly, one of his finely arched eyebrows quirked upward.
"What?" Seonghyeon asked, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a hint of self-consciousness. "Is the smell too strong? I thought you’d be happy."
As the seconds ticked by without a response from the younger boy, a soft, dusty pink hue began to creep up Seonghyeon’s neck, settling into the tips of his ears and the apples of his cheeks. He looked away quickly, focusing intensely on the fish-shaped mold as if it were the most complex piece of equipment in their studio.
"I know I'm not a chef," Seonghyeon muttered, his movements becoming a little more hurried, a little less graceful as the embarrassment took hold. "You don't have to stare like I've grown a second head. If you don't want them, I'll just—"
"No!" Keonho finally found his voice, stepping into the warm circle of the kitchen light. "No, I want them. I was just... I didn't think you'd actually make them."
Keonho moved closer, stopping just a few inches away from Seonghyeon’s side. Up close, the flush on the older boy’s face was even more apparent, making his skin look porcelain-soft. Seonghyeon smelled like vanilla and the light, clean scent of his laundry detergent, a combination that made Keonho’s head swim.
Seonghyeon didn't look up, but the tension in his shoulders relaxed just a fraction as he felt Keonho’s presence beside him. "The batter is a bit finicky," he whispered, his eyes fixed on the golden crust of the pastry. "I wanted them to be perfect. For you."
He caught himself a second too late, his breath hitching as the weight of his own words hung in the air.
Keonho felt a sudden heat flare behind his own ears, a deep crimson creeping up his neck that rivaled the flush on Seonghyeon’s face. The air in the kitchen suddenly felt twice as thick as the bungeoppang batter.
He knew he should say something cool, but his heart was hammering a frantic beat against his ribs. He leaned his hip against the counter, trying to look casual, though his trembling hands gave him away as he tucked them into his pockets.
"For me, huh?" Keonho finally managed to croak out. He forced a lopsided, teasing grin, though his voice lacked its usual steady confidence. "Wow. I didn't know the legendary Seonghyeon took custom orders at 3:00 AM. Is this part of the premium service, or am I just special?"
Seonghyeon’s hands faltered for a split second, the metal mold clinking against the stove grate. He bit his lower lip, his eyes darting toward Keonho before snapping back to the stove. The pink on his cheeks deepened into a vivid rose.
"You're just loud," Seonghyeon countered softly, his voice a little breathless. "I figured making these was the only way to get you to stop pouting in the living room and actually let me finish the track in peace."
"Right, the track. Totally," Keonho chuckled, but he didn't move away. Instead, he leaned in closer, invading Seonghyeon’s personal space until their shoulders were almost brushing. He could see the slight tremor in Seonghyeon’s delicate fingers as he used a small spatula to check the edges of the pastry.
"You know," Keonho whispered, his voice dropping into a lower, more daring register, "your face is practically the same color as the red bean paste, Hyeon. If I didn't know better, I’d think you were actually nervous."
Seonghyeon let out a tiny, flustered huff, finally turning his head to glare at Keonho. But with their faces now only inches apart in the intimate glow of the kitchen, the 'glare' lacked any real sting. His eyes were wide, sparkling with a mixture of irritation and something much softer that he couldn't quite hide.
"It’s just hot from the stove," Seonghyeon insisted, though he didn't pull away.
Just as the space between them felt like it was about to snap from the sheer weight of the silence, the heavy thud of footsteps echoed down the hallway.
"Yo, is something burning? Or is the tension just that thick in here?"
The kitchen light flicked from amber to a blinding, surgical white as Martin slapped the light switch, standing in the doorway with his hair a mess and a mischievous glint in his eyes. He was wearing an oversized hoodie, looking every bit the observant leader.
Keonho jumped back so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet, his face turning a shade of red that was borderline alarming. Seonghyeon, however, froze, his delicate hands still hovering over the stove as if he could pretend he was just a very dedicated, very flushed chef.
Martin leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms and letting out a low, slow whistle. He looked from Keonho’s frantic expression to Seonghyeon’s rosy cheeks, then down at the fish-shaped pastries.
"Bungeoppang? Seriously?" Martin grinned, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "I ask Seonghyeon to help me with a bridge for the title track, and he says he’s 'too drained to think.' But the second the maknae pouts, suddenly we’re running a late-night bakery?"
"I was just—he said he was hungry," Seonghyeon stammered, his usual cool persona completely dismantled. He looked down at the stove, desperately poking at a perfectly cooked pastry.
"Sure, sure," Martin chuckled, walking over and snatching a finished bungeoppang right off the cooling plate. He took a loud, dramatic bite, humming in approval. "Wow. Tastes like... devotion. Very sweet."
He turned his gaze toward Keonho, who was trying—and failing—to look busy by suddenly becoming very interested in a kitchen towel. "You okay there, Keonho-ya? You’re steaming. Maybe you should go stand in the freezer for a bit?"
Seonghyeon’s grip tightened on the spatula, his knuckles turning white. He couldn't look at Martin—he knew that if he met his leader’s knowing gaze, he’d crumble. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on the stovetop, his voice coming out a little higher and more strained than usual.
"Stop it, Martin-hyung," Seonghyeon snapped, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the way his voice wavered. "We’re just friends. He was hungry, and I happened to be in the kitchen. It’s not a 'bakery,' and it’s definitely not... whatever you’re implying."
He finally looked up, trying to channel his strict energy, but the flush on his porcelain skin was a dead giveaway. His eyes darted toward Keonho for a split second—a silent, desperate plea for backup—before snapping back to Martin.
"We’ve been working together for hours," Seonghyeon continued, his words coming out in a defensive rush. "It’s only natural for members to look out for each other. It's a team dynamic. That's all it is. Just being teammates. Just friends."
Martin raised an eyebrow, chewing slowly as he leaned back against the counter, clearly enjoying the show. "Right. 'Just friends' who look like they’re starring in a romantic K-drama pilot. I’ve seen you guys in the studio, Seonghyeon. You don’t make snacks for me when I’m pouting."
Seonghyeon’s jaw tightened, and he looked back at the bungeoppang, his heart sinking. He had said it. He had put the ‘just friends’ label on it to save face, but the words felt like lead in his stomach.
The word ‘friends’ hit Keonho harder than any scathing lyric review ever could. For a split second, the playful light in his eyes flickered and died, replaced by a sharp, stinging ache in his chest. His breath hitched, and his hand, which had been reaching for a plate, faltered in mid-air.
But he was an idol—trained to mask his emotions in a heartbeat.
By the time Martin looked back at him, Keonho had forced a stiff, practiced grin onto his face. "Exactly," Keonho said, his voice sounding a little too loud, a little too hollow. "I’m just hungry. It’s basically in his job description to feed me so I don't collapse during dance practice."
Martin lingered for a moment, his eyes darting between Seonghyeon’s frantic scrubbing of a clean counter and Keonho’s rigid posture. He wasn't fooled, but he knew when to push and when to let them simmer.
"Whatever you say," Martin chuckled, holding up the half-eaten pastry like a trophy. "I’m taking this back to the studio. Don't stay up too late 'team-bonding,' okay?"
The sound of Martin’s retreating footsteps and the eventual click of the studio door felt like a heavy curtain falling. The bright, white kitchen light now felt cold and mocking.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Seonghyeon still hadn't looked up; he was staring intently at the fish-shaped mold, his movements slow and mechanical. The pretty, rose-pink flush on his cheeks hadn't faded, but it no longer looked like the glow of a secret—it looked like the burn of embarrassment.
"He's so annoying," Keonho muttered, breaking the silence. He tried to reclaim the teasing tone from earlier, but it fell flat. He stepped closer to the stove, reaching out to take the last golden bungeoppang. "He’s right about one thing, though. These are good."
Seonghyeon finally looked at him, his gaze flickering over Keonho’s face as if searching for something he was afraid to find. "I didn't mean it to sound... like that," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. "I just didn't want him making a scene."
Keonho set the pastry down, the sweetness of the red bean suddenly feeling like ash in his mouth. He turned fully toward Seonghyeon, his gaze intense enough to make the older boy flinch.
"Like what, Hyung?" Keonho asked, his voice low and unusually steady. "You didn't want him to think you actually care? Or did you just want to make sure I knew exactly where I stand?"
Seonghyeon’s breath hitched. He looked fragile under the harsh fluorescent light, his fingers trembling as he finally set the spatula down. He looked up at Keonho, his eyes shimmering with a mix of exhaustion and a vulnerability he usually kept locked away in the metaphors of his lyrics.
"I don't stay up until 3:00 AM because I'm a 'good friend,' Keonho," Seonghyeon began, his voice barely a thread of sound. He looked down at his own hands, his porcelain skin still flushed a deep, dusty rose. "And I didn't make these because I was bored. I made them because... I’ve spent months writing songs about a feeling I was too scared to name. But tonight, when you walked out of that room, I realized the music doesn't sound right unless you're the one listening to it."
He stepped closer, the scent of vanilla and warmth following him. He looked up through his lashes, his expression so tender it felt like a bruise.
"I told Martin we’re just friends because I didn't know if I was allowed to be anything else to you," he whispered, his heart finally visible in the hesitant, beautiful curve of his mouth. "But every melody I've written lately has been an accident—because I was actually just thinking of you. If that’s not what you want, I’ll take it back. But please don’t think this is just a dynamic between teammates. between friends"
The kitchen fell silent, the only sound the faint ticking of the cooling stove. Keonho felt the sting in his chest melt into something warm and terrifyingly real. He didn't need a grand declaration; in the quiet of the night, between the sweet scent of the kitchen and the soft honesty in Seonghyeon's eyes, the truth was finally out.
"Good," Keonho murmured, stepping back into Seonghyeon’s space, closing the gap until their shadows merged on the floor. "Because I’ve been listening to those songs, and I think I’ve been trying to tell you the same thing."
The heavy silence of the hallway was broken by the faint, rhythmic padding of bare feet. Juhoon stumbled out of his room, bleary-eyed and parched, his only goal being a glass of cold water.
He had just reached the edge of the hallway when he froze.
In the dim, secondary light of the corridor, a tall, motionless silhouette stood perfectly still against the wall. Juhoon was usually the chill, unbothered member of the group, but seeing a dark figure looming in the shadows at 3:00 AM made his heart lurch. He flinched, his shoulders hiking up to his ears.
Just as he was about to bolt back to his room, a hand reached out from the darkness.
"Relax, it's just me," a low voice whispered.
Martin stepped forward, the edge of his hoodie catching the light. Before Juhoon could ask what on earth he was doing lurking in the dark like a ghost, Martin stepped behind him. He looped an arm casually around Juhoon’s waist, pulling him back against his chest and steering him toward the corner of the kitchen entrance.
Juhoon started to protest, but Martin leaned in, pressing a finger to his own lips. "Look," he breathed into Juhoon’s ear.
Juhoon peered around the corner. His eyes widened as he saw the scene in the kitchen: the soft amber glow, the plate of bungeoppang, and the two youngest members standing so close their foreheads were practically touching, lost in their own world of soft whispers and flushed cheeks.
Juhoon’s chill facade completely crumbled into a look of pure, bewildered shock. He looked back at Martin, who was wearing a smug, ‘I-told-you-so’ grin.
"I’ve been standing here for five minutes," Martin whispered, his voice vibrating with suppressed laughter. "I already went in once to stir the pot, but I think they forgot I exist again. It's better than a K-Drama, right?"
Juhoon watched Seonghyeon shyly tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, his face glowing in the light. He slowly turned his head back to Martin, his thirst for water completely forgotten.
"I'm going back to sleep," Juhoon whispered back, though he didn't pull away from Martin’s side just yet. "If they start holding hands, I’m not responsible for my own reaction. This dorm is way too loud for three in the morning."