Chapter Text
The agency’s practice room was a windowless bunker, a sealed capsule of mirrors and fluorescent lights where time had ceased to exist. It was three in the morning, but beneath the white, clinical, unchanging glow, the very concept of night had dissolved hours ago. Inside, there was no dawn and no rest—only repetition.
The air was thick, saturated, almost tangible. Heavy with the metallic scent of dried sweat that had soaked into their clothes, the wooden floor, even the walls themselves. The heat radiating from five bodies pushed far past ordinary exhaustion had nowhere to go, hanging in the room as if it, too, were struggling to breathe.
The mirror covering an entire wall reflected five figures that barely looked human anymore. Their shapes were slightly distorted by the steam suspended in the air and by the involuntary tremor of exhausted muscles—tight, overstressed, driven to the edge of biological endurance. Slumped shoulders. Curved backs. Knees held upright by nothing but inertia.
The count had ended seconds ago. Still, no one moved. The echo of the last beat of the music seemed to linger beneath their feet, seeping into the wooden floor, climbing up through their soles and settling into their bones. It was as if their bodies refused to accept that the rehearsal was over, even if only for a few minutes. As if stopping would be a kind of betrayal.
James was the first to move. He walked to the mirrored wall and leaned back against it. The glass was cold, and the contrast against his overheated skin pulled a quiet breath from his chest. Without fully turning around, his eyes scanned the studio through their reflections, assessing his teammates as though looking at them directly required energy he no longer had.
He was searching for signs. Tremors that were too sharp. Distant stares. The exact point where the body stops obeying.
“Five minutes,” he said at last.
His voice came out rough, fractured by the dryness in his throat. He had to clear it before continuing.
“Just five. Get some water… then we’re back in formation for the final chorus.”
Keonho was the first to give in. He let himself drop where he stood, not even trying to reach a wall or a chair. His legs folded beneath him as if they no longer belonged to him. Sitting on the floor, he pressed trembling hands into his calves, kneading hard, as if trying to convince the muscles they were still worth listening to.
Seonghyeon followed, less abruptly but just as drained. The moment he hit the floor, he closed his eyes and rested his head against the nearest wall. The room spun faintly, a dull dizziness brought on by cardiovascular strain and lack of sleep, and he focused on breathing slowly so he wouldn’t throw up.
Juhoon, on the other hand, didn’t sit. He collapsed. His legs gave out without warning, without grace, without the slightest attempt to control it. He fell flat on his back with a dull thud, arms spread wide, taking up space like he no longer cared about anything at all. The impact echoed briefly, but no one panicked. They all knew it wasn’t a dangerous fall. It was surrender.
His breathing was uneven, exaggerated, rising and falling in a jagged rhythm. Sweat ran down his temples, tracing the lines of his face and soaking into his fringe, which clung to his forehead.
For a moment, he didn’t look at anyone. He stared up at the white, flat, impersonal ceiling, as if there were something up there more interesting than the immediate reality of his own exhaustion. The fluorescent lights burned his eyes, but he didn’t close them. Even blinking felt like too much effort.
“I’m dead,” he murmured.
His voice was low, barely more than a thread, aimed more at the empty space above him than at the people around him. It wasn’t a complaint. And it wasn’t a joke. It was simply a statement of fact.
Martin was the only one who didn’t drop when the count ended. He stayed on his feet, legs set slightly apart to keep his balance, while every muscle in his body protested. His calves burned; his shoulders felt weighed down, as if invisible anchors had been hung from his joints. And still, there was something stronger than exhaustion, a primal need burning from the inside out: thirst.
His mouth was dry, his tongue rough, stuck to the roof of his mouth. Swallowing was uncomfortable, almost painful. That sensation pushed him to move before his body could convince him to give up.
He crossed the room toward the water dispenser in the corner. His footsteps echoed hollowly against the wooden floor, a sound that, in the post-rehearsal silence, felt far louder than it should have. From the floor, the others followed him with their eyes. There was hope in those exhausted gazes, an almost religious faith placed in the figure walking toward liquid salvation.
“Martin… for the love of everything,” Seonghyeon murmured from where he lay, his voice thick, not even bothering to open his eyes. “Tell me the new jug arrived.”
Martin didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t want to, but because all his attention was fixed on the dispenser—on the promise of relief it represented. He set the paper cup beneath the spout and pressed the blue plastic lever with long, pale fingers.
The sound that answered was a sad, almost mocking gurgle. A final attempt by the system to pretend it still worked. Then—three drops. Nothing more. Three tiny beads of water fell into the bottom of the cup, not even enough to fool the eye.
The jug was empty. Completely. A transparent twenty-liter shell that now served only to reflect the fluorescent light and remind him of what was gone.
“There’s none,” Martin said at last.
His own voice sounded strange to him, distant, as if it didn’t quite belong to him. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the disappointment.
A collective groan spread through the room, bouncing off the mirrors.
“There has to be!” Keonho protested, pushing himself up with effort, bracing one elbow on the floor. “The staff said they’d restock before midnight.”
Martin didn’t argue. He crouched in front of the cabinet beneath the dispenser—the forgotten space where emergency supplies were sometimes stored. He reached into the darkness, pushing aside damp fabric and dirty towels, feeling around blindly with a patience born more from exhaustion than hope.
Then he felt it. A cold, smooth surface. Cylindrical. His fingers closed around the plastic, and for a second, he forgot to breathe. He pulled the bottle out slowly, as if afraid it might disappear if he moved too fast. Half a liter of water. Sealed. Untouched. A tiny miracle.
Without realizing it, he lifted it into the air, and the way the light refracted through the water sparked an immediate reaction. They swallowed in unison. Even James, who was trying to maintain some sense of composure, couldn’t stop himself from fixing his gaze on the bottle.
“There’s only one left,” Martin announced, turning toward them.
“Pass it over, man,” James said immediately, extending his hand. “One sip each. Let’s start with the older ones.”
“No, no—give me some first,” Keonho cut in, pressing a hand to his chest with exaggerated drama. “I think I’m about to pass out.”
Martin tightened his grip on the bottle more than necessary. He could feel the cold through the plastic, almost as if the water were speaking directly to his skin. His throat throbbed. Every second without drinking was a conscious torture.
He was about to twist the cap open when something shifted. It wasn’t a sound. It wasn’t a word. It was a presence.
In the side mirror, Martin caught a barely perceptible movement. Juhoon had turned his head. He was still on the floor, lying on his back, but his eyes were fixed on Martin.
There was no pleading in that gaze. Not the desperate, explicit kind the others carried. No exaggerated gestures. No urgent words. Instead, there was something far more unsettling: intensity. Dark. Silent. A magnetism that didn’t ask—it assumed.
Juhoon didn’t reach out. He didn’t say anything. He simply looked at him. And in that brief, charged eye contact, Martin felt something tighten inside his chest. As if he’d been given an order that didn’t need a voice. As if that look said, you know what to do.
From the outside, the scene was trivial. A second of eye contact lost in the general exhaustion, among jokes and bodies sprawled on the floor. Nothing worth remembering. Nothing anyone else would notice.
But Martin noticed. He always did. And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous part of all.
Martin wouldn’t have known how to explain when exactly he’d learned to read Juhoon that way. There was no clear point of origin. No conscious decision, no deliberate effort to pay attention. It had simply happened. The way things do when they repeat often enough to become invisible—part of the background, of the everyday landscape.
It was accumulation. Silent observation. Rehearsal after rehearsal, trip after trip, sleepless nights shared in hotel rooms. At some point, Martin began to notice the small details: the way Juhoon’s lips would press together, just barely, when something bothered him but he didn’t want to admit it; the slight arch of his brows when something caught his interest; the way his breathing changed when he was on the edge of exhaustion, even as he kept smiling like nothing was wrong.
And above all—his gaze. Absolute stillness. No urgency. No drama. A look that didn’t ask for help, didn’t beg, didn’t demand… But waited. It always waited. As if the world itself had been trained to respond to it.
Martin tightened his grip on the bottle a little more than necessary. The plastic crinkled softly beneath his fingers, barely pulling him back into reality.
In that moment, the rest of the room seemed to blur. The suffocating heat, the smell of sweat, his teammates’ muffled complaints—even the thirst burning his throat—all faded into the background. Everything lost weight in the face of that silent demand, never spoken aloud, yet understood by Martin with alarming clarity.
Without saying a word, ignoring James’s and Keonho’s outstretched arms, Martin crossed the room. His steps were slow, deliberate, as if each one required a conscious choice. The sound of his sneakers against the floor echoed softly, unnoticed by anyone. He knelt beside Juhoon, who was still lying on the floor. Juhoon didn’t move. He didn’t try to sit up. He didn’t lift a hand. He simply waited, eyes locked onto Martin’s, as if he already knew the outcome had been decided.
“Here,” Martin whispered.
His voice was low, almost intimate—out of place in a shared space. He handed him the entire bottle, still sealed, without having taken a single sip. The gesture was clean. Final. A total surrender that, without Martin consciously realizing it, broke the unspoken rule of equality they always tried to maintain among the members.
Juhoon blinked. Just once. Surprise flickered across his face for a brief second before dissolving. Then that small, crooked smile appeared—the one that surfaced whenever something went exactly the way he wanted… even when he hadn’t seemed aware he wanted it at all.
“Are you sure?” he asked, pushing himself up slightly, propped on one elbow.
Martin nodded.
“Yes.”
He didn’t explain. He didn’t justify himself. He didn’t add anything else.
The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. James slowly lowered the hand he’d extended toward the bottle, blinking as if he’d just witnessed something he couldn’t quite process. From the wall, Seonghyeon raised an eyebrow, watching the scene with a mix of genuine amusement and confusion.
“Well…” James finally said, breaking the tension with a dry laugh. “That was… direct. Martin, are you sure? You literally just ignored me like I was part of the furniture.”
“That’s Martin’s favoritism,” Keonho teased, though a trace of real frustration slipped into his voice. “Martin would give his soul if Juhoon asked for it with that look in his eyes. Did you see him? He didn’t even hesitate.”
“It’s impressive,” Seonghyeon added with a soft chuckle, crossing his arms. “Martin, are you aware you look pale? You should’ve had some water. But no—when it comes to Martin, Juhoon is first, second, and third place on his priority list.”
The jokes came fast after that, sharp and overlapping, the way they always did when exhaustion threatened to turn too serious. It was how they survived.
Martin felt heat rise to his face. It wasn’t just embarrassment. It was something more complicated. More uncomfortable. A mix of exposure and recognition. As if they’d put words to something he’d been avoiding naming for a long time.
He didn’t respond. He didn’t defend himself. He didn’t explain that Juhoon was more exhausted than the others, that he’d been the first to collapse, that the way his body had given out had genuinely alarmed him. He didn’t say it had been a reflex, an automatic impulse.
Because deep down, he wasn’t sure that was true. And that doubt—silent and persistent—weighed on him more than the thirst still burning his throat.
Juhoon listened to the laughter, but didn’t get up right away. He stayed stretched out on the floor a few seconds longer, as if his body still needed convincing that the rest was real. His fingers curled around the cold bottle; condensation dampened his palms, and the contrast against his overheated skin drew a slow exhale from him. A small, almost invisible smile formed at the corner of his mouth.
He leaned on one elbow and turned his head.
Martin was still kneeling beside him. He hadn’t changed position. He didn’t seem eager to return to the others. He was simply there—attentive, expectant—as if his presence only made sense in relation to Juhoon.
Juhoon studied him more closely than he would’ve admitted out loud: the cracked lips, the tension in his neck when he swallowed, the controlled expression of someone enduring discomfort without complaint. Thirst.
Juhoon knew it without needing confirmation. And that detail sparked something strange inside him—something warm and sharp at the same time, just beneath his sternum.
“Thank you, Martin,” he said then, raising his voice slightly so everyone could hear.
He didn’t say it out of politeness. He said it on purpose.
Martin lifted his gaze for just a second, surprised, before nodding almost automatically.
Juhoon twisted the cap open. The sharp snap of the seal breaking cut through the room like a gunshot—too clear in the brief stillness. He drank.
Slowly. Too slowly. The water slid down his throat, but Juhoon wasn’t focused only on that. He was savoring the moment as well. Martin’s fixed gaze on him. The certainty that every swallow he took was a swallow Martin wouldn’t get. And the most unsettling part of all was that Martin showed no trace of regret. No reproach. No impatience. Only attention.
Juhoon drank a little more, then closed the bottle with a firm twist. Somewhere in the background, the others kept joking, tossing comments back and forth to ease the weight of exhaustion.
“Overreacting,” Juhoon said lightly. “Besides, Martin’s always like this. Right?”
And that’s where the crack appeared.
For the others, the comment carried no weight. It was just a casual observation, an accepted truth that didn’t need examination. Martin takes care. Martin gives. Martin stays. A comfortable label, repeated so often it had stopped being questioned.
But for Juhoon, those words didn’t dissolve into the air. They’d been taking root for weeks.
He’d started noticing the small things long before that rehearsal, even if he hadn’t stopped to think about them. The way Martin positioned himself to his left without being asked, as if it were his natural place. How he appeared with a towel just as sweat began to blur his vision. How his name, in Martin’s mouth, sounded different—lower, more careful, as if there were always something unspoken beneath it.
At first, it had been practical. Then comforting. Lately, it was something else.
Curiosity. A dangerous kind of curiosity.
“How far would he go?” Juhoon thought, a shiver running through him that had nothing to do with the cold water still in his hand.
The idea, which had started as a fleeting thought, began to spread. If Martin was capable of sacrificing a basic need in front of everyone—ignoring hierarchy, jokes, even his own body—what else would he be willing to give up? Where was the limit, if one existed at all?
Juhoon laughed along with the others when James made another sarcastic comment about “the servant and his prince,” but his eyes never left Martin for a second. What he felt wasn’t mockery. It was something far more unsettling.
A new game had been born. A silent one. One where communication was broken on purpose.
Martin believed he was protecting him, taking care of him, fulfilling a role no one had assigned but that he had accepted without question. Juhoon, on the other hand, had just realized he held a key. A key capable of opening something deep and fragile inside his teammate. And the temptation to test it was stronger than any abstract notion of companionship.
Juhoon brushed the back of his hand across his mouth, thoughtful. He watched the bottle for a few seconds longer before extending it back.
“Thanks,” he said again, this time meeting Martin’s eyes directly.
Martin took the bottle. Their fingers brushed—briefly. A minimal contact, accidental in appearance, which neither of them commented on.
Martin didn’t drink.
“And what about us?” Keonho complained from the floor. “Do we just stare at each other and survive on the power of friendship?”
“Let’s go to the corner store,” James suggested. “Five minutes and we’re back.”
From the back of the studio, the choreographer glanced up from his phone and nodded without much interest.
“You’ve got ten. No more.”
The spell broke.
The guys began to get up, grabbing bottles, backpacks, towels. The moment dispersed, the way things always did when no one dared to name them out loud.
But it didn’t disappear entirely. Martin stayed still for a few seconds longer, the bottle still sealed in his hand. He watched Juhoon stretch, watched him laugh easily, watched him look perfectly normal—untouched, intact, oblivious to any conflict. He didn’t know that, at the very same time, Juhoon was thinking exactly the same thing about him.
And, like so many other times, neither of them said a word.
The days began to slide over one another with an almost cruel monotony, all cut by the same exhausting cadence: training, recordings, performances, photo shoots, interviews—more training. The comeback was approaching like an unavoidable tide, and with it grew a silent pressure that didn’t need to be named to be felt. It settled into their bodies, into the smallest gestures, into glances held a second less than usual. All it took was noticing the dark circles that no longer faded, the heavy silences inside the van, the way they all learned to ration words as if they were a limited resource.
It was during that period that Martin’s actions began to become noticeable.
At first, they were details so small that almost no one paid attention. A jacket carefully draped over Juhoon’s shoulders when the studio’s air conditioning turned too aggressive. A hot coffee set down on the table just as Juhoon returned from the set—no questions, no announcement. A casual “I’ll take care of it” whenever something uncomfortable or tedious appeared on Juhoon’s schedule.
For Martin, none of it felt like a sacrifice. He didn’t experience it as a loss or a heroic gesture. It was simply an extension of how he existed in the world. Caring was almost a reflex, an automatic response. And Juhoon had become—without Martin ever stopping to analyze it—the axis around which that constant attention revolved.
One afternoon, after a recording that ran longer than expected, the cold seeped onto the set with sudden sharpness. Technicians rushed back and forth adjusting lights and microphones, while the members waited, wrapped in a fatigue that no longer lifted with breaks or jokes.
Juhoon rubbed his arms. The gesture was minimal, almost involuntary.
“It’s cold,” he murmured.
It wasn’t a complaint. Just an observation released into the air.
Martin, a few meters away checking his phone, looked up. He didn’t look at anyone else. He took in Juhoon’s posture: shoulders slightly hunched, hands unconsciously searching for warmth, jaw clenched. He locked his phone and walked over.
Without saying a word, he took off his jacket and set it over Juhoon’s shoulders.
“Here.”
Juhoon blinked, surprised.
“What about you?”
“I’m fine.”
He wasn’t. The cold air bit into his skin the moment he was left in a thin T-shirt, but Martin didn’t make the slightest gesture to give himself away. It wasn’t something he considered relevant. Juhoon hesitated for barely a second before accepting the jacket. He wrapped himself in it and let out a sigh he couldn’t quite hide.
“Thanks,” he said, resting his chin against the collar, breathing in the unfamiliar scent without thinking too much about it.
From the other side of the set, Keonho watched the scene with a faint frown. Seonghyeon noticed too. They didn’t say anything, but they exchanged a brief look—the kind that doesn’t seek confirmation, only records that something is happening.
Juhoon felt the weight of their gazes. Not immediately, but enough for a soft discomfort to settle in his chest.
He liked Martin’s attention. More than he was willing to admit. And that was precisely what unsettled him. Because Martin’s attention wasn’t loud or invasive. It didn’t demand anything in return. It didn’t ask for recognition or gratitude. It was simply there—constant, steady—like a promise no one had spoken out loud.
Another day, leaving the studio late at night, Juhoon stopped in front of a vending machine. He stared at the options with an indecision that had little to do with choice. Martin appeared at his side almost immediately, as if summoned.
“Do you want something?” he asked.
Juhoon pointed at a random snack.
“That one.”
Martin pulled out money without thinking.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Juhoon watched the machine move, the dull thud of the item falling. There was something almost ritualistic in the way Martin handed things over—with care, with attention, as if every gesture carried a specific weight.
“I could’ve bought it myself,” Juhoon commented, more to test a reaction than out of real intent.
Martin shrugged.
“It’s fine.”
There it was again. It’s fine. As if nothing had consequences. As if balance were impossible to break.
At night, back at the dorm, the exhaustion became even more evident. The shared bathroom was usually a point of silent friction. Whoever got there first went in first. It was rarely discussed.
That night, Juhoon was leaning against the wall, waiting his turn, when Martin stopped in front of him.
“You go first.”
Juhoon looked up.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes. I’ll wait.”
There was no urgency in his tone. No resignation either. Just acceptance.
Juhoon went into the bathroom with a strange sensation, as if he’d crossed an invisible line. The hot water fell over his shoulders, but it didn’t fully wash away the unease that had settled in his body.
Because it wasn’t just him noticing anymore.
James had made a comment earlier that afternoon.
“You two look married,” he’d said, laughing. “Always together.”
Juhoon had laughed too, automatically, but the phrase stuck to him, spinning in his head longer than he wanted to admit.
He didn’t want the others to think things. He didn’t want that dynamic to become a topic of conversation. He didn’t want discomfort or interpretations.
But he also didn’t want Martin to stop.
Juhoon was trapped in a contradiction he didn’t know how to name. He liked feeling chosen, prioritized, taken care of. He liked it too much. But he also feared the reflection it cast on the group—the image being built without words.
And underneath it all, there was another question, more dangerous than the rest.
How far would Martin go?
That question began to take real shape during a particularly silent early morning.
The bedroom was steeped in a dense darkness, the kind that doesn’t feel made only of the absence of light, but of stillness. The kind of calm that exists only when everyone is asleep and the world seems to have paused for a few hours. The digital clock on the bedside table read close to three in the morning, its red numbers blinking with an almost irritating insistence. The bed beside his was empty; James was probably still at the company.
Juhoon was awake. He stared at the ceiling without really seeing it, his phone resting on his chest, rising and falling with his breathing. He wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t thirsty. The exhaustion was there—heavy—but it couldn’t quite drag him into sleep.
He was curious.
It didn’t arrive as a dark thought or a conscious decision. It was softer than that, almost innocent—an idea that slipped between his thoughts as if it weren’t dangerous. A small experiment. Controlled. Something that could be easily justified if it went wrong. Something that, in theory, wouldn’t change anything.
He opened his chat with Martin.
The previous messages were trivial: schedules, reminders, brief jokes. Nothing that betrayed the tangled mess of things Juhoon had been noticing for weeks and carefully avoiding naming.
He typed without thinking too much.
“Can you buy me a bag of chips if you go to the store?”
He sent the message before giving himself the chance to hesitate.
The reply came almost immediately.
“I’m in bed.”
Juhoon smiled in the darkness. Of course he was. He knew exactly where Martin was: in his usual bed, probably on his back, phone in hand, his body surrendered after another endless day. The image was so clear he could almost see it.
He typed again.
“Oh, sorry. I heard James say he was going with you and thought maybe you could grab one for me. Forget it, really. I didn’t mean to bother you, I’m just hungry and can’t sleep. Rest, Martin. Sorry for waking you.”
He read the message once more before sending it. Adjusted the tone. Chose the words carefully. Casual enough. Apologetic enough. Easy enough to ignore.
As soon as he sent it, he turned off his phone and left it on the nightstand, as if that gesture closed the matter.
He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned toward the wall and closed his eyes, even though sleep was far away. Without realizing it, he began to count time in his head. If Martin reacted like anyone else, he’d simply say he couldn’t, maybe apologize, and go back to sleep.
But Martin wasn’t just anyone when it came to him.
Juhoon’s heart beat a little faster than normal. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to happen. Part of him hoped nothing would. That Martin would stay in bed. That everything would continue as usual, untouched. Another part—more restless, more honest—wanted to see how far that silent devotion he’d been watching for weeks would go.
Ten minutes.
The building made its usual noises: the distant hum of the elevator, the faint creak of the pipes, the wind hitting the glass. Juhoon felt an uncomfortable twinge in his chest.
Fifteen minutes.
He started to regret it. The nearest convenience store was several blocks away, and the temperature outside was brutal at that hour. He thought he’d gone too far. He was about to grab his phone and send another message, say it was a joke, when a nearly imperceptible sound froze his blood.
A door opening.
Juhoon held his breath.
He heard careful, barefoot steps moving down the hallway. The metallic clink of keys being taken from the bowl by the door. Then the soft, final sound of the front door closing.
Juhoon sat up abruptly, his heart pounding against his ribs.
“That can’t be…” he whispered, more to convince himself than as a statement.
He stayed seated on the bed, wrapped in absolute silence. Guilt and fascination collided in his chest without resolving. Martin had gone out. He had left the warmth of his bed, gotten dressed in the dark, and stepped into the cold of the early morning just because Juhoon had mentioned—through a calculated lie—that he was hungry.
Time stretched. At 3:45 a.m., the sound of the front door returned. Juhoon didn’t move. He listened to the footsteps approaching his room, slower now, heavier. Then three soft knocks against the wooden door, barely the brush of knuckles so as not to wake the others.
Juhoon remained still, holding his breath.
Another knock, slightly firmer.
He got up then, pulse racing. He walked barefoot to the door, each step loaded with anticipation and something that felt far too much like fear.
When he opened it, Martin was there.
His hair was messy from the pillow, but his nose and ears were red from the cold. He wore a scarf badly adjusted and his coat half undone. His eyes carried a kind of exhaustion that hurt just to look at.
Without saying anything, Martin lifted a plastic bag.
“Here,” he said, his voice rough, worn. “They weren’t the salted ones, right? I brought the ones you like—the spicy ones. I also got you a hot tea… in case the salt makes you thirsty afterward.”
The world shifted slightly, as if someone had nudged the scene a centimeter off center. Juhoon looked down at the bag, then back up at Martin. The air drifting in from the hallway still carried the night’s cold, clinging to Martin’s jacket like a second skin. He stood there, shivering faintly, wearing a docile, calm smile that made Juhoon’s blood run cold.
Something gave way in his chest. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t guilt.
It was a sudden certainty, brutal in its clarity.
Martin’s devotion was too much. And it had just crossed a point neither of them knew how to return from.
For a long second, neither of them moved. The hallway remained dim, barely lit by a yellowish light that did nothing to erase the deep shadows beneath Martin’s eyes. The cold seeped even into the bedroom, and Juhoon felt it settle in his chest, mixing with something thicker, warmer, rising up his throat.
“You didn’t have to—” he began, but the sentence dissolved before it could take shape.
Martin didn’t seem upset. Or exhausted. There was no reproach, no irony in his expression. Just a strange, unsettling serenity, as if getting up at three in the morning to buy chips were the most logical consequence in the world after receiving that message.
“It’s fine,” he said again, repeating a phrase that already seemed etched into him. “I was awake anyway.”
He was lying. Juhoon knew it. Martin had been in bed, his body heavy, his mind barely holding on when the phone vibrated. He had hesitated—yes. One or two seconds. Long enough to understand that Juhoon didn’t really need the chips.
And still, he had gotten up.
Juhoon swallowed and stepped aside.
“Come in.”
Martin obeyed without question, as if no other option existed. He closed the door carefully, almost reverently, avoiding any noise. The room was immaculate, every object in its exact place. Suddenly, Juhoon became aware of how intimate it was to allow him in, of how much he was giving up without having planned to.
Martin set the bag down on the desk.
Juhoon approached slowly, as if a sudden movement might break something invisible.
“Thank you.”
This time, the word carried more weight. It sounded different. Clearer.
He opened the bag and pulled out the package. The crinkle of the wrapper sounded exaggerated in the nighttime silence. He took a chip between his fingers and held it there for a few seconds without eating it.
He looked at Martin.
“Aren’t you tired?”
Martin shook his head.
“A little,” he admitted. “But it’s fine.”
It wasn’t. He was cold. He was sleepy. His body had been begging for rest for hours. But none of that competed with the idea that Juhoon had wanted something.
Juhoon watched him as if seeing him for the first time. He noticed the slight tension in his shoulders, the way he avoided sitting down, as if afraid of taking up too much space. The devotion wasn’t just in having gone out to buy chips; it was in every micro-gesture, every tiny renunciation Martin didn’t even register as such.
“You could’ve said no,” Juhoon murmured.
Martin looked at him, genuinely confused.
“Why would I say no?”
The question landed between them like something dead. Because you didn’t have to.
Because I’m not your responsibility. Because I shouldn’t be able to ask you for just anything.
Juhoon said nothing. He chewed slowly, using time as a refuge. The experiment had worked. Too well. And now he didn’t know what to do with what he’d uncovered.
“Sorry if I bothered you,” he added at last.
Martin frowned slightly.
“You didn’t bother me.”
His voice was firm. Almost low.
“Never.”
The word lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable in Juhoon’s chest. Never wasn’t an explicit promise, but it sounded like one. And unspoken promises were the most dangerous kind.
The silence stretched. Not awkward, but thick. Juhoon ate a couple more chips, aware of every crunch, every second with Martin standing in front of him, waiting without waiting.
“You can sit,” he offered, pointing to the chair.
Martin hesitated before doing so. He sat on the very edge of the bed, back straight, hands resting on his thighs. He looked like someone unsure how to inhabit a space he’d been allowed into.
“Are you always like this?” Juhoon asked suddenly.
Martin looked up.
“Like what?”
“Attentive,” he said. “With me.”
The question was a hook. Juhoon wanted the answer—and feared what it might reveal.
Martin thought for a few seconds.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I guess so.”
“With everyone?”
Martin shook his head, almost without realizing it.
Juhoon’s stomach tightened.
“Oh.”
He didn’t ask anything else. He didn’t need to. The confirmation was there, clear even in the silent denial.
The silence settled again, heavier than before.
“You should sleep,” Juhoon said finally. “We train early tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Martin replied.
But he didn’t get up right away.
Juhoon noticed. Noticed how his gaze lingered a second longer, as if searching for something he couldn’t quite name.
“Thank you,” he repeated, for the third time. “Really.”
Martin stood.
“Anytime.”
The phrase hung in the air. It wasn’t innocent. Anytime. As if the door were left open to future requests, future tests, future limits pushed in silence.
Martin left without making a sound. Juhoon closed the door and leaned against it, letting the air spill out of his lungs. His heart was racing. It wasn’t just excitement—it was a dark vertigo. He had just confirmed there were no limits. Martin wasn’t just a good teammate; he was someone whose will seemed to fold completely around Juhoon’s desires, even the most trivial ones.
Juhoon sat on the bed and looked at the bag of chips in the half-light. He understood, with a clarity that scared him, that he held absolute power over Martin.
He lay down without finishing the chips. He turned off the light, but sleep didn’t come. Because now he knew. He knew he could ask. He knew Martin would respond. He knew there was power in that.
And that power terrified him as much as it drew him in.
After that night, nothing ever felt quite the same.
Not because anything concrete had happened—anything you could point to and name without doubt—but because the relationship between Juhoon and Martin began to shift with a dangerous subtlety. Like a fault line creeping forward millimeter by millimeter, imperceptible, until the tremor can no longer be avoided.
Juhoon had understood something essential: Martin’s will wasn’t rigid. It was flexible. Malleable. A precious material that could be shaped without effort, without resistance, without even a visible crack. And like someone who discovers a new mechanism and wants to test how far it goes, Juhoon began to push.
Not all at once. Not with orders or open demands. At first, they were soft requests, wrapped in smiles, in light comments, in that tone of his that made everything sound unimportant—almost casual.
During the flight to Japan, exhaustion pressed down on everyone like a physical weight. For once, Martin had arrived early. He’d managed to get the window seat—the only place where he could rest his head against the cold glass and sleep for a couple of hours, away from the constant movement of the crew. He already had his headphones on when Juhoon appeared ten minutes later.
“Martin,” Juhoon said, tilting his chin toward the seat. “My head hurts a bit… the aisle light is bothering me. Can we switch?”
Seonghyeon and Keonho, seated nearby, exchanged a brief glance. Martin was already settled. His eyes had been closed. But the moment he heard his name, he opened them immediately. He didn’t sigh. He didn’t complain.
“Of course, Juhoon,” he replied, getting up awkwardly in the narrow space. “Go ahead.”
He gave up the only scrap of comfort he had for the next few hours without hesitation, without noise. Juhoon noticed everything—not just the gesture, but the speed, the ease with which Martin accepted it, as if the alternative had never existed.
The same thing happened in Tokyo. The hotel room had one large bed and a single one in the corner. By draw, the main bed was Martin’s. He’d just dropped his backpack on the floor when Juhoon spoke, almost distracted.
“Yours is bigger.”
Martin looked up.
“Do you want to switch?”
“Do you mind?”
“No.”
He never did.
Juhoon slept deeply that night. Martin didn’t. The small bed creaked with every movement, and the exhaustion settled into his back like constant pressure. Still, he said nothing. He never did.
Back in Korea, after days without real rest, Juhoon appeared in the dorm kitchen with a slight frown.
“I’m hungry,” he said. “Can you make ramen?”
Martin was exhausted. He knew it. He felt his arms heavy, his head overloaded, his body begging him to stop. Still, he nodded.
“Yeah. Sure.”
He started cooking while Juhoon sat at the table, absorbed in his phone. When the ramen was ready, Juhoon tasted it and smiled.
“It’s good.”
That comment alone was enough to make Martin’s exhaustion stop mattering.
In the United States, during a short walk between commitments, Juhoon stopped in front of different shop windows. He pointed at things with barely concealed interest.
“That’s nice.”
Martin was already pulling out his wallet.
“Do you want it?”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
And so, without anyone ever saying it out loud, the relationship turned into a strange, unbalanced routine—one that became more obvious by the day. Martin gave. Martin paid. Martin did.
The others started to notice.
“Juhoon,” Seonghyeon said one night, carefully. “Don’t you think this is getting to be too much?”
Juhoon looked up.
“Too much what?”
“Everything,” Keonho cut in. “You’re using him.”
Juhoon frowned.
“I’m not forcing him to do anything.”
“But it’s always him,” James added. “He always gives in. He always pays. He always does it.”
The silence turned uncomfortable.
Martin, standing nearby, said nothing. He stared at the floor, as if the conversation didn’t include him.
“Martin,” Seonghyeon insisted. “It’s okay to say no.”
Martin lifted his gaze for just a second—long enough to show he’d heard.
“It’s fine,” he said.
The phrase sounded hollow.
“It’s not,” Keonho replied. “And we don’t understand why you act like this only with Juhoon.”
Martin didn’t answer. He stood up and left the room, leaving the questions hanging in the air.
Juhoon felt a sharp twinge in his chest. It wasn’t guilt. Not entirely. It was something more uncomfortable: the feeling that the game was no longer private, that it was being watched.
Still, he didn’t stop.
A week later, the dynamic remained intact. Maybe even more entrenched. As if both of them had grown used to that silent division of roles that no longer needed explicit agreements: one asked, the other gave.
The interview for the fashion magazine took place in a spacious, brightly lit studio, with pale couches, strategically placed plants, and discreet cameras pretending not to be there. Everything was designed to feel spontaneous, relaxed, almost intimate. Stylists made small adjustments to sleeves and collars while the staff reviewed questions in low voices.
The five of them sat together, shoulder to shoulder, with practiced smiles and camera-ready posture.
The questions flowed smoothly: the comeback, the visual concept, fashion as a form of expression, teamwork. Rehearsed answers, safe anecdotes, measured laughter.
Until that question.
“Which member do you feel you’ve been getting along with best lately?” the interviewer asked, looking directly at Juhoon.
Juhoon didn’t hesitate.
“Martin,” he replied, turning toward him with an open smile.
Martin’s heart gave a brief, treacherous jump. Despite the accumulated exhaustion, the short nights, the cold lodged in his bones, hearing his name said like that—with such certainty—cut through him like unexpected validation. For a second, something lit up in his chest. A small smile began to form.
“Oh, really?” the interviewer continued. “Why?”
Juhoon laughed. It was light, natural—or at least it seemed so.
“Because he behaves like a loyal dog,” he said, still laughing.
The laughter spread quickly—clean, effortless, apparently harmless. The staff exchanged amused looks, the interviewer wrote something down enthusiastically, delighted by the spontaneity. Even the other members leaned forward slightly, laughing as if it were an inside joke brought into a public space without consequences.
Martin laughed too. It came out automatically, trained. His lips curved into a wide, correct smile—perfect for the camera. He dipped his head slightly, as if accepting the comment with humility, as if the role fit him comfortably.
No one would have noticed anything strange without looking closely. But in Martin’s eyes, something closed.
It wasn’t abrupt. There was no visible anger, no declared sadness. It was more like a light being switched off in an empty room—so quietly that no one notices when night falls.
Loyal dog.
The phrase repeated itself in his mind with uncomfortable clarity.
It wasn’t the first time the idea had surfaced. Maybe not in those exact words, but it had been there in loose jokes, in light comments, in complicit looks that said the same thing without saying it. He was always there. He always said yes. He always gave.
But hearing it like that—coming from Juhoon, in public, in front of cameras—was different.
Not because the intention had been cruel. Martin knew that. He kept telling himself so with almost desperate insistence. Juhoon hadn’t meant to hurt him. It had been a joke. An exaggeration to get a laugh. Nothing more.
And still, it hurt. It hurt because it was true. Or because it was close enough to the truth that it couldn’t be brushed aside so easily.
“Is he always this attentive?” the interviewer asked, still smiling, seizing the moment.
“Yes,” Juhoon answered without thinking. “It’s part of his charm.”
More laughter.
Martin felt an uncomfortable pressure in his chest. He kept smiling, nodded slightly, as if accepting the compliment. Because that was what it was, right? A compliment.
And yet there was something deeply dehumanizing in the way it had been said. As if his value were tied solely to his ability to give, to yield, to be available. As if that were all he was.
James gave him a light punch on the arm, joking.
“We want that treatment too,” he said, laughing.
Martin laughed again. That second laugh cost him more than the first.
The interview continued. The topic shifted. Fashion, inspiration, future plans. The cameras kept rolling, capturing polished gestures and carefully crafted answers. From the outside, everything looked normal.
From the inside, Martin was beginning to feel far away. Juhoon’s words didn’t echo loudly—they vibrated instead, constant, irritating, impossible to silence.
Loyal dog.
The images came uninvited: getting up at dawn, giving up beds and seats, offering time, sleep, exhaustion. Buying unnecessary things, cooking when he could barely stay on his feet. Always saying yes, even when his body screamed no.
And then a question forced its way through with violence—a question he had never allowed himself to ask:
Is that all you see in me?
Martin glanced sideways at Juhoon. He still looked relaxed, comfortable, crossing his legs with ease, answering with charm. He didn’t seem to notice anything out of place. There was no discomfort, no doubt, no trace of regret.
That was what hurt the most.
If Juhoon had hesitated for even a second, if he’d shown the slightest discomfort, Martin would have found a way to justify everything. But Juhoon was calm. Confident. Like someone convinced he hadn’t done anything wrong.
And maybe, from his point of view, he hadn’t.
When the interview ended, the flashes died down and the staff began dismantling the set. The pale couches were left empty, the cameras turned off one by one, and the space lost that artificial tension that only exists when everything is being watched. The members stood up, stretching, slowly returning to themselves.
“It went well,” Seonghyeon commented, adjusting his jacket. “I think they liked it.”
“Yes, very well,” the interviewer added. “Thank you for your time.”
Juhoon approached Martin as they both gathered their things.
“Was what I said okay?” he asked softly, with a sideways smile, almost conspiratorial.
Martin took a second before answering. It wasn’t a long silence, but it was a deliberate one.
“Yes,” he said finally. “It was funny.”
Juhoon nodded, satisfied.
“I’m glad.”
There was no apology. No clarification. No second look.
Martin lowered his gaze and kept packing his things with neat, mechanical movements.
The ride back to the dorm was quiet. Not the comfortable silence of shared exhaustion, but a dense one, heavy with unspoken words. The van moved through illuminated streets while each of them occupied their usual seat, immersed in different thoughts.
Juhoon sat by the window, watching the lights slide across the glass. Martin was beside him—his body occupied the seat, yes, but his attention was elsewhere, closed off, distant.
Juhoon noticed. He noticed because he’d grown used to feeling Martin close—not just physically, but in that subtler, more dangerous way: attentive, available, attuned. Now, instead, Martin was simply there, beside him, without seeking contact, without encroaching on his space, without offering anything.
That change—almost invisible from the outside—felt brutal.
When they reached the dorm, everyone dropped their things in silence. No one suggested ordering food. No one made jokes. The exhaustion was heavy, but something else floated in the air too—an awkwardness no one knew how to move through.
Juhoon set his backpack on the floor and stretched slightly, waiting—without realizing it—for a sign. Something.
Martin didn’t look at him.
“I’m going to shower,” he said suddenly.
The sentence was simple. Neutral. Normal. And still, it pierced Juhoon’s chest like a sharp sting. Because Martin didn’t ask if he wanted to go first. Didn’t offer to switch. Didn’t wait for his reaction. He grabbed a towel and headed to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Juhoon stayed still, a strange sensation pooling in his stomach. It wasn’t anger. Not exactly surprise either. It was closer to sudden loss—like when you reach out expecting to find something that’s always been there, and suddenly it isn’t.
“That’s weird,” James murmured from the couch, almost to himself.
Juhoon pretended not to hear. He sat down beside him and picked up his phone, scrolling without really reading anything. The sound of running water on the other side of the wall lodged itself in his head in an irritating way. Before, that sound would have meant Martin coming out later with damp hair, offering him the bathroom, asking if he wanted hot water.
Now it meant nothing.
When Martin came out, dressed in comfortable clothes, he didn’t say anything. He went straight to the small dorm kitchen. Juhoon looked up just in time to see him take out a pot, turn on the burner, and start making ramen. For himself.
Juhoon felt a knot tighten in his throat. He said nothing. Didn’t ask. Didn’t get up to join him like he usually did. He stayed where he was, pretending to focus on his phone, as if it didn’t affect him.
But it did. More than he was willing to admit—even to himself.
Juhoon had always been good at ignoring what he didn’t know how to handle. It was a strategy that had worked his whole life. If he didn’t name it, if he didn’t look at it directly, maybe it would disappear on its own.
That night, he went to bed with an empty stomach and a head full of thoughts and doubts.