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Sunoo thinks he's always losing things these days.
Not in a dramatic way—nothing important ever goes missing. It's just small things, the kind you don't notice until you reach for them out of habit and your hand closes around nothing. Like his lip balm. Maybe his charger. Or his hairbrush. Sometimes the hoodie he swears he left folded at the end of his bed.
It happens often enough that he starts keeping track.
He lines things up more neatly on his desk. Leaves them in places that make sense. Tries to build a pattern he can follow back if something disappears again. But the strange part is that there is a pattern... it just doesn't belong to him.
Things don't go missing randomly. They drift—from his desk to the couch, from his bed to the chair by the window, from his room to places he doesn't even remember bringing them to ever, like the practice room or the kitchen counter, set down like they'd always been there.
Like they were used.
Sunoo notices it most in the mornings.
He'll stand in front of the mirror, half-awake, hand reaching automatically towards where his lip balm should be. It isn't there. He pauses, eyes narrowing just slightly before turning away without much thought.
It's subtle. Easy to ignore.
For a few days, he does.
Sometimes, he asks, casually, like it doesn't matter—like it's just something passing through his mind.
"Did anyone see my lip balm?"
A shake of heads from the couch. Someone barely looking up from his phone. Someone else's distracted, "Check your room," tossed over a shoulder like it's the most obvious answer in the world.
Sunoo hums, nods, lets it go.
One of the members would tell him that it's probably in the pocket of the pants he wore the other day.
Later, he finds it somewhere else unlikely—uncapped sometimes, shifted just enough to feel off. Sunoo could count perhaps three times it had end up on the kitchen counter.
His things are never gone, just... relocated.
Another time, it's his charger.
"Did someone take my charger?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe, tone light.
A chorus of no's, overlapping, uninterested. Someone laughs, says he probably left it somewhere again, forgotten. Someone else suggests the living room without even checking, underneath the TV with all the wires and cords on the floor, or beneath the sockets. Sunoo only smiles like he believes them. Doesn't push.
Because there's no point, really. Nothing is missing. Everything comes back eventually—just not quite the same as before.
Then he begins to notice the condition of things:
The hoodie he doesn't remember wearing comes back faintly warm, like it hasn't been sitting untouched for long. Sleeves pushed up in a way he never does, fabric stretched just slightly at the wrists. The charger that usually stayed coiled neatly on his desk ends up loosely wrapped, like someone else's hands don't quite follow the same rhythm as his. His lip balm comes back with shallow nail marks pressed into the surface instead of the smooth dip his fingers leave behind—Sunoo always scoops gently, never digs. Even his hairbrush began collecting strands that aren't exactly his shade. Darker, different enough to notice when the light hits it right.
Sunoo turns it over once in his fingers, thoughtful. He doesn't say anything.
He tests it a little.
He leaves things in more obvious places or moves them somewhere inconvenient just to see if they stay. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don't.
Most of the time, they don't. It should bother him more than it does. Instead, Sunoo just watches it happen, quiet and observant.
After a while, he stops putting things back immediately. Lets them stay where they end up. Lets the pattern continue. It becomes easier after that—watching instead of fixing.
The dorm moves the same way it always does. People in and out, doors half-open, voices intersecting from different rooms. Things shift constantly here. It gives him an excuse.
Still, he asks. Just to see.
Jake is the easiest to catch first, sprawled across the couch with his phone tilted towards his face, one leg hanging off the edge like he's about to slide off entirely.
"Hyung, did you take my hairbrush?"
Jake doesn't even look up. "Mm? No."
A beat.
Then, belatedly, his eyes flicker up. "Why?"
Sunoo shrugs, leaning against the armrest. "Just asking."
Jake hums, already back into whatever he was watching. "Check the bathroom," he says, "you always leave stuff there."
"I didn't this time."
"You probably did," Jake tells him easily, unconcerned.
Sunoo smiles a little at that like he agrees.
Later, the hairbrush turns up on the table by the window—not where he left it, not where Jake said it would be. But Sunoo doesn't mention it.
The next day, Heeseung is in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a glass in hand, scrolling absently through something on his phone.
"Hyung," Sunoo starts again, softer this time. "Have you seen my hoodie? The gray one?"
"Mm... no?" he replies, uncertain. "Wasn't it on your chair?"
"It was."
"Maybe the laundry pile."
"I haven't worn it recently."
"Then it's probably still on your chair."
The response Sunoo receives from the members always sounds like the most logical conclusion. So he only watches Heeseung for a moment, then nods. "Okay."
He finds it later in a bag he knows he didn't bring out that week. Folded. But not the way he does it.
It keeps happening like that. Different items, same answers. No one really knows. Or no one really cares enough to.
None of it is unusual, not really. That's just how it is in the dorm. Things get borrowed too comfortably, too easily. Hoodies get picked up off chairs and end up draped somewhere in a different room. Chargers disappear into someone else's outlet for a few hours. Products get used without a second thought, returned like nothing ever happened.
No one really asks. They just... take. Use. Put back.
Most of the time, it doesn't matter.
But there are always exceptions. Small things, specific things—one or two per person—that everyone knows not to touch. Not because it's ever said seriously, but because it's been said enough times to stick.
Jay doesn't like sharing his clothes. Not the ones he actually cares about.
Riki hates when someone else uses his headphones.
Jake has already emphasized for the nth time that his pillows are off-limits. Completely.
Jungwon doesn't like people touching his things in general, but especially not anything on his desk.
Heeseung doesn't tell anybody much... but there are certain personal items he always keeps just out of reach.
Sunghoon—
Sunoo pauses there, just for a second, like the thought lingers a little longer than the rest.
Sunghoon doesn't like sharing his skincare. Or anything he considers part of his routine.
It's all consistent and predictable. Everyone has their lines. Sunoo does too: he doesn't share his hairbrush. His lip balms. His hoodies, if he can help it. His charger, most especially. And not because he's strict about it—just because they're his.
But Sunoo doesn't mind. Not really. Not as much as the other members.
If anything, it makes it easier.
He narrows it down subtly—asking at different times of the day, catching people alone instead of all at once, watching reactions more than listening to words.
Riki blinks at him, confused, like the question itself doesn't make sense. Jungwon just shakes his head immediately, already halfway out the door. Jay frowns, actually thinking about it for a second before saying no, like he would've admitted if he had.
The list shortens, quietly.
Until it doesn't need to be a list anymore.
By the time it leaves only one person, Sunoo doesn't feel the need to ask right away.
There's no rush. He already knows the pattern by now. At this point, he knows what goes missing, how often, and where it tends to reappear. He knows the difference between things that get moved and things that get used. And more than that, he knows when it happens.
Not exactly. Not enough to catch it in the act. But enough to notice who's around and who isn't.
So Sunoo makes it obvious that night.
Deliberately, his lip balm sits right in the center of his desk, uncapped for a second before he twists it shut and leaves it there. His hoodie—one of the ones he actually likes—gets draped over the back of his chair instead of folded away. Sunoo frames the scene in a way that's intentionally visible yet normal. All within reach.
He plugs his phone in on his nightstand and sets his hairbrush beside it—face down, bristles pressed flat against the surface.
Then he turns off the lights and goes to bed.
He wakes earlier than usual the next morning. His room is dim and quiet except for that thin line of light cutting across the floor, slipping in through a slight gap in his door.
And Sunoo swears he had closed it all the way last night. He stays still for a second, watching it.
Then he sits up.
The first thing he checks is his nightstand. His phone is still there, screen dark, charging cable exactly where he left it. Still plugged in. Still untouched.
But the hairbrush—
He pauses.
It's been turned over.
Small difference. Almost easy to miss, Sunoo admits. He doesn't touch it.
His gaze shifts to the desk instead.
Empty.
The spot where his lip balm should be is clean, undisturbed, as if it had never been there at all. And the chair—his hoodie is gone.
Sunoo exhales softly, something like a quiet oh settling in his chest. Like a thought finally setting ito place.
He stands, slow and unhurried. The hallway is silent when he steps out, doors closed, lights off. The dorm is still wrapped in that early morning stillness where everything feels suspended in time.
He walks past the bedrooms of his members, then—
Stops.
There's a door with a gap.
Open. Like it had been forgotten, or not pushed all the way to close. Enough for the same kind of thin light to slip through, cutting into the dimness.
Sunoo halts in his steps. He doesn't move at first, but he takes a step closer. And another. Careful. Until he's just close enough to tilt his head slightly, peering through without pushing it open. The hallway behind him is still wrapped in sleep—no footsteps, no voices—everything feels paused, like the whole place is holding its breath without realizing it.
Inside the room, the blanket shifts. A slow, unconscious movement, a faint outline of someone moving beneath the covers and settling deeper into warmth. Sunoo's eyes flick once, briefly, then drift to the nightstand.
His lip balm sits there, easy to recognize even in the low light. The same one he left on his desk the night before. It's set down carelessly like it had been used and forgotten in the quiet. Sunoo's eyes linger on it for a second.
His hoodie isn't in sight. But he knows it's here—somewhere. There aren't many places to search in the room anyway.
The blanket shifts again, more noticeably this time. Someone turns over, the covers loosening just enough for a shoulder to slip free. And then—
Sunghoon.
The outline sharpens into something familiar. Sleep-soft, barely awake, face half-buried in the pillow before he shuffles again, turning onto his back. Sunoo feels it settle then, that quiet, final confirmation.
A small smile tugs at his lips. He doesn't move right away. Sunoo just stays there, watching for a second longer than necessary, like he's letting the moment sit.
Slowly, gradually, Sunghoon stirs awake. His eyes blink open, unfocused at first. They drift towards the door, catching on the narrow strip of light cutting through the gap. He clicks his tongue softly at that, something sleepy and mildly annoyed, and stretches—arms lifting, back arching slightly—before he pushes himself upright.
There it is. Sunoo doesn't miss it.
The hoodie comes into view as the blanket falls away.
His hoodie.
Worn like it belongs there.
Sunghoon rubs at his eyes, still half-asleep, then swings his legs over the side of the bed. He sits there for a second, grounding himself and orienting his vision before standing and making his way towards the door.
Sunoo doesn't step back. He stays exactly where he is.
And when Sunghoon gets close enough, something in his expression changes—eyes narrowing as he notices the shadow lingering beyond the gap.
"...Sunoo?"
There's a beat.
Then Sunoo pushes the door open slowly.
"Good morning, hyung."
Sunghoon freezes enough to give himself away. His shoulders go a little still, eyes blinking once like he's trying to catch up to the situation in front of him.
"...You're up early," he says eventually, voice rough with sleep.
Sunoo hums. "Mm."
He glances down once, then back up.
Sunghoon follows it instinctively.
The hoodie.
There's a deafening pause—a stretching kind of silence that lands between them.
Sunoo smiles first, soft and easy.
"You could've just asked."
Sunghoon exhales, something caught between a sigh and a laugh, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "It's not—" he starts, then stops. Tries again. "I wasn't—"
Sunoo tilts his head slightly, waiting.
Sunghoon huffs quietly, glancing away. "I was going to put it back."
"I know."
A faint flush creeps up Sunghoon's neck. "It's just..." he trails off, clearly debating whether to say anything at all. Sunoo doesn't interrupt this time. Gives him space.
Sunghoon exhales again, quieter. "Your stuff is just..." he gestures vaguely, like the explanation exists somewhere in the air between them. "...Better."
Sunoo's smile tugs a little wider. "Better?"
"The lip balm," Sunghoon continues quickly, like it's easier to begin there. "It's—yours is better than the others. I like it more."
Sunoo nods once like that's perfectly reasonable.
"And the hairbrush," Sunghoon adds, a little faster now. "It's cleaner. The others—" he grimaces faintly. Doesn't even need to finish that sentence.
"And my charger?"
"...Charges faster," he mutters.
"And the hoodie?"
That's where Sunghoon hesitates for a second.
"It's warm," he tells him, quieter. "...Always is. And it—"
He stops.
Sunoo raises an eyebrow slightly.
"And it... smells good," Sunghoon finishes, like the words slipped out before he could catch them. "I like... the scent."
There's a long pause. Long enough for Sunghoon to notice and realize the subtle meaning of his sentence.
The look on Sunoo's face shifts into something softer, a little more amused.
"You like the way I smell?"
Sunghoon's eyes widen. "I didn't—" he cuts himself off, visibly flustered now, hands hovering uselessly at his sides. "That's not— I just meant—"
Sunoo laughs, the sound filling the small space between them. Sunghoon emits a heavy breath, somewhere between relief and embarrassment, shoulders dropping just slightly, though the flush doesn't go away.
For a moment, neither of them says anything. It isn't uncomfortable. Just... silent.
Sunoo leans lightly against the doorframe, gaze drifting once more to the hoodie before returning to Sunghoon's face. Then, as easy as that—
"Keep it."
Sunghoon blinks. "What?"
"The hoodie," Sunoo tells him. Like it's nothing. "You already took it."
Before Sunghoon could protest, he continues, "If you like the way I smell, might as well just borrow my fragrance."
"Hey, that's not—" Sunghoon hesitates. He squeezes his eyes shut, a scrunch forming at his nose like that's the most shameful thing he let out of his mouth aloud. If he had a genie, he'd wish to forget he ever said that.
"...I'm only borrowing this."
"It's almost like it's yours already."
There's no accusation in it. Just observation.
"I was going to give this back."
"No need," Sunoo says. And Sunghoon lets out a small, helpless laugh at that.
Another stretch of silence.
"...I'll... wash it first."
"You don't have to."
"I'm going to," he insists, more gentle this time.
Sunoo smiles, something fond settling into his expression.
"Okay."
He straightens slightly, pushing off the doorframe.
"Next time," he adds, tone light, "just ask."
Sunghoon nods, still a little shy. "Yeah."
Sunoo lingers for a second longer, then turns, stepping back into the hallway. He doesn't look back. Doesn't need to.
When he returns to his bedroom, it's exactly the way he left it. The space feels the same as always—quiet, undisturbed, everything in place.
Except for a few things.
While his charger and hairbrush stay where they are, the lip balm doesn't make it back to his desk that day.
And the hoodie—
Sunoo thinks he was always losing things.
He doesn't think that anymore.