Archive of Our Own

The first time Jisung reached for Chan’s hand that evening, Chan gave it to him without looking.

It was an ordinary thing, so ordinary that neither of them paid any attention to it. Chan was sitting in front of his computer, headphones hanging around his neck, one hand on his mouse and the other resting near the edge of the desk. Jisung had claimed the chair beside him nearly forty minutes earlier, and although he’d initially promised to help with the lyrics, he’d spent most of that time scrolling through his phone instead.

Chan didn’t particularly mind.

Jisung had been quiet all afternoon, and Chan knew him well enough to recognise the difference between his normal silence and the sort that meant his head was giving him trouble. Normally, Jisung could sit in a room without saying a word for hours and still somehow make his presence everybody else’s problem. He would hum whatever melody was stuck in his head, complain about his stomach, ask questions with obvious answers or deliberately play videos at full volume until somebody threatened to throw his phone away.

Today, he’d barely spoken.

He had arrived with a vague greeting, dropped his backpack beside the sofa and sat close enough to Chan that their knees touched. When Chan asked whether he’d eaten, Jisung nodded. When Chan asked if he wanted to work on the second verse, Jisung said maybe later. When Chan offered him the spare pair of headphones, Jisung shook his head and went back to staring at his screen.

Chan had noticed.

Of course he had.

But there was a difference between noticing and having the capacity to do something about it, and Chan was running dangerously low on the latter.

He had slept approximately four hours the previous night. The arrangement he’d sent for review that morning had come back with another list of revisions, three of which directly contradicted feedback he’d received two days earlier. The company wanted the instrumental to sound heavier without losing its warmth, wanted the chorus to feel bigger without adding more layers and wanted a stronger transition into the bridge while keeping the existing structure.

Chan had reread the message five times.

He still couldn’t understand what they actually wanted.

To make matters worse, the session file had crashed twice, one of his plugins had stopped cooperating after an update, and he had accidentally overwritten a version of the pre-chorus he’d genuinely liked.

By six in the evening, the muscles between his shoulders had begun aching.

By seven, he had developed a headache.

By eight, he’d started getting irritated by the sound of his own breathing.

Jisung, meanwhile, had been having a terrible day of his own.

He hadn’t told anyone.

There hadn’t been one particular incident he could point to, nothing dramatic enough to explain why he’d woken up feeling like somebody had filled his chest with wet cement. He’d been restless since morning, uncomfortable in his own skin and unable to settle on any activity long enough to enjoy it. During practice, he’d made several small mistakes that nobody else seemed particularly concerned about. He’d laughed them off, but the embarrassment had followed him anyway.

Then he’d made the mistake of opening social media.

One negative comment had become five. Five had become a thread. The thread had led him to another post, then another, until he was looking at strangers discussing his voice, his appearance, his contributions to the group’s music and whether he deserved the praise he received.

Some people were kind.

Some were not.

Jisung knew better than to keep reading.

He kept reading anyway.

Now, sitting in Chan’s studio, his phone displayed a video he wasn’t actually watching. His thumb continued moving mechanically across the screen while his thoughts wandered somewhere increasingly unpleasant.

He didn’t want to talk about it.

He wasn’t even sure what he’d say.

He just wanted Chan.

And Chan was right there.

So when Chan’s hand came to rest beside the keyboard, Jisung reached over and caught his index finger between two of his own.

Chan allowed it.

Jisung gently bent the finger, straightened it and traced the little crease across the knuckle with his thumb.

He wasn’t thinking about what he was doing.

The familiarity was enough.

For a few minutes, the world felt quieter.

Chan continued working.

Then he needed both hands.

“Ji, hang on.”

Jisung immediately released him.

Chan typed something, adjusted a setting and replayed the last section of the track. He frowned when the transition sounded wrong again, stopped playback and moved several clips along the timeline.

Beside him, Jisung’s phone screen dimmed.

He tapped it awake.

Scrolled.

Read three lines of another comment.

His stomach tightened.

He locked his phone and put it on his thigh.

A minute later, his shoulder came to rest against Chan’s.

Chan didn’t react.

Jisung shifted closer.

Their arms pressed together from shoulder to elbow, and Jisung lowered his head until his temple rested against Chan’s upper arm.

Chan continued staring at the screen.

“You sleepy?”

Jisung shook his head.

“Then why are you using me as furniture?”

“Comfortable furniture.”

“Expensive furniture.”

“Debatable.”

Chan huffed a small laugh.

Jisung smiled against his sleeve.

It was the first proper smile he’d managed all day.

Chan reached for his mouse.

Jisung moved his head out of the way.

Everything remained ordinary.

That was the problem.

Nothing about the next hour announced itself as something that would eventually change how Jisung approached the people he loved.

By nine-fifteen, Chan had stopped laughing.

He’d tried the transition six different ways, and all six sounded worse than the original. His phone had buzzed repeatedly with messages asking about progress, and although none of them were unreasonable on their own, the combined effect made him feel as though somebody was standing behind him counting every minute he spent failing.

Jisung had moved to the sofa for a while.

Chan hadn’t asked him to.

He’d simply needed space to pace through a section of the song and hum possible alternatives without somebody sitting directly beside him.

Jisung had watched him for several minutes, then returned to his phone.

The comments were getting worse.

Or perhaps he was getting worse at ignoring them.

He found himself staring at a particularly nasty one about how he depended too much on the others, how his personality seemed exhausting, how the members were probably tired of constantly dealing with him.

He knew it was ridiculous.

A stranger did not know his friendships.

A stranger had no idea what happened when the cameras were off.

And yet something about the wording found the exact insecure place he’d been trying not to touch all day.

They probably just put up with him.

Jisung swallowed.

He closed the app.

Opened it again.

Read the comment a second time.

Then turned his phone facedown on the sofa.

“Channie hyung?”

Chan made a distracted sound.

“Hm?”

“Are you nearly done?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.”

Jisung watched Chan replay the same section.

Then asked, “Do you want me to help?”

“Not with this bit. I’m trying to fix the arrangement first.”

“Okay.”

Chan rubbed his forehead.

He hadn’t meant to sound dismissive, but the headache behind his eyes had become persistent enough that every noise in the room was starting to feel louder than it should.

Jisung got up.

Walked over.

Stopped beside Chan’s chair.

Chan glanced up briefly.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

Jisung smiled.

Not convincingly.

Then he slid his arms loosely around Chan’s shoulders from behind and rested his chin near the top of his head.

Chan ordinarily wouldn’t have minded.

Sometimes, when the studio was cold, Jisung would stand behind his chair exactly like that and complain that Chan was warmer than the heating system. Sometimes he’d wrap both arms around his middle and lean his entire weight against the backrest until Chan threatened to invoice him for damages. Sometimes he’d simply stand there for a few minutes, silent and affectionate, before wandering off to bother somebody else.

They’d known each other for years.

Chan knew what this meant.

Usually, it meant Jisung was feeling a little fragile and wanted to be reminded that he belonged somewhere.

Tonight, however, Chan’s shoulders were already aching.

The additional weight made him wince.

“Sungie, not right now, yeah?”

Jisung loosened his arms immediately.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“You’re fine. I just need to finish this.”

“Okay.”

Chan reached back and gave his wrist a brief squeeze before gently moving his arm away.

It should have been enough.

Jisung stepped back.

He understood that Chan was busy.

He wasn’t upset about that.

Not yet.

He returned to the sofa, sat down and tried to distract himself.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

He watched half a video, opened a game, closed it before the loading screen finished and stared at the ceiling.

His head felt increasingly crowded.

He could hear Chan sighing at his computer.

Could hear the same eight bars of music restarting.

Could hear the mouse clicking.

The studio was familiar. Safe. It smelled faintly of coffee, warm electronics and the detergent Chan used on his hoodies.

Jisung had spent countless nights here.

Sometimes working.

Sometimes eating.

Sometimes sleeping on the sofa while Chan worked because neither of them wanted to be alone.

It had never felt like somewhere he needed permission to exist.

But tonight he couldn’t settle.

His foot bounced against the carpet.

His hands felt restless.

He rubbed his palms against his jeans, then twisted his own fingers together.

Not the same.

He looked at Chan.

Chan was still working.

Maybe if he just sat beside him.

He didn’t need Chan to stop.

Didn’t need him to talk.

He just wanted to be close.

So Jisung stood again.

Chan heard the chair wheels move before he saw Jisung sit down.

He took a breath.

Kept his eyes on the monitor.

“Changed your mind about the sofa?”

“It’s lonely over there.”

Chan gave a distracted hum.

Jisung settled beside him.

For a moment, he behaved himself.

Then his knee bumped Chan’s.

Chan shifted.

Jisung shifted too.

Chan looked down.

“Ji.”

“Hm?”

“A little space, mate.”

Jisung blinked.

“Oh.”

He moved his chair several inches away.

Chan nodded.

“Thanks.”

Jisung looked at him.

Chan had already turned back toward the computer.

He wasn’t angry.

Just busy.

Jisung understood that.

The sensible thing would have been to remain where he was.

Instead he looked at Chan’s left hand, resting beside the keyboard.

It was such a small thing.

A hand.

Five fingers.

Warm skin.

The familiar little callus on one finger.

Jisung knew those hands almost as well as his own.

They’d ruffled his hair after difficult rehearsals, steadied his shoulders during panic attacks, shoved food toward him when he forgot to eat and held his hands when he was too overwhelmed to explain what was wrong.

Chan had never made him feel strange for wanting that.

So Jisung reached across the small gap between their chairs and gently hooked his little finger around Chan’s.

Chan’s hand moved.

Jisung held on.

Not tightly.

Just enough.

Chan stopped typing.

Looked down.

For a second, his expression was almost fond.

Then he sighed.

“Sung-ah.”

Jisung looked up.

“Yeah?”

“I need my hand.”

Jisung released him.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Chan shook his hand out briefly and returned to the keyboard.

A notification appeared.

He read it.

His jaw tightened.

Another revision request.

Another suggestion from somebody who had apparently listened to the song once while doing something else.

Chan pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

“Fucking hell.”

Jisung looked over.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

Chan dropped his hands.

“No. Whatever. It’s fine.”

Jisung watched him.

“Did something happen?”

“Just work.”

“Want me to—”

“No, Ji, I’ve got it.”

Chan heard how sharp that sounded.

He closed his eyes briefly.

Then turned.

“Sorry. I’m just trying to concentrate.”

Jisung nodded.

“Okay.”

Chan looked at him for another second.

Something about Jisung’s expression seemed off.

His shoulders were drawn inward. His mouth was pressed together, and he kept rubbing his thumb against his own fingers.

Normally, Chan would have asked.

Normally, he would have turned his chair, taken Jisung’s hands and waited until he was ready to talk.

But the computer was still open.

The deadline was still approaching.

His headache was getting worse.

And he was so tired that even concern felt like another thing he was failing to do properly.

“Can you give me a little while?” he asked.

Jisung nodded again.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Thanks, mate.”

Chan turned back.

Jisung stared at his profile.

Then looked down at his own hands.

He could leave.

He knew that.

Could go find Minho, who would probably insult him while letting him curl against his side. Could bother Changbin, who would immediately ask whether he’d eaten. Could find Felix, who would probably hug him before Jisung even reached the sofa.

Any of them would do.

That was how it had always worked.

But Jisung was already here.

And the thought of getting up, gathering his things and searching for somebody else when he could barely explain his own mood felt exhausting.

Besides, Chan hadn’t asked him to leave.

He’d only asked for a little while.

So Jisung waited.

At ten-oh-three, the audio software crashed.

Chan stared at the frozen screen.

For several seconds, he didn’t move.

Then he laughed.

It was not a pleasant sound.

“No. No, that’s fucking brilliant.”

Jisung looked over.

“Hyung?”

Chan clicked the mouse.

Nothing.

He pressed a key combination.

Still nothing.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

He sat back.

Stared at the monitor.

Then dragged both hands through his hair.

Jisung turned fully toward him.

“Did it save?”

Chan gave another humourless laugh.

“I don’t know, Ji.”

“Maybe the autosave—”

“I know about the autosave.”

Jisung shut his mouth.

Chan closed his eyes.

He was being an asshole.

He knew it.

Jisung was only trying to help.

“Sorry.”

Jisung shook his head quickly.

“No, it’s okay.”

Chan exhaled.

He restarted the program.

Waited.

The recovered session opened.

Some changes were there.

Others weren’t.

Forty minutes of work gone.

Chan stared.

Then lowered his head onto the desk.

“Fuck my life.”

Jisung watched him.

His own bad mood suddenly seemed embarrassingly small.

Chan was clearly having a terrible evening.

He needed comfort.

Jisung knew how to do that.

He’d always been good at that with Chan.

Sometimes when Chan was exhausted, Jisung would stand behind him and rub his shoulders until the tension eased. Sometimes he’d put his head on Chan’s shoulder, make some ridiculous complaint and coax a laugh out of him. Sometimes he’d simply hold his hand.

Chan always said it helped.

Jisung moved his chair closer.

“Hyung.”

Chan didn’t lift his head.

“What?”

Jisung gently placed a hand between his shoulder blades.

“That sucks.”

Chan exhaled heavily.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe we can redo it together.”

“Not tonight.”

“Okay.”

Jisung rubbed a slow circle against his back.

Chan’s shoulders tightened.

Jisung didn’t notice.

He was looking at the dark screen.

Thinking about how miserable Chan sounded.

Trying to be useful.

He slid his hand up to Chan’s shoulder.

Then leaned his cheek against his upper arm.

“Channie hyung.”

Chan lifted his head.

“Jisung.”

The full name made him pause.

Chan looked at the hand on his shoulder.

Then at Jisung.

“I need you to stop touching me for a bit.”

Jisung blinked.

His hand dropped immediately.

“Oh.”

Chan rubbed his face.

“I’m really stressed. I’m not in the mood to be touched right now, okay?”

Jisung stared at him.

Then nodded.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong.”

Chan looked exhausted.

“I just need some space.”

“Okay.”

Jisung moved his chair away.

Farther this time.

Chan watched him do it.

Something uncomfortable stirred beneath his irritation.

He knew Jisung was having a bad day.

He should probably ask what had happened.

But he couldn’t.

Not right now.

Not with the deadline.

Not with everything crashing around him.

So Chan turned back toward the computer.

Jisung sat quietly.

And for the first time that evening, he felt genuinely embarrassed.

Not because Chan had said no.

Chan was allowed to say no.

Everybody was.

Jisung understood that perfectly.

It was the fact that he’d needed to be told so many times.

He stared at the space between their chairs.

He’d been doing something he normally did without thinking, something that had always been welcome, and somehow he hadn’t noticed when it stopped being welcome.

That felt horrible.

He put both hands in his lap.

Kept them there.

For nearly twenty minutes, he didn’t move.

At ten-twenty-seven, Chan finally got the session running again.

He was tired enough that the notes on the screen had begun blurring together.

His neck hurt.

He hadn’t eaten dinner.

Somebody had sent another message asking whether the revised track would be ready that night.

Chan typed:

Working on it.

Deleted it.

Typed:

I’ll send an update once I’ve finished checking the current version.

Sent.

Then pushed his chair back.

He needed to breathe.

Beside him, Jisung looked up immediately.

“Done?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Chan stood and stretched.

His back cracked.

Jisung winced sympathetically.

“That sounded awful.”

“Feels worse.”

Jisung smiled faintly.

Chan walked to the small refrigerator, grabbed a bottle of water and took several long drinks.

Jisung watched him.

The room felt unbearably quiet.

His earlier embarrassment had settled into something more uncomfortable. He kept thinking about the comments he’d read, then thinking about Chan moving away from him, then feeling guilty because he knew Chan had every right to need space.

His head wouldn’t stop.

He wanted to ask whether Chan was upset with him.

Didn’t want to sound needy.

Wanted to leave.

Didn’t want to be alone.

Wanted somebody to hold his hand.

Didn’t want to ask.

When Chan returned to the desk, Jisung spoke before he could lose his nerve.

“Hyung?”

Chan sat.

“Yeah?”

“Are you mad at me?”

Chan looked over.

For a moment, his expression softened.

“No, Sungie.”

Jisung nodded.

“Okay.”

“I’m just stressed.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not you.”

Jisung smiled.

A small, relieved thing.

“Okay.”

Chan gave his knee a brief squeeze.

Then turned toward the screen again.

The touch lasted less than a second.

For Jisung, it was enough to make something in his chest loosen.

Chan wasn’t mad.

He was just stressed.

They were okay.

Jisung looked down at his knee.

Then at Chan’s hand.

The squeeze had been so familiar.

So reassuring.

Almost without thinking, he reached for it again.

He caught Chan’s fingers as Chan moved toward the mouse, holding them lightly between both hands.

And began tracing the lines across his palm.

Chan stopped.

Looked down.

For a second, he said nothing.

Jisung was concentrating on Chan’s hand, his thumb moving slowly across the base of his fingers. His expression had relaxed, and he had shifted closer again, shoulder almost touching Chan’s.

The relief on his face was obvious.

That somehow made Chan angrier.

He had asked.

Politely.

Repeatedly.

He had told Jisung he needed space, and here Jisung was again, holding his hand like the conversation had never happened.

Chan’s exhaustion, frustration and the accumulated pressure of the entire week finally found somewhere to go.

“Han Jisung, can you fucking stop?”

Jisung jerked.

His hands opened immediately.

Chan’s hand dropped between them.

The studio went silent.

Jisung stared at him.

Chan had raised his voice before.

Of course he had.

They’d argued over songs, schedules and stupid things. Chan had scolded him when he was reckless or refused to take care of himself. He’d shouted across practice rooms when nobody could hear instructions.

But this was different.

He had never sounded like that when Jisung reached for him.

Jisung’s mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Chan stood abruptly, his chair rolling backward.

“I’ve asked you so many times tonight!”

Jisung flinched.

“I know. I’m sorry, I—”

“Then why do you keep doing it?”

Jisung stared.

Chan threw one hand toward the desk.

“I’m trying to work, Jisung. I’m trying to finish something that should’ve been done hours ago, and every five minutes you’re touching me or leaning on me or grabbing my hand!”

Jisung’s face went white.

He looked down at his own hands.

They were lying uselessly in his lap.

“I didn’t mean—”

“That’s the problem! You never mean anything, do you? You just do whatever you want and expect everybody to be okay with it!”

Jisung stopped breathing properly.

Chan was too angry to notice.

Or perhaps he noticed and was too far into the argument to stop himself.

“I told you I needed space.”

“I know.”

“I told you I didn’t want to be touched.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And you kept doing it!”

Jisung nodded rapidly.

“Yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry, hyung.”

His voice had become very small.

Chan stared at him.

Jisung’s shoulders were drawn so tightly inward that he looked uncomfortable sitting in the chair. He was trying not to move, trying not to touch anything, trying desperately to figure out what to do with his hands.

Chan should have stopped.

He would remember that later.

There were a hundred places where he could have stopped.

Instead, he watched Jisung’s eyes begin to shine.

And something ugly inside him snapped again.

“Oh, no.”

Jisung looked up.

Chan let out a disbelieving laugh.

“No. Don’t do that.”

Jisung blinked.

“Do what?”

“That.”

Chan gestured sharply toward his face.

“Don’t start crying now.”

Jisung went completely still.

He hadn’t even realised his eyes were watering until Chan pointed it out.

He blinked quickly.

A tear slipped down anyway.

Chan stared at it.

“No. You don’t get to gaslight me using your tears.”

Jisung’s expression emptied.

Chan continued, louder, “You don’t get to ignore me telling you no all night and then look at me like I’ve done something horrible because I finally got angry!”

Jisung stared at him.

His lips parted.

Closed.

He swallowed.

“I wasn’t—”

“Don’t.”

Chan’s voice was sharp enough to make him flinch.

“I know you, Jisung. I know what happens when you get upset. Everybody stops what they’re doing because suddenly we all have to make sure you’re okay.”

The tear on Jisung’s cheek reached his jaw.

He didn’t wipe it away.

He seemed afraid to move.

Chan paced two steps away from the desk, then turned back.

“And usually? Fine. Whatever. I don’t mind comforting you. But I cannot do this every single time you have a bad day.”

Jisung’s mouth trembled.

Chan looked at him.

Then said the thing that would be impossible to take back.

“I am so fucking tired of having to manage your feelings on top of everything else.”

Silence.

Jisung looked at him.

For a moment, Chan almost thought he hadn’t heard.

Then something changed in Jisung’s face.

Not dramatically.

There was no sob.

No argument.

No sudden anger.

The little crease between his eyebrows disappeared. His mouth closed, and his expression settled into something horribly blank.

He looked down at his hands.

Then folded them together.

Very carefully.

Chan was still breathing hard.

Jisung whispered, “Okay.”

That irritated Chan too.

“Don’t just say okay.”

Jisung looked up.

His eyes were wet.

“I’m sorry.”

“Jesus Christ, Jisung.”

Chan pressed his fingers against his temples.

“Can you stop making me feel like some kind of monster for wanting five minutes to myself?”

Jisung’s face crumpled briefly.

He controlled it immediately.

“I’m not.”

“Then stop looking at me like that.”

Jisung lowered his gaze.

Chan watched him.

The silence stretched.

Then Jisung moved.

He picked up his phone from the desk.

Reached down for his backpack.

The movements were strangely precise, as though he needed to concentrate on each one separately.

Chan looked away.

He was still too angry.

Too exhausted.

Too desperate for the room to be quiet.

Jisung stood.

His chair moved backward with a small scraping sound.

Chan exhaled sharply.

“Look, I just need to finish this without somebody constantly hanging off me.”

Jisung nodded.

“I understand.”

His voice barely carried.

Chan looked at him.

Jisung was holding his backpack against his chest.

He hadn’t put it on yet.

His cheeks were wet.

And he was trying so hard not to cry that his breathing had become uneven.

Something in Chan’s stomach twisted.

But the irritation was still there.

So was the headache.

So was the work.

And he made one final mistake.

“Just get the fuck out, Jisung. Please. Leave me alone.”

Jisung froze.

For a second, he looked almost confused.

As though he’d expected anything except those particular words.

Then he nodded.

Once.

“Okay, hyung.”

He put his backpack over one shoulder.

Walked toward the door.

Chan did not look at him.

He heard the handle turn.

Then Jisung stopped.

“Channie hyung?”

Chan closed his eyes.

“What?”

A pause.

Long enough that Chan finally turned.

Jisung stood beside the door.

One hand on the handle.

His face was wet, his eyes red, and his expression so painfully careful that Chan suddenly felt sick.

Jisung opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Then asked, “Did I really do that?”

Chan frowned.

“What?”

Jisung swallowed.

“The gaslighting thing.”

Chan stared at him.

Jisung looked down immediately.

“Because I wasn’t trying to. I really wasn’t.”

Something cold settled in Chan’s stomach.

“Sung-ah—”

“I’m sorry if it looked like that.”

Jisung’s voice cracked.

He cleared his throat quickly.

“I couldn’t help crying. I wasn’t doing it so you’d feel bad.”

Chan stood still.

Jisung tried to smile.

It was awful.

“I promise.”

And before Chan could answer, Jisung opened the door and left.

The silence afterward was enormous.

Chan stood beside his desk.

For several seconds, he didn’t move.

The track was still open.

The timeline waited exactly where he’d left it.

His water bottle sat beside the keyboard.

The headphones rested against his chair.

Everything was where it belonged.

Except Jisung.

Chan looked toward the door.

Then back at the empty chair.

He could still see Jisung’s fingers gently moving over his palm.

The touch had been so light.

Barely any pressure.

Chan rubbed a hand over his face.

“Fuck.”

He’d needed space.

That part was true.

He’d asked for it.

Repeatedly.

Jisung hadn’t listened properly.

That was true too.

But the rest—

Chan sat down.

Stared at the monitor.

You don’t get to gaslight me using your tears.

He shut his eyes.

Jisung had looked genuinely confused.

Not defensive.

Not manipulative.

Confused.

Like he’d never considered the possibility that crying in front of Chan could be interpreted as something he was doing to Chan.

And why would he?

For years, Chan had been the person Jisung went to when his feelings became too much.

Sometimes Jisung talked.

Sometimes he cried.

Sometimes he just wanted to hold Chan’s hand until his thoughts stopped racing.

Chan had always understood.

He’d told Jisung countless times that he didn’t need to apologise for having a bad day.

And tonight, when Jisung had one, Chan had told him he was tired of managing his feelings.

Chan stared at his hand.

The same one Jisung had been holding.

He could almost feel the little circles Jisung had traced against his palm.

“Fuck,” he whispered again.

His phone vibrated.

Another message about the song.

Chan looked at it.

Then turned the screen facedown.

For the first time all evening, he couldn’t bring himself to care about the deadline.

Jisung made it to the lift before he started crying properly.

He’d managed the hallway.

That was something.

He’d walked past the practice rooms, nodded politely at a staff member and even managed to smile when somebody greeted him near the vending machines.

Then the lift doors closed.

And there was nobody left to perform normality for.

His face crumpled.

He pressed a hand against his mouth.

The sob escaped anyway.

He bent forward slightly, one arm wrapped around his stomach, and tried to breathe without making noise.

It wasn’t the shouting.

Not entirely.

Chan was allowed to get angry.

He was allowed to be stressed.

He was allowed to tell Jisung to stop touching him.

Jisung understood all of that.

He should have listened the first time.

He knew he should have.

But—

You don’t get to gaslight me using your tears.

Jisung squeezed his eyes shut.

He hadn’t meant to cry.

That was the part he couldn’t stop thinking about.

He hadn’t decided to make his eyes water.

Hadn’t wanted Chan to feel guilty.

He’d actually been trying very hard not to cry, because he knew crying would make everything worse.

And somehow it had become proof that he was doing something terrible.

He wiped his face roughly.

Then remembered Chan saying not to look at him like that.

His hands dropped.

I am so fucking tired of having to manage your feelings.

Jisung swallowed.

A stranger on the internet had said something similar that afternoon.

That the members were probably exhausted by him.

That they probably had to put up with his constant need for attention.

Jisung had dismissed it.

Because he knew them.

Because he trusted them.

Because he’d spent years learning that the seven people he loved didn’t mind when he sought comfort from them.

Now he wasn’t sure.

The lift reached the ground floor.

The doors opened.

Jisung straightened immediately.

He wiped his cheeks with his sleeves, adjusted his backpack and stepped out.

His phone buzzed.

Seungminnie: where are you

Jisung stared.

Another message followed.

Seungminnie: minho hyung ordered food and he’s being annoying about portions. come save us

Normally, Jisung would have answered immediately.

Something stupid.

Something loud.

He’d probably have gone straight to wherever they were, dropped himself beside Seungmin and stolen his hand while complaining about the day.

Then Minho would have shoved food toward him.

Changbin would have called him dramatic.

Felix would have made room against his side.

Hyunjin would have asked what was wrong after noticing the first ten seconds of silence.

Jeongin would have pretended he didn’t want Jisung leaning on him while making absolutely no effort to move away.

Chan would have—

Jisung’s throat closed.

He looked down at his hands.

They were still shaking.

For a moment, he imagined reaching for Seungmin’s fingers.

Imagined Seungmin looking down.

Pulling his hand away.

Telling him he’d asked for space already.

Jisung stopped walking.

The thought made him feel physically sick.

He unlocked his phone.

Typed:

not hungry. going home

Then stared at it.

That wasn’t true.

He hadn’t eaten dinner.

But the idea of sitting beside somebody and trying not to touch them felt unbearable.

He sent the message.

Seungmin replied almost immediately.

you okay?

Jisung looked at the question.

His eyes filled again.

He typed:

yeah just tired

Then:

have fun

Seungmin stared at the message.

Then he read it again.

The problem wasn’t that Jisung had declined dinner. He did that sometimes, particularly when he was tired or buried under work. The problem was the complete absence of an argument. No complaints about being excluded from the original plan, no demands to know who had ordered the food, not even a half-hearted insult about Seungmin’s terrible taste in restaurants.

Just have fun.

Seungmin looked across the living room, where Minho was currently trying to prevent Changbin from stealing something out of the takeaway containers.

“Something’s wrong with Jisung.”

Minho didn’t look up. “What’s he done now?”

“Nothing. That’s why I’m concerned.”

Hyunjin, who was sitting on the floor beside Felix, snorted. “Very compelling evidence, Sherlock.”

“I’m serious.” Seungmin held out his phone, waiting until Minho finally glanced at it. “Look.”

Minho read the messages. His expression didn’t change much, but he took the phone properly instead of giving it the cursory glance Seungmin had expected.

“Wasn’t he with Chan?”

“Yeah. Studio.”

“Maybe he’s tired.”

“That’s what he said.”

“Then maybe he’s tired, Seungmin.”

Seungmin gave him a flat look. “Thank you, hyung. I hadn’t considered believing the words on the screen.”

Changbin laughed from across the room, earning himself an annoyed glare. Felix leaned over to inspect the conversation, while Jeongin abandoned whatever he’d been doing on his phone to join the discussion.

“Maybe he just wants to go home,” Jeongin offered.

“That would be fine,” Seungmin said. “Except he’s saying things like an employee declining an invitation to the company dinner.”

Hyunjin looked up. “What does that even mean?”

“It means he’s being polite.”

“God forbid.”

“Hyunjin.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

Minho handed the phone back before their argument could escalate. “Check on him later. Don’t make it a whole thing if he says he’s tired.”

Seungmin knew that was reasonable. Jisung didn’t owe anybody an entertaining explanation for wanting to spend an evening alone, and Seungmin wasn’t particularly interested in becoming the sort of person who demanded one. He put the phone down, picked up his chopsticks and allowed Changbin to redirect the conversation toward something ridiculous that had happened during practice.

He lasted nine minutes before messaging Jisung again.

seungmin: eat something when u get home

The reply arrived almost immediately.

jisungie: will do!! thanks minnie

Seungmin stared at the two exclamation marks. He couldn’t remember the last time Jisung had thanked him for telling him to eat. Normally, he would have responded with a photograph of something deeply unappetising and demanded a compliment for his culinary abilities.

Still, Jisung had replied.

He wasn’t ignoring anyone.

Seungmin told himself to leave it alone.

Across the room, Felix looked over. “Did he answer?”

“Yeah.”

“Then he’s okay?”

Seungmin hesitated before setting his phone facedown.

“I hope so.”

Jisung made it home at eleven-fifteen.

He’d taken the longer route from the company building because he’d missed his usual turn while trying to stop himself from crying. By the time he reached his apartment, his feet hurt, his throat felt raw and the sleeves of his jacket were damp from repeatedly wiping his face.

He took off his shoes, hung up his jacket and placed his backpack beside the sofa. Everything happened in the correct order. He even remembered to put his keys in the little tray by the door instead of leaving them somewhere inconvenient and spending ten minutes looking for them the following morning.

There. Perfectly functional.

He wasn’t falling apart.

He was just having a bad night.

Jisung went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He stood there for a while, staring at the containers of leftovers and the fruit Felix had brought him a few days earlier. His stomach felt unpleasantly empty, but the idea of eating made him feel vaguely nauseated.

He closed the refrigerator, filled a glass with water and sat at the table.

For several minutes, he simply stared at his hands.

They were ordinary hands. There was nothing particularly interesting about them, nothing he hadn’t seen a thousand times before. Short nails, faint calluses, a small dry patch near one knuckle.

He rubbed his thumb across his own palm.

Then tried tracing the same pattern he’d been drawing against Chan’s hand earlier.

It felt different.

Of course it did.

Jisung stopped and folded his hands together.

He could still hear Chan’s voice. Not the shouting itself, although that had frightened him badly enough. It was the words that kept returning, particularly whenever he began to feel the slightest bit calmer.

You don’t get to gaslight me using your tears.

Jisung swallowed hard.

He hadn’t meant to cry.

That was the part he couldn’t get past.

He knew he’d been inconsiderate. Chan had asked him to stop touching him, and Jisung had repeatedly failed to respect that request. He wasn’t trying to excuse it. He could understand how frustrating it must have been for Chan to ask for something so simple and have Jisung keep forgetting.

But when Chan had raised his voice, Jisung’s eyes had watered before he could do anything about it.

He hadn’t planned it.

He hadn’t wanted Chan to feel guilty.

If anything, he’d been trying desperately not to cry because he knew Chan was already having an awful evening.

And somehow, that had made things worse.

Jisung pulled his knees toward his chest on the chair, resting his forehead against them.

He’d always cried easily.

Not constantly, and certainly not whenever somebody disagreed with him, but when he was genuinely overwhelmed, his emotions tended to show on his face whether he wanted them to or not. The members knew that. They’d witnessed enough tears over the years to understand that Jisung could be laughing one minute and crying the next, particularly when something mattered to him.

Nobody had ever made him feel ashamed of it.

Or perhaps they had, and Jisung had simply been too caught up in himself to notice.

He hated that thought.

He hated it even more because he couldn’t immediately dismiss it.

Everybody stops what they’re doing because suddenly we all have to make sure you’re okay.

Jisung thought about Felix interrupting whatever he was doing whenever Jisung appeared looking miserable. About Changbin abandoning conversations to ask whether he’d eaten. About Hyunjin letting him curl against his side even when he was trying to draw. About Jeongin accepting Jisung’s weight against his shoulder without complaint, and Seungmin turning his hand palm-up whenever Jisung started playing with his fingers.

He’d thought those things meant they didn’t mind.

Now he wondered whether he’d simply become so accustomed to being comforted that nobody knew how to refuse him.

His phone vibrated.

Chan.

Jisung’s stomach tightened so abruptly that he nearly dropped the device.

channie hyung: Sungie, did you get home okay?

He read the message twice before answering.

jisungie: yes hyung, home already

Chan responded almost immediately.

channie hyung: Okay. Thanks for letting me know. channie hyung: About earlier—

The typing indicator appeared, disappeared, then returned.

Jisung stared at it.

He didn’t want another argument.

He didn’t think Chan would start one, not after the way he’d sounded at the door, but Jisung was tired and embarrassed, and the thought of having to explain his tears again made his chest tighten.

So he answered first.

jisungie: its okay hyung. i understand you were stressed. sorry i kept disturbing you. hope you can finish the song!!

The message looked cheerful enough.

Jisung stared at it after sending.

Then put his phone down.

He forced himself to make toast, ate one slice despite having no appetite and eventually climbed into bed.

Another message arrived just as he was turning off the lamp.

channie hyung: I’m sorry for what I said to you tonight. I was angry and I said things I shouldn’t have. You didn’t deserve that. We can talk when you’re ready, okay? Sleep well, Sungie.

Jisung read it.

Then read it again.

His eyes filled, which only made him more frustrated.

He believed Chan was sorry.

He really did.

Chan wasn’t cruel. Jisung knew him better than that. He was a good leader, a good friend and one of the kindest people Jisung had ever met. He’d been exhausted and stressed, and Jisung had kept pushing a boundary he’d been clearly asked to respect.

But Jisung couldn’t stop wondering whether an apology meant Chan regretted saying those things or simply regretted saying them out loud.

The thought was unfair.

He knew it was unfair.

He still couldn’t get rid of it.

Jisung locked his phone without replying and curled onto his side.

Normally, on nights like this, he would have called somebody.

Seungmin, probably.

Or Felix.

Sometimes Minho, depending on whether he wanted gentle reassurance or somebody to make fun of him until he stopped thinking.

Tonight, he didn’t call anyone.

Instead, he tucked both hands beneath his pillow and tried to sleep.

Chan didn’t finish the song.

He spent another forty minutes trying to repair the arrangement before realising he’d been staring at the same section without hearing any of it. He’d replayed Jisung’s expression at the studio door so many times that the image had started overlapping with the actual session on his monitor.

The small, confused frown.

The trembling mouth.

The way Jisung had held his backpack against his chest, as though he needed something to put between himself and Chan.

And that question.

Did I really do that?

Chan leaned back in his chair and covered his face.

“Fuck.”

He’d been right to ask for space. He didn’t regret doing that. He’d been overwhelmed, and Jisung really had continued touching him after being told several times to stop.

But Chan had taken his frustration and made it personal.

He’d attacked something Jisung trusted him with.

For years, Chan had been one of the people Jisung instinctively reached for when he wasn’t feeling well. Sometimes Jisung would arrive in the studio, take Chan’s hand and spend an entire hour quietly playing with his fingers while Chan worked. It was so normal that Chan barely noticed anymore.

He’d never considered it a burden.

And tonight, he’d told Jisung he was exhausted from managing his feelings.

Chan looked at his left hand.

The one Jisung had kept reaching for.

He could still remember the warmth of those fingers.

Then he remembered Jisung immediately releasing him every time he’d asked, only to drift back toward him when his concentration slipped.

That hadn’t made the behaviour okay.

But it hadn’t made Jisung manipulative either.

Chan rubbed both hands over his face and picked up his phone again.

No reply.

He considered calling.

Stopped himself.

He’d told Jisung they could talk when he was ready. Calling now because Chan couldn’t stand feeling guilty would hardly respect that.

Still, the silence bothered him.

He opened the group chat.

There were photographs of dinner, mostly Changbin making exaggerated complaints about his portion size. Hyunjin had uploaded a blurry picture of Seungmin looking particularly unimpressed, and Jeongin had responded with a sticker.

Jisung hadn’t said anything.

Chan looked at the empty chair beside his desk.

Then closed the group chat.

He’d apologise properly tomorrow.

He just hoped Jisung would let him.

The following morning, Felix was the first to notice something strange.

He was standing near the practice room mirrors with a coffee in his hand when Jisung arrived.

“Sungie!”

Jisung looked up.

His face brightened automatically.

“Yongbokkie.”

Felix opened his free arm, expecting the usual greeting.

Jisung loved morning hugs when he’d slept badly. Sometimes he practically launched himself at Felix, wrapping both arms around his waist and refusing to let go until Felix started complaining that he couldn’t drink his coffee.

Today, Jisung approached with a smile.

Then stopped.

“Morning.”

Felix’s arm remained extended for another second.

Jisung lifted his hand in a little wave.

Felix lowered his arm.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You look tired.”

“Didn’t sleep much.”

“Oh.” Felix frowned sympathetically. “Want coffee?”

Jisung wrinkled his nose. “Yours tastes like somebody melted a birthday cake.”

Felix laughed.

“There he is.”

Jisung smiled and walked toward the bags near the wall.

Felix watched him go.

Something about the interaction felt incomplete.

Not wrong enough to worry about.

Just unusual.

He looked down at the arm he’d held out.

Then shrugged and returned to his phone.

Jisung, meanwhile, was trying very hard not to think about how badly he’d wanted that hug.

It would have been easy.

Felix had offered.

He’d literally opened his arm.

But Jisung couldn’t forget the possibility that people offered things out of habit, especially when they’d spent years being expected to provide them.

Perhaps Felix was simply being nice.

Perhaps he had wanted a normal greeting and would have found Jisung clinging to him irritating.

Jisung put his bag down and sat beside the wall.

He pulled his sleeves over his hands.

He could handle this.

It wasn’t difficult to stop touching people.

He was an adult.

He understood personal boundaries.

He just had to remember them.

By lunchtime, Jisung had discovered that remembering was considerably harder than he’d expected.

The first incident involved Hyunjin.

They’d been sitting on the floor during a break, watching a ridiculous video on Hyunjin’s phone. Jisung was laughing, properly laughing for the first time that day, when Hyunjin shifted closer so they could see the screen together.

Without thinking, Jisung reached toward his wrist.

His fingers brushed skin.

He snatched his hand back.

Hyunjin looked down.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Did I shock you?”

Jisung blinked.

Then laughed.

“Oh. Yeah, maybe.”

Hyunjin rubbed his sleeve. “These clothes are awful. Everything keeps giving me static shocks.”

“Maybe you’re just electrifying.”

Hyunjin gave him a disgusted look.

“That was terrible.”

“Thank you.”

Normally, Jisung would have accompanied the joke by smacking Hyunjin’s arm or hooking himself around his shoulder.

Instead, he folded both hands in his lap.

Hyunjin returned to the video.

Jisung watched the screen, barely seeing it.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin stretched one leg out and rested his arm behind Jisung.

Jisung immediately shifted forward.

Hyunjin frowned.

“Am I in your way?”

“No.”

“Then why are you moving?”

“Leg’s asleep.”

Hyunjin looked at his legs.

Neither had changed position much.

“You’re weird.”

Jisung grinned.

“Your favourite.”

“Unfortunately.”

Hyunjin returned to his phone.

Jisung stayed where he was.

The gap between them wasn’t large.

It was barely noticeable.

But Jisung could feel every centimetre.

The second incident involved Changbin.

Jisung had always been particularly shameless with Changbin’s arms.

Changbin liked to pretend he was offended by it, but he’d spent years allowing Jisung to hang off him during breaks, squeeze his biceps and use him as an exceptionally sturdy pillow. If Jisung was upset, Changbin would usually notice within minutes because he’d find a familiar pair of hands curling around his forearm.

Today, Jisung approached him to ask about a section of choreography.

Changbin was explaining something with his usual animated gestures when Jisung instinctively reached for his elbow.

He stopped before making contact.

Changbin didn’t notice.

He continued explaining.

Jisung nodded along, keeping both hands behind his back.

Then Changbin demonstrated the movement and turned toward him.

“Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Show me.”

Jisung did.

Changbin watched, adjusted his foot placement and gave his shoulder a brief squeeze.

“There. Better.”

Jisung flinched.

Only slightly.

But Changbin felt it.

He looked up immediately.

“Did I hurt you?”

Jisung shook his head.

“No.”

“Your shoulder?”

“It’s fine.”

Changbin frowned and reached toward him again, intending to check.

Jisung stepped backward.

Changbin’s hand stopped in midair.

For a second, neither spoke.

Then Jisung smiled.

“Seriously, Bin-ah. I’m fine. Just stiff from yesterday.”

Changbin lowered his hand slowly.

“You sure?”

“Very.”

Jisung made an exaggerated show of rotating his shoulders.

“See? Excellent condition. Premium product.”

Changbin snorted despite himself.

“Defective product.”

“Rude.”

“Return to manufacturer.”

Jisung laughed.

Changbin watched him walk away.

Then glanced at the hand he’d reached out with.

Something was definitely strange.

The third incident was the one Seungmin noticed.

He and Jisung were sitting on the sofa in the waiting area after practice. Seungmin was scrolling through his phone while Jisung leaned back beside him, listening to music through one earbud.

They had been sitting together for nearly twenty minutes.

Under ordinary circumstances, Seungmin would have expected Jisung to make physical contact within the first five.

It wasn’t something he consciously waited for. It was simply part of being around Jisung.

An elbow pressed against his.

A hand catching his sleeve.

A finger hooking around his own.

Sometimes Jisung would take Seungmin’s entire hand and spend fifteen minutes comparing their fingers, examining his nails and tracing patterns along his palm while they talked about completely unrelated things.

Seungmin would complain.

Jisung would ignore him.

Eventually Seungmin would forget his hand was being used as entertainment.

Today, Jisung sat beside him without touching him once.

Seungmin glanced over.

Jisung was looking at his phone.

Not smiling.

Not frowning either.

Just quiet.

Seungmin returned to his own screen.

Five minutes passed.

Then another five.

Finally, Seungmin put his phone down.

“Han.”

Jisung looked up.

“Hm?”

“Are you sick?”

Jisung blinked.

“What?”

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Fever?”

“No?”

“Stomachache?”

“Seungminnie, what the hell?”

Seungmin looked him over.

“You’re acting suspicious.”

Jisung laughed.

“By sitting here?”

“Yes.”

“You’re insane.”

“Thank you. Now answer.”

Jisung shook his head and returned to his phone.

“I’m just tired.”

Seungmin watched him.

Then, almost without thinking, rested his hand palm-up on the sofa between them.

An old invitation.

Jisung noticed immediately.

His gaze dropped.

His fingers twitched.

For a moment, Seungmin thought he’d take it.

Instead, Jisung looked back at his phone.

Seungmin’s expression changed.

He moved his hand a little closer.

Nothing.

“Han Jisung.”

Jisung looked up.

“What now?”

Seungmin raised an eyebrow.

“Are we fighting?”

Jisung stared.

“What?”

“Did you forget to tell me we’re fighting?”

Jisung laughed.

“No?”

“Interesting.”

“You’re so weird today.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

Seungmin looked at the small gap between them.

Then back at Jisung.

Usually, he’d have made some comment about how clingy Jisung was being.

Now he found himself wondering why Jisung wasn’t being clingy at all.

He held out his hand.

“Come here.”

Jisung stared at it.

His expression changed so quickly that Seungmin almost missed it.

Longing.

Then uncertainty.

Then something that looked suspiciously like fear.

Jisung shook his head.

“I’m good.”

Seungmin blinked.

“I didn’t ask whether you’re good.”

“I know.”

“Then?”

Jisung smiled.

“Your hands are probably sweaty.”

Seungmin looked personally offended.

“My hands are not sweaty.”

“Baseball player hands.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Disgusting athlete things.”

Seungmin snorted.

Normally, that would have been the beginning of another argument.

But Jisung’s smile was disappearing already.

Seungmin slowly lowered his hand.

“Okay, seriously. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Jisung.”

Jisung looked at him.

Seungmin rarely used his name like that unless he was genuinely concerned.

For a second, Jisung wanted to tell him.

Wanted to admit that he’d had a horrible night, that Chan had yelled at him and that he couldn’t stop thinking about whether everybody secretly found him exhausting.

He could almost imagine how Seungmin would react.

The annoyed expression.

The immediate offer of his hand.

The insistence that Jisung was being ridiculous.

The comforting.

The attention.

Everybody making sure he was okay.

Jisung’s stomach twisted.

He smiled.

“Really, Minnie. I’m okay.”

Seungmin studied his face.

He wasn’t convinced.

But he didn’t push.

“Fine.”

Jisung nodded.

“Fine.”

A few seconds later, Seungmin picked up his phone again.

He left his hand resting between them.

Palm-up.

Available.

Jisung stared at it from the corner of his eye.

Then tucked his own hands into the front pocket of his hoodie.

Chan arrived at the waiting area twenty minutes later.

He’d been looking for Jisung since practice ended.

They’d seen each other briefly that morning, but Jisung had been surrounded by the others, and Chan hadn’t wanted to pull him aside in front of everyone. When he’d offered a quiet greeting, Jisung had smiled and greeted him back.

Nothing about it had been openly hostile.

That almost made Chan feel worse.

Now, as he approached the sofa, he saw Seungmin sprawled against one armrest while Jisung sat at the opposite end, his hands buried in his hoodie pocket.

Chan stopped.

Something about the distance between them looked strange.

Usually, those two sat so close together that somebody inevitably complained about them taking up an entire sofa while occupying less than half of it.

Seungmin noticed Chan first.

“Hyung.”

Chan nodded.

“Hey.”

Jisung looked up.

His expression changed.

Not dramatically.

His shoulders simply tightened.

Chan noticed anyway.

“Sungie, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Seungmin glanced between them.

Jisung smiled immediately.

“Sure.”

He stood.

Carefully.

Keeping his hands in his pocket.

Chan led him toward an empty practice room farther down the corridor.

They went inside.

Chan closed the door but didn’t lock it.

Jisung stood near the wall, looking at him expectantly.

“What’s up, hyung?”

Chan swallowed.

The question sounded normal.

Too normal.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“About last night.”

Jisung’s smile faltered.

Then returned.

“Oh.”

Chan moved closer, stopping a comfortable distance away.

“I wanted to apologise properly.”

Jisung shook his head immediately.

“You already did.”

“Over text.”

“That’s okay.”

“No, Sungie. I want you to hear me say it.”

Jisung looked down.

Chan took a breath.

“I was wrong to shout at you like that. I was stressed, and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Jisung nodded.

“Okay.”

Chan continued.

“And what I said about you manipulating me with your tears…”

His voice tightened.

“That was completely unfair.”

Jisung’s eyes lifted.

Chan looked directly at him.

“You weren’t manipulating me.”

For a second, Jisung didn’t move.

Then he smiled faintly.

“It’s okay, hyung.”

Chan frowned.

“No, listen. I know you weren’t doing that.”

Jisung nodded.

“Yeah.”

“I was angry, and I said something really hurtful.”

Jisung rubbed his thumb against the fabric inside his hoodie pocket.

“Hyung, seriously. I understand.”

Chan stared.

“What do you understand?”

“That you needed space.”

“That’s not the part I’m apologising for.”

“I know.”

“Then—”

“You asked me to stop touching you, and I kept doing it.”

Jisung looked up.

His expression was painfully earnest.

“I know that was wrong. I’m sorry I didn’t listen properly.”

Chan’s chest tightened.

“Ji.”

“I wasn’t thinking. I just…”

Jisung stopped.

His mouth moved uncertainly.

Then he looked away.

“Anyway. It won’t happen again.”

Chan went very still.

“What won’t?”

Jisung blinked.

“What?”

“You said it won’t happen again.”

“Oh.”

Jisung gave a small shrug.

“The touching thing.”

Chan stared at him.

Jisung continued quickly, “Not just with you. I mean, I’ll be more careful. I know people need their own space and stuff.”

Chan’s stomach dropped.

“Sung-ah.”

Jisung looked at him.

Chan took a step forward, instinctively raising a hand toward his shoulder.

Jisung immediately stepped back.

Both of them froze.

The movement hadn’t been large.

Barely half a step.

But Chan had felt the distance open between them as clearly as if Jisung had crossed the entire room.

Jisung noticed his expression.

His face changed.

“Oh.”

He looked down.

“Sorry.”

Chan slowly lowered his hand.

“Why did you move?”

Jisung blinked.

“I didn’t—”

He stopped.

Then laughed weakly.

“Reflex, I guess.”

Chan stared.

Jisung’s hands disappeared deeper into his pockets.

“Sorry, hyung.”

Chan’s mouth went dry.

He wanted to tell Jisung to come closer.

Wanted to open his arms and prove that one awful evening hadn’t changed everything.

But he’d already pushed too hard once.

So he kept his hands at his sides.

“Sungie, you don’t have to stop being affectionate with us.”

Jisung nodded.

“Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

Chan looked at him.

Jisung smiled.

It didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’ll just make sure people actually want it first.”

There was nothing unreasonable about that sentence.

That was what made it devastating.

Chan had wanted his boundary respected.

He’d needed it respected.

But hearing Jisung speak about affection like something he had to carefully negotiate with every member made Chan feel sick.

He took a breath.

“Ji, I never meant that you were a burden.”

Jisung’s expression flickered.

For a second, Chan thought he might finally say something honest.

Instead, Jisung nodded.

“Thanks, hyung.”

Chan’s heart sank.

Thanks.

Not I know.

Not you’re being stupid.

Not even an argument.

Just thanks.

Jisung looked toward the door.

“Can I go? I promised Seungmin we’d head back together.”

Chan swallowed.

“Yeah.”

Jisung smiled.

“Okay. See you later, Channie hyung.”

He left before Chan could say anything else.

Chan stood in the empty practice room for a long time.

Then he looked at his own hand.

The one he’d reached toward Jisung.

He remembered how quickly Jisung had stepped back.

And understood, with a sickening certainty, that apologising had not fixed nearly as much as he’d hoped.

Seungmin was waiting in the corridor.

He looked up when Jisung emerged.

“Finished?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving.”

“That’s Changbin hyung.”

“Same species.”

Seungmin snorted and stood.

They started walking toward the exit.

For a few minutes, their conversation was almost normal. Seungmin complained about a practice schedule, Jisung made an insulting observation about his dancing, and Seungmin threatened to expose an embarrassing video from their trainee days.

Then they reached the lift.

It was crowded.

Jisung stood beside Seungmin near the back, holding his backpack against his stomach. Several people stepped in after them, forcing everyone closer together.

Seungmin shifted automatically to make room.

Their shoulders touched.

Jisung moved away.

There was nowhere to go.

He ended up pressed awkwardly against the wall, trying to keep his body from touching Seungmin despite the lack of space.

Seungmin looked at him.

“Han.”

Jisung glanced up.

“What?”

“You’re going to become part of the wall.”

Jisung laughed.

“Maybe that’s my dream.”

Seungmin frowned.

“Move over.”

“I’m fine.”

“Jisung.”

“I’m fine, Minnie.”

Seungmin stared at him.

Then deliberately moved his own shoulder away, giving Jisung a little more room.

Jisung relaxed immediately.

Seungmin saw.

He didn’t say anything.

But his expression changed.

That evening, they ended up at Minho’s place.

Not all eight. Chan had stayed at the studio, and Changbin had another commitment, but Felix, Hyunjin, Seungmin and Jeongin were there, sprawled around the living room with takeaway containers and an argument about what to watch.

Jisung had agreed to come because refusing another invitation would only raise more questions.

He was genuinely glad he’d come.

That was the frustrating part.

He loved these people.

He liked being around them.

He liked their stupid arguments and the way nobody seemed capable of selecting a movie without turning it into a competitive sport.

He simply didn’t know where to put himself anymore.

Normally, he’d have entered Minho’s apartment, dumped his belongings somewhere inconvenient and attached himself to whoever was closest. Minho would complain about the mess, Felix would laugh, and somebody would eventually drag Jisung toward the sofa before he could start another argument.

Today, he took off his shoes, placed them neatly beside the others and asked where he should sit.

Minho looked at him.

“Wherever?”

Jisung nodded.

“Okay.”

Minho frowned.

He watched Jisung choose the small armchair beside the sofa.

The armchair.

Jisung almost never chose the armchair.

He hated sitting alone during movie nights, mostly because it prevented him from bothering whoever was unfortunate enough to sit beside him.

“Why are you over there?” Minho asked.

Jisung looked up.

“Hm?”

“You’re sitting like a guest.”

Hyunjin laughed from the floor.

“He is a guest.”

“He’s a pest,” Minho corrected. “Different category.”

Jisung laughed.

“Wow. Love you too.”

Minho pointed toward the sofa.

“There’s room.”

Jisung looked.

Felix was sitting at one end. Seungmin occupied the middle, and Jeongin had settled on the floor against the opposite side. There was plenty of space.

More importantly, there were three people Jisung would normally have been delighted to squeeze himself between.

His fingers twitched.

He smiled.

“I’m good here.”

Minho stared at him.

Then looked toward Seungmin.

Seungmin met his eyes.

Neither said anything.

The movie started twenty minutes later.

Jisung lasted approximately twelve minutes before regretting his seating choice.

The armchair was comfortable enough, but he felt strangely isolated. Every time somebody laughed, he looked toward the sofa, wanting to join in more closely. Every time Hyunjin complained about something happening on-screen, Jisung wanted to lean over and steal his phone just to irritate him.

Instead, he stayed where he was.

Hands folded in his lap.

Occasionally adjusting the blanket over his knees.

He had never realised how much he relied on physical contact to feel included until he started preventing himself from seeking it.

It wasn’t that the members were ignoring him.

They weren’t.

Felix kept asking whether he wanted snacks. Jeongin threw comments at him from the floor. Hyunjin complained whenever Jisung laughed at the wrong moment. Seungmin made a point of directing several insults specifically toward him.

Everything was normal.

Except Jisung had never felt so far away from people sitting less than two metres from him.

Halfway through the movie, Felix got up to refill his drink.

When he returned, he paused beside Jisung.

“Sungie, you look cold.”

Jisung glanced up.

“A little.”

Felix smiled and reached toward him.

“Come sit with us.”

Jisung looked at the offered hand.

His chest tightened.

For one wonderful, painful second, he wanted to take it.

He wanted Felix to pull him onto the sofa, wanted to curl against his shoulder and spend the rest of the movie drawing meaningless little patterns against his forearm.

He wanted somebody else’s warmth.

He wanted to stop thinking.

His fingers lifted.

Then stopped.

He remembered Chan looking down at his hand.

Can you fucking stop?

Jisung’s stomach twisted.

He lowered his hand.

“I’m comfortable here, Bokkie.”

Felix’s smile faded slightly.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Felix glanced at the sofa.

“There’s room.”

“I know.”

Jisung smiled.

“Thanks, though.”

Felix stood there for another second.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

He returned to the sofa.

Seungmin was watching.

So was Minho.

And when Felix sat down, Seungmin leaned closer and quietly asked, “Has he been weird with you too?”

Felix looked at him.

“What?”

“Jisung.”

Felix glanced toward the armchair.

Jisung was watching the movie again.

His hands were clasped tightly beneath the blanket.

Felix swallowed.

“He didn’t hug me this morning.”

Seungmin’s expression hardened.

“He won’t take my hand.”

Minho looked between them.

Then toward Jisung.

“What?”

Seungmin shook his head.

“Something’s wrong.”

Minho watched Jisung laugh at something Hyunjin said.

The laugh sounded real.

The smile looked real.

But when Jeongin shifted closer to the armchair and rested his elbow against Jisung’s knee, Jisung immediately moved his leg away.

Minho went still.

Jeongin looked up.

Jisung smiled apologetically.

“Sorry, Innie. Leg’s stiff.”

Jeongin nodded.

Didn’t question it.

But Minho had seen enough.

He looked toward Seungmin again.

“When did this start?”

Seungmin thought about the previous evening.

The unusual messages.

The polite refusal.

The fact that Jisung had supposedly been with Chan.

His stomach tightened.

“Last night.”

Minho frowned.

“Last night?”

“Yeah.”

Seungmin watched Jisung.

Then added, quietly, “After he was at the studio.”

Minho’s expression changed.

Neither spoke.

Across the room, Jisung laughed at another joke.

He was getting better at it.

At looking normal.

At staying involved.

At keeping his hands exactly where they belonged.

Later, when the movie ended, Jisung volunteered to help clean up.

Minho watched him collect cups and takeaway containers, placing everything neatly in the kitchen.

That was unusual enough on its own.

Normally, Jisung would have needed three separate threats before helping.

Minho followed him.

“Han.”

Jisung looked up.

“Hm?”

“Come here.”

Jisung’s stomach tightened.

He put down the container he was holding.

“Why?”

Minho raised an eyebrow.

“Do you always need a formal invitation?”

Jisung laughed weakly.

“No.”

“Then come here.”

Jisung approached.

Stopped about an arm’s length away.

Minho looked at the distance.

Then at his face.

“You okay?”

Jisung nodded.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been quiet.”

“Tired.”

Minho hummed.

“Everyone’s tired.”

Jisung smiled.

“Exactly.”

Minho studied him.

Then reached out and gently ruffled his hair.

Jisung flinched.

Not badly.

But unmistakably.

Minho’s hand froze.

Jisung’s eyes widened.

For half a second, they simply stared at each other.

Then Jisung laughed.

A quick, embarrassed sound.

“Sorry. You startled me.”

Minho slowly lowered his hand.

“Did I?”

Jisung nodded.

“Yeah.”

Minho looked at him.

He knew Jisung.

He knew the difference between a startled reaction and a frightened one.

He knew how Jisung usually behaved when somebody touched his hair. He would complain, slap their hand away and then immediately lean closer if they stopped.

Tonight, he looked relieved when Minho lowered his arm.

That frightened Minho.

“Jisung-ah.”

Jisung’s smile wavered.

“Yeah?”

“Did something happen?”

The question was gentle.

Not accusatory.

Jisung looked down.

For a moment, he considered telling him.

Then he imagined what would happen.

Minho would get angry with Chan.

Seungmin would find out.

Felix would worry.

Hyunjin would probably confront somebody.

Changbin would start demanding explanations.

Jeongin would look hurt.

Everybody would stop what they were doing.

Everybody would make sure Jisung was okay.

His throat tightened.

“No.”

Minho frowned.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

Jisung picked up the last takeaway container.

“Just tired, hyung.”

Minho watched him.

Jisung smiled again.

“Can I finish cleaning?”

Something about the question hurt.

Minho stepped aside.

“Yeah.”

Jisung nodded.

“Thanks.”

He turned toward the sink.

Minho stood behind him for several seconds, trying to understand why Han Jisung had suddenly begun behaving like somebody afraid of taking up too much space.

When Jisung finally left, Seungmin walked him to the door.

Jisung put on his shoes while Seungmin leaned against the wall beside him.

“Text when you’re home.”

Jisung nodded.

“Will do.”

Seungmin watched him straighten.

Then held out one hand.

Jisung looked at it.

“What?”

Seungmin raised an eyebrow.

“Handshake.”

Jisung blinked.

“Why?”

“Congratulations on surviving a movie with Hyunjin talking through the entire thing.”

From the living room, Hyunjin shouted, “I CAN HEAR YOU!”

Seungmin ignored him.

Jisung laughed.

Then looked at the offered hand again.

He could take it.

This wasn’t even comfort.

Just a joke.

Seungmin was asking.

There was no possible misunderstanding.

But his fingers wouldn’t move.

He thought about Chan’s voice.

About the tears.

About the accusation.

About how easily something he’d considered harmless had become proof that he was exhausting.

Jisung slowly shoved both hands into his jacket pockets.

“I’ll accept the award verbally.”

Seungmin’s smile faded.

Jisung pretended not to notice.

“Thank you to my family, my company and my incredible patience.”

Seungmin stared.

Jisung grinned.

“Good speech, right?”

Normally, Seungmin would have grabbed his wrist and pulled him into an unnecessarily aggressive hug just to annoy him.

Tonight, he didn’t.

Something about Jisung’s expression warned him not to.

So he lowered his hand.

“Terrible speech.”

Jisung laughed.

“Love you too.”

Then he left.

Seungmin stood by the door long after it closed.

Minho appeared behind him.

“What?”

Seungmin didn’t turn.

“He wouldn’t touch me.”

Minho frowned.

“What?”

Seungmin looked down at his own hand.

Then back at Minho.

“Not once today.”

Minho said nothing.

Seungmin swallowed.

“Hyung, Jisung has spent years treating my hands like public property. He’ll steal my fingers in the middle of an argument. He’ll practically crawl into my lap if he’s had a bad day, and he doesn’t even ask because he knows I don’t mind.”

Minho’s expression tightened.

Seungmin looked toward the door.

“Today, I held out my hand three times.”

A pause.

“He looked scared every time.”

Minho stared.

Then asked quietly, “What happened in that studio?”

Seungmin shook his head.

“I don’t know.”

Neither spoke for several seconds.

Then Seungmin pulled out his phone.

Opened Chan’s chat.

Typed:

hyung, did something happen with jisung last night?

He stared at the message.

Then sent it.

Chan was still at the studio when the message arrived.

He’d spent most of the day trying not to think about his conversation with Jisung that morning. It hadn’t gone badly, exactly. Jisung hadn’t refused to speak to him, hadn’t shouted or accused him of anything. He’d accepted Chan’s apology with a smile and assured him that everything was fine.

But he’d stepped back when Chan tried to touch him.

That image had been following Chan around all day.

Now he looked at Seungmin’s message.

His stomach dropped.

seungmin: hyung, did something happen with jisung last night?

Chan stared at it.

Then typed:

Yeah. We had an argument.

Seungmin answered almost immediately.

seungmin: about what

Chan closed his eyes.

He could lie.

Not outright, perhaps, but he could make the argument sound smaller than it had been.

He could say he’d snapped because Jisung kept interrupting his work.

He could say he’d apologised and they were sorting it out.

All of that would be technically true.

None of it would explain why Jisung had started flinching away from people he’d trusted for years.

Chan rubbed both hands over his face.

Then typed:

I said some really hurtful things. About him being clingy. About his feelings.

A pause.

He swallowed.

I accused him of trying to manipulate me by crying.

The reply didn’t come immediately.

Chan stared at the screen.

Then Seungmin’s typing indicator appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Finally:

seungmin: you did what?

Chan closed his eyes.

He could practically hear Seungmin’s voice.

He typed:

I know. I was completely out of line. I apologised.

Seungmin replied:

seungmin: hyung

Then:

seungmin: he’s been avoiding everyone touching him all day

Chan stopped breathing.

Another message arrived.

seungmin: not just you

Chan stared.

seungmin: everyone

He read it again.

And again.

His stomach twisted.

He thought of Jisung standing in the practice room, promising to be more careful.

Not just with you.

Chan had barely registered those words at the time.

Now they returned with sickening clarity.

He typed:

Chan: Is he okay?

Seungmin’s reply was immediate.

seungmin: no, i don’t think he is

Chan’s eyes filled.

Then:

seungmin: what exactly did you say to him?

Chan sat back in his chair.

For several seconds, he stared at the message.

Then he began typing.

And with every sentence, he felt more ashamed.

Jisung was already home.

He’d showered, changed into comfortable clothes and settled onto the sofa with his phone. Some television programme was playing quietly in the background, but he wasn’t paying attention.

His hands were restless again.

They’d been restless all day.

He’d caught himself reaching toward someone at least a dozen times.

Felix.

Hyunjin.

Changbin.

Seungmin.

Jeongin.

Minho.

Each time, he’d stopped.

And each time, he’d felt a little more ridiculous.

He was twenty-six years old.

He could survive a day without constantly touching somebody.

He knew that.

He just hadn’t realised how much it would hurt.

Jisung pulled a cushion into his lap.

Rested his hands against it.

Then began absentmindedly tracing patterns across the fabric.

Circles.

Lines.

Little meaningless shapes.

The movements were familiar.

Comforting, almost.

But not enough.

He thought about Seungmin holding out his hand at the door.

The invitation had been so obvious.

So easy.

Jisung had wanted to take it.

He still wanted to.

He wondered whether Seungmin had been hurt when he refused.

Then immediately felt guilty for that too.

Apparently there was no way to do anything correctly.

His phone buzzed.

A message from Felix.

yongbokkie: you looked tired today :( sleep early okay? love you sungie

The first thing Jisung noticed when he woke up was that his hands hurt.

Not badly. There was a dull ache along his fingers and a small red mark across his right palm from where he’d apparently spent most of the night gripping the edge of his pillow. He flexed them beneath the blanket, blinking against the morning light, and wondered briefly whether he’d fallen asleep in some ridiculous position again.

Then he remembered.

The studio. Chan shouting. The apology. Felix’s outstretched arm. Seungmin holding his hand out in the lift lobby. Minho looking strangely hurt when Jisung stepped away from him.

Jisung closed his eyes.

He was getting very tired of remembering things.

His phone had slipped beneath his pillow during the night. He retrieved it, checked the time and found several messages waiting for him. Nothing unusual. Jeongin complaining about somebody stealing his charger, Felix sending a photograph of breakfast, Hyunjin demanding that somebody explain why they had a dance practice scheduled so early when they’d already practised the choreography yesterday.

There was also a message from Chan.

channie hyung: Morning, Sungie. Hope you slept okay. Let me know if you need anything today.

Jisung read it, then scrolled past it to answer the others.

He sent Jeongin a threatening sticker, told Hyunjin to stop complaining before he’d even left his bed and complimented Felix’s breakfast, although the eggs looked suspiciously undercooked. By the time he reached Chan’s message again, he was smiling faintly.

He typed:

jisungie: morning hyung!! slept well, thank you. see you at practice :)

His thumb hovered over the screen.

He hadn’t slept well.

He’d woken up twice and cried once, although he couldn’t remember exactly when. His pillowcase was still slightly damp near the edge. The apartment felt cold, his head hurt from lack of sleep, and he’d spent several minutes that morning trying to decide whether he’d ever be comfortable holding Chan’s hand again.

But none of that was something Chan needed to handle before breakfast.

Jisung sent the message.

Then opened his notes app.

Don’t forget:

He read the list he’d written the previous night. In the morning light, it looked a little dramatic, particularly the final instruction about crying somewhere private. He considered deleting that one, embarrassed by the idea of anybody accidentally seeing it.

Instead, he added another.

Remember that someone being nice doesn’t automatically mean they want a hug.

He stared at it.

Then changed hug to touch because that covered more possibilities.

There.

Better.

Jisung put his phone down and went to get ready.

Seungmin had not slept much either, although for an entirely different reason.

He was sitting on the kitchen counter at the dorm when Chan arrived, drinking iced coffee straight from the bottle and looking thoroughly unimpressed with the world.

Chan stopped in the doorway.

“Morning.”

Seungmin looked at him.

“Morning.”

There was nothing particularly unusual about the greeting, but Chan could tell immediately that Seungmin was angry.

Seungmin had always been good at being angry quietly. He didn’t need to raise his voice or slam doors. He simply became very precise with his words, which was arguably worse.

Chan set his bag beside the table.

“Did you sleep?”

“Some.”

Chan nodded. He opened the refrigerator, looked inside without really seeing anything and closed it again. He’d been hoping Seungmin would bring up their conversation from the night before so he wouldn’t have to figure out how to begin it himself.

Seungmin watched him for another moment.

Then said, “You told him he was gaslighting you.”

Chan closed his eyes briefly.

“Yeah.”

“And that you were tired of managing his feelings.”

“Yeah.”

“And told him to get the fuck out.”

Chan looked down.

“I know what I said, Seungmin-ah.”

“Good. Then I don’t have to repeat it.”

Chan rubbed his face. “I’m not going to defend it. I was completely out of line.”

Seungmin set his coffee on the counter. His expression hadn’t softened. “I know you were stressed. Jisung should’ve listened when you asked for space. I’m not arguing with that. But you know how he gets when he’s having a bad day, and you know he’s always been like that with us.”

“I know.”

“He doesn’t even think about it, hyung. Half the time, he’ll be having an entire conversation with somebody else while he’s playing with my fingers. I have to physically retrieve my hand if I need it.”

Chan’s mouth tightened.

“Seungminnie—”

“And that’s fine. I don’t mind. If I do, I tell him. He lets go.” Seungmin paused, his jaw shifting as though he was biting back something nastier. “Yesterday, I tried to give him my hand. Three times. Do you know what he did?”

Chan looked at him.

“He looked at me like he wanted it so badly he was going to cry, and then he shoved his hands in his pockets.”

Chan’s stomach turned.

Seungmin continued, quieter, “He asked me whether we were fighting because I kept trying to get him to sit closer. He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. Then I found out what happened with you.”

“I apologised to him.”

“I know.”

“He said he understood.”

Seungmin’s mouth twisted. “Yeah, well, Jisung says a lot of things when he’s trying not to make somebody angry.”

Chan looked away.

That landed exactly where Seungmin intended.

For several seconds, the kitchen was silent.

Then Chan asked, “What do you want me to do?”

Seungmin frowned.

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because I don’t know how to fix it.”

Seungmin slid off the counter.

“Neither do I, hyung. But don’t go asking him for a hug just because you feel horrible about the fact that he won’t give you one anymore.”

Chan flinched.

Seungmin picked up his coffee.

“And don’t tell everyone what happened just to get them to convince him everything’s fine. He’s going to feel like the whole group’s discussing how much affection he’s allowed to have.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good.”

Seungmin started toward the door, then stopped.

He turned back.

“I know you love him.”

Chan looked up.

Seungmin’s expression softened a little.

“I know you were having an awful night. I’m not saying you’re some horrible person because you snapped once. But Sungie trusts you with things he doesn’t even know how to explain.”

Chan swallowed.

Seungmin glanced at his hands.

“And now he thinks those things annoy everybody.”

He left before Chan could answer.

Chan remained in the kitchen long enough for the refrigerator motor to switch off and the silence to become uncomfortable.

Then he sat down and covered his face.

The first hour of practice went surprisingly well.

Jisung was louder than he’d been the previous day, which pleased everybody who hadn’t noticed anything strange and worried those who had.

He complained about the music being too loud, accused Hyunjin of deliberately occupying more floor space than necessary and spent an impressive amount of time explaining to Jeongin why a particular move looked better when performed with an expression of mild disgust.

Jeongin stared at him.

“Hyung, that’s just your face.”

Changbin laughed so hard he missed the next count.

Jisung nearly doubled over.

For a little while, he forgot himself.

He really did.

Practice had always been easier in that respect. The choreography gave him something to concentrate on, and physical contact during formations was straightforward. Somebody needed to grip his shoulder, move past him or steady his elbow because there was a specific reason for it.

Nobody had to wonder what he wanted.

Nobody was being asked to comfort him.

He knew where he was supposed to stand and what he was supposed to do.

It was during the second break that things became difficult again.

Jisung had dropped onto the floor beside Changbin, breathing heavily after the last run-through. Changbin was sitting with one knee raised, wiping sweat from his face with a towel while he listened to Felix explaining something about the transition.

Normally, Jisung would have leaned against Changbin’s raised knee without even thinking about it.

He nearly did.

His body shifted instinctively, shoulder moving toward the familiar support.

Then he caught himself.

He planted one hand against the floor and straightened instead.

Changbin glanced down.

“What?”

Jisung blinked.

“Nothing.”

“You looked like you were falling over.”

“Just adjusting.”

Changbin shrugged and returned to the conversation.

Jisung clasped his hands around his water bottle.

He could do this.

He’d already done an entire day.

He was getting better.

Then Changbin laughed at something Felix said and casually draped his arm over Jisung’s shoulders.

Jisung froze.

The arm was warm and heavy, perfectly familiar, and his first instinct was to tuck himself closer. His head even began to tilt toward Changbin’s shoulder before he stopped it.

Changbin continued talking.

Jisung sat rigidly beneath his arm.

He didn’t move away immediately because that would be strange. Instead, he waited for a pause in the conversation and announced that he needed more water.

Changbin lifted his arm without thinking.

Jisung stood.

His bottle was still nearly full.

He went to refill it anyway.

Changbin watched him go.

Then looked down at his own arm.

Felix followed his gaze.

“Did Sungie seem weird just now?”

Changbin frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“He was really stiff.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

Felix looked toward the water dispenser. “He didn’t hug me yesterday either.”

Changbin turned toward him.

“What?”

Felix shrugged, but his expression was troubled.

“He usually does. I thought maybe he wasn’t feeling well, but then he was joking around like normal.”

Changbin stared at Jisung, who was now pretending to be intensely interested in the water level inside his bottle.

“Did something happen?”

Felix shook his head.

“I don’t know.”

Across the room, Seungmin heard enough of the conversation to look over.

He knew exactly what had happened.

He also knew Jisung would hate having it discussed while he stood twenty feet away.

So he walked toward Changbin, nudged his knee with his foot and said, “Stop staring at him. You’re being weird.”

Changbin frowned.

“What?”

“You’re watching him refill water like it’s a competitive sport.”

Felix snorted.

Changbin looked offended. “I’m not staring.”

“Sure.”

Seungmin turned toward the water dispenser.

“Han! If you fill that bottle any further, you’re going to drown.”

Jisung looked up.

Then down at the bottle he’d accidentally filled to the brim.

He started laughing.

“Oh, fuck.”

Seungmin rolled his eyes.

“Unbelievable.”

Jisung grinned at him.

For a moment, everything looked normal.

Seungmin smiled back.

Then watched Jisung carefully screw the cap on and return to the group, choosing a spot with just enough space that nobody’s arm could casually fall around his shoulders.

Seungmin’s smile disappeared.

By lunch, Jisung’s fingertips were sore.

He had developed the unfortunate habit of rubbing the seams of his sleeves whenever he felt the urge to reach for somebody. It wasn’t a deliberate replacement at first. He simply needed to do something with his hands, and the fabric was available.

After several hours, however, the repetitive movement had irritated the skin near his thumbs.

He noticed while they were sitting around the table in the practice room, eating food somebody had ordered.

A small red patch.

Nothing serious.

Jisung rubbed it with his opposite thumb.

Then stopped because that made it worse.

“What’s that?”

He looked up.

Jeongin was sitting beside him, pointing at his hand.

“What’s what?”

“Your thumb.”

Jisung looked down.

“Oh. Nothing.”

Jeongin frowned.

“Did you hurt it?”

“No.”

“Then why’s it red?”

“Dry skin.”

Jeongin reached toward the little tube of hand cream Felix kept in his bag.

“Yongbok hyung, where’s your—”

“It’s fine, Innie.”

Jeongin stopped.

Jisung realised he’d sounded sharper than intended.

He smiled quickly.

“Really. It’s nothing.”

Jeongin looked at him.

Then slowly lowered his hand.

“Okay.”

Jisung’s stomach tightened.

He hated that.

He hated the little change in Jeongin’s expression, the uncertainty that seemed so unnecessary.

He’d managed to hurt somebody’s feelings while actively trying to avoid making anybody uncomfortable.

Excellent work.

He looked down at his lunch.

Beside him, Jeongin opened his own food and began eating.

For several minutes, neither spoke.

Then Jisung quietly reached into his bag, found his own hand cream and set it beside Jeongin’s drink.

Jeongin looked at it.

Then at Jisung.

“What’s this?”

“Proof I’m taking care of my hands.”

Jeongin raised an eyebrow.

“You could’ve just said yes when I offered.”

Jisung smiled faintly.

“Yeah.”

Jeongin studied him for another moment.

Then went back to eating.

Jisung kept his hands beneath the table.

Chan found him in the recording booth later that afternoon.

Not hiding.

Jisung had volunteered to check a few vocal takes, and although the task wasn’t urgent, it gave him something useful to do while the others were occupied.

Chan stood outside the booth for a moment, watching through the glass.

Jisung was wearing headphones, one hand resting against the stand while he listened to a recorded section. His expression was focused, his mouth moving slightly as he silently followed the melody.

It was such a familiar sight that Chan’s chest tightened.

He knocked lightly.

Jisung looked up.

Then smiled.

Chan entered.

“Hey.”

“Hi, hyung.”

“How’s it sounding?”

“Pretty good. I think the second take is cleaner, but I wanted to check the phrasing.”

Chan nodded.

“Can I listen?”

“Of course.”

Jisung immediately stepped away from the computer.

Chan frowned.

“You don’t have to move.”

“Oh.”

Jisung glanced at the chair.

Then at Chan.

“Sorry.”

Chan hated how frequently he’d started hearing that word.

He sat and listened to the take.

Jisung remained standing beside the wall.

Normally, he’d have leaned over Chan’s shoulder to point something out on the screen. Sometimes he’d drape himself across the back of the chair until Chan complained that he was putting unnecessary pressure on an expensive piece of furniture.

Now he kept his distance.

When Chan asked about a particular phrase, Jisung approached just far enough to point at the monitor, then stepped back immediately.

Chan watched him.

“Sungie.”

“Hm?”

“Come sit.”

Jisung glanced at the only other chair, which was near Chan.

“I’m okay standing.”

“You’ve been practising all morning.”

“I’m not tired.”

Chan looked at him.

Jisung smiled politely.

There it was again.

That horrible, careful smile.

Chan’s chest tightened.

He considered bringing up the argument.

Then remembered Seungmin’s warning.

Don’t go asking him for a hug just because you feel horrible.

So Chan returned to the song.

They worked for another twenty minutes.

Jisung was professional, engaged and helpful. He made several excellent suggestions, caught a small issue Chan had missed and laughed when Chan accidentally played an unfinished take containing an impressive amount of swearing.

There was no obvious hostility between them.

That almost hurt more.

When they finished, Jisung took off his headphones and stretched.

“Anything else, hyung?”

Chan looked up.

“No. Thanks, Ji.”

“Okay.”

Jisung began collecting his things.

Chan watched.

Then asked quietly, “Did you eat lunch?”

Jisung nodded.

“Yeah.”

“Properly?”

“Yeah.”

Chan smiled faintly.

“Good.”

Jisung returned the smile.

Then started toward the door.

Chan spoke before he could stop himself.

“Sung-ah.”

Jisung paused.

“Yeah?”

“Are you uncomfortable being around me?”

The question landed harder than Chan expected.

Jisung stared.

Then immediately shook his head.

“No!”

Chan blinked.

Jisung looked almost alarmed.

“No, hyung. Really. I’m not.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.”

Chan nodded slowly.

“I believe you.”

Jisung’s shoulders relaxed a little.

Then he looked down.

A long silence passed.

Chan waited.

Finally, Jisung said, “I’m just trying to be more considerate.”

Chan’s stomach tightened.

“Of me?”

Jisung looked up.

“Everybody.”

Chan went still.

Jisung gave a small shrug.

“I didn’t really think about how much I touched people before. I just did it because I was comfortable. But that doesn’t mean everybody else was.”

Chan swallowed.

“Ji, nobody said everybody was uncomfortable.”

“I know.”

Jisung smiled.

“I’m not saying anybody was. I just think it’s better if I ask first.”

Chan stared at him.

That was reasonable.

The principle was completely reasonable.

And yet Jisung wasn’t asking.

That was the problem.

He was avoiding the possibility of hearing no altogether.

Chan tried to choose his words carefully.

“You’re allowed to want affection, Sung-ah.”

Jisung’s smile changed.

Not much.

Just enough.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Jisung looked away.

Chan felt an immediate stab of regret.

“Sorry. That sounded—”

“No, it’s okay.”

Jisung rubbed his thumb against his palm.

Then said, almost conversationally, “I didn’t know it was that much before.”

Chan went still.

“What?”

“The touching.”

Jisung looked up.

His expression was strangely calm.

“I didn’t realise I was doing it so often that it was getting annoying.”

Chan shook his head.

“Sungie, I was talking about that night.”

Jisung nodded.

“Yeah.”

“I wasn’t saying you’re annoying all the time.”

“I know.”

Chan hesitated.

Jisung continued, his voice still gentle.

“I think I just got too used to everybody letting me do it.”

Chan’s chest hurt.

“Ji—”

“And that’s not fair, because maybe people just don’t want to hurt my feelings.”

Jisung laughed softly.

“Which is kind of embarrassing when you think about it.”

Chan couldn’t speak.

Jisung looked toward the door.

“Anyway, I should go. Jeongin said we were leaving together.”

Chan stood.

“Sung-ah, wait.”

Jisung stopped.

Chan took a breath.

“I don’t want you thinking you have to earn the right to be comfortable around us.”

Jisung’s expression flickered.

For a second, he looked so tired that Chan wanted nothing more than to pull him into his arms.

He stayed where he was.

Jisung looked at him.

Then asked quietly, “But how do I know when I’m making somebody uncomfortable?”

Chan swallowed.

“They’ll tell you.”

Jisung’s mouth trembled.

He pressed his lips together.

Then looked down.

“That’s what I thought before.”

The words were quiet.

Almost too quiet.

Chan stopped breathing.

Jisung seemed to realise what he’d said.

His eyes widened slightly.

“Oh.”

He shook his head.

“I didn’t mean—”

“No.”

Chan’s voice came out rough.

“Don’t apologise for that.”

Jisung fell silent.

Chan looked at him.

He wanted to explain.

Wanted to say that he’d told Jisung when he was uncomfortable, and the real problem was what happened afterward. Wanted to make clear that his anger hadn’t been evidence of years of hidden resentment, that he’d never considered Jisung’s affection something he had to endure.

All of that was true.

But Jisung had asked a question Chan couldn’t answer simply by insisting everything was fine.

Because Jisung had trusted him to say no kindly.

And Chan had eventually said much more than no.

Chan sat down slowly.

“You’re right.”

Jisung looked up.

Chan swallowed.

“You thought I’d tell you. And I did tell you, but then I made it sound like I’d been angry about it for years.”

Jisung’s eyes filled.

Chan’s chest tightened.

“I hadn’t.”

Jisung blinked quickly.

“I know, hyung.”

“No, listen.”

Chan kept his voice gentle.

“I need you to understand something. I was genuinely uncomfortable being touched that night. You needed to stop. But I was also exhausted and angry, and I said cruel things because I couldn’t manage my own frustration properly.”

Jisung’s mouth trembled.

Chan continued.

“That was my responsibility. Not yours.”

Jisung looked down.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then he whispered, “I still should’ve listened.”

“Yes.”

Jisung looked up, startled.

Chan held his gaze.

“You should’ve listened when I said no. But that doesn’t mean you deserved everything I said afterward.”

Jisung’s eyes filled further.

Chan looked at him.

“And crying because somebody hurt your feelings isn’t manipulation.”

A tear slipped down Jisung’s cheek.

He immediately wiped it away.

Too quickly.

Chan felt sick.

Jisung stared at the floor.

Then said, “Okay.”

His voice was shaking now.

Chan stood.

Didn’t approach.

“Sungie.”

Jisung shook his head.

“Sorry, I—”

He stopped.

Pressed his lips together.

Breathed carefully.

Chan waited.

Eventually, Jisung looked up again.

His eyes were wet, but he wasn’t crying properly.

“Can I go now?”

Chan’s heart sank.

“Yeah.”

Jisung nodded.

Then left.

Chan stayed in the recording booth.

And this time, he didn’t tell himself the conversation had gone well.

It was Seungmin who found Jisung afterward.

He hadn’t been looking for him particularly hard. Jeongin had mentioned that Jisung was finishing something in the studio, and Seungmin had gone to find him because their manager was waiting downstairs.

Instead, he found Jisung sitting alone in the corridor outside an unused practice room.

His head was lowered.

His hands were clasped tightly between his knees.

Seungmin slowed.

“Han?”

Jisung looked up.

His eyes were red.

Seungmin stopped.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Jisung smiled.

“Hi.”

Seungmin stared at him.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Jisung.”

Jisung looked down.

Seungmin approached.

Stopped a comfortable distance away.

Then sat on the floor beside him.

Not touching.

Jisung noticed.

Of course he did.

Seungmin leaned back against the wall.

“Want to tell me?”

Jisung shook his head.

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

They sat quietly.

A staff member walked past and greeted them. Seungmin answered normally, while Jisung nodded without lifting his head.

Several minutes passed.

Then Jisung whispered, “Minnie.”

Seungmin turned.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Depends. If it’s about borrowing money, no.”

Normally, Jisung would have laughed.

Today, he barely smiled.

Seungmin’s chest tightened.

“Ask.”

Jisung stared at his hands.

Then said, “Do I touch you too much?”

Seungmin went still.

He’d known something like this was coming.

Had been waiting for it since Chan’s confession the previous night.

It still hurt to hear.

“What do you mean?”

Jisung shrugged.

“You know. Grabbing your hands and stuff.”

Seungmin watched him.

“Sometimes.”

Jisung’s face changed.

Seungmin noticed immediately.

“Han. Look at me.”

Jisung reluctantly lifted his eyes.

Seungmin continued, “Sometimes you do it when I’m busy, and I tell you to stop. Sometimes you do it when I’m trying to eat, and I threaten to bite you.”

Jisung gave a tiny laugh.

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes you’re annoying.”

Jisung looked down again.

Seungmin frowned.

“But you’re annoying when you talk too. Are you planning to stop doing that?”

Jisung shook his head faintly.

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious.”

Seungmin turned toward him.

“You’re my friend. You’re my brother. Sometimes you irritate the shit out of me. That’s normal.”

Jisung looked at him.

Seungmin’s expression softened.

“I don’t mind when you want to hold my hand.”

Jisung swallowed.

“Really?”

“Yes, idiot.”

“What if you’re just saying that?”

Seungmin’s face changed.

Jisung seemed to realise how that sounded.

He immediately shook his head.

“Sorry. That was rude.”

“No.”

Seungmin leaned closer.

“Why would you think I’m lying?”

Jisung looked down.

His fingers twisted together.

“Because maybe you don’t want to make me upset.”

Seungmin stared.

Then closed his eyes briefly.

Chan.

Fucking hell.

He breathed out.

“Han.”

Jisung looked up.

“I’m going to tell you something, and I want you to listen properly.”

Jisung nodded.

Seungmin held out his hand.

Palm-up.

The same familiar invitation he’d offered the previous day.

Jisung stared at it.

Seungmin watched his expression.

He could see it.

The immediate longing.

The way Jisung’s fingers shifted toward him before stopping.

The uncertainty that followed.

Seungmin kept his hand there.

“I’m offering.”

Jisung swallowed.

“I know.”

“Do you want to?”

A long pause.

Then Jisung whispered, “Yeah.”

“Then take it.”

Jisung looked at him.

His eyes were filling.

Seungmin’s own chest tightened.

He kept his hand still.

Didn’t move closer.

Didn’t grab him.

Jisung slowly lifted his right hand.

For one beautiful second, Seungmin thought he was going to take it.

Then Jisung stopped.

His fingers curled.

He lowered his hand again.

“I’m sorry.”

Seungmin’s expression collapsed.

“Why?”

Jisung shook his head.

“I don’t know.”

His voice broke.

Seungmin stared at him.

Jisung wiped his cheek quickly.

“Sorry. I don’t know why I’m being like this.”

Seungmin lowered his hand.

Not because he was angry.

Because watching Jisung struggle with the simple act of accepting comfort was becoming unbearable.

Jisung looked at his own hands.

Then whispered, “I want to.”

Seungmin swallowed.

“I know.”

“I really want to.”

His mouth trembled.

“But I keep thinking—”

He stopped.

Seungmin waited.

Jisung stared at the floor.

“What if you don’t actually want me to?”

Seungmin felt something break inside his chest.

He looked at Jisung.

This was the same person who used to steal his hands in the middle of conversations. The same person who would lean against him without hesitation, who had once fallen asleep holding Seungmin’s pinkie during a long car ride and then complained when Seungmin tried to retrieve it.

Jisung had never needed convincing that he was allowed to do those things.

He’d simply known.

Now he was sitting beside Seungmin, crying because he couldn’t believe an offered hand was genuinely being offered.

Seungmin looked down.

Took a breath.

Then said, “Okay.”

Jisung blinked.

“What?”

“You don’t have to.”

Jisung’s expression crumpled.

Seungmin continued, “I’m not going to make you take my hand just because I want you to feel better.”

Jisung stared.

Seungmin leaned back against the wall.

“You can sit here without touching me. You can sit here holding my hand. You can ask for a hug. You can tell me to fuck off.”

A tiny laugh escaped Jisung.

Seungmin’s mouth softened.

“Although I’d prefer the first three.”

Jisung wiped his face.

Seungmin looked at him.

“I’m not going anywhere just because you don’t know what you want right now.”

Jisung’s eyes filled again.

He looked down quickly.

For several minutes, they sat in silence.

Then Jisung shifted.

Just a little.

His shoulder moved closer to Seungmin’s.

Stopped.

Seungmin noticed.

Didn’t comment.

Jisung looked at the space between them.

Then leaned back against the wall.

Still not touching.

But closer.

Seungmin looked ahead.

Let him.

After a while, Jisung whispered, “Minnie?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we stay like this a little longer?”

Seungmin swallowed.

“Yeah, Sung-ah.”

Jisung closed his eyes.

His hands remained folded in his lap.

And Seungmin, who had spent years pretending to hate having Han Jisung attached to him, found himself wishing desperately for the familiar weight of his brother’s head against his shoulder.

He didn’t reach over.

He didn’t pull him closer.

He simply stayed.

Because Jisung had spent two days learning to keep his hands to himself.

And Seungmin was beginning to understand that it might take considerably longer for him to feel safe reaching out again.

Minho had been angry with Chan before.

Of course he had. You didn’t spend most of your adolescence and adulthood with the same seven people without occasionally wanting to strangle at least one of them. Minho had argued with Chan over choreography, schedules, music, the group’s workload and his particularly irritating habit of insisting he was fine while looking approximately three minutes away from collapsing.

They’d had disagreements that lasted days. Once, they’d spent an entire evening refusing to speak to each other over something so insignificant that neither could remember what had started it by the following morning.

But Minho had never wanted to hit him.

Not genuinely.

Not until Seungmin called him that evening.

Minho was halfway through preparing dinner when his phone started vibrating against the counter. He answered with the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, one hand still holding a knife.

“What?”

“Are you home?”

Minho frowned. Seungmin sounded strange, his usual casual irritation replaced with something considerably heavier.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Is Chan hyung there?”

“No. Why?”

There was a pause. Minho put the knife down.

“Seungmin.”

“I need to tell you something.”

Minho straightened. “Is Jisung okay?”

Another pause.

Minho’s stomach tightened.

“Seungmin-ah.”

“He’s physically fine.”

“That’s an interesting way of answering that question.”

Seungmin sighed. Minho heard movement on the other end, followed by the sound of a door closing.

“I found him crying outside one of the practice rooms earlier.”

Minho went still.

“What happened?”

“He wouldn’t tell me everything. We talked a little, but…” Seungmin stopped, audibly struggling with something. “Hyung, did you notice how weird he’s been about touching people?”

Minho looked toward the living room. He remembered Jisung sitting alone in the armchair, refusing Felix’s offered hand and flinching when Minho tried to ruffle his hair.

“Yeah.”

“It’s because of Chan hyung.”

Silence.

Minho slowly set his phone on the counter and switched to speaker.

“What did Chan do?”

“Apparently they had an argument in the studio. Jisung was having a bad day and kept trying to cuddle up to him while Chan was working. Chan asked him to stop, but Jisung wasn’t really listening, and eventually Chan lost his temper.”

Minho’s jaw tightened.

“Okay.”

“That’s not the bad part.”

Minho closed his eyes briefly. “Then tell me the bad part.”

Seungmin took a breath.

“He accused Jisung of manipulating him by crying.”

The kitchen went completely silent.

Minho stared at his phone.

“What?”

“He said Jisung was gaslighting him with his tears.”

For several seconds, Minho did not move. Then he reached for the phone, took it off speaker and pressed it against his ear.

“Say that again.”

Seungmin sounded exhausted. “Hyung, I know.”

“No. What exactly did he say?”

“I wasn’t there. Chan told me himself afterward that he accused Jisung of gaslighting him because he started crying during the argument.”

Minho’s grip tightened.

“And?”

Seungmin hesitated.

Minho’s voice sharpened. “And what, Seungmin?”

“He said he was tired of managing Jisung’s feelings.”

Minho stared at the kitchen wall.

Something very unpleasant settled inside his chest.

“Tired.”

“Yeah.”

“Of managing Jisung’s feelings.”

“Yeah.”

Minho laughed once.

There was absolutely nothing funny about it.

“Where’s Chan?”

“Hyung—”

“Where?”

“I think he’s at the dorm.”

Minho reached for his keys.

Seungmin immediately heard them.

“Minho hyung. Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t go over there and make this worse.”

Minho stopped beside the front door.

His expression hardened.

“Seungmin, he made Jisung cry because Jisung wanted somebody to hold his fucking hand.”

“I know.”

“And now Jisung won’t even let us touch him.”

“I know.”

Minho pulled on his shoes.

“So I’d say things are already pretty fucking bad.”

“Hyung, listen to me.” Seungmin’s voice rose. “Jisung doesn’t know I told you. He barely told me anything because he’s terrified that if people find out, everyone’s going to start fussing over him. Don’t turn this into another thing he has to apologise for.”

That stopped Minho.

His hand remained on the door handle.

For a few seconds, he breathed through his nose, trying to control the anger gathering behind his ribs.

Then he said, more quietly, “I’m not angry with Jisung.”

“I know you’re not.”

“Good.”

“Minho hyung.”

“What?”

Seungmin sighed.

“Don’t hit Chan hyung.”

Minho looked at the door.

Then answered, “I’m not promising anything.”

He hung up.

Chan was in the kitchen when Minho arrived.

Changbin was sitting at the dining table, scrolling through his phone while eating something out of a container. Hyunjin occupied the opposite chair, complaining about a stylist who had apparently suggested cutting his hair. Felix was washing dishes, and Jeongin sat on the counter beside him, stealing pieces of fruit from a bowl.

It should have been an ordinary evening.

Minho walked through the front door without bothering to announce himself.

Changbin looked up first.

“Oh, hyung. You eating here?”

“No.”

Hyunjin glanced toward him. “Wow. Someone’s in a fantastic mood.”

Minho ignored him.

His eyes found Chan standing beside the refrigerator.

“Chris.”

Chan looked up.

The use of his English name, spoken in that particular tone, immediately made him straighten.

“Yeah?”

“We need to talk.”

Changbin glanced between them.

Chan put down his glass.

“Okay.”

“Now.”

Something in Minho’s voice made Felix turn off the tap.

Chan stared at him for a second before nodding toward the hallway.

“Come on.”

Minho didn’t move.

“Here.”

Chan’s expression changed.

“Minho-ya—”

“What did you say to Jisung?”

The question landed heavily enough that Hyunjin stopped talking halfway through his complaint.

Chan’s shoulders tightened.

Changbin looked up properly.

“What?”

Minho kept his eyes on Chan.

“I’m asking you what you said to him.”

Chan glanced toward the others.

“Can we talk privately?”

“Why?”

“Because this is between Jisung and me.”

Minho gave a short, disbelieving laugh.

“Funny.”

Chan frowned. “What?”

“That you’re suddenly concerned about Jisung’s feelings.”

Silence.

Changbin slowly put his chopsticks down.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

Chan rubbed a hand over his face.

“Minho, I already apologised to him.”

Minho’s expression hardened further.

“I didn’t ask whether you apologised.”

“Can you please lower your voice?”

“I’m speaking perfectly normally.”

“You know what I mean.”

Minho took a step closer.

“Then answer my question.”

Chan looked at him.

For a second, something defensive crossed his face.

He’d spent the previous two days hating himself for what he’d said. He’d replayed the argument until he could barely stand being alone with his thoughts, and now Minho was standing in front of everybody, demanding an explanation for something Chan already knew was wrong.

He was ashamed.

He was also tired.

And some small, ugly part of him resented being cornered.

“We had an argument,” he said. “Jisung kept interrupting me while I was working, and I lost my temper.”

Changbin frowned.

“Interrupting you how?”

Chan glanced at him.

“He was being clingy.”

Hyunjin’s eyebrows drew together.

“Clingy?”

“Yes.”

Minho’s mouth tightened.

“Explain.”

Chan exhaled.

“He kept holding my hand and leaning on me while I was trying to finish an arrangement. I asked him to stop several times, but he kept doing it, and eventually I snapped.”

Jeongin looked up from the counter.

“Jisungie hyung?”

Chan glanced toward him.

“Yeah.”

Jeongin frowned.

“Because he was touching you?”

Chan’s frustration surfaced again.

“Because I told him I needed space, Jeongin-ah. That’s not unreasonable.”

“No one’s saying it is,” Minho answered immediately.

Chan looked back at him.

Minho’s eyes were cold.

“I’m asking what you said after that.”

The room was quiet.

Felix slowly dried his hands.

Chan stared at Minho.

Then looked away.

“I accused him of manipulating me because he started crying.”

Changbin went still.

Hyunjin blinked.

“What?”

Chan swallowed.

“I said he was trying to make me feel guilty by crying.”

Changbin pushed his chair back slightly.

“Why?”

Chan looked at him.

“What?”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because I was angry.”

Changbin stared.

“That’s your explanation?”

“No, Bin-ah. I’m telling you what happened.”

Minho folded his arms.

“Tell them the actual words.”

Chan’s face tightened.

“Minho.”

“Go on.”

“You’re making this—”

“What did you say to him?”

Chan looked around.

Six faces.

All watching.

He could lie.

Not outright, perhaps, but enough to make the argument sound smaller.

He was tired of remembering it.

Tired of feeling sick about it.

And yet he could still see Jisung standing by the studio door, crying while desperately insisting that he hadn’t meant to manipulate him.

Chan lowered his gaze.

“I told him he didn’t get to gaslight me using his tears.”

Nobody spoke.

Felix’s dish towel slipped from his fingers.

Hyunjin stared.

Changbin’s expression became completely unreadable.

Then Jeongin asked, very quietly, “You said that to Jisungie hyung?”

Chan looked at him.

“Yeah.”

Jeongin blinked.

He looked genuinely confused.

As though the sentence didn’t make sense coming from Chan.

“Because he cried?”

Chan swallowed.

“I was frustrated.”

Jeongin continued staring.

“But he cries when people yell at him.”

“I know.”

“You know that.”

Chan’s mouth tightened.

“Jeongin-ah—”

“He doesn’t do it on purpose.”

“I know.”

Jeongin’s face changed.

He slid off the counter.

“Then why would you say that?”

Chan had no answer that would satisfy him.

And Jeongin knew it.

Changbin stood.

The movement was so abrupt that his chair scraped loudly against the floor.

“What else?”

Chan looked at him.

“Bin-ah.”

“What else did you say?”

Minho didn’t move.

He was watching Chan with an expression that made Felix increasingly nervous.

Chan rubbed his forehead.

“I said I was tired of having to manage his feelings.”

Changbin stared.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then he laughed.

A single sharp sound.

“What?”

Chan swallowed.

“Changbin—”

“You’re tired of what?”

Hyunjin stood too.

“Hold on. What the fuck does that even mean?”

Chan looked exhausted.

“I was overwhelmed, okay? He kept touching me, and I was trying to work, and I—”

“You told Jisung you were tired of managing his feelings?” Changbin interrupted.

“Yes.”

“Jisung.”

“Yes, Changbin.”

“Our Jisung.”

Chan’s jaw tightened.

“I know who we’re talking about.”

Changbin took a step toward him.

“Then what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Bin-ah,” Felix said quietly.

Changbin didn’t look at him.

“Do you understand how much it takes for that kid to tell us he’s upset sometimes?”

Chan closed his eyes.

“Yes.”

“Do you?”

Changbin’s voice rose.

“Because half the time he doesn’t even tell us! He just turns up, sits beside somebody and starts playing with their fingers until he feels better!”

“I know!”

“Then why the fuck would you make him feel bad about that?”

Chan’s head snapped up.

“Because I asked him to stop, and he wouldn’t!”

The shout echoed through the kitchen.

Everyone froze.

Chan looked startled by his own voice.

Changbin stared.

Then slowly nodded.

“Right.”

He laughed again.

No humour.

“Right, okay.”

Chan exhaled shakily.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then stop fucking saying things you don’t mean!”

Changbin moved closer.

Minho watched.

Felix stepped away from the sink.

Changbin pointed toward Chan’s chest.

“You could’ve told him to sit on the other side of the room. You could’ve told him you were having a horrible day. You could’ve asked him to leave.”

“I did ask him to leave!”

The room went silent.

Minho’s face changed.

Changbin stared.

“What?”

Chan froze.

Too late.

Minho unfolded his arms.

“You asked him to leave?”

Chan swallowed.

“I told him I needed to be alone.”

“How?”

Chan looked at the floor.

Minho’s voice dropped.

“Chris.”

No answer.

“How did you ask him to leave?”

Chan shut his eyes.

Then quietly said, “I told him to get the fuck out.”

Jeongin inhaled sharply.

Felix covered his mouth.

Hyunjin stared at Chan as though he’d never seen him before.

And Changbin—

Changbin moved.

It happened quickly.

One moment he was standing beside the table, fists clenched at his sides.

The next, he was directly in front of Chan.

“You fucking what?”

Chan barely had time to answer before Changbin grabbed the front of his shirt.

Felix gasped.

“Changbin!”

Chan’s back hit the refrigerator.

Not hard enough to hurt him seriously, but hard enough that the bottles inside rattled.

Changbin was furious.

Not the exaggerated, loud kind of furious he sometimes performed for the others.

This was different.

His face had gone red, his jaw was clenched and his eyes were wet.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Chan grabbed Changbin’s wrists.

“Let go.”

“You told him to get the fuck out?”

“Changbin, let go of me.”

“After calling him manipulative? After telling him you’re tired of him?”

“I didn’t say I was tired of him!”

“That’s what he would’ve heard!”

Chan stared at him.

Changbin’s grip tightened.

“You know that’s what he would’ve heard!”

Minho moved closer.

He was so angry that for one terrifying second he didn’t particularly care whether Changbin let go.

Part of him wanted to grab Chan himself.

Wanted to demand whether he’d looked at Jisung’s face when he said those things, whether he’d seen the way Jisung’s eyes watered when he was overwhelmed, whether he’d remembered even once that the person standing in front of him was somebody who trusted him enough to be vulnerable.

But then Felix shouted.

“Changbin, stop!”

Changbin didn’t move.

Hyunjin had both hands over his mouth.

Jeongin stood frozen near the counter.

Seungmin, who had arrived at the apartment only minutes earlier and entered during the argument, immediately crossed the kitchen.

“Bin hyung.”

Changbin barely looked at him.

“Not now.”

“Let him go.”

“Seungmin—”

“Hyung.”

Something in Seungmin’s voice cut through.

“Jisung would hate this.”

Changbin froze.

His grip loosened slightly.

Seungmin stepped closer.

“You’re doing this because somebody hurt him. Don’t turn it into something else he has to feel guilty about.”

For several seconds, Changbin stared at Chan.

His breathing was heavy.

His hands were shaking.

Then he released him.

Chan stepped away from the refrigerator.

Nobody moved.

Changbin backed up two steps, dragged both hands through his hair and turned toward the wall.

“Fuck.”

His voice broke.

“Fuck!”

He kicked the leg of an empty chair.

It skidded across the floor.

Felix flinched.

Changbin saw.

His face crumpled immediately.

He bent forward, hands on his knees.

“I’m sorry.”

Nobody answered.

He straightened, looking toward Chan again.

His eyes were filled with tears.

“I’m sorry I grabbed you.”

Chan swallowed.

“Okay.”

Changbin shook his head.

“But I am so fucking angry with you.”

Chan looked down.

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

Changbin’s voice cracked.

“Because I spent yesterday trying to figure out why Jisung wouldn’t let me put my arm around him.”

He wiped his face angrily.

“I thought I’d hurt his shoulder.”

Felix’s expression collapsed.

Changbin continued.

“He kept telling me he was fine. He was smiling and joking, and every time I reached for him, he found some excuse to move away.”

His shoulders shook.

“And I thought it was me.”

He looked at Chan.

“Turns out it was you.”

Chan closed his eyes.

Changbin laughed bitterly.

“You made him scared of all of us.”

“Actually, can we talk about that?”

Hyunjin’s voice cut through the silence.

Everyone turned.

Hyunjin stood beside the dining table, arms folded tightly across his chest, looking at Chan with an expression that was somehow both furious and deeply hurt.

“Because I would really love to know how the hell you managed that.”

Chan looked exhausted.

“Hyunjin-ah.”

“No. Don’t Hyunjin-ah me.”

Felix rubbed his forehead.

Hyunjin continued.

“Yesterday, Jisung literally jumped away from me because I moved my arm. Do you understand how fucking weird that is?”

Chan swallowed.

Hyunjin stepped closer.

“That boy has spent years practically lying on top of me whenever he’s upset. Do you know how many times I’ve had to draw with one hand because his stupid head was on my shoulder?”

Despite everything, Jeongin let out a startled laugh.

Hyunjin pointed toward him.

“Exactly! He does it to you too!”

Jeongin’s smile disappeared.

Hyunjin turned back to Chan.

“And now he won’t even sit next to me properly!”

His voice rose.

“I thought he was sick! I thought something happened and he didn’t want to tell us!”

“Hyunjin,” Felix said gently.

“No, Yongbok, I’m serious.”

Hyunjin’s eyes filled.

“You know what he did yesterday? He asked where he should sit at Minho hyung’s place.”

Minho’s jaw tightened.

“He sat in the armchair.”

Hyunjin nodded rapidly.

“The fucking armchair!”

Chan stared.

Hyunjin laughed disbelievingly.

“He hates that chair! He complains every time somebody makes him sit there because he can’t bother anybody!”

A tear slipped down his face.

“And he sat there all night, smiling at us like everything was fine.”

Chan looked down.

Hyunjin continued, quieter now.

“Do you know how sad that is?”

Nobody answered.

Hyunjin rubbed his face.

“He’s been sitting on his hands.”

Seungmin looked up.

Hyunjin turned toward him.

“Yesterday. During practice. He literally sat on his hands because he didn’t know what else to do with them.”

Seungmin’s mouth tightened.

He’d seen that too.

Hyunjin looked at Chan again.

“And you want to tell us you apologised?”

Chan flinched.

“I did apologise.”

“Congratulations.”

Hyunjin’s voice was vicious.

“Do you want a medal?”

“Hyunjin-ah, enough,” Felix said, more firmly this time.

Hyunjin turned.

“What?”

“Don’t.”

Hyunjin stared at him.

Felix looked deeply unhappy.

“I’m angry too. But yelling at Chan isn’t going to make Jisung suddenly comfortable again.”

Hyunjin’s face crumpled.

“I know.”

His voice broke.

“I know that.”

He sat down heavily.

Then covered his face.

“I just don’t understand how he could say those things.”

Jeongin hadn’t said much.

That was unusual enough that Minho eventually noticed.

The youngest stood near the counter, staring at Chan.

Not angrily, exactly.

There was anger there, certainly, but something else was mixed into it.

Confusion.

Disappointment.

A kind of disbelief that looked painfully young.

Chan noticed too.

“Jeonginnie.”

Jeongin looked up.

For a second, Chan seemed relieved that somebody might speak to him without shouting.

Then Jeongin asked, “Did you really think Jisungie hyung was manipulating you?”

Chan’s expression changed.

“No.”

Jeongin frowned.

“Then why did you say it?”

Chan swallowed.

“I was angry.”

Jeongin looked down.

For several seconds, he didn’t respond.

Then he asked, “Have you thought that about him before?”

“No.”

“Not even once?”

Chan shook his head.

“No, Innie.”

Jeongin looked at him.

“Then how did you even think to say that?”

Chan opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Jeongin waited.

He was used to Chan having answers.

Not always good ones. Sometimes Chan was stubborn or overprotective or so determined to shoulder everybody’s responsibilities that Jeongin wanted to shake him.

But Chan was the person Jeongin had trusted to know the difference between somebody making a mistake and somebody deliberately trying to hurt him.

Chan was the person who noticed when one of them was struggling.

Who sat beside them when they cried.

Who had told Jeongin, years earlier, that becoming an adult didn’t mean he had to stop needing his hyungs.

Now Jeongin looked at him and realised he’d never seriously considered the possibility that Chan could use somebody’s vulnerability against them.

That frightened him.

Because if Chan could do it to Jisung—

Jisung, who trusted him so much that he’d practically grown up attached to his side—

Then what did that mean?

Jeongin rubbed his hands together.

“I always thought…”

He stopped.

Chan looked at him.

“What, Innie?”

Jeongin swallowed.

“I always thought you were the safest person to cry in front of.”

The room went completely still.

Chan looked as though somebody had hit him.

Jeongin continued, his voice quiet.

“Not because the others aren’t safe. Just because you’re Chan hyung.”

Chan’s eyes filled.

Jeongin glanced toward the others, then back.

“You’re always telling us to talk when something’s wrong. You get upset when we hide things. You tell us it’s okay to have bad days.”

He paused.

“Jisungie hyung was having a bad day.”

Chan’s mouth trembled.

Jeongin looked at him.

“And he went to you.”

A tear slipped down Chan’s cheek.

Jeongin’s expression crumpled too.

“I know he shouldn’t have kept touching you when you said no. I’m not saying that was okay.”

He swallowed.

“But why did you have to make him feel bad about crying?”

Chan couldn’t answer.

Jeongin wiped his face roughly.

“He’s always been like that.”

His voice broke.

“He can’t help it when he gets overwhelmed.”

Chan whispered, “I know.”

Jeongin shook his head.

“You keep saying that.”

Chan looked up.

Jeongin’s eyes were wet.

“You knew all of it before you said those things.”

The words landed harder than any shouting had.

Chan bowed his head.

Jeongin looked away.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t want Chan to comfort him.

That frightened him almost as much as everything else.

Minho had remained relatively quiet throughout the last several minutes.

That worried Felix more than the shouting.

Minho wasn’t a particularly loud person when he was genuinely furious. He became controlled, almost unnervingly so, and his words tended to grow sharper as his volume dropped.

Now he stood beside the table, staring at Chan.

“Look at me.”

Chan slowly lifted his head.

Minho’s expression was cold.

“I need to make something very clear.”

Chan nodded.

Minho stepped closer.

“You were allowed to tell him no.”

“I know.”

“You were allowed to tell him to stop touching you. You were allowed to be tired, stressed, angry, whatever the fuck you were feeling that night.”

Chan swallowed.

Minho continued.

“But you weren’t allowed to use everything you know about him to hurt him.”

Silence.

“You know how he gets when he’s sad. You know he doesn’t always have the words. Sometimes he’ll tell us what’s wrong, sometimes he’ll complain about something completely unrelated, and sometimes he’ll just crawl into somebody’s space because he doesn’t want to be alone.”

Chan nodded faintly.

Minho’s jaw tightened.

“You knew that when you told him he was manipulating you.”

A tear slipped down Chan’s face.

Minho didn’t soften.

“And now he’s scared to touch any of us.”

Chan looked down.

Minho continued, “Yesterday, Felix offered him a hug. Jisung practically looked like he was going to cry because he wanted it, and he still said no.”

Felix covered his face.

Minho glanced toward him briefly.

Then back at Chan.

“You know how often that kid falls asleep against me?”

Chan nodded.

“All the fucking time,” Minho answered for him. “He’ll sit next to me, complain that I’m annoying and then spend the next hour leaning on my shoulder. Sometimes he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.”

Minho’s voice shook.

“And I love that he feels comfortable enough to do it.”

Chan’s eyes filled further.

Minho stared at him.

“That’s my Jisung.”

The words came out rough.

Protective.

Unmistakably affectionate.

“He’s annoying and loud and sometimes he doesn’t listen, and yes, sometimes you have to tell him to move because he’s practically climbing into your skin.”

A few of the others laughed weakly through their tears.

Minho didn’t.

“But he’s never had to be afraid of us because of it.”

He took another step closer.

“Until now.”

Chan’s mouth trembled.

“Minho-ya, I’m sorry.”

Minho shook his head.

“Don’t tell me.”

Chan stopped.

Minho’s expression hardened.

“You don’t need me to forgive you.”

A pause.

“And you definitely don’t get to make this about how bad you feel.”

Chan looked down.

Minho continued, quieter.

“Because Jisung is sitting somewhere right now, probably convincing himself that everybody’s tired of him.”

Felix started crying again.

Minho swallowed.

“And none of us even knew why until yesterday.”

He stared at Chan for several seconds.

Then asked, “Did he tell you what was wrong that night?”

Chan blinked.

“What?”

“Jisung. Before you shouted at him. Did you ask why he was so clingy?”

Chan’s expression changed.

He opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Minho stared.

“You didn’t.”

Chan looked down.

“I knew he was having a bad day.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I was overwhelmed.”

Minho laughed bitterly.

“Yeah. We’ve established that.”

He rubbed one hand over his face.

“Did he tell you what was wrong?”

Chan’s eyes filled.

“No.”

Minho stared at him.

Then shook his head.

“Fucking hell.”

He walked away before he said something worse.

For several minutes, nobody spoke.

The kitchen looked ridiculous.

An overturned chair.

Abandoned food.

A dish towel on the floor.

Six people standing around looking as though they’d survived something far more serious than an argument between friends.

Chan leaned against the refrigerator.

His shirt was wrinkled where Changbin had grabbed him.

He looked exhausted.

Ashamed.

And terribly small.

Felix was the first to move.

He picked up the chair.

Set it upright.

Then bent to retrieve the dish towel.

His movements were quiet and deliberate.

Changbin watched him.

“Yongbok-ah.”

Felix looked up.

Changbin swallowed.

“I’m sorry I scared you.”

Felix nodded.

“I know.”

Changbin’s mouth tightened.

Felix put the towel on the counter.

Then looked around at all of them.

“Can I say something?”

Nobody objected.

Felix took a breath.

“I understand why everybody’s angry.”

His eyes were red.

“I’m angry too. I keep thinking about how Jisung looked when he wouldn’t hug me yesterday, and it makes me want to cry again.”

He glanced toward Chan.

“But I don’t think we’re helping him by standing here acting like he’s going to shatter if somebody touches him wrong.”

Minho looked up.

Felix continued.

“He’s still Jisung.”

Seungmin nodded slightly.

“He can still tell us no. He can still be annoying. We don’t need to suddenly treat him like he’s incapable of making his own decisions.”

Changbin rubbed his face.

Felix looked toward the hallway.

“And if he finds out everybody nearly got into a fight because he was sad, what do you think he’s going to do?”

Nobody answered.

They all knew.

He would apologise.

To Chan.

To Changbin.

To Minho.

To everybody.

He would probably spend the next week trying to convince them that the entire thing had been his fault.

Felix’s expression crumpled.

“That’s what scares me.”

Seungmin exhaled slowly.

“Yeah.”

Felix looked at Chan.

“I think you should talk to him again.”

Chan lifted his head.

“But not tonight. And not because everybody yelled at you.”

Chan nodded.

Felix continued.

“Talk to him when you can actually listen to what he’s feeling without trying to make the conversation end with him forgiving you.”

Chan’s eyes filled.

“Okay.”

Felix turned toward the others.

“And we need to stop watching him every second.”

Hyunjin frowned.

“What?”

“You know what I mean. Everybody’s been staring at him whenever he sits down or moves his hands. He’s going to notice.”

Seungmin nodded.

“He already notices.”

Felix sighed.

“Then stop.”

Jeongin looked down.

“But what if he doesn’t come back to us?”

The question made the room go quiet.

Felix looked at him.

“What do you mean?”

Jeongin swallowed.

“What if he gets used to not asking?”

Nobody answered immediately.

Jeongin rubbed his sleeve against his eyes.

“What if he stops reaching for us completely?”

Minho looked away.

Hyunjin’s face crumpled.

Changbin sat down heavily.

And Chan—

Chan closed his eyes.

Because that was the part he hadn’t allowed himself to consider.

Not really.

He’d imagined Jisung being hurt for a few days.

Maybe angry.

Maybe distant.

He’d imagined apologising properly, allowing him some time, and eventually having Jisung return to the studio and drape himself over Chan’s shoulder while complaining about something ridiculous.

He hadn’t seriously imagined that Jisung might stop reaching altogether.

That the thing Chan had always considered ordinary, almost as natural as breathing, might not come back simply because Chan regretted what he’d said.

Jisung was at home when the argument ended.

He had no idea that Changbin had nearly grabbed Chan hard enough to start an actual fight.

He didn’t know Hyunjin had cried, or that Jeongin had looked at Chan differently for the first time in years.

He didn’t know Minho had been furious enough to frighten Felix.

And he certainly didn’t know that the seven people he loved were sitting in a kitchen, trying to figure out how to help him feel comfortable touching them again.

He was sitting on his sofa with a blanket over his legs and a television programme playing quietly in the background.

His phone rested beside him.

Every so often, he picked it up.

Checked the group chat.

Put it down.

His hands felt restless.

He’d spent most of the day trying to stop himself from reaching for people, and now that he was alone, he found himself doing it without thinking.

His fingers moved against the blanket.

Tracing circles.

Little lines.

Patterns he normally drew on somebody’s forearm or palm.

He stopped.

Looked down.

Then slowly started again.

There was nobody to disturb.

Nobody to make uncomfortable.

Nobody who might tell him to stop.

He supposed that was a good thing.

His phone vibrated.

A message from Changbin.

binnie hyung: have you eaten?

Jisung smiled faintly.

jisungie: yes hyung

A pause.

binnie hyung: properly?

jisungie: yes boss

Changbin replied with an annoyed sticker.

Jisung laughed.

Then another message arrived.

binnie hyung: miss you, brat

Jisung stared.

It was such a normal message.

Changbin sent things like that all the time, usually followed by some insulting comment about Jisung’s face or eating habits.

Tonight, however, Jisung’s eyes filled immediately.

He typed:

jisungie: miss you too bin-ah

The following morning, Chan woke up with a headache and the uncomfortable realisation that he’d fallen asleep in yesterday’s clothes.

His bedroom curtains were still open. Morning light spilled across the floor, catching on the half-empty water bottle beside his bed and the hoodie he’d abandoned over his desk chair. His phone was somewhere beneath the blanket, buzzing intermittently with messages he’d been too exhausted to answer.

For a moment, he couldn’t remember why his chest felt so heavy.

Then he sat up, caught sight of the wrinkled collar of his shirt, and remembered Changbin’s hands gripping it.

Chan closed his eyes.

He didn’t think Changbin would have actually punched him. At least, he hoped not. They’d known each other too long, and despite the anger he’d seen on his friend’s face, Chan knew Changbin wasn’t someone who regularly settled disagreements with violence.

Still, for a few seconds in that kitchen, Chan had genuinely been frightened.

It was an uncomfortable thing to acknowledge.

He’d hurt Jisung. He knew he’d hurt Jisung, and everybody’s anger had been understandable. Listening to Jeongin speak about losing some of his trust had been worse than anything Minho or Changbin could have shouted at him, and Chan couldn’t stop remembering the way Felix had cried.

But something about standing in his own kitchen while six people looked at him with varying degrees of disappointment had left him feeling very small.

He wasn’t angry with them.

Not exactly.

He just wished somebody had asked whether he was okay before the conversation ended.

Then he immediately felt guilty for wishing it.

Chan pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes and let out a slow breath. He had spent years telling the others that making a mistake didn’t make them terrible people, that they could take responsibility without tearing themselves apart over it. Apparently, that advice was much easier to give when he wasn’t the person who’d made the mistake.

His phone buzzed again.

Chan retrieved it from beneath his pillow.

There were several messages from work, one from his mother, and a notification from the group chat about the day’s schedule. He answered his mother’s message first, assuring her he was eating properly, then stared at the work notifications until the words stopped making sense.

The song still wasn’t finished.

The arrangement still needed revisions.

And now the thought of going into the studio made his stomach hurt.

He had always loved that room. It was one of the few places where he could spend hours creating something and feel entirely like himself, even when the work was difficult. Over the years, it had also become somewhere the others naturally gathered. Changbin would come in to argue about production choices, Seungmin would appear to record something and then refuse to leave, and Jisung would wander in at inconvenient hours carrying snacks and expecting Chan to make room for him.

Chan used to complain about how crowded it became.

He hadn’t realised how much he loved it until he started imagining Jisung avoiding it.

His phone vibrated again.

binnie: hyung, are you awake?

Chan stared at the message.

After a moment, he answered.

chan: yeah

The reply came almost immediately.

binnie: can we talk?

Chan looked toward his bedroom door.

He hadn’t particularly wanted to face anybody yet.

Still, he typed:

chan: sure

Changbin knocked twice before entering.

He looked terrible.

His hair was sticking up in several directions, dark circles shadowed his eyes, and he was wearing a hoodie Chan recognised as something he’d stolen from Hyunjin several months earlier.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other.

Then Changbin’s gaze dropped to Chan’s shirt.

His face tightened.

“Hyung.”

Chan stepped aside.

“Come in.”

Changbin entered but didn’t sit immediately. He stood awkwardly beside the desk, rubbing his palms together, looking nothing like the furious man who’d grabbed Chan against the refrigerator the previous evening.

Chan watched him.

Eventually, Changbin said, “I came to apologise.”

Chan nodded slowly.

“Okay.”

Changbin looked up.

“I shouldn’t have grabbed you.”

Chan didn’t answer immediately.

Changbin continued, “I was angry, and I wanted to hurt you because I was thinking about how hurt Jisung must’ve been. But that’s not an excuse.”

Chan swallowed.

“Bin-ah—”

“No, let me finish.”

Changbin’s voice was quiet, but firm.

“I scared Felix. Jeongin looked terrified, and you…” He stopped, his jaw working. “You looked scared too.”

Chan glanced away.

Changbin noticed.

His expression crumpled.

“I’m really sorry, hyung.”

Chan sat on the edge of the bed.

For several seconds, he stared at his hands.

Then he said, “I know you wouldn’t usually do something like that.”

Changbin shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter. I did.”

Chan looked up.

Changbin continued, “I can’t stand there telling you that being angry doesn’t give you the right to hurt somebody, then turn around and put my hands on you because I’m angry.”

Something in Chan’s chest loosened.

Not much.

But enough.

He nodded.

“Thanks for saying that.”

Changbin sat beside him, leaving a little space between them.

They were quiet for a while.

Then Chan rubbed his face.

“I’m sorry too.”

Changbin frowned.

“For what?”

Chan gave him a tired look.

“Take your pick.”

“Hyung.”

Chan stared at the floor.

“I know what I said to Jisung was horrible. I’m not pretending otherwise. But yesterday…” He stopped, embarrassed by the tightness in his throat. “I don’t know. I already felt like shit, and then everybody was shouting, and for a second I just—”

He shook his head.

Changbin waited.

Chan laughed weakly.

“I wanted somebody to remember I was having a bad time too.”

Changbin’s face changed.

Chan immediately looked guilty.

“Which sounds incredibly selfish considering—”

“No.”

Chan stopped.

Changbin looked at him.

“Don’t do that.”

Chan frowned.

“Do what?”

“Decide you’re not allowed to have feelings because you fucked up.”

Chan looked down.

Changbin sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows against his knees.

“I’m still angry about what happened with Jisung. I’m not going to pretend I’m not. But I know you love him. And I know you’ve been working yourself into the ground lately.”

Chan swallowed.

Changbin continued, “I noticed you barely ate yesterday. I noticed you looked like you hadn’t slept, and I still went straight for your throat.”

He rubbed his face.

“You’re my brother too, hyung.”

Chan closed his eyes.

That was all it took.

His mouth trembled, and before he could stop himself, he started crying.

Changbin went still.

Then his expression softened.

“Ah, hyung.”

Chan shook his head, wiping his face with one hand.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m being ridiculous.”

“No, you’re being tired.”

Chan gave a strained laugh.

Changbin watched him for a moment before asking, “Can I hug you?”

Chan looked up.

Something painful crossed his face.

Then he nodded.

Changbin moved closer and wrapped both arms around him.

Chan leaned forward, gripping the back of Changbin’s hoodie as another sob escaped. He’d been holding himself together for so long that the simple warmth of somebody’s arms felt almost unbearable.

Changbin held him tightly.

Neither spoke for several minutes.

Eventually, Chan whispered, “I really didn’t mean those things about Jisung.”

Changbin’s arms tightened.

“I know.”

“I was so angry, Bin-ah. Everything was going wrong, and he kept reaching for me, and I just wanted everyone to leave me alone for five fucking minutes.”

His voice broke.

“And then he cried.”

Changbin rubbed his back.

Chan continued, “I knew he wasn’t doing it on purpose. I knew. But I was angry that he was crying because suddenly I felt guilty, and I didn’t want to feel guilty when I’d been asking him to stop all evening.”

He drew a shaky breath.

“So I blamed him for making me feel that way.”

Changbin didn’t interrupt.

Chan looked up, eyes red.

“How fucked up is that?”

Changbin exhaled slowly.

“Pretty fucked up.”

Chan laughed wetly.

“Thanks.”

“You want me to lie?”

“No.”

Changbin’s expression softened.

“Then I’m not going to. You hurt him badly, hyung. But you’re not going to help him by destroying yourself over it.”

Chan looked down.

Changbin continued, “You need to learn something from this. Not just apologise and then work yourself into another breakdown.”

Chan nodded.

“I know.”

“And you need to eat.”

Chan laughed again.

“You’re starting to sound like Minho.”

“Good. Somebody needs to.”

Changbin stood.

“Come on. I’m making breakfast.”

Chan blinked.

“You’re cooking?”

“Don’t sound so horrified.”

“Should I call the fire department?”

Changbin stared at him.

Chan smiled faintly.

It was the first genuine smile he’d managed since the argument.

Changbin pointed at him.

“Keep talking and you’re getting plain toast.”

Chan laughed.

And for the first time in two days, it didn’t feel like something he needed to apologise for.

Minho arrived shortly before lunchtime.

He found Changbin in the kitchen washing dishes and Chan sitting at the table with a bowl of food in front of him. It wasn’t much, but Chan was eating, which was already more than Minho had expected.

Changbin looked up.

“Hyung.”

Minho nodded.

Then glanced toward Chan.

“Can we talk?”

Chan put down his spoon.

His shoulders tightened instinctively.

Minho noticed.

Something uncomfortable moved through his chest.

He hadn’t intended to frighten Chan yesterday. He’d wanted him to understand what he’d done, wanted him to see how badly Jisung was hurting. But looking at Chan now, sitting unnaturally straight with his hands folded beside his bowl, Minho realised that he had succeeded in making another person feel afraid of having an emotional reaction in front of him.

The irony was unpleasant.

Minho pulled out a chair.

“Sit down properly, Christopher. I’m not here to execute you.”

Changbin snorted into the sink.

Chan gave a weak laugh.

“Wasn’t sure.”

Minho looked at him.

The joke shouldn’t have hurt.

It did.

He sat opposite Chan and rested his forearms against the table.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Minho said, “I was angry yesterday.”

Chan nodded.

“I noticed.”

“Still am.”

“Yeah.”

Minho studied him.

“But I don’t think we handled it particularly well.”

Chan looked up.

Minho glanced toward the sink, where Changbin had suddenly become very interested in washing an already clean plate.

“Especially the part where somebody nearly put you through the refrigerator.”

Changbin winced.

“I already apologised.”

“Good.”

Minho looked back at Chan.

“I owe you an apology too.”

Chan blinked.

“Minho-ya—”

“I shouldn’t have confronted you in front of everybody like that.”

Chan looked down.

Minho continued, “I was furious, and I wanted you to feel as horrible as Jisung probably felt. Which, now that I’m saying it out loud, was a pretty stupid way of going about things.”

Chan swallowed.

“You were worried about him.”

“Yeah.”

Minho leaned back.

“Doesn’t mean I get to be an asshole.”

A small silence settled between them.

Chan rubbed his thumb against his palm.

Then said, “I deserved to be confronted.”

Minho nodded.

“Yes.”

Chan looked up.

“But you didn’t deserve to be grabbed,” Minho added. “Or shouted at by six people at once.”

Chan’s mouth tightened.

Minho watched him.

“You looked scared yesterday.”

Chan glanced away.

“I’m fine.”

Minho raised an eyebrow.

Chan gave a tired smile.

“Yeah, okay. I know.”

“That’s one of the things I hate about you, by the way.”

“What?”

“That you make everybody drag an honest answer out of you.”

Chan laughed softly.

Minho’s expression eased.

Then he grew serious again.

“You’re allowed to have limits, Chris.”

Chan looked at him.

“You’re allowed to tell Jisung to stop touching you. You’re allowed to need space. You’re allowed to be angry that he didn’t listen.”

Chan nodded.

Minho continued, “What you can’t do is turn that into a verdict on who he is as a person.”

“I know.”

“And you can’t keep pretending you can manage everything alone until you’re so exhausted that the people around you become targets.”

Chan stared at him.

Minho held his gaze.

“When was the last time you actually took a day off?”

Chan looked down.

Minho sighed.

“Exactly.”

“I have deadlines.”

“So does everybody.”

“Minho—”

“Have you asked whether any of them can move?”

Chan didn’t answer.

Minho’s expression sharpened.

“Christopher.”

Chan rubbed his forehead.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because everybody’s busy.”

Minho stared at him.

Then laughed in disbelief.

“You are genuinely the most irritating person I know.”

Changbin looked over his shoulder.

“Agreed.”

Chan groaned.

Minho leaned forward.

“Listen. Being responsible doesn’t mean doing everything yourself. You wouldn’t let Jisung work until he made himself sick, so why are you doing it?”

Chan opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Minho watched him.

“Exactly.”

A pause.

Then Chan said, quietly, “I don’t know how to stop sometimes.”

Minho’s expression softened.

“Then start there.”

Chan looked at him.

Minho continued, “Ask for help. Tell someone you’re overwhelmed before it gets to the point where you’re snapping at people. And stop acting like taking a break is a personal failure.”

Chan stared down at his unfinished breakfast.

He’d spent days thinking about how to make things right with Jisung.

It hadn’t occurred to him that part of that might involve changing how he treated himself.

Minho stood.

“Now finish eating.”

Chan looked up.

“You’re leaving?”

“I have things to do.”

“Right.”

Minho hesitated.

Then stepped beside his chair and gently squeezed the back of his neck.

Chan froze for half a second.

Minho noticed.

His hand immediately relaxed.

“Okay?”

Chan looked up.

Then nodded.

“Yeah.”

Minho gave him one more squeeze before letting go.

“I love you, idiot.”

Chan’s eyes filled.

He laughed weakly.

“Love you too.”

Minho nodded toward his bowl.

“Finish.”

Then he left.

Changbin watched the door close.

After a moment, he looked at Chan.

“Well.”

Chan wiped his face.

“What?”

Changbin grinned.

“Congratulations. You’ve officially received the Lee Minho emotional support package.”

Chan laughed.

“Is that what that was?”

“Yeah. Insults, unsolicited life advice and one extremely uncomfortable declaration of love.”

Chan laughed harder.

Changbin smiled.

It felt good to hear.

Jisung had a comparatively ordinary afternoon.

He spent several hours working on a melody, met with Seungmin to review a recording and got into a thoroughly unnecessary argument with Hyunjin about whether a particular lyric sounded too sentimental.

For a while, he forgot about the studio incident entirely.

That was the strange thing about being hurt by somebody he loved.

The pain wasn’t constant.

Sometimes he could laugh until his stomach ached. Sometimes he’d listen to music or work on something interesting and feel perfectly normal. He still loved being around the others, still enjoyed their company and still found himself getting irritated by the same habits he’d complained about for years.

Then somebody would touch him.

Or offer to.

And everything became complicated again.

That afternoon, the problem was Seungmin.

They were sitting beside each other in a smaller recording room, listening to a vocal take through the speakers. Seungmin had one leg folded beneath him and was reading something on his phone while Jisung made notes in a notebook.

The arrangement was familiar.

They’d worked like this hundreds of times.

Jisung finished writing, set his pen down and stretched.

Then, without thinking, reached toward Seungmin’s hand.

His fingertips brushed Seungmin’s knuckles.

Jisung snatched them back.

Seungmin looked up.

Jisung stared at the notebook.

Neither spoke for a moment.

Then Seungmin said, “You know, at this rate, I’m going to start charging you for emotional damages.”

Jisung blinked.

“What?”

Seungmin held up his hand.

“You’re rejecting me. Repeatedly. It’s humiliating.”

Jisung stared.

Then laughed.

A proper laugh.

“Oh my god, Minnie.”

“I’m serious. My self-esteem is in ruins.”

“You don’t have self-esteem. You have an ego the size of the company building.”

“Exactly. Imagine how severe the damage must be.”

Jisung laughed again.

Seungmin smiled faintly.

Then returned to his phone.

He didn’t offer his hand.

Didn’t ask why Jisung had pulled away.

Didn’t look disappointed.

He simply carried on.

Jisung watched him for a moment.

Then looked down at his own fingers.

The old instinct was still there.

He wanted to reach over, catch Seungmin’s little finger and trace the familiar lines of his palm while they listened to the recording.

He could practically feel the comfort of it.

But the hesitation was there too.

Jisung rubbed his thumb against his notebook.

Seungmin glanced over.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

But instead of saying anything, he asked, “What do you think about the second harmony?”

Jisung looked up.

“Honestly?”

“Please lie to me. I love wasting time.”

Jisung grinned.

“It’s a little flat.”

Seungmin made an offended noise.

“Your face is a little flat.”

“My face is beautiful.”

“Debatable.”

They argued for several minutes.

It was normal.

Comfortable.

And somewhere in the middle of accusing Seungmin of deliberately trying to ruin the song, Jisung forgot to be careful for half a second.

He reached over and lightly tapped Seungmin’s wrist.

Then froze.

Seungmin looked down.

Jisung immediately pulled his hand away.

“Sorry.”

Seungmin looked at him.

Then at the notebook.

Then back.

“Han.”

Jisung swallowed.

“Yeah?”

“You tapped my wrist.”

Jisung nodded.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve survived.”

A small laugh escaped Jisung.

Seungmin continued, deadpan, “Barely. It was touch and go for a moment.”

Jisung laughed harder.

Seungmin’s mouth softened.

Then he returned to the recording.

He didn’t make Jisung explain himself.

That helped more than either of them realised.

Later that evening, Jisung found Minho in the living room.

He’d arrived to return a charger Jeongin had accidentally taken home, but the youngest wasn’t there, and Minho had informed him that he wasn’t leaving without eating something first.

Jisung had complained.

Minho had ignored him.

Now they were sitting on the sofa with a plate of fruit between them, watching a programme neither was particularly interested in.

Jisung sat at the far end.

Minho noticed.

He’d been noticing for days.

But after his conversation with Chan that morning, he’d begun reconsidering how to respond.

His first instinct had been to drag Jisung closer, wrap an arm around him and make it very clear that nobody in this apartment found his affection irritating.

But that would be for Minho’s benefit as much as Jisung’s.

It would make Minho feel better to have the familiar weight of Jisung against him again.

It wouldn’t necessarily make Jisung feel safe.

So Minho left him alone.

They watched television.

Argued about the programme.

Ate fruit.

At one point, Jisung laughed so hard at something Minho said that he nearly dropped a piece of apple onto the sofa.

Minho threatened to throw him out.

Jisung called him heartless.

Everything was normal.

Until the programme ended.

Minho reached for the remote.

Jisung shifted beside him.

Then stopped.

Minho looked over.

Jisung was staring at his forearm.

The one resting against the sofa.

His fingers moved slightly.

Then curled into his palm.

Minho waited.

Jisung looked up.

“Hyung?”

“Hm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

Minho set the remote down.

“Depends whether it’s stupid.”

Jisung smiled faintly.

“Probably.”

“Go on, then.”

Jisung looked down.

For several seconds, he seemed to be gathering his courage.

Then he asked, “Do you ever get annoyed when I cling to you?”

Minho’s chest tightened.

He kept his expression neutral.

“Sometimes.”

Jisung nodded quickly.

“Yeah.”

Minho watched him.

“Usually when you’re trying to steal food out of my mouth.”

Jisung laughed weakly.

“That’s different.”

“Or when I’m cooking and you attach yourself to my back like a parasite.”

“That’s affectionate.”

“That’s a workplace hazard.”

Jisung laughed.

Minho let him.

Then he continued, more gently, “Sometimes I don’t want to be touched, Sung-ah.”

Jisung looked down.

Minho watched his expression carefully.

“And when that happens, I’ll tell you.”

Jisung nodded.

“Okay.”

“But most of the time, I like having you around.”

Jisung looked up.

Minho shrugged.

“You’re warm. You’re entertaining. You’re incredibly annoying, but I’ve accepted that as a permanent medical condition.”

Jisung laughed softly.

Minho’s expression softened.

“You don’t need to stop being yourself because somebody had a bad night.”

Jisung’s smile faltered.

He looked away.

Minho gave him a moment.

Then asked, quietly, “Have you been uncomfortable with us touching you?”

Jisung looked surprised.

“What?”

“Since the argument.”

Jisung stared at him.

Minho continued, “I’ve noticed you moving away whenever somebody reaches for you. I’m not angry about it. I just want to know whether it’s something you want us to stop doing.”

Jisung’s eyes filled.

He immediately looked down.

Minho didn’t move.

For several seconds, Jisung struggled with his answer.

Then he whispered, “No.”

Minho waited.

Jisung rubbed his palms against his jeans.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

His voice was barely audible.

Minho’s chest ached.

“Okay.”

Jisung swallowed.

“I just…”

He stopped.

Minho waited.

Jisung looked at the space between them.

“I don’t know.”

The words came out miserably.

Minho’s expression softened.

“You don’t have to know right now.”

Jisung shook his head.

“I know that’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“I mean, I want people to touch me, and then when they do, I get nervous, and I don’t understand why.”

Minho listened.

Jisung rubbed his face.

“Sometimes I really want to hold somebody’s hand, but then I start thinking about whether they’re only letting me because they feel bad.”

Minho’s jaw tightened.

He kept his voice gentle.

“And that scares you?”

Jisung nodded.

Minho swallowed.

“Okay.”

Jisung looked at him.

Minho continued, “Then we’ll figure it out.”

Jisung’s mouth trembled.

“How?”

Minho considered the question.

Then shrugged.

“One day at a time?”

Jisung laughed through his tears.

“Wow. Very wise.”

“I know. I’m incredible.”

Jisung wiped his face.

Minho watched him.

Then said, “Can I tell you something?”

Jisung nodded.

“You’re allowed to be angry with Chan.”

Jisung went still.

Minho continued, “You don’t have to decide he’s a terrible person. You don’t have to stop loving him. But you are allowed to be hurt by what he said.”

Jisung looked down.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then whispered, “I know he was stressed.”

Minho nodded.

“I know.”

“He had a really bad day.”

“Yeah.”

“And I kept touching him.”

Minho watched him.

Jisung continued, voice trembling, “I kept doing it even though he asked me to stop.”

Minho nodded.

“That part was wrong.”

Jisung looked up.

Minho met his eyes.

“You should’ve listened when he said he needed space.”

Jisung swallowed.

“Yeah.”

“But that doesn’t mean everything he said afterward was okay.”

Jisung looked down again.

Minho continued, “Two things can be true, Sung-ah. You can have crossed a boundary, and Chan can have hurt you badly in response.”

Jisung’s mouth trembled.

For a moment, he looked like he might argue.

Instead, he whispered, “I know.”

Minho nodded.

Then asked, “Do you believe that?”

Jisung didn’t answer.

Minho looked at him.

Jisung was staring at his hands.

His fingers were twisting together.

Minho recognised the movement.

He’d seen it all week.

And suddenly he was so desperately sad for him that he had to look away for a moment.

Because this was Jisung.

The same boy who used to steal his hand in the middle of dinner. The same boy who would shove his cold feet beneath Minho’s thighs when they watched movies and complain when Minho threatened to bite him.

And now he was sitting beside Minho, trying to explain why he was afraid of something he’d been doing comfortably for years.

Minho took a slow breath.

Then rested his hand on the sofa between them.

Palm-up.

He didn’t say anything.

Jisung noticed immediately.

His eyes dropped.

Minho kept watching the television.

Several minutes passed.

Then Jisung whispered, “Hyung?”

“Hm?”

“Is that for me?”

Minho looked down at his hand.

Then at Jisung.

“Unless the sofa has developed fingers.”

Jisung laughed weakly.

Minho’s expression softened.

“Yeah, Sung-ah. It’s for you.”

Jisung stared.

His eyes filled.

Minho waited.

Jisung slowly lifted his hand.

Stopped.

Then whispered, “Can I?”

Minho’s chest tightened.

He kept his voice steady.

“Of course.”

Jisung looked at him.

“Really?”

Minho nodded.

“Really.”

For several seconds, Jisung didn’t move.

Then he reached forward.

His fingers touched Minho’s palm.

Tentatively.

As though he was testing whether something terrible would happen.

Minho remained still.

Jisung slowly curled his fingers around Minho’s index finger.

Not his whole hand.

Just one finger.

Minho swallowed.

Jisung stared at their hands.

Then began gently tracing the little crease across Minho’s knuckle with his thumb.

The movement was familiar.

So familiar that Minho’s chest ached.

He looked back at the television.

Pretended not to notice how Jisung’s shoulders gradually relaxed.

They sat quietly.

After a while, Jisung shifted closer.

Not all the way.

Just enough that their knees touched.

Minho didn’t move.

A few minutes later, Jisung rested his head against Minho’s shoulder.

Minho closed his eyes briefly.

Then leaned his cheek against the top of Jisung’s head.

Neither spoke.

Jisung continued playing with Minho’s finger.

Slowly.

Carefully.

And when his breathing became uneven, Minho didn’t point it out.

He simply stayed.

Eventually, Jisung whispered, “Hyung?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re sure?”

Minho looked down.

“About what?”

“This.”

Jisung lifted their joined hands slightly.

Minho swallowed.

Then answered, “Sung-ah, if I didn’t want you holding my hand, I’d tell you.”

Jisung went quiet.

Minho immediately regretted the wording.

He looked down.

Jisung was staring at their hands.

His expression had changed.

Minho sighed softly.

“Hey.”

Jisung looked up.

Minho continued, “And if I ever tell you no, it doesn’t mean I don’t love you. It just means I don’t want to be touched at that particular moment.”

Jisung swallowed.

Minho looked directly at him.

“You understand?”

A pause.

Then Jisung nodded.

“Yeah.”

Minho squeezed his fingers gently.

“And right now, I want you here.”

Jisung’s eyes filled again.

He looked down quickly.

Minho leaned his cheek against his hair.

“You’re okay, Sung-ah.”

Jisung didn’t answer.

He simply held Minho’s finger a little tighter.

And Minho, who had spent days wanting to drag his little brother back into his arms, felt something inside him finally begin to settle.

Not because everything was fixed.

It wasn’t.

But because Jisung had reached for him.

Even if it had taken courage.

Even if he’d needed to ask twice.

Even if he was still afraid.

He had reached.

And for tonight, that was enough.

Chan was finishing a conversation with their manager when Minho’s message arrived.

He’d finally asked for an extension on the song.

Not a dramatic one. Just another day to finish the revisions properly instead of forcing himself to work through another sleepless night.

Their manager had agreed without much argument.

In fact, he’d sounded vaguely confused that Chan hadn’t asked earlier.

Chan had stared at his phone afterward, wondering how many miserable hours he’d spent convincing himself that the deadline was immovable when nobody had actually told him that.

Then Minho’s message appeared.

minho: jisung’s here

Chan’s heart tightened.

Another message followed.

minho: he’s okay. we talked a little

Chan typed:

chan: is he upset?

Minho answered:

minho: sometimes. he’s allowed to be

Chan stared at the screen.

Then:

minho: he held my hand tonight

Chan stopped breathing.

He read the message twice.

His eyes filled.

For a moment, he couldn’t decide whether to feel relieved or devastated.

Relieved because Jisung had finally reached for somebody again.

Devastated because something so ordinary had become newsworthy.

Chan sat down slowly.

Then typed:

chan: that’s good

Minho replied:

minho: yeah

A pause.

Then:

minho: take care of yourself too, christopher

Chan stared at the message.

His mouth trembled.

He typed:

chan: trying

Minho answered almost immediately.

minho: good. keep trying

Chan smiled faintly through his tears.

He put his phone down.

Then turned off his computer.

For once, he didn’t reopen the session.

He didn’t check the deadline again.

He didn’t tell himself he could finish one more thing before sleeping.

He simply got up, brushed his teeth and went to bed.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

And as Chan lay beneath his blanket, he thought about the conversation he’d had with Changbin that morning.

About Minho apologising.

About Jeongin’s hurt expression.

About Jisung holding Minho’s hand.

He still felt guilty.

He suspected he would for a while.

But for the first time since the argument, he allowed himself to consider something other than how badly he’d failed.

He considered how to do better.

Not perfectly.

Not immediately.

Just better.

He wanted to learn how to tell somebody he needed space before he became overwhelmed enough to hurt them. He wanted to stop taking on work he couldn’t reasonably manage alone, wanted to trust his friends enough to admit when he was struggling.

And when Jisung was ready, he wanted to listen.

Really listen.

Even if Jisung cried.

Even if Chan felt guilty.

Even if the conversation didn’t end with forgiveness.

Because loving somebody wasn’t only about being there when they needed comfort.

Sometimes it meant making room for the things they’d been afraid to tell you.

And sometimes, Chan was beginning to understand, it meant allowing yourself to be comforted too.

At Minho’s apartment, Jisung had fallen asleep.

His head rested against Minho’s shoulder, one hand still loosely curled around his index finger. The television had been playing the same programme for nearly an hour, but Minho hadn’t paid attention to a single minute.

He was watching Jisung.

Not constantly.

Just occasionally.

Enough to notice the way his eyebrows had finally relaxed, the way he no longer seemed to be deliberately controlling where his hands rested.

Minho looked down at their joined fingers.

His chest tightened.

Then he carefully adjusted his position so Jisung’s neck wouldn’t hurt in the morning.

Jisung stirred.

His fingers loosened.

Minho waited.

For a second, Jisung’s hand fell away.

Then, still half-asleep, he reached for Minho again.

No hesitation.

No question.

Just an instinct.

A familiar hand searching for another familiar hand.

Minho swallowed.

He let Jisung find his fingers.

Then curled his hand gently around them.

“Sleep, Sung-ah,” he whispered.

Jisung made a small, contented sound and settled closer.

Minho smiled faintly.

And for the first time since the studio argument, Jisung reached for somebody without stopping to wonder whether he was allowed.

It didn’t mean tomorrow would be easy.

It didn’t mean he would suddenly feel comfortable with all seven of them again.

And it certainly didn’t mean Chan and Jisung had finished healing.

But it was a beginning.

A small one.

The kind that didn’t need an audience or a dramatic conversation.

Just a quiet room, a familiar shoulder and two people who trusted each other enough to let the silence be comfortable.

Minho lasted another twenty minutes before deciding that his neck was going to file a formal complaint.

Jisung had fallen asleep against his shoulder sometime during the second episode of a programme neither of them had been watching properly. His fingers were still loosely curled around Minho’s index finger, and every so often, he’d make a small noise in his sleep and shift closer, as though he was trying to burrow into Minho without actually moving. It would have been adorable if Minho’s left arm hadn’t gone numb approximately fifteen minutes ago.

He looked down at the younger man, considering his options.

He could wake him and send him to bed. That would certainly be the sensible thing to do, especially considering Jisung had complained about sleeping badly the previous night. Minho had perfectly good bedding, an available guest room and absolutely no reason to spend the night sacrificing his spinal health on a sofa.

On the other hand, Jisung looked comfortable.

Really comfortable.

His face had lost the careful expression he’d been wearing all week. There was no tension between his eyebrows, no uncertainty in the way his fingers rested against Minho’s hand, and no hesitation whenever he unconsciously sought a little more warmth.

Minho looked at him for another moment.

Then sighed.

“You’re such a pain in my ass, Han Jisung.”

Jisung made a faint noise.

Minho smiled despite himself. “Yeah, yeah. Love you too.”

Very carefully, he shifted his legs onto the sofa and lowered himself sideways until his back rested against the cushions. Jisung stirred when the support beneath his cheek moved, his eyebrows drawing together as he instinctively tried to follow the warmth.

“Easy, Sung-ah,” Minho murmured, slipping an arm around his back. “I’m just moving.”

Jisung gave an unintelligible grumble.

“I know. Terrible service. You should leave a review.”

Minho adjusted the cushion beneath his head, then gently guided Jisung with him until the younger man was lying almost entirely on top of his chest. Jisung’s legs settled between Minho’s and the back of the sofa, one arm falling across his middle while his cheek found a comfortable place just below Minho’s collarbone.

For a few seconds, Jisung remained half-awake, blinking slowly at the unfamiliar position.

“Hyung?”

“Hm?”

“Whassit?”

Minho looked down at him. “If you’re asking what’s happening, you’ve been promoted from shoulder accessory to full-body blanket.”

Jisung blinked again.

Then, apparently deciding that this explanation was perfectly reasonable, tucked his face against Minho’s chest.

“Mm. Warm.”

“Wonderful. I’m delighted to be useful.”

Jisung’s fingers found the front of his shirt.

He gathered a small handful of fabric, gave it an absentminded squeeze and settled his weight more completely against him.

Minho stopped talking.

He’d expected Jisung to hesitate once he realised where he was. Expected him to apologise, perhaps, or carefully rearrange himself so he wasn’t taking up too much room. That had become the pattern over the past few days, and Minho had grown to hate how easily he could recognise the moment Jisung remembered to be afraid.

But Jisung was sleepy.

Sleepy enough that he hadn’t remembered to be careful.

He simply lay there, warm and trusting, his breathing evening out against Minho’s chest.

Minho slowly rested his palm between Jisung’s shoulder blades.

The younger man made a tiny, satisfied sound.

Something in Minho’s throat tightened.

“Yeah,” he whispered, stroking his back once. “There you are.”

Jisung didn’t hear him.

Or perhaps he did, because his fingers tightened briefly in Minho’s shirt before relaxing again.

Minho looked toward the television, where two people were apparently arguing about a restaurant reservation. He had no idea who they were or why they were angry. His attention was entirely occupied by the familiar weight spread across his chest.

Jisung had always slept like this.

Not exclusively with Minho, of course. He was an equal-opportunity menace who considered all seven of them potential sleeping surfaces, provided they were warm and reasonably stationary. Changbin had once been trapped beneath him on a flight for nearly three hours. Felix frequently woke up with Jisung practically wrapped around him, and Seungmin had developed the impressive ability to operate his phone with one hand while Jisung slept holding the other.

Minho had complained about it more times than he could count.

He would probably complain about it again.

But he couldn’t remember ever genuinely wishing Jisung would stop.

He looked down and carefully brushed a stray piece of hair away from Jisung’s forehead.

“You’re allowed to be heavy, you know,” he murmured. “You’re allowed to take up room.”

Jisung slept on.

Minho settled more comfortably against the cushions and turned the television volume down.

For tonight, he could stay exactly where he was.

Jisung woke at two seventeen in the morning with his cheek pressed against something that was moving.

He was warm.

Exceptionally warm, actually, and there was a steady heartbeat beneath his ear.

For several seconds, he lay perfectly still, trying to understand why his pillow appeared to have a heartbeat.

Then somebody moved beneath him.

“You’re awake?”

Jisung’s eyes opened.

Minho was lying on his back, one arm draped around Jisung’s waist and the other resting along the sofa cushions. The television was off, the living room illuminated only by a small lamp, and Jisung was sprawled across him like an enormous, particularly affectionate cat.

Jisung’s stomach dropped.

“Oh my god.”

Minho looked down.

“What?”

Jisung immediately tried to sit up.

“Hyung, sorry, I didn’t—”

“Yah.”

Minho’s arm tightened instinctively, stopping him from accidentally elbowing the coffee table.

Jisung froze.

Minho frowned.

“Where are you going?”

“Off you?”

“Why?”

Jisung stared.

“Because I’m lying on you?”

Minho looked down at their position, as though he’d somehow failed to notice the person occupying most of his torso.

“Astounding observation.”

“Hyung.”

“What?”

“I’m heavy.”

“You’re also warm. It’s a complicated situation.”

Jisung looked genuinely distressed.

Minho’s expression softened.

“Sung-ah. I moved us.”

Jisung blinked.

“What?”

“You fell asleep on my shoulder. My arm went numb, so I lay down and moved you with me.”

Jisung looked at him.

Minho continued, “You didn’t climb on top of me in some elaborate attempt to crush my internal organs.”

A small laugh escaped Jisung before he could stop it.

“That’s oddly specific.”

“I know what you’re capable of.”

Jisung smiled faintly, but his hands were already moving toward the cushions to push himself up.

Minho noticed.

“Hey.”

Jisung looked down.

“You can stay.”

The smile disappeared.

Jisung glanced at Minho’s chest, then toward the empty space at the other end of the sofa.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“But your back—”

“Is fine.”

“Your legs?”

“Also fine.”

“What if—”

“Han Jisung.”

Jisung fell silent.

Minho looked at him with exaggerated seriousness.

“If I wanted you off me, I’d ask you to move. I put you here because you looked comfortable and I wanted to lie down. Both of those things were my decisions.”

Jisung swallowed.

Minho watched his expression carefully.

“And now I’m asking whether you’d like to stay here or sleep in the guest room. Either is fine.”

For a moment, Jisung didn’t answer.

His eyes travelled over Minho’s face, searching for something Minho wished he didn’t feel obligated to look for.

Annoyance, perhaps.

Resignation.

A sign that Minho was only saying yes because Jisung looked upset.

Then Jisung whispered, “Can I stay?”

Minho felt his chest ache.

“Of course, baby.”

Jisung’s eyes filled at the familiar endearment.

He lowered himself slowly, almost cautiously, until his cheek rested against Minho’s chest again. His hands remained awkwardly beside his own shoulders, as though he wasn’t certain what to do with them.

Minho waited.

After a moment, Jisung whispered, “Can I hold your shirt?”

Minho closed his eyes briefly.

He hadn’t expected that question to hurt so much.

“Yeah, Sung-ah. You can hold my shirt.”

Jisung gathered the fabric between his fingers.

Then, after another hesitation, slipped one arm around Minho’s middle.

Minho rested his hand against Jisung’s back.

They stayed like that for several minutes.

Eventually, Jisung asked, so quietly that Minho almost missed it, “Hyung, do you think I’m too much sometimes?”

Minho looked down.

Jisung wasn’t looking at him.

His cheek remained pressed against Minho’s chest, his fingers lightly gripping the fabric of his shirt.

Minho considered his answer.

“Sometimes you’re a lot,” he said.

Jisung’s grip loosened.

Minho felt it immediately.

“Wait. Let me finish.”

Jisung went still.

Minho continued, “Sometimes you’re loud when I’m tired. Sometimes you want to talk when I want silence. Sometimes you eat the food I was saving, and sometimes you decide that I need company when I’d actually quite like to be alone.”

Jisung swallowed.

Minho gently rubbed his back.

“And sometimes I’m impatient. Sometimes I snap at you over stupid things. Sometimes I don’t notice you’re having a bad day because I’m busy thinking about my own.”

He looked down at the younger man.

“That’s what happens when people live together and spend this much time around each other. We irritate each other. It doesn’t mean we’re secretly waiting for an excuse to get rid of one another.”

Jisung didn’t answer.

Minho continued, “You’re not too much for us, Sung-ah. Sometimes any one of us can need more than another person has to give at that moment. That’s different.”

Jisung’s fingers tightened again.

“But how do I know?”

“By letting us tell you.”

Jisung was quiet.

Minho sighed softly.

“I know. That’s difficult to trust right now.”

Jisung nodded against his chest.

Minho looked toward the dark television.

“Chan made that harder for you. I’m not going to pretend he didn’t.”

Jisung took a shaky breath.

“But I love him too,” Minho continued. “And I know he loves you. He had a terrible night, and he said terrible things. That doesn’t make those things true.”

Jisung pressed his face a little deeper into his shirt.

After a while, he whispered, “I miss him.”

Minho’s throat tightened.

“I know.”

“I saw him today.”

“Yeah?”

“We talked.”

Minho kept rubbing his back.

Jisung swallowed.

“But I still miss him.”

Minho understood.

He understood painfully well.

Because Jisung wasn’t missing Chan’s physical presence. Chan was still around. He still greeted Jisung, still worked with him, still asked whether he’d eaten and still sent him messages.

Jisung was missing the effortless part.

The part where he could walk into Chan’s studio, curl against him and feel completely certain that he was welcome.

Minho rested his cheek against Jisung’s hair.

“Give yourselves some time.”

Jisung nodded.

Then asked, after another long silence, “Are you angry with him?”

Minho considered lying.

Decided against it.

“Yeah.”

Jisung shifted slightly.

“Still?”

“A little.”

Jisung’s voice became small.

“Please don’t fight because of me.”

Minho went still.

For a second, he wondered how much Jisung knew.

Then he remembered that Jisung didn’t need to know the details of the previous evening’s confrontation to anticipate how the others might react.

He was familiar with all of them.

Their tempers.

Their protectiveness.

Their tendency to get into arguments when somebody they loved was hurting.

Minho took a careful breath.

“We had a disagreement.”

Jisung lifted his head.

“Hyung.”

Minho looked at him.

Jisung’s eyes were serious.

“Please.”

Minho’s chest tightened.

He could have promised that everything was fine.

Instead, he said, “I got angry, Sung-ah. I said some things I needed to say, and some things I probably could’ve said better.”

Jisung looked down.

Minho gently touched his shoulder.

“But that’s between Chan and me. You’re not responsible for managing our relationship.”

Jisung’s mouth trembled.

Minho continued, “And I don’t want you feeling like you have to forgive him quickly just so the rest of us stop worrying.”

Jisung stared at him.

Then, very slowly, nodded.

Minho brushed his hair back.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Now go back to sleep.”

Jisung looked at him.

“You’re not sleepy?”

“I’m having a fantastic time being used as a mattress.”

Jisung laughed quietly.

Minho smiled.

“Seriously. Sleep.”

Jisung settled against his chest again.

This time, he didn’t ask where to put his hands.

He simply wrapped both arms around Minho’s middle, rested his cheek over his heartbeat and let himself relax.

Minho stayed awake until Jisung’s breathing evened out.

Then he closed his own eyes.

He was going to have an absolutely terrible backache in the morning.

He couldn’t bring himself to care.

By eight the following morning, Minho had lost feeling in one leg.

He woke to the sound of birds outside his window and somebody breathing directly against his neck. His left shoulder ached, his lower back was stiff, and Jisung had somehow managed to twist them into a position that should have been physically impossible without professional training.

Minho stared at the ceiling.

“Fantastic.”

The person on top of him stirred.

Minho looked down.

Jisung’s hair was sticking up in several directions, his cheek was creased from sleeping against Minho’s shirt, and one of his hands had found its way beneath the back of Minho’s hoodie.

Minho raised an eyebrow.

“Excuse me.”

Jisung made a sleepy noise.

“Your hand.”

Another noise.

“Han Jisung. Why are your hands so cold?”

Jisung slowly opened one eye.

For several seconds, he looked utterly confused.

Then he seemed to remember where he was.

“Oh.”

Minho watched him.

Jisung blinked.

Then, instead of immediately scrambling away, he smiled.

A tiny, sleepy smile.

“Morning, hyung.”

Minho’s chest warmed.

“Good morning, parasite.”

Jisung laughed against his shirt.

“Rude.”

“You’ve been crushing me for approximately seven hours.”

“You put me here.”

Minho stared at him.

Jisung lifted his head, looking distinctly pleased with himself.

“Your words, not mine.”

For a moment, Minho simply looked at him.

Then he laughed.

“Wow. You’re getting brave again.”

Jisung grinned.

It was an ordinary exchange. Stupid, even. Exactly the sort of meaningless argument they’d had thousands of times before.

But Jisung hadn’t apologised.

He hadn’t looked frightened.

He hadn’t immediately moved away.

Minho felt almost embarrassingly relieved.

Then Jisung shifted his knee directly onto Minho’s thigh.

Minho yelped.

“Yah! Watch where you’re putting your bones!”

Jisung burst out laughing.

“Sorry, sorry!”

“Trying to kill me first thing in the morning?”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Get off.”

Jisung immediately went still.

Minho noticed.

The smile disappeared from Jisung’s face, replaced by a fleeting uncertainty that made Minho regret the sharpness of his tone.

He softened his expression.

“Sung-ah. I mean I need to get up because I can’t feel my leg.”

Jisung blinked.

Then laughed weakly.

“Oh.”

Minho gently patted his back.

“Not because I suddenly hate you.”

Jisung looked down.

Minho waited.

After a moment, Jisung nodded.

“Okay.”

Then he rolled off him and settled beside the cushions.

Minho sat up with a groan dramatic enough to make Jisung laugh again. He stretched his arms overhead, grimaced when his back cracked and threatened to send Jisung the medical bills.

Jisung told him to stop being ancient.

Minho threw a cushion at him.

Jisung caught it and hugged it against his chest.

Everything felt normal.

Not completely.

Not permanently.

But enough that Jisung found himself smiling while Minho shuffled toward the kitchen, complaining about the terrible sleeping habits of younger brothers who had absolutely no respect for their elders.

A few minutes later, Minho called from the kitchen.

“Han! Eggs?”

“Yes!”

“Two?”

“Three!”

“Greedy.”

“Growing boy!”

“You’re twenty-six!”

Jisung laughed.

Then got up and followed him.

He stopped beside the kitchen counter and watched Minho crack eggs into a bowl.

For a moment, he considered wrapping his arms around Minho’s waist from behind.

The urge was familiar.

Strong enough that his fingers actually lifted.

Then he remembered Minho’s explanation from the previous night.

If I don’t want to be touched, I’ll tell you.

Jisung hesitated.

“Hyung?”

Minho glanced over his shoulder.

“What?”

“Can I hug you?”

Minho looked at him.

Then at the bowl in his hands.

“Not while I’m holding raw eggs, unless your plan is to decorate both of us.”

Jisung blinked.

Then laughed.

“Okay.”

Minho turned back to the counter.

“Give me a minute.”

Jisung nodded.

He waited while Minho whisked the eggs, poured them into the pan and set the bowl aside.

Then Minho wiped his hands on a towel.

Turned.

Opened his arms.

“Come here, then.”

Jisung stared.

For a second, his face looked painfully young.

Then he stepped forward.

Minho wrapped both arms around him, pulling him close enough that Jisung’s cheek pressed against his shoulder.

Jisung sighed.

A long, quiet sound.

Minho closed his eyes.

He felt Jisung’s arms settle around his waist.

Then tighten.

They stayed like that until the eggs began making an alarming noise in the pan.

Minho pulled back.

“Breakfast is burning.”

Jisung laughed and released him immediately.

Minho turned toward the stove, muttering threats against the entire Han family.

Jisung stayed beside him.

Smiling.

And for the first time since the studio argument, he realised something important.

He’d asked.

Minho had said not yet.

Then, a minute later, Minho had said yes.

Nothing terrible had happened.

Nobody had shouted.

Nobody had accused him of making them feel guilty.

The world hadn’t ended because somebody needed a moment before giving him a hug.

Jisung looked at Minho.

“Hyung?”

“What now?”

“Thanks.”

Minho glanced over.

Then smiled faintly.

“You’re welcome, Sung-ah.”

Chan was having an unexpectedly decent morning.

He’d slept nearly seven hours, eaten breakfast with Changbin and managed to answer several work messages without immediately feeling compelled to apologise for existing.

More importantly, he’d asked for help.

The request itself had been embarrassingly simple.

He’d sent a message to the production team asking whether somebody could review the bridge arrangement with him that afternoon, explaining that he’d been staring at the same section for so long that he no longer trusted his own ears.

Nobody complained.

Nobody suggested that he was incompetent.

One person offered to handle the technical revisions, while another asked whether Chan wanted a fresh perspective on the transition.

Chan stared at the responses.

Then leaned back in his chair.

He’d made himself miserable over something that could have been partially solved by sending a three-sentence message.

It was almost funny.

Almost.

He was making coffee when Jeongin entered the kitchen.

The youngest stopped briefly when he saw him.

Chan noticed.

“Morning, Innie.”

Jeongin looked up.

“Morning, hyung.”

For a moment, the awkwardness between them felt almost tangible.

Chan put his mug down.

“Did you eat?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Jeongin opened the refrigerator.

Took out a bottle of water.

Then closed it.

He looked toward Chan again.

“Hyung.”

Chan turned.

“Yeah?”

“Are you feeling better?”

The question surprised him.

Chan smiled faintly.

“A bit.”

Jeongin nodded.

“Good.”

He started toward the door.

Then hesitated.

Chan watched him.

“Innie?”

Jeongin turned.

Chan took a breath.

“I meant what I said yesterday. I’m sorry I scared you.”

Jeongin looked down.

For several seconds, he didn’t answer.

Then he said, “I’m still upset.”

Chan nodded.

“That’s okay.”

Jeongin looked up.

Chan continued, “You don’t have to pretend you’re not.”

The youngest studied his face.

Then slowly nodded.

“Okay.”

Chan smiled faintly.

Jeongin started toward the door again.

Then stopped.

“Channie hyung?”

“Yeah?”

Jeongin looked almost embarrassed.

“I don’t hate you.”

Chan’s throat tightened.

He hadn’t realised how badly he needed to hear that.

“I know, Innie.”

Jeongin frowned.

“You look like you’re going to cry.”

Chan laughed weakly.

“Maybe I am.”

Jeongin rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be dramatic.”

Then he approached, stopped beside Chan and lightly bumped their shoulders together.

Not quite a hug.

But an invitation to closeness.

Chan smiled.

He bumped Jeongin’s shoulder back.

Jeongin stayed there for a moment.

Then said, quietly, “Just don’t do it again, okay?”

Chan looked at him.

He knew Jeongin wasn’t asking him to promise he’d never make another mistake.

That wasn’t possible.

He was asking Chan to remember what happened when anger became something cruel.

Chan nodded.

“I’m working on it.”

Jeongin watched him.

Then smiled faintly.

“Good.”

He left.

Chan stood in the kitchen holding his coffee, feeling simultaneously lighter and terribly sad.

His youngest brother still loved him.

He was still disappointed.

Both things were allowed to exist.

Chan was beginning to understand that healing didn’t require anybody to pretend otherwise.

The next group practice was the first time Jisung voluntarily sought physical affection in front of more than one member.

It happened so casually that nobody realised what they were seeing until afterward.

Changbin had been standing near the mirrors, discussing a change in the choreography with Hyunjin, when Jisung wandered over looking mildly offended.

“Bin-ah.”

Changbin turned.

“What?”

“You stole my water.”

Changbin looked down at the bottle in his hand.

Then at Jisung.

“This is mine.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It literally has my name on it.”

Jisung leaned forward.

Read the label.

Then straightened.

“…Okay, but you could’ve told me that more nicely.”

Hyunjin laughed.

Changbin stared at him.

“Do you want me to apologise for owning a water bottle?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

Jisung grinned.

Changbin shook his head and returned to the conversation.

Then he felt a light tug against his sleeve.

He looked down.

Jisung was holding the edge of his shirt between two fingers.

Not his arm.

Not his hand.

Just the fabric.

Changbin’s expression softened instinctively.

“What’s up, Hannie?”

Jisung looked at him.

Then asked, quietly enough that Hyunjin almost didn’t hear, “Can I?”

Changbin understood immediately.

His heart clenched.

“Yeah, of course.”

Jisung stepped closer.

Slid one arm around Changbin’s waist.

Then rested his forehead briefly against his shoulder.

Changbin went completely still.

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

He’d spent days watching Jisung avoid the smallest contact, and now the younger man was standing beside him, shyly asking for something Changbin had always been happy to give.

Changbin swallowed.

Then gently wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“Bad day?”

Jisung shook his head.

“Not really.”

“Then?”

Jisung shrugged against him.

“Just wanted a hug.”

Changbin’s eyes filled.

He looked toward the ceiling.

Took a breath.

Then said, with remarkable composure considering the circumstances, “Well, you’re in luck. I’m exceptionally huggable.”

Jisung laughed.

Hyunjin snorted.

“You’re built like a refrigerator.”

“An exceptionally huggable refrigerator,” Changbin corrected.

Jisung laughed harder.

Changbin smiled.

He didn’t tighten his hold unnecessarily or make a dramatic announcement about how much he’d missed this.

He simply kept talking to Hyunjin while Jisung leaned against him.

After a few minutes, Jisung released him and wandered off to find his actual water bottle.

Changbin watched him go.

Then pressed both palms against his face.

Hyunjin looked over.

“Are you crying?”

“No.”

“Bin-ah.”

“Shut up.”

Hyunjin smiled.

A small, relieved smile.

Then his own eyes filled.

Changbin pointed at him.

“Don’t you start.”

“I’m not!”

“You’re literally crying!”

“Because he’s being cute, you asshole!”

Changbin laughed despite himself.

And across the practice room, Seungmin looked up just in time to see both of them wiping their faces.

He stared.

Then sighed.

“Unbelievable. We need a group discount on therapy.”

Chan witnessed the next small victory himself.

Practice had finished, and everyone was gathering their belongings when Jisung sat beside Felix on the floor. The younger man was showing him something on his phone, laughing as Felix tried to understand the joke.

Then Felix reached across him to pick up his bag.

Jisung caught his wrist.

Automatically.

Without asking.

Both of them paused.

Jisung looked down.

His fingers loosened.

Chan felt his stomach tighten.

He knew what was coming.

The apology.

The retreat.

But Felix simply looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, Sungie?”

Jisung hesitated.

Then smiled.

“Your bracelet’s coming loose.”

Felix looked down.

“Oh.”

Jisung carefully adjusted the clasp.

His fingers were steady.

Felix watched him work.

Then grinned.

“Thank you.”

Jisung nodded, gave his wrist a playful shake and released him.

That was it.

No dramatic conversation.

No tears.

Just Jisung holding Felix’s wrist for a perfectly ordinary reason and looking comfortable while doing it.

Chan felt warmth bloom in his chest.

Then something sharper.

Because he missed it.

He missed Jisung reaching for him.

He missed the familiar weight against his shoulder, the absentminded fingers tracing patterns along his palm while they worked, the way Jisung would sometimes lean against him so heavily that Chan had to remind him they were supposed to be writing music.

He missed those things terribly.

But watching Jisung laugh with Felix, Chan felt something else too.

Relief.

Even if Jisung never became quite as physically affectionate with him again, Chan wanted him to feel safe with the others.

He wanted Jisung happy.

That had to matter more than Chan’s desire to be forgiven.

He looked away before anybody noticed his expression.

Unfortunately, Minho noticed anyway.

He approached quietly.

“Hey.”

Chan looked up.

“Hey.”

Minho followed his gaze toward Felix and Jisung.

Then looked back.

“Doing okay?”

Chan considered the question.

This time, he didn’t say yes automatically.

“Better than yesterday.”

Minho nodded.

“Good.”

Chan glanced toward Jisung again.

“He’s getting better.”

“A little.”

Chan swallowed.

“That’s good.”

Minho watched him.

Then asked, “And you?”

Chan gave a tired smile.

“Trying.”

Minho nodded.

“Keep doing that.”

Chan looked at him.

Minho’s expression softened.

“And stop staring at him like a divorced man watching his ex get married.”

Chan laughed so suddenly that he nearly choked.

“Minho!”

“What?”

“That’s horrible!”

“It’s accurate.”

Chan shook his head, still laughing.

Minho smiled.

Then squeezed his shoulder.

“Come on. We’re getting dinner.”

Chan blinked.

“We?”

“All of us. Unless you’re planning to spend another evening in your studio communing with your computer.”

Chan looked toward the others.

Jisung was still sitting beside Felix.

Laughing.

Chan hesitated.

“I don’t want to make things awkward.”

Minho looked at him.

“Christopher. You’re a member of this group.”

Chan swallowed.

Minho continued, “You don’t have to disappear to make everyone else comfortable. Just be considerate.”

Chan looked down.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

Minho smiled faintly.

“Good. And you’re paying.”

Chan stared.

“What?”

“Emotional distress compensation.”

“That’s not how that works!”

“Talk to my lawyer.”

Chan laughed.

For the first time in days, the prospect of spending an evening with everyone didn’t make his stomach hurt.

Dinner was messy, loud and only slightly uncomfortable.

Which, considering everything that had happened, was probably the best anybody could reasonably hope for.

Hyunjin complained about his food arriving later than everyone else’s. Jeongin accused Changbin of stealing from his plate. Felix laughed until he nearly spilled his drink, and Seungmin announced that he was surrounded by people who apparently hadn’t progressed beyond kindergarten.

Jisung sat between Felix and Jeongin.

Chan sat across from him.

At first, the arrangement made Jisung nervous.

He could feel Chan’s presence even when he wasn’t looking directly at him, and every so often he’d catch the older man glancing toward him with an expression he couldn’t quite interpret.

Concern.

Regret.

Something else.

Jisung tried not to think about it.

He concentrated on dinner.

Joined the arguments.

Laughed at Hyunjin’s increasingly ridiculous complaints.

Halfway through the meal, Jeongin rested his elbow against Jisung’s.

Jisung looked down.

Then back at him.

Jeongin raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Jeongin returned to eating.

A minute later, Jisung gently hooked his little finger around Jeongin’s.

Jeongin paused.

Looked down.

Then deliberately continued eating with his other hand.

No questions.

No dramatic reaction.

Jisung smiled.

Across the table, Chan noticed.

His chest tightened.

Then, when Jisung looked up and their eyes met, Chan smiled back.

Not sadly.

Not apologetically.

Just warmly.

Jisung looked surprised.

Then returned the smile.

It was small.

A little hesitant.

But real.

Chan looked back at his food before he could ruin the moment by making it into something bigger.

Later, while the others were arguing over dessert, Jisung found himself beside Chan near the restaurant’s entrance.

It wasn’t planned.

Chan had stepped outside to answer a work message, and Jisung had come to retrieve his jacket from the bench. The others were still inside, loudly accusing Changbin of ordering enough dessert for a small army.

For a few seconds, neither spoke.

Then Chan put his phone away.

“Hey, Ji.”

Jisung looked up.

“Hi, hyung.”

Chan nodded toward the restaurant.

“Having fun?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Another silence.

Not unbearable.

Just unfamiliar.

Jisung adjusted his jacket.

Chan watched him.

Then said, “I asked for help with the arrangement yesterday.”

Jisung blinked.

“What?”

“The song. I finally asked somebody else to look at the bridge.”

Jisung’s expression brightened.

“Oh! How’d it go?”

“Pretty well, actually.”

Chan laughed faintly.

“Apparently, I was making it more complicated than it needed to be.”

Jisung grinned.

“That does sound like you.”

Chan laughed.

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

For a moment, it felt like before.

The familiar banter.

The easy rhythm.

Chan’s smile.

Jisung’s answering grin.

Then the silence returned.

Jisung looked down.

Chan took a breath.

“Sung-ah.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking about something.”

Jisung’s shoulders tightened slightly.

Chan noticed.

He kept his voice gentle.

“You don’t have to talk about what happened tonight. I just wanted to say that I’m working on being better about telling people when I’m overwhelmed.”

Jisung looked up.

Chan continued, “Not just with you. With everyone. I’ve been taking on too much and acting like I can handle it all, and that’s been making me pretty miserable.”

Jisung listened.

“I don’t want to become somebody who only admits he needs help after he’s already hurt somebody.”

Jisung swallowed.

Chan gave him a small smile.

“That’s something I need to work on regardless of whether you’re ready to forgive me.”

Jisung stared at him.

Then said, quietly, “I already forgave you, hyung.”

Chan’s expression changed.

Jisung looked down.

“I wasn’t trying to punish you.”

“I know.”

“I just…”

He stopped.

Chan waited.

Jisung rubbed his thumb against the seam of his jacket.

“I still get nervous sometimes.”

Chan swallowed.

“Yeah.”

“Even when I know you don’t mean it.”

Chan’s eyes filled slightly.

He nodded.

“I understand.”

Jisung looked up.

Then asked, in a voice so small that Chan almost missed it, “Are you sad because I don’t touch you anymore?”

Chan went still.

He considered lying.

Considered reassuring Jisung that everything was fine, that he wasn’t bothered at all and that the younger man didn’t need to think about it.

But he’d spent years encouraging Jisung to be honest with him.

It seemed unfair not to offer the same in return.

So he took a breath.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

Jisung’s expression crumpled.

Chan immediately continued, “But that’s not your responsibility to fix.”

Jisung looked at him.

Chan gave a small, sad smile.

“I miss you, Sungie. I miss having you around the studio. I miss you stealing my hand when I’m trying to work.”

Jisung’s eyes filled.

Chan swallowed.

“But I don’t want you touching me because you feel guilty. I don’t want you forcing yourself to be comfortable just because I’m sad.”

Jisung looked down.

Chan continued, “I want you to feel safe with me again. And if that takes time, that’s okay.”

For several seconds, Jisung didn’t speak.

Then he whispered, “I miss you too.”

Chan’s throat tightened.

“I know.”

Jisung looked up.

His eyes were shining.

“I don’t know how to make it normal again.”

Chan shook his head.

“Neither do I.”

Jisung gave a small, startled laugh.

Chan smiled faintly.

“But maybe we don’t have to figure it out all at once.”

Jisung considered that.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

The restaurant door opened behind them.

Hyunjin stuck his head out.

“Are you two seriously having a secret meeting while they’re bringing out dessert?”

Jisung blinked.

Then laughed.

Chan looked over.

“Hyunjin-ah.”

“No! Absolutely not! We ordered three things, and Changbin is already trying to steal from mine!”

Jisung laughed harder.

Hyunjin pointed dramatically toward the dining area.

“Come back and defend me!”

Jisung shook his head.

“You’re hopeless.”

“And yet you love me.”

Jisung smiled.

“Unfortunately.”

He started toward the door.

Then stopped.

Turned back.

Chan looked at him.

“Yeah?”

Jisung hesitated.

His fingers moved slightly at his sides.

For a moment, Chan thought he might reach for him.

His heart gave an uncomfortable little leap.

But Jisung didn’t.

Instead, he smiled.

“Thanks for telling me about the song, hyung.”

Chan swallowed.

“Of course, Ji.”

Jisung nodded.

Then followed Hyunjin inside.

Chan remained outside for another moment.

He looked down at his hands.

Empty.

Still.

Then he took a breath and went back to dinner.

It had been a good conversation.

Not because Jisung had reached for him.

Not because everything was fixed.

But because they’d managed to be honest with each other without anybody getting hurt.

That mattered.

More than Chan had realised.

When they left the restaurant, Jisung walked beside Minho.

It was late, and the pavement was crowded enough that the members had naturally split into smaller groups. Felix and Hyunjin were arguing ahead of them, Changbin was trying to convince Jeongin to share the dessert he’d packed for later, and Seungmin was walking beside Chan, complaining about something on his phone.

Jisung listened to Minho talk about an upcoming schedule.

Then, without thinking, reached for his hand.

His fingers found Minho’s.

Curled around them.

Minho continued talking.

For several steps, Jisung didn’t notice what he’d done.

Then he looked down.

Stopped.

Minho looked at him.

“What?”

Jisung stared at their hands.

His mouth opened.

Then closed.

Minho waited.

A moment later, Jisung slowly looked up.

“Is this okay?”

Minho smiled.

“Yeah, Sung-ah.”

Jisung looked back at their joined fingers.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

He didn’t let go.

A few metres ahead, Seungmin glanced over his shoulder.

He noticed.

Then smiled faintly and returned to his conversation with Chan.

Chan followed his gaze.

For a second, his expression softened painfully.

Then Seungmin nudged his arm.

“Hyung.”

Chan looked over.

“What?”

“Stop looking like somebody stole your lunch.”

Chan laughed.

“Seungminnie.”

“I’m serious. You’re embarrassing.”

Chan shook his head.

Seungmin smiled.

Then continued walking beside him.

And Chan, who had spent so many days feeling as though he’d irreparably damaged something precious, looked at his brothers ahead of him and allowed himself a little hope.

Jisung was still learning that he could reach for people.

Chan was learning that needing space didn’t make him selfish, and making a mistake didn’t make him unworthy of love.

Neither of them was finished.

But that evening, surrounded by the seven people who knew them best, they were both allowed to be imperfect.

To be hurt.

To be loved.

And to find their way back toward each other at their own pace.

The problem with Han Jisung becoming comfortable again, Minho discovered, was that Han Jisung had absolutely no sense of moderation.

It started on a Saturday morning, when Jisung arrived at his apartment carrying a convenience-store bag and the expression of someone who had been personally wronged by the universe. Minho had barely opened the door before Jisung shoved the bag into his hands, kicked off his shoes and announced that he was starving.

Minho stared at the bag.

Inside were two cartons of strawberry milk, a packet of jelly sweets, three chocolate bars and what appeared to be a single banana.

“Where’s the actual food?”

Jisung blinked at him. “What?”

“You said you brought breakfast.”

“I brought breakfast ingredients.”

Minho slowly lifted the banana. “And what exactly am I supposed to make with this?”

“Something delicious?”

“Han Jisung.”

“Lee Minho.”

They stared at each other for several seconds before Jisung broke into a grin. Minho sighed, stepped aside and allowed him inside, already mentally calculating how many eggs were left in the refrigerator.

Jisung followed him into the kitchen, talking about an argument he’d had with Seungmin that morning concerning whether cereal counted as soup. Apparently, Seungmin had insisted that Jisung was an idiot, which Jisung considered a deeply unsatisfactory contribution to a perfectly reasonable philosophical discussion.

Minho listened while preparing breakfast, occasionally offering an insult of his own.

Then, halfway through explaining why Seungmin was intellectually bankrupt, Jisung stopped talking.

Minho felt a familiar tug at the hem of his shirt.

He looked down.

Jisung was standing beside him, holding the fabric between two fingers.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Jisung looked up.

“Hyung?”

“Hm?”

“Are your hands busy?”

Minho glanced at the spatula he was holding. “I’m making your breakfast, you ungrateful creature.”

“Oh.” Jisung nodded. “Okay.”

His fingers loosened.

Minho watched him step away, apparently intending to sit at the counter.

“Yah, Han.”

Jisung turned.

“What?”

Minho transferred the eggs onto a plate, turned off the stove and set the spatula aside. Then he wiped his hands on a towel and held one out.

“Come here.”

Jisung looked at his hand.

His face brightened so quickly that Minho felt an almost ridiculous surge of affection.

“Really?”

“No, I’m practising my royal wave.”

Jisung laughed and crossed the kitchen.

He slipped his fingers between Minho’s, immediately beginning to play with them.

Minho looked down.

“You’re going to stretch my fingers out.”

“They’re already long.”

“Because I haven’t been letting you damage them lately.”

Jisung grinned.

Then, without thinking, pressed himself against Minho’s side.

Minho glanced down.

Jisung’s head was resting against his shoulder, his fingers occupied with Minho’s hand while he continued explaining why cereal should absolutely be considered soup.

Minho listened for nearly two minutes before interrupting.

“Jisung-ah.”

“Hm?”

“You’re an idiot.”

Jisung burst out laughing.

And Minho, who had spent the better part of a week worrying about whether his little brother would ever feel comfortable enough to be ridiculous around him again, smiled into his hair.

By lunchtime, the others had invaded.

Felix arrived first, carrying ingredients for brownies and insisting that Minho’s oven was better than the one at the dorm. Hyunjin followed with three shopping bags despite claiming he wasn’t planning to stay long, and Jeongin appeared fifteen minutes later with a phone charger and absolutely no intention of returning it to Jisung without receiving some form of compensation.

Seungmin brought drinks.

Changbin brought himself.

Minho considered both contributions equally unnecessary.

“Why are there seven people in my apartment?” he asked as Changbin deposited himself on the sofa.

Changbin looked around. “Because you love us?”

“Incorrect.”

“Because we’re handsome?”

“Even more incorrect.”

Hyunjin appeared from the kitchen. “I’m handsome.”

Minho pointed toward the door.

“Out.”

Hyunjin gasped dramatically, clutching his chest as though Minho had wounded him.

Jisung, meanwhile, was sitting beside Changbin on the sofa, watching the exchange with a delighted grin.

Then Changbin stretched an arm along the backrest.

Jisung looked at it.

For a moment, he hesitated.

Changbin noticed.

He glanced down at him.

“What?”

Jisung smiled sheepishly.

“Nothing.”

Changbin studied his face.

Then shifted his arm slightly.

“Come here, Hannie.”

Jisung blinked.

Changbin raised an eyebrow.

“What, do I need to submit an application now?”

Jisung laughed.

“No.”

“Then come here.”

Jisung moved closer.

Changbin’s arm settled around his shoulders, and Jisung immediately tucked himself against his side.

The movement was so natural that neither needed to think about it.

Changbin continued talking to Jeongin about something on his phone while Jisung started absentmindedly examining his free hand.

He bent Changbin’s index finger.

Straightened it.

Rubbed his thumb across the knuckle.

Then turned the hand over to inspect his palm.

Changbin glanced down.

“What are you looking for?”

“Secrets.”

“In my hand?”

“Yes.”

Changbin snorted.

“Find anything interesting?”

Jisung considered the question.

Then nodded solemnly.

“Your future looks bleak.”

Jeongin laughed.

Changbin stared at him.

“That’s it. Get off.”

Jisung immediately loosened his hold.

Changbin caught the movement.

His expression changed.

Then he gently pulled Jisung back against him.

“Yah. I’m kidding.”

Jisung looked up.

Changbin gave him a small smile.

“I’m not actually kicking you out.”

Jisung blinked.

Then grinned.

“Good. You’re comfortable.”

“Obviously.”

“Like a very muscular sofa.”

Changbin looked offended.

“Do you know how much effort goes into looking like this?”

Jisung patted his chest.

“Excellent upholstery.”

Jeongin nearly choked on his drink.

Changbin threatened to throw both of them out the window.

Jisung laughed so hard he ended up folding against Changbin’s shoulder, his fingers still wrapped around the older man’s hand.

Changbin looked down.

Then rested his cheek briefly against Jisung’s hair.

He didn’t mention how much he’d missed this.

He simply let the boy laugh.

Felix finished preparing the brownie batter shortly afterward.

He emerged from the kitchen holding a spatula and looking personally offended.

“Who ate the chocolate chips?”

Five heads turned toward Jisung.

Jisung stared.

“What?”

Hyunjin pointed at him.

“You have chocolate on your mouth.”

Jisung immediately wiped his lips.

The room erupted.

“YOU IDIOT!” Hyunjin shouted.

Jisung burst out laughing, nearly falling off the sofa.

Felix looked betrayed.

“Sungie!”

“I was hungry!”

“I was using those!”

“There were so many!”

“They were measured!”

Jisung looked toward Minho.

“Hyung, save me.”

Minho didn’t even look up from his phone.

“You deserve whatever happens next.”

Felix approached the sofa with the spatula still in his hand.

Jisung immediately abandoned Changbin and launched himself toward Seungmin, who had been sitting at the opposite end.

“Minnie! Protect me!”

Seungmin made a startled noise as Jisung practically climbed into his lap.

“Yah! What the hell?”

“Yongbok is attacking me!”

“I’m holding a spatula!” Felix protested.

“A weapon!”

“You ate my ingredients!”

“Allegedly!”

Seungmin stared at the younger man currently using him as a human shield.

Then looked toward Felix.

“You can have him.”

Jisung gasped.

“Betrayal!”

“Take him. He’s annoying.”

Felix laughed.

Jisung turned toward Seungmin with an expression of profound disappointment.

After a moment, he poked his cheek.

“You’re supposed to love me.”

Seungmin raised an eyebrow.

“Unfortunately, I do.”

Jisung grinned.

Then, almost absentmindedly, caught Seungmin’s hand.

His fingers settled around Seungmin’s thumb.

The argument continued.

Felix threatened to ban Jisung from the kitchen. Hyunjin announced that the brownies were probably ruined anyway, which earned him an offended shout from Felix. Minho complained about everybody being too loud, and Changbin began defending the nutritional benefits of chocolate chips for reasons nobody understood.

Through all of it, Jisung remained half-sprawled across Seungmin.

Playing with his fingers.

Leaning against his chest.

Laughing whenever somebody said something stupid.

Seungmin looked down at their hands.

Then at Jisung.

A smile tugged at his mouth.

He didn’t say anything.

He simply shifted his legs so Jisung would be more comfortable.

A few minutes later, Jisung lifted Seungmin’s hand and pressed their palms together.

“Minnie.”

“What?”

“My hands are smaller.”

“Congratulations on discovering anatomy.”

Jisung ignored him.

He spread his fingers, comparing the lengths.

“Your fingers are really long.”

Seungmin glanced down.

“Yeah.”

Jisung examined his hand with great seriousness.

Then said, “Pretty.”

Seungmin paused.

“What?”

“Your hands.”

Jisung looked up.

“They’re pretty.”

Seungmin stared at him.

For a moment, his expression softened so much that Jisung almost missed it.

Then Seungmin flicked his forehead.

“Stop flirting with my hands, weirdo.”

Jisung yelped.

“OW!”

“Pervert.”

“I’m appreciating art!”

“Appreciate it from a distance.”

Jisung laughed.

But he didn’t let go.

And Seungmin made absolutely no effort to retrieve his hand.

Chan arrived just before the brownies came out of the oven.

He stood in the doorway holding a bag of drinks, looking slightly surprised by the noise coming from inside the apartment.

Minho appeared from the kitchen.

“You’re late.”

Chan blinked.

“I thought you said two?”

“It’s two-twenty.”

“Minho-ya.”

“Unacceptable.”

Chan laughed.

Then looked past him.

Jisung was lying sideways across Seungmin and Changbin, his head resting on Seungmin’s thigh while Changbin had apparently been recruited to hold his feet.

Hyunjin was arguing with Jeongin about what to watch.

Felix stood near the oven.

Everything looked chaotic.

Warm.

Familiar.

Chan’s chest tightened.

Then Jisung noticed him.

“Channie hyung!”

Chan looked up.

Jisung smiled.

A proper smile.

“You’re here!”

Chan felt something inside him ease.

“Yeah, Ji. Sorry I’m late.”

“It’s okay!”

Then Jisung looked toward the bag in his hand.

“Did you bring drinks?”

Chan raised an eyebrow.

“Nice to see you too.”

Jisung grinned.

“Love you!”

Chan laughed.

“Love you too, mate.”

It was a small exchange.

Nothing particularly extraordinary.

But Seungmin noticed Chan’s expression afterward.

The brief surprise.

The relief.

The way his shoulders seemed to relax at hearing Jisung say those words so casually.

Seungmin looked down at Jisung, who had resumed drawing invisible shapes against his palm.

Then he looked back at Chan.

“Hyung.”

Chan turned.

“Yeah?”

“Come sit.”

Chan glanced around.

“Where?”

Seungmin looked at Jisung.

Then toward the available armchair.

“Over there. Before Minho starts charging admission.”

Minho shouted from the kitchen that he was already considering it.

Chan laughed and sat.

Jisung glanced over.

For a second, their eyes met.

Then Jisung lifted his free hand.

A little wave.

Chan returned it.

Neither made a big deal out of it.

And somehow, that felt good.

The afternoon deteriorated into complete nonsense.

Hyunjin insisted they play a card game, then accused everybody of cheating when he lost. Jeongin claimed he had no idea how the game worked and proceeded to win three rounds in a row. Changbin demanded a rematch, which Minho refused on the grounds that Changbin was being too loud.

Jisung laughed through most of it.

He started out sitting between Felix and Seungmin.

Then migrated to Changbin when the older man began complaining about his terrible luck.

Eventually, he ended up on the floor beside Jeongin, leaning against his leg while trying to explain a strategy that Jeongin was absolutely certain didn’t exist.

“Hyung.”

Jisung looked up.

“What?”

“You’re making things up.”

“I’m strategising.”

“You’re cheating.”

“That’s a serious accusation.”

Jeongin looked down at him.

Then smiled.

“Your head’s heavy.”

Jisung froze.

The words were ordinary.

Jeongin had said things like that a hundred times before.

But for a moment, Jisung’s expression changed.

He immediately straightened.

“Sorry.”

Jeongin blinked.

Then realised what had happened.

“Hyung.”

Jisung looked away.

Jeongin sighed.

“I didn’t say move.”

Jisung hesitated.

Jeongin adjusted his position.

“Come back.”

Jisung looked at him.

“What?”

“My leg’s cold now.”

Jisung stared.

Then laughed.

“You’re so weird.”

Jeongin shrugged.

“Runs in the family.”

Jisung smiled.

Then slowly leaned back against him.

Jeongin continued playing cards.

A moment later, he rested one hand lightly on Jisung’s head.

Jisung looked up.

Jeongin raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Jisung smiled.

Then returned to the game.

Jeongin gently ruffled his hair.

Across the room, Chan watched.

His expression softened.

Minho, sitting beside him, followed his gaze.

Then quietly nudged his knee.

“He’s doing better.”

Chan nodded.

“Yeah.”

Minho looked at him.

“So are you.”

Chan smiled faintly.

“Trying.”

Minho gave his shoulder a brief squeeze.

“Good.”

It was later, after dinner and another argument over what to watch, that Jisung found himself sitting beside Chan.

Not deliberately.

At least, that was what he told himself.

The others had gradually redistributed themselves around the living room. Hyunjin occupied the floor with Felix, Changbin and Jeongin were sharing the larger sofa, and Seungmin had claimed the armchair with the confidence of someone who paid absolutely none of the rent.

Chan was sitting at the opposite end of the smaller sofa.

There was space beside him.

Jisung looked at it.

Then at Chan.

Chan was checking something on his phone.

He looked relaxed.

Not the exhausted, tense Chan from the studio.

His shoulders weren’t drawn upward, and he wasn’t rubbing his forehead every few minutes.

Jisung hesitated.

Then approached.

“Hyung?”

Chan looked up.

“Yeah?”

“Can I sit?”

Chan blinked.

Then immediately shifted.

“Of course.”

Jisung sat.

At first, he left a comfortable space between them.

Chan noticed.

He didn’t comment.

They watched the television for several minutes.

Then Jisung shifted closer.

Just a little.

Chan kept his eyes on the screen.

Another few minutes passed.

Jisung looked down at Chan’s hand.

It was resting beside his thigh.

The familiar hand.

The one he’d held countless times in the studio.

The one he’d been afraid to touch since that night.

He stared at it for so long that Chan eventually noticed.

“Sungie?”

Jisung looked up.

“Hm?”

“You okay?”

Jisung nodded.

“Yeah.”

Chan studied his face.

Then smiled faintly.

“Good.”

He returned his attention to the television.

Jisung looked at the hand again.

His fingers moved.

Stopped.

Moved again.

Finally, he whispered, “Hyung?”

Chan turned immediately.

“Yeah?”

Jisung swallowed.

“Are you busy?”

Chan looked at the television.

Then at his phone.

Then back at Jisung.

“No, mate.”

Jisung nodded.

Another pause.

Then he asked, so quietly that Chan almost missed it, “Can I hold your hand?”

Chan went still.

For a second, he couldn’t answer.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he’d imagined this moment so many times that actually hearing the question felt almost unreal.

Jisung noticed his hesitation.

His expression changed.

“Oh. It’s okay. You don’t have to—”

“Ji.”

Jisung stopped.

Chan put his phone down.

Then turned toward him properly.

“Yes.”

Jisung blinked.

Chan smiled.

“Of course you can.”

Jisung stared at him.

Then slowly reached forward.

His fingertips brushed Chan’s.

He hesitated.

Chan remained still.

Jisung’s fingers curled gently around his index finger.

A familiar touch.

Light.

Warm.

Careful.

Chan swallowed.

Jisung looked down.

Then began tracing the crease across Chan’s knuckle with his thumb.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Chan felt his eyes sting.

He looked toward the television before Jisung could notice.

Jisung continued playing with his hand.

Bending his fingers.

Straightening them.

Comparing their lengths.

After a while, he shifted closer.

Their shoulders touched.

Chan let out a slow breath.

Jisung looked up.

“Hyung?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

Chan turned.

Jisung was watching him with quiet concern.

Chan considered the question.

Then smiled.

“Yeah, Sungie.”

Jisung looked down.

Chan continued, gently, “I’m really happy you’re here.”

Jisung’s mouth trembled.

Then he smiled too.

“Me too.”

They sat quietly.

For a while, it was enough.

Then Jisung spoke again.

“Channie hyung?”

“Hm?”

“Can I lean on you?”

Chan closed his eyes briefly.

Then opened them.

“Yeah, mate.”

Jisung shifted.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Until his head rested against Chan’s shoulder.

Chan felt the weight settle.

It was so familiar that something in his chest ached.

He turned his head slightly.

Rested his cheek against Jisung’s hair.

And whispered, “Comfortable?”

Jisung nodded.

“Yeah.”

Chan smiled.

“Good.”

A few minutes later, Jisung asked, “You’re sure I’m not bothering you?”

Chan looked down.

Then answered, “I’m sure.”

Jisung considered that.

Chan continued, “And if I need my hand back, I’ll ask.”

Jisung nodded.

“Okay.”

“And if I need space, I’ll tell you without being cruel about it.”

Jisung’s fingers tightened slightly.

Chan swallowed.

“I promise I’ll try to do that properly.”

Jisung looked up.

For a moment, his eyes shone.

Then he nodded.

“Okay, hyung.”

Chan smiled faintly.

Jisung settled against his shoulder again.

And this time, he didn’t apologise.

They lasted nearly forty minutes before somebody noticed.

Naturally, it was Hyunjin.

He had been sitting on the floor, arguing with Felix about the ending of the movie, when he glanced toward the smaller sofa.

Then stopped.

Chan was sitting with one arm resting comfortably behind Jisung, who had curled against his side and was quietly playing with his fingers.

Hyunjin stared.

Felix followed his gaze.

Then smiled.

A very small smile.

Hyunjin’s mouth opened.

Felix immediately grabbed his wrist.

“Don’t.”

Hyunjin turned toward him.

“But—”

“Don’t.”

Hyunjin looked personally wounded.

Felix shook his head.

“Let them be.”

Hyunjin glanced toward the sofa again.

His eyes filled.

Felix sighed.

“Oh, Hyunjinnie.”

“I’m not crying.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Good.”

Felix smiled.

Hyunjin wiped his face.

Then whispered, “They’re so cute.”

Felix laughed quietly.

“Yeah.”

Across the room, Seungmin noticed the commotion.

He followed their gaze.

Then leaned back in his chair with a satisfied little smile.

“Finally.”

Minho looked over.

Saw Chan and Jisung.

Then returned to his phone.

“Good.”

Changbin glanced up.

His expression softened.

Jeongin looked too.

Then smiled.

Nobody said anything else.

Not because they weren’t happy.

They were.

Terribly happy.

But Jisung had spent days feeling as though everybody was watching how much affection he gave and received.

They weren’t about to turn his first comfortable evening with Chan into a public event.

So they let him be.

They let him sit beside his hyung.

Let him play with his fingers.

Let him lean against his shoulder.

And let Chan quietly enjoy having his little brother back within reach.

By the time the movie ended, Jisung was asleep.

His head had slipped from Chan’s shoulder to his chest, and his fingers were still loosely curled around Chan’s hand.

Chan looked down.

Then smiled.

He brushed a stray piece of hair away from Jisung’s forehead.

Jisung stirred.

Made a tiny noise.

Then pressed closer.

Chan’s chest warmed.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

No answer.

Chan chuckled.

He looked toward Minho.

“Should I wake him?”

Minho glanced over.

“Why?”

“He’ll get a stiff neck.”

Minho considered the position.

Then shrugged.

“Move him.”

Chan looked down.

Jisung was practically folded against his side.

Moving him without waking him would be difficult.

Still, Chan carefully shifted his arm beneath Jisung’s shoulders.

“Sungie.”

Jisung made an offended noise.

Chan smiled.

“Come on, mate. Lie down properly.”

Jisung blinked sleepily.

“Mm?”

“You’re going to hurt your neck.”

Jisung frowned.

Then, apparently deciding that moving was entirely unacceptable, wrapped an arm around Chan’s waist.

Chan laughed softly.

“Ji.”

“No.”

The answer was muffled against his shirt.

Chan raised an eyebrow.

“No?”

Jisung shook his head.

“Comfy.”

Chan looked toward Minho.

Minho was grinning.

“Congratulations. You’ve been selected.”

Chan laughed.

“Thanks.”

“Very prestigious honour.”

Seungmin looked over.

“Don’t encourage him.”

Changbin snorted.

“You’re just jealous.”

“Of being crushed by Han Jisung? Absolutely not.”

Jisung lifted his head just enough to glare at him.

“Mean.”

Seungmin smiled.

“Love you too.”

Jisung considered that.

Then extended one arm toward him.

“Hand.”

Seungmin stared.

“What?”

“Give.”

Seungmin looked toward Chan.

Then back at Jisung.

“You’re literally lying on another person.”

Jisung blinked sleepily.

“Multitasking.”

The room erupted into laughter.

Seungmin shook his head.

“Unbelievable.”

But he got up.

Crossed the room.

And offered his hand.

Jisung caught two of his fingers.

Smiled.

Then settled against Chan again.

Seungmin stared down at him.

“You’re ridiculous.”

Jisung hummed contentedly.

Chan laughed.

“He’s comfortable.”

“He’s spoiled.”

Minho, from the armchair, snorted.

“By whom, exactly?”

Seven people looked at one another.

Then, almost simultaneously, began pointing at somebody else.

Hyunjin accused Felix.

Felix accused Changbin.

Changbin blamed Chan.

Chan pointed at Minho.

Minho blamed Seungmin.

Seungmin pointed directly at Jisung.

Jeongin announced that everybody was guilty.

Jisung, meanwhile, opened one eye.

Looked around.

Then smiled.

“Love you guys.”

The room went quiet for half a second.

Then Hyunjin groaned.

“Oh, you manipulative little—”

He stopped.

Immediately.

The wrong word hung in the air.

Nobody moved.

Jisung’s smile faded.

Chan felt his body stiffen.

Hyunjin’s face drained.

“Oh, Sungie, I didn’t mean—”

Jisung looked at him.

Then, after a second, sighed.

“Hyunjin-ah.”

Hyunjin looked ready to cry.

“Yeah?”

Jisung raised an eyebrow.

“You’re ruining my cuddle time.”

For a moment, Hyunjin simply stared.

Then Jisung smiled.

A little shaky.

But genuine.

Hyunjin’s expression crumpled with relief.

“You little shit.”

Jisung laughed.

Seungmin squeezed his fingers gently.

Chan looked down at him.

“Okay?”

Jisung considered the question.

Then nodded.

“Yeah.”

Chan smiled.

“Good.”

Hyunjin rubbed his face.

Then pointed at Jisung.

“You’re still annoying.”

Jisung grinned.

“Love you too, Hyunjinnie.”

Hyunjin threw a cushion at him.

Chan caught it before it hit Jisung’s head.

Minho threatened to evict everybody.

Changbin started laughing again.

Felix went to retrieve the last of the brownies.

And Jeongin announced that if everyone was staying, somebody needed to order more food.

The evening continued.

Loud.

Messy.

Ridiculous.

Exactly as it should have been.

And Jisung remained curled against Chan, holding Seungmin’s fingers while occasionally kicking Changbin’s leg whenever the older man said something stupid.

He wasn’t completely healed.

Some moments still made him nervous. Some words still hurt, and there were times when he had to remind himself that needing comfort didn’t make him difficult to love.

Chan was healing too.

He was learning to say when he was tired, to ask for help before exhaustion became resentment and to accept that being loved didn’t depend on never making mistakes.

But for that evening, neither of them needed to prove anything.

Chan didn’t need Jisung to forgive him again.

Jisung didn’t need to ask whether he was too much.

They could simply sit together.

One hand tangled with another.

A familiar weight against a familiar chest.

And seven people who loved Han Jisung so much that they would gladly argue for an entire evening about whose fault it was that he’d become this spoiled.

Later, when Jisung was almost asleep, Chan felt him gently squeeze his hand.

“Hyung?”

Chan looked down.

“Yeah, Sungie?”

Jisung smiled against his shirt.

“Missed this.”

Chan’s throat tightened.

He rested his cheek against Jisung’s hair.

“Me too, mate.”

Jisung hummed softly.

Then, after a moment, whispered, “Love you.”

Chan smiled.

“Love you too, Ji.”

He felt Jisung relax completely against him.

And this time, when his little brother fell asleep holding his hand, Chan didn’t spend the evening thinking about everything he’d nearly lost.

He simply held him back.

Three weeks later, Han Jisung was sitting in Chan’s studio, scrolling through his phone and contributing absolutely nothing to the song they were supposed to be working on.

Chan had stopped expecting anything productive from him approximately forty minutes earlier.

To be fair, Jisung had helped with the lyrics when he first arrived. He’d suggested changing a line in the second verse, argued passionately about the placement of a particular ad-lib and recorded a rough harmony that Chan genuinely liked. Then he’d announced that his brain was no longer accepting creative submissions, stolen a packet of crackers from Chan’s drawer and settled into the chair beside him.

Now he was watching a video of a cat repeatedly failing to jump onto a kitchen counter.

Chan heard the same unfortunate meow for the fourth time.

“Jisung.”

“Hm?”

“Headphones.”

Jisung looked up, blinking innocently. “What?”

Chan gave him a pointed look.

Jisung glanced at his phone, then grinned. “Oh. Sorry, hyung.”

He lowered the volume.

Two minutes later, another video started playing.

Chan closed his eyes. “Han.”

Jisung burst out laughing before Chan could finish.

“Okay, okay! I’m putting them on!”

He reached for his earbuds, still chuckling to himself, while Chan shook his head and returned to the arrangement.

It was a good evening.

Not particularly exciting, and certainly not one either of them would remember for the quality of the music they produced. Chan had spent the afternoon reviewing revisions with the production team, which meant he wasn’t trying to solve everything alone anymore. He’d eaten dinner at a reasonable hour, had a manageable amount of work left to finish and fully intended to go home before midnight.

Jisung, meanwhile, had arrived complaining about a mildly inconvenient day. He’d overslept, forgotten to bring his charger and somehow managed to spill coffee on the trousers he’d only just collected from the laundry.

He was annoyed about it.

Not devastated.

Just annoyed.

When he’d walked into the studio, he’d dropped his backpack beside the sofa, stolen one of Chan’s crackers and spent several minutes telling him about his terrible morning.

Chan had listened, laughed and offered him another packet.

They hadn’t talked about the argument.

They hadn’t needed to.

Not every evening had to become an opportunity to discuss what had happened. They’d already done plenty of that over the previous weeks, sometimes awkwardly, sometimes tearfully, and occasionally with Jisung getting so frustrated by Chan’s repeated apologies that he’d threatened to start charging him for each one.

Things weren’t precisely the way they’d been before.

They were simply becoming comfortable again.

Jisung finished watching his video and set his phone on his thigh. He stretched, yawned and glanced at Chan’s computer.

“How much longer?”

“Maybe twenty minutes.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“And I’ll probably say it again in twenty minutes.”

Jisung snorted. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re welcome to leave.”

“Wow. Kicking me out already?”

Chan looked over.

Jisung was grinning.

The words no longer had the power to make either of them go quiet.

Chan smiled back. “I’m considering it.”

“Terrible hospitality.”

“One-star studio.”

“Zero stars.”

“Then why do you keep coming back?”

Jisung considered the question with exaggerated seriousness.

“Free snacks.”

Chan laughed and returned to his computer.

A few minutes passed.

Jisung went back to scrolling.

Then, without looking up, he reached toward Chan’s left hand.

His fingers found Chan’s index finger resting beside the keyboard. He hooked his little finger around it, gently drew the hand toward himself and began tracing an absentminded pattern across Chan’s knuckles.

Chan didn’t look down.

He simply let Jisung have his hand.

The younger man bent one finger, straightened another and rubbed his thumb across the familiar lines of Chan’s palm while a video played silently on his phone.

Nothing about it was particularly remarkable.

Jisung wasn’t having an especially bad day anymore. He wasn’t close to crying, wasn’t struggling to explain an overwhelming feeling and wasn’t desperately searching for reassurance that somebody still wanted him around.

He just liked holding Chan’s hand.

Chan continued listening to the track.

After a minute, he reached for his keyboard.

“Sungie, can I have that hand for a second? Need to fix something.”

Jisung released him immediately.

“Mm-hm.”

Chan typed.

Jisung kept scrolling.

A cat fell off a sofa on his screen, and he laughed quietly to himself.

Chan adjusted the transition, replayed the section and made another small change.

Then he glanced toward the younger man.

Jisung was leaning comfortably against the back of his chair, one knee drawn up, his attention entirely occupied by whatever nonsense he’d discovered online.

Chan finished typing.

And held out his hand.

Palm-up.

Between their chairs.

Jisung took it without looking.

He simply reached across the gap, caught Chan’s fingers and continued watching his video.

Chan smiled faintly.

Then returned his attention to the screen.

For several minutes, neither said anything.

The song played.

The mouse clicked.

Jisung occasionally laughed at something on his phone, and Chan occasionally made small adjustments to the arrangement.

Their shoulders touched when Jisung shifted closer.

Chan didn’t move away.

Eventually, Jisung rested his temple against Chan’s upper arm.

Chan continued working.

Then, when he’d reached a point where he needed to concentrate on the music more carefully, he said, “Ji, I’m going to listen to this part properly. Give me a minute, yeah?”

Jisung lifted his head.

“Okay.”

He released Chan’s hand, rolled his chair back and stretched his legs.

“Want me to listen too?”

“Actually, yeah.”

Jisung immediately pulled out his earbuds.

Chan played the section.

They listened together.

When it finished, Jisung tilted his head, considering.

“The transition’s better, but I think the bass comes in a little too early.”

Chan frowned thoughtfully.

“You reckon?”

“Yeah. Maybe push it back half a beat?”

Chan adjusted it.

Played the section again.

Jisung grinned.

“There.”

Chan listened.

Then smiled.

“Yeah. That’s better.”

“Of course it is. I’m a genius.”

“Debatable.”

Jisung gasped.

“Christopher!”

Chan laughed.

Jisung reached over and smacked his arm.

Chan gave him an offended look.

“Violence in the workplace?”

“Deserved.”

“Unbelievable.”

Jisung laughed, then settled back into his chair.

A few minutes later, Chan saved the session.

He stretched his arms above his head, leaned back and let out a satisfied sigh.

“Okay. I’m done.”

Jisung looked up.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

He glanced at the clock.

“Not even eleven. Look at me being a responsible adult.”

Jisung gave him an exaggerated round of applause.

“I’m so proud of you, hyung.”

Chan laughed.

Then reached for his phone.

There were several messages waiting in the group chat.

seungmin: are you two still there hyunjin: if you are, bring snacks minho: Don’t encourage them. felix: there’s leftover cake here!! changbin: HANNIE COME EAT innie: why is changbin hyung shouting in text

Chan turned the screen toward Jisung.

Jisung immediately brightened.

“Cake!”

Chan shook his head.

“Of course that’s what you noticed.”

“Yongbokie’s cake, hyung. Priorities.”

He jumped up to retrieve his backpack, talking excitedly about whether Felix had made the chocolate cake he’d mentioned earlier.

Chan shut down the computer.

Then stood and pulled on his hoodie.

By the time he turned around, Jisung was waiting beside the door.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

Chan grabbed his keys.

Jisung glanced at him.

Then reached over and caught his hand.

Just like that.

No question.

No hesitation.

His fingers slipped between Chan’s, comfortably familiar, and he began swinging their joined hands slightly while explaining that Seungmin had apparently accused him of stealing his charger earlier that afternoon.

Chan listened as they walked down the corridor.

Occasionally, he answered.

Occasionally, he laughed.

And when they reached the lift, Jisung began tracing little circles across his palm again.

Chan looked down.

Then at Jisung.

“Happy?”

Jisung blinked.

“What?”

Chan smiled.

“Nothing.”

Jisung studied his face for a moment before grinning.

“You’re being weird.”

“Am I?”

“Very.”

Chan laughed softly.

“Sorry, mate.”

Jisung squeezed his hand.

“Love you anyway.”

Chan’s smile softened.

“Love you too, Sungie.”

The lift arrived.

Jisung stepped inside, still holding his hand, already complaining that they were going to miss out on the cake if Changbin reached it first.

Chan followed him, laughing.

He didn’t think about that night in the studio.

Not then.

He didn’t think about the argument, the tears or how much work it had taken for both of them to feel comfortable again.

He was simply holding his little brother’s hand while listening to him complain about dessert.

And Jisung wasn’t thinking about it either.

He didn’t wonder whether Chan was secretly annoyed. He didn’t look for signs of discomfort or rehearse an apology in case he’d done something wrong.

If Chan needed his hand back, he’d ask.

If Jisung wanted to hold it again, he could reach.

It was that simple.

It had taken them a little while to remember.

But now, with Jisung’s fingers moving absentmindedly against his palm and the promise of seven familiar voices waiting for them at home, Chan felt the warmth of his brother’s hand and held on.

Just like before.