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The arrivals hall was chaos.
Seungmin knew airports were always noisy, always messy, but he thought traveling alone would make him invisible. A normal boy in a cap and mask, backpack slung low, suitcase wheels rattling against tile. Nothing remarkable. Nothing worth filming.
He was wrong.
The moment the sliding doors parted, the sound hit him first — a sharp wall of screams and voices, high and shrill against the low hum of conveyor belts. Then came the light: dozens of phones flashing at once, white bursts that seared his eyes and left spots dancing in his vision. The air was hot, too thick with perfume and sweat and bodies pressed too close together.
“Seungmin! Seungmin-ah!”
“Oppa, over here, look at me!”
“Wait, can I touch your hand—?”
A dozen voices, maybe more. Fingers brushed against his sleeve, his shoulder. He pulled his mask higher, tugged his cap lower, and kept walking. Eyes down. Focus on the exit.
He’d done this before. Smile sometimes, nod politely, walk quickly, don’t stop. Ignore the noise. Pretend the hands weren’t reaching for you. Pretend the cameras weren’t only inches from your face.
But today there were too many.
The crowd pressed tighter the moment he stepped out, like a tide that had been waiting only for him. His suitcase wheels clattered against tile as he dragged it with one hand, trying not to trip. Someone shoved from the left, another pushed from behind. He stumbled, caught himself, forced his expression flat.
Keep moving. Just a little more. You can make it outside.
But the exit doors felt impossibly far away.
A flash went off directly in front of his eyes. He flinched, blinded, shoulder colliding with another body. The surge of fans pressed closer. He couldn’t breathe.
And then—
A shove from behind.
A wheel catching on uneven tile.
His foot slipping.
The ground rose up too fast.
His right wrist hit first.
The crack of impact was sharp, sickening, and the pain followed instantly — white-hot, jagged, shooting up his arm until it swallowed the air in his lungs. His mouth opened on instinct, but he bit hard into his tongue, swallowing the sound before it could escape.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Someone laughed nervously. The clicks of cameras didn’t stop.
Seungmin forced himself upright. His body screamed at the movement, wrist trembling violently as he cradled it against his chest. He curled his fingers into a fist, hiding the way they shook, hiding the swelling that already started to bloom under his sleeve.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, voice hoarse beneath the mask. He wasn’t sure if anyone heard it. He didn’t care.
He grabbed his suitcase with his left hand, ignoring the fire that shot up his right arm when it brushed against the handle. Then he kept walking, straight through the doors, never once looking back.
The taxi smelled faintly of stale coffee and pine air freshener. The driver was friendly, too friendly, filling the car with chatter Seungmin could barely process.
“Long flight, eh? You students travel a lot these days.”
“You look familiar — do you study around here?”
“Quiet kid, huh? That’s good. World needs more quiet ones.”
Seungmin gave short answers. “Mm.” “Yes.” “No.” His gaze never left the window.
Every bump in the road sent jolts through his wrist, sharp enough to blur his vision. He tucked his arm under his thigh, pinning it there as if the weight would steady it, hide it. His fingers twitched helplessly, swollen and stiff, and he clenched his jaw until his teeth ached.
It’s nothing. Just a sprain. You’ve had worse in practice. It’ll pass. It has to pass.
He repeated it like a mantra, forcing his breaths steady, even when his stomach twisted from the effort.
The driver kept talking. Seungmin didn’t hear a word.
By the time the taxi rolled up to the dorms, the sky had already darkened. The building’s windows glowed warm against the evening, familiar and unyielding. He paid the driver, stepped out, and tugged his cap lower once more. His suitcase felt impossibly heavy in his left hand, his right wrist throbbing so fiercely it made his vision swim.
The dorm was quiet when he slipped inside. Shoes piled neatly at the entrance, faint music bleeding from Hyunjin and Changbin’s shared room. Jisung’s laugh echoed through the wall he shared with Minho, sharp and warm, while Jeongin’s door was firmly shut.
Nobody noticed him. Nobody asked.
Good.
He kept his head down, dragged his suitcase into his room, and shut the door quietly behind him. The sound clicked too loudly in the silence.
He dropped the suitcase by the desk and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. For a moment he just sat there, hunched forward, his wrist clutched tightly against his chest.
The swelling was worse now. The skin stretched tight, red and angry under the faint overhead light. He flexed his fingers and hissed when pain lanced straight up to his elbow, sharp enough to make him dizzy.
Seungmin bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted iron.
He wanted to ice it. He wanted to wrap it, maybe. But that would mean moving, leaving his room, letting someone see. And if someone saw, they’d ask. And if they asked, he’d have to tell them.
And if he told them—
The break. The two months of rest they had been granted. Chan’s tired eyes when he’d said, “Let’s not waste this. Please.”
He couldn’t ruin it. He couldn’t be the one who ruined it.
So he pulled the blanket over his head, curling on his side with his injured wrist clutched close, hidden in the dark.
The pain pulsed with every heartbeat, hot and heavy. He tried not to cry.
Don’t cry. Don’t make it worse. Just sleep. Tomorrow it’ll be better.
But sleep didn’t come. Every time he shifted, the sting dragged him back awake, the memory replaying again and again: the shove, the slip, the crack of bone against tile, the flashes, the laughter.
He squeezed his eyes shut. His throat burned.
No one knocked on his door. No one asked if he was okay.
And maybe that was good. Maybe that was what he wanted.
Still, when the first tear slipped hot and silent across his cheek, Seungmin turned deeper into the pillow and pretended he didn’t feel it.
Jeongin saw it first.
The video was grainy, shaky, too loud with screaming voices, but the moment replayed in his mind like a bad dream. Seungmin, hood up, mask tugged high, trying to cut through the airport crowd unnoticed. The push came from nowhere, a surge of bodies. He stumbled, wrist hitting the ground before his body followed.
The sound haunted Jeongin — the dull, heavy thud and the way Seungmin’s face, just for a fraction of a second, twisted in pain.
He tried to tell himself it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Maybe the fall was clumsy, maybe his wrist only stung for a moment. Maybe it was nothing.
But Seungmin’s sleeve pulled lower, the careful way he held his hand when he thought no one noticed, said otherwise.
Jeongin kept watching the video until the battery on his phone bled dry.
The dorm was alive that evening, as it always was after practice. Music bled from Hyunjin’s speaker, Felix hummed under his breath in the kitchen, and Jisung was being unbearably loud about snacks.
“Yah, Minnie!” Jisung grinned, leaning over the couch as Seungmin dropped a plastic bag onto the table. “You brought food? I knew you loved me most.”
“I don’t,” Seungmin muttered, pulling out bottles with his left hand, his right shoved deep into his hoodie pocket.
“You liar.” Jisung stole a drink anyway, earning a faint scowl.
“Stop bothering him,” Minho sighed, tossing a cushion in Jisung’s direction.
But the room had its rhythm: Hyunjin whining, Chan pretending not to doze, Changbin complaining loudly about portion sizes.
Except Jeongin couldn’t hear any of it properly. He kept watching. Watching how Seungmin’s hand trembled a little when he set the drinks down. Watching how his sleeve slid higher for a moment, just enough to show the faintest swelling along his wrist before he tugged it back down.
No one else saw it.
No one but him.
It wasn’t until later, in the safety of Seungmin’s dimly lit room, that Jeongin tried to speak.
“I saw it,” he whispered, his hands clammy against his phone.
Seungmin’s eyes narrowed. “Saw what?”
“The airport.” Jeongin’s throat ached. “When you fell. Hyung, your wrist—”
“I’m fine,” Seungmin cut sharply.
“You’re not,” Jeongin insisted, voice breaking. “I saw you—”
“Jeongin.” Seungmin’s tone snapped like a whip. “Drop it.”
Jeongin flinched. But when Seungmin leaned forward, gaze hard, the youngest shrank further.
“Promise me you won’t tell the others.”
The words burned. They were chains.
Jeongin wanted to argue, to shout that this wasn’t fair, that hiding pain never worked. But Seungmin’s stubbornness was absolute, unyielding.
And so Jeongin whispered, “…Okay.”
The relief on Seungmin’s face was fleeting, gone as quickly as it appeared. He leaned back, tugging his sleeve down. “Good. Then go.”
The youngest obeyed, the weight of the promise crushing his chest with every step.
The days bled together, tension curling thicker by the hour.
At first, it was subtle. Seungmin laughed less, dodged group roughhousing. He leaned away when Jisung flopped on him, shoved Felix’s arm aside more sharply than usual.
But what really tipped the balance was Changbin.
Seungmin had always teased him. Always. It was their rhythm — sharp remarks that made Changbin chase him down, locking him in a headlock while Seungmin cackled. It was rough, but it was theirs.
So when Seungmin stopped, Changbin noticed.
“Yah, you’re too quiet these days,” Changbin said one afternoon, slinging an arm over Seungmin’s shoulders after practice. “What, scared I’ll finally beat you if you tease me again?”
Normally Seungmin would’ve rolled his eyes and muttered something cutting, sparking another round of bickering. Instead, he stiffened under the weight of Changbin’s arm, jaw tight.
“Get off,” he muttered.
Changbin blinked. “What’s with you? It’s just me.”
“I said get off.” Seungmin shoved his arm away, too fast, too harsh, the words sharp enough to cut.
The room quieted.
Felix frowned from where he sat on the floor. Hyunjin paused mid-sip of water. Jisung blinked, looking between them with wide eyes.
Changbin laughed it off at first, a little forced. “Wow, someone’s cranky today.”
But the way Seungmin avoided his gaze — the way he kept his right arm tucked against his side — didn’t sit right.
Jisung hovered more.
“Are you okay?” he asked for the fifth time that day, plopping down beside Seungmin on the couch.
“I’m fine,” came the flat reply.
“You don’t look fine.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re acting weird, Minnie. You haven’t even roasted Changbin lately. That’s, like, your favorite hobby.”
“Shut up.”
The words cut deeper than they should’ve. Jisung flinched, his grin faltering before he forced it back into place.
Across the room, Minho’s eyes narrowed.
The snapping escalated fast.
“Let me carry that—”
“Mind your own business.”
“You’re holding your arm funny again—”
“Stop staring at me all the time, jisung, it’s annoying.”
“Did you sleep okay last night?”
“Why are you so obsessed with me?”
The words were cruel, sharper than Seungmin ever meant, but he couldn’t seem to stop them.
And Jisung took it all, smile trembling, jokes faltering, shoulders curling smaller each time.
Until dinner, when it finally cracked.
Jisung tried again, sliding the dish toward him. “Here, you didn’t get any—”
“I said I’m fine!” Seungmin snapped, louder than ever. The table went silent.
Jisung froze, hurt flashing raw across his face before he dropped his gaze. “Okay. Sorry.” His voice was too soft.
The silence roared.
Then Minho slammed his chopsticks down.
“Enough.”
Seungmin’s head jerked up. “What?”
“You keep snapping at him,” Minho said, voice razor-sharp. “He’s just trying to help.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Maybe not. But you don’t get to bite Jisung’s head off every time he cares about you.”
The words cut deep. Seungmin’s chest heaved, fury and shame battling in his eyes.
But he didn’t answer. He shoved his food aside, shoulders rigid, wrist hidden in his lap.
The others exchanged uneasy looks. Felix bit his lip. Chan sighed heavily. Changbin frowned, arms crossed tight.
And Jeongin sat frozen, his promise like iron on his tongue, knowing the truth but unable to speak it.
That night, Seungmin lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, wrist throbbing with every heartbeat. His chest ached with the weight of his own words, the hurt on Jisung’s face replaying over and over.
But still, he stayed silent.
Because silence was easier than weakness.
Even if it was tearing him apart.
-------
The dorm was alive that night. Someone had music playing low on the speaker, half-forgotten beneath the clash of voices and the uneven bursts of laughter. Dinner bowls still sat scattered on the coffee table. Hyunjin was sprawled like a cat across the rug, sketchbook open in front of him. Felix leaned against the arm of the couch with a game controller in hand, quietly narrating his progress. Changbin prowled around the living room like he couldn’t sit still.
And in the middle of it all, Seungmin sat folded into the corner of the couch, hoodie sleeves tugged down to hide his hands, hood pulled up even though the heater hummed quietly in the background.
At first glance, he blended right in. At second glance—if you knew him well enough—he was a sore thumb sticking out.
The others had started noticing.
The way Seungmin didn’t fire back when Changbin called him names. The way his sharp-edged sarcasm had dulled into one-word answers. The way he’d grown quieter, not the natural quiet that sometimes cloaked him like armor, but the heavy kind that seeped from exhaustion.
They hadn’t pressed. Not at first. Everyone had off days. Weeks even. This life was demanding, and it wasn’t rare for one of them to fold into themselves for a while.
But it was day three now.
And Jisung couldn’t take his eyes off him.
He perched on the armrest across from him, pretending to scroll on his phone, but his gaze dragged back again and again. It was the wrong kind of quiet. The too-still kind.
Across the room, Jeongin sat cross-legged on the rug, pretending to focus on a random feed of memes. His chest felt tight, guilt squeezing with every scroll. He’d seen the video. He’d known the second Seungmin came back from the airport that something wasn’t right. But he’d promised. He’d promised not to say anything.
So he stayed silent. And every hour, that silence felt heavier.
“Yah,” Changbin broke the lull, his voice deliberately bright. “What’s wrong with you, dog? You’re too quiet.”
He strode over, grin sharp, the same way he always did when he wanted to pull Seungmin out of a sulk. “Should I knock the attitude back into you?”
Normally, this was their game. Changbin teased, Seungmin bit back. Push, shove, mock-growls until someone gave up. Noise and warmth, the kind that disguised itself as annoyance.
But this time—
Changbin hooked an arm roughly around Seungmin’s neck, tugging him sideways into a playful headlock. The couch shifted under the movement. Seungmin’s entire body went stiff. His lips pressed into a thin line.
“Hyung.” His voice was clipped, sharp enough to slice. “Stop.”
The room’s energy cracked.
Changbin’s hand slipped away like he’d touched fire. He blinked at him, a stunned laugh bubbling up too loud, too forced. “What—? I’m just messing around.”
Seungmin adjusted his hood higher, face half in shadow. He didn’t answer.
“Min.” Hyunjin’s voice startled everyone. It wasn’t his usual dramatic drawl, but soft, careful. He set his pencil down, crouching near the couch. His long hair fell forward as he tilted his head, expression far gentler than expected. “Are you sick?”
That tenderness was jarring. Hyunjin wasn’t usually gentle like this. He cared, deeply, but his love came sharp-edged—through complaints, through overdone dramatics. But now he looked like someone approaching a frightened animal, slow and cautious.
Seungmin glanced at him once, then away. “I’m fine.”
The words landed flat, unconvincing.
Felix slid closer without hesitation, folding himself onto the couch beside him. His hand brushed Seungmin’s sleeve, light as air, grounding without caging. “You don’t look fine,” he murmured. His voice was a quiet sunbeam, too kind, too warm. “You don’t have to pretend with us. Not here.”
Something trembled in Seungmin’s throat, but he swallowed it down. His gaze dropped to the floor, lashes casting shadows against his cheeks.
From across the room, Chan watched. He leaned against the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable but heavy with thought. He’d been watching for days now, letting the younger ones try, waiting. He knew the pattern. Forcing too early could drive someone deeper into their shell. But he also knew when silence dragged too long, it could become its own kind of wound.
Jisung couldn’t wait.
He pushed off the armrest, words spilling before he could stop them. “Min. Just tell me what’s wrong.”
Seungmin’s eyes flickered up, sharp and warning. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
The word cracked through the air like glass. Felix flinched. Hyunjin’s brows pinched tight. Changbin straightened, uneasy.
“Han—” Changbin started, but Jisung shook his head, his jaw locked.
“You’ve been off since you back from the airport,” Jisung pressed, his voice trembling with anger and worry twisted together. “You don’t tease, you don’t eat properly, you flinch when people touch you. You think I don’t notice?”
Seungmin’s tone sharpened into a hiss. “Stop it.”
“Why?” Jisung shot back, stepping closer, the desperation in his chest spilling raw. “So you can keep snapping at me until I shut up and let you fall apart alone? Is that what you want?”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Felix’s hand lingered hesitantly on his sleeve. Hyunjin looked between them, wide-eyed and tense. Changbin’s shoulders hunched, guilt gnawing where his earlier roughness had landed wrong.
And Jeongin—Jeongin’s fingers curled tighter around his phone, his stomach twisting. The promise he’d made weighed heavier, pressing against his ribs until it hurt. He wanted to say it, to spill it out, but he was the maknae, the youngest, and breaking Seungmin’s trust terrified him.
Seungmin’s glare pinned Jisung, anger masking something smaller, something trembling. “I said I’m fine.”
“Then prove it,” Jisung whispered, voice breaking. His eyes shone too brightly. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’re not hurting.”
The challenge hung there like a blade.
But Seungmin’s gaze dropped. He couldn’t.
And that silence—God, that silence was louder than any words.
The room shifted uneasily after that.
Changbin muttered something about the dishes just to fill the air and clattered into the kitchen. Hyunjin sat back on his heels, sketchbook forgotten. Felix stayed planted by Seungmin’s side, one hand still lightly against his arm, stubbornly refusing to move away even though Seungmin didn’t return the gesture.
Chan finally spoke, voice calm but carrying weight. “You don’t have to talk until you’re ready. But don’t shut us out completely, Seungmin-ah. That’s not fair—to you or to us.”
Seungmin’s jaw clenched. He didn’t look up.
Jisung stood frozen in the middle of the room, chest heaving, anger and worry burning through his veins. His throat ached like he’d swallowed glass.
Jeongin sat silent, guilt curling around his lungs, making it hard to breathe. He could still see the video every time he closed his eyes—the push, the stumble, the way Seungmin had clutched his wrist as he’d disappeared into the crowd. He pressed the phone harder against his leg, as if that would silence the memory.
He’d promised. He couldn’t break it.
But God, he didn’t know how much longer he could carry it alone.
Jeongin lay awake long after the dorm had gone quiet.
The sound of breathing filled the dark room—Changbin’s steady and deep from the bunk above, Jisung’s uneven and restless from across the space. Jeongin’s phone glowed faintly in his hand, the blue light burning against his tired eyes. He didn’t scroll. He didn’t even unlock it. He just stared at the black screen, his reflection warped and pale.
The video still haunted him.
The grainy clip of Seungmin at the airport, swallowed by fans, stumbling as he tried to push through. The sharp fall. The way his right hand had snapped out instinctively to break his weight, and the wince—brief but clear—etched across his face before the crowd closed in again.
The comments were cruel, careless.
"He looks weak lol."
"If he doesn’t want to be touched, don’t be an idol."
"So dramatic, it’s just a trip."
Jeongin had closed the app in disgust, but not before that image had seared itself into his mind.
And then Seungmin had come home, hoodie sleeves tugged down, insisting he was fine. Laughing it off when Jeongin hovered too close. Making him promise not to say anything.
Jeongin had promised.
Because he was the maknae. Because Seungmin’s eyes had been sharp and tired, and Jeongin had wanted to be trusted.
But now, every time he saw Seungmin snap at Jisung, every time he watched him flinch away from Changbin’s playful roughness, every time he caught him cradling that wrist when he thought no one was looking—Jeongin felt like he was suffocating on the secret.
It sat heavy in his chest, pressing down until he couldn’t breathe.
The next morning, Jisung cornered him.
Jeongin should have seen it coming. Jisung had that restless look in his eyes, the one that meant he was on edge, too full of worry to sit still. They were alone in the practice room, waiting for the others. The mirrors stretched wide, reflecting the tension bouncing between them.
“Jeongin-ah.” Jisung’s voice was deceptively light. Too casual.
Jeongin’s chest tightened. “Mm?”
“You know something.”
The words landed like a stone in his stomach.
Jeongin tried to laugh it off, a weak sound. “What do you mean?”
Jisung didn’t smile. His gaze pinned him, sharp in a way that stripped away any chance of denial. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been watching him like a hawk. You flinch every time someone touches him. You know something about Seungmin.”
Jeongin’s throat closed up. He fiddled with the hem of his sweatshirt, wishing he could disappear into the floor.
“Hyung—”
“Don’t.” Jisung’s voice cracked. “Don’t tell me nothing’s wrong. Because I know him. I know when he’s hurting. And you—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair, eyes wet with frustration. “You’re terrible at lying, Innie.”
The silence stretched. Jeongin could hear the faint hum of the lights above, the pounding of his own heart.
He wanted to say it. God, he wanted to spill everything. To tell Jisung about the video, about the promise, about the way guilt had been eating him alive.
But Seungmin’s voice echoed in his head.
"Don’t tell anyone. Please. Just… don’t."
Jeongin’s chest hurt. His hands curled into fists.
“I can’t.” The words slipped out, barely above a whisper.
Jisung’s face twisted—anger, pain, desperation all tangled. “Can’t, or won’t?”
Jeongin looked away, blinking hard against the burn in his eyes. “I promised him.”
The air went still.
Jisung let out a shaky laugh, bitter and cracked. “Of course. Of course he’d make you promise. And of course you’d keep it.” He scrubbed at his face, exhaling like he was trying not to break. “Meanwhile, he’s tearing himself apart, and I’m standing here helpless.”
Jeongin wanted to tell him he wasn’t helpless. That his persistence was the only thing holding Seungmin together. That if anyone could break through, it was him.
But his tongue felt heavy, tied in knots by loyalty and fear.
“I’m sorry,” Jeongin whispered, and it sounded too small, too useless.
Jisung looked at him for a long, heavy moment, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Then he turned away, muttering, “Sorry doesn’t help him.”
The door opened, and the others spilled in—voices loud, laughter echoing, the fragile moment shattered.
Jeongin stood frozen, the weight of the secret pressing heavier than ever.
Practice that day was a blur.
Seungmin moved through the choreography with precision, but his edges were dulled, his energy a fraction of what it should have been. He didn’t complain, didn’t stumble, didn’t break. But he was quieter, tighter, holding himself together with invisible string.
The others noticed, in their own ways.
Changbin tried to joke with him, nudging his shoulder, but when Seungmin only gave a half-smile, Bin’s grin faltered.
Hyunjin offered him water during breaks, his usual dramatics replaced with something softer, more cautious.
Felix stayed close, hovering like sunlight that refused to leave him alone.
And Chan—Chan watched from the corner, arms folded, expression heavy. He didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered on Seungmin more than anyone else’s.
Jisung danced like his chest was on fire, his eyes never straying far from Seungmin. Every stumble, every wince, every too-tight movement carved another crack into him.
And Jeongin—Jeongin moved on autopilot, guilt choking him with every step.
When practice finally ended, Seungmin disappeared into the bathroom without a word. The room emptied slowly, the others too exhausted to question it.
But Jisung stayed behind.
And Jeongin found himself rooted in place, dread pooling in his stomach.
Jisung turned to him, eyes sharp. “You saw it, didn’t you?”
Jeongin’s breath caught. “What?”
“The airport.” Jisung’s voice was low, trembling with fury. “There’s no other explanation. You saw something. That’s why you can’t look at me straight.”
Jeongin’s chest caved in. His lips parted, but no words came.
Jisung stepped closer, desperation dripping from every word. “Innie, please. I’m begging you. If you know something—anything—you have to tell me. He’s hurting himself trying to keep this a secret. And if you keep quiet, you’re hurting him too.”
The guilt was unbearable. The secret roared in his chest, demanding release.
But Seungmin’s voice echoed again. “Don’t tell anyone.”
Jeongin’s eyes burned, his voice breaking. “I promised.”
And Jisung—Jisung’s expression shattered, heartbreak written across every line of his face.
“Then what am I supposed to do?” he whispered, voice raw. “Just stand here and watch him destroy himself?”
Jeongin had no answer.
And that silence was louder than anything he could have said.
The dorm was too quiet that night.
Not the good kind of quiet, the kind that came after a long day when laughter still clung to the walls. This was heavy, stretched thin like a thread about to snap.
Dinner had been subdued. Seungmin picked at his food more than he ate it. Jisung tried to make noise, tried to laugh too loud, too bright, but it bounced off the walls and fell flat. Nobody called him out for overacting. Nobody had the heart.
Changbin noticed first. He always did. He clapped a heavy arm around Seungmin’s shoulders in that way of his, the way that was meant to jostle him into smiling. Normally Seungmin would have scowled, shoved him back, called him loud and annoying. Normally they’d bicker until everyone groaned.
But tonight Seungmin just froze. A half-second too stiff before forcing his mouth into a crooked smile and leaning away.
It was nothing. A tiny thing. But it lodged itself into everyone’s chest like a splinter.
“Yah,” Changbin muttered, trying to sound playful, but his tone cracked around the edges. “What’s with you? You used to have a mouth bigger than mine.”
“I’m tired,” Seungmin said simply. His voice was clipped, final.
Changbin’s grin faltered. The silence that followed was suffocating.
Hyunjin broke it with an overly gentle, “Do you want me to take your plate, Minnie?” His voice soft in a way that didn’t suit him, almost careful. Too careful.
Seungmin blinked at him, surprised, and for a moment his façade slipped. He looked small, cornered. Then he shook his head. “I’ll do it.”
He carried his plate to the sink with his left hand. Nobody said anything about it. Nobody dared.
Felix, ever the sunshine, leaned close as Seungmin passed him. “Rest well, Min. I’ll make you something sweet tomorrow, yeah?” His smile was warm, like he could hold Seungmin together with kindness alone.
Seungmin only hummed in reply before disappearing down the hall.
The room deflated with his absence.
Jisung sat stiffly, chopsticks clenched so tight his knuckles whitened. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Seungmin all evening. When the door shut behind him, Jisung let out a breath that sounded more like a growl.
“What the hell is wrong with everyone?” His voice cracked. “Why is nobody saying anything? He’s not fine. He hasn’t been fine for days!”
“Jisung-ah,” Chan said softly, but the warning in his tone only made Jisung’s chest burn hotter.
“You see it, hyung. Don’t lie.” Jisung’s gaze darted between them, desperate. “You all see it. He’s hurting, and you’re all pretending it’s nothing. Why?”
Nobody answered.
Because it was easier this way. Because Seungmin’s stubbornness was a wall none of them could climb unless he let them. Because if they pressed too hard, he would shut them out even more.
Jisung slammed his chopsticks down, the sound sharp in the silence. He stood, restless, pacing. His hands trembled at his sides.
And Jeongin—Jeongin sat frozen, heart hammering, throat closing in around words he couldn’t say.
He knew. He knew why Seungmin avoided Changbin’s roughhousing, why he used his left hand more than his right, why his sharpness toward Jisung wasn’t just irritation but defense. He knew the fall, the video, the wince.
And he knew he was complicit in the silence.
When Jisung’s gaze finally snapped to him, Jeongin’s chest caved in.
“You.” The word was soft, but it landed like a blow. “You know something.”
The table went still.
Jeongin shook his head too quickly. “I—”
“Don’t.” Jisung’s voice was raw. “Don’t do this again. You’ve been twitchy, jumpy, staring at him like he’s going to shatter. You know something, and you’re not telling us.”
The air thickened, all eyes turning to Jeongin.
His lips parted, but no words came out. His hands shook under the table, curling into fists. Seungmin’s voice echoed in his head: Don’t tell anyone. Please.
His chest burned with the weight of it. The promise. The guilt. The truth clawing its way up his throat.
“I—” Jeongin’s voice cracked, barely audible. “I can’t.”
The look on Jisung’s face broke him. Anger, pain, betrayal—all tangled, all bleeding.
Changbin frowned. “What do you mean you can’t?”
“I promised,” Jeongin whispered, staring down at his lap.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Jisung laughed bitterly, no humor in it. “Of course. He made you promise. And you—” His voice faltered, tears gathering hot in his eyes. “You’d rather keep his secret than help him.”
Jeongin’s throat closed. “That’s not—”
“Then what is it?!” Jisung’s shout cracked the air, sharp enough to make Felix flinch. His hands curled at his sides, trembling. “He’s tearing himself apart, and you’re letting him. You’re letting him.”
Jeongin’s vision blurred. “What do you want me to do? Break his trust? Betray him?”
“Yes!” Jisung’s voice broke, a raw, desperate plea. “If it means saving him, yes!”
The words hung heavy in the air.
Nobody spoke. Nobody moved.
Chan finally stood, the scrape of his chair too loud in the quiet. His expression was heavy, lined with something that looked too close to grief. He placed a steady hand on Jisung’s shoulder, grounding him.
“Enough for tonight,” he said quietly, but his voice carried finality. “We’ll figure this out.”
Jisung shrugged him off, storming down the hall, the slam of his door echoing through the dorm.
Jeongin sat frozen, tears slipping hot and silent down his cheeks. His chest felt cracked open, hollowed out.
Across the table, Felix reached for his hand, squeezing gently. No words, just warmth.
But it didn’t ease the suffocating weight in Jeongin’s chest.
Because he knew tomorrow would only be worse.
It started with good intentions.
Practice had been rough, energy dragging. The dorm felt weighed down, too many unspoken things pressed into the corners. Chan had given them the evening off, hoping rest would fix what words couldn’t.
Instead, it left them restless.
And when Seungmin slouched on the couch, hoodie pulled tight, gaze distant, the others exchanged looks. The kind that said we need to do something.
“Yah,” Changbin announced, too loud on purpose, “you look like an old man. What happened to our savage puppy, huh?”
Seungmin glanced up, unimpressed. “Tired.”
“No, no, no,” Hyunjin cut in, sliding onto the couch beside him with exaggerated dramatics. “This won’t do. Our Seungminie can’t just sit here sulking like a sad grandpa.”
Felix beamed, bouncing down on the other side. “We’ll cheer you up!”
Before Seungmin could protest, Changbin swooped in, arms hooking around his shoulders from behind. He ruffled his hair roughly, laughing when Seungmin squirmed.
“Yah—stop—” Seungmin scowled, pushing at him, but his voice lacked its usual bite.
That only encouraged them.
Hyunjin leaned in, poking his cheek. “Aigoo, look at this face. Too grumpy. Needs tickling.”
“Don’t you dare—”
But Felix was already giggling, hands sneaking toward his sides.
The living room erupted with noise—laughter, mock protests, shouts bouncing off the walls. For a moment, it felt almost normal. Almost like before.
Until Changbin grabbed Seungmin’s wrist.
It was instinct, meant to pull him into a headlock, the kind of playful manhandling Seungmin usually endured with an eye-roll and a sharp retort.
But this time, Seungmin’s body jolted. A sharp sound tore from his throat—a yelp, raw and startled.
The room froze.
“Seungmin?” Felix’s voice was small.
But Seungmin was already shoving back, scrambling to his feet. His face was pale, jaw clenched tight. “I said stop,” he snapped, voice low and shaking.
The silence was suffocating.
And then Jisung moved. He was on his feet in an instant, stepping between Seungmin and the others, his body taut with fury. “Are you blind? He’s hurting!”
Changbin blinked, stunned. “I—I didn’t—”
“You didn’t think,” Jisung bit out. His hands trembled at his sides, his voice cracking. “You all act like he’s indestructible, like you can just push and pull and he’ll bounce back, but he’s not fine! He hasn’t been fine for days!”
Seungmin bristled behind him. “Jisung—”
“Don’t,” Jisung snapped, turning to face him, eyes burning. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re fine. Because I know you. And I know when you’re hiding.” His voice broke, raw and aching. “You always hide it. Because you don’t want to be a burden. But do you even know how much it hurts—to watch you hurt yourself and pretend it’s nothing?”
The words hung heavy, trembling in the air.
Jeongin felt his chest split open. He couldn’t sit still anymore.
“I saw it,” he whispered, so soft it almost got lost in the quiet.
All eyes turned to him.
Jeongin swallowed hard, tears burning. “At the airport. There’s a video. You fell. On your wrist.” His voice shook. “I saw it, and you made me promise not to say anything.” He turned to Seungmin, eyes pleading. “I thought I was protecting you. But I think I was just letting you suffer.”
Seungmin’s breath hitched. His face crumpled for half a second before the mask slid back into place, sharp and defensive.
“You didn’t have to—” His voice faltered. He couldn’t finish.
The others were silent, stunned, the weight of the revelation settling heavy between them.
Changbin looked stricken, Hyunjin guilty, Felix on the verge of tears.
Chan stood slowly, his expression unreadable, gaze locked on Seungmin. “Is it true?”
Seungmin’s fists clenched at his sides. His shoulders shook, his head bowed.
And for the first time since the airport, he didn’t have an answer. The room was too quiet.
The kind of quiet that rang in Seungmin’s ears, every second stretching thin and sharp. He could feel every gaze pinned to him, pressing heavy against his skin, waiting for an answer he didn’t want to give.
His wrist throbbed where Changbin had grabbed him. He cradled it instinctively against his chest, hiding it in the folds of his hoodie.
“Is it true?” Chan’s voice cut through the silence, low and steady.
Seungmin’s mouth went dry. He forced a scoff, brittle and weak. “It’s nothing.”
Jisung spun on him, eyes wide and furious. “Nothing? You yelped, Seungmin. You’ve been wincing for days. You call this nothing?”
Seungmin’s jaw tightened. He glared past him, avoiding the eyes that burned with too much knowing. “Drop it.”
But Jeongin’s voice cracked through, small but relentless. “Hyung…”
Seungmin turned on him like a storm.
“You promised.” His words were sharp, cutting. “You swore you wouldn’t say anything.”
Jeongin flinched, shoulders curling inward, but he didn’t look away. His lips trembled. “I couldn’t anymore. I thought I was protecting you, but I was just—”
“You betrayed me.” The words slipped out, harsher than intended, but Seungmin didn’t pull them back. His chest heaved, anger and shame twisting together, spilling out in a voice louder than the room could hold. “Do you have any idea what it’s like? Everyone already worrying about me, watching me like I’ll break at any second— and you—” His voice cracked, and he hated it, hated the way his throat burned. “You were the only one who trusted me enough to keep it quiet. And you couldn’t even do that.”
Jeongin’s eyes shone wet, his face pale. He looked younger than ever, trembling under the weight of Seungmin’s fury.
“I— I just didn’t want you to be alone,” he whispered.
The words struck something deep, but Seungmin shoved it down. His hands shook. His vision blurred.
“Alone is better than this,” he muttered, voice low and broken. “Alone means no one has to see me fail.”
Jisung inhaled sharply, the sound like a wound tearing open. “Fail?” His voice rose, thick with disbelief. “You think this—hiding, hurting yourself—is failing less than asking for help?”
“Stop,” Seungmin snapped, but it was weak, cracking under the strain.
“Look at yourself,” Jisung pressed, stepping closer, desperate. “You’re exhausted. You’re in pain. You keep pushing everyone away like we don’t care, like we’re not here—”
“Because you don’t understand!” The shout ripped out of Seungmin’s chest before he could stop it. His whole body shook with the force of it, his wrist pressed tight against him, his breathing uneven. “You think you know, but you don’t. I can’t be the reason we fall apart again. We just got a break. Everyone’s finally okay. I can’t ruin that because of me.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
His words echoed against the walls, raw and jagged, and in the reflection of the members’ eyes, he saw himself unraveling.
Jisung stood frozen, chest heaving, tears clinging to his lashes. Jeongin looked shattered, like the weight of every broken syllable had landed squarely on his shoulders. The others were stunned into stillness—Felix biting his lip hard enough to pale, Hyunjin’s eyes wide with guilt, Changbin’s fists clenched tight.
Chan didn’t move, but his gaze was heavy, steady, as though he’d seen this storm brewing long before the rest of them.
Seungmin’s knees felt weak. His voice faltered. “I can’t—”
But he didn’t finish. He couldn’t. The fight in him sputtered, leaving only the raw edge of panic, the desperate need to keep his walls up before they collapsed entirely.
So he turned away. Pulled his hood tighter. And muttered, barely audible:
“Just… leave me alone.”
He walked out before anyone could stop him.
The slam of the door echoed like a crack through the dorm, leaving the others behind in heavy, suffocating silence. The dorm was quiet when Jisung found him.
Seungmin sat curled on the couch, hood drawn up, wrist tucked against his chest like something shameful. The TV flickered muted light across his face, but his eyes were empty, glassy.
Jisung dropped onto the cushion beside him, the weight of everything he’d been holding in pressing down on his chest.
For a while, there was only silence.
Then Jisung whispered, raw and trembling, “You really think you’re a burden, don’t you?”
Seungmin flinched. “Don’t.”
But Jisung leaned forward, desperate. “You think we’d rather you hide it? That we’d rather watch you rip yourself apart than admit you’re in pain? Do you have any idea how much worse that feels?”
Seungmin’s jaw clenched. His voice came out low, strangled. “You don’t understand.”
“Then make me.” Jisung’s voice cracked. “God, Min. Stop shutting me out and just tell me why.”
The dam splintered.
“Because I can’t be the weak one,” Seungmin burst out. His shoulders shook. “Not when we finally got a break. Not when everyone’s happy. If I say something, I ruin that. I ruin us. I didn’t want to be the reason everything fell apart again.”
The silence after was brutal.
Jisung’s face crumpled. His tears spilled freely as he whispered, “You idiot. Don’t you get it? You’re already tearing yourself apart. Watching you fake it hurts a thousand times worse than the truth ever could.”
That was the final crack.
Seungmin’s breath shuddered, then broke into sobs he couldn’t hold in anymore. His body folded in on itself, trembling, ugly gasps clawing their way out.
Jisung dragged him into his arms without hesitation, holding on tight, his own tears dripping into Seungmin’s hair. “You’re not a burden. You’re never a burden. You’re my safe place too, Min. Please—just let me be yours.”
Seungmin clung to him, finally letting himself fall.
The sound must have carried, because one by one, the others appeared.
Felix first, kneeling right in front of him, his palm warm and steady on Seungmin’s knee. “Hey, Sunshine,” he whispered, eyes wet but smiling softly. “You don’t have to carry this alone. You’ve got us, remember?”
Hyunjin followed, his usual dramatic flair nowhere to be seen. He sank onto the armrest, hand brushing Seungmin’s shoulder with surprising gentleness. “I should’ve seen it sooner,” he said, voice low. “I’m sorry I didn’t. But I’m here now. Always.”
Changbin stood rooted for a moment, guilt written all over him. Then he crouched down, frowning hard to hide how watery his eyes were. “You should’ve told me, kid. I—I thought you just didn’t like me anymore.” His voice cracked, rough. “I didn’t know.”
Seungmin let out a choked laugh through his tears. “You’re annoying. Of course I like you.”
That tiny spark of his usual bite loosened the room’s tension, just a little.
Chan hovered at the back, watching with that heavy, quiet gaze that always seemed to see everything. When Seungmin’s eyes flicked to him, Chan finally stepped forward, lowering himself onto the floor in front of the couch. “I’m not mad,” he said softly. “I’m just… sad you thought you couldn’t tell me. You’re not a leader, Min. You’re not supposed to hold everything in. That’s my job. Yours is just… to be you.”
Seungmin’s chest cracked further at that—because Chan never made it about himself, but here he was, offering to take the weight without a second thought.
And then Minho.
He clicked his tongue, arms folded, voice sharp as ever. “You’re an idiot.”
Seungmin tried to glare, ready with a retort, but Minho crouched down beside him, eyes fierce and shining.
“You think hiding pain makes you strong? It doesn’t. It makes you stupid. You’re family, Seungmin. Start acting like it.”
Seungmin’s tears broke again at that, sharp words cutting deeper than softness ever could. Minho’s hand landed on his hair for only a second—rough, awkward—but it was enough.
And then he was surrounded.
Hands on his shoulders, his back, his arms. Words overlapping:
“We’ve got you.”
“It’s okay now.”
“You’re safe.”
For the first time since the airport, Seungmin let himself believe it.
He was held.
He was home.
The storm eased slowly, sobs turning into hiccups, hiccups into shaky laughter. Jisung rubbed his back, whispering nonsense until Seungmin finally sat up, wiping his swollen eyes.
The room was heavy with relief. And in true Seungmin fashion, he couldn’t leave it there.
“You all look so ugly when you cry,” he croaked, voice rough but teasing.
There was a beat of silence—then chaos.
“Yah!” Hyunjin smacked his arm.
“You’re the ugly one, brat,” Changbin shot back, immediately locking him in a headlock that had Felix squeaking in protest.
“Don’t hurt him!” Jisung yelped, trying to pull them apart.
Minho rolled his eyes, muttering, “Back to normal already. What a pain.” But his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile.
Chan just sat back, watching the mess unfold, his shoulders finally loosening as he murmured, “There’s our Seungmin.”
Seungmin laughed—bright, unrestrained, like sunlight breaking after a storm.
___________________
The dorm was finally quiet.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Chan let himself breathe. He sat at the kitchen table with his laptop closed for once, a mug of tea cooling at his side. From down the hall came the faint sounds of laughter and bickering, muffled through closed doors.
The kind of noise he lived for.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes slipping shut. He thought of the last week—Seungmin’s sharp edges, the way the kid had grown quieter and quieter, snapping more than he ever used to. The way Jisung hovered, Jeongin’s guilt, everyone else fumbling to find the right way to reach him.
And then tonight.
The truth finally breaking free, raw and ugly and painful.
But followed—thank god—by healing.
Chan pressed the heel of his hand against his chest, feeling the ache there ease at last. They had caught him. Just in time.
The scrape of slippers on the floor pulled him from his thoughts.
Seungmin shuffled into the kitchen, hoodie half-zipped, hair a messy flop over his forehead. His eyes were still puffy from crying, but there was a lightness to his steps that hadn’t been there in weeks.
He spotted Chan and raised an eyebrow. “Why are you sitting in the dark like some horror movie character?”
Chan snorted. “Just… thinking.”
Seungmin pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down, tucking his feet onto the rung. He didn’t speak right away, just picked at the hem of his sleeve. For once, he seemed unsure of himself.
Then, quietly, “Thanks. For earlier.”
Chan blinked. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know.” Seungmin’s lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. “That’s why I’m saying it.”
Chan’s chest tightened. He wanted to reach across the table, to hold onto him the way he had earlier when Seungmin had been breaking apart. But he stayed still, letting the quiet stretch comfortably this time.
After a moment, Seungmin added, “You know… I really thought if I hid it, I could protect everyone. Make things easier.”
Chan’s voice softened. “And now?”
Seungmin sighed, shoulders slumping. “Now I know I’m an idiot.”
Chan laughed quietly. Relief washed through him. “You’re not an idiot. Just… stubborn.”
That earned him an eye-roll. “Same thing.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore. It was gentle, easy.
Then, from down the hall, a loud crash followed by Jisung’s shriek of, “Yah, who left their socks in the hallway?!”
Seungmin snorted. “That’d be Hyunjin.”
Chan shook his head with a chuckle. “I should go stop them before they kill each other.”
But Seungmin didn’t move. He stayed there, gaze flicking toward the hall like he was waiting. And sure enough, a minute later, Jisung padded in, looking flustered, hair sticking up like he’d been wrestling with someone.
When his eyes landed on Seungmin, the irritation melted instantly. “You okay?”
Seungmin made a face. “Why do you always ask me that like I’m about to keel over?”
“Because you always say you’re fine when you’re not.” Jisung dropped into the chair beside him, crossing his arms. “So I’ll keep asking until it’s true.”
Chan bit back a smile. He stayed quiet, watching.
Seungmin rolled his eyes again, but there was no bite in it. “You’re annoying.”
“Good,” Jisung shot back. “At least I’m consistent.”
For a long beat, Seungmin just looked at him. Something soft flickered in his eyes—something he didn’t show easily. Then he leaned back in his chair, lips quirking into the faintest smirk.
“…Thanks. For not shutting up.”
Jisung blinked. His mouth opened, then closed. “Wait. Did you just… thank me?”
“Nope.” Seungmin leaned away, sipping from Chan’s abandoned tea like he hadn’t said a thing.
Jisung gaped, then shoved his shoulder, indignant. “You totally did! Yah, you’re impossible.”
Seungmin only grinned, the kind of grin that was all sharp edges but warm underneath. “And yet, you love me.”
Jisung groaned dramatically, dropping his head onto the table. “Why do I even try with you?”
Chan couldn’t hold back his laugh this time, shaking his head. He gathered his empty mug, feeling lighter than he had in weeks.
As he headed toward the sink, he glanced back at the two of them—Jisung grumbling, Seungmin smirking, the easy rhythm of brothers who had walked through fire together and come out closer.
The storm had passed.
His kids were okay.
And that was all Chan ever wanted.
Chan leaned against the doorway, quiet as always, watching the dorm slowly descend into its usual post-practice chaos. Cushions flew, laughter bounced off the walls, and Seungmin—ever the unpredictable storm—was right at the center, tossing quips and jabs at anyone who came too close.
But Chan’s eyes weren’t on the chaos. They were on Seungmin’s small, subtle smiles, the ones he allowed only when Jisung fussed over him—adjusting his wrist brace, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. That was the Seungmin Chan knew—the one who could tease, provoke, and act like a menace, but also trust someone enough to let them in.
Seungmin shot Jisung a grin, half-mischievous, half-grateful. “Thanks for… you know. Not letting me crumble completely,” he said, voice soft but honest.
Jisung’s face softened into that gentle, exasperated smile only Chan knew meant everything was forgiven and remembered all at once. “Don’t mention it,” Jisung replied, tugging at the brace to make sure it was secure. “Just… don’t scare me like that again, alright?”
Seungmin snorted, elbowing him lightly, chaos woven into every gesture. “No promises.”
Then Seungmin’s gaze drifted toward Jeongin. Chan noticed how he kept glancing at the maknae, softly, almost imperceptibly, until Jeongin caught the look and froze. Later, when the others were distracted by Changbin’s antics, Seungmin quietly sidled over to Jeongin’s corner of the couch.
“Hey,” he murmured, just loud enough for Jeongin to hear.
Jeongin’s head popped up, startled, cheeks tinged pink. “H-hey,” he replied, voice too quick, too high.
Seungmin grinned, that familiar chaotic half-smile that somehow made Jeongin’s chest tighten. “I know I gave you a hard time for… you know, breaking the promise.” His tone was softer now, quieter, carrying something heavier than teasing.
“I—” Jeongin stammered, but Seungmin held up a hand.
“Don’t. I get it,” Seungmin said. “You didn’t want to lie for me forever. You were just… trying to protect me. That’s… actually really brave.”
Jeongin blinked, caught off guard, heart threatening to leap out of his chest. “Brave?” he whispered.
Seungmin shrugged, leaning back slightly, but his eyes stayed locked on Jeongin. “Yeah. I mean… I’ve been an idiot, keeping everything bottled up, and you—you cared enough to hold it for me. That means a lot, Innie.”
Jeongin swallowed, voice cracking. “I just… I wanted to help. I didn’t want you to—hurt yourself.”
“You stopped me from doing worse,” Seungmin said softly, reaching out to tug gently at Jeongin’s sleeve. “You—you actually helped me, even when I yelled at you. That… that counts for something.”
Jeongin’s fingers twitched, hesitant, before he found the courage to link his hand with Seungmin’s. “You really mean that?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Seungmin squeezed his hand once, teasing light returning to his tone. “Of course I mean it. Now don’t get all mushy on me, Innie. You’re embarrassing me in front of Chan.”
Chan, from the doorway, suppressed a chuckle, shaking his head. The way Seungmin could be tender and chaotic at once always amazed him. But what warmed Chan the most was the quiet closeness forming between them, subtle but unbreakable.
Seungmin leaned back, nudging Jeongin with his shoulder. “You know, I could get used to you being stubborn like this. Makes me want to tease you less… maybe.”
Jeongin’s smirk was small, cautious, but it was there. “You? Less teasing? That’ll be the day.”
Seungmin laughed quietly, a sound only Jeongin could hear, and for a moment, the rest of the world fell away. Just the two of them, sharing relief, trust, and a subtle promise that no matter what chaos came next, they had each other.
Chan watched the interaction, chest swelling with quiet pride. They were messy, loud, chaotic—and perfect in the way only a family could be.