The low buzz of the air conditioner is the only sound filling the room.

You’ve stopped practicing twenty minutes ago, but you haven’t moved from the center of the floor. The studio lights are dimmed now — not off, just low enough to cast long shadows. Your hoodie sleeves are pulled over your hands, eyes fixed on the reflection of the empty room in the mirror. Your bag’s still zipped. The water bottle beside you has gone warm.

The episode aired today. You watched it — as usual. But you didn't know what they would show.

You were in it. Quiet. Background. Always present but never focused on.

Until that voiceover.

Footsteps.

Not rushed — hesitant. Soft soles. Familiar.

You don’t turn. But you know it’s Jay before he says anything.

He walks past the mirror first, catches your reflection, and pauses. Then walks back and lowers himself slowly to the floor, leaving a careful amount of space between you. Just enough to say: I’m not here to press. Only to stay.

The silence stretches between you both. He doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then, finally:

“I didn’t know they kept that clip. I thought they’d cut it.”

You don’t respond. Not out of spite — it just takes energy to talk, and you’ve used most of yours pretending to be fine all week.

Jay sighs quietly. His head falls back against the mirror, eyes flicking to the ceiling.

“It was about you. I think... I think the others figured that out, too.”

Another pause.

"You don’t say much. But you’ve been quieter lately. It’s not the same kind of quiet.”

The words aren’t dramatic. Just real. Careful.

He turns his head to glance at you.

“I came because I figured if anyone was going to pretend nothing happened... it’d be you.”

You still don’t speak.

But your shoulders shift — the faintest movement. A small thing, but Jay notices.

He sits with you a while longer. Doesn’t fill the silence. Doesn’t leave.

Just stays.

The room hums on. And the quiet starts to feel a little less lonely.

Jay didn’t speak again after that. Not even when you finally stood up to leave.

He just followed quietly — a half step behind, neither walking beside you nor ahead of you, like he wasn’t sure what you needed. The elevator ride up to the dorm was silent. Familiar. Like dozens you’ve taken before.

Except this time, it felt like something was pressing in from all sides. Not from Jay. Just... from everything.

You unlock the door with your code, push it open, and step into the warmth of the shared space.

The dorm smells like leftover ramyeon and citrus shampoo. Someone’s laundry is folded neatly on the sofa — probably Jungwon’s doing. The hallway light is on, and the soft hum of a phone charger buzzes from the bedroom down the hall.

Sunoo is in the kitchen, hair tied up with a headband, quietly stirring something in a pot. He glances up when you enter, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. His eyes shift behind you, seeing Jay just a few steps back.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Then:

“Didn’t think you’d still be at the studio.”

You offer a small nod and toe your shoes off. Jay doesn’t say anything either — just drifts toward the bathroom, muttering something about a shower.

Sunoo watches you for a second longer, then gestures to the pot on the stove.

“It’s jjigae. I made too much. You should eat.”

You move to the counter without a word. He hands you a bowl, but his eyes stay on your face for a second too long. Not suspicious — just... searching.

You sit at the table in the corner, the one that squeaks when you lean too far on one side. The soup is hot. Spicy. Comforting in a way that feels both welcome and undeserved.

Sunoo leans against the counter, arms folded, and his voice is quieter when he speaks again.

“Was it hard to hear it?”

You don’t ask what he means. You know. The voiceover. The one, one of them recorded.

He looks at you, almost carefully.

“When I watched the episode... I thought, ‘Oh. So someone else saw it too.’”

Your spoon stills in the bowl.

Sunoo isn’t dramatic by nature. But when he cares, it comes through in everything — in the way he cooks, the way he folds towels, the way he watches his members when they think he’s not paying attention.

“I just thought maybe... you didn’t notice that we noticed.”

You don’t answer.

Not because there’s nothing to say — but because the silence feels more honest than any words right now.

You hear the shower turn on in the bathroom. The dorm feels small again. Closer. Like the walls are starting to listen.

Jungwon’s bedroom door creaks open, and you hear his voice before you see him.

“Who's still up?”

He steps into view in his pajama pants, hair messy, phone still in hand. He pauses when he sees you at the table — then when he spots Sunoo across from you, his eyes narrow slightly.

“Did something happen?”

There’s a pause. Sunoo shifts. You keep your eyes on your bowl.

Jungwon’s not stupid.

He sets his phone down.

The moment stretches.

Sunoo doesn’t push. Jungwon doesn’t ask again. Not yet.

He just sits slowly at the table across from you, resting his elbows on the surface. His phone screen is dark now. Forgotten.

You’re still holding the spoon, but you haven’t taken another bite.

Sunoo leans back against the counter, glancing toward the door like he’s waiting for something else to drop.

And then — right on cue — it does.

The door clicks open, followed by muffled voices and the shuffle of sneakers against the mat.

Heeseung’s the first to come in, hoodie pulled up over damp hair. He stops short when he sees all three of you already gathered in the dim kitchen light.

“You guys didn’t sleep?”

Jake’s right behind him, stretching his arms over his head with a yawn that dies halfway through when he takes in the mood.

“Why’s it so quiet in here?”

Ni-ki’s voice follows, grumbling about how long the filming ran, but he quiets too when he sees the kitchen scene — bowls half-full, Sunoo staring too long at you, and Jungwon looking like he’s mid-thought but hasn’t decided whether to speak it yet.

Sunghoon closes the door last. His gaze flicks between each of you like he’s sensing something unspoken. He doesn’t say anything. Just quietly slips off his shoes.

Heeseung walks further in, his steps slower now.

“Did something happen?”

Sunoo exchanges a glance with Jungwon, who sighs softly and looks at you — not expecting you to answer, just checking if you’re still here, still okay.

You stay still. Breathing slow. Back straight. Hands around the bowl even though it’s cooling fast.

Jungwon’s voice is quiet when he finally speaks.

“He watched the episode too.”

No one needs to ask which episode. It was today’s. The one that aired during their schedule. The one none of them had time to process.

Jake sets down his bag on the couch, eyes narrowed now.

“Wait... was that voiceover—?”

“Yeah,” Jay says, appearing from the hallway with damp hair and a towel around his neck. His voice is calm but tired.

“I thought they cut it,” Jake mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Heeseung looks at you. Not accusing. Not even worried. Just... watching. Like he’s trying to see beneath your stillness.

Sunghoon sits down at the far end of the table, fingers drumming once before going still.

“You should’ve told us if it was that bad.”

The words land heavier than they’re meant to. Ni-ki frowns but doesn’t add anything. His eyes linger on you longer than anyone else’s.

You don’t speak.

Not because you’re hiding — not really.

Because the words feel too big to start saying now. Like if you open the door to one of them, all of them might fall out.

Jay pulls out a chair beside Jungwon and leans his elbows on the table.

“I think we all started noticing at different points. But no one wanted to say it out loud.”

“Or we just didn’t know how,” Sunoo adds softly.

Another silence.

But this one feels different.

Heeseung exhales and leans against the fridge.

“Well, we can’t change how long it took us to speak up. But we can be here now. If you’ll let us.”

It’s not dramatic. Not loud. Not a group confrontation.

But the weight of them — their presence, their quiet concern, their hesitation — settles in the room like rainclouds before a storm.

There’s still time before anything breaks.

But for the first time in a long time, it feels like someone sees the cracks.

And maybe... they’re finally ready to sit in the quiet with you.