2:04 AM.

The wheels of the plane hadn't even touched Korean ground when the group chat had lit up with frantic updates about airport chaos. And by "updates," he meant leaks. His group had expected a calm night—a sleepy 2AM homecoming where they could split into vans, complain about airplane food, and get dropped off one by one like exhausted kids from a school trip. In. Out. No cameras. No chaos. Just seven tired boys back on home soil.

Of course, sasaengs did what sasaengs do best—ruin shit. They'd leaked their flight schedule down to the terminal gate. One girl outside the security doors had literally printed it out in color-coded tabs.

He wore a grey hoodie, the hood over his cap gifted by a fan site. Mask on. Shoulders hunched. His light-wash jeans were comfy, and the black duffle bag slung across his body weighed him down to reality. The bodyguards did their best, but the swarm was relentless. Girls screaming, camera lenses literally in his face, someone tripped over a suitcase, and lights flashing like they were on stage again.

The moment he climbed into the manager's van, silence wrapped around him like a second skin. The inside of his chest felt loud, even with the laughter and chatter from the others filling the vehicle like fizzy soda bubbles. He responded here and there—nods, hums, the occasional snort when Minhyun brought up the hall manager at a café they recently visited in the US during their tour who'd been way too flirty with Soohwan.

He loved these idiots so much it sometimes ached—the clingy, emotional, overly affectionate people that FaceTimed him when he was gone for thirty minutes too long. They were his second family. Not by blood, but in the way that mattered—the late-night practice kind of love, the crash-on-the-floor-in-sweatpants-after-rehearsals kind of bond. He was their comfort, their grounding point. Their "talk to me for an hour and cry all over my shoulder until you feel better and I won't say a word unless you want me to" guy.

And God, he wouldn't trade them for the world.

But still. Still. A part of him? Some small, selfish part? Was already counting streets.

It took an hour to drop everyone off. The van felt emptier with each stop. The manager's tired eyes flicked to him in the rearview mirror as he pulled up at the building. "기다릴까요? (You want me to wait?)"

"괜찮아요, (I'm good)" he murmured, soft and deep. "고마워요, 형 (Thank you)"

"좋은 밤 되세요, 오늘도 수고하셨습니다 (Have a good night. Thank you for your hard work today)."

"안녕히 주무세요 (goodnight)."

His sneakers hit the sidewalk. His legs moved before his brain could even form the thought. No cameras. No screaming. Just wind and streetlamps and the occasional rustle of leaves. Familiar pavement beneath his shoes. Familiar pull in his chest. Familiar ache behind his ribs. Past the flower bush she always said needed trimming. Straight to her door. Like muscle memory.

His skin felt clammy. He adjusted his black cap, dropped the duffle, and stood at her door. He stared at the door like it might read his mind. Like maybe it would open on its own and she'd be standing there with that stupid oversized tee and her bare feet and her sleepy voice and—dammit.

He raised a hand to knock but couldn't for the life of him. God, he was so screwed. He was screwed from the beginning actually. He finally raised his hand and knocked. Once. Twice. Three times. Then shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket like he wasn't internally screaming.

The door cracked open. Light poured out. Warm. Familiar. Smelled like her house, like laundry and old memories and every part of his goddamn heart.

And his brain just—short-circuited. Everything paused. Not like in the movies, where the world fades out to violin music and slow motion. No, this was worse. This was real.

Sleep still clinging to her lashes. The soft rosy puff of her cheeks from just waking up. Messy hair. A hoodie that looked way too familiar—suspiciously like the one he swore vanished five months ago during laundry day—hanging loosely, and most importantly her lips. Too fucking kissable. Soft. Full. Tinted from sleep or maybe just from the cold. And God help him, he wanted to kiss the living hell out of them.

He barely managed to hold back. Barely. His gaze flicked up to her eyes again. Back and forth. Like they were suddenly the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. He'd seen them a million times, but now they looked... different. Like they belonged to someone he hadn't seen in years. Or maybe like he was seeing them clearly for the first time.

All the butterflies he'd been swatting away for years, the ones he told himself were just nostalgia or habit or too much caffeine—they rose up in his stomach like they'd just waited for this exact second to mock him.

His mouth opened before his pride could tape it shut. His voice came out softer than he meant it to, buried behind the exhaustion and hoodie and years of denial. "Maybe I've loved you all along..."