Chapter 1 “Is hyung always that unreachable?” The words clung to Felix’s mind like ivy, looping endlessly through his thoughts. Again and again, the moment replayed itself—his voice trembling in the silence, the question escaping before he could catch it. He should have been mortified, and perhaps he was. But at least only one person had heard it: Bang Chan. And thank God, Chan had laughed. Not cruelly. No, never that. It was the kind of warm, gentle laugh only he could offer—a laugh that disarmed rather than mocked. Felix hadn’t even known what was funny at first. But then it hit him. And when it did, a slow, burning flush spread across his cheeks. Chan, for his part, never told a soul. He carried the confession with the quiet dignity of someone who knew what it meant to keep a secret, especially one this fragile. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to wound Felix any more than he already had. Because once the laughter faded, Chan’s smile did too. His face settled into a solemn mask, the kind Felix usually saw only when they were face-to-face with someone from the label. “Felix, whatever it is you’re hoping for… Changbin won’t agree to it. Try to let it go, yeah?” He paused, just long enough to let the words sink in, then added: “It’ll be better that way.” Better. Better. Yes, better! the words howled in Felix’s mind. He was a mess. Disheveled, sleep-starved, tears clinging to his lashes like dew. Mornings had become unbearable. Who would have thought that getting his own room would feel so much like exile? Alone with his thoughts, the silence grew teeth. In the shared dorms, his friends would have stopped him from sinking this deep. Or maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have dared to cry this way at all. Not so openly. Not so helplessly. These emotions—wild and unwelcome—would have had no room to bloom. The once-beloved pillow with Changbin’s face now lay abandoned in a corner, half-buried beneath discarded clothes and yesterday’s detritus. Felix couldn’t look at it anymore. Couldn’t bring himself to hold it at night. Not now. Not after everything. Dreams had become cruel. He would wake as if torn from them, breathless, aching. The return to daylight was unbearable. He shivered and hugged his shoulders. His chest still hitched, but the sobs were subsiding. The clock was ticking. In twenty minutes, he’d have to wash his face, force a smile, and become Felix Lee again—the bright, freckled spark from Australia. Mischievous. Loud. Effortlessly golden. The sunshine who never cried. He ran, he laughed, he filled every room with warmth. Especially around— “Is hyung always that unreachable?” A breath in. A breath out. “Fuck.” Enough. Enough. He had to get ready. Had to put on the face they all expected. Had to play the part. Everyone loved Felix Lee. But no one had ever wanted Yongbok. No one. Not even— His nails scraped his wrist. Another wave threatened, but he choked it back, stood, and stumbled into the bathroom. The water would be cold. Good. Let it wash the weakness away. Bang Chan was right. This was the only way.

“I swear, if you don’t shut up—“ Lee Know’s voice cracked like thunder. Seated a few feet away, Han burst into laughter again, this time taking a precautionary step back. The atmosphere was tense. Everyone had made it to practice on time—miraculous, considering the early hour—but no one was quite awake. Morning light crept shyly between the blinds, barely brushing the practice room. The overhead lights had been switched on early. Changbin missed the dark. He hadn’t slept well, same as the others. But he’d wanted just a few moments in the quiet, that beautiful, fleeting space between night and morning. He found it magical—the slow fade of darkness, the first golden breath of day. But there was no time for magic. Not today. Changbin sighed. Maybe waking up quickly was for the best. Still, he would’ve given anything to be back in bed, or—at the very least—to watch how a single ray of sunlight touched the mirrors, dust in its wake sparkling like stars. How that glint had caught, just for a second, on a tear tracing Felix’s cheek. Wait… what? He wasn’t sure. It could have been the light. The hour. A trick of tired eyes. But when he looked again, the tear was gone. Felix was smiling. As always. Too much like always. “Earth to Changbin! Hey! Yoohoo!” Han’s voice broke through the fog, a hand waving dramatically in front of his face. Changbin scowled. “Han, what the hell is wrong with you? Why are you so damn chipper?” Han only grinned, about to quip something else when Lee Know barked again, ordering them to stop fooling around and start working. Grumbling, they rose. Everyone knew Lee Know wasn’t actually mad. Anyone who’d seen the way he treated his cats could tell he had a good heart. But today, his tolerance was razor-thin. And still, something kept pulling Changbin’s attention back to Felix. No chirpy “Good morning, hyung!” No sneak-attack hugs. None of the usual chaos Felix trailed behind him like sunshine. Just silence. And stumbles. Lee Know usually went easier on Felix than most. He had a soft spot, no one doubted that. But this morning, even he had been stern. The corrections kept coming. Felix, for all his effort, couldn’t seem to get the choreography right. “Something’s wrong,” Changbin thought. Eventually, Lee Know halted everything. “Felix, show me that section again. Alone.” Felix nodded. He tried. His body wouldn’t obey. His mind was far away. Lee Know sighed, long and weary. “You’ll have to work on this part separately, Lix. It’s important.” Felix nodded again. And then— Oh God. Another tear. Quick. Barely visible. But Changbin saw it. No tricks of the light this time. Felix never cried in front of others. But he was crying now. And it broke something open. Felix had always drawn him in—or rather, Yongbok, as only he ever called him. Sometimes. He liked him because Felix made him want to smile… but mostly because Felix, in his inimitable way, reminded him that sensitivity and openness weren’t flaws—they were beautiful. Only Felix had that kind of laugh—ringing, infectious, utterly sincere. Only Felix, in his early twenties, could so convincingly pretend he was five, and the world around him a Disney movie. Only Felix could embody tenderness, care, and deep empathy while still being fragile, innocent, and so heartbreakingly naive—traits that usually drove Changbin up the wall in other people. But not in Felix. Never in Felix. And only Felix had been avoiding him these past few months. Pulling away. Making excuses. Dodging his gaze. No more morning greetings. No more endless message chains that used to pour in like water. Today—he hadn’t even said hello. Practice ended. The others scattered—some to nap, others to eat, to shower, to decompress. But Felix stayed. And so did Changbin. Alone now, in the quiet of the training room. When the door shut behind Han, and Changbin was certain they were alone, he approached Felix and said softly, without pressing: “You’re not doing it right.” Felix flinched and turned. The past few minutes had been a blur. Changbin’s voice snapped him back to earth. “W-what?” “You’re doing it wrong,” Changbin repeated, taking his hand. Felix blinked, struggling to follow. “Let me show you. Watch.” He stepped in closer, took both of Felix’s hands, and slowly guided him through the stubborn move, correcting it with gentle touches and quiet patience. “Like that,” Changbin murmured with a smile. “Good job. See? It’s not so hard.” Felix stayed silent, eyes distant. Their palms were still pressed together, and the younger boy couldn’t ignore it. A shiver traced up his spine. “Yongbok,” Changbin said, voice barely a breath. “Look at me.” It was a gut punch. Felix obeyed at once, lifting dazed, bewildered eyes to him. “What’s wrong? Can I help?” The spell shattered. Felix mumbled something under his breath, yanked his hands free, and fled the room.