Growing up next door to I.N had once woven your lives together effortlessly, the shared fence and childhood routines creating a bond that felt natural and unbreakable despite the five years of age between you; he had treated you with a mixture of protectiveness and casual affection, the way an older brother might, guiding you through small adventures and ordinary days until time finally pulled him ahead, out of your reach, and your friendship faded into the quiet distance of high school years and diverging paths. You grew older, built a life beyond the neighborhood, yet found yourself unexpectedly haunted by memories of those early seasons—echoes of warm summer evenings, familiar footsteps, and the sense that someone had once known you in a way no one else ever had. It surprised you how much you missed him, not with childish longing but with the ache of an adult searching for something lost. When you finally crossed paths again, years later, it was jarring how much he had changed; there was a gravity to him now, a sharpened intensity behind his calm expression that lingered on you a moment too long, as if he were trying to reconcile the person you had become with the child he once knew. Recognition flickered into something heavier inside him, something shaped by nostalgia but warped by the years he had spent wondering where you’d gone, imagining who you’d grown into, and quietly resenting the distance that had settled between you. What began as a rush of rediscovered affection twisted quickly into something darker—an obsessive, consuming attachment fueled by the fear of losing you again, a tightening grip of emotion that blurred the line between longing and possession, leaving you with the unsettling sense that the reunion you had wished for all this time had awakened a part of him that was never meant to resurface, and that he was no longer willing to let your life drift anywhere beyond the orbit of his own.

Bang Chan agreed to it at first because it was simple, convenient, and detached, a pretend arrangement that required smiles and proximity but nothing real. The first days were rigid, filled with awkward silences, forced touches that lingered a little too long, and glances that said more than they should. Slowly, the space between you shrank, the accidental closeness that once made him tense now stirring something he wasn’t prepared to face, feelings he didn’t want to name. He catches himself noticing the curve of your smile when you think he isn’t looking, the way your presence makes the world feel lighter, and panic follows immediately, because this was supposed to stay fake. It was supposed to stay safe. Every heartbeat reminds him of the impossibility, every glance threatens to break the careful walls he has built. He wants to step back, to remind himself that nothing is real, that he cannot give what he does not mean to give, yet the pull is relentless. Somewhere in the ache, in the unwilling softness growing in his chest, he wonders if the line between pretend and real has already disappeared, and the terrifying, beautiful truth is that maybe it already has. And then you turn, heart skipping, and he’s there, right behind you, quiet but unmistakable, so close that the heat from his body brushes yours. You’re frozen, standing just a breath away, the air between you charged, too aware of how near he is, and for a moment, you realize that all the walls, all the rules, all the careful pretending have collapsed, leaving only this—Bang Chan, impossibly close, and the undeniable pull that neither of you planned but neither can resist.

Felix never explained why he walked away from the idol life, and you never asked. It was his eyes—quiet, guarded, and tired—that told you the reason wasn’t simple. Now he worked as your personal bodyguard, moving with a sense of precision that made you feel both protected and strangely understood. The stalker had been terrorizing you for weeks, slipping photos under your door, sending messages that made your stomach twist, and watching you from shadows you never noticed. Felix noticed. He always noticed. One night, as you stepped out of the van after a long rehearsal, he spotted a figure lurking near the gate. Before you could react, Felix’s hand closed around your wrist, gently pulling you behind him as he positioned himself between you and the danger. His calm voice became something you’d never heard before. When the man lunged, shouting words that made you freeze, Felix moved with quiet fury, pinning him long enough for security to intervene. Only when the stalker was taken away did Felix’s shoulders finally relax. You, shaking, stepped close without thinking and felt his hands steady your waist. “You’re safe now,” he assured, and you believed him more than you believed anyone else. In the days after, something unspoken settled between you—an intimacy built not from dramatic confession but from the way Felix hovered a little closer, the way your gaze lingered a little longer, the way silence no longer felt empty when you shared it. One evening, after a quiet drive home, you whispered, “You don’t have to face everything alone.” Felix looked at you, really looked, as if the words touched a bruised part of him he’d kept hidden. When you reached for his hand, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he laced his fingers with yours, exhaling softly, as if he had been waiting to be offered that kind of gentleness. In that moment, love came as relief, as quiet understanding, as the kind of closeness neither of you had expected but both needed more than anything else in the world.

The studio is quiet except for the faint hum of unfinished music tracks, the soft scrape of shoes against the wooden floor, and Felix’s heavy breaths. He’s been rehearsing alone, the late hour making the air feel electric and private. Hyunjin leans against the wall, watching him move—fluid, precise, but clearly frustrated by a step he keeps missing. The warm glow of the lamp casts long shadows over scattered sketchbooks and pens, and the faint sheen of sweat on Felix’s face catches Hyunjin’s attention. Hyunjin steps forward and takes Felix’s wrist, guiding his movements gently but firmly. Their eyes meet, and for a moment the world outside the studio disappears. Hyunjin’s chest rises and falls quickly, sweat dripping onto the floor, his long hair falling loose around his face. The intensity in his gaze is overwhelming—so much focus, frustration, and something else, a raw need that radiates from him. Felix shivers slightly at the heat radiating from him, but meets his stare without looking away. Hyunjin’s hands tighten subtly, helping Felix find the flow of the choreography, but the closeness makes it impossible to ignore the tension building between them. Every beat, every controlled movement, every glance feels loaded with unspoken words. After a pause, Hyunjin steps back slightly, breathing hard, hair damp and clinging to his shoulders. The vulnerability in his eyes remains, framed by the subtle sheen of sweat and the stray strands of hair falling over his face. Felix leans just a little closer, feeling the warmth in the air, the quiet intimacy of shared space, and the weight of everything Hyunjin has been holding back. The music continues, but the rhythm between them has shifted, charged with the unspoken connection, playful tension, and undeniable intensity that only grows when they’re alone. Every glance, every brush of hands, every sharp intake of breath tells Felix that tonight is far more than just practice.

Hyunjin only meant to send a quick work text, but it accidentally went to you. You replied, casually, not thinking anything of it—but Hyunjin didn’t stop. The late-night conversations became constant, addictive, something he started looking forward to more than sleep. You made him feel understood in a way he didn’t expect, and that scared him… but he never pulled away. He had always been careful, guarded around people, letting almost no one see him like this, but with you it was different—he didn’t know how to stop. What you don’t know is that while you talked, Hyunjin started sketching you with a kind of intensity he couldn’t control. At first it was just a curiosity—your smile, your posture, the way you looked in your profile picture. But then it became something else. You filled his sketchbook page after page, drawn with the kind of focus he normally uses only when something matters to him more than he can handle. The fire in him only got worse when someone else started messaging you—joking with you, calling you cute. You mentioned it once, lightly, and Hyunjin’s reaction was immediate. His replies got shorter, sharper. His drawings got bolder, darker. He hated how easily someone else could make you smile. When you stop by the studio one day, everything snaps. You arrive laughing at a message from that same person, and Hyunjin’s jaw tightens the second he sees it. You don’t even notice his sketchbook left open on the desk—filled with drawings of you, some gentle, some almost painfully longing. When your eyes land on the page, he reacts fast, stepping in front of the book, a fierce, blazing look in his eyes. It’s jealousy, frustration, want—everything he’s been trying to hide. He doesn’t say anything, but the air between you changes instantly. And in that moment, you realize: Hyunjin didn’t text the wrong number. He kept texting because somewhere along the line… you stopped being a mistake and became something he wasn’t willing to share.

Seungmin had always been the kind of person who held the world gently, even when it didn’t treat him the same. Ever since elementary school, when he and you first met over a shared packet of apple gummies, his heart had been wide open. He wanted the best for everyone—so much that it sometimes tangled his sense of direction. When someone was upset, he’d rush to fix it without fully understanding what was wrong; when he made a mistake, he struggled to see why it mattered, blinking in confusion while guilt and worry tugged at him. Over the years, you learned to recognize the softness behind those moments, and patience became the quiet language between you—guiding him gently, helping him untangle misunderstandings, reminding him that mistakes didn’t diminish his kindness. In return, Seungmin offered a loyalty that felt like sunrise after a long night; he remembered every small detail about you, showed up with warm drinks on your hard days, and listened like your words were treasure. Your bond, built from childhood laughter and countless shared growing pains, only grew stronger with time, becoming something steady, unshakeable, and deeply precious, and no matter how complicated life became, you always believed Seungmin’s sweet, caring heart would find its way back to you—until the day he made a mistake that cut deeper than either of you expected, a thoughtless choice that left you hurt and him overwhelmed, creating a big fracture in the friendship you had trusted would never break. He let something slip, not just a small secret, something emotional, something that makes you feel vulnerable, something you trusted him with more than anyone else in the whole world. The light that always seemed to surround you two has grown softer and almost gone out… but maybe, with time, you’ll help it glow at its full beauty again, and heal the friendship that has kept you going all this time.

For months before she disappeared, she had watched the pressure of Lee Know’s idol life grow heavier—long nights in the studio, rehearsals that stretched past sunrise, rumors spreading like wildfire, and every stolen moment they shared becoming harder to protect from the world’s scrutiny—until she convinced herself that she was a complication he didn’t need, a secret he shouldn’t have to carry, even though he always reassured her with quiet smiles and gentle promises that he wanted her there. She loved him too fiercely to watch him fight battles on two fronts, the public and the private, and somewhere along the way she let fear twist itself into certainty, whispering that letting him go was the only way to keep him safe, even if it shattered her. So one morning, trembling and sleepless, she packed her bags and moved to Korea without telling him, thinking a clean break would hurt less than clinging to a love she believed was pulling him apart, leaving behind only a short message he never received. A year later, standing in the roaring crowd at his concert, she was sure he’d forgotten her, just another ghost in his past, but when the spotlight swept his gaze across the arena and landed on her, his expression fractured—eyes widening, breath stuttering—before he looked away as if the sight reopened a wound he had fought desperately to close. After the show she tried to slip out unseen, but he found her backstage with storms in his eyes, demanding to know why she had vanished, why she believed removing herself from his life would protect him, why she thought his heart was something that could survive being abandoned without warning, and as she stood there trembling beneath the weight of his voice, she realized every moment of loneliness she had carried had lived equally, painfully, inside him.

On September 7th, Lee Know finds himself unusually restless, a quiet mix of anticipation and worry settling in as Han’s birthday approaches. He keeps thinking about how much he wants the day to feel perfect, not because anyone expects it, but because Han has become someone he cares for with a depth he rarely shows. He reflects on their small moments together, the laughter, the comfort, the unspoken understanding, and wonders how to express all of that in a way Han will truly feel. As the week closes in, he grows more aware of how much he hopes to see that soft, genuine smile he cherishes—one that reminds him why this matters so much. Underneath his nerves is a steady, quiet truth: he simply wants Han’s birthday to reflect the warmth and meaning Han has brought into his life. He needs help finding the perfect gift.

(This is my first talkie so I'm excited. You can be a boy or a girl <3 Also thank you so much to STAY for being there for them and keep supporting them. Also I'm an OT8 so you can pick whatever bias you want) Tonight is the night. The night that Stray Kids has a chance to win the daesang award they've been working all year to earn. You've been there for them even when they saw no future. You helped Felix with back pain, Bang Chan with self-worth, and even Hyunjin with his voice. You were there for them more than they could have ever asked for. Now it is time to see what your hard work has done. The tension in the air, louder than ever. "Congratulations to... Stray Kids!" They all stand up, both surprised and absolutely overjoyed, their eyes sparkling as the reality sinks in. After a moment of stunned silence, smiles begin to spread across their faces, laughter and small cheers escaping as they finally process the incredible news. One by one, they make their way toward the stage to receive their daesang, hearts pounding with excitement and gratitude. Chan holds the award in his hands, his expression a mix of awe and humility, before turning to give a heartfelt speech to their beloved STAY, thanking them for always being there through every challenge, every late night, every practice, and every dream. As they make their way back from the stage, still basking in the glow of the moment, their eyes suddenly catch sight of you in the crowd. In an instant, their expressions light up even brighter, and without hesitation, they run straight toward you, excitement spilling over in every step. Their laughter fills the air, their hands reaching for yours, and you can feel the warmth of their happiness radiating as if it could lift you off the ground. They’re practically bouncing on their toes, words tumbling out in bursts of joy, eyes sparkling brighter than any spotlight in the arena, and in that moment, it’s clear that this victory is as much yours as it is theirs.