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Chapter Text

Chapter One: The Red Umbrella

The automatic doors hissed open, releasing Wen Junhui into the storm like a soldier staggering back from the frontlines. His hair was damp with exertion, strands plastered to his forehead, and his t-shirt clung to his skin as if it too had been tested by fire. In his right hand, he clutched his prize, a flimsy plastic bag stretched to near tearing, filled with what any passerby might dismiss as groceries but to Jun felt like a victory haul. Packets of Mamee Ghost Pepper Spicy Chicken noodles, peach jelly cups, and, most importantly, a carton of banana milk with a red discount sticker slapped across its side.

 

A treasure hard-won.

 

He paused under the awning, breath uneven, blinking against the muggy heat. His left hand strayed unconsciously to his waist, fingertips brushing the tender scar tissue beneath the fabric. The ache wasn’t sharp, not tonight, but it was steady, a low thrum that reminded him of what was gone. The injury that had dismantled years of discipline. The dream he had sacrificed to pain.

 

“All this,” Jun muttered in Mandarin, lifting the bag with a weak chuckle, “for noodles.”

 

As if the heavens themselves mocked him, the rain fell. Not a drizzle, but a deluge. Sheets of water slapping the asphalt in chaotic applause. The world blurred into streaks of gray. Jun bolted toward the bus stop, sneakers squealing on the slick ground. By the time he slid under the corrugated shed roof, his shirt clung to him like a second skin, transparent at the shoulders, his breath fogging the air.

 

The ache in his back sharpened when he sat, forcing him to shift, stretch, roll his shoulders in practiced motions. It was a dance he knew too well. Distract. Adjust. Endure.

 

The bag rustled as he reached inside, fingers brushing the jelly cups. He almost tore one open, more for distraction than hunger, when the air above him shifted.

 

He was abruptly shielded.

 

He blinked, startled. A canopy of deep crimson hovered above his head, droplets drumming softly against its taut surface.

 

Jun tilted his head back, gaze following the umbrella to its owner.

 

A man.

 

Not the kind of man one overlooked. His suit was charcoal-black, perfectly tailored despite the rain, the kind of fabric that whispered money and meticulous taste. A silver tiepin glimmered faintly at his chest. Rainwater slid from the sharp angles of his jaw, tracing the line of his cheekbone before falling onto polished leather shoes that gleamed even under the storm.

 

But it wasn’t his attire that froze Jun’s words in his throat. It was the eyes.

 

They flickered over him with unsettling precision, catching the way Jun pressed his palm against his lower back, the guarded set of his posture, the wince he tried to disguise. There was no pity there, no casual sympathy. Just assessment, like a surgeon memorizing a chart.

 

Jun parted his lips, fumbling for courtesy. “Ah, thank you, but I...”

 

The man cut across him, his voice low, even. A tone that carried no room for argument.
“Take the umbrella. You’ll need it more than I do.”

 

Jun shook his head instinctively. “No, really, I can’t…”

 

The handle pressed firmly into his palm before he could finish. The man’s grip lingered just long enough to silence him, not forceful, but absolute.

 

“I insist.”

 

And then… motion. A sleek red Mercedes Benz ghosted to the curb, its headlights slicing through the storm. The man stepped away with the same clean precision with which he had arrived. He slid into the backseat, movements fluid, practiced, like a man who had done this a thousand times. The umbrella vanished with him, leaving Jun suddenly exposed again, until he realized it was still in his hand.

 

The car door shut with a muffled thud. Seconds later, taillights glowed through the curtain of rain like twin embers, shrinking into the distance.

 

Silence returned. Just Jun, the storm, the faint plastic crinkle of his bag.

 

He stared at the umbrella, its deep crimson canopy casting a strange glow over the world. His pulse tapped against his throat, too fast for such a small encounter.

 

“...What just happened?” he whispered, the words dissolving into the rain.

 

The ache in his back pulsed harder, as if echoing the question. He shifted uneasily, glancing down the empty street, half-expecting the Mercedes to circle back.

 

But it didn’t.

 

Only the red umbrella remained, perched in his hand like an omen.

 

And in the pit of his stomach, Jun felt it, the first ripple of something he couldn’t yet name.

 

Meanwhile…

At the city hospital, the storm battered the glass facade with relentless percussion, drowning out the hum of fluorescent lights and the shuffle of late-shift nurses. The smell of antiseptic clung to the air, sharp and unyielding.

 

Dr. Choi Seungcheol exhaled heavily as he stepped into the underground parking garage, his hair damp with rain from the dash between doors. He rolled his shoulders, fatigue pressing into his bones, though his steps still carried the quiet authority of a man used to controlling chaos. Tonight had been long. Three consults, an emergency spinal assessment, and the kind of arguments with insurance officers that frayed even his remarkable patience.

 

The red Mercedes waited where it always did. Its glossy surface reflected the dripping lights, an oasis of polish in the stark gray of concrete.

 

The driver rose immediately, umbrella in hand, but Seungcheol waved him off. “I’ll manage.”

 

Even as he slid into the backseat, droplets rolled from his hair onto his collar. He tugged his tie loose, the silk falling open in rare surrender.

 

The driver glanced into the mirror, brow lifting with cautious familiarity.
“Another patient stopping you on your way out, Doctor?”

 

Seungcheol didn’t answer right away. His gaze was fixed on the rain-smeared world beyond the window. The bus stop shed shrank in the distance, its outline fractured by rivulets coursing down the glass. But he had seen enough.

 

A figure. Young, soaked, shoulders taut with the kind of pain people pretended wasn’t there. Pretended until it broke them.

 

The man’s hand had pressed against his waist. The small tell, invisible to anyone else, but not to Seungcheol. Not to the surgeon who had rebuilt athletes from the wreckage of their own bodies.

 

He leaned back, voice quiet, measured.
“Something like that.”

 

The driver’s eyes flicked once more to the mirror. “Important?”

 

Seungcheol’s lips curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “They usually are.”

 

The car slipped into the flow of wet streets, taillights reflecting like streaks of blood across the asphalt. Seungcheol let his eyes close for a moment, but the image of the young man clung stubbornly to his mind. The lean frame of a once-disciplined body, the shadow of resilience in his posture, and the unmistakable signs of an old injury improperly healed.

 

A case. A puzzle.

 

Or maybe something else.

 

When he opened his eyes again, the storm still raged, but in Seungcheol’s chest, another storm was beginning.

 

“Drive,” he murmured.

 

And the city swallowed them both. The doctor with rain in his hair, and the stranger with a red umbrella he did not yet understand.

 

Elsewhere in the City

 

Rain braided through the city like silver threads, each drop stitching lives together in ways none could yet imagine. While Jun sat beneath the red umbrella and Seungcheol’s car disappeared into the blur of traffic, the others lived their own slices of ordinary life. Blissfully unaware that something extraordinary had just begun.

 

Jeonghan leaned lazily against the counter of his cafe, hair tied back in a ribbon that matched the pastel mugs on display. Outside, the rain lured strangers into his little shop like moths to warmth. He noticed everything. The shy smiles, the awkward glances, the hesitant first hellos over lattes. With the faintest smirk, he “accidentally” nudged two drinks closer together, ensuring the customers who ordered them would have no choice but to brush hands. A natural-born instigator, Jeonghan ran the cafe less for money and more for mischief. Timing, after all, was his art.

 

Joshua emerged from a smoky jazz bar, guitar case slung over his shoulder. His fingers still tingled with the memory of strings, the soft ache of music freshly played. Neon lights buzzed overhead, casting purple halos around puddles on the street. His voice hummed low as he walked, fragments of a melody that had charmed the small but attentive crowd. To the world, he was polite, soft-spoken Joshua. But on stage, he carried fire in chords and whispers, leaving behind echoes that haunted the midnight air.

 

Hoshi was still moving. He never stopped. The dance studio’s mirrors fogged with humidity as he barked encouragement at trainees, his voice half-lost under the thunder of bass. Sweat streaked down his temples, his shirt clinging, but his grin burned bright. To him, exhaustion was a friend. Proof he was alive, proof that the world hadn’t caught up yet. Every leap, every shout carried one message. Faster, sharper, more.

 

Wonwoo sat in silence, his world paper and ink. The publishing house smelled of dust and fresh print, manuscripts stacked like fortresses around him. He read with furrowed brows, a pen tapping idly against his lips. The rain outside was only background noise, a rhythm for the words he devoured. He was meticulous, sharp-eyed, a quiet guardian of stories that might otherwise be forgotten. Yet in the margins, his own words occasionally bled. A secret novel he’d never admit to writing.

 

Mingyu cursed under his breath as his third cake slumped tragically in the oven, the golden dome collapsing inward like a punctured balloon. Flour dusted his hair, streaked his cheek. The kitchen smelled like sugar and smoke, but his determination was sweeter still. He scribbled notes furiously in a grease-stained notebook, apron flapping as he yanked open the oven door. Failure only made him hungrier. Somewhere in the chaos of baking, he was chasing perfection, or maybe something more.

 

Seungkwan’s voice lit up the airwaves from a tiny radio booth. His laughter rolled through microphones, warm and infectious, teasing callers with wit sharp enough to draw blood but kind enough to heal it too. He spun stories between songs, bantering with co-hosts, filling lonely apartments across the city with sound. Outside the studio window, raindrops streaked like applause. Seungkwan thrived in noise, in connection. His words a lifeline he tossed into the storm for strangers to catch.

 

DK sang like the world wasn’t watching. The theater was nearly empty, only stagehands scattered across velvet seats, but his voice soared to the rafters as if performing to thousands. His hands carved shapes through the air, his body folding into the music. Even in rehearsal, he gave everything. Rain smacked against the windows, harmonizing faintly with the piano. For DK, the stage wasn’t work. It was oxygen.

 

Vernon sat hunched in the glow of monitors, one headphone slipping crookedly as his hands flew over the laptop keys. The production studio was a cave of half-empty coffee cups and scribbled lyrics taped to walls. Beats pulsed through the speakers, skeletal, raw, waiting for him to stitch them into something whole. The storm outside was nothing compared to the storm in his head, rhythms clashing, merging, transforming. He lived in sound, and tonight, the city’s thunder became part of his symphony.

 

Dino was training when most would have given up. His sneakers squeaked against polished floors, his shirt clung to his chest, every movement sharp with determination. The rain outside blurred the studio windows, but Dino didn’t see it, didn’t feel the fatigue gnawing at his muscles. He was young, hungry, his ambition dripping from him like sweat. The city could rest; he would not.

 

The8 painted in silence. His gallery smelled of turpentine and color, canvases leaning against walls in disciplined rows and chaotic bursts alike. His brush moved with precision, yet his strokes betrayed freedom. Restraint and rebellion entwined. He stood back often, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. Each canvas was a conversation only he could hear. Tonight, the rain tapped against the glass roof above, a quiet percussion to his wordless art.

 

Each of them, caught in their own rhythm. Busy. Vibrant. Alive.

 

And yet, threads invisible to them all were drawing tighter. None of them could have known that a stranger with rain in his hair, a doctor with shadows in his eyes, and a single crimson umbrella would soon pull them into a story far larger than their own.

 

Fate had already chosen its opening scene. The storm was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: The Name on the File

 

Morning came heavy.

 

Jun groaned as he rolled out of bed, every muscle in his waist thrumming like a dull drum, deeper and more insistent than the ache from the night before. He sat on the edge of his mattress, elbows on his knees, staring at the faint outlines of medals and framed photographs that lined his small apartment walls. Wushu stances frozen in time. A younger version of himself airborne, graceful, untouchable. Dakar, 2022. Before everything.

 

The fall replayed without mercy in his head. The mat rushing up to meet him, the scream that wasn’t his, the silence that followed. His waist, the crack, the burn, the impossible weight. He had survived it. But survival was not the same as living.

 

He dragged himself into the kitchen. The groceries from last night sat proudly on the counter, jelly packets already emptied and scattered like trophies of a smaller, pettier battle. He slurped at noodles that had seemed so victorious when he bought them, but this morning the taste was flat. Every stretch, every bend reminded him not of triumph but of what was stolen.

 

He tugged on a hoodie, shoved a cap over his hair, and slipped into sneakers. He already knew where he needed to go. The one place he’d avoided for months, maybe years. The clinic of the man who had stitched him together time and time again.

 

The clinic smelled the same as it always had. Antiseptic sharpness softened by the faint aroma of green tea. A strange blend of sterility and comfort, like stepping into a memory.

 

“Jun-ah?”

 

The voice, warm and familiar, pulled him back.

 

Dr. Kim emerged from behind his desk, his face older now, framed by hair gone entirely white, but his eyes were unchanged. Gentle, steady, the kind of gaze that made even bad news sound bearable.

 

“It’s been too long,” Dr. Kim said with a smile. “I thought you retired from giving me gray hairs.”

 

Jun chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I did. But my back didn’t get the memo.”

 

“Sit.”

 

Jun obeyed, sliding onto the cushioned bench. He explained quickly how he’d gone out for groceries, how the pain had crept up, how it hadn’t let go since. Dr. Kim listened without interruption, then pressed gently along Jun’s waist. His hands were clinical, practiced, but there was a softness in the way his brow furrowed.

 

“You’ve been pushing yourself?” the doctor asked.

 

“Not really,” Jun admitted. “I don’t train like before. Just… normal things. Carrying groceries, climbing stairs. But it still hurts sometimes.”

 

Dr. Kim leaned back, fingers steepled, gaze thoughtful. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted, serious, deliberate.

 

“You’ve healed well, Jun. Better than most would have. But this pain… it won’t disappear with jelly snacks and stubbornness.” His lips twitched into the faintest smile at the reference. “You need someone who can monitor you. Long-term. Someone who doesn’t just understand the injury, but what it means to an athlete like you.”

 

Jun tilted his head. “You mean like physical therapy?”

 

The doctor shook his head. “More than that.” He pulled open a drawer, thumbed through a file, and tore a sheet from the corner of a prescription pad. His pen moved in neat block strokes, steady, final. When he slid the paper across the desk, the sound seemed louder than it should have been.

 

Jun picked it up, eyes narrowing. The name stared back at him, sharp and unyielding.

 

Dr. Choi Seungcheol

 

“Orthopedic surgeon,” Dr. Kim explained. “One of the best in the country. He’s worked with national teams, Olympic athletes, even private international clients. Specializes in injuries exactly like yours. If anyone can help you manage this pain. Maybe even push beyond it, it will be him.”

 

Jun’s brows knit together. The name felt oddly familiar, though he couldn’t say why. He rolled it silently on his tongue, Choi Seungcheol.

 

“Sounds… intense,” Jun muttered.

 

Dr. Kim’s expression softened, though his voice stayed firm. “It is. And so is he. But listen carefully, Jun. Getting an appointment with Dr. Choi isn’t simple. His schedule is… a fortress. People wait months. Some give up before they ever see him.”

 

Jun gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “So you’re saying I need a miracle.”

 

“Or,” the doctor chuckled, “you need patience. Try. You might be surprised.”

 

Outside, the storm had passed, leaving the streets slick and gleaming, mirrors of light and shadow.

 

Jun unfolded the slip of paper again, staring at the name as if it might reveal itself. Dr. Choi Seungcheol. The letters seemed heavier than ink, as though fate itself had pressed them into the page.

 

Something inside him twisted. A warning. A promise.

 

He shoved the note into his pocket, tugging his hoodie tighter against the chill.

 

This wouldn’t be easy.

 

But as the echo of the name lingered in his chest, Jun couldn’t shake the strange certainty that it would be worth it.

 

Jun sat at his small kitchen table, staring at the slip of paper as if the neat block letters were a code he couldn’t crack.

 

Dr. Choi Seungcheol.

 

The name carried weight. Professional. Untouchable. Like someone who lived in glass towers far above the reach of ordinary people.

 

But the truth was simple. His back wasn’t waiting politely, and pain didn’t care about pride. He had no choice.

 

The hospital lobby was a cathedral of polished marble floors and muted perfume, busy but hushed. The kind of place where footsteps became rhythm, where clipped conversations echoed professionalism. Jun pulled his hood low, sunglasses perched on his nose, not because he wanted to be dramatic, but because even in retirement, even away from stages, he was still Jun from SEVENTEEN. Fame had its shadow, and someone always recognized him.

 

He stepped toward the reception desk. The nurse looked up with the kind of smile that came from repetition: polite, professional, careful.

 

“Good morning. Do you have an appointment?”

 

Jun cleared his throat, voice lower than usual. “Not yet. I’d like to make one with Dr. Choi Seungcheol.”

 

Her smile faltered just slightly. Recognition, maybe not of him, but of the request. She began typing briskly, the clack of keys loud in the quiet air.

 

“I’m afraid Dr. Choi’s schedule is fully booked. His next available slot is in…” She squinted at the screen. “...seven months.”

 

Jun blinked. “Seven months?”

 

“Yes, sir. He’s very in demand.”

 

Seven months might as well have been seven years. His waist throbbed even now, a stubborn reminder of Dakar. He leaned forward, tugging down his sunglasses just enough for her to meet his eyes.

 

“Miss, I’m not trying to skip the line just because of who I am,” he said, voice earnest. “But my back is… it’s getting worse. My old doctor told me Dr. Choi is the best. Please.”

 

The nurse hesitated. Something in his tone, or maybe the way he stood crooked, unconsciously guarding his waist, made her look closer. This wasn’t a spoiled request. This was desperation wrapped in stubbornness.

 

Jun’s accent thickened as emotion slipped through. “I already lost one dream because of this injury. I don’t want to lose my future, too. Even if it’s just a consultation… please. Can’t you squeeze me in sooner?”

 

Her lips parted, then closed again. She exhaled slowly, leaning closer to whisper like she was sharing a secret.

 

“Dr. Choi doesn’t accept walk-ins. But… sometimes he reviews emergency cases personally. If you wait here today, there’s a chance he might have an opening between surgeries. A very small chance.”

 

Jun’s eyes lit with something almost childlike. “I’ll wait.”

 

“Sir, it could be hours.”

 

“I’ll wait,” he repeated, firmer this time. He dropped into a chair, plunked his grocery bag, still carrying one stubborn packet of noodles beside him like a soldier setting down his shield.

 

The nurse gave him a look that was half exasperated, half amused. “You really are determined.”

 

Jun cracked the faintest grin. “You don’t know how much I want these noodles without pain in my back.”

 

Time dragged. One hour. Then two. The lobby became a revolving door of lives. Patients limping in, families pacing nervously, businessmen tapping their feet. Jun sat through it all, fidgeting with the strap of his bag, shifting whenever the ache in his waist flared. Rain streaked down the tall glass windows, casting blurred shadows of umbrellas outside.

 

Just when his resolve began to fray, the nurse reappeared. Her expression was careful, unreadable.

 

“Mr. Wen,” she said quietly. “You’re in luck. Dr. Choi will see you now.”

 

Jun’s heart skipped. His palms went damp. He grabbed the red umbrella. Now out of habit, now a talisman. Each step behind the nurse down the gleaming corridor felt louder than it should have, echoing like drumbeats.

 

She opened the door.

 

And there he was.

 

The man from the rain.

 

Sharp suit exchanged for a white coat, the same presence that bent a room around him. Hair still damp from the shower, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a stethoscope draped casually like it belonged there.

 

His eyes lifted from the file in his hand, and for a moment Jun swore the storm had followed him inside.

 

Recognition flickered between them.

 

Jun’s breath caught.

 

Dr. Choi Seungcheol’s voice was steady, low, exactly as it had been that night beneath the umbrella.

 

“Mr. Wen,” he said. “Let’s talk about your back.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: The Weight of Hands

The office was quiet, save for the steady tick of the wall clock and the muffled hum of hospital machinery beyond the door. The blinds were half-drawn, strips of pale morning light cutting across the polished floor. A faint trace of disinfectant hung in the air, sharp but clean, grounding.

 

Jun stepped inside, clutching the strap of his bag like it was armor. And froze.

 

Seated behind the desk was the man who gave him the dark red umbrella. His hair was still damp from a recent scrub-in, droplets catching in the fluorescent glow, his white coat crisp, shoulders squared in a way that commanded without trying. His eyes lifted, recognition flickering immediately.

 

Jun’s lips parted. “You…”

 

Dr. Choi Seungcheol leaned back slightly in his chair, arms folding across his chest. “We meet again.” His tone was measured, professional, but a faint curve tugged at his mouth, the kind of expression that carried its own quiet history. “How’s the umbrella?”

 

Jun blinked, caught off guard. “Still… red. Still working.” His voice was lighter than he felt, nerves tangling in his throat. Then, quickly, because silence made the moment heavier: “I didn’t know you were… the Dr. Choi.”

 

“And I didn’t know you were Wen Junhui, former Olympian.” Seungcheol rose, and his height was more striking up close. So was the quiet authority in his stance, the practiced steadiness of a man used to being needed, depended on, obeyed. “But here we are.”

 

The nurse excused herself, closing the door behind her. The air thickened as if the room had shrunk, as if the two of them were the only figures in a frame suddenly too narrow.

 

“Sit,” Seungcheol said, voice even but carrying the kind of weight that left little room for hesitation.

 

Jun obeyed, sliding onto the edge of the cushioned examination table. The paper beneath him crinkled at his smallest shift. He tried not to stare as Seungcheol snapped on gloves. Every movement is deliberate, precise, as if the act of preparation itself was part ritual, part control.

 

“Tell me about the pain.”

 

Jun explained. The grocery store, the rain, the ache that never seemed to leave his waist. The words spilled easier than expected, maybe because Seungcheol listened with the stillness of someone who wanted every detail.

 

“Lean forward.”

 

Jun obeyed, hands braced on either side of him. Then Seungcheol’s palm pressed firmly against his back, just above the waist.

 

The reaction was immediate. Jun sucked in a sharp breath, shoulders jerking like a current had shot through him. It wasn’t pain. It was… different. Heat flared under Seungcheol’s hand, rippling outward until his skin prickled. His stomach clenched, thighs tightening against the edge of the seat as if to ground himself. His pulse leapt, drumming in his throat, ears, even lower.

 

“Relax,” Seungcheol murmured, fingers moving with steady precision along the ridge of muscle. His thumb lingered a fraction longer than necessary before sliding lower.

 

Jun’s lips parted, unsteady air spilling out. His eyes fluttered shut against the rush of sensation, knuckles whitening where they gripped the bench. His breath came uneven, chest rising too fast, betraying the calm he tried to summon.

 

“You’re tense.”

 

“I wonder why,” Jun muttered before he could stop himself, eyes darting away.

 

“I… am trying,” he managed, voice raw around the edges.

 

Jun swallowed hard, but the tightness only spread. Neck stiff, calves taut, every nerve alight as though his body hadn’t decided whether to resist or surrender.

 

If Seungcheol heard, he didn’t comment. His hand shifted, pressing with deliberate care, mapping the terrain of Jun’s waist as though cataloguing every strain, every knot left behind by years of training and one fatal fall.

 

Jun’s breath hitched when the doctor’s fingers found a tender point. A small gasp escaped before he bit it back.

 

“That hurts?” Seungcheol’s voice softened, dropping into something almost intimate.

 

Jun shook his head quickly, though heat crawled up his neck. “Not… not exactly.”

 

Seungcheol’s gaze flickered briefly to his face, then back to his work. He pressed again, slower this time, measuring not only the injury but the man in front of him. His touch lingered, unyielding yet careful, clinical yet human, leaving echoes that Jun knew he’d feel long after the gloves came off.

 

Minutes stretched, elongated, until the clock seemed irrelevant.

 

Finally, Seungcheol stepped back, tugging off his gloves with a clean snap. “Your waist is strained again. The muscles never fully regained their strength. Without therapy and consistent monitoring, you’ll keep relapsing.”

 

Jun nodded mutely, caught between relief and the phantom imprint of Seungcheol’s hands.

 

Seungcheol studied him for a long moment, then said quietly, “I’ll take your case personally.”

 

Jun’s head snapped up. “But… your schedule…”

 

“I’ll make time,” Seungcheol cut in, matter-of-fact but with a conviction that didn’t leave room for protest. “You waited hours in the lobby for me. That tells me enough.”

 

The words settled between them like an anchor, heavier than they should have been.

 

Jun gripped the edge of the table, the red umbrella leaning against his leg like a silent witness.

 

For the first time since Dakar, since that one fall had stolen more than just a medal, Jun felt something stir in his chest, an ache that wasn’t loss but possibility.

 

And it had everything to do with the way Dr. Choi Seungcheol’s hands had lingered.

 

The practice room wasn’t for SEVENTEEN anymore. Not officially. The sign on the door had peeled halfway off, and the smell of sweat had long since been replaced with polish and dust. Some of them had new jobs, others new passions, but every so often they gathered here. Wood floors still gleaming, mirrors still smudged with fingerprints they never quite managed to scrub away, a speaker blaring too loudly because Hoshi insisted music had to be loud enough to “rearrange your heartbeat.”

 

“Yah, Jun!” Hoshi called from across the room, crouched in a deep stretch that made his hamstrings tremble. “Why are you bending like an old man? You’re supposed to be the most flexible one here!”

 

Jun winced as he reached for his toes. His back ached, sure, but that wasn’t the only reason his cheeks warmed. “It’s… nothing.”

 

“Nothing?” Jeonghan lounged lazily against the wall, sipping bubble tea he hadn’t paid for (again), one eyebrow arched in lethal curiosity. “Funny. You’ve been walking around dreamy all week. Nothing doesn’t make you blush when someone mentions doctors.”

 

Jun’s head snapped up. “What…!”

 

“Ohhh?” Seungkwan gasped dramatically from the floor, sprawled like a prince on break while scrolling through his phone. He sat up, eyes wide with mock scandal. “Wait. Don’t tell me. Jun’s got a thing for his doctor.”

 

The room detonated.

 

“No way!” Dino scrambled upright, his water bottle toppling. His eyes sparkled like he’d just been handed the best gossip of his teenage life. “Hyung, seriously?!”

 

“Doctor-patient romance?” Joshua chuckled, strumming a lazy chord on his guitar, which he had no business bringing to practice. “That’s straight out of a drama.”

 

“I’d watch it,” DK chimed in, his grin threatening to split his face.

 

Wonwoo didn’t even glance up from his book. “As long as it doesn’t turn into malpractice, I approve.”

 

Jun threw his towel at him. “It’s not… there’s nothing…!” His voice cracked in betrayal, and the second it did, the chorus of oohs grew louder.

 

“Nothing?” Mingyu, late and flour-dusted from the bakery, crouched down until his face was level with Jun’s. His grin was wolfish. “Then why are your ears red, Wen Junhui?”

 

Jun shoved him away with a noise of protest. “Because you’re embarrassing me!”

 

The chaos doubled. Hoshi rolled dramatically across the floor, clutching his chest. Seungkwan pretended to faint and screamed, “Nurse! Nurse, call Dr. Choi, Jun needs him!” Dino chanted “Jun has a doctor boyfriend!” until Joshua smacked him lightly with a guitar pick.

 

And then… quiet. A sudden cut in the noise.

 

The8, perched calmly in the corner with a travel easel and paintbrush in hand (because of course he’d brought one), spoke with practiced dryness. “If it’s Choi Seungcheol, then good luck. That man has no time for anything except work.”

 

The room stilled, the name hanging like a spark in the air.

 

Jun froze. “…You know him?”

 

The8 shrugged, twirling his brush, dabbing at a canvas with effortless precision. “Everyone in the art district knows him. Athletes, dancers, performers. Anyone who pushes their body too far, too often. He’s strict. Doesn’t smile much.” A deliberate pause. Then his gaze flicked toward Jun, smirk tugging faintly at the corners of his mouth. “But maybe he makes exceptions.”

 

The silence fractured.

 

The others howled.

 

Jun groaned, burying his face in his hands. He could still feel it, the firm press of Seungcheol’s palm against his waist, the grounding warmth, the way his breath had caught without permission. And now, surrounded by eleven idiots, there was no hiding it.

 

“Fine!” Jun burst out, standing abruptly, hair sticking up from where he’d clawed through it. “Yes! He’s my doctor! Yes, he’s helping me with my back! And yes… maybe I feel… different when he… when he…” His voice dropped, softer, almost embarrassed to exist. “…when he touches me.”

 

The silence lasted exactly one beat before the room erupted into chaos.

 

“OOOOOOOOOH!”
“Doctor Choi! Doctor Choi!”
“Jun’s in loooove!”

 

Seungkwan was fanning himself like a variety show MC. Hoshi had climbed on top of a chair to lead the chant like a cheer captain. Mingyu draped himself over Jun like a dramatic K-drama sidekick, and Dino practically vibrated with excitement.

 

Jun collapsed onto the floor, arms flung over his face, wishing the ground would swallow him whole.

 

This was going to be a very long recovery.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: The Pull of Hands and Gravity

The therapy room was quiet, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead buzzing faintly against the steady tick of a wall clock. A faint smell of antiseptic and mint cream clung to the air, sharp enough to remind Jun that this wasn’t just any room, it was a space designed for healing, for discipline. Not for whatever chaos was running wild inside his chest.

 

Jun lay on the padded therapy table, staring at the ceiling tiles as if they held answers to questions he didn’t dare voice. But the only echoes he heard were his members’ voices, loud and merciless.

 

“Doctor boyfriend!”
“Jun feels different when he touches him…”
“Don’t forget to say thank you, Doctor Choi!”

 

Jun squeezed his eyes shut, fists tightening at his sides. Shut up, shut up, shut up…

 

“Jun?”

 

His eyes flew open.

 

Dr. Choi Seungcheol stood over him, clipboard in one hand, gaze steady. His white coat shifted slightly as he moved, the faint scent of soap and rain clinging to him still. “Still with me?”

 

Jun’s throat went dry. Unfortunately.

 

“Y-yeah,” he croaked. “Totally fine. Just… ceiling’s nice.”

 

A pause. Then the slightest lift of one brow. Seungcheol’s look said very plainly. I don’t believe you, but I’ll let you live.

 

“Let’s start.” His tone returned to professional, brisk but calm. “We’ll loosen your back muscles first. Lie flat.”

 

Jun obeyed, shifting awkwardly onto his stomach. The paper crinkled beneath him. He buried half his face into the pillow, silently begging his heart not to betray him.

 

And then the weight came.

 

Seungcheol’s hands pressed firmly into the muscles of his lower back. Steady, unhurried, methodical. Professional. Jun repeated the word like a mantra. This is professional. He’s a doctor. He’s just doing his job.

 

But every press sent heat spiraling across Jun’s nerves, winding tight around his spine. Every shift of his thumbs seemed to say more than medicine was supposed to. And every ounce of warmth reminded him of that rainy night. The umbrella, the red blur, the way Seungcheol’s gaze had lingered just a moment too long.

 

“Relax,” Seungcheol murmured, leaning a fraction of his weight into his palms. “You’re stiff.”

 

Jun muffled a groan into the pillow. “Tell that to my members.”

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing!” Jun yelped, voice muffled.

 

Seungcheol’s hands shifted lower, slower, working into the knots with practiced precision. Jun bit his lip hard, his thoughts scattering like marbles on polished wood. This is medical. Completely medical. Except his hands are warm. Too warm. Why does he smell like soap and rain? Oh no. Don’t think about rain. Don’t think about the umbrella. Don’t think about his shoulders, oh my God, stop.

 

“Breathe,” Seungcheol reminded him softly, fingertips trailing up along his spine before gliding back down. The motion lingered, just a second too long. Professional, yes, but layered with something unspoken.

 

Jun’s pulse skipped. I’m breathing! Barely!

 

“Now roll onto your side.”

 

Jun obeyed, clumsy in his haste, and nearly tangled himself in the sheet. Seungcheol guided him easily. One hand braced at his shoulder, the other steady at his waist. The contact was firm, grounding, but Jun swore the world tilted when those fingers brushed bare skin beneath his shirt.

 

“Good,” Seungcheol murmured, voice low, his breath close enough that Jun felt it ghost over his temple. “Hold still.”

 

Jun’s brain. Don’t hold still. Don’t breathe. Don’t combust. Don’t…

 

Crack.

 

“AHHHHHHHHH!”

 

The adjustment echoed in the small room, sharp and final. Jun’s eyes flew wide, body frozen in shock as relief surged through him like lightning.

 

Seungcheol smirked faintly, just enough to break through his usual calm. “Better?”

 

Jun exhaled in a rush, collapsing against the pillow. “I… hate you.”

 

“Most of my patients do,” Seungcheol replied smoothly. His hand lingered at Jun’s side a heartbeat longer than necessary before finally withdrawing.

 

Jun sat up slowly, testing his waist, his back looser than it had been in months. But the release came with a price. His heart thundered dangerously, pounding as though he’d run laps around the old practice room.

 

And in his head, the chorus of voices returned, loud as ever.

 

‘Jun has a doctor boyfriend!’
‘When he touches you… different, right?’

 

Jun rubbed his face, groaning aloud. “This therapy is going to kill me before it cures me.”

 

Seungcheol, already jotting notes onto the clipboard, looked as composed as ever. But when he glanced up, his gaze lingered on Jun’s flushed face a moment too long, steady, searching, like he was studying more than posture.

 

And Jun wondered if maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the only one struggling to stay professional.

 

A week after. Jun swore the therapy room was colder today. Or maybe it was just his nerves. He tightened his grip on the strap of his gym bag like it might anchor him to sanity.

 

“Morning,” Seungcheol’s voice dropped low and steady, professional in a way that made Jun’s ears itch. He was already in training pants and a fitted tee, sleeves rolled high like he was about to run a military bootcamp. “You ready?”

 

No. “Yeah,” Jun croaked. His throat felt dry.

 

The therapist, patient, long-suffering, possibly a saint, gestured to the resistance bands laid out like colorful snakes. Great. Instruments of torture in rainbow edition.

 

“We’ll push a little more today,” Seungcheol said. “More balance work, more stretches. Don’t overdo it.”

 

Jun nodded, though his inner monologue was screaming. Don’t overdo it? Have you seen this man’s arms? He overdoes existence.

 

First Stretch

 

Jun sat, band looped around his thigh, Seungcheol kneeling in front of him to guide the movement. Too close. Way too close. Don’t look at his face. Don’t look…

 

“Straighten, hold… no, not like that.” Seungcheol’s hand slid firm against his knee to correct the angle. Jun nearly combusted.

 

Focus, Junhui. Think about… taxes. Think about broccoli. Anything but the way his thumb is pressing right there…

 

“Better,” Seungcheol said, voice warm with approval. “See? You’re stronger than you think.”

 

Stop using your voice like its foreplay, Jun thought, immediately wanting to crawl under the mat.

 

The Invasion

 

Halfway through balance drills, Jun caught something in the corner of his eye. Movement outside the glass wall.

 

He froze mid-step. “…Is that Minghao?”

 

Sure enough, Minghao stood with his phone up, smirking. Seconds later, Hoshi’s face appeared, plastered right against the glass like a very enthusiastic gecko.

 

Jun groaned. “No. No, no, no.”

 

“Focus,” Seungcheol said, pushing his shoulder gently. “Walk in a straight line…”

 

But then Mingyu popped up behind Hoshi, grinning wide, cupping his hands around his mouth. “YAH JUN! FIGHTING! SHOW US THOSE LEGS!”

 

The therapist pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

Jun wanted to evaporate.

 

Chaos at the Window

 

Soon the whole line formed. Dino saluted him like Jun was in the military. Vernon mimed exaggerated stretches. Hoshi was already mimicking every move Jun did inside, except with circus-level dramatics.

 

Even Joshua appeared eventually, strumming an imaginary guitar, serenading with an off-key “Doctor… Patient… Destiny…”

 

Seungkwan? He just lay dramatically across the hallway bench, fanning himself with a clipboard, sighing, “Ah, forbidden romance.”

 

Seungcheol barked, “Ignore them. Keep your core tight.”

 

“Your core looks tight too, hyung!” Hoshi yelled through the glass.

 

Jun stumbled so hard he nearly ate the mat.

 

The therapist deadpanned: “Do they always…?”

 

“Yes,” Jun muttered miserably.

 

Mingyu’s “Help”

 

When Seungcheol introduced resistance with a towel, Mingyu—, of course, barged inside. “I can help, hyung!”

 

Before anyone could stop him, Mingyu grabbed the towel from Seungcheol and pulled. Way too hard. Jun yelped and went tumbling forward, straight into Seungcheol’s chest.

 

The silence after was deafening.

 

“Uh,” Jun said. His brain had short-circuited. His face was somewhere in the vicinity of Seungcheol’s collarbone, and moving would require dignity, which he no longer possessed.

 

Hoshi’s laugh shattered the air. “IS THIS PHYSICAL THERAPY OR A ROMANCE DRAMA?!”

 

“Get. Out.” Seungcheol growled, shoving Mingyu back with one hand while steadying Jun with the other.

 

Kill me now, Jun thought. Actually, throw me in the Han River. Toss me like a towel.

 

Finishing Strong

 

Somehow, Jun finished the session. His legs trembled, sweat dripped down his temples, but he had managed longer stretches and straighter balance than before.

 

The members outside erupted into applause like he’d just performed at a stadium. Hoshi even tossed imaginary roses.

 

Seungcheol crouched beside him, handing him water. His voice softened, private this time. “You did really well today. I’m proud of you.”

 

Jun couldn’t answer. He just drank water like it was oxygen and prayed no one noticed how red his ears were.

 

Outside, Hoshi cupped his hands again and shouted: “PRIDE! IS THAT WHAT WE’RE CALLING IT NOW?”

 

Jun buried his face in the towel.

 

And as Seungcheol packed the bands away, his eyes lingered on Jun a fraction too long. Not professional. Not detached. Something else entirely.

 

Jun felt it like gravity, pulling at him harder each session.

 

And maybe, just maybe, Seungcheol felt it too.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five: Roast Night Disaster

By the time they all crammed into the dining room for post-practice dinner, Jun already knew what was coming. He could feel it in the way Hoshi kept smirking across the table, the way Minghao was scrolling through his phone like he had evidence, and the way Mingyu couldn’t stop humming romantic OSTs.

 

I should’ve just skipped dinner. Faked a stomachache. Moved to another country. Anywhere without Wi-Fi.

 

Joshua, ever the calm one, started it off, casually blowing on his soup like he wasn’t about to light Jun’s life on fire.
“So, Jun. How was… therapy today?”

 

The air shifted immediately. Twelve heads turned his way. Chopsticks froze mid-air. Even Woozi’s chewing slowed, suspiciously timed like he was saving energy for maximum judgment.

 

Jun nearly choked on his rice. “It was fine. Normal. Just stretches.”

 

“Normal?” Minghao smirked, flipping his phone around. A blurry photo of Jun falling chest-first into Seungcheol’s arms glowed like incriminating evidence. “This look normal to you?”

 

The table erupted.

 

“OMO!” Seungkwan slapped the table. “Tell me this is not our Jun starring in his own K-drama!”

 

DK leaned so far across the table his elbow almost knocked over the soup pot. “What episode are we on? Did you kiss yet?”

 

“WE DIDN’T…” Jun’s voice cracked, which only made it worse.

 

Hoshi grinned like a man who had been waiting his entire career for this moment. “You know what this is, right? This is fate. rain, umbrella, doctor. It’s basically a script already.”

 

“Please shut up,” Jun begged, covering his face.

 

But Mingyu was already humming a dramatic OST, slow and tragic, like someone was about to confess their love under a streetlamp. Vernon joined in by tapping the table like a drum, and within seconds, half the group was providing a live soundtrack.

 

“STOP!” Jun wailed.

 

Jeonghan, of course, leaned in with the most dangerous smile of all. “Junhui. Darling. Sweetheart. When were you planning to introduce your doctor boyfriend to the rest of us?”

 

“He’s not my…!” Jun flailed so hard his chopsticks flew, narrowly missing Woozi, who glared.

 

“If that hit me,” Woozi said flatly, “I would’ve written a diss track about your love life.”

 

“You’re all insane,” Jun groaned, burying his head in his arms.

 

But Seungkwan only smirked, lifting his glass like a toast. “To Jun and Dr. Choi. May their love be as strong as Mingyu’s collapsed cakes.”

 

“HEY!” Mingyu yelled, betrayed.

The laughter drowned Jun completely. And as much as he wanted the floor to swallow him whole, but he couldn’t help the tiniest smile tugging at his lips.

 

Hoshi slapped the table, already wheezing so hard his shoulders shook. “Jun, the way you dove into his arms, romantic lead energy! You didn’t just fall, you auditioned.”

 

Seungkwan gasped, clutching his chest like he’d witnessed a national tragedy. “No, no, no, it wasn’t a dive. It was fate. The towel pull of destiny! Rain-soaked, heartbroken, Olympic prince falls into the arms of his healing savior, ah, the symbolism!”

 

“Stop narrating my life like a trailer!” Jun yelled, face red enough to match the kimchi.

 

Vernon, deadpan as always, didn’t even look up from his phone. “New Netflix drama - Stretching Into Love.”

 

The table howled.

 

“Yah! Stretch into your grave,” Jun hissed, jabbing his chopsticks in Vernon’s direction.

 

“That’s a threat,” Woozi muttered around a mouthful of rice. “I’m writing that down.”

 

“Please do, so when Jun’s in jail for murder, Dr. Choi can bail him out,” Jeonghan said sweetly, resting his chin on his hand.

 

“HE WON’T…!” Jun sputtered, only to be cut off by DK dramatically standing up, throwing his napkin over his shoulder.

 

“Picture it!” DK declared, striking a pose. “Jun, drenched in rain, collapsing dramatically…‘ Doctor, I’m broken!’ And then Dr. Choi, strong and noble, replies…” He dropped his voice two octaves lower. “‘Don’t worry, I’ll fix you.’”

 

“Stop!” Jun whined, slamming his forehead onto the table.

 

But Mingyu had already joined in, clutching his chest like a tragic second lead. “And then I appear! ‘Jun, I’ve loved you all this time!’ But he chooses the doctor instead!”

 

“GET OUT OF THIS STORY!” Jun shouted.

 

“Too late,” Seungkwan sang, lifting his glass. “The fandom has spoken.”

 

“What fandom?!”

 

“The us fandom,” Hoshi grinned. “We’re your biggest shippers now.”

 

The whole table erupted again, voices overlapping, dramatic reenactments flying, DK and Mingyu fighting for fake screen time, while Jun just groaned louder and louder into his rice bowl.

 

Mingyu leaned in, grin so wide it was dangerous. “Hyung, don’t worry. I’ll print couple shirts for you and Cheol-hyung. Maybe matching sweatbands, too. Something like, Doctor’s Orders - Love Only.”

 

“Hyung’s about to throw me across the room,” Jun muttered, still chewing calmly but the flush creeping up his ear betrayed him.

 

“Do you want me to take his measurements,” Mingyu added, undeterred.

Jun practically screeched. “STOP VOLUNTEERING MY BODY!”

 

Dino perked up, already pulling up Canva on his phone. “Should I design the logo? Maybe add a spine and a stethoscope, oh! Or a little red umbrella for symbolism.”

 

“PUT THAT PHONE DOWN,” Jun roared, snatching a piece of kimchi and hurling it like a grenade.

 

Dino dodged smoothly, grinning. “Missed me!”

 

“Not for long,” Jun growled, reaching for more ammo.

 

“Careful, hyung,” Vernon finally looked up from his phone, deadpan. “That kimchi costs money. Waste food, waste life.”

 

Hoshi fanned himself dramatically. “No, no… waste love, Vernon. Waste love.”

 

“I’M NOT IN LOVE,” Jun shouted, voice cracking like a teenager’s.

 

“Aw,” Seungkwan cooed, patting his shoulder with fake sympathy. “Classic denial stage. We’ll get you to acceptance soon enough.”

 

“I’ll make a PowerPoint,” Minghao offered lazily, sipping his water. “With charts. And arrows. Evidence folder - JunCheol.”

 

Jun buried his face in his hands. “God, just end me.”

 

“Don’t tempt me,” Woozi muttered, not even looking up from his plate.

The table roared with laughter again, while Jun wondered if faking food poisoning mid-meal was still a viable escape plan.

 

Jeonghan, sipping his bubble tea (that he hadn’t paid for), tilted his head innocently. “Jun, did he… linger?”

 

Jun’s chopsticks slipped out of his hand with a clatter. “W-what… NO!”

 

“Ohhh.” Jeonghan smirked, eyes glittering with mischief. “So he did.”

 

The table howled like they’d just witnessed history being made.

 

“Lingering hands!” Seungkwan cried, clutching at Mingyu’s arm for support. “That’s not therapy, that’s foreplay!”

 

“SEUNGKWAN!” Jun’s face went red enough to rival the kimchi.

 

Joshua, ever the composed one, raised a brow. “You know, hyung, professionals usually say ‘relax’ during massages. Did he say it like… normal-relax, or… romantic-relax?”

 

Jun slammed his forehead onto the table with a thunk. “Why are you like this? Why are all of you like this?”

 

“Because God gave us front-row tickets to your romance,” Hoshi announced, standing like a preacher at a revival. “And I, for one, am here for the encore.”

 

“Encore?” Vernon deadpanned, not looking up from his phone. “We’re still in Act One.”

 

Dino grinned wickedly. “Act Two is when they kiss in the therapy room.”

 

“ACT… WHAT?!” Jun shot up, nearly knocking his chair over.

 

Even Woozi, who had been silently eating like none of this concerned him, finally sighed. “Just admit it, Jun. We’re wasting perfectly good roast material waiting for you to catch up.”

 

The table erupted again. Jun contemplated whether flipping it over and storming out would restore even a shred of his dignity.

 

Spoiler, it wouldn’t.

 

Woozi finally looked up, calm as always, chopsticks still working like he hadn’t been listening this whole time. Then, with perfect timing, he dropped it like a bomb:

 

“At least Jun’s back isn’t the only thing getting treated.”

 

The entire table went feral.

 

Hoshi actually fell out of his chair, legs flailing as he shrieked. Seungkwan screamed into his napkin like a banshee at a funeral. Mingyu spat rice halfway across the table and immediately started choking on air. Joshua leaned back, wheezing into his sleeve. Dino rolled on the floor like someone had tasered him. Even Vernon cracked a grin, muttering, “That’s album-title material right there.”

 

Jun slammed his hands down so hard the soy sauce rattled. “I HATE ALL OF YOU!”

 

“Ohhh, strong words from a man in love,” Jeonghan sang, fanning himself dramatically with a lettuce leaf.

Jun groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re all unbelievable…”

 

“AND YET YOUR HANDS LINGERED,” Seungkwan roared back, pointing accusingly like a courtroom lawyer.

 

“Passion!” Hoshi corrected from the floor, still clutching his stomach.

 

“Prolonged contact,” Woozi deadpanned, returning to his rice.

 

Jun buried his burning face into his towel like he was trying to suffocate himself. Maybe if he stayed there long enough, he’d pass out and skip the rest of this nightmare.

 

The noise only swelled. Dino pulled out his phone again. “Petition to rename physical therapy to romantic therapy.”

 

Minghao smirked, already typing. “Done. Making the group chat banner.”

 

Jun’s muffled scream vibrated through the towel.

 

Even after the chaos died down, if you could call the dining room a war zone of fallen chopsticks, overturned napkins, and Mingyu still coughing rice, Hoshi leaned forward, eyes sparkling like he’d just been cast as MC of the roast.

“Jun-hyung, don’t forget to text him tonight.”

Jun’s head snapped up. “EXCUSE ME?!”

“SESSION reminder, I mean,” Seungkwan corrected with mock seriousness, adjusting his imaginary glasses like a teacher grading papers. “Don’t want your doctor feeling neglected.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Minghao added, thumbs already flying across his phone screen. “I’ll draft the vows.”

“The WHAT?!” Jun shouted, nearly overturning his water.

“Venue suggestions?” Dino piped up, scrolling happily. “I know a wedding hall near…”

“DINO, I WILL END YOU.”

Hoshi was wheezing so hard he looked ready to pass out. “Hyung, please, just make sure I’m best man. Or at least ring bearer. I look good in suits.”

Mingyu slammed the table, sending chopsticks flying. “NO, I’M BEST MAN! I’ve already designed the couple shirts, don’t try me!”

“Best man?” Vernon muttered, scrolling lazily. “You’re more like flower girl energy.”

The table exploded again.

Jun buried his face in his bowl, muffling his words into the rice. “This is my villain origin story.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Six: Between Push and Pulls

Jun sat cross-legged on the therapy mat, glaring at the wall clock like it was personally mocking him. Each tick felt like a countdown to doom. Another session. Another round of being stretched, prodded, cracked, and humiliated by his own unreliable body, under his hands.

Choi Seungcheol’s steady, maddeningly competent hands.

It’s just therapy. Nothing more. Ignore the way he looks at you. Ignore the way his hand lingers when he adjusts your posture. Ignore the smell of soap and rain that clings to him, like he bathed in weather and carried the storm indoors.

“Jun.” Seungcheol’s voice cut through his thoughts, low and commanding. “Lie back.”

Jun obeyed automatically, his pulse racing so loud it might’ve been audible. The mat squeaked as he lowered himself, staring up at the fluorescent ceiling lights like they could save him.

Seungcheol crouched beside him, close enough that Jun felt the heat radiating from his body. His knee brushed Jun’s hip as he leaned in, steadying him with a hand pressed to his chest. The contact was brief, firm, yet Jun’s heart jumped as though Seungcheol had touched far deeper.

“Relax your shoulders.”

“I am relaxed,” Jun muttered, though every muscle screamed otherwise.

A quiet chuckle left Seungcheol. Not mocking… worse. Fond. “If this is your version of relaxed, we have a lot of work to do.”

Jun squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t save him from the slow slide of Seungcheol’s fingers beneath his shoulder blades, pressing into the knots of tension there. His touch wasn’t just corrective, it lingered. Spreading warmth that burned into Jun’s skin. Jun’s breath stuttered, then gave way to a sharp inhale as Seungcheol’s palm flattened against the curve of his back, thumb dragging along the edge of his ribcage in a way that felt too intimate to be clinical.

The faint scrape of Seungcheol’s watch grazed his skin, leaving behind a tingling reminder of where he’d been. His breath ghosted close, warm and steady, brushing against Jun’s cheek as he leaned closer to press deeper into the knot. Jun shivered helplessly.

“Better,” Seungcheol murmured, voice low enough that Jun could feel it vibrate against his jaw.

Jun’s heart stumbled over itself. “This is illegal.”

Seungcheol stilled, his hand still curved beneath Jun’s shoulder, palm hot enough to burn. “What?”

Jun cracked one eye open, throat dry. “Touching patients like this. Pretty sure it’s a crime.”

One corner of Seungcheol’s mouth lifted. He leaned in further, his temple almost brushing Jun’s, gaze darting to Jun’s parted lips before rising again. “You want me to stop?”

Jun’s chest rose and fell too fast, his body betraying him in every possible way. He could’ve lied. He could’ve told him to back off. But he didn’t. The silence stretched, heavy and charged, his stillness answering for him.

Seungcheol’s smile deepened, slow and knowing, before he let his fingers trace deliberately down along the slope of Jun’s arm, his touch softer now, almost tender. He shifted closer, his knee brushing Jun’s side again as if he belonged there, returning to work as though nothing had changed, when both of them knew everything had.

Seungcheol knelt beside him, smooth and practiced, placing one warm hand on Jun’s waist and the other on his thigh to guide the stretch. His touch was firm but careful, like he’d memorized every limit Jun’s body had, every place it would give and every place it would fight.

 

“Tell me when it’s too much,” Seungcheol murmured, his voice pitched low, like the words were meant to settle directly into Jun’s chest.

 

Too much? Jun’s brain screamed. It was already too much. His skin was practically on fire under Cheol’s palm. Every adjustment sent sparks racing up his spine like electricity spilling across water. His ribs felt too tight, his pulse a frantic drumline in his throat.

 

“Breathe,” Seungcheol instructed, leaning in just slightly. His breath fanned across Jun’s temple. “You’re holding tension.”

 

Because you’re touching me like that, Jun wanted to yell. Because you’re looking at me like that.

 

Instead, what came out was a squeaky, “I’m fine.”

 

It was not fine. Especially since his voice cracked like he was back in puberty.

 

Seungcheol stilled. His hands didn’t move, but his eyes flicked up, catching Jun’s with a quiet weight. It wasn’t the kind of look you could laugh off, it was one of those wordless questions, slow and steady, that made Jun’s stomach twist.

 

Jun immediately looked away, fixating on the ceiling tile directly above him. “That was just… air in my throat. Happens all the time.”

 

A beat of silence. Then, softly, “Jun.”

 

Jun froze. He hated the way his name sounded in Cheol’s mouth, gentle but grounding, like it belonged there.

 

Seungcheol’s thumb pressed lightly against Jun’s waist, steadying him in the stretch. Not wandering. Not careless. Just there. But Jun felt it everywhere.

 

His thoughts scrambled for an exit, anything to break the heat curling around them. “S-so, uh. Weather’s nice, huh?”

 

The tiniest huff of laughter escaped Seungcheol, his mouth twitching despite himself. “You’re unbelievable.”

 

“Unbelievably injured,” Jun corrected quickly, desperate for a shield. “Focus on that.”

 

Seungcheol shook his head, the smile lingering in his eyes even as his tone slid back into professional calm. “Alright. Just… keep breathing for me.”

 

Jun did. But it wasn’t air filling his lungs… it was him.

 

The stretch went deeper. Jun hissed, jaw clenching, nails digging into the mat. Pain flared sharp, but before he could even breathe it out, Seungcheol eased the pressure, shifting smoothly, instinctively. His thumb brushed against Jun’s hip in reassurance, once, then again, a small, unconscious circle.

 

That thumb. That one unconscious, comforting circle.

 

Not clinical.
Not rehearsed.
Not detached.

 

Personal.

 

Jun’s breath caught. He stared at the ceiling, every muscle locked, terrified of what his face might betray if he so much as glanced at Seungcheol. His chest rose and fell too quickly. He willed it to slow down, to even out, but his body betrayed him, caught between relief and something sharper.

 

The silence stretched taut. Too taut.

 

Jun could hear it, the faint shift of Seungcheol’s weight beside him, the brush of fabric as his knees adjusted on the mat. Close. So close. The room felt smaller, as if the four walls had pulled inward just to trap them in this unbearable moment.

 

“Better?” Seungcheol asked finally, his voice pitched softer than usual, stripped of the usual clinical detachment.

 

Jun’s throat tightened. The ceiling blurred as he blinked too quickly. “Y-yeah,” he managed, but it came out more like a whisper than a word.

 

Another pause. Another thumb-press at his hip, this time so light it could’ve been imagined.

 

Jun’s brain screamed at him to joke, to deflect, to do something before this spiraled out of control. But his mouth stayed uselessly shut.

 

And in that breathless silence, the only thing louder than the ticking clock on the wall was the rhythm of his own pulse and the terrifying thought that maybe, just maybe, Seungcheol could feel it too.

 

Bang. The door slammed open.

 

“JUN!” Hoshi’s voice blasted through the room like a trumpet announcing the arrival of a marching band.

 

Jun jerked upright so fast he swore something in his back gave a protesting crack. He clutched his side, eyes wide. “Are you trying to kill me?!”

 

But Hoshi wasn’t listening, he was too busy pointing dramatically at Jun like he’d just caught him in a scandal.

 

Behind him, Mingyu strolled in with a family-sized bag of chips slung over his shoulder like he was delivering rations to soldiers at war. Seungkwan followed with his phone held high, narrating in a hushed, documentary-style voice.

 

“And here,” Seungkwan whispered, panning over Jun and Seungcheol, “we observe the patient and his suspiciously attentive therapist in their natural habitat. Notice the close proximity. The hand placement. The tension, oh, the tension!”

 

Vernon lingered at the doorframe like a raccoon who had wandered in by accident but decided to stay. He raised a lazy hand. “Sup.”

 

Seungcheol, to his credit, didn’t explode. He just closed his eyes briefly and pinched the bridge of his nose like a man begging for divine intervention. “Do I want to know why all of you are here?”

 

Hoshi threw his arms wide. “Moral support!”

 

“And possible wedding planning,” Seungkwan added brightly, zooming in on Jun’s red face.

 

“WEDDING?!” Jun’s voice cracked so violently he sounded like a car backfiring. “NO…”

 

“Relax,” Mingyu cut in, already digging into his chips. “We’ll keep it small. Just close friends and family.” He shoved a chip into his mouth, crunching loudly. “And maybe a live broadcast.”

 

“LIVE BROADCAST?!” Jun yelped.

 

Vernon nodded solemnly. “You’d trend worldwide. Easy.”

 

Jun nearly screamed into the mat.

 

Meanwhile, Seungcheol muttered, “Unbelievable…” but his ears, traitorous as ever, were turning faintly red.

 

Mingyu plopped down on the mat beside Jun, ignoring all sense of boundaries, and shook his snack bag like maracas. “We brought provisions for the couple. Therapy dates need fuel.”

 

Jun nearly combusted on the spot. “STOP CALLING IT A DATE!” His voice cracked so hard, even Vernon looked up from the doorframe with a raised brow.

 

“Don’t worry, hyung.” Hoshi, somehow prepared for everything, produced a banana from his pocket, from his pocket and handed it to Jun with the solemnity of a priest at a royal wedding. “We’ll MC your vows.”

 

Jun froze, staring at the banana like it was some kind of radioactive artifact. “…Where were you even keeping this?”

 

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to,” Hoshi replied gravely.

 

“I’m not marrying anyone!” Jun snapped, shoving the banana back.

 

“Yet,” Seungkwan sang like he was auditioning for a musical, arms raised to the ceiling.

 

Jun launched the banana at his face.

 

It hit Seungkwan square on the forehead. He gasped like he’d been shot, clutched his chest, and staggered backward in slow motion. “Betrayed… by love itself…” he wheezed before dramatically collapsing onto Mingyu’s lap.

 

Mingyu didn’t even blink. He just dumped a handful of chips into Seungkwan’s open mouth.

 

Seungcheol, meanwhile, muttered something under his breath that sounded dangerously like, Why do I even bother with you twelve… but Jun swore he saw the corner of his mouth twitch… just slightly. Enough to betray amusement. Enough to make Jun’s stomach twist in ways therapy couldn’t fix.

 

Woozi strolled in last, arms crossed, moving with the deliberate calm of a man arriving late to a disaster he’d already anticipated. His expression was perfectly neutral, but his eyes sparkled like he’d just walked into free entertainment. “If you’re all done harassing them,” he drawled, “maybe let Jun finish his stretch?”

 

Seungkwan, sprawled across Mingyu’s lap like a fainting diva, popped one eye open and corrected smugly, “Our stretch.” He waggled his eyebrows like a villain twirling a mustache.

 

Jun made a noise somewhere between a scream and a groan.

 

The room dissolved into chaos. Chips crinkled as Mingyu poured them into his mouth straight from the bag like a medieval king watching a joust. Hoshi was now on one knee in the corner, dramatically reading out fake vows from a scrap of napkin. “I, Jun, take thee, Cheol…”

 

“STOP READING!” Jun yelped, throwing another piece of fruit.

 

Meanwhile Dino had turned into a one-man cheering section, bouncing on his heels at the edge of the mat. “BEST MAN! BEST MAN!” he chanted like a stadium crowd, clapping on the offbeat. Vernon filmed a TikTok of the entire fiasco without even looking up from his phone, mumbling, “This is gold.”

 

Jun pressed his palms into his face and muttered into them, “I hate my life. I actually hate my life.”

 

“Love makes us all dramatic,” Woozi said, deadpan, finally sitting on the edge of the mat. “Now finish your stretch before Seungcheol starts billing us for overtime.”

 

“BILLING WHO?” Jun shouted through his fingers, muffled.

 

Seungcheol just pinched the bridge of his nose again, but Jun swore he caught the faintest twitch of a smile in his reflection on the therapy room mirror.

 

Through the chaos, chips rustling, Hoshi reciting napkin vows like Shakespeare, Seungkwan wailing about flower arrangements, a hand settled gently on Jun’s back. Steady. Grounding.

 

Jun froze.

 

Cheol’s hand.

 

Not a shove, not just clinical placement but something in between. Warm, deliberate, an anchor in the storm. Guiding him silently back into position.

 

“Ignore them,” Seungcheol said, low voice cutting through the noise like a thread of calm. “Focus.”

 

Jun’s breath stuttered. His eyes flicked up, and for just a second too long, too dangerous, their gazes locked. The room didn’t just quiet, it blurred. Background static.

 

It was only them. The heat of Cheol’s palm. The calm weight of his voice. The steady pull keeping Jun from flying apart.

 

Jun’s chest tightened, ribs straining against something he couldn’t name.

 

And then,

 

“I CALL RING BEARER!” Dino screeched from the sidelines, hands shot in the air like he’d just won the lottery.

 

The moment shattered like glass.

 

Jun groaned, collapsing flat onto the mat as if life itself had betrayed him. “I hate all of you. Every single one.”

 

“Aw, he said it like vows,” Seungkwan cooed.

 

“Put that in the ceremony,” Hoshi agreed, scribbling furiously on his napkin.

 

“Not funny!” Jun shouted into the mat.

 

But beneath his palms, beneath his bone-deep embarrassment, he felt the ghost of Cheol’s hand linger just a beat too long before pulling away.

 

And that truth, quiet, terrifying, impossible to admit, sat heavy in Jun’s chest.

 

He didn’t hate them.

 

Not at all.