Distance

The manager’s office was small, but tonight it felt suffocating.

Jae-min sat stiffly on the leather couch, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles turned white. Across from him, Hyun-woo leaned back in his chair, calm as ever, as if the whole country wasn’t buzzing about their performance.

The manager paced in front of them, phone still in hand. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“It was a song,” Hyun-woo said evenly. “We performed.”

“It wasn’t just the song!” The manager spun the phone around, showing them a feed of tweets, photos, and videos. “This—” he jabbed at the screen “—is a PR nightmare waiting to happen. The fandom is split, the sponsors are asking questions, and the higher-ups are not happy.”

Jae-min’s chest tightened. “We didn’t mean—”

The manager cut him off. “From now on, no interactions off stage. No ‘accidental’ moments in practice. No extra rehearsals. You keep it strictly professional. Understood?”

Jae-min nodded quickly.

Hyun-woo simply shrugged. “Understood.”

The meeting ended with a heavy silence.

Outside the office, Jae-min walked ahead, not trusting himself to speak. The words “keep your distance” kept echoing in his head, louder than the fans’ screams ever had.

He made it halfway down the hall before Hyun-woo caught up, his long strides closing the gap easily. “You’re taking this too seriously.”

“They told us to stay away,” Jae-min said without looking at him.

“Orders like that never last,” Hyun-woo replied. “They’ll forget in a week.”

But Jae-min didn’t believe him.

The next few days were torture. Rehearsals were shorter, limited to group practice only. No more late-night duet sessions. No more accidental touches in the mirror. Even standing next to each other during breaks felt dangerous.

And yet—Jae-min kept catching Hyun-woo looking at him when he thought no one was watching.

One night, after the others had gone, Jae-min stayed behind in the practice room to work on his vocals alone. The city lights glittered outside the window, and the hum of the air conditioner filled the quiet space.

Halfway through the ballad’s bridge, a familiar voice joined in.

Hyun-woo leaned against the doorway, still in his hoodie and cap from earlier. “Your pitch was off,” he said, stepping inside.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Jae-min murmured, but he didn’t stop singing.

Hyun-woo crossed the room, his voice blending with Jae-min’s as if no time had passed. When the song ended, he stood close enough that Jae-min could see the faint shadow of tiredness under his eyes.

“They can order us around all they want,” Hyun-woo said quietly, “but on stage or off… I’m not going to pretend there’s nothing here.”

Jae-min’s breath caught. For a moment, he forgot about the rules, the managers, the cameras—everything.

But before he could answer, Hyun-woo stepped back, his usual guarded expression slipping back into place. “See you tomorrow.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Jae-min with a voice in his chest he didn’t know how to silence.

TO BE CONTINUED AGAIN

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