The Things We Saw  

The morning after was quiet. Not suspiciously quiet. Not “Ryujin is scheming something” quiet— just quiet.

Yeji had left my room before the rest of the Top Floor fully woke up, soft enough that nobody heard the door open except me. She paused once before stepping out, turned back, smiled sleepily, gave me a kiss, and then disappeared down the hallway like she hadn’t just ruined my ability to emotionally function for the rest of the week. Outstanding progression, actually.

By the time everyone gathered later that morning, the Top Floor had already returned to its usual rhythm.

Yuna was loudly complaining about how her body still felt “luxury sick” from yesterday’s spa day. Chaeryeong was making breakfast quietly while pretending not to smile at Yuna’s dramatics. Lia looked significantly more alive after finally sleeping properly, and Ryujin was sprawled sideways on the couch scrolling through her phone like someone who had never caused a single problem in her entire life— which was objectively false.

Meanwhile Yeji walked in last, hair tied loosely, wearing a hoodie that definitely wasn’t hers.

Nobody noticed or at least, nobody said anything. I noticed though. Unfortunately, so did Lia. She took one look at Yeji, then at me, then calmly lifted her coffee. No words. Just judgment.

I stared back at her. She smiled into the cup.

A few days passed like that. Normal on the surface. Schedules resumed. Waterbomb Festival preparations started creeping closer. The Top Floor shifted back into movement again—stylists calling, managers texting, rehearsal clips getting reviewed, stage notes being revised, staff asking impossible questions at inconvenient hours.

And underneath all of that? Things had changed.

Yeji had become better at finding me when nobody was looking. A hand brushing mine in the hallway. A quiet smile from across the room. The kind of small affection that somehow felt more dangerous than anything obvious.

Ryujin, meanwhile, remained Ryujin. Which meant she had somehow become even more unbearable. “You’re walking funny,” she muttered one afternoon while passing behind me in the kitchen. I slowly turned toward her. “Do not start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were spiritually saying something.”

Ryujin only grinned before stealing a piece of fruit from the counter and walking away like a criminal with diplomatic immunity. Lia became quieter around me too, though not distant. If anything, she had started settling into my space more naturally. She would sit near me while reviewing lyrics, leave tea beside my laptop without saying anything, or ask if I had eaten in that calm voice that made lying feel physically impossible.

Chaeryeong had started doing something similar, though softer. Less direct. She lingered more. Asked small questions. Smiled easier when I answered. And Yuna— Yuna was becoming a problem.

At first, I thought it was accidental. Which was adorable of me. The first time it happened, I was in the private gym late at night, trying to burn off enough stress to make my brain stop narrating every emotionally catastrophic decision I had made recently. Headphones on. Treadmill off. Weights finished. I was halfway through cooling down when the door opened.

Yuna walked in wearing an oversized shirt that slipped loosely off one shoulder and shorts small enough to make me immediately look at the ceiling like it owed me moral guidance. “Oh,” she said casually. “You’re here.”

“That does appear to be the case.”

She tilted her head, amused already.

“Why do you sound guilty?”
“I don’t.”
“You absolutely do.”

I reached for my towel and immediately pretended wiping sweat from my neck required intense concentration. Yuna didn’t seem to notice at first. Or maybe she did and simply chose not to mention it yet. She walked over to the dumbbell rack, picked up a weight, then frowned at her reflection in the mirror.

“Ben.”
“That tone sounds dangerous.”
“I need help.”
“With what?”
“My form.”

Right. Professional request. Completely normal. Manager-adjacent wellness support. Nothing spiritually hazardous about this situation whatsoever.

“What exercise?”
“RDLs,” she said, turning slightly toward me. “I think I’m doing them wrong.”

I nodded once, immediately forcing my brain into work mode.

“Okay. Show me.”

Yuna positioned herself in front of the mirror, holding the dumbbells loosely at her sides. Her first attempt wasn’t terrible, but her back rounded slightly at the bottom and her knees bent too much.

I stepped closer automatically. “Not bad, but hinge more from your hips. Less squat.” She glanced at me through the mirror. “Show me?” That should not have sounded loaded. Yet it absolutely did. I moved beside her and demonstrated the motion once.

“Like this. Hips back, spine neutral, keep the weights close. You should feel it here.” I gestured toward the back of my leg. Yuna tried again. Better. Still slightly off. I exhaled quietly before stepping behind her, keeping enough distance to remain professional. “Can I adjust?” She looked at me through the mirror again. A beat too long. Then smiled.

“Go ahead.”

I placed one hand lightly near her upper back to correct posture and the other near her side to guide the hinge. Yuna followed the movement carefully, and for a moment, it was genuinely normal. Then she looked at me in the mirror. Noticing my focus. Noticing how quickly I pulled my hand away once the correction was done. And smiled a little differently.

Ah.

There it was. The exact moment something clicked in her head.

“Like that?” she asked. “Better,” I replied, reaching for my towel again too quickly. Yuna’s smile widened. “Why are you standing so far away now?”

“I’m giving you room to move.”
“That sounds professional.”
“It is professional.”
“Sure.”

I looked at her. She looked back at me. Still smiling. And for the first time, I realized Yuna wasn’t just playing around anymore. She was testing something. And unfortunately— I had just given her results.

After that, things started happening in smaller ways. Nothing dramatic enough to confront her over. Nothing obvious enough to accuse her of anything. Just little incidents that honestly made it worse.

The first happened two nights later, after I used the recovery room connected to the private gym. Technically, it was less of a room and more of an overfunded wellness corner—compression machines, heated massage beds, automated recovery chairs, therapy mats, and enough expensive equipment to convince rich people they had invented muscle relief. I had finished using one of the massage beds and stepped out without thinking.

Which was my first mistake.

Because the recovery room was private enough that I had not bothered putting on a shirt yet. My towel hung loosely around my neck, sweat still cooling across my chest and shoulders while the ink across my arm and upper body remained fully visible under the hallway lights. And naturally— Yuna was standing right outside.

We both stopped. For a second, neither of us said anything. Her eyes dropped first. Not low. Not vulgar. Just enough to trace the tattoos she had probably only ever seen in fragments before—black lines disappearing beneath my shoulder, the ink along my arm, the pieces usually hidden under tailored shirts and manager jackets. Then slowly, her gaze returned to mine.

“…You have tattoos.”
“You make it sound like I am a mafia boss.”
“It was observational.”
“Your observations have become increasingly dangerous recently.”

Yuna didn’t answer immediately. She leaned one shoulder against the wall instead, her eyes flicking briefly toward the ink again before the corner of her mouth curved upward.

“I didn’t know you were hiding all that under your boring manager clothes.”
“They’re not boring. They’re professional.”
“They’re boring.”
“That feels unnecessarily aggressive.”

She smiled wider “They suit you”. That landed harder than it should have. Mostly because she did not say it like a joke. She said it like she had just discovered something useful. I reached immediately for the robe hanging beside the recovery room door. Yuna noticed the speed. Of course she noticed the speed.

“You’re covering up already?”
“I’m cold.”
“It’s June.”
“The air conditioning is aggressive.”
“Sure.”