This was the second night I fell asleep next to Renji. But this time, he didn’t disappear when I woke up. He was still there, holding me tight.

We had to wake up early to head to the practice room, so I gently nudged his arm to wake him.

He stirred with a soft groan, opening his eyes before yawning. We slowly unlocked ourselves from the tangled hug and started our day.

The choreography was intense — and very suggestive, which wasn’t surprising considering the concept. None of us seemed entirely comfortable with it, except maybe Geon. He was wicked and bold enough to enjoy something like this.

We still hadn’t heard the finalized debut song, but we were able to use the finished instrumental for the first time while practicing the choreography.

By noon, we were completely drained. Maybe I was more exhausted than the others — I hadn’t practiced seriously for two years — but to my surprise, I caught on to the moves pretty quickly.

“The company posted our first videos on Tiktak last night,” Jiahao said as we sat in the cafeteria for lunch. “We already have twenty-five thousand likes and hundreds of comments. That’s a solid start.”

“We expected nothing less from a group debuting under SDR,” manager Garam added. “Those numbers are normal for a group like ours. They’ll only go up from here.”

“I’ve seen the comments,” Geon said, resting his chin on his hand. “Most are positive, but the cult grandmas are already acting up. I saw a few hate comments about the concept.”

“The company expected some backlash from the religious crowd,” Garam reassured him. “No need to worry. They’re not our target audience anyway.”

“If I saw a girl group debuting with this concept, I’d stan them,” Jiahao said, which honestly made sense.

Although I was curious about our growing popularity, I tried to push that excitement down. After all, I already knew this was only temporary for me.

My thoughts kept circling back to Renji. We hadn’t had a chance to talk since last night. Our schedule was too tight, and even in our downtime, we were always surrounded by others. I couldn’t wait to get back home — to our room — and finally have a quiet moment to talk. Last night had been raw and emotional, but I felt like Renji had forgiven me, at least a little. That alone made me feel both relieved and excited.

In the afternoon, we started recording parts of our debut song. I took the main vocal lines, just as the company intended, but to my pleasant surprise, everyone was incredibly skilled — either in vocals or rap.

Renji had improved a lot too. His flow was tighter, his tone sharp and controlled. But the one who stunned me the most was Yujun.

When it was his turn to record, I couldn’t help staring at the booth in awe.

“His high notes are insane.”

“Yes,” Renji said, his voice calm but proud. “We wrote those with Yujun’s range in mind.” It was the first time he’d spoken to me all day.

“We worked closely with the producers,” Jiahao added. “They made sure to use everyone’s strongest points. The twins have killer ad-libs and fast verses. Yujun’s kettle-high notes. You sing like a siren, Minjae. Renji and I handle the rap verses. And Geon’s baritone makes the perfect pre-chorus anchor.”

“That sounds balanced,” I said. “You guys really thought this through. Nice job.”

“You sound like a mom right now,” Jiahao teased.

“Okay, dad,” I shot back without missing a beat.

Renji raised an eyebrow. “What’s with this mom-and-dad talk?”

“Minjae keeps cooking for us,” Jiahao said, smirking. “The twins started calling him ‘Mom.’”

“Don’t blame it on the twins,” I said. “You started it.”

“Why do you expose me like that?” Jiahao whined dramatically.

“I see,” Renji muttered, expression unreadable.

By the time we dragged ourselves back to the dorm, everyone looked half-dead.

Our debut song was finally recorded — but it felt like it had taken a piece of our souls with it.

Dinner that night was instant ramen, kimchi, and a few questionable side dishes that Geon dug out from the back of the fridge.

“I think this kimchi might be older than my career,” he said, poking at it with his chopsticks.

“It’s fine,” Jiahao replied, pouring himself more water. “Fermentation builds character.”

“Fermentation builds botulism,” Geon countered, earning a snort from Yujun.

Boom sat cross-legged on the floor, inhaling noodles like a vacuum cleaner. “I could cry,” he said between slurps. “The song’s so good, hyung. We’re gonna be famous.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Bang scolded automatically, then turned to Yujun. “See, hyung? I’m the responsible one.”

Yujun didn’t even look up. “You’re both idiots.”

That set off a wave of protests from the twins.

I couldn’t help but smile as I stirred my noodles. The exhaustion still clung to me, but there was something else underneath it — something warm. Pride, maybe. Relief.

Renji sat beside me, quiet as usual, his bowl untouched for a long while before he finally started eating. His expression was a mystery to me, but when our eyes met briefly across the table, he gave me the faintest smile. Just enough to make my chest tighten unexpectedly.

“I still can’t believe it’s done,” I said softly. “Our debut song.”

“Done?” Jiahao raised an eyebrow. “We still have dance practice, MV filming, interviews, showcases—”

“Okay, okay,” I interrupted, waving my chopsticks. “Don’t ruin my moment.”

Geon slumped back dramatically. “I think I left my vocal cords somewhere in the booth.”

“Check under the mixing desk,” Boom said seriously, and everyone burst into laughter.

It wasn’t anything fancy — just a late dinner at the dorm with tired faces and laughter bouncing off the walls — but sitting there, listening to their voices overlap, I realized something simple and stupid.

For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like an outsider watching life from behind glass walls.

After dinner, the dorm sank into that soft kind of quiet that only came after a long, exhausting day. The twins bickered faintly in the kitchen, Jiahao was pretending to clean while secretly checking his phone, and Yujun and Renji already claimed the showers.

I slipped back to our room before anyone could assign me to dish duty. The lights were dim, the faint hum of the air conditioner the only sound. I sat on the edge of my bed, letting the silence settle deep into my bones.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open. Renji stepped inside, towel draped around his neck, hair still damp. The faint citrus scent of his shampoo filled the air.

He didn’t say anything at first — just leaned against the doorframe, studying me like I was some puzzle he hadn’t solved yet.

“You didn’t eat much tonight,” he said finally.

“I wasn’t that hungry,” I muttered. “Too tired.”

He nodded, but didn’t look convinced. Crossing the room, he sat on his bed across from mine. For a while, neither of us spoke. The air between us felt heavy — like there were words floating just out of reach.

“About last night…” I started, my voice quieter than I meant.

He looked up immediately.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” I said after a pause. “For staying.”

His lips curved faintly — not quite a smile. “You think I’d just walk away after that?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “You could’ve.”

Renji exhaled, a sound that was halfway between a sigh and a tired laugh. “You really think I could sleep knowing you were crying like that next to me?”

My throat tightened. I looked down, fiddling with the hem of my shirt.

Renji stood and walked closer, stopping beside my bed. His shadow fell over my hands, and when I finally looked up, he was closer than I expected — close enough for me to notice the faint tremor in his fingers as he brushed a strand of hair away from my face.

It wasn’t much — barely a touch — but everything seemed to pause for a moment.

“You should rest,” he said softly. “We’ve got practice tomorrow.”

He turned off the lamp, leaving the room bathed in the cool blue glow of the streetlights outside. But instead of returning to his bed right away, he sat on the edge of mine. Quiet. Still.

Neither of us said anything. The distance between us felt smaller than before — not gone, but softening.

And when he finally stood and lay down, I could still feel the ghost of his weight on the edge or my bed, lingering longer than it should have.