Niki And Sunoo’s Love Story

The corridor behind the stage smelled like warm dust and hairspray, like the air had been borrowed from a spotlight and never fully returned. Niki wiped his palms on his sweatpants anyway, even though the towel in his hand was already damp, and watched the mirror-glass shake with every passing bass note from the arena. The show was over-technically-but there was always that last stretch when the lights dimmed and the cameras stopped pretending not to look.

He’d come back to grab his water bottle and a hoodie he’d left draped over a chair, the usual routine. What he hadn’t expected was to see Sunoo standing near the equipment cases, not performing, not posing, just… waiting. The backstage chaos flowed around him in soft currents: staff murmuring, a cart squeaking, someone laughing too loudly at a joke that didn’t need to be shared. Sunoo stayed quiet in the middle of it, shoulders loose, eyes focused on something small-his hands working the edge of a strap, then stopping, then starting again like he was trying to fix the world with concentration alone.

Niki slowed without meaning to. The desire that hit him wasn’t romantic in the clean way people liked to describe. It was more like a pull he couldn’t explain-like he wanted to step closer just to confirm Sunoo was real, not just another face the fans saw when they tilted their phones toward him.

Sunoo looked up at the exact moment Niki’s reflection caught his gaze. For a second, the mirror behind them made it feel like they were inside the same frame. Sunoo’s mouth curved-not full smile, not the kind he’d give for a photo-but something softer, a private acknowledgment. Then he looked down again, as if he’d been caught doing something ordinary and precious.

“Hyung,” Niki heard himself say, voice lower than he meant it to be. He didn’t move right away; he just held his bottle and let the moment stretch, letting the question form without words. Why are you here, like this? Why do you look like you’re the only calm thing in a room that isn’t?

Sunoo shifted his weight, the fabric of his stage-warmed clothes whispering against his skin. “You’re still here?” he asked, and his tone made it sound like he’d meant to check, not to tease. His eyes flicked to the towel in Niki’s hand. “You’re wiping again. You’re sweating.”

Niki blinked once, then laughed under his breath because the truth was too obvious. “I always sweat after the encore,” he said. The sentence came out casual, but his fingers tightened around the bottle. “I forgot my hoodie.”

Sunoo’s gaze followed the direction Niki’s body angled toward the chair. “It’s on the second row, right?” he asked. Not a question to find out-more like he already knew, like he’d been watching the way Niki moved earlier, the way he’d pretended to be confident when the stage lights made everyone brave.

Niki nodded. “Yeah.”

Sunoo didn’t reach for it. He stepped closer instead, just enough that Niki could smell the faint citrus of something he’d used earlier-maybe body wash, maybe just the clean detergent from a wardrobe bag. The air around him felt cooler, even though the hallway was hot from bodies and lights.

“You take it,” Niki said quickly, because it was easier to give instructions than to accept help. “I can-”

“I’ll get it.” Sunoo’s voice was quiet, and the way he said it wasn’t demanding. It was certain. He reached past Niki’s shoulder, careful with the space between them. The contact was accidental at first-fabric brushing fabric, skin grazing skin-and then it wasn’t. Niki felt Sunoo’s wrist move close to his, felt the heat where their bodies were almost touching, and his mind short-circuited into something too sharp.

When Sunoo pulled the hoodie from the chair, the hem brushed Niki’s palm as if it wanted to linger. Niki’s throat tightened. He hated how aware he was of every detail: the friction of cotton, the soft sound of the hoodie sliding free, the faint tremor in his own breath.

Sunoo held the hoodie out. Their fingers met-warm, brief, unmistakable. Niki’s hand jerked back like he’d been burned, then steadied himself. “Thanks,” he managed.

Sunoo’s eyes warmed at the edges. “You’re welcome.”

The rhythm of their voices didn’t match. Niki was usually quick, usually loud when he laughed, usually the one who made people feel like the room was safe. With Sunoo, it was different-Sunoo’s words arrived like he’d already processed them first. Each pause gave Niki room to overthink.

“Did you-” Niki started, then stopped himself. He could’ve asked the obvious thing: how was your part, did your head hurt, are you okay. But what he wanted to ask was the thing he couldn’t admit.

Did you always look like that when no one’s watching?

Sunoo tilted his head, the motion slow. “Did I what?” he asked, as if he’d heard the unfinished question anyway.

Niki swallowed. “Nothing.” He forced a smile and tried to make it convincing. “I just… you were quiet.”

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