Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

23

Behind him, the door clicks. Taehyun steps in, a shadow wrapped in that signature oversized sweater he's owned since high school, eyes sharp even under the warm glow of the hallway.

Neither of them says anything.

Taehyun drops his bag by the shoe rack and doesn't even bother taking his shoes off. That's how Beomgyu knows he means business. The guy never lets outside dirt near the carpets unless he's about to dig into someone.

Beomgyu sighs. "If this is about earlier, I'm not—"

"Not talking about it?" Taehyun's voice is mild, calm. A dangerous calm. "Because nothing says doing fine like getting blackmailed into fake-dating the guy who publicly detonated your name."

Beomgyu stirs his coffee like it might drown the comment. "It's not blackmail."

"Oh, my bad. You just volunteered to gaslight the internet for fun?"

He turns slowly, mug gripped in both hands. "It's for damage control. You said it yourself, remember? Entertainment companies eat this stuff up. Crisis turned into attention. The algorithm wins."

Taehyun cocks his head, arms folding. "So you're what now—your own PR team?"

"No," Beomgyu mutters. "I'm just trying to stay afloat."

Taehyun steps closer, each word landing like a drumbeat. "You're not afloat, Beomgyu. You're drowning and calling it choreography."

Beomgyu flinches. It's subtle, but Taehyun sees it—of course he does. Taehyun's always been the type to notice cracks before they break.

"I'm not doing this with you right now," Beomgyu says, voice thin. "I've got two weeks to fake something and survive the fallout. That's it."

"Then what?" Taehyun shoots back. "You ghost him? Ghost the band? Ghost yourself?"

Beomgyu slams the mug down, liquid sloshing over the side, burning the web of his fingers. "What do you want me to say, Hyun? That I don't know what the hell I'm doing? That everything's a mess and I'm just hoping no one notices how bad I'm shaking inside?"

Silence. Thick. Raw.

Taehyun doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just lets it hang there—ugly, painful, true.

Beomgyu's breath stutters. "I didn't ask for this."

"No, you didn't," Taehyun says softly. "But you're living it."

Beomgyu drags both hands through his hair, jaw tight. "I just wanted to write a song. Submit a contest. Play music and disappear when it's done. That was the plan."

"And now?"

Beomgyu laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Now I'm trending for slapping someone. Now I'm a main character in someone's fake romance theory thread. Now people are DMing me asking if I'm okay, or worse—if I need closure from my breakup."

Taehyun steps into the kitchen, slow, deliberate. Takes the kettle off the heat. Wipes the mug with a towel like he's giving Beomgyu space to unravel.

"You know," he says after a beat, "you're allowed to say no."

Beomgyu stares. "To what?"

"To all of it. You don't owe the internet a narrative. You don't owe Yeonjun closure. You sure as hell don't owe anyone a fake romance."

Beomgyu's voice drops to a whisper. "I owe myself a win."

That stops Taehyun short. Not because it's dramatic—but because it's real.

"I need that song to matter," Beomgyu says, eyes fixed on a point past Taehyun's shoulder. "I need someone—anyone—to look at it and think, this guy's worth something. I'm tired of being a ghost with a pretty voice."