✓ FRAGILE HOURS ✷ Woozi

THE BACKSPACE FILES.

These are pieces that remained behind — drafts and deleted scenes from my early notes. But these are still my favourites, so I’m sharing them with heartfelt thanks to everyone who supported this story and let it mean something.

#1

The building’s almost empty this late. Most of the other floors have gone dark, except for the one corridor lined with practice rooms. The air is cool with recycled AC, edged with the faint sweetness of floor polish, the kind that clings faintly to shoes.

The faintest vibration hums through the floor from a bassline bleeding out of another room down the hall.

Minwoo’s not supposed to be here — not in any rule-breaking way, but in a why-would-you-stay-in-this-building-unless-you’re-paid-to kind of way. She’s tucked into the far corner of the practice room, cross-legged on the scuffed wooden floor, laptop balanced against a black backpack. The bag’s half unzipped, one strap flopped to the side, a spiral notebook poking out between the teeth of the zipper.

Jihoon catches her in the mirror when he glances left during counts. Just a small shape in the periphery, hood up, gaze angled down at her screen. From where he’s standing — second row, fourth from the left — she’s framed between Mingyu’s arm and Hoshi’s shoulder, like the reflection is an accidental photograph.

She pauses mid-typing, eyes flicking up, sweeping the room for half a second — the choreographer pacing with a water bottle, the cluster of members in their positions — and lands on him just long enough to make him look away first.

Music snaps in again. Hoshi claps twice. They run through the chorus, sneakers squeaking against the floor, the thud of steps rattling faintly in Jihoon’s teeth.

Somewhere in the middle, Dino spins too far and clips Jun’s arm, and Minwoo laughs — a quick, unguarded sound — before ducking her head like she didn’t mean for it to escape.

She’d shown up an hour ago, USB in hand — the one he’d accidentally left on her desk when they had dinner yesterday. She’d held it between two fingers, teasing like she was returning contraband. Jihoon had been ready to grab it, mumble a thanks, and usher her out, but Dino’s shout had drawn her into the room before he could.

“Stay for a bit, Minwoo!” Chan had practically dragged a chair over for her. The chair had been ignored; she’d chosen the floor.

Now she’s here, tapping away at whatever paper she has due, earbuds dangling unused around her neck.

Jihoon watches how her fingers twitch just before she starts typing again, a subtle tension there, like she’s holding back a sigh. The kind of small nervousness you only notice if you look close. He catches her tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, quick and almost apologetic, like she doesn’t want anyone to see she’s worried.

The music cuts off on a sharp note — a clean break, not a fade — and the choreographer claps his hands, voice echoing as he announces, “Five-minute break! Hydrate, stretch, don’t disappear.”

Jihoon exhales, arms loose at his sides. His shirt clings to his back, damp with sweat, and his pulse ticks steadily in his ears. Around him, the others start peeling off — reaching for towels, collapsing dramatically onto the floor, trading quick comments and complaints with easy exhaustion.

He doesn’t think before his feet move, just angles toward the far end of the room where Minwoo still sits — tucked in like an afterthought, barely there if you weren’t looking.

She notices him when he’s about halfway across the floor. Her fingers pause on the keys again, a light flutter like a breath catching. She closes her laptop partway, enough to break the glow of the screen, and stretches for the water bottle beside her.