✓ FRAGILE HOURS ✷ Woozi

THE BACKSPACE FILES.

By the time Jihoon drops onto the floor beside her — legs folding with a groan he doesn’t quite let out — she’s holding the bottle out toward him, already uncapped.

He blinks, a little surprised. “Thanks.”

“You looked like you were dying,” she says, tone soft but amused.

“Not dying,” he mutters, taking it and drinking. “Maybe just, like… slightly decaying.” 

She lets out a snort that has him smiling.

He nudges towards her laptop. “How’s the essay coming up?”

Minwoo sighs and tilts her head toward the screen. “Still have an hour left before this thing is due. I swear it was loading five minutes ago, and now it’s just…” She gestures vaguely, then lifts her phone, screen tilted to show him the single flickering bar of service.

“I’m tethered to this,” she says with a sheepish laugh, “but it’s basically a potato with 3G.”

Jihoon hums, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The bottle’s cool against his palm. He glances once at her phone, then down at her laptop — the status wheel spinning in the corner of a document window — and without saying anything, pulls his own phone from his pocket.

A few taps, a confirmation swipe, and he sets it on the floor between them. “Here.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Use mine,” he says simply, not looking at her.

There’s a pause. A small one — barely a breath. Minwoo’s brows lift slightly, lips parting, like she wants to say something but doesn’t know if she should. Instead, she just looks at the phone, then at him, eyes softening around the edges.

“You sure?”

Jihoon nods. “It’s fine.”

Minwoo hesitates for a second longer, then quietly disconnects her hotspot and connects to his. The loading wheel on her screen spins faster, steadies, then blinks into a fully loaded page.

“Oh,” she says, almost to herself. “That actually worked.”

Jihoon doesn’t say anything. He just sits beside her, arms draped over his knees, letting the background noise of footfalls and laughter swell around them. 

She glances sideways at him.

“Thanks,” she says, barely above the buzz of the lights overhead.

Jihoon just nods again. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Anytime.”

On the floor, Seungkwan sprawls out flat, groaning dramatically. Minghao leans against the mirror, scrolling with the smooth, distracted rhythm of someone reading messages. Staff weave in and out, carrying fresh water, sweat towels. Someone from the media team ducks in, snaps a few photos, and leaves again without a word.

The door opens and the choreographer walks in again, waving his hands.

Jihoon caps his bottle, stands. “It’s going to take another twenty minutes. Just go home if you’re tired.”

“I can wait,” she says, already focused back on the screen. “I like being here.”

They start again.

From the mirror, he catches her clapping quietly when Chan nails a turn sequence. During the little lapses, Joshua kneels beside her, checking if she’s eaten; Jeonghan crouches at her side, offering a handful of crackers; she takes one, biting it between sentences. Mingyu passes her an untouched coffee. She accepts it without hesitation.