✓ FRAGILE HOURS ✷ Woozi

THE BACKSPACE FILES.

“Then explain why we have two extra pieces,” Seungkwan snaps, brandishing a tiny metal dowel like a dagger. “Are we building a shelf or summoning a demon?”

Minwoo stifles a laugh as Dino whines, “Why can’t I understand any of this?!”

Seungkwan doesn’t miss a beat. “Because you’re stupid.”

“Yah! I passed all my high school—!”

Joshua slides in, calm and graceful, like he’s floating. “You’re both doing great,” he says, crouching down. “But if you let me…” He picks up the instruction manual. Within seconds, he’s spinning pieces into place like he’s been building furniture all his life.

“You’re too elegant for this world,” Seungkwan sighs dramatically.

“You’re just mad you lost to particle board,” Dino mutters.

Across the room, Seungcheol has now settled into the lazy task of organizing the spice basket with Jeonghan.

“This one smells weird,” he says, nose wrinkling as he uncaps a jar.

“It’s turmeric,” Jeonghan replies, amused, sliding another bottle into the rack. “You don’t use your nose. Just alphabetize them and look mysterious.”

Minwoo watches them, squinting her eyes. “You two chose the easiest job.”

“Exactly,” Jeonghan says, smirking. “Strategy.”

In the kitchen, Seokmin and Mingyu are halfway through unpacking glassware. Minwoo cringes when a stack of mugs almost tips — but Mingyu catches it with one arm, laughing.

“These mugs are older than Jihoon-hyung’s social skills,” Seokmin jokes.

“I heard that,” Jihoon says from the hallway.

He’s perched on a small step ladder, twisting the last of the new ceiling bulbs into place. A constellation of dust clings to the front of his sweater. He doesn’t speak much. Just hums softly under his breath — an unfinished melody, maybe. Something she doesn’t recognize.

When the light flickers on, warm and steady, he squints down at her through tousled hair and dust. It hits his cheekbones at just the right angle. Makes the moment too cinematic for real life.

She smiles without any thought.

Behind her, Minghao, Jun, and Wonwoo are sorting her books. The floor is scattered with paperbacks and a few photo frames still wrapped in protective foam.

Jun’s humming along with the song. Wonwoo thumbs through a volume of poetry before setting it aside. Minghao is carefully stacking three slim books by color — then pauses to reposition them so the spines line up just right.

“You have good taste,” Minghao says.

“I just have dust,” Minwoo replies, shrugging.

“You can have both,” Jun offers, holding up a lint roller.

The room is chaotic in the most beautiful way. Tape curls on the floor. A box labeled “TOILETRIES” is under the dining table.

Near the window, Vernon arranges her plants in a line. He crouches by the sill, adjusting a pot by barely an inch before stepping back, considering, and doing it again. Kong watches from the sill, flicking his tail, eyes trailing the jingle of the bracelet on Vernon’s wrist.

Minwoo watches him gently turn the succulent so the best side faces the room.

He looks over his shoulder and smiles. “It’s still alive,” he says.

Minwoo nods. “Barely. Like me.”

“You’re doing fine,” he says, with the kind of sincerity that doesn’t need embellishment.

The sun is softer now. Golden hour creeps in, warming the corners of the room, casting long shadows that stretch across the unpacked boxes. The light catches dust motes drifting lazily. It bathes everyone in something that feels almost holy.

Minwoo stands by the kitchen counter, wiping the bowls. She feels it all press against her — smallness, gratitude, something close to wonder.

She’s never had this before. Not like this.

A family of people who don’t ask why. Who just come, who do, who fill a space with laughter and care and quiet loyalty.

A breath behind her. She turns.

Jihoon is beside her, watching the room with that unreadable expression he wears when he’s feeling too much but saying none of it.

He glances at her. “You okay?”

She nods. Doesn’t trust her voice.

He reaches up, brushes something — maybe a thread of lint, maybe nothing — from her shoulder.

“You look flustered,” he says, amused.

“You look smug,” she counters, heart skipping.

He shrugs, a faint smile curling his lips. “I’m just glad you let us help.”

She hesitates. Then: “It’s... a lot.”

“I know.”

But his voice is gentle. Not pushing. Just there.

There’s something liminal about this — standing in the middle of an unpacked home, surrounded by people who don’t have to be here but are anyway. Something about the transience of boxes and temporary mess, paired with the permanence of care.

It doesn’t matter that they’ll leave in an hour. That she’ll still be here later, sorting socks and wondering if she deserves this kind of love.

Because she knows now: they’ll come again. When she’s sick. When it snows. When the world feels too loud or too quiet.

They’ll come.

Minwoo exhales, slow.

Jihoon looks at her and smiles, all knowing.

She mirrors the smile back.

• • •

These little scenes never made it into the final draft — some too quiet, some too strange, some simply belonging to a version of the story that no longer exists. They are messy, unpolished, unedited versions and I may have a love-hate relationship with some of them.

But they still lived in my head long after I cut them, so I’ve gathered them here, for you.

If you’re reading this, you probably saw something in this story worth holding onto — and maybe, in these extra moments, you’ll find something that echoes a little deeper, or simply makes you smile.

Thank you.