After hours of recording “JoyRide” — running through take after take until their throats felt raw and their legs ached — the atmosphere in the hotel room shifted from high energy to soft exhaustion. The lights were dimmed, casting a warm, golden glow over the space, and the hum of the city outside felt far away.

Yerin moved quietly around the room, folding laundry with slow, careful hands. At nineteen, she was the youngest member of CORTIS — younger even than Keonho, who often teased her about being the baby despite how composed she carried herself. She spoke little, preferred listening over leading conversations, and found comfort in order and calm. It was no surprise to anyone that she was most often paired with Juhoon: he too was reserved, steady, and kept to a gentle, unhurried rhythm. Fans and staff had long called them “The Quiet Pair” — two souls who didn’t need many words to understand one another.

As she smoothed out one of Juhoon’s plain cotton T‑shirts, her fingers brushing the soft fabric, a small wave of boredom settled over her. She paused, then turned toward Martin, who was propped up against the headboard, scrolling through his phone with one leg crossed over the other.

“Hey,” she said, her voice soft but clear enough to cut through the low murmur of the television. “What do you think about doing a live stream? It’s still early, and everyone’s probably waiting for updates.”

Martin looked up, his expression shifting from relaxed to interested. He gave a casual shrug, a faint glint of amusement in his eyes. “Could be fun. Let me check with the manager first — make sure there’s nothing we shouldn’t talk about.” He tapped out a quick message and waited, while the others began to shift their attention her way.

Across the room, Juhoon sat cross‑legged on his bed, a bowl of steaming ramen balanced on his knees. He had just taken a mouthful when he heard the suggestion, and his gaze immediately flicked from her empty hands to her face. Swallowing quickly, he set his chopsticks down and frowned slightly — not in disapproval, but in quiet concern.

“Noona — wait, Yerin-ah,” he corrected gently, since she was younger than him, “why don’t you eat something first? You barely touched dinner after recording.”

Yerin felt a faint warmth rise to her cheeks, the familiar blush that always appeared when he paid attention to her. She gave a small, shy smile and shook her head. “I’m not hungry yet. My throat still feels a little tight. Later, I promise.”

Before Juhoon could press further, Martin nodded.

“Manager says it’s fine — keep it casual, nothing too revealing. Just chat and relax.” He swung his legs off the bed, grabbed the portable camera, and adjusted the angle, setting it near the TV stand so it framed both beds and the small seating area.

“Everyone get comfortable, then. We’re going live in one minute.”

The moment the broadcast went live, the screen was flooded with comments. Messages rolled in faster than they could read: greetings, questions, compliments, and even the occasional sharp remark that popped up briefly before disappearing — reminders that being the only girl in a boy group meant both extra love and extra scrutiny. Yerin noticed them, as she always did.