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Seungmin’s littlespace disaster

The Ghost at the Threshold

One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days of reclaiming the air in his lungs and the ground beneath his feet. Seungmin stood in the kitchen of the new dorm, the sunlight filtering through the blinds and casting golden stripes across the countertop. He was twenty-four now, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the "Big" Seungmin felt solid. He was the main vocalist people looked up to; he was the reliable friend; he was a man who could handle a quiet afternoon alone.

Minho had been hesitant to leave him. He’d hovered by the door for twenty minutes, checking the locks, checking the fridge, and checking the look in Seungmin’s eyes.

"I'll be back by six, Minnie," Minho had said, his hand lingering on Seungmin’s shoulder. "The others are at the studio, and I have this solo shoot, but I can cancel. I can tell them my ankle is acting up again."

Seungmin had laughed—a genuine, bright sound. "Hyung, go. I’m fine. I’m going to practice some English, maybe watch a movie. I’m a grown man. I can handle being home alone for five hours."

Minho had finally relented, giving him one last squeeze before disappearing down the hall.

Now, two hours into his solitude, Seungmin felt a sense of pride. He wasn't shaking. He wasn't looking for a pacifier. He was just Seungmin. He reached for his tablet, intending to look over some lyric translations, when the sound echoed through the silent apartment.

*Knock. Knock. Knock.*

It was a heavy sound. Not the light, rhythmic tap of the members, but a demanding, familiar weight. Seungmin’s heart stuttered, a cold needle of dread pricking his skin. He told himself it was just a delivery. Or perhaps Minho had forgotten his keys.

He walked to the door, his movements stiff. He peered through the security camera monitor.

The world tilted. The golden sunlight in the kitchen seemed to turn to ash.

Standing in the hallway, wearing a black hoodie and a face that had haunted Seungmin’s nightmares for seven years, was Chan.

He looked thinner, his eyes sunken, but the set of his jaw was the same mask of simmering intensity that usually preceded a storm. He looked directly into the camera, as if he could see through the lens and straight into Seungmin’s shattering soul.

"Seungmin," the voice crackled through the intercom, muffled but unmistakable. "I know you're in there. We need to talk. I need you to listen to me."

Seungmin didn't breathe. He couldn't. His lungs felt like they had been filled with concrete. The "Big" Seungmin, the one who had worked so hard to stand tall, felt himself evaporating. The walls of the hallway began to close in, the air growing thin and freezing.

"Go away," Seungmin whispered, but the words didn't leave his throat.

"Open the door, Seungmin. Don't be difficult. You know what happens when you're difficult."

That was the trigger. The phantom scent of leather and the sting of cold air on his skin rushed back with the force of a tidal wave. Seungmin stumbled backward, his hands flying to his ears to block out the voice. He wasn't twenty-four anymore. He was small, he was a freak, he was a mess that needed to be cleaned up.

He turned and bolted. He didn't think; he reacted with the primal instinct of a hunted animal. He slammed into the bathroom, fumbling with the lock until it clicked into place. He sank to the tiles, his back against the cold porcelain of the bathtub.

"No, no, no," he gasped, his voice climbing in pitch. "Minnie be good. Minnie be good. Don't let him in. Please don't let him in."

The transition was violent. Usually, his regression was a slow slide into a warm bath, a gradual softening of the edges. This was a car crash. His mind fractured under the weight of the terror, retreating so fast and so deep that it left him gasping for air.

He began to sob—not the quiet, sniffling tears of a sad adult, but the raw, guttural wails of a terrified toddler. He gripped his hair, his fingers twisting into the strands and pulling until his scalp burned. He needed the pain to stay grounded, but the pain only reminded him of why he was hiding.

"Dada! Dada, help Minnie!" he shrieked, his voice breaking.

He crawled toward the toilet, his stomach churning with the same violent revolt it had a year ago. The trauma was a physical presence, a hand around his throat. He leaned over the bowl, retching as his body tried to expel the fear. There was nothing in his stomach but bile, the bitter taste coating his tongue and making him cry harder.

Outside, in the distance, he heard the front door open. He heard voices—angry, shouting voices.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Minho’s voice roared, vibrating with a lethal edge Seungmin had never heard before.

"I just wanted to see him! You can't keep him from me—"

"Touch him and I will kill you! Get out! Get out before I call the police!"

The sounds of a struggle, a door slamming, and then silence. But for Seungmin, the silence was worse. The silence was where the belt lived.

He was curled in a ball on the bathroom floor, his face pressed against the cold tile, his body shaking with such force that his teeth rattled. He was dry heaving into the toilet, his eyes blown wide and glassy, seeing things that weren't there.

"Seungmin? Seungminnie, baby, where are you?"

Footsteps. Fast, frantic footsteps.

"The bathroom is locked," Hyunjin’s voice was panicked. "Minho, he’s in the bathroom!"

"Minnie? Baby, it's Dada. Open the door for me, please." Minho’s voice was right outside the wood, trembling with a desperate attempt at calm. "He's gone, Seungmin. I promise. He's gone and he's never coming back. I kicked him out."

Seungmin couldn't move. He couldn't find the words. He was too small to understand how locks worked, too small to remember how to stand up. He just wailed, a high-pitched, thin sound of pure agony.

Minho didn't wait. He used a coin to turn the emergency lock from the outside, the door swinging open to reveal the carnage within.

Hyunjin gasped, hovering in the doorway, but Minho was on the floor in a second. He didn't care about the mess; he didn't care about the vomit or the smell of fear. He lunged for Seungmin, pulling the younger boy’s hands away from his hair.

"Stop, stop, baby. You’re hurting yourself," Minho pleaded, his own tears starting to fall.

Seungmin fought him at first, his limbs flailing. "No hit! No hit Minnie! I be good! I promise!"

"I would never hit you! Look at me! It's Minho! It's your Dada!"

Minho grabbed Seungmin’s face, forcing the younger boy to look at him. Seungmin’s eyes were unfocused, darting wildly until they finally landed on Minho’s familiar features. The recognition didn't bring instant peace; it brought a fresh wave of hysteria.

Seungmin threw himself into Minho’s arms, his fingers digging into Minho’s back with bruising force. He buried his face in the crook of Minho’s neck, his entire body heaving with sobs that sounded like they were tearing his throat apart.

"He come back," Seungmin wailed into Minho’s skin. "He gonna hurt Minnie. He say I'm bad."

"He's a liar," Minho hissed, his voice thick with protective fury. "He’s a liar and a monster, and he will never lay a finger on you again. I’ve got you. I’ve got you so tight."

For two hours, the bathroom was a sanctuary of sorrow. Minho didn't move from the floor. He let Seungmin sob, let him retch, let him scream until his voice was nothing but a raspy whisper. Hyunjin brought damp cloths and water, hovering nearby like a silent guardian, his heart breaking for the brother who had been so violently undone.

Slowly, the tremors began to subside. The violent regression had pushed Seungmin past his usual toddler state. He wasn't four. He wasn't three. He had retreated into the absolute earliest stages of infancy—the "baby space" that Minho had only seen once before during a particularly bad night.

Seungmin’s cries turned into soft, rhythmic whimpers. He was completely limp now, his weight supported entirely by Minho. He had stopped pulling his hair, his hands now clutching weakly at Minho’s shirt.

"Let's get you cleaned up, sweetheart," Minho whispered.

With Hyunjin’s help, Minho managed to get Seungmin into a warm bath. The younger boy didn't protest; he simply stared at the water with wide, vacant eyes, his thumb tucked firmly in his mouth. He was so far gone that he didn't even seem to realize where he was.

Once he was dried and dressed in his softest, thickest onesie—a garment he usually only wore on his worst days—Minho carried him to the bed.

The rest of the members were in the living room, their voices low and tense. They were talking about lawyers, about restraining orders, about making sure Chan was erased from their lives forever. But in the bedroom, there was only the sound of a ticking clock and Seungmin’s shallow breathing.

Minho sat against the headboard, pulling the covers over both of them. Seungmin immediately scrambled upward, his movements clumsy and desperate. He didn't want to just be held; he wanted to disappear into Minho’s skin.

He latched onto Minho’s neck, his small face burying itself in the sensitive dip above Minho’s collarbone. His mouth found the skin of Minho’s neck, sucking and rooting with a primal, desperate need for comfort.

Minho winced slightly at the pressure, but he didn't pull away. He knew what this was. It was the "baby" seeking the ultimate anchor. In this state, Seungmin didn't have words. He didn't have memories. He only had the physical sensation of his caregiver’s heartbeat and the warmth of his skin.

"I'm here, baby," Minho murmured, his hand cradling the back of Seungmin’s head. "Dada’s right here. You’re safe in my arms. The bad man is gone."

Seungmin made a tiny, muffled sound, his fingers curling into the hair at the nape of Minho’s neck. He was nursing on Minho’s skin, a self-soothing mechanism that spoke of a trauma so deep it had stripped away every layer of his adult self.

Minho felt the wetness of Seungmin’s tears against his neck, but the boy had finally stopped shaking. The rhythmic, dragging pull on his skin was a testament to Seungmin’s need for grounding. It was a physical tether to the present, a way to drown out the echoes of Chan’s voice with the sound of Minho’s steady breathing.

"We're going to fix this," Minho whispered, his eyes hardening as he looked at the door. "We're going to build the walls higher. We're going to make sure you never have to be afraid in your own home again."

Seungmin shifted, his body finally relaxing into the mattress. His eyes drifted shut, his lashes casting long shadows on his pale cheeks. He was still latched, his mouth moving in a slow, rhythmic motion even as sleep began to claim him.

The "Big" Seungmin was gone for now. He had been burned away by the sight of his tormentor, leaving behind only this fragile, wounded soul that needed to be rebuilt from the ground up.

Minho didn't mind. He would be the architect. He would be the foundation.

He leaned his head back against the wall, watching the moon rise through the window. He felt the weight of Seungmin against him—a weight he would carry for as long as it took.

"Sleep, little one," Minho breathed, kissing the temple of the boy who had become his entire world. "Dada’s got the watch. No one is getting through that door."

In the silence of the room, the only sound was the soft, rhythmic puff of Seungmin’s breath and the steady, unwavering beat of a heart that would never, ever let him go. The ghost had been at the threshold, but the protector was in the room, and for tonight, that was enough.