D

The full-length mirror in the corner of the practice room was usually Mingi’s greatest ally. It helped him monitor his lines, check the angle of his chin, and ensure that his long limbs were moving in perfect synchronization with the rest of Ateez. Today, however, the mirror felt like it was playing a prank on him.

Mingi tugged at the hem of his oversized grey hoodie, pulling it down as far as it would go. Then, he turned to the side, craning his neck to look over his shoulder. He frowned. He turned a bit more, squinting at his reflection.

"That can't be right," he muttered to himself.

He had started pilates three months ago on a whim. He’d heard it was excellent for core strength and flexibility—two things a six-foot-tall rapper with a history of back pain desperately needed. He had expected to feel leaner, perhaps a bit more "snatched" around the waist. What he hadn't expected was for his lower body to take the "strengthening" part of the curriculum so literally.

His jeans, a pair of designer denim that used to hang loosely off his hips, were currently clinging to his thighs with a tenacity that felt borderline aggressive. When he walked, he could feel the fabric straining. When he sat down, he lived in constant fear of a catastrophic seam failure.

"Mingi-ya! Are you coming or what?"

Wooyoung’s voice echoed from the hallway, followed quickly by the owner of the voice sliding into the room. Wooyoung stopped mid-stride, his eyes darting from Mingi’s face to his reflection in the mirror, and then down to the specific area Mingi was currently obsessing over.

Wooyoung’s eyebrows shot upward. A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face—the kind of look that usually preceded a week’s worth of teasing.

"Wow," Wooyoung said, his voice dropping an octave. "Those pilates classes are really... paying off, huh?"

Mingi felt the heat rise to his cheeks. He quickly turned around to face his friend, trying to look nonchalant. "I don't know what you're talking about. I’m just bloated. I had a lot of sodium last night."

Wooyoung walked in a slow circle around him, like a shark circling a particularly tasty piece of driftwood. "Sodium doesn't go straight to your glutes, Mingi. That is pure, concentrated effort. You’re becoming a menace."

"Stop it," Mingi groaned, swatting at Wooyoung’s hand as the shorter man tried to poke his hip. "It’s uncomfortable. None of my pants fit anymore. I had to struggle for ten minutes just to get these on this morning."

"The price of beauty is steep," Wooyoung joked, leaning against the mirror. "But seriously, the stylists are going to have a heart attack. You’re supposed to be the 'tall and lean' one. Now you’re 'tall and... well, gifted.'"

Mingi looked back at the mirror, a sense of dread pooling in his stomach. Ateez was preparing for a new comeback. The concept photos were scheduled for next week, and the mood boards were full of tight leather, harnesses, and slim-cut trousers. If he continued to expand at this rate, he was going to look like he was bursting out of his costume like a high-fashion Hulk.

"I should stop," Mingi decided, nodding firmly. "No more reformer. No more leg circles. I’ll go back to just doing light stretches in my room."

"You can't stop now," Wooyoung protested, laughing. "You’ve already crossed the point of no return. You have the lower body of a speed skater. Embrace it!"

Mingi didn't want to embrace it. He wanted to fit into his favorite Saint Laurent jeans again.

The problem was that Mingi actually *liked* pilates. He liked the burn in his core, the way his posture had improved, and the fact that his back didn't ache after an eight-hour dance practice anymore. He just hadn't anticipated the side effects. It seemed his body was biologically predisposed to building muscle in the most inconvenient places.

Later that afternoon, the group gathered for a choreography check. The room was humid, the air smelling of sweat and expensive cologne. As they moved through the high-energy bridge of their new title track, Mingi found himself hyper-aware of his own movements. Every time he had to drop into a deep squat or perform a hip thrust, he felt the denim of his jeans screaming for mercy.

"Mingi, you’re holding back," Hongjoong called out, pausing the music. The leader wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, his sharp eyes fixed on Mingi. "The power isn't there. You’re stiff."

Mingi wiped his own face, breathing hard. "Sorry, Hyung. I’m just... I think these pants are too tight. I can't get the full range of motion."

San, who was currently draped over a foam roller, looked up with a smirk. "It’s not the pants, Mingi. It’s what’s inside them. Have you seen yourself lately? You’re getting thick."

Jongho, usually the most stoic of the group, let out a small, surprised chuckle from the corner. "He’s right. I noticed it during the gym session yesterday. Your leg press numbers are getting dangerously close to mine."

"It’s the pilates," Yunho added, walking over to stand next to his best friend. He draped an arm over Mingi’s shoulders, his height matching Mingi’s perfectly. "Our Mingi is growing up. Or out. Mostly out."

Mingi hid his face in his hands. "Can we please talk about anything else? I’m trying to be a professional idol here."

"We are being professional," Hongjoong said, though his lips were twitching. "We need to know if we need to call the wardrobe department and request a size up for your stage outfits. We can't have you splitting your pants on a live broadcast. Again."

The memory of a certain "wardrobe malfunction" from two years ago flashed in everyone’s minds. The room erupted into laughter, Mingi’s protests drowned out by his members' delight at his expense.

"I'm going to the bathroom," Mingi announced, shaking off Yunho’s arm. "When I come back, we are finishing this choreo without any mention of my physique."

He retreated to the hallway, his heart racing. It was all in good fun—he knew that—but he couldn't help the self-consciousness that had taken root. He slipped into the quiet of the restroom and stood before the large vanity mirror.

He took a deep breath and looked. Really looked.

His waist was actually smaller, cinched by the core work he’d been doing. But because his waist was smaller, his hips looked wider. His thighs, once long and slender, now had a visible curve to them, the muscle firm and defined even through the heavy denim. And his... well, Wooyoung wasn't lying. The "pilates peach" was a real phenomenon.

He sighed, leaning his forehead against the cool glass. "Why can't I just be normal?"

The door opened, and Seonghwa walked in. The eldest member was always the most observant, the one who could sense when someone’s mood had shifted from "playfully annoyed" to "actually stressed."

Seonghwa stood at the sink next to him, turning on the water to wash his hands. He didn't say anything at first, letting the silence settle between them.

"You know," Seonghwa said quietly, "you look healthy, Mingi."

Mingi looked at him through the mirror. "I look like I’ve been replaced by a body double who spends twenty hours a day on a squat rack."

Seonghwa smiled, a gentle, reassuring expression. "You look strong. You look like a performer who can handle the intensity of our stages. Do you know how many people would kill for that kind of natural muscle tone?"

"But the clothes, Hyung," Mingi lamented. "I feel like a sausage in a casing."

"Then we get bigger casings," Seonghwa countered, drying his hands. "The stylists aren't there to judge you. They’re there to make you look your best. If your body is changing because you’re taking care of your health and getting stronger, that’s a win. Don't let the guys get to you. They’re just jealous they don't have your proportions."

Mingi straightened up, feeling a little bit better. "You think so?"

"I know so. Now, come back out there. We have three more hours of practice, and Hongjoong is starting to look like he’s going to start biting people."

Mingi followed Seonghwa back to the practice room, feeling a newfound sense of resolve. If he was going to be "thick," he was going to be the best-dancing, most powerful version of it.

The next week, the group arrived at the studio for their concept photo shoot. The atmosphere was buzzing with energy. Racks of clothing lined the walls—leather, silk, chains, and boots.

Mingi sought out the head stylist, a woman named Min-seo who had been with them since debut. She saw him approaching and held up a finger, finishing a conversation with a photographer before turning to him.

"Mingi-ya! Just the man I wanted to see," she said, her eyes scanning him critically. "I heard a rumor from Wooyoung that we might need to adjust your measurements."

Mingi rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, about that... I’ve been doing some exercise. Pilates. And I think... well, things are a bit different than they were last month."

Min-seo didn't look annoyed. In fact, she looked intrigued. She pulled out a measuring tape from around her neck. "Let’s see the damage, then. Stand still."

Mingi stood as still as a statue while she wrapped the tape around his waist, then his hips, then the widest part of his thigh. She let out a low whistle.

"Wow. You weren't kidding. You’ve put on nearly three inches of muscle in your lower body."

Mingi winced. "I'm sorry. I can stop the classes."

"Stop?" Min-seo looked at him like he was crazy. "Are you kidding? Do you know what this does for the silhouette? The 'slim-fit' look is over, Mingi. We’re moving into more structured, powerful shapes this season. This is perfect."

She turned to her assistant, her eyes sparkling with creative inspiration. "Forget the skinny jeans for Mingi. Bring me those wide-leg leather trousers with the high waist. And the cropped jacket. We want to emphasize the line from his waist to his feet."

Mingi blinked, stunned. "You’re not mad?"

"Mingi, you look like a Greek god sculpted out of granite," she laughed, patting his arm. "Now go to hair and makeup. We’re going to make you look incredible."

Two hours later, Mingi stood in front of the grey backdrop of the photo studio. He was wearing the high-waisted leather trousers, which fit him like a second skin around the hips before flaring out slightly at the bottom. A cropped, buckled jacket showed off the narrowness of his waist, and his hair was slicked back, giving him a sharp, dangerous edge.

As he moved for the camera, he realized he didn't feel restricted. He felt powerful. Every time he shifted his weight, the leather caught the light, highlighting the strength in his legs. He wasn't the "tall, thin" one anymore. He was a presence.

"Yes! Exactly like that!" the photographer shouted, the shutter clicking rapidly. "Give me more energy in the legs. Stronger stance!"

Mingi widened his stance, leaning back slightly, his hands resting on his belt. He felt the familiar burn in his thighs—the same burn he felt on the reformer—and he leaned into it.

From the sidelines, the other members watched.

"See?" Wooyoung whispered to San, though he was loud enough for everyone to hear. "I told you he was a menace. He’s going to ruin the fans. They aren't ready for 'Pilates Mingi'."

San nodded solemnly. "We’re all going to be overshadowed by his glutes. It’s a tragedy for the rest of us, really."

Mingi caught their comments and, for the first time in weeks, he didn't feel embarrassed. He caught his reflection in a monitor nearby. He looked strong. He looked healthy. He looked like himself, only better.

When the shoot wrapped, Hongjoong walked over, clapping him on the back. "Good job today, Mingi. You looked... expensive."

"Thanks, Hyung," Mingi said, a genuine smile breaking through his cool "idol" persona. "I think I’m going to keep up with the classes."

"Just don't get too much bigger," Hongjoong joked. "I don't think the agency can afford to custom-make all your pants."

Mingi laughed, heading toward the dressing room to change. He still had a long way to go to master the advanced movements on the reformer, and he knew his members would never truly let him live this down. But as he caught one last glimpse of himself in the mirror, he decided he didn't mind the "thick" life at all.

In fact, he might just book an extra session for tomorrow morning. After all, if he was going to be a menace, he might as well be a flexible one.