BangtanHoneys

Anne. 36. 1990. UK. Writer. Reader. BTS. Was previously: Bangtanbora

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[ahewlettwrites]

Coming Home: Cookies & Churches

Summary: Sometimes promises turn into bigger things, but most times they start with cookies.

Words: 9K+

It all started because Alison Hatton, Eve’s mom, could not keep her mouth shut when someone mentioned cookies and Eve in the same sentence.

What had begun as a ten-minute conversation at the salon about the local church holding a fundraiser event for the roof somehow became a bright, breezy promise of: “Oh, for sure! Eve wouldn’t mind helping out at the church. Put her down for a stall. Her cookies are out of this world. Oh, and her brownies!”

The Eve in question did not find out until the next day, when she came by the salon to drop off a box of towels Alison had ordered. They had been delivered to Eve’s home because she was the only one who would be home. James was at school teaching history, Mai-Lein was in class, Josh was working on a house in Queen Anne, and Eve, who had only returned from Los Angeles a few days earlier, had apparently become the perfect person for delivery duty.

She should have known something was wrong the moment she stepped inside.

It was not that everyone stopped talking. No one turned away. No one refused to meet her eye. But there was a strange shift in the air, the kind that happened when the subject of the gossip walked directly into the room and everyone tried to look innocent at once.

Eve got the feeling the moment she shifted the box of towels, glancing around to the stylists and the clients. “Where’s my mom?”

One of the stylists glanced towards the back room a little too quickly.

From somewhere beyond the doorway came a muffled clatter, followed by hurried movement. A cabinet shut, something plastic rustled, and then Alison Hatton appeared in the doorway wearing an apron, holding a comb, and smiling with the kind of forced brightness that immediately confirmed guilt. “Oh! Eve!”

Eve stared at her and Alison’s smile widened. Eve shifted the box of towels higher against her chest. “What have you done?”

Alison blinked. “What?”

“You heard me,” Eve said.

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Mom.”

Alison gave a light, airy laugh. It was the laugh of a woman who knew she was already doomed but had decided to keep going anyway. “You come into my place of business carrying towels and immediately accuse me of something? That’s hurtful.”

“It’s accurate. What did you do?” Eve sighed, already knowing deep down in her chest that her Mom had done something.

Alison placed one hand against her chest. “I am a respected local business owner.”

She kept going as Eve stood there, staring at her. “I raised two daughters.”

“Mom.”

“I pay taxes.”

“Alison.”

That did it.

A ripple of laughter moved through the salon. Eve only used her mother’s first name when she was either deeply amused or on the edge of becoming genuinely dangerous, and every woman in that salon knew it. Alison’s expression faltered for a moment as Eve pointed at her with the corner of the towel box. “You volunteered me for something.”

There was a pause that was more incriminating than the clients in the salon realised. Eve could practically see her mother’s mind racing as she tried to decide whether to confess or invent a lie elaborate enough to survive cross-examination. Unfortunately for Alison, she could also see the look on her daughter’s face.

There was no lie good enough for that look. “The church,” Alison began, and Eve closed her eyes. “The church has a leak,” Alison continued quickly, as if speed might save her. “They’re trying to raise money to fix the roof, and I happened to mention that you liked to bake, and then things just sort of snowballed from there, and I signed you up for a stall.”

For a moment, Eve wondered if she was still suffering from jet lag, because her brain absolutely refused to process what had just come out of her mother’s mouth. Of course she liked to bake. She loved baking. But on her own terms. When she was in the mood. When she wanted something sweet in the house. When she fancied making a cake and eating it before Josh wandered in and stole half.

Not when her mother had auctioned her off to the church roof fund like a prize ham.

“A stall?” Eve said.

“Just a small one,” Alison said quickly. “And the proceeds go towards the church, obviously. Whatever you can manage. You don’t need to go overboard, but I’ve told-”

Eve opened her eyes and Alison stopped talking. Of course she had told people. Alison had probably told several people, including everyone in the salon, who would then tell everyone they knew, who would then pass it on with the speed and efficiency of a national emergency broadcast.

By the time Eve left the salon, she had a headache and a strong urge to get straight back on a plane to Los Angeles, where all she would have to do was sit in a makeup chair and be made presentable by professionals. That sounded far easier than baking for what had apparently started as a small church fundraiser and now carried the emotional weight of a major community event.

To cheer herself up, she drove to Weather Gage Coffee and ordered a latte and a strawberry muffin. She sat outside for a while, letting the afternoon settle around her as her mind started in fifth gear and was already starting to spiral.

Nobody in Easton came over to ask for an autograph. Nobody tried to take a sneaky photograph. Nobody gasped her name from across the street. In Easton, she was simply Eve, Alison and James’s daughter and that was it.

Not an Oscar-winning actress. Not an award-winning anything. Just Eve.

And now, apparently, a baker.

That thought followed her all the way out of town, down towards Baileys Neck and Enniskillen Road, where the farmhouse she and Josh had lovingly restored waited at the end of its narrow private lane.

The moment she got inside, Eve kicked off her shoes, shoved them into the cubby, hung up her bag, and went straight to the kitchen. She grabbed her notebook from the counter, carried it into the family room, and dropped onto the couch with the serious expression of a woman planning a military campaign.

If she was going to be trapped in this, she was not going to embarrass herself with three sad trays of chocolate chip cookies and a handwritten sign. She opened the notebook, grabbed a pen, and, after a quick search for inspiration on Pinterest, started writing.

Chocolate chip cookies. Oatmeal raisin cookies. Brown butter cookies. Oreo brownies. Tiramisu brownies. Carrot cake. Lemon drizzle.

She paused and looked at the list in its entirety, then beneath the list, she added:

Maybe blondies? Maybe more cake?

Eve stared at the page and sighed. This was how it always started: with someone asking her for one thing, and her brain immediately turning it into a project. Josh was known for it since all he had to do was mention “Fruit trees would look good” and then the next thing, four fruit trees arrived and a special area had been created for them. 

She was still sitting there, chewing the end of her pen and glaring at the notebook, when Josh came home. She heard his truck first, then the low slam of the door, then his boots on the porch.

A second later, he stepped inside, dusty from work and carrying the familiar smell of sawdust, cold air, and old wood. He kicked off his boots by the door, accidentally scattered a little sawdust onto the rug, and stumbled slightly as he caught himself. “Shit,” he muttered.

Eve looked up from the couch. Josh glanced at her, then at the notebook in her lap, then at the list written in increasingly aggressive handwriting. “Uh-oh,” he said. “I know it’s not close to any holiday, so what’s happened?”

Eve leaned back against the cushions and held up the notebook. “My mother,” she said darkly, “has sold me to the church for cookies.”

Josh stared at her for half a second and then his mouth twitched. Eve pointed the pen at him, trying not to laugh herself. “Do not laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” he protested even though he definitely was. 

“You’re about to,” she murmured with a pout.

Josh crossed the room, still fighting the grin, and leaned over the back of the couch to read the list. “Brown butter cookies, chocolate chip cookies," he said. “That one’s staying,” he added, pointing to chocolate chip cookies on the list. 

Eve tipped her head back to look at him. “You are missing the point.”

“I’m not missing the point. I understand the point. Your mom volunteered you; the church needs a roof, Easton knows, and now you’re making cookies,” he summarised quickly.

“And brownies.”

“And brownies,” Josh agreed solemnly.

Eve groaned and covered her face with the notebook. Josh laughed then, warm and helpless, before leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “the church roof is lucky to have you.”

Eve lowered the notebook just enough to glare at him. “Get out.” Josh grinned and headed towards the kitchen. “Add the blondies.”

The coffee machine went on. There was rummaging in the cupboard, then the fridge, before Josh came back with a Tupperware tub of leftovers and a coffee as if he hadn’t eaten lunch from Chick-fill-A only an hour ago. 

“So,” he said, setting everything on the coffee table, “I take it that because she signed you up for this, I’m automatically signed up as well.”

Before Eve could answer, he disappeared upstairs.

She stayed where she was, staring down at the list and making little notes on the margin while his footsteps crossed the landing above her. Their bedroom door opened, a drawer slid out, another door shut, and he came back downstairs in clean clothes.

“Mom will be too busy gushing about everything to be of any actual use,” Eve said, dropping the notebook onto her lap.

Josh sat down beside her, and without thinking, Eve stretched her legs out and rested her feet across his lap. He accepted them automatically, one hand settling over her ankle as if that were simply where it belonged.

“Plus,” she added, “if it’s simple, it’ll only need the two of us.”

Josh glanced at the notebook, and then he glanced at her because he knew her well enough now. “You’ve got six things on there,” he said. “Seven if we’re counting the maybe blondies. And I know you well enough to know that once you get started, you won’t stop because you’re a menace when it comes to projects.”

Eve sighed because he was right. For a brief moment, the only sounds in the room were Josh eating his leftovers and Eve pretending very hard that this was still going to be simple. Then she gave up the pretence entirely and added two flavours of blondies, a cookie pie, and millionaire’s shortbread, bringing the total to ten individual items, and in brackets, she made a note of how many batches. 

Josh watched her write, fork halfway to his mouth. “Right,” he said, grinning around the mouthful. “What do you need from me?”

“Tables,” Eve said immediately. “Two, maybe three. The folding ones from the barn. Tablecloths that don't look like they came from a school cafeteria. Bags. Labels. A cash box. A card machine, probably. And stands for everything.”

None of that sounded simple to Josh.

It sounded like an expense with no return, and worse, something that would almost definitely tie Eve to future stall promises. But this was Eve. Once she had a picture in her head, the best thing anyone could do was either help or get out of the way.

“Simple,” Josh said, nodding solemnly. “Right. So I need to build the stands and check the tables. You need to get everything else.”

Eve sighed, but she was already writing.

Between them that day, they made a proper list of supplies for the stall itself. Eve would handle the ingredients, decide the baking schedule, and push her mother for actual details about times, setup, expected crowds, and whether “small fundraiser” meant twenty people or the entire town pretending they had casually dropped by.

The fundraiser was still three weeks away, which gave Josh plenty of time to find scraps of wood, sand them down, varnish them, and turn them into display stands that, to anyone other than him, looked as if they had cost over a hundred dollars. In reality, they cost nothing but leftover timber, a bit of varnish, and Josh muttering to himself in the barn for two evenings.

Over the next week, they ordered new tables, tablecloths, a cash box, a card machine, bags, a label maker, labels, string, and a few other things Eve insisted were “probably necessary". Everything turned up in Amazon boxes and over several days, the Amazon driver knew their road like the back of his hand. Josh also made a small sign from scrap wood, carefully sanding the edges before burning the words ‘Eve’s Bakes’ into the front.

When he showed it to her, Eve stared at it for a long moment and finally said, “You are very annoying.” Josh leaned against the kitchen counter, looking far too pleased with himself. “You love it.”

“It’s manipulative.” She pretended to be annoyed for all of half an hour, then lovingly hung the sign in the kitchen until it would be needed for the stall.

In the week leading up to the fundraiser, Eve spent two full days in Easton gathering ingredients and supplies. Flour, sugar, butter, chocolate, oats, eggs, tins, parchment paper, and enough brown sugar to make the cashier ask if she were opening a bakery.

Eve smiled politely and said, “Not intentionally.” Which, by then, was only half true.

The kitchen was soon taken over by big sacks of flour and sugar, and one entire shelf in the fridge became dedicated to butter. Josh took one look at it, opened his mouth, then wisely shut it again.

He stayed even quieter when Eve’s to-do list went up on Wednesday night on the fridge, detailing every single thing she had to bake. He said nothing when he saw the timings, nothing when he noticed the quantities, and absolutely nothing when he heard her get up before him at six o’clock on Thursday morning.

Thursday and Friday were dedicated entirely to baking.

The dining table, which could seat twenty people and had been lovingly made by Josh, disappeared beneath cooling racks, trays, parchment paper, tins, and stacks of neatly labelled containers. Eve moved between the kitchen and dining room all day, sliding cookies onto racks, cutting brownies into even squares, checking cakes, scraping bowls, and making notes in the margins whenever she adjusted something.

By late afternoon each day, when Josh came home from work, the house smelt like butter, chocolate, vanilla, and sugar. He would kick off his boots, shower, change into clean clothes, and then take over the part of the operation Eve hated most: labels.

He set the laptop up at the dining table, opened the label-maker software, and typed out ingredients, allergens, and best-before dates with the grave concentration of a man drafting legal documents rather than packaging cookies for a church fundraiser. Then he spent over an hour printing labels, lining them up, and making sure every bag had the right one.

After that, he helped Eve package everything.

Cookies went into clear bags, sealed and labelled. Brownies were wrapped and stacked in containers. Blondies were separated by flavour. Millionaire’s shortbread was handled with extreme care because Eve had threatened his life if he ruined the layers.

By Friday evening, the two of them had become a well-oiled machine of baking, decorating, labelling, and packaging. Eve handled the flavours and finishing touches. Josh handled the labels, bags, containers, and anything that required patience with technology.

Somewhere between the flour on the counters, the label tape stuck to Josh’s sleeve, and Eve muttering, “Where is my spatula?” for the fourth time, the whole thing had become less of a disaster and more of a system.

At 9pm that evening, everything was finally packed into containers and stacked in the fridge. The counters had been wiped down. The cooling racks were empty. The dining table had started to look like a dining table again. All that remained was loading the final boxes into the truck the next morning and praying there was no rain in the forecast.

Eve stood in front of the open fridge, staring at the rows of pretty bags and labelled boxes as if they had appeared there by magic. “How did we manage all that?” she asked.

Josh leaned against the counter beside her, eating a misshapen cookie that had not made it into the official batch. “Skill,” he said, grinning.

Eve looked at him and watched as he took another bite and added, “And fear. Mostly fear.”

She laughed despite herself and closed the fridge.

Everything was ready. The truck had already been partly loaded with tables and display units in between packaging the millionaire’s shortbread and decorating the last of the cookies. There was nothing left to do now except sleep, wake up early, and hope the weather behaved.

It had been a long few days of baking and prep work, and Eve could feel it in her bones as she wiped down the final stretch of counter while Josh vacuumed the floor. Her muscles ached from hours of standing, lifting, stirring, bending, and moving back and forth between the kitchen and dining room. Her feet hurt in a way that made Jimmy Choos feel like slippers.

All she wanted was a hot shower and bed.

Josh ordered pizza from Roma Alla Pala while Eve went upstairs and drowned herself under water so hot it felt almost medicinal. By the time she came back down in fresh pyjamas, her hair damp and her face scrubbed clean, Josh had already sliced the pizza and set out plates, napkins, a beer for himself, and a small cider for her.

The family room was warm and low-lit. The house still smelt faintly of sugar and chocolate, though beneath it was the comfort of pizza, clean laundry, and the old wood of the farmhouse settling down for the night.

Eve dropped onto the couch with a groan and Josh handed her a plate, which she accepted with a happy smile. “To the church roof.” That earned him a dark look as Eve lifted the slice of pizza, “Do not toast the church roof.”

He lifted his beer anyway. “To being sold for cookies.”

“Joshua.”

“To your mother’s complete inability to mind her own business.”

“That one I’ll drink to.”

They clinked the bottle and glass of cider together, and Eve took a bite of pizza, closing her eyes for one grateful second. For the first time all week, there was nothing to measure, label, cut, package, count, stack, or organise.

There was only the couch, the fire, the quiet house, Josh beside her, and the strange, unsettling knowledge that what had started as her mother meddling had somehow become something she was almost proud of. Almost.

Josh must have seen the thought cross her face, because he leant back against the cushions and smiled. “You know,” he said, “if tomorrow goes well, people are going to ask when you’re doing another one.”

Eve froze with the pizza halfway to her mouth, and then she slowly turned her head and looked at him. “Don’t.” He laughed and wisely said nothing, stuffing a large slice of pizza into his mouth and saying nothing more about tomorrow.

And somewhere in the quiet of the farmhouse, with the fridge full of cookies and brownies and a hand-burned sign waiting by the door, the very first version of Merrick’s Reach Kitchen was already beginning, whether Eve knew it or not.

Eve woke before the alarm. That, more than anything, annoyed her.

The alarm was set for six-thirty. She had been sensible about it. She had planned the morning carefully, given herself enough time to shower, dress, drink coffee, panic quietly, check everything twice, and get to the church with plenty of room for setup.

Instead, her eyes opened at five-forty-seven, and there she was, staring at the ceiling in the blue-grey half-light of early morning, already thinking about labels. For a few seconds, she tried to stay still and pretend she could go back to sleep.

She could not.

Beside her, Josh was asleep on his stomach, one arm tucked under the pillow, hair rumpled, completely unaware that somewhere downstairs an entire refrigerator was packed with cookies, brownies, blondies, cakes, and Eve’s rapidly deteriorating sense of calm.

She turned her head and glared at him. He did not wake up. Of course he did not wake up. Josh could sleep through storms, alarms, football commentary, her dropping a baking sheet at midnight, and, once, a very loud raccoon incident near the bins.

Eve carefully slid out from under the covers.

The floorboards were cool beneath her feet. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that belonged only to early mornings before the day had decided what it was going to be. Outside the bedroom windows, the trees were still dark shapes against a pale sky, and somewhere down towards the river, birds had begun making tentative, irritatingly cheerful noises.

She pulled on Josh’s hoodie from the chair instead of her robe and padded down the hallway.

The stair lamp glowed softly from the lighthouse baluster at the bottom of the stairs. Eve paused halfway down, listening. No movement. No weather against the windows. No rain.

That, at least, was something.

In the kitchen, she opened the fridge. Rows of containers looked back at her.

Clear bags of cookies sat stacked in neat plastic tubs. Brownies and blondies had been separated by flavour, each layer protected with parchment. Lemon drizzle slices sat in one container, carrot cake in another, the tops already wrapped carefully so nothing smudged. Millionaire’s shortbread had its own section because Eve trusted no one with it, including herself when tired.

It was, in fairness, beautiful. Annoyingly beautiful.

She leaned against the open fridge door and stared at it all. “What have I done?” she whispered.

The first problem of the morning arrived six minutes later, when Eve realised she had not priced anything. She stood very still in the kitchen, one hand on the counter, the other holding a marker, and looked at the blank chalkboard signs sitting beside the bags.

Somehow, through two days of baking, labelling, packaging, sorting, loading, cleaning, and trying not to openly resent her mother, she had forgotten the tiny, insignificant matter of deciding how much to charge.

“Fantastic,” she muttered.

She pulled the notebook towards her and flipped it open.

Cookies. Brownies. Blondies. Cake slices. Lemon drizzle. Carrot cake. Millionaire’s shortbread. Cookie pie.

For a moment, she considered writing “Pay what you want” and letting God and the church roof sort it out between them. Then she imagined Alison finding out and telling everyone that Eve was too generous, which would become a story, which would become a thing, and Eve absolutely did not want a thing.

She put the marker down and made coffee.

By the time Josh came downstairs at six-fifteen, scratching the back of his head and looking unfairly well-rested, Eve had three mugs lined up on the counter that were in stages of being drunk, one notebook open, one pricing crisis underway, and the expression of a woman who had already fought several invisible battles.

Josh stopped in the doorway and took the whole thing in. “Morning,” he said carefully. He looked at the coffee mugs. “How long have you been awake?”

“Spiritually? Since Thursday. Today? Before six,” Eve sighed as she made a note.

He nodded as if this confirmed something important. “Right. And what are we angry at?”

“Pricing.”

“Ah.” He picked up the notebook and scanned the list. Then he took the marker and began writing on scrap paper, his handwriting blocky and practical. “Cookies, three dollars each or two for five. Brownies and blondies, four each. Cake slices, four. Millionaire’s, five.”

Eve blinked. “Five?”

“It has layers,” Josh pointed out. 

“It does have layers,” Eve agreed as she leaned over to see the prices he was writing down. 

“Cookie pie slices, six, because of layers.”

Eve frowned. “Is that too much?”

Josh looked up. “For the church roof? For the amount of work and ingredients that have gone into it?”

She paused because he had a point, like he always did. “Fine.”

He smiled and wrote it down.

By six-thirty, the house had properly woken up around them. Eve showered quickly, then stood in front of the wardrobe for too long trying to decide what version of herself should go to a church fundraiser where everyone already knew too much.

Hollywood Eve was inappropriate. Farmhouse Eve looked like she had been attacked by flour.

Market Stall Eve, apparently, wore good jeans, clean trainers, a soft cream jumper, and her hair pinned half back so she would not keep touching it. She put on minimal makeup, then took half of it back off because it felt ridiculous for selling brownies in a church hall.

When she came downstairs, Josh was already dressed in jeans, boots, and a dark green overshirt, looking like he had been born to carry folding tables and quietly make everyone else look less capable.

He had also packed the cash box, card machine, extension cord, napkins, paper bags, spare labels, tape, scissors, string, pens, wipes, hand sanitiser, and a roll of kitchen towel.

Eve stared at the collection by the door. “When did you do all this?”

“While you were deciding if eyeliner was too much for Jesus.”

The next half hour passed in a blur of movement. They loaded the final containers into the truck with the careful concentration of people transporting priceless artefacts rather than baked goods. Eve carried the carrot cakes (yes, plural!) like they were newborns. Josh carried three tubs at once, because of course he did, and then got told off for taking corners too quickly on the porch steps.

The folding tables, the cloths, and the wooden display stands Josh had made had all been put in the truck the night before and covered in case there had been any splattering of raindrops due. Then the boxes of packaged bakes, then the signs, then everything Eve had decided at the last minute might be useful.

And once all the bakes were secure, the small framed sign that said 'Eve's Bakes' was packed last because Josh had quietly taken it down from the kitchen wall and packed it without telling her since he knew she didn’t want any branding of her name.

The drive into Easton was quiet at first.

Morning sat low over the fields, mist caught in the ditches and pale sunlight beginning to spread over the tops of the trees. The roads were mostly empty, except for a few early dog walkers, a pickup truck heading the opposite way, and someone cycling with the grim determination of a person who had made exercise part of their personality.

Eve held her coffee in both hands and watched the town come closer.

Three weeks earlier, this had been nothing. A stupid thing her mother had volunteered her for: a favour, a cookie, an idea. Now there was a truck full of baked goods behind them, a card machine in the glove compartment, and a handmade sign with her name on it.

Josh glanced over. “You okay?”

“Yes,” she finally said. He waited and grinned when she added, “No.”

He smiled a little. “What bit?”

“All of it,” she had to admit. The fact her baking was on public show, the public, the what-ifs of nothing sold, the event not being busy, etc. 

He reached over and rested his hand briefly on her knee before returning it to the wheel. “It’s just a fundraiser,” he said.

“That is exactly what people say before something becomes a nightmare.”

“It’s a church roof, Eve. The worst thing that happens is you sell some brownies and everyone thanks you too much.”

“That is the nightmare,” she sighed and finished her coffee. 

By the time they pulled into the church car park, the place was already busier than Eve expected.

Of course it was.

There were cars along the side of the road, volunteers carrying boxes, a man in a fleece vest attempting to direct traffic with the confidence of someone who had never directed traffic before, and two older women arranging a tombola table under a banner that read FIX OUR ROOF FUNDRAISER in cheerful letters.

Eve stared through the windscreen. “This is not small.”

Josh leaned forward, looking around. “No.”

“She said small.”

Before he could answer, Alison appeared. She emerged from somewhere near the church hall doors like a woman summoned by gossip and responsibility, wearing a floral blouse, jeans, a cardigan, and the expression of someone who had done nothing wrong in her entire life.

She waved both arms. “Oh, good! You’re here!”

Eve closed her eyes and Josh, the traitor, waved back. Alison hurried over as they got out of the truck. “You made it!”

“No thanks to you,” Eve said.

Alison ignored that entirely and kissed her cheek. “You look lovely.” Alison turned to Josh. “Morning, sweetheart.”

“Morning, Alison", Josh grinned as he moved the baked goods out of the way so he could get to the tables. 

“Thank you for helping her,” Alison said as she got distracted by what was actually in the truck. “Oh my God, did you bring all that?”

Eve’s expression flattened before she could open her mouth to say, ‘Are you serious?’ Josh made a sound like a cough and turned towards the truck.

Their stall was inside the church hall, along the left wall between a table of handmade jams and a woman selling knitted baby hats. This placement, Alison announced proudly, was “excellent visibility", which Eve translated to mean everyone would see her and there would be no escape.

The hall smelt like coffee, floor polish, flowers, and the faint mustiness of old community buildings that had hosted everything from baptisms to bingo nights. Volunteers moved around setting up tables. Someone was plugging in a tea urn. A small group of teenagers were arranging second-hand books by genre with far more seriousness than Eve had expected. In one corner, three children were being given instructions for a ring toss game and ignoring all of them.

Eve stood in front of the empty table space and took a breath as Josh touched her shoulder. “Tell me where you want things.”

That helped. It helped because it was practical. It gave her something to do other than feel watched. They unfolded the first table, then the second, and Josh adjusted the legs until nothing wobbled. Eve spread the tablecloths, smoothing the fabric with both hands. They were cream, simple and clean, with a narrow blue runner Eve had insisted it looked “a bit less church basement".

Josh set the wooden stands in place while Eve unpacked the first containers.

Within minutes, the table began to transform.

Cookies went into lined baskets, each flavour grouped carefully. Brownies were stacked on raised wooden trays. Blondies sat in neat rows, pale and golden, one batch with white chocolate and raspberry, the other with brown sugar and pecans. Lemon drizzle slices caught the light with their thin, glossy icing. Carrot cake squares sat under a clear cover, the cream cheese frosting piped softly on top. Millionaire’s shortbread received its own stand because, as Eve had already informed Josh twice, it had earned one.

The cookie pie slices were arranged last, thick and ridiculous, each one wrapped in parchment with a small label tied in string.

Josh placed the Eve’s Bakes sign at the front, and Eve glanced at it, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly as she continued to set out the cash box and turn on the card machine. 

By the time the fundraiser officially opened at ten, Eve’s stomach had turned into a fist. People began drifting into the hall in small clusters. Older couples first, then families, then people who had clearly come for the roof but were delighted to discover cake. The tombola table got busy quickly. Coffee was poured. Children began moving around with the slightly chaotic energy of children given permission to be indoors near baked goods.

For five whole minutes, no one approached Eve’s table. Eve stood behind it, hands clasped together, trying to look friendly but not desperate.

Josh stood beside her, relaxed, one hand resting on the back of a chair. “This is worse than press junkets,” she whispered. He snorted and looked amused. “You’d rather be asked the same question about character motivation by seventy-three journalists?”

“At least they don’t inspect my brownies.”

A woman in a navy coat slowed near the table, looked at the cookies, then at the brownies, and then at Eve.For one awful second, Eve thought she was about to ask if she was who she thought she was.

Instead, the woman said, “Are those oatmeal and raisin?”

Eve almost sagged with relief. “Yes. With cinnamon and brown sugar.”

The woman smiled. “My husband loves oatmeal and raisins. I keep telling him he’s the only person alive who does.”

“They’re better than people give them credit for,” Eve said.

The woman bought four and that was the first sale: oatmeal raisin cookies. Somehow, that felt perfect.

Josh put the money in the cash box as if they had just completed a major business transaction. Eve placed the cookies in a paper bag, folded the top, and handed it over.

“Thank you,” she said.

That first sale seemed to set the tone for the rest of the day. It started slowly, then all at once. 

A man bought two brownies, then came back five minutes later for four more because his wife had tried one and sent him straight back. A little girl in a pink coat stood on tiptoe for so long trying to choose between chocolate chip and brown butter cookies that Eve eventually crouched down and explained the difference like she was discussing wine pairings.

The girl chose chocolate chip. Then, at the last second, she pointed at the brown butter cookies too.

“Good choice,” Josh said solemnly as her father paid.

A group of older women came over together, all of them from Alison’s salon, which Eve knew immediately because they approached with identical expressions of delight and too much knowledge. The women bought so much between them that Josh had to restock the table from the containers underneath.

Then came people Eve knew from school. People who had known her parents for years. People who remembered her as a child. People who had watched Maple & Stone and politely did not mention it..

By half past ten, the hall was properly busy.

The noise rose until it became a warm blur of conversation, laughter, chair legs scraping, children asking for money, the ring toss bell clanging, and someone near the kitchen announcing that more coffee was ready. Sunlight came through the high windows, catching on the plastic covers over cakes and the glossy tops of brownies.

Eve found a rhythm.

Smile. Answer questions. Explain flavours. Hand bags to Josh. Take card payments. Give change. Restock. Rearrange. Wipe crumbs. Smile again.

She stopped feeling like everyone was looking at her and started noticing what they were actually looking at: the food. Then Josh looked up, and his entire face changed. “Oh, no,” he said. Eve glanced at him as she wiped down the tongs. “What?”

He nodded towards the entrance. “My family.”

Eve turned and sure enough, the Wallace family had arrived like a weather system.

Dale came in first, broad-shouldered and paint-splattered even on a Saturday, looking around the hall with the calm confidence of a man who knew at least three things in the building that needed fixing. Emma followed beside him, neatly dressed, hair perfect, her jewellery that she made catching the light at her ears and throat. Behind them came the Wallace brothers: Benjamin, Daniel, Owen, and Aiden, all of them talking over each other before they had even made it properly through the door.

It was not an entrance. It was an invasion.

Josh sighed and Eve felt a sense of relaxation flow over her mixed with nerves. She had known the Wallace family since she was fourteen, and they had seen her through every movie, every role, and every age. And now, here she was, a baker. That was one side they hadn’t seen much of.

Dale spotted the table first. “Ah, found them!” Emma smiled as she walked over and came around the table to kiss Eve’s cheek. “It looks beautiful.”

The brothers descended on the stall like men who had been told there was food and no adult supervision. Benjamin picked up a bag of cookies, turned it over, and inspected the label. “Look at that. Ingredients and everything.”

Daniel leaned over the brownies. “Which ones are the best?”

“All of them,” Eve said.

“That’s not helpful,” he pouted as he reached for his wallet.

Owen pointed at the millionaire’s shortbread. “What’s that?” Josh immediately stepped towards it. “Expensive.”

“For a church roof?” Owen said.

“For your safety,” Josh replied.

Aiden had already taken out his wallet. “I’ll have two brownies, two cookies, and whatever that lemon thing is.”

“Lemon drizzle,” Eve said. “Sounds healthy,” he said and realised it wasn’t when he had taken a huge bite out of it.

Dale bought oatmeal raisin cookies, carrot cake, and a lemon drizzle slice and then paid with a twenty and refused change.

Eve frowned. “Dale, no.”

“It’s for the roof,” he argued.

“That is too much for three things,” she protested while still packing up his requested items.

“Then give me another cookie.” Josh reached for the oatmeal raisin and Dale pointed at him. “Not that one. Chocolate chip. I’m charitable, not joyless.”

Emma took her time choosing, because of course she did. She asked about flavours, ingredients, packaging, how long everything had taken, whether Eve had slept, whether Josh had helped properly, and why the table didn’t have flowers at both ends instead of just one.

“I had flowers at both ends,” Eve said. “Then the brownies needed more room.”

Emma looked at the brownies and nodded solemnly. “Understandable.”

She bought blondies, lemon drizzle, and two bags of cookies, then also overpaid.

“Emma,” Eve said, and Emma gave her the kind of look only mothers and mothers-in-law could manage. “It’s a fundraiser, sweetheart. Plus, Josh looks like he’s having a great time so I’m paying to see that.”

Josh grinned and passed his mom the goodies she picked. “I’m having a great time.”

His brothers were worse. Daniel bought a brownie, ate half of it while still standing at the table, went quiet, then looked at Eve with genuine offence. “You made these?”

Eve narrowed her eyes. “Why do you sound surprised?”

“Because Josh lives with these and didn’t tell us, and he doesn’t bring us any either,” Daniel pointed at said brother with offence. 

Josh lifted both hands. “I don’t control the brownies.”

Benjamin bought a bag of brown butter cookies and immediately told two people passing by that they needed to get some before they were gone. Owen started reading the chalkboard prices out loud like an auctioneer. Aiden asked if Eve had a business card, and when she said no, he looked at Josh and said, “Bad planning.”

Josh pointed at the handmade sign. “We are not at business-card level.”

Eve froze. “We are not at a business anything level.” All four Wallace brothers looked at the table, then at the line forming behind them, then back at Eve.

Owen grinned. “Sure.”

“Move,” Josh said, shoving him lightly by the shoulder. “You’re blocking actual customers.”

The Wallace family did not leave immediately. Of course they did not. They circulated through the hall, bought raffle tickets, coffee, and second-hand books, went outside to look at other stalls, and then came back to Eve’s table in waves. Every time one of them returned, they brought someone with them.

Dale brought Reverend Miller over and told him the display stands were made from scrap wood, which made Josh look both pleased and embarrassed. Emma brought two women she knew from town and quietly informed them that the lemon drizzle was “worth getting before it disappears.” Benjamin returned with a friend from the firehouse. Daniel came back for more brownies and claimed they were “for later,” despite having chocolate at the corner of his mouth. Owen bought cookies for someone he said “might exist eventually.” Aiden took a photo of the table and sent it to someone before Eve could stop him.

“This is your fault,” Eve told Josh as he restocked the blondies.

“My family supporting you?” He asked, carefully putting out the last of the blondies.

“Your family is behaving like a marketing department with boots,” she said while opening a bottle of water. 

By eleven, the table was moving faster than Eve could comfortably manage. The queue was not enormous, but it was steady, and steady was somehow worse. People kept arriving just as she thought she could breathe. Someone wanted to know about allergens. Someone wanted six brownies bagged separately. Someone asked if the lemon drizzle was “properly lemony” because he did not believe in shy lemon cake. Eve told him she respected that position and gave him the sharpest-looking slice.

Then, just as the card machine decided to think very slowly about a payment, a familiar voice cut through the noise. “Well,” Madison said, “this is rude.”

Eve looked up so quickly she nearly dropped the bag in her hand.

Madison, Eve’s best friend since the very early days of high school, stood on the other side of the table wearing jeans, heels, a denim jacket, and an expression of theatrical betrayal. Her hair was loose, sunglasses pushed up on her head, and she had a takeaway coffee in one hand and her phone already in the other.

Eve stared at her. “What are you doing here?”

Madison looked around the hall, then at the table, then at the queue. “Apparently discovering that my best friend has launched a full bakery operation without telling me.”

“I have not launched anything,” Eve protested.

Madison pointed at the sign. “There is branding.”

“Josh made that,” Eve sighed as she handed over the bag to a customer. 

Madison turned to Josh. “Of course you did.” Josh smiled while putting out more bags, “Morning.”

“Morning. You’re both ridiculous.” She looked at the table again, eyes narrowing with sudden focus. “Also, why is your best seller not at eye level?”

Eve blinked. “What?”

“The brownies.” Madison put her coffee down, came around the side of the table, and shrugged out of her jacket. “Move them to the middle. People are hovering there first. Also the labels are cute, but you need a little flavour sign in front of each thing because no one wants to feel awkward asking.”

Eve stared at her. Madison stared back. “What?”

“You’ve been here twelve seconds,” Eve protested.

“And I have already improved things.”

Josh stepped aside with the wisdom of a man who recognised a takeover when he saw one, took a step aside and went to find coffee.

Madison rolled up her sleeves and got to work. It was absurd how quickly she made herself useful.

She rearranged the display so the brownies and blondies sat at the centre, moved the lemon drizzle to catch the light, propped the cookie bags in baskets so the labels faced forward, and somehow found a better place for the cash box. Then she took three photos, adjusted a cake stand by half an inch, took another photo, and declared the table “more intentional.”

“I hate that you’re right,” Eve muttered.

A customer stepped forward, and Madison smiled brightly. “Hi! What can I get for you?”

Eve looked at Josh and Josh looked at Eve, handing over the boiling hot coffee. 

Madison had apparently decided she worked there now. Within minutes, the whole operation changed and for the better.

Eve handled questions about flavours and ingredients. Josh dealt with the card machine, cash, and restocking. Madison bagged items, chatted to customers, made quick little handwritten flavour signs, and somehow convinced three people to add cookies to their orders because “they’ll be annoyed later if they don’t.”

She also took photos whenever there was a quiet second.

Not obvious photos. Not the kind that made Eve feel watched. Just quick shots of the table, Josh’s hands tying string around a bag, Eve laughing despite herself, the little wooden sign, sunlight on the lemon drizzle, and a child reaching for a cookie with permission from his mother.

At one point, Eve caught her doing it. “Madison.”

Madison did not lower the phone. “Documentation for the future.”

By noon, the Wallace family had circled back yet again but this time, Emma arrived with Alison.

Eve saw them approaching together and immediately felt a deep, primal sense of danger.

“Oh, absolutely not,” she said.

Madison looked over. “What?”

“The mothers have joined forces,” Eve nodded in the direction of the women approaching. 

Josh turned and his face changed. “Oh, God,” he muttered and got a whack on the arm from Madison for muttering that in a church hall. 

Alison and Emma came towards the table arm in arm, looking far too pleased with themselves. Alison was glowing with pride; Emma was smiling in a quieter, more polished way, which somehow made her more dangerous.

“We were just saying,” Alison began.

“No,” Eve said.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Alison continued while looking offended but pleased at the same time. 

“You were going to say that this looks professional and I should do this more often,” Eve noted while taking the last of the stock from Josh. 

The two mothers opened their mouths and found she was completely right because that’s exactly what they were going to say. 

The afternoon rush came after the church announced the raffle draw. People who had already bought things came back “for later.” People who had been meaning to come over finally did. Someone bought the last of the tiramisu brownies and looked genuinely devastated when told there were no more hidden underneath the table. A teenager bought millionaire’s shortbread, took one bite near the door, stopped dead, turned around, and came back for two more.

“That,” Josh murmured, “was a review.”

Eve tried not to look pleased but she failed because seeing people react in real time to her baking gave her a rush of satisfaction. 

At half past one, Madison had fully taken command of the “front of house,” despite the fact that there was no house and barely a front. She was charming, quick, and shameless in a way Eve simply was not.

“These are the last lemon drizzle slices,” Madison told one woman. “And I’m not saying you’ll regret leaving without one, but I am saying I would.”

The woman bought two of them and ate one on the way out. 

The Wallace brothers came back one final time just before two.

Daniel looked genuinely offended by the empty brownie tray while Benjamin bought the last cookie pie slice. Owen bought the final two blondies and Aiden handed over cash for a lemon drizzle slice and told Madison to keep the change.

Dale came over last, glanced at the nearly empty table, and gave Josh a look Eve could not quite read. It was pride, she realised later on. Not loud, not sentimental, just there because that was her father-in-law in a nutshell.

Dale looked at Eve. “You did good today.”

For some reason, that landed harder than she expected. “Thank you,” she said.

He nodded once, then picked up one of the last oatmeal raisin cookies. “And I’m taking this before my sons insult it again.”

At two-thirty, the final item sold: One oatmeal raisin cookie. It was fitting, really, because the first sale had been those cookies and it only seemed right that the final item sold would be the same cookie. 

The table was empty, completely and utterly empty.

For a second, Eve just stood there behind it, looking at the crumbs, the signs, the baskets, the raised stands, the folded bags, and the little wooden sign Josh had made. Her feet hurt. Her back hurt. Her cheeks hurt from smiling. Her jumper smelt like sugar, coffee, and the church hall.

But the table was empty. Everything was completely gone. 

Madison slipped an arm around her shoulders. “You sold out.”

Eve swallowed hard and looked at the empty displays and the fact that she had nothing more to sell. “Apparently.”

Josh stood on her other side, quiet but smiling as he started wiping down his displays. Packing up felt much faster than setting up, mostly because there was almost nothing left to pack.

Josh broke down the stands and slid them into their crate. Madison folded bags, gathered signs, and took one more photo of the empty table because, apparently, that mattered too. Eve folded the tablecloths, shook crumbs into the bin, wiped the tables, and tucked the Eve’s Bakes sign carefully under one arm.

People kept stopping by to say thank you.

That was the worst part.

Not because Eve disliked gratitude. She was not a monster. But because every thank you landed somewhere tender she had not realised was exposed. People thanked her for the brownies, for showing up, for helping the church, for making things feel special, and for giving them something nice to take home. An older woman squeezed her hand and said the lemon drizzle tasted like the one her mother used to make. Well, that nearly finished Eve off.

When everything was packed, Reverend Miller brought them into the small side room near the church office to count the money. Alison came too, along with Emma, Josh, Madison, and two church volunteers who had been managing the main donation boxes.

Josh and Eve had tried to hand over the cash and the total of the card machine quietly without fuss but after some badgering about seeing what total they had made, they ended up being forced into chairs to watch. 

The cash was counted first. Notes were smoothed out and stacked. Coins were tipped into little piles. Josh checked the card payments against the list he had kept in his neat, practical handwriting. Madison added the extra donations that customers had dropped into the jar. 

There were overpayments from the Wallace family, salon customers who had refused change, people who had rounded up, and one folded fifty-dollar bill someone had quietly pushed into the jar without saying anything.

Eve sat with her arms crossed, watching the total climb. At first, it was nice, then it was alarming and then it became absurd. One of the volunteers added the final card payment and turned the calculator around.

For a moment, nobody spoke. Eve stared at the number and her brain tried to catch up with the fact. “That can’t be right.”

No one in the room spoke for a minute or two, looking at the total the volunteer had written down once everything had been counted and triple-checked. Reverend Miller smiled, slow and warm. “Eve, your stall raised two thousand, four hundred and eighty-six dollars.”

Eve blinked and blinked again. “Sorry,” she said. “What?”

“Two thousand, four hundred and eighty-six dollars,” Madison repeated, grinning now. “For the roof.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Eve said as she looked around the room. 

“That’s sold out,” Josh said. “It was just cookies,” she started until everyone interrupted with what was actually on the table as if she had forgotten. 

Eve looked at all of them and for some reason, that was what made her laugh.

Not a polite laugh. Not a careful one. A real one, sudden and disbelieving, because the entire thing was absurd. Alison’s big mouth. The church roof. Josh’s sign. Madison appearing out of nowhere and reorganising the table like a general. The Wallace family buying half the stall while pretending they were just being supportive. The card machine held up to a window like a prayer.

Two thousand, four hundred and eighty-six dollars.

For a roof, from her small kitchen.

She laughed, and Josh grinned, and Alison cried, and Madison looked far too smug for someone who had arrived halfway through and immediately appointed herself manager.

Reverend Miller reached for Eve’s hand and squeezed it gently. “Thank you,” he said. “Truly. This will make a real difference.”

Eve looked down at the calculator again and then looked at her mother. “You are still never allowed to volunteer me for anything again,” she said.

Alison nodded through tears. “I know.”

Madison leaned in and started with, “But hypothetically, if someone asked nicely-” and stopped when she saw Eve looking at her. “No.”

But even as she said it, Eve could feel the truth settling quietly underneath the exhaustion.

Something had happened. She did not know what it was yet. She did not know what shape it would take, what name it would have, or how badly Madison was going to torment her about packaging before the end of the weekend.

But something had happened, something big. 

They took a photo before Eve could escape. Of course they did.

Alison insisted, Reverend Miller agreed, and Madison said it was “historically important", which was the sort of dramatic nonsense Eve usually enjoyed unless she was the subject of it. Josh said it would be nice to have, which was rich coming from a man who normally acted as if having his photo taken required a court order.

So Eve stood in front of the empty table with Josh beside her, the little Eve’s Bakes sign propped between them. Alison stood on one side, already teary again, while Reverend Miller stood on the other, smiling with quiet gratitude. Madison squeezed in beside Eve like she had been part of the stall from the beginning, which, to be fair, she had been from the moment she arrived and started rearranging brownies with the authority of a military commander.

Then the Wallace family got dragged into it too.

Dale stood behind Josh with one hand on his son’s shoulder, looking proud in that understated Wallace way. Emma stood beside Alison, elegant and emotional, holding the last oatmeal raisin cookie like it was a trophy. Benjamin, Daniel, Owen, and Aiden crowded in around the edges, all far too pleased with themselves after having bought enough goods between them to qualify as a small corporate sponsor.

Someone held up a phone and after a couple of mishaps, the photo was finally taken. 

Finally, they were allowed to leave.

The truck smelt like sugar, cardboard, wood varnish, and the ghost of everything they had sold. Eve climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door with a long, exhausted breath. Josh got in beside her, but neither of them moved for a moment.

The church sat behind them, cheerful and old and still in need of roof work, though less desperately than before.

Two thousand, four hundred and eighty-six dollars less, desperately, to be exact.

Eve leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. “I’m dead.”

Josh started the engine. “You did good.”

“I know.”

He glanced at her, raising one eyebrow. She opened one eye. “What? I’m allowed to know. I’m exhausted, not humble.”

He laughed and pulled out of the car park.

The drive home felt different from the drive there.

In the morning, Eve had been all nerves and lists, trapped inside her own head, convinced she had made too much, not enough, the wrong things, the right things badly, or somehow all of the above. Now she was emptied out, sore-footed, sugar-scented, and dazed by the strangeness of success.

Her phone buzzed in her bag, then again and three more times.

She ignored it until the sixth buzz, when Josh glanced over. “You should probably check that.”

“No,” she said even as her hand reached for her phone.

“It might be orders for the new business and name,” Josh pushed with a grin.

Eve slowly turned her head towards him. “Why would you say that?”

He smiled at the road and said nothing as she pulled out her phone.

There were messages because of course there were messages.

One from Alison, despite the fact that they had left her less than fifteen minutes ago: So proud of you. Everyone is talking about the brownies. Also Mrs Delaney wants to know if you do birthday cakes. Love you xxx

Another message came from Madison, even though Madison had only just finished helping them pack up: I’m coming over tomorrow. We need to talk packaging, photos, branding, and why you didn’t call me before making an entire cottage bakery appear out of thin air.

Eve closed her eyes then another came through from a number she half-recognised: Hi Eve, it’s Rachel from church. I bought the lemon drizzle today and wondered whether you ever take orders? No rush. It was beautiful.

Then another: This is Claire Delaney! Alison gave me your number, hope that’s okay! Could I possibly order brownies for my book club next week?

“I’m going to kill my mother,” Eve sighed as she slid her phone into the bag and promised herself she would deal with the messages later after a nap. 

For a while, they drove in silence, past fields, old houses, wooded lanes, and familiar turns, back towards Baileys Neck. Eve watched Easton fall away behind them and thought about the empty table.

Not the crowd, not the compliments and not even the money, though two thousand, four hundred and eighty-six dollars kept flashing through her head like a number that belonged to someone else.

The table – how it had looked when they first set it up, full and careful and hers. How it had looked when they left, empty except for crumbs. How it looked with customers around it, putting orders in so quickly that Eve, Madison and Josh had all worked the table at one point. 

By the time they reached Merrick’s Reach, the farmhouse appeared at the end of the lane like a reward. The trees stood in afternoon light. The porch waited quietly. The house looked deeply, unfairly peaceful, as if it had not spent the last three days being overtaken by sugar, labels, panic, butter, and Josh muttering at the printer.

He parked near the bar and they sat there for another moment, the sudden realisation that they had things now to unpack. “Do we unload now?” Eve asked weakly.

Josh looked at her, the back of the truck and then back at her again. “No.”

“Oh, thank God,” Eve sighed as she all but slid in her seat.

“We unload the food containers and anything that shouldn’t stay out. Tables can wait,” Josh said as he climbed out of the truck.

They carried in only what was necessary: the cash box, the card machine, the empty containers, the sign, and the bags of leftover supplies. The house was cooler inside, smelling faintly of last night’s pizza, coffee, and baked sugar.

The kitchen looked almost normal.

She looked down at the sign. It was too simple and too sweet, too temporary-looking. It belonged on a church table, not on anything permanent.

Still, she touched the edge of it with one finger.

“It would need a better name,” she said without much thought about it. Josh glanced over from where he was putting away things and said nothing but privately, he knew better than anyone that something big was happening whether Eve realised it or not. 

Outside, the late afternoon moved through the trees. Somewhere beyond the garden, the river caught the light. The house was quiet around them, still carrying the mess and warmth of the last few days.

“A better name,” Josh repeated softly.

Eve looked at him. “Hypothetically.”

“Of course.”

That night, they did not clean properly. They did not unload the tables. They did not discuss orders, names, branding, cottage food rules, pricing, or whether Eve should reply to the woman from church about brownies for book club.

They ate takeout on the couch with their feet up, the fire low, the curtains half drawn, and the farmhouse settling quietly around them.

Eve fell asleep halfway through a film, her head against Josh’s shoulder, one hand still loosely holding her phone.

Messages continued to appear on her screen: 

Thank you again. Everything was beautiful. Do you do cakes? Could I order cookies? My daughter loved the brownies. Please let me know if you ever bake for Christmas.

Josh glanced down at the screen, then at Eve, who was completely out, lashes resting against tired cheeks, hair falling loose from the clip she had forgotten to take out.

He carefully took the phone from her hand and set it on the coffee table.

Then he looked towards the kitchen, where the little wooden sign sat waiting on the counter.

Eve’s Bakes would not be the name.

He already knew that. It was too small for what had started today.

But the thing itself, whatever it became, had begun in the most Eve way possible: reluctantly, thoroughly, with too much butter, too much feeling, and absolutely no ability to do anything halfway.

Josh smiled to himself, reached for the blanket on the back of the couch, and pulled it over her.

Outside, Merrick’s Reach was dark and quiet, the barn sitting in shadow behind the farmhouse, still only a barn for now. But not forever.

[bangtanhoneys]

Managed to write some of my original stuff if you want to have a little look!

[bangtanhoneys]

BTS MOMENTS: OT8 - Back Home

It had been a gruelling stupid amount of months since they were home in their dorm thanks to their tour. The last date had finished two nights ago and the company had immediately put them on a week's break, with a possible extension for another week, if they needed it and there was no immediate work for them to do. 

They needed it. 

Tour had drained them physically and mentally and it had become monotonous towards the end, the same thing, over and over again. A different city, a different country, a different stage but the same set, the same clothes, the same get up and go and do it all over again. So to wake up at the dorm, in fresh bedding, to a fresh shower, to fresh clothes and not having to do anything for a week was complete and utter bliss. 

Jungkook and Jimin had found themselves on Mario Kart, planting their backsides in front of the TV with Taehyung just behind them on the couch. He was, of course, giving Jimin directions while being completely unhelpful as Jungkook took Jimin out with a banana. 

“Ahh, why now?!” Jimin yelled as his car went in the opposite direction of where he wanted to go thanks to Jungkook planting another banana skin in his way. 

The youngest cackled with delight as he sped ahead, clearly on a winning streak regardless of what was being said behind him. 

Yoongi was at the corner of the couch, content to listen to the game being played and content to sip on his coffee and look through his phone. He was going through his works email, deleting the ones that were no longer necessary and highlighting the ones that were so he could get to them when everyone went to bed and so he couldn’t be moaned at by his sister. 

Namjoon sat next to Yoongi, curled up underneath a blanket with glasses on and his headphones on while reading the latest book he had bought at the airport. They had a layover so it was the perfect opportunity to do some shopping though the five books he had bought caused many fond looks. 

Hobi had planted himself on the floor with the other two dancers, focusing on building the latest Lego set he had found online and ordered. He had spent more time separating the pieces into their significant piles and reading the instruction book in great detail before starting. It would take time and precision to build this and while there was chaos around him, it allowed him to take control of the youngest if needed while doing what he needed to do to relax. 

The eldest two were in the kitchen, quietly making everyone lunch while watching everyone. It felt good to be home and it felt good for everyone to relax, to enjoy their time together, especially with no commitments other than Mario Kart it seemed. Grace handed Jin the sauce he needed and grinned up at him when he planted a kiss on top of her forehead in thanks, both of them working quietly together. 

Of course, it didn’t last when Namjoon stepped on Hobi’s project in his hurry to get the dining table, nor did it last when Yoongi’s coffee ended up on the carpet thanks to Taehyung’s flying limbs. The loudest pair of sighs could be heard coming from the kitchen for days afterwards.

[bangtanhoneys]

Happy birthday, BTS!

[bangtanhoneys]

Seasonal Prompts

Some of these prompts may not apply to your area, so take what you'd like and make your own! And let me see what you end up writing

Seasonal

Spring 

Garden Prep

Decorating

First open-window day

Spring clean

Rain showers

First warm day

Laundry on the line

Market flowers

Lemon candles

Decluttering

Animal Tracks

Bird Song

Farmers Market

Summer

Garden harvest

Guests popping by

Late River Walks

Sunshine

Warm evenings

BBQ

Porch sitting

Sea breeze

Long days

Late sunsets

Garden parties

Ice cream

Outdoor concerts

 Autumn

First fireplace night of the year

cosy baking days

The yard changing colour

Decorating with autumnal garlands, etc. 

Knitwear

Rainy evenings

Harvest

Stew

Crunching leaves

Warm bread

Foggy mornings

Cosy nights

Pumpkin farm

 Winter 

Storm prep

Hot chocolate

Dark evenings

Snowfall

Board games

Slow mornings

Baking days

Winter walks

Give back to local charity

Christmas market

Smores

Fluffy Socks

Shopping

Holidays

Valentine’s Day 

Breakfast in bed

Flowers

Date Night

Rom Coms

Galentine’s day with BFFS

Try new restaurant in town 

Something pink

Chocolates 

Easter

Putting up the decorations

Easter church service 

Easter meal

Traditions

Easter Egg Hunt

Hot Cross Buns

Baking

Town activities

 July 4th 

BBQ/Grill party 

Fireworks

Parade

American Flag

Carnival

Watermelon

Party planning

Town activities

Halloween 

Decorate the house

Trick or Treating

Scary movie

Pumpkin Carving

Haunted House

Halloween Party

Candy Apples

Halloween baking

Thanksgiving

The big food shop

Thanksgiving Dinner

Parade

Football Game

Pumpkin pie

Decorate the house

Thanksgiving service

Black Friday Shopping

 Christmas

Getting the tree and the decor

Decorating the house for Christmas 

The big food shop

Wrapping presents

Christmas service 

Christmas cards

Christmas Day

Matching pyjamas

Christmas traditions

Christmas Market

Drive around and see the Christmas lights

[bangtanhoneys]

GRACE TOUR DIARY: April 23rd, London & Manchester

APRIL 23RD – LONDON TO MANCHESTER

There was a tangible excitement in the air now that the tour was moving on to its final stop in the UK. This was the last stop in the UK, and there were only three more concerts in Europe before Grace went back to Asia. And Manchester had been marked as one of the biggest stops for one simple reason: Grace was going home.

She hadn’t been back to Manchester since the Love Yourself World Tour, when she’d taken a single day to travel up, be driven around the city as much as possible, and then return straight to London for rehearsals.

This time wasn’t much different in terms of schedule. While her tour didn’t allow for much time in the city, she would have a day and a half before a full day of rehearsals and press, followed by the concert itself. The hype had been building ever since Grace landed in London, if not before, and for some ARMY, getting tickets for Manchester had felt like a pilgrimage because of what it meant to them and to Grace.

For Grace, it wasn’t an early start, but she had been wide awake since 6 a.m. Maybe it was excitement, maybe nerves, maybe just the urge to get going. Whatever it was, it gave her time to soak in a hot bath, ease the tightness in her muscles after a demanding concert, and slowly pack away the things she hadn’t sorted the night before.

For Seokjin, it was a different story. He peeled his eyes open at 7:30 a.m, groaned, rolled over, and muttered into the pillows, “I’m awake.”

By 9 a.m., they had eaten breakfast, packed their things, tidied the hotel room, and taken a quiet moment to bid a fond farewell to the O2 Arena from their window. At exactly 9:15, Sejin knocked on the door.

“You ready?” he asked, stepping inside with two bodyguards who immediately moved to collect their bags.

“Ready to go home,” Grace replied with a grin, pulling out her passport and driver’s licence and handing them over. Sejin returned the smile, slipping the documents into his pocket before following the others out.

When Grace had started planning the tour and Manchester had come up as a location, she had been adamant about one thing: she would drive herself from London. Some had called it a security risk; others, an insurance nightmare. But Grace had already proven, on the drive to New York, that she could handle long distances.

More than that, it simply felt right. The roads might have changed, the layout might be different, and the city itself might be evolving year by year, but it was still her city.

Downstairs, the hire cars were waiting. Large enough to seat four comfortably with space for luggage and a second vehicle for bodyguards and additional team members. The stage had left the O2 the night before and was already en route to Manchester, while the dancers would follow later in coaches provided by Big Hit.

The rolling circus was on the move.

The morning air outside the hotel was cool and sharp, the kind that still clung to the last edge of spring before the day had properly woken up. London was already moving around them in its usual rhythm: black cabs gliding past, buses hissing at stops, people with coffees in hand and nowhere to be except exactly where they were going.

“Okay, let’s load up,” Sejin called as he climbed into the back of the car with Hana, while Seokjin took the passenger seat and Grace slid into the driver’s seat.

“Do you remember how to drive?” Seokjin asked, pulling on his seatbelt as he watched the first raindrops land on the windscreen.

“It’s automatic; I’ll be fine,” Grace laughed, pulling her seat closer to the pedals and adjusting everything until it was exactly where she wanted it. “Alright, here we go.”

Getting out of London at that time of morning was a nightmare in itself, with stop-start traffic, roadworks, and the general busyness of the city. It wasn’t until they reached the outskirts that the traffic began to ease and the motorway finally opened up ahead of them, the navigation occasionally piping up with directions.

Seokjin, in his never-ending quest to document everything, filmed Grace driving, took selfies with Sejin and Hana in the back, and sent them all to the BTS group chat.

“How long will it take to get to Manchester?” he asked, glancing over at the navigation.

“All being well, about four to five hours, depending on traffic,” Grace answered, not even needing to look at the estimated time on the screen. “And a pit stop at the services, because at some point we’re all going to need the loo.”

“And coffee,” Hana added from the back, typing something on her laptop.

“And coffee,” Grace agreed. “Service station tea is rubbish.”

They were roughly halfway through their journey when they agreed to stop at the services in Corley. It wasn’t like service stations in America or anything like those in Korea, so Seokjin was practically bouncing with curiosity about what he was going to find.

“Expensive stuff,” Grace answered, slipping her hood up as she frowned at the sky.

Seokjin didn’t care. He got to use the bathroom, which was massive with rows upon rows of cubicles and more sinks than he could count. And when it came to food, there were so many options: KFC, Starbucks, Burger King, Taco Bell, Subway, Krispy Kreme doughnuts (which Grace side-eyed in disgust), and a Chopstix noodle bar, which Seokjin made a beeline for.

The team split up, with one bodyguard accompanying Grace and Seokjin as they grabbed what they needed. Grace reappeared with a bag bearing the WHSmith logo.

“What have you got in there?” Seokjin asked.

“Books and snacks,” Grace replied with a shrug as they headed towards Burger King, having already picked up their coffee from Starbucks.

No one batted an eyelid as they moved around, though a couple of people looked over, more because there was a large group of Korean people in a UK service station than because anyone recognised them. Everyone was busy going about their day, using the place as a pit stop to refuel both themselves and their cars before continuing their journeys, and that was precisely what Grace had expected.

What she hadn’t expected was a tweet seven hours later from an ARMY who had been in the very same service station, also on their way to Manchester, and had spotted Seokjin first, then Grace, and then the rest of the team. No one approached, no one said anything, no one made a fuss as the group left the services and went back to the car.

What Grace did notice was that an hour later, when they hit traffic on the way from Birmingham and got stuck on the motorway, the car was just sitting idly there while Seokjin went through his playlist. A muffled noise from the car next to them had Grace glancing over, and she immediately laughed, reaching over to hit Seokjin’s arm.

“Ya!” he started and then looked where she was pointing.

They had come to sit next to a car that had their BT21 characters along the bottom of the passenger window, and there was another BT21 character hanging from the rear-view mirror. The occupiers of the car looked horrified but delighted at the same time, trying not to look while looking and without making it look more obvious.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Sejin said from behind Grace.

“Me? Never,” she grinned, but rolled the window down anyway and motioned for the passenger to roll down theirs. It took a couple of seconds of nervous fumbling, but the window rolled down. 

Two ladies, around the same age as Grace, didn’t immediately get their phones out to start filming, which was one of the reasons why Grace approached first. If anything, they look horrified to be seen blasting BTS music in the car with the actual stars of the track sitting next to them.

“Do you want us to sign anything while we wait?” Grace called over. 

A second round of fumbling with mutters of swearing and ‘oh my god' when finally a notebook had been produced with a BTS pen. Grace unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned out the window, grabbing the items before sitting back in the car. “Are you heading to Manchester?” she then asked, uncapping the pen.

“Yeah, to see you,” the driver laughed. “We didn’t need to spend all that money if we knew we were going to bump into you on the motorway.”

Grace laughed and quickly translated for Seokjin, who grinned and signed the page first and then handed the notebook back over to Grace. She was quick in what she wrote but left a meaningful message all the same. ‘See you later in Manchester; sorry it cost so much money. Hope it’s worth it. Thank you for the support and love. Have a drink on me.’

The two women looked as though they might actually pass out when Grace handed the notebook back. “Can we,” the passenger started, then covered her mouth. “Can we maybe get a really quick selfie?”

Sejin let out a long, suffering sigh from the back seat, but Grace was already laughing.

“One quick one,” she said, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Traffic’s not moving anyway.”

The driver was so flustered she nearly dropped her phone trying to unlock it. Seokjin, fully embracing the chaos now, leaned across Grace without a shred of shame and angled himself perfectly into view.

“Make sure you get my good side,” he said, as though there were such a thing as a bad one.

That, somehow, made both women laugh hard enough to settle their nerves. Grace leaned slightly out of the open window, Seokjin ducking in beside her, and the passenger twisted around with the phone held out in trembling hands. The resulting photo was hurried and a little crooked, Grace half-laughing, Seokjin doing an uninvited peace sign, and both women looking like they’d just won the lottery.

“It’s perfect,” the driver said instantly, staring at the screen as if she might cry.

“Good,” Grace said warmly. “Now keep it for yourselves until after the concert, yeah?”

Both nodded so fast it was almost violent. “We will, we promise,” the passenger said. “Thank you, seriously. Thank you so much.”

“Drive safe,” Grace replied.

The traffic began to stir at last, the line of cars inching forward with the slow reluctance of motorway congestion. Grace gave them one last smile and rolled the window back up, settling into her seat just as the car ahead moved.

The second the glass closed, Seokjin burst into delighted laughter.

“Did you see their faces?” he said, turning half around to look at Sejin and Hana. “They looked like they were about to leave their bodies.”

“You are both unbelievable,” Sejin muttered, though there was no real annoyance in it. “One day, I’m going to ban you from interacting with anyone through a car window.”

“But not today,” Grace said brightly, easing her foot back onto the accelerator as the traffic finally loosened.

“But not today,” Hana echoed, smiling down at her laptop before closing it for good. “That was actually adorable.”

After the traffic jam, the drive to Manchester was smooth. Lorries thundered past; the sky gave way to drizzle, and the further north they went, the more the signs changed. Manchester appeared on signs directing them north alongside Leeds and Liverpool, and the further north they went, the more the miles to Manchester started to count down. Grace watched each number with a strange sense of excitement and nerves. She had left the country when she was seven years old, returned as a member of one of the world's biggest groups, and was now returning as a solo artist with her own sold-out world tour. 

In typical Manchester fashion, it wasn’t straightforward getting to the hotel, as it was nearly in the middle of the city centre and only a 10-minute drive to the arena, but getting to it from the motorway with roadwork signs in place and diversions nearly at every turn meant a slightly longer journey than anyone would like. 

Grace parked the car outside of the Stock Exchange Hotel and breathed for a moment. She was finally home in the city that birthed her, where her parents had moved to before she was born and where she had left at seven to go to Germany and then onto South Korea, and now she was back. And just as everyone started moving, the heavens opened to a downpour.

“About right,” Grace laughed as she pulled her hood up and ran inside.

Checking in didn’t take too long, as they had been given an early check-in, as they had booked out the hotel for Grace, Seokjin, and the rest of the core team (with the dancers and crew spread across two other hotels across town), and within a few minutes, they were inside their room (which had formerly been the boardroom of the Manchester Stock Exchange). 

Now Grace understood exactly why Sejin had booked this room for her.

It wasn’t just because it was beautiful, though it certainly was. It was because, tucked near the mini kitchen, there was a long table that looked as if it had been designed specifically for meetings. Proper meetings. The kind with laptops open, papers spread everywhere, water bottles lined up, staff leaning over schedules, and Sejin standing at the head of it like he was about to brief a government department.

And sure enough, not even five minutes after they had arrived, he had already claimed it.

Grace had barely managed to peel off her damp hoodie and hang it over the back of a chair before Sejin started spreading her schedule across the table.

She stared at him. “Not even five minutes.”

Sejin didn’t look up. “This is me being restrained.”

Across the room, Seokjin had already started unpacking their clothes, moving around the bedroom area with the calm efficiency of someone who had accepted that if he didn’t do it now, they would both be living out of a suitcase for the next three days. He shook out a jumper, glanced toward Sejin, and smirked. “He looked uncomfortable without paperwork.”

“I noticed,” Grace said, kicking off her trainers near the door. “Manchester rain has barely dried on me, and I’m being managed.”

“You are always being managed,” Sejin said.

Hana stood beside him, tapping something quickly into her phone, probably confirming their arrival with three different people at once. Grace watched her for a second, then glanced down at the neatly arranged papers on the table: schedules, call times, venue notes, press details and security routes.

Manchester looked a lot less sentimental when printed in bullet points. “So,” Sejin began, tapping the first page with one finger, “you’ve got the rest of today to relax and have dinner.”

Grace narrowed her eyes. “That sounds suspiciously generous.”

“It is generous.”

“Which means there’s a catch.”

“No catch. Just rest.” He shifted to the next page. “Tomorrow, we start at 9 a.m. The day includes an interview with a local radio station, a meeting with the mayor, and then the rest of the day is yours to do whatever you want within reason.”

Grace grinned as she nudged her trainers properly out of the walkway with her foot. “Within reason, he says.”

Seokjin looked up from the suitcase. “Dangerous phrase.”

“Very dangerous,” Grace agreed. “Lots of room for interpretation.”

“There is no room for interpretation,” Sejin said flatly.

“That sounds like your interpretation.”

Hana smiled down at her phone but wisely said nothing.

Sejin ignored both of them and continued as if Grace had not spoken. “The day after tomorrow is a full day of rehearsal for everyone. Dancers, the band, production, wardrobe, sound, lighting, and all departments. We start at 10 a.m. sharp.”

Grace made a small face. “Full day, full day?”

“Yes.” Sejin finally looked up from the schedule. “Any questions?”

Grace raised one hand.

Sejin stared at her immediately. “Relevant questions.”

Grace held his gaze for half a second, then slowly lowered her hand again.

From the bedroom area, Seokjin didn’t even look up as he started opening one of the many toiletry bags they had somehow brought with them. “That was going to be a question about food.”

“Dinner in the restaurant downstairs is booked for 7pm.” Sejin said as he left the papers where they were since they were Grace’s copies. “Unpack, relax, and if you want to go out, message Hana or me and we’ll see what we can do.”

With that, Seokjin and Grace were left to it. 

By the time they had unpacked and walked around the suite, figuring out where everything was including having a good look at the mini bar that looked like it should be part of a nightclub rather than a suite, they had a wander around the private entrance which had stairs that led down to reception and Seokjin marvelled at the shower which, according to the card that explained the room amenities, could hold two people.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Grace said as she unpacked her books.

“Me? Never,” Seokjin grinned as he took pictures of the room as part of his Grace world tour album. He fled back into the bedroom area with a laugh, leaving her to mutter under her breath as she continued unpacking her books.

That was another little ritual of hers on tour. Clothes could remain in suitcases for longer than they should. Shoes could be lined up badly by the door. Makeup bags could migrate across bathrooms like invading armies. But books had to be placed somewhere. Even if she only read three pages before falling asleep, even if she carried more than she had time for, having them out made a hotel room feel less temporary.

Seokjin called it nesting.

Grace called it being civilised.

They had arrived at the hotel around half past two, and after unpacking, exploring, making fun of the minibar, inspecting the private entrance, judging the shower, and deciding which side of the bed belonged to whom even though they always ended up tangled in the middle anyway, the afternoon had slipped toward half past four.

Manchester rain still tapped faintly against the windows.

The city outside had settled into that damp late-afternoon glow, all wet stone, traffic lights, and people hurrying beneath coats. The room had warmed around them, no longer just a hotel suite but the beginning of a temporary home.

They had arrived at the hotel around 2:30 pm, and after unpacking and figuring out where everything was, it was getting towards 4:30 pm. ‘Reservation at 6 pm,’ came a text from Sejin, who had obviously forgotten to omit that detail. 

“He said seven,” Grace muttered.

By five, they were both in the slow, mildly chaotic process of getting ready. Not glam. Not proper event dressing. Just polished enough to walk into a hotel restaurant without looking like they had spent the last hour arguing with a minibar and photographing bathroom fixtures.

Grace brushed out her hair and left it loose around her shoulders; the blonde falling softly now that it had escaped the pressure of stage styling. She kept her makeup minimal: a little concealer, a little definition around her eyes, and lip balm because the weather and travel had betrayed her skin. She changed into black trousers, the soft knit Seokjin had suggested, and flat shoes because nobody downstairs deserved to see her suffer in heels after a motorway drive.

Seokjin dressed with unfair ease in dark trousers and a clean shirt, then added a jacket that made him look immediately more expensive than everyone else in the room.

Grace caught sight of him in the mirror and scowled.

“What?”

“You look annoying.”

He checked himself. “Handsome?”

“Annoying.”

At exactly 5:50pm, the doorbell to the suite rang, and Sejin stepped in with Hana and one bodyguard just as Grace was grabbing her phone and the room key, which Seokjin took off her and slid into the pocket of his trousers.

Dinner was a quiet affair in the hotel’s Michelin-star restaurant, and while the menu seemed to hold a lot, the prices had Grace’s eyes widening slightly, especially when she saw it was steak and chips, but everyone from their core team found something to eat. Seokjin, being brave, ordered the roast pork loin with pork belly, black pudding, braised red cabbage, broccoli and cider jus.

“Jus?” He questioned. “Be concerned for the black pudding,” Grace responded with a grin. 

There was no recognition in the restaurant from other diners who had booked tables; there were no loud gasps or someone trying to take a hidden photo. It was simply an expensive restaurant with gorgeous food that had Seokjin experiencing a moment, where Grace could relax and not feel like she was on public display. 

When Grace finally climbed into bed that night after a silly amount of time on skincare, they ended up eating WHSmith snacks, sitting in the bed in comfortable silence while the rain continued outside the window. Seokjin opened one of the bags of crisps from the journey. Grace pulled out a chocolate bar she had bought at Corley and forgotten about. They shared both because that was Bangtan style.

Manchester breathed around them, wet and dark and waiting. Downstairs, the hotel staff moved quietly through old corridors that had once held boardroom conversations and stock exchange decisions. Across the city, ARMY were arriving in hotels and flats, planning outfits, making banners, sending messages, and counting down. Somewhere, the AO Arena was being prepared for her stage. Somewhere, her dancers were settling into their own rooms. Somewhere, her name glowed on posters in the rain. 

Tomorrow, she would wake up and be BTS’ Grace, but for now, in a bed in her hometown, she was simply Grace.  

[bangtanhoneys]

Grace Era - Birthday Live

The moment BigHit teased the random dates under the ChuGrace hashtag, everyone was excited to see what was coming. Many had speculated this would be Grace’s comeback or at least a solo debut while others suspected it might be something to do with modelling or maybe even acting. No one had given any clues out and all social media had remained silent, though a countdown video had appeared on BigHit’s website and Twitter after a post was made with the date of Grace’s birthday and a time. 

Many news outlets and websites had taken to sharing the news, including various other idols such as IU and CL who were excited for their close friend to be finally debuting as a solo artist while representing the biggest band on earth. Twitter saw Grace’s name trending for at least a week with many questioning what could be happening. 

The one date everyone agreed on was May 14th, Grace’s birthday. Without fail, there would be some kind of social media post or weverse live from Grace to celebrate her birthday - sometimes with the members, sometimes on her own, sometimes even during a concert. But ARMY was always included and they hoped this year would be no different. It would be Grace’s first birthday since everyone’s enlistment, a fact that didn’t escape other news outlets when they mentioned the countdown. 

DISPATCH were tasked to keep an eye on the Hybe building to see if Grace was spotted coming and going but there was nothing to report. The only thing that came out of it was bunches of flowers appearing from different florists across Seoul. A picture of someone carrying a bouquet made up of Lily-of-the-valley and white roses was posted to their website, zooming in on the card which had Grace’s Korean name on it. 

Another picture of massive pink balloons were seen as well, a rumour going around that it had ‘it’s a girl’ printed on a couple of balloons had sent the social media world into a frenzy. However, BigHit had remained silent and no statement had been released to clear anything up or to even expand on what was happening. 

The premiere of the Weverse Live was reaching over two million people who were simply waiting for Grace to appear. It had been live since 9pm that evening with a few thousand waiting and the closer it got to the time, the more were joining. The woman in question was sitting in a studio filled with people, from Hitman Bang, PDogg, Sejin, assistants and even her parents were there behind the camera that was pointed towards a table. Behind the table was a purple background with GRACE in big balloons, posters with handwritten notes from staff and a birthday cake at the side ready to be eaten. 

She was nervous since this would be the day where she couldn’t stay hidden. Grace had kept herself in a little bubble, only appearing when she needed to and then staying behind closed doors. Visiting the other members, popping in to say hello to Seventeen and TXT, going to their concerts, visiting IU and CL, attending other concerts in secret, recording, modelling, signing contracts…it was ongoing even if it wasn’t in front of the cameras. She simply hadn’t stopped, especially when the tour had been confirmed with all the stadiums, dancers, choreographers, production, Disney+ and more. 

It was a huge undertaking on her own and while she had the boys' support via her phone, no one was physically there now to simply give her a pat on the back and say ‘You’ve got this.’ Though Sejin had simply stepped into that role and acted like her father, collecting her in the morning to take her breakfast, staying with her for her whole schedule, lunch then dinner and making sure she got home at a decent time. 

He even took over the role of looking after the cat, Min-ji. Speaking of said pet, he was content to spread himself over Hitman Bang’s lap in a small collar. It wasn’t odd to find the long, white and hairy cat walking around the set or the studio like he owned the place. He had become a favourite amongst the staff. 

Taking a deep breath, Grace glanced over to the screen as the countdown started to dwindle into single figures. Her eyes darted to her parents, to her father, who gave her a big thumbs up and a nod to say ‘you’ve got this.’

5 4 3 2 1

ARMY saw the screen switch from black to Grace sitting in front of them, securing a small but funny birthday hat to her head. Of course, the chat was spammed with ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY’ messages to the point where Grace couldn’t keep up and the staff moderating the chat couldn’t control it either.

“Thank you ARMY for all the birthday wishes! It’s currently 12 am here in Seoul, so it's currently 3pm in the UK which won’t be celebrating my birthday just yet. I’m 34 years old,” Grace paused and sighed. “That makes me sound so old. 34 years on this planet, I’m getting even closer to 40 and that’s just a very odd thought. But thank you so much for all your messages, I can’t see them all since they're going so fast and there’s so many people. Five million? Wow, thank you everyone.”

She pulled the birthday cake in front of her, specially made by her mother which she told the viewers. The candle was lit for her and ARMY could hear people in the background singing Happy Birthday to Grace who closed her eyes for a moment, stayed there for a second then blew out the candle.

“If you’re wondering who you keep hearing, there’s a lot of special people behind the camera right now,” Grace grinned as she handed the cake to the staff member to cut up for everyone then pulled off the birthday hat. “No it’s not the boys but their very important people. My parents are here as well.”

She paused to read some of the messages, a couple catching her eye which made her chuckle. “I’ve been teasing you? Have I really? Well there’s a good reason for that, which I will be revealing shortly for you all. I know the world has been waiting to see what the news will be and I even saw a DISPATCH report that said I was pregnant because they saw ‘it’s a girl’ balloons arriving at the building. I will quickly clear that up before it goes anything further - that’s for one of the staff members who recently found out she’s having a baby girl. Nothing to do with me.”

She kept the talk light, referencing various questions from the chat and ARMY was delighted when Min-Ji made his way over, jumping into Grace’s lap and resting his upper body across the table. “Min-Ji is here to help me tell you the news,” she laughed as she reached over to give his ears a good scratch.

“Okay, I’ve left this for as long as I can. So ARMY, even though it’s my birthday today, I wanted to give you a present. You’ve been waiting patiently for a very long time and even though I’ve always said something was coming, I’ve never been able to tell you everything until now,” she paused and glanced towards Hitman Bang behind the camera who stood and nodded, ready to jump in if he needed to. 

“Dangerous Woman was my first mixtape that I did with Hitman Bang, PDogg, Yoongi and Namjoon and I always wanted to create a sequel to Dangerous Woman but unfortunately never fully had the chance because obviously BTS became busier than normal and other things took precedence which I didn’t mind. Now, I’m on my own and the boys are in the military, I think it’s time I kept my promise to myself,” Grace started and went silent, causing ARMY’s to explode the chat with questions.

“Coming soon, there will be a new album.”

The Weverse stopped working for a full few minutes as the team quickly worked to get it back up and Grace was laughing when she came back in view, realising the news had caused ARMY to overwork the servers. Even social media was struggling to keep up with the news as Sejin saw the headlines already being spread across the various news outlets in Korea. 

“Not only that, the new album will have Dangerous Woman as its first CD but you’re getting a new CD with full new tracks. I’ve had them ready for a little while but I wanted to make sure I was happy with it all and that it was something I was ready to show ARMY and the world so I can’t wait for you all to enjoy the album,” she finished but she knew the next piece of news was going to send ARMY into a right tizzy.

“But I’m not only giving you a new album,” she paused and looked straight at the camera, a grin on her face. “I’m also going on tour. So wherever you are in the world, keep an eye out as dates will be announced soon and I can’t wait to see you all again. I knew if Yoongi could do it, I could as well though I think I can go a bit harder than he can so I need you all to hype me up as much as you can.”

The comments were going too fast for her to see and even Sejin couldn’t keep up with what was happening on his phone, messages coming in from various people over whether the news was true or not. Celebrities had even taken to their own social media to wish Grace a happy birthday but to include congratulatory messages over the new album and tour announcement. 

TXT had taken to their own social media accounts to post the news, wishing their noona a happy birthday and that they couldn’t wait to see her in concert. Seventeen soon followed as well as Twice and (G)I-DLE, then IU, Jessi, Epik High, Taehyung’s Wooza friends and then a message on WeVerse popped up from Jin towards the end of Grace’s live. 

“To my Grace - happy birthday! I’m sorry I can’t be there with you but I’ll be back for the next one. I can’t wait for ARMY to hear your new album which I know they’ll love and I can’t wait to see their reactions to your tour. You’ve worked so hard and it’s all going to pay off when you stand on that stage. ARMY, get ready to be amazed and please support your queen in my place. I’ll be home soon. I love you.”

Grace didn’t see the message till after the live but ARMY had seen it straight away, instantly commenting on it over Jin’s words. If there was going to be anyone who would follow Jin’s words to the T, it would be their fanbase.

“You’ll be seeing me a lot more now and I can’t wait to see all your reactions when everything is posted. I hope you’ll love the album, the tour, everything and I can’t wait to see you all. So many things are going to be happening in the next few weeks so prepare yourselves, because it’s going to be a lot. Thank you so much for the birthday wishes and messages, thank you for all your support. ARMY, I love you!” With a heart over her head with her arms, Grace gave her final message and let out a sigh of relief when the camera was switched off.

The news was out, the team was in place to get started and now she could fully relax and enjoy what was to come. Grace Chu was finally coming to take over the KPop world with a bang and so much more.

[bangtanhoneys]

Happy birthday Grace!

My cake business has been encouragingly busy the past two months with two big contracts and maybe another one coming in June. I haven’t had time to play any games let alone write. But I have sort of a weekend clear so I’m going to tackle the next tour date as I was making great progress then cakes happened 🤷🏻‍♀️

But please wish Grace a happy birthday!

[bangtanhoneys]

ENGAGEMENT & WEDDING WRITING PROMPTS

I've tried to generalise it as much as I can so you can add your own prompts to it that matter to the story you're writing. Enjoy!

ENGAGEMENT

Picking the engagement ring

Proposal

Telling friends and family

Engagement Party

Starting a wedding binder

WEDDING PLANNING

Picking the date

Picking the venue

Guest list

Bridesmaids and groomsmen

Wedding dress shopping

Suit fitting

Picking flowers

Cake tasting

Menu tasting

Sending the invitations

Picking/making the favours

Booking the honeymoon

Sorting out the table plan

PRE-WEDDING PARTIES

Bachelor weekend

Bachelorette weekend

Bridal shower

Weekend getaway before wedding

Rehearsal dinner

WEDDING MORNING

Bride getting ready

Groom getting ready

Venue being set up

Photographer arriving

WEDDING DAY/CEREMONY/RECEPTION

Walking down the aisle

First kiss as a married couple

Walking back down the aisle together

Wedding breakfast

Speeches!

First dance

Late-night dancing and food

HONEYMOON

Leaving for the honeymoon

Start of the honeymoon

Coming home

AFTERWARDS

Thank you notes

Reading cards

One month anniversary

First year anniversary

[bangtanhoneys]

It's my 3 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳

[minyoonjin]

two halves of my heart, my moons, my eternals💜

[bangtanhoneys]

Someone on Wattpad said this would be Grace's version of Swim....and I can't deny it!

[minyoongi-ah]

JIN - 'hooligan' mv

[bangtanhoneys]

That’s my view today 😒 thank god for headphones

And yes, I’m writing!

[bangtanhoneys]

Bangtan Baby: Easter Bunny

(image sourced from pinterest - ai generated)

Bora was 10 days from turning one year old and the Easter weekend had arrived with sunshine and warm weather, meaning she could be released in the small garden that belonged to Grace and Jin’s home. While South Korea didn’t go all out when it came to Easter, that didn’t stop Grace or her mother from going all out for what was going to be Bora’s first Easter.

A family meal had been planned for Grace’s parents, Seokjin’s parents, his brother and his wife with their two sons and obviously Grace and Seokjin with Bora. But for now, Grace was trying to get the little one into her baby bunny costume. 

“Don’t pout, JK,” Seokjin gently teased as he took the fluffy bunny ears that were on a headband and stuck them on the young man’s head. 

“I’m not pouting,” Jungkook grumbled while straightening the ears. 

“There we go,” Grace sighed as she pulled the hood over Bora’s head and grinned, taking a step back to look at her daughter and then her adoptive son.

“My two baby bunnies.”

Seokjin snorted to himself and hid his smile behind his hand, relishing in the sight of a flustered golden maknae and his young daughter who had no clue what was going on as she reached to touch the ears that were flopping into her vision. 

“What are we doing?” Jungkook asked, ignoring the both of them in favour of picking up his baby sister and trying not to smile when he saw her reach for his headband.

“I’ve done a little easter egg hunt for her in the garden,” Grace said as she handed over the basket. “Go and be a nice big brother and help her look for them.”

She was expecting more of a fight but Jungkook did nothing other than sigh, take the basket and turn to open the sliding doors, letting in the warm Seoul weather. Off they went, with Bora holding tightly to Jungkook’s tattooed hand as she took slow and unsteady steps along the grass. 

[bangtanhoneys]

Happy Easter!

[cb97percent]

blocking serial likers is interesting like... sorry for enjoying your work i guess i'll do it more quietly

I'll try to put this as kindly as I can.

I feel really uncomfortable having to repeat this over and over again, but let's please accept this as a hard fact once and for all: creators depend on feedback to keep creating, otherwise they cannot know if someone is enjoying their work and whether they should keep going.

Case in point: If it weren't for this passive aggressive ask, I would have no idea you were enjoying my work. I wish you had instead sent one to tell me that, or dropped a comment that said, "Hey, I enjoyed this!"

In case you may not be familiar with how Tumblr works, I'll try to explain:

Here, 💓 does not mean "I like this" like it does on Instagram or TikTok. Tumblr works on reblogs (even if it's blank), which means sharing. In the context of fics, leaving likes may translate into, "This isn't worth sharing, but have a like I guess". People may interpret it as they aren't good enough.

(No one can discern if you read the work or just bookmarked it, which is why it's not advised to like stuff to make a tbr shelf. If you don't wanna reblog with a #tbr tag, here's an idea: hit the reblog button but don't post, save it in your drafts instead. You can find everything you want to read in one place now.)

But when you like everything back to back, you are confusing them because... if it's good enough to binge, can't you spare a reblog to tell them "Kudos! I had a great time"?

There used to be an established feedback culture in the Tumblr fanfiction community. It was the norm to engage with authors about their work (through reblogs, comments, asks...) because everybody knew fandom is cyclical. It's give-and-take. If you give one, the author will very enthusiastically give back two. They knew engagement didn't mean "Part 2?", it meant a genuine conversation and reaction to the stories. There are works that come out of 3-year hiatuses just because someone sent a comment to the author, it's that powerful.

Isn't this why we created blogs here in the first place? To be social?

Then an influx of new users from other social platforms arrived, and that was when the relentless passive consumption started. Because these users thought (some still think, like yourself) Tumblr works just like other social platforms. It doesn't. At the expense of annoying my long-time readers, I frequently shared reminders on what not to do. I genuinely assumed, "I think these people are new and simply don't know. Surely it can't be the same people willingly ignoring what authors are vocally begging for."

So many amazing writers left because of this passive consumption, and they still do. I tried being nice about it; it didn't work. I tried being aggressive about it; it didn't work. I flat-out begged; it didn't work. I got so frustrated with not being heard that I put it on my bio, pinned post, library post, taglist form, member-specific masterlists in large header font, and I still get ignored every day. Every day.

I've run out of ways to deal with it, and I'm exasperated. What will it take for you to please hear me?

So yes, I block serial likers because it is a form of silent reading. Yes, I selfishly want my work to exist for readers who are willing to engage with me. Yes, I criminally want to write for readers who don't treat me like a content machine and remember that I am a human being with feelings.

I can't put out 15k every other day like some do because I write my work myself.

All that is to say, if you were truly enjoying my work, I just wish you'd let me know. If you think it's too much hassle to at least press one (1) button to show appreciation for something you enjoy, I invite you to please reconsider for other authors you may like. This is a rampant issue that is extremely demotivating, and by keeping quiet, you are slowly driving organic writers away from something they love.

And I would prefer it if my flowerbeds didn't turn into a wasteland of ai slop.

Thanks.

[chimivx]

This. Literally this. Genuinely what a writing community is supposed to be about.

“I’ll enjoy it more quietly”

“I’m a silent reader”

“I was scared to send a message”

Then enjoy no more writing from me.

In the start of my being here I watched sooo many talented writers leave this space, and I thought, oh no, is that what happens??? I watched incredible writers leave ‘cause they feel like ‘they suck’ or that what they write isn’t good enough. Doubting themselves because of the silence.

You think authors write books from silence?? You think blockbuster movies are created because of silence?? You think any community survives in silence??

Imagine standing in a room full of people, saying something out loud, and everyone gives you a side eye, and ignores you.

It is Not hard to leave the tiniest comment. An emoji. A ‘loved this’. To let us writers know that you were here. That you enjoyed something.

What are you scared of? What are you embarrassed for? You think us authors are going to swat you through the screen?? One simple comment or message I guarantee you (at least personally) will have your author JUMPING for joy and sooo incredibly giddy. You will make their day. You will have them thinking about your message/comment for the rest of the week.

I’ve heard of some readers comments SAVING the story. SAVING the fic. SAVING the writer and pulling them back into their work.

It is NOT that hard. And in a writing community, writers shouldnt have to beg.

Give and Take. Give and fucking Take.

You can’t keep taking. We’ll have nothing left to give.

[miraclejin1204]

The only man ever.

CEO, Stunning, tall with pacific shoulders, natural, classically handsome looks, voice of an angel, silver voice, talented, educated, extreme high levels of IQ and EQ, excellent and accomplished at everything, excellent cook, hard working, generous, decorated soldier, a real life prince 🥰

[bangtanhoneys]

GRACE TOUR DIARY: April 22nd, London

Note: I really really really wanted to get to Manchester. So this is kind of rushed even though it's been in my drafts for ages and I needed to finish it so I could get to Manchester.

APRIL 22ND – LONDON, DAY TWO

Day two in London felt different for a lot of people.

For the fans who had tickets for both night one and night two, there was already a sense of confidence in the air. They knew what to expect now, at least a little. They had a rough idea of the setlist, knew which songs to emotionally prepare for, and, most importantly, knew exactly what merchandise they wanted this time after panic-buying half the stand the day before.

For the fans seeing the show for the very first time, day two came with a small advantage. They’d spent the morning scrolling through posts, group chats, fancams, and fan accounts, learning everything they could from the people who had already survived night one. What time to get to the station, which merchandise stand had the shortest queue, who was giving away free stuff and which songs made everyone cry and, depending on how spoiler-friendly people had been online, maybe even the set list too?

For the staff, dancers, band, and everyone else working behind the scenes, the day was much calmer. It was mostly made up of light rehearsals, a few run-throughs of anything that had felt slightly off the night before, and then as much rest as they could squeeze in before doing it all again. For Grace, though, there was a different kind of energy building inside her.

No matter how hard she tried to stay calm, she couldn’t stop the excitement that kept bubbling up every time she remembered that tomorrow morning, she’d be arriving in Manchester. London was home in one sense. It belonged to her mother. It was where her parents had met, where their story had started, and where so much of her family history lived in the walls and streets and names of places.

But Manchester? Manchester was hers.

It was her city. Her home city. The place that had shaped her, raised her, and stayed stitched into every part of her, no matter how far away she’d gone. And tomorrow, she’d be going back with a bang. 

Of course, there was another side to it, too.

The day after the Manchester concert, she’d be flying to Sweden, while Seokjin would be flying back to Seoul to begin his own solo journey again. So while Manchester would be a homecoming, it would also be the beginning of another goodbye, even if only for a little while.

Still, Seokjin was excited. Excited for Manchester. Excited for her. Excited for himself, too, even if he tried to act casual about it. And Grace would never be the person to hold him back from something he loved.

Speaking of Seokjin: He was currently stretched out across the couch like a man who had achieved true inner peace, having demolished two full rounds of a full English breakfast and followed it up with three coffees. If there was anyone in the hotel suite operating at full power that morning, it was him.

Grace, meanwhile, was sitting nearby staring blankly at the TV, feeling like she needed to borrow even a fraction of Jungkook’s natural energy just to function.

“Aish, why did they post that?” Seokjin pouted suddenly, holding his phone up in offence.

Grace lazily turned her head toward him just in time to catch the video on his screen, a fancam from the concert the night before. Someone had very clearly recorded him dancing and singing along to one of her songs in the crowd, making a complete fool of himself while somehow still looking annoyingly handsome doing it.

A grin immediately tugged at her mouth. “You did a better job than I did,” she said.

Seokjin scoffed, but he kept scrolling anyway. Every few seconds, he’d tilt the screen toward her to show her something new: selfies fans had taken outside the venue, mirror photos of carefully planned outfits, handmade signs decorated with glitter and tiny hearts, videos of fans screaming in train stations, and clips of people finally meeting in person after years of only knowing each other online. There were posts from fans documenting every part of the experience, like they were desperate to preserve every second before it slipped away. Videos of flights landing in London that morning, train journeys, coach rides, hotel check-ins, Airbnb room tours, and coffees in hand, bracelets stacked on wrists.

It was all there.

Tiny little pieces of joy were being saved in real time.

"Are you excited to go home?” Seokjin asked after a while, still half-scrolling.

Grace took a second to answer, briefly wondering which home he meant, Seoul or Manchester, before she realised. Her face softened instantly. “Yeah,” she said, smiling properly this time. “I can’t wait to feel that Manchester rain, smell those weird city smells, and go to Greggs.”

Seokjin looked up from his phone. “Greggs?”

Grace’s mouth fell open in horror. “Oh, my God.” She immediately shuffled across the couch and climbed over him until she was practically lying on top of him, stealing his phone out of his hand with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before.

“What do you mean, Greggs?” she gasped, already opening the website like she was about to give him the cultural education of a lifetime. “Sausage rolls. Pasties. Steak bakes. Yum yums. There’s this thing called a vanilla slice that could genuinely change your life.”

Seokjin squinted at the screen as she enthusiastically scrolled. “Doesn’t London have that?”

“Yes,” Grace said, with the seriousness of someone discussing fine cuisine. “But it’s different when it’s from Manchester.”

He blinked. “How?”

She looked at him like the answer should’ve been obvious. “It just tastes better.” 

An hour was spent looking at Greggs and texting Sejin to see if he could place a delivery order to the hotel in Manchester for tomorrow, when they got there. There was no reply for ten minutes until a message came back with one single emoji: the eye-roll one.

“That’s a yes then,” Grace grinned. After another hour of mindless scrolling, lounging around, and doing very little of actual importance, it was finally time to head to the O2 Arena for light rehearsals, glam, and the slow build-up to night two.

She went straight into glam, where the next few hours became less of a routine and more of a full reset.

The blonde dye she’d had done before the tour began in Seoul needed freshening up, so her hairstylist got to work on her roots almost straight away, parting through her hair with practised precision and brushing colour in section by section. At the same time, someone else settled beside her to start on her nails, laying out a new set of press-ons while Grace did little more than sink into the chair and let herself be fussed over.

For once, all she really had to do was sit still.

So she did, half-listening to the low hum of the room around her: dryers, makeup cases clicking open and shut, crew members passing the door while sorting out last-minute details, dancers drifting in one by one for light rehearsal, their voices rising and falling in the corridor outside.

Seokjin, meanwhile, got the full experience of what actually went on in Grace’s dressing room.

And more importantly, the level of gossip that somehow always seemed to blossom in there the second the door closed. At first, he looked relaxed enough, lounging in the corner with a coffee like he thought he was just there to observe a bit of harmless chatter while Grace got ready.

That lasted about five minutes.

“How did that date go last night?” the hairstylist asked, brushing dye into Grace’s roots while the nail stylist pulled out all her tools and the three makeup artists laid all their expensive bits and bobs on another table. 

“Horrific,” the nail artist said flatly.

That got everyone’s attention.

“We ended up at a sushi place,” she continued, already filing one of Grace’s nails as she spoke, “and he asked what I did for work.”

Grace glanced down at her, already sensing where this was going. “I told him I do nails for artists,” she said, gesturing lightly toward Grace. “I even dropped your name, sorry.”

Grace snorted. “You’re fine.”

“He had no clue who you were,” she went on. “No idea what’s happening at the O2. And then", she paused for effect, looking around the room, “he asked if being a nail artist was a real job.”

The reaction was immediate with a chorus of disbelief, sharp inhales, offended noises, and one very loud, “You’re joking.”

It didn’t take long for the rest of the room to start piling in with their own gossip from everything that had happened between Grace’s makeup session the day before and now, and apparently, there was plenty of it.

For Seokjin, it was a rare chance to witness something most of the BTS members never really got to experience firsthand: female gossip. Usually, most of the women they worked with kept things professional with polite conversation, quick exchanges with staff, the occasional gentle instruction, and not much more. But with Grace, people relaxed. They opened up properly around her. And because of that, Seokjin found himself being let into an entire world of gossip, intrigue, female problems, and all the little bits of life that usually stayed behind closed doors.

Within minutes, the whole room had settled into that easy, overlapping rhythm Grace always loved before a show.

One story rolled straight into another. The bad date at the sushi place opened the floodgates, and suddenly everyone had something to contribute of a friend’s disastrous Hinge match, an ex who had the nerve to come back after six months with a “hey stranger", and a man who’d posted a black-and-white gym selfie with a caption about “protecting his peace” after being the actual problem in the relationship.

Grace sat in the middle of it all, letting herself be worked on while the room carried on around her.

Her roots were carefully sectioned and brushed through; the blonde refresh brought life back into the colour she’d had done before the tour started in Seoul. At the same time, the nail stylist worked steadily with her hands. Grace kept glancing down every so often as each nail was pressed into place, the new set glossy and neat, chosen to match the night’s look of dark orange and black. 

It was strange how normal it all felt, despite the expensive glamour and time restraints, as the finishing touches of the night were being put in place. Grace was led over to the sink, where the dye was washed carefully from her hair. Warm water ran through the blonde, and even before it was dried, she could see the difference. 

The first hand of nails was done. Then the second. Her blonde was blow-dried in sections, the stylist lifting and smoothing and reworking pieces until it began to fall the way Grace liked. The makeup artists came in next, starting with skincare and base, layering product into her skin with that calm, practised focus that always made Grace feel like she was being slowly rebuilt.

Outside the room, the backstage noise was changing too.

More footsteps in the corridor. More voices on comms. The distant thud of a bass check. Dancers starting to gather properly now, warming up, half-running formations in trainers and oversized hoodies. Somewhere out there, wardrobes were steaming costumes, sound was testing levels, and stagehands were marking positions for the night.

The show was no longer something that would happen later.

It was moving toward them minute by minute.

Eventually, Sejin reappeared at the door to remind Grace she needed to head down for light rehearsal.

“You’ve got fifteen,” he said, checking his clipboard. “Hair can finish the styling after.”

Grace nodded and stood carefully, one hand instinctively going to protect the half-finished work on her face even though no one had told her to. Her robe was pulled around her to keep everything safe, and she slipped into trainers for the walk to the stage.

The walk to rehearsal always felt different from the glam room.

Back in the dressing room, everything was warm and close and cluttered with laughter. Out in the corridor, the scale of the night came back. The crew passed by carrying cables and cases. Security stood posted where they needed to be. Dancers were already clustered near the stage entrance, stretching arms and necks, their chatter lower now, more focused.

When Grace stepped out onto the rehearsal stage, the O2 was still empty enough to feel eerie.

Rows and rows of vacant seats rose into shadow. The giant screens were black and waiting. The stage lights were brighter than the house, cutting through the dimness in pale beams. Without the crowd, every sound echoed: boots on the floor, a laugh from one of the dancers, the click of a mic being tested.

It was only a light rehearsal for the sound and cameras, making sure they were happy that nothing had changed too much in the notes from the last night and the dancers got a quick run-through again to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything in the last twenty-four hours. 

Grace sat again and the room closed around her at once. This time, the team were well aware of time ticking away as the O2 arena announced they were opening the doors to the crowd in half an hour. Hair was resumed and styled into a ponytail this time; make-up was kept light but heavy so it wouldn’t melt under the lights and the sweat, and the nails were given one last coat of clear polish to shine. 

The air around them got thicker with anticipation as the sounds of the crowd started to fill up the place, the excitement of 20,000 people slowly echoing around the arena as hair and nails started to pack up their tools to be transported up to Manchester.

Grace’s first outfit was slipped onto her body, Seokjin holding her steady as she slipped into her heels and the last touches of lip colour were brushed onto her lips. Now she could feel the anticipation and energy, not just of the crowd, but also of the people around her. It was nearly showtime. 

Outside the O2, the queue had already started to break apart into excited streams of people being guided inside, and the second ARMY stepped through the doors, the whole place changed.

Lightsticks glowed in hands and poked out of tote bags. Girls stopped every few steps to fix each other’s hair, adjust signs, check tickets, and squeal every time they realised just how close they actually were. The concourse filled quickly with the sound of trainers on the floor, drinks being poured, card machines beeping, and dozens of overlapping conversations all saying the same thing in different ways.

“Oh my God, we’re actually here.”

Some rushed straight for merch, hoping there was still something left in their size. Others made a beeline for drinks and snacks, bottled water, and overpriced arena cups they would absolutely keep afterwards. Groups of young men and women, the elderly and the young, clustered around the seating entrances, double-checking sections and rows, taking photos before they went in, promising each other they’d meet back in the same spot after the show.

And then, one by one, they started finding their seats.

Every time someone stepped out into the arena properly, there was that same moment of pause, that little intake of breath when they saw the stage for real. Phones came out instantly to take photos and videos, posting quickly to various social media. Voice notes to friends. Some people laughed in disbelief; others just stood there staring for a second, overwhelmed by the size of it all.

Down below, the floor was beginning to fill. In the tiers, people were shrugging off coats, placing drinks under seats, trading freebies, and waving at strangers across rows who were just as excited as they were.

Twenty thousand people were settling in as BTS music played around them, staff helping those last stragglers, and under the stage, Grace let out a breath and waited.

It would never get old hearing the noise swell when the VCR started, when the live band joined the backing track, when those familiar opening notes of 7 Rings rang out, and then the deafening roar that followed the moment Grace appeared on stage.

It never got old hearing the song sung back to her or seeing thousands of people forget, just for a little while, about whatever problems or worries they had carried in with them. For two hours, none of it mattered. Not really. Not with the lights this bright and the music this loud.

And as Grace stood there on the thrust stage, she could feel all of it. “London,” she called. “Welcome to night two of the In My Head tour!”

They were louder than the night before, louder, it felt, than any other stop on the tour so far. As she and the dancers bowed in thanks to the crowd after her introduction, the roar that came back at them was almost overwhelming.

Grace laughed, breathless and glowing beneath the lights. “London, we’ve only got one more night in the UK after this,” she called. “So tell me, are you ready to have a good time?”

A deafening wall of screams crashed back at her, so loud that Grace had to laugh and pull the mic away for a second, her shoulders shaking as the dancers around her grinned. “London, I need you louder than that.”

And they never stopped the noise. They never quietened down, even on some of the softer songs. It was as if they were pouring every single noise and energy into tonight because they knew it could be a while before they got to experience this again. 

And then came the moment that would feature on everyone’s social media, in the Disney+ documentary tour, on Big Hit’s socials as well. Everyone knew Grace did a BTS song at the concert, somewhere towards the end, but no one knew what it was. Not even Seokjin. Only the band and dancers knew of the songs at each stop.

So when the lights went down, and a single spotlight went towards Grace’s foot, and the opener to Mic Drop started, ARMY didn’t know whether to scream or cry. 

The camera pulled back as the lights came up, revealing Grace standing centre stage with seven dancers, male and female, surrounding her in that instantly recognisable Mic Drop formation BTS had made iconic.

Of course, it had to be Mic Drop in London on night two. The biggest song for one of the biggest nights of the tour. And Grace committed to all of it.

She didn’t just cover the lines; she covered every movement, too. Throwing herself fully into the performance with the same sharpness, swagger, and force the song demanded. ARMY never let up for a second. The fanchant started right at the beginning, loud and perfect, just before Grace launched into Hobi’s verse. They kept going through Yoongi’s “mianhae eomma,” and they were somehow even louder by the time the chorus hit. It felt like the whole O2 had become part of the stage itself.

Behind Grace, the giant screens flickered between close-ups of her, shots of the crowd losing their minds, and the lyrics flashing across the backdrop, including a graphic of her Grammy the moment she sang, “my bags filled with trophies.”

“ARMY, are you ready?” she called as Namjoon’s “haters gonna hate” line rolled through the backing track.

The answer was deafening. Then the beat built louder and louder, the tension tightening with every second, until all the dancers suddenly rushed the stage for the defining moment, and the entire arena exploded.

And as suddenly as the concert started, it was suddenly just at the end. Two hours had flown by in a combination of hard choreography, slow songs, Mic Drop and, finally, Dangerous Woman. 

“London,” she said, and the tone of her voice changed immediately, still smiling, still warm, but more grounded now, more sincere. “Before we go, I just want to say thank you.”

“Thank you for tonight,” she continued. “Thank you for showing up for me. Thank you for singing so loudly, for dancing, for crying, for screaming, for making this feel so special. Night two in London has been,” She shook her head, searching for the right words, then laughed softly. “Honestly? A little bit unreal.”

That got a swell of cheers.

She turned first toward the band, who were spread out behind her, still riding the high of the last number. “I need you to make some noise for my incredible band!”

The spotlight swung toward them, and the crowd went wild at once. One of the guitarists lifted his instrument in acknowledgement, the drummer standing from behind the kit to wave both sticks in the air while the others bowed or laughed under the attention.

Grace grinned. “They’ve been unbelievable every single night, and they make me sound much cooler than I actually am.” Then she turned, reaching a hand out toward the dancers gathered around her.

“And please, please make some noise for my dancers!”

That might have been one of the loudest cheers of the entire goodbye. The dancers immediately started laughing and bowing, some blowing kisses, some pointing out toward the crowd, others wrapping arms around each other’s shoulders as Grace introduced them one by one in quick bursts, giving each of them their moment while the arena cheered harder every time.

“You already know they carry me through this show every night,” Grace said once the applause had settled just enough. “They are insanely talented, ridiculously hard-working, and somehow still put up with me.”

The dancers crowded into her for a quick, chaotic little group hug that made the arena melt all over again.

When they broke apart, Grace glanced out toward the wings and then up toward the tech areas and control positions around the arena. “I also want to thank my crew,” she said. “The people backstage, side stage, front of house, sound, lights, video, wardrobe, hair and makeup, production, and security, every single person you don’t always get to see who makes this happen every night.”

The crowd erupted again, louder than some people might have expected, because they understood exactly what she meant.

Grace nodded gratefully. “This tour would not exist without them. Not a single part of it.” Then she smiled and added, “And I want to say thank you to all the staff here at the O2 as well, everybody working tonight behind the scenes, helping everyone get in safely, keeping this whole place running, and looking after us.”

That drew another wave of applause, warm and genuine, and somewhere off to the side a few members of staff who had been watching from backstage exchanged startled little smiles at being acknowledged.

Grace stepped a little further down the thrust stage after that, closer to the audience and closer to the barricade, and the crowd surged toward her again with fresh screams. “And finally," she said, though by the way her voice softened, they all knew where this was going. “ARMY.”

“I just," she paused, looking out over them, her expression turning openly emotional now. “I never want to take nights like this for granted. Ever. I know how much it means to be here. I know some of you travelled a long way. I know some of you planned outfits for weeks, made banners, traded freebies, queued for hours, saved up, counted down, and gave me your whole hearts tonight.” By now the arena had gone softer around the edges. Still loud, still emotional, but hanging on every word.

“And I felt every bit of it,” Grace said. “I really did.”

A few people near the front were visibly crying now. In the tiers, lightsticks swayed slowly while phones kept recording, desperate not to lose a second of this part either.

Grace smiled through it, eyes shining. “Thank you for trusting me with your night. Thank you for giving me your energy. Thank you for being so unbelievably loud.” She laughed faintly. “And thank you for making London night two something I will never, ever forget.”

The response that came back at her was huge and messy and full of love. Grace looked out over them all one last time. “We’ve got one more UK night after this,” she called, and that got a fresh scream immediately. “Manchester, I’m coming home tomorrow.”

The O2 answered with cheers, and Grace smiled at the little twist of emotion that line always pulled through her. “But tonight,” she said, “London, you were everything.”

She took a few steps back toward centre stage, where the dancers were already gathering in a line beside her, the band still visible behind them, everyone settling into that final end-of-show picture.

“Alright,” Grace said, lifting the mic one last time. “You know I can’t leave without hearing you properly one more time.” The noise that followed was probably louder than the crowd had been all night, as if hoping that, by screaming loud enough, Grace would never leave.

Then, together, Grace and her dancers moved forward and bowed deeply to the crowd.

The band followed behind them, waving and bowing too. Confetti cannons burst from either side of the stage in one final explosion, sending glittering pieces spinning through the air as the arena screamed itself nearly apart again.

Grace straightened from the bow and waved with both hands now as the crowd struggled to get last-minute photos, last-minute selfies with her in the background. “I love you!” she shouted. “Get home safe, and I’ll see you again soon!”

And then, still smiling so hard it looked like her face might ache from it later, Grace backed slowly toward centre stage, where her team waited. Then, with one last smile meant for all of them, Grace disappeared into the dark as the house lights began to rise and the O2 struggled to accept that the night was finally over.

The second Grace stepped offstage, the roar of the O2 changed.

It didn’t disappear, not properly, but it became muffled by concrete walls and backstage corridors, swallowed into the building as she moved out of the lights and back into the world behind them. Even so, she could still hear it. The cheers. The chanting. The last scraps of voices from people who still weren’t ready to let the night end.

For a few seconds, she just stood there at the side of the stage, chest rising and falling hard, the last of the adrenaline still racing through her body.

Then the backstage world rushed back in.

Crew members clapped as she came through, some calling out how good it had been, others already moving around her with the efficiency of people who knew the show might be over, but the night definitely wasn’t. Her mic pack and in-ears were removed and packed away almost immediately, and Hana appeared a second later to drape a robe around Grace’s shoulders.

There were quick hugs, tired grins, and someone dramatically fanning themselves while claiming they’d nearly died during Mic Drop. Then, gradually, the group started to break apart. The dancers peeled away towards their own dressing rooms while the crew disappeared back into breakdown mode. Racks were already being wheeled past as headsets crackled. Somewhere nearby, someone was asking for tape, someone else was calling for a case, and the machine of tour life was already moving on to the next thing.

Grace let herself be guided back towards her dressing room, one hand still wrapped around a bottle of water someone had pressed into it.

By the time she stepped inside, the room looked completely different from how it had been before the show. The energy had softened, and the rush was gone. Open makeup bags were half-packed, hair tools were being logged away, and garment bags hung ready to be zipped up and sent on. The bright, buzzy anticipation from earlier had been replaced by that strange, tired calm that only came after a really good show.

Then suddenly, there were hands everywhere, helping Grace break the stage persona back down into just Grace. Pins were pulled from her hair one after another, her ponytail loosened, and the blonde fell around her shoulders again, no longer stage-perfect, just soft and slightly wild. The hairspray was brushed through as best it could be for now, and the tightness in her scalp began to ease.

The makeup artists moved in gently after that. Lashes were peeled away, and with every careful swipe of cleanser and warm cloth, stage Grace disappeared piece by piece.

By the time the last of the makeup was gone, Grace looked as though the show had happened to her rather than been built on her. Her blonde hair was messier now, her face clean, her body clearly feeling every second of the night. The costume was unfastened after that and peeled away carefully so nothing would be damaged in packing, and she stepped into soft joggers and an oversized hoodie with obvious relief.

The transformation backwards was always her favourite part. It meant she could stop worrying about the show, have a day of rest, and then throw herself straight back into the chaos of tour life and do it all over again. This part was quieter, save for the occasional murmur of good job, until Sejin appeared outside with Seokjin, waiting for the moment Hana finally let her go with a fresh bottle of water and a banana.

“Ready?” Sejin asked.

“Ready,” Grace sighed, immediately melting into Seokjin’s side.

He grinned and tightened an arm around her shoulders as he guided her towards the waiting car. The ride back to the hotel was quiet apart from the occasional comment from Sejin and Hana in the front, the two of them talking through schedules and tomorrow’s journey. But the moment Grace stepped into the hotel and headed for their room, there were no more roaring crowds, no more flashing lights. Just soft carpeted corridors, tired footsteps, and the strange peacefulness that came after a night had taken everything out of you.

The second the room door shut behind them, the show felt even further away.

Their luggage and loose bits were scattered all over the room, and Grace took one look at the mess and sighed. “Do we have to do this tonight?” she asked, dropping onto the bed.

“Tomorrow us will be mad if we leave it,” Seokjin said, already starting to gather the bits for Grace’s mum and put them into a plastic bag, collecting other things as he moved around the room.

“Tomorrow me is already mad,” Grace grumbled, but she still pushed herself up and started folding the clothes that had never been worn and packing them away. Tomorrow’s outfit was chosen and hung up, and everything that didn’t need to be left out was tucked neatly back into place.

Seokjin kept moving around the room with that steady sort of purpose Grace had always loved in moments like this, when everything felt too loud in her own head, and he somehow made it all simpler just by doing the next thing. 

Grace sat on the edge of the bed for a second longer, elbows on her knees, watching him through the heaviness settling into her bones. Her body had that odd, floaty ache that always came after a show: part adrenaline, part exhaustion, part the delayed understanding that she had just spent hours giving every part of herself away under lights hot enough to melt thought.

The rest of the night fell into a routine of brushing teeth and face cream. Grace stood half-asleep at the sink while Seokjin gently pushed her hair back from her face, spreading a bit of cream over her forehead. The hoodie traded for one of his old shirts. The curtains drawn fully shut against the city beyond the glass, phones plugged in and alarms set.

And then, finally, bed.

Grace climbed under the duvet with all the gracelessness of someone truly finished, turning onto her side immediately. Seokjin slipped in beside her a moment later, and she moved towards him without even opening her eyes, fitting herself against his chest, one arm draped loosely over his middle.

His hand settled at her back, warm through the thin cotton, and the room sank into stillness.

For the first time all day, there was absolutely nothing left to do.

Grace breathed out slowly, her whole body giving in at last. Tomorrow, Manchester would welcome her with open arms again, and the tour machine would carry on. But for now, she could stop and rest. 

And with Seokjin’s heartbeat steady under her ear and the last of the adrenaline finally fading from her blood, Grace let herself drift, piece by piece, into sleep.

[bangtanhoneys]

Right let’s go