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BangtanWritersHQ Presents: “Mikrokosmos Music Box” Masterlist
Music speaks, our hearts listen 💜
Some of our wonderful and talented members have come together to create a beautiful collection of stories exchanged as music box song inspirations. Each participant was given a prompt and a BTS song from another participant and had to create a minimum of a 2k-word story using that prompt and song.
We hope you enjoy these as much as we did 🎶
KEY:
🔞 - nsfw (mature themes)
✅ - sfw (no warnings)
💖 - smut
⚠️ - other warnings
SET UP - emojis: Title (if link is to another platform) | Author [parts] pairings, genre/aus, rating, word count, music box song
🔞💖⚠️ The Cruelest Part | @downbad4yoongi [1/1]
Pairing: Therapist!Yoongi x Curator!Namjoon
AU/Genre: Slice of Life, Marriage in Crisis | smut, fluff, angst
Rating: MA
WC: 21,793
Song: Autumn Leaves
🔞💖⚠️ Dark Water (Ao3) | @/GlossIsBoss [17/17]
Pairing: Taehyung x Jeongguk
AU/Genre: Merman AU, Historical Fiction, Horror | smut, angst
Rating: MA
WC: 105,301
Song: Black Swan
🔞💖⚠️ Taking Over You | @moonleeai [1/1]
Pairing: Namjoon x f.Reader
AU/Genre: Idol AU, Exes to Lovers | smut, angst, fluff
Rating: MA
WC: 9,271
Song: Pied Piper
🔞💖⚠️ Ribbons of Gold | @colormepurplex2 [4/4]
Pairing: Prince!Jimin x f.Reader
AU/Genre: Royalty/Prince, Blast From The Past, Childhood Friends to Lovers | smut, angst, fluff
Rating: MA
WC: 33,623
Song: Please
🔞💖⚠️ Rules of Engagement (Ao3) | @/TaeKookLuvz [1/1]
Pairing: Jimin x Jungkook
AU/Genre: non-Idol, Slice of Life, Strangers to Lovers | smut, angst, fluff
Rating: MA
WC: 2,753
Song: DNA
🔞💖⚠️ The oracles choice: Stay | @pars-ley [1/1]
Pairing: Jimin x OC
AU/Genre: Vampire AU, Fated Lovers AU, Strangers to Lovers | angst, fluff
Rating: MA
WC: 2,958
Song: Serendipity
✅⚠️ The Long Way To Here | @mrsparkjimin18 [1/1]
Pairing: non-Idol!Hoseok x f.Reader
AU/Genre: Non-Idol AU, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Slice of Life
Rating: PG
WC: 7,504
Song: One More Night
🔞💖⚠️ My Favorite Nightmare | @btskitten7 [1/1]
Pairing: Seokjin x f.Reader
AU/Genre: Mafia AU | angst, fluff, smut
Rating: MA
WC: 3.7k
Song: Into The Sun
— chapter summary | The truth is finally out, that you've been holding one of the missing pieces of the puzzle the whole time while Yoongi has been trying to keep you in the dark, hidden away from reality that could've hurt you. But is this offering enough to coax Yoongi to tell you more, to share more of the secrets he's been keeping from you, so you can finally let each other in?
— title: Carousel | pairings: Min Yoongi x female reader | genre: CEO!Yoongi, Arranged Marriage!AU, smut, angst
— ratings & warnings | +18 / M for mature; involves delicate themes related to arranged marriage, talks about family legacy, family betrayal/drama, mention of major character death, mentions of car accidents, talks about grief.
— word count: 5,792 words
— story masterpost: Carousel | ⤎ previous chapter | next chapter ⇢
— chapter drop date: July 20th, 2026 | main masterlist | mailbox | feedback | ko-fi | patreon | series taglist
𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚕 𝟸𝟾. 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚞𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚍
The tension in the room feels heavy.
Yet this is also the first time in a while that you can finally breathe easily.
It feels like the weight has been lifted off your shoulders once you’ve shared your story with Yoongi. About the way Jinyoung had manipulated his way to win your father’s trust and into your life, about his betrayal, and the secret you uncovered after his death. But at the same time, the silence that follows makes you feel apprehensive about how to continue this conversation.
“So,” Yoongi speaks after the silence stretches, “You found out that he’s been altering the data himself.”
“Yes, I did,” you answer in a small voice. “And that he was stealing money from—”
Your father.
Your family.
Your throat feels tight. And so does your chest, as you recall the way your father always boasted proudly about Jinyoung—his achievements, the fruit of his hard work, and how he managed to assist your father during troubled times. You still remember how happy your father was about your engagement. How excited he was to involve Jinyoung in every plan he had for the family's and the company's future.
The pain and anger you felt over his betrayal, the emotions you had after uncovering his secret, had left you with all these questions that kept haunting you.
Did he make a move on you solely as a distraction, to stop you from uncovering his sins?
Did he know that you were watching him closely, suspecting him of having despicable intentions against your father?
Was it all pretend—the warmth he shared, the love he made you feel, and the tender way he took care of you?
And these unanswered questions had led you into your hunt for the truth. It led you to here, accepting Yoongi’s hands in marriage, hoping that it would take you one step closer to answers.
Yoongi rises from his seat and walks over to the pantry, returning with a bottle of rum.
“It’s early, but I figured at least one of us might need this.”
His comment draws a small smile on your face. You nod, and he gently pours a knuckle's worth of rum into a shot glass and slides it across the table. He pours another for himself, and right after he closes the bottle, he tosses the drink down his throat, groaning deeply at the taste.
“Forgive me. This is all a bit much for me to take,” he says, returning to his seat. He brushes his palm across his jaw, his entire body tense, yet he manages to control his emotions with a sigh. “His betrayal against your father’s company aside, how did you find out that he had also set a target on your back?”
The knot in your chest tightens.
So hard, it feels hard for you to breathe. You reach out for the shot glass and toss the rum down your throat—slightly more gently, yet still too quickly than you used to. It tastes bitter, and the heat of the liquor stings as it slides down your throat, warming your body in an instant, making you wince.
But at least it’s enough to burn the pain lingering in your chest since the day you unmasked Jinyoung’s darkest secret.
“I haven’t been back to Jinyoung’s apartment since the night he—” Your words caught as you recall the night Jinyoung passed away, when you rushed out the door after hearing the news, never to return. You shake it off and continue, “On the night of our engagement ball, I met Jinhee, his sister. After confirming that his family wouldn’t be using the place, she handed the keys and all access to the apartment after the ball, and I began using the place as my own.”
Your little hideout.
“That’s where you moved all of your belongings after selling your old place.”
You nod, without bothering to ask him how he knew. “I figured that if I wanted to continue searching for answers, if I wanted to learn more about what secrets he kept from me, it would be best to use the apartment, where I could move more freely without anyone watching.”
“A place to turn into a safe house.”
“Something like that,” you say with a scoff, shrugging. His lips twitch into a small smile, urging you to continue.
But the bitterness in your chest flares up as you remember the first time you entered the apartment again after a while. “The place was clean, almost looked untouched,” you recount what you saw that day. "As if someone had come in to clean everything, down to every last drop of dust.”
And that was the problem.
The place was too clean.
It wouldn’t have mattered if only his family had come in to take all his belongings so they could hand over the place to you more properly. It would explain why they would take the time to clean the place. Yet most of his personal belongings remained, except for some of his valuables, which you used to see being displayed in his bedroom, along with the electronic devices he used to work.
“Except for the old computer set that he once used before his promotion, there was nothing left behind in his home office. Even when I used it to try to access his files, I couldn’t find anything. As if whoever came in to take away his things had decided that it was also necessary to clean all the data that Jinyoung kept at home.”
But that hadn’t been the only thing you had found strange.
Being in that apartment again without Jinyoung had felt unsettling. Not only for the memories, or the way it felt without him—cold, and unfamiliar—and how empty it felt, but it was also because you found the place no longer showed anything that was left of his touches, no trace of his presence, except for the fancy suits still hanging in his closet.
It made you curious, leading you to look closer.
“While I was trying to settle in, I went back to his bedroom and looked through his things that were left behind.”
And that was when you found them.
“There was a place that they didn’t touch while cleaning up the place. They must’ve missed it, since it was hidden so well.”
“What did you find?”
You lift your gaze to look at Yoongi and sigh. “A hidden compartment, right at the back of his closet.” Hidden behind his suits, you found a switch that opened up the back wall like a hidden door, revealing everything that Jinyoung had hidden from you.
Yoongi’s body tenses. “What was in it?”
“Everything that wasn’t supposed to be there.” Your breath catches, but you continue anyway. “Guns and other weapons, all in various shapes and sizes, and devices that I had never seen before. There was a deposit box and a briefcase kept in there too, filled with passports showing his photo but with different names attached to each one, and—”
Your head spins just as you recall opening the safe deposit box with the help of a locksmith you hired through Jungkook, when you found the things that turned your entire world upside down, forcing you to go down the rabbit hole of secrecy.
“There were files and photos—”
When your breath gets caught again, Yoongi leans forward to ask, “Of who?”
Looking straight into his eyes, you take a deep breath before answering, “Of me.”
Yoongi’s eyes grow wide with surprise and knowing, yet he doesn’t say anything. He also keeps his hands entwined on the table, keeping himself back to give you space until you can carry on.
“There was a folder containing copies of every single file ever released under my name. My birth certificate, medical records, school records, starting from grade school up to university, and records of all the business deals I’ve done both when I was building my own business and while I was working under my father.” You pause, feeling your whole body trembling in fear and anger.
This is the first time you’ve ever shared this with anyone.
While it feels like you’re taking a massive weight off your shoulders by unveiling this to someone else, it also makes you feel like your world is crumbling around you once again—because talking about it like this only makes it more real.
It forces you to face the facts that you’ve been trying to ignore.
“He had been studying everything about me for years. Starting long before we both met.”
And that he was the one who posed the biggest threat to your life while he was in it.
You blink away the tears threatening to fall and clench your hands, forcing the tremble to stop. “Then I looked at the photos to see when and where they were all taken from…and I saw that at least half of them were taken while I was living away from my family, candid pictures from the days I spent building my winery business and when I was taking all those classes that were supposed to help me in making it happen.”
Just how far back did he start doing it?
“And that’s when I saw the contract they were all attached to. An agreement he signed, and notes on how he was supposed to take my life once his job in my father’s company was done.”
Yoongi remains silent for a brief moment. You almost believe that you see a hint of anger flaring in his eyes, though it quickly fades when he lowers his gaze. “Did you find any information on the people who sent him?”
“No, nothing at all.” You shake your head. “I looked, but just like all the traces of Jinyoung in the apartment that were no longer there, there were no clues about the people he was working for, or what their agenda truly was.”
The only thing you found in Jinyoung’s hidden storage was the copies of the contract mentioning SS Novelties. That was the reason why you tried to find out who they were, hoping that it might lead you to something. But your search had only led you to another rabbit hole, another secret to uncover, without finding any direct connections between those contracts.
Nothing other than the fact that Jinyoung was the only direct link between them.
“I even went around the place and tried to look for any trace of cameras, wires, anything that might lead me back to them. I dusted every inch of the apartment for fingerprints, but—”
“Fingerprints?” Yoongi snaps, completely caught off-guard. “Just how far were you planning to go to find the truth about Jinyoung?”
“I’d do anything—everything I could. I know you would’ve done the same,” you reason with him. It’s not like you have any need to explain yourself to him. Not about this matter, or what you do behind his back. But the way he reacts feels unsettling, that you cannot stop yourself from trying to make him see things your way.
As expected, Yoongi isn’t happy about it. You can see it in his eyes, even when he tries to hide it. Yoongi leans back in his seat, crossing his arms as he continues asking questions, his voice cuts deep with accusations, “And who do you suspect might have been the ones to send him to you and your family?”
“Everyone.”
Now that it has come to this, you find no reason to hide it any longer.
“Every staff member, every person related to the company, the people within the board of directors working closely with my father, clients, partners, rivals…you.” Yoongi clenches his jaw, and you know that you are threading through danger by revealing this, yet you continue, “You and your family.”
Yoongi pours another shot of rum, tossing it back before rising to his feet. Guilt fills your chest as you watch him move towards the window, looking faraway into the city, as if struggling to keep his composure. You hate that you had to become the bearer of bad news, and you can understand why Yoongi reacts this way.
Who in the world would enjoy being accused of plotting a scheme against their rival, much less to cover it with a murder? By his own wife, no less.
“Have you ever shared this with anyone?” Yoongi questions you while he continues looking out the window, avoiding your gaze.
“No, I haven’t.”
He turns around to look at you, his expression unreadable. “Not even your mother? Your father?”
You slowly shake your head. “No, not with them. I couldn’t—” You pause, then continue, “But my mother had already suspected that your family might be involved in Jinyoung’s accident even without me saying anything.”
Yoongi’s gaze remains on you as he walks around the table. He moves leisurely, approaching you slowly. Not like a predator coming to his prey, but still intimidating enough to make you feel small under his accusatory gaze. It makes you feel powerless. And undeniably guilty.
“And you believed her…because it lined up with what you’ve suspected might have happened.”
Nodding slowly, you recall the night you found your mother at the family mansion, sitting in the dark as if a piece of her soul had been lost. Her eyes were haunted, and she immediately broke into tears the moment she saw you entering the room.
"Oh, my dear child. My poor, poor child," was what she said when she held you tightly in her arms while you cried, when the tears wouldn't stop flowing, just as the cracks inside your chest kept growing deeper and deeper. Then, before you even had the chance to breathe and let go of your grief, to force yourself to gain strength so you could get through the motion, she began filling your head with her beliefs.
"It was them. They've done this before, and now they've done it again. Now they're hurting my baby. They did this. They killed Jinyoung. The Min family killed Jinyoung.”
You close your eyes, hoping that it could help you forget the way she looked back then when she said those words. "Yes, and for a moment, I felt relieved knowing that I wasn't crazy, so I ignored every other possibility of what may have happened and who might've been involved," you shamefully admit.
Did you, at some point, believe that Yoongi and his family might have been the ones responsible for Jinyoung's death?
Yes, you did.
But only because you needed someone to blame for what had happened. You even ignored the voices in your head that refused to believe otherwise—that the Min Family had nothing to do with it. At least, not Min Yoongi. Until your research began showing you other facts that no longer supported your mother's theories.
"I don't blame you," Yoongi says, right as you are ready to apologize for having doubts about him. "I would've suspected everyone around me if I had been in your shoes. It couldn't have been easy for you."
“No,” you choke. You didn’t expect him to understand, or to show you this kind of compassion, after finding out what you’ve been suspecting him of doing. Hearing the gentle way he speaks to you cuts deeper than the way his anger does. “No, it wasn’t.”
His jaw clenches. “Was this the reason why you accepted my proposal and agreed to sign the marriage contract?”
You look him straight in the eye and admit, “It was part of the reason.”
“And was it also the reason why you agreed to join hands with your mother in her plans to bring us down?”
“No! I never said I ever agreed to do it.” You jump to your feet as you speak your truth.
“But she did try to involve you in it,” Yoongi continues to accuse you. “What is she after?”
“I don’t know—”
“Stop covering for her!”
“I don’t know!”You snap. “My mother, she—” Anger flares inside you from having your voice unheard. Yet, just as quickly as it rises, your anger easily wanes the moment you take a deep breath. Neither of you would solve anything, and this talk wouldn’t go anywhere if you let your emotions take over, and he needs to hear the truth.
Your truth.
Everything that you’ve kept to yourself and what has been eating you up inside.
“My Mom has always had her secrets. Things she keeps to herself. It’s always hard to determine what she is thinking.” Sighing, you try to swallow the bitter truth that has been clawing at your chest—that you may not have known your mother as much as you had thought. “But I know that she holds some resentment against your family. Specifically, your grandfather.”
Vengeance.
Yoongi may not be someone who would trouble himself with such matters, but he can’t say he is a stranger to it.
He has never been one to dwell on revenge, no matter how many times others have wronged him. Yet he has met enough people who devoted their lives to it—people who built themselves around old wounds until vengeance became the only thing keeping them alive. More often than not, his own family had been the reason.
The Min name has left too many enemies behind.
That's why he knows, with quiet certainty, that there isn't a single part of you capable of carrying that kind of hatred.
He never saw it when you first agreed to this marriage arrangement. He doesn't see it now, either—not when you look at him with hope you never bother to hide, or when happiness quietly finds its way into your eyes each time you lean into his warmth.
He wants to trust you.
No…that isn't quite right.
He already does.
He only needed to hear you say it yourself.
“I told you, I never agreed to be a part of her scheme and do…whatever she’s planning for you.”
The more you try to explain yourself, the heavier the guilt settles inside him.
He never intended to corner you like this. Never intended to make you feel as though you had to defend yourself. Because the truth is, he had never truly believed you were capable of becoming your mother's weapon.
Even when the evidence suggested otherwise. Even when your movements seemed to follow her directives. He had trusted the person he knew over the picture everyone else tried to paint.
What unsettled him wasn't the possibility that you'd betray him. It was everything you refused to let him see.
The secrets. The risks you kept taking alone.
How was he supposed to protect you when he didn't even know what you were fighting?
“I had to play along and make her believe that we both share the same goal. That was the only way I could gain her support. It was the only way I could get through with our wedding.” You lower your gaze and let out a soft chuckle. “She was set on stopping it from happening, thinking that I was only going to risk my own life by getting involved directly with you and your family and by accepting your hand in marriage.”
Yoongi clenches his hands. His anger had subsided a while ago. He had suspected that the grief you felt from Jinyoung’s death was what led you to it—to risk everything to avenge his death.
Had your mother seen the same thing and thought that she could use your grief to manipulate you to follow her?
A pawn.
That's what your mother had reduced you to. Just another piece to move across the board.
The same way his grandfather had once done to him.
That was what he believed until you admitted knowing more about Jinyoung’s secrets than you let on.
“I had to make her believe that I was only doing this for revenge, to get closer to you so I could find a way to hurt your family from the inside,” you continue with a bitter smile. He almost laughs, because at some point, he almost believed it too. “All I ever needed was answers. That was all. That was the reason I took this risk.”
Yoongi lets out a slow breath. His shoulders loosen for what feels like the first time since this conversation began.
This...
This was the answer he'd been waiting for.
Because if revenge was never your destination, then perhaps there was still time.
Time to keep you away from whatever had been waiting in the shadows long before either of you realized it.
“Alright. I get it,” he calmly says. And it pleases him to see that his words somehow put you at ease.
But this time, Yoongi is the one who needs answers. “You said your mother seems to have some sort of a grudge against my grandfather. So is he the real target, then?”
You tilt your head. “You don’t seem too surprised.”
Yoongi lets out a chuckle. No, he isn’t surprised that you would bring up his grandfather.
After all, the man has always been the center of everything from the very beginning. The catalyst of all the events that have unfolded over the past five years. Including the event which led to his brother’s fall from grace.
“I may have a lot of faults of my own. And I’m not the only one in the family who is willing to do anything for the family’s sake and for the success of our business,” Yoongi admits. “But my grandfather is a whole different matter.”
His mouth tastes bitter as he says this. Just as bitter as the bad memory from the past that comes rushing in.
"He lives by a different set of rules," Yoongi says, bitterness coating every word. "He looks at everyone around him as though they're pieces to arrange however he sees fit."
A humorless smile crosses his face. "My grandfather would betray his own blood if it served his purpose. He's done it before. More than once."
His gaze lowers as he is deep in thought. "If our fathers truly had the kind of connection which you've suspected in the past... I wouldn't be surprised if he was the reason it ended."
You nod and begin to look back, wondering if there had been any signs you missed. Anything that may have hinted at your father’s deep connection with your now father-in-law. “I don’t remember my Dad talking about yours in a bad light.”
“Mine neither.” He tries to smile, though it feels stiff. “I suppose the same can’t be said about how your parents think of my grandfather.”
“It wasn’t so much through words. But you’d be able to feel it if you’d been there with them,” you answer after a brief pause, shaking your head.
“My Dad rarely speaks about your grandfather except for anything related to their rivalling business moves,” you slowly recount. “My Mom stays by my father’s side from time to time on his business trips, but I don’t think she ever truly involves herself in the business unless she’s needed during important decision-making. But that’s only because she’s one of the main shareholders. She rarely makes any comment directly about the people my father works with or against.”
Yoongi nods.
He had always known your mother was one of the company's principal shareholders, but he had never understood how deeply her influence reached until her recent movements forced him to look closer.
Unfortunately, the deeper he dug, the less he found. It was as though everything about her life before marrying your father had simply...vanished.
“There’s always a different tension coming from my parents whenever your grandfather’s name is brought up. Whether it’s during a work meeting or a passing conversation,” you add, while looking back, “even if they try not to show it.”
A small smile lifts across your face. “You probably noticed it too during our wedding day. It was quite hard to miss when we were sitting with them at the reception dinner.”
Yoongi knows exactly what you mean.
There was not much to say about the wedding reception, but it would be impossible not to notice the tension brewing at the dinner table where the bride and groom’s parents were seated. The situation was unsettling, and it was obvious that your mother had been the one most affected, seeing how she kept drinking her wine throughout dinner—as if she were desperately trying to wash away bad memories instead of celebrating her daughter’s wedding.
And that tension didn’t quite fizzle out even after his grandfather had left the ceremony. As if even the traces he left behind were too potent for anyone to find peace in his absence.
“It wasn’t until we started talking about our wedding day that my mother began talking openly about your grandfather,” you continue. “But she never clearly spoke about why she despised him so much. She would keep going on and on about how untrustworthy your grandfather was and how I shouldn’t trust you.”
“Because she thinks I’m no different than him,” Yoongi says, to which you nod.
“The answers that you’re looking for,” Yoongi continues, subtly changing the topic. He has heard enough about the possibility that his grandfather had a hand in all of this, and now he needs to understand more about what you’re truly after.
“You’re not just looking into Park Jinyoung’s death, are you?”
You take a long, deep breath before answering, “I want to know…” You pause, shaking your head. “No, I need to understand what really happened. If that car crash wasn’t just a simple accident, I want to know who was behind it and why he was targeted.”
Your voice trembles as you speak. But the moment you start opening up, you just can’t seem to stop.
“I want to know what he’d gotten himself involved in, and how he was—” You stop yourself when your throat tightens, almost like you are breaking apart on the inside. Then, with a small voice that’s almost like a whisper, you slowly add, “I need to know if everything was ever real.”
There it is.
For a fraction of a second, Yoongi can see it. The grief you’ve spent so long burying beneath determination. For the first time, he understands that none of this began as revenge.
It began with love.
“Sweetheart…” He murmurs, as he holds himself back from reaching out to you. To hold you. To catch you when he can see your world is falling apart, yet again, as you relive all the pain.
Before he can say anything, you lift your chin. That fragileness he saw in you disappears when you look into his eyes to say, “I also wanted to know the reason why my mother resents your family so much that she feels wary of you, even though she’d known you for as long as I have.”
You let out a sigh. “She had watched us grow up together, so why…”
Once again, you pause, as if the question itself is weighing on you. “What did your grandfather do to have her so afraid of him when she met him at our reception dinner?”
Afraid was not the word that Yoongi would have used to describe the expression he saw on your mother’s face at that wedding reception dinner.
In his eyes, your mother had appeared like someone who was wounded so deeply that being there at the family dinner table had been too much for her to handle.
Just like you, he now feels the same need to understand everything. Because while your mother hadn’t been the only person who had shown the same emotions when it came to his grandfather, it pains him to know how much it directly affects every single decision you’ve made until it reaches this point.
Yoongi closes his eyes briefly. “I wish I had all the answers…”
“I knew it wouldn’t be easy from the start. That’s why I had to do everything that I’ve done so far to get them,” you cut him off before he could say more.
But Yoongi isn’t happy to hear this coming from you.
Thinking about it only makes him angrier—at you, the situation, and most of all, at himself. He couldn’t react properly each time he received reports about your movements. About everything you do, the places you go to, and the people you see to get what you are looking for.
And it’s making him feel powerless. Because it makes him feel as if he would never be able to reach you the moment you might need him the most.
"So you chased buried secrets on your own," Yoongi says quietly, though the calm barely masks the anger beneath it. "You kept walking straight into danger without telling anyone."
His jaw tightens.
"How could you think that was your only option?"
"Because I had no one else to trust!" You snap, and it silences him—his words, his thoughts.
Your words hit him harder than he expected.
"Not even me?"
You look at him, hands clenched at your sides. With a deep, resigned sigh, you painfully confess, "Especially you.”
Yoongi lets out a bitter laugh. “Of course,” he sighs, closing his eyes briefly. “Was that before or after you decided to think for yourself instead of blindly believing your mother’s theory?”
“Even if I no longer trust her theories, that doesn’t mean I can easily start trusting you. Not when I still have no idea what kind of secrets you’re still keeping from me.”
You refuse to look away as you say this. You want to see him deny it. “With my mother’s resentment against your grandfather and what happened with your brother, it’s harder not to question if things aren’t really connected to you.”
Yoongi tilts his head. “What does my brother have anything to do with this?”
You don’t give him an answer right away. For a brief moment, it seems as if you are debating whether or not to answer.
“Years ago, when your brother was taken into custody over the embezzlement case, I saw him on the live reports. I saw what he was trying to scream out to everyone, and the way he looked to the camera as if hoping someone would listen,” you start, while Yoongi can’t help but wonder where this is going, until—
"It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” you add, and he realizes that you are quoting his brother—all the nonsense he was spouting when he was taken away. “He kept saying that, over and over again.”
Yoongi clenches his jaw. He remembers that day, no matter how hard he tries not to think about it. He doesn’t enjoy reliving it, much less hearing this coming from you. “And you thought I had a hand in what happened to him?”
“I don’t know,” you scoff, throwing your hands up. “I didn’t know much about the relationship you had with your brother, but learning what happened between you, your brother, and your ex, I couldn’t help but try to connect the dots until I could find something to prove me wrong.”
“And did you?” He asks. “Did you manage to connect all those dots? And you made connections between me and my brother’s crime?”
You let out a resigned sigh. Slowly, Yoongi can see the anger in your eyes being replaced with defeat. “All I know is that everything seems to circle back to you.”
“Including Jinyoung and his accident,” Yoongi concludes. “Do you still believe that now? That I’m somehow involved in Jinyoung’s contract to take your life and then his death?”
“I don’t…” You shake your head and exhale deeply. “I don’t know anymore, Yoongi. I’m not even sure if I’m looking at the right places to know the answers.”
“But what if I am the one responsible? What if I had been the one who sent Jinyoung to kill you and to put your father’s company down?” Yoongi calmly asks, though he isn’t sure if he would like the answer you’ll give him.
“What will happen next? Will you do it? The scheme your mother plotted to avenge your pain?”
You seem hesitant to answer. But he can see the wheels in your head turning, working hard to play all the scenarios he’d given you.
“Yes, then I would do it,” you finally say. Though your words lack conviction when you add, “everything that my mother wishes for me to do. I would take you and your family down without any doubt. Without even batting an eyelash.”
“Is that so?”
Yoongi grits his teeth. He can feel his frustration boiling. Yet he tries not to show it.
Right then, for another split second, your mask slips. He can see what you are not telling him. He can see your true feelings, which are written clearly in your gaze.
“But you won’t do it,” he says, finding calmness as he slowly steps forward.
He gets close enough until he can hear the slight hitch in your breath when you notice him standing right before you. He studies your face for a moment, his eyes looking deep into yours.
“You’re not going to do it, are you?” He gently asks. “Why? What is stopping you?”
At first, you give him no answer. But he can feel your walls slowly crumbling down. So he keeps pushing. “What made you start second-guessing everything?”
When silence falls, the distance between the two of you suddenly feels unbearable.
Before he can stop himself, Yoongi reaches up, his palm settling gently against your cheek. Just so he can feel you.
You don't pull away. That alone loosens something painfully tight inside his chest.
“If you have been suspecting me for so long, what made you stop?”
At his gentle voice, a sigh escapes you. As if something inside you finally slips free. “Because, before last night, I still couldn’t decide if you truly were the one pulling all the strings from the shadows, or if you were once also a target, just like I am now.”
His heartbeat quickens. Yet he remains calm. “So which one is it?” He asks. “Who am I? Am I the other target, or the enemy?”
You briefly close your eyes and tilt your head, leaning into his touch.
“Whichever you are doesn’t matter.” You open your eyes, showing calm resolve when you look at him.
"Because I know..." you whisper, your voice barely holding together. "That somewhere along the way...you became part of the reason I was marked as a target."
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🍂Slice of Life, Marriage in Crisis | angst, smut, fluff
🍂 WC: 21,793
🍂Rating: MA 🔞
🍂Summary: Yoongi has known Namjoon since they were fifteen, and ever since they fell in love in college, he knew he had found his forever. But ten years into building a life together, the quiet distance between them has forced Yoongi to face a devastating realization: maybe forever has an expiration date.
A story about clinging to the past, the heavy weight of unspoken truths, and the heartbreaking realization that some things aren't meant to be preserved.
🍂Song Inspiration: BTS’s Autumn Leaves
The apartment holds a certain kind of stillness. It’s a quiet Sunday afternoon, the kind that usually feels domestic and comfortable, but lately the silence has started to feel expansive.
Yoongi stands by the edge of the sofa, methodically folding the week’s laundry. Around him, the apartment is carefully curated, decorated with the artifacts of a ten-year marriage. There are expensive art books stacked on the coffee table and academic journals lining the shelves. It’s a beautiful space, one carefully built piece by piece, yet as Yoongi looks around, it feels just a little too quiet—vast and open like the autumn sky outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
He pulls a faded t-shirt from the basket. The cotton is soft, worn thin from years of wear, and the SNU logo is cracked and peeling across the chest. It’s one of Namjoon’s from their college days, a relic from a time when they were both a little more foolish, a little more green. Holding the fabric between his hands, Yoongi pauses. A strange, settling weight presses into his chest. It’s a feeling he’s been having a lot lately, a lingering sensation that is odd like the damp laundry in his hands—heavy, cool, and waiting to be sorted out. He exhales a quiet breath, pushing the thought away, and carefully sets the damp tee aside to finish air drying.
Across the room, his husband, Namjoon, sits at the dining table. His glasses are pushed up the bridge of his nose as he reviews a portfolio for the upcoming exhibit at SeMA–the Seoul Museum of the Arts. He hums softly under his breath, a low, rumbling sound that has been the soundtrack to Yoongi’s life for two decades.
Yoongi watches him for a long moment. As a therapist, observation is his trade, and lately, he can’t help but turn that analytical eye on his own home. He notices the subtle difference in Namjoon’s hum today; it’s a little more distracted, a little more hollow than it used to be. It’s the sound of someone physically present, but mentally miles away.
He observes the tense line of Namjoon’s shoulders and the flat set of his jaw. Yoongi catalogs these details quietly, wondering exactly when the space between the sofa and the dining table began to feel like a canyon.
“How is the new exhibit coming along?” Yoongi asks, his voice finally breaking the silence.
The words carry across the room, but it feels as though they barely make a ripple. They just bounce off the surface of the quiet.
Namjoon doesn’t look up immediately. When he finally does, his eyes remain a bit unfocused, his mind still lingering on the pages in front of him. “Taehyung’s installation is coming together,” Namjoon replies, his tone pleasant but carefully neutral. “It takes time to arrange everything perfectly.”
There is no anger between them. No slammed doors, no raised voices, no glaring red flags. That’s what makes it so hard to name. Namjoon can identify a subtle difference in a brushstroke from across a gallery room, curating every exhibit with meticulous care. Yet, he seems entirely blind to the subtle, creeping shifts happening right here in their living room.
Yoongi offers a gentle, practiced smile, letting the silence settle over them once more. Namjoon’s eyes drop back to his papers, and Yoongi goes back to the laundry. They just sit there in the quiet, and as Yoongi glances toward the window at the changing trees outside, he finds himself wondering if it’s natural for things to just…slowly fade.
Gathering the folded laundry, Yoongi carefully stacks it back into the basket. Picking up the dated SNU shirt, he smooths his hand over it. He remembers the day Namjoon got it. It was a crisp October afternoon, much like today, but the air back then had felt electric, crackling with the endless possibilities of their youth. Namjoon had spilled an iced Americano all over his pristine white button-down and, in a panic, bought this shirt from a campus kiosk before a presentation. Yoongi had laughed so hard his sides ached, pulling a flustered Namjoon into a quiet alcove to help him change, stealing breathless kisses between the hurried fumbling of buttons.
They used to be so loud. Messy. Overflowing.
Now, Yoongi picks up the basket and walks toward their bedroom. His socks make no sound against the polished hardwood floors.
“I’ll start dinner in a bit,” Yoongi calls over his shoulder, his voice gentle, careful not to disrupt the delicate ecosystem of the living room.
“Sounds good. Thank you, hyung,” Namjoon responds. The honorific slips out effortlessly, a comfortable habit, but to Yoongi’s sensitive ears, it feels more like a polite acknowledgment from a colleague than the affectionate endearment it used to be.
🍂🍂🍂
The days following that weekend just seem to add on to the growing chasm.
Yoongi notices the small shifts. Namjoon starts leaving for the gallery earlier and coming home later. When they do cross paths in the kitchen, they move around each other carefully, murmuring polite apologies if an elbow bumps a waist. They ask about groceries and schedules, but the comfortable, easy silence they used to share has been replaced by something thick and uncomfortable.
Three weeks into this stilted awkwardness, Yoongi is sitting at his desk in the clinic. He’s flipping through a client’s file, his pen tapping rhythmically against the mahogany wood, when his phone vibrates.
The screen flashes with his husband’s name. Joon.
He answers on the third ring, his voice slipping into its usual, modulated calm. “Hello.”
“Hey,” Namjoon’s voice comes through, sounding artificially loud against the quiet of Yoongi’s office. “Just on my lunch break. Did you eat?”
“A sandwich between sessions,” Yoongi lies smoothly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You?”
“Yeah. Grabbed a coffee.” A pause settles over the line. Yoongi waits, listening to the faint static and the muffled sound of street traffic coming through the line.
“Actually, it’s freezing out today,” Namjoon continues, his tone shifting. He sounds forced, trying to inject some artificial brightness into the call. “The wind almost knocked the cup right out of my hand. Reminded me of that time back at SNU, remember? When we tried to sneak those scalding Americanos into the library under our coats, and I ended up spilling mine all over your sociology notes?”
Namjoon lets out a small, expectant laugh. It sounds tight and nervous through the speaker.
Yoongi closes his eyes. He remembers. He remembers the burn of the coffee, Namjoon’s frantic apologies, and the dark flush on his cheeks. He remembers it perfectly.
But sitting in his office now, staring at the papers strewn across his desk, he just doesn’t have the energy to play along.
“Hmm,” Yoongi hums softly, his voice completely hollow, devoid of any inflection. “Yeah. I remember.”
The forced chuckle on the other end dies instantly.
The silence that follows is heavy, pressing in on Yoongi from all sides. He can almost picture Namjoon standing on the sidewalk, the forced smile dropping from his face as the reality of their distance finally hits him.
“Right,” Namjoon says softly. His voice is clipped now, guarded. “Well, I should get back to the museum.”
“Okay. See you later.”
The line disconnects. Yoongi sets the phone face down on his desk and stares at the wall for a long moment before picking his pen back up.
The heat in the cramped studio apartment is absolutely stifling, thick and heavy with the humidity of late summer. The single, rickety oscillating fan in the corner does nothing but push the warm air around, rattling against the cheap linoleum floor. The space between them is a chaotic sea of test prep books, loose notebook paper, and empty soda cans. It is loud, messy, and impossibly warm. This is their fifth season—a secret, extra pocket of time that belongs entirely to them, completely insulated from the outside world’s decay.
Namjoon is loudly complaining about a literature essay, his hair pushed back into a sweaty, disheveled mess. He gestures wildly with his pen, entirely oblivious to the ridiculous smudge of black ink on his left cheek. Yoongi sits cross-legged across from him, resting his chin in his hand, unable to do anything but watch.
The shift doesn’t come with a grand, cinematic confession. It is simply the natural, undeniable gravitational pull between them reaching its absolute peak.
“You have ink on your face, idiot,” Yoongi teases, his voice fond and dripping with an affection he hasn’t quite learned to hide yet.
He leans over the scattered papers, reaching out. His thumb brushes against Namjoon’s cheek, rubbing at the dark stain.
Namjoon goes entirely still. The rant about classical poetry dies instantly on his lips. He looks up, and the comfortable, easy space between them suddenly evaporates, replaced by something thick and electric. Namjoon’s eyes are wide, dark, and searching, completely focused on Yoongi’s face as if seeing him clearly for the very first time. The mechanical hum of the cheap fan fades into the background, drowned out by the sudden, frantic beating of Yoongi’s own heart.
When Namjoon leans in, closing the remaining distance, the collision of their mouths is clumsy at first—all teeth and hesitant, shallow breaths—but it quickly melts into something desperate and hungry. Yoongi’s hands find the collar of Namjoon’s shirt, pulling him closer, anchoring himself to the sheer, overwhelming force of the boy in front of him. The air in the room, already stifling, seems to ignite, every touch a scorching brand against their skin. They fumbled for each other amidst the wreckage of their study session, books sliding to the floor unheeded as the world narrowed down to the taste of salt and the frantic, syncopated rhythm of two hearts trying to become one.
In that tiny, suffocating room, breathing in the scent of cheap ramyeon, old paper, and the sharp, metallic tang of lightning before a storm, they feel completely invincible. They are burning bright and green, anchored by a deep, unshakeable root that they believe will prevent them from ever withering. Even as they pulled apart, breathless and wide-eyed in the rattling hum of the fan, the silence that followed wasn't empty; it was a promise, a vibrant, living thing that they thought would outlast the seasons themselves.
The memory fades, pulled away by the sharp snap of the kitchen cabinet closing.
Yoongi blinks, the cramped, humid studio dissolving into the pristine, perfectly lit kitchen of their current apartment. It’s been three weeks since the quiet Sunday with the laundry. Three weeks of walking on eggshells.
Namjoon is standing by the island, holding a bottle of expensive Cabernet and two crystal glasses. He had come home early tonight, an active, tangible effort to fix the heavy stillness settling over them.
“I picked this up near the gallery,” Namjoon says, his voice a little too bright. “The guy at the shop said it pairs well with spicy food. I thought…well, I thought we could just sit. Talk.”
Yoongi accepts the glass. “Thank you, Joon-ah. That’s thoughtful.”
They sit at opposite ends of the beautiful, live-edge walnut table Namjoon had commissioned for their fifth anniversary. Namjoon pours the wine. He looks determined. Yoongi just feels tired.
“So,” Yoongi says. He forces himself to offer more. “Had a breakthrough with a difficult client. He finally admitted he’s been projecting his work stress onto his spouse.”
Namjoon nods slowly. He takes a sip of wine. The silence stretches, taut and uncomfortable. Yoongi watches his husband’s eyes dart around the room, looking everywhere but at him. The effort is there, but the execution is agonizing.
“Joon,” Yoongi sighs, leaning forward. He slips easily into the calm, modulated tone he uses in the office. “We don’t have to force this. I know we’ve both been feeling the distance lately. It’s okay to just acknowledge it. How are you actually feeling?”
Namjoon’s hand freezes on the stem of his wine glass. His posture goes rigid, the defensive walls shooting up instantly, thick and impenetrable.
“I’m feeling fine, Yoongi,” Namjoon says, the forced brightness vanishing, his voice suddenly hard and guarded. “I brought home wine so we could have a nice evening. Why does it have to be a therapy session? Why do you always have to diagnose us?”
Yoongi physically recoils, his clinical shield cracking just enough to let the sting in. He leans back, breaking eye contact to stare at the expensive oak of the table.
“I’m not,” he murmurs, though the defense tastes as dry as the wine on his tongue. “I’m sorry. Never mind.”
The silence that follows is suffocating, no longer just taut, but brittle. Namjoon finishes his glass in one long swallow, the harsh bob of his throat the only movement in the room. He sets the crystal down with a definitive clink.
“Let’s just go to bed,” Namjoon sighs, his voice losing its sharp edge.
By the time Yoongi finishes washing the wine glasses and enters the bedroom, the thick curtains are drawn, and the bedside lamp is the only glow in the room. In the shadows, the nightly routine takes over. Yoongi mechanically sheds his clothes from the day, swapping them for a pair of soft shorts and an oversized t-shirt. It’s a quiet, practiced ritual. When he finally turns to the bed, Namjoon is already under the covers, dressed in his usual heather-grey sweatpants, his broad chest bare in the soft light.
Standing next to the bed, Yoongi switches off the last remaining light. The darkness is a relief. It softens the edges of the room and hides the vast, terrifying expanse of the king-sized mattress between them.
Yoongi slides under the duvet. For a long, agonizing minute, there is only the sound of their unsynchronized breathing.
The mattress dips behind him. Namjoon shifts in the dark, closing the vast space between them. His large hand slides under the soft cotton of Yoongi’s shirt, finding the familiar dip of his waist out of pure, ingrained habit. Namjoon presses his face into the space between Yoongi’s neck and shoulder, exhaling a long, heavy breath that feels more like exhaustion than desire.
Yoongi closes his eyes, letting his head fall back against the pillow. He knows this script. It’s the physical apology they fall back on when the words fail them. Namjoon’s thumb strokes a slow, rhythmic circle against his bare hip bone. It’s familiar. It’s comfortable. It’s entirely devoid of heat.
Yoongi turns slightly, offering closer access, letting his own body take the lead. Namjoon presses a soft, closed-mouth kiss to the curve of his neck. It feels like checking a box.
Namjoon shifts his weight, the mattress dipping under his familiar bulk as he moves over Yoongi. There is no urgency, no fumbling in the dark. They have mapped each other’s bodies so thoroughly over the years that they don’t even need to open their eyes to find the right angles.
Namjoon captures Yoongi’s lips in a kiss that is smooth, open, and undeniably skilled, yet somehow feels rehearsed. Yoongi parts his lips on a quiet sigh, lifting his arms to drape them loosely around Namjoon’s broad shoulders, his fingers tracing the slope of his spine purely out of habit.
It’s a perfectly choreographed dance. Namjoon’s hands slide under the hem of Yoongi’s oversized t-shirt, his palms warm and calloused as they glide up his ribs. He pulls the shirt over Yoongi’s head in one fluid motion, tossing it blindly onto the floor.
Yoongi lets himself be moved, allows his hips to tilt up automatically when Namjoon’s hands drift down to the drawstring of his soft shorts. The fabric slips down his thighs without a single snag.
Everything is just so easy. That’s the worst part.
Namjoon presses his chest flush against Yoongi’s, skin sliding smoothly against skin. The rhythm they fall into is languid and measured. Namjoon knows exactly where to touch, exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly how to draw a breathy gasp from Yoongi’s throat. And Yoongi gives him those gasps, achieving the physical pleasure even as his mind floats a million miles away, staring blankly at the ceiling in the dark.
They fit together perfectly, slotting into place like well-worn puzzle pieces, physically synced while remaining emotionally alone in the very same bed.
🍂🍂🍂
It isn’t all bad. That is the cruelest part of the decay.
If they were completely miserable, if the apartment was a constant, freezing warzone, it would be easy to just pack a bag and leave. But there are still moments—tiny, fleeting pockets of warmth—that trick them into believing the roots are still alive.
It happens on a rainy Tuesday morning, four days after the wine incident.
Yoongi wakes up to the distinct, startling sound of glass shattering against the hardwood floor of the kitchen, followed immediately by a sharp curse in Namjoon’s deep voice.
Pulling on a plush cardigan, Yoongi pads out of the bedroom, his hair rumpled from sleep. He finds Namjoon standing frozen in the center of the kitchen, staring down at the shattered remains of the French press and a spreading puddle of dark coffee. Namjoon is wearing his reading glasses and a worn grey sweatpant set, looking thoroughly defeated.
“I bumped the counter with my hip,” Namjoon says, not looking up at the new presence, his voice tight. He sounds like he’s bracing for an argument. Bracing for Yoongi to give him a clinical look and sigh at his clumsiness.
But Yoongi doesn’t. He looks at the mess, then at his husband, and a sudden, completely unforced affection swells in his chest. It’s the god of Destruction. It’s the boy who broke three pairs of sunglasses in a single summer during their twenties.
“Don’t move,” Yoongi says, his voice thick with sleep but remarkably gentle. “You’re barefoot. You’ll step on the glass.”
Namjoon blinks, finally looking up as Yoongi grabs an old towel and a dustpan from the pantry.
Yoongi kneels, efficiently sweeping the large shards of glass out of the way before throwing the towel over the spill. When he stands back up, he catches Namjoon looking at him. Really looking at him. The defensive posture is gone; his shoulders dropped in a relaxed, comfortable slouch.
“You have grounds on your chin, idiot,” Yoongi teases, a soft, fond smile breaking across his face before he can stop it.
He reaches out. It’s pure muscle memory. His thumb brushes against Namjoon’s jaw, wiping away the dark speck of wet coffee grounds. The contact is warm, grounding, and completely stripped of the torturous, heavy pretense that has choked them for months.
Namjoon leans into the touch, just a fraction of an inch, his eyes softening behind his lenses. A real, genuine smile breaks across his face, pushing his dimples deep into his cheeks. It reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners.
“You’re a hazard before 8 AM,” Yoongi murmurs, leaving his hand resting against Namjoon’s neck, feeling the steady, comforting thrum of a pulse beneath his fingertips. For a second, the air in the room is finally easy to breathe. The exhausting weight of the last few months simply evaporates. They aren’t the burnt-out therapist and the stressed curator. They are just Yoongi and Namjoon, standing in a coffee-splattered kitchen, exactly where they belong.
Namjoon chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through the space between them. He reaches up, loosely wrapping his large hand around Yoongi’s wrist. “I know. But you love me anyway.”
The words hang in the air, light and easy.
“Yeah,” Yoongi breathes out, the ache in his chest replaced by a sudden, brilliant flash of hope. “I do.”
He pulls his hand back slowly, tapping Namjoon’s chest. “Let’s get the rest of this glass before you end up cutting yourself and bleeding all over my clean floors.”
Namjoon actually laughs, stepping carefully around the spill to fetch the trash bin while Yoongi handles the dustpan and broom. They move around each other with the effortless, synchronized choreography of two people who have shared a kitchen for years and years. It’s a quiet ballet of shifting hips and reaching past shoulders without ever colliding, entirely stripped of the agonizing caution they’ve been using lately.
When the floor is clean, Yoongi doesn’t go back to the bedroom. Instead, he opens the fridge and starts pulling out eggs, green onions, and leftover rice. Namjoon, banished from the stove for his own safety, sits on a stool at the island after pouring them two glasses of orange juice and watches, occasionally passing the salt. The heavy, oppressive silence is gone, replaced by the comfortable hum of the refrigerator, the sizzle of sesame oil in the pan, and the low, easy murmur of Namjoon talking about a book he’s reading.
When the food is ready, Yoongi moves automatically toward the beautiful, live-edge dining table that usually highlights the canyon between them. But Namjoon catches his hip, gently steering him the other way.
“Couch?” Namjoon suggests balancing both plates in one hand.
Yoongi’s heart does a traitorous little flip. “Couch.”
They sink into the deep, plush velvet of the living room sofa, automatically shifting until they are tangled together. Yoongi pulls his knees up, draping his legs across Namjoon’s lap, while Namjoon settles a heavy, warm arm around Yoongi’s shoulders. They don’t turn on the television. They just sit there side by side, eating their breakfast and sharing quiet bites from each other’s plates, watching the rain streak down the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.
It feels incredibly safe. It feels like them. Yoongi leans his head against Namjoon’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his sleep-warmed skin and laundry detergent. He closes his eyes, savoring the comforting weight of Namjoon’s hand resting on his knee. We can fix this, Yoongi thinks, a desperate, fierce warmth blooming in his chest. We are fixing this right now.
They are just finishing the last of the food, the plates resting on the coffee table, when the sharp, shrill ringtone of Namjoon’s phone shatters the quiet.
It vibrates aggressively against the top of the table. The screen lights up: Director Kim - SeMA.
Namjoon tenses immediately beneath Yoongi. The relaxed, comfortable slope of his shoulders goes rigidly stiff. He shifts, reaching for the phone.
Yoongi acts on pure, desperate instinct. He shifts his weight, catching Namjoon’s wrist gently before his hand can close around the device.
“Don’t,” Yoongi urges. He looks up, meeting Namjoon’s eyes. “Let it ring to voicemail.”
Namjoon pauses, his gaze darting nervously between the buzzing phone and Yoongi’s face. “Yoongi, it’s the director. The board walkthrough is in three days. It could be an emergency with the installation.”
Yoongi presses his thumb, stroking the delicate skin on the inside of Namjoon’s wrist. He feels like he is begging for his life, begging for their entire marriage in this one small gesture. “Just give me ten more minutes. Give us ten more minutes. Please, Joon.”
For a split second, Yoongi thinks he’s won. Namjoon’s eyes soften, a look of profound, torturous conflict crossing his face. His hand twitches in Yoongi’s hold. He looks at the tangle of their legs, at the safe, warm cocoon they’ve built on the couch over the last hour.
But then the phone vibrates again—a demanding, relentless buzz.
The curator wins. The husband loses.
Namjoon gently, but firmly, pulls his wrist out of Yoongi’s grasp. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
He grabs the phone and slides out from beneath Yoongi’s legs. The sudden absence of his body heat leaves Yoongi instantly shivering. The physical distance mirrors the emotional wall slamming right back into place, taller and thicker than before.
“Yes, Director-nim,” Namjoon says, his tone shifting instantly to a brisk, professional one as he turns his back and walks toward his home office. “I have the updated floor plans right here…”
Yoongi is left sitting alone on the couch, his legs curled tightly against his chest. The empty plates sit on the coffee table, a cruel mockery of the intimacy they had shared just seconds ago. He stares at the rain hitting the window, the brilliant flash of hope completely extinguished, leaving the apartment feeling darker and far emptier than before.
It isn’t all bad. But the good moments are just ghosts, haunting a house they no longer live in.
🍂🍂🍂
Over the next four weeks, those ghosts grow harder and harder to ignore, and the effort to hide them from the rest of the world becomes unbearable. Eventually, the decay begins to bleed out the front door.
Hoseok and Jin’s apartment is loud, filled with the rich, heavy scent of garlic and gochujang. In the kitchen, Seokjin is standing at the stove with absolute authority, aggressively stirring a bubbling pot of stew and playfully threatening Jimin with a wooden spoon for hovering too close to the cutting board.
Yoongi sits on the edge of the velvet sofa, a finger of whisky cradled in a crystal tumbler in his hand, feeling like an intruder in his own life.
Namjoon is standing by the kitchen island, laughing loudly at one of Jin’s jokes. He looks good in a loose, cream-colored sweater, his dimples on full display. But to Yoongi, the performance is glaring. Namjoon is overcompensating, projecting an image of the carefree, happy husband to mask the strained silence they’ve lived in for months.
“Alright, sit down before I let the food get cold and blame it on all of you,” Jin commands, ushering everyone toward the large dining table as he carries the heavy ceramic pot over with oven mitts.
They all crowd around, shoulders brushing. Namjoon takes the seat next to Yoongi, pouring them both a glass of water before handing out the chopsticks. He is talking fast, effortlessly maintaining the bright, practiced energy of the room.
“So,” Hoseok says around a mouthful of rice, pointing his chopsticks toward them across the table. “Your big ten-year anniversary is coming up, right? The big decade. You guys doing anything special to celebrate?”
Namjoon doesn’t even miss a beat. “I was actually thinking of taking it back to basics. Remember that underground vinyl bar we used to practically live at in Hongdae? The one with the terrible velvet booths? I thought I’d call and see if I could rent out the back section for the night. Just the two of us, good music, maybe some overpriced whiskey.”
Yoongi stops chewing.
The lie—or rather, the sheer, desperate delusion of it—settles incredibly heavy in his chest. Namjoon hasn’t mentioned this plan to him once. But worse than the lack of communication is the fact that Namjoon is reaching for a ghost, trying to resurrect a piece of their past without actually looking at the present.
Yoongi knows he should just nod. He should offer a polite, close-lipped smile and agree, preserving the pristine image of ‘Namjoon and Yoongi’ for their friends. But he is just so overwhelmingly tired.
“That bar closed down three years ago, Namjoon,” Yoongi says.
He doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t raise his voice. It comes out completely flat, a hollow, factual statement that cuts through the warm chatter of the room like a scalpel.
Namjoon’s bright smile falters, his posture instantly going rigid. “Oh. Right. I guess I haven’t been down that street in a while. Well, we’ll find somewhere else with the same vibe—”
“We both know we aren’t going anywhere, Joon,” Yoongi interrupts quietly. He finally looks up, meeting his husband’s eyes. There is no fire in Yoongi’s gaze, just a profound, devastating exhaustion. “You have the SeMA opening gala that week. We’re probably just going to order takeout and work through the evening. It’s fine.”
The silence that drops over the table is jarring in its suddenness.
Hoseok, who had just been practically vibrating with cheerful energy, freezes. His mouth opens slightly as if to apologize, to somehow reel the question back in, but the words die in his throat. He drops his gaze to his bowl, the back of his neck flushing with an uncomfortable heat.
Beside him, Taehyung goes completely still. Unlike the others, he doesn’t immediately look away; instead, his dark eyes fix heavily on Namjoon, cataloging the tension in his hyung’s shoulders before his gaze slides to Jimin, exchanging a single, loaded look.
Jungkook slowly lowers his glass of water, his wide eyes darting nervously between Yoongi and Namjoon. Seokjin pauses with his chopsticks mid-air, a subtle furrow forming between his brows before he smoothly, desperately tries to redirect his attention back to the food to save them all from the suffocating pause.
“Well,” Jin clears his throat, the forced cheer in his voice blatantly obvious. “If you guys end up staying in, I’ll bring over some of that expensive beef from the butcher. You have to eat well, at least.”
Namjoon forces a tight, fractured laugh, staring at his bowl. “Thanks, hyung.”
They noticed. Of course they did.
Less than ten minutes later, Yoongi escapes to the kitchen under the guise of grabbing more napkins. He stands by the sink, gripping the edge of the cool marble counter, squeezing his eyes shut as he listens to the muffled, strained conversation resuming in the dining room.
“Hyung.”
Yoongi opens his eyes. Jimin is standing in the doorway. He isn’t smiling. He just leans against the doorframe, his sharp eyes filled with a quiet, terrifying concern.
“What’s going on?” Jimin asks, his voice low enough that it won’t carry back to the dining room.
“Nothing, Jimin-ah,” Yoongi says, reaching for a napkin. “Just a long week at the clinic.”
“Don’t do that,” Jimin says gently, stepping closer. “You and Namjoon hyung… you barely looked at each other all night. And the way you just spoke to him out there…that’s not like you.” Jimin hesitates, swallowing hard. “You looked so tired.”
Yoongi’s throat tightens. The urge to lie, to preserve the image of their perfect marriage, fights violently against the sheer exhaustion of carrying the secret.
“It’s just a rough patch,” Yoongi whispers finally, unable to meet Jimin’s eyes. “We’re just… tired.”
Jimin reaches out, laying a warm, gentle hand over Yoongi’s white-knuckled grip on the counter. “You guys are the foundation, hyung. If there are cracks, you don’t have to hide them from us. We’re here.”
Yoongi nods quickly, desperate to end the conversation before he shatters completely. “I know. Thank you.”
He walks back into the dining room, the guilt settling like a stone in his stomach. Their private failure is no longer private. The autumn wind is starting to strip the leaves, and now, everyone has to watch them fall.
🍂🍂🍂
The Friday of the SeMA opening gala arrives with the mechanical precision that has come to define their shared lives.
The Seoul Museum of Art’s gallery is a wash of stark white walls, brilliant track lighting, and the muted, sophisticated hum of Seoul‘s art elite. Yoongi stands near a towering, abstract sculpture, a flute of champagne warming in his grip. He plays his part flawlessly, dressed in a sleek, tailored black suit, offering polite nods and quiet agreements to the passing donors. But mostly, he watches his husband.
Namjoon is magnificent in his element. He wears a charcoal suit that highlights the broad, mature set of his shoulders, his hair styled immaculately back. He is speaking to a group of critics, his hands gesturing with that familiar, passionate cadence as he explains the nuances of Taehyung’s new installation, fittingly titled The Falling.
From a distance, they are the absolute picture of success. The ultimate power couple. The brilliant, visionary curator and his steadfast, successful husband. They are a perfectly curated exhibit themselves.
“He’s been glowing all night,” a familiar voice says, cutting through the low murmur of the crowd.
Yoongi turns to see Seokjin stepping up beside him. Jin looks as effortlessly handsome as ever, though the warm smile he offers Yoongi holds a hint of something analytical, something searching.
“He worked hard on this exhibit,” Yoongi replies, his voice even, practically reading from a script. He takes a slow sip of his champagne. “He curated every piece. He deserves the praise.”
“And how are you, Yoongichi?” Jin asks, his gaze dropping to Yoongi’s tight grip on the delicate crystal flute. “You’ve been awfully quiet tonight. Even for you. Especially after how tense things felt the other night.”
Yoongi pulls up his therapist shield, forcing a small, perfectly calibrated smile. “Just a long week at the clinic, hyung. Listening to people unpack their baggage all day makes me less inclined to do it at night. Your dinner was just… bad timing for my headache.”
It’s an airtight excuse. It’s the same excuse he’s used for months to hide the fact that he simply doesn’t know how to speak anymore, not without shattering the fragile glass house they live in.
Jin hums, a low sound of unconvinced acknowledgment. He doesn’t press, but he doesn’t look like he believes the lie, either. He follows Yoongi’s gaze back to Namjoon. Across the crowded room, Namjoon happens to look over and catches Yoongi’s eye. He offers a smile—it’s bright, dimpled, and completely hollow. It’s the exact same smile he just gave to a wealthy board member a moment ago.
Yoongi’s chest seizes with a phantom ache. He raises his glass in salute, returning the performance without missing a beat.
When Namjoon finally excuses himself from the critics and navigates through the crowd toward them, his hand finds the small of Yoongi’s back. The touch is light, perfectly placed for the benefit of anyone watching. To an outsider, it looks intimate, a tender grounding mechanism between partners. To Yoongi, who remembers the desperate, bruising grip of Namjoon’s hands from a decade ago, it feels like a physical barrier. A polite boundary line.
“Having fun?” Namjoon asks, his voice pitched low, joining their quiet circle.
“Always,” Yoongi lies smoothly.
He leans slightly into the hand on his back, a greedy reflex he can’t seem to kill, desperately trying to preserve the illusion of warmth. They stand shoulder to shoulder, bathed in bright gallery lights and surrounded by their friends, but Yoongi has never felt more isolated. He is a single, dried leaf, terrified of the wind, clinging hopelessly to a branch he knows is already dead.
The front door clicks shut, followed by the heavy thud of Yoongi’s dress shoes hitting the entryway floor. He shrugs off his tailored coat, hanging it on the rack before making his way into the living room, rolling his shoulders to relieve the knot of tension at the base of his neck. The fatigue of playing the supportive, perfectly content husband all evening—all month—is settling deep into his bones.
Namjoon is already in the living room. He’s loosened his silk tie and rolled up his sleeves, but instead of unwinding, he’s pulled a stack of gallery notes and early press reviews onto the coffee table. He looks up briefly as Yoongi enters.
“You were quiet tonight,” Namjoon says, his voice carrying the rough edge of a long evening.
“I was just tired,” Yoongi replies, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. A dull headache has been building in his temples since they took their first press photo together. He collapses into the armchair adjacent to the sofa, letting his head fall back against the upholstery with a heavy sigh. “Listening to people talk about the dichotomy of modern art for four hours is draining.”
He waits for Namjoon to ask if he’s okay. To offer a sympathetic nod, get up and get him a glass of water, or simply say, “I know, hyung, thank you for coming.”
Instead, Namjoon just hums, his eyes already drifting back to the papers in front of him. “Well, the board loved it. The director believes Taehyung’s installation will draw record numbers this weekend. Did you see the note that the critic from Seoul Times left?”
Yoongi opens his eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling. “No, Namjoon. I didn’t see the note. I just told you I was completely drained.”
“Right. Sorry.” Namjoon sits up, shuffling a few papers into a messy stack. He doesn’t look at Yoongi. “I’m just trying to make sure everything is perfect for this weekend.”
It’s the absolute, casual dismissal that stings the most. Yoongi sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looks at his husband, really looks at him—the sharp, handsome line of his jaw, the tired droop of his shoulders, the man he’s fought so hard to hold onto.
“Are you even listening to me?” Yoongi asks, the exhaustion finally bleeding into frustration.
Namjoon drops the papers. He lets out a heavy, exasperated sigh that instantly grates against Yoongi’s last nerve. “Yes, Yoongi, I’m listening. You’re tired. The gala was draining. I said I was sorry. What else do you want me to say?”
“I want you to act like you actually care,” Yoongi says, his voice low but sharp.
The silence that follows is tense. Namjoon stares at him, his expression defensive and closed off. “I’ve been working for months trying to get this exhibit off the ground. The board is breathing down my neck, and I have to capitalize on this press. Excuse me for being a little focused on my career on opening night.”
“You’re always focused on your career,” Yoongi shoots back. He stands up, suddenly feeling completely suffocated in his own home. The space they curated so carefully over the years feels like a pristine, airless box. “It’s fine. Just… go back to your reviews.”
“Yoongi, don’t do this,” Namjoon says, his tone taking on that placating, reasonable edge that drives Yoongi insane.
“Do what?” Yoongi challenges, pausing at the edge of the hallway.
“Pick a fight just because you’re in a bad mood.”
Yoongi turns back around. His chest aches, a hollow, physical pain that has become far too familiar lately. “I’m not picking a fight, Joon. I’m trying to have a conversation with my husband. But we don’t even seem to know how to do that anymore.”
Namjoon’s jaw clenches. “I’m sitting right here.”
“Yeah, physically,” Yoongi says softly, the anger suddenly draining out of him, leaving behind nothing but a cold, heavy sadness. “But you haven’t really been here in months. We have spent the last half year pretending, forcing dates, smiling for our friends while we slowly deteriorate in our own living room.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He just turns and walks down the hall, leaving Namjoon sitting among his scattered papers, the quiet of the apartment settling heavily around them once again.
Yoongi doesn’t make it all the way to the bedroom. He stops halfway down the dimly lit corridor, pressing his forehead against the cool, painted drywall. His heart hammers a frantic, painful rhythm against his ribs. The silence of the apartment presses in on him, so thick it feels like physical weight.
He hears the distinct, harsh rustle of papers being hastily shoved aside. Then, the slow, heavy thud of Namjoon’s footsteps following him.
Yoongi turns just as Namjoon rounds the corner. The hallway light catches the sheer exhaustion etched deep into the lines of Namjoon’s face. The sharp defensiveness from a moment ago has completely crumbled, leaving behind a raw, devastating vulnerability that Yoongi hasn’t seen in years.
“Don’t walk away,” Namjoon whispers. He stops a few feet from Yoongi, leaving a cautious, terrible gap between them. “Please.”
Yoongi swallows the tight lump in his throat. He’s spent years acting as a therapist for others, diagnosing dying relationships and guiding couples through the messy autopsy of their love. He knows the symptoms better than anyone. He knows he’s been greedy, clinging to a dead branch just because he’s completely terrified of the fall.
“I’m right here,” Yoongi says, his voice cracking. He drops his practiced, clinical shield entirely, finally letting the raw ache bleed into the open space. “But what are we even doing, Joon? We try, and we fight, and we talk, but we don’t say anything. We live in this beautiful home, but our conversations are hollow. We speak, but the words fail to connect or land. None of it means anything anymore.”
Namjoon’s jaw works as he stares at Yoongi. He raises a hand, dragging it through his perfectly styled hair, ruining the polished curator facade he’s worn all night. “I don’t want it to be hollow.”
“But it is,” Yoongi says softly. The truth is a physical blow, heavy and suffocating. “You curate exhibits, Namjoon. You notice when a frame is a millimeter off-center or a spotlight is too harsh. How can you not see what’s happening right in front of you? How can you look at me every day and pretend we aren’t withering?”
Namjoon takes a shaky step forward, closing the distance between them. Up close, his dark eyes are shining, brimming with unshed tears. He reaches out, his large hands hovering hesitantly in the air before resting lightly on Yoongi’s arms. The touch burns, seeping through the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt.
“Because I’m terrified,” Namjoon admits, his voice breaking. The confession spills out of him like water from a cracked vase. “I look at you, and I remember the cramped studio apartment. I remember SNU. I remember exactly how it felt to hold you when we had nothing but each other and endless time. I keep trying to see green, Yoongi. I pretend, because if I admit that we’re… that we’ve faded, then that means the best part of my life is over.”
Yoongi feels the first hot tear slip down his cheek, tracing a familiar path to his jaw. He lets out a shattered exhale, the sound loud in the quiet hallway. They have become children again, hiding the warmth of their memories because the present is far too cold to face.
“Everything that felt like it would last forever eventually grows distant,” Yoongi whispers, the profound grief finally washing over him. He doesn’t pull away from Namjoon’s hold, but he doesn’t lean into it, either.
Namjoon bows his head, a choked sob escaping his lips as he rests his forehead against Yoongi’s shoulder. Yoongi tentatively raises his hands, resting them against Namjoon’s back, feeling his husband’s broad shoulders tremble beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt.
They don’t promise to fix it. They don’t offer empty platitudes or lie and say that love alone is enough to reverse the changing of the seasons. They simply stand there in the dimly lit hallway of their pristine, empty home, finally letting the bitter wind in. They hold each other as the last dead leaf falls.
It’s Namjoon who moves first. His grief suddenly sharpens into a frantic, clawing panic. His hands slide up from Yoongi’s back, his large fingers twisting roughly into the collar of Yoongi’s shirt. He pulls Yoongi in until there is absolutely no space left between them, tilting his head down and capturing Yoongi’s mouth.
It isn’t a gentle kiss. It tastes like salt and sheer, blinding terror.
Yoongi kisses him back with the same devastating urgency because the words have finally been said. The truth is out in the open air, and this is the fallout. He opens his mouth, their teeth clashing harshly in the darkness of the hallway. It's messy and uncoordinated. Namjoon walks Yoongi backward, his heavy strides forcing Yoongi to retreat until his shoulder blades hit the wall with a solid thump.
Namjoon’s large hands drop to Yoongi’s hips, gripping the fabric of his trousers hard enough to bruise the skin beneath. He is trying to physically anchor them, to forcefully stitch the fraying edges of their marriage back together through sheer proximity.
“Hyung,” Namjoon gasps, tearing his mouth away just enough to breathe. His chest heaves against Yoongi’s. The word tears out of him like a plea, a desperate demand to make it work.
Yoongi reaches up, his fingers digging deep into Namjoon’s hair, further ruining the polished curator facade until all that’s left is the raw image of his husband. “I’m here,” he breathes back, his voice ragged but resolute. I’m here, and it’s over.
He drags Namjoon back down.
They stumble down the rest of the hallway, a tangle of limbs and wet, bruising kisses. Hands tear blindly at their expensive gala attire. Namjoon shoves Yoongi’s tailored jacket off his shoulders; it crumples to the floor with a muffled rustle of fabric, left completely forgotten. Yoongi’s fingers fumble with the buttons of Namjoon’s dress shirt, lacking the patience for the tiny clasps. He just grips the silk fabric and pulls it apart, buttons popping and skittering away into the dark. He needs to feel skin. He needs to feel the heat of him, to endure the searing reality of the man he is losing.
Their movements halt as the backs of Yoongi’s knees hit the edge of the mattress.
Namjoon breaks the kiss, his chest heaving as he drops to his knees in front of Yoongi. The sharp metallic clank of Yoongi’s belt buckle sounds deafening in the quiet room. Namjoon yanks the zipper down, his trembling hands shoving the thick slacks and underwear down Yoongi’s thighs all at once. Yoongi balances on Namjoon’s shoulders to step out of the pooled fabric.
Free of the restriction, Yoongi lets the frantic momentum carry him, turning and crawling forward until his knees sink deep into the duvet. He drops down onto his forearms, his fingers curling fiercely into the fabric to ground himself. He squeezes his eyes shut, his chest heaving with the same ragged breaths as the man behind him, actively bracing his body to catch the full weight of Namjoon’s grief.
Behind him, he hears the frenzied sounds of Namjoon shedding the rest of his clothes. Then, the sudden scrape of the nightstand drawer opening. The mattress dips behind Yoongi as a familiar weight settles there, accompanied by the sound of a bottle uncapping.
A heavy, calloused hand clamps down on Yoongi’s hip, fingers digging tightly into the skin to anchor him. There is no slow, careful preparation. The hasty, slick slide of Namjoon’s fingers is rushed and rough, driven entirely by the immediate, burning need to bridge the chasm before it consumes them.
Namjoon withdraws his fingers and shifts his weight, aligning his hips between Yoongi’s thighs.
When Namjoon finally pushes inside him, it’s with a heavy, fierce thrust.
The impact knocks the breath right out of Yoongi’s lungs. He drops his head between his shoulders, his knuckles turning white as he grips the bedsheets. Namjoon drops his weight forward, his chest pressing flush and hot against Yoongi’s bare back. He buries his face against the nape of Yoongi’s neck, his broad shoulders trembling violently in the dark as their bodies slot fully together.
They move with a desperate, punishing rhythm. It’s not making love; it’s an exorcism. It's the physical manifestation of over a decade of shared history collapsing in on itself.
Even facing away, Yoongi is entirely consumed by it. The tragedy of the angle is that he can’t see Namjoon’s face, but he can feel every single ounce of his devastation. He lets hot tears slip freely from his eyes, soaking silently into the sheets. He maps the familiar, crushing weight of Namjoon’s body against his back, feeling the erratic, heavy thud of his husband’s heart hammering right against his own spine.
Namjoon’s hands grip Yoongi’s hips like vices, his thumbs bruising the skin as his hips snap forward in a relentless, driving pace. His mouth is hot and open against Yoongi’s neck, teeth scraping blindly against the skin as if trying to leave a permanent mark—as if marking him will somehow keep him. Please, the sharp rhythm seems to beg. Please, let this be enough.
And Yoongi meets him there. He takes every desperate thrust, rocking his hips back to answer Namjoon’s frantic pace. He is giving Namjoon everything he has left—a complete, raw physical surrender—while knowing in his soul that the foundation beneath them has already crumbled.
When Namjoon finally breaks, the climax tears through him violently. He collapses forward, his full, dead weight pressing Yoongi deep into the mattress with a shattered, broken sob.
Yoongi’s own release follows a second later, a sharp, aching peak that leaves behind a sweeping, devastating emptiness.
He bears Namjoon’s trembling frame in the pitch black. His own breathing is ragged, but he reaches back with one hand, his fingers finding the sweat-slicked hair at the nape of Namjoon’s neck. He strokes the damp strands gently, offering a heartbreaking comfort until the violent tremors slowly subside into exhausted breaths.
They stay tangled together in the dark, the suffocating silence in the room, creeping back in as the adrenaline fades. Eventually, the crushing grip loosens. Namjoon withdraws, the mattress shifting as he rolls his weight off Yoongi’s back.
The sudden rush of cold air against Yoongi’s skin is a harsh reminder of the chasm between them. They peel their sticky bodies away from one another, not saying a single word. Namjoon swings his legs over the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders hunched, before he wordlessly pads into the en-suite bathroom. The harsh slice of fluorescent light cuts through the dark bedroom, followed by the sterile sound of the tap running.
A minute later, Namjoon emerges. He drops a warm, damp washcloth into Yoongi’s hand before climbing under the covers, immediately rolling over and turning his back to the center of the bed.
Yoongi methodically wipes the sweat and cum from his own skin, the mundane, lonely action feeling terribly empty. He tosses the used cloth onto the floor, his chest tight with a grief he can’t voice. Lying back down, he pulls the duvet up, and they finally collapse into a heavy, dreamless sleep on completely opposite sides of the mattress.
The morning comes entirely devoid of warmth. The sky outside the bedroom window is a flat, unforgiving gray, casting long, pale shadows across the duvet.
Yoongi wakes up with the kind of headache that sits heavy behind the eyes—the physical hangover of a shattered heart. He doesn’t move immediately. He lies on his side, staring at the expanse of sheets between him and Namjoon. They aren’t touching, and the heavy, electric tension that had choked the room for months is completely gone.
In its place is just a profound, devastating hollowness. The fight is finally over.
Namjoon is still asleep, his face pressed into the pillow, his breathing deep and even. The lines of stress that usually bracket his mouth are smoothed out. He looks younger. He looks like the boy Yoongi loved, rather than the husband he is leaving.
Leaving.
The realization hits suddenly. Because that’s exactly what is happening. All these months of careful thoughts and tiptoeing around the very real possibility. Yoongi knows it now, without a doubt. He is leaving.
Yoongi reaches blindly for his phone on the nightstand. The screen is blindingly bright in the dim room. With numb, heavy fingers, he types a single message to Jin.
Yoongi[7:05 AM]: Do you still have the guest room set up?
He stares at the ceiling, waiting. The reply comes less than a minute later, despite the early hour.
Jin hyung[7:05 AM]: Always. You know the door code.
Yoongi closes his eyes, letting out a long, shaky breath. Careful not to make a sound, Yoongi slips out from under the covers. The hardwood floor is cold against his bare feet.
He walks into the massive walk-in closet they designed together. It smells like cedar and Namjoon’s expensive cologne. Shivering slightly in the morning chill, Yoongi pulls a pair of dark jeans and a thick, oversized black sweater off their hangers. He strips out of his sleep clothes and dresses quickly, the heavy denim and warm wool grounding him in the harsh reality of the morning.
Fully dressed, he bypasses his row of tailored suits and reaches for the top shelf, pulling down a simple, structured black canvas duffel bag. It’s the bag he usually takes for weekend wellness conferences.
He sets it on the island of drawers in the middle of the closet and unzips it. The sound is startlingly loud in the quiet apartment. It sounds like a final ruling.
Yoongi starts with the basics. Socks, underwear, and a few soft sweaters. He moves with the same methodical, clinical precision he used to fold the laundry on that quiet Sunday a month ago. But this isn’t maintenance. This is an extraction. He is systematically untangling his life from the man sleeping in the next room.
He grabs his toothbrush from the master bathroom, dropping it into a leather Dopp kit. He packs his chargers. He packs his favorite pair of worn-in jeans. Every item he places into the canvas bag feels like removing a brick from the foundation of their home.
He is zipping the Dopp kit closed when a shadow falls over the threshold.
Yoongi pauses. He looks up.
Namjoon is standing in the closet doorway. His hair is a mess, sleep-mussed and sticking up in all directions. He is wearing the faded SNU t-shirt Yoongi had folded weeks ago. His eyes are red-rimmed, heavy with exhaustion, locked entirely on the black canvas bag.
He doesn’t ask what Yoongi is doing. He doesn’t panic, and he doesn’t throw his walls up. The fight has been completely drained out of him.
“How much are you packing?” Namjoon asks. His voice is a rough, devastating rasp.
Yoongi looks down at his hands, his fingers lingering on the brass zipper of the bag. “Just enough for a few days. I texted Jin hyung this morning while you were sleeping. He said their guest room is open.”
Namjoon swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He leans his shoulder against the doorframe, suddenly looking like he can barely support his own weight. “A few days.”
“To start,” Yoongi says softly, offering the terrible, unvarnished truth. “I think… I think we need to stop suffocating each other. We need to let the air clear.”
“Is the air going to clear?” Namjoon whispers, looking at the floor. “Or are you just going to get used to breathing without me?”
The question is a knife to the ribs. Yoongi’s breath hitches. He looks at his husband—the brilliant, clumsy, beautiful man he built his entire adult life around. He wants to walk across the closet, press his face into Namjoon’s chest, and promise that this is just a break. A brief intermission. But they have already spent too long lying to themselves, and Yoongi simply doesn’t have it in him to tell one more.
Namjoon closes his eyes, a single tear escaping and tracking down his cheek. He nods, a slow, agonizing acceptance of the reality they’ve been running from. He doesn’t step forward to stop Yoongi. He doesn’t beg.
He just steps back, clearing the doorway.
“Okay,” Namjoon breathes out. “Okay.”
Yoongi finishes zipping the bag. He shoulders the strap, its weight settling heavily against his collarbone. He walks toward the door, stopping just inches from Namjoon. For a second, the air between them is thick, buzzing with the ghosts of their past and the terrifying blank slate of their future.
Yoongi reaches out, gently resting his hand against Namjoon’s chest, right over his heart. It beats steadily and strongly beneath his palm.
“I’ll text you when I get to Jin hyung’s,” Yoongi whispers.
Namjoon covers Yoongi’s hand with his own, holding it tightly against his chest for one long, breathless second before letting go.
“Drive safe, hyung.”
Yoongi turns and walks down the pristine hallway, through the perfectly curated living room, and out the front door. The lock clicks shut behind him, sealing the silence inside.
The drive across Seoul is a blur of gray concrete and early morning commuter traffic. The city is waking up, the pale sunrise reflecting off glass skyscrapers, completely indifferent to the fact that Yoongi’s entire life has just fractured. He grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white, keeping the radio switched off. He can’t bear to fill the quiet.
When he reaches the familiar high-rise, he takes the elevator up. He stands in front of Jin and Hoseok’s door for a long time, staring at the keypad. He raises his hand to knock, but remembers the text from an hour ago: you know the door code.
He activates the keypad, enters the code, then pushes the heavy brass handle down. With a whir and a click, the door opens.
The apartment is warm, smelling faintly of roasted barley tea and the citrus diffuser Hoseok keeps by the entryway. Unlike the pristine, airless museum of his own home, this space feels incredibly lived-in. It feels safe.
Seokjin is standing at the kitchen island, nursing a ceramic mug. Beside him, Hoseok is perched on a barstool, wrapped tightly in a fleece blanket, his hair ruffled from sleep. They are speaking in low, quiet murmurs, but the conversation abruptly stops when the front door shuts.
Both of their heads snap up.
Hoseok’s sleepy eyes immediately dart to the black canvas duffel bag slung over Yoongi’s shoulder. The last remnants of sleep instantly vanish from his face, replaced by a stark, terrified realization. Jin just sets his mug down, his gaze taking in the harsh, devastated lines of exhaustion etched onto Yoongi’s face.
Jin crosses the hardwood floor first, gently lifting the heavy strap off Yoongi’s shoulder. “Let me take that,” he murmurs, his voice a low, grounding rumble. He sets the bag down by the console table, out of the way.
Without the weight of the strap anchoring him, Yoongi suddenly feels completely untethered. His hands tremble slightly, falling uselessly to his sides. The adrenaline that had carried him through the closet, past his husband, and through the drive suddenly evaporates, leaving nothing but a crushing, hollow ache.
“Hyung,” Yoongi chokes out, his voice cracking violently. The therapist's shield comes crashing down. The carefully constructed facade of the contented partner is entirely stripped away. He is just a man standing in a hallway, bleeding out. “I left.”
Seokjin steps forward, wrapping his broad arms securely around Yoongi’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight, uncompromising hug. It’s the kind of embrace that doesn’t demand explanations or offer cheap platitudes. It just holds him together.
A second later, Yoongi feels a second pair of arms wrap around them both from behind. Hoseok presses his face firmly against the back of Yoongi’s shoulder, his grip fierce and protective.
“We’ve got you, Yoongichi,” Jin whispers, one hand coming up to gently palm the back of Yoongi’s head. “You’re safe here.”
Yoongi buries his face in Jin’s shoulder, his fingers curling weakly into the fabric of his shirt. The dam finally breaks. The tears he had refused to shed in front of Namjoon spilled over, hot and silent, soaking into the collar of Seokjin’s sweater. He doesn’t sob loudly; he just shakes, his chest heaving with the absolute, excruciating grief of a decades-long love story coming to an end.
His two friends just stand there in the entryway, anchoring him. They don’t rush him. They wait until the trembling slowly subsides into heavy, exhausted breaths.
Eventually, Yoongi pulls back, hastily wiping at his wet cheeks with the heels of his hands, embarrassed by the sudden vulnerability. Hoseok steps back to give him space, but keeps a warm, grounding hand resting on the small of Yoongi’s back.
“I’m sorry,” Yoongi rasps, clearing his throat, desperately trying to pull himself back together. “I shouldn’t just show up and fall apart in your hallway.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Hoseok says softly, his voice thick with his own unshed tears. He gently guides Yoongi by the elbow toward the living room. “Our hallway has seen worse. Come sit down.”
“The guest bedroom is already made up,” Jin adds, turning back toward the kitchen to fetch the kettle. “Fresh sheets. You can sleep for the next three days if you want to. Nobody is going to bother you.”
Yoongi lets Hoseok maneuver him on the plush, oversized sofa. He leans his head back against the cushions, staring blankly at the ceiling.
“He didn’t try to stop me,” Yoongi says to the ceiling.
Jin pauses in the kitchen. Hoseok, who had just sat down beside Yoongi on the couch, goes completely still.
“Did you want him to?” Jin asks gently, walking over and pressing a warm mug of tea into Yoongi’s hands before taking a seat on the coffee table directly across from them.
Yoongi wraps his cold fingers around the warm porcelain, staring down at the amber liquid. He thinks of Namjoon standing in the closet doorway, looking so incredibly small in his SNU t-shirt, quietly accepting the end because he was just as exhausted as Yoongi was.
“No,” Yoongi whispers, the truth tasting like ash in his mouth. “If he had asked me to stay, I think it would have killed us both.”
Hoseok lets out a shaky breath, leaning over to rest his head against Yoongi’s shoulder, a silent offering of comfort. Jin sighs softly, resting his forearms on his thighs, his dark eyes filled with a heavy, sorrowful understanding.
“Okay,” Jin says quietly, acknowledging the absolute finality of it. “Then we figure out what comes next. But first, you sleep.”
He doesn’t give Yoongi a chance to argue. Jin stands up, grabs the black duffel bag from the entryway, and leads the way down the short hall to the guest bedroom.
The room is dim, the heavy blackout curtains already drawn against the rising sun. It smells like clean linen and the faint, citrusy scent of Hoseok’s preferred fabric softener. It is a beautiful, comfortable room, but as Jin sets the bag down at the foot of the bed and quietly closes the door, leaving Yoongi alone, the unfamiliarity of the space hits him like a physical blow.
For over ten years, Yoongi has fallen asleep to the low, rumbling hum of Namjoon’s breathing. He knows the exact dip in their mattress, the specific rustle of their high-thread-count sheets, and the way Namjoon inevitably steals the duvet around 3 AM.
Now, there is just silence.
Yoongi doesn’t unpack. He doesn’t even open the zipper of the duffel bag. He simply kicks off his jeans, toeing them into a corner, and crawls under the unfamiliar duvet in his oversized sweater and boxers. He curls onto his side, pulling his knees toward his chest. He expects to lie awake, his therapist brain churning through the logistics of what he’s just done, but the emotional hemorrhage of the morning has drained him completely dry.
He closes his eyes, and the exhaustion drags him under like a riptide.
The next three days exist in a strange, liminal haze.
Yoongi learns quickly what the phantom limb syndrome of a dead marriage feels like. He wakes up disoriented, his arm automatically reaching out across the mattress to anchor himself, only to grasp empty, cool sheets. He catches himself holding his breath, listening for the heavy thud of Namjoon’s footsteps down the hall before reality violently reasserts itself.
Jin and Hoseok are a quiet, steadfast barricade between Yoongi and the rest of the world. They let him exist as a ghost in their apartment, haunting the edges of their domesticity.
But the bubble can only last so long.
It’s late Tuesday afternoon. Yoongi is sitting on the balcony, wrapped in one of Hoseok’s thick fleece blankets, staring blankly at the Seoul skyline.
The post-gala celebration dinner is scheduled for tonight at seven. For the last three days, the impending reservation has been a ticking clock in Yoongi’s chest. He has spent the entire morning drafting and deleting cowardly text messages in his notes app, trying to decide if he should blame a sudden migraine or a crisis at the clinic. He knew he physically couldn’t sit at a restaurant table with Namjoon and pretend, but he was too terrified to tell the group the truth.
His phone, which had been set to ‘Do Not Disturb’ and buried under a pillow for the last seventy-two hours, vibrates against the patio table.
Yoongi ignores it. But then it vibrates again. And again. A rapid, frantic succession of buzzes that completely shatters the quiet.
With a heavy sigh, Yoongi reaches out from under the blanket and taps the screen.
Jimin [4:12 PM]: Hyung.
Jimin[4:13 PM]: Namjoon hyung just texted Kook and me. He canceled tonight's post-gala celebration dinner.
Jimin[4:14 PM]: He said he needs to focus on work and we don’t need to reschedule.
Jimin[4:17 PM]: Tae is at the museum right now. He said Namjoon is acting like a robot. Yoongi hyung, please answer me. What happened after you guys left the gala on Friday?
Yoongi stares at the bright screen, his thumb hovering over the glass. His chest tightens. Namjoon had beaten him to it. But instead of offering a polite excuse about being tired, Namjoon is just cutting them out. He was actively drawing the boundary line, shutting the group out because he couldn’t face them either.
The door to the balcony slides open. Seokjin steps out, holding two mugs of tea. He takes one look at Yoongi’s pale face and the lit screen of the phone, and his gentle expression hardens into grim understanding.
“Jimin?” Jin asks softly, handing a mug over.
“Namjoon canceled the celebration dinner tonight,” Yoongi whispers, his voice rough from disuse. He drops the phone face down on the table. “He told them not to reschedule.”
“I know,” Jin says, his voice flat. He sits down heavily in the patio chair next to Yoongi. “He just forwarded the cancellation to Hobi and me. He took himself out of the group chat right after.”
Yoongi closes his eyes. “They know something is wrong.”
“We knew we couldn’t hide it from them forever, Yoongi,” Jin says gently. “They’re your family.”
“I don’t know how to say it out loud to them,” Yoongi confesses, the therapist in him entirely unequipped to handle his own autopsy. He pulls the fleece blanket tighter around his shoulders, feeling incredibly small. “If I say it out loud…if I tell Jimin, Jungkook, and Taehyung that it’s over, then I can’t take it back. It becomes real.”
“It’s already real, Yoongichi,” Jin says, the truth soft but immovable. He reaches out, resting a warm hand over Yoongi’s trembling fingers on the mug. “But you don’t have to do it alone. You want me to call them? Tell them to come over?”
Yoongi closes his eyes. He imagines Jimin’s devastating concern, Taehyung’s quiet, analytical shock, Jungkook’s wide-eyed confusion. He imagines the ripple effect of his failed marriage tearing through the foundation of their friend group.
He takes a slow, steady inhale, letting the bitter autumn wind bite at his cheeks.
“Yeah,” Yoongi whispers, finally opening his eyes. “Tell them to come over.”
The wait for the three youngest to arrive is torture.
When the knock finally comes, Hoseok opens the door. Jimin and Jungkook step inside first, their faces tight with anxiety. Taehyung follows a second later.
Taehyung walks straight past them. He stops in front of the sofa, his dark eyes locked onto Yoongi.
“I ran into Joonie hyung at the museum an hour ago,” Taehyung says, his voice completely hollow. He looks like he is in shock. “I asked him why he canceled dinner tonight. I asked if you two had a fight after we left the gala on Friday. He stood there for twenty minutes, talking about opening weekend attendance numbers, and completely ignored the question. He wouldn’t look me in the eye. Yoongi hyung…he wouldn’t even say your name. Why wouldn’t he say your name?”
Yoongi looks at the three of them. The guilt is a physical, crushing weight on his chest.
“Because if he says it, he has to admit what happened,” Yoongi says, his voice incredibly quiet. He forces himself to keep his eyes open, to meet their gazes. “We didn’t just have a fight on Friday, Taehyung-ah. I left him on Saturday morning. I’ve been staying here in the guest room.”
The words hang in the air, absolute and undeniable.
Jimin physically recoils, his hand flying up to cover his mouth. A sharp, wounded sound escapes his throat.
“No,” Jungkook gasps, shaking his head. He looks at Jin and Hoseok for backup. “No, you guys are…you’re Yoongi and Namjoon. You don’t just leave.”
“We’ve been leaving for a long time, Kook-ah,” Yoongi says softly. The sheer exhaustion of the last half-year bleeds into his voice, raw and unpolished. “We just finally stopped pretending.”
🍂🍂🍂
The cardboard boxes pile up in the living room like monuments to a failed empire.
It has been three weeks since the hallway conversation. Three weeks of quiet logistics, awkward maneuvering around each other in the kitchen, and finalizing the lease on Yoongi’s new, much smaller apartment across the river. They are dismantling their life the exact same way they lived the last few years of their marriage—civilly, politely, and completely hollowed out.
Yoongi kneels on the hardwood floor, a roll of packing tape on his knee. He is packing up the books from the study. He reaches for a worn, dog-eared copy of a poetry anthology, its spine completely cracked. His fingers graze the cover, and suddenly, the sterile, air-conditioned chill of the apartment falls away.
It is replaced entirely by the stifling, golden heat of a July afternoon ten years ago.
The memory hits him with the violent force of a physical blow. They are on the floor of this exact room, long before the expensive leather armchairs and the custom shelving were installed. There is just a cheap rug, a single oscillating fan, and boxes they hadn’t unpacked yet from the move. Namjoon is lying on his back, his head pillowed in Yoongi’s lap, holding this exact book up to the sunlight streaming through the window.
Namjoon is reading aloud, his voice that low, resonant rumble that Yoongi used to feel vibrating straight through his own chest. Yoongi’s fingers are buried in Namjoon’s hair, gently massaging his scalp, feeling completely and entirely at peace.
“Listen to this one, hyung,” Namjoon had murmured, dropping the book to his chest. His dimples popped as he smiled up at Yoongi, his eyes entirely devoid of the crushing, professional stress that would eventually bury them both. “I think this poet wrote this specifically about you.”
Yoongi doesn’t remember the poem. He just remembers the overwhelming, suffocating surge of love he felt as he looked down at his husband. He remembers the specific weight of Namjoon in his lap, the smell of summer rain coming through the open window, and the absolute certainty that as long as they had this—this quiet, unshakeable gravity between them—nothing else mattered.
The memory shatters as the heavy packing tape dispenser slips off Yoongi’s knee, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor.
The sound echoes in the empty study. The golden heat of July vanishes instantly, plunging Yoongi right back into the freezing, desolate present. He looks down at his hands. They are trembling violently.
He stares at the book, his vision suddenly blurring. He realizes with a sudden, sickening clarity that he isn’t just packing away paper and cardboard. He is packing away the boy in his lap. He is sealing up that afternoon in July in a box and taping it shut, and he is never, ever going to get it back.
Yoongi sets the book aside. He doesn’t cry. The tears had run out somewhere around week two. Instead, he just methodically picks up the tape dispenser, his movements completely stiff and mechanical, and seals the cardboard shut.
Five days later, Yoongi finds himself sitting on the floor of a different apartment.
The new place in Mapo-gu is a fraction of the size of the home he shared with Namjoon. It smells like fresh paint and industrial carpet cleaner. There is no live-edge walnut table, no carefully curated lighting. It is just empty space and a dozen cardboard boxes.
A sharp knock at the door breaks the silence.
Yoongi pushes himself off the floor, his knees popping in protest, and pulls the door open. Hoseok stands in the hallway, wearing an oversized hoodie and holding a plastic bag that smells heavenly of fried chicken and garlic, a six-pack of Cass dangling from his other hand.
“I figured you wouldn’t have unpacked the plates yet,” Hoseok says, brushing past Yoongi without waiting for an invitation. He sets the food down on the small kitchen counter and begins pulling out paper plates and wooden chopsticks. “And I know for a fact you haven’t bought groceries.”
”You didn’t have to come all the way over here, Hoba,” Yoongi says, though the knot of tension in his chest loosens just a fraction at the sight of his friend.
“Please, hyung. If I left you alone on your first night in a new place, you'd just sit in the dark and psychoanalyze your own misery until you made yourself sick,” Hoseok replies lightly. He cracks open a beer and hands it to Yoongi. “Drink. Eat. Then you can mope.”
Yoongi takes a long pull of the cold beer. They sit on the floor in the center of the living room, leaning their backs against the sofa Yoongi had managed to assemble earlier that afternoon. For a while, the only sound is the rustle of takeout containers and the quiet hum of the city traffic outside the window.
It is quiet here, too. But Yoongi realizes, with a strange sense of clarity, that it’s a different kind of quiet. It isn’t the heavy, suffocating silence of a room filled with unsaid resentments. It’s just… empty. It’s a blank canvas.
“How was the move?” Hoseok finally asks, his tone turning gentle.
Yoongi rests his arms on his knees, staring at the label on his beer bottle. “Efficient. Polite. We hired movers. Namjoon went to the gallery so we wouldn’t have to be in the same room while they loaded my things.”
“It is for the best,” Yoongi says, his voice surprisingly steady. “We were drowning each other. We spent years trying to water a dead plant. It feels awful right now, like I’ve carved out a piece of my own ribs, but… walking out of that apartment today was the first time I felt like I could actually breathe in months.”
Hoesok looks at him, really looks at him, with a perceptive, searching gaze that cuts right to the bone.
“You can’t cure a patient who doesn’t want to take the medicine,” Hoseok says softly, echoing one of Yoongi’s own frequent complaints about his clinic work. “Even if you love them. You did the right thing, stepping away.”
“I know,” Yoongi murmurs. He takes another sip of beer, letting his head fall back against the sofa. “Now I just have to figure out how to live in the winter.”
🍂🍂🍂
Winter arrives in Seoul with a biting, unforgiving wind that sweeps off the Han River and strips the trees completely bare.
Living in Mapo-gu is loud. The streets below Yoongi’s second-floor window are a constant, vibrating hum of delivery scooters, chattering university students, and the clatter of late-night food stalls. It’s a sharp, jarring contrast to the hushed, meticulously crafted silence of his old life, but Yoongi finds a strange comfort in the noise. It reminds him that the world is still moving, even if his own feels like it has ground to a complete halt.
It takes two months for the hollow ache in his chest to dull into something manageable.
He establishes a new routine, building a life out of single portions and quiet evenings. He wakes up at six, makes one cup of drip decaf coffee, and takes the subway to the clinic. He listens to his patients, carefully guiding them through their own unraveling lives, and for the first time in a very long time, he doesn’t feel like a total hypocrite doing it.
When he comes home, the apartment is exactly as he left it. The atmosphere here doesn’t press down on his shoulders like a physical weight. It just sits beside him, polite and unobtrusive. He is surviving the winter.
One Tuesday evening in early December, Yoongi is sitting at his small, unremarkable laminate kitchen counter, reviewing case files. Outside, the first real snow of the year has begun to fall, dusting the neon signs of the neighborhood in a layer of white.
His phone buzzes against the countertop, the sudden vibration startling him in the quiet room.
He glances at the glowing screen.
Namjoon.
Yoongi’s breath hitches, a purely involuntary, muscle-memory reflex. He sets his pen down, staring at the name. They haven’t truly spoken since the day the movers came. All logistics—the lease transfers, the division of their savings, the sterile dissection of their shared life—have been handled through brief, polite emails.
He picks up the phone, his thumb swiping open the message.
Namjoon[7:10 PM]: The mail forwarding got messed up again. I have a stack of your medical journals and a package from your parents. Do you want me to drop them off with your receptionist this week?
It’s completely formal. Distant. A message sent from a stranger across a canyon.
Yoongi types out a reply, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He could just say yes. He could keep the boundary perfectly intact, letting his receptionist act as a buffer. It would be the easiest, safest way to keep the winter frozen and his newly healed ribs intact.
He looks out the window at the bare, shivering branches of the street trees catching the snow. He remembers what Hoseok said about taking the medicine. Walking away was the medicine to stop the decay. But staying entirely frozen forever isn’t living, either.
Yoongi deletes the polite confirmation he just typed.
Yoongi[7:13 PM]: I have a gap in my schedule tomorrow at noon. I can meet you at the cafe near the clinic to grab them. If you have time.
He hits send before he can overthink it, tossing the phone face-down onto the counter as if it might burn him.
The phone vibrates again, less than a minute later.
Namjoon[7:13 PM]: I’ll be there.
Yoongi slowly exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, listening to the soft rattle of the apartment’s radiator. It’s just a coffee. A simple exchange of mail between two adults who used to share a life. But as Yoongi looks back down at his case files, the words blur together, his heart beating a frantic, terrified rhythm inside his chest.
🍂🍂🍂
The cafe near the clinic is small, tucked away on a side street, and smells heavily of roasted beans and damp wool coats. Yoongi sits in a booth near the back, his fingers tracing the rim of his porcelain mug.
The bell above the door chimes.
Yoongi looks up, and the breath is instantly knocked out of his lungs. Namjoon steps inside, shaking the snow from his dark hair. He is wearing a long, camel-colored wool coat over a charcoal turtleneck, looking impossibly handsome and effortlessly successful. But as Namjoon scans the room and his eyes lock onto Yoongi’s, the professional persona slips. He just looks like a man who is freezing.
Namjoon crosses the cafe and slides into the booth opposite Yoongi. He sets a small cardboard box on the table between them.
“Hey,” Namjoon says, his voice a low, rough rumble that sends an immediate traitorous shiver down Yoongi’s spine.
“Hey. Thank you for bringing this,” Yoongi replies, his voice tight. He pulls the box slightly closer.
They attempt the polite script. Namjoon asks about the clinic; Yoongi asks about the upcoming winter exhibition at SeMA. It is agonizing. It feels exactly like the empty, echoing conversations they used to have in their apartment, only now they don’t even have the right to pretend they are going home together afterward.
“And the new place?” Namjoon asks, his gaze dropping to the table. “Are you settling in?”
“It’s fine. It’s louder than expected,” Yoongi answers. He reaches for his coffee cup at the exact same moment Namjoon reaches across the table to push a stray piece of mail back into the box.
Their hands collide.
It isn’t a polite brush of knuckles. It is a solid, grounding contact. Yoongi freezes, his heart launching into a frantic staccato rhythm. He expects Namjoon to pull away with a polite apology.
Instead, Namjoon turns his hand over and grips Yoongi’s wrist. His fingers dig into the sleeve of Yoongi’s sweater, desperate and bruising.
Yoongi’s eyes snap up to meet Namjoon’s. The polite distance in Namjoon’s dark eyes has completely shattered, replaced by a raw, starving kind of grief. The noise of the cafe—the espresso machine, the chatter, the lo-fi music—fades into a dull hum. The gravity between them is absolute, a black hole swallowing them both whole.
“Yoongi,” Namjoon breathes, the name catching painfully in his throat.
Yoongi can’t breathe. He gently twists his wrist, sliding his fingers down to thread them tightly through Namjoon’s. It’s a terrible mistake. It’s drinking saltwater when you’re dying of thirst. But God, he is so thirsty.
Neither of them speaks as they abruptly stand up. Namjoon leaves a pristine fifty-won bill on the table, far too much for the coffee, and grabs the box.
They don’t walk back to the main street. Namjoon follows Yoongi down the narrow, snow-covered alleyway to the clinic's rear employee entrance. The moment they are shielded from the street by the brick wall, the last thread of restraint snaps.
Namjoon drops the box into the snow. He crowds Yoongi against the cold brick of the building, his large hands finding the lapels of Yoongi’s coat, pulling him in.
The kiss is violent. It is all teeth, hot breath, and the desperate, messy collision of two people who have been starving for months. Yoongi gasps against Namjoon’s mouth, his hands tangling into Namjoon’s hair, pulling him closer, anchoring himself to the only warmth he has felt since October. Namjoon groans, a wrecked, devastating sound, his arms wrapping around Yoongi’s waist to lift him flush against his body.
It is intoxicating. For a fleeting, breathless minute in the freezing alleyway, the winter doesn’t exist. They are burning green.
Then, a harsh, electronic buzzing vibrates from Yoongi’s coat pocket.
His ten-minute warning alarm. He has a patient at one o’clock.
The sound slices through the haze like a knife. Namjoon freezes, his chest heaving heavily against Yoongi’s. Slowly, agonizingly, they pull apart.
Yoongi rests his forehead against the rough wool of Namjoon’s coat, his eyes squeezed shut, trying to catch his breath. His lips feel bruised. His heart is breaking all over again. The kiss didn’t fix anything, but it proved that the roots of their love are still agonizingly alive, although buried under the frozen earth.
Namjoon steps back, the cold air rushing into the space between them. He looks entirely devastated, his hair thoroughly wrecked by Yoongi’s hands. He reaches down, picks up the snow-dusted box of mail, and quietly places it into Yoongi’s numb hands.
“I have a meeting with the board,” Namjoon whispers, his voice devoid of all its usual strength.
“I have a patient,” Yoongi replies, his voice equally broken.
They stare at each other in the quiet alley, the snow falling softly around them, entirely unsure of how they are supposed to just walk away and survive the rest of the afternoon.
The clinic bathroom smells of harsh lemon antiseptic. Yoongi braces his hands against the edge of the porcelain sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His lips are visibly flushed, slightly swollen, and his eyes carry a frantic, unmoored energy. He turns the faucet to cold, splashing the freezing water over his face until the physical shock forces his heart rate to finally slow down.
He survives his one o’clock session. He survives his three o’clock. He sits in his leather chair, a notepad balanced on his knee, and listens to a young couple talk in circles about their inability to communicate. He guides them gently, his voice even and professional, while a treacherous, desperate part of his own brain remains completely trapped in the snowy alleyway behind the building.
🍂🍂🍂
The relapse doesn’t magically fix them. If anything, it makes the following weeks infinitely harder. It proves that the gravitational pull between them is still very much alive, massive, and undeniable, but gravity alone cannot rebuild a collapsed house. It can only crush you beneath the ruins.
Winter deepens. January in Seoul is ruthless. The wind whips off the Han River, rattling the windows of Yoongi’s Mapo-gu apartment.
Yoongi throws himself into the quiet rhythm of his new life. He refuses to let his Mapo-gu apartment remain a sterile staging ground for his grief. He spends a weekend painting the stark white walls of his bedroom a warm, earthy terracotta. He buys a small, ridiculously fussy Boston fern, placing it squarely in the window and setting an alarm on his phone to remember to water it. He learns how to cook meals for one without making enough doenjang jjigae to feed a ghost.
Slowly, the heavy stillness of the apartment shifts. It stops feeling like a waiting room. He is no longer holding his breath, terrified of disrupting the calculated perfection of someone else’s museum. He is just Yoongi—a little battered, a little lonely, but finally breathing on his own.
And then, March ninth arrives like a deep, inevitable bruise.
It is his thirty-eighth birthday. It is also the first birthday he has spent without Namjoon since he was 15.
For over two decades, this date had been inextricably tied to the boy who grew up beside him. As Yoongi lies awake in the early morning light of his terracotta bedroom, the memories press in, uninvited and sharp.
He remembers turning 22 in their drafty first apartment. Namjoon had stayed up half the night trying to make miyeok-guk from scratch, nearly burning the tiny kitchen down in the process. The soup had been horribly over-salted, the beef entirely too chewy, but Namjoon had looked so incredibly proud. He had worn a ridiculous paper party hat, his dimples flashing deep as he pressed a kiss to the corner of Yoongi’s mouth. “Happy birthday, hyung. I’m going to make you this soup every year for the rest of our lives.”
Now, Yoongi forces himself out of bed to the quiet hum of his refrigerator. He makes his own coffee. He doesn’t make soup.
He goes to the clinic, accepts the cheerful wishes of his colleagues, and lets Hoseok and Jin drag him out for barbecue and soju after work. It is a genuinely good night. He laughs until his sides ache, surrounded by friends who love him and actively want to see him heal.
But when he finally returns to his apartment, shrugging off his coat in the empty entryway, the sudden loneliness is jarring.
At 11:45 PM, just as he is pulling the duvet over his chest, his phone lights up on the bedside table.
Namjoon[11:45 PM]: Happy birthday, Yoongi. I hope you had a warm day.
Yoongi stares at the glowing screen. The message is perfectly polite, carefully constructed to maintain the fragile boundary they rebuilt after the alleyway. It isn’t a plea. It isn’t a desperate relapse. But the sheer restraint in those two sentences breaks Yoongi’s heart all over again. He knows exactly how much it cost Namjoon to type those words and nothing else.
Yoongi[11:47 PM]: Thank you. I did.
He sets the phone face down on the nightstand and turns off the lamp, letting the dark swallow the room. For the first time since he moved out, he buries his face in his pillow and allows himself to cry for the boy who promised him a lifetime of salty soup.
🍂🍂🍂
By the time late March arrives, the brutal edge of the cold finally breaks. The snow melts into gray slush along the sidewalks, and the air loses its bite.
It is on a mild Thursday afternoon that his phone vibrates over on the kitchen counter.
From his spot where he is lounging on the sofa, Yoongi looks up. He ponders which of his friends may be texting him before the betraying thought of Namjoon flits through his mind. He doesn’t feel the immediate, panicked leap in his chest that he used to. The healing hasn’t erased his love for Namjoon, not by a long shot, but it has finally dulled the frantic desperation.
He gets up and picks up the phone.
Namjoon[4:36 PM]: A few months ago, you mentioned you were looking for a vintage print of that Yoon Dong-ju poetry collection for your office. I found a beautiful copy at an estate sale in Insadong.
Yoongi stares at the screen. It isn’t a logistical email about taxes. It isn’t a painfully restrained holiday greeting. It is a quiet, incredibly observant olive branch. It’s Namjoon remembering something Yoongi had casually mentioned months ago, long before the fracture, and going completely out of his way to secure it.
Another message bubbles up.
Namjoon[4:37 PM]: I’d like to give it to you. If you’re open to it, I’d like to buy a cup of tea this weekend. No rushing. No hiding in alleys. Just… a real conversation. Let me know.
Yoongi traces his thumb over the edge of his phone case. He lets out a slow, steady breath. He looks toward the window, watching the city traffic move along the street below. He doesn’t feel the frantic, suffocating panic he felt back in October.
Yoongi[4:45 PM]: Sunday afternoon works. There’s a quiet tea house in Mangwon-dong near my place. I’ll send you the address.
The tea house in Mangwon-dong is small, tucked between a bustling bakery and a quiet laundromat. Inside, it smells heavily of roasted barley, dried mugwort, and old wood.
Yoongi arrives ten minutes early, but Namjoon is already there.
He is sitting at a small table near the back window, bathed in the soft, diffused afternoon light. He isn’t wearing a tailored gallery suit or a sharp trench coat. Instead, he’s in a thick, cream-colored knit sweater, his silver-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He’s reading a paperback book, completely absorbed, one long finger tapping an idle rhythm against the side of his ceramic mug.
He looks rested. The dark, heavy exhaustion that had clung to him for the last year seems to have finally washed away.
Yoongi walks over, the floorboards creaking softly under his boots. “Have you been waiting long?”
Namjoon looks up, blinking as he pulls himself out of the book. A small, genuine smile breaks across his face, pressing his dimples into his cheeks. “No, just a few minutes. I went ahead and ordered the plum tea for you. I hope that’s okay.”
“Plum tea is perfect,” Yoongi accepts with a small smile, sliding into the wooden chair opposite Namjoon.
There is a beat of silence as they settle in. It lacks the suffocating, heavy pressure of their old apartment and completely misses the desperate, frantic energy of the snowy alleyway. It’s just calm.
Namjoon reaches into the canvas tote bag at his feet and pulls out a small, brown paper parcel. He sets it gently on the table and slides it across. “I didn’t wrap it. But here.”
Yoongi pulls the parcel toward him and undoes the string. Inside is the vintage Yoon Dong-ju poetry collection. The cover is a faded, muted blue, the edges softened from decades of use. When Yoongi opens it, the spine gives a satisfying, muted crack, and the scent of aged paper wafts up.
“Joon, this is incredible,” Yoongi murmurs, gently tracing the embossed lettering on the title page. “I looked everywhere for this specific print run. My old paperback is basically held together by tape and stubbornness at this point; I didn’t want to risk bringing it to the clinic. Thank you.”
“I saw it sitting in the corner of the estate sale and immediately thought of you,” Namjoon says, his voice warm, leaning his forearms on the table. “I know how much you loved your original copy. I figured this one could survive sitting on your office desk.”
Yoongi looks up, slightly surprised. His original copy was the one he packed away into a cardboard box months ago, the one that held the memory of a humid summer night and a promised infinity. Namjoon remembering that detail—and replacing the cracked, worn version with a beautiful vintage print—feels incredibly thoughtful.
“It’s perfect,” Yoongi says softly, resting his hand over the cover. “How is the gallery, anyway? Are you prepping for the summer installations?”
“The gallery has been steady,” Namjoon says, his smile softening as he takes a sip of his tea. “We’re prepping for the summer installations now. It’s a lot of late nights, but I moved my desk to face the window. So, that helps some.”
Yoongi traces the warm ceramic rim of his mug, watching the steam curl into the air between them. “You look good, Joon. You sound… lighter.”
Namjoon sets his cup down, his long fingers wrapping around it as he looks at the table. The tips of his ears flush a faint pink. “I feel lighter. The winter was rough.” He pauses, taking a steadying breath before meeting Yoongi’s eyes again. “I started seeing someone.”
Yoongi’s stomach gives a sudden, violent lurch, a cold spike of adrenaline courses through him before his brain can process it.
Namjoon’s eyes widen in immediate realization, and he waves his hands frantically, knocking his knee against the underside of the table. “A therapist! I started seeing a therapist, Yoongi. Not… I’m not dating. God, no.”
The cold spike instantly drains from his tensed frame, leaving behind a rush of relief so potent that Yoongi actually lets out a surprised, breathless laugh. “Jesus, Joon. Give a guy some warning.”
Namjoon rubs the back of his neck, laughing nervously with him. “Sorry. Poor phrasing. But yes. Jin hyung basically bullied me into making an appointment back in January.”
Yoongi leans back in his chair, genuinely surprised. For a decade, Namjoon had treated his own mind like a museum he could perfectly manage on his own, analyzing his own flaws but never actually asking for a guide. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Namjoon’s smile turns a little sheepish, but it is deeply sincere. “I had a lot to unlearn. About control. About trying to perfectly curate every aspect of my life so I wouldn’t have to deal with the messy parts. It took me a long time to realize that by trying to preserve the best parts of us, I was actually suffocating you.”
The honesty of the admission hangs in the air, heavy but completely clear. There is no defensiveness in Namjoon’s voice, no attempt to justify his past behavior. Just a man taking genuine accountability.
Yoongi feels a tight knot in the center of his chest—one he didn’t even know he was still carrying—finally loosen. He looks at Namjoon, taking in the soft cream sweater and the open, vulnerable set of his shoulders.
“We were both suffocating,” Yoongi says softly. “I knew we were dying, and I just sat on the sofa folding laundry because I was too much of a coward to say it out loud. I was just as guilty, Namjoon.”
“I know,” Namjoon agrees gently. “But we’re not sitting on that sofa anymore.”
“No,” Yoongi murmurs, a small, genuine smile pulling at his lips. “We aren’t.”
The server returns, setting a plate of traditional honey-and-sesame pastries in the center of the table. The interruption breaks the heavy gravity of the moment, shifting the atmosphere back into something easy and warm.
Namjoon immediately reaches out, takes a pastry, and snaps it perfectly in half. Without asking, he places the larger half on Yoongi’s small ceramic plate. It is a muscle memory reflex, a habit built over twenty years of shared meals and stolen study snacks.
Yoongi looks at the pastry, then up at Namjoon. Namjoon freezes, his hand hovering mid-air, suddenly hyper-aware of the intimate gesture.
“Sorry,” Namjoon says quickly, moving to take it back. “I wasn’t thinking, I–”
“Leave it,” Yoongi interrupts smoothly. He picks up the piece of pastry and takes a bite, the sweet honey melting on his tongue. “I’m not going to complain about getting the bigger half.”
Namjoon’s shoulders drop in relief, and that devastating, dimpled smile returns in full force.
They stay for another hour. They talk about their friends, laughing over Jungkook’s sudden, chaotic obsession with 35mm film photography and how he accidentally ruined an entire roll of Hoseok’s birthday photos. They talk about the new bakery that opened down the street from Yoongi’s apartment, and Namjoon promises to try it the next time he is in Mapo-gu.
It is the easiest conversation they have had in years. Stripped of the massive, crushing weight of their failed marriage, they are finally just Yoongi and Namjoon again. Two men who know each other down to the bone, carefully, gently learning how to be in each other’s orbit without crashing.
When they finally step out onto the sidewalk, the late afternoon air is cool but completely stripped of winter’s bite.
Namjoon shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He doesn’t step into Yoongi’s space. He keeps a respectful, easy distance between them.
“Thank you for the tea, Yoongi,” Namjoon says. “It was really good to see you.”
“Yeah,” Yoongi agrees, clutching the paper parcel of poetry to his chest. He looks at Namjoon, feeling a quiet, steady warmth blooming in his stomach. “It was good to see you, too.”
Namjoon rocks back on his heels, a hesitant, hopeful look crossing his features. “Maybe we could do it again? Sometime next month? Only if you want to, of course.”
Yoongi doesn’t even have to think about it. He doesn’t have to analyze the symptom or fear the fall.
“I’d like that,” Yoongi says.
🍂🍂🍂
By mid-July, the humidity in Seoul is a physical wall.
They are gathered at a bustling, cramped restaurant in Seongbuk-dong. The air inside is thick with the smell of roasting meat and the loud, overlapping chatter of the Friday night crowd. It is the first time all seven of them have been in the same room since the lease on Yoongi and Namjoon’s apartment was officially broken.
Yoongi sits on a plastic stool, nursing a cold bottle of Cass. He had been mildly terrified about tonight, unsure of how the group dynamic would shift with him and Namjoon occupying the same space as two separate entities.
He didn’t need to worry.
“If you steal one more piece of brisket off my side of the grill, I am going to bite you,” Jungkook threatens, swatting at Taehyung with his chopsticks.
“I’m a growing boy, Jungkook-ah,” Taehyung huffs, effortlessly dodging the attack and popping the stolen meat into his mouth.
“You’re thirty-four! You stopped growing over a decade ago!”
“My soul is growing,” Taehyung counters smoothly, leaning away from Jungkook’s retaliatory kick under the table. “Joon hyung, tell him to share.”
Namjoon sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Please leave me out of this. I just want to eat my dinner in peace.”
“If I had known I was paying to supervise a daycare excursion, I would have made you all eat at home,” Jin deadpans from the head of the table, expertly flipping a row of intestines with his silver tongs.
Hoseok bursts into a loud, bright laugh, leaning heavily against Jin’s shoulder. “Let them fight, jagiya. It’s nostalgic! It reminds me of high school when I was constantly the third wheel for these two.” He gestures his beer glass between Yoongi and Namjoon. “Except now I actually have a boyfriend to distract me.”
Jimin, sitting on Yoongi’s left, reaches over and casually rests a hand on Jungkook’s thigh to stop him from actually lunging across the table. He looks at Yoongi, shaking his head with an affectionate smile. “Sometimes I wonder how any of us survived our twenties.”
“Pure luck,” Yoongi murmurs, taking a slow sip of his beer. “And a lot of Jin hyung’s money.”
A deep, chest-rattling chuckle sounds from his immediate right. Yoongi glances over.
When they arrived, Namjoon had naturally gravitated to the plastic stool right next to Yoongi’s. There was no hesitation, no awkward hovering to see if it was alright. It was just muscle memory.
Underneath the table, hidden by the chaotic crossfire of their friends’ banter, Namjoon shifts his weight. His knee bumps against Yoongi’s.
Yoongi freezes. He expects Namjoon to immediately pull back with a polite apology. Instead, Namjoon leaves his leg exactly where it is. It’s a solid, grounding line of heat pressing firmly against Yoongi’s thigh through the denim of his jeans.
Yoongi exhales a slow, silent breath. He doesn’t pull away. He leans into the touch, a quiet thrill blooming in his chest as he grabs a piece of lettuce to make a wrap. They are surrounded by the people they love most in the world, participating in the group banter, but sharing a private, burning secret just out of sight.
When they finally stumble out of the restaurant at 1 AM, the weather has violently turned.
The thick humidity has broken, giving way to a sudden, torrential summer downpour. The neon signs of the street reflect off the rapidly flooding pavement as people scramble under shop awnings for cover.
“Ah, shit,” Hoseok groans, pulling his jacket over his head to shield his hair. “The weather app lied.”
“My car is just around the corner, run!” Jin yells over the noise of the rain, grabbing Hoseok by the wrist and dragging him in a dead sprint down the block.
Jungkook immediately throws his jacket over Jimin’s head to protect him from the downpour, flagging down a passing empty taxi. Taehyung quickly dives into the backseat behind them, slamming the door shut before the driver can speed off.
Within two minutes, the chaos disperses, leaving Yoongi and Namjoon standing alone under the restaurant’s narrow, striped awning.
Namjoon rocks back and forth on his heels, a rueful smile crossing his face. “I left my umbrella at the gallery.”
Yoongi reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out a compact black umbrella. With a swift click, it snaps open. “I have one. But it’s small.”
Namjoon looks at the umbrella, then down at Yoongi.
“I can walk you home,” Yoongi offers, his voice perfectly steady even as his heart kicks into overdrive. He steps out from under the awning, holding the umbrella up. “Come on.”
Namjoon hesitates for a fraction of a second before stepping out into the rain and ducking under the black canopy.
It’s a tight fit. Namjoon is broad-shouldered and tall, forcing him to duck his head slightly and pull his arms in. Yoongi has to reach up uncomfortably high to keep the umbrella positioned over both of them.
“Here,” Namjoon offers, his voice suddenly very close. He reaches up, his large hand wrapping around the handle of the umbrella, his fingers brushing directly over Yoongi’s knuckles. “My arm is longer.”
Yoongi lets go, dropping his hand to his side. The sudden shift in position brings them flush together. Namjoon’s shoulder presses firmly against Yoongi’s, solid and warm through the thin cotton of his shirt.
They start walking. The rain hammers against the nylon of the umbrella, creating a tiny, isolated bubble that drowns out the noise of the city. With every step, Namjoon’s arm brushes against Yoongi’s. The polite boundaries have completely dissolved in the summer rain. Yoongi can smell the sharp scent of wet asphalt mixed with Namjoon’s familiar cedarwood cologne. He is dizzy with it.
They stop under the wide concrete portico of Namjoon’s building. Yoongi’s old building.
Namjoon doesn’t immediately step away or close the umbrella. He stands flush against Yoongi, looking down at him. The warm amber lights of the building lobby cast a soft glow across the sharp lines of his face.
“Taxis are going to be impossible to catch in this flooding,” Namjoon says softly, his gaze dropping briefly to Yoongi’s lips before snapping back up to his eyes.
Yoongi’s chest tightens. He tilts his head up, refusing to step back. “I know.”
The air between them is thick, heavy with the unspoken tension hanging in the rain. Namjoon shifts his weight. His free hand twitches at his side, as if fighting the instinct to reach out and pull Yoongi even closer.
“You don’t have to wait out here,” Namjoon whispers, his voice dropping an octave, raw and entirely stripped of his usual practiced control. He isn’t pushing. He is leaving the door wide open. “You could… wait for your car upstairs. Or just stay. The spare room is exactly how you left it.”
Yoongi stares at the open invitation in Namjoon’s dark eyes.
He doesn’t analyze the risk. He doesn’t think about the hard-won peace of his new apartment, or the fragile, careful boundaries they’ve spent all spring building. He just reaches up, presses the metal button on the handle, and collapses the black canopy of the umbrella.
“Okay,” Yoongi murmurs, his voice barely carrying over the sound of the rain.
Namjoon lets out a shaky, visible exhale, as if he had been entirely prepared for rejection. He turns, swiping his fob against the security scanner, and holds the heavy glass door of the lobby open for Yoongi to step inside.
The elevator ride to the fourteenth floor is excruciating.
The mirrored walls make the small box feel impossibly confining. The compact umbrella had saved them from the absolute worst of the storm, but they are both still half-drenched. The entire right side of Namjoon’s linen shirt clings transparently to his chest and arm, the fabric completely soaked through. Yoongi watches the damp linen stretch across Namjoon’s broad shoulders in the reflection of the glass, his own breathing shallow and uneven.
Ding.
The doors slide open. Namjoon steps out first, leading the way down the familiar carpeted hallway. He stops at the end of the hall, lifting his hand to punch a six-digit code into the digital keypad—surprisingly, Yoongi realizes the code is still his birth date.
The heavy metal door clicks open, and Namjoon pushes it wide, stepping inside to flick on the warm entryway lights.
Yoongi crosses the threshold, and the sensory impact of the apartment hits him squarely in the chest. It smells exactly the same—a deep, settling mix of old paper, clean laundry, and Namjoon’s cedarwood. But as Yoongi slips off his wet shoes and looks past the entryway, the subtle differences make his chest ache.
It is entirely too pristine. Without Yoongi’s psychiatry journals scattered across the coffee table, or his half-empty mugs left on the kitchen island, the apartment looks like one of Namjoon’s gallery exhibits. It looks incredibly lonely.
“I’ll get you a towel,” Namjoon says, his voice tight, clearly hyper-aware of Yoongi taking in the space. “And some dry clothes. I think… I think I still have some of your old sweatpants in the back of the closet.”
Namjoon turns and disappears down the hall toward the master bedroom.
Yoongi stands in the center of the living room, water dripping from the soaked hem of his jeans onto the hardwood floor. He shrugs off his damp messenger bag, letting it drop with a heavy thud. He feels entirely unmoored, standing in the ghost of his past life, vibrating with a nervous, electric energy.
A minute later, Namjoon walks back into the living room. He’s carrying a thick white towel and a stack of folded clothes.
He stops in front of Yoongi, the polite, respectful distance completely forgotten. They are standing chest-to-chest in the quiet apartment, the storm raging violently against the floor-to-ceiling windows behind them.
“Here,” Namjoon mutters, holding out the bundle. His eyes are dark, heavy with an emotion that looks terrifyingly like desperation. “You’re freezing, hyung.”
Yoongi reaches out to take the stack. But as his fingers close over the cotton of the sweatpants, he doesn’t pull back. Instead, he lets the clothes tumble from his grip, falling completely ignored to the floor between their feet.
Namjoon freezes, his breath hitching audibly in the quiet room.
Yoongi slides his hands upward, his cold fingers wrapping firmly around Namjoon’s thick wrists. The heat radiating off Namjoon’s damp skin is intoxicating. Yoongi steps into his space, tilting his head up, his gaze dropping to Namjoon’s parted lips and then rising slowly to meet his eyes.
“I’m not shivering because I’m cold, Namjoon,” Yoongi whispers.
The words hang in the air between them for a fraction of a second.
Then, the last, fraying thread of Namjoon’s carefully constructed restraint completely snaps.
His large hands span Yoongi’s waist, gripping him with a bruising intensity as he hauls Yoongi flush against his chest and crashes their mouths together.
The kiss is an absolute collision. It tastes like the summer rain, the sweet soju from dinner, and the three months of agonizing, self-imposed distance. Yoongi lets out a breathless sound, immediately releasing Namjoon’s wrists to slide his hands up the soaked, clinging linen of Namjoon’s shirt, wrapping his arms tightly around his neck and tangling his fingers into the damp hair at his nape.
It doesn’t feel like the desperate, starving relapse against the snowy alley wall from several months ago. This isn’t two drowning men clawing at each other for air. This feels incredibly grounding. It feels like throwing open the windows of a suffocating room and finally letting the storm drag the stagnant air out.
Namjoon groans, a deep, vibrating sound that rumbles directly into Yoongi’s chest. He crowds Yoongi backward, their wet legs tangling clumsily as they stumble away from the entryway. Yoongi’s back hits the hallway wall with a dull thud, but he barely registers the impact before Namjoon’s mouth is on his jaw, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down to the line of his throat.
“Joon,” Yoongi gasps, his hands scrambling to find purchase, gripping the broad, wet shoulders of Namjoon’s shirt.
Namjoon pulls back just enough to look at him. His chest is heaving, his glasses slightly askew, his dark eyes blown wide and wild. Even now, with his blood roaring in his ears and his hands trembling on Yoongi’s hips, he pauses. He is absolutely terrified of repeating his past mistakes, of taking control and pushing Yoongi into something he doesn’t want.
“Tell me to stop,” Namjoon breathes, his voice raw, resting his forehead heavily against Yoongi’s. “Hyung. If this is just the rain, or the alcohol, or the memory of this place… tell me to stop.”
Yoongi reaches up, his thumbs gently smoothing over the sharp angles of Namjoon’s cheekbones. He looks at the man he has loved since he was a teenager, the man who spent the last three months proving he could be a safe place to land again.
“If you stop,” Yoongi whispers fiercely, pulling Namjoon’s glasses off his face and tossing them blindly toward the sofa, “I am going to kill you.”
A ragged, breathless laugh punches out of Namjoon’s chest.
He captures Yoongi’s lips again, sweeping him off his feet. Yoongi instantly wraps his legs around Namjoon’s waist, his arms locked around his neck as Namjoon carries him the remaining few feet down the hall and through the open door of the master bedroom.
The room is pitch black, saved only by the ambient orange glow of the city lights bleeding through the rain-streaked windows. Namjoon lets Yoongi slide down his body until his feet hit the rug right beside the bed.
The wet clothes are suddenly unbearable. Yoongi reaches for the hem of Namjoon’s soaked linen shirt, yanking it up and over his head, leaving it to hit the floor with a wet slap. Namjoon’s skin is blazing hot under Yoongi’s palms, the familiar, broad expanse of his chest flexing as Namjoon makes quick work of Yoongi’s own damp t-shirt.
Stripped to the waist, the chill of the air conditioning washes over them, but it doesn’t matter. The heat radiating between them is a physical entity that will keep them warm enough.
Namjoon presses Yoongi back until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the mattress, and he falls back against the duvet. He follows him down, his large hands mapping the familiar, pale curve of Yoongi’s ribs, reverent and starving all at once.
For a long, ragged moment, they just breathe, their bare chests heaving against one another. It has been almost a year since they last shared a bed, but the muscle memory is absolute. Yoongi knows the exact curve of Namjoon’s spine under his palms; Namjoon knows exactly where to press his lips against the sensitive skin just below Yoongi’s ear to draw out a breathless shuddering gasp.
“Your jeans are soaked,” Namjoon murmurs, his voice a dark, rough rumble against Yoongi’s neck.
“Take them off, then,” Yoongi challenges, his fingers digging into the firm musculature of Namjoon’s back.
Namjoon shifts, rising up to his knees and straddling Yoongi’s thighs. His hands are frantic as they go for the button of Yoongi’s denim, his usual meticulous patience completely abandoned. The wet fabric is stubborn, clinging to Yoongi’s skin, and they have to grapple with it together, Yoongi lifting his hips to help Namjoon drag the heavy material down his legs and toss it onto the floor. Namjoon makes quick work of his own remaining clothes, kicking his slacks and boxers away until they are both completely bare in the dimly lit room.
Seeing Namjoon stripped down again sends a violent, demanding spike of heat straight to Yoongi’s groin.
Namjoon crawls back over him, his dark eyes tracing the pale lines of Yoongi’s body like he’s committing him to memory all over again. The ambient orange light from the city below casts long, shifting shadows across the bed, highlighting the sharp dip of Yoongi’s waist and the erratic, heavy rise and fall of his chest.
For a breathless moment, Namjoon just looks. It is a gaze so heavy and reverent it feels like a physical touch, burning away the chill of the air conditioning. Then, slowly, Namjoon leans down.
He captures Yoongi’s mouth in a deep, wet kiss, entirely different from the frantic collision in the hallway. This one is languid and savoring, tasting deeply of sweet soju and the lingering taste of rain. As Namjoon’s tongue sweeps along the roof of his mouth, his large, calloused hand slides down Yoongi’s chest. He maps the familiar ridges of Yoongi’s ribs, his thumb brushing over the frantic flutter of Yoongi’s pulse, before his hand continues its descent.
His fingers splay wide over Yoongi’s stomach, pressing gently into the soft skin just above his hipbones, before dipping lower.
His thick fingers finally wrap around Yoongi’s cock. It’s already weeping, hard and aching with a desperate kind of need. Namjoon uses his thumb to catch the slick bead of pre-come at the tip, spreading it over the ultra-sensitive glans before dragging his hand down the length in one firm, agonizingly slow stroke.
Yoongi breaks the kiss with a sharp, fractured cry, his hips arching involuntarily off the mattress, chasing the friction. “Joon—”
“I know,” Namjoon breathes, his voice a dark, rough rumble against Yoongi’s jaw. He tightens his grip, rolling his thumb directly over the frenulum. Yoongi shudders violently, his nails digging into the mattress. “God, I missed you. I missed this so much.”
Namjoon releases his hold, but only to duck his head. His lips are hot and open against Yoongi’s sternum. He trails wet, deliberate kisses down the center of Yoongi’s chest, the slight scratch of his stubble sending electric shivers racing across Yoongi’s skin. He pauses to press his tongue deep into the shallow dip of Yoongi’s navel, drawing out a high, whining gasp, before settling his broad shoulders right between Yoongi’s thighs.
Yoongi’s breath hitches, his fingers instantly tangling into Namjoon’s damp hair.
Namjoon looks up at him through his wet lashes, his dark eyes completely blown out with lust, and then he leans down and takes Yoongi into his mouth.
The wet heat is an absolute shock to the system. Yoongi’s head falls back against the pillows, his eyes rolling shut as a guttural groan tears from his throat. Namjoon’s mouth is relentless. He swallows him deep, the suction pulling tight and firm, his tongue swirling in broad, flat strokes against the underside of the shaft. He uses his hands to pry Yoongi’s thighs wider, holding his hips down against the mattress so Yoongi has no choice but to take every agonizingly perfect pass of Namjoon’s mouth.
The rhythm is devastating. It is years and years of muscle memory put to work—Namjoon knows exactly how much pressure to use, exactly where Yoongi is the most sensitive, and exactly how to drive him entirely out of his mind.
Yoongi’s hips start to buck instinctively, completely abandoning any remaining shred of his composure. The sensory overload is blinding. The sound of the summer rain lashing against the glass is drowned out entirely by the wet, obscene sounds of Namjoon’s mouth and Yoongi’s own breathless, keening moans.
“Wait,” Yoongi gasps, his vision literally spotting with white at the edges. He tugs frantically at the thick strands of Namjoon’s hair, his body trembling on a terrifying precipice. “Wait, Namjoon, don’t—I’ll come too fast, please—”
Namjoon pulls off with a wet pop, his chest heaving, his lips slick and shining in the dim light. He doesn’t look annoyed; he looks incredibly, dangerously satisfied. Without taking his eyes off Yoongi’s flushed, wrecked face, Namjoon reaches blindly toward the bedside table, pulling open the top drawer.
The familiar snap of the lube bottle cap echoes sharply in the quiet room. He never cleared out the nightstand.
Namjoon pours a generous, cold pool of the slick gel into his palm before tossing the bottle onto the floor. He coats his fingers thoroughly, leaning his heavy weight forward over Yoongi’s thighs to press his slick digit against Yoongi’s tight entrance.
Yoongi shivers at the initial contact. Namjoon doesn’t rush. He slowly slips the first thick digit inside, pushing gently past the tight ring of muscle.
Yoongi groans, a long, low sound of relief, his body immediately melting around the intrusion. It has been months since he was last touched like this, but he yields to Namjoon effortlessly, relaxing his thighs and letting his knees fall wider.
“You’re so warm, hyung,” Namjoon whispers, adding a second finger. He scissors them open slowly, working the lube deep into the heat of Yoongi’s body, stretching him with meticulous, agonizing care. “So fucking perfect.”
Namjoon curls his fingers upward, finding the sensitive spot hidden inside. He presses up firmly.
Yoongi’s entire body jerks, a loud, startled cry punching out of his chest. “Fuck—Joon!”
“Yeah?” Namjoon grunts, an entirely feral smirk crossing his face. He presses the spot again, faster this time, pumping his fingers in and out until a steady, rhythmic squelching fills the air. “Right there?”
“Yes—god, yes,” Yoongi sobs, his hands scrambling blindly until they find Namjoon’s forearms, gripping the solid muscle to anchor himself to the bed. The pressure is building too fast, the empty ache inside him demanding to be filled by something much larger than two fingers. His patience completely shatters.
He uses his heels to pull Namjoon’s hips flush against him. He can feel the blunt, heavy heat of Namjoon’s erection pressing excruciatingly close to his entrance, slick with his own pre-come.
“Just put it in,” Yoongi begs, his voice cracking, completely devoid of any pride. “Joon, please. Now.”
Namjoon doesn’t need to be told twice. He withdraws his fingers slowly, dragging a frustrated whine from Yoongi, and shifts his hips forward, letting Yoongi’s trembling hands guide him to the slick opening.
He sinks in with one long, continuous, devastating thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
Yoongi’s breath leaves him in a sharp, high cry. His spine bows off the mattress, his nails digging deep crescent moons into the dense muscle of Namjoon’s shoulders. The stretch is immense, a burning, absolute fullness that leaves him completely breathless.
Namjoon freezes. His jaw locks, the tendons cording along his thick arms as he holds himself completely still deep inside Yoongi. It takes a terrifying amount of restraint not to just start wildly thrusting. He buries his face into the crook of Yoongi’s neck, his chest heaving as his hot breath ghosts over Yoongi’s racing pulse.
“You okay?” Namjoon grunts, his voice strained and trembling with effort. “Hyung, talk to me.”
“Fuck,” Yoongi gasps. His internal muscles give an involuntary, violent flutter around Namjoon’s thickness. “I’m fine. I’m—don’t stop. Move, Namjoon, please.”
Namjoon pulls back on his hips until he is almost entirely withdrawn, the slick drag of lube and pre-come sounding incredibly loud in the dim room, and then he drives forward.
The first few thrusts are deep, uncompromising, and perfectly angled. Yoongi’s eyes roll back into his head. Every time Namjoon’s hips slam forward, dragging across that exquisitely sensitive spot deep inside, a loud, unapologetic wail tears from Yoongi’s throat. He throws his head back into the pillows, his hips chasing Namjoon’s every retreat, absolutely starving for the friction.
“That’s it,” Namjoon groans, the sound vibrating directly against Yoongi’s skin. The last of his practiced control slips completely, the rhythm quickening and growing far more frantic.
Sweat beads on Namjoon’s forehead, dripping down to mix with the dampness still clinging to Yoongi’s collarbones. The sound of wet skin slapping together a heavy, rhythmic beat that perfectly matches the violent summer storm lashing against the windows.
Namjoon slides his hand under Yoongi’s right knee, hiking his leg up and hooking it securely over his broad shoulder. The new angle opens Yoongi up completely, allowing Namjoon to drive in so impossibly deep that Yoongi literally sees stars.
“Joon—fuck, right there—” Yoongi sobs, his fingers scrambling blindly to grip the bedsheets. The pleasure is sharp and blinding, a rising tide that threatens to drown him. He reaches a trembling hand down between their bodies, desperate to wrap his fingers around his own slick, bouncing cock.
“No, don’t,” Namjoon growls, instantly catching Yoongi’s wrist and pinning his hand firmly to the mattress above his head. “Let me. I’ve got you.”
Namjoon reaches his free hand down between them. His large, calloused fingers wrap around Yoongi’s length, picking up a tight, hot stroke that perfectly matches the ruthless, driving roll of his hips.
The dual stimulation is entirely too much.
“Namjoon!” Yoongi screams, his eyes squeezing shut as he shatters. He comes hard, his back arching completely off the bed as a high, broken cry tears from his throat. Hot white spills across his own stomach and over Namjoon’s knuckles, his entire body trembling violently. Inside, his walls clamp down hard, relentlessly milking Namjoon’s length with every spasming aftershock.
The sudden, vice-like clench is all it takes to push Namjoon over the edge.
With a loud, guttural shout, Namjoon drives his hips forward one final, brutal time. He holds himself impossibly deep, burying his face in the pillow beside Yoongi’s head as he comes. Yoongi feels the hot, heavy rush of it spilling inside him, a liquid heat that completely grounds him to the reality of the moment.
Namjoon's arms give out, and he collapses heavily, dropping his full weight onto Yoongi’s chest.
For a long time, the only sounds in the apartment are their ragged, overlapping breaths and the steady drum of the rain against the glass. The blistering, frantic heat between them slowly begins to cool, replaced by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.
Yoongi shifts his free hand, running his fingers gently through the damp, sweat-slicked strands of Namjoon’s hair at the nape of his neck. He feels completely wrecked, his muscles trembling, his skin flushed, and the heavy, suffocating weight he had carried in his chest since the day he moved out is entirely gone.
Namjoon slowly lifts his head, his chest still heaving, and looks down. The wild desperation has faded from his dark eyes, replaced by an incredibly soft, vulnerable clarity.
“Don’t leave again,” Namjoon whispers, his voice thick with emotion as he presses a tender, lingering kiss to the corner of Yoongi’s swollen mouth. “I’m not letting us fall apart again.”
Yoongi smiles, his thumb brushing gently over the deep indent of Namjoon’s dimple. “Not when we are just starting to bud again.”
The morning sun is bright and unforgiving, slicing through the gap in the blackout curtains and landing directly across Yoongi’s eyes.
He groans, squeezing his eyes shut and attempting to roll over, but his body immediately protests. His lower back aches, his thighs feel heavy and bruised, and there is a massive, solid weight draped squarely over his waist, pinning him to the mattress.
The events of the previous night come rushing back in a vivid, overwhelming wave—the rain, the desperate confession, the blistering heat of Namjoon’s hands.
Yoongi opens his eyes.
Namjoon is fast asleep, his face buried in the pillow right next to Yoongi’s shoulder. His hair is a chaotic, fluffy mess, completely stripped of its usual artful styling. He looks younger, the heavy lines of stress that had bracketed his mouth for the last year completely smoothed out in sleep. One of his large hands is splayed wide over Yoongi’s bare stomach, holding him close with a possessive, unconscious strength.
For a long time, Yoongi just lies there, listening to the deep, even cadence of Namjoon’s breathing.
A year ago, waking up in this bed felt like he was being suffocated. He would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, paralyzed by the weight of the things they weren’t saying. Now, the feeling is completely different. It’s just quiet and peaceful.
Yoongi shifts slightly, reaching up to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from Namjoon’s eyes.
The movement rouses him. Namjoon’s brow furrows, a low, gravelly hum vibrating in his chest as he blindly tightens his grip on Yoongi’s waist, dragging him flush against his side. He buries his nose into the crook of Yoongi’s neck, inhaling deeply.
“Morning,” Yoongi rasps, his own voice heavy with sleep.
“Mm,” Namjoon protests, refusing to open his eyes. His lips brush against Yoongi’s collarbone as he speaks. “What time is it?”
“Early. The sun’s up.”
Namjoon finally blinks one eye open, squinting against the harsh line of sunlight cutting across the bed. He looks up at Yoongi, a slow, devastatingly fond smile spreading across his face, pressing a deep indent into his cheek.
“Hi,” Namjoon whispers, his voice thick and impossibly soft.
“Hi,” Yoongi replies, a matching smile tugging at his lips.
Namjoon shifts his weight, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look down at Yoongi properly. He reaches out, tracing the pad of his thumb over the faint, reddish bruise blooming just beneath Yoongi’s jawline.
There is a brief moment of hesitation in Namjoon’s eyes, a fleeting shadow of the man who’s spent months terrified of crossing a boundary. “Are we okay? You don’t regret…?”
“Namjoon, if you ask me if I regret last night, I’m going to push you out of this bed,” Yoongi says dryly, though he turns his head to press a kiss to the inside of Namjoon’s wrist. “I don’t regret it. I’m right where I want to be.”
The tension bleeds entirely out of Namjoon’s shoulders. He exhales a long, relieved breath, dropping his forehead against Yoongi’s. “Good. Me too.”
They linger in bed for another hour, tangled together in the sheets, lazily trading soft kisses and tracing meaningless patterns over each other’s bare skin. It feels like a luxury, a stolen pocket of time they haven’t allowed themselves in years.
Eventually, the reality of their rumbling stomachs forces them out of the cocoon.
Namjoon tosses Yoongi a clean, oversized t-shirt and sweatpants from his dresser before pulling on his own pair. “I can make us something,” Namjoon offers, running a hand through his messy hair as they walk out into the kitchen. “I think I have eggs. Or I could order from that spot down the street you like.”
Yoongi leans against the marble island, watching Namjoon open the refrigerator. He looks around the pristine kitchen, noting the perfectly organized counters and the spotless sink. It’s beautiful, but it still isn’t his home anymore. And crucially, he realizes he doesn’t want it to be.
He loves Namjoon, entirely and unequivocally. But he also loves his terracotta bedroom. He loves the quiet sanctuary he built for himself in Mapo-gu. Starting over doesn’t mean moving backward.
“Actually,” Yoongi says, his voice cutting through the ever-present hum of the refrigerator.
Namjoon looks back over his shoulder, a carton of eggs in his hand, his expression instantly attentive. “Yeah?”
“I think I need to go home,” Yoongi utters gently.
Namjoon freezes. The carton of eggs lowers slightly. He doesn’t look panicked, exactly, but the careful, practiced neutrality immediately slides back over his features. “Oh. Okay. Do you…do you want me to call you a cab?”
“No,” Yoongi says, pushing off the island and walking over to where Namjoon is standing. He reaches out, curling his fingers in the collar of Namjoon’s t-shirt and pulling him down just enough to press a firm, reassuring kiss to his mouth. When he pulls back, he looks Namjoon dead in the eye. “I want you to get dressed, get in your car, and come to Mapo-gu with me.”
Namjoon blinks, completely caught off guard. “You want me to come over?”
“Yes,” Yoongi says, a small, genuine smile breaking across his face. “I want to show you my apartment. I want to make you breakfast in my kitchen. And you need to officially meet my fern.”
The realization hits Namjoon all at once. The careful neutrality shatters, replaced by a smile so bright and utterly devoted it makes Yoongi’s chest ache. It is the understanding that Yoongi isn’t running away; he is actively inviting Namjoon forward.
Namjoon sets the carton of eggs down on the counter, wrapping his arms around Yoongi’s waist and pulling him into a tight, crushing hug.
“Okay,” Namjoon laughs, the sound rich and warm in the quiet apartment. “Okay. Let’s go meet your fern.”
— chapter summary | The weight of your secret falls away the moment the truth comes to light. But relief is a dangerous thing. It tears open wounds you buried deep, forcing you to relive the past. Back to where it all began. Back to him.
— title: Carousel | pairings: Min Yoongi x female reader | genre: CEO!Yoongi, Arranged Marriage!AU, smut, angst
— ratings & warnings | +18 / M for mature; involves delicate themes related to arranged marriage, talks about family legacy, family betrayal/drama, depiction of major character death, mentions of car accidents, moments of grief.
— word count: 3,688 words
— story notes: this is the second and final part of the flashback, which meant the full chapter is now completed. As mentioned previously, future updates will be slowing down as we've officially caught up with my rewriting progress and I'm still continuing the writing process. In the meantime, some deleted scenes and special chapters have been updated on Patreon. More will be coming soon!
— story masterpost: Carousel | ⤎ previous chapter | next chapter ⇢
— chapter drop date: July 7th, 2026 | main masterlist | mailbox | feedback | ko-fi | patreon | series taglist
𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚕 𝟸𝟽. 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚓𝚒𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝟶𝟸
As the days passed, something between you quietly shifted.
Jinyoung’s behaviour toward you grew warmer, slowly easing the tension that had once defined every interaction between you. Not only did he begin showing you more respect in front of others, but he also started acknowledging your ideas openly, listening with genuine interest instead of dismissing them the way he once had.
And perhaps the most noticeable change was how easily he seemed to gravitate toward you.
It began with small things. Little things that you had first brushed off as coincidences. Gestures that had never been there before.
The way his gaze lingered when you spoke during meetings. The brief touch of his hand when passing you a file, and the gentle brushes of his shoulder when he came to speak with you in group discussions. The way he always seemed to choose the seat beside you in the office or in the conference room. His quiet offers to drive you home after late nights at the office.
Even the tone of his voice softened when he spoke to you.
The staff noticed.
Everyone noticed.
Rumors spread quickly through the office. Some whispered that he was only trying to gain favor with your father by treating you well. Others insisted that he had simply learned to respect you after seeing how well you handled your work.
Instead of feeling flattered by the attention, however, you only found yourself growing more suspicious.
“What are you up to now?”
The question slipped out before you could stop it.
You were on your way to meet a new investor when Jinyoung insisted on walking you to the conference room—something he had begun doing far too often lately.
He stopped beside you, looking amused.
“Must you always question my intentions?”
“All the time,” you replied dryly.
He chuckled softly. “All I wanted was to keep you company,” he said. “I told you before—I enjoy helping you, and it should be normal for a team leader to escort a member of his team to an important meeting such as this one. Is that really so terrible for me to do something like this?”
You muttered under your breath, “It feels suspicious when you're being this nice.”
“Suspicious?” he repeated, raising a brow. “Does that mean kindness only earns your distrust?”
Yes.
It always had.
Because that was how you were raised—to always question someone’s goals when they approach you. Because people never show what their true intentions are right in front of you.
“Everybody has secrets. People don’t always show you their true selves or what they are after, so always question what’s lying underneath their smile.”
That was the one thing that your father had taught you growing up, to toughen you up so you would always be ready to face anything thrown at you. And from what you’ve learned so far, Park Jinyoung was one of those people you should be most wary of.
Meeting Jinyoung’s gaze, you said simply, “It just means you want something.”
A slow smile curved across his lips. For a moment, something in his expression shifted—something softer, yet more deliberate.
He stepped a little closer. “Maybe I do want something from you.”
You folded your arms. “I knew it.”
He laughed quietly at your reaction. “All I want,” he said, “is a chance to prove that I’m sincere when I say I want to help you. That I genuinely want us to get along.”
Your brows lifted. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”
He hesitated for a moment before answering, “One dinner.”
You blinked. What?
“No assumptions. No rivalry. Just dinner,” he continued, “I won’t ask for more.”
Silence stretched between you. That had not been the answer you expected, and you weren’t sure how to respond.
Jinyoung seemed to sense your hesitation. “I know I made things difficult for you when you first joined the team,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
For the first time since you had met him, there was no arrogance in his voice. It made you want to believe him. When you looked at him, you realized that you already did.
“I wasn’t trying to undermine you,” he continued. “I just needed to know if you were really capable of what your father believed you could do.”
You considered his words carefully, before asking, “And what have you decided?”
His smile returned—gentler this time. “I’d have to say….that you’ve exceeded my expectations,” he finally said. The sincerity in his voice made your cheeks warm unexpectedly, forcing you to glance away.
“And if I’m being honest,” he added, “I’ve come to admire you. As a colleague… and as a person.”
His words sounded convincing. Yet still, you hesitated. You told yourself not to be swayed by sweet words and excessive praise. Especially not from someone as persuasive as him.
But you would be lying if you said you had never been affected by his charm. You had to admit that you’ve come to admire him as well. It was hard not to. Watching the way he handled the team, the way problems seemed to unravel under his calm leadership, was quite inspirational, that you often found yourself being drawn to him.
You took a breath as he waited patiently for your answer.
“Fine,” you said at last. Mustering the courage to look at him, you continued, “One dinner. No hidden motives.”
His smile widened, though he raised both hands in mock surrender. “I promise to behave.”
You turned and continued walking.
“Text me the details,” you said. “I’ll be there.”
“I will,” he replied, hurrying to catch up. “And I promise you won’t regret it.”
You had agreed to one dinner.
One evening without the presence of your past rivalry. No prejudice. No labels.
And you were given the chance to see each other without the constant tension that had followed you since the beginning.
That night, Jinyoung showed you a side of himself you had never seen before.
Maybe it was the quiet restaurant he chose. The warm glow of candlelight reflecting against the wine glasses. The way conversation flowed easily once the guarded edges between you softened.
Or maybe it was simply the way he looked at you—without challenge, without any sign of discord.
By the time he draped his jacket over your shoulders while walking you back to the car, you realized your guard had lowered without you noticing.
“Thank you for coming tonight,” he said as he parked outside your home.
You stood beside his car, still wrapped in his suit jacket. The warmth of it lingered around you. It settled deep inside your chest, fluttering like the wind. You couldn’t put into words what you were feeling, when everything felt so…new.
“No, I should be the one to say it,” you said softly after a moment passed. “Thank you for the lovely evening.”
When he smiled, he didn’t bother to hide the joy he was feeling. Then, unexpectedly, he began to look nervous.
“Would it be alright,” he asked slowly, “if I ask you out again in the future?”
His offer surprised you, yet the answer came more easily than you expected.
“I’d like that.”
And that was how one dinner became another.
And another.
Weeks passed, and the distance that once separated you slowly disappeared. What began as curiosity deepened into something far more intimate than either of you had anticipated. It was a progress that you had never expected to happen. Yet your family welcomed it without hesitation.
Perhaps too easily.
“You knew this would happen.”
You said this to your father the day after Jinyoung asked for his blessing to marry you.
Your father only smiled. He didn’t even look surprised, which only made you question his actions, the work of mind.
“I have no idea what you mean, princess,” your father said in return, feigning innocence.
You narrowed your eyes. As if you would believe him when he acted this way. “Was this your plan from the beginning?”
He chuckled. “I planned for the two of you to work well together, to keep the balance so the company could survive,” he admitted. “But marriage was never part of it.”
“Then why do you look so pleased with yourself?”
Your father leaned back thoughtfully. “I simply think it’s fortunate,” he said, almost to himself. “And maybe you can say that it’s the best possible outcome that we could gain from asking you to work with him.”
His gaze softened as he looked at you.
“Winning your trust is already quite an achievement. But winning your heart as well?” He shook his head with quiet admiration. “That’s something else entirely.”
Then he added, almost casually—
“And it might solve more problems than you realize.”
You frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Think about it,” he said gently. “If he becomes your husband, he can take your place within the company without question. And once everything stabilizes, you’ll be free to pursue your own business again. I’m sure he’ll have an open mind to support you through it.”
For a moment, it truly felt as if everything had fallen perfectly into place.
But that fragile sense of hope didn’t last long.
Because that night happened.
No matter how much you wished it had only been a nightmare, reality refused to fade.
You would never forget that night.
The small argument you had with Jinyoung earlier that evening felt painfully trivial when things unravelled hours later. You had planned to call him later, to settle things between you the way you always did.
Instead, you waited.
And waited.
When your phone finally rang close to midnight, relief washed over you. You reached for it without hesitation, expecting to hear his voice.
But the voice on the other end was unfamiliar. Calm. Professional.
“Does this number belong to a relative of Park Jinyoung?”
A pause. Brief, but it felt like time simply stood still, right before your entire world turned upside down.
“I’m afraid we have some terrible news—”
For a moment, the words didn’t make sense.
They reached you, but they refused to settle anywhere inside your mind.
Your fingers tightened around the phone as the deep voice spoke; his words almost sounded like a different language. “I’m sorry… what did you say?”
The voice on the other end repeated itself, slower this time. Careful. Polished. As if the caller had done this multiple times before. Each word landed heavier than the last.
Something about an accident.
Something about his name.
Something about how they needed someone to come to the hospital.
The room around you seemed to fall into a strange, suffocating silence. You couldn’t hear the ticking of the clock on the wall anymore, nor the distant noise from the street outside, nor the pitter-patter of the rain that comforted your anger earlier after the fight. All you could hear was the sound of your own breathing—shallow, uneven.
“No,” you murmured. You didn’t even realize you had spoken. “That… that can’t be right.”
You had just spoken to him earlier that evening. You had just listened to the voice message he left behind while you were stuck working late in the office.
You could still remember the sound of his voice, low and teasing, yet deeply regretful, as he spoke through the phone when he promised he would make it up to you for missing the date he had set up for the night.
Tomorrow, he had said.
Let me make it up to you tomorrow.
The voice on the other end of the line continued speaking, but the words blurred together now.
You didn’t want to hear them.
Because if you listened—if you truly listened—then it would make everything real.
Your hand trembled.
“Is he…?” The question caught in your throat, refusing to come out whole. “Is he alright?”
There was a pause. One that lasted for too long. And in that silence, something deep inside you began to collapse.
“We’re very sorry.”
The words were quiet.
Gentle.
But they struck harder than anything else that had been said.
You couldn’t remember when the phone slipped from your hand. Or how long you stood there in the middle of the room, staring at nothing while the world around you continued moving as if nothing had changed.
Because everything had.
Just hours ago, you had still been thinking about the future.
About the life you were planning to build together.
And now—
Now all that remained was the echo of a voice that would never call you again.
You kept telling yourself that this couldn’t be real.
That if you just waited long enough, your phone would ring again, and you would hear his voice on the other end—warm, teasing, apologizing for being late like he always did.
But the night stretched on in merciless silence.
And the phone never rang again.
— One week after Jinyoung’s funeral —
A week had passed since you buried Park Jinyoung.
People often said that time would make things easier. That grief would soften, little by little, until its sharp edges no longer cut quite so deeply.
You had yet to see any proof of that.
The days since the funeral had passed in a blur of quiet condolences, sympathetic looks, and conversations you barely remembered having. Faces came and went. Words were spoken that you knew were meant to comfort you, yet none of them truly reached you.
Everything felt distant, as though you were watching someone else’s life unfold from far away.
And through it all, the silence remained.
It followed you everywhere—in the empty passenger seat beside you on the drive home, in the quiet halls of your house, in the long hours of the night when sleep refused to come. Every corner of your life seemed to echo with the absence he had left behind.
You told yourself that this must be what grief felt like. A slow, hollow ache that refused to leave.
But sometimes, in the quiet moments when your mind wandered where it shouldn’t, another thought crept in—one that made the silence feel heavier than it already was.
Because even now, a part of you still expected the phone to ring.
Expected to hear his voice on the other side, warm and familiar, apologizing for being late like he always did.
And every time the silence answered instead, the truth settled a little deeper into your chest.
Park Jinyoung was gone. And the life you had once imagined with him had vanished with him.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Your father’s voice—low, gentle, and careful—broke through the quiet. You looked up to find him standing at the doorway to your office. Grief lingered in his eyes, mirroring your own. But there was something else there too.
Exhaustion. Worry etched into the lines of his face.
You weren’t the only one losing sleep.
Of course not. He had just lost someone who had been almost like a son to him.
“Why shouldn’t I be here?” you asked quietly. “This is my office.” You tried to put on a brave face, to hide the strain you’ve been feeling inside, yet your voice betrayed you.
Your father sighed as he stepped further inside. “That’s exactly my point. You should be at home, resting. You don’t look well enough to work.”
“I’ve done enough resting.”
Rest.
Had you truly rested at all?
How many days had you spent locked inside your room, hiding from the world—hiding from reality?
The long nights you spent awake, crying until your tears dried. Feeling as though something inside your chest had cracked open and refused to mend.
“I’m fine,” you said, forcing the words out. “It’s better to keep my mind busy than sit at home doing nothing.”
Alone.
Surrounded by memories. By all the things that reminded you of him. Waiting for the sound of his keys at the door.
“Very well.” Your father’s resistance softened. With a quiet sigh, he stepped closer and rested his hand briefly on the top of your head—a gesture from your childhood that he rarely used now.
You kept your eyes lowered, afraid that if you looked up, he might see the tears gathering there.
“Just don’t push yourself too hard,” he said gently. “I had the staff cover most of your responsibilities while you were gone. Start with something simple.”
You took a steady breath and nodded.
“I will.”
It took hours before your mind finally settled.
At first, your thoughts kept drifting—toward memories, toward silence, toward the spaces where Jinyoung used to be. Most of the staff kept their distance, offering quiet nods or sympathetic glances when you passed them in the hallway. Then you locked yourself in your office again, letting the silence take away the noises in your head as you drowned yourself with the tasks your father left behind.
By noon, you called Mandy through the intercom. “Could you bring me the files Jinyoung was working on recently?”
“Of course,” she answered. “I’ll ask Miss Ahn to bring the copies.”
A few minutes later, Mandy stepped into your office with a stack of documents, a cup of steaming coffee, and a small plate of snacks she probably hoped might lift your mood. The gesture made your chest tighten.
“Thank you,” you murmured.
The door closed again, leaving you alone with the files.
You spent the rest of the day combing through them—numbers, spreadsheets, production reports, sales projections. Old projects. New initiatives. Endless rows of data that blurred together the longer you stared at them.
Memories crept in despite your efforts to keep them away.
Late nights at the office with Jinyoung. The two of you sitting across from each other, arguing over figures, exchanging notes, comparing calculations before entering them into the system you had built together.
Back then, the work had felt easier because you were never doing it alone.
Doing this on your own now was wearing you out. But that was exactly what you needed. Keeping your mind occupied left no space for you to think of anything else.
Soon the silence pressed in again, heavier than before. But it wasn’t memories that made you feel hopeless. It felt like the data you’ve been working with refused to work with you.
The numbers refused to make sense, and there was no one left beside you to compare your calculations with.
By the time evening arrived, exhaustion had settled deep into your bones.
“Maybe I shouldn’t push myself this hard,” you muttered to yourself.
Let’s do this again tomorrow.
And so you did.
The next day, you returned to the same files. The same reports. The same endless lines of data.
Hours passed, and yet again, you found yourself stuck on the same thing. And that problem persisted for the next few days.
Still, you tried, thinking that perhaps you were doing things wrong without Jinyoung guiding you through it, or maybe the new system wasn’t working like it was supposed to.
Days slipped by in the same frustrating cycle. You expanded your search, digging deeper into past sales records, production logs, and departmental reports. You compared everything—old numbers against new, projections against actual results.
Still, something refused to line up.
Until one night, as you stared at the figures yet again, a quiet realization settled into your mind.
Something wasn’t just wrong.
Something was off.
It took several more attempts before you finally saw it.
“The numbers don’t match.”
— Two weeks after Jinyoung’s funeral —
Time kept moving, even when it felt as though you were standing still.
Grief still clung to you like a shadow. But now it was tangled together with something else.
Questions that were left unanswered. Puzzles that you just couldn’t complete. Suspicions grew, yet you kept yourself in denial while you looked for answers. You kept things to yourself, worried that perhaps you were the one making the mistakes, and you’d be pointing fingers at the wrong people.
You kept trying, yet every attempt led you back to the same dead end.
The numbers. The reports. The discrepancies that refused to resolve themselves.
Until one rainy afternoon changed everything.
You hadn’t expected the encounter with Detective Jeon.
In truth, you had known nothing about the man before that day. But the things he told you—about Jinyoung, about the accident—left a strange unease lingering in your mind long after you parted ways.
“Have you ever found or noticed any suspicious activity happening in your father’s company lately, or back when Jinyoung was still alive?” he had asked.
At the time, the question had only confused you. But it planted a seed of doubt you could no longer ignore.
The next morning, you returned to your office with a quiet determination.
You opened the files again. This time, you forced yourself to stop thinking like someone searching for a mistake. Instead, you asked a different question.
What if there had never been a mistake at all?
Minutes passed, then your breath caught when you finally saw everything clearly.
“There’s no way…”
Your voice barely rose above a whisper, but it was enough to make you feel like there was a deep fissure growing beneath your feet, pulling you down with the weight of truth. You leaned back slowly in your chair, heart pounding harder with every second.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
Why the inconsistencies had always seemed impossible to track.
Why the profit reports rose and fell without reason despite stable sales and production numbers.
Why the discrepancies between internal data and the reports given to upper management had never aligned.
And most importantly—
Why Jinyoung kept facing failure after failure over the months he spent combing through all the data, unable to find the source of the problem that kept the company’s fate hanging by a thread.
Your fingers trembled against the desk.
Because now you finally understood something you had never once considered before.
Park Jinyoung was never trying to fix the problem from the start.
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ꔫ au/genre: slow burn, luxury spy au(def. oo7 coded), secret identity, rivals to lovers, Eventual Polyamorous Relationship, found family
ꔫ rating: M (this fic may explore some darker themes please read at your own discretion. Take care of yourself.)
ꔫ wc: 1.2k
ꔫ warnings: obsessive nature, obsessive nature, SMUT, fighting, they are spies, shit is going to happen. violence, hand-to-hand combat, weapons, blood/injuries, poly relationship
ꔫ Synopsis: To the world, BTS are global superstars.
Stadiums sell out within minutes. Cameras follow their every move. Millions know their names.
That's exactly how they like it.
Behind sold-out tours, award shows, and flashing cameras lies a second life—one built on encrypted phones, false passports, and contracts awarded to the highest bidder. They don't work for governments. They don't answer to agencies. If the price is right, they'll take the job.
Until one mission changes everything.
An elite agency has sent its best operative after the very same target.
Calm where they're chaotic.
Precise where they improvise.
Elegant where they're unpredictable.
She's the only person who's managed to stay one step ahead of them...
...and somehow become the one rival they can't stop thinking about.
As contracts collide across glamorous galas, luxury hotels, and cities that never sleep, the line between competition and partnership begins to blur.
Because sometimes the most dangerous part of a mission...
...is trusting the people standing beside you.
The world only knows what happens while the music is playing.
The penthouse was quiet. Not the uncomfortable silence of an empty home, but the peaceful kind that came with creating a safe space. A routine.
Morning sunlight spilled across polished hardwood floors, warming the edges of neatly stacked books and semi-watered monsteras with cascading phalaenopsis orchids tucked beside the windows.
Somewhere in the kitchen, a kettle clicked softly as it finished boiling.
You set your rose gold mug beneath the stream of freshly brewed coffee before walking back toward the bedroom.
Always Bean & Bean Coffee Roasters. Never anything less.
Everything already had its place.
Your passport rested beside your keys.
Your watch lay atop tomorrow's planner.
A Dior garment bag with its matching handbag hung neatly from the closet door.
Nothing was ever left to chance.
The bathroom mirror reflected the familiar sight of someone preparing for another ordinary morning.
At least...
As ordinary as your life allowed.
You reached into the small leather cosmetics pouch, which of course matched your Dior set, resting beside the sink.
The zipper opened with a quiet pull.
Lip liner.
Lipstick.
Gloss.
The motions came without thought now.
Years of repetition had turned them into muscle memory.
The familiar burgundy shade settled across your lips before you blotted it once against folded tissue, adding the smallest touch of gloss to the center.
Only then did you smile.
Not because of how it looked.
Because the routine was complete.
A knock interrupted the silence.
Three knocks.
Evenly spaced.
Right on time.
You already knew who it was.
~~~~~
You open the door.
A courier.
No words.
Just a matte-black envelope.
Then he leaves immediately. A small chuckle leaves your lips as you close the door.
You set the envelope on the island before pouring yourself another cup of coffee.
No rush. Nothing.
Because panic has never made anyone better at their job.
…And panic would only complicate things.
In fact you got dressed, dismissing the envelope altogether.
Inside...
One photograph.
One passport.
One plane ticket.
One destination.
Monaco.
You quietly exhale with a little tilt of your head.
"...It's been a while."
You flip to another page. Reading, rehearsing, planning.
Studying. Until..something catches your eye.
Your expression finally changes.
Just barely.
A tiny smile. A little amusement.
"Freelancers."
She closes the folder.
"...This should be interesting."
~~~~~
A floor-length black leather trench coat flowed behind you, its sleek finish catching the faintest hints of light like polished obsidian. Thick black fur framed the dramatic shawl collar and lined the oversized cuffs, softening the severe silhouette with an air of extravagant wealth.
The coat cinched tightly at your waist with a matching leather belt, sculpting an hourglass figure while allowing the skirt of the coat to fan gracefully around your legs as you stunted through the airport.
When the front parted with each stride, it revealed a dangerously short black dress that disappeared beneath the coat’s hem, leaving just enough exposed thigh to make the look feel intentional rather than accidental. Sheer black tights hugged her legs like smoke and her knee-high, glossy black patent leather, fitting like a second skin with pointed toes and slim stiletto heel. Dark cat eye glasses concealed your eyes and your hair spilled in long, glossy waves down your back and over one shoulder.
You commanded the room without trying and that’s what made you unstoppable.
“Must you be flashy everywhere you go, madam?” your driver asked as he escorted you to the jet. He had a small hint of amusement in his tone.
“If this is flashy, then you have a lot to learn.”
The flight to Monaco was brief, efficient but nevertheless comfortable. You spent it the way you spent most travel—quiet, analytical, reviewing floor plans of the casino that was to be the site of the night's objective. No nerves. No hesitation. Just the steady pulse of a job that needed doing.
All while enjoying a lemon drop martini.
When you arrived, the Mediterranean air was thick with the scent of salt and money. You moved through the terminal with the anonymity of a ghost, your luggage a single, sleek carry-on that hid tools far more specialized than simple clothes.
Dior, of course.
Your contact in the city had set up a temporary safe house: a suite overlooking the harbor. It was elegant, cold, and perfect. You stood on the balcony, watching the yachts bob in the water, knowing that somewhere out there, the 'Freelancers' were also arriving.
The file on your table was open to a grainy, black-and-white surveillance photo of the seven of them boarding their transport. A flicker of something crossed your face—not recognition, not quite—but a sharpness, a readiness for the game.
'Let's see if you're as good as the file says,' you whispered to the empty room.
~~~~~
The Mediterranean sun was beginning its descent, casting long, amber shadows across the harbor as you stepped out of the suite. The transition from the clinical silence of the safe house to the humming energy of Monaco was seamless. You moved with practiced ease to the parking garage, where a silver Audi—gray enough to be invisible, fast enough to be a weapon—awaited.
The drive to the outskirts was short. The private airfield sat nestled between the cliffs and the sea, its perimeter secured by layers of tech that most wouldn't notice. You pulled into a side hangar, the engine’s purr echoing against the corrugated steel. Waiting on a crate was a heavy, waterproof Pelican case.
You didn't need to open it to know what was inside: the customized comms, the bypass kits, and the dress that was still fashionable and tactical…for the most part.
“Ooo, I like this one. Hopefully this one doesn’t rip.”
Before touching the gear, you tapped a sequence into your watch. A soft, encrypted chime signaled the connection.
“Status,” a voice crackled—deep, devoid of inflection. Your handler.
“Gear secured. Proceeding to the Casino de Monte-Carlo at 20:00,” you replied, your voice matching the cold efficiency of the line.
“The Freelancers have touched down. We’ve tracked seven signatures at the Hotel de Paris. They aren’t hiding, which means they’re confident.”
You checked the seal on the case, a ghost of a smile playing on your lips. “Confidence is a vulnerability. Do we have a directive on engagement?”
“Observation only, unless the objective is compromised. Discretion is paramount. If they see you, the agency doesn’t exist. Do not let the noise of their reputation distract you from the signal.”
“Understood,” you said, severing the link. The silence of the hangar returned, heavier than before. You tossed the case into the trunk. The game was no longer theoretical.
Tonight, someone was leaving Monaco with the prize.
You had every intention of making sure it was you.
ꔫ au/genre: slow burn, luxury spy au(def. oo7 coded), secret identity, rivals to lovers, Eventual Polyamorous Relationship, found family
ꔫ rating: M (this fic may explore some darker themes please read at your own discretion. Take care of yourself.)
ꔫ wc: 1.3k
ꔫ warnings: obsessive nature, obsessive nature, SMUT, fighting, they are spies, shit is going to happen. violence, hand-to-hand combat, weapons, blood/injuries, poly relationship
ꔫ Synopsis: To the world, BTS are global superstars.
Stadiums sell out within minutes. Cameras follow their every move. Millions know their names.
That's exactly how they like it.
Behind sold-out tours, award shows, and flashing cameras lies a second life—one built on encrypted phones, false passports, and contracts awarded to the highest bidder. They don't work for governments. They don't answer to agencies. If the price is right, they'll take the job.
Until one mission changes everything.
An elite agency has sent its best operative after the very same target.
Calm where they're chaotic.
Precise where they improvise.
Elegant where they're unpredictable.
She's the only person who's managed to stay one step ahead of them...
...and somehow become the one rival they can't stop thinking about.
As contracts collide across glamorous galas, luxury hotels, and cities that never sleep, the line between competition and partnership begins to blur.
Because sometimes the most dangerous part of a mission...
...is trusting the people standing beside you.
The world only knows what happens while the music is playing.
Jungkook sung the lyrics with pride from their recent comeback album, this was the first album the seven had presented for their fans in over two years.
And man did it feel good to be back.
The stadium was a living, breathing ocean of ARMY bombs pulsed in a synchronized rhythm of green to match the vibe of the song. A rhythmic heartbeat of light that transformed the darkness into a shimmering galaxy, something one BTS and ARMY alone could achieve.
The air was thick with anticipation, a static charge that made the hair on the back of people’s neck stand up. From the first bass drop from Hooligan to the rhythmic soothing of Animal, it wasn’t just noise, it was a physical force, a thunderous vibration that rattled your ribs and synchronized your pulse to the percussion. The volume was like a weightless blanket pressing against your skin.
On stage, the members were silhouettes against a blinding wall of LED pyrotechnics and laser beams that sliced through the haze on a 360 degree stage that left no room for mistakes.
The heat from the stage light and the collective breath of the crowd created a microclimate of pure intensity, sweat glistening like diamonds on their skin as they moved with a precision that defied gravity. Every elongated glace, sly smirk or confident wink catches the hearts of ARMY everywhere. But of course it wouldn't be BTS without them having some fun.
Jin laughs because Jungkook almost misses his cue.
Taehyung accidentally bumps shoulders with Jimin and they laugh mid-performance.
Hoseok improvises because the vibes on stage called for it and of course the members played along.
A blast of air sent a blizzard of silver confetti swirling into the rafters, catching the green glow and spinning like falling stars. Adrenaline surged through your veins, a dizzying, electric high that made every scream feel like a release. In this moment, under the kaleidoscope of strobes and the deafening roar of the fanchants, the rest of the world ceased to exist—there was only the music, the light, and the overwhelming power of the message the wanted everyone to receive.
The final chords of "Into the Sun" crashed through the stadium, a symphonic explosion that seemed to burn the very air. The stage was bathed in a searing, brilliant gold—not the chaotic strobes of earlier, but a steady, blinding radiance that felt like looking directly into the dawn. You could see the members, their chests heaving, sweat painting their skin, giving everything they had left to this final moment.
“Thank you ARMYYYY” the guys said sweetly before waving and blowing kisses.
The cheers.
The lights.
The silence.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The dressing room was quiet in the way only it could be after a sold-out show.
Yoongi and Seokjin eating some left over snacks.
Jungkook, Taehyung and Hoseok casually talking while drinking some water.
Jimin is removing washing his face and running his fingers through his hair in a failed attempt to soothe his raging headache that didn’t leave him before the concert.
“I still have that annoying headache. You think ARMY noticed I was off a bit?” Jimin asked with a hint of concern. He always wants to be perfect for ARMY.
Yoongi chuckles “They notice tattoos before we even reveal, of course they noticed.” Yoongi chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. You still looked good out there.”
Jimin smiled softly before resting his head on the vanity table.
The room went back to it comfortable state until a staff member walks in.
A black envelope slides across a dressing room table where Namjoon sat, reading his book.
“Monaco, wheels leave in 90 minutes.”
He turns to leave along with every staff member.
Yoongi and Seokjin continue to eat.
Jimin continues to rest his eyes.
The chatter between Jungkook, Taehyung and Hoseok remains light and youthful,
~~~~~
The was dark, the only light coming from the passing streetlamps that rhythmically swept over their faces.
It was a stark contrast to the blinding LEDs of the stadium just an hour ago.
No one spoke; the heavy silence was filled only by the low rumble of the engine and the soft, distracted hum coming from Taehyung. He was still vibrating on the frequency of the last song, Into The Sun, a low tuneless melody caught in his throat.
Jungkook shifted, his boots scraping against the floorboard. He slumped further into his seat, dropping his phone into his lap and removing his left airpod. His eyes fixed on the back of the driver’s head.
“I’m starving,” he muttered, the complaint lacking any real energy, just a flat statement of fact. Seokjin hummed in agreement.
“We need to eat,” Jin added, his voice raspy. The driver didn’t even turn his head, his gaze focused out the window, eyes glued to the road. “We can have it ready for you once we get to the jet.”
“What do you want? Don’t say burgers again.” Yoongi mumbled with his eyes closed and his head resting on the head rest. Jimin had fallen asleep on Yoongi’s shoulder but waking up immediately for the dinner debate. “Yeah, I’m tired of burgers too.” he added.
Groans and teeth sucking filled the air almost immediately.
“What do you mean you’re tired of burgers?” Taehyung looked genuinely offended.
“We’ve had burgers almost every night, if I see another one I might lose my mind.” Yoongi said, still in his relaxed state.
“What do you have in mind?” Hoseok said, shifting in his seat a little.
“How about Ramen?” Jimin said.
Even more grunts and groans filled the small area.
“Burgers are one thing but instant ramen is something I’m not interested in right now.” Namjoon said.
“Well it’s not like we can make proper ramen right now, we’re going to be in the air,” Jimin said, crossing his arms.
Jungkook began to rub his temples "I seriously don't care what we eat anymore. Somebody just order something before I lose it."
The van rolled on, just seven tired men in a metal box, trading complaints about dinner like it was just another night.
~~~~~~~~~
Stepping out of the van and greeting the few ARMYS that happened to be waiting on the outside alongside the flashing lenses of cameras was second nature to them. Even in their exhausted state, the transition from the quiet enclosure of the vehicle to the public eye happened in an instant, a synchronized shift into, for lack of a better term, performance mode.
Once again, they put their weariness aside to mirror the energy of the people who had waited hours just to catch a glimpse of them. Because they loved ARMY just that much.
Large loving smiles broke across their faces, bright enough to mask the fatigue etched around their eyes.
Finger hearts were raised toward the small crowd, small gestures of gratitude offered to the dedicated fans standing behind the security barriers.
And funny poses filled the hearts of ARMYS, providing familiar comfort while they continued their way through the glass doors and into the customs area.
Settled in the jet now, everyone munching on their decided dinner with light conversations. Namjoon pulls the black envelope out of his carry on bag.
The conversation faded naturally.
Taehyung stopped humming.
Jungkook leaned forward.
Even Yoongi slowed his eating.
Seven pairs of eyes settled on Namjoon.
He studies the papers, only commenting on little details.
“Highest bidder, private collector…” he rambles on.
He flips the page and an amused grin forms on his face.
“We’re not the only team.”
Silence.
“...Agency?” Hoseok asks, forgetting his food entirely.
Namjoon nods once. Jungkook immediately groans throwing his head back dramatically.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.” he says looking at Namjoon. “This is going to be a pain”
“Maybe this time she’ll actually say hello.” Taehyung said with a light chuckle.
“She shot your tire last time.” Yoongi said flatly.
“...maybe that was her way of saying hello.”
Namjoon continues to read the rest of the file, internalizing every detail to his memory until his eyes land on a single photo. A small smile lands on his lips.
— chapter summary | The weight of your secret falls away the moment the truth comes to light. But relief is a dangerous thing. It tears open wounds you buried deep, forcing you to relive the past. Back to where it all began. Back to him.
— title: Carousel | pairings: Min Yoongi x female reader | genre: CEO!Yoongi, Arranged Marriage!AU, smut, angst
— ratings & warnings | +18 / M for mature; involves delicate themes related to arranged marriage, talks about family legacy, family betrayal/drama.
— word count: 5,817 words
— story notes: this chapter focuses on a flashback scene that got a bit too long, so I decided to split this part into two separate chapters to match the other chapters. I'm sorry for the delay on the updates. We're slowly catching up with the progress I've made rewriting this series so far, so future updates might have to slow down a bit more once this part is completed. Thank you for your patience!
— story masterpost: Carousel | ⤎ previous chapter | next chapter ⇢
— chapter drop date: July 1st, 2026 | main masterlist | mailbox | feedback | ko-fi | patreon | series taglist
𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚕 𝟸𝟼. 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚓𝚒𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝟶𝟷
— The first meeting, three years ago —
Coming back to your home city had never stirred anything profound in you.
No deep longing. No quiet sense of belonging.
You had been gone for too long that returning home no longer held the same significance as it did many years ago. Ever since you left for college—and then again, when you chose to chase a life far beyond what had been laid out for you—this city had slowly stopped feeling like home. And yet, it had never been a place you could bring yourself to resent.
You had lived here long enough to know its warmth. To build memories that you still hold dear to your heart, no matter how far you’ve gone away.
At the same time, growing up in this city had also taught you enough of its weight.
Your childhood had not been unkind. You were raised with care, with attention—your parents, though often busy, had never been absent in the ways that mattered. And you’ve met many people who filled your life growing up with stories that you could always look back on with joy rather than sorrow.
But there had always been something else woven into it. Something quieter.
An expectation that was placed heavily on your shoulders since the day you were born.
A name that carried more than it should.
It lingered in every room, in every decision made for you long before you were old enough to question them. And perhaps it was that same quiet pressure that gave you the courage to leave when you finally could—to step away and build something that belonged only to you.
To chase something that was more a part of your dream instead of someone else’s.
And now, it’s time to wake up.
The thought came the moment the plane touched down. And it stayed with you as you walked through the airport, moving along with the current of people, your steps steady despite the dull, persistent ache settling in your chest. You repeated it to yourself like a reminder.
Like a warning, reminding you to keep taking those heavy steps forward and face reality.
Letting go had never been easy.
Past the arrival gate, you slowed down to a pause. Your father’s words returned to you, uninvited.
“I’ll send someone to pick you up.”
That was the only thing your father said before you boarded your flight home. His message was simple enough. And though sounded practical, it should have reassured you. A promise made to make sure you wouldn’t have to face your homecoming all alone. Not after the long flight. And certainly not after the disappointment you faced.
His words probably would have given you some sense of relief if only he had stopped there.
“Take your time getting to know him. It might be better for everyone if you get along…before you start working with us.”
That was the message that your father had given you, while offering no further explanation before he ended the call.
And that was the part of your short conversation that lingered.
It stayed with you longer than it should have. Longer than his mention of the company’s troubles and his humble admission that he needed you back.
You had told yourself it was nothing—just another one of his attempts to soften the situation, to make things easier than they were. The situation in the company was dire, after all. It would only be right for your father to take care of your safety the best way he could.
But that was until you began to look around, searching, until you found him, standing among the crowd.
You couldn’t immediately understand what had drawn your attention to him. There was nothing particularly striking about him at first glance—just a man wearing an old-fashioned long black coat over a grey suit jacket, with a pristine white shirt beneath that didn’t look too flashy, and dark jeans grounding the look into something less rigid.
Ordinary.
That was the first thing you thought when you saw him. And yet, your gaze lingered.
Not because of the sign in his hand. You hadn’t even noticed your name on it until you had already started walking toward him.
But he clearly had noticed you first.
You could tell by the way his expression shifted—subtle, but certain. His small smile formed when your gazes met, controlled but genuine.
“Welcome,”he said when you paused in front of him.“It’s good to have you back.”
The familiarity in his tone didn’t sit quite right with you. It made you put your guards up, doing exactly the opposite of what your father had requested you to.
“And you are?” you asked, not unkind, but not inviting either. “Forgive me, I’m afraid I’m not familiar with most of my father’s current staff.”
If your words came off a little cold, he didn’t show it. His easy smile remained.
“My name is Park Jinyoung,” he replied, inclining his head slightly. “I work directly under your father as his assistant, and I also help lead his executive legal team.”
You raised your eyebrows. Interesting.
Years ago, you were the one offered that position in the company when you graduated from university. Though, of course, your father wouldn’t have made things easy for you. Your father never played favourites—not to his trusted and closest men, not even his own daughter. If only you had accepted his offer, you would have still had to work like everyone else in the company and his team, starting from the bottom to prove your worth before earning the position with your own two hands.
It wasn’t the hardship waiting for you on the path to working side by side with your father that made you step away—it’s just that your heart was never in it. But learning about the hardship was enough to see this man in a certain light.
Because it was never easy to earn your father’s trust. Regardless of your name and background.
“I see,” you said after a brief pause. “I don’t recall hearing your name before,” you continued, your gaze steady on him. “Though I assume your position isn’t a recent development.”
There was no edge in your voice—only quiet observation. Measured. Intentional. A subtle way to get inside your father’s—and his—head, to understand the purpose of his presence here.
And he met it just as calmly, even when you were obviously treating him with caution.
“I was appointed to work alongside your father two years ago,” he explained. His tone was polite, yet you could sense a subtle hint of gratification in his voice. “But I’ve been with the company for nearly five years.”
Your eyes widened. That was quite fast.
You study him more closely now. He’s young—too young, perhaps, for someone who had climbed this far, this quickly, under your father’s scrutiny. That would only mean that he had proven himself enough to earn his spot.
The only thing you needed to know was how he managed to do it.
And more importantly, why your father deemed it necessary for you to get along with him.
You let the silence stretch for just a moment before stepping past him.
“Well,” you say lightly, adjusting your grip on your bag, “I suppose you can explain what it is you actually do for my father on the way home.”
There’s a quiet shift beside you. You turned just as Park Jinyoung smiled and nodded. He reaches for your suitcase before you can protest, his movements smooth, practiced.
“Of course,” he said, carrying confidence that came effortlessly as he matched your steps, ready to guide you home. “It would be my pleasure.”
Not more than an hour later, you arrived at the family mansion with more questions than answers. So you went straight to the source—your father.
You found him in the back of the house, sitting by himself in the indoor lounge, looking out the window at the back garden. Outside, you saw your mother between the hedges, tending her roses while your father enjoyed his tea in the cool room. You sat down beside him with your own cup of tea in hand and the box of cookies you bought as a peace offering.
“So tell me,”you started, once you realized that your father wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up. “What exactly are you planning, Dad?”
Your father hid his smile behind his drink before answering, “Welcome home. It’s nice to see you too.”
You rolled your eyes and bit back a smile, but said nothing in return.
“What? No kisses for your dear old Dad?” He teased, chuckling. “Not even a ‘Hello, I’m home’? How disappointing.”
You let out a scoff and drank your tea. “Yes, hello, Dad,” you said in a mocking tone, then turned to him. “Come on. What are you up to now?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he said while lifting his drink, taking an extra slow sip as if to tease you.
You know that he was doing this on purpose—feigning innocence, while waiting until you would break first and sulk. Whatever he was planning, it must have been connected to the man you just met.
“Oh, you know exactly what I’m talking about,” you said while crossing your arms over your chest. “Sending me a man who is supposedly your new right-hand man, after explicitly telling me to ‘get to know’ him well. You are up to something. It’s so damn obvious.”
Your father laughed, catching you by surprise. “I knew nothing could slip past you,” he said between his laughter. Then his expression turned slightly more serious—it was the look that he often gave you when you were younger, whenever he wanted your opinion on something. “So, what do you think of him?”
Hearing this, you only grew even more suspicious.
“Why does it matter?” You asked. “What are you playing at, Dad?”
Your father looked at you for a moment. An unreadable smile on his face. He seemed to know that you were sceptical, and he took this moment to tease, “Whatever you think I’m doing, it’s not what it is.”
“No?” You taunted back.“So you’re not trying to play matchmaker and looking at the prospect of arranging something for me with this man?”
Your father scoffed and placed a hand over his chest, acting as if he was hurt. “What kind of person do you think I am, to do such a thing to my own daughter?” Then he paused, acting as if he was actually considering it while mumbling to himself, “Though it doesn’t sound like a bad idea either.”
You laughed, knowing for sure that his words were nothing but jests. Because your father was far from the kind of man who would use his own daughter as a pawn to support the family business, like many others were. And he certainly wouldn’t be trying to find you a husband so he could keep you close, tethered to the family and the company.
Right?
“Stop joking around. I’m serious,” you protested, ignoring the doubt that started creeping in.
You had to remind yourself that he wasn’t that kind of person. Not someone who believed that a woman’s duty was to marry and have children once she finished her studies.
Not only had he once shared his vision, letting you know this ever since you were just a little girl threading through life, but he had also shown this time and time again. From the way he treated your mother, the way he supported everyone around him, and then you experienced it yourself when you became an adult, when he gave you the blessings to go chase your dreams.
Chuckling softly, your father asked you, “What if I was actually considering it?”
You smiled, shaking your head. “You’ve always expected me to do more, to go out and see the world, and have always been treating others around you just the same. Not only Mom and me, but also with the other women in your life. So I know that it wasn’t your intention at all.”
Your father laughed. “I’m happy to know that you think so highly of me,” he said, smiling widely. “No, of course, that’s not what I was after.”
“I still know you’re planning something. You always have reasons for everything you do, especially when the company is involved.”
And me.
Right. That’s just the way it was. Your father wasn’t someone who would do things without a reason.
Every decision he made always came with a purpose. You’ve known this since you were little. You’ve seen the way he worked and how he handled his business. Even in the smallest gestures he made, your father hid his intentions perfectly to gain what he wanted.
This was the reason why you’ve kept questioning your father’s intent ever since you heard his request.
And your suspicions only heightened when you met the man he wanted you to see, Park Jinyoung, at the airport. You knew that it was more than getting you acquainted with your future team leader before you start working in the company.
This was a test.
When he finally answered, you realized that you were right all along.
“Ever since you were little, and I learned how astute you were in everything you did growing up, I held some expectation that you would be the one to replace me at the company’s director’s seat once I retire,” he said. “But then you grew up and found your own dream, and I knew in my heart that I couldn’t possibly stop you from chasing it and finding your identity.”
His voice was gentle when he spoke, and when he turned to look at you, so was the look in his eyes when he talked about your selfish dreams.
Your throat felt tight, yet you let him continue.
“Now, I’m left with no other choice but to find someone else who would be suitable to take the place. You’ll still have your seat in the company, including your shares and privileges, but someone still has to be the captain of the ship or else it’ll sink, taking the entire crew down with it.”
You knew this, which made taking the decision to step away and starting the journey you took to chase your dream even harder.
If only he never given you the chance to spread your wings or pushed you to challenge yourself instead of settling into the life that was planned for you, you probably would’ve stayed. You would’ve had to let go of your dreams. And that meant never gaining the experience of building something with your own two hands or learned what it meant to face failure.
Would things have been different if you had stayed behind?
You doubted it. What you knew for sure was that you would’ve regretted not taking the chance that was given to you when you could, and spent the rest of your days wondering what could have been.
And your father knew this well.
“It’s the only way that we can both be happy. I can have the company run its course for as long as possible, while you can continue building that winery of yours,” your father said, as if he could read your trail of thoughts.
“One option is to find you a husband who you’ll be able to extend all control of the company to,” he continued, which made you roll your eyes, then quickly added, “Which, obviously, is never a priority. So that takes us to the other option, which is to find a business partner who would be able to work alongside me and you, acting as an interim leader.”
Nodding, you began to understand where this was going. “And you’ve been looking for the right candidate from within the company.”
He shrugged. “I figured it would be best to find someone we can trust. Someone who has been with the company for a long time and understands the inner workings of the company, rather than bringing in someone new. Don’t you agree?”
Leaning back in your seat, you looked at your father, studied his face before asking, “And where does this…staff of yours, Jinyoung, fit in?”
Your father paused, cleared his throat, and turned to avoid your gaze. “Well…so far, Jinyoung has been one of the most promising candidates to take the place. If he is, in fact. considered eligible to take the position—”
“That is a big if—” you mumbled.
“—and if he is trustworthy enough to be handed the responsibility of running the company—”
“—another big if,” you added with a sigh.
“I need to make sure that he is not only the person I can trust, but also one you would be able to trust as well,” he concluded. “And since you’ll be working closely with me and helping me fix all this mess, I figured that would be a good place to start. For you to get to know him a bit more first, so you can work together well.”
Before you could respond, your father shrugged. “Of course, we need to make sure that the ship can float longer without any trouble first, and…you know…not sink prematurely before we can decide our next move.”
Hearing this, and seeing the look on his face, made you realize that the trouble that your father had been dealing with in the company might be more serious than what he was letting on. It made you worry that your return may not be of much help, especially after you’ve been gone for so long.
But it also helped you realize that you may have to depend on someone else’s help to sift through the chaos waiting for you to solve back in the company.
Someone like Jinyoung, who had been working closely with your father and the team and who may have been observing the source of the problem directly.
The thought bothered you. Not only because now you no longer have any reason to deny your father’s request, but also because you would have to actively try to get along with the man you barely knew and trust.
“Do you really trust him?” You asked, still sceptical.
“I trust him…” Your father paused, thinking deeply, then added, “…for now, at least.”
So that’s what this is all about, you wondered then, realizing that this was the actual part of the test your father was giving you.
“So…what do you need me to do?”
When you saw your father’s smile widening, you knew that you had hit a jackpot. It seemed to please him to see you playing along with his scheme.
“First, continue to get to know each other as you slowly join the team. Try to understand the way he works, get inside his mind, and see if you can learn about the team through him. You’ll be working side by side once you start working in the company, so it’ll be good for you and everyone else in the team if you can get along.”
You took a moment to take this all in. Then, after a brief pause, you carefully admitted, “There’s one problem…I don’t trust him.”
Your father grinned while his eyes glinted with mirth when he heard this. “Now…that…would be the second part of your task, princess,” he said with a hint of excitement in his voice.
And you instantly knew that things weren’t going to be easy for you.
“You’ve always been a better judge of characters than I’ve been,” he continued. “Right now, I have no reason not to trust him, as he has proven to me time and time again that he’s dependable, and he has yet to give me any reason to think otherwise. But that certainly doesn’t mean that things will continue to be that way.”
His smile disappeared then, as he finally revealed his true intention. “Once you start working with him, try to find out if he’s truly someone we can all trust. Try to find his flaws, and see if he really is the man worth all the risk.”
— Months later —
Loving your father and his strong ambitions had never been an issue for you growing up. For you, he would always be your superhero, the first person in your life who taught you how to dream.
That’s why it was so easy for you to understand his strong conviction of always looking far ahead, and to understand his views about life, family, and business.
Understanding the weight of the company—the legacy attached to your name—had never been difficult either.
But loving the business itself?
That had always been another matter.
It wasn’t about the workload which made you feel uninterested. You could endure long hours and pressure without complaint. It was the nature of it all—the cold precision of corporate structure, the relentless logic of science and technology. None of it had ever stirred anything in you.
Your father had tried, even back when you were just a little girl, always excited to play along.
There had been afternoons when he placed a small desk in the corner of his office, letting you sit there while he worked. You were meant to observe. To absorb. To grow accustomed to the rhythm of the company. Sometimes you even pretended to be his assistant, drafting notes, organizing files, mimicking the world he had built.
But as you grew up into your teen years, you slowly began to realize that your heart had never rooted itself there.
He had held on to hope for years—that you might change your mind once you were older.
Instead, you asked for freedom.
“I can’t stop you from chasing what you truly want, princess,”he had told you the day you stood in front of him, determined and trembling all at once after expressing your intention to step away from the family business and go after your dream. “I had my chance to find my passion and build something of my own. It would be unfair to deny you yours.”
He had smiled then—soft, almost proud.
“I’d be a lousy father if I forced you into a life that makes you unhappy.”
His blessing had caught you by surprise, yet you quickly took that chance and ran towards your dreams, spreading your wings widely without the weight of his shadows. And for years, you had carried the words he had given you then throughout your journey, giving you all the strength and motivation you ever needed to build your world.
And yet, fate has a quiet way of circling back.
Because now you were here again, back where you were supposed to, becoming a part of your father’s world just like how he once intended you to. And it had to happen under completely undesirable circumstances that neither you nor your father had ever predicted would happen.
Despite your father’s initial plan to place you directly within his executive circle, you chose differently.
Too much had changed since the days you once trailed after him through these halls. You needed to understand the company as it was now—not as the child who once sat in the corner of his office, but as someone meant to help repair it.
So you started at the bottom.
You entered through the staff training program like any new employee would. You attended briefings. Learned the systems. Took notes. Observed.
And your swift decision earned you something invaluable.
With these steps, you gained credibility without having your father’s name attached to yours.
Among the staff, you were no longer simply the daughter. You were another colleague navigating the same workload. They lowered their guard around you. They spoke freely, treating you just like a part of them.
And they became the source of information you needed. Through them, you learned more than you ever expected you would.
You learned about the company’s instability, seen and judged through their own eyes, instead of the public’s eyes or from the ignorance of the upper management, who would never involve themselves in menial tasks.
You learned about the quiet unrest building beneath the surface. About investors who still hesitated. About the people who were struggling to hold the company together without any chance of standing in the spotlight.
And you also learned more about Park Jinyoung, the man who had built a near-perfect rapport among the staff and the company leaders.
Respected. Trusted. Nearly untouchable in reputation.
Climbing the corporate ladder while quietly serving as your father’s eyes and ears was not easy. You worked, you listened, and you watched.
It took months before you finally accepted the promotion your father had been holding for you. And once you stepped into the executive team—
Your real challenge began.
Once you had proven enough to the whole company and directors that you deserved your new position, you were immediately assigned as your father’s assistant and junior advisor while Jinyoung remained acting as the team leader.
Working as part of the team meant you had to work closely with Park Jinyoung, constantly working side by side, together with the rest of the team. This meant sitting with him during late-night meetings and strategic planning sessions. Oftentimes, you would even spend longer evenings alone with him in the office reviewing reports.
At first, you considered it convenient. Observing him up close made your task easier. It meant less effort, less waste of time, and you would be able to finish multiple tasks at the same time while learning the ropes by keeping him close.
In theory, proximity should have bred cooperation. All the long hours you spent working together with him should have helped you get along with each other.
Instead, it bred friction. With different personalities, your perspectives often clashed. Your methods collided. And with similar stubbornness, neither of you was inclined to yield.
Before long, your rivalry became an unspoken fact within the company. And neither of you bothered to hide it.
The intense rivalry between you was made obvious when Park Jinyoung was invited to join you and your parents for dinner at the family mansion.
Having Park Jinyoung seated at your family’s table felt unnatural in a way you couldn’t quite explain. Your mother did her best to soften the atmosphere, but beneath the polite smiles, tension lingered.
Then your father invited him to stay for drinks, forcing you to endure his presence longer when your father, as a host, insisted that you join them.
Of course he did.
The conversation began harmlessly—updates on life and family matters, small talk about general topics surrounding the business community, and shared laughter.
But, just like always, when the three of you were involved, the conversation inevitably returned to matters involving the company.
And once the second and third rounds of drinks were shared, it left cracks in the fragile hospitality shared on the dinner table.
“Reviewing the books manually will drain resources we barely have,” Jinyoung argued calmly. “We’re finally regaining investor confidence. Diverting manpower now would slow everything down just when we’re entering a new production period. The new analytical system is nearly complete. It will identify discrepancies far more efficiently.”
You bit your tongue. As much as you hated to admit it, he wasn’t completely wrong.
Thanks to the unrest left behind after the fallout caused by the oldest son of the Min’s family a couple of years ago, the company had suffered significant losses. Investor trust had wavered, while production and sales stalled. Employees had been let go when the company faced a direct impact of the instability, and even once the dust had settled, recovery had been fragile.
Jinyoung had been instrumental in stabilizing things until the company was able to get back on its feet, nearly restoring its previous standing, much earlier than others did.
But stability wasn’t the same as security.
Even as the company continued its path to regaining its prowess, the position it stood on remained fragile. Incoming profit hadn’t been as swift as it used to, even as the flow of production and distribution was secured and steady.
One of your main missions, and the reason why your father had summoned you back, was to even out the numbers, to stabilize the ongoing progress and figure out the past oversight which might be causing the current instability, and help put the company back on solid ground.
But doing so required you to look into the past dealings, to review the books and analyze old data files, so you could find the inadequacy which caused all these problems. It was something that Jinyoung and his team had been working on for the past year, though he deemed it a waste of time, preferring to focus more on moving forward with a new outlook instead of constantly looking back on past mistakes.
“And what happens in the meantime?” you countered. “We wait and hope nothing worsens? A smaller task force won’t cripple operations. If we begin examining the data now, we’ll be prepared when the system launches.”
His gaze darkened.
You knew that look.
Park Jinyoung disliked resistance—especially public resistance. And he disliked it even more when it was you who openly disagreed with him. This was one of the things that triggered your resentment and the root of your rivalry. He simply detested having his opinion disputed, while you kept finding yourself opposing his ideas.
Before he could respond, your father chuckled softly from across the room.
Both of you turned, just as he calmly sat back and drank his liquor, his eyes gleaming with amusement.
“What is it, Dad?” you asked, wondering what was going on in his mind. “Is there something you’d like to add?”
Your father smiled. “Watching the two of you argue is strangely comforting,” he said with a low chuckle. “It feels as though you’re voicing the exact concerns that keep me awake at night while finding the answers together.”
He lifted his glass slightly at the two of you.
“You think differently on many things,” he continued, “yet somehow your mind works the same way when it comes to sorting out problems. As if you are two sides of the same coin.”
Your eyes flickered to Jinyoung. Curiosity flared inside you as you wondered just what your father was seeing when he witnessed the two of you arguing in front of him.
For the first time, Jinyoung wasn’t defensive. He fell quiet and looked thoughtful.
“I’m glad I put you on the same team so you can work on this together,” your father finished. “You both might be the missing pieces I’ve been searching for to get us all back running like we previously did.”
On one particular night, days after that family dinner at your house, you began to notice that things started to change between you.
You were working late in the office, and the office was nearly empty. Once again, it was just the two of you left in the same room.
But something felt different.
The air wasn’t as sharp. The silence wasn’t hostile.
You’ve noticed that the change had started with you. After that family dinner, you found a chance to reflect on yourself and realized the real reason why you had resented him so much.
It wasn’t about his attitude; the way he seemed to look down on you for being a newcomer in the company, one who came in because the big boss wanted to get his little princess on board. It wasn’t even the way he spoke, when he sounded proud and always thinking so highly of himself. All the manners that you should’ve gotten used to after facing other ambitious men vying for the top position in the company.
No.
It was jealousy.
After watching him interact with your parents, you realized that your resentment came from noticing that he had won your parents’ favours, even developing a close relationship with them while you were away from home.
As if he had become your replacement in the family.
Paired with the guilt you still harboured over your decision to step down from the company, and the years you spent wondering if your father ever held any resentment about your choices, it led you to put up a wall around you when you were with him, while holding a grudge that he may not have deserved in the first place.
Oddly enough, the moment those walls began to crumble as soon as you admitted the truth to yourself after that night, the way Jinyoung acted around you also began to change.
And that night, he had grown even more unashamed of showing it to you.
You were rubbing the back of your neck, trying to ease the tension that had been bothering you for a while now, when his voice broke the quiet.
“You look tired.”
You glanced at him. “Do I concern you, Mr. Park?”
A faint smile touched his lips. “You’re part of my team. And my boss’s daughter. Of course you concern me.”
You let out a bitter chuckle and leaned back. “Is that all I am?”
His eyes lingered a second longer than necessary.
“It’s late,” he said instead. “We should call it a night. I’ll drive you home.”
“I can protect myself.”
“I don’t doubt that.” His tone softened. “But your safety is my responsibility. Not because of who your father is. Because you’re under my supervision.”
For a brief moment, you said nothing and studied him.
There was no mockery in his gaze. No pride. Just sincerity.
“Fine,” you relented, and rose to your feet to start gathering your things. “But don’t expect me to sing praises about you in front of my father for this noble gesture.”
A quiet chuckle left him. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He paused, then added casually, “Though we could grab dinner on the way—”
You shot him a warning look. “Better get that thought out of your head before I change my mind about letting you drive me home, Mr. Park.”
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Understood.”
“And keep your eyes open wide on the road. We’re both tired, and you promise to get me home safely, so no falling asleep on the wheel.”
A small smirk curved his lips. “As you wish, my lady,” he taunted you, a little more playful with it than he normally would.
You turned away from him, nodding as you walked ahead of him while hiding your smile. You said nothing in response to his taunting. Because for the first time, you didn’t immediately resent the sound of it.
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↳ Jimin x f.Reader
⤜ Hanahaki Disease, Tattoo Shop AU, Brother's Best Friend
⤜ Rating: MA🔞
⤜ WC: 7,499
⚠️Crass language, blood, thoughts of death/dying
Next Chapter⇾ (coming soon)
◅ Back to story masterlist
The burning ache in your chest grows steadily, as it has been all day.
These fits have increased in frequency over the last few months. You’re used to the constant lick of flame in your lungs, as familiar as breathing. But the ramping up is fairly new. There is only one way to dispel the ache, even if it’s just for a short period of time. But you don’t want to give in, especially right now.
You lose the fight, the body-shaking cough that will ease your ache ripping from your lips. The intense crackly rasp is only suppressed by the crook of your elbow, where you bury your face. It’s always like this, the burn building until it forces you into a coughing fit. Once the coughs subside, though, the burn recedes, and you know you have at least another week before it will get to this point again.
It used to be months between fits. A pang of longing for those times is your only companion as your chest convulses around another ragged cough. Tears blur your vision as you fight to keep the barking hack at bay. Luckily, you’re in the storage room at work, away from curious stares and prying eyes.
Not that you think any of your coworkers would look at you askance. In the year you’ve worked at Electric Fox Tattoo, you’ve managed to keep your ailment mostly secret. The only person even mildly aware of your condition is Jungkook, one of the artists who has helped mentor you during your apprenticeship. He has his own private studio, but comes into The Fox when he wants a little more social interaction. Though he doesn’t know just how bad it’s gotten for you—doesn’t know about the disease festering in your lungs. Because, after all, the business of souls is different for everyone.
Jungkook found his love last spring. For him and Yoongi, it was the soulmate tattoos that drew them together. So little is known about fates and how some are connected via their proverbial red strings. You’ve read The Kismet Theory, but that barely scratches the surface. The section on one-sided soulmating is easily the smallest in the entire book, at best just a few pages.
Despite not knowing much, you do know that’s what hounds you…a sickness of the soul; unrequited love designed to slowly suffocate you. Well, that is, unless you find reciprocation or can afford the few million it costs to have surgery to remove the roots. Neither of those things are in your future, you know, so…death it is.
Slow…painful.
Finally, your chest heaves one last time before it settles. You lift a shaking hand to your mouth, brushing the back of your wrist over your lips. It comes away warm and sticky. Your heart thunders frantically as you look down at the bright crimson smear left behind.
“No,” you whisper, automatically licking your lips, hoping like mad it’s a lie. But there is no mistaking the distinct metallic taste that hits your tongue. You curse softly, pleading to whatever entities may be listening to spare you. As if to mock your silent prayer, something tickles at the corner of your mouth as you exhale heavily.
A bloody white petal comes away, sticking to the fingertip you prod against the crook of your frown. You quickly swipe it away, brushing your hand in a panic against the dark fabric of your jeans.
Before you have a chance to spiral, a hand lands on your shoulder, and a bemused-sounding question breaks through your thoughts: “You okay in here?”
You scream in surprise, your nerves already shot to hell, fraying even further. “I’m fine!” You whirl, shrugging off the hand and hoping your face doesn’t betray your fib and that the blood is gone from your lips. “You fucking scared me, Jimin. That’s not nice.”
He gives you a sardonic smirk before rolling his eyes. Relief instantly settles in your muscles as you realize he is none the wiser to what just happened. “Maybe if you had answered me the first three times I called your name,” he suggests, eyebrows raising.
Shit. Did you miss him saying your name several times? Obviously. For those few moments, it felt like your head was stuffed with wool; it’s no wonder you didn’t hear him.
“Sorry,” you mutter. Moving past him, you go back to gathering the supplies you were setting aside before the ache in your chest grew to be too much. “What are you doing back here anyway?”
Jimin hums, tapping his chin playfully as if he’s actually thinking about your question. “I think the more important question here is, are you stalling?”
You school the biting retort that sits on your tongue, replying, instead, with, “No, of course not. I was just making sure I had everything I needed.”
“Right, sure. Come on, pretty girl, I’m starting to feel the itch.” Jimin sways side-to-side, miming grabby hands in your direction. It never gets any easier to hear him call you that, as he has for years now. As your brother’s lifelong best friend, Jimin’s been around longer than most. Every time he says it, some traitorous part of you still wonders if maybe this time he means it differently.
He follows you out of the back, right to the brand-new station that Jungkook and Ravi helped you set up earlier. “Go on, then, take a seat,” you tell Jimin, gesturing to the shiny leather chair in the middle of your area. You drop everything in your arms onto the small side table and settle onto the rolling stool beside where Jimin has made himself comfortable.
The vibration from the machine is comforting, a familiar buzz that settles into your bones with ease. After a year of fake skin and endless hours of practice, you sit with barely controlled excitement as you lay down the stencil on very real skin…even if that skin belongs to the one person you never fathomed being under your needle.
Your coughing attack in the supply closet not that long ago isn't even enough to bring your mood down right now. Nor the reminder that he’s the reason for your fit to begin with. This is what you’ve been working so hard for. You deserve this moment and the elation currently thrumming through your veins.
With a steadying breath, you click the foot pedal to turn the machine off and mentally go through your checklist one last time. Load the ink, three points of contact, proper stretch on the skin, control the depth—
“Don’t think too hard about it. You know what you’re doing, trust yourself.”
Your brows twitch, nearly furrowing into a scowl as your eyes flick up into the pair staring down at you. You’re met with an expectant gaze, as if to say ‘go on, then, you know I’m right’.
“Easy for you to say,” you mutter under your breath, tapping the pedal to bring the machine to life once more.
Forcing the itch to repeat your mental checklist once more aside, you reach over to the small display on your table and dip the tip of the needle in the first ink cap. The silky black ink fills the cartridge, and you can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. Pressing forward, you let your body assume the stance that has become so natural to you over the last year. Three points of contact: elbow, wrist, pinky.
Using your other hand, you feel for vibrations in the skin, which let you know your depth is spot on. The fine black line that appears as you move along the stencil is beautifully executed. Just as you wanted it to be. It’s a small line, and you’re nearly panting by the time you pull away, but it’s done. The hard part is over; it’s started. Jungkook stands idly by, watching you work. If something were wrong, surely you’d be stopped before you got too far.
The silence you’re met with is as much of a green flag as you’re going to get, you think. Nothing more to do but to finish it. And, so, you do.
A few hours later, Jimin sits there, his critical eye taking in every facet of the new black-lined shape adorning his forearm. The tribal-style Bengal cat stares up at you, and you’d almost swear there was some glint of approval in its inky side-gaze. You wonder bitterly if your work will outlive you. If years from now, Jimin will still carry your lines beneath his skin while your body rots beneath the earth.
“I think you’re ready,” he says quietly to you before turning to give Jungkook a giant grin. “Koo, add my girl to the schedule!”
“Really?” you ask Jimin, trying not to get hung up on being called ‘my girl’. “You mean it?”
Gesturing to the saniderm on your station, he nods and says, “Get me patched up and let me take you for a celebratory drink. We can talk more about it then.”
There’s nothing unusual about grabbing a drink with Jimin. Oftentimes after a busy day at the shop, he corrals the staff to Chuck’s, the local pub, for drinks and wings. It’s a nice spot, nothing fancy; the food is greasy but delicious, and the beer is always cold.
Jungkook used to bartend at Chuck’s during his apprenticeship at Electric Fox. You considered doing the same, supplementing your income somehow while you apprenticed under Jungkook and Ravi, another artist who mentored Jungkook himself. But Hyunwoo, your younger brother and Jimin’s best friend, didn’t like the idea of his sister working in a pub.
So he convinced your father to let you access the inheritance from the trust your grandfather left to both of you before he passed. It’s a hefty sum, enough to live comfortably for a few years, at least. You considered using the entire thing as a down payment towards surgery; the surgery that would see your ailment cured, but the thought of severing your lov—you can’t bring yourself to finish the thought.
Your father may not approve of your current career path, your unfinished medical degree notwithstanding; you have your own reasons for what you do. The coughing fits have made it harder to maintain a normal lifestyle, much less a normal job. All you needed was another four years, and you’d be wielding a scalpel instead of a tattooing gun these days. You traded anatomy lectures for ink and needles because your own body betrayed you first.
But, you digress. There’s nothing for it now. This is your life, and you do enjoy what you do anyway. And will be eternally grateful to your brother and Jimin both for allowing you to apprentice at the shop without question about your leaving medical school.
Hyunwoo bought the shop a few years ago, when the old owner retired. Jimin joined as an investor right around the time his last album took off, reaching the top of the global charts for several weeks. He liked the idea of investing in businesses he cared about, and still does.
“When is your next session with Yoongi?” you ask Jimin after settling at the small high-top table you followed him to in the private room Jungkook had set up before he stopped working here.
Chuck’s is relatively slow tonight, it being a Tuesday and all, so you don’t have to strain too hard to hear his reply over the music drifting through the curtained doorway of the private room. “Next week. I’m stoked. He said he has a surprise for me, some hip hop dancer that he thinks will be great for when we start on the music video.”
“That’s amazing. I hope it goes well.”
Jimin hums, tilting his beer in your direction. “Cheers, pretty girl.”
You clink the lip of your glass against his before taking a small sip of the frothy drink. The beer is crisp and light, cold as it slides over your tongue. It soothes and feels great down your scratchy throat.
“You truly think I’m ready to start on real clients?”
“As if I’m not a real client,” Jimin chides playfully, holding up his forearm so you both can see the sanidermed tattoo adorning it. A flutter of pride swoops through your belly. You did that, you put that there…and you have to admit, it is quite pretty. “All joking aside, yes. Absolutely, yes. You’ve worked so hard for the last year; you are more than ready. I’ve talked to Jungkook and Ravi both, and they agree with me.”
“And Hyunwoo?”
“What about Hyunwoo?” a familiar voice asks from behind you.
You whip around, coming face-to-face with your brother’s big, toothy smile and bright eyes. “Bub,” you breathe the nickname you’ve called him for as long as you can remember, before sliding off your stool and throwing your arms around his neck.
Hyunwoo hugs you back, maybe squeezing a little harder than necessary. You’ve always been close with your brother, never understanding why so many people often see their younger brothers as pests and nuisances. Hyunwoo is three years younger than you, but that’s never hindered your bond. He’s your rock, and you’re his biggest cheerleader.
Once back on your stool with Hyunwoo sliding in beside Jimin, you look to your brother expectantly. “What?” he asks with a roll of his eyes.
“Don’t what me,” you snark back. “Out with it! How was your long weekend with Anuli?”
The look on your brother's face can only be described as dreamy as he props an elbow on the table and rests his chin in his upturned palm. “Perfect,” he says wistfully. “She is absolutely perfect.”
It warms your heart to know your brother is happy. After the disaster of his last relationship—a failed marriage to an uppity bikini model who cared more about his money than his heart—he deserves the smile that seems to refuse to leave his face anytime Anuli is mentioned. They met a few months ago at a small business summit in London—where she was the events coordinator—and have been inseparable ever since.
While you couldn’t be happier for Hyunwoo, part of you is terribly envious as well. You smile so hard your cheeks ache while envy curdles hot beneath your ribs. Oh, how you long for that kind of happiness, for that kind of—a cough catches you by surprise, spurting through your lips before you can suppress it. You press your mouth into the crook of your elbow, eyes watering as you choke through it.
“Whoa, whoa, are you okay?” Hyunwoo asks. He and Jimin are out of their seats and by your side in an instant, Hyunwoo’s hand on your back.
“Fine,” you manage to wheeze out before the next cough steals your breath. “J-just need—” You stumble down off your stool and make a beeline for the curtain leading to the hall where the bathrooms are.
You don’t care if the floor is dirty as you drop to your knees by one of the toilets, the stall door slamming shut behind you. All that matters is you didn’t see anyone else in the bathroom on your rush in, leaving you blissfully alone to suffer through your fit. Or so you think, at least. You don’t realize someone is standing over you until you’ve heaved up your stomach into the bowl.
“Shit,” your brother whispers. “Is that blood?”
He saw. Fuck. He saw.
Panic hits you. You scramble to slam your hand down on the flusher before whipping around to stare in horror at Hyunwoo pushing his way into your stall. “What are you doing in here?!”
“I was worried about you—” he begins, but cuts off as you shove past him.
“I said I was fine.”
“Clearly you’re not. Fucking hell, that was blood, wasn’t it? Don’t lie to me.” Hyunwoo gestures wildly toward the toilet, still swirling with water, whisking away the evidence that he clearly saw.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” You busy yourself washing your hands, refusing to meet his stare that you know waits in the mirror above you. “I said I was fine.”
“Yeah, I know what you said,” he replies. “But I also know what’s right in front of me.”
Before you can respond, you’re whipped around, your back pressing into the lip of the sink that’s still running. “Fuck off, Hyunwoo. What’s your probl—”
“My problem is you’re lying to me.” Your brother’s voice is quiet, far gentler than you were expecting. Concern fills his eyes, his lips parted by his soft breaths of worry. “What is this?” he asks, lifting a finger to your lips. It comes away with a crimson smear, the velvety piece of a petal from a calla lily dangling off the end. You can handle the coughing. The blood. The petals. But, what you cannot handle is the look on your brother’s face.
“It’s my problem to deal with.” Your words are just as quiet, unable to hold on to the fiery gusto you had moments before. This wasn’t how he was supposed to find out. Hell, you never meant for him to find out at all.
“Who?” comes his next reply, stronger this time. The tone of his voice is cold, slicing the air like a knife.
You shake your head, unable to meet his eyes. “It doesn’t matter who. I’m fine, okay? It’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad? You’re coughing up fucking petals…I read about this somewhere. Where did I read about this?”
“The Kismet Theory,” you offer softly. “We all read it when Yoongi and Jungkook…” you trail off, letting him fill in the blanks.
“You have a soulmate.” A darkness enters Hyunwoo’s gaze, one you’re not familiar with seeing on him. The lines of his face seem sharper, eyes more piercing, the set of his jaw hard, so unlike the carefree and joy-filled younger brother you’re used to. His expression changes by degrees. Confusion first. Then recognition. Then something far worse. “And you love them,” he fills in, slower this time. “But they don’t love you back.”
When Hyunwoo absolutely refused to drop it, lobbing relentless questions at you about who was responsible for your predicament, you left. You didn’t even stop by the table and say bye to Jimin.
You know Hyunwoo won’t say anything to Jimin. Regardless of what else happens, he’d never tell someone your private business like that. By the time you make it home, Hyunwoo has given up calling. The dozen missed calls staring at you on your phone screen don’t bode well for the hope that he’ll just forget about it.
The next week is a masterclass in avoidance. You throw yourself into work with a desperation that borders on mania. Before being granted full-time status as an artist, nobody thought twice about you being the first one through the doors every morning and the last one to leave every night. Apprentices were expected to clean chairs, mop floors, restock stations, answer phones, run errands, and generally make themselves useful.
Now, however, you’re technically an artist. A very new artist. A very new artist with exactly zero prospective clientele. Which means you have entirely too much free time. And free time, right now, is dangerous. Free time gives Hyunwoo opportunities to corner you.
The few times he’s come into the shop so far this week, you’ve unsurprisingly found yourself with something pressing to do. Three days into your avoidant spree, Jungkook catches you scrubbing the stockroom floor on your hands and knees, even though you had just done it the night before.
“You know,” he says mildly, leaning against the doorjamb, “full-time artists don’t clean stockroom floors with a toothbrush.”
You don’t look up. Instead, waving the very-not-toothbrush-brush in the air, you say, “Not a toothbrush, and I have nothing better to do.”
He snorts. “Maybe if you showed your face at the counter, you might actually get a client or two.” You don’t respond, letting the silence stretch into discomfort. You know Jungkook is watching you; you can feel the press of his eyes boring into you. Finally—“Your brother’s worried.”
Your hand stills. Just for a second. Then you continue scrubbing. “I’m fine.”
“I know you’re not fine,” Jungkook sighs. “I know because I’ve seen the bloody tissues at your station.”
You scrub harder, a cold sweat breaking out along the nape of your neck. “Still fine.”
“Mm.” His disbelief hangs heavily in the air.
Luckily, the front door chimes before he can push further. A walk-in—your salvation.
Your reprieve from prying eyes and questions doesn’t last long. Because, unfortunately for you, Hyunwoo is stubborn. Very stubborn. You should know. You share DNA after all.
Twice, he corners you in the break room. Three times he appears beside your station. Once, he even waits outside the bathroom for you. Like a psychopath. You tell him as much.
Every conversation starts the same. “Tell me who it is.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“You could die.”
“I know.”
His face always does the same thing then. Like you’ve physically struck him, as if the idea hurts. Which makes it worse. Because every time you see that expression, guilt twists inside your chest.
You hate lying to your brother, hate worrying him. You hate the entire situation. But telling him the truth would be far worse. Because the moment Hyunwoo learns the truth—everything changes.
Luckily, you make it to the end of the week and know that your weekend will be blissfully Hyunwoo-free, thanks to Anuli. Friday night finds you curled up on your couch with a blanket around your shoulders, a cup of tea pinched between your fingers, and a true-crime doc on the TV.
It’s nearly midnight. Your eyes are feeling heavy, and you’re considering turning off the TV and crawling into bed when your phone begins to buzz. You groan, anticipating seeing Hyunwoo’s name on the screen.
You nearly drop your tea when the screen lights up.
Jimin.
Your stomach immediately drops. A terrible feeling settles over you. Jimin never calls this late. Not unless there is something very wrong.
Heart hammering, you answer, “Hello?”
At first, all you hear is wind, then his soft voice. “...pretty girl?”
Your eyes squeeze shut. Fuck. He’s drunk. Not tipsy or buzzed, but absolutely blitzed. The kind of drunk where every word sounds melted around the edges.
“Jimin? Are you okay?”
A sniffle is his response. A true-to-gods sniffle. “Mm, y‘wake?” he mumbles.
Oh, this is bad.
“Where are you?”
A long pause, filled with the sound of rustling and a distant car horn.
Finally, he says, “Outside.” It comes out more as a sigh than a real word.
“Okay. Outside of where exactly?”
“Bar.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to remain calm. “Which bar?”
“Th’one with drinks and thos’ cute um’rellas.”
“Helpful,” you mutter more to yourself as you throw off the blanket and abandon your tea on the coffee table. “Stay where you are. I think you’re still sharing your location with me. I’ll come to you. Okay?”
A sad noise crackles through the speaker. You hear traffic, laughter, music. Jimin sighs again. “She…didn’love me.”
Your brain flickers through the mental catalog of women you often delude yourself into believing you don’t keep tabs on who are involved with Jimin. His admission hits harder than it should. Right. The new solo artist. The one Yoongi introduced him to, the one he’s spent the last several months talking about. Who made his smile brighter—who wasn’t you.
“Oh, Jimin.”
“Guess she lik’d the connect’ns more tha’ me.”
Your chest aches. Because despite everything—the bitterness, the heartbreak—you hate hearing him sound like this. “Hang tight, I’ll be right there.”
“Don’bother. ‘M fine.”
“No. I’m coming, Jimin. Just hold on.”
Another sniffle. “...You’ll come get me.” It’s so quiet you almost can’t hear it over the background noise. But you’re clinging so desperately to your phone that you don’t miss the broken, desperate plea. The absolute certainty in his voice is what destroys you. It’s the reason he will continue to be your destruction. You’ve never let him down, and even at his most vulnerable moment, when his faculties have abandoned him, he still knows.
Your throat tightens. “Yeah. Of course I will.”
“Thank you, pretty girl,” Jimin slurs softly. “I knew you’d save me.”
The line disconnects.
You’ve never been more thankful for location sharing. Years ago, Hyunwoo insisted everyone in the friend group keep it active for safety reasons. Tonight, it saves Jimin’s ass.
You find him twenty minutes later sitting on the curb outside a crowded upscale nightclub. His elbows rest on his knees, and his head hangs low between his shoulders. He looks utterly miserable.
The sight steals the air from your lungs. Because this is Jimin. The brightest person you know, the one who fills every room with light and laughs with his whole chest.
Seeing him reduced to this...it hurts.
When he notices you, his face immediately crumples. “Oh fuck.”
“What?” you ask, dropping down to the curb beside him. “What is it?”
His bottom lip trembles. “I think I might cry again.”
And then he does, instantly. Massive tears, heavy drops that flood his cheeks. You stare, struck momentarily devoid of action or response. He stares back, steadily crying.
Neither of you says anything until finally, he collapses against you. “Oh my god,” you squeak.
“I know,” he sobs.
“Jimin—”
“I know!”
The taxi ride is somehow worse. Jimin spends most of it alternating between crying and apologizing. Then, he's crying because he’s apologizing. Then crying because you’re being nice to him and he doesn’t deserve your grace.
By the time you reach his apartment building, the driver looks traumatized. You make sure to leave an extra tip.
Getting Jimin into the elevator and to his floor requires every ounce of patience that you possess. Mostly because he keeps stopping. To talk, to cry, to hug you, to slide dramatically down the wall.
Eventually, though, you get him inside. The familiar apartment is dark and quiet. You’re tempted to call Jungkook or Taehyung, as their apartments aren’t that far away, but considering it’s nearing 2 AM, you think better than to disturb their peace.
After pulling off his shoes, you guide him to his bedroom. Somehow, miraculously, you get him into bed after coaxing him to brush his teeth and then hesitantly helping him discard his clothes down to his boxer briefs. Putting a glass of water on his nightstand, you tip out a few over-the-counter pain pills from a bottle in his bathroom and leave them for him in the morning.
Tucking the blanket around him, you pull back and say, “There. Now, get some sleep, okay?” He blinks up at you. Sleepy, red-eyed, but still beautiful. Your chest pangs. “Rest now.”
You turn to leave, but a hand catches your wrist. You freeze, glancing down at strong fingers pressing into your skin. “Stay.”
Your pulse begins to hammer.
“Jimin—”
“Please.” The word comes out small—broken. Your resolve crumbles immediately. Of course it does; this is Jimin asking. So, you sit carefully on the edge of the mattress.
No sooner does the grip on your wrist fade than he’s pulling you down. You’re so surprised that you forget to protest or resist. You land beside him, his arms wrapping around you completely. “Whoa!” Your heart pounds so hard you’re surprised he can’t hear it.
Jimin curls around you, his forehead pressed into your shoulder, seeking comfort, warmth…seeking you. Not because he loves you, but because you’re safe. You’re a moor in the darkness, anchoring him in the moment. The distinction nearly kills you.
For several moments, neither of you speaks. The room settles into darkness, into quiet, into something dangerously intimate. Then Jimin sighs, a long, weary sound that grinds at your resolve.
“You never disappoint me.”
Your breath catches. “Jimin, I—”
“No,” he says, voice thick with exhaustion. “Just listen, please.” You go still, straining to hear what he seems so adamant to tell you. “I can always count on you.” The words are slurred—honest, unfiltered, tinged with drink. Which somehow makes them worse to hear. His fingers tighten slightly against your shirt, brushing against your abdomen. “No matter how much I fuck up. You’re there…always.”
A painful warmth blooms in your chest. You hate how desperately you want to hear that, his praise of you. It means so much, yet you know it shouldn’t; not the way it does, at least. I love you, you want to say. “I care for you,” you whisper instead.
“My pretty girl,” he breathes out. You blink rapidly at the emotions threatening to turn you into the one sobbing this time. His forehead nudges your shoulder, the ends of his ruby-red hair tickling your neck. “You’ll always be my girl.”
The world stops. And for one terrible second, one beautiful and devastating second, you allow yourself to believe it. To cherish and hold it, letting it fester and bloom beneath your ribs with every pulsing beat of your heart.
“Always,” the word barely twitches on your lips, so soft you know Jimin doesn’t hear it.
And then the moment shatters. “If you weren’t Hyunwoo’s sister…” The air in your lungs burns. “...maybe…” Another sleepy sigh. “Maybe I could let myself love you.”
Everything inside you ceases to exist, consumed in a conflagration of anger and cinder. Charred right to the bone, you let the emotions roll over you. Joy, anger, relief, heartbreak…all at once. Because somehow those words are both everything you’ve ever wanted—and the cruelest thing he’s ever said.
His breathing begins to slow, growing steady. Leaving you alone with the wreckage. Beside you, Jimin drifts peacefully into sleep. Beside him, you stare into the darkness, unable to breathe around the violent ache swelling in your chest.
And for the first time since Hyunwoo discovered your plight, you understand that even if you did tell him who, it wouldn’t make a difference. Fate has spoken…straight from the lips of the man you love but will never have.
🖤🖤🖤
Jimin
Jimin wakes slowly, head feeling thick and stuffed with wool. At first, all he knows is warmth. Something soft beneath his cheek. Something gently moving beneath his arm.
His head pounds, mouth dry and tasting faintly of old whiskey and regret. With a groan, he buries his face deeper into whatever pillow he’s latched onto. The pillow shifts; Jimin freezes. His eyes fly open and—oh, oh fuck.
You’re asleep beside him, your hair spread across his pillow and your face completely relaxed in a way he’s never seen before. His heart stutters with how beauti—you sigh sleepily, the rise of your chest reminding him very much of the fact that somehow, sometime during the night, he appears to have koala-beared himself to you. One arm beneath your neck, the other around your waist, one of his legs tangled with yours.
Holy fucking shit.
He jerks backward so quickly he nearly falls off the other side of the bed. The sudden movement startles you awake. Your eyes snap open, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.
“Oh my—Jimin, are you okay?” you gasp, blinking at him rapidly.
“I think I should be asking you that. Good god, what happened last night? Did we…” Jimin doesn’t even deign to finish that thought, instantly aware of how wrong it would be.
“What? Oh, no, no, no, no. You were drunk, you called me.”
Jimin winces, the hazy memory surfacing. “Right.”
“You cried…”
“Fuck,” he whispers, stomach dropping. “How much?”
Your eyes flick across his face, and he knows you’re assessing his current state. Just from that alone, he becomes hyperaware of how puffy his eyes feel. “A…lot,” you admit.
He lets out a miserable noise. “Fuuuuck,” he whines, and you laugh. An honest-to-gods laugh. It’s the first time he’s heard that sound in days—weeks, maybe…even months. Long enough that it’s caught him off guard.
Then he notices the exhaustion beneath your eyes, the way your smile doesn’t quite reach them. There is a persistent roughness in your voice, one he can tell isn’t just from sleep. Something twists unpleasantly in his chest. Before he can identify the feeling starting to creep in, you sit up.
“Relax, I’ve seen worse.”
“You absolutely have not,” he grouses.
Everything about you looks so soft right now. Even the soft snort you let out as you say, “Oh, I absolutely have so.” The sound makes something warm fizzle behind his ribs. This is a dangerous moment, too familiar and yet wholly strange. It’s comfort, he realizes. He shoves it aside as quickly as it swept in.
A short time later, Jimin is showered, dressed, and standing beside the kitchen island while you nurse a steaming cup of tea. He realized long ago that you weren’t a coffee drinker, so he keeps a small tin of your favorite tea in his cupboard just for moments like this. Well, not exactly like this, considering this is the first time you’ve slept over, not that you slept over like that, but—Jimin shakes his head, hurrying on from those thoughts.
The memory of last night remains frustratingly fragmented. He remembers the bar, sitting on the curb, and the tears. There are only flashes of his phone call to you, more tears, unfortunately. Even more unfortunate, he remembers being devastated.
Yuna—his most recent delve into the dating world. When Yoongi first introduced him to the new solo artist he was working with, Jimin was instantly awed by her raw talent and beauty. Fast forward a few months, Jimin is besotted, and apparently, Yuna was just looking for a leg up in the industry.
God, just thinking about it makes embarrassment crawl up his neck. What kind of thirty-something man gets played that badly? Apparently him. But no more; this can’t happen again. There is far too much going on for Jimin to have his focus deviate from what’s most important right now.
"You still have your key?" Jimin asks.
"Yep." You nod, patting the front pocket of your pajama pants. The metal clink of keys is muffled by the flannel fabric. You glance up as he grabs his own keys. “You going somewhere?”
“Yeah, meeting with Yoongi. We have a lot of work to do before my album is ready to launch. I swear the deadline was a year out last week, and now we have only months left. Feel free to stay as long as you want. I won't be back until late, though.”
All the time he wasted on Yuna should have been spent with Yoongi in the studio. But nothing for it now other than to put his head down and march on. Time to get back to the routine, his standard days of track approvals and mix revisions—something normal, a welcomed distraction.
Jimin watches as your fingers flex around your mug of tea. You still have a look of sleep about you, all your features softened. He can tell you tried to tame your hair with your fingers, but he kind of likes the way it moves around your face in a wild way. “You okay?” you ask, catching his eye.
The concern in your voice settles heavily in his chest. Because it’s always there, every time, without fail. You worry, you show up, you stay, no matter what. All he can do is nod, not trusting himself with words, afraid he might say something he can’t take back. The realization follows him all the way to the elevator.
Jimin’s stomach is protesting his skipped breakfast and the subsequent half dozen cups of coffee he’s had since arriving at Yoongi’s this morning. It’s noon now, and they’re deep into revisions. The studio smells faintly of the sandalwood diffuser sitting in the corner, coffee, and the hot scent of electronics.
Yoongi sits in front of the soundboard, expression neutral as another version of a chorus plays through the speakers. Jimin hates it immediately.
“Too much reverb,” he mumbles.
Yoongi nods subtly. “Agreed.”
“The bridge feels empty.”
“Mm.”
“Are you just going to agree with everything I say?”
Yoongi flicks his eyes up, giving Jimin a blank look. “I produced it, but you’re the artist. Your opinion matters…but also, because you are right.”
Jimin instantly feels contrite about his comment. He’s feeling off, and that’s not an excuse to take it out on his friend. “Right.”
“But you only have two more critiques before I just scrap the whole song and start over.” The deadpan delivery shouldn’t make Jimin laugh, but the small grin Yoongi can’t seem to hide does.
He sighs, and in that moment, as he exhales, Jimin feels some of the tension leave his body. Apparently, Yoongi has picked up on Jimin’s mood and is trying to lighten it in his own uniquely Yoongi way.
Jimin grins despite himself. “Fair enough.”
But the smile doesn’t last. Another thing Yoongi notices. With a flick of his wrist, Yoongi thumbs a button on the soundboard, and the studio falls into silence. “Yuna?” he asks.
The breath Jimin lets out is forceful. He leans back in his seat, rubbing his hands down his face before meeting Yoongi’s patient gaze.
“Yeah.” Jimin pauses, chewing his bottom lip before continuing, “I really thought she actually liked me. Things were going so well.” Yoongi’s expression softens, which for him is practically a hug. Jimin knows Yoongi feels bad for bringing Yuna into Jimin’s life in the first place, but even he was duped by her apparent innocence.
“Her loss,” Yoongi offers softly.
Jimin nods, trying to maintain his composure. “I’ll survive.”
Yoongi hums his agreement. “You always do.”
Still, it stings. Perhaps more than any of his previous failed relationships. And maybe that’s because he’s lately started to realize an uncomfortable truth. The people he dates never seem to measure up. Not really. Not in ways that he can explain…not compared to—
“Compared to what?”
Jimin frowns, not having realized he spoke aloud. “What?”
“Or should I say compared to who?”
“Who. That’s a pretty good song title for the track from this morning,” Jimin says in an effort to change the subject. “Let me listen again, I think I have an idea…”
Yoongi grunts, the noise clearly meaning bullshit, but blissfully, he doesn’t press Jimin on it. Instead, he turns to his computer and clicks through some of the sample tracks to the one they were working on this morning.
Some time later, with empty food cartons littering the desk and Jimin’s mind a little emptier thanks to his sudden lyrical inspiration, he’s staring idly at Yoongi, waiting for the next pin to drop.
“You know, if you want to talk about it, you can.” Hello, pin. “I can tell it’s more than just about Yuna.” Hello, drop.
Jimin purses his lips. “I just don’t understand why I keep choosing the wrong people.”
“You keep choosing people who need something from you.”
The words don’t come from Yoongi, but from the doorway, drawing both men’s attention. Jungkook stands there with a bottle of water in hand, a sweat-dampened towel slung over one shoulder.
“I don’t think that’s what I—”
“No, Jimin, Jungkook has a point.”
“It’s…complicated,” Jimin tries, floundering under this new revelation.
“No,” Jungkook says, gesturing with his water bottle in Jimin’s direction. “You make it complicated.”
Jimin sits in his discomfort, letting Jungkook’s words fester under his skin. After a quick shower, Jungkook joins them in the studio, the conversation drifting into idle topics like work, music, and scheduling. Then, somehow, it circles back, and Jimin can’t help himself.
“Maybe I just suck at relationships.”
Yoongi snorts. “You don’t.” It’s an immediate response that doesn’t necessarily catch Jimin off guard, but wasn’t something he expected from his friend. Yoongi isn’t one to mince words, but he is oftentimes a bit more thoughtful and reserved.
“No?”
“Nope,” Jungkook agrees.
Jimin sighs. “How can you be so sure, though? What you said earlier, let’s say it’s true…then how can I be certain of anyone? How do I know they’re genuine and not just after what I can give them?”
Jungkook and Yoongi share a look, and it’s one that Jimin has found himself envying over their years together. He knows that wasn’t always the case for them. When they first discovered each other and their soulmate bond, Jungkook was quick to dismiss it. He didn’t like the idea that his life was predestined, already mapped out for him. Jimin thinks that would make things easier; it would take all the guessing and uncertainty out of it.
Something passes between them, a quiet communication, then Yoongi says out loud, “Maybe because you’re looking in the wrong place.”
“What does that mean exactly?”
“It means that sometimes the right person is already in your life, already standing right in front of you. Someone already there, that you know you can trust…and do.” Jungkook shrugs, sharing a private smile with Yoongi before they both turn to stare at Jimin.
He suddenly feels like a specimen being examined under a microscope. Jungkook’s words hit strangely, like an electric shock from a balloon after it’s rubbed over the carpet. It’s a flicker—a memory, really. Your laughter this morning. The way you gently wrapped his forearm in saniderm after you took every measure to ensure his tattoo was perfect. Your sleepy voice when you answered his midnight drunken plea for help, you showing up…always showing up, for him.
Jimin shakes his head, a nervous laugh escaping him. “No.”
Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “No?”
“Just no.” Because absolutely not. That is so far out of the cards of reality. No matter how Jimin might feel, you are completely forbidden. The most taboo of the taboo, untouchable, off-limits. Jimin could never do that to his best friend, the man who is practically his brother in every way but blood. Because you aren’t just some random woman. You’re Hyunwoo’s sister.
Jimin has spent years drawing that line. Years, vehemently refusing to even entertain the idea. Because he knows Hyunwoo would skin him alive and wear his skin like Buffalo Bill if it ever crossed his mind. Yet…lately…
Yoongi and Jungkook watch the realization cross Jimin’s face. Unfortunately, they are both far too perceptive for Jimin’s good.
“Hyunwoo,” Yoongi comments softly, clearly speaking to Jungkook but also not trying to mask his words from Jimin.
Jungkook nods, tapping a finger against his chin. “Yep. That’s exactly what this is.”
“What what is?” Jimin scowls.
Yoongi leans forward, his hand absently going to Jungkook’s knee, where his fingers intertwine with the tattooed ones resting there. “You’ve already decided something isn’t allowed. That you can’t have something when you haven’t even considered asking or making sure you’re right.”
The room falls silent. Jimin’s eyes narrow as the pieces begrudgingly start to fall into place. “I haven’t decided anything.” Even he knows he’s lying.
“Bullshit,” Jungkook singsongs.
“Koo, that’s not fair—”
“When’s the last time you actually asked yourself what you wanted?”
Jimin opens his mouth, then closes it again. Because, in truth, he realizes he doesn’t have an answer. Not an honest one, at least. Jungkook nods slowly, knowingly.
“Sometimes,” Yoongi begins gently, “we convince ourselves that we’re protecting other people when really we’re just scared.”
That statement lands heavy. Because…
No, never mind, no, no, no. Absolutely not.
Jimin stands abruptly. “Well, as much as I appreciate the therapy session, I really should be going.”
His friends stare at him as he gathers his belongings, and Jimin believes the conversation is over. It should be over, but as Jimin reaches the door, Jungkook calls after him, “Maybe you should talk to Hyunwoo.”
Chills sheet down Jimin’s spine. He pauses, fingers loose around the doorhandle. “What?” he asks, glancing back at Jungkook.
“I’m just saying. There’s no reason to deny yourself the person you actually want because of something—or even someone—else. Trust me,” he adds with an affectionate smile tossed Yoongi’s way.
For a moment, Jimin isn’t sure what to do. He feels off-balance, like the floor is shifting beneath his feet. The thought has never occurred to him, not seriously, not beyond drunken moments and immediately discarded impulses.
The idea lingers within him. It leaches into his thoughts as he drives the short distance home. It’s still throbbing in his chest when he holds the teacup you left in his sink. If he concentrates really hard, he swears that he can feel the heat from your hands lingering in the porcelain. He sets it back in the sink, unable to bring himself to wash it just yet.
Everywhere he looks now, he sees you. In the slightly rumpled comforter on his bed, the shifted pillow on the other side of his bed, the towel in his hamper that wasn’t there when he left this morning.
As Jimin lies in bed, the mattress feeling far emptier than it ever has, he traces a finger along the healing lines of his tattoo. The permanent mark you’ve left on his body brings him a small comfort as he reflects on the other mark you seem to have left as well…the one on his heart.
For the first time in his life, with thoughts of your smile, your laugh, and the warmth you bring him, Jimin wonders…really wonders.
Next Chapter⇾ (coming soon)
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BANGTANWRITERSHQ PRESENTS: “THE SECRET GARDEN” MASTERLIST
Pushing away the ivy and brambles that spill from over the top of the stone wall and into the pathway, you squint to try to see above you more clearly, but the top of the wall is lost in the dense canopy overhead. It’s dark now; darker than when you first started walking, as the flora encasing the wall has grown more dense the deeper you travel. But they told you not to be afraid, that you would find it here—the secret which you have sought for as long as you can remember—as long as you stuck to the path, hand trailing along the wall beside you.
At last, a clearing in the foliage opens up before you, giving you your first glimpse at the treasure you’ve been seeking—the giant moongate. It’s surrounded by a lush hedge of pink and gold flowers that seem to shimmer in the moonlight cascading through the branches overhead. It calls to you like a beacon.
Beyond the stone ring, a small gazebo is dimly lit by lanterns, and a koi pond burbles softly in the distance. A path meanders through the space within, a fork leading right to the gazebo, and others disappearing into what can only be described as a garden of magic. Trees in full bloom dot the gently sloping land, thick with flowers and vines that reach to the earth, where swaths of flowers sprout in every color imaginable.
The dirt path beneath your feet gives way to the cobbled stone of the path as you hasten your step, clearing the stone arch and drawing closer to the gazebo. You’d almost swear there were figures moving within, shadows flickering in the light cast by the lanterns. Only, every time you try to focus on one, it flitters away.
“Welcome to our Mikrokosmos, a world all our own,” a deep-timbered voice drifts from behind you, stopping you in your tracks. Spinning, you see a tall man with beautiful toffee-colored eyes approaching you, the long lengths of his robe swirling around his feet, a hand outstretched in your direction…
Journey with us into the Secret Garden, where your fate could rest within the cradle of velvety petals or spiny thorns. Which path will you choose? Spring signifies renewal and rebirth, but with birth comes death. The death of a season, Winter losing its grasp, allowing What Could Be to Flourish. For the Second Quarter 2026, we wanted our members to focus on ‘what could be’ and let it blossom into something worthy of a bouquet.
KEY:
🔞 - nsfw (mature themes)
✅ - sfw (no warnings)
💖 - smut
⚠️ - other warnings
SET UP - emojis: Title (if link is to another platform) | Author [parts] pairings, genre/aus, rating, word count
🔞💖⚠️ Petals & Ink | @colormepurplex2 [1/2]
Pairing: Singer&TattooShopOwner!Jimin x TattooApprentice!f.Reader
AU/Genre: Hanahaki Disease AU, Tattoo Shop AU, Soulmates AU
Rating: MA
WC: 7,499
All stories copywritten of the specified author. The authors provided consent for their stories to the network to be shared by submitting their stories. Stories posted in the order of submission to the event.
— chapter summary | Morning arrives with the conversation you've both been avoiding. You finally lower the walls you've spent so long hiding behind—but some truths are far more frightening to hear than they are to confess.
— title: Carousel | pairings: Min Yoongi x female reader | genre: CEO!Yoongi, Arranged Marriage!AU, smut, angst
— ratings & warnings | +18 / M for mature; involves delicate themes related to arranged marriage, family legacy, family betrayal/drama, graphic depiction of a car accident, minor character death.
— word count: 5,662 words
— story masterpost: Carousel | ⤎ previous chapter | next chapter ⇢
— chapter drop date: June 16th, 2026 | main masterlist | mailbox | feedback | ko-fi | patreon | series taglist
𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚕 𝟸𝟻. 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝
— The night of Jinyoung's accident —
The rain had long stopped by the time Jinyoung sat alone in his car.
Parked outside the central train station, he was no longer shrouded by the shadows that had followed him all evening. Still, the steady flow of commuters was enough camouflage—for now. The burden he carried had already been delivered inside the station, swallowed by the crowd, secured somewhere he hoped no one would think to look. For the first time in hours, he allowed himself to breathe.
His hand may no longer tremble as violently as before, but the way he was clutching his phone tightly against his ear told a different story.
“I don’t know how,” he spoke urgently to the phone, eyes sweeping the parking lot, “but they seemed to have figured out what I've been doing. I must've triggered an alert system when I pulled those files from their database. They've been tailing me for the past few days.”
The deep voice on the other end answered steadily. Jinyoung listened, jaw tight, shaking his head once.
“I can’t go back to my place,” he insisted. “Not tonight. I won’t risk it.”
Your face slipped into his thoughts without permission. He knew that you would be waiting for him tonight. He was supposed to keep his promise to see you. And after the argument he had with you earlier, he knew you would come to his place the minute you couldn't find him at work—just like the lie he told you when he called.
The ache in his chest sharpened at the idea of danger brushing too close to you. Guilt clawed inside. He could only wish that he could change the past and fix everything he'd done.
But that was something he could only worry about at a different time. Right now, he needed to figure out how to get out of this in one piece.
"I knew they had eyes on me when they called," Jinyoung said, sighing. "Yes, I went to see them. I had no choice."
The reply came again, quieter. Jinyoung leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I told them I was backing out,” he continued after a pause. “No, they didn’t take it well.”
He closed his eyes as he listened closely to the other person's response. "I know," he sighed. "Right now, all I can think of is finding a place to hide and lay low, just for a while. Only until I can figure out what to do next. But my contact’s gone silent. I don’t have many options."
Then—something shifted. His face lit up. "Are you sure? R-right. Okay. Where should I go?" As the deep voice on the call spoke, he scribbled the directions he was given onto a scrap of paper, hand shaking despite his effort to steady it. But this time, he was hopeful. "Alright, I understand."
Before ending the call, he looked down at the note in his hand, and hesitated. He drew in a breath, then, "Can I ask you to do me one last favour? It's about ______." His voice cracked when he said your name. “If… if I don’t make it through the night—”
He paused and swallowed hard. The thought of not being able to return to you safely pained him, but he knew it was something he wouldn't be able to avoid. Danger would always find him, no matter what he did.
At the very least, Jinyoung was ready because he knew he deserved it. But not you.
The only thing he cared about was making sure that the danger wouldn't find you. "If I don't make it, please make sure that she's safe."
The answer was immediate. The deep voice spoke firmly. "You don't even have to ask me when it comes to keeping her safe."
Relief hit him so sharply it almost hurt. Jinyoung thanked the caller and ended the call. Having faith that someone was watching over you, he gripped the steering wheel tightly as he pulled onto the road, driving toward the place that promised safety.
The city thinned the farther he drove.
An hour had passed. The roads stretched longer, quieter. Rain-slick asphalt reflected the streetlights like glass, but there was no shadow in sight. The rain must have kept everyone away from the streets.
It felt unsettling to be driving out in the dark, yet he chose the longer route deliberately, hoping that it would help him lose his tail. As he drove, he kept checking the rearview mirror again and again until—nothing.
No headlights. No tail.
It gave him a sense of relief, allowing him to take a long, deep breath for the first time tonight.
Almost there, he wondered, as the navigation blinked. Two more intersections, and he would finally be safe.
His foot pressed down harder as the first light turned yellow. He crossed just before it shifted red, heart pounding. The next intersection loomed ahead. The light flickered to yellow. Then red.
He hit the brakes.
Nothing happened.
"Wh-what the fuck—?"
Instead of slowing down, the car surged forward. It kept racing towards the intersection at high speed. Panic flooded him as he fought the pedals, the wheel, the unresponsive machine beneath his hands that seemed to have a mind of its own. It kept going, almost like it was building up its speed, while he could only desperately hold on to the wheels, completely powerless.
The red beam of the traffic light glared above his head as he flew beneath it. His mind went numb with fear; he barely processed it when the horn from his right cut through the air.
Bright lights flashed like lightning, then—
Impact.
It happened so fast. His world fell apart as the vehicles collided. Metal screamed. Glass shattered. The world flipped—once, twice—before slamming into silence.
Pain followed slowly. When voices began echoing around him, the darkness had already begun pulling him away.
In and out of consciousness, Jinyoung barely registered the phone vibrating somewhere nearby. Light flickered across the pavement, across the broken glasses and the red glow of his blood.
Someone was calling. Deep down, he knew who it was.
With the last strength he had, Jinyoung stretched out his trembling hands to grab it, all while pleading in his head, begging that his voice could be heard.
“Yoongi—”
The word barely left him. With a grunt, he tried again, only to give up soon after. The pain was too great, and the regret he felt for not being able to come home to you only made it worse.
I'm sorry, he pleaded when he closed his eyes.
Your face filled his mind as everything went dark.
— Present day —
The morning light seeps through the curtains before you’re ready to face it.
You’ve been awake for a while, lying still in the faint warmth Yoongi left behind, the echo of his words from last night circling your mind. The penthouse is quiet—too quiet. Even the usual calmness you feel in the morning doesn't feel as stifling as what you feel today.
When you close your eyes, you can hear the soft hum of the espresso machine in the kitchen, the low rustle of his movements, but you make no move to leave the bed. It’s strange, how easily the silence can shape itself around two people who once filled it with laughter.
It feels like the past few weeks have been nothing but a dream. A game of masquerade that both of you played all too well, that you managed to deceive each other. Now that the masks are off, you're not ready to deal with the truth waiting for you.
By the time you finally step out of the bedroom, Yoongi is already dressed. The crisp white of his shirt, the loosened tie, the faint trace of cologne you’ve come to associate with the calm before another storm. He greets you with a small nod, his voice even, practiced.
“Morning.”
You manage a quiet hum in return, then accept his invitation to join him at the breakfast table. Yoongi leaves his seat to pour coffee and set a plate of food for you as you settle in your seat, setting up the picture-perfect morning that hides the cold tension lingering between you.
Neither of you mentions what happened last night, but the memory sits between you—unspoken, heavy, and unmistakably there. When he hands you a cup of coffee, his fingers brush yours for a second too long. The warmth lingers, but so does the distance in his gaze.
"I figured it would be best to have some light breakfast before we talk," he offers.
A flicker of a smile appears on his face, though hesitant. You also notice the tired lines on his face. His sleep must've been just as restless as yours had been. For some reason, it gives you some solace, knowing that he isn't so well put together as you first thought he would be after dropping that bomb on you last night.
Taking the cup of coffee in your hands, you nod and avoid his gaze. "Thank you."
You only get the brief chance of enjoying your coffee and taking a few tiny bites of your meal when he breaks the silence.
“Did you have a good sleep last night?”
Shaking your head, you steal a glance at him. "Not really," you admit in a small voice. "I tried, but it was hard to fall asleep when my mind was too loud."
"What were you thinking?" The tone of his voice is light, almost teasing, and it helps lift some of the tension you feel thickening around you.
It manages to draw a small smile from you when you scoff, "What do you think?"
Yoongi returns your smile with a hesitant one. Regret flickers across his face. "I'm sorry about last night," he offers gently. "It was wrong of me to ruin our night. I could've waited for a better time to—"
"No, Yoongi," you stop him before he continues.
He's right. He could've waited for a better time to bring up his doubts. But you also know that by then, it might have been too late. Whatever it is that's been growing between you might have grown stronger already. And if these secrets only come out after it happens, not only will it be painful, but it will also be harder to rebuild the trust you both might have lost.
"While I do wish that you had chosen a different time to bring it up, it's probably for the best that it happens now." Lifting your gaze, you look him in the eye and add, "I'm tired of keeping secrets. Especially from you."
Something in his gaze softens. It encourages you to continue, "I'm not going to question how you found out about my mother and her schemes. I just want you to know that I was never a part of it."
He arches his eyebrows. "Never?"
There's an accusation in his question. But you only see a little bit of it in his gaze. It makes you feel hopeful that you might be able to fix things. "My mother found out about our arrangement before our wedding day," you start to explain, "She may have obtained the information when we were drafting the wedding contract. I'm still not sure where she'd gotten her source from."
Yoongi nods. "I see." He doesn't seem too happy to hear this, which you can understand. Because this only means that there's a leak coming from somewhere. And it most probably came from his side.
But his gaze has shifted after listening to your story. When he looks at you, he seems concerned, more than he is annoyed. "I take it your mother used it against you?"
Your throat feels tight when you look into his eyes. You don't feel deserving of his sympathy and worry when you are in this position. "Yes, among other things," you answer with a bitter smile. "She threatened to expose everything to my father, and then the media, if I refused to work with her."
Admitting this brings shame and anger to yourself, making it hard to look him in the eyes. "I played along only so I could gain her support to go forward with the wedding. Her meddling was also the reason why I requested the final adjustments to our contract, just to make sure she wouldn't be able to use it against us in the future."
Nodding, Yoongi takes this all in without saying a word. "What is she asking you to do?"
His question makes you pause.
This is what you've been dreading the most. Even before you can admit what you're set to do, your tongue feels bitter. But he deserves the truth.
"She wants me to obtain data from your company that might be valuable to her scheme. Keep an eye out for your family's weaknesses. She knew that you would bring me into your company, and expected me to report back everything I learned once I'd gotten in."
His jaw clenches. His displeasure is obvious. "Have you been doing what she asked of you so far?"
"Not to the extent that I'd help her uncover the secrets to your family's business," you reassure him.
"I've only shared with my mother about the smaller projects that your company has been involved in. I never mentioned the new investors or anything about your contract with Mr. Oh. You can trust me not to share any classified data from your company, even after you've given me access to it. I did, however, have to share some old information just to keep her from pressuring me about it."
Yoongi doesn't say anything as he listens. Then, after closing his eyes briefly, he finally says, "I believe you."
Relief loosens something tight in your chest. It seems that he is also looking less tense when he asks, "What is your mother trying to gain by planning all of this?"
"I wish I knew."
You've had the same question for a long time. Yet, despite your effort to understand your mother's goals, you still have no answer. "I honestly have no idea. She never truly told me why she has such a vendetta against your family."
It must've had something to do with whatever happened in the past between the two families.
You've had this thought ever since you found out about your father's past affiliation with the Min family. Whatever happened then, it seems to have left some kind of wound for your mother to hold such a deep resentment against them. It was the only explanation that could make sense.
Still, these are nothing more than a speculation that you can hardly prove. Especially when—
"Seeing that she's also using my father's trust as leverage, I can only assume that he doesn't even know what she's up to."
Sipping his coffee, Yoongi pauses for a moment, taking all of this in. "I'm sorry you had to deal with all of this. But thank you for being honest with me," he finally says while meeting your gaze. "Seems like you also have questions for me."
You nod. "I do."
"Ask away. It would only be fair."
You bite your lips, feeling hesitant. He's right, you have so many things to ask him. But where do you even start?
"The first time you introduced your bodyguard, Yongguk, was back before our wedding. Then later, when he came to maintain security during our honeymoon getaway," you begin, as you recall the pictures you saw last night. It seems like the easiest thing to bring up, and the most sensible thing to ask.
"Then you told me that he would be following me and become my security detail starting yesterday," you continue. "But yesterday wasn't the first time you assigned Yongguk to watch over me, was it?"
"No, it wasn't." Amusement flashes across his eyes when he smiles. "I should've expected that you'd figure it out, one way or another."
You have no idea how to feel, hearing this. "How long have you been sending him to spy on me?"
"Spy?" Yoongi laughs while looking caught off guard. "Sweetheart, he wasn't there to spy on you. Since the first time I assigned him to watch over you, the initiative has always been about keeping you safe."
There it is again. Lately, it's something that you've kept hearing from Yoongi, and then yesterday, from your father. Yet neither seems willing to explain further. "You still haven't told me what you are keeping me safe from."
Yoongi's expression turns serious. "No, I suppose I haven't," he admits. Instead of answering you, he rises from his seat and grabs the coffee pot. "More coffee?" He offers.
"Yoongi, please answer my question."
He ignores you by filling your cup before refilling his own drink. "I will answer your question, but I'll need you to answer mine before we continue," he says as he returns to his seat, with the cup of steaming coffee in his hand.
"Go ahead," you finally concede, playing along as you slowly sip your coffee.
"How much did you know about Park Jinyoung's work?" He asks you after a brief pause.
"Apparently, not much. Back when we were—" Your throat tightens as you try to talk about the past; unable to say the word—together.
Not only because of the memory you still carry with you, but also for sharing it with someone who is a part of your present.
"When he was still alive, we made a deal not to interfere with each other's work, unless it was something we had to deal with together under my father's orders. Aside from the times we worked as a team, he never shared what he was working on."
"Keeping your professional and private life separate. Sounds wise," Yoongi muses. You can't tell if he's mocking you when he lifts his coffee to his lips, masking his expression.
But he's right about one thing. It would've been a wise decision to make for a couple who worked at the same place, under the same command. "It did seem like a good idea at the time," you admit. "He was my father's right-hand man who was dating the boss's daughter. It seemed like a logical thing to do to avoid unnecessary rumours."
"And now?"
You pause, not knowing how to answer. The only thing you feel is regret and a deep-seated anger for being made a fool. Yoongi seems to notice this, as he quickly changes the topic. "So you knew nothing about SS Novelties?"
You slowly shake your head. "Not until recently, when I found copies of an old contract mentioning them. Seems like he tried to throw them away at some point, but they must have mistakenly ended up at his apartment."
Yoongi leans forward. He seems intrigued. "What did the contract tell you?"
"Not much," you regretfully admit. "It looked like a contract for a business handover between a private party with Jinyoung listed as the representative of the second party. I assumed he was acting on behalf of my father's company. His signature was all over the contract, but strangely, not a mention of Lacuna Tech in it."
Thinking back, that was the first thing you noticed, which prompted you to question things. "Not much information was added to it, but it was dated during the time my father's company made a deal to acquire a small company that had just started running its business. I remember how Jinyoung got his promotion, so I put two and two together and thought this was the breakthrough which helped him gain his position."
Yoongi's gaze sharpens. "So, SS Novelties is still under your father's company?"
You shake your head. "Not according to what I've found. Just like how Lacuna Tech wasn't mentioned in the contract, their name isn't listed as any affiliate that my father's company is connected to as of today. Based on what I learned after talking to Jinyoung's former assistant yesterday, the business deal that Jinyoung signed had ended before my time, which lines up with the dates noted in the contract I found."
You think about the data that you handed to Hoseok, the conversation you had at your father's office, and still regret not knowing more. "Jinyoung had always been the one in charge when it came to business mergers and handling my father's business affiliates, so anything regarding those matters should be in his files, which I had no access to. I managed to obtain some more data yesterday through his former assistant, but I haven't gotten the chance to look into them."
You've gone through Jinyoung's work before—those many months ago, soon after his passing—but you never knew what to look for. Regret weighs heavily on you. If only you had stumbled upon those contracts earlier—
"How about you? Where did you hear about them?"
Yoongi leans forward, entwining his fingers on the table. "Their name keeps reappearing for the past few years," he says, his expression grim. "Oddly enough, we've only heard about them through word of mouth. Never in the media, or the papers."
"I do find their name unfamiliar," you admit with a nod. "I figured they must've been a small company from overseas." Another thing that you found odd is the fact that you've never heard about them before, even when you were working in your father's company. Not a mention of them from your father, nor from Jinyoung. That had been the thing that made you question everything.
"That's what I thought as well when I first heard about them," Yoongi says, agreeing with you.
"But how did you link it to Jinyoung?"
"The first time their name came up was a couple of years ago, during the switch-up happening in MYG Holdings," Yoongi explains.
You can only remember vaguely what happened then, as you read about it briefly on the news. "You mean, when you took over your Dad's place in the company. I heard that the switch-up was meant for the company's rebranding."
Yoongi leans back in his seat. "It was only a part of it. I don't think I've ever shared with you what actually happened."
No, he hasn't. Everything that you've learned about his family's business and the way he earned his position had come from the information shared publicly, except for the small tidbits you learned from Jimin and the other staff during your time working with Yoongi.
Then he surprises you by adding, "I can only guess that neither did your father."
You arch an eyebrow. "What did my father have to do with it?"
After a brief pause, Yoongi begins to tell you the whole story. "After my brother's downfall, all eyes were on our family for all the wrong reasons. The world began expecting us to crumble, and our business was caught in a major turbulence that we nearly struggled to stay afloat. Meanwhile, other companies were starting to gain attention as many investors were looking for new businesses to trust. Lacuna Technologies was one of them."
He stops to study your reaction. Seeing how you're stunned to silence, he continues, "My father saw a chance in their rise and proposed a partnership deal to help gain back our old investors' trust and rebuild our reputation."
That makes perfect sense.
It would have been the smart business move to take. Joining hands with the company that was publicly labelled as a rival company would've been impactful, if done right. People would see it as a form of humility; that MYG Corporations and the Min family's business empire were willing to put aside their pride for building a better, more promising future for their business.
"I can understand why he thought it would help," you concede, which Yoongi agrees with.
"So did I, but I didn't truly get why my Dad insisted that it had to be Lacuna. I thought it was a brazen move to offer a hand to a rival company. But after you told me about their past friendship, and watching the way they interacted on our wedding day, everything makes perfect sense."
It sure does. "I won't be surprised if my father had been the one to suggest it at some point. He would want to help a friend in need," you infer with a small smile, which Yoongi returns. "I'm going to assume that the partnership deal fell through."
Yoongi nods with a grim look on his face. "My grandfather was completely against the idea. Then he pushed my father to step down from MYG Holdings and move up to the mother company. He insisted that we would be able to rebuild from within, and having a new face leading the company was the only rebranding he was willing to envision."
You recall the sight you saw on your wedding night. The tension between your father and your grandfather-in-law was palpable, as if every passing moment was a stand-off. "How did SS Novelties come in?"
"Your father kept the door open for a while, so when I took over, I was prepared to have a whole team pitching a new proposal to make a new approach. But then another business venture swooped in to take the spot before we could make a move. Your father never publicised the name of the business venture that he chose to work with. But after further investigation, the name SS Novelties came up."
Yoongi drinks his coffee as if washing down a bad memory. Then, "Weeks later, your father started introducing Park Jinyoung as his new trusted second-in-command, commending him for a recent success in a business affiliation that he managed for the company."
"That's—"
Yoongi nods. "Recently, their name came up again, during the contract negotiation with Mr. Oh."
"Were they the competitors you mentioned?" You ask, taken aback, as this is the first time you hear of this.
"That's right. Now that they've resurfaced, it does seem like they're aiming to get in the way of MYG Holdings' efforts to advance and regain its merit."
Immediately, your mind takes you back to that day during your honeymoon; the men who followed you and Yoongi through the market, the tension rolling at the villa, and Yoongi's unease. Had they been the people behind the trouble you came across back then?
Yoongi pours more coffee into his cup. It seems his headache has decided to return, just when he'd thought he would finally be free of it.
He watches as your expression shifts—shock, worry, curiosity. It always amazes him how easy it is to read your emotions when your face shows him everything that's going on inside your head while you're unaware. He has no idea when it started, but he keeps finding himself looking at you, watching, to understand what you might be thinking in your silence.
It helps distract him. It takes away his mind from the thrumming in his head and the doubt clawing at his chest.
If only it could also drown his unease.
He takes a drink, giving himself a moment before he continues, "Now, going back to our conversation—"
His voice draws your attention back to him. Then he sees the expressions on your face fading. Once again, he can see the walls around you rising, building up like a shield.
At least you're not too closed off this time. As if you're ready to deal with everything. The only question is—is he ready for the truth?
"You said that you have no part in your mother's plan. Then, do you mind telling me what you're looking for?"
Your eyes widen, then you start laughing nervously. "I'm not sure what you think I've been doing—"
"You admitted that you've been digging for information about SS Novelties and their connection to Jinyoung and your father's company. I'm sure those aren't the only things you inquired into." That made you pause. Which only means that he was right.
That you've been looking into things you shouldn't. He hates it.
"Don't you even consider the risks that you might be getting into?" Yoongi tries his best to control his anger, yet he fails to control his voice that rises when he imagines you diving headfirst into danger. "Didn't you think about what might happen if you come across people who—"
"I have no other choice!" You snap, defending yourself.
" I have so many questions, and no one to trust. Forgive me for not even worrying about what risks I'm taking, but how else was I supposed to get an answer? Ask my Mom?" You sneer, laughing. "As if she would tell me anything."
"No one to trust?" He asks, "Yet you trust that detective and his hacker partner enough to work with them?"
Your eyes grow wide. "How did you—"
Yoongi says nothing, but it takes only a second before it finally clicks. "Of course, you'd know," you murmur.
He sighs. "I would say I'm sorry, but you know I had to do what I did."
"What? Spy on me?" You scoff, which feels unpleasant to hear. But he chooses not to react.
"You were smart for covering your tracks. Turning Jinyoung's apartment into your private hideout was also brilliant." Yoongi didn't mean to taunt you, but he cannot help it. Sending someone to follow you around doesn't make him happy, but just like you, he had no other choice.
"Nothing really escapes you, does it?" You laugh bitterly. Again, Yoongi chooses not to answer.
"What if I tell you that I can answer your questions?" He offers instead. He truly meant it when he talked about wanting to trust you. And he also knows that he has to work hard to earn your trust. "I may not be able to answer everything, but I am on your side, and I can show you."
Crossing your arms over your chest, you lean back in your seat, studying him. "Fine," you finally say after a long, unsettling pause. But what you ask him next feels like a gut punch. "Who murdered Jinyoung?”
Your eyes glimmer when he falls silent. He can tell that you enjoy seeing the way he reacts. "That's your biggest question, I bet." Yoongi clenches his jaw. "It wasn't me. Nor was it anyone from my family."
He looks at you straight in the eyes when he says this. This time, you're the one struggling to control your emotions. But for a brief moment, he can see it—a flicker of relief in your eyes. As if you had been hoping he would deny it.
"My mother seems to believe that it was you, or someone from your family."
His breath feels heavy. "Did you believe her?"
You look away and sigh. "I'm not sure what to believe anymore."
"Well, I can tell you right now that she's wrong," he reassures you, his voice softening as he says this. It draws your eyes back to him, and what you see on his face seems to tell you more about what he isn't saying.
"But you know who it was."
Wrapping his hand around his cup of coffee, Yoongi tries to decide how to respond. He was the one who first offered to share the truth, so there's no backing down now.
"I have my suspicions about who might be responsible, but I have no way to prove it," he says, sighing. "I might also know the reason why he was murdered."
The crease between your brows deepens. "What—?"
"________," he gently stops you before you can ask more, cautious, "how much do you truly know about Jinyoung?"
The silence that answers him tells him that you have probably realized that you never truly knew much about your ex. But how much have you found through your investigation?
"There's something you should know about Park Jinyoung."
You lift your gaze at him. "Yes?"
Meeting your gaze, his chest feels tight. He isn't sure if this would be the right thing to do. "Park Jinyoung was not the man you think he was, nor was he the kind of man he claimed to be." His voice is firm, but gentle. "I know that he presented himself as a dependable man, which is exactly what he was good at."
When you say nothing, Yoongi continues, "_______, Park Jinyoung was a grifter. He was hired to infiltrate your father's company, to climb up the ladder and earn your father's trust, which he succeeded in doing. In the process, he managed to use his skills to earn yours as well."
Your eyes are wide as you listen, and he can see a hint of tears brimming beneath your eyelids. So he does his best to be careful with what he says next, "When I first approached him about this a year ago, I also came to learn that whoever hired him to do his job had also given the orders to take your life."
Relief washes over Yoongi once he finishes talking. His shoulders drop as the weight of carrying these secrets leaves his body. As the room stills, he lifts his gaze to look at you.
For weeks, he has tried to imagine how you would react to this. Weeks of wondering what kind of expression you would be making once you hear the truth.
He never believed that this truth would shatter you into pieces—no, you're much stronger than that. But he also never expected to see you looking at peace, to see the tension leaving your shoulders the way it does him, as if you are just as relieved as he is once the secret is out.
He had expected to hear his heartbeat steadying instead of racing, the way it slowly does when you finally nod and speak.
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Synopsis: A case of Hanahaki disease shows up on your table, bringing with it a man from your past.
Pairing: Mafia Organ Broker!Namjoon x Coroner!F!reader
Genre: Horror/Thriller, Angst
Trope: Hanahaki disease, mafia inferences
Flowers Chosen: Anemone, Sweet pea (It's vague but I took some liberties in descriptions of the flowers)
Triggers/Warnings: Graphic description of an autopsy and equipment, overall cryptic environment of a morgue, inference to Namjoon being into organ marketing/mafia, mention of surgical scars. Angst with inferences of a past tragic relationship.
Submission for @lapydiaries Admin Dae's Drowning in Flowers event
A/N: Thank you to @sanjoongie and @pars-ley for getting me through writing this! I've never written or really known about Hanahaki disease before this beyond just vague ideas. I wanted to play with the idea of seeing the effects of it from a different pov than you'd expect. Thank you to @cafekitsune as always for the dividers and @pars-ley for the gorgeous banner! Written while listening to Dying To Love and The Grey by Bad Omens.
The familiar tingle of disinfectant stings your sinuses as you make your way across the chilly, windowless room. The soft ticking of the clock adds some ambiance to the silent space, and you’re reminded that you’ve yet to cue up some music to get you through the long night to come.
You go about the beginning of your shift, paperwork, checklists, all of the things ingrained into your everyday routine. Pulling out your white lab coat, you turn to secure your hair then wash up before heading over to cold storage.
The stainless steel metal doors house those unfortunate enough to have ended up in this quiet morgue, in the hands of a woman who’d come to terms with death long ago.
Your eyes search for one particular door, your heart heavy as you recall the documents listing her stats.
Door number 3.
Female, 25. Lung obstruction possibly leading to death.
A tingle races up your spine but you roll your shoulders to try to release the tension building slowly.
You push aside the technical terms you’d read off her chart, trying to clear your mind before you face the poor girl lying on the slab behind the door reducing her to a number in a refrigerator.
Pausing, you take a deep breath that tugs at your own past scars before you nod once. Perhaps you’d be wrong and it’d be a simple case of pneumonia that had killed her.
Forcing yourself into professional mode, you tug open the door and begin the steps for her autopsy.
All hope drains from you as your scalpel slices through her chilled flesh and tissue, cranking open the rib spreader to reveal the lungs beneath. The tell tale sign of the disease is automatically apparent as you notice the little barbs puncturing the lining.
The familiar floral scent permeates the air as you make an incision, so out of place in this sterile, sanitized environment. The once beautiful blooms are now withering in her chest, the fetid fragrance of sweet rot accompanying the decaying petals.
You set aside your scalpel and gently pick one up, rubbing the deteriorating tissue between your gloved fingertips. A sigh leaves your lips at the discovery, but before you can return to your work, soft footfalls catch your attention from the ceiling above.
Your hand hovers over your surgical knife, your gut twisting as the footsteps seem to hesitate.
As much as you will those shoes and the man connected to them to turn and leave, you’ve been anticipating this since you’d read her chart.
To your dismay, heavy clomps descend the concrete steps before the morgue door is being swung open.
You blow out a long breath as your sanctuary is breached by the living, breathing figure you’d rather not have to face.
He seems to sense your unwillingness, but you both know it can’t be avoided.
After a moment he clears his throat, the first note of your name brushing past his lips. But before he can even utter the syllable, you cut him off.
“Namjoon.”
Bracing yourself, you keep your face stoic before turning to face him.
Tall, short hair slicked back from his forehead. Dark eyes behind glasses that just enhance his good looks, an expensive suit adorning his large frame that can only be purchased at the most exclusive tailors.
The rigid creak of leather cuts the tension in the air as his gloved fist clenches the handle of his thick metal briefcase.
His full lips twitch at the edges, that familiar dimple threatening to peek out and wink at you as if it could stir your heart once more.
You’re aware of how ridiculous you both must look, two people standing in a cold morgue staring at one another probably reliving a lifetime of memories, yet you both have a job to do.
“I’ll prepare it.” You turn your back to him, willing your hand to steady as you retrieve your scalpel and go about extracting the thorny mass from the cadaver's chest cavity.
Silence fills the room for a long moment as you work before he finally steps up across from you. You only give him a glance before returning to your removal, your sharp blade delicately separating plant from human cells as he observes.
As rare as it was for this to come across your table, it’s not as if it’s never happened. You’re both well versed on this by now, an almost companionable quiet settling around you.
“You’ve gotten better at the roots.” The deep timbre of his voice draws you from your inner thoughts. You merely nod, finally withdrawing the compacted blooms from the thorax.
He settles the heavy briefcase on the table beside you, the sharp snick of the latches unlocking as you turn with the mass in your hands to gently place it inside.
Your gaze lingers on the beautifully horrific plant, wondering about the girl they came out of and the person who’d caused her to birth them. If she’d suffered much as they slowly suffocated her.
Namjoon’s hands linger on the lid, allowing you the time with your thoughts. A sadness washes over you as you tear your eyes away and look up at the man who’d once-
“Have there been any breakthroughs?” You redirect your focus, voicing something more tangible and less melancholic.
That dimple peeks out again as he shakes his head, his tongue pushing out his lower lip the way he always does when he’s frustrated.
“You know I’m not privy to that…but…” His gaze meets yours, dropping to your collar before quickly snapping back up. “...but you know if I ever know-”
Your smile is your only answer as he finally snaps the lid shut, sealing away the diseased blooms within now that your part in this is through.
With a nod, he lifts the case and turns to go, his footfalls a small relief as they signal that you can return to your routine without the intrusion of his presence trespassing on your mind.
Before you can turn back to the autopsy, he pauses at the door, his broad shoulders tensing.
Without looking back, he places a hand on the door, hesitating.
“I’ll keep my promise. Until the moment I draw my last breath, I swear-”
His vow rings throughout the room, and you can only feel the remnants of your heart stir like a specter; a ghost limb trying to remember the place it no longer resides.
Without another word, he pushes the door open and ascends the stairs, his heavy footfalls slowly fading as you allow the cold silence to calm your weary bones.
Your turn back to the table, the clock ticking faintly as you resume your night.
Your hand drifts up to your torso, your palm settling over the fabric that conceals your surgical scars.
You can’t help but wonder which is the preferable fate; the disease extinguishing your life like this poor soul on your table or…living but unable to love again.
You grab the tiny remote and turn on some music to drown out the intrusive hope that Namjoon’s longing eyes held, focusing on what will hopefully be the last tragic case of Hanahaki to come across your table.
— chapter summary | Yoongi’s question shatters everything you thought you had carefully built around yourself. In a single moment, the fragile comfort you’ve been hiding inside begins to crack apart, forcing you to confront truths you’ve spent far too long avoiding. Beneath his piercing gaze, every excuse, every illusion, every carefully guarded wall suddenly feels exposed—leaving you vulnerable in a way that is far more dangerous than you’re willing to admit.
— title: Carousel | pairings: Min Yoongi x female reader | genre: CEO!Yoongi, Arranged Marriage!AU, smut, angst
— ratings & warnings | +18 / M for mature; involves delicate themes related to arranged marriage, family legacy, family betrayal/drama, minor character death.
— word count: 5,875 words
— story masterpost: Carousel | ⤎ previous chapter | next chapter ⇢
— chapter drop date: June 1st, 2026 | main masterlist | mailbox | feedback | ko-fi | patreon | series taglist
𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚕 𝟸𝟺. 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜
— The night of Jinyoung’s car accident —
Rain had been falling all night, and it hadn’t stopped when Jinyoung ran across the dark parking lot.
With his coat pulled up over his head and his briefcase clutched against his chest, he focused only on reaching his car. It wasn’t until he shut the door behind him that he finally let out a breath.
He didn’t start the engine right away. The sound of the rain striking the windshield was harsh and unrelenting, yet somehow muted beneath the voices echoing in his head.
“You better not lie to us, Jinyoung.”
Jinyoung took a deep breath, hoping the voice would fade. It didn't.
“You know we can see right through you, don’t you?”
His body shuddered. Those words still stung as the first time he heard them.
“Watch your back… You know what happens when you mess with us.”
Jinyoung exhaled shakily, forcing himself to breathe through the panic that was rising.
“They know…” he muttered under his breath, the tremor in his voice betraying him. The chill that ran through him wasn’t from the rain-soaked clothes clinging to his skin—it was from the dread that had been following him long before he left that building.
He tossed the briefcase onto the passenger seat and started the car with trembling hands. As the engine came to life, he glanced toward the building’s front—his gaze snagging on the sign glowing faintly through the storm.
JOHO WORLD.
The sight alone sent another wave of fear through him. His pulse quickened. “Fuck… I need to get out of here.”
He knew he had to move. He had to drive and get away—as far away from here, far from those prying eyes he could still feel on him even in the dark, rain-blurred lot.
His eyes fell on the briefcase. Beneath its slick, rain-streaked leather lay something far more valuable than money—perhaps even more than his own life.
The files he kept inside could change everything. His future. Yours. It may even change the future that he had envisioned with you, while deceiving himself to make him believe that he deserved to have it.
Yes—they absolutely would change everything.
But it was worth the risk.
He kept telling himself that, even as the thought of losing you made it hard for him to breathe. But deep down, he knew that every sacrifice, every lie he made, would be worth it if it meant keeping you safe.
Still gripping the wheel, Jinyoung reached for his phone. “That’s right,” he murmured, “I need to warn him…”
His hands had stopped trembling, though his fingers were stiff with cold. He dialed the number. Once, twice—it rang, but no one picked up.
“Come on, pick up,” he whispered. “Pick up the phone…”
When the line finally cut to voicemail, his stomach dropped. “Damn it…”
He glanced at the time. A few hours left before they were supposed to meet. Was that why Jungkook wasn’t answering?
It would only make sense for him to wait and be cautious. But time wasn’t on his side anymore. Not tonight.
He tried again, and when he heard the recorded message play, he began to speak—quietly, cautiously.
“Jungkook, it’s me. Jinyoung.” He came to a pause, then, “I… I think I was right. I was right about everything.”
The words caught in his throat. He could still feel their eyes on him, could still hear the hum of that room full of veiled threats. It made him lower his voice further.
“I can’t explain it on the phone,” he whispered, glancing around the empty lot. “They might’ve bugged me—I don’t know. Fuck, I know nothing anymore.”
He drew in a breath, slow and uneven. “I don’t know if I can make it to your place. I’m not even sure it’s safe to see you. I don’t know where you are right now, but…” His voice cracked. “But I’ll try. I’ll find a way.”
He laughed softly—bitter, breathless—as he thought of you. The last conversation you’d had replayed in his mind: your anger, the disappointment in your voice.
If only he had never received that phone call this afternoon, he would've been having dinner with you at the restaurant across town, which he had reserved a week ago to welcome you home from your business trip. But he couldn't escape it when they called, and he had to lie to you about having work getting in the way of him meeting you.
He hated lying to you. Hated knowing that this might be the last thing you remembered of him.
Soon, your anger would mean nothing compared to what was coming. Which was why he had to do this.
“Listen, the reason why I'm calling you now…I just want to say,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, “if anything happens to me before I get to where you are… please…I beg you. Please find her. Find ______. Get to her first and make sure she’s safe. She won’t be if I’m gone. Promise me.”
He ended the call after promising Jungkook to contact him again once he was safe, then fell into a long silence, fingers lingering on the phone. There was someone else he needed to reach out to—but before he could dial his number, Jinyoung froze.
Through the downpour, illuminated by his headlights, a figure stood across the lot. A man in a black raincoat, hood drawn low. Still. Watching.
Jinyoung’s chest tightened.
“Shit…” He fumbled for the gear, slammed his foot on the pedal. The tires screeched against the wet asphalt as he sped away, heart pounding against his ribs.
“I need to get out of here,” he muttered over the roar of the engine as the car sped out of the parking lot, leaving behind the dark figure and the terror that they inflicted on him. His gaze flickered briefly on his briefcase. “Need to hide this…”
Rain blurred the city lights ahead, his vision trembling with every flash of lightning. But one thought stayed clear in his mind—He had to find a way to get those files to Jungkook.
It was the thought which gave Jinyoung the strength to keep on driving. It gave him enough reason to focus. He was the one who started this. Now he had to finish it—before it was too late.
Before you got caught in the crossfire.
— Present day —
“Are you still planning to take me—and my company—down, my love?”
Yoongi’s words strike like lightning. Your mind goes blank. For a moment, you’re not sure if you even heard him correctly. Yet the look in his eyes as he waits for your answer tells you he means every word.
Hiding your shock, you force a laugh. “I don’t understand. What do you…what are you talking about?”
Yoongi smiles. His hands remain on your waist—gentle, but restraining, as if keeping you from leaving.
“Have you been having fun lately with your little spy game, love?” he teases. The warmth in his tone only makes the ache in your chest deepen. “I knew you were good. You’ve been smart about keeping your secret, going behind my back. Have you found what you were looking for?”
A nervous laugh escapes you. “I don’t know what you think I’ve been doing—”
“Did you forget what I told you?” His voice lowers. “I know everything there is to know about you. Everything. Just like how I know that you’ve been meeting with your mother, passing on news and updates after working with me—or how you had an extra meeting with a hacker on your way home from seeing your father today.”
Your jaw drops. “So you were spying on me!”
Yoongi has the decency to look regretful. “Forgive me, sweetheart. It was never my intention to betray your trust. But I had to be careful.” He pauses, gauging your reaction. “I promised to keep you safe, and I meant it. Even if it means keeping you safe from yourself.”
You let out a bitter laugh. “How am I supposed to believe that?”
He arches a brow. “Just like how I’m supposed to believe you’re not plotting anything against me with your mother and that hacker?”
His words cut through you. “No—it’s not like that,” you choke out, breath faltering. “That wasn’t meant to hurt you. I never—”
But what were you doing?
Even as you try to defend yourself, you realize how hollow your words sound. How are you supposed to explain everything without making things worse—without making him trust you less?
“Then tell me,” he presses. “What were you looking for? What’s with all the secrecy, if not to dig into my weakness?”
The way he says it—his gaze unwavering, his voice quiet—makes you feel like your walls may easily crack under the weight of his stare. Yet you still can’t bring yourself to speak. You’re not ready. You don’t have all the answers. And you don’t know how much he already knows.
“I… I can’t tell you.”
Yoongi sighs. “Still with your secrets.” He shakes his head, and for the first time, you see anger flicker beneath the surface. “Then maybe you can tell me about what your mother’s up to—and why she put a mole among my lawyers to sniff around our marriage contract?”
“What…?”
You stare at him, wide-eyed. Yoongi blinks, his brows furrowing in confusion. “You didn’t know.”
No. You didn’t.
You’ve spent weeks trying to figure out how your mother learned the truth about your marriage arrangement—how she managed to twist it into something she could use against you. And now you finally know.
But the truth brings no relief. Only dread. Because the fact that it’s Yoongi telling you this means it’s already too late. He’s already lost his trust in you.
While you’re still struggling to process it, Yoongi recovers first. “What about your ex-fiancé’s company?” he asks quietly. “Does SS Novelties ring a bell?”
You inhale sharply. “I… I don’t—”
But your hesitation betrays you. You think of Miss Ahn and the conversation you shared in your father's office. You think of the data you got from her. Of the files you never got to copy. The pieces you never got to see.
You wish you had the opportunity to look through everything before handing it off to Hoseok.
It's too late for that now.
Yoongi tilts his head, studying you. You have no idea what he sees, yet he doesn’t press further.
"I see," he murmurs instead, as if he can see the answer written on your face.
"What do you see, Yoongi?" you ask him in a small voice.
When he smiles this time, the anger in his eyes has faded. Regret takes its place. "I'm sorry for doing this, and for ruining our night,” he says, his tone low, apologetic. “I know I caught you off guard, and it's a terrible time to do this when things were finally—” he exhales, “—peaceful.”
You almost laugh at his audacity. At least he admits it, though it does little to ease the sting.
He tilts your chin up with his fingers. “But I still have a lot of questions," he murmurs. “Let’s talk in the morning. Maybe by then, you’ll be ready to answer some questions. And I promise—I’ll answer yours.”
His faint smile lifts, though his expression remains unreadable. “You have many of them, don’t you?”
He isn’t wrong. But the shock still anchors you in place, the weight of everything too heavy to move through words.
He doesn’t give you the chance anyway.
Because before you can speak, he leans forward—pressing his lips to yours, quieting the storm inside your chest with a single, tender kiss.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers when he pulls away, his forehead still resting against yours.
The words break something in you. You want to believe him. You really do.
For a moment, you wish you could stay like this forever—with his arms around you, while the rest of the world is forgotten. But reality pulls you back when he gives you one last kiss on the temple and steps away. His eyes soften as his hands slide down your arms, his touch leaving behind a heat that refuses to fade.
“Goodnight, sweetheart. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He kisses the back of your hand before letting go, and you turn away, unwilling to watch him leave. Only when you hear the soft click of the door to his study room closing do your knees finally give in. You lean against the wall, eyes closed, his words echoing in your head.
I’m sorry.
You exhale a deep breath. Your answer comes with barely a whisper. “So am I.”
Just like how I’m supposed to believe you’re not plotting anything against me…?
“No,” you breathe to the empty hallway. “That was never my intention from the start.”
Yoongi locks himself in his study room and tries to calm his heartbeat.
He crosses the room and pours himself a drink, the amber liquid trembling in his hand. He downs it in one go, then pours another—needing the burn to ground him.
He walks toward the window, where he gets a clear view of the city below, hoping that the nightlights flashing before his eyes can distract him. But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get your face out of his mind. The look in your eyes. The tremor in your voice. And then the ache in his chest that came from seeing all of that coming from you. That his words had been the reason why you nearly crumbled in front of him.
Impulsive.
Stupid.
He curses under his breath and takes another drink. But the voices in his head only grow louder.
"Did you tell her?"
Jimin’s voice lingers. No, he hadn’t. He couldn't. There had been many chances for Yoongi to tell you everything he knew, yet he could tell that you weren’t ready to hear them back then. That was what he’d told himself. But now, looking back, he realizes how wrong he might have been. The truth would’ve hurt you—perhaps even more than the pain you've gone through—but not knowing seems to be hurting you worse.
"When was the last time you visited your brother, Mr. Min?"
Jungkook’s voice cuts through next. Yoongi stiffens, swallowing the rest of his drink. That conversation he had with the detective has been haunting him all evening. The question shouldn’t have mattered—and yet, it does.
When was the last time he went to see his brother?
He cannot remember, but he still remembers the trial. His brother’s calm defiance seemed unsettling, as if the sentencing he received back then meant nothing to him. The way he’d kept his head high, eyes sharp and knowing, even as they led him away, made Yoongi question everything.
But what haunts him for years was the last look his brother gave him—the smirk, the words mouthed without sound, directed only to him.
Exceptional work.
Yoongi shuts his eyes and takes another drink. The burn barely registers anymore.
He sets the glass down by the window and stares out at the city. The lights blur in his vision, and for a fleeting moment, he thinks of you again—your quiet voice when you spoke to him earlier during dinner.
“I found out today that they worked together. A long time ago.”
How did you find out about this? Did your father tell you himself?
Yoongi cannot help but wonder. For many years, Yoongi hadn't been entirely clueless. The signs were there, a connection deeper than mere business rivalry.
He’d suspected there was more—something buried between both families. But every trail he followed ended in silence. Both fathers had been careful, too careful.
Generations of secrets that may have been present for decades, long before either you or Yoongi were born, all hidden beneath polished smiles and talks of rivalry. Not even the months he spent getting close to your father had gained him valuable information that may answer his curiosity.
Secrets.
Yoongi turns away from the window and sits behind his desk. His heart feels heavy, though not because of the pile of work he left behind this morning on top of his desk. He opens the drawer, pulling out a thick envelope. His breath trembles as he carefully places it on the table.
Inside are the files he managed to gather for years, starting long before he even got involved in your life directly. Written in these files are everything he learned about Park Jinyoung.
Everything. From his life, his identity, and his past.
And most important of all—his deepest secrets.
The bedroom feels cold, and almost too spacious without Yoongi in it. You don’t quite remember how you made it back here after he left you behind, only that your body must have carried you on instinct, moving you somewhere it thought you would be safe.
Safe isn’t what you feel.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, devastation starts pressing down until your chest feels as if it might cave in on itself. Your breathing turns shallow, uneven. Crying would make sense. It would be easy, almost expected. But the tears never come. Everything inside you is tangled and indistinct, your mind still trying to catch up to how quickly the night unravelled.
How did it come to this?
Things between you had been going so well. Too well. You realize that you've let yourself get swept away by your emotions—by him—until you forgot why this arrangement existed in the first place.
And yet, somehow, Yoongi found out about everything you've hidden so closely.
About your mother. About what she’s been scheming.
“I have my ways to find out everything about you, love.”
Back then, the words had felt intimate. Reassuring. They made you lower your guard, made your heart soften around him. Now, replayed in your mind, they sound like something else entirely. A warning. A reminder that there is nothing you could hide from him—not really. That even the best-kept secrets would eventually find their way into his hands.
Right. That’s just the kind of man Min Yoongi is.
So why did you ever think you could deceive him?
Regret always arrives too late. And yet, every time you remind yourself of what you stand to gain from all of this, your choices begin to justify themselves. You may not share your mother’s intentions, but you did use her plans to secure her support—to keep moving forward. None of it was done with malice.
Not to you, at least.
That is why you haven't been ready to tell Yoongi everything. Why his accusation left you wordless, your thoughts scattering before you could gather them into something coherent.
How are you supposed to explain the truth when Yoongi himself seems to sit at the center of it? How do you fix something when you don’t even know where it broke?
The more you think, the heavier your head feels, the air in the room thickening until it feels hard to breathe. The silence stretches—until your phone vibrates, sharp and sudden.
At first, you're hesitant to grab it. It’s late. You can’t think of anyone who would be calling you now.
Then another voice slips into your thoughts.
“I’ll keep in touch.”
Hoseok.
Reminded of his promise, you rise to your feet to retrieve your discarded purse and pull out your phone. Sure enough, you see his nickname flashing on the screen, along with his message.
[GHOST]: Found something interesting. Check your email ;)
The message is vague, almost playful, but it stirs your curiosity. It gives you something else to hold onto—something that isn’t the hollow ache in your chest. You turn on your laptop and open your email. The file loads quickly, and when the images appear, your breath stills.
They’re candid photographs. Taken some time ago. They pull you back to a period of your life when you were still unaware of what was coming.
The first set shows you on a date with Jinyoung. You recognize the white ruffle blouse you were wearing immediately—it used to be your favourite. He’s wearing the pale blue shirt you bought him for his birthday, the first gift you ever gave him. You remember how pleased he’d looked that night; the dinner was meant to celebrate his special day and your new relationship, after all. Or so you thought.
The next set of photos shifts abruptly with one click, showing pictures of Yoongi. The photos were taken long before you reunited with him—back when he was still dating Bora Kim. Like yours, the photos were taken on the same day, captured at different locations. They appear intimate without being affectionate.
You’re still trying to understand what you’re seeing when your phone rings.
“Did you get the text?” Hoseok asks the moment you answer.
“And the email,” you reply, eyes flicking back to the screen. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me. Are you saying we were both being watched?” You pause. “We both have pasts, Hoseok. That isn’t a secret.”
He chuckles softly. “Why don’t you open the other files I sent?”
Irritation flares at his tone, but you comply. The next email opens, and your breath catches at the content.
More photos.
Jinyoung appears in the photos again—same pale blue shirt, same hairstyle he had from your date. Beside them are images of Bora Kim, unmistakable in the striking red dress she wore the night she had dinner with Yoongi, shown in the pictures you just saw.
“Hoseok,” you whisper. “What is this?”
“I thought this might interest you,” he says lightly. “Aren’t you curious?”
“Stop playing,” you hiss, drawing another chuckle from him.
“Notice anything they have in common?”
You nod before remembering he can’t see you.
The photos weren’t taken at the same time period—which was obvious, judging from the timeline—but the other parties in this set of photos draw a connection you cannot help but take notice of. In Jinyoung’s pictures, he is sitting in a lounge with a drink in hand. Sitting right across the table was Kim Namjoon, the man whose voice was recorded in Jinyoung's last voicemail.
Meanwhile, Bora Kim appears to be sitting in a similar-looking lounge with a different man sitting closely by her side. Both of their heads bent closely together as they chatted.
The man? It's another one of the cousins you met at Yoongi's office—Kim Seokjin.
“Jinyoung met Kim Namjoon on the same day we went out,” you murmur. Late at night, and according to the timestamps, hours after he’d taken you home.
“And Miss Bora Kim had another appointment after she left her lover,” Hoseok adds.
Your gaze drifts back to Bora’s photos. You try to imagine the threads connecting them—why both of them crossed paths with the Kims. And whether Yoongi ever knew.
“They were both connected to the cousins at some point,” you say quietly. “That’s what you’re saying?”
At least Jinyoung’s involvement isn’t a surprise anymore. The voice recording you found and the phone records Jungkook showed you had already hinted at that much.
But what about Bora Kim? How did she fit into all of this?
Before Hoseok can answer, you ask him, "How did you get these photos? Who took them?"
When you hear him clearing his throat, you already know that you might not like the answer. You were right. “CCTV footage," he says, with little to no remorse in his voice. You can almost hear him smiling, gloating as he explains, "I hacked the system and ran their names through facial recognition. I was tracking the trio's movements based on Jungkook’s last investigation. When I pulled Jinyoung’s data to see his last known movements and linked them with those three, these photos came up immediately.”
Closing your eyes, you try not to think about how much of that is legal—and you’re not sure you want to know. “Do you know how they’re connected?”
Aside from the voice recording you found in Jinyoung's phone and the phone records, there was nothing else that could show you what kind of connection Jinyoung had with them. Nothing that could explain why Jinyoung was in contact with them in the first place.
Jungkook must know more than he let on.
It would only make sense that he would. After all, everything you've come to know about your ex-fiancé was all based on the information Jungkook has been giving you since the first time you met.
He didn't even seem surprised to hear Namjoon's voice in that recording.
“I wish I had the answer for you, but there’s nothing concrete yet,” Hoseok admits. Seems like you are not the only one Jungkook is keeping in the dark. If he had found anything at all. “Other than these meetings and what was on Jinyoung’s phone, I can’t find anything else.”
Right. Of course. It would be impossible to get the answers that easily.
"I'll look up further once I get the chance," he promises. Then his tone shifts, growing hesitant. “But there’s something else you should see.”
Another file arrives before you can respond. "Why don't you take a look?"
After seeing all the photos he sent earlier, you have a feeling that what he's sending you next might unfold something else that might draw concern. So you brace yourself as you open it.
And you were once again right to be wary. Because what you see next makes your stomach drop. "What in the—"
More CCTV footage. More photos of you. Some are recent. Others go back further than you’re comfortable admitting. Every image carries the same implication—you were never as alone as you thought.
One set of pictures catches your eye. They were taken on a rainy evening. You and Jungkook stand huddled beneath his umbrella in one corner of the street. But that's not what draws your attention.
It's Yongguk.
Shielded by a black umbrella, dressed in dark clothing, he blends seamlessly into the shadows only a few feet away, his eyes locked on you.
“You have a shadow following you.”
Once you see him, it becomes impossible not to notice his presence in the rest of the images you see.
Sometimes, his appearance makes sense. He was there during the times you knew Yoongi would be watching. When he was sent by Yoongi to pick you up after your wedding preparation shopping day with Jimin, or when he drove you and Yoongi to various events or dates.
But the other photos unsettle you.
Photos taken when you believed you were alone. Before Yoongi ever formally introduced Yongguk as his bodyguard. At the winery, long before you went back to the city. Near the workshop where you spent your last days with your father's team before your wedding day. Then, you stop at the picture showing Yongguk sitting in a black car, parked across the street the night you went to see Jungkook after having dinner with Yoongi’s parents.
Then you open the last set, and your breath catches.
These are taken at the times you were with your mother.
The lunch date at the golf club. The coffee meetup at the café near your father's office. Then the most recent one, taken on the afternoon you came to have tea with your mother, right in the backyard garden of your parents' home.
In some photos, Yongguk lingers at the edge of the frame. In others, he’s nowhere to be seen—but you can imagine him just out of sight, watching.
“Are you still there?" Hoseok’s voice pulls you back.
Taking a deep inhale of breath, you try to hold yourself together. “Yes,” you answer, your voice small, and your chest tight. It doesn't go unnoticed by Hoseok.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. You can tell that he feels guilty. Even though he was not the one at fault. “I thought you should know.”
Closing your eyes, you can understand where he is coming from. Though all of this catches you by surprise, you know that you should've expected this. You've always known that men like Yoongi always have some skeletons hiding in the closet. You just never expected this to be one of them.
"That my husband has been spying on and following me?" A hollow laugh slips out. “At least now I know why he always seems one step ahead.”
The bitterness fades as quickly as it comes. When you think of your own secrets, his caution almost feels… justified.
“Thank you,” you say at last. Once you no longer feel like your whole world is spinning out of control. “For telling me.”
“Anytime.” His smile is audible, and it steadies you more than you expect. "Well, now that I've done my deed of showing you these photos," he continues, just when you think he's ready to end the call. “There’s something else I need to tell you. I might be hard to reach for a while.”
Your brows knit. That was unexpected. "How long is 'a while'?"
A pause, then, "I'm not sure yet."
You have no idea what to say to that. "Are you going somewhere?" As you ask him this, you hear movement, then something familiar in the background. "That sound…is that what I think it is?"
Hoseok softly laughs. "Good ear. I'm at this private airstrip just outside the city. I'm flying out tonight."
"This late?" You ask him, alarmed. "Where are you heading?"
Hoseok doesn't answer you for a moment, which feels unsettling. "I'm following a trail." For some reason, he seems hesitant. "I looked through the files you gave me today, and I—let's just say that I got a lead."
"What kind of lead are you talking about?" What did he find in Jinyoung's files?
"There was an address listed in one of the files you retrieved from Jinyoung's data. It was only mentioned once, so it was easy to miss if you don't know what to look for," he explains, his voice rising when the sound of the engine roaring behind him grows louder. "I checked within the system and found a building that's been leased since the date listed on the contract you found. Funny thing is, this building doesn’t exist on any map. But the geolocation of the address points at an area in the mountains.”
Your pulse quickens. So there was something. "What are you thinking?"
"Well—" You can almost hear him racking his brain before you hear his reply. "I think…whoever was involved in the deal Jinyoung made might still be using this place." It sounds plausible, and at the same time, quite suspicious. Hoseok seems to think the same. "There are no other records about this place. Nothing geographically, and nothing in the papers. So I figured I'd take a peek to find out what's going on out there."
That doesn't sound too reassuring. "I don't know. It sounds risky to go there in person."
Hoseok laughs. "Normally, I would agree. I hate taking these kinds of risks. But I'll take my chances. I won't be going out there alone, so don't worry too much."
"You have someone there with you?" The alarm bells in your head continue to spike. Considering his current circumstances, it's hard to imagine that any of this is safe. "Does Jungkook know about this?"
The brief silence that answers you makes you feel even more uneasy. "We both know that Jungkook is unreachable, and we don't know for how long. I have to move fast if I want to be back before anyone catches me slipping."
"Can't it wait until he gets back?" You try to reason with him, even if you can already tell it's no use.
"I can't. There's always a possibility that I triggered an alert system while I was looking through some stuff. This is the only window I have if I want to make this happen," he argues. "About Jungkook—I left him a message to let him know where I'm going and what I'm about to do. He knows how to track me down if things go wrong."
The chances that things may go wrong make you wary. The fact that he seems to be taking things lightly isn't helping his case either, nor does it help ease your mind.
"Look, I got this handled. I can't tell you all the details right now, but I'll be fine as long as I'm back within 24 hours," he reassures you. "I promise to keep in touch and let you know if I find something."
A part of you wants to argue and make him stay to keep him out of trouble, but you can hear it in his voice that he is already determined to go. You can only sigh, feeling helpless, but there's nothing you can do at this point to change his mind. "Please be careful, Hoseok."
"You know I'm always careful," he promises. "I should be the one saying that to you. Without Jungkook around, or me, please stay close to that shadow of yours, okay? Whatever Yoongi’s doing—it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to hurt you."
His words surprise you. You want to believe him. But after what had transpired between you and Yoongi tonight, it's hard for you to agree. "How would you know that?"
He lets out a soft chuckle. "That's the problem. I don't know. Let's just say it's my instinct telling me not to worry."
You close your eyes. "I hope you’re right."
"Me too." Hoseok pauses. In the background, mixing with the faint sound of the machines getting ready to go, you hear another voice talking to him before you hear his voice again. "It's time to go. I'll see you soon."
The call ends with the word 'goodbye' hanging at the tip of your tongue. It feels unsettling, even more so when you have no idea why you are feeling as if your stomach is filled with lead.
So many things happened today. Too many things for you to deal with in just one day.
Drained, both mentally and physically, you crawl back onto the bed and rest against the pillows. Your head feels heavy, and so is your heart. Yoongi’s scent still clings to the sheets, making it ache to breathe. As your exhaustion sinks in, you stare at the ceiling with your thoughts settling into something firm.
It’s time for us to talk.
It's time for you to tell him everything. Maybe then, he’ll be able to share his secrets, too.
Your mind is still busy and loud against the silent night when you finally close your eyes. Sleep comes slowly, uneasy and thin. But you know that morning will come regardless. You can only hope that by then, you'll be strong enough to handle the hard conversation that you'll need to have with your husband, before everything falls to ruin.
Note: bolded urls = unable to tag | Please notify me if I missed your url or if something needs to be fixed so I can tag you in the next part. Feel free to let me know if you want to be removed :)
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This was written for the Poly Yoonmin Fest on AO3 where this is also crossposted.
Prompt:
Jimin and Yoongi have been looking for a third. They think they've found their perfect match in Jungkook, only to realize he's very taken and his boyfriend Namjoon probably wouldn't appreciate that. To their surprise, Namjoon and Jungkook have plans of their own.
dw: flirty jk, namkook are in fact a package deal, foursome, do whatever your heart desires you can go crazy with it
dnw: sad/open/ambiguous ending
Thanks to my beta: honour
"Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” Jimin’s voice comes rushed and breathy as he squeezes between the press of bodies near the bar. With one last push, he wiggles free of the mass, snatches up the worn leather satchel occupying the empty barstool, and collapses onto the seat.
Hugging the satchel to his chest, he takes a deep breath, his shoulders moving with the movement as he takes a moment to get his bearings. As he shifts, getting more comfortable, the man on the neighboring stool swivels his seat around to fully face him.
“You’re late.”
Jimin catches the strap of the satchel on the bag hook on the underside of the bartop before looking up to roll his eyes at his longtime partner of several years.
“Yeah…yeah…yeah, I know. The parent-teacher conferences ran longer than expected. I left as soon as I could.” Jimin says apologetically.
Yoongi sips at the remainder of the amber liquid in his tumbler before casually motioning the bartender over to them.
“Another scotch, please, and a glass of Pinot for my partner,” Yoongi requests to the approaching bartender, his voice a low gravel that contrasts with the gentle waves of black hair that fall to his shoulders. He catches Jimin’s eye again, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips as he takes in Jimin’s apologetic grimace.
Yoongi checks the gold Rolex on his wrist, then props his chin on the heel of that same hand, crossing his legs. “An hour over?” he pushes. His outfit—a soft yellow cardigan over a white button-down with sleeves rolled up to reveal pale forearms, paired with perfectly worn light-wash jeans—made him look more prepared to settle in with a book than to be perched on a Chester barstool in the town's newest wine bar.
Jimin braces his hands on Yoongi’s thigh to lean in and press a firm, lingering kiss to his partner’s cupid’s bow. After a second, he settles back into his seat, nodding a thanks to the bartender as she sets down their drinks.
“I’ll only apologize once, Gi. The Choi’s were relentless about their twins' curriculum and grades. God forbid either of them dip below their perfect 4.0 and risk not getting into the most elite colleges. I am sorry for making you wait.”
Yoongi scoffs, air dragging across the back of his throat. “Ah, well, I guess dealing with the Choi’s is your punishment enough. Also, the scotch here is actually pretty good. I already enjoyed a glass and watched the crowd come and go.”
Jimin sips from the wine glass, humming as the flavor bouquets across his tongue. “And this is my reward.” He sips again. “This and some quality time with my love…maybe more.”
Yoongi hums around his own sip, his nimble fingers lacing with Jimin’s. He gazes adoringly at his better half. Even after a long day spent educating the next generation, Jimin looks as captivating as ever. His soft, cream-colored, knit turtleneck drapes him warmly, tucking into dark forest-green, high-waisted, wide-legged trousers. A delicate gold chain catches the light at his neck every time he shifts on the stool next to Yoongi. His light-brown hair is styled loosely, the strands swept casually to the side, framing a face that still holds the softness of youth despite the weariness of his workday, his eyes full of clear affection for Yoongi.
Yoongi squeezes Jimin’s hand, his thumb stroking the knuckles. “Well, since you are finally here… I think I found someone.”
Jimin’s eyebrows raise in pleased surprise. His eyes, already sparkling with contentment, become even brighter. “Oh? Tell me everything.”
Yoongi turns slightly on his stool, motioning vaguely toward the far corner of the bar where a small, semi-secluded lounge area is situated. “See that guy? The one in the oversized black hoodie, talking to the one in the distressed denim jacket?”
Jimin follows Yoongi’s gaze, his focus instantly narrowing on the pair. The man in the hoodie—who must be the focus of Yoongi’s interest—is young, with fluffy dark hair that curls slightly around a sharp, handsome face. He’s leaning back against the plush velvet sofa, one long leg stretched out, looking utterly relaxed. He’s animatedly talking, his hands occasionally gesturing in a fluid, expressive way.
“The one with the big, doe eyes and the tattoos peeking out from under the hoodie sleeves and the lip rings?” Jimin asks, a low, appreciative hum escaping him.
“That’s the one,” Yoongi confirms, a quiet satisfaction in his voice. “He came in about forty minutes ago, right as the bar was really starting to fill up. He had this lost, slightly overwhelmed look, like he didn’t quite know where to sit. I was about to motion him over, but then his friend—the one in the jacket—came over and swept him away to that corner.”
Jimin watches the man, a thoughtful expression replacing this earlier surprise. He’s certainly striking; there’s a captivating softness mixed with an underlying edge of cool in his appearance.
“He’s beautiful, Gi. Really beautiful. Do you know his name?”
“Jungkook,” Yoongi says, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “I overheard his friend call him that when they were ordering. He’s been laughing a lot. A really open, genuine laugh. And his friend keeps touching his arm, or leaning in close to hear him over the music.”
Jimin’s smile softens around the edges, his focus still on Jungkook. “A good sign. Open, expressive people usually translate well to… well, everything.” He takes another sip of wine, his gaze lingering. “Did you get any vibes off him? Anything that suggests he’s even looking?”
Yoongi shakes his head slowly, a faint trace of wistfulness in his eyes. “He hasn’t looked over here once. He’s completely absorbed in his conversation with his friend. But there’s this energy about him, this quiet magnetism. He just looks…complete. And I want to complete him even more.”
Jimin reaches out to cup Yoongi’s cheek, his expression warm and encouraging. “So, what’s the plan, smarty-pants? We can’t just stare at him all night.”
Yoongi’s familiar smirk returns, sharper now. “We get closer. I’m thinking we move to that little standing table near their section. It’s far enough not to be creepy, but close enough for an accidental glance or two. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll accidentally drop my very expensive pen right in his path.”
Jimin laughs, a light, musical sound. “You are a menace, Min Yoongi. A charming, beautiful menace. Lead the way.”
After getting their drinks refreshed, Yoongi guides Jimin through the press of people mixing and mingling for after-work drinks and commandeers the high-top table identified earlier.
Jimin settles in close to Yoongi. He briefly nuzzles in close, arm around the older man’s waist, face burying in the curve of his neck. Jimin inhales deeply, eyes falling shut as the scent of Yoongi’s cologne—sandalwood, lavender, citrus—washes over him.
A few moments pass like that, them in their own little bubble. Yoongi is more than used to Jimin’s need for closeness and just lets him. His fingers carding through the younger’s hair, basking in the burn of scotch down his throat as he takes another sip.
With one last squeeze to Yoongi’s waist and a kiss to his neck, Jimin straightens up. His eyes immediately track back to the corner lounge. Jungkook is still laughing, head tilted back slightly, revealing the smooth expanse of his throat. His friend, the one in distressed denim, says something that makes Jungkook cover his mouth with a hand, giggling behind his fingers.
“Okay, so what’s the deal with the friend?” Jimin murmurs, leaning in so his breath tickles Yoongi’s ear. “Is he a potential obstacle?”
Yoongi follows Jimin’s gaze. “He’s attentive, I’ll give him that. Always a hand on Jungkook’s arm or shoulder. Leaning in. He’s dressed well, too. That denim jacket is probably vintage.”
Jimin tilts his head, watching on as Yoongi continues. “He has a bright, open energy. Very friendly. Could be an older brother or a very close friend.”
"A very close, touchy friend," Jimin counters, but there’s no malice in his voice, only observation. "He’s got a great smile, too. Sunshine-y."
They watch the pair for another minute. The friend leans in, speaking in a low voice. Jungkook nods, then glances briefly, fleetingly, toward the bar. It’s the first time he’s looked away from his companion, and his eyes pass right over Yoongi and Jimin.
Yoongi catches the moment, a subtle tightening in his chest. "Now’s the time," he whispers. He reaches into the pocket of his cardigan, pulling out a sleek, expensive-looking fountain pen—a Montblanc, a gift from Jimin on their fifth anniversary.
"Ready for the performance?" Jimin whispers back, a grin playing on his lips.
Yoongi grins in return. With a calculated movement, he pretends to fumble, letting the pen slip from his grasp. It clatters softly against the polished wood floor, rolling directly toward the corner lounge area, stopping just short of Jungkook’s outstretched foot.
Jungkook stops mid-sentence, his brow furrowing as he looks down at the metallic object. The friend follows his gaze, then looks up to see Yoongi already moving toward them with a suitably apologetic expression.
"Oh, excuse me," Yoongi says, his voice pitched to be heard but not overly loud. He approaches the edge of their secluded section. "My apologies, that was clumsy of me."
Jungkook’s eyes widen slightly—those big, doe eyes Jimin had noted. He bends to pick up the pen, his fingers brushing the cool metal before he holds it out to Yoongi. "Here you go."
"Thank you," Yoongi says, taking the pen and letting his fingers linger for a mere second against Jungkook’s. He meets Jungkook’s gaze, letting a soft, genuine smile touch his lips. "It’s one of my favorites."
"It looks expensive," the friend comments brightly, offering a friendly smile of his own.
"It was," Yoongi confirms, tucking it away. He pauses, maintaining eye contact with Jungkook, who seems a little shy now, his cheeks faintly colored. " My name is Yoongi, by the way."
Jungkook manages a small, shy smile. "I’m Jungkook."
"And I’m Hoseok," the friend chimes in, nodding toward Jimin, who has now gracefully sauntered up to join Yoongi.
"Jimin," Jimin supplies smoothly, flashing a dazzling smile that he knows works wonders. He doesn’t waste time on the friend; his full attention falls on Jungkook. “Nice sweatshirt.”
Jungkook looks down at his oversized black hoodie, pulling at the edge of the fabric, a surprised little laugh escaping him. "Oh, thank you. This is… well, this is just my favorite hoodie."
"Well, still it’s nice and suits you," Yoongi adds, his voice warm and admiring. "Are you enjoying the evening?"
Jungkook’s eyes dart between Yoongi and Jimin, a curious light beginning to spark in them. He seems slightly overwhelmed by the sudden, intense attention, but not entirely unwilling.
"Yeah, it’s nice. Hoseok and I just finished a project and decided we needed a celebratory drink–”
“Oh! What are you celebrating?” Jimin interrupts, a little too eagerly.
“Um, just a major project at work.” Jungkook tongues at the double hoops in his lip. “We work at a game design studio.”
“Games? Like board games?” Jimin presses, inviting himself to join the duo on their cushioned seats. Jimin perches on the plush velvet cushion, appropriately situating himself next to Jungkook.
Jungkook lets a light laugh escape as he shakes his head. “No, I don’t even think people play those anymore. We design video games.”
Jimin gasps and playfully shoves at Jungkook’s shoulder. “Hey! We play board games still. Isn’t that right, Gi?”
Yoongi settles onto the arm of the sofa, one leg braced on the ground as he slides his free hand around Jimin’s shoulder. “Jimin’s right. We have a cabinet full of board games.”
Jungkook’s hand catches Jimin’s before he can shove at him again. Their hands remain linked for several moments before Jungkook releases the smaller hand. “I stand corrected. At least two people still play board games.”
That sends Hoseok giggling, hands clapping as he rocks side to side.
Yoongi tsks. “You keep making fun of us, and you might not get an invitation to join one of our infamous game nights.” Yoongi maintains steady eye contact with Jungkook as he raises his crystal tumbler to his lips.
Jungkook is the first to look away, cheeks flushing a pretty pink. He shifts in his seat and picks up his own cocktail glass.
Jimin claps his hand against his thigh. "Well, a successful project deserves a proper celebration," Jimin says. "Maybe we could buy you two a round?"
"That’s very generous!" Hoseok exclaims. “And if I didn’t have to be somewhere, I would totally accept.”
Jimin starts to pout and looks at Jungkook. “Do you have to go too?”
Jungkook picks up his phone to check the time. Before responding to Jimin, he quickly responds to a text notification. “No, I can stay and have another one. But honestly, you really don’t have to.”
Yoongi smiles down at Jungkook. “We know we don’t have to. We want to.”
Hoseok says goodbye to the couple and directs Jungkook to text him later, then disappears into the crowd.
“What are you drinking, Jungkook? I’ll go get another round from the bar.” Yoongi asks.
“Japanese whiskey highball, please.”
“Coming right up,” Yoongi says, dropping a light kiss to Jimin’s hair before heading back through the throng of people toward the bar.
Jimin turns his full attention to Jungkook, resting his elbow on the back of the velvet couch. “So, a game designer. That’s fascinating. What kind of games do you work on?”
Jungkook relaxes slightly. “Mainly RPGs. We just finished a massive open-world fantasy game—that’s what we were celebrating.”
“Oh, a fantasy game! That sounds fascinating. Swords, magic, dragons?” Jimin’s eyes sparkle with genuine interest.
“All of the above, and a very complex morality system,” Jungkook confirms, a proud smile gracing his lips. “We spent three years on it. I’m an environmental artist, so I spent most of my time designing landscapes, cities, and the look and feel of the world.”
“That sounds incredible,” Jimin says softly, leaning a little closer. He can already picture it—the vibrant world designed by this beautiful, talented man. “You must be really proud.”
“I am,” Jungkook admits, a touch of shyness returning. He catches Jimin’s eye and holds it for a second longer this time. “It’s a lot of work, but seeing people enjoy something you poured your soul into… there’s nothing like it.”
Jimin nods in understanding. “I get that. I’m a high school literature teacher. Seeing a student finally understand a difficult concept, or light up when they connect with a classic—it’s the best feeling.”
“Literature,” Jungkook repeats, tilting his head. “Do you teach Shakespeare?”
“Oh, you know it,” Jimin laughs. “I make them act out the good parts. The drama of Romeo and Juliet is always a crowd-pleaser.”
Yoongi returns then, setting the highball glass on the coaster near Jungkook and handing Jimin a fresh glass of wine. He slides onto the cushion next to Jimin, his arm naturally falling around Jimin’s shoulder again.
“Alright, this new game,” Yoongi says, sipping his scotch. “Is there a demo online?”
Jungkook shakes his head. “Not yet, but the full game launches next month. I’ll make sure you two get a copy.”
“A personal copy? Now that’s a real treat,” Jimin purrs, his hand finding Yoongi’s knee and giving it a light squeeze.
The three of them settle into an easy conversation, mostly driven by Yoongi and Jimin’s gentle prodding. Jungkook is shy but open, his genuine warmth coming through. They talk about everything from their favorite travel destinations—Jungkook loves the mountains, Yoongi and Jimin prefer coastal cities—to their favorite musicians.
They learn that Jungkook is twenty-six, lives in a cozy apartment not far from the bar, and has a passion for photography when he’s not designing digital worlds. He has a slight obsession with documentaries about deep-sea creatures and prefers the company of close friends over big parties.
After nearly an hour, a comfortable silence falls between them. The noise of the bar seems to fade slightly as they simply look at each other, the interest in their gazes no longer needing to be masked by conversation.
Yoongi clears his throat gently, looking at his Rolex. “Wow, it’s gotten late. You probably need to get home…”
Jimin’s eyes plead with Jungkook. “Unless… you don’t have to rush off? We were just talking about dessert. There’s an amazing gelato place around the corner.”
Jungkook’s eyes dart between the two of them—Yoongi, calm and steady with a question in his eyes, and Jimin’s, hopeful and dazzling. The air shifts, suddenly thick with possibilities.
Jungkook smiles slowly, a wide, breathtaking, bunny-like smile. “I’d love to—”
“—wait for you?”
The deep, rich timber of a voice cuts through the air before Jungkook can finish his sentence, startling the trio. A large, warm hand lands gently on Jungkook’s shoulder, the weight of it familiar and possessive in a way that makes Yoongi’s eyes narrow instinctively.
Jungkook twists in his seat, his face lighting up with a brilliance that rivals the excitement he showed for his video game design.
“Joonie! You made it!” Jungkook exclaims, reaching up to cover the hand on his shoulder with his own tattooed one.
A tall man steps around the side of the velvet sofa, looking apologetic but unmistakably fond. He’s wearing a long tan coat that screams understated elegance, with glasses perched on the bridge of his nose that give him a scholarly air—not unlike the vibe Jimin tries to cultivate in his classroom.
“I’m sorry, bun,” the newcomer says, leaning down to press a firm, lingering kiss to the top of Jungkook’s fluffy dark hair. “The meeting ran late, and traffic was a nightmare. I texted, but I see you were… occupied.”
The man straightens up, his gaze shifting to Yoongi and Jimin. His expression is polite, but there’s a sharp intelligence in his eyes that suggests he misses very little.
“Hi,” the man offers a dimpled smile that is charming but clearly stakes a claim. “I’m Namjoon. Jungkook’s boyfriend.”
The word hangs in the air between them. Boyfriend.
Jimin’s mouth snaps shut, the dazzling smile he had been aiming at Jungkook faltering for a fraction of a second. Beside him, Yoongi stiffens imperceptibly, his fingers freezing around the rim of his tumbler.
The realization hits them both at once: Jungkook wasn’t just a cute, single game designer looking for company. He is very much taken.
“Oh,” Jimin manages to squeak out, his voice an octave higher than usual. He quickly clears his throat, recovering his composure with practiced grace. “It’s… lovely to meet you, Namjoon. I’m Jimin, and this is my partner, Yoongi.”
“We were just keeping Jungkook company until you arrived,” Yoongi adds smoothly, though he sets his drink down with a finality that signals retreat. He stands, buttoning his yellow cardigan as if shielding himself from the awkwardness of the situation.
Jungkook looks between his boyfriend and the couple, seemingly oblivious to the sudden shift in tension. “They were so nice, Joon! Yoongi hyung dropped his pen, and we started talking about RPGs and literature. They even offered to take us for gelato.”
Namjoon’s eyebrows raise slightly. His gaze doesn’t immediately go to Jungkook, though. Instead, it flickers to Yoongi—lingering on the expensive Montblanc pen now tucked in the cardigan pocket—and then slides over Jimin’s form-fitting turtleneck.
“Gelato,” Namjoon repeats, the corner of his mouth ticking up.
“Right. Of course, you two probably have plans,” Jimin says quickly, picking up Yoongi’s leather satchel and handing it to him. “We didn’t realize he was waiting for someone. We certainly didn’t mean to… overstep.”
Yoongi offers a tight, polite smile, the “menace” in him completely subdued by the reality of the situation. “Indeed. You have a lovely… partner, Namjoon. Have a good night. Jungkook, good luck with the game launch.”
Yoongi places a hand on the small of Jimin’s back, guiding him to turn away.
“Wait.”
The word is spoken softly, but with enough command that Yoongi halts mid-step.
Namjoon is smiling now—not the polite, guarding smile from a moment ago, but something wider, deeper, and infinitely more interested. He adjusts his glasses, his eyes gleaming with that sharp intelligence.
“We did have plans,” Namjoon says, his hand sliding down to rest possessively but comfortably on Jungkook’s hip. “But Jungkook has a terrible sweet tooth, and I’m afraid I have a weakness for interesting company.”
He looks directly at Jimin, then Yoongi, his expression shifting from protective boyfriend to intrigued hunter.
“We haven’t had gelato in ages,” Namjoon continues, his voice dropping a register. “And since you’ve already charmed my boyfriend, it seems only fair you give me a chance to catch up. Unless the offer is off now that I’m here?”
The silence that follows is brief but heavy, filled with the sudden, frantic recalibration of Jimin and Yoongi’s expectations. Yoongi and Jimin exchange a glance—a lightning-fast conversation between partners that conveys “Did he just…?” followed by “I think he just did.”
Yoongi recovers first, though the grip he has on Jimin’s waist tightens reflexively. He turns back to Namjoon, studying the taller man with a renewed interest.
“The offer is decidedly not off the table,” Yoongi replies, his voice steadying into a smooth, low drawl. “Though we might need to upgrade the venue if we’re hosting a party of four.”
“Gelato is perfect,” Jungkook beams, practically vibrating with excitement as he leans into Namjoon’s side. “There’s a place two blocks down that does a black sesame flavor I’ve been dying to try. Can we go, Joonie? Please?”
Namjoon chuckles, the sound deep and rumbling, and presses a kiss to Jungkook’s temple. “Lead the way, bun.”
As they exit the dim, ambient warmth of the wine bar and step out into the crisp evening air, the dynamic shifts. Instead of two separate couples walking in parallel, the lines blur. Jungkook immediately falls into step beside Jimin, chattering animatedly about the game engine specs he hadn’t had a chance to finish explaining earlier.
This leaves Namjoon and Yoongi bringing up the rear.
Yoongi sticks his hands in his cardigan pockets, glancing sideways at the man beside him. Namjoon is imposing, certainly—tall, broad-shouldered, and exuding a calm confidence—but there’s a playfulness in the way he watches Jungkook ahead of them.
“So,” Namjoon starts, his tone conversational but his eyes fixed on Jungkook. “Literature and RPGs. That’s a versatile skillset to bring to a bar pickup.”
Yoongi snorts, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. He appreciates the directness. “We find it filters out the boring ones. Jungkook mentioned he designs worlds, and it kind of went from there.”
“And?” Namjoon asks, tilting his head. “Did he pass the inspection?”
Yoongi stops walking for a brief second, forcing Namjoon to pause with him. He looks at the younger man ahead, who is currently laughing at something Jimin said, his nose scrunching up in delight.
“With flying colors,” Yoongi admits honestly. “He’s… remarkable. Which is why we were ready to walk away. We respect boundaries, Namjoon. We didn’t know he belonged to someone.”
Namjoon hums, stepping closer. He towers slightly over Yoongi, but he dips his head so their eyes are level. The streetlamp above catches the glint in his glasses.
“He belongs to me,” Namjoon agrees, his voice possessing a weight that sends a shiver down Yoongi’s spine. “But he also has a lot of love to give. And I’ve never been the type to hoard a good thing, especially when he seems so taken with the two of you.”
He nods toward the pair ahead. Jimin has linked his arm through Jungkook’s, and they are already halfway down the block.
“Besides,” Namjoon adds, a dimple popping out as he offers Yoongi a conspiratorial grin. “I noticed the way your partner looked at me when I walked in. I figure if Jungkook gets the pretty one, I should at least get to know the dangerous one.”
Yoongi blinks, caught off guard for the second time tonight. A slow, cat-like smirk spreads across his face.
“Careful, Namjoon-ssi,” Yoongi purrs, gesturing for them to continue walking. “You might bite off more than you can chew.”
“I have a big appetite,” Namjoon counters smoothly, falling back into step beside him.
By the time they reach the gelato shop, the air is electric. They crowd into a booth designed for four, knees bumping under the table. Jungkook sits next to Jimin, their shoulders pressed together as they debate the merits of fruit sorbet versus creamy chocolate, while Namjoon sits opposite, next to Yoongi, his gaze heavy and calculating in the best way possible.
As Jungkook hands Jimin a plastic spoon to try his black sesame, Namjoon leans on the table, resting his chin in his hand.
“So,” Namjoon begins, addressing both Jimin and Yoongi now. “Tell us. What exactly were you two planning to do with my boyfriend once you got him full of sugar?”
Jimin freezes with the spoon in his mouth. Yoongi just takes a slow lick of his coffee gelato, holding Namjoon’s gaze.
“We were going to ask him what he wants,” Yoongi answers.
Namjoon smiles, and it looks like a predator realizing he’s found his prey. “Good answer. Because we have a few ideas of our own.”
Jimin swallows the mouthful of black sesame a little too quickly, the cold sliding down his throat in a rush that matches the heat flooding his cheeks. He looks from Namjoon to Yoongi, his eyes wide.
“Ideas?” Jimin echoes, his voice dropping to a hush as if he’s conspiring in a crime. “That sounds… ominous and promising.”
“Joonie always has the best ideas,” Jungkook pipes up, oblivious to the heavy tension or perhaps reveling in it. He reaches over with his spoon, stealing a generous scoop of Jimin’s pear-riesling sorbet. “Mmm. This is refreshing.”
Jimin watches him, amused despite his nerves, while Yoongi leans back against the booth’s vinyl seat, settling in comfortably beside Namjoon. Since he can’t reach his partner across the table, Yoongi simply taps his spoon against the rim of his coffee gelato, his dark eyes shifting from the exchange of sweets between Jimin and Jungkook to the man sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Namjoonn takes a calm, measured bite of his dark chocolate, looking entirely too pleased with the seating arrangement.
“I’m assuming these ideas involve more than just dessert recommendations, Namjoon-ssi,” Yoongi says, his voice low and steady.
“Please, drop the honorifics,” Namjoon replies, taking off his glasses to wipe a smudge with the hem of his coat. Without the lenses, his gaze is even more piercing. He slides them back on and folds his hands on the table. “And you’re right. Jungkook and I have been talking for a while about… expanding our circle. We aren’t necessarily looking for a third. We were looking for equals.”
He glances meaningfully at the way Jungkook is currently leaning into Jimin’s space to steal another bite of sorbet.
“Kookie has a lot of energy,” Namjoon continues, his voice lowering so only their side of the booth can hear. “He needs attention, affection, and stimulation that one person can’t always provide 24/7. And I…” he pauses, his eyes locking with Yoongi’s. “I enjoy watching him thrive. But I also enjoy complexity. A dynamic with just one other person can be unbalanced. But two established units coming together? That’s stable. That’s interesting.”
Yoongi’s lips curve into a smirk. “Structure. Balance. You approach romance like an architect.”
“And you approach it like a poker game,” Namjoon counters, a playful glint in his eye as he nods toward Yoongi’s guarded posture. “Holding your cards close until you know the stakes.”
“The stakes seem to be rising,” Yoongi murmurs. He kicks Jimin gently under the table to get his attention. “Jimin-ah.”
Jimin looks up from his cup, a drop of melted sorbet glistening on his lip. “Yes, Gi?”
“Namjoon is proposing a merger,” Yoongi says dryly.
Jimin blinks, then looks at Namjoon, finally catching up to the conversation the “adults” were having. A slow, dazzling smile spreads across his face.
“A merger,” Jimin tests the word. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the sticky table. “Does that mean I get to find out what’s under that very responsible coat?”
Namjoon chokes on a laugh, surprised by the sudden boldness. Beside Jimin, Jungkook cheers, nearly knocking over his cup.
“Yes! See, Joon? I told you he was fun,” Jungkook says, bouncing in his seat. He turns to Yoongi, his expression turning earnest. “We really like you guys. I know we just met, but… the vibe is right. Isn’t it?”
Yoongi looks at the three of them: Jimin, glowing with interest next to the eager Jungkook, and Namjoon, the steady anchor beside him.
“The vibe,” Yoongi concedes, taking another bite of his gelato, “is immaculate.”
The walk to the apartment is short, filled with the kind of charged silence that speaks of anticipation rather than awkwardness. When Namjoon unlocks the heavy oak door of a brownstone walk-up and pushes it open, the space inside is exactly what Yoongi expected: a perfect synthesis of its inhabitants.
One wall is lined floor-to-ceiling with books—everything from philosophy to art history—while the opposite side boasts a sleek, massive entertainment center cluttered with various consoles. The furniture is mid-century modern, expensive, but covered in soft throw blankets that scream ‘nesting’.
“Shoes off, please,” Jungkook chirps, kicking off his combat boots and sliding into a pair of bunny-shaped slippers. He gestures to a basket of guest slippers. “Grab a pair. The floor is heated.”
“Heated floors,” Jimin coos, toeing off his loafers and stepping onto the warm wood. “Yoongi hyung, we need heated floors.”
“We live in a third-floor walk-up, Min,” Yoongi reminds him dryly, though he dutifully accepts the slippers Jungkook offers. He shrugs off his cardigan, revealing the white button-up underneath, the material sheer enough to hint at what lies beneath, and catches Namjoon watching the movement with appreciation.
“Drinks?” Namjoon offers, moving toward a bar cart that looks like it belongs in a speakeasy. “I have Japanese whiskey that I think fits your profile, Yoongi. And maybe a peach liqueur for Jimin?”
“You clocked us fast,” Jimin grins, wandering over to inspect a stack of art books on the coffee table.
“I’m observant,” Namjoon murmurs, pouring the amber liquid over a large ice sphere. He hands the glass to Yoongi, their fingers brushing—a spark of static and intent jumping between them.
Meanwhile, Jungkook has already flopped onto the plush rug in front of the TV, patting the space beside him. “Jimin-ssi! Come on. I promised to destroy Yoongi, but I need a warm-up round. You versus me. Mario Kart.”
Jimin laughs, abandoning the books to join Jungkook on the floor. “You’re on, Kookie. But I warn you, I play dirty.”
“I’m counting on it,” Jungkook shoots back with a wink that makes Jimin flush.
Yoongi takes a sip of whiskey—it’s excellent, smooth and smoky—and leans his hip against the back of the sofa, looking down at the two younger men bickering over character selection. Namjoon comes to stand beside him, resting his hand on the sofa back and leaning into it, mirroring Yoongi’s stance.
“They get along well,” Namjoon notes quietly, watching as Jungkook giggles at Jimin’s aggressive driving style on the screen.
“Jimin adapts quickly,” Yoongi agrees, swirling his glass. “He likes bright, energetic things. Jungkook shines like a supernova.”
“He does,” Namjoon agrees warmly. He turns his head, his gaze dropping to Yoongi’s lips, then back up to his eyes. “And you? What do you like, Yoongi?”
Yoongi holds the gaze, the air between them thickening. He takes a slow step closer, invading Namjoon’s personal space with a confidence that defies their height difference.
“I like control,” Yoongi admits, his voice a low rumble. “I like intelligence. And I like watching my partner fall apart for someone who deserves him.”
Namjoon’s pupils blow wide. He sets his glass down on the side table with a decisive clink, abandoning the pretense of casual hosting.
“Is that so?” Namjoon murmurs. He reaches out, his large hand cupping Yoongi’s jaw, thumb tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone. “Well, I think we can arrange that.”
On the screen, a colorful explosion signals the end of the race.
“I won!” Jungkook cheers, throwing his arms up.
“Only because you threw a blue shell at the last second!!” Jimin protests, laughing as he shoves Jungkook’s shoulder.
“A win is a win!” Jungkook beams, turning to look back at the sofa—only to freeze.
Namjoon is leaning over Yoongi, their faces inches apart, the tension between them palpable enough to cut with a knife. Yoongi’s hand is fisted in the lapel of Namjoon’s coat, pulling him down.
Jungkook’s breath hitches. “Hyung?”
Namjoon breaks eye contact with Yoongi just long enough to look down at his boyfriend. The hunger in his expression is raw and open.
“Game over?” Namjoon asks, his voice rough.
Jungkook swallows hard, his eyes darting between the two men standing and Jimin, who has gone very still on the floor beside him, watching with wide, dark eyes.
“Yeah,” Jungkook breathes, scrambling up to his knees. “Yeah. Game over.”
Jimin scrambles up, too, abandoning the controller. He walks over to Yoongi, but instead of hiding behind him, he steps right into the space between Yoongi and Namjoon. He looks up at Namjoon, then tilts his head back to look at Yoongi.
“I think,” Jimin whispers, his hand sliding up Namjoon’s chest to rest over his heart, “we’re ready for the merger now.”
Namjoon smiles—a wolfish, satisfied thing. He captures Jimin’s hand, kisses the knuckles, and then pulls both Jimin and Yoongi toward the hallway leading to the bedroom.
The transition from the heated wood floors of the hallway into the cooler air of the primary bedroom is palpable. The bedroom is as meticulously curated as the living room, dominated by a low-profile king-sized bed dressed in smooth, dark charcoal linens. The vast space feels almost cavernous, illuminated only by the city's glow filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, which casts long, cinematic shadows that stretch across the floorboards.
Jungkook doesn’t hesitate. The moment Jimin clears the door, Jungkook hooks an arm around his waist and tugs him hard across the expanse of the room toward the bed. They tumble onto the edge in a tangle of long limbs and breathless laughter, the sudden chill of the cool charcoal sheets a stark contrast to the heat radiating between their bodies.
The laughter is a bright, fizzy thing that quickly morphs into something softer, wetter, and infinitely more urgent—the breathless slide of lips pressing together. Jimin’s hands find their way to Jungkook’s broad shoulders, his fingers sinking into the heavy, rough cotton of his oversized black hoodie as the kiss deepens. He uses the thick fabric to anchor himself as he drags Jungkook closer. Jimin’s focus narrows to the sweet taste of Jungkook’s mouth and the soft, insistent pressure of his body against his own.
Across the room, Namjoon remains by the heavy oak door, the definitive click of the latch sealing them inside. Bridging the physical distance from the shut door to the tangled pair on the bed, Yoongi stands in the center of the room. The ambient city light cuts across his shoulders, illuminating the crisp lines of his white Oxford shirt. He watches Jimin for a moment—watching the way his partner melts under Jungkook’s eager hands—before turning his gaze to Namjoon.
“You have a nice view,” Yoongi comments, his voice rougher than usual.
“I do now,” Namjoon replies. He walks over to Yoongi, his movements unhurried, predatory in their grace. He stops just shy of touching him, letting the heat radiating off his body do the talking.
“You said you like watching your partner fall apart,” Namjoon murmurs, reaching out to hook a finger in the collar of Yoongi’s Oxford shirt. “Is that what you want right now? To watch?”
Yoongi’s eyes flicker to the bed. Jimin has been pushed back against the pillows, his head thrown back, exposing the long, elegant line of his throat as Jungkook kisses his jawline. Jimin’s eyes are fluttering shut, a soft, keen escaping his lips. He looks beautiful. He looks entirely taken care of.
“He’s in good hands,” Yoongi says quietly. “Jungkook is… enthusiastic.”
“He is,” Namjoon agrees, stepping closer until his chest brushes Yoongi’s. “Which leaves you and me with a little free time.”
Namjoon steps closer, closing the final inch until the heavy wool suit jacket brushes against Yoongi’s chest. His hand slides from the cotton collar to tangle in the dark hair at the nape of Yoongi’s neck, grounding him.
“I want to see the dangerous one unravel,” Namjoon whispers, his breath ghosting over Yoongi’s ear. “I want to see if the man who holds all the cards knows how to fold.”
Yoongi shivers, a full-body reaction that he doesn’t bother to hide. He reaches up, his hands finding purchase on Namjoon’s waist, gripping the fabric of his shirt beneath the wool jacket.
“You talk a big game, Architect,” Yoongi challenges, though his voice is breathless. “Show me your blueprints.”
Namjoon chuckles darkly against his skin. “First step: demolition.”
He captures Yoongi’s lips in a kiss that is demanding, searing, and authoritative, tasting sharply of the Japanese whiskey they shared earlier. Yoongi groans low in his throat, his mouth opening readily, his earlier composure fracturing under the sheer weight of Namjoon’s dominance—the first structural wall coming down.
On the bed, the sound of their kiss seems to spur the others on.
“Hyung,” Jungkook whines, pulling back from where he’s been nuzzling Jimin’s neck to look at the older pair with blown pupils. “You guys take forever! Get over here!”
Namjoon breaks the kiss but doesn’t pull away from Yoongi. He looks over his shoulder at his boyfriend, his lips swollen and shiny.
“We’re just establishing the ground rules, bun,” Namjooon deflects, his voice dropping an octave. He turns back to Yoongi, running a thumb over Yoongi’s bottom lip. “Yoongi-ah, why don’t you go show Jungkook how the seniors play?”
Yoongi blinks, dazed, before the command registers. A slow smirk returns to his face. He steps back from Namjoon, unbuttons his shirt, strips it off in one fluid motion, letting the white cotton pool on the dark floor. “Gladly,” Yoongi purrs.
He walks toward the bed, where Jungkook watches him with awe, and Jimin watches him with pure, unadulterated love.
“Make room,” Yoongi commands softly.
He crawls onto the mattress, his movements deliberate and prowling. Jungkook, currently lying flat on his back, eagerly spreads his legs to accommodate him. Yoongi settles his weight between Jungkook’s thighs, effectively pinning the younger man, but turns his attention to Jimin, who is curled up at Jungkook’s side, watching with wide eyes.
Yoongi reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Jimin’s forehead. “I believe I promised to show you a good time, didn’t I, Minnie?”
Jimin nods frantically, leaning into the touch, his hand resting on Jungkook’s chest. “Yes, hyung…”
“And you,” Yoongi says, shifting his gaze down to Jungkook beneath him. The younger man is practically vibrating with anticipation, his hands gripping the dark sheets with white-knuckles. Yoongi smirks, leaning down until their noses brush.
“You have so much energy,” Yoongi murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, rough timbre. “Always rushing to the finish line.”
Yoongi lowers his hips, grinding down slow and heavy, drawing a broken gasp from Jungkook.
“But tonight,” Yoongi whispers against his lips, “you don’t move until I tell you to. Just breathe and feel. Understood?”
“Understood,” Jungkook manages to choke out, his hands unclamping from the sheets to rest tentatively on Yoongi’s waist. He stares up at the older man like he’s seeing a deity, his chest heaving with the effort to obey the command to just breathe.
Namjoon doesn’t just watch anymore. He sheds his coat and unbuttons his cuffs with calculated efficiency before climbing onto the opposite side of the bed, moving toward Jimin. Jimin gasps as Namjoon’s large, warm arm wraps around his waist from behind, pulling his cream knit turtleneck flush against Namjoon’s broad chest.
“You have a front-row seat,” Namjoon murmurs into the shell of Jimin’s ear, his voice a deep rumble that vibrates through Jimin’s spine. He runs his large hands down the sides of Jimin’s waist, slipping beneath the hem of the thick knit to map the hot skin underneath. Jimin shudders as Namjoon peels the soft turtleneck up and over his head, discarding it to join the growing pile of shed layers on the floor.
“Beautiful,” Namjoon praises, mapping out his new foundation.
Jimin shivers, the cool ambient air of the cavernous bedroom brushing against his newly bared skin before he leans back instinctively into the encompassing, heavy warmth of Namjoon’s solid frame. He feels small in the best way possible—sandwiched between the raw, electric energy of Jungkook and Yoongi in front of him, and Namjoon behind him.
“I… I’ve never seen him like this with anyone else,” Jimin confesses breathlessly, his eyes still glued to the way Yoongi is tracing the line of Jungkook’s collarbone with renewed focus. “Usually, I’m the one he’s handling.”
“He’s good at it,” Namjoon notes, pressing a kiss to the slope of Jimin’s shoulder. “He knows exactly how much to give and how much to hold back. Jungkook needs that. He needs an anchor.”
Namjoon’s large hand slides up Jimin’s stomach, resting flat over his heart, which is beating a mile a minute.
“And you, Jimin-ah?” Namjoon asks, turning Jimin’s face gently with his other hand so he can look him in the eye. “Do you need an anchor? Or do you need something else?”
Jimin looks at Namjoon—really looks at him. He sees the sharp intelligence and the patience, but also that same wolfish hunger Namjoon had shown in the living room.
“I don’t know,” Jimin whispers, honestly. “I think I just need… more.”
Namjoon smiles, and it’s dazzling. “More is my specialty.”
He leans in, capturing Jimin’s lips in a slow, luxurious kiss that contrasts perfectly with the sharp, heavy tension radiating from the other pair just inches away. It’s deep and exploring, tasting faintly of the dark chocolate Namjoon had earlier laced with hints of the spice of Japanese whiskey.
Across the few inches of space separating them, Yoongi glances up from where he’s teasing Jungkook’s earlobe with the tip of his tongue. He meets Namjoon’s eyes over Jimin’s shoulder.
A silent communication passes between them—approval, acknowledgment, and a mutual agreement that this, right here, is exactly where they are supposed to be.
Yoongi leans down, whispering against Jungkook’s neck, “Look at them, Kook-ah. Look at your boyfriend taking care of mine.”
Jungkook turns his head, eyes hazy, to see Namjoon holding Jimin, kissing him with a tenderness that makes Jungkook’s chest ache in a good way. A whimper of pure want escapes him. Even overstimulated, the environmental designer in him marvels at the composition. He spent years meticulously crafting the look and feel of complex digital worlds, but watching Namjoon build this exact moment—the four of them fitting together flawlessly in this moment—feels like existing inside a masterpiece.
“It’s… it’s good,” Jungkook slurs, his hand tightening on Yoongi’s hip. “Everyone fits.”
“Yeah,” Yoongi agrees, finally closing the distance to press a kiss to Jungkook’s lips, sealing the deal.
The kiss is deep and languid, tasting of whiskey and coffee. It’s claiming, thorough, and possessive, and Jungkook melts under it completely, his hands sliding up to tangle desperately in Yoongi’s dark hair. The scent of Yoongi’s cologne—sandalwood, lavender, and citrus—fills his senses, grounding him in the chaotic heat of the moment.
Yoongi breaks the kiss only to drag his lips down the column of Jungkook’s throat, finding the sensitive pulse point that flutters wildly against his mouth.
“You’re so responsive,” Yoongi murmurs against the skin, smiling when Jungkook’s hips buck instinctively upward, seeking friction. Yoongi presses him back down, controlling the rhythm, keeping it slow and agonizing. “I can feel everything you’re thinking, Jungkook-ah. You’re loud even when you’re quiet.”
“Hyung, please,” Jungkook gasps, his head tossing back into the pillows. He looks over at Namjoon, eyes glassy and pleading. “Joonie…”
“Yoongi knows what he’s doing, baby,” Namjoon answers, his voice rough with restraint. “Let him work.”
Namjoon shifts his attention back to the man in his arms. “You’re even prettier when you’re undone, Jimin-ah.”
Jimin, usually so composed, so aware of his angles and his charm, feels completely unmoored. Being held like this—wrapped in Namjoon’s size, with Yoongi dominating the space just inches away—is sensory overload.
“I don’t… I don’t know where to look,” Jimin whispers, his voice trembling. “It’s too much.”
“Look at them,” Namjoon commands gently, guiding Jimin’s gaze back to the other side of the bed. “And then feel me.”
Namjoon leans forward, pressing his chest against Jimin’s back, eliminating any space between them. He kisses the sensitive spot just behind Jimin’s ear, while one hand slides down to undo the button of Jimin’s trousers.
At the same time, Yoongi sits up, straddling Jungkook’s hips fully. He strips off his own jeans, kicking them away with an impatient flick of his ankle. Skin meets skin, hot and electrifying. Yoongi leans forward, bracing his hands on the pillow on either side of Jungkook’s head.
“Jungkook,” Yoongi says, his voice commanding focus.
Jungkook snaps his eyes to Yoongi’s.
“Tell me you want this,” Yoogi demands softly. “Tell me you want us here.”
“I do,” Jungkook cries out, the sound wrecked and honest. “I want you. I want—I want everyone. Please, Yoongi-ssi… Hyung… don’t stop.”
Yoongi’s expression softens, just a fraction—a reward for the obedience. “Good boy.”
He leans down, abandoning the slow pace for something harder, grinding down with a friction that drags a loud, sharp moan from Jungkook’s throat.
The sound acts like a catalyst. Behind Jimin, Namjoon groans, his restraint snapping. His hands grow more urgent as he explores Jimin with a hunger that matches the frantic energy on the bed.
“You hear that?” Namjoon growls against Jimin’s neck. “That’s the sound of everything falling into place.”
Jimin closes his eyes, letting his head fall back onto Namjoon’s shoulder, surrendering to the sensation of Namjoon’s hands on him and the sound of his partner unraveling for another man. It is chaotic, it is intense, and for the first time in a long time, it feels perfectly complete.
Namjoon turns Jimin in his arms, capturing his mouth in a kiss that is startlingly possessive. It’s different from Yoongi’s calculated, searching intensity; Namjoon kisses with a sweeping, encompassing warmth that demands total surrender.
Jimin makes a small, desperate sound against Namjoon’s lips, his hands clutching at Namjoon’s broad shoulder to keep himself upright. He feels engulfed, surrounded by the scent of expensive cologne and arousal, and it’s heady.
“Come here,” Namjoon murmurs, breaking the kiss to nip at Jimin’s lower lip. “We’re too far away.”
He doesn’t have to guide Jimin far; he just shifts their weight, pulling Jimin down until they slide closer to the center of the bed.
Yoongi pauses his rhythm, sitting up, straddling Jungkook’s hips. His chest is heaving, a sheen of sweat already making his pale skin glow in the dim city light, contrasting with the flush rising on Jungkook’s chest. He looks up as Namjoon shifts Jimin closer, his dark eyes tracking the way Namjoon’s large hand spans the entire width of Jimin’s waist.
“Room for two more?” Namjoon asks, his voice dropping to an even lower pitch. He presses Jimin down into the pillows beside Jungkook, the cool, crisp texture of the charcoal linens a stark contrast to the heat of the bodies pressing together. Namjoon arranges Jimin with a calculated precision, handling him like a precious thing he intends to thoroughly unravel.
“Always,” Yoongi answers, his voice gravelly. He shifts, sliding off Jungkook’s lap. He taps Jungkook’s thigh. “But first, we have too many layers.”
Jungkook, hazy but eager, nods. He kicks off his pants as Yoongi helps shimmy them down his legs, leaving him in just his boxer briefs. Yoongi makes quick work of his own boxers, tossing them aside to join his pile of clothes.
On the other side, Namjoon is efficient. He unbuckles his belt and sheds his trousers and boxers in one fluid motion before turning his attention to Jimin. With gentle, large hands, he helps Jimin peel off his unbuttoned trousers, leaving him bare.
“Better,” Namjoon murmurs, eyeing the expanse of skin now available to him.
He pulls the naked Jimin back against his chest, spooning him perfectly. Yoongi mirrors the position behind Jungkook.
“This,” Namjoon says, his voice vibrating against Jimin’s spine as he runs a hand down Jimin’s ass and leg, his fingers splaying over Jungkook’s hip to effectively connect the entire chain. “This is the balance I was talking about.”
Yoongi leans over Jungkook’s shoulder, his eyes meeting Namjoon’s across the tangled pile of their partners. He reaches out, his hand clasping Namjoon’s forearm where it rests over Jungkook’s head.
“It’s solid,” Yoongi agrees. He leans in, biting lightly at the sensitive cord of Jungkook’s neck while his thumb strokes the inside of Namjoon’s wrist. “Structural integrity is holding,” calling back to their earlier architecture joke.
Namjooon chuckles, the sound dark and low. “Then I suppose we can proceed with the stress test.”
He shifts his hips forward, pressing the hard ridge of his arousal firmly against Jimin’s ass, the hardened length slotting perfectly between his firm globes. At the same time, he uses his free hand to hook under Jimin’s top knee, lifting it slightly to press their bodies even closer together, eliminating any remaining space.
Jimin gasps, the friction sudden and electric against his skin. His head falls back against Namjoon’s shoulder.
“Oh god,” Jimin chokes out, his fingers digging into Jungkook’s bicep tight enough to bruise. “Namjoon-ah… you’re so…”
“Big?” Yoongi supplies helpfully from the other side, smirking against Jungkook’s shoulder. “I noticed.”
“Focus, Min Yoongi,” Namjoon warns, though he’s smiling against the sweat on Jimin’s neck. “Or I’ll have to remind you who’s supervising this project.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Yoongi challenges. But he turns his attention back to the man in his arms, sliding his hand down to cup Jungkook’s hardening length through the cotton of his briefs—the only remaining piece of clothing amongst the four of them.
“Just focus,” Namjoon warns, though he’s smiling. He reaches out with his free hand, blindly opening the drawer of the nightstand to retrieve a bottle of lube. “We don’t rush the foundation.”
Jungkook whimpers as Yoongi squeezes him, but Yoongi pauses, looking over his shoulder to watch Namjoon.
Namjoon coats his fingers, warming the viscous liquid first. He presses his chest flush against Jimin’s back, whispering into his ear, “Relax for me, Jimin-ah. Let me make space for myself.”
Jimin shudders, nodding frantically against the pillow. He unclenches his muscles, trusting Namjoon implicitly as Namjoon’s hand slips between his thighs. Namjoon is thorough and patient, his fingers working the lube in, stretching Jimin slowly until the smaller man is pliable and gasping soft, wet sounds of approval.
“Good,” Namjoon praises, feeling Jimin open up for him. “Perfect fit.”
Only then does Namjoon shift his hips. He guides himself in slowly, inch by inch, filling Jimin completely. Jimin cries out—a sharp, high sound that is immediately swallowed by the crisp linen of the pillow—before melting back against Namjoon’s chest, overwhelmed by the feeling of being completely full.
“Okay?” Namjoon murmurs, kissing the sweat on Jimin’s temple.
Namjoon obliges, beginning a slow, deep rhythm that rocks the entire bed.
Yoongi, having watched the entire process with dark, dilated pupils, turns back to Jungkook with renewed intensity.
“See?” Yoongi murmurs, stripping Jungkook’s briefs off in one swift motion to leave him bare. “That’s how you take care of something precious.”
Jungkook arches his back with a sharp, broken cry as Yoongi’s hand wraps around his bare cock, slick with pre-cum. “Too much—hyung, it’s too much——!”
“Take it,” Yoongi orders, his voice brooking no argument. He begins to move his hand in rhythmic, unforgiving strokes, matching the slow, deep thrusts Namjoon has established inside Jimin, slotting his own cock between Jungkook’s cheeks. “You wanted everyone, didn’t you? You have to handle us.”
Jimin, overwhelmed by the sensation of Namjoon deep inside him and Jungkook clinging to him from the front, turns his head, seeking Namjoon blindly. Namjoon meets him halfway, capturing his lips in a deep, devouring kiss.
“Good,” Namjoon praises into the kiss, feeling Jimin tremble around him. “That’s it. Fall for me.”
The room dissolves into a haze of rhythmic motion and heavy, damp heat.
Namjoon sets a pace that is punishingly slow. He doesn’t snap his hips or rush; he grinds forward with the inexorable force of a tide, burying himself to the hilt with every thrust and then withdrawing just as agonizingly slowly. It leaves Jimin completely wrecked, his head thrashing against the pillow, his mouth open in a silent keen.
“Stay with me,” Namjoon murmurs against the shell of Jimin’s ear, his voice rough with effort. He runs his hand down Jimin’s sweaty, toned abdomen, his palm pressing flat over Jimin’s navel to hold him in place against the onslaught. “Don’t drift away yet.”
Jimin sobs, a wet, broken sound. He buries his face in the pillow, but his hands seek purchase, clutching blindly at the person in front of him. He finds Jungkook’s shoulders, his nails digging into the muscle.
Jungkook is struggling to survive his own torment. Trapped between Jimin’s seeking hands and Yoongi’s relentless grip, he is overstimulated to the point of delirium. Yoongi isn’t just stroking him; he’s edging him, his hand moving tight, slick twists over the sensitive head of Jungkook’s cock, bringing him to the precipice and then stopping abruptly, only to start again a second later.
“Hyung,” Jungkook whines, his hips bucking back against Yoongi’s groin, seeking friction, seeking release. “Let me—please, I need—”
“Not yet,” Yoongi breathes, nipping sharply at the sensitive skin of Jungkook’s nape. He tightens his grip, turning his wrist to drag his thumb over the slit, wringing a strangled cry from the younger man. “We wait for them.”
Yoongi looks up, his dark eyes locking with Namjoon’s over the tangle of their partners. Namjoon’s face is tight with pleasure, sweat dripping from his temple, but he nods—a microscopic dip of his chin.
“Tell him,” Namjoon grunts, thrusting deep and hitting that sweet spot inside Jimin that makes the smaller man’s toes curl.
“You hear that?” Yoongi whispers to Jungkook, sliding his free arm under Jungkook’s waist to pull him flush against his own chest. “Namjoon-ssi says we wait. So be a good boy and hold it.”
Jungkook shudders, tears of frustration and pleasure pricking his eyes. He presses his forehead against Jimin’s, seeking comfort in their shared helplessness.
“Jimin-ssi,” Jungkook gasps, their noses brushing. “Help.”
Jimin forces his eyes open, his vision swimming. He sees Jungkook’s flushed face, the raw need in his expression. It mirrors his own.
“It’s okay,” Jimin pants, shifting his legs to tangle them with Jungkook’s, creating more friction in the center of the bed. He reaches up, cupping Jungkook’s cheek with a trembling hand. “Just…focus on me. Look at me.”
Namjoon groans at the shift in Jimin’s body, his muscles clamping down around him tight and hot. He abandons his slow pace, his control slipping. He drives into Jimin harder, faster, the slap of skin against skin becoming the loudest sound in the room.
“Fuck,” Namjoon hisses. He grabs Jimin’s hip, bruisingly tight, anchoring him as the intensity increases. “You feel so good. So tight.”
The change in tempo sends a shockwave through the group. Yoongi feels the shift and matches it instantly. He stops teasing and starts pumping his hand in earnest, a fast, slick rhythm that matches the snap of Namjoon’s hips.
“Now,” Yoongi growls into Jungkook’s ear. “Now you move.”
Jungkook cries out, his head thrown back against Yoongi’s shoulder, his hips snapping forward into the touch. The pleasure is blinding, white-hot, and terrifying. He clings to Jimin, his nails scraping down Jimin’s sides.
“Together,” Namjoon commands, his voice straining. He leans forward, biting down on Jimin’s trapezius muscle, claiming him. “Everyone together.”
Jimin is weeping now, soft, happy sounds of pure overwhelm. He feels Namjoon expanding inside him, feels Jungkook vibrating against him, feels the heavy, solid weight of Yoongi shielding them all.
“I can’t—I can’t hold it!” Jungkook screams, his body bowing like a drawn bowstring.
“Don’t hold it,” Yoongi orders, stroking faster, faster. “Let go, Kook-ah. Give it to us.”
Across the bed, Namjoon finally finds his release. He groans, a deep, animalistic sound, and buries his face in Jimin’s neck, thrusting one final, ruinous time and holding himself there, pouring himself into Jimin.
The sight of Namjoon unraveling is the last straw for the others.
Jungkook shatters. He comes with a loud, sobbing cry, his release spurting hot over his own stomach and staining the sheets between them. Yoongi rides the aftershocks, pressing a kiss to the back of Jungkook’s head as he finds his own release, grinding his hips against Jungkook’s ass with a harsh exhale.
Jimin, squeezed between the sudden stillness of Namjoon and the trembling aftershocks of Jungkook, feels his own climax hit him like a rogue wave. He clenches around Namjoon, crying out as the pleasure rolls through him to join the mess Jungkook already created between them, leaving him boneless and gasping for air.
Silence falls over the room, heavy and sweet.
For a long time, the only sound is the ragged breathing of the four men trying to remember how to exist as separate entities.
Eventually, Namjoon stirs. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the sweat-dampened hair at Jimin’s name, then lifts his head to look across the pile.
Yoongi is resting his chin on Jungkook’s shoulder, his eyes half-lidded but focused on Namjoon.
“Structural integrity?” Namjoon asks, his voice wrecked and raspy.
Yoongi’s lips quirk into a tired, satisfied smirk. He tightens his arm around Jungkook, who is currently drifting in a blissed-out haze.
Synopsis: Daughter of a powerful tycoon, Seoyoon names herself after the Korean folklore, "Gumiho" to spread fear in the hearts of men and enemies. However, she mysteriously disappears after her father sends her on a solo mission.
Three years later, Seoyoon returns with different identity hoping to live a normal life.
*Please read "A Note From The Author" from Masterpost*
Chapter One
When I was a little girl, I used to read a folklore story called Gumiho. A nine tailed fox spirit in the body of a woman who was beautiful and benevolent on the outside. But dangerous and evil on the inside. Like a siren, she lures men into the forest at night through her charms and ethereal beauty. Then consumes their hearts and livers to live a long life and gain stronger supernatural powers.
Legends say that the Gumiho was so desperate to become human that it was willing to take the hearts and livers of a hundred men to escape its curse.
Most people would find this story terrifying, but I found this as an inspiration for my way of life. As an assassin, I understood why Gumiho did what she had to do to survive.
The only difference was… she didn’t have an older sister who was trained by her side their entire lives until they were ready to hunt.
If there’s one thing I learned from Gumiho, the only reason why she wanted to become human was because deep down, she hated the desire to end innocent lives for immorality.
For seven years, my sister and I have hunted down warlords and crime leaders to please our father. His goal was to become the only king of the underworld crime empire. Anyone who was a threat to him, we were sent to annihilate.
Until that one night, I couldn’t carry out the mission I was sent to do. So I left and never looked back.
I hoped and prayed that Red Fox would never return. Not as a villain, but as something else who would make up for the lives she had taken into something more.
* * * * * *
Three years later…
Author’s P.O.V
“Hyemi-ah! Would you mind helping me pick up dishes from empty tables?” The waitress shouted over her shoulder as she served hot porridge soup to the guests.
“I’m busy with this table!” The waitress concluded.
“I’m coming!” Hye-mi rushed from the kitchen double doors to collect the dishes.
Soa watches Hye-mi float around…letting her mind wander to when she was that age.
Ko Hye-Mi, an eighteen-year-old graduate student from high school. She starts her first year at Seoul University in the fall, where she’ll study to become a lawyer. Being her father’s golden child, she decided to spend her last three months’ vacation to help her father and his business. “SouperKorea.” It was Hye-Mi’s way of thanking her father for saving his business money over the years to spend it on a scholarship for her studies and a dorm room for her to stay for the next three years. As an average-height girl with round brown eyes and long, dark brown hair that frames her fair skin, she is unafraid to face any challenge that comes her way, even if it means risking her life for the people she cares about.
“Enjoy your meals.” The waitress bowed briefly to the elderly couple.
When she stood back up, she used her index finger to push back her thick black glasses to the bridge of her nose. Her soft smile revealed the kind expression on her face despite her bangs covering her eyebrows and the rest of her curly hair tied in a low ponytail on the back of her head.
The elderly couple responded to her gentle expression, “You have a beautiful smile, young lady!” The old lady chuckled.
“Your boyfriend must be a very lucky man!” The old man said, turning to his wife as she nodded in agreement.
The waitress blushed and shook her head, “No, I don’t have a boyfriend." She took a long pause before responding, "I’m afraid my job has kept me more occupied than relationships as it is.”
The old woman had a look of pity on her face, “You shouldn’t work so hard, you’re still young! Go out there and have fun! Fall in love! Get married! Trust me.” She held her husband’s hand. “It’s worth it.” She concluded by placing her head on her husband’s shoulder.
The old man chuckled softly, patted his wife’s head, and kissed the center with love.
The waitress was about to warmly smile at their affections. But caught herself and turned a blank face.
She once again told them to enjoy their meal and bowed quickly before she rushed back to the kitchen.
At the end of the day, the girls were cleaning the serving area, wiping the tables, then flipping the chairs over to stack on top of the tables. Sweeping and mopping the floors and collecting trash from the garbage bins. Before Hye-Mi was about to leave through the back door. Her father came through the double doors from the kitchen.
Mr. Ko, an old man in his sixties wearing a black bandana. His grey hairs sticking out on the sides of his face and his eyebrows. Wearing a black and white chef cook uniform with a black apron wrapped around his waist and sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows. Before he owned his restaurant, Mr. Ko was a war veteran in his younger years. But after being away from home too often, he decided to end his tour and opened his restaurant, “SouperKorea.” He met Hyemi’s mother, got married, and had children together.
Unfortunately, his happy ending didn’t last forever. His wife passed away from blood cancer, leaving him behind to struggle with the business and her two little girls on their own to help their father at home and work.
“Ah! Great job, ladies! We made it through another successful day at work,” he said, grinning at them.
“Especially you, Mun Soa-ssi!” He turned to the waitress who was putting the last chair on top of the table.
“Thank you for the assistance in the kitchen! I know it was a last-minute call, but if it wasn’t for your help. My “SouperKorea” business would have been in trouble,” he chuckled.
“You’re welcome, sir. I’m glad to help out.” Soa bowed to her boss in respect.
*RING! RING!*
Hye-Mi’s cellphone rang from her back pocket, causing her to be alarmed within her father’s presence.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart? Aren’t you going to answer your phone?” Her father asked.
Hye-Mi quickly grabbed her cellphone to check the caller I.D and bit her lip nervously, “it’s Ok-Sun, father.”
Ko Ok-Sun, Mr. Ko’s eldest daughter. After her mother’s death, she grew rebellious against her father at the age of 15. She refused to “be a slave” to her father’s needs and turned to the worst crowd who were willing to accept her. Over the next few years, Ok-Sun dropped out of high school and became addicted to drugs and alcohol. Her father has tried to talk her into going to rehab, but their debates became too extreme. Mr. Ko had no choice but to kick her out of the house, and he hasn’t spoken to her since.
Her father’s smile melted into a frown, “Why is she calling you? How did she get your number?”
“I gave her my number.” She responded in a shy tone.
“Please don’t be mad, father! She has been doing really good this time! She’s been recovering for over a year now!” She takes a deep breath before pleading. “She just wants to come home!” Before Hye-mi was about to continue, her father interrupted her.
“No! I gave her three chances and she blew it! Recovered or not, she is no longer my responsibility!” He yelled angrily.
“You either end your conversations with her now, or you are disowned from this family too!” He huffed and turned back through the kitchen doors.
“SHE’S YOUR DAUGHTER! YOUR OWN FLESH AND BLOOD!” Hye-Mi screamed through her heartbroken tears.
Her father paused his movements before entering the double doors.
“You have no idea how hard it was for her to go through the pain of withdrawal. The constant vomiting, the shakes, and the headaches. Ok-Sun went through all of that just to prove how sorry she was and how willing she is to recover because she’s ready to come home.” She sniffled, wiping her tears from her right cheek with the back of her hand.
“If you can’t accept her forgiveness and anything were to happen to her. You will regret it for the rest of your life.” Hye-mi concluded, before leaving through the back door to take out the trash.
Soa sighed and was about to untie her apron when her boss called for her.
“Mun Soa-ssi, could you please forget about what you just heard and make sure you girls lock up before you leave?” He said as he left through the double doors from the kitchen and up the stairs to his house.
Soa slowly nodded and whispered, “Yes, sir.”
Later that night…
Outside the city of Seoul, there was a high-security prison facility with moving lights on different corners of the building. Guards spoke to one another through their walkie-talkies, others checking the perimeter with their dogs. Every single one of them was occupied with their jobs. Meanwhile, inside the building, through the dark halls and echoing footsteps of security guards, a loud grunt came from the first floor in one of the cellblocks. A man was doing sit-ups, facing the wall in front of him. The room may have been dark, but his eyes were focused on one thing. A picture of a woman with long dark hair, round eyes, and pale skin, smiling while holding a cigarette in her fingers. Instead of focusing on her face, he focused on her plump breasts, where her other arm was covering her nipples. He couldn’t help but drool over her provocative position.
By the time he finished a number of sit-ups. He got up, breathing heavily, and strolled toward his picture and removed it from the wall. Before he was about to utter a word, he heard a few bangs from his cell bars. He smiled, knowing it was one of the guards getting his attention without turning around.
“Hey! You! Park Jong-Doo!” The guard yelled, raising his flashlight. It revealed the prisoner’s glistening, sweat-soaked upper body, covered in heavy tattoos. On his back was a tattoo of a phoenix flying from the flames. Then on his right arm was an eastern dragon with horns, slithering around his entire arm and shoulder with exotic flowers.
“Stop making a racket and off to bed now! Or it’s an isolation room for you!” The guard warned before he left.
Jong-Doo scoffed in annoyance and ignored the guards' threat. “Just one more week, baby. I will see you soon.”
He flipped the picture around before the guard's flashlight left his cell and read on the back out loud to himself, “My Ok-Sun.” Releasing his scary laughter.
* * * * * * *
Mun Soa P.O.V
It’s been a few days since Hye-mi and her father last spoke to one another, since that night when they argued over Ok-Sun. Not even a glance. As much as their tension makes me feel uncomfortable. I also felt pity for them. Like Hye-Mi, for example, she sees the potential of goodness in her sister. No matter how many chances her sister was given. Hye-Mi never gave up on her. Even if it meant hiding their conversations from their father. I can understand why she did that. I should know, I also had a father who saw nothing but disappointment from my older sister, Yuna.
*FLASHBACK*
Author’s P.O.V
“Ugh!” Yuna grunted when she landed her back hard on the ground. She remembers why she chose her code name, Viper. A name that sounds dangerous because she was tired of being underestimated.
“That’s enough! Red Fox is the winner!” Their father said in his deep voice as he raised his left hand to cease their sparring.
Yuna turned to their father with her eyes widened. “No, Father! Wait! Let me try again! I can beat her this time!“
“No! You will not!” Their father yelled, rising from his seat. Then strolled toward his youngest daughter, Red Fox.
“It is clear no matter how many times you’ve tried to outbeat her. You always fail!”
He proudly patted his youngest daughter’s shoulder, “Red Fox has never failed to disappoint me.” He quickly switched the subject. “Soon, when the underground empire becomes mine, you will be my right hand.” He smiled proudly at his youngest.
Meanwhile, Red Fox stood there, still breathing heavily and sweating from the recent sparring with Yuna. She felt uneasy about the promotion she received. She didn’t know what to say until she saw the sad look on Yuna’s face.
“What about Viper, Father? Will she rule with us?” Red Fox asked, hoping the answer would help her older sister feel better.
“Humph! I highly doubt that! She’s nothing but a disappointment! Viper should be happy I’m only keeping her around because she’s my last flesh and blood. He grinned cynically. “If you would like, she could be your servant.” He chuckled, turning on his heel and exited the room with his men.
Yuna clenched her fists tight until you saw white knuckles. Her tears were threatening to come out, and her teeth were grinding in anger. Red Fox could easily see the hurtful look on her older sister’s face when their father talked down to her.
Red Fox knew Yuna hated to see the look of pity on her face. Instead, she sighed heavily and knelt down next to her. “Ignore the old man, you are a skilled fighter. I’ve seen your potential! If you want, I could teach you-”
“SHUT UP!” Yuna yelled in anger and shoved Red Fox to the ground.
“I thought I told you to stop pitying me!” She growled, taking out a short blade and shoving it near her throat. “I don’t want your fucking help!”
“Try that again, and I won’t hesitate to kill you!” Yuna threatened before getting up, keeping the blade by her side.
“I will beat you one way or another. Even if it means I have to train ten times harder, a snake never backs away from a fight.” She glared at Red Fox before leaving the room.
*FLASHBACK ENDED*
Soa had just arrived at her apartment after work. She switched from her shoes to her house slippers and walked toward her bedroom. From there, Soa opened her closet door and saw an old wooden box on the ground with a Kitsune symbol, faded with red paint. She kneeled down in front of it, caressed the top part with her right hand, and sighed heavily.
Mun Soa P.O.V
Red Fox had done so much damage to many families. Some were left with physical scars, others were left to die, and nobody saved them. To this day, I can still hear their screams. There were times I could barely eat or sleep. My apologies will never be enough to bring them back.
Although I couldn’t help but wonder if I could help fix the relationship between Mr. Ko and his daughter. Would it help me? Or could this be the opportunity for redemption from my past?
ꔫ rating: M (this fic may explore some darker themes please read at your own discretion. Take care of yourself.)
ꔫ wc: 2.8k
ꔫ warnings: obsessive nature, obsessive nature, SMUT, fighting, Jimin is actually losing his mind, CHEATING (Jimin cheats but he REALLY regrets it :( ) , forgiveness is not going to come easy. JIMIN REALLY IS DOWN BAD FOR YOU. Failed pregnancy attempts mentioned. Taehyung isn't playing any games here and Silent Grace Yoongi and Hobi mentioned! (sorry I miss them)
ꔫ synopsis: You were supposed to surprise your husband with the news that you were finally pregnant after MONTHS of trying and failed attempts. It's supposed to be the happiest day of your lives...
Instead, you surprised him cheating.
Now Park Jimin is the man who ruined the happiest moment of your life—and the same man begging for a chance to prove he still deserves you.
But forgiveness isn’t simple when love and betrayal share the same breath.
Seeing the man you were hopelessly in love with have intercourse with another woman in your bed while you were carrying your miracle child broke you in ways that you just couldn’t explain. You couldn’t wrap your head around it.
You almost gaslit yourself into thinking this was a sick dream or something.
But the way Jimin was texting and calling your phone told you that this?
It wasn't a dream.
The way you were crying it was honestly a miracle that you made it to your friend’s house in one piece.
Every text message that flew in was just another stab to the heart.
“Baby, I promise you. She meant- no she means nothing to me. You mean everything to mean. Pretty, please believe me…” one text read. You hardly got done reading that one before another one came in.
“I can see you reading them, please say something. Something other than you leaving me…please.”
You scoffed as warm tears rolled down your face, shaking your head, you typed back.
“It meant nothing? Is that supposed to make everything okay? Jimin, you slept with another woman in our bed…in our home…after everything we’ve been through. I’ve never looked at another man that wasn’t you let alone sleep with one. Not even because you get too jealous, purely from my love for you. I could never do what you did to me…I’m done. We’re done. Do not come here”
You had so many misspelled words and broken sentences from crying so much, you doubt Jimin could understand you.
Jimin’s phone nearly shattered from his grip as he read your text. His entire body went rigid before his hands started shaking and panic started settling in. He tried breathing, he tried counting down from ten or up to five-whatever the hell it went before texting you back.
“Yn do not speak nonsense to me. Please. I cannot live without you and you know that. We can’t throw away our marriage over a mistake. You can’t decide that after this. You are MY wife and that is MY baby inside of you”
He was sprinting to his car, bypassing all of the staff that worked in his complex. He even ignored Hoseok and Yoongi as they were coming back from the studio.
“What's his deal?” Yoongi said, looking behind as Jimin bolted through the doors.
“Well he did say that Yn gets crazy when it comes to her favorite ice cream, maybe he ate it all.” Hoseok shrugged before continuing walking. Yoongi chuckled.
“My blossom is like that too. Especially now since she’s expecting our baby girl.”
Hoseok chuckled,
“Two kids under two is pretty insane, Hyung.”
“Well I can’t stay off her long enough, it’ll be three sooner or later.”
The banter was light but the burden in Jimin’s chest was heavy.
This was more than ice cream.
It was his baby and marriage on the line.
Jimin was already in the car, the engine roaring to life as he peeled out of the parking garage. He didn’t want for the car to warm up, he didn’t even wait for his seatbelt to click, he was already down the busy streets of Seoul. He fucked up and he knew that.
But the thought of you actually leaving him?
He wasn’t going to accept that.
“I’m already on my way. If you think I’m letting you walk away from me, from us, from the life we’ve built for our baby that’s growing inside of you, you are mistaken. I know I made a mistake, but you don’t get to take my child and disappear. We took vows, pretty. For better or worse. Forever.”
Jimin threw his phone to the passenger seat as he nibbled on his lip nervously. His hands, gripping the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles were turning white from the pressure. The hypocrisy of his words weren’t lost on him, he knew that if a man had even walked past you a little too close, he would’ve lost his mind.
But this wasn’t about that.
This was about realizing that he is so close to losing something that was a constant in his life, an anchor for him and his hidden emotions, something that actually mattered to him. More than life itself.
You didn’t even walk into your friend’s house, she was already walking out, wrapping her robe tighter against the cool night’s air. Her husband happened to see you in the driveway when he had gotten home for work. You were so caught in your emotions that you hadn’t noticed him pull into the driveway and head inside.
“Yn? Honey? What are you doing out here? It’s so-what’s wrong?”
She immediately signaled for you to unlock the car door so she could sit with you.
You couldn’t even bring yourself to tell her at first.
You were so against telling your friends and family about any argument that you and Jimin had. You knew you and Jimin would fix the problem before they could even form their opinions about whatever little argument that you had. Jimin did the same. He never told his family or friends about arguments that you had either, but this was something you couldn’t keep to yourself.
It’s not healthy in your current condition and Jimin was the next person in line to speak to,
And that wasn’t something you were ready to do.
Your friend’s face softened instantly as she slipped into the passenger seat beside you, the scent of her lavender body wash filling the cold silence. She reached for your hand immediately, her thumb brushing against your trembling fingers.
“Talk to me sweet girl. Tell me what’s wrong..”
Your lips parted but nothing came out.
How could you even begin to explain this?
Just hours ago you were in this exact driveway laughing with her, holding back tears of happiness while showing her the positive test hidden in your purse. She had hugged you so tightly you thought your ribs would crack.
Now you could barely breathe.
Your chest tightened violently as another sob climbed its way up your throat. You turned your face away quickly, embarrassed by how broken you sounded.
“Hey, hey…” she whispered gently. “Look at me.”
You shook your head immediately.
“I can’t,” you choked out.
Fear began creeping into her expression now, replacing confusion.
“Is it the baby?” she asked quickly, eyes darting down toward your stomach. “Did something happen?”
The question shattered something inside of you.
Just another reminder of how much it took to get here.
And just how much this hurts.
Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks as you covered your mouth, your shoulders shaking violently.
“No—the baby’s okay,” you cried softly. “The baby’s okay…”
Relief flashed across her face briefly before concern took over all over again.
“Then what happened?” she asked carefully.
You stared down at your lap.
At your shaking hands.
At the wedding ring that suddenly felt heavier than it ever had before.
Your voice came out barely above a whisper.
“I was going to tell him tonight.”
Her brows furrowed in confusion.
“What?”
“I…” Your breath hitched painfully. “I had everything set up.”
The tiny socks flashed in your mind instantly.
The white box.
Jimin’s smile you had imagined all day long.
Your stomach twisted so hard you thought you might be sick.
“He came home from Japan and I wanted to surprise him,” you whispered, tears falling faster now. “I thought maybe he didn’t see the box downstairs so I went looking for him and…”
Your voice broke completely.
Your friend went still beside you.
And suddenly she knew.
You saw it happen on her face in real time.
The realization.
The horror.
“No…” she whispered quietly.
A sob escaped you before you could stop it.
“He was with another woman.”
The words finally left your mouth and the second they did, the entire world felt different.
Real.
Humiliatingly real.
Your friend inhaled sharply beside you, one hand immediately flying to her mouth.
“What?” she breathed out in disbelief.
You laughed bitterly through your tears, the sound completely broken.
“She was in our bed,” you whispered. “She was sitting on him and I just—”
Your voice collapsed again.
“Oh my God.”
Your friend looked genuinely sick now.
Not just angry.
Heartbroken for you.
“Yn…” she whispered softly.
“I don’t understand,” you cried. “I don’t understand why he would do this to me.”
Your breathing became uneven again as the images replayed mercilessly in your mind.
Jimin smiled.
That woman was touching him.
The sound of her voice.
Your stomach churned violently.
“He wanted this baby so badly,” you whispered shakily, pressing a trembling hand against your stomach. “We both did…”
Your friend’s eyes immediately dropped to the movement before softening all over again.
“Oh honey…”
And that was it.
The sympathy in her voice destroyed the last fragile piece holding you together.
You bent forward with a broken sob as she immediately pulled you into her arms, holding you carefully while you cried against her shoulder.
“I don’t know what to do,” you whispered helplessly. “I don’t know what to do anymore…”
Taehyung was watching from the living room and knew something wasn’t right. When he saw the text message from his wife:
‘He fucking cheated on her’
‘She is falling apart! He broke her!’
He pulled his phone out and called Jimin.
Jimin answered on the first ring.
“Is she there?” he asked immediately, voice rough and breathless. “Taehyung, put her on the phone. Please.”
Taehyung stood near the living room window, staring out toward your car still sitting in the driveway. Through the windshield he could barely make out your silhouette curled into his wife’s side.
His jaw tightened. You are just as close to him as Jimin was. His wife adores you and so did he. They were there for you and Jimin for every negative test, every false hope. Not only did it hurt you but it hurt them as well.
“She’s here.”
The relief Jimin let out sounded almost painful.
“Thank God,” he breathed shakily. “Is she okay? Did she say anything? Is the baby okay?”
Taehyung closed his eyes briefly at the panic in his voice before speaking again.
“You need to slow down.”
“I can’t fucking slow down right now,” Jimin snapped instantly before catching himself. “I’m sorry—I just—fuck, Tae, I need to see her.”
Taehyung’s grip tightened around his phone.
For a moment, he said nothing.
And somehow the silence felt worse.
Then finally:
“What the hell were you thinking?”
Jimin’s breathing staggered quietly on the other end.
“You had everything,” he said quietly. “Do you understand that? People spend their whole lives looking for what you had with her.”
Every word felt like a blade sliding deeper into Jimin’s chest.
“I know.”
“No,” Taehyung said sharply. “I don’t think you do.”
Jimin pressed a trembling hand over his mouth as he leaned against his desk, eyes burning.
“I do,” he whispered hoarsely. “I know exactly what I destroyed.”
Taehyung glanced back toward the front door, hearing faint crying from outside, he watched his wife guide you inside and into the kitchen, helping you to calm down. He lowered his tone before speaking again.
His expression darkened immediately.
“She can barely breathe right now.”
The silence on the other end was immediate.
Then:
A broken sound.
Like Jimin physically reacted to the sentence.
Taehyung continued before his anger truly got the better of him.
“She was here earlier today, you know.”
Jimin froze.
“She was happy,” Taehyung said quietly. “The happiest I’ve seen her in months.”
Jimin’s stomach dropped violently.
“She showed us the baby socks. Everyone is excited for you two. Jin hyung and his wife has already started cooking meals for fucking baby growth and Jungkook is already looking for a bigger penthouse cause he already planned out date nights for you two and plans on keeping the baby..”
That did it.
Jimin sank down into his chair like his body suddenly gave out beneath him, one hand gripping the edge of the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.
“Oh God…”
His voice cracked completely.
Taehyung finally let some of his anger slip through.
“You made her happiest day become something she’ll never forget for the worst reason possible.”
Jimin couldn’t speak.
Could barely breathe.
All he could picture was you standing there holding that stupid little white box while he—
He squeezed his eyes shut violently.
“I know,” he whispered again, sounding destroyed. “I know.”
Taehyung’s voice lowered dangerously.
“If you come here acting defensive, I’ll throw you back out the door myself.”
“I’m not defensive,” Jimin said immediately. “I just—I need to see my wife.”
The desperation in his voice was ugly now. Barely controlled.
Taehyung exhaled slowly through his nose.
“She doesn’t want to see you right now.”
Jimin looked physically ill.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please, Tae.”
“Remember my words, Hyung…” Taehyung started,
“If you come defensively, I will throw you out.”
Taehyung lowered the phone slowly, his jaw still tight with restrained anger before slipping the device into his pocket.
His wife looked at him expectantly from beside you, silently asking the question neither of you wanted answered.
“He’s coming,” Taehyung said flatly. “He’s not letting up,”
Your eyes squeezed shut immediately.
Of course he was.
Jimin was many things—overbearing, possessive, obsessive when it came to you—but one thing he would never do was let you disappear after something like this.
Especially not now.
You hated that the one thing you loved the most about him was now turning into a nightmare.
Your stomach twisted painfully.
“Hey,” your friend whispered softly, immediately crouching in front of you again. “Come inside the kitchen, let’s get warm? You’re freezing.”
Only then did you realize how cold your hands had become.
You nodded weakly.
The second you stepped inside the house, warmth wrapped around you, but it did nothing to stop the violent shaking in your body. Your friend kept one arm looped around you carefully, guiding you toward the kitchen while Taehyung lingered behind for a moment, rubbing a tired hand down his face.
The kitchen lights felt too bright.
Too normal.
You hated it.
The world shouldn’t still be moving right now.
Your friend sat you carefully at the kitchen island before immediately reaching for a glass.
“Water first,” she said gently, slipping into a comforting routine. “Then I’m making tea.”
“I can make it while you sit with Yn…” Taehyung said softly as he placed a soft hand to the middle of his wife's back to move behind her, starting the tea.
You stared blankly at the marble countertop.
“I don’t want anything right now...”
“I know,” she whispered. “But you need something in your system.”
The mention of your condition made your chest tighten all over again.
Pregnant.
You were pregnant.
A fresh wave of nausea rolled through your stomach so violently you nearly doubled over.
“Oh God—”
Your friend immediately rushed toward you.
“Hey, hey—breathe for me.”
You pressed a trembling hand against your mouth as tears filled your eyes all over again.
“I can still hear her,” you whispered brokenly.
The room went quiet. Taehyung cringed at the sentence. He couldn’t even imagine Jimin doing something like that, not to you. Not the way Jimin always spoke about you in their quiet time together.
Your friend’s face crumpled instantly.
“She sounded—” Your voice cracked painfully. “She sounded comfortable there.”
That sentence shattered the room.
Because that was the real horror, wasn’t it?
Not just that Jimin cheated.
But it didn’t look unfamiliar.
Your friend moved beside you instantly, gripping your hand tightly.
“Don’t do that to yourself,” she said firmly.
“But what if it wasn’t the first time?” you whispered.
The words finally escaped.
The fear that had been growing quietly in the back of your mind ever since you left the penthouse.
Your breathing became uneven again.
“What if I just never noticed?”
Your friend’s expression hardened immediately but Taehyung spoke first.
“Listen to me carefully,” he said softly but firmly, forcing your eyes toward his. “What he did tonight is on him. Not you. Don’t start tearing yourself apart trying to make sense of someone else’s awful decision.”
Fresh tears slipped down your cheeks.
“I was so happy today,” you whispered shakily. “I was so happy…”
The tiny socks flashed in your mind again.
Jimin’s smile you’d imagined.
The future you thought you were walking toward.
Gone.
Or maybe not gone.
But broken.
Your friend’s eyes filled with tears at your expression before she wrapped her arms around you again carefully.
“You don’t have to figure anything out tonight,” she whispered against your hair. “Okay? Just breathe. One thing at a time.”
But before you could respond—
Headlights flashed across the kitchen windows.
The entire room went still.
Taehyung looked toward the front of the house immediately while your body locked up completely.
ꔫ rating: M (this fic may explore some darker themes please read at your own discretion. Take care of yourself.)
ꔫ wc: 3.2k
ꔫ warnings: obsessive nature, obsessive nature, SMUT, fighting, Jimin is actually losing his mind, CHEATING (Jimin cheats but he REALLY regrets it :( ) , forgiveness is not going to come easy. JIMIN REALLY IS DOWN BAD FOR YOU. Failed pregnancy attempts mentioned.
ꔫ synopsis: You were supposed to surprise your husband with the news that you were finally pregnant after MONTHS of trying and failed attempts. It's supposed to be the happiest day of your lives...
Instead, you surprised him cheating.
Now Park Jimin is the man who ruined the happiest moment of your life—and the same man begging for a chance to prove he still deserves you.
But forgiveness isn’t simple when love and betrayal share the same breath.
You met Jimin when you were 23, at the highlight of his career. The same night you broke off your engagement to a man that couldn’t even remember your favorite color.
You thought you would be sad but you were quite the opposite. You were having the time of your life. You and your friends were lighting up the dance floor. Drinks were flowing and the music was rolling. There was no bad thought that came to your mind. You felt…free.
You were bouncing between your friends and strangers when you felt eyes burning the back of your head from the VIP section.
Park Jimin, also 23 then—intoxicating and mysterious. It didn’t take long from the moment your eyes connected for him to make his move. He showered you in a luxury that you didn’t know before. Dates on private islands, daily lunch dates and shopping trips. He once took you to Paris just because you were thinking about having pasta for dinner. He was the perfect example of how you felt a man should court you or any woman for that matter.
Within a month, despite your friends and families comments, you were married.
Crazy. Insane even but on the rare occasion, it worked.
It was a whirlwind, the honeymoon phase that never ended. It felt like it never would.
You had it all.
A beautiful life, amazing friends, a handsome husband that was crazy about you. The only thing you both wanted desperately was a child. Jimin would stay up at night, laying on your chest with his hand sprawled on your flat stomach, thinking about how beautiful you would be carrying his child, the one thing he wanted that money couldn’t buy.
He became obsessed.
This wasn't an empty obsession. This wasn’t a “Once the baby gets here, you’re going to wish you never had kids.” type of thing.
You and Jimin are certain that this is what you wanted. You talked about it all the time with your friends. Jimin probably talked about more than you.
He spent countless hours looking up things that you both could do to conceive. He made you put your legs against the wall one time after a long night of making love, there was even a drink that you both drank to ‘enhance’ your chances of conceiving.
But nothing you did helped.
Month after month, the negative tests started to pile up.
Every disappointment hurt worse than the last but Jimin stayed hopeful.
“It’s not our turn yet but soon my love. Soon.” he would say, holding you from being, hiding his face in your neck, seeking comfort from your scent and closeness. “We’re going to be the world’s best parents.”
But today? Today is different.
~~~~~
The bathroom is quiet. Too quiet.
Morning light filters through the large windows that hang behind the large bath, looking out at the busy city of Seoul below you, pale and soft, barely touching the white tile walls. You sit on the edge of the bathtub, elbows resting on your knees, the small plastic test clutched loosely in your hands.
You almost didn’t take it.
After so many months—so many quiet disappointments—you’d stopped expecting anything different. The routine had become painfully familiar: wake up, take the test, hold your breath… then tuck another negative result into the back of your mind like it never mattered, but Jimin’s hope is the only reason why you took the test today.
You wanted to be a mother but you had to admit the dream died each time you took a negative test. You were just a few tests away from your dream hitting the back burner.
So when the timer on your phone goes off, you don’t rush.
You stare at the floor for a moment longer, gathering yourself the way you always do. Preparing for the same hollow feeling.
A small part of you wished that you had waited for Jimin to return home before taking it but that ship has sailed.
“Okay,” you whisper softly to no one. “Whatever happens, happens.”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the test before you lift it.
And then you freeze.
Your eyes scan the result once.
Twice.
Three times.
Your heart doesn’t react right away—your mind refuses to catch up.
“…No.”
The word leaves your lips as a quiet breath, barely audible.
You lean forward, squinting at the window then the beautiful fixtures like maybe the light is wrong when that’s the furthest from the truth in this beautiful penthouse you and Jimin live in. Maybe you're reading it wrong. Your hands fumble slightly as you reach for the instruction pamphlet sitting on the counter, unfolding it with shaky fingers.
Two lines.
Two lines means—
You look back at the test.
The second line is faint, but it’s there. Clear enough that you can’t pretend it isn’t.
Your chest tightens suddenly.
“No… no, that—that’s not right–”
Your voice breaks off as your breath catches.
Your heart starts beating faster now, a nervous rhythm thudding against your ribs. You flip the test over in your hands, then back again, as if the answer might somehow change if you look at it from another angle.
It doesn’t.
The line is still there.
Your fingers start trembling.
“After all this time…?”
The words come out as a whisper, fragile and uncertain.
You stand up too quickly, pacing the small bathroom once, your thoughts spinning.
“Take another one, this one has to be wrong..”
Instinctively, you grab another test from the box under the sink, the last one left, and take it with rushed, clumsy movements.
Then you sit again.
Waiting feels impossible this time. You could hardly hold your composure.
Your leg bounces, your fingers twisting together while the seconds drag by. Your eyes keep drifting back to the first test sitting on the counter like it might disappear if you stop watching it.
Months of memories crowd your mind.
All the negative tests.
All the hopeful mornings that ended in quiet disappointment. All the nights cuddling Jimin and comforting one another may have not been…for nothing?
The times you told yourself not to get your hopes up.
The timer goes off again.
Your stomach flips instantly making you nauseous.
Slowly—almost fearfully—you reach for the second test.
Your hands shake so badly you almost drop it.
You look down.
And there it is.
Two lines.
Clearer this time.
Both lines, bold and pink. In your face.
For a moment, the world goes completely silent.
Your breath leaves you in a shaky exhale as your knees suddenly give out, and you sink down onto the cool bathroom floor without thinking. The tests remain clutched tightly in your hands while you stare at them like they’re something fragile… something unreal.
“I…”
Your throat tightens.
A laugh escapes you first—soft, disbelieving, almost breathless.
Then suddenly your vision blurs.
Tears spill down your cheeks before you can stop them.
“Oh my god…thank you, God”
Your voice cracks as the words finally sink in.
You press a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking as the reality crashes into you all at once. All the months of trying, hoping, hurting—it all pours out in the form of quiet, overwhelmed sobs.
Your other hand curls protectively around your stomach without you even realizing it.
“Please,” you whisper through the tears, your voice trembling.
“Please stay. Don’t leave us this time..”
The room is still silent, but your heart feels louder than everything.
You sit there on the bathroom floor for a long time, clutching the tests like proof that this moment is real.
Every few seconds your eyes flick back down just to make sure.
Just to see those two lines again.
And again.
And again.
Because after so many times seeing only one… you’re still afraid to believe it.
So almost instantly, you scheduled an appointment, just to be sure as if two tests weren’t enough.
It’s taking everything out of you not to run and tell Jimin but you vowed to make this special for him too. This was taking a toll on him just as much as it was you. You needed to make sure first before opening up to him…you couldn’t face it if it was a misread or false alarm.
You had your mind set. As soon as you got the confirmation from the doctors, you were going to set up something special for your husband when he comes home from his trip to Japan.
~~~~~~~~~
The doctor’s office smells faintly of antiseptic and lavender air freshener.
You’ve been staring at the same spot on the wall for the last five minutes—the framed photo of a newborn wrapped in a pink blanket. The baby’s tiny hand is curled around someone’s finger.
Your leg bounces uncontrollably.
You press your palms together in your lap to stop it, but the nervous energy refuses to settle. Your heart has been racing since the nurse took the blood sample.
It feels ridiculous, almost.
You already saw the tests. Two of them.
But after everything… you needed someone to tell you it was real.
The door opens.
Your head lifts immediately.
The doctor steps in with a small tablet and a small packet in hand, offering you a gentle smile as they sit down on the rolling stool across from you.
You try to read their expression.
You’ve become good at that over the months—searching faces for hints before the words come.
Your fingers twist together.
“Well,” the doctor says softly, glancing at the screen for a moment.
Your stomach drops.
Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure they can hear it.
“Your results came back.”
Your throat tightens.
You nod quickly, unable to trust your voice.
The doctor looks back up at you.
And smiles.
“The test is positive. Congratulations.”
For a moment… nothing happens.
The words float in the air between you, simple and clear.
Positive.
Congratulations.
Your brain doesn’t catch up right away.
“…I am?” you ask quietly before you can stop yourself.
Your voice sounds small. Fragile.
The doctor’s smile widens a little.
“Yes,” they say gently. “You’re pregnant.”
The room goes completely silent.
Your chest rises with a shaky breath as the meaning finally settles in.
Pregnant.
Not maybe.
Not hopefully.
Not another faint line on a plastic test you’re afraid to trust.
Real.
Your vision blurs suddenly.
“Oh…”
The sound escapes you like the air has been knocked from your lungs.
You press a hand over your mouth as tears immediately fill your eyes.
Your shoulders shake once, twice, before a breathless laugh slips out with the tears.
“I—sorry,” you say quickly, wiping your face even though the tears keep coming. “I just…”
Your voice cracks.
“We’ve been trying for so long. I kind of wish he was here with me to hear this good news. He’s so excited to become a father.”
The doctor’s expression softens with understanding.
“That makes this moment even more special.”
Your hand slowly drifts down to your stomach without thinking.
It’s still the same.
Nothing feels different.
But suddenly your mind can’t stop repeating the same thought.
There’s a baby there.
Your baby.
You swallow hard.
“Everything looks okay… right?” you ask, the fear creeping back in despite the joy.
The doctor nods reassuringly.
“So far, everything looks exactly as it should.”
The tension you didn’t realize you were holding finally releases.
Your shoulders drop slightly as another quiet breath escapes you.
Relief floods through you so suddenly it almost makes you dizzy.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
The words feel too small for what you mean.
You thank them again before the appointment ends, clutching the printed paperwork and appointment card like they’re precious.
Because they are.
The moment you step outside the clinic, the cool air hits your face.
And suddenly it feels real all over again.
You sit in the driver’s seat of your car for a long moment, staring down at the small envelope the nurse handed you.
Inside is the confirmation paperwork.
Proof.
Your fingers rest against your stomach again.
“Hi,” you whisper softly, almost shyly.
The word makes you laugh quietly to yourself.
You wipe the last of your tears before starting the car.
There’s someone else who needs to know.
But not like this.
Not rushed.
Not through a phone call filled with shaky breathing.
Jimin deserves something special.
After everything you’ve both been through… he deserves a moment he’ll never forget.
Later that afternoon, your kitchen table is covered in small things.
A tiny white box.
Soft tissue paper.
And the smallest pair of baby socks you could find at the store.
They’re impossibly tiny. Seeing them in the store for the first time, you thought they were fake. Fighting the urge to buy every single thing available.
You hold them between your fingers, your chest tightening as emotion creeps up again.
“You’re going to be a dad,” you whisper quietly, imagining Jimin’s face when he realizes.
Your heart flutters at the thought.
You gently place the socks inside the box.
Then you add the pregnancy test—the second one you took that morning—and fold the doctor’s confirmation paper neatly beneath it.
For a moment, you just stare at it.
Your hands hover over the lid.
You suddenly feel nervous all over again.
What if he cries?
What if he doesn’t believe it at first?
What if he just stares the way you did?
A smile slowly spreads across your face.
You close the lid carefully.
Then tie a soft ribbon around the box.
By the time you place it on the table, your heart is beating just as fast as it did in the doctor’s office.
Except this time…
It’s excitement.
You glance toward the door, imagining the moment Jimin walks in.
Imagining the confusion on his face when you hand him the box.
Imagining the exact second it clicks.
Your hand drifts to your stomach again.
And this time, your smile is soft and full of wonder.
“Just wait until he finds out.”
But you’ll never see his reaction…
Because the night you were going to tell him, you heard something that made your stomach churn.
You walked in after a long day of celebrating with your friends when you noticed the small box still sitting on the table. You frowned softly as you walked over to pick it up.
“Maybe he was too tired to notice it and just wanted to head to bed.” you mumbled to yourself. You headed up the stairs when you heard faint voices that sounded like Jimin’s. Your heart began to race as you were seconds away from telling your husband that after almost a year of failed attempts, you were finally pregnant.
But when you opened the door…your heart almost stopped beating…
Jimin was looking up at a woman that you had never seen before with the biggest smile on his face. She was straddling his lap, moaning his name as her eyes closed in pleasure. You wanted to scream, you wanted to cry but neither came out.
You dropped the little white box, loud enough to make them stop. Jimin’s eyes landed on your back as you fled the room. Jimin didn’t waste any time. He threw off the woman, quickly becoming a forgotten object as he jumped out of bed.
“Baby! B-babe! Wait!”
But you didn’t.
Your heart hammered against your chest as you prayed you were wrong. That you hadn’t walked into your husband having sex with another woman. His voice chased you down the hall, you didn’t dare look back. You just threw yourself into your car, still warm from earlier. You sped towards your friend’s place, she only lived a few minutes away.
Jimin didn’t catch you in time. Breathless, he returned to the bedroom, tripping over the white box with its contents scattered across the floor. He frowned softly as he crouched down to get a closer look.
“What…wh-what is this?” he asked no one as he took the paperwork into his hands followed by the little tiny socks. “She’s…she’s pregnant? No…no no no no”
The realization hit him like a physical blow, making him sick to his stomach. He was seconds from throwing up but by the grace of God he was able to hold it back. Behind him, the woman appears with a pout. She leans down and kisses his temple softly, disregarding his troubled state.
“Do you need me, baby?” she asked, trailing her finger down his arm. He pushed her off, no longer caring about her wellbeing as all he could think about was finding you.
“Leave…you have no purpose anymore.”
She tried to protest, they always did but Jimin didn’t care he ignored her, retreating to his study to retrieve his phone. He called you non-stop but you refused to answer. Maybe you were still driving, you never answered the phone when you were driving, it was a safety measure that you always took. He’d imagine that you’d be even more protective since you were carrying his kid. He stared at his screen before his shaky hands began to type.
“Princess, I’m sorry…I’m so sorry. Please come back. Please let me explain everything.”
You sat outside of your friend’s house. You made no attempts to call her or text her. You didn’t even know what to say. Just a few hours ago you were here celebrating your positive pregnancy test and now you are back about to tell her that you found Jimin cheating on you.
You couldn’t stop crying despite telling yourself that you needed to calm down for the baby.
“You have to get it together…for the baby..”
The baby you and your husband prayed so hard for.
The baby Jimin cried for.
The baby you cried for.
You looked down at your phone with teary eyes before finally texting back.
“How could you do something like that to me? I gave you all of me…everything..and you go and cheat on me? I never want to see you again..”
Jimin’s chest tightened as he read your message, his jaw clenching so hard it ached. He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. The words “I never want to see you again” burned into his retinas, replaying over and over in his mind.
He immediately typed back, his fingers trembling against the screen. There was no way on Earth he was going to lose his wife and child all in one night.
“She meant nothing, nothing at all yn. It meant nothing. NOTHING. You are the love of my life and you are carrying my beautiful child. I love you. I don’t want this for us. I know there’s nothing I can say right now that won’t sound disgusting after what I did… but please don’t shut me out.”
He hit send as he kicked his desk angrily before pacing his study like a caged animal, all the awards and trophies he had there rattling. Jimin couldn’t wait for you to respond, he texted you again.
“I’m coming to get you. We’re going to talk face to face about this, not behind a screen. You can’t leave me, not now, not ever.”
His possessiveness bled through every word, the entitlement he would sometimes carry twisted into something more desperate, fear. Fear of losing the one thing in this entire world that made him happy without too many expectations, the one thing he cared more about than the life he had built.
He grabbed his car keys and jacket, his hooded dark eyes blazing with determination and barely contained emotion, rage, not at you but at himself for letting this spiral out of control.
