Blowingbubbles

Mostly just Jhope Fic recs and fangirling

[xjoonchildx]

masterlist: kanalia

banner by the amazing @kimtaehyunq 💕

Chapter One: Hands and Knees

Chapter Two: So it's Love, Then

Chapter Three: All The Finest Things In The Kingdom

Chapter Four: Good Men and Temptation

Chapter Five: The King is a Fool

Chapter Six: Because I Couldn't Stay Away

[hobi-side]

Stars We Never Caught 2.0 | jhs

—  summary: At eleven, you met Hoseok. He was your older brother’s best friend, and for years, he was a constant in your world. Growing up alongside him, with Yoongi, your brother, and the rest of your crew, you never imagined that anything would ever change. Hoseok felt like family—always there but never quite a brother. It was a strange kind of closeness, one that never quite fit into the lines of what you understood.

But as you grew older, things started to shift. You got caught up in your own life, distracted by the swirl of adulthood. Now, back in Seoul, you find yourself drawn back to him. Whether it’s fate or coincidence, Hoseok is still there, and you can’t shake the pull that you’ve buried for so long. But perhaps some things are never meant to be—some stars are never meant to be caught, no matter how brightly they shine or are they?

—  word count: 13.6k for this part—this is a long one shot like around 60k for the full thing and the tumblr editor hates me so we'll have like 4 parts of this

— playlist: what was that - lorde, ribs - lorde, panic - beomgyu, wildest dreams - taylor swift, i need u (urban mix) - bts, run (ballad mix) - bts, cigarette daydreams - cage the elephant, the less i know the better - tame impala, 0x1 love song - txt, writer in the dark - lorde, somebody else - the 1975, your dog - soccer mommy + every mitski album.

—  warnings: angst, longing, yearning, deep Yearn (I meant this), pinning (sorry), slow really slow burn (I meant this), brother's best friend, coming of age, yoongi being a big bro (we love you yoongles), overthinking, lots of inner monologue, growing pains in your 20s, adulthood being a pain in the ass, lots of deep talks, tension... so much tension (shit goes wrong or not....) OKAY, now onto other warnings: sweet love making—then horny people being horny people because they're deep in feelings but freaky as hell: big dick! hobi, f! m! masturbation, sex with feelings™, strenght kink, hickeys, HICKEYS, biting, deep throathing, choking, missionary, manhandling?

part one | part three | part four

You sat across from him at Yoongi’s small kitchen table, a takeout box of cooling rice and stir-fried vegetables between you, the scent of cheap coffee still lingering faintly in the air.

Yeji had muttered something about a headache and dragged herself back to the living room, leaving you and Hoseok alone — an awkward, stretching silence growing roots in her absence.

Of course she did.

The early afternoon sun slanted through the windows, cutting sharp gold lines across the floor. It was almost two. Almost the time Yoongi said he’d be home. Almost the time you could stop pretending this wasn’t tearing you up inside.

You pushed your rice around with your chopsticks, not really eating. Hoseok leaned back in his chair, one arm slung carelessly over the backrest, fingers tapping out a slow, thoughtless rhythm against the wood.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

It wasn't angry silence. It wasn't even cold. Just... worn out. Thin around the edges, like a conversation that had been stretched too far and might tear if either of you tugged too hard.

"You cut your hair," he said finally, voice low and almost startled, like he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

You glanced up, fingers twitching toward the blunt, choppy ends you'd gotten months ago — a choice you barely remembered making in the rush of goodbyes and endings.

"Yeah," you said. "Needed a change."

Hoseok nodded slightly, tapping his fingers twice more before going still.

"You look different," he added after a second. "Good different."

You smiled tightly, throat closing around the words you wanted to say.

He still didn’t know, did he? Still didn’t see the way your heart had once spun on its axis for him.

Still didn’t realize that you weren't just different — you were someone else entirely now.

You swallowed, looking down at your food again.

"You’ve been busy," you said, meaning it as an offering, a bridge.

He gave a small, tired laugh.

"Yeah. Work. Travel. Life." A shrug. Like it didn’t matter.

But it did. You could see it in the shadows under his eyes. In the way his shoulders tensed slightly when he thought you weren’t looking.

You wanted to ask him — How are you? Happy?

But you didn't.

Because you weren’t sure you wanted him to ask you the same.

You picked at a piece of beef in your rice box, heart hammering stupidly hard.

"It’s weird," you said instead, voice quieter now. "Being back."

Hoseok looked at you then — really looked — and for a moment, you saw something flicker there.

Something old. Something broken. Something that recognized the same aching places inside you.

"Yeah," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "It is."

The words sat heavy between you, like the third person in the room no one wanted to acknowledge.

You forced yourself to look up again, cheeks burning. You found him already watching you —gaze steady, unreadable.

You wondered if he was remembering, too. All those summers. All those almosts.

But he didn’t say anything else.

Neither did you.

You just sat there —two people who used to fit so easily into each other's spaces— now separated by polite conversation and the brutal, inevitable passage of time.

Outside, a horn honked distantly. The city moved on without you.

Inside, you stayed very still.

And for the first time in a long time, you wondered if maybe some things —some people— were never meant to find their way back to each other.

Not the way they were before.

Maybe not at all.

The front door clicked open around 2:15 PM, the familiar thud of Yoongi’s boots against the threshold cutting through the thick silence.

You flinched without meaning to.

Across the table, Hoseok straightened instinctively, shoulders pulling tight, his hand abandoning the lazy rhythm it had been tapping against the chair.

Yoongi’s voice carried through the apartment —tired but warm, familiar in the way home was supposed to be:

"I’m back."

You sat up a little too quickly, your chopsticks clattering awkwardly against your plate. Hoseok cleared his throat, scrubbing a hand through his hair like he was trying to shake something off.

By the time Yoongi wandered into the kitchen, shrugging off his coat, you and Hoseok were perfect strangers again — two polite friends sharing a casual lunch.

Yoongi paused in the doorway, sharp eyes flickering between you for half a second too long.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed. He always did.

But he said nothing, just tossed his keys into the little ceramic bowl by the counter and reached for the takeout bag.

"You brought lunch?" he asked Hoseok, voice light.

Hoseok smiled, quick and easy — the same smile he used when he was fourteen and trying to cover up bruises nobody was supposed to ask about.

"Yeah," he said. "Figured you’d be starving."

Yoongi grunted in appreciation, pulling out a container and shaking it absently like he was testing its weight.

You forced yourself to move, to breathe, to offer Yoongi a plate you weren’t sure you could hold steady.

They fell into conversation easily —hospital stories, mutual friends, a basketball game you hadn’t watched.

You sat there, smiling when you were supposed to, nodding when required, feeling like you were floating somewhere just outside your own body.

Hoseok laughed at something Yoongi said, head thrown back slightly, and for a second —just a second— he looked like the boy you used to know.

The boy who called you Star. The boy you loved without ever telling him.

But when he caught your gaze, something shuttered in his eyes.

You dropped your head quickly, staring hard at your rice.

Yoongi didn’t miss it.

He didn’t say anything, but you caught the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his hand stilled briefly on his fork.

It didn’t matter.

The world moved on. The conversation spun without you.

You let it.

Because some distances weren’t meant to be closed with words. Some things you just carried.

Lunch ended the way quiet storms did —with the heavy, lingering stillness of something that never fully broke but left the air changed anyway.

Yoongi stood at the sink, rinsing dishes absently, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Hoseok helped without being asked, wiping down the table with slow, methodical movements that made your chest ache.

You hovered uselessly near the counter, pretending to scroll through your phone, pretending you weren’t counting down the seconds until Hoseok left.

The conversation had dried up —small talk thinning out, words running out.

It was time. You could feel it.

Hoseok dried his hands on a paper towel and gave Yoongi a lazy little shoulder bump on his way toward the door.

"Tell me when you’re free," he said, tossing the towel into the trash. "We’ll grab a drink or something."

Yoongi nodded, smiling —real and tired— the way he only did for the few people he actually let in.

"Yeah," he said. "Soon."

Hoseok bent down, grabbing his bag off the floor. The movement pulled his hoodie up slightly at the back, revealing the lean stretch of muscle under his shirt —and you hated yourself for noticing.

He straightened, slinging the strap over his shoulder, and turned toward you.

For a second, he just stood there. Silent. Like he was trying to find something to say and realizing, too late, that the words didn’t exist.

You smiled.

Small. Careful. The kind of smile you used when you were too close to crying and couldn’t afford to fall apart.

"Thanks for the food," you said, voice soft.

He smiled back —that stupid, beautiful smile that once could've unraveled you in a heartbeat.

"No problem, Star," he said, voice low, almost a whisper.

And it broke something in you, the way he said it like a memory, like a ghost, like something already lost.

You shifted your weight, arms crossing tightly over your chest.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you dared.

Yoongi, still rinsing a plate at the sink, glanced over —brows furrowing slightly, like he could feel the weight in the room, the things humming painfully under the surface.

"You good?" he asked Hoseok casually, but there was something sharper under the words.

Hoseok blinked, like waking from a dream, and laughed —short, hollow.

"Yeah," he said. "All good."

He wasn’t.

You weren’t.

Everyone knew it.

No one said it.

Hoseok gave a small, half-wave —then turned, pulling open the front door, the afternoon light spilling harshly into the room.

He didn’t look back.

You stood there, hand tightening painfully around your phone, breathing through the hole he left behind.

The door clicked shut.

The silence swallowed you whole.

Yoongi finished rinsing the plate, set it carefully in the rack, wiped his hands on a dish towel.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment —just watched you from across the kitchen.

"You okay?" he asked eventually, voice rough with exhaustion but gentler now.

You smiled again —the same fake smile you had given Hoseok.

"Yeah," you lied. "All good."

Yoongi didn’t press.

He just nodded, once, slow —and turned back to the sink.

You stood there, still wrapped up in the heavy quiet Hoseok left behind, wondering how it was possible for a goodbye that simple to hurt so much.

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft, final sound.

Hoseok shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie and started walking, head bowed slightly against the afternoon sun.

The streets buzzed around him —traffic, conversation, life moving in every direction, but he barely registered any of it.

There was a weird hollowness in his chest. Not exactly sadness. Not exactly regret. Just... off.

He kept walking, sneakers scuffing the pavement, moving just to move.

He couldn't shake it — the tight feeling sitting behind his ribs, the restless hum under his skin.

Seeing you again had been... strange.

Good, in a way. Relieving, maybe. You were still you. Still sharp-eyed and stubborn, still hiding a whole world behind your quiet smiles.

But it wasn’t the same.

Not really.

There was distance now, not just the kind measured in years, but the kind that filled a room even when you were only a few feet apart.

You’d smiled at him today —but it hadn’t reached your eyes.

You’d laughed, a little. But it sounded like it was for survival, not for him.

And he hated it. More than he wanted to admit.

Hoseok crossed the street without really thinking about it, shoving past a group of teenagers in matching uniforms, ignoring the way they laughed and bumped into each other with easy, reckless joy.

It used to be like that with you.

Back when everything was simpler —before life started building walls between you two without either of you noticing.

Back when your smiles came easily, and he didn’t feel like he needed a fucking map just to find his way back to you.

He kicked a pebble down the sidewalk, watching it skip ahead and roll into the gutter.

Maybe this was normal. Maybe this was just what happened when people grew up — when lives moved in different directions too many times to line up again cleanly.

But still.

Still.

There was something gnawing at him. A weight that hadn’t been there before.

He didn’t know what it was —couldn’t name it, couldn’t drag it out into the light, but it sat heavy in his stomach all the same.

A memory floated up uninvited —you at eleven, cross-legged on your living room floor, nose buried in some book, stubbornly ignoring him while he tried and failed to distract you.

Your voice bubbling up, excited, trying to explain the story to him, stumbling over words in your hurry to share something you loved.

That stupid, beautiful smile.

Star.

He jammed his hands deeper into his pockets, scowling at the sidewalk.

It didn’t mean anything. It was just nostalgia. It was just... memories.

People changed. People drifted.

It was normal.

He told himself that, over and over, until the words started to sound thin in his head.

But even as he turned down a familiar street, even as he slipped into the shadows between buildings, he couldn’t shake it —

the feeling that somewhere along the way, he had lost something important, and hadn’t even realized it was missing until now.

Hoseok was oblivious.

But not that oblivious.

There were things he hadn't let himself see before — things tucked in the small spaces between your smiles, your glances, your stubborn, too-big-for-your-body heart.

He remembered.

He remembered the way your face used to light up when you spotted him coming down the street with Yoongi, the way your whole body would lean in without you even realizing it.

He remembered how you used to listen to him— really listen like the stupid things he said mattered more than they ever should have.

He remembered.

He just hadn't known what to do with it.

He didn’t feel the same. Not then.

Not in the way that counted. Not in the way that could have saved you from the quiet ache that lived in your eyes sometimes when you looked at him.

He noticed. He just... didn’t touch it.

He was sixteen. He was busy chasing everything and nothing, filling every silence with noise so he didn’t have to think too hard about why he felt so restless all the time.

You were his comfort. His constant.

And he, selfishly, hadn't realized how much more you were willing to give him if he'd only asked.

He hadn't asked.

And now —standing here years later, older, heavier with life; he didn’t know how to ask anymore.

You weren’t the same girl he remembered. And he wasn’t the same boy you used to look at like he hung the stars himself.

There was a gap now. A hollow stretch of time and growing pains between you.

And it scared him —how unfamiliar you felt. How familiar the ache still was.

He didn't know you anymore. Not really.

Not this version of you —with your tired smiles and careful glances, your sadness tucked away like folded paper cranes he wasn’t allowed to touch.

And you didn’t know him either. Not this version of him —the one who had learned how to move through life by letting go of things before they could hurt him.

There was too much space between who you were and who you had become. Between who he was and who he was afraid to admit he had turned into.

He felt it, humming under his skin —this restless, aching, nameless thing.

But he didn’t know what it meant yet. Didn’t know if it was nostalgia. Didn’t know if it was guilt. Didn’t know if it was the beginning of something he wasn't ready to name.

Maybe it was all of it.

Maybe it was nothing at all.

All he knew was this:

You weren’t the girl he left behind. And he wasn’t the boy you remembered.

When Hoseok finally got home, he barely remembered how he made it there.

The key turned in the lock, the door swung open, and he dragged his suitcase behind him —a battered thing, wheels squeaking against the hardwood; the weight of it unfamiliar in his hand, forgotten somewhere in the space between the airport and the hollow ache in his chest.

He dropped it by the door with a dull thud. Kicked off his shoes without caring where they landed.

Everything felt... heavy.

Too heavy for how small today had been.

The weeks he'd spent in Singapore floated behind him like smoke; good weeks, objectively. Meetings, projects, new faces, neon-lit nights where he could pretend he wasn’t stuck, wasn’t lost.

He had relaxed there, somehow —even while working. Found little moments of peace tucked between tight schedules and hotel rooms that smelled like nothing.

But now, standing here in the familiar quiet of his apartment, Hoseok realized something he didn’t want to name:

He hadn’t brought peace back with him. Only the weight.

It sat in his chest, heavy and stupid and aching, and he didn't have the energy to fight it.

He moved on autopilot —unzipping the suitcase, pulling out clothes he barely remembered packing. Folding them. Stacking them.

Small, mindless tasks to fill the silence.

He tried to blame it on the long flight. Tried to blame it on jet lag. Tried to blame it on anything but the truth:

His heart hurt.

And he didn’t know why.

It was a small hurt. A quiet one. The kind that didn’t bleed, didn’t scream —just sat there, stubborn and dull, right beneath his ribs.

He changed into loose pajamas, soft and worn with age. Turned on the TV just for the noise. Let some random music station fill the space around him.

He stood in the middle of the living room for a second —barefoot, empty-handed, empty-hearted.

The music thrummed low from the speakers, a beat curling through the air.

Without thinking, without planning it, Hoseok let his body move.

A step. A sway. A slow, easy turn on bare feet.

The world tilted. Blurred.

He danced.

Not big movements. Not the sharp, practiced choreography.

Just small, broken things —the kind of dancing that lived in the marrow of him, the kind that had nothing to prove and nowhere to be.

He moved because it was the only thing that ever made sense. Moved because when he did, the noise in his head, the endless pressure to do more, be more, fix more quieted for a little while.

He moved until the heaviness in his chest felt manageable. Until the ache blurred at the edges.

He moved until it didn’t matter that he didn't understand why seeing you had unsettled him so badly. Until it didn’t matter that you had looked like a stranger wearing a memory.

Until it didn’t matter that part of him —the small, stupid part he usually ignored, wanted to go back.

Back to something he wasn’t even sure he ever really had.

The music shifted to another song; something slower, heavier and Hoseok let it pull him under, let it drown out the aching silence inside him.

For now.

You were doing better. Finally.

After weeks of sending resumes into what felt like a black hole, after countless polite rejections and agonizing waits, the email arrived.

You got an interview.

Not just any interview — a big one. A company that made your heart skip just reading the name. A company you used to dream about while scribbling half-distracted notes during late college nights.

It felt like breathing again. Like remembering who you were.

Yoongi had been thrilled when you told him, maybe even more than you were, and had tossed his car keys at you without hesitation.

"Take it," he said gruffly. "I'm not arguing about it. Drive."

But you, stubborn and stupidly optimistic —decided you didn’t need it. Google Maps said it was only a forty-minute walk from his apartment. You woke up early, dressed carefully —smart slacks, a soft blouse, a simple blazer, low heels. Professional. Sharp. Capable.

You looked good. You felt good.

Until, of course, the universe decided to laugh in your face.

Halfway into your walk, the sky cracked open —a sharp, violent spring rain —and you, without an umbrella, without even a jacket, stood there blinking in the downpour like a complete idiot.

The water soaked you almost immediately —your blouse clinging to your skin, your hair flattening messily against your scalp.

You called Yoongi first, heart pounding.

Straight to voicemail.

You cursed, spun in a frantic circle —realizing you were already too far from the apartment to turn back, and way too late to go hunting for his car keys now.

You tried Yeji next —hands trembling a little from cold.

No answer.

Conference. You remembered too late. She had an important one this morning. No chance.

You stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, rain plastering your clothes to your body, heart hammering against your ribs.

Who else?

Jungkook was still abroad — wouldn’t be back for weeks. Your other friends had left the country.

There was no one else.

Except—

You hesitated.

You didn’t even know if Hoseok still had the same number. You hadn’t texted him. You hadn’t needed to.

But now, standing here soaked to the bone, mascara stinging your eyes, pride crumbling with every freezing drop sliding down your spine.

You swallowed hard and dialed.

The phone rang. Once. Twice.

Maybe he wouldn’t answer.

Maybe he shouldn’t.

Then —

"Hello?" His voice, low and rough with sleep, cut through the static and rain in your ears.

You almost cried in relief.

"Uh—Hoseok," you stammered, breathless. "I— I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to call, but I— I need help."

A pause.

Then, sharper: "Where are you?"

You rattled off the cross streets, clenching your teeth to keep them from chattering.

"Stay there," he said immediately. "I'm coming."

The line went dead before you could even say thank you.

You stood there shivering, hugging yourself uselessly, watching the street blur under the rain.

Fifteen minutes later, a black car pulled up to the curb, headlights slicing through the downpour.

The passenger door flew open and there he was, Hoseok —looking wide awake now, hair still messy but face tight with worry.

You scrambled inside without thinking, slamming the door behind you, water dripping into the car with you.

He gawked at you for a second — taking in the drowned-cat state of you — and for a heartbeat, neither of you said anything.

Then he burst out laughing.

Real, sharp, helpless laughter —and you did too, choking out an embarrassed, half-sobbing noise as you wiped rain from your face.

"God, star," he said, shaking his head, still grinning. "You’re a disaster."

You laughed harder, feeling your face burn.

"I know," you gasped. "Please don’t remind me."

The tension that had built between you two since you first saw each other again — that heavy, sticky awkwardness — cracked wide open in that stupid moment.

For a second — just a second — it felt like it used to. Easy. Careless. Home.

But then — as you both settled into the car, as the laughter faded into a quieter, softer silence — you became painfully, sharply aware:

You weren’t kids anymore.

You were soaked, dripping onto his passenger seat, shivering and messy — but Hoseok was still looking at you, and you were still looking at him.

And both of you, for the first time in years— noticed.

The way his jaw tightened as he flicked his eyes over you, lingering just a second too long at the curve of your waist, the line of your throat exposed by the ruined blouse. The way your pulse jumped at how good he looked — clean lines, warm skin, strong hands wrapped around the steering wheel like he could anchor the whole damn world.

The air crackled, electric and fragile.

Hoseok cleared his throat, turning the heat on higher.

"Let’s get you home," he said, voice quieter, rougher.

You nodded, swallowing the ache rising in your throat.

The second the door shut behind you, you bolted into the living room.

Your shoes squelched miserably against the floor, your clothes clinging cold and heavy to your skin, your hair dripping rainwater onto Yoongi’s couch.

You had no time.

You were going to be late. You had to change, had to dry off, had to move.

Panic made your hands clumsy as you tugged at the buttons of your blouse — wet fabric sticking to your skin, refusing to cooperate.

You cursed under your breath, teeth chattering, shoving at the fabric, and then, without thinking, without hesitating:

You yanked the blouse off over your head. Right there. In the middle of the living room.

It wasn't graceful. It wasn't pretty.

It was desperate, frantic, just trying to get out of the wetness, trying to breathe again.

You stood there for a second, chest heaving, arms tangled awkwardly with the ruined blouse —bare skin gleaming under the thin straps of your soaked bra— heart hammering against your ribs.

And then —you realized.

You weren’t alone.

Hoseok froze by the door —completely, utterly still— his keys dangling forgotten from his hand.

His mouth parted slightly —his eyes darkening, burning a path across your bare skin faster than either of you could stop.

It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t careful.

It was a gut-punch.

The heat between you snapped tight; so sudden, so heavy it made the air shudder.

You stared at him, your body still trembling, soaked to the bone, half-stripped, and Hoseok:

God, Hoseok looked like he wanted to look away. But couldn't

A beat. A breath.

The world tilted dangerously sideways.

And then —Reality crashed back in.

The clock on the wall ticked louder than it should have. The urgency slammed back into your brain.

Interview.

You yanked your blouse back down in a blind panic, face burning, hands fumbling to cover yourself again.

"I— I'm sorry," you gasped, nearly tripping over yourself as you backed toward the hallway. "I— I wasn't thinking— shit—"

Hoseok finally jerked back into motion, clearing his throat sharply, shoving his hands deep into his pockets like he didn’t trust himself not to reach for you.

"No," he said, voice rough and too fast. "It’s fine. It’s— You’re fine. We just—" He cut himself off, shaking his head like he could clear it.

"You need to go," he said, steadier now, like he was anchoring both of you by sheer force of will. "I’ll drive. Grab what you need."

You nodded; too fast, too hard— and bolted down the hall toward your room, your heart pounding in your ears, your skin still tingling where his gaze had touched you.

Behind you, Hoseok stood in the living room, fists clenched at his sides, staring at the place where you had stood. Where you had practically burned him alive without even trying.

The drive was quiet.

You sat stiffly in the passenger seat, newly changed, hair still damp at the ends, fingers fiddling nervously with the strap of your bag. Hoseok gripped the wheel like it was the only thing keeping him steady, jaw clenched, gaze fixed on the road ahead.

Neither of you spoke.

You swallowed, throat tight, focusing on your breathing.

Interview. Focus. Interview.

Not on the way his forearms flexed when he turned the wheel. Not on the way his profile looked devastatingly good in the soft light bleeding through the windshield.

You risked a glance at him from the corner of your eye — just a quick one — and found him already doing the same.

Your eyes met. A jolt, a spark.

You both looked away instantly, cheeks burning.

The tension buzzed harder, crackling in the quiet.

But then, just when you thought you couldn’t take another second of it:

Hoseok broke it.

He exhaled, low and slow, and a small, wry smile curved at the corner of his mouth.

"You’re gonna kill it, you know," he said, voice rough but warmer now— steady in a way that made your chest ache.

You blinked, thrown off.

He flicked his eyes toward you again, softer this time. No teasing. No smirking. Just real.

"You’re gonna go in there," he said, a little more sure now, "and they won’t even know what hit ‘em."

You laughed — surprised and shaky and real — feeling the nerves in your chest loosen, just a little.

Hoseok smiled wider at the sound; the real kind, the kind that made the tightness between your ribs ease.

"Get 'em, Star," he added, quieter, almost like a secret.

Something stupid and warm cracked open inside you.

You hadn’t realized how much you missed this. Being seen like that. Believed in like that.

Not because you asked for it. Not because you earned it.

Just because.

You swallowed hard, biting back the sudden sting behind your eyes.

"Thanks, Hobi," you said, voice small but sure.

He chuckled softly —that soft, low laugh you remembered from a lifetime ago.

"No need to thank me," he said. "You’ve always had it in you."

The light turned green.

The car rolled forward.

The interview went better than you could have dreamed.

You answered every question without stumbling, your voice steady even when your palms were sweating. The panel smiled — real, impressed smiles — and when they shook your hand at the end, you caught a glimpse of something in their eyes that looked suspiciously like approval.

You weren’t arrogant enough to say you had it in the bag. But for the first time in a long time, you believed in yourself enough to say:

You did good. Really good.

You walked out of the building feeling lighter than you had in months—the sun warm against your skin, the world spinning just a little slower, a little kinder.

And your first thought —stupidly, instinctively— was that you needed to tell someone.

Not just anyone.

Hoseok.

You pulled out your phone before you could overthink it —thumb hovering for a second over his name in your contacts. It felt weird. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

It had been so long since you last texted him like this —casual, natural, like no time had passed at all.

Your heart thudded unsteadily as you typed:

Hey, it finished. I think I did well...

You stared at it for a second, chewing your lip.

Too formal? Too awkward?

You added quickly:

Huh, wanna grab dinner later maybe? it's on me... I owe you. Big time.

You hit send before you could chicken out.

The second the message left, your stomach twisted —a familiar, stupid nervousness you hadn’t felt in years.

The little typing dots appeared almost immediately.

Your breath caught.

And for a second —standing there with your phone warm in your hand, the city bustling around you— it felt like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t standing so far apart anymore.

You shoved your phone deep into your bag after sending the text. Out of sight, out of mind.

You had enough adrenaline still buzzing through you from the interview to keep you moving —enough hope cautiously flickering in your chest to make the wait bearable.

At least for the first five minutes.

But then five minutes turned into six. Into eight.

You found yourself checking your phone more than you wanted to admit —biting the inside of your cheek, pretending you weren’t holding your breath.

Maybe he was busy. Maybe he forgot.

Maybe you were reading too much into everything.

Again.

But just as the doubts started coiling sharp and anxious under your skin—your screen lit up.

Hoseok.

Your heart jumped.

You unlocked your phone so fast you almost dropped it.

His text was simple. Easy.

Sounds good, Star. Tell me where. ;)

You stared at it for a second, at the little winking emoji he threw in without thinking.

He said yes.

Not out of obligation. Not out of guilt.

Because he wanted to.

You smiled —small, real— and quickly typed back:

7PM? I’ll pick somewhere close.

The dots popped up again almost immediately.

Sure, star.

Short. Simple. But it hit harder than it should have.

You locked your phone again, tucking it into your pocket like it was something precious.

Monday was supposed to be busy.

Originally, Hoseok had been scheduled for an early department meeting— one of those endless briefings that could have been an email, but everyone was required to sit through anyway.

But sometime late Sunday night, his boss had texted: Meeting postponed. Come in after lunch instead.

It wasn’t a big deal. It happened sometimes.

Still, it left him drifting —a whole extra morning dropped unexpectedly into his hands.

And that’s why, when you called —wet, breathless, panicked— he had been home. Available. Able to grab his keys and find you before the rain could wash you away completely.

At the time, it didn’t even feel like a choice. It was instinct.

You called. He came.

But now —sitting behind the wheel, heart hammering too hard, skin still hot under his clothes— he almost wished he hadn’t.

Because now he couldn’t get the image out of his head.

You —shivering, frantic, dragging soaked fabric off your skin without even thinking about it— standing there, bare and breathless in the soft light of Yoongi’s living room.

It wasn’t meant for him.

It wasn’t anything but practicality —a girl rushing against time, not a woman trying to drive him insane.

And yet.

His body reacted anyway.

He shifted uncomfortably in the seat, feeling the stiffness of his jeans biting into his thighs, the uncomfortable tightness coiling lower in his gut.

His whole body was lit up with it — the memory, the flash of skin, the sheer physicality of the moment.

He hated how sharp it made him feel. How helpless.

It wasn’t just the sight of you.

It was the feeling that hit after —the bone-deep awareness that you weren’t the same anymore. That you had become someone capable of wrecking him with a single, unintentional glance.

He gritted his teeth, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel until the leather creaked.

He was supposed to be your friend. A familiar face. Someone steady you could lean on.

Not this —this wreckage of a man, breathing too hard, blinking too much, feeling the echo of your body pressed behind his eyelids.

He slammed a lid down on it fast, dragging in a slow, punishing breath.

It didn’t matter.

It couldn’t matter.

You weren’t his. You... not like that You never had been.

Still, he couldn’t deny it now.

Something had shifted inside him. Tilted the floor under his feet.

And no matter how tightly he wrapped himself in professionalism, no matter how carefully he steeled himself for the rest of the day — it wasn’t going away.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

You sat near the window in a quiet booth, arms resting loosely on the edge of the table. The restaurant was calm in that late-evening way —low voices murmuring over half-finished plates, soft jazz slipping through the speakers like it belonged there.

You wore a soft blue skirt, the hem brushing gently against your ankles, paired with a fitted white knit top —simple and clean, the kind of thing you reached for when you wanted to feel quietly steady. Your cardigan hung loosely around your shoulders, sleeves pulled over your palms out of habit.

It wasn’t a statement. It was comfort. It was... you.

You checked your phone again, where Hoseok’s last message blinked softly on the screen.

Running a little late. Sorry! Be there soon.

You weren’t mad.

You just felt… aware.

That he was coming. That you would see him again —not in passing, not in a rush— but really see him. Sit across from him, talk like there was time, like it wasn’t too late to still matter to one another.

Part of you had missed him in a way you hadn’t let yourself say out loud. Not just the sound of his laugh or the way he used to tease you when he noticed your bad habits. Not just the past.

You missed the version of yourself that came out when he was around. The one who felt understood without having to explain. The one who didn’t have to pretend to have everything figured out.

Lately, that version felt far away.

You didn’t say it often —not to anyone— but turning twenty-five wasn’t as clean and triumphant as you’d expected. It felt… strange. Like you should’ve arrived somewhere by now, but instead, you were stuck in some in-between. Too grown to be lost, but too unsure to feel settled.

You wondered if Hoseok felt the same. If maybe —just maybe— that was what tonight could be about.

Not catching up on jobs and cities and years. But sitting down in the mess with someone who didn’t need the polished version of you to care.

The thought made your chest tighten a little.

Outside the window, you caught the shape of someone crossing the street —tall, broad-shouldered, familiar in a way that made your breath catch.

He was here.

You tugged your sleeves once, grounding yourself.

Whatever tonight ended up being —you knew one thing already:

You were glad it was with him.

He jogged across the street, tugging his coat tighter around himself as the wind picked up, the city air biting a little sharper than it had earlier.

He was late.

Not by much; ten minutes, maybe twelve —but still. It nagged at him.

His meeting at the office had run over, and then someone had stopped him in the hallway with a question he couldn’t dodge. Just one thing after another. And now here he was, rushing across the street, shoes damp from a shallow puddle he didn’t see coming.

His phone buzzed in his pocket —probably a “no worries” text from you—but he didn’t stop to check it.

He was already there. Already searching the restaurant window for your face.

And then — he saw you.

Tucked into the corner booth, cardigan draped over your shoulders, hair pulled back loosely, skirt gathered in gentle folds around your seat. You weren’t on your phone. You were just… waiting. Still. Present.

And it did something to him —knocked the breath out of his lungs without ceremony.

You looked... like yourself. Like someone he didn’t realize he’d missed until now. Like something familiar in a life that had started to feel increasingly distant from itself.

Not flashy. Just you.

The version that had always made sense to him.

He stood there a second longer than he should have. Caught in the stillness of it.

Then he shook it off, exhaled quietly, and pushed the door open.

The bell above the restaurant door chimed softly.

You looked up.

Your eyes met his.

And something unspoken passed between you, not dramatic, not overwhelming. Just solid. Steady.

Like you still mattered to each other.

He walked to the table and slid into the seat across from you, his body finally beginning to catch up with his heartbeat.

"Hey," he said, breath catching just slightly at the end. "Sorry. Work ran a little late. One of those days."

Your smile —soft, familiar, a little crooked— met him halfway.

"It's okay," you said. "I figured."

And just like that — the day eased.

The menus stayed on the table, but neither of you had touched them in a while. The food had come, and you both picked at it between sentences, but really— this wasn’t about eating.

You sat across from each other, bodies relaxed in a way that didn’t match the last few weeks. There was something about the stillness of the restaurant, the soft murmur of conversations around you, the flicker of warm light reflecting off the glass between you— that made the moment feel suspended. Like the world had pressed pause for a second.

"So," Hoseok said, picking up his glass and letting the condensation roll between his fingers, “how’s being a responsible adult treating you?”

You let out a quiet laugh. "It’s not."

His smile bloomed, eyes crinkling in a way that made your chest loosen. But he didn’t say anything. He waited.

You took a breath. "It’s just been weird. I thought I’d graduate and everything would… fall into place, I guess. That I'd suddenly feel like I’d arrived. But instead, I feel like I’m just floating. Like I missed a step somewhere."

Hoseok nodded, eyes on the table, thumb slowly circling the rim of his glass.

"Yeah," he said. "I get that."

There was something in his voice that made you pause. Not heavy, just real.

"I have this job, right? And I’m supposed to be grateful. Stable income, decent hours, coworkers who are fine. But it feels like I’m acting half the time." He looked up at you. “Like I’m playing the role of someone who’s got it together. I go home and I’m just… empty.”

Your chest tightened. Because yes. Yes.

"Same," you said softly. "Like I’m trying so hard to do the things I’m supposed to want. And most days, I don’t even know if I want them for me, or just because I don’t want to fall behind."

Hoseok huffed a quiet laugh. “Exactly.”

The silence that settled between you wasn’t awkward. It was safe. Like you were both letting the weight of your unspoken exhaustion rest on the table for a second.

You tilted your head slightly. “Do you still dance?”

His smile returned, faint but real. “Yeah,” he said immediately. “Always.”

And there was something comforting in that. That some things hadn't changed.

“But,” he added, running a hand through his hair, “I haven’t had much time for it lately. Work’s been nonstop. Meetings, people, pressure. I still go to the studio sometimes—late, when no one’s around. But it’s not the same.”

You nodded slowly. “It’s hard when the thing that makes you feel like you becomes the first thing you cut to survive the rest.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, soft and a little surprised. “Yeah,” he said. “Exactly.”

No one said anything for a few seconds.

You each took a bite. The food was decent, but neither of you were really paying attention to it.

“I keep thinking I should feel more proud,” you said. “Of finishing school. Of coming back. Of even landing that interview. But it’s like… I’m always two steps behind the version of myself I thought I’d be by now.”

Hoseok leaned back in his seat slightly, eyes still on you. “I feel that every day,” he said.

That was it. No lectures. No sugarcoating.

Just the truth.

And maybe that’s what made you exhale— the simple, steady reminder that you weren’t imagining it. That being young and tired and unsure wasn’t a failure. It was just where you were. Where he was, too.

When the conversation drifted into easier territory— old memories, Yoongi’s increasingly dramatic text messages, that time Jungkook tried to make instant noodles and almost started a fire— you both laughed in that full-body way that made your ribs ache a little.

It was like muscle memory.

Like your bodies remembered how to laugh together, even if your lives had taken the long way back to this table.

By the time the plates were cleared and the night began to stretch long and soft around you, you felt… better.

Not fixed. Not resolved. But steadier.

More like yourself.

And as Hoseok pulled his coat back on and walked beside you toward the door, something in the quiet felt like home.

The city air was cooler now. The sidewalk glistened faintly from earlier drizzle, reflecting streetlights in soft yellow streaks.

Hoseok walked beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, not speaking much—but you didn’t need him to.

It was the kind of silence that didn’t feel like space between you. More like something shared.

He stayed close, your arms brushing once, then again. And neither of you pulled away.

You kept your gaze ahead, watching the lights flicker behind the café windows you passed, the shops closing for the night, the quiet lull of Seoul settling into itself.

"I forgot how good it feels to just talk," you said, voice low.

He glanced at you, and his smile was soft. "Yeah," he murmured. "Me too."

Yoongi's building wasn’t far now—just around the corner— and you found yourself wishing it were ten blocks further.

There was something about the rhythm of walking next to him that made you feel… settled. Safe.

But there was something else too.

Every now and then, you caught the edge of his cologne in the breeze—subtle, familiar, a little too comforting. Every now and then, you felt the shift of his gaze—quick and quiet—like he was checking on you. Or maybe… just looking.

You felt it. The awareness.

Not loud. Not disruptive.

Just real.

You weren’t pretending not to notice the way his voice dropped when he got serious. Or the way he held his shoulders straighter now, like he’d lived a thousand lives since you last stood this close to him. Or the way your own heartbeat stuttered slightly when his arm brushed yours again—and again, still, neither of you moved.

The tension wasn’t something either of you created. It just… existed.

Like the city lights. Like the chill in the air. Like the way time changed people when you weren’t looking.

When you reached your building, you stopped, turning slightly to face him.

"Thanks for tonight," you said, meaning more than just the dinner. "Really."

His eyes softened, and for a moment, he just looked at you.

Like he was remembering something. Or maybe memorizing something new.

"Anytime, Star," he said. Quiet. Sure.

You smiled, but your chest pulled a little tight.

He didn’t lean in. Didn’t touch you. Didn’t cross any lines.

But the pause that stretched between goodbye and turning away… it said everything.

You opened the door, stepped inside.

And even as it closed behind you, you could feel it:

He was still standing there.

And neither of you were pretending not to feel it anymore.

He waited a few seconds after the door shut behind you. Longer than necessary.

Your building buzzed faintly in the quiet, humming against the night like it had something to say. He stood there, hands still in his coat pockets, blinking at the sidewalk like the answers might be spelled out in the cracks.

And then he let out a breath and turned, starting the walk back.

It wasn’t a long way—eighteen minutes at most—but his head wouldn’t shut up.

The dinner had gone well. Better than he expected. You laughed like you used to. You listened like you always did. And for a second in the middle of it all, he’d remembered what it felt like to be known.

And that was the problem.

He hadn’t expected to feel that again. Especially not with you. Not like this.

The easy familiarity of your voice. The way you looked at him when he talked about work, about dance, about nothing at all. The way your arm kept brushing his. The way neither of you moved.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. The moment at your door—the pause that lasted just a beat too long.

There’d been something in it. Or maybe not. He didn’t know.

He felt... off. Like something inside him had shifted without asking permission.

He fished out his phone, fingers tapping before he could talk himself out of it.

He fished out his phone, fingers tapping before he could talk himself out of it.

hoseok

you up?

Three dots. Then a reply.

yoongi

why what happened

Hoseok snorted softly, thumbs already moving.

hoseok

calm down everything’s fine just got back from dinner with her

yoongi

her??

hoseok

you know who your sister, ______ she texted me earlier after her interview

A longer pause this time. Yoongi was typing. Then not. Then typing again.

yoongi

…okay and?

hoseok

and nothing it was just it was really good actually like we didn’t skip time kinda threw me off

yoongi

you’re being weirdly sentimental

hoseok

i know it’s annoying i’m annoying myself

Another pause. Then Yoongi sent two texts back to back.

yoongi

what happened like actually

Hoseok stared at the screen for a moment, jaw tightening. He wasn’t even sure what to say.

hoseok

nothing happened just it felt really easy like… safer than it should’ve? but also kind of fucked me up a little

Yoongi didn’t respond right away. When he finally did, it was classic Yoongi.

yoongi

you’ve always been soft about her don’t act like this is new. everyone knew.

Hoseok’s stomach dropped a little. He wasn’t sure if it was guilt or recognition.

hoseok

it’s not like that it’s not. what you mean by everyone knew?

He paused. Stared at the blinking cursor.

Then deleted the last message.

hoseok

nvm just needed to get out of my own head

yoongi

yeah well good luck with that

He pocketed the phone, heart still thudding low and quiet in his chest.

He wasn’t looking for answers yet. But the questions were already starting to form.

He pocketed the phone again, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.

But as he turned onto the quiet street leading to his place, his chest still felt too full. Like something had cracked open during dinner. Something that didn’t want to be ignored anymore.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

Not yet.

It was strange how quickly everything began to make sense once the job came through.

You had barely caught your breath after the final interview when the offer hit your inbox, and suddenly—your degree felt real. Useful. Worth it.

You started working within two weeks. It wasn’t perfect, and you were definitely faking confidence half the time, but it was something solid. Something yours.

The rhythm of your days changed, but they didn’t overwhelm you.

You thought, briefly, about finding your own place—making some adult, definitive move—but Yoongi, ever practical and slightly gruff, shut it down fast.

“You just started working,” he said. “Stay. Contribute a little. Save your money. Don’t be stupid.”

So you stayed. Paid your part. Did your dishes. Kept the fridge full.

And somewhere in all that normalcy, life unfolded again.

Jungkook finally landed back in Seoul, full of chaotic energy and stories from abroad. You, he, and Yeji slipped into an old rhythm like no time had passed—laughing too loud in cafés, arguing over which tteokbokki stall was still the best, sharing fries like you were seventeen again.

You didn’t realize how much you missed them until you had them back.

Yeji couldn’t shut up about a guy she’d been seeing—Namjoon, apparently, and from the way she said his name with that smile, you knew it was real. She was glowing, and you were happy for her. Like really, truly happy. She deserved someone soft and grounded, someone who looked at her the way she deserved.

And then, Hoseok...

Hoseok… well, he was just there.

Not every day. But often enough that it started to feel like routine.

He’d come over on Fridays, sometimes with takeout, sometimes empty-handed, but always with that same tired grin and that quiet ease that slipped right into your living room like it belonged there.

And then he’d stay.

Sometimes until Saturday night. More often than not — until Sunday afternoon, hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, coffee in hand, half asleep at Yoongi’s kitchen counter.

He still had work, of course, but when he had time to breathe, he came here. To Yoongi’s apartment. To you.

Sometimes he called ahead. More often, he just showed up. Yoongi would open the door to find you and Hoseok already mid-laugh, curled on the couch watching some late-night broadcast that made absolutely no sense but kept you both entertained for hours.

You’d put on albums and rate every track. He’d light up over synth runs, lose his mind over chord progressions, defend trashy pop hooks like they were sacred texts. You'd argue about lyrics. About metaphors. About vibes.

And somewhere between the noise and the static — it all started to feel quietly domestic.

You hadn’t missed the looks Yoongi gave you. The way he watched Hoseok set his phone down face-up on the table without hesitation. The way he raised an eyebrow when your knees brushed under the blanket and neither of you moved.

You ignored it.

Because it was easier to lean into the comfort. Because nothing had happened. Not technically.

And because nights like last Saturday made it hard to believe you didn’t need him here.

It was after 1AM, the apartment silent except for the hum of the TV, both of you curled up on the couch like some long-running tradition you never meant to start.

You were arguing over childhood snacks.

"No, seriously," Hoseok was saying, his voice hoarse with sleep, "choco pies are good, but they’re not that good. They’re like... nostalgia sugar."

"They’re iconic," you shot back. "Your opinion is wrong."

"You’re wrong," he murmured, yawning. "But go off, queen."

You smacked his knee. He grinned.

Then it went quiet for a minute. Not awkward—just still.

You shifted slightly, head tilted against the back cushion, voice softer now. "Do you ever think you’ve already peaked?"

His response came slower this time. "Sometimes," he said. "Yeah. Like I’m chasing this version of myself I already was. And maybe that version was enough, and now I’m just... tired of trying to match it."

You blinked, surprised.

Then— "I feel that too."

He turned his head slightly toward you. "You don’t talk like you feel that."

You shrugged. "Neither do you."

Another silence. But now the air felt heavier, more real.

"I think I’m scared I missed it," you said quietly. "The moment when I could’ve been everything I wanted to be."

He didn’t say anything for a while. Then: "You didn’t."

Your heart tugged. "How would you know?"

"Because I’ve known you a long time," he said. And then, even softer— "And I don’t think your best has shown up yet. But when it does? It’ll be terrifying in the best way."

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

The silence that followed wasn’t something you wanted to break.

You weren’t sure how it happened exactly. It was like six months after you landed that job. One moment, you were texting Hoseok about the weather like idiots—“is it hot or is it just me roasting from capitalism??”—and the next, he was waiting outside your office building, iced coffee in hand and sunglasses perched cockily on his nose.

“Emergency grocery run?” he said like it was a mission. You blinked at him, tired and amused. “What, like you’re my chauffeur now?”

“I’m multi-talented,” he said, offering the coffee like a bribe.

You took it.

Now you were two aisles deep in the supermarket, arguing over rice brands like you were 45 years old and living together.

“You don’t even eat this kind of rice,” you pointed out.

“I might,” he said. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

“You’ve eaten ramyeon for dinner three nights this week.”

“That’s slander,” he said. “It was two nights. And lunch.”

You snorted, tossing a bag of rice into your basket and moving on. He followed, pushing the cart like he owned the place, offering loud, incorrect opinions about produce just to hear you groan.

By the time you made it to checkout, the two of you had made a pact to try cooking something this weekend (“from scratch—none of that packet seasoning crap”) and Hoseok had somehow added a completely unnecessary six-pack of soda to your cart.

“You’re going to explode your stomach,” you muttered, swiping your card.

“I like living dangerously,” he grinned.

Outside, the sun was starting to set. You both walked slow, groceries swinging between you, and for a second… it just felt easy. Familiar. Like the best parts of the past had quietly grown up with you.

He glanced sideways at you, eyes squinting against the light. “You seem good,” he said.

You looked over. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “Like… lighter. I don’t know. You’re still annoying, but less tightly wound.”

You elbowed him. “Touching. Truly.”

But you were smiling.

Because it meant something—coming from him. Because he’d seen you when you weren’t. Because this was someone who knew you, and still came back.

“Hey,” he said suddenly. You looked up.

“I’m glad we’re doing this again,” he said. “Not just hanging out. But… like. This. Us.”

You blinked. Then nodded, voice a little soft. “Yeah. Me too.”

He nudged your shoulder with his.

Just once. Just enough.

And for the rest of the walk home, you didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to.

You were friends again. You have been friends for all these months too.

And this time, it wasn’t just something from before. It was real now. It was yours.

You’d been thinking about it for a while—quietly, in your own head, like a grown-up secret.

Moving out.

Not because Yoongi was a bad roommate (he was mostly never home) or because you weren’t grateful (you were, deeply). But because you were starting to crave space that was only yours. A door that opened to silence, to mismatched dishes you picked out, to walls you could hang anything on without asking.

So when you brought it up, it was casual. Very chill. Totally adult.

“I’ve been thinking about moving,” you said, setting your tea down on the counter like it was no big deal.

Yoongi looked up from his phone, blinked once. “You have, huh.”

“I mean not right now, but maybe soon. Maybe in like... two or three months. Just a small place. Studio. Close to work.”

He nodded slowly. “You got enough saved?”

“Almost,” you said. “It’s close. I’ve been planning.”

Across the room, Hoseok, who was half-listening while peeling an orange like it owed him money, chimed in: “Woah. Big moves. Look at you, Miss Independent.”

You shot him a look. He grinned with juice on his fingers.

“Anyway,” you said, brushing past it, “I’ll show you the places I’ve bookmarked later.”

And that should’ve been the end of it.

But then— ten minutes later, you went to take a quick shower.

And promptly destroyed the entire fixture.

You weren’t even doing anything weird. Just adjusting the pressure knob. Except apparently the pressure knob had decided to betray you, because it snapped off in your hand with a loud CLANG, followed by a dramatic burst of water that hit you square in the face.

“WHAT THE—”

“Everything okay in there?” Yoongi called from the kitchen.

“No!” you yelled back, soaked and blinking. “I’m in a goddamn k-drama flood scene!”

By the time you got the water turned off (with the help of a mop handle and divine intervention), the floor was half flooded, your hair was plastered to your face, and you were wrapped in a towel like a cursed hotel ghost.

You opened the bathroom door slowly— and found both Yoongi and Hoseok standing there like two judgmental uncles on laundry duty.

Hoseok’s eyes widened at the sight of your damp chaos.

“...Did the bathroom lose a fight?”

You pointed at the broken knob in your hand. “This. This traitor. I’m suing.”

Yoongi sighed deeply. “How bad is it?”

“Shower’s done for. Possibly haunted now. Also, maybe mold.”

Hoseok tried—tried—not to laugh. He failed.

“That’s it,” you muttered. “I’m never growing up again.”

Yoongi ran a hand over his face. “You better not move until you pay for this plumbing mess.”

You blinked.

Then groaned.

Because he was right. You had savings... but not enough to fix this and move.

You sighed, towel still dripping. “So what I’m hearing is: I live here forever.”

“Yep,” Yoongi said, already walking away. “You’re basically married to the pipes now.”

You turned to Hoseok, who was still trying not to choke on his orange.

“Stop laughing.”

“I’m not!” he wheezed. “I’m just emotionally overwhelmed by your journey.”

You flipped him off with the hand holding the broken knob. He took a photo.

Later, when the floor was dry and your pride was wrung out and folded in the laundry bin, you sat on the couch with them like nothing had happened.

You were still here. And somehow, it didn’t feel like a setback.

You were still mourning your shower when the second wave of karma hit.

It came in the form of a very damp, very grumpy Hoseok standing in the doorway holding a tote bag and looking like a man whose life had just been personally ruined by God.

“I swear I didn’t do anything,” he said.

You blinked. “Okay...?”

“There was a pipe burst,” he explained, dragging the words out like they physically hurt. “Second floor. Whole damn line’s shut off. I can’t use my shower.”

You stared at him. Then slowly—so slowly—started to grin.

“Oh,” you said, hand on your chest. “Oh no. That’s terrible.”

“I came here for comfort,” he said.

“You came here to suffer,” you corrected. “This is called consequences, Hoseok.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t act like I caused your plumbing tragedy.”

“You absolutely did. With your rice opinions and your six-pack of orange soda. The universe heard your disrespect.”

He looked skyward. “This is bullying.”

“Shower’s in Yoongi’s room,” you said sweetly. “Right through the door. Same place I’m using. Hope you like booking timeslots.”

You walked off with that smug little bounce in your step.

But of course—of course—fate wasn’t done.

It wasn’t until later that evening, when you wrapped your towel around yourself post-shower and stepped into the hallway—fresh out, hair dripping, skin warm and soft and maybe glowing a little from your expensive body wash—that you realized the door hadn’t clicked shut properly behind you.

And who else would be standing there? In Yoongi’s hallway? With his stupid hoodie pulled halfway off and a towel slung over his shoulder?

Hoseok blinked.

You blinked.

“…Your timing,” you said slowly, “is truly supernatural.”

He tried to look away. He really did. But his eyes snagged on your collarbone before they darted back up. “I swear I thought you were done.”

“I was done, but apparently so was the lock on that bathroom door.”

“Do we need to install a traffic light system for this shower?”

You held up your hand like a crossing guard. “Red. Immediate red.”

He grinned. You glared.

And then —because the universe lives for drama —the bathroom door creaked open further behind you, letting out a curl of steam that wrapped around you both like a goddamn romance movie.

Neither of you moved.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you muttered.

“You look fine,” he said before he could stop himself.

You turned slowly. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said too quickly. “Just—uh, you’re glowing. From the steam. Like a… sauna angel. I’m gonna go die now.”

You snorted so hard you nearly dropped your towel. “You’re a mess.”

“You broke your entire shower,” he shot back. “Don’t talk to me about mess.”

And yet, there was something in the air now. Something warm and sharp and too much.

You were both standing too close. Both freshly showered. Both way too aware of how bare the moment felt.

But then Yoongi’s voice rang from the kitchen—

“If either of you steam up the hallway again I’m moving out.”

You jumped. Hoseok laughed. The spell broke.

He ducked into the bathroom with a low whistle, brushing past you with the faintest graze of shoulder.

“Enjoy the angel glow,” he called behind him.

You rolled your eyes.

The hallway incident hadn’t been mentioned again.

Not by you. Not by Hoseok. Not even when you accidentally brushed knees later that evening while reaching for the remote.

It was buried under layers of forced normalcy and casually exaggerated sighs like, “Ugh, what a long day,” when what you really meant was: I can still feel his breath on my collarbone.

So when Yoongi got home from his night shift, dumped his bag on the floor, and walked straight to the fridge for leftover kimbap, you thought maybe—just maybe—you were safe.

You were on the couch, pretending to be absorbed in some pointless variety show. Hoseok was next to you, pretending to scroll through his phone and not glance at you every other minute.

Everything was normal.

Except Yoongi stood there in the kitchen for way too long. Silent. Staring.

You felt it before he spoke. That ominous, all-knowing pause.

Then, with a bite of kimbap half hanging out of his mouth, he finally said—

"If either of you are gonna start hooking up, just say so. I’ll clear out for a night."

You choked on absolutely nothing.

Hoseok fumbled his phone and nearly dropped it in his lap.

“What the hell?” you sputtered.

Yoongi raised an eyebrow without even looking at you. “What? Just planning ahead.”

“There’s nothing to plan!” you snapped, voice climbing two octaves.

Hoseok cleared his throat, suddenly Very Interested in a dent on the coffee table.

Yoongi sighed like he was the only sane person in a house full of bad actors. “You guys walk around here like you’re starring in a slow-burn webdrama with a ten-episode contract. It’s exhausting.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“Nothing’s happening,” you managed.

Yoongi shrugged. “Didn’t say it was. Just said if it does, give me warning so I don’t walk in on some steamy-ass KBS hallway scene again.”

You made an unholy noise of embarrassment.

Hoseok was now doing that thing where he looked like he wanted to vanish into a pixel.

Yoongi, unfazed, walked into his room and closed the door behind him like a judge declaring the court adjourned.

And you?

You stared straight ahead.

Hoseok exhaled beside you.

"...I hate him," you whispered.

“Me too,” Hoseok muttered.

But neither of you moved. And neither of you laughed.

Because the silence left behind was warm. Buzzing. And way too loud.

The apartment was still, quiet in that slow post-morning haze. Hoseok leaned against the counter, coffee warm in his hands, but his thoughts louder than the silence around him.

Yoongi moved methodically, buttering toast with the same tired precision he applied to most things before 9 a.m.

Hoseok cleared his throat. “About what you said last night…”

Yoongi didn’t look up. “You’ll need to be more specific.”

“The part where you said if we were gonna hook up, to warn you first?”

Yoongi blinked once. “Yeah. What about it?”

“You were serious.”

“Mostly,” Yoongi said. “But not wrong.”

Hoseok gave him a sharp look. “It’s not like that.”

Yoongi shrugged. “Then what’s it like?”

“She’s…” Hoseok hesitated. “She’s just important to me.”

“She always has been.”

Hoseok looked down into his coffee. “I knew, back then. That she liked me. I didn’t feel the same, not at the time. But I didn’t exactly step back either. I was always around.”

Yoongi finally looked at him, something steadier behind his eyes now.

“She’s got the biggest heart I know,” he said softly. “Always has.”

Hoseok stilled.

“She was all feelings, even when she was little,” Yoongi went on. “She cared about everything. Everyone. Couldn’t shut it off. She was stubborn, and dramatic, and she cried over things I didn’t understand… but she never hid how much she felt. Never held back from loving people, even when they didn’t deserve it.”

There was a pause, like Yoongi was letting that truth sit between them.

“I’m not like that,” he added, voice quieter. “I’ve always kept things to myself. But she—she walks into rooms with her whole heart showing.”

Hoseok blinked hard. “She still does.”

“I know,” Yoongi said. “And that’s why I’ve always had a soft spot for her. Not just because she’s my sister. But because she’s her. She’s rare.”

Hoseok nodded, throat tightening.

Yoongi studied him. “You didn’t mean to hurt her. I know that. You were just a kid trying to be careful.”

“But I still stayed,” Hoseok said. “I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea, but I didn’t want to leave either.”

“Because part of you already knew,” Yoongi said. “Even if it wasn’t romantic. Even if it wasn’t love. She mattered. She always did.”

Hoseok’s grip tightened on the mug. “And now I think… I think I feel it. All of it. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

Yoongi sighed and set his toast down.

“She’s not fifteen anymore,” he said. “She’s not sitting around hoping you’ll notice her. She’s figuring herself out, and she’s doing it without needing you.”

Hoseok looked up. That hit.

“But if you’re going to show up now,” Yoongi said, voice firm but not unkind, “then really show up. She deserves someone who won’t run when it’s inconvenient. Someone who sees her for who she is now—not just who she used to be.”

Hoseok swallowed. “You think it’s too late?”

Yoongi shook his head. “I think if you’re honest, she’ll hear you. But don’t half-ass this. Not with her. She’s been through too much for that.”

Then, softer:

“And I want her happy. That’s it. That’s the whole thing.”

Hoseok let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi echoed. Then smirked faintly. “Now finish your coffee. You’re being weird, asshole.”

It started with dish soap.

Just a normal night — leftovers packed, Jungkook long gone, Yoongi face-down on the couch with one sock off and a blanket halfway over his head.

You were rinsing plates at the sink, humming softly, sleeves pushed up, when you heard Hoseok behind you.

Close.

Too close.

"You're really domestic these days," he said, leaning against the counter like he belonged there.

You didn’t look at him. "One of us has to be."

"Mm," he mused. "Something about you washing dishes is kinda dangerous, though."

You glanced back. "Dangerous?"

"Yeah." His voice dropped, just a little. "Distracting."

Your heart stuttered.

You turned fully, plate in hand, water still running. "Distracting?"

Hoseok leaned in, arms crossed, one brow raised. "Is there an echo in here?"

You rolled your eyes, but it didn’t land — not when he was looking at you like that. Like he was seeing you. Like he was enjoying what he saw.

You tried for steady. "You’re being weird."

"Am I?" he asked, tilting his head. "Or are you just not used to me paying attention?"

You froze.

Because the way he said it — calm, warm, like it was nothing — was exactly why it felt like everything.

"I'm used to you being annoying," you said, voice thinner than you meant.

His mouth quirked. "Then why do you always smile when I am?"

You didn’t answer.

Mostly because he was suddenly closer. Standing beside you now, hand brushing yours as he reached for the towel. His fingers lingered, just slightly. Just long enough to feel like an accident.

You inhaled. He noticed.

You could feel it — the pull.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" you asked quietly.

"Like what?"

"Like you’re thinking something you shouldn’t say."

His smile curved, slow and dangerous. "I'm not saying it."

You raised an eyebrow. "But you’re thinking it?"

"Oh," he said, voice low. "Absolutely."

The air between you buzzed, tight and hot.

And then he stepped back, like he hadn’t just cracked the floor beneath you.

"Goodnight, star," he said, all sweet and smug, tossing the towel over his shoulder like a casual sin.

You stood there, heart pounding, hands wet, thoughts on fire.

Oh.

You’d had a terrible day.

Too many reports, too many meetings, too many goddamn requests from marketing — which, by the way, was supposed to be a creative field, not a place where people flung last-minute deck edits at you like dodgeballs.

You were frayed. Done. Running on coffee and fumes and a migraine blooming just behind your eyes.

And it was a Friday, which felt cruel. Like the universe had saved its worst for the final lap.

You didn’t want to go home. Didn’t want the quiet of Yoongi’s apartment, the mess of takeout containers you didn’t have the energy to clean, or the creeping dread of another night spent overthinking everything.

You thought about calling Yeji — but she’d texted earlier. Something about a family emergency, rushing back to Gwangju. You didn’t want to pile on.

Jungkook? No chance. The guy was finally on a date and, for once, not texting the group chat in real-time commentary. You’d let him have it.

Yoongi was probably elbow-deep in some trauma case at the hospital.

So that left… Hoseok. And that was the problem.

Because the second his name popped into your head, it stuck. Loud and neon. Comforting in a way that made your chest ache.

You didn’t think twice — you just went.

The doorman at his building recognized you and let you in with a smile. “Back again, huh?” he said. You managed a tight-lipped grin and kept walking, suddenly very aware of the fact that you didn’t have a key.

You stood in front of his door, heartbeat loud for reasons that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

You called him. Once.

No answer. You waited. Called again.

This time, the door opened mid-ring — Hoseok standing there in sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt, barefoot, hair pushed back like he’d just run a hand through it.

Your breath caught.

He looked… soft. Warm. Familiar. And stupidly attractive.

“Hey,” he said, voice scratchy from what was probably a nap. “You good?”

You tried to play it off. “Yeah. I just… had a day.”

He stepped aside instantly, letting you in without asking.

“I was sleeping,” he added, closing the door behind you, “but it’s fine. You want tea? Something stronger?”

You dropped your bag on the floor with a tired grunt. “Both?”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Coming up.”

You stood there for a second, awkward, unsure of what to say — unsure of why your throat suddenly felt tight.

He disappeared into the kitchen. You followed a moment later, watching him pull mugs from the shelf like it was the easiest thing in the world, like this was your Friday ritual.

“Long day?” he asked gently, back still to you.

You exhaled. “I wanted to cry in the bathroom at least three times.”

He poured something warm into your cup and passed it to you, fingers brushing. You held it like it could save you.

And then — his voice, lower now.

“I was gonna call you later.”

You glanced up, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “Don’t know why. Just felt like I should.”

You took a sip of tea, tried to ignore how warm you suddenly felt — and it had nothing to do with the mug.

“I almost didn’t come,” you admitted.

“But you did.”

Your eyes met.

You shrugged. “Yeah.”

Something passed between you — the air sharpening, thickening, like the seconds had started stretching longer than they should.

And then he stepped a little closer. Just one step. Barefoot on tile.

“You can stay as long as you want,” he said quietly. “You know that, right?”

You nodded, slowly.

But you didn’t look away.

Neither did he.

And for one burning second, it felt like the only thing between you was breath.

You hadn’t planned on staying.

But you also hadn’t planned on the way the tea settled into your chest like a sigh. Or the way Hoseok handed you a hoodie from his closet — worn, soft, black with cracked lettering — and said, “This one’s good. It smells like me.” Then blinked and added, “In a clean way, I mean.”

You laughed, the first real one of the day. He smiled like that had been the goal.

You changed in the bathroom, peeled off your jeans with a groan, pulled the hoodie over your head, and let yourself fold into the fabric like it might keep the rest of the world out.

When you stepped out, he was already making up the couch.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said, hugging your arms to your chest.

He looked over at you — ruffled hair, sleep-heavy eyes, t-shirt clinging to the curve of his shoulders — and smiled soft.

“I’m not letting you sleep on a couch after a day like that.”

“You’re gonna have back pain.”

“I already do,” he said with a wink. “Part of aging gracefully.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart squeezed.

He pointed toward the bedroom with a little nod. “Go. It’s clean. Sheets and everything. I even fluffed the pillow like a gentleman.”

You stared at him. “This feels illegal.”

“What does?”

“This. You. Being nice to me.”

He gave you a crooked grin. “Shh. Don’t ruin it.”

You padded into his bedroom without another word — heart racing a little faster than it should — and curled up in sheets that smelled faintly like him and something citrusy.

And when you closed your eyes, the tension didn’t go away. It just softened — low and steady in your chest.

You drifted off wondering what it would feel like if he hadn’t stayed on the couch.

You woke to sunlight creeping through unfamiliar blinds.

For a second, you forgot where you were. Then the hoodie. The sheets. The faint sound of music playing softly from somewhere down the hall.

You sat up slowly, blinking, hair a mess.

Outside the room, you found Hoseok standing at the stove in grey sweatpants and a loose tank top, flipping pancakes like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He glanced over his shoulder when he heard you.

“Morning, star.”

God.

You made some kind of sound — halfway between a groan and a sigh — and dragged yourself to the counter.

“You cook now?”

“I do all sorts of impressive things,” he said. “Like letting sleep-deprived marketing girls take over my bed.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re too chipper for someone who slept on a couch.”

He shrugged. “I’ve had worse. College floors. Airport benches. Yoongi’s recliner.”

You blinked. “You slept in Yoongi’s recliner?”

“Regretfully, yes.”

You laughed. He beamed.

And then he placed a plate in front of you. Golden pancakes. Sliced fruit. A drizzle of honey.

You looked at it. Then at him.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, not teasing this time.

You hesitated.

Then nodded. “Better now.”

He held your gaze for a second longer than necessary.

And then — like nothing — he turned back to the stove.

“Good,” he said.

But your chest was buzzing.

The pancakes were gone. Your plate was pushed aside. The music had shifted into something softer, lazily looping through Hoseok’s Bluetooth speaker like it didn’t know what time it was.

You were still in his hoodie — sleeves pushed up, hem hitting just below mid-thigh — and the morning sun had started to press in through the windows, golden and warm.

You stretched your legs out from under the table, bare feet against the cool tile.

“Hey,” you said, blinking sleepily. “Do you have… like, shorts or something I can borrow?”

Hoseok, halfway through cleaning a pan, stilled.

You didn’t notice at first. You were stretching your arms now, spine cracking, the hoodie riding up just a little higher on your thighs.

He cleared his throat. “Shorts?”

“Yeah. It’s warm,” you said simply. “I’m kinda sweating in this thing.”

He turned —slowly— and took one look at you standing there in his hoodie, sunlight on your legs, your hair still messy from sleep, mouth soft from syrup, and felt his entire nervous system short out.

“Oh,” he said, voice a little tight. “Yeah. Uh. Gimme a sec.”

He disappeared down the hall.

You wandered over to the sink, rinsed your plate, humming softly, totally unaware that Hoseok was in his room gripping a dresser drawer like it personally offended him.

Because yes, he had shorts. And yes, he could technically hand them to you. But no, he was not prepared to watch you put them on. Not when you were already walking around like some slow-motion fever dream in his oldest hoodie — the one that clung in places it shouldn’t.

He returned a minute later, tossing a folded pair onto the couch.

You looked up, bright-eyed. “Lifesaver.”

And then — because you are the villain in this situation apparently — you peeled the hoodie off right there in the open space, still facing away from him.

He turned around so fast he almost pulled something.

You laughed. “Oh my god, are you serious?”

“I’m being respectful!” he shouted from the kitchen.

“You’ve seen me in a swimsuit!”

“Swimsuit is planned!” he yelled back. “This is—this is AMBUSH!”

You snorted, tugging the shorts on and adjusting the waistband.

He peeked over his shoulder cautiously, like he was checking for incoming artillery. And then he saw you — his hoodie bunched in your hands, tank top clinging to your waist, his shorts hanging a little too loose on your hips — and all of the air left his lungs.

You looked up. “Better?”

He swallowed. “Debatable.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, too quickly, spinning back toward the sink.

But his neck was red. His ears were worse.

The silence after was thick—not awkward, not heavy. Just…

Charged.

You sank into the couch, legs folding under you, acting casual.

He stayed by the counter like it was a shield.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren’t you?"

His voice came from behind you, flat but tight, the kind of quiet that gave away just how not-casual he actually felt.

You turned your head from the couch cushion, blinked slowly.

"Huh?"

He was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“You’re doing it on purpose.”

You tilted your head. “Doing what?”

He stared at you like you were evil incarnate.

“You’re in my hoodie,” he said, voice strained, “and now my shorts — and you’re just walking around like it’s nothing.”

You blinked. Looked down at yourself. “Oh… I mean, I was hot.”

“You were hot,” he repeated.

You smiled, soft and harmless. “Mmhm.”

He exhaled sharply, like he needed to physically push the tension out of his chest. “And the tank top? Just a bonus, huh?”

You frowned, like you genuinely didn’t know what he meant. “It’s the one I was wearing when I came. You saw me in it last night?”

“You didn’t think maybe putting both on together would… drive me insane?”

You let your expression drop into something small, almost guilty.

“Wait… do you think I’m trying to tease you?”

He blinked. “Aren’t you?”

You shrugged, all wide eyes and deadly softness. “I was just trying to be comfortable, Hoseok.”

And God help him, he almost believed you.

Except he didn’t.

[syllviere]

Eternium | 01 | JHS (M)

Twenty years ago, you pretend-married a mysterious boy near the playground swings and never saw him again. Today, you've been dragged to hell to learn you played house with none other than Hades, elusive god of the underworld. However, it's news to both of you that your marriage is seen as valid in the eyes of the gods and now you only have six months to make an impossible choice: join him for the rest of your life as his queen or face the wrath of the entire pantheon.

Writing Masterlist | AO3 Crosspost | Ko-Fi

Pairing: Hades!Hoseok x Persephone Reader

Genre: Series, Fantasy Romance, Marriage AU, Smut, Fluff

Word Count: 3,200+

Tags: profanity, forced marriage

Music: Series Playlist

This story was commissioned by @/namaslaylife. Girl, I have kept you waiting for about a thousand years and I'm so sorry. Thank you for giving me so much patience and grace and for trusting me to tell this story 💜

Next Chapter | Series Masterlist

01. Taste for a Specific Predator

Y/N | Present

You were going to fuck a god. Again.

The usually somber ballroom of the underworld palace was aglow for the evening. Dense cypress trees lined the walls adorned with fireflies, their incandescence winking in and out like fickle stars. Though the guest list for the evening was intimate by deity standards, many had arrived to fill the room with a quiet din. Undead and living, mythical and ethereal, all danced across the alabaster tiles while ghostly figures played pleasant melodies on lyres and flutes. And though the underworld had a poor reputation for its hospitality to guests who weren’t quite yet dead, mouthwatering displays of wines and cornucopias lay across tables, filled with plenty to sate any appetite.

But none of this enticing display had any bearing on why you were likely to find yourself in a god’s bed before the night was over. It was the pair of gray eyes, so dark they often looked like midnight sky save for the haunting sheen of silver that made his gaze otherworldly. He had been circling you for a while now, slowly weaving between guests and leaving you feeling like handpicked prey in the middle of what was meant to be a celebration. And you wanted it. Though you’d spent much of your life avoiding unnecessary attention to stay safe, when it came to him you craved the feeling of capture.

You breathed a sigh of relief as you headed towards one of the tables, passing over platters of fruit and meat and instead pouring yourself a well-deserved glass of wine. You hadn’t expected Ares to look so innocent: wide, round eyes like a sky full of stars, his smile deceptively sweet. Until he unleashed an emphatic yet grateful tirade as soon as he’d gotten near you. He expressed an intense passion for the potential war that brewed between the gods because of you. Passion only overshadowed by his brazen flirting. You’d only managed to distract him by sending him towards a pair of former soldier spirits you knew loved to talk about their glory days and hurrying away as soon as they’d grasped his attention.

“Perse, either you’re the bravest woman I’ve ever met, or the most oblivious.” Taehyung sidled up next to you, taking the glass from your hands and downing your drink before you’d even taken a sip. Before you could protest, you heard another voice speak up from your other side.

“Don’t encourage her, Tae. You do remember whose domain you’ll spend eternity in after death, right?”

Jeongyeon’s hands were already fussing with fixing stray strands of your hair woven between the gold and gem-dotted tines of your crown, always more stylist than lady-in-waiting.

“What are you two saying?” You gestured around the hall. “Isn’t the point of this whole show for me to get to know his family? I need to speak to them at least a little.”

Taehyung tilted the already empty glass he’d stolen from you in your direction. “With that dress on, nothing you do tonight is just talking.”

You pointed a thumb in Jeongyeon’s direction. “And who dresses me, exactly?”

Tonight she had dressed you in wine red, the billowing layers of your gown embroidered in gold flowers and threaded patterns that complimented your every curve. Her choices had always left you feeling regal, as false as your title may have been, but tonight she had outdone herself. You felt like a god among gods. And it seemed that hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Jeongyeon’s responding tone was all business. “That dress is for His Majesty. Only him.”

Taehyung’s smile went broad. “I get the feeling that’s exactly what he wishes.”

Well, at least you weren’t the only one to notice the eyes that had been following you all evening. You raised a hand to cup Taehyung’s cheek, warm, yet a little more hollow than you remembered. He had lost most of his glow over the past six months in the underworld with you, more specter than demigod. And though it wasn’t your fault, you felt responsible nonetheless.

“Out of your head, little queen,” he admonished. “I’m fine. I drank your disgusting, witchy brew, there’s life in me still. You can go fuck your king in peace.”

You chuckled at his usual vulgarity, but the sadness you couldn’t hold back still seeped through. “There’s only a week left.”

“And tonight’s not the night to worry about it. Trust me. Besides, I’ve built up a pretty good fan club since we got here. Worst comes to worst, I think I’ll be just fine. Just make sure I get one of those cushy jobs after death,” he finished with a wink, refilling your stolen glass and lifting it to his lips again. But something beyond your shoulder stopped him before he could take another sip.

“Trouble incoming.”

Taehyung’s hushed warning brought the rest of the room back into focus. After a slurred and uncomfortable flirtation from Dionysus, a thoughtful sizing up from Athena, and steering Taehyung safely away during a strange triangle of loathing between Hephaestus and Ares centered around your friend’s presence, you’d hardly had a moment of peace since the evening began. And of course, the spark of a certain god’s eyes had been haunting you since the celebration began, leaving you in the wake of carnal memories. Now the monarchs of Olympus were approaching. You pulled your glass back from Taehyung and took a long drink, attempting to steel yourself in preparation. Fucking a god was one thing. Being fucked over by gods was an entirely different event you’d prefer to avoid.

You turned to face the pair, conjuring up the last dregs of your hospitality, but Taehyung stepped away from the table of refreshments first, bowing the soft blond waves at his head low in reception and flashing the very enchanting smile that had gotten him into this mess with you in the first place.

“Ah, Aphrodite’s degenerate demigod,” Hera --- addressed by most in his family as Seokjin --- said in a sweet voice heavy with venom. “Have you been adopted by my brother as a playmate for Cerberus then? Meant to play lapdog at his bride’s feet until your mother wins her bargains for your life?”

“Jin,” Namjoon --- known to most in the surface world by his deity title, Zeus --- stroked Seokjin’s cheek in an attempt to mollify. “Come now, beloved. We’re here to celebrate.” His gaze drifted toward you and you felt the weight of it instantly, eons of wisdom and unfathomable power contained behind that gaze. But there was something gentle there too that nagged at the back of your neck, something faintly familial.

You followed Taehyung’s earlier cue, bowing before the two gods. “Majesties, an honor.”

“So she does speak,” Jin huffed. “I see living in the underworld has not yet driven you to madness. I worried so when we left you here all those months ago, poor, trembling little thing that you were.”

You offered another shallow bow of your head. “What mortal in the presence of two rulers of the three realms would not tremble, Majesty?” You didn’t have to look up to hear Jin grit his teeth at the slight, given that he was not counted among those three. “I’m happy I’m able to assuage your worries now.”

“Perse is in the perfect place, queenie,” Taehyung goaded. “And how fitting is it that Thanatos’ protege should end up by the ruler of the underworld’s side? It’s…poetic.” Taehyung lifted his glass appreciatively, as if to honor you with a toast. His smug smile was unabashed and you almost felt a pang of pride even while you wondered if he really would be leaving this place with his life. The young demigod had gotten even bolder during his months in the underworld, though you supposed his recklessness with his own life was the reason Thanatos had marked him as your next target in the first place.

Seokjin scoffed, crossing his arms in regal defiance. Firmly ignoring Taehyung’s input, Seokjin continued to eye you up. “Strange that no one has claimed you yet. I’d heard rumors that you were a demigod, but perhaps you’re only the daughter of a nymph? A siren?” His eyes flicked to the flowing skirt of your gown. “A satyr, maybe?”

Of course, Seokjin’s goal was to get a rise out of you with his condescension. He had made it clear that he considered you an unfit match for his brother, though you still had no idea why he’d forced this marriage on you if he felt that way. Unfortunately for him, you were unruffled; a conditioned survival tactic, nothing more. You’d spent too many years playing the quiet observer, learning to read people, finding a reserved touch more effective as you approached life’s challenges, and knowing when it was time to escape. And what you’d learned so far was that most of the gods didn’t want to acknowledge that they were hardly different from the rest of you mere mortals.

“I’m afraid you’ll find me only human, Your Majesty,” you replied calmly.

Namjoon’s eyes softened at that, something akin to pity crossing his features.

“A shame,” he said softly, gaze drifting to somewhere beyond your shoulder. “If only a drop of immortality to keep you by my brother’s side.”

At last, you felt the familiar pressing sensation of your hunter’s aura as he finally made his approach.

“Hoseok,” Namjoon said, barely hiding an amused smirk. “What an honor; we were just talking about you. I feel as though I hardly ever see your face, even here in your own palace.”

You raised your eyes as he came to stand beside you, aching at the sight of his perfect profile, jawline carved from the finest marble, the pretty, upturned slope of his nose, the soft waves of his long, dark hair impeccably pinned back behind his ears and disappearing down his back. He gave Namjoon a short nod, Seokjin another.

“I trust you’re both ensuring my bride feels welcome to our family.”

It was the point of this get-together after all, to introduce you to the rest of the gods you would officially call family in only a week’s time. That is, unless Hoseok could find a last-minute way out of Hera’s order. You glanced up at him again, shuddering when you found his gaze fixed on you. Part of you wished you hadn’t. Then you wouldn’t have seen the burning fire in the glow of his ashen stare, an intensity that you still felt far from deserving. The presence, the power of a god, directed solely at you. Every time he gave you that look, doubt rang somewhere inside your chest over whether you even wanted him to find a way out of this marriage anymore.

“Dear brother, we’re simply lamenting your bride-to-be’s mortality is all,” Hera said wistfully.

“You let me worry about that, Jin.” Hoseok’s words struck out like a fiery whip and the others fell silent. Would it always be this way, you wondered, the very gods forcing the two of you together bitter that a human like you would be a part of their family line, however briefly?

Hoseok’s hand flexed at his side, reaching toward you before pulling back as though he wanted to take your hand in his, but he was forcing himself to fight the instinct. You could sense his anxiety, the sharper reactions he quelled just underneath. It startled you. That you’d come to know his cues this well in these few short months when in the beginning he would barely look at you. You slid your hand into his, twining your fingers together and glancing up at him with a reassuring smile.

“Welp, this is super awkward so I’m going to find out if Dionysus has found anything stronger to drink yet,” Taehyung said. “Later kings n’ queens.”

You giggled silently to yourself, biting your lip to keep your laughter contained. Hoseok squeezed your hand and you caught the hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.

“Yes, well,” Hoseok said, clearing his throat. “I need to borrow my bride for a few moments if you don’t mind. Please enjoy yourselves.” As his hand met your back and he began to lead you away, you heard Namjoon speaking softly behind you.

“Perhaps there is a chance after all,” he said quietly.

“Perhaps,” Seokjin followed up ominously.

“Then why not stop this…”

It was all you could make out before Hoseok had maneuvered you out of earshot, across the ballroom floor. He pulled you behind a pillar at the room’s edge, hiding you both from most prying eyes.

“I’m sorry about them,” Hoseok muttered. “They act that way because of me; it’s nothing to do with you.”

“They haven’t all been unkind,” you said deliberately, savoring the shadowed grimace that crossed his face in response.

“Yes, I noticed that as well,” he said, voice quieter yet more fierce.

You knew he had. You’d seen him from the corner of your eye, teeth gritting, fists clenched while Apollo made leering pass after pass at you. Had watched Thanatos appear at Hoseok’s side while Pan whispered in your ear about his prowess with the flute. Somehow Thanatos managed to stay Hoseok’s approach while you attempted to stand on your own against the gods and deities surrounding you.

“You know, it’s a little odd that all your family knows we’re technically married and yet…”

Hoseok groaned softly. “Yes. It’s unfortunately a common problem.”

Even though you shouldn’t have, you let a small, playful smile slip through and Hoseok responded with a hum of dissatisfaction. The hand at your low back slid further around you, pulling your body fully against the warmth of his, and you understood that the night could only end with him between your legs. You may have been standing off to the side of the ballroom, but there was nowhere around you that could be considered secluded. This public display of his intentions was so out of his normally publicly reserved character, you inhaled a short, sharp breath in surprise.

“You tease this out of me on purpose, this…this…jealousy,” he rasped into your ear before lowering his head to brush the softest kiss against the side of your neck. A slow, embarrassed heat began to climb your throat at his admission. Jealousy. The god of the underworld was jealous because of you. You lifted your hand to Hoseok’s cheek, partly to remind him of his surroundings and partly to steady yourself against the battering of your heart inside your chest. 

“Husband,” you said quietly, ignoring just how much you had grown to enjoy the taste of the word on your lips.

“Wife,” he responded in a hot, throaty growl that flew straight between your legs. “I’m still not convinced your father wasn’t an incubus. Or one of Eros’ ilk perhaps? What else could explain this thing you do to me?” Hoseok pulled you a little closer, hand at your waist joined by his other against the skin of your back, bared by the low cut of your gown. His warm, sweet breath ghosted against your neck as his lips met your flesh again. You had to take a shaky breath before responding.

“Even if I knew, I don’t think I’d have any power over you.” His lips continued without so much as a pause. “Darling, are you nectar-drunk? It’s not like you to be this affectionate with such a captive audience nearby.”

He leaned up then, making sure your eyes met his. “I’ve been staring at you half the night in this dress and wanting to rip it off of you with my teeth,” he said quietly. You were pretty sure the baring of his teeth was subconscious, but the effect was deliciously threatening all the same. “And your body language suggests you’ve had more than enough of my family for one evening. One thousand evenings perhaps.”

You smirked. Of course. Of course he had seen straight through your well-practiced confidence. “An expert in my body language now, are you?”

Hoseok lifted his head and returned your suggestive expression, though his was tinged with something wild. “We’re going to leave so I can prove to you that I am.”

“Leave? Aren’t you going to at least ask me to dance?”

You could only describe his responding smile as wicked. “Of a sort.”

You held up your hands, gesturing to the lavishly decorated celebration hall, all fine decor, ghostly servers, music and dancers brought together under his rare invitation.

“Hades, we can’t leave,” you said, using his deity title with the hope it might remind him of his propriety. “The whole point of this gathering is for me to get comfortable being a part of your family and-”

“I don’t care,” he said, pulling you closer still, voice a knife’s edge at your throat. “I don’t care about them. All I care about is you.”

You had spent the last six months in the Underworld at his side, learning his moods, his strengths and weaknesses. His deceiving scent, like sun-ripened citrus, fresh woods, and ever-burning embers. The particular incense of his heat, the brand of his touch. Had spent just enough time on the receiving end of his passion to constantly crave more. By now you accepted that, when he was like this, it was pointless to argue.

The first time you’d had sex had been a flurry. One moment dancing underneath pomegranate trees at the Lethe riverbank, the next filling the eternal silverdark sky with your whimpering moans as Hoseok rutted into you, growling your name into your ear, uncoiling tension that had been tightening between you both for weeks. Afterward, you’d found crushed petals in places one never should, and you’d had to face questions you’d never before let yourself consider: Could you really stay here in the underworld? Could you become Hoseok’s human queen? And were the feelings you’d been trying so hard to ignore all these months really something akin to love?

He began to steer you toward the ballroom doors, but you angled yourself in front of him, a firm hand pressed against his chest. A line of impatience ran across his forehead as he stopped, eyebrows knotting in question.

“One dance.”

He huffed. “Don’t let my family get to you, Y/N. We don’t need a dance to prove anything to anyone here.”

“I know. I don’t care about them either.” Hoseok may have been the god of the underworld and you were ninety-nine percent sure you were only human. Banking on Hoseok’s belief in the one percent that some measure of godsblood also coursed through your own veins, you stepped closer and pressed against his aura with your own. “I want to dance with you. And if you simply can’t wait to kiss me, you can do it with everyone here watching.” After all, you weren’t the shy one. To punctuate your thought, Hoseok’s cheeks turned a dusky rose in response to your words. As exhilarating as sex was with him, the thought that he could be this modest was so enchanting you almost wanted to drag him down to the floor and have him right there. But you wanted to dance with him more, to watch the joyful light that he so rarely let free come out for all to see.

He stared at you for a long moment, prodding with his intimidating aura for any sign that you might waver under his will. Then you watched his shoulders relax slightly, watched him give an apprehensive glance back at the dancing crowd and then back to you.

“Fine,” he grumbled with all the grace of a god. “One dance, flower. Then we leave.”

[inkedwithcharm]

Love Left In Silence | Jung Joseok

Pairing: Jung Hoseok × Y/N

Genre: Romance, Angst, Co-Parenting, Healing, Slice of Life

Sypnosis: They became parents before they learned how to stay in love. Years later, co parenting keeps them connected while everything else remains unspoken. When jealousy, boundaries, and old wounds resurface, silence finally gives way to truth. This is a quiet story about love that never fully left, timing that almost ruined it, and finding your way back when you’re finally brave enough to be honest.

A/N: Happy birthday to our sunshine, Hobi! As promised, here’s a little one shot birthday special for you all. I actually finished writing this right after watching his birthday live, still emotional, still soft, still smiling at my screen. It felt right to pour all that warmth into this story. I hope this chapter hugs you the way Hobi’s laugh always hugs us.🤍

The pen feels heavier than it should. It is just a pen. Cheap. Plastic. The kind offices buy in bulk and leave everywhere like they are disposable, like what they sign with them never matters. Yet in your hand, it carries the weight of a life you did not plan and a love you never finished mourning. Across the table, Jung Hoseok sits too straight for a man who once slouched beside you on broken couches and studio floors. He wears a simple sweater today, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, a faint scar near his wrist you remember kissing when you were nineteen and fearless. His hair is darker than it used to be. Shorter. More controlled. Like everything else about him now.

The family court office smells faintly of paper and old air conditioning. Outside the frosted windows, the city hums. Cars pass. People live. None of them know that your heart is being folded neatly into boxes labeled Saturday and Sunday. The mediator clears her throat softly.

“So. We’re agreed on weekends with the father. Pickup Friday evening. Drop off Sunday night.”

You nod before your brain catches up, before your chest can protest. Your voice does not trust itself yet. Hoseok glances at you. He looks at the space near your shoulder, the way he always does now, like eye contact might open a door neither of you knows how to close.

“I can adjust my schedule if needed,” he says. His voice is calm. Careful. Professional. “Rehearsals usually end by six on Fridays.”

Rehearsals. The word lands strangely, like an echo from another life. Once, you used to sit on the floor of dance studios with takeout containers, watching him practice until midnight. Once, you were his entire weekend.

“That works,” you say, too quickly. “She’s used to eating early.”

He nods again. Agreement without friction. You used to argue about everything. Music. Dreams. Whether love alone was enough.

The mediator slides the papers closer to you.

“Mother signs here.”

The word mother still feels borrowed. Like a coat that fits but carries someone else’s scent.

Your hand shakes as you write your name. Each letter feels like a goodbye you are not ready to say. When the ink dries, it looks permanent in a way emotions never are. When Hoseok signs next, his hand is steady. You wonder when he learned how to keep it that way.

“She’s yours on weekends,” you say quietly, before you can stop yourself.

Hoseok looks up. His eyes soften, then darken, then soften again, like he is fighting something under the surface. "She’s ours,” he corrects gently. “Always.”

You swallow. “I know. I just… weekdays are easier when I don’t think too far ahead.”

He almost smiles at that. Almost. “You always hated Sundays.”

“That’s not true.”

“You cried every Sunday night in college.”

“I cried because you played the same song on loop for three hours.”

“It was a good song.”

“You said that about every song.”

“And I was right.”

A fragile laugh escapes you before you can catch it. It surprises both of you. For a moment, it feels like slipping on an old jacket that still remembers your shape. Then the mediator stands. The moment ends. “I’ll leave you two to finalize pickup details,” she says kindly, already gathering her things.

The door clicks shut. Silence settles between you, thicker without a third presence. The air hums again. The city continues. Hoseok leans back in his chair, rubbing his palms together like he used to before performances. “She likes the blue blanket, right?”

“Yes. The one with the stars.”

“And the giraffe toy.”

“She chews on the ear. The left one.”

He smiles at that. Fully this time. Soft. Real. “She does that with me too.”

Your chest aches in a way you do not comment on. “Of course she does.”

Another pause. He exhales slowly. “I’ll bring her back before nine on Sundays,” he says. “I don’t want her too tired for daycare.”

“Thank you.”

You stand first. Gather your bag. Put your life back over your shoulder.

At the door, your hand hesitates on the handle. "Hoseok.”

“Yes?”

“Take care of her.”

His answer is immediate. "I will. With everything I have.”

You believe him. That might be the hardest part. Outside, the sunlight feels too bright. You blink against it, pushing down the heaviness pressing behind your ribs. Friday evenings. Sunday nights. A life split down the middle. You tell yourself it is fair. You tell yourself you are fine. Behind you, through the glass, Hoseok watches until you disappear into the crowd, already counting the days until Friday, already missing someone he never truly stopped loving.

Friday arrives without asking if you are ready. It comes quietly, like it always has, slipping into the apartment through the thin curtains and settling on the floor where your daughter is busy stacking soft blocks. She hums to herself, off-key and confident, like the world has never disappointed her before. You watch from the kitchen doorway, coffee cooling in your hands, thinking about how unfair it is that time keeps moving even when you want it to slow down out of courtesy.

Six thirty. You check the clock again, as if the numbers might rearrange themselves. “Daddy’s coming today,” you say, keeping your voice light. Normal. You have practiced this tone all week. Your daughter looks up at the word daddy and grins, wide and gummy, eyes bright with recognition. She claps her hands once, then goes back to her blocks like this is just another plan in her busy little schedule. She adapts faster than you ever could.

You kneel to pack her bag. Blue blanket with stars. Giraffe toy with the chewed ear. Extra onesie. The tiny socks she keeps pulling off no matter how often you put them back on. Each item feels like proof that you are doing the right thing, even as your chest protests every zipper sound. “Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “It’s just a weekend.”

The doorbell rings exactly at seven. Your heart stumbles. Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, moving on muscle memory built from years of opening doors for Jung Hoseok without thinking twice. He stands there with a paper bag in one hand, hair slightly damp like he rushed through a shower. He looks nervous. Excited. Like a boy waiting outside a hospital room, not a man picking up his child. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi.” You step aside. He hesitates before entering, like he is unsure of the rules now. The apartment smells faintly of lavender baby soap and leftover pasta. It is small, but warm. It is yours. “She’s been good,” you say. “Napped a little late.”

“That’s okay. We’ll manage.”

He kneels the moment he sees her, dropping the paper bag on the floor. “There’s my girl.”

Your daughter squeals and crawls toward him, abandoning her blocks without a second glance. She reaches for him with certainty, with no fear of absence or loss. Hoseok lifts her easily, like his arms were made to remember her weight. You look away before your eyes start to burn.

“She ate already,” you say. “Just needs a bottle later.”

He nods, bouncing her gently. “I packed extra formula. And I read that book you recommended.”

“Which one?”

“The one about the moon that won’t sleep.”

You pause. “You actually read it?”

“I wanted to do it right.”

The words linger longer than they should. You hand him the bag you packed. Your fingers brush his. Neither of you comments on it.

“She likes being sung to before bed,” you add.

He smiles at that, real and warm. "Okay.”

You manage a small smile in return. At the door, everything slows. Hoseok shifts his weight, suddenly unsure again. “I’ll text when we get home.”

“Okay.”

“And if you need anything.”

“I know.”

He hesitates, then says softly, “You can call tonight if it’s hard.”

You meet his eyes. “It’ll be harder for her if I cry into the phone.”

He studies your face like he wants to argue, then stops himself. “Then I’ll call you. So she can hear your voice.”

You nod, because that feels safe. He adjusts the strap on the diaper bag, kisses your daughter’s temple, and then, without looking at you again, steps into the hallway. The door closes with a sound that echoes too loudly in the small space.

The apartment changes immediately. The quiet is not peaceful. It is wide. Empty. Like a room that has been holding its breath all day and finally lets go. You stand there longer than you mean to, staring at the door, half expecting it to open again. It doesn’t.

You move through the apartment slowly. Pick up blocks. Fold the blanket she left on the floor. Wash a bottle that does not need washing yet. Every habit you built around her has nowhere to land. You sit on the couch and realize there is nothing you need to do. Nothing.

Your phone buzzes.

Hoseok: We’re home. She’s smiling like she owns the place.

You type back before you can think.

You: She probably does.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Hoseok: She reached for the stars on the blanket. Like she recognized them.

Your chest tightens in a way you do not name.

You: She does that before she sleeps.

A minute passes.

Hoseok: I’ll sing to her.

You picture it. His voice low and imperfect. Your daughter safe in his arms. Loved. The image hurts and heals at the same time.

You walk into her room. Two bedrooms. One untouched tonight. The crib looks too big without her in it. The mobile still turns, playing a song you forgot to turn off.

You sit on the floor beside the crib and let the quiet wash over you. “She’s okay,” you whisper to the empty room. “You’re okay.”

You are not sure which one of you needs to hear it more.

Your phone rings. You answer without speaking. Hoseok’s voice fills the silence.

“She’s sleepy.”

You smile despite yourself. “Did you sing?”

“Yes.”

“How bad was it?”

“She didn’t complain.”

You hear a soft sound in the background. A yawn. A tiny sigh. “Can she hear me?” you ask.

He lowers his voice. “She can.”

“Hi, baby,” you whisper. “Mama loves you.”

A pause. “She smiled,” he says quietly.

Your throat closes around the feeling you refuse to cry into words. “Goodnight,” you say.

“Goodnight,” he echoes.

When the call ends, the apartment feels even quieter, but softer now. Like the silence has learned how to sit beside you instead of against you. You lie in bed alone, staring at the ceiling, counting the days until Sunday without meaning to. Your daughter is learning how to belong in two places. You are learning how to let her.

Somewhere across the city, Hoseok sits on the edge of his bed, watching his daughter sleep, wondering how love can stretch this far without tearing.

Sunday arrives carrying its own weight. You start cooking before sunset, long before there is any real reason to. The kitchen fills slowly with the warmth of garlic and simmering broth, with the soft hiss of oil meeting heat. It gives your hands something to do, something to focus on that is not the clock. You tell yourself it is practical. Hoseok will be tired. Your daughter will be hungry. It is easier to eat than to talk. Still, you choose the dishes he used to like. The ones that feel familiar without trying too hard.

You wipe the counter twice. Adjust the placemats. Check the door lock even though you checked it minutes ago. The apartment feels fuller today, like it knows it is about to be tested. When the doorbell rings, it is already dark outside.

You open the door to find Hoseok holding your daughter against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder like it belongs there. Her hair smells faintly of baby shampoo you do not use. He looks tired in the gentle way that comes from caring deeply for someone who cannot give anything back yet.

“We’re home,” he says softly, as if the word still applies to both of you.

“Come in,” you reply.

He slips off his shoes automatically. Muscle memory. You notice it and look away “She napped in the car,” he says. “Just a short one.”

“That’s okay. She’ll sleep tonight.” You reach for her, and she goes to you easily, without hesitation, as if she has never had to choose between arms. Your chest aches at how simple she makes it look.

“I cooked,” you say. “If you want to eat.”

He pauses. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

He nods, understanding what you are really saying.

Dinner is quiet at first. Your daughter sits between you in her high chair, happily tapping her spoon against the tray. The sound fills the spaces your voices do not. “She likes peas now,” Hoseok says.

“She hated them last week.”

“She made a face like she was personally offended.”

You smile despite yourself.

“She does that with bananas too.”

“She’s dramatic.”

“She gets that from you.”

He laughs, short and surprised. “Wow. I walk into your house and immediately get attacked.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

The food cools as you talk about schedules. Nap times. A rash on her knee that looks worse than it is. A new vaccine coming up next month. You speak like colleagues managing a shared project. Calm. Efficient. Safe. You do not talk about the way he still reaches for the pepper without asking. Or how your knee brushes his under the table and neither of you move.

When your daughter finishes eating, you clean her hands while Hoseok gathers the dishes.

“I can do that,” you say.

“It’s okay.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I know. I just want to help.”

The words land gently, heavier than they should. He washes the plates while you change your daughter into pajamas. The sound of running water fills the apartment, steady and familiar. For a moment, it feels like a life you remember living.

“She fell asleep right away last night,” he says from the kitchen. “Held onto the blanket like it was the most important thing in the world.”

“She does that when she’s happy.”

He turns off the faucet. The silence that follows feels too loud. You rock your daughter near the window, watching the city lights blink on one by one. Hoseok joins you, leaning against the wall, hands tucked into his pockets like he does not know where to put them anymore. “She was good,” he says. “All weekend.”

“I knew she would be.”

“She cried when I left the room.”

You glance at him. “She does that with me too.”

“Good,” he says, quietly. “That means she feels safe.”

You nod, even as something inside you twists.

When you lay her in the crib, she sighs and curls onto her side, utterly unbothered by the transfer of worlds. You stand there longer than necessary, both of you watching her sleep. “She doesn’t know Sundays are endings,” you whisper.

Hoseok’s voice is low. “I wish I didn’t know either.”

The door to her room closes softly. Back in the living room, neither of you sits. “I should go,” he says.

“Yes.”

Neither of you moves.

“She’ll miss you,” you add, because you need him to hear it. “I’ll miss her.”

At the door, he hesitates again, like he always does now. "Thank you for dinner,” he says. “For letting me stay.”

“You’re her father.”

“I know. Still.”

You open the door. The hallway light spills in, pale and impersonal. “Drive safe,” you say.

“I will.”

He pauses, hand on the doorframe. “You’re doing a good job.”

Your voice is quiet. “So are you.”

He nods once, then steps away. When the door closes, the apartment exhales.

You walk into your daughter’s room and sit on the floor beside the crib. The weekend is over. The house belongs to you again. It feels both comforting and unbearably empty. You realize the hardest part is not sharing her.

It is learning how to share the version of Hoseok who shows up as a father. Gentle. Present. Loving. A version you still recognize.

You check on Yeri before you let yourself think too much. Her room is dim, washed in the soft glow of the night light shaped like a moon. The kind you bought because it promised comfort in its description, because it said gentle and safe and you needed to believe those words applied to both of you. She sleeps on her side tonight, fingers curled around the corner of the blue blanket, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. Her lips part slightly when she exhales, a sound so small it almost feels imagined. You brush a thumb over her hair, slow and careful, memorizing the warmth of her. “Goodnight, my love,” you whisper.

You kiss her forehead, lingering just long enough for your heart to ache. She stirs but does not wake. She trusts the world more easily than you ever have.

You close the door halfway, leaving it cracked the way you always do, and walk back into the living room where the quiet waits for you. Sunday night quiet. The kind that presses in once the dishes are washed and the apartment remembers who is missing. It is in this silence that the past finds you.

You were younger then. Not in a nostalgic way. In a reckless way. Young that believes love will figure itself out if you hold onto it hard enough.

The bathroom floor was cold against your thighs. You remember that first, before the fear. The chipped tile. The hum of the old fluorescent light. The plastic stick resting on the sink like it belonged to someone else.

Two lines.

Clear. Certain. Unforgiving.

You didn’t cry. That surprised you later. At the time, you just sat there, staring, counting the seconds between your heartbeats, waiting for your body to react the way it was supposed to “Hoseok,” you called.

Your voice sounded normal. That scared you more than if it had broken. He answered from the living room, music playing softly in the background. Something bright. Something that belonged to a future you hadn’t lost yet “Coming.”

He appeared in the doorway with a towel around his neck, hair damp, smile already forming out of habit. It faded slowly as his eyes followed your gaze. “What’s wrong?”

You held out the test. He laughed once. A quiet, disbelieving sound. “You’re kidding.”

You shook your head. The room seemed to shrink around you both.

He crouched down in front of you, hands on his knees, staring at the stick like it might rearrange itself if he waited long enough. "Oh,” he said. Then softer, “Oh.”

You waited for something dramatic. A reaction. A plan. A promise. Instead, he sat down beside you on the floor, shoulder pressed against the cabinet, eyes unfocused. “This wasn’t… this wasn’t supposed to happen yet,” he said.

“I know.”

“I mean, I love you. You know that, right?”

You nodded.

“I know.”

“I just thought we’d have time.”

The word time sat between you, heavy and cruel.

The days after moved too fast. Appointments. Phone calls. Conversations whispered late at night when both of you were already exhausted from pretending to be okay during the day.

One evening, you lay on your bed staring at the ceiling fan as it turned lazily above you. Hoseok lay beside you, hands folded on his chest like he was bracing for impact. "I’m scared,” he said suddenly.

You turned your head to look at him. “Of what?”

“Of failing you. Of failing her. Of waking up one day and realizing I don’t recognize myself.”

Your voice came out small. “I’m scared of that too.”

He swallowed. “Everyone keeps saying it’ll be fine. That we’ll figure it out.”

“Do you believe them?”

He didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I want to.”

That was when the distance began. Not with a fight. Not with anger. With exhaustion. With the slow realization that love does not protect you from pressure. That wanting something badly does not mean you are ready to carry it.

You stopped dancing in the kitchen together. He stopped playing music late into the night. Conversations became practical. Who would work more. Who would give up what. Who would be strong today.

One night, sitting across from each other at the tiny kitchen table, he said, “Do you ever think about the life we were supposed to have first?”

You traced a crack in the wood with your finger “Yes.”

“Does that make you a bad person?”

You looked up at him. “No. It makes you honest.”

He nodded, eyes shining in a way that scared you. “I don’t want to resent her.”

“You won’t,” you said immediately. “She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“I know. I just… I don’t want to resent us either.”

That was the night you realized love could survive and still suffer. By the time Yeri was born, you both loved her fiercely. Instinctively. Completely. And yet, something between you had already fractured quietly, like a hairline crack spreading under weight neither of you knew how to redistribute.

You learned how to be careful with each other. How to choose words that didn’t bruise. How to smile for photos. How to pretend the pressure hadn’t changed the shape of your love.

Back in the present, you sit on the couch with your knees pulled to your chest, staring at the dark television screen. Yeri sleeps peacefully in the next room. She has no memory of who you were before her. Only who you became.

You close your eyes and breathe slowly. You do not regret her. You never have.

But sometimes, late on Sunday nights, you grieve the girl you were before responsibility arrived early and love had to grow up overnight.

You realize something is different before he ever says it. It is Sunday again. Another drop off. Another evening where the air feels too full before anything has even happened. You notice it in the way Hoseok stands when you open the door, shoulders relaxed in a way that is unfamiliar now. Like someone who has already laughed today.

Yeri is in his arms, chewing on the corner of her sleeve, perfectly content. She always is. She leans into him like gravity prefers him on Sundays. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” You step aside, letting them in. The apartment smells like the soup you reheated too many times, afraid it would be cold by the time they arrived. Outside, the sky is bruised purple and orange, the kind of sunset people photograph and send to someone they miss.

Yeri babbles the moment she sees you. Reaches for you. Hoseok hands her over without hesitation. “She was good,” he says. “Only cried once.”

“In the car?”

He smiles. “Of course.”

You carry her to the couch, settling her beside you while Hoseok takes off his shoes. He sets the diaper bag down carefully, lining it up against the wall like he wants everything to be in the right place.

“She ate already.” he said.

“She’ll be sleepy soon.”

“Good.”

There is a pause. Not awkward. Just… waiting. He sits across from you, elbows resting on his knees. Yeri crawls between you both, tapping the floor with her palms like she is keeping time to music only she can hear. “She’s growing fast,” he says.

“She is.”

“She stood up for a second yesterday.”

Your heart lifts. “She did?”

“Yeah. Holding onto the coffee table. Looked very proud of herself.”

You smile, wide and genuine. “I missed that.”

His expression shifts, just slightly. A flicker of something you cannot place. “I took a video,” he says. “I can send it to you.”

“I’d like that.”

He nods, reaches for his phone, then stops. Puts it back down. There it is again. That hesitation. You wait.

“There’s something I should tell you,” he says.

Your body responds before your mind does. A quiet readiness for disappointment, like you have been practicing for this moment without knowing it. “Okay,” you say.

He rubs his palms together once, then stills them. “I’ve been seeing someone.”

The words are ordinary. Calm. Almost gentle. You stare at him, waiting for the impact you expected. It does not arrive all at once. It comes in waves. “Oh,” you say. You hate that you sound like your younger self in a bathroom all over again.

He nods. “I wanted you to hear it from me.”

“That’s… considerate.”

“She knows about Yeri.”

Your stomach drops a little more at that. “She’s met her?”

“Yes.”

The room feels smaller. “When?”

“Yesterday. We went to the park.”

You picture it without wanting to. The way Hoseok pushes the stroller. The way Yeri laughs at strangers. The way a woman you do not know bends down and smiles at your daughter like she belongs in the scene.

“She’s good with her,” he adds quickly. “Very gentle.”

You keep your face neutral. You have learned how. “That’s good,” you say. “That matters.”

“It does.”

Silence stretches between you. Yeri pulls herself up using the couch, wobbling slightly. You steady her without thinking. Hoseok watches you do it.

“I hope it’s okay with you,” he says quietly.

“Ofcourse.”

But jealousy arrives softly. It sits beside you like an uninvited guest who does not make noise but refuses to leave. It looks like curiosity. Like a question you do not want answered. “What’s her name?” you ask.

He blinks, surprised by the question. “Minji.”

“How did you meet?”

“At a friend’s dinner. She works in design.”

You nod like you are filing information, like this is not a slow unraveling happening inside your chest. “Is she serious?” you ask.

He considers it. “I think it could be.”

The words land harder than anything else he has said tonight.

“I wanted to tell you,” he continues, voice careful. “Because I don’t want you to feel blindsided if she comes up again. Or if Yeri mentions her.”

“She’s a baby,” you say softly. “She won’t.”

“She will one day.”

You look down at your daughter, at the way she grips your finger without effort, trusting you to always be there. “Yeah,” you say. “She will.”

Hoseok stands. Walks toward the kitchen, then stops halfway, like he forgot why he moved at all. “I hope this doesn’t make things harder,” he says.

You look at him then. “It already does,” you reply gently. “But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

His shoulders sag slightly, relief and guilt mixing together. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“You can tell me if you need space.”

You almost laugh. Almost. “We share a child,” you say. “Space isn’t really an option.”

He smiles faintly at that.

You put Yeri to bed together, the way you still do sometimes. Hoseok sings softly while you tuck the blanket around her. His voice is the same. Warm. Familiar. It does not belong to you anymore.

At the door, he hesitates. “You’re okay?” he asks.

You nod. “I will be.”

He studies your face like he wants to memorize it again, then steps back into the hallway.

When the door closes, the apartment feels different.

You sit on the couch long after, phone in your hand, imagining a woman with an easy smile and kind hands, imagining her holding Yeri like it comes naturally. Jealousy does not scream. It does not break things. It simply settles in, quiet and persistent, asking you to confront the truth you avoided for too long. You never stopped loving him. You just learned how to live beside it.

The photo arrives on a Wednesday afternoon. You are standing in line at the grocery store with Yeri perched on your hip, her small hand tugging at your collar like it belongs there. The cashier is talking too loudly about the weather. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. Everything feels ordinary enough to keep you steady. Your phone vibrates. You almost ignore it. Almost.

You glance down, expecting a message about pickup times or formula or something that fits neatly into the careful world you have built around shared responsibility. Instead, there is an image.

Yeri is sitting on a picnic blanket, sunlight painting her hair gold. She is laughing. Her mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, body tipped forward like joy has weight. A woman’s hand is in the frame, steadying her by the waist. Gentle. Familiar. Like it has done this before.

Minji is not looking at the camera. She is looking at your daughter.

Hoseok must be the one taking the photo. You know his angles. You know the way he frames happiness without trying to. Your chest tightens in a way you have not prepared for.

The cashier says something about bags. You nod, pay, leave. You walk home slowly, as if speed might shatter something inside you that is already cracking quietly.

At home, you set Yeri down with her toys and sit on the couch, phone still in your hand. You stare at the photo like it might change if you give it enough time. She looks good with her. That is the part you hate the most.

The message beneath the image is short.

Hoseok: She wanted to show you. Yeri had a good day.

You type back three different responses. Delete all of them.

Later that night, after Yeri is asleep, your phone rings. You consider letting it go to voicemail. You do not. “Hello.”

“Hey,” Hoseok says. His voice is familiar enough to hurt. “Did you see the photo?”

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t trying to… I mean, she asked if she could send it.”

“It’s fine.”

He is quiet for a moment. “You don’t sound fine.”

You look at the dark window across the room, your reflection faint in the glass. “I don’t know what I sound like right now.”

“I just wanted you to know nothing’s changing with us. With Yeri.”

“I know,” you say. “That’s not the part that’s hard.”

He exhales slowly. “She likes you.”

That surprises a small laugh out of you. “She doesn’t know me.”

“She knows you exist. She knows you matter.”

You close your eyes. “That doesn’t make it easier.”

“No,” he admits. “It doesn’t.”

There is a stretch of silence where both of you are thinking the same thing and refusing to say it. “You don’t owe me anything,” you say finally. “You’re allowed to be happy.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t,” he replies, too quickly.

You hear it then. The uncertainty tucked beneath his confidence.

“You look happy,” you say. “In the photo.”

He doesn’t answer right away. “Happiness photographs well.”

The words stay with you long after the call ends.

Days pass. More photos follow. A park bench. A coffee cup next to a tiny sippy cup. Minji’s smile appears more often, always just at the edge of the frame, never demanding attention.

You learn how to smile back at them. You double tap the photos. You comment with hearts. You type things like looks like fun and thank you for sharing. You become very good at sounding supportive. Jealousy learns how to blend in. It wears politeness like armor.

On Sunday, when they arrive for drop off, Minji is with him. He tells you beforehand, texts you an hour early like he is asking permission without saying the words. When the door opens, she smiles first. “Hi,” she says. “I’m Minji.”

You recognize her immediately. Same softness. Same ease. “I’m Yeri’s mom,” you reply.

“I know,” she says quickly. “Hoseok talks about you.”

That lands somewhere between comfort and discomfort.

“She’s wonderful,” Minji adds, glancing down at Yeri. “You’ve done an amazing job.”

You meet her eyes. “Thank you.”

The moment passes without incident. No tension. No sharp edges. Just three adults standing around a child who refuses to notice how complicated love can be.

Later, after they leave, you sit alone and replay the afternoon in your head. Minji did nothing wrong. Hoseok did nothing wrong. Yeri is loved. And still, something aches.

Jealousy is not loud. It does not demand to be seen. It smiles politely and waits for you to admit what it already knows.

You are not jealous of Minji. You are jealous of the life she is allowed to step into without carrying the weight of what came before. You tell yourself it is irrational. You repeat that word like a prayer while folding laundry at midnight, while washing bottles, while standing in the shower letting the water run too hot. Irrational. Childish. Unfair.

You hate yourself for feeling threatened. But you are. And the worst part is that you do not know how to stop.

Sunday afternoon sunlight spills through the living room windows as you sit on the floor with Yeri, stacking soft blocks into a tower that collapses every time she laughs too hard. She claps, delighted with destruction, and crawls into your lap like this is where the world makes the most sense. Your phone buzzes. A video.

You hesitate before opening it. You are getting better at that part, at the pause before you choose whether you are strong enough for what waits on the other side of the screen.

Yeri at the park. Again. Hoseok’s laugh in the background. The sound of leaves crunching beneath tiny shoes. Minji crouched down, arms open. “Come here,” Minji says warmly. “Come on.” Yeri toddles toward her, wobbly but determined. Then it happens. “Minji.”

The name is clumsy on her tongue. Soft. Almost proud of itself. Your stomach drops so suddenly you feel dizzy. The video ends. You stare at the frozen screen, at Minji’s smiling face, at your daughter mid-step toward someone who is not you.

“She didn’t mean anything by it,” you whisper to the empty room.

You know that. You know children repeat sounds without understanding weight or history or consequence. You know this is not betrayal. You know love does not run out simply because it is shared. Knowing does not make it hurt less.

That night, Hoseok calls. “Did you see the video?” he asks.

“Yes.” A pause. He hears it in your voice.

“She’s been copying words lately,” he says gently. “She said the dog’s name three times today like it was the funniest thing in the world.”

“I know,” you reply. “She’s learning.”

“She doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know,” you repeat.

Silence stretches between you, thin and uneasy. "You’re quiet,” he says.

“I’m just tired.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You close your eyes. “I’m not pretending.”

That is a lie, but it is an easy one.

The next weekend, you hear it in person. You are all in the living room. Hoseok is sitting on the floor, Yeri balanced between his knees, Minji nearby folding a blanket she did not need to touch. You are grateful she does not overstep. Grateful she does not pretend to belong in places that are still tender. Yeri crawls away from Hoseok toward the kitchen, spots Minji, and lights up. “Minji,” she says again, clearer this time.

Minji looks up, surprised, then smiles “Hey, sweetheart.”

Your heart does something strange. It tightens and opens all at once, like it cannot decide whether to defend or surrender. You smile too. You have learned how to do that. “She’s been saying names lately,” you say lightly. “She calls the lamp Baba.”

Hoseok laughs. “She does?”

“Very confidently.”

Minji chuckles. “I feel honored to be promoted above furniture.”

You laugh with them. It sounds convincing. Inside, something bends.

Later, while Hoseok is putting Yeri’s shoes on, Minji steps closer to you, lowering her voice. “I hope this isn’t weird,” she says. “I try to follow your lead. I never want to make you uncomfortable.”

You meet her eyes. She looks sincere. Kind. The kind of person you would like under different circumstances. “You’re doing fine,” you tell her. “She’s just… friendly.”

“She’s very loved,” Minji says. “It shows.” The words hit harder than anything else that day.

After they leave, the apartment feels unsettled. Like the walls have shifted slightly and not told you. You sit on the couch with Yeri asleep on your chest, counting the rise and fall of her breathing like it might anchor you.

She stirs, half-awake, mouth brushing your skin. “Mama,” she murmurs.

Relief washes through you, sharp and immediate. “Yes,” you whisper. “Mama’s here.”

The next time it happens, it hurts more because you expect it. Hoseok mentions it casually over text.

Hoseok: She said Minji’s name again today. Just copying sounds.

Your fingers hover over the screen.

You: She’s just learning. It’s fine.

You send it before you can change your mind. It is not fine.

You start noticing the small things. How Yeri reaches for Minji’s hair clips. How she crawls toward her with familiarity. How she does not hesitate. You tell yourself this is good. Healthy. Proof that your daughter is surrounded by care. Still, at night, you lie awake replaying every moment, wondering when love became something that could be shared so easily without asking your permission.

One evening, after Yeri is asleep, Hoseok stays longer than usual. He sits at the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone without looking at it. “She said your name today,” he says quietly.

You look up. “She did?”

“Yeah. Clear as day. ‘Mama.’”

Your chest loosens. “When?”

“This morning. When she woke up.” You smile.

“She always does that.”

He watches you. “You don’t have to compete.”

The words catch you off guard. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he says gently. “And it’s okay.”

You swallow. “I don’t want to be this person.”

“What person?”

“The one who feels replaced before she’s gone.”

He leans back in his chair, eyes softening. “You haven’t been replaced.”

“It feels like I could be.”

“That’s not how this works.”

You meet his gaze. “Then how does it work?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “We’re making it up as we go.”

You laugh quietly. “We always were.”

The conversation ends there, unfinished and heavy, like so many others. Later, alone, you stand in Yeri’s doorway watching her sleep. Her hand is curled around the corner of the blanket, just like always. She looks peaceful. Secure. You remind yourself of what matters. She is loved. She is safe. She knows who you are. Still, a question lingers in the quiet. If love can grow this easily, this fast, what happens when it starts to choose other shapes?

You close the door gently and lean your forehead against it. You are not angry. You are not cruel. You are just afraid of losing something you never thought you would have to share this deeply. And for the first time, you wonder how many invisible lines have already begun to blur.

It happens on a Thursday. You’re at home, working on your laptop, when she texts.

Minji: Hi, this is Minji. I hope it’s okay that I’m messaging you directly.

You stare at the screen longer than necessary. Your first instinct is politeness. Your second is distance. You choose the first because it is easier. You: Hi. Yes, that’s fine.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately. Minji: I just wanted to let you know I signed Yeri up for a toddler music class near Hoseok’s place. It’s Saturdays at ten. She loved the trial session.

Your fingers go cold. You read it again. Slowly. Carefully. As if the words might soften if you give them time. Signed. Up.

You imagine it. Yeri sitting in a circle of children, clapping to songs you won’t hear, laughing at moments you won’t witness. A memory created without you even knowing it was happening. You type. Stop. Delete. Type again.

You: I wasn’t aware there was a trial session.

A pause. Longer this time.

Minji: Oh. Hoseok said weekends were his time, so I thought it would be okay. I hope I didn’t overstep.

There it is. Overstep. Wrapped in courtesy. Softened with hope. Your chest aches in a way that feels old. Familiar. Like the first time you realized people could make decisions about your life without asking.

You: I would’ve liked to know.

Another pause.

Minji: I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.

You stare at the apology and realize it is not enough. It is not cruel. It is not malicious. And still, something inside you fractures. You do not reply. That night, Hoseok arrives early. He knocks instead of using his key, which tells you everything you need to know. He already senses the storm. "Hey,” he says when you open the door.

“Hey.”

Yeri toddles toward him immediately, arms raised. He lifts her, kisses her cheek, murmurs something only meant for her. You watch it all from the doorway, heart tight, hands steady.

“She asleep yet?” he asks.

“Not yet.”

He nods, sets her down with her toys. The apartment hums with tension you have not named out loud yet. He clears his throat.

“Minji told me she messaged you.”

You lean against the counter. "She signed Yeri up for a class.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t think to mention it?”

“I didn’t think it would be an issue.”

There it is. The sentence that lights the fuse.

“You didn’t think,” you repeat softly.

“It’s just a music class,” he says. “She enjoyed it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

You look at him. At the man who knows you better than anyone else and still manages to miss this. “She’s our child,” you say. “Not a shared project people can add features to.”

“She’s not being taken from you.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“You’re acting like it is.”

Your voice lifts before you can stop it.

“You let your girlfriend make choices about my daughter without telling me.”

He stiffens. “She didn’t mean any harm.”

“I don’t care what she meant.”

The words hang between you, sharp and undeniable.

“You’re being unfair,” he says. “She’s trying to be involved.”

“She’s not her parent.”

Neither of you breathe for a moment.

“I am,” you continue. “And you’re her father. That’s it. Those are the only two people who get to decide things.”

“She was just helping.”

“She doesn’t get to help like that.”

Yeri babbles from the floor, blissfully unaware. Hoseok glances at her, then back at you.

“Lower your voice,” he says.

“No,” you reply. “I’ve been quiet for too long.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is,” you snap. “I swallowed every uncomfortable feeling because I didn’t want to be the difficult one. I smiled through things that hurt because I thought that was maturity.”

“Then say what you want to say.”

You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “You don’t want that.”

“I do.”

“Fine,” you say. “I feel like I’m watching someone slowly step into my life and take pieces of it while everyone tells me I should be grateful she’s kind.”

“That’s not what’s happening.”

“It feels like it is.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re projecting.”

“You’re dismissing me.”

“Because this isn’t about a music class.”

“No,” you say. “It’s about you letting someone else stand where I used to stand.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Dangerous.

“That’s not fair,” he says quietly.

“When was fair ever part of this?” you ask.

“You’re the one who wanted space.”

“I wanted survival,” you fire back. “There’s a difference.”

His eyes darken.

“You think I didn’t feel trapped too?”

“There it is,” you say. “You always bring it back to that.”

“Because it matters.”

“You left,” you say. “I stayed.”

“I stayed too.”

“You stayed on weekends.”

The words spill faster now, years of restraint cracking open.

“I carried her,” you continue. “I lost sleep. I put my life on pause while you found ways to fit fatherhood into yours.”

“That’s not fair,” he repeats, louder this time.

“You got to be scared. I didn’t.”

“You think I wasn’t terrified?”

“I think you had the option to leave,” you say. “And I didn’t.”

The accusation lands hard. He stares at you like you have finally said the thing he has been bracing for all along.

“You think I walked away from you?” he asks.

“I think you walked away from us.”

His voice rises. “I was drowning too.”

“Then why was I the only one treading water?”

The room feels too small now. The walls press in. Yeri whines softly, sensing the shift.

Hoseok lowers his voice. “You think this is easy for me?”

“I think you found a way to move on,” you say. “And I never did.”

There it is. The truth you were never supposed to admit. The room goes silent. He looks at you differently now. Like he is seeing past your anger into the ache beneath it.

“You never said that,” he murmurs.

“You never asked.”

“I thought you were okay.”

“I learned how to look okay.”

He steps closer, then stops himself. “Is that what this is? Jealousy?”

“Yes,” you say without hesitation. “And grief. And exhaustion. And loving you in a way that never had anywhere to go.”

His breath shudders. “That’s not fair.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But it’s true.”

Neither of you speak for a long moment. The only sound is Yeri’s soft humming as she chews on her toy. Hoseok finally looks at her, then back at you. “We can’t keep doing this,” he says. “We’re going to hurt her.”

You and Hoseok keep talking long after the words stop making sense. Voices rise, then fall, then rise again, circling the same truths you have both memorized by heart. Love. Fear. Youth lost too early. Promises that never learned how to survive adulthood.

“I never said I didn’t care,” he tells you, hands pressed into his hair like he can hold his thoughts still.

“You didn’t have to,” you answer. “I felt it every time you chose quiet over us.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither was asking me to be brave enough for both of us.”

The room feels smaller the longer you stand in it. Familiar walls watching two people who once knew how to breathe together now struggling to stay in the same air.

“I’m tired,” he says finally. “I’m tired of fighting like this.”

“So am I,” you whisper. “But we keep doing it.”

Nothing is settled. There is no closure. No understanding reached. Just exhaustion and the dull ache of knowing this conversation will repeat itself in different shapes for years. He leaves before dawn, comes back only to pick up Yeri for the weekend. You stand by the door while he buckles her shoes, neither of you looking at each other for too long.

“Call me if she needs anything,” you say.

He nods. “I will.”

And he does. But only then.

After that, his calls are careful and brief. Always with Yeri’s voice in the background. Always practical. Drop off times. Fevers. School forms. He never asks how you are. You never offer. Yeri adapts the way children do. With grace that makes adults ache.

By four, she knows the schedule better than either of you. Fridays mean her small backpack by the door. Sundays mean counting how many sleeps until next weekend. She talks about both houses with the same excitement, like they are chapters in the same story instead of two halves pulled apart. She talks about Minji too.

“Minji makes pancakes like clouds,” she tells you one morning.

You smile. You always smile. You have learned how to make it convincing.

Minji is polite when you see her. Soft voiced. Careful. There is always a slight pause before she speaks to you, like she is checking invisible rules. You endure it. For Yeri. You endure the way Minji brushes crumbs from Yeri’s shirt. The way she tucks hair behind her ear. The way she stands just a little too close to Hoseok. You tell yourself this is adulthood. You tell yourself love is not ownership. You tell yourself a lot of things.

Yeri’s fifth birthday arrives faster than you are ready for. “She wants a park party,” Hoseok says over the phone. “With balloons. Minji found this place with—”

You close your eyes. “We should talk about it together.”

There is a pause. “Can you come to my house tomorrow?”

You arrive at the address Hoseok sent. His house is modern, spacious, and immaculate. Minji is there too, the first to greet you at the door, warm but observant. You follow her inside and settle at the table, a steaming cup of coffee in front of you, a notebook open between you like an unspoken truce. From her room, Yeri hums softly, oblivious to the delicate tension quietly unfolding in the living room. “I was thinking unicorn theme,” Minji says brightly. “Kids love unicorns.”

You glance at Hoseok. He does not meet your eyes. “She likes dinosaurs too,” you say.

Minji nods quickly. “Oh, absolutely. We could combine them. Like magical dinosaurs.”

You wait. You breathe. You let it pass.

“And I found this baker,” Minji continues. “She does custom cakes. I already talked to her about flavors.”

Already. “That’s great,” you say, voice even. “Did you ask Yeri what she wanted?”

“She said pink,” Minji replies. “So I figured—”

“She also said green yesterday,” you cut in. “She changes her mind.”

Minji laughs softly. “That’s kids.”

You smile. It feels tight. “That’s her.”

Hoseok clears his throat. “We’re just trying to make it special.”

“I know,” you say. “So am I.”

Minji flips her notebook around. “I made a list.”

You look at it. Venue. Cake. Games. Guest list. Everything filled in. You blink. “When did this happen?”

“Oh, over the last few weeks,” she says. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

The word lands wrong. “You didn’t want to bother me,” you repeat. “About my daughter’s birthday.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You planned everything,” you say, still calm, still controlled. “Without me.”

Hoseok finally looks up. “We thought it would be easier.”

Something sharp laughs out of you. “Easier for who?”

Minji’s smile falters. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I didn’t ask for help,” you reply, the edge creeping in despite your effort. “I asked for a conversation.”

“Well, the deposits are paid,” Minji says. “So it’s kind of already decided.”

The room goes quiet.

You nod slowly. “Of course it is.”

Hoseok reaches out. “Hey—”

You stand. “It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t sound fine,” he says.

You grab your bag. “Why would it need to be? You’ve got it handled.”

“That’s not fair.”

You tilt your head. “Funny. I keep hearing that.”

Minji shifts uncomfortably. “I really didn’t mean to overstep.”

You look at her fully for the first time. “You didn’t mean to. You just did.”

Silence stretches thin.

“I’ll leave you to it,” you say, moving toward the door. “Since I’m clearly not needed.”

Hoseok stands too. “Don’t do this.”

“I didn’t,” you answer. “You already did.”

You pause at the doorway, voice softer now. “Just make sure she’s happy. That’s all that matters.”

You leave before anyone can stop you. Outside, the air is cool. Your hands shake as you unlock your car. Inside your chest, something aches in a way that has learned patience.

You arrive at Hoseok’s house carrying Yeri asleep in your arms, her small body warm against yours. The party is here, at his place, and you promised yourself, you promised Yeri—you wouldn’t ruin it. No arguments. No tension from you. This day is hers. That’s all that matters. Hoseok meets you at the door, gently taking Yeri into his arms. “She’s heavy,” he says softly, smiling. “You’ve got strong arms, Mama.” You nod, smile faintly, and step inside, letting him lead the way.

Minji is already moving through the apartment, orchestrating the party like a director on set. She fluffs balloons, checks the cake, adjusts tableware, and gestures for the favors to be aligned just so. Every motion is precise. Every word she speaks is like a command, but she says it with a smile. “Here, let’s put the unicorn cake here, next to the favors, for the photos,” she says brightly. “And the balloons—oh, they’ll look perfect grouped over there. Don’t you think, Hoseok?”

You take a deep breath and step closer. “I thought maybe we could spread the balloons out, so the kids can run around without bumping into them,” you suggest gently.

Minji tilts her head, a faint frown appearing. “But if we do that, the photos won’t look as coordinated. I just want it to look magical.”

You glance at Hoseok, hesitating for a fraction of a second. You could argue. You could push. But this day isn’t about winning. It’s about Yeri. So you swallow the irritation, nod politely, and step back. “Okay,” you say softly. Minji smiles, oblivious to your internal tension. “And I thought we could do the favors first, so all the kids get excited before the cake. That way, it feels like the day is moving perfectly.”

You bite your lip, quietly noticing every way Minji takes control, how she barely listens to anything you suggest. How she speaks as if Yeri belongs to her too. You force a calm expression, reminding yourself this is Yeri’s birthday. You will not ruin it.

Hoseok senses your silence and steps slightly closer to you, his hand brushing lightly against your back. “It’s okay, Y/N,” he murmurs. You nod again, a little tighter this time, your jaw aching. You watch as Minji continues, her movements smooth, confident, precise, as if the world revolves around the perfect execution of her plans. You notice how she corrects little things, how she reorganizes Yeri’s presents, arranges the snacks, even tells Yeri which game to play first. Every suggestion you make is quietly overridden. You don’t argue. You don’t point it out. You remind yourself that this day is not for proving a point. This day is for your daughter.

Yeri wakes and blinks up at the colors, the noise, the bustle. She beams, oblivious to the adult tension around her. She runs to the decorations, laughing as she dodges between balloons and streamers. You watch her, feeling a pang of both pride and quiet resentment, noticing how easily Minji inserts herself as the orchestrator, the one who “knows best.”

“She loves these,” Minji says, adjusting Yeri’s hair. “I figured the balloons should go here first. And the table—oh, this way the unicorn cake is perfect for photos.” You nod faintly, stepping back. “Yes, that’s fine.”

Hoseok watches you, his eyes flicking between the two of you. He notices the subtle irritation curling in your hands, the way your jaw tightens ever so slightly. He sees what you see, the quiet control Minji exerts, the way she positions herself almost like the mother in this room. But he also sees you holding back, restraining your voice, letting it go because this day is Yeri’s, not yours.

The party continues in a blur of laughter and chaos, the children running and squealing, cake eaten in pastel-smeared bites, balloons bouncing. You stand to the side, arms crossed, observing every detail. Minji still adjusts, rearranges, directs. And you notice. You feel it. But you don’t say a word. Not one. Because Yeri’s happiness is louder than your frustration. Hoseok kneels beside Yeri, guiding her hand to the cake, his voice soft. He looks at you, the unspoken question in his eyes clear. You shake your head ever so slightly. Today is hers.

Minji glances at you once, smiling sweetly, unaware that she’s making your chest tighten. You force another polite smile, then turn your attention to Yeri again, smoothing her hair and brushing frosting from her fingers. By the end of the party, Yeri is exhausted, wrapped in your arms again as she drifts off in the car ride home. The balloons have been deflated, the cake eaten, the laughter lingering in the corners of Hoseok’s house like a fragile memory.

You notice Hoseok’s gaze on Minji—subtle, sharp, disapproving. He notices the same thing you did: how she takes control, how she doesn’t hear you, how she doesn’t see that some boundaries cannot be ignored without hurting someone else. But for tonight, nothing is said. For tonight, you let it pass, because Yeri is sleeping, and her birthday was hers, not a stage for adult fights. The car is quiet, the city lights blurring outside the window, and for the first time all day, you exhale. You’ve survived. Yeri has smiled. And sometimes, that is enough.

The house is finally quiet. Hours ago it was filled with shrieks of children, the sugary scent of frosting, bright paper crowns sliding off tiny heads. Now the balloons sag against the ceiling like exhausted lungs. Pink streamers trail down the staircase. A half-eaten slice of cake sits abandoned on a paper plate. Hoseok stands in the living room now, sleeves rolled up, gathering empty cups into a trash bag. Minji is still in her party dress. She hasn’t changed. She hasn’t moved much either. Just pacing. Watching him. Waiting.

“You didn’t say thank you,” she says finally.

Hoseok doesn’t look up. “For what?”

“For today. For everything I did.” Her tone is tight but sugar-coated. “I planned this entire party.”

He ties the trash bag slowly. “It was nice.”

“Nice?” she repeats, incredulous. “Nice?”

He exhales. “Minji, it was Yeri’s birthday. Not a corporate event.”

She laughs sharply. “Excuse me?”

He straightens. His expression is calm, but something underneath is shifting. “You turned it into a production. Every little detail had to be your way.”

Her smile drops. “Because I know what I’m doing.”

He holds her gaze. “Do you?”

She crosses her arms. “If this is about earlier, when she tried to suggest that ugly handmade banner—”

Hoseok’s jaw sets. “That banner,” Minji continues, “would have ruined the aesthetic. I worked hard on the theme. I wasn’t going to let some last-minute craft project—”

“She made that with Yeri.”

The words land heavy. Minji rolls her eyes. “Okay? And? It didn’t match.”

“It didn’t have to match.”

“It’s our house,” Minji shoots back. “If we’re hosting, it should look cohesive.”

Hoseok studies her. Something in his chest tightens. “She’s Yeri’s mother.”

Minji scoffs. “And I’m the one actually here.”

There it is. The line. Hoseok goes still.

“What does that mean?” he asks quietly.

“It means,” Minji says, stepping closer, voice gaining heat, “she gets to swoop in for birthdays and holidays and act sentimental, and I’m the one dealing with the day-to-day adjustments. The schedule. The routines. The planning. So forgive me if I take the lead when it comes to doing things properly.”

Hoseok’s hands clench at his sides. “She didn’t argue with you,” he says.

“She didn’t have to,” Minji replies smoothly. “She knows this is my space.”

He lets out a slow breath. "No,” he says. “She stepped back because she didn’t want to ruin Yeri’s birthday.”

Minji’s eyes flash. “Oh my god. Are you serious right now? You’re defending her?”

“I’m pointing out what happened.”

“You’ve been watching her all day,” Minji snaps. “Every time she looked uncomfortable, you noticed. Every time I made a decision, you looked at her to see how she felt.”

“That’s not—”

“It is.”

Her voice rises. “You hovered around her like she might break. Like I was the villain for trying to organize a children’s party.”

“You dismissed her,” Hoseok says, tone harder now. “Every suggestion. Every idea. You didn’t even listen.”

“I didn’t need to,” Minji says. “They weren’t good ideas.”

Hoseok stares at her. “She is Yeri’s mother,” he repeats, slower this time. “You do not get to override her.”

Minji laughs again, but there’s an edge to it now. “Why are you so pressed about this? It’s a party.”

“It’s respect.”

“She gets respect just for existing?”

“She gets respect because she is Yeri’s mother.”

“And what am I?” Minji demands. “A placeholder?”

Hoseok doesn’t answer fast enough. Her face changes.

“That’s it, isn’t it?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t twist this.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” she says, voice trembling now but still sharp. “You’ve been protecting her all night."

“I’m protecting boundaries.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Minji—”

“No,” she cuts in. “Answer me. Why do you care so much about how she felt today? Why does it bother you that I took control?”

He looks exhausted now. “Because you crossed a line.”

“She’s your ex.”

“She’s the mother of my child.”

“She’s also the woman you couldn’t make it work with,” Minji says, stepping closer. “So why does it look like you’re still choosing her side?”

The room feels smaller. The air thicker. Hoseok’s voice drops. “This isn’t about sides.”

“Then what is it about?” she demands.

He doesn’t respond. Minji studies him. And then her voice changes. Quieter. Sharper.

Do you still love her?”

The question hangs there. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t confirm it either. Minji swallows. “Answer me.”

Hoseok looks at her steadily. “If I say yes, what then?”

Her breath stutters. The mask slips. "So that’s it,” she whispers.

Silence floods the space between them. Her voice shakes now. “All this time. All this effort. And you still… what? Carry her around in your chest like unfinished business?”

He doesn’t look away. “That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair,” she says, tears finally breaking free, “is building something with someone who is still emotionally tethered somewhere else.”

Hoseok’s shoulders drop. “I never disrespected you,” he says quietly.

“No,” she agrees bitterly. “You just never let her go.”

He says nothing. And that is answer enough.

Minji lets out a hollow laugh. “I felt it today. The way you watched her. The way your voice changed when you told me I crossed a line. You’ve never spoken to me like that before.”

“She didn’t deserve that.”

“And neither do I.”

He closes his eyes briefly.

“You’re right.”

The words land softly, but they cut deep. Minji wipes her cheeks angrily. “I can’t compete with history, Hoseok. I can’t compete with shared memories and a child and whatever you two never resolved.”

She steps back toward the door. “I deserve someone who doesn’t hesitate when I ask if he still loves his ex.”

He looks at her. There’s regret there. And truth.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he says.

“But you did.” She opens the door. Pauses.

“If she asked you to come back,” Minji says, voice breaking, “you wouldn’t even think about it.”

Hoseok doesn’t answer. Minji nods slowly, as if confirming something she already knew “Goodbye, Hoseok.” The door shuts behind her. The house is quiet again. Balloons shifting slightly in the air conditioner breeze. Confetti stuck to the floor. He stands there alone, staring at the space she just vacated. And for the first time in years, the truth isn’t buried under convenience or routine. It’s sitting right there in the silence. Unavoidable.

Morning arrives gently, like it knows better than to rush a house that has learned how to survive on quiet. Sunlight slips through the curtains in thin gold lines. Yeri is already awake, sitting cross legged on her bed, humming to herself while lining up her stuffed animals in a crooked row. She looks up when you step into her room, eyes bright, hair sticking up in every direction. "Park day,” she announces proudly.

You smile, brushing her hair back, kissing the top of her head. “Park day.”

She throws her arms around your neck, all warmth and certainty, the kind that reminds you why you keep going even on the days when your heart feels tired. By the time you’re dressed and ready, Yeri is wearing her favorite sneakers and clutching her little backpack. Snacks inside. A juice box sticking out crookedly. You lock the door behind you, adjusting the strap of your bag, already planning the route in your head. That’s when you hear his voice.

“Hey.”

You turn. Hoseok stands at the end of the hallway, holding Yeri’s jacket. The pink one she forgot at his place. He looks like he didn’t sleep much. Hoodie thrown on without care. Hair still slightly damp. His eyes find yours and don’t look away. “I thought you might need this,” he says, lifting the jacket slightly.

“Oh,” you reply, surprised. “Thank you.”

Yeri squeals and runs to him. “Daddy!”

He crouches automatically, catching her, laughing softly as she nearly knocks him over “You forgot this, sunshine,” he says, slipping the jacket over her arms. “It might get cold later.”

She nods seriously. “Mommy says the wind can be sneaky.”

He glances at you then, something unreadable passing across his face. “She’s right.”

There’s a pause. A small one. But it feels heavier than it should. “I was about to take her to the park,” you say, mostly to fill the space.

He straightens slowly. “Which one?”

“The one near Maple Street.”

He hesitates. Just for a second. Then, “I can go with you. If that’s okay.”

You don’t answer right away. This is new. He never stays longer than necessary. Never joins. Never lingers. Yeri looks between you eagerly. “Can Daddy come?”

You look at Hoseok. He’s not pushing. Not smiling. Just waiting. "Okay,” you say quietly. His shoulders relax in a way that feels instinctive. Like his body remembers how to be here.

The walk to the park is slow. Yeri skips ahead, stopping to inspect every crack in the sidewalk, every leaf that looks even slightly interesting. You and Hoseok follow a few steps behind, side by side, not touching. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s careful.

At the park, Yeri runs straight for the swings. Hoseok pushes her first, counting each swing out loud, making her laugh until her voice rings across the playground. You sit on a nearby bench, watching them, the familiar ache rising in your chest. He joins you after a while, sitting close enough that your sleeves almost brush “She’s growing fast,” he says.

“You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time.”

You nod, eyes still on Yeri. “She likes routines. Makes her feel safe.”

He swallows. “I know.”

Another pause. This one heavier.

“I should tell you something,” he says.

You turn to him. “What is it?”

“Minji left last night.”

The words land quietly.

You blink. “Oh.”

“I didn’t plan to tell you today,” he adds quickly. “I just didn’t want to lie by omission.”

You look back at the playground. “I didn’t know.”

“I figured.”

You wait for more. It doesn’t come.

“Why are you telling me?” you ask gently.

“Because I’m tired of pretending there aren’t things we need to say.”

Your hands rest in your lap. You don’t move them. He exhales slowly. “Last night made me realize how long I’ve been avoiding the truth. Not just with her. With myself.”

You say nothing. You’ve learned how easily words can bruise.

“I know I don’t get to rewrite the past,” he continues. “I know I hurt you. I know we were young and scared and trying to be adults before we even knew how to be people.”

Your throat tightens.

"But there’s something I owe you,” he says. “Honesty. Not as co parents. As the people we were before everything broke.”

You finally look at him. His eyes are steady. Nervous. Open.

“I never stopped loving you,” he says.

The world doesn’t shatter. It doesn’t explode. It softens.

“I tried,” he continues, voice quiet. “I tried to move forward. I tried to convince myself that what we had belonged to a different version of us. But every time I saw you with Yeri, every time you laughed the same way, or worried the same way… it was still there.”

You breathe in slowly. The air feels thinner. “I was angry at you for a long time,” you admit. “For not choosing us when it got hard.”

He nods. “I know.”

“And I was angry at myself,” you add. “For wanting you even when I told myself I shouldn’t.”

He looks down at his hands. “I don’t expect forgiveness. Or answers. I just couldn’t keep letting silence speak for me.”

You watch Yeri slide down the slide, triumphant “She deserves honesty,” you say. “Even if it’s messy.”

He looks back at you then. “So do you.”

You close your eyes briefly. "I still love you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t reach for you. He just lets the words exist. The silence that follows isn’t empty. Yeri runs back toward you, cheeks flushed, arms wide. You both stand at the same time, instinctively reaching for her, hands brushing. Neither of you pull away.

The future isn’t clear. There are conversations ahead. Apologies. Healing. But as you walk home together, Yeri between you, holding both your hands, the quiet feels different. Like the beginning, not the end.

Love does not return like a storm or a confession shouted across a room. It comes back quietly. In pieces. In moments that don’t announce themselves until later, when you realize your chest doesn’t hurt the way it used to. Three months pass. Then six. There are conversations that stretch late into the night after Yeri falls asleep. About what scared you. About how young you were. About how lonely it felt to love each other while drowning in responsibility. There are apologies that don’t ask for forgiveness. Just understanding. There are boundaries rebuilt. Trust relearned. Space respected.

Hoseok doesn’t move back in right away. He doesn’t assume anything. He shows up when he says he will. Leaves when he should. Lets you set the pace. Sometimes you still argue. Sometimes the past flares up in small ways. A tone. A memory. A fear neither of you fully outran. But now, when it happens, neither of you walks away.

Yeri is the first to notice the change. She notices how Daddy stays for dinner more often. How Mama laughs easier when he’s around. How movie nights slowly become the three of you on the couch, her feet in his lap, your shoulder against his. One night, she looks up at you both and asks, “Are we… a family?"

You and Hoseok exchange a look.

“Yeah,” you tell her softly. “We are.”

She smiles like she knew it all along.

The first time Hoseok stays over, it’s uneventful. He sleeps on the couch. You lie awake in your room anyway, heart restless, listening to the sound of his breathing through the wall.

In the morning, he’s in the kitchen making pancakes. Burnt ones. You laugh, leaning against the doorway. “You still flip too early.”

He grins sheepishly. “Some things don’t change.”

Some things do.

Months later, it’s a quiet afternoon. Rain tapping against the windows. Yeri coloring at the table. Hoseok beside you on the couch, close enough now that it feels natural. He takes your hand without thinking. You let him.

"I don’t know what the future looks like,” he says. “But I know I don’t want to do it without you.”

You squeeze his fingers. “We’ll take it slow.”

“I know.”

“And we’ll mess up.”

He smiles softly. “Probably.”

You rest your head against his shoulder.

But this time, it doesn’t feel like clinging. It feels like choosing.

Outside, the rain eases. Inside, your daughter hums to herself, safe and happy.

And for the first time in a long while, love doesn’t feel like something you’re trying to survive.

It feels like something you’re finally allowed to grow.

End.

[dreamescapeswriting]

Keep reading

[jungkoode]

WE GREW UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY | 08

pairing: hoseok x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 8,6k | warnings: here genre: childhood bffs, grumpy x sunshine, emotional slow burn, smut

"nya"

"The costume was supposed to make this less weird, not more—but then you said 'nya' like an absolute muppet and he had to physically turn away, and now you can't tell if you're dying of embarrassment or something infinitely more dangerous."

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↦ author's note : Hey besties welcome back to emotional damage central (ㆁωㆁ)

So. So. This chapter is approximately 8k words of 'things are fine and normal and nothing is weird at all' energy and I need you all to put on your detective hats because there is SO MUCH happening beneath the surface that Capy's oblivious ass is completely missing. Unreliable narrators are a GIFT. Just because our girl isn't clocking certain behaviors doesn't mean they're not happening. Hoseok is doing A LOT this chapter and I need you guys to notice. Get your magnifying glasses out. Observe his body language. His word choices. Where he positions himself. What he does when he thinks she's not paying attention.

Chekov's gun is my beloved child and I have planted approximately seventeen firearms throughout this chapter that WILL go off later. I'm being so serious right now. If something feels oddly specific or gets mentioned more than once, tuck that information away for safekeeping because I don't write throwaway lines. Everything matters. I'm unhinged like that.

Also I won't lie I'm half tempted to write this chapter from Hoseok's POV as well because the internal monologue would be FERAL but we're committed to Capy's perspective so you'll just have to read between the lines. What is he thinking when he turns his chair around at 3AM? What is he doing with his hands when she does the nya? Why does he keep repositioning himself? Magnifying glasses, people. Use them.

And listen. I'm not gonna apologize for the random domestic softness and all-nighter shenanigans. This is a childhood friends-to-lovers slow burn. You SIGNED UP for this specific brand of torment. You clicked the tags knowing full well what you were getting into. This is your responsibility now, not mine. I will not be held accountable for any feelings you develop about konbini breakfast dates or shared coffee at stupid o'clock in the morning.

One more thing!!! Pay attention to what Capy chooses to do versus what she tells herself she's doing. Our girl is the QUEEN of rationalization and if you take her internal justifications at face value you're missing half the story. Why is she really calling in sick? Why does she keep staying? What is she actually running from—and what is she running toward?

Anyway that's enough cryptic author rambling. Go forth and read. And then come scream at me in the comments about what you noticed because I'm VIBRATING with the need to discuss this chapter's psychological layers.

You're welcome and I'm (not <3) sorry (ノ◕ヮ◕)ノ*:・゚✧

One week.

That’s how long it’s been since you sat in Jung Hoseok’s lap and came so hard you saw stars.

One week since you bolted down four flights of stairs and had a full-blown panic attack against a 7-Eleven wall.

One week of absolutely not texting him back beyond one-word responses.

One week of pretending you had very important things to do that definitely did not involve hiding in your flat and overthinking every single second of what happened.

And now you’re in his building again—staring at the broken lift sign like it holds the secrets of the universe—because he texted you last night:

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸’𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍. 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝟺 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐. (｡•́︿•̀｡)

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙽𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎. 𝙸 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘. (＞﹏＜)

That’s it. No ‘are you okay?’ No ’what the fuck just happened?’ No ’can we talk about this?’

Like he knew. Like he always bloody knows that chasing you makes it worse, that asking questions makes your chest tighten, that the only thing that works is leaving the door open and letting you come back on your own terms.

Which you did.

Like an absolute muppet.

You’d stared at that message for twenty minutes before typing back.

So here you are. One week later.

Standing in his genkan, shoes half-off, staring at the floor while he sat on the couch pretending to be very interested in his phone.

“Hey,” he’d said quietly.

“Hey.”

“You good?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

And that was it. That was the whole bloody conversation.

No interrogation. No demands for explanation. Just ’you good?’ and ’cool’ and then he’d gone to make tea like nothing had happened.

Like you hadn’t just dry-humped him to completion one week ago and then ran away like a scared rabbit.

Except everything’s different now.

Every single thing.

You’re sitting on his couch—the opposite end from where he’s perched, as far away as physically possible without actually leaving the furniture—and the air itself feels heavy.

Your knee bounces. You force it to stop. It starts again thirty seconds later.

He’s doing that thing where he pretends to look at his phone but his eyes keep flicking up to you and then away again. Quick little glances like he’s checking if you’re still real. Still here.

You can’t look at him properly.

Every time you try, your brain helpfully supplies a full-colour replay of when you were in his lap, grinding on his cock, making him cum in his jeans while he—

Stop it.

“So,” he says finally, and his voice comes out rougher than usual. Clears his throat. “We should probably… talk about it?”

“About what?” The words come out too fast. Too defensive.

“About…” He gestures vaguely between you. “You know. The thing. Last week. When we—”

“For reference.”

“Right. For reference.” He nods quickly. Too quickly. “Absolutely. Just reference. But maybe we should… I don’t know. Just for the future… Like, maybe set some rules? Boundaries? Make sure we’re both… comfortable?”

The word comfortable makes you want to laugh.

Because nothing about this is comfortable.

Not the way your skin feels too tight. Not the way your heart’s still beating too fast. Not the way you can still feel the phantom pressure of his hands on your hips, his cock against you, his breath on your neck.

But he’s right. You need rules. Structure.

Something to make this feel less like you’ve completely lost the plot.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “Yeah. Rules.”

“Right.” He shifts on the couch, and your eyes track the way his thigh muscle flexes beneath his jeans. “So. You make them. Whatever you need to feel… safe.”

Safe.

The word does something weird to your chest.

“No lap sitting,” you say immediately.

“Sure. What else?”

You open your mouth. Close it.

Because the obvious one is ’keep clothes on’, but then you remember the shopping bags.

Full of costumes he spent a fortune on specifically for this manga. For Miki. For getting the references right.

And you’d been the one to agree to this. The one who said yes to modelling. Who said yes to the cat ears. Who suggested the bloody tail.

Hoseok’s looking at you now, eyebrows raised slightly. Waiting.

“I was gonna say keep clothes on,” you mutter finally, rubbing the back of your neck. “But it’s a hentai manga and I just remembered you bought all these costumes and—”

You press your lips together. Feel heat creeping up your neck.

He blinks at you.

Then looks at the floor, and his face goes red. Proper red. The kind that spreads down his neck and probably keeps going under his collar.

“Oh.”

That’s it. Just ’oh.’

Neither of you is looking at each other now. Both staring very intently at different parts of the floor.

The silence stretches for a couple beats before Hoseok breaks it again.

“I mean,” he starts, and his voice has gone high.

Clears his throat again, drops it back down.

“I mean, do you want to—do you feel like maybe—trying on a costume? It could help… ease this weird tension? After—” He stops. Swallows. “After, um. What happened.”

Your brain does something complicated with that suggestion.

Because on one hand, putting on a costume sounds mental. Absolutely bonkers.

Why would wearing a tiny skirt and cat ears make this less awkward?!

But on the other hand…

Maybe hiding behind Miki would be easier than being you right now. Than sitting here in your normal clothes feeling like your skin’s been turned inside out.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Yeah. Maybe that would… help.”

He finally looks up at you, and his eyes are soft. Understanding.

“Which one do you want to try?”

“I don’t know. You bought like twenty thousand items.”

“I bought six items.”

“That’s twenty thousand in my comfort-zone currency.”

He actually smiles at that—small, but real—and some of the tension breaks.

“C’mon then.” He stands up. “Let’s see what you’re comfortable with.”

You follow him to the bedroom, and your brain is screaming at you that this is a bad idea, that you should leave, that you’re making everything worse.

But you don’t leave.

You watch him spread the purchases out on his bed like he’s displaying art.

The pleated black skirt. The white button-up with the heart cutout. The crop top with strategic gaps. The thigh-high stockings.

The bloody tail box.

“So,” he says, hands shoved in his pockets. “What feels… okay? What can you actually wear without wanting to murder me?”

You study the options.

The pink thing with ribbons is immediately out. Too cutesy. Too much. The crop top makes your stomach flip for reasons you’re not examining.

But the black skirt and white shirt…

“That one,” you say, pointing. “The schoolgirl-adjacent thing. It’s the least… offensive.”

“Yeah?” He’s already gathering it up. “You want the stockings too?”

“Might as well commit to the bit.”

“Very professional commitment.” But he’s smiling, and it makes something warm curl in your chest.

You grab the cat ears from where they’re sitting in the shelf—the good ones, the expensive custom pair that actually look real—and then your eyes snag on the tail box.

“We should probably…” You gesture at it. “Check that thing? Make sure it works? Since you paid a fortune for it?”

His eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “You want to try the tail?”

“I want to make sure you didn’t waste your money on a dud.”

“Right. Quality control. Very sensible.”

He picks up the box, and you both sit on the edge of his bed while he carefully opens it.

The tail itself is beautiful, actually—sleek black fur that looks genuinely soft, with a subtle curve that’s more elegant than the cheap costume versions.

There’s an instruction manual in Japanese that Hoseok immediately starts reading, brow furrowed in concentration.

You pull out the tail itself, running your fingers through the fur. It’s responsive—even without being turned on, it has this weighted quality that makes it move naturally.

“Okay, so there’s three sensitivity modes,” Hoseok mutters, still reading. “Responds to movement and—” He pauses. Squints at the text. “—emotional state.…? I’m so curious about that one.”

“Probably bullshit marketing.”

“Likely.” He’s turning the box over, reading the back. “And it comes with two attachment options. There’s the belt clip for—”

You’re digging through the packaging, and your fingers close around something that is definitely not a belt clip.

It’s silicone. Tapered. With a flared base.

Your brain takes approximately three seconds to process what you’re holding.

“FUCKING HELL!”

The thing flies out of your hands like it’s radioactive.

Hoseok’s head snaps up. “What? What’s wrong?”

You’re pointing at the offending object where it’s landed on his bed, face burning so hot you’re surprised you haven’t spontaneously combusted.

“That’s a—that’s a bloody—”

His eyes follow your finger. Land on the silicone nightmare.

His whole face goes scarlet.

“Oh.”

“OH? That’s all you’ve got? OH?”

“I didn’t—I didn’t know it came with—” He’s staring at it like it might bite him. “The package didn’t say—”

“It’s a butt plug, Ott!”

“I can see that!”

“You bought me a tail with a butt plug attachment!”

“I didn’t know!” His voice has gone high and strangled. “I thought it was just—I thought the mechanical bit was—fuck, I don’t know what I thought!”

You’re both staring at the thing like it’s a bomb.

“Okay,” he says finally, voice very careful. Very controlled. “Okay, we’re just—we’re gonna use the clip one. Obviously. The clip attachment. Which is normal and appropriate and doesn’t involve—” He gestures wildly at the plug. “—that.”

“Yeah. Obviously. The clip. Just the clip.”

“Just the clip.”

“Because anything else would be—”

“Absolutely not happening.”

“Right. Good. Agreed.”

Neither of you moves to actually touch the plug.

It just sits there on his bed. Mocking you. A perfect little silicone monument to how completely out of hand this whole situation has got.

“I’m gonna,” Hoseok starts, then clears his throat. “I’m gonna go find the belt clip attachment. Which is definitely. Somewhere. In this box.”

“Good. You do that.”

He rummages through the packaging, and eventually produces a simple black belt clip that looks blessedly normal.

“Right,” he says, holding it up like a trophy. “This. We’re using this. Just this.”

“Just that.”

“Nothing else.”

“Absolutely nothing else.”

The butt plug continues to sit there, ignored by mutual agreement.

You grab the skirt, the shirt, the stockings.

Pause.

Because… Wait a second.

Wouldn’t…. wouldn’t going to the bathroom make this weird?

You’ve changed in front of each other a million times when you were kids. Yanked your clothes off anytime you were at the beach or the pool without any regard for property.

But now you’re adults and that was years ago and you don’t know what’s weirder—hesitating about it, or actually changing in his bathroom.

Because going to the bathroom would make this weird. Like it's a bigger deal than it is. Like you can't handle changing in the same room as him with his back turned like a normal bloody adult.

Plus his bathroom's not really big and the mirror's completely useless—barely shows your face, let alone a full outfit. And there's probably wet towels everywhere because he's a disaster.

This is normal. You need to make this normal. You need to make this not-a-big-deal.

So. Here it is.

Very normal. Like childhood friends. Which you are.

"Okay," you say finally. "I'm gonna… change. So. Turn around."

"Oh. Right. Yeah." He immediately spins to face the wall, hands clasped behind his back like he's a soldier at attention.

You peel off your shirt, and glance down at your bra underneath—white, nothing special—but you're suddenly very conscious of the fact that you're standing here in Hoseok's bedroom in your bloody bra.

His shoulders are rigid. Locked. Like he's using every ounce of willpower to keep from turning around.

The oversized pants come off next—you shimmy out of them, the fabric pooling at your feet. You're in your underwear now, and the air feels cold against your bare legs.

You hear him shift his weight.

"You good over there?" you mutter.

"Yep. Great. Totally fine. Very fine."

His voice has gone up half an octave.

The stockings go on first—thigh-highs that cling just below where your thighs get soft, the elastic biting in slightly. You have to bend over to roll them up properly, and you hear him shift again.

Focus. You need to focus. This is professional. You're helping with manga reference. That's it.

The pleated skirt goes on next. It's shorter than you expected—leaving a bit of your asscheeks out when you zip it up, the pleats flaring slightly when you move. The waistband sits high, just below your ribs.

You try to yank it down to no avail. It is that length and you’ll have to resign to your life choices.

The tail clips onto the back of your skirt easily, and the weight of it is strange. Makes you aware of your lower back, your hips, the way it brushes against your thighs when you move.

The white button-up goes on last. You do up the buttons from the bottom, leaving the top three undone because that feels like something Miki would do. The collar falls open, showing your collarbones, the hollow of your throat.

You catch sight of yourself in the small mirror propped against his wall and freeze.

Oh.

The skirt makes your legs look longer. The stockings create these clean lines up your thighs that draw the eye up. The shirt's fitted enough to show your shape—the curve of your waist, the way the fabric pulls slightly across your chest where you've left it unbuttoned.

And the tail completes it. Makes the whole outfit shift from costume to something that actually looks… cohesive.

You look…

You look different. Not like yourself.

Like someone who belongs in one of Hoseok's drawings instead of standing in his bedroom feeling like an imposter.

The cat ears go on next, nestled into your hair, and somehow they pull the whole thing together.

"Can I turn around yet?" Hoseok's voice is a sigh. "My neck's starting to cramp."

"Yeah. Fine. Turn around."

He does.

And his whole face stutters.

His eyes go wide, lips parting on an inhale he doesn't finish. Just stares, gaze tracking from your face down to your legs—lingering on the stockings, the pleats of the skirt—and then back up again.

"Fuck," he breathes out. "You look—"

"Don't."

"—exactly like Miki. Like exactly like—"

"I said don't." But your face is heating up, burning under his stare.

"The ears are perfect. And the skirt's the right length and—shit, Capy, you look incredible."

Your whole face is on fire now. "Shut up."

"I'm serious! This is—this is exactly what I pictured. You're—"

"Shut up." You're looking at the wall now, anywhere but at him. "Stop being weird about it."

"I'm not being weird, I'm being accurate. You look amazing and it's factually relevant to—"

"Hoseok, I swear to god—"

He drops into his desk chair with this weird jerky motion. And then he's angling himself—turning the chair slightly to the side, one leg crossed over the other, body positioned at this odd angle.

His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, and you notice the flush spreading down from his face. Creeping past his collar, staining his throat red.

"Is it hot in here?" His voice comes out rough. "Feel like it's got really warm."

It's not warm. If anything, you're cold—the skirt and stockings leaving way too much skin exposed.

But he's sweating.

Slightly. Just at his hairline, at his temples.

He's probably just as awkward about this as you are.

You're standing here in a tiny skirt and cat ears—of course he's flustered. He's a guy. This is weird for both of you.

You need to not make this weirder.

"Right," he says, and his voice has gone too bright. Too casual. "So. We should probably… get into character stuff? For the poses?"

"Character stuff."

"Yeah. Like…" He waves a hand vaguely, still not quite looking at you. "Like how Miki would move. How she'd act when she's being… seductive."

The word seductive makes your stomach flip.

"I know how to be seductive, thanks."

"I'm not saying you don't! I'm just—maybe you could try some… classic catgirl things? For authenticity?"

"Classic catgirl things," you repeat flatly.

"Yeah! Like…" He's staring very intently at his desk now. At the wall. At literally anywhere that isn't you. "Like maybe… paws? At the air? And you could say ‘nya’?"

Silence.

Complete, absolute silence while your brain processes what he just said.

"You want me to do paws."

"Just—just a little bit! For character accuracy!"

"And say ‘nya.’"

"It's what catgirls do!"

"Fuck off."

"I'm being serious!"

"You're being a pervert."

"I'm being professional!" His voice cracks slightly. "This is professional character research!"

"Professional character research doesn't involve making your model say ’nya’ like some kind of—"

"Please?" He finally looks at you, and his eyes are so wide and hopeful and desperate that you almost—

Almost.

"No."

"Capy—"

"No."

"It would really help with—"

"I'm not doing it."

"You don't even have to commit! Just try it once! Just—"

"Hoseok, I will walk out of here right now—"

"Okay, okay! Sorry. Forget I said anything."

He goes back to his desk, picking up his pencil, and you feel stupid standing here in this costume, in this bloody catgirl costume.

You catch sight of yourself in the mirror again.

You really look like Miki right now.

Your eyes flick to Hoseok. He's still turned around on his desk chair, pencil moving across paper in these short, jerky strokes.

He asked for paws and ‘nya.’

Like some kind of muppet.

This is stupid. It's the stupidest thing you've ever considered doing. You're a grown woman. You have dignity.

But…

"Ott."

His eyes perk up, and he turns around slightly on the chair. "Yeah?"

Your hands come up. Curl slightly, fingers bent.

Like paws.

"Nya."

The word comes out quiet. Almost inaudible.

Silence.

Complete, total silence.

And then, from somewhere outside, a car horn blares.

Hoseok's whole body jerks. He spins his chair around—a full one-eighty, facing completely away from you—and his hand flies up to cover his mouth and nose.

Oh god.

Oh god oh god oh god that was so cringe.

That was the cringiest thing you've ever done in your entire life and he can't even look at you because of the secondhand embarrassment.

Your face is burning. Absolutely on fire.

"Hoseok?"

"Just—" His voice is muffled behind his hand. "Just give me a second."

"Why are you turning around?!"

"I need to process that."

_Process the cringe. Process how embarrassing that was.

"You're the one who asked me to!"

"I didn't think you'd actually do it!"

"Then why did you ask?!"

"Because I'm an idiot!" His hand is still clamped over his face, shoulders hunched forward. "Fuck. Okay. Just—just give me like thirty seconds to—"

"Thirty seconds to what?"

He doesn't answer.

You want to die.

You want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

"This is your fault," you mutter, face absolutely flaming.

"I know."

"You asked for this."

"I know."

"So stop being weird about it."

"I'm trying!" His voice comes out strangled. "Just—okay. Okay, I'm good. I'm fine. Totally professional."

He's absolutely not fine.

You can see it in the way his hand's still pressed against his face.

"Stop being weird and turn around!"

"In a minute."

"Hoseok—"

"In a minute. Please. Just—I need a minute."

And something about the please—the way his voice cracks slightly on the word—makes your chest go tight.

"Okay," you say quietly. "Take your time."

The silence stretches during said minute, so much so at some point you start picking at the hem of the skirt, smoothing down pleats that don’t need smoothing.

“So,” you start, because the quiet is getting weird. “Your text earlier. You said something about a deadline?”

His shoulders tense even more, if that’s possible.

“Yeah.” His voice comes out muffled behind his hand. “Yeah, it’s… it’s not great.”

“How not great?”

He lets out a long breath. Drops his hand from his face but still doesn’t turn around.

“Chapter’s due in four days. And I’m…” He gestures vaguely at his desk, at the scattered papers and abandoned sketches. “I’m nowhere near done. Like, not even close to done.”

“How much have you got left?”

“Basically everything.” He laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “Got the character work sorted for maybe six panels. But backgrounds? Toning? The actual inking? I’ve barely started.”

You move closer, careful not to touch him, and peer over his shoulder at the mess on his desk.

He’s not exaggerating—there’s maybe a quarter of a chapter roughed out, and even that looks rushed.

“Fuck, Ott.”

“Yeah.” His hand comes up to rub his face. “Yeah, I know. I just—I lost time this week. Had those physio appointments, and then with you not coming over and—I’m not blaming you,” he adds quickly. “This is on me. I should’ve managed my time better, should’ve worked faster, should’ve—”

“How many hours have you been sleeping?”

“…A few.”

“Hoseok.”

“Okay, I haven’t.” He finally turns his chair slightly—still not facing you fully, but enough that you can see his profile. “Haven’t slept in two days. But that’s normal for deadline week. Everyone does it.”

“Everyone does not do it. That’s mental.”

“It’s the industry.” He shrugs, but his shoulders stay tight. “You want to eat, you meet deadlines. Even if it means pulling all-nighters and living on cup noodles and—” He stops. Swallows. “I can’t miss this one, Capy. I’ve already pushed it back twice. If I miss again, they’ll drop the series. Find someone more reliable.”

The fear in his voice makes your chest tight.

“And if they drop it…” He’s staring at his desk now, at all those unfinished pages. “This is the first thing I’ve made that pays the bills. If I fuck this up—”

“You’re not gonna fuck it up.”

“I might! I’ve got four days and I’m so far behind and my wrists are—” He cuts himself off, but you see the way his hand flexes. The slight wince. “Jungkook said I need to take breaks. Ice them every few hours. But I can’t afford breaks right now.”

You’re quiet for a moment, watching him spiral.

Then: “I’ll help.”

His head snaps toward you. “What?”

“I’ll help. With the backgrounds. The basic inking. Whatever you need.”

“Capy, no. You’ve already—you’re already doing so much just coming back here after—” He waves his hand, and you both know he means the earlier disaster. “I can’t ask you to—”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”

“You don’t know how to—”

“I can follow lines, can’t I? Fill in backgrounds? You’ve shown me your process like a hundred times. I’m not completely useless.”

“That’s not what I—” He runs both hands through his hair, making it stick up even more weirdly. “It’s a lot of work. Tedious work. You’d be here for hours.”

“So? I’ve got no plans.”

“It’s your free time—”

“Which I was gonna spend watching shit telly in my flat anyway. At least this way I’m being productive.” You cross your arms, and the movement makes the tail swish. “Plus, you bought me all this expensive costume rubbish. Least I can do is help you not completely tank your career.”

He’s looking at you now—properly looking, for the first time since he turned around—and there’s something raw in his expression.

“You’d really do that?”

“‘Course I would, you muppet.” The words come out sharper than intended, so you soften them. “You’re proper stressed. Your wrists are fucked. And you need help. So let me help.”

“I can’t pay you—”

“Did I ask for money?”

“No, but—”

“Then shut up and tell me what needs doing.”

He stares at you for another long moment.

Then something in his face just… crumples. Relief mixed with exhaustion mixed with something that could be gratitude.

“Fuck,” he says quietly. “Okay. Yeah. If you’re sure—”

“I’m sure.”

“—then yeah. That would… that would actually save my arse.”

“Obviously. That’s what I’m here for. Professional arse-saving.”

He laughs—real this time, small but genuine—and some of the tension finally bleeds out of his shoulders.

“Right then.” He turns back to his desk, and his voice shifts into something more focused. More steady. “Let me show you what needs doing. Fair warning though—backgrounds are boring as hell and my hand’s gonna cramp just explaining the technique.”

“Good thing I’ve got two hands then, innit?”

“Yeah.” He glances back at you, his expression grows soft. “Yeah, I guess you do.”

You pull up the spare stool—the wobbly one he usually uses for reference materials—and settle in beside him. Close enough to see the pages properly, far enough that your legs aren’t touching.

The tail swishes when you sit, brushing against his lower back, and Hoseok’s eyes track the movement before he jerks his gaze back to the desk.

“Right,” he says, voice slightly strained. “So. Backgrounds. Let me show you the basic technique, and then we’ll divide up the work.”

He pulls out a half-finished panel—a street scene that needs buildings, signage, background details—and starts explaining the process. His voice steadies as he falls into teaching mode, hands moving to demonstrate techniques even as they tremble slightly.

And you listen. Take notes. Ask questions when you need clarification.

Because this is what you do.

This is what you’ve always done.

Show up. Help out.

Pretend it doesn’t mean anything—even when it clearly does.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The thing about inking backgrounds at three in the morning is that it turns your brain into absolute mush.

You’ve been at this for… what, six hours? Seven? Time’s gone weird. Stretchy. Like those clocks in that Dalí painting that Hoseok had shown you once in high school when he was going through his ‘I’m very deep and artistic’ phase.

Your hand’s cramping. Your eyes are burning. And you’re pretty sure you’ve consumed enough coffee to kill a small horse.

But the pile of finished pages is growing. Slowly. Painfully slowly.

You’re working on a street scene—all those fiddly little details that make backgrounds look real instead of like someone just drew some lines and called it a day. Signage. Window frames. The texture of brick walls.

Boring as hell, just like Hoseok warned.

But also kind of… meditative?

Once you get into the rhythm of it, your brain just sort of… switches off. Focuses on the repetitive motion of the pen, the steady accumulation of tiny details.

Hoseok’s across from you at his desk, hunched over his tablet doing the character work. He’s changed into proper work gear—ancient grey trackies and a black t-shirt with a hole near the collar. His hair’s a disaster. He keeps pushing his glasses up his nose with the back of his hand because his fingers are covered in ink.

Every so often, one of you reaches for the coffee pot. Pours another cup. Drinks it black and bitter because you’re both too tired to bother with milk or sugar.

“This is shit coffee,” you mutter around 3 AM, taking another sip anyway.

“It’s three-day-old coffee,” he replies without looking up. “I forgot I made it on Monday.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“And yet you’re still drinking it.”

“Because I’m tired and it’s caffeinated.”

“Very sound reasoning.”

You go back to your inking. He goes back to his character work.

The flat is quiet, but in a way that feels almost relaxing.

Though Momo’s awake in her cage at the living room, making soft chittering sounds.

“Remember that time,” Hoseok says suddenly, voice rough with exhaustion, “when we tried to pull an all-nighter to finish that project for Mrs. Patterson’s class?”

You snort. “The papier-mâché disaster?”

“We made it to like, what, midnight?”

“You fell asleep at eleven-thirty. Face-first into the glue.”

“You drew on me.”

“You had a glue beard. I simply… enhanced it. Artistically.”

He laughs—quiet, worn out, but genuine. “Mum was so mad about the glue in my hair.”

The mention of his mum makes something twist in your chest.

Because you remember her. Remember the way she’d make those perfect lunches that made everyone jealous. Remember her patience when Hoseok was being a hyperactive nightmare. Remember the way she’d speak Japanese to him and he’d respond in English because he was being a stubborn little shit.

“How is she?” you ask. “Your mum?”

“Good. She’s good.” His pen keeps moving. “Still here in Osaka. Remarried a few years back—Japanese guy, works in finance. Very boring. Very stable. Complete opposite of my dad.”

“You see her much?”

“Every other Sunday. She makes me lunch and tells me I’m too skinny and asks when I’m going to get a real job.” He does a pitch-perfect imitation of his mum’s voice, and it makes you smile. “Also she wants grandchildren apparently. Because I’m in my late twenties and ancient.”

“You’re barely an adult.”

“That’s what I said. But apparently past twenty-five is basically one foot in the grave by her standards.”

You’re quiet for a moment, focusing on a particularly fiddly window frame.

“What about your dad?” The question comes out before you can stop it.

Hoseok’s pen stops moving. Just for a second. Then continues.

“Haven’t talked to him in three years.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He shifts in his chair. “He’s still in Sydney. Still doing the corporate thing. Got remarried too—some woman from his work. They’ve got a kid now. Half-brother I’ve never met.”

There’s something flat in his voice. Carefully neutral.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s fine.” But his shoulders are tense. “He never really got the whole… art thing. Or the moving back to Japan thing. Thought I was wasting my potential or whatever.”

“That’s shit.”

“It is what it is.” He’s drawing faster now, pen moving in quick, aggressive strokes. “Some parents just don’t get it, yeah? Can’t force someone to understand if they don’t want to.”

You want to say something. Something comforting or wise or helpful.

But you’ve never been good at that stuff.

So instead you just keep inking, and after a moment Hoseok’s shoulders relax slightly.

“What about you?” he asks. “Your family good?”

“They’re fine. Mum’s still doing the accountant thing. Dad’s still teaching. They ask about you sometimes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. ‘How’s that Hoseok boy? Is he still drawing his little pictures?’” You do a terrible impression of your mum’s voice. “I showed them your manga once. Well. The safe pages.”

He actually laughs at that. “Oh god. What’d they say?”

“Mum said it was ‘very detailed’ and Dad said ‘at least he’s making money doing something he enjoys’ which is basically the highest praise you’ll get from him.”

“I’ll take it.”

“They also asked if you were single.”

His pen stops. “What?”

“Yeah. Mum did that whole thing where she was like ‘such a nice boy, very talented, shame he’s so far away’ in that voice that means she’s scheming.”

“Your mum was trying to set us up?”

“When has she ever not?" You switch to a finer pen for detail work. “But yeah. I told her you were busy with work and she gave me this look like I was being deliberately obtuse.”

“Were you?”

“Obviously.”

More silence.

But the comfortable kind.

“Do you miss it?” he asks after a while. “Sydney?”

You consider the question. Take another sip of disgusting three-day-old coffee.

“Sometimes,” you admit. “Miss the beaches. Miss understanding what people are saying without having to mentally translate everything. Miss just… existing without feeling like a massive tourist all the time.”

“Yeah.”

“But also…” You pause, pen hovering over the paper. “I don’t know. Sydney felt like I was stuck. Like I’d just keep doing the same shit forever until I died at my desk.”

“That’s bleak.”

“That’s how I felt.” You go back to inking. “At least here I’m stuck somewhere new. Feels like maybe things could be different.”

“Are they? Different?”

You glance up at him. He’s looking at you now, properly looking, and there’s something searching in his expression.

“Dunno yet,” you say honestly. “Ask me in another month.”

He nods. Goes back to his work.

“I missed you,” he says quietly. “When I first moved here. Missed having someone who just… got it. Got me.”

Your chest goes tight.

“You had other friends.”

“Yeah, but they weren’t…” He waves his pen vaguely. “They weren’t you. Didn’t know me before I learned how to pretend everything was fine.”

Fuck.

Why does he have to say things like that when you’re too tired to maintain proper emotional defenses?

“I missed you too,” you mutter. “You dickhead.”

“Very touching. I’m deeply moved.”

“Shut up.”

But you’re both smiling.

The work continues. Your pile of finished pages grows. His tablet fills with completed panels.

Around four AM, you start getting properly delirious.

“If you could be any animal,” you hear yourself asking, “what would you be?”

“Otter.”

“That’s not—you can’t just pick your animal.”

“Why not? It’s my hypothetical animal scenario.”

“Because that’s boring. Pick something else.”

“Fine. Sugar glider.”

“You already have a sugar glider. That doesn’t count.”

“You didn’t say it had to be an animal I don’t have!”

“It’s implied in the question structure!”

“There’s no implied rules in ‘if you could be any animal’!”

You’re both too tired to make sense, but somehow the argument continues for another ten minutes before dissolving into exhausted laughter.

“God, we’re stupid,” you wheeze.

“Speak for yourself. I’m deliriously brilliant.”

“You’re brilliantly delirious.”

“That too.”

Another long stretch of quiet work. Your eyes are getting so heavy. Every blink lasts a bit longer.

“Hey,” Hoseok says softly. “You can call it quits if you need to. You’ve already done heaps.”

“’M fine.”

“You’re falling asleep.”

“’M resting my eyes between panels. Very professional technique.”

“Very professional passing out.”

“Not passing out. Just…” You blink hard, trying to focus. “Just need another coffee.”

“You’ve had six coffees.”

“Then I need a seventh.”

“You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack.”

“Worth it for the art.”

He snorts. “You sound like me when I was twenty and stupid.”

“You’re still stupid.”

“Fair.”

You manage another two panels before your vision starts going blurry. The lines keep doubling. You blink, and they merge back together, then split again.

“Capy.”

“What?”

“You just drew the same window three times.”

You look down at your page.

He’s right.

You’ve inked the same window frame three times, each one slightly offset from the others like some kind of drunken perspective study.

“Shit.”

“That’s it. You’re done.”

“’M not done. Still got—” You gesture vaguely at the pile of unfinished pages.

“I’ll finish them.”

“Your wrists—”

“Are fine. You’ve done enough. Seriously. You’ve saved my arse tonight.”

“But—”

“Capy.” His voice is firm but gentle. “You’re dead on your feet. Go home. Get some sleep.”

Home. Right.

Home is… where?

The thought of getting up, putting on your jacket, walking to the station, taking the train, walking more, climbing stairs, existing in that space…

It’s too much. Way too much.

“Can I just…” You rest your forehead on the desk. Just for a second. Just to close your eyes for a moment. “Just need a minute.”

“Take your time.”

The desk is cool against your face.

And you’re so tired.

Bone-deep tired. The kind that makes your whole body feel heavy.

Just a minute. You’ll rest for just a minute, and then you’ll get up and go home and—

Your eyes drift closed.

Hoseok’s still working. You can hear it. The rhythmic sound of his pen. The occasional soft curse when something doesn’t look right.

It’s… nice.

Comforting.

Like when you were kids and you’d do homework together. Him at his desk, you on his floor, both of you existing in comfortable parallel.

Your breathing slows. Deepens.

The desk is really comfortable, actually.

Maybe you’ll just…

Rest…

For a minute…

You wake up with a crick in your neck that feels like someone's driven a railway spike through your spine.

Your face is stuck to something. You peel yourself off whatever surface you've been drooling on and blink blearily at—

Hoseok's desk.

Right. You fell asleep. At his desk. While inking backgrounds at fuck-knows-what-hour in the morning.

Brilliant.

There's a blanket draped over your shoulders—the soft grey one from his couch that you always nick when you're cold. And your pen's been carefully removed from your hand and set aside.

You sit up slowly, every vertebra in your spine crackling like bubble wrap, and look around.

Hoseok's still at his desk. Still working. But he's changed position—he's pulled his chair around to the other side, angled away from where you've been sleeping, and he's got his tablet balanced on a stack of books.

Working around you.

The pile of finished pages has grown significantly. Way more than what you'd done before you passed out.

He's been at this all night. The whole bloody night. While you were dead to the world, drooling on his workspace like some kind of useless lump.

"You're awake." His voice is wrecked. Completely shot. Rough and low and exhausted.

"How long was I out?"

"Couple of hours." He sets his tablet pen down and rolls his shoulders with an audible crack. "It's almost seven."

Seven AM. You fell asleep around five, which means—

"You've been awake for over twenty-four hours."

"Twenty-six, technically. But who's counting?"

"Hoseok."

"I'm fine. Had to finish the character work anyway, and you needed sleep, so…" He gestures at the makeshift workspace he's created. "Killed two birds, yeah?"

Your chest does something weird.

Because he could've woken you up. Could've sent you home. Could've at least moved you to the couch.

Instead he worked around you for two hours just so you could sleep.

"You're an idiot," you mutter.

"You're a blanket thief who drools on my reference pages."

"I do not drool."

He wordlessly points at the small wet spot on his desk.

Fuck.

"That could be anything."

"It's shaped like your face."

"Piss off."

He stands up with a groan, vertebrae popping like firecrackers.

"Right. I need food or I'm gonna pass out. You keen for brekkie?"

"Yeah. Where?"

"There's a place near the station that's open twenty-four hours. Not fancy, but the food's decent and they do proper coffee."

"Anything's better than your three-day-old sludge."

"Oi, that sludge kept us alive."

"That sludge could kill a cockroach."

You stand up, and your whole body protests. Everything hurts. Your neck, your back, your hand from holding the pen for six straight hours.

But Hoseok looks worse. His eyes are bloodshot, hair a mess, and there's ink smeared on his cheek that he probably doesn't even know about.

"You've got ink on your face."

"You've got drool on yours."

"That's from sleeping, that's different."

"Both are fluids on faces. Very similar situation."

"I hate you."

"Nah, you don't."

And he's right, which is annoying.

You both drag yourselves out of his flat, down four flights of stairs that feel like climbing Everest, and out into the grey early-morning streets of Osaka.

It's that weird in-between time where the city's not quite awake yet. A few salarymen heading to early shifts. A couple of teenagers stumbling home from karaoke.

You end up conveniently at the konbini near his house.

The woman behind the counter takes one look at you both and immediately starts making coffee without being asked.

Hoseok says something in Japanese—probably thanking her—and you follow him to the little refrigerated section where they keep the ready-made food.

Onigiris. Perfect.

You grab three—all salmon, because salmon is safe. Consistent texture. No surprises. The rice is always the right amount of sticky, the salmon's always flaky, and there's no weird mushrooms or suspicious vegetables hiding inside.

Hoseok grabs the same, plus some kind of egg sandwich thing that looks vaguely terrifying.

"That looks like it'll give you food poisoning," you observe.

"It's literally just eggs and bread."

"It's eggs that have been sitting in a fridge for god knows how long."

"Since yesterday, probably. Which is fine."

"Your food safety standards are appalling."

"Your food safety standards are paranoid."

But he's smiling, and the woman behind the counter is smiling at you both like you're entertaining as hell.

You pay for your food—Hoseok tries to pay for yours but you literally swat his hand away from his wallet—and grab your coffees.

The coffee is proper coffee.

Not amazing, but hot and strong and actually brewed today, which automatically makes it better than anything in Hoseok's flat.

There's a small booth near the back, and you slide into one side, expecting him to take the seat across from you like a normal person.

Instead, he slides in next to you.

Right next to you. Close enough that your thighs are touching.

“There’s a whole other seat, you know,” you mutter, unwrapping your first onigiri.

“This one’s warmer.”

“It’s the exact same temperature.”

“Nah, this side gets the morning sun.”

“We’re inside.”

“Still counts.”

But he’s already settling in, and his weight next to you is… nice, actually. Solid. Warm. The kind of presence that makes the exhaustion feel less awful.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Just sit there, coffees steaming, onigiris in their plastic wrapping, both too tired to even start eating.

Then Hoseok unwraps his egg thing sandwich and takes a massive bite.

You unwrap one of your onigiris more carefully—checking to make sure the rice looks right, that there's no weird discolouration, that everything's exactly as it should be before taking a bite.

Once you confirm it’s safe to eat, you take a bite. Perfect. Exactly the right texture—soft but still holding together, slightly warm, nothing weird.

Hoseok, meanwhile, almost finishes the whole thing in like two bites.

“Slow down, you’re gonna choke.”

“’M hungry,” he mumbles through a mouthful of egg.

“And you’ll be very dead if you choke on a sandwich at seven in the morning.”

He swallows. “What a way to go though. Killed by rice. Very dignified.”

“Very stupid.”

“You don’t get it.”

You’re about to take another bite when Hoseok’s head drops onto your shoulder.

Just. Drops.

The full weight of it, his hair tickling your neck, his breath warm against your collar.

“Ott. What are you doing.”

“‘M tired.” His voice is muffled against your jacket. “You’re comfy.”

“I’m not a bloody pillow.”

“Could be. Very pillow-shaped right now.”

“That’s your exhaustion talking.”

“Maybe.” But he doesn’t move. Just stays there, head heavy on your shoulder, close enough that you can feel his breathing. “Thanks. For last night. Properly saved me.”

Your chest does something complicated. “Yeah, well. Someone had to make sure you didn’t die at your desk.”

“Very heroic.”

“I’m a bloody saint.”

“Saint Capybara. Patron saint of grumpy Australians who pretend they don’t care.”

“Piss off.”

He takes another bite of his sandwich without lifting his head. Just reaches up blindly, finds his mouth, shoves food in.

"You're being weird."

"'M being tired." Another bite. "And you smell nice."

"I smell like three-day-old coffee and ink."

"Yeah but underneath that you smell like…" He pauses. Breathes in. "Like… sakura mochi."

Fuck. He's brought up the sakura mochi thing again.

"You're delirious."

"Probably."

You should shove him off. Tell him to sit properly. Maintain some kind of personal space boundary.

But…

He's warm. And solid. And something about having his weight against you is… actually kind of nice?

Like being grounded. Like existing in the same physical space instead of carefully orbiting each other.

The elderly couple across the store are looking at you. The lady says something to her husband in Japanese you don't catch, but her tone is fond.

Probably think you're a couple. Probably think this is normal.

The thought makes your chest feel weird.

But then his head lifts from your shoulder—finally—and you think he's sitting up properly.

Instead, he lunges.

His mouth closes around your onigiri. Bites off a massive chunk while it's still in your hand.

“OI!”

“Fanks.” He’s already pulling back, cheeks stuffed with stolen rice,.

You swat at him—catch him on the shoulder, not hard enough to actually hurt but enough to make your point.

“That was mine, you absolute dope!”

He’s laughing now, mouth still full, and has to cover it with his hand to avoid spitting rice everywhere. “Youwereeatingsoslow!”

“Because I was enjoying it!”

“Sharingiscaring!”

“I didn’t share, you stole!”

“Technicallyit’sborrowing!”

“You can’t borrow food, you dickhead! It’s consumed! That’s not how borrowing works!”

He finally swallows, still grinning like he’s got away with murder. “Tasted good though.”

“Yeah, I know it tasted good, it was mine.”

“Should’ve eaten faster.”

“Should’ve got your own!”

“I wanted an egg sandwich. But your onigiri looked better right now.”

“Then you should’ve gone and bought yourself one!”

“I’m tired, I told you!”

“That’s not a valid excuse!”

“But it is.”

You shove him—properly shove him this time—and he just laughs harder, nearly sliding off the booth seat.

“You’re the worst.”

“Me? I just helped you finish your food.”

“Nobody asked for your help.”

“You didn’t have to, I just know.”

“I’m gonna start charging you for every time you steal my food. This can’t become a thing.”

But you’re fighting a smile, and he knows it. Can see it in the way his grin gets wider, more satisfied.

“Want me to get you another one?” he offers, nodding toward the counter.

“You’ve done enough damage.”

“That’s a yes.”

“That’s a no.”

“I’m getting you another one.”

“Hoseok—”

But he’s already sliding out of the booth, heading back to the counter, and you’re left sitting there with half an onigiri and a chest that feels too warm.

He comes back with two more. Sets them in front of you with this stupid little flourish like he’s presenting treasure.

“There. Replacement rice. Very noble gesture.”

“You only got them because you felt guilty.”

“Felt generous. Completely different motivation.”

You unwrap one of the new ones, eyeing him suspiciously. “You gonna steal this one too?”

“Depends. You gonna eat it slow again?”

“It’s called savoring, you heathen.”

“It’s called asking to have your food stolen.”

“I'll stab you with this bloody plastic fork, I swear.”

“Very aggressive dining companion energy.”

But the exhaustion has shifted into something giddy. Delirious. The kind of tired where everything’s funny and nothing quite makes sense but somehow it’s all good.

You eat your replacement onigiri. He eats his. You steal one of his crisps in retaliation and he gasps like you’ve committed murder.

“Hypocrite!”

“Justice,” you correct.

“That’s my crisp!”

“Sharing is caring, remember?”

“I hate you.”

The news program on TV switches to weather. Rain forecast for the weekend. Some salary man at the next table is face-down in his coffee, possibly dead.

Normal weekday morning in Osaka.

You check your phone—takes approximately fifteen years to do anything—and your stomach drops.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“Work. I’ve got work in like…” You do the maths. “Two hours.”

Hoseok’s face falls. “Oh. Right. Yeah, you should probably—”

“How much have you got left? On the manga?”

“Maybe… four hours? If I push it? But you’ve already—”

You’re dialing before he can finish.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling in sick.”

“Capy, no. You don’t have to—”

The phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

A voice answers in Japanese—your boss’s assistant, probably—and you launch into the most pathetic-sounding explanation you can manage.

“Hello, yes. I’m sorry I’m not…” You throw in a few strategic coughs. “not feeling… really well today…”

The assistant makes sympathetic noises. Tells you to rest. Hangs up.

You snap your phone closed.

Hoseok’s staring at you. “Did you just—”

“Yep.”

“But you’ve already—”

“You’ve got four hours of work left and your wrists are fucked. I’m helping.”

“Capy—”

“Plus I’m not going into work after pulling an all-nighter. I’d be useless. Probably fall asleep in a meeting or something.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah, I did.” You meet his eyes. “You need help. I’m helping. End of story.”

Something in his expression goes tender. Grateful. A little bit awed.

“You chucked a sickie. For me.”

“For the manga,” you correct. “Very important artistic project. Cultural significance.”

“For me,” he repeats quietly.

Your face heats. “Don’t make it weird.”

“It’s already weird. You just—” He gestures vaguely. “You faked sick for me.”

“I didn’t fake sick. I’m exhausted. That’s basically sick.”

“That's complete rubbish.”

“Yeah, well.” You shove the last bit of onigiri in your mouth to avoid continuing this conversation. “You’re stuck with me for another four hours. Suck it up.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Just looking at you with that expression that makes your chest feel strange.

Then he leans over and kisses your temple.

Quick. Casual. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your brain blue-screens.

“Thank you,” he says softly, pulling back. “Seriously. I know I keep saying it, but—”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re very grateful. I’m very helpful. Can we go back and finish this thing before your deadline actually kills you?”

“Yeah.” But he’s smiling. Properly smiling, the kind that reaches his eyes. “Yeah, let’s go.”

He slides out of the booth, and you follow, and the walk back to his flat feels easy.

That’s the thing that gets you—how easy this is.

How you just pulled an all-nighter doing manga backgrounds and fell asleep at his desk and he didn’t make it weird. How you called in sick to work without overthinking it. How you’re walking back through Osaka at seven in the morning in yesterday’s clothes and it just feels… normal.

Like you’re still kids, really. Still just Ott and Capy figuring out how to avoid responsibility together.

Still the same idiots who used to ditch last period to get Maccas and sit in the park until someone’s mum called wondering where you were.

Nothing’s really changed, has it? You’ve just traded school uniforms for business casual and homework for actual work.

But underneath all that adult bullshit, you’re still just… you. And he’s still just him.

Still the person you can show up to at stupid hours. Still the person who doesn’t ask questions when you need to run away from your share house and your corporate job and the whole mess of being a functioning adult in a foreign country.

Still the person who gets it.

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'◟(˃̶͈̀ o ˂̶͈́)◞'♡

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jimlingss]

Jungle Park Series

A Slice of Life Series Written In 2018

► Summary: The equation is simple. Hoseok needs to hire someone. You need a job. Except like any actual equation, it’s not fucking simple at all! Not when you have to add the fact that he was forced to hire someone he doesn’t want in his office, he has little respect for your job in general, and oh yeah…once upon a time you might have—*CENSORED*.

► Genre: Fluff, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Workplace Romance!AU

► Parts: 1|1.5|2|3|4|4.5|5|6|7|7.5|8|8.5|9|10|11|11.5|12|13|13.5|14|15|15.5|16|17|18|19|19.5|20|20.5|21|22|23|24 

[snackhobi]

pairing: hoseok x reader / word count: 26.8k / genre: fluff, smut, mutual pining, best friends to lovers, slow burn, technically a buzzfeed unsolved AU but you don’t need to be familiar with BFU at all so dw!

summary: having hoseok as your best friend and co-host for your web series is a dream come true. the only hitch? you’re kind of in love with him, and it’s getting harder to ignore that fact, even if he doesn’t feel the same for you. 

warnings: idiots being oblivious, sexually explicit content, oral (f receiving + brief mentions of m receiving), unprotected sex, multiple orgasms (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), body worship + praise (f receiving), a lot of soft emotions and pet names, hoseok treating reader like a pillow princess

a/n: the more I read this the less happy I am with it but after the amount of time I’ve spent on it/how long it’s gotten, I’m calling it finished (even if it’s a lot lighter on paranormal related stuff than I’d initially planned OOPS…) please feel free to let me know what you think AHH x

–

Jung Hoseok is a lot of things. 

Jung Hoseok is: a work-friend-turned-real-friend-turned-best-friend, and one of your favourite people in the world. 

Jung Hoseok is: very easily scared, the opposite of a thrillseeker, Not A Fan of big rollercoasters, or haunted houses, or anywhere that involves jump scares or loud noises or anything vaguely dangerous or threatening. 

Jung Hoseok is: a man with ridiculous lung capacity who can also screech so loudly that you’re fairly certain he could shatter glass if he wanted to.

“It’s just a bat, hyung,” Jimin says, before the bat comes back round and Hoseok shrieks again.

Keep reading

[kithtaehyung]

cry to my room. (m)

title: cry to my room. posted: march 7th, 2021, 8pm est pairing: hoseok x reader(f) genre: angst, smut; friends to lovers, roommates au summary: when your best friend offered to help out and move in with you, you accepted and hoped that your friendship remained intact. and it did. until six weeks ago. warnings: explicit language, angst, fingering, handjob, penetration, protected sex, dirty talk, edging, pussy slapping, breast play, spanking, oral (f receiving), hickies, dom!hobi, switch!reader, temperature play (kinda), mentions of a minor car accident, jung hoseok wears a chain notes: the playlist for this is literally blue side on repeat oof. also, thank you to @yoonjinkooked​​ and @softyoongiionly​​ for reading parts of this and encouraging me to keep going! taglist: @monvante​​, @levantelux​​, @missgeniality​​, @echelhoops​​, @littlrmills14-blog mobile users: alt link if this doesn’t open in tumblr ➛ ao3 word count: 17.6k !!

-

-

“Dear Tenant(s), 

Please decide before tomorrow whether or not you would like to continue your lease. Tenants must have written confirmation 60 days before the move-out period, so this marks the last day to act before acquiring late renewal fees. If you wish to vacate your unit, simply do nothing and we will start taking new applications. If you wish to renew, submit a lease extension by 9am tomorrow. 

Sincerely,

Management” 

A flimsy sheet of paper shouldn’t have been able to weigh you down, but you felt like the letter was doing a splendid job of compressing your bones into the floor of your entryway. You imagined the surface as smooth, cold, unrelenting under your fluffy socks - not unlike the frozen sidewalks twisting around your building.

If you were asked two months ago whether or not you wanted to continue the lease, the answer would have been nothing but yes. Hoseok and you made outstanding roommates: extremely organized, quick to compromise, always knew when to help one another or provide space if needed. Nine months into the agreement you signed together, you had never been through a happier stretch. 

But the incident that occurred six weeks ago created a tiny fracture in your friendship - one which splintered and cracked with each passing day. If only you weren’t so foolish back then. Maybe the drum in your ribcage would actually still beat. 

Keep reading

[kpopfanfictrash]

A Holly, Jolly Crisis (M)

Author: @kpopfanfictrash as part of the Once Upon a Holiday… collaboration with @underthejoon , @fantasybangtan​ , @lamourche​ , @hobidreams​ , @suga-kookiemonster​ , @junghelioseok​  [ LINK TO BE ADDED LATER ]

Creative Contributor: @baebae-goodnight made this ridiculously gorgeous moodboard TT

Pairing: Hoseok / Reader (female)

Genre: Ex-Best Friends to Lovers / Rom-Com / Angst (?) / Holiday

Word Count: 36,243

Rating/Warnings: 18+ for sexual content. Fingering, Hoseok has a dirty mouth, Y/N semi-jokingly offers to slap him & he’s into it, condom-less sex, squirting, multiple orgasms, rough sex. Multiple friends/family members mention the reader has lost weight, but the reader’s exact weight isn’t specified. Seokjin uses a spatula as a microphone.

Summary:   At this time last year, you thought you had it all. A kick-ass screenwriting job for the hottest TV show in LA, an actor boyfriend whose career was taking off and an affordable apartment with not one, but two bathrooms. Fast-forward to now and you’re single, soon-to-be jobless and searching for a way to scrape together January rent. Everything seems to be falling apart, which was why you told your family you weren’t coming home for the holidays. Enter your little sister, Sara, who recently became engaged to her boyfriend, Yoongi and needs you home to celebrate. The biggest problem? Returning home means you’ll be forced to face everything and everyone you left behind, including Yoongi’s best man – and your ex-best friend, Hoseok.

Keep reading

[yeoldontknowiread]

ahhhh the very moment this was reccd to me, on the grounds of it being my sun and stars and also centering on screenwriting, i knew it was going to be amazing. what i did not expect was how brutally honest and real this was going to be. its been a really difficult year for all of us (i presume…if you had an incredible 2020 i am so so happy you did!) and having a character as flawed and focused on being what she is supposed to be in the realm of….experience, society, friend groups, etc rather than exactly what she is was so refreshing. 

i cannot recall the last time i read a fic that forced its reader to confront themselves. by confront i mean: who are you when youre not trying to live up to any expectation, not even your own? its so easy to get caught up in being perfect or put together, because thats how we 1. see other people or 2. see media forcing us to be presented. the reality is that perfect isnt real, and real relationships cant come from someone who hides how the feel or what theyre going through. so many parts of this story had me nodding, recognizing lessons i had to learn long ago, or even slow blinking as i recognize some habits that are hard to break. we always strive to be our best selves but we are human, and its hard being human. we need to find the people who love us when we are broken. our hoseok.

listen, hoseok could do literally anything in a fic (barring the extremes) and id still find ways to sympathize him. i wanted to be so angry at him for ghosting or ditching, but having been on both sides of both characters their interactions just made my heart ache. for his health and his happiness he did what he needed, but goodness gracious communication is so important. both of them just needed to align and talk and figure out what happened in the past to move forward into the future. and i loved, UTTERLY LOVED, how it was done through a script.

writing is mimetic. hell, i say lots of things i never did say or could say in my writing, expressing my emotions or getting through experiences via writing. i loved watching oc do this, and i loved watching her articulate her flaws through her characters. it has also been years since ive been in film/tv production or even doing screenwriting, so seeing the words ‘spec script’ or even watching oc go through hoops with production companies or interviews made me fall way way back to when i was a PA lmao 

as for seokjin - i mean what is there to say. king shit only. he can use a spatula as a mic any day and id still worship the ground he walks on. nerd.

the smut goes without saying, but the line of hoseok telling oc not to mention losing her virginty because it could have been him hit something in me i did not know could be hit. i will be thinking about this smut for a long long time to come.

i expected nothing less from the queen of romcom herself, but @kpopfanfictrash has outdone herself presenting a real, human story of friends coming together even when it feels like all is lost. nothing is ever truly lost, especially when love is still around. 

[min-hikari]

HOBI

as your boyfriend

ash of his fire

that’s all you are, ash from his fire.

bad friend

You’ve had a crush on your best friend for the longest time but tried to ignore it, until you can’t.

balcony antics

after you kissed your bodyguard, he had no choice but to tell you it was a mistake, wanting to keep things professional. this gave you a reason to throw a party and flaunt your assets to the main man himself, park jimin, and hoseok was not having that. so after the party, you and hoseok decide to make amends, in more ways than one.

breaking you out of jail

can’t stop needing this

Hoseok needs to make a choice, make you his or accept the fact that you might start seeing other people besides him.

finding that he’s a mafia

fuck buddies to lovers

greed

guide me

as dirty minded and provocative as you were, when you told Hoseok you’d never touched yourself nor even fucked anyone before, he was beyond shocked. And when you asked him for a little help, he could never refuse his best friend.

horny hobi

i can’t betray you

it didn’t matter that you weren’t together anymore, or how bad your break up was, it didn’t matter that he was the Kingpin, they couldn’t make you betray him

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

i’m your biggest fan

j-hope on the street

Hobi convinces you to do the J-Hope on the street challenge with him.

mafia!au

morning after your first time

red cheeks & witty banter

When you become the target of a cruel prank, Hoseok comes to your rescue. 

stressed, he distract himself with ur ass

strip

When Hoseok let you come to the strip club with him and the boys, he thought you’d be shy or jealous, while he and his friends had fun messing with you and the dancers. He certainly didn’t think you’d be having the time of your life and he’d be trying to collect you and make you behave.

sugar daddy

werewolf, he’s in rut

without you (i can’t breath)

Hoseok thinks that home is a place you can plot on a map. But he realizes that living by himself is lonely. he gets a new place and puts out an ad for a roommate- What he doesn’t expect is you- someone who has no knowledge of BTS- and he’ll do anything to keep it that way.

[babystarcandyrecs]

✨fics I'd love to read again for the first time✨

a compilation of fics I'd love for someone to erase them from my memory so I can read them again for the first time, in no particular order or category

✨seokjin✨

🌷clichés and canapés (seokjin x reader) by @kpopfanfictrash

🌷kairos (seokjin x reader) by @luffles424

🌷 like this? (seokjin x reader) by @jeongi

🌷glazed and dazed (seokjin x reader) by @floralseokjin

🌷golden boy (seokjin x reader) by @kpopfanfictrash

✨yoongi✨

🌷 illicit favors (yoongi x reader) by @yoongiofmine

🌷 performance evaluation (yoongi x reader) by @kookscrescent

🌷 the one where he takes polaroids of you riding him (yoongi x reader) by @taintedjeon 

🌷 the landlord (yoongi x reader) by @ppersonna

🌷riding with style (yoongi x reader) by @jiminsafairy

🌷the pink pill (yoongi x reader) by @dollfaceksj

🌷 contagious (yoongi x reader) by @explicit-tae

🌷take one (yoongi x reader) by @untaemedqueen

✨hoseok✨

🌷 snowed in (hoseok x reader) by @untaemedqueen

🌷off duty (hoseok x reader) by @dawnagustd

🌷 live, laugh, love (hoseok x reader) by @untaemedqueen

🌷coffee? (hoseok x reader) by @untaemedqueen

🌷our queen (hoseok) by @dreamescapeswriting

✨namjoon✨

🌷ocasional gifting (namjoon x reader) by @untaemedqueen

🌷new guy (namjoon x reader) by @kithtaehyung

🌷halcyon days (namjoon x reader) by @melancholy-of-nadia

🌷shipwreck (namjoon x reader) by @jiminsafairy

✨jimin✨

🌷point of no return (jimin x reader) by @wwilloww

🌷safer in your arms (jimin x reader) by @jiminsafairy

🌷the bird cage (jimin x reader) by @untaemedqueen

🌷exposure (jimin x reader) by @dreamyjoons

🌷strip! (jimin x reader) by @yoonia

🌷on the house (jimin x reader) by @dreamyjoons

✨taehyung✨

🌷drive you fucking crazy (taehyung x reader) by @borathae

🌷tales of the twin suns (taehyung x reader) by @jiminsafairy

🌷any way you want it (taehyung x reader) by @noteguk

🌷marshmallows and report cards (taehyung x reader) by @untaemedqueen

🌷mommy (taehyung x reader) by @borathae

🌷ten out of ten (taehyung x reader) by @shadowkoo

🌷 girls in bikinis (taehyung x reader) by @bratkook

🌷silver and blue series (taehyung x reader) by @untaemedqueen

🌷lock down (taehyung x reader) by @untaemedqueen

✨jungkook✨

🌷throttle (jungkook x reader) by @alphabetboyluvr

🌷mutt (jungkook x reader) by @letsbangts

🌷will it fit? (jungkook x reader) by @jeonsweetpea

🌷bad decisions (jungkook x reader) by @alphabetboyluvr

🌷͙gunplay (jungkook x reader) by @borathae

🌷 bad for you (jungkook x reader) by @yoonia

🌷not text books here (jungkook x reader) by @ririkookiemonster

🌷just friends (jungkook x reader) by @kinktae

🌷vaunt (jungkook x reader) by @yminie

🌷bullseye (jungkook x reader) by @whatifyoulivelikethat

🌷what a view (jungkook x reader) by @borathae

🌷the boy is mine (jungkook x reader) by @dreamersparacosm

🌷 center of attention (jungkook x reader) by @bangtanintotheroom

🌷 bitchin' (jungkook x reader) by @kinktae

🌷the alpha omega series (jungkook x reader) by @borathae

✨multiple✨

🌷lights, camera, action (namjoon x reader x jungkook) (3 part series) by @colormepurplex2

🌷miss comunication (namjoon x reader x jungkook) by @dovechim

🌷la creme de la creme (jungkook, taehyung and jimin x reader) by @breadoffoxy

🌷triads and tribulations (jimin x reader x taehyung) by @rendaze

🌷babybun (yoongi x reader x jungkook) by @borathae

🌷stretch you out (namjoon x reader x jungkook) by @chateautae

🌷by the pool (seokjin x reader x jungkook) by @bluewhale52

🌷in the dark (jimin x reader x jungkook) by @jksangelic

🌷baby baby (jimin x reader x taehyung) by @hobiwonder

🌷darling, you are late (seokjin x reader x namjoon) by @jiminsafairy

🌷waiting for (yoongi x reader x jungkook) by @whatifyoulivelikethat

🌷basic needs (yoongi x reader x jungkook) by @gggukniverse

🌷rain on me (taehyung x reader x jungkook) by @dawnagustd

🌷experiment 21 (jimin x reader x jin ) by @untamedqueen

🌷bb / gg (jungkook x reader) by @whatifyoulivelikethat

🌷picnics (yoongi x reader x jungkook) by @borathae

🌷fated to love you (ot7) by @untaemedqueen

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ back to the smut library ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ back to the m.masterlist ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

[untaemedqueen]

Live, Laugh, Love (M)

Hoseok x Reader

WordCount: 10.9k

Genre: Angst, Smut, Fluff, Roomates to Lovers!AU, Best Friends to Lovers!AU

Warnings: Reader Has Shitty Boyfriend, Marking, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Fingering, Hair Pulling, Secretive Pining,Big Dick!Hoseok, Hoseok Has A Huge Dick, Multiple Orgasms, Body Worship, Cream Pie, Unprotected Sex, Honestly Just Super Sensual And Lovey Dovey Sex

A/N: Gotta give a shoutout to my girls @rougebangtan​​ and @unoriginal-username15432​ for being so lovely reading and editing. I spent a lot of time on this fic and it means a lot to me so I hope you all really love it.

The sea is a miserable temptress. Water flows freely, crashing along the shoreline begging to enrapture you. To take you under the comfort of her salty tears, to bring you home where you feel the most comfortable. She is raw, potent energy waiting to be appeased by the gods. The way the rocks, dry greyscale stones, wait to be blessed by her presence. Wait to be licked with her furious energy, as they sit under the cloudy skies of silver brings a sense of calm. The sea was disastrous, much like you.

You lean back, hands perched behind you as you dig your fingers into the countless golden clusters of sand underneath. Your toes hoping for the same masked feeling as your head lolls back to look at the incoming rain clouds. In the distance, a flash of lightning, spearing brightly with flashes of orange and white; draws your attention and you can’t help but appreciate the way the world works. If lightning were to strike down on the sand around you right now, it would turn to glass. Just a quick simple action could completely change up the form of the small, insignificant granules right by your side. A weak fragile granule could turn into something brilliant and hard like glass. Then, it comes to mind. You wish something would change up your form. For something to change up who you are from being insignificant to something hard and strong like glass.

Keep reading

[kikiskook]

CHRYSALIS

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬; Missions often go sideways, and this one… It almost did. What you were not ready for, however, was to apparently have been included in a high stakes project called Chrysalis. And you realize then that the most profound transformations happen in recovery rooms, where a certain doctor tends to wounds that go deeper than skin.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠; jung hoseok x nb!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭; 11.6k ➜ one-shot

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞; crime/mafia au (kkangpae), forbidden romance, slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort

𝐚/𝐧; hi hi hi! i’m dropping this here once and for all! i’m so excited to be sharing with you this canon-adjacent au in the kkangpae universe, in which the main lead is not our beloved jeon jungkook, but our grumpy, sandalwood-scented medical chief—jung hoseok. this beautiful piece was commissioned by the absolutely brilliant @billy-jeans23 and honestly? i can’t stop thinking about these two. what started as a writing commission has turned into a full-blown obsession with the psychological complexity of forbidden attraction in a world built on calculated risks and strategic thinking. fair warning: reader in this one is non-binary (they/them pronouns) and heavily implied as blasian! this y/n is competent chaos incarnate, the kind of person who gets bruised from pushing their limits and then shows up to medical like “fix me so i can do it again.” they’re trouble with a capital t, and hoseok is absolutely losing his mind about it. we’ve got the former alcoholic doctor who’s rebuilt his life around helping people, drawn to someone whose cherry cordial scent literally embodies everything dangerous about temptation, and y/n who’s physically vulnerable but mentally strong, finding safety in someone whose entire job is fixing broken people. it’s competence porn meets forbidden longing meets the kind of bittersweet tension that makes you want to throw your phone because why can’t they just kiss already (but also understanding exactly why they can’t). massive props to @billy-jeans23 for not only commissioning this but for creating such a nuanced oc and for the incredible psychological insights that helped shape this dynamic. anyway, i hope you fall as hard for medical chief hoseok and his impossible Pip as i have. time to make some poor life choices and read about people making worse ones! 💉🍒​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

You've done this before.

The red dress weighs less than a promise. It slips over your body like water, hugging curves that aren't entirely yours tonight. 

The person in the mirror is a construct—someone soft-edged and harmless, with flirtatious eyes and pompous laughter. 

Kim Jiwoo.

Not you, the dual-division ensign with roughened fingertips from too many keyboard hours.

The one who sometimes steals AD’s Monsters and gets their ass handed to them for that particular brand of audacity. 

The one who gets lectured by Flower about proper infiltration techniques and then immediately proves they weren’t listening by doing something reckless. 

Kim Jiwoo would giggle and bat her eyelashes. She would be impressed by everything Dr. Park says. 

You wouldn’t. You could probably redesign his security protocols in their sleep. 

"Again," Flower says, eyes crinkling at the corners despite the commanding tone. "Tell me who you are tonight, baby ensign."

You straighten your shoulders, tilting your head just so. The practice room's harsh lighting catches on Flower's diamond earrings as she circles you, fluid and catlike.

"Kim Jiwoo," you say, voice pitched slightly higher than your natural tone. "Biotech graduate student. Fascinated by Dr. Park's work on neural implants. Just smart enough to follow along, just dumb enough to seem harmless."

Flower stops in front of you, that distinct black widow presence making the fine hairs on your arms stand up. 

Unlike the first time you felt it, now it's almost comforting. 

Familiar. 

She studies your face, tucking a loose curl behind your ear with unexpected gentleness.

"Very good. Now tell me about the walking disappointment you're targeting."

You snort at her description. You don't need the file to recite this. You've memorized every detail about Dr. Park Minjun, biomedical engineer and unwitting key to the Kkangpae's next move.

"Forty-two years old. Divorced—she left him, no surprise there. No children, thank god. Graduated top of his class from KAIST. His work focuses on neural-digital interfaces. He's brilliant but underappreciated by his peers because he's insufferable. Likes brandy, classical music, and women who make him feel smart."

Flower's lips quirk up into a genuine smile. "And his weakness?"

"He publishes papers on social engineering and cybersecurity, but he's pathetically susceptible to flattery. Classic case of 'physician, heal thyself.' Basically a walking ego with glasses."

The black widow sensation intensifies briefly—Flower's version of delight.

"I swear to god, men like him make our job too easy," she says, stepping away to adjust something on her tablet. "It's almost disappointing. Almost." 

She glances up with a conspiratorial wink. Sighs, then smiles.

“RM wants those neural interface designs. The military applications alone..."

You nod, watching her fingers fly across the screen. 

The mission parameters are clear: 

Charm Dr. Park at the Nexus Biotech gala. 

Get him comfortable. 

Get him talking. 

Get him to take you somewhere private—preferably near a server access point. 

Plant the USB device AD prepared. 

Extract without raising suspicion.

Simple. Clean. The kind of mission the Seduction Division handles monthly.

So why does your stomach feel like it's full of stones?

Flower looks up, eyes softening. "Hey. What's going on in that big brain of yours?"

"Nothing," you say automatically.

She sets down her tablet and approaches, adjusting the thin strap of your dress with gentle fingers. Her touch is sisterly, comforting.

"Your pupils dilate when you lie," she says quietly. "Dr. Park won't notice—men like him only see what they want to see. But I see you."

You swallow. "I won't let you down."

"Sweetie, this isn't about me." She squeezes your shoulder. "Dual-division ensigns are rare. You're special. RM and AD both vouched for you. I'm just making sure you're taken care of out there."

The weight of expectations settles heavier than the dress. 

You've been with Kkangpae less than five months, but already the divisions are watching to see if you'll justify the unusual position.

"I understand."

Flower steps back, smile still decorating her doll like features.

“Good. Now listen—don't use technical language unless he uses it first. Laugh at his jokes even when they suck, which they will. Touch his arm when he says something 'impressive.'" She makes air quotes, rolling her eyes. "And for the love of god, don't let him see how much smarter you are than him. Male fragility is real and it's pathetic."

"I know how to play dumb," you say with a hint of Jiwoo's practiced giggle.

Something warm blooms across Flower's face—recognition, sisterhood. 

She was recruited for the same skills, after all.

"Go see Jessi for your gear. And by the way?" She catches your eye. "Remember what happens to insects caught in a spider's web."

"They become dinner?" you venture.

"Exactly." She grins, sharp and genuine. "And tonight, you're the spider."

Jessi's domain is completely different from the Seduction’s space. 

It smells like gun oil and leather, nothing like the perfumed air of the Seduction Division. 

You find her hunched over a workbench, a disassembled pistol laid out before her. Her red hair is barely contained in a messy ponytail, and she doesn't look up as you enter.

"There's my favorite pain in the ass," she growls without looking up, fiery aura reaching you before her words do—heat blasting across your skin, not uncomfortable but intense, like standing next to a furnace running at full capacity.

"How'd you know it was me?"

She scoffs, finally glancing up. Her eyes are sharp as flint. 

"Your footsteps. Too quiet for most divisions, too heavy for pure Seduction." Her gaze rakes over you, professional and quick. "The dress works. You don't look like you could hack into a child's iPad."

Coming from Jessi, that's basically a standing ovation.

"Flower sent me for equipment."

"Yeah, yeah." 

She wipes her hands on a cloth that's seen better days and stalks to a cabinet, unlocking it with her palm print. 

“Special occasion when my division crosses with Seduction. Usually I'm just supplying the boring stuff—guns, knives, the occasional brick of C4."

"Nothing boring about C4," you say, making her snort.

"True. But tonight..." She spins around, holding a small velvet box like it might bite her. "Tonight we get fancy."

Inside the box is a pair of diamond earrings that catch the light in a way that screams ‘expensive.’

You raise an eyebrow.

"Are those real?"

"Real enough to pass inspection," Jessi says with a dismissive shrug. "Left one has your comm link to AD. Right one has a GPS tracker and panic button. Press firmly on the back for three seconds, and we'll know you need extraction."

She shoves the box at you, then reaches back into the cabinet for something else—a lipstick.

"Standard issue for Flower's pretty little killers, but I modified it." She twists the base, and instead of lipstick emerging, a small compartment opens in the side. "USB device fits in here. The shell is scan-proof. They'll see normal cosmetics if they check your bag."

You take the lipstick, examining the clever design. "Nice work."

"Thank JM's division for the budget," she says with a sharp smirk. "Expensive toys for expensive missions."

The USB device itself comes next—barely larger than your thumbnail, matte black with no markings.

"AD's baby," Jessi explains, flicking it with her finger. "Once connected to their system, it creates a ghost terminal that he can access remotely. Self-destructs after twelve hours, leaves no trace. Poof."

"Clean," you murmur, appreciating the engineering.

"That's the idea." 

She slams the cabinet shut and leans against it, crossing her arms. The movement makes the flames of her aura leap higher, warming your cheeks. 

“Now for the serious talk. This mission goes sideways, you get out. No heroics."

You nod, but she fixes you with a glare that could melt steel.

"I mean it. Your job is intelligence gathering, not martyrdom. You feel threatened, you press that panic button. AD will have a team three minutes from your location at all times."

"I know protocol," you say.

"Everyone knows protocol until shit explodes in their face." Jessi pushes off the cabinet and stalks toward you, heat intensifying until you can practically see the air shimmer. "Park has connections we don't fully understand. Intel suggests Myung-dong Faction might have their hooks in Nexus Biotech."

That gets your attention. 

MDF involvement would elevate the risk significantly.

"Was that in the briefing?"

"It's my addition to the briefing." Jessi's eyes narrow to dangerous slits. "Flower focuses on the seduction. My job is keeping our people alive. So you listen—any sign of MDF, any whisper, you abort immediately."

You straighten, suddenly very aware of the weight of the mission.

“Understood."

Her blazing pulls back slightly as she nods once.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

You smile, slightly. Her worry is not misplaced, but it’s often rare amongst the highest ranks in Kkangpae.

"Thank you," you manage.

"Don't thank me. Just come back in one piece.” She gives your shoulder a punch that's probably meant to be gentle. "Plus, the Doc would have my head."

The casual mention of Hoseok makes your pulse skip. 

You roll your eyes to cover it, and Jessi laughs—a short, explosive sound.

"Alright, get out of my division. Go be pretty and dangerous somewhere else."

Your stomach won't stop churning.

The car glides through Seoul's glittering nightscape, a sleek black counterpoint to the neon-soaked streets. You sit in the back, breathing slowly and methodically as the Castle recedes in the distance.

"Testing, testing. Tell me you can hear my dulcet tones, or I'm coming down there to fix your ear myself."

AD's voice crackles through the comm link in your earring, sharp and clear.

"I hear you," you murmur, keeping your voice low even though the privacy partition between you and the driver is up. "Loud and clear."

"Good. Running final checks on the USB. You nervous yet?"

You smooth invisible wrinkles from your dress. 

"Should I be?"

"Nah. This is baby stuff compared to what Flower usually handles. Consider it your training wheels mission."

Something about his confidence settles your nerves. AD doesn't sugarcoat—if he thought you were walking into danger, he'd say so.

"Security scan is showing standard measures at the venue," he continues, keyboard clicks audible in the background. "Metal detectors, bag check, ID verification. Nothing our gear can't handle."

You touch the earrings, making sure they're secure. 

“Any word on MDF presence?"

A pause. 

"Jessi talk to you?"

"She mentioned concerns."

AD sighs, the sound staticky in your ear. 

"Nothing confirmed. Just chatter. But keep your eyes open. Don't do anything stupid."

The car slows sometime later as you approach the venue—the Grand Hyatt, facade gleaming with tasteful spotlights. 

A line of luxury vehicles dumps Seoul's elite onto the red carpet leading to the hotel's entrance. 

Your palms sweat.

"Remember," AD says, voice dropping to a more serious tone, "I've got eyes on the security feeds and a team on standby. But you're running point. Trust your training."

The car stops. Your door opens to reveal a white-gloved attendant. 

It is time.

"I'll be in your ear the whole time," AD says, then adds with his characteristic snark, "Try not to fall in love with this asshole."

The comment strikes closer than AD could know, your mind jumping to someone else—someone with an earthy aura and hands that heal rather than harm.

Not now, you scold yourself, pushing thoughts of Hoseok away like a stubborn cat.

“I’ll try my best,” you snort right back, sarcastic.

You step out of the car, a practiced smile already on your face. 

Kim Jiwoo has a biomedical engineer to seduce, and doesn't have time for forbidden distractions.

The gala unfolds in predictable luxury.

There’s… everything?

Champagne fountains, string quartet, the quiet murmur of the wealthy discussing how to become wealthier. 

You navigate the crowd exactly how you’ve been taught, sipping champagne like it's water as you scan for your target.

"Northeast corner," AD's voice directs in your ear. "By the ice sculpture that's trying way too hard to be artistic. Looks like a dick."

You turn casually, spotting Dr. Park immediately. 

He's exactly as his file described—tall, slim, with salt-and-pepper hair and designer glasses that cost more than most people's monthly rent. He's surrounded by a small circle of admirers, holding court with the confidence only mediocre men seem capable of mustering.

"Target acquired," you murmur behind your champagne flute.

"Great. Now go make him feel special while I hack into the hotel's HVAC system for fun."

You swallow a laugh and begin your approach, slipping through the crowd with measured steps. 

As you get closer, you catch fragments of conversation—Park is explaining some complex concept, his audience nodding with the vacant expressions of people who'd rather be anywhere else.

Perfect timing.

You stumble slightly—just enough to draw attention without seeming fake—and your champagne sloshes dangerously close to the rim. 

Park glances your way, then away, then back with renewed interest as he notices the red dress, your styled hair, the seemingly genuine embarrassment on your face.

"Careful there," he says, reaching out though you're nowhere near close enough for him to actually touch you. "These floors can be treacherous."

You widen your eyes, the picture of flustered gratitude.

"I'm so sorry. I wasn't watching where I was—" You stop, recognition dawning on your face. "Wait, you're Dr. Park Minjun, aren't you?"

His posture straightens like someone shoved a ruler up his ass, pleasure evident in the slight lift of his chin. 

"I am, yes."

"Oh my god." You lower your voice, stepping closer to his circle. "I've read all your papers on neural interface technology. Your work on the P300 response integration is revolutionary."

In your ear, AD makes a retching sound.

Park's expression shifts from polite interest to genuine engagement. 

"You're familiar with my research?"

"I'm doing my graduate work in related areas," you say, offering your free hand. "Kim Jiwoo. I never thought I'd actually meet you in person."

He takes your hand, holding it a moment longer than necessary. 

His palm is clammy. 

“A pleasure, Ms. Kim. Are you here with the university delegation?"

"Oh, no, I'm just someone's plus-one." You give a self-deprecating laugh. "I practically begged to come when I heard you might be here."

"Dear god, I think I'm going to vomit in my keyboard," AD mutters in your ear. "This guy is eating it up like free cake."

He is indeed. 

Park's entire focus has shifted to you, the others in his circle forgotten. One by one, they drift away, recognizing they've lost their audience. One woman mouths 'thank you' behind his back as she escapes.

"Perhaps you'd like to discuss my research further?" Park suggests, gesturing toward a quieter area of the ballroom. "I rarely meet someone so... enthusiastic about my work."

"I'd love that," you breathe, like he's offered you the moon instead of a boring conversation about his research.

As he guides you away, his hand comes to rest at the small of your back. 

The touch is proprietary, presumptuous. 

You fight the urge to break his fingers, instead leaning slightly into it as Jiwoo would.

"His hand is at T9 vertebral level," AD narrates unnecessarily. "I count at least six hygiene violations already. When's the last time he washed those hands?"

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing as Park launches into an explanation of his latest project. His hand remains on your back, occasionally drifting lower before returning to a more proper position, testing boundaries like a toddler seeing what he can get away with.

Unbidden, your mind swaps in a different hand—steadier, warmer, worn smooth by latex gloves and long hours spent saving lives. 

Hoseok's touch would feel grounding, like his earthy aura. 

It would center rather than claim.

"—don't you agree?" Park is asking, and you snap back to attention.

"Absolutely," you say with conviction, having no idea what you're agreeing to. "Though I wonder about the practical applications beyond medical use."

It's a safe pivot, and he takes the bait eagerly, launching into a discussion of military and commercial possibilities. His eyes light up when he talks about the money, not the medicine. 

As he drones on, you gradually guide the conversation toward security protocols and access limitations.

"The problem with cutting-edge research," you say, wide-eyed with feigned naivety, "is balancing collaboration with protection, isn't it? How do you share enough to advance the field without risking your intellectual property?"

Park's expression grows serious, pleased to explain complex matters to an attractive admirer. 

“That's precisely the challenge. In fact, I've published on cybersecurity measures specific to biotech research."

"Really? I'd love to read that."

"I have copies in my office," he says, and you see the calculation in his eyes—weighing professional opportunity against personal interest. "Perhaps I could show you sometime."

You touch his arm, just as Flower instructed, and let your expression brighten. 

“Is your office here? At the hotel?"

"Nexus maintains a suite for conferences and events," he says, now fully committed to the idea. "I have some materials there I could share with you. If you're interested."

So easy. Men are so easy. 

"I'd be honored," you say, squeezing his arm lightly before letting go.

"Ten floors up, northwest corner of the building," AD supplies in your ear. "Security camera blind spot in the hallway outside the Nexus suite. You'll have approximately twelve seconds of invisible approach. Try not to trip."

Park glances at his watch, a move so transparent you nearly roll your eyes. 

"I should make an appearance at the CEO's table first, but perhaps in thirty minutes? We could slip away without much notice then."

"That sounds perfect," you say. "I'll meet you by the west elevators?"

He nods, clearly pleased with how the evening is developing. 

"Don't disappear on me, Ms. Kim."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Dr. Park."

As he walks away, AD's voice returns. "Well, that was disgusting and effective. Thirty minutes gives us time to review the suite's layout. Head to the west bathroom—I'll send the blueprints to your phone."

You make your way through the crowd, maintaining Jiwoo's slightly awed expression as you go. 

Inside the bathroom, you check under the stall doors to make sure they're empty before speaking.

"Send the plans."

Your phone buzzes with an incoming message. The blueprints show a standard executive suite, modified for office use. The server access point is in what would normally be the bedroom, now converted to a secure file room.

"USB needs a physical connection to their closed network," AD reminds you. "Get him out of the room for at least forty seconds. That's all I need."

You study the layout, memorizing escape routes and hiding spots. 

"What if he doesn't leave me alone in there?"

"Plan B is in your right earring. Micro-sedative. Twist the back completely off and shake the contents into his drink. He'll get drowsy within two minutes. Should buy you enough time."

You touch the earring reflexively. 

"Noted."

"And Y/N?" AD's voice loses its sarcastic edge for a moment. "Stay sharp. This guy gives me bad vibes."

Coming from AD, that's practically a declaration of concern. 

You're touched, though you'd never tell him so.

"Roger that," you say, tucking your phone back into your clutch. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Stop thinking about J-Hope during the mission. Your vital signs spike every time you do."

Heat floods your face. 

Sometimes you forget the earrings monitor more than just location.

"I wasn't—"

"Save it. Just focus on the mark and get this done." You hear keys clicking rapidly. "And try not to get kidnapped. The paperwork is a nightmare."

Easy for you to say, you think but don't voice. 

He's not the one about to get pawed at by Dr. Handsy McCreeperson.

You take a deep breath, giving yourself one final check in the mirror. 

The woman who stares back looks nothing like the real you—the you who curses when code won't compile, who can hack through a firewall in minutes, who sits on the medical wing watching a certain doctor work with quiet fascination.

That person is nowhere to be seen tonight.

Instead, there's just Kim Jiwoo, biotech student and admirer of mediocre men, ready to complete their mission.

You reapply your lipstick, making sure the USB compartment is secure. 

The cherry note of your usual perfume clings to your skin, familiar and comforting in this unfamiliar role.

"Time to finish this," you murmur to your reflection.

"That's my problem child," AD says in your ear, almost fond. "Now go make Park feel like the most important man in the world. It's what he thinks anyway."

You straighten your shoulders, drop your clutch into your purse, and exit the bathroom.

Yeah.

Time to become the spider.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Park appears at the west elevators exactly thirty minutes later, looking pleased with himself.

"Ms. Kim," he says, offering his arm with exaggerated courtesy. "Ready for that private tour?"

You take his arm, letting Jiwoo's giggle bubble up.

"I can't believe you're actually willing to share your research with me."

The elevator ride up is mercifully brief, though Park uses the time to stand closer than necessary, his cologne competing poorly with your cherry cordial scent. His presence lacks any grounding quality—just nervous energy and poorly concealed intentions.

Nothing like the solid earth sensation you crave from someone else's proximity.

Focus, you remind yourself, pushing thoughts of Hoseok's steadiness away.

"Tenth floor, northwest corner," AD's voice confirms in your ear. "Right on schedule. Security sweep shows the hallway is clear."

The Nexus suite is exactly as the blueprints suggested—corporate luxury masquerading as functionality. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Seoul's glittering skyline, and the main room holds conference tables surrounded by expensive-looking chairs.

Park gestures grandly, like he personally designed the space.

"Impressive, isn't it? Nexus spares no expense for important conferences."

"It's beautiful," you breathe, allowing your eyes to widen appropriately. "Do you work here often?"

"When necessary. The real magic happens in the research facilities, of course, but this is where we handle the... business side of innovation."

He guides you toward a door marked ‘Authorized Personnel Only’—the converted bedroom that serves as their secure file room.

Perfect.

"The papers I mentioned are in here," he says, producing a keycard from his jacket. "Along with some prototype displays you might find fascinating."

The secure room is smaller than the main suite, lined with filing cabinets and computer terminals. A single server tower hums quietly in the corner—exactly where the blueprints indicated it would be.

Your target.

"This is where the real work gets documented," Park explains, moving to a filing cabinet. "Everything from initial concept to market projection."

You maintain Jiwoo's interested expression while mentally calculating distances and angles. The server is maybe six feet from where you're standing, but Park would have a clear line of sight if you approached it directly.

"Dr. Park," you say, touching his arm again, "would it be terrible if I asked for a glass of water? The champagne was stronger than I expected."

His eyes light up—the perfect opportunity to play concern.

"Of course! There's a water cooler just outside. I'll be right back."

"You're wonderful," you say, adding just enough breathiness to make it sound like more than gratitude.

He practically preens as he exits, leaving the door propped open—a gentleman's gesture that speaks to either his arrogance or his complete underestimation of his ‘guest.’

The moment his footsteps fade, you're moving.

"Clock starts now," AD says in your ear. "Forty seconds, remember."

Your fingers find the modified lipstick in your purse, extracting the USB device in one smooth motion. 

The server's access panel is exactly where it should be, and the device slides into the port without objection. 

"Connected," you whisper.

"Beautiful. Initializing now... twenty percent... forty percent..."

Footsteps in the hallway—too soon.

Your heart hammers as you step away from the server, trying to look like you've been examining the wall-mounted research displays the entire time.

Park returns with a paper cup of water, looking pleased.

"Here you are. Feeling better?"

"Much, thank you." You accept the water with a grateful smile, noting how his fingers brush yours deliberately during the handoff. "These displays are fascinating. Is this the neural interface work you mentioned?"

"Exactly." He moves closer, ostensibly to point out specific elements, but his proximity feels disingenuous. "This particular model can interpret complex thought patterns and translate them into digital commands."

"Sixty percent," AD updates quietly. "Keep him talking."

"The applications must be endless," you say, allowing wonder to color your voice. "Military, medical, even commercial possibilities."

"You understand the implications better than most," Park says, his hand coming to rest on your lower back again. "Intelligence and beauty—a rare combination."

The compliment feels slimy, nothing like the quiet appreciation you sometimes catch in Hoseok's eyes when he thinks you're not looking.

"Eighty percent," AD murmurs. "Almost there."

Park's hand slides lower, testing boundaries with the confidence of someone who's never faced real consequences.

"You know," he says, voice dropping to what he probably thinks is seductive, "there are more... private applications we could discuss."

Your skin crawls.

But of course, Jiwoo just looks flattered and slightly flustered.

"Dr. Park, I—"

"Please, call me Minjun."

"One hundred percent. Data transfer complete. Get out of there."

Relief floods through you, but you make sure to maintain Jiwoo's uncertain expression.

"Minjun," you say, testing the name like it means something. "This has been incredible, but I should probably get back to the gala. People will notice I'm gone."

His expression wavers—disappointment warring with the desire to maintain his sophisticated image.

"Of course. Though I hope this won't be our only opportunity to... collaborate."

"I'd like that very much," you lie smoothly.

He escorts you back to the elevators, his hand never quite leaving your back. 

As the doors close, he leans closer.

"Perhaps dinner sometime? I know several excellent restaurants that cater to... private conversations."

"That sounds wonderful."

The elevator descends, and you mentally count down the seconds until you can shed this persona entirely.

"Device is broadcasting perfectly," AD confirms in your ear. "Mission parameters satisfied. Time to extract."

But something in Park's expression as you reach the lobby makes your instincts prickle.

"Ms. Kim," he says as the elevator doors open, "there's something I should mention."

Your blood chills, but you keep Jiwoo's expectant smile in place.

"Oh?"

"I hope you don't think less of me for saying this," Park continues, stepping closer as you exit the elevator, "but I feel like we have a real connection. It's rare to meet someone who appreciates both the technical and philosophical aspects of my work."

Just paranoia, you tell yourself. He's just being creepy, not suspicious.

"I feel the same way," you manage, though something cold is settling in your stomach.

You make your way back into the gala proper, Park's hand still possessive on your back. 

The champagne fountain sparkles under the chandeliers, conversations flowing around you in multiple languages, everything exactly as you left it.

Normal.

Safe.

"The beautiful Ms. Kim returns," someone says, and you turn to see a man in an expensive suit approaching with champagne flutes. 

Mid-forties, perfectly groomed, with calculating eyes that remind you of Flower's warnings about dangerous predators.

Park straightens beside you.

"Ah, Director Yang. I didn't realize you were attending tonight."

Director Yang extends a champagne flute toward you with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Business calls, Dr. Park. And who is your lovely companion?"

"Kim Jiwoo," you say, accepting the champagne with Jiwoo's grateful smile. "Graduate student. Dr. Park was kind enough to discuss his research with me."

"How fortunate for you." Yang's gaze lingers on your face in a way that makes your skin prickle. "Though I believe we may have crossed paths before, Ms. Kim. You look... familiar."

The cold in your stomach crystallizes into ice.

"I don't think so," you say with a light laugh. "I'd definitely remember meeting you."

"Hmm." Yang sips his champagne thoughtfully. "Perhaps at a university function? I occasionally guest lecture on biotechnology applications."

"Possible, though I mostly focus on the technical side. Less exposure to the business aspects."

"The technical side." Yang's smile sharpens. "How refreshing. Dr. Park, you mentioned Ms. Kim has been asking about security protocols?"

Park blinks, clearly not remembering the conversation quite that way.

"We discussed collaboration challenges, yes. Standard academic concerns about intellectual property protection."

"Of course." Yang's attention returns to you. "And what's your particular area of focus, Ms. Kim?"

The question feels like a trap, though you can't identify exactly why.

"Neural-digital interfaces, primarily. The cognitive mapping applications fascinate me."

"Sophisticated field for a graduate student."

"I've always been drawn to challenging problems."

Yang nods slowly, and you notice his free hand has moved to his jacket pocket.

"Dr. Park, would you mind giving Ms. Kim and me a moment? I believe there are some colleagues by the east wing who've been asking about your latest publication."

Park hesitates, clearly reluctant to leave you alone with Yang.

But social pressure wins out.

"Of course. Ms. Kim, I'll find you in a few minutes?"

"I'll be here," you promise, though every instinct is screaming at you to run.

The moment Park disappears into the crowd, Yang's demeanor shifts entirely. 

Everything about him is making your insides recoil.

"Now then," he says quietly, "let's discuss your real area of expertise."

"I'm sorry?"

"Drop the act. We know exactly who you are."

Your mouth goes dry. In your ear, AD's voice is sharp with sudden alarm.

"Your heart rate just spiked. What's happening?"

Yang steps closer, crowding your space.

"Kim Jiwoo doesn't exist. The university records show no enrollment under that name. Your identification is excellent work—whoever made it has serious skills—but not quite perfect."

Shit.

"I think there's been some mistake—"

"The only mistake," Yang interrupts, "was assuming Nexus Biotech doesn't screen its gala attendees. Especially when they start asking very specific questions about our security protocols."

"Talk to me. What's going on down there?"

You can't respond with Yang watching your every micro-expression, but your silence is answer enough for AD.

"Your friend Dr. Park was quite helpful, actually," Yang continues conversationally. "He mentioned how surprisingly knowledgeable you were about neural interface technology. Far more knowledgeable than any graduate student should be."

The champagne glass trembles slightly in your hand.

"And then there's the interesting timing of your disappearance with Dr. Park. Thirty minutes, wasn't it? Just long enough to access our secure systems."

Yang's hand emerges from his jacket pocket holding what looks like a small device—signal detector, you realize with growing horror.

"Would you like to guess what this is reading from your current location?"

You swallow thickly. 

"Multiple unknown signals detected," he continues when you don't respond. "Communication devices. Very sophisticated ones."

"I'm calling extraction now," AD's voice is tight now. “Get to the west exit. Emergency protocol alpha."

But Yang is already moving, his hand now clearly holding something more threatening than a signal detector.

"I'm afraid you won't be leaving just yet," he says pleasantly. "We have so much to discuss about your technical expertise.”

The device in his hand catches the light, and you realize it's not a weapon at all.

It's a syringe.

Your training kicks in before conscious thought does.

You stumble backward, the champagne glass flying from your hand to shatter against the marble floor. 

The sound draws attention—exactly what you need—and several nearby guests turn to look.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" you exclaim, loud enough to ensure an audience. "How clumsy of me!"

Yang's expression tightens with frustration as a waiter hurries over with napkins and concerned murmurs fill the space around you.

"No problem at all, miss," the waiter says kindly. "Happens more often than you'd think."

"Thank you so much," you say, maintaining Jiwoo's flustered persona while using the distraction to put more distance between yourself and Yang. "I feel terrible about the mess."

"Extraction team is moving," AD's voice crackles in your ear. "Three minutes out. Get to street level."

Yang hovers nearby, unable to approach with so many witnesses focused on the commotion. His polite smile has returned, but his eyes are cold as winter.

"Ms. Kim seems to be having quite an eventful evening," he comments to the waiter.

"The champagne can be stronger than expected," the waiter replies diplomatically, shooting you a sympathetic look.

You're backing toward the main entrance now, still playing the embarrassed guest while scanning for additional threats. Yang isn't moving to follow, which either means he's confident you can't escape or—

Or he's not the only one.

"Hey," AD's voice is sharp. "I'm seeing movement on multiple security feeds. At least four individuals converging on your location."

Fuck.

The main entrance suddenly seems very far away, and you notice two men in suits positioned near the exit who weren't there before. They're trying to look casual, but their positioning is too strategic to be coincidental.

"West bathroom," AD directs. "Service corridor access through the maintenance panel behind the third stall. Move now."

You excuse yourself from the helpful waiter and head toward the bathroom, fighting every instinct that wants you to run. 

Jiwoo wouldn't run. 

Jiwoo would use the bathroom and return to the party, maybe find Dr. Park again, maybe have another glass of champagne.

When you make it inside, the bathroom is empty—small mercy—and you immediately head for the third stall, fingers searching for the maintenance panel AD described.

"Bottom right corner," he guides. "Should be a standard release mechanism."

Your fingers find the concealed latch just as the bathroom door opens behind you.

"Ms. Kim?"

Yang's voice, pleasant and concerned.

You freeze.

"Is everything alright? You seemed upset after the incident with the champagne."

"Fine," you call back, your voice slightly strained. "Just need a moment."

"Of course. Take all the time you need."

But you can hear him moving, footsteps approaching the stall area.

The maintenance panel comes free in your hands, revealing a narrow service corridor beyond. 

You can hear AD breathing through the comm, probably watching security feeds and calculating extraction routes like a madman right now.

"The good news," Yang continues conversationally, "is that we retrieved your little device from our server. Quite sophisticated. Your people do excellent work."

Your blood turns to ice.

They know about the USB.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say, but your voice cracks slightly.

"The device that was uploading our proprietary research for the last fifteen minutes? The one broadcasting on frequencies that don't appear on any civilian equipment?"

Yang's footsteps stop just outside your stall.

"You can come out now, Ms. Kim. Or should I say, Agent Kim?"

"Get out of there right now," AD hisses in your ear. "They made you. Move, move, move!"

You don't hesitate.

You push yourself into the service corridor.

And… It is exactly as narrow as it looked, barely wide enough for your shoulders, but it's escape. 

You push through into darkness just as Yang's voice turns sharp behind you.

"Security to women's restroom, level one. Target is mobile."

Your heart rate inevitably picks up rhythm. 

"Straight ahead fifty meters, then left," AD directs. "There's a service elevator that connects to the parking garage."

Your heels are too loud against the concrete (and way too overstimulateing right now), so you pause to kick them off, cold floor shocking against your bare feet.

"Thermal imaging shows at least six hostiles now," AD updates, his voice tight. "They're coordinating through building security. This is bigger than just Nexus."

At the end of the narrow corridor, the service elevator comes into view—a freight lift with industrial controls. 

You punch the button for the parking garage level, adrenaline making your hands shake.

"MDF," you whisper as the elevator lurches into motion. "This has to be MDF."

"That's what I'm thinking. Extraction team is in position. Black sedan, license plate 서울42바7891. Driver will be wearing a blue baseball cap."

The elevator shudders to a stop, and the doors open onto the parking garage. 

A parking garage that feels cavernous and threatening, full of hiding places and blind spots.

You can see the black sedan AD described, parked near the exit ramp. The driver's blue cap is visible through the windshield.

Forty meters. 

You can make forty meters.

You're halfway there when the elevator behind you dings.

They found the service corridor.

"Run," AD says simply.

You do.

Your bare feet slap against cold concrete as you sprint toward the sedan, the red dress hampering your stride but not enough to slow you down significantly.

Behind you, voices echo through the parking garage.

"Target heading for exit ramp. Intercept vehicle alpha-seven."

They have radio coordination.

This is definitely bigger than Nexus Biotech.

Thirty meters, you count mentally, pushing harder. 

Twenty. 

Fifteen.

The sedan's engine is already running, exhaust visible in the underground chill. 

The driver—young woman, not the man you expected—spots you approaching and begins moving the car to meet you halfway.

Ten meters.

A black SUV rounds the corner at the exit ramp, moving fast and heading directly for you.

"Vehicle incoming from your three o'clock!"

You can see it, tires squealing as it turns to cut off your route to the sedan. 

The driver's window is down, and something metallic glints in the passenger's hand.

Not good. Not good at all.

You veer left, using a concrete pillar as cover just as something small and sharp embeds itself in the pillar where your head was a second ago.

Tranquilizer dart.

They want you alive.

Somehow that's not comforting.

"New plan," AD's voice is tight with concentration. "Service stairs, northwest corner. Two levels up connects to street access."

You spot the stairwell entrance—heavy metal door marked ‘Emergency Exit Only’—and change direction again. 

Your feet are starting to go numb from the cold concrete, but adrenaline keeps you moving.

The SUV's doors are opening, disgorging figures in dark clothing.

Professional.

Military-style coordination.

Definitely MDF.

"Target is heading for stairs. Converge on northwest corner."

You reach the stairwell and tear the door open, taking the steps two at a time. 

The metal stairs ring under your feet, but there's no point in stealth now.

Because they know exactly where you are.

"One flight up, then the fire door leads to an alley," AD directs. "Extraction team is repositioning to meet you there."

Your lungs burn as you climb, the tight dress making it impossible to get a full breath. 

Behind you, the stairwell door crashes open.

"She's in the stairs. Moving to intercept at street level."

Shit.

They're faster than you anticipated, and they know the building layout as well as AD does.

You reach the fire door and push through into Seoul's night air. 

The alley is narrow, lined with dumpsters and emergency exits from adjacent buildings as streetlights eerily light up what’s barely visible.

The black sedan appears at the mouth of the alley, driving fast.

But so does another SUV from the opposite direction.

They're boxing you in.

"You need to get off the street level. Fire escape on your right—building next door. Get to the roof."

You look up and spot the fire escape—old metal ladder system running up the side of what looks like an office building. 

It's going to be a nightmare to climb in this dress, but… 

Yeah.

Still way better than being caught between two vehicles full of people who want to drug you unconscious.

You jump for the lowest rung of the fire escape, hauling yourself up with arm strength you didn't know you possessed. The red dress tears along one side, giving you better range of movement.

Below, car doors slam.

"Target is climbing. Bring the equipment."

Equipment.

That can't be good.

You climb faster, ignoring the way the metal rungs bite into your bare feet. 

One story. Two stories

"Three more floors to roof access," AD says. "Extraction team is moving to parallel building. They'll throw you a line."

Your shoulders are screaming by the time you reach the roof, but you don't stop moving. 

The Seoul skyline spreads out around you, neon and glass stretching to the horizon. 

Under different circumstances, it might be beautiful.

Right now, it just looks like a long way to fall.

"Careful!"

A voice from across the gap between buildings—maybe ten feet of empty air over a five-story drop. 

A figure in black tactical gear is setting up what looks like a zip line.

"Jump harness incoming!"

Something flies through the air toward you—a climbing harness attached to a line. You catch it, working frantically to step into the leg loops while keeping an eye on the roof access door.

The door crashes open just as you click the harness closed.

Yang emerges onto the roof, no longer bothering with his polite businessman bullshit anymore. 

Yeah, fucker is pissed.

Behind him, two figures in tactical gear carry what looks like a net launcher.

A net launcher.

They really want you alive.

"Go, go, go!" the extraction team member shouts.

You don't hesitate.

You jump.

For a terrifying moment, you're falling through empty air, the alley rushing up to meet you. 

Then the line catches, swinging you in a pendulum arc toward the opposite building.

You hit the roof hard, rolling with the impact as rough concrete scrapes against your knees and palms. 

But you're alive.

You’re free.

Behind you, Yang is shouting into a radio.

"Target has crossed to adjacent building. Initiate containment protocol seven."

That sounds ominous.

"Helicopter incoming," AD's voice is tight. "This operation just went from covert to very public very fast. We need to get you underground."

The extraction team member is already moving, unclipping you from the zip line and guiding you toward a different roof access.

"Service tunnels connect to the subway system," they explain quickly. "Once we're underground, we can disappear."

You follow them down into the building, through emergency stairwells and service corridors that blur together in your adrenaline-fueled state. 

Your feet are bleeding now, leaving small smears on the concrete floors, but you barely notice.

Somewhere in the distance, you can hear the rhythmic thump of helicopter rotors.

They really, really want you alive.

The question is why.

And what they're willing to do to everyone else to get you.

"Almost there," the extraction team member says, pushing open a final door that leads to a subway maintenance tunnel. "Transport is waiting."

You stumble into the tunnel, and there—blessed sight—is AD himself, not just his voice in your ear. He’s standing next to a black motorcycle, helmet in hand, looking more rattled than you’ve ever seen him.

“Y/N!” His voice cracks slightly with relief. “Jesus fucking christ, when they compromised the sedan team—”

You make it maybe five steps toward him before your legs give out.

It hits you all of a sudden—a goddamn adrenaline crash—every injury and exhaustion you’ve been ignoring suddenly demanding attention. 

Your vision blurs at the edges, and the world tilts alarmingly.

“Whoa, whoa, hey—” AD drops his helmet, catching you before you hit the concrete. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

His hands are surprisingly gentle as he checks you over, cataloging injuries with a level of efficiency that would make Hoseok proud.

“Bleeding feet, torn dress, pupils slightly dilated but responsive, pulse elevated but not dangerous,” he mutters, like he’s informing someone else. “What the fuck did they do to you?”

“Nothing,” you manage, though your voice sounds far away even to your own ears. “Got away. USB—did the data—?”

“Data’s secure. Mission accomplished.” His voice is rough with an emotion you can’t quite identify. “But fuck the mission. Are you hurt? Did they inject you with anything?”

You try to shake your head, but the movement makes the tunnel spin.

“Just… tired. Adrenaline.”

“Yeah, well, remind me to never send you on a training wheels mission again.” But his snark is not believable, because it lacks its usual bite. “Can you ride? We need to move before they expand their search grid.”

“I can… ride.”

It’s a lie, but AD already knows that. 

He helps you onto the back of the motorcycle, securing a spare helmet over your head with shaking fingers.

“Hold on tight,” he says. “And if you fall off my bike, I’m leaving you for dead.”

Another lie. You can hear it in his voice.

The motorcycle roars to life then, carrying you into Seoul’s underground tunnels.

Your head grows heavy against his back, and so without thinking, you murmur his name.

“Yoongi?”

He tenses slightly—he never lets anyone use his real name, and you’re not usually the exception.

But this time, he doesn’t correct you. 

“Thank you.”

Then you’re drifting, consciousness slipping away as underground tunnels engulf both of you in streaks of light and shadow. 

Your last coherent thought is that AD’s aura—that crisp winter morning—feels almost warm right now.

Almost like he actually gives a damn.

You wake up in pieces.

First comes the antiseptic smell—sharp and clinical, nothing like the cherry cordial that usually clings to your skin. 

Then the soft beeping of monitors, the rustle of starched sheets against your legs.

The medical wing.

Your eyes crack open to ceiling tiles above you that have water stains in the corner—something you've never noticed during your previous visits here.

Previous visits.

The thought brings everything rushing back: the gala, Dr. Park's clammy hands, Yang's calculating smile, the rooftop chase, falling against Yoongi's back on the motorcycle—

"About time."

You turn your head—too fast, making the room spin briefly—and find Yoongi slumped in the visitor's chair. He looks like he's been there for hours, possibly days. His hair is messier than usual, and there are shadows under his eyes that speak to missed sleep.

"How long was I out?"

"About eighteen hours. Hobi said it was exhaustion and adrenaline crash, plus some dehydration. Nothing life-threatening."

Hobi.

Just hearing his name makes something warm unfurl in your chest.

"The mission—"

"Was a complete success," Yoongi interrupts. "Data extracted, USB worked perfectly, no casualties on our side. RM's pleased."

You try to sit up, but your body protests with a dozen small aches. Your feet throb where the concrete scraped them raw, and there's a persistent soreness in your shoulders from all that climbing.

"Easy." Yoongi's tone is gentler than his usual snark. "You went through hell last night."

"What happened after I—after the tunnels?"

"You passed out on my bike about ten minutes into the ride. Had to carry you up here unconscious." He pauses, then adds with characteristic bluntness, "You're heavier than you look."

Despite everything, you almost smile.

"Thanks for the rescue."

Yoongi's expression shifts slightly—not quite embarrassment, but close.

"You said my name in front of the extraction team."

Oh.

Shit.

You'd called him Yoongi on a comm channel. 

In front of witnesses. 

Using his real name when you were supposed to maintain operational security and proper hierarchy.

"I'm sorry, I was—"

"Half-conscious and running on fumes," he cuts you off. "People say stupid shit when they're crashed out. The team thinks you were delirious."

But the way he says it suggests he knows it wasn't delirium at all.

"Still. I shouldn't have—"

"It's fine." His voice carries an edge of something you can't quite identify. "We've got bigger problems than operational security breaches."

Something cold settles in your stomach.

"What kind of problems?"

Yoongi leans back in his chair, and for the first time since you woke up, he looks genuinely uncomfortable.

"The mission wasn't what we thought it was."

"What do you mean?"

"Dr. Park wasn't working on standard biotech research. The data you extracted..." 

He pauses, choosing his words carefully. 

"Ever heard of Project Chrysalis?"

You shake your head.

"Military application of neural-digital interface technology. The ability to enhance soldiers' cognitive processing, reaction times, even pain tolerance through direct brain-computer integration." His voice drops. "Whoever controls that technology controls the future of warfare."

Chrysalis.

Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. Transformation at the most fundamental level.

"And Dr. Park was working on it?"

"Unknowingly, probably. His research on neural mapping and digital command integration—it's the foundation for everything Chrysalis represents. With his data, we can either develop our own capabilities or ensure our enemies can't develop theirs."

The scope of what you were involved in settles over you.

Not just corporate espionage or gang politics, but something that could shift the balance of power on a much larger scale.

"But the briefing said it was routine corporate intelligence gathering."

Yoongi's jaw tightens.

"The briefing said a lot of things."

Oh.

"RM knew."

"RM knew." Yoongi's voice passes as neutral, but there's something underneath it—frustration, maybe, or resignation. "He also knew that if any of us had understood the real scope, we would have insisted on sending someone with more experience."

"Someone like Flower."

"Someone like Flower," he confirms. "Or a full team. Not a dual-division ensign on what was supposed to be a training mission."

You think about the sophisticated security response, Yang's approach, the way everything escalated so quickly from simple corporate espionage to international intelligence warfare.

"But he sent me because of the dual-division thing."

"He sent you because you were the only available operative who could handle both the social engineering and the technical infiltration seamlessly. Most of us specialize in one area—you bridge both." Yoongi's expression softens slightly. "And because he's always twenty steps ahead. If he trusted you with this, it means he saw potential for advancement that the rest of us missed."

"Even if I nearly got kidnapped by hostile intelligence services?"

"Especially because you didn't get kidnapped. You adapted, completed the objective, and extracted successfully under extreme circumstances." Yoongi's almost-smile returns. "RM doesn't gamble with people's lives. If he sent you alone, it's because he knew you could handle whatever came up."

The way he frames it—as trust rather than endangerment—makes sense in the context of RM's strategic thinking. 

Because RM never make decisions lightly, and he certainly doesn't treat his people as expendable resources.

"How angry is Hobi?"

Something flickers across Yoongi's expression—part amusement, part concern.

"Hobi's having a conversation with RM as we speak."

Oh no.

"Please tell me he's not—"

"He's absolutely tearing RM a new one for the deception and putting you at unnecessary risk," Yoongi confirms. "Has been for the last hour."

Your blood chills.

"He could get fired. Disciplined. RM doesn't tolerate insubordination—"

"RM's been putting up with Hobi's protective instincts for years," Yoongi interrupts. "He knows he can't afford to lose his Chief Medical Officer, especially not when he has regular meetings with the triads that sometimes end with people bleeding."

The casual way he mentions RM's diplomatic negotiations makes you remember exactly what kind of organization you work for.

"But still—"

"Hobi will be fine. RM respects people who stand up for their principles, even when those principles include calling him a self-serving bastard who puts valuable personnel at risk for strategic advantages."

Jesus.

"He actually called RM that?"

"Among other things." Yoongi's expression suggests he finds the whole situation more entertaining than concerning. "I may have declined to stop him."

"Why?"

"Because he's not wrong about the information control, and because watching Hobi lose his temper is educational." Yoongi stretches, joints popping audibly. "Besides, someone should call RM out when his strategic thinking overlooks the human cost."

But you don’t miss the affection in his voice when he talks about both of them—RM and Hoseok.

It’s the kind of complicated loyalty that comes from years of shared danger and mutual respect.

"He's officially requested to be the one supervising my case this time again, right?"

The question slips out more pointed than you intended, and Yoongi goes very still.

"...Yeah."

The pause before his answer says everything. 

Because Council members don't personally handle ensign medical care—Hoseok only sees critical cases, life-threatening injuries, or Council-level personnel who require his expertise.

Not dual-division ensigns with bruised feet and exhaustion.

Yoongi shifts uncomfortably in his chair, clearly wishing this particular conversation would go somewhere else.

"He's been handling your medical care since you started getting injured regularly," he says finally. "Consistency of care, he says."

Consistency of care.

Right.

"Makes sense," you say, even though you both know it doesn't make sense at all.

Yoongi's expression suggests he'd rather be anywhere else than navigating this particular minefield.

"Anyway," he continues with obvious relief at changing the subject, "the data you extracted is already being analyzed. RM wants a full debrief when you're cleared for duty, but that's not happening until Hobi says you're ready."

"How long do you think they'll be talking?"

"Until one of them says something they can't take back, or until RM acknowledges that maybe next time he should trust his division chiefs with operational intelligence." 

He snorts—almost a laugh—then stands up from the chair with a stretch that suggests he’s been sitting there far longer than is comfortable. 

"Could be a while."

You wonder what Hoseok told RM about your condition, how much detail he provided about your injuries and recovery needs.

“Yoongi?” You catch his attention before he reaches the door. “Thank you. For coming to get me yourself.”

He pauses, hand on the door handle.

“Hobi would have killed me if I’d sent anyone else.”

Then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the quiet beeping of monitors and the antiseptic smell that can’t quite mask the cherry cordial still clinging to your skin.

You decide to lie there cataloging injuries and replaying the mission in your head. 

Every detail feels important now that you know the true scope of what was at stake—Project Chrysalis, neural enhancement technology, the kind of breakthrough that could shift global power dynamics.

And you were worried about charming some boring scientist.

Plus, right now, your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache. 

The concrete rooftop was unforgiving, and your feet feel like someone used them for target practice. But you’re alive, and more importantly, you’re safe.

Safe in Hoseok’s medical wing.

The thought brings warmth that has nothing to do with the heated blankets.

You think about his hands—always gentle when he examines you, clinical but somehow personal at the same time. The way he notices things: how you favor your left ankle when you’re tired, the pattern of bruises that maps your training schedule, the fact that your veins are notoriously difficult to find.

He pays attention.

In a world where most people only see what directly affects them, Hoseok notices the small details that matter. It’s what makes him good at his job, but it’s also what makes him dangerous to you.

Because you can’t stop wondering what it would feel like if that attention wasn’t purely medical.

If those gentle hands were touching you because he wanted to, not because you were injured.

If the warmth in his eyes when he checks on you meant something more than professional concern.

Stop it.

The gang’s rules are clear, and they exist for good reason. 

RM rebuilt Kkangpae on the principle that personal attachments create vulnerabilities, and everything about your organization’s success proves him right.

But knowing something intellectually and feeling it emotionally are two very different things.

And right now, exhausted and vulnerable in a hospital bed, you can’t quite convince your heart to care about organizational policies.

The cherry cordial scent grows stronger as your body warms under the blankets, mixing with the antiseptic in a way that somehow feels like home. 

This room, this wing, the quiet competence of medical equipment—it all feels safer than anywhere else in the Castle.

Because this is Hoseok’s domain.

Where his word is law and his protection extends to everyone who enters seeking help.

Where the harsh realities of gang life soften into something approaching actual care.

You close your eyes and allow yourself, just for a moment, to imagine what it would be like if the world were different. 

If two people could simply care about each other without it being a threat to everything that’s been built.

But when you open your eyes again, the medical wing looks exactly the same.

Fluorescent lights, beeping monitors, the faint chemical smell of industrial cleaning supplies.

Reality, unchanged by wishful thinking.

You’re still a dual-division ensign who just completed a mission of international significance.

And Hoseok is still the Chief Medical Officer whose job it is to keep you healthy enough to complete the next one.

Nothing more.

Nothing more.

The door opens quietly, and you know it’s him before you turn your head. Something about the way Hoseok moves—economical, precise, but never harsh. Like he’s always conscious of taking up space in a world full of people who need healing.

“Hey,” he says simply, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Your pulse quickens despite your best efforts to stay calm.

“Hey yourself, doc.”

He approaches the bed with that familiar combination of professional distance and personal concern that makes your chest tight. 

Today he’s wearing a simple turtleneck under his white medical coat, and there are tension lines around his eyes that suggest he’s been running on too little sleep.

“How are you feeling?” He asks. 

“Like I got hit by a truck. Driven by someone who really had it out for me.” You say, because there’s no point in lying.

That earns you a small smile—not the polite expression he uses with most patients, but something warmer and more genuine.

“That’s fairly accurate, considering.” 

He reaches for your chart, scanning the vitals with the kind of focused attention that most people reserve for life-or-death decisions. 

“Yoongi said you were asking about the mission.”

“He told me about Chrysalis.”

Hoseok’s hands still on the chart.

“Did he.”

“Military neural enhancement. The kind of thing that makes last night make a lot more sense.”

“It does.” He sets the chart aside and moves closer to the bed, studying your face with an intensity that makes you feel exposed. “How much do you remember about the extraction?”

“Most of it. Up until I passed out on Yoongi’s bike.”

Something flickers across his expression—relief, maybe, or concern that you remember more than he hoped.

“He was worried about you. More than he’d ever admit.”

“I figured. He stayed here all night, didn’t he?”

“Seventeen hours.” Hoseok’s voice carries a note of fond exasperation. “I had to threaten him with sedatives to get him to eat something.”

The image of Yoongi being bullied into basic self-care by an exasperated Hoseok makes you smile despite everything.

“He called you, didn’t he? During the extraction.”

Hoseok nods, moving to check the IV line in your arm. His fingers are warm against your skin, and you fight the urge to lean into the contact.

“Real-time medical assessment. Torn dress, bleeding feet, elevated pulse, dilated pupils.” He pauses. “He was scared. Really scared.”

“Were you?”

The question slips out before you can stop it.

Hoseok goes very still, his hand still resting against your arm where he’d been checking the IV.

“Yes.”

Simple, honest, devastating.

“The whole time you were gone, I kept thinking about all the things that could go wrong. All the ways you could get hurt that I wouldn’t be able to fix.”

His thumb traces unconsciously against your skin—just once, barely there, but enough to make your breath catch.

“Your veins are impossible to find on a good day,” he continues quietly. “If you’d been seriously injured…”

“But I wasn’t.”

“But you could have been.”

You feel the weight of his words on his chest.

All the ways the mission could have gone wrong, all the variables that could have ended with you not coming home at all.

How he would have beaten himself up forever for it. 

“I’m okay,” you say softly. “I’m right here.”

“You are.” His voice carries a note of wonder, like he’s still not quite convinced. 

“How did the meeting go?”

He pauses, licking his lips and considering his response like he’s been busted. But then he just sighs loudly and actually replies.

“About as well as expected.”

“Which means?”

“RM and I had a frank discussion about operational intelligence sharing and the medical risks of deploying personnel without adequate briefings.” 

Which means the conversation was more heated than his diplomatic phrasing implies.

“Are you in trouble?”

“No more than usual.” He approaches the bed. “RM understands that medical officers occasionally have strong opinions about risk management.”

“Strong opinions?”

“I may have suggested that his strategic brilliance sometimes overlooks the human cost of calculated risks.”

Jesus.

“And he didn’t fire you?”

“He pointed out that my job is keeping people alive, not second-guessing command decisions. I pointed out that those two responsibilities sometimes conflict.” Hoseok’s mouth quirks into something that might be a smile. “We agreed to disagree.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” He sighs loudly. “Though he did mention that your performance exceeded all expectations and that future operations will benefit from better intelligence sharing.”

Future operations.

The phrase brings with it a complex mix of pride and apprehension.

“So I’m not in trouble either?”

“You completed a mission of international significance with minimal support and maximum complications. RM’s exact words were ‘exemplary adaptation under extreme circumstances.’” Hoseok’s eyes finally land on yours. “You’re not in trouble, pip. You’re being fast-tracked for advanced operations.”

Pip.

It makes something flutter in your chest, intimate and fond in a way that professional relationships definitely shouldn’t be.

“Is that good or bad?”

“It’s recognition that you’re capable of handling situations far beyond your current rank. Whether it’s good or bad… Well, that depends on how you feel about increasingly complex missions.”

You don’t know how you feel about increasingly complex missions. 

“I should probably start an IV,” he continues, deflecting from whatever he sees in your expression. “You’re still dehydrated, and knowing you, you haven’t eaten anything substantial in the last twenty-four hours.”

“Do you have to? The needle thing?”

He gives you a look that’s equal parts professional concern and personal amusement.

“Yes, I have to. And it’s not going to be fun, given your vascular situation.”

You make a face, and he laughs—actual laughter, warm and genuine.

“Come on, pip. When have I ever hurt you?”

Pip. Again.

“There’s a first time for everything, crocs.” 

“Call me that again and I’ll use the biggest needle I can find.”

But there’s no heat in the threat, just the easy teasing that’s become natural between you despite all the rules it probably violates.

He prepares the IV kit with the kind of meticulous care you’ve come to associate with everything he does. 

“This might take a couple tries,” he warns, settling beside you on the bed to get better access to your arm.

He’s close now—closer than usual, and the proximity makes your heart race in a way that has nothing to do with medical anxiety. 

You can smell his cologne—that sandalwood scent that always makes you think of solid ground and safety—and feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“Just… try not to turn me into a pincushion.”

“I’ll do my best.”

His fingers probe gently along your arm, searching for a vein that will cooperate. The touch is clinical, professional, absolutely appropriate for a medical procedure.

So why does it feel like something else entirely?

“There,” he murmurs, finding what he’s looking for. “Hold still.”

The needle slides in smoothly—no pain, just a brief pinch and then relief as the IV line seats properly.

“Show off,” you mutter.

“Years of practice on difficult patients.”

“I’m not difficult.”

“You’re the most difficult patient I have.” But he says it with a fondness that takes any sting out of the words. “Always getting hurt in the most inconvenient ways.”

“I don’t do it on purpose.”

“Don’t you?”

The question catches you off guard, and you look up to find him watching you with an expression you can’t quite read.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” He finishes securing the IV line and moves to check the flow rate. “Just… you end up in here a lot for someone who’s supposed to be trained in avoiding injury.”

There’s something underneath his words—not quite an accusation, but close.

Like he’s noticed the same pattern you’ve been trying not to think about.

The way you find reasons to visit the medical wing. The way minor injuries seem to require his personal attention. The way you linger in conversations that should be brief and professional.

He knows.

Or at least suspects.

“Sometimes people get hurt,” you say carefully. “That’s what medical wings are for.”

“Sometimes,” he agrees. “But usually not the same person, with the same frequency, requiring the same level of personal attention.”

Your cheeks warm, and you look away from his too-knowing eyes.

“I bruise easily. You said so yourself.”

“You do.” His voice is gentler now, less probing. “But that’s not what I’m talking about, and we both know it.”

Silence falls between you for a beat. Two. 

“Hobi,” you say quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For taking care of me.”

“It’s my job.”

“Is it?”

He looks at you then—really looks.

“Yes,” he says finally. “It is.”

But the way he says it suggests it stopped being just a job a long time ago.

Because there are moments—small ones, easily missed if you weren’t paying attention—where it’s clear.

The way he lingers when checking your pulse, fingers resting against your wrist longer than necessary.

How he adjusts your pillows with a gentleness that goes beyond medical courtesy.

The fact that he’s personally handling your care instead of delegating to the night staff.

“You don’t have to stay,” you tell him as he settles into the visitor’s chair Yoongi vacated hours ago. “I’m sure you have other patients.”

“Not tonight.” He stretches his legs out, looking more relaxed than you’ve seen him in weeks. “Quiet evening in the medical wing. Just you and a couple of routine check-ups.”

“Lucky me.”

“Lucky you.”

Your perfume mixes with his now, and it takes no effort for you to identify it. 

Cherry cordial, sandalwood. 

The sterile medical room feels almost cozy. Like a space that belongs to both of you instead of just him.

“RM wanted me to pass along his congratulations,” Hoseok says, pulling out a tablet and scrolling through what looks like official communications. “Mission success, minimal complications, valuable intelligence gathered.”

“Minimal complications?”

“His words, not mine.” 

His tone suggest he doesn’t agree with RM’s statement.

You snort. “I nearly got kidnapped by hostile intelligence services. That seems like more than minimal.”

“But you didn’t get kidnapped. You completed the objective and extracted successfully.” His eyes meet yours over the tablet. “That’s what matters to RM.”

“What matters to you?”

Silence. 

His eyes rise up from his device to stare into yours for a couple seconds. 

“That you’re safe,” he says then. “That you’re here, in one piece, complaining about IV needles and calling me ridiculous nicknames.”

That you’re here.

Not that the mission succeeded, not that KGP’s objectives were met, but that you specifically are present and accounted for.

“The nicknames aren’t that ridiculous.”

“Crocs?”

“You wear them all the time!”

“Because I’m a doctor!”

“You literally wear designer turtlenecks to perform surgery.”

“I wear scrubs for surgery.” But he’s smiling now, the tension of the last day finally starting to ease. “The turtlenecks are for meetings with people who think doctors should look respectable.”

“You don’t think you look respectable?”

“I think I look like someone playing dress-up in a world where appearances matter more than competence.”

“You look like someone who saves lives,” you say quietly. “Everything else is just packaging.”

He goes still, tablet forgotten in his lap.

“Pip…”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head, but something has shifted in his expression. “You should get some rest. It’s been a long day.”

“I’ve been resting for eighteen hours.”

“You’ve been unconscious for eighteen hours. That’s different.”

“I’m not tired.”

“You’re exhausted. I can see it in your vitals.”

Always paying attention.

Always noticing the things you try to hide.

“Will you stay?” The question slips out before you can stop it. “Just… until I fall asleep?”

Something vulnerable flickers across his face.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I can do that.”

He moves the chair closer to the bed, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted to. 

Close enough that the scent of sandalwood mingles with cherry cordial until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

“Better?”

“Better.”

You close your eyes, listening to the quiet sounds of him settling in—the rustle of fabric, the soft beep of monitors, his steady breathing that somehow makes the whole room feel safer.

“Hoseok?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m glad you were scared.”

A pause.

“Why?”

“Because it means this matters to you too.”

You don’t open your eyes to see his reaction, but you hear the sharp intake of breath, the way his breathing changes rhythm.

“Get some sleep, pip,” he says finally, voice rougher than before.

“Stay?”

“I’ll stay.”

And he does.

When you drift off, lulled by exhaustion and the warm weight of his presence, Hoseok is still there in the chair beside your bed. Still watching over you with the kind of careful attention that speaks to feelings neither of you can afford to name.

Still close enough to touch, even though you both know you never will.

Where a doctor tends to wounds that go deeper than skin.

Where someone learns the difference between being cared for and being cared about.

Where Project Chrysalis represents transformation on a global scale.

But the only metamorphosis that matters is happening right here.

In the quiet space between two people who are learning that some rules are harder to follow than others.

@jungkoode 2025

[kikiskook]

MENDING MORE THAN WOUNDS.

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬; You’re bleeding, because despite your urge to train more and become better, your body refuses to comply. And being the Doc’s patient becomes a perk few get to enjoy, so you indulge. Though, maybe that’s not the only reason. Nor is his.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠; jung hoseok x nb!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭; 3.2k ➜ drabble

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞; crime/mafia au (kkangpae), forbidden romance, slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort

𝐚/𝐧; hehehhe more of our beloved grumpy doctor in this canon-adjacent au in the kkangpae universe, again commissioned by my beloved Roo ( @billy-jeans23 ) again: reader in this one is non-binary (they/them pronouns) and heavily implied as blasian!

The first thing you notice is the blood. 

It’s everywhere—sticky and warm, soaking through your fingers as you press against your side, trying to keep it from spilling out like some macabre fountain. It’s not working. You’re leaving a trail behind you, dark smears on the pristine white floors of the medical wing. 

Great. That’s going to be fun to explain later. 

Your steps echo too loudly in the empty hallway, each one reminding you of how far you still have to go. 

Everything feels a lot sharper and sterile under these lights, fluorescent, humming and cold. 

The kind of light that doesn’t let you hide anything—not the sweat plastering your curls to your forehead, not the tremor in your hands, and definitely not the fact that you’re bleeding like a stuck pig. 

You pause, leaning against the wall for support. Your reflection stares back at you from the polished surface of a steel cabinet nearby—tan skin gone pale, eyes glassy, lips pressed into a tight line to keep from groaning out loud. 

You look like shit. 

“Just a few more steps,” you mutter under your breath, pushing off the wall with a grunt. “You’ve got this.” 

You don’t got this. 

The room tilts slightly as you shuffle forward, and for a second, you think about just lying down right here and letting someone find your sorry ass in the morning. 

But then you remember J-Hope—sharp eyes and even sharper tongue—and how he’ll probably lecture you into next week if he finds out you didn’t make it to him before passing out. 

So you keep moving. 

By the time you reach the door to the main treatment room, your vision is starting to blur at the edges. The earthy scent of sandalwood seeps through even before you knock, grounding and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache just a little. 

His aura always feels like that.

Steady. 

Unshakable. 

Like solid ground beneath your feet when everything else is falling apart. 

You like it.

You raise a hand and knock twice, wincing as the motion pulls at your side. 

“Who is it?” His voice is clipped, all business as usual. 

“It’s me,” you manage to call back, though your voice sounds weaker than you’d like. “Y/N.” 

There’s a pause long enough for you to imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation before he finally responds.

“Come in.” 

You push the door open and immediately regret it because standing upright feels impossible right now. The room is exactly how you remember it—bright white walls, gleaming steel surfaces, and everything arranged with uttermost care. 

Not a single tool out of place because heaven forbid J-Hope lets chaos into his sacred domain. 

He’s at the counter with his back to you, still wearing his white coat even though it’s late enough that most people are either asleep or pretending to be. His shoulders tense slightly when he hears you enter, but he doesn’t turn around right away. 

Instead, he keeps sorting through whatever medical supplies have his attention tonight, because that’s just who he is. 

“What happened this time?” he asks without looking up, tone neutral but laced with just enough judgment to make your stomach twist over itself.

Not that it takes much right now with how lightheaded you feel. 

You try for a smile but end up grimacing instead because ow. 

“Doc,” you start weakly, “I tried to be careful—” 

He turns then, cutting off whatever excuse was about to tumble out of your mouth. His eyes flick over you once—taking in the blood-soaked shirt, the way you're clutching your side—and any trace of neutrality vanishes from his face faster than you'd expect from someone who prides himself on being unflappable. 

Concern flashes across his features before he schools them back into something closer to annoyance. 

“Sit,” he snaps, pointing at the examination table. “Now.” 

You don’t argue because honestly? You’re too tired for that shit right now. 

Instead, you stagger over and haul yourself onto the table with all the grace of a drunk elephant while still trying (and failing) to keep pressure on your wound. The paper crinkles obnoxiously beneath you as if mocking how pathetic this whole situation is turning out to be.

J-Hope approaches with quick strides, pulling on gloves so smoothly it’s almost hypnotic if not for how much pain you're in. The air shifts subtly as he gets closer—still grounding but heavier now like sinking into warm soil after running on empty for too long.

“Let me see,” he says firmly but not unkindly.

Then he moves your hands away from where they’ve been pressing against your side like some makeshift dam trying desperately not to burst open completely.

You bite down hard on your lip when his fingers brush against tender skin through latex gloves—not because it hurts (though yeah okay maybe it does) but because they’re strangely shaky, when they never are.

“Shush,” he mutters when he notices how much you're fidgeting despite yourself—or maybe because of yourself since staying still has never exactly been one of your strong suits unless absolutely necessary (and even then). "Stop moving."

"No, but really, I—" you start, because apparently your mouth doesn't know when to quit even when the rest of you is screaming for a timeout.

His eyes snap up to yours, sharp enough to cut glass. "If you don't shut up, I'll anesthetize you. Is that clear?"

You swallow hard and nod, suddenly very interested in the ceiling tiles above you. Funny how they've never seemed so fascinating before.

J-Hope's hands are gentle despite his harsh words as he carefully cuts away the fabric around your wound. He seems to have gotten them under control now, as the scissors make a soft snip-snip sound.

When he pulls the blood-soaked material away, revealing the jagged gash below your ribs, his expression darkens like storm clouds rolling in.

"This is deep," he mutters, more to himself than to you. Then, louder: "And the stitches I put in last week on your arm aren't even fully healed yet."

Guilt rises in your chest, mixing unpleasantly with the pain and lightheadedness. You want to explain that it wasn't entirely your fault—that Jessi had gotten a little too enthusiastic during training, that you'd been distracted by thoughts of... well, him, when you should've been focusing on not getting stabbed. 

But his earlier threat of anesthesia keeps your mouth firmly shut.

"Lie back," he instructs, his tone softening just a fraction as he helps you recline on the table. 

His hands are steady and sure, supporting your weight as you adjust. But it’s almost as if he’s trying his hardest to keep them from trembling.

It’s night, you realize now—and the treatment room just feels so different. 

More intimate somehow, with just the two of you and the low hum of medical equipment. 

Outside these walls, the Castle sleeps (or at least pretends to)—but in here… it's just you and J-Hope and the unspoken thing between you that neither of you acknowledge in daylight.

He cleans the wound methodically, and each swipe of antiseptic makes you hiss through your teeth, but he doesn't stop, doesn't say a word of comfort. His face remains blank (professional as always), but you notice the gentle way his other hand steadies you, thumb occasionally brushing against uninjured skin in a motion that seems almost unconscious.

"This needs stitches," he says finally, reaching for his supplies. "Again."

You manage a weak smile, because if you don't joke about this shit, you might just start crying instead. 

"At least I'm keeping you employed."

He doesn't laugh—of course he doesn't—but something in his eyes softens for just a moment before he looks away.

"I have enough to do without you adding to my workload."

Then you see the needle, how it gleams under the bright lights as he prepares it. You look away quickly, suddenly very interested in literally anything else in the room. 

Medical supplies on shelves? Fascinating. That weird stain on the ceiling? Riveting stuff.

"This will hurt," he warns, his voice a touch gentler than before.

You nod, bracing yourself. When the needle first pierces your skin, you flinch, a small gasp escaping despite your best efforts to play it cool.

J-Hope's free hand moves to your shoulder, squeezing lightly. 

"Breathe," he reminds you. "Focus on your breathing."

You try to follow his instructions, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly as he works; but you can’t help but focus on his face. Because it is a study in concentration—brows slightly furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowed and focused entirely on the task at hand. 

In these moments, you think you understand him best—when he's completely absorbed in his work, all pretenses dropped.

"You're lucky," he says after a while, breaking the silence. "A little deeper and you'd have needed more than just stitches."

"Lucky is my middle name," you quip, then wince as he pulls a stitch a bit tighter than necessary. 

Okay, maybe not the best time for jokes.

"Is it?" His tone is dry enough to rival the Sahara. "I thought it was 'Reckless.'"

You can't help the small laugh that escapes, even though it makes your side hurt. 

"That's my first name, actually. Reckless Lucky Y/N. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile, but not quite. It's the closest thing to approval you've seen from him tonight, and it feels like winning a small victory.

Then, silence. 

You study his face—can’t help it, really. 

The way he occasionally brushes his brown hair back from his forehead with the back of his wrist. 

The way he licks his lips while his gaze remains unwavering.

The way his hands move efficiently as always, but slightly more tense, as if they know they’re being watched. 

"There," he says finally, cutting the last thread. "Done."

You glance down at your side. The stitches are neat and even, a stark black line against your tan skin. J-Hope covers them with a clean bandage, fingers careful and precise as they always are with you.

"Thank you," you say, meaning it more than he probably realizes.

He doesn't respond immediately, busying himself with cleaning up. His back is to you again, shoulders tense beneath his white coat. You watch him move around the room, wondering what's going through his head.

"You need to be more careful," he says eventually, not turning around. "The medical division isn't here just to clean up after your mistakes."

The words sting more than the wound did. 

“It wasn't intentional," you protest, sitting up slowly. "Things happen in training. You know that."

J-Hope turns, fixing you with a look that makes your words trail off. There's something in his eyes—concern, frustration, and something else you can't quite name but makes your heart do a weird little flip in your chest.

"Things happen," he repeats, voice tight. "Things like punctured lungs or severed arteries. Is that what you want?"

"Of course not." 

You feel like a scolded child, which is ridiculous because you're a grown-ass adult who can make their own decisions, thank you very much.

"Then be. More. Careful." He mutters, emphasizing each word.

You slide off the examination table, wincing as your feet hit the floor. The movement brings you closer to him—close enough to see the faint circles under his eyes, to notice the tension in his jaw. 

Has he been sleeping at all?

"Hey," you say, softer now. "I'm okay. You fixed me up. That's what you do, right? Fix people?"

His gaze flickers to your bandaged side, then back to your face. 

“This time."

Something in his tone catches you off guard—a rawness, a vulnerability that doesn't align with his usual cranky self. And it’s almost as if the earth itself trembles slightly, like trying to swallow itself whole, buried deep within the ground. 

"Hobi," you murmur, using his nickname—a liberty you only take when you're alone like this.

He stiffens at the name, then sighs, shoulders dropping slightly. 

“Don't."

But you're already stepping closer, moving into his space. 

Your hand reaches up, fingers grazing his cheek. His skin is warm under your touch, and you feel him fighting the urge to lean into it.

"I'll be more careful," you promise, your voice barely above a whisper. "Really."

J-Hope's eyes search yours, looking for the truth in your words. Whatever he finds seems to satisfy him, because some of the tension leaves his body. His hand comes up to cover yours, holding it against his face for just a moment before gently removing it.

"You better," he says, but there's no real bite to it anymore. "I don't want to see you in here again unless it's for a routine check-up."

You move first, stepping into his space completely, arms sliding around his waist. His shoulders tense for only a second before his arms wrap around you in return, careful to avoid your injured side.

"I was worried," he admits, the words muffled against your hair. "When I saw all that blood..."

You press your face against his chest, breathing in the sandalwood scent that always envelops him. 

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gently threading through your short curls. The gesture is tender, at odds with his earlier sharpness, but this is the real him—the one he keeps at bay. 

"I can't keep worrying about you like this," he murmurs, but there's a fondness in his voice that makes your heart ache.

You look up at him, a small smile playing on your lips. 

"But you will anyway, right?"

A laugh escapes him, quiet but genuine. His eyes melt as they meet yours, the brown depths warming like wood catching fire in a hearth. 

It’s in these stolen moments that you can pretend that the gang's rules don't exist, that relationships aren't forbidden, that you could have this all the time instead of just in secret, hurried encounters.

J-Hope seems to read your thoughts in your expression. 

His hand moves to cup your cheek, thumb tracing your cheekbone.

"We shouldn't," he says, but makes no move to create distance between you.

"We really shouldn't," you agree, leaning into his touch. "But when has that ever stopped us?"

For a moment, you simply stand there, caught in each other's gravity, the steady rhythm of his aura mingling with your own. 

Then, as if by mutual decision, you both move at once.

His lips find yours in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens, carrying all the worry and relief and longing that neither of you can express in words. Your hands grasp the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer despite the protest from your injured side. His arms tighten around you, careful yet desperate.

Time seems to stop in the small treatment room, world outside totally forgotten as you choose to lose yourself in him. Then, his usual controlled demeanor gives way to something more urgent, more raw as one hand tangles in your curls while the other presses against your lower back, holding you, or rather, pressing you against him.

You break apart only when the need for air becomes too great, both breathing heavily. J-Hope rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, vulnerability written across his features in a way you rarely get to see.

"You drive me crazy," he whispers. "Do you know that?"

You smile, brushing your nose against his. 

"It's a talent."

He opens his eyes, and the affection in them makes your heart tumble. 

“One of many," he admits, then presses another quick kiss to your lips.

The sudden sound of footsteps in the hallway outside makes you both freeze. 

J-Hope pulls back immediately, putting professional distance between you hastily. Your arms feel empty without him, but the panic rising in your chest leaves no room for disappointment.

He moves to the counter, picking up medical supplies and arranging them with a panicky expression. 

You settle back onto the examination table, trying to look like a patient receiving treatment rather than someone who was just passionately kissing their doctor.

The footsteps pause outside the door, and you both hold your breath. After what feels like an eternity, they continue past, fading down the hallway.

The relief is palpable, but so is the reminder of what's at stake. 

Because RM's rule is absolute—no relationships, no attachments. 

The consequences for breaking it are severe, you both know that much. 

"You should go," J-Hope says, not meeting your eyes. "It's late."

The distance in his voice hurts, but you understand the necessity of it. The moment has passed, reality reasserting itself between you like a wall.

"Right," you agree, sliding carefully off the table again. "Thanks for..." You gesture to your bandaged side, suddenly feeling awkward.

He nods, managing to look professional again. "Come back in three days so I can check the stitches. And try not to tear them before then."

You move toward the door, knowing each step takes you farther from the brief moment of connection you'd shared. 

So with your hand on the doorknob, you pause, looking back at him.

J-Hope stands where you left him, shoulders straight, expression complex. 

But his eyes—his eyes tell a different story. 

In them, you see the same longing that aches in your own chest, the same regret at having to pretend.

"Goodnight, Doc," you say softly.

His expression softens just a fraction. "Goodnight, Y/N. Be careful going back to your floor."

You slip out into the hallway, closing the door behind you. 

Your side throbs dully beneath the bandage, but it's nothing compared to the ache in your chest.

As you make your way back toward the elevators, you can still feel the phantom pressure of his lips against yours, the gentle strength of his arms around you. For those brief moments, his aura had melded with yours, creating something steady and warm—a feeling of home in the most unexpected place.

But like all good things in Kkangpae, it couldn't last. Can’t last. Because the gang comes first. Always does. 

And rules exist for a reason. Attachments are weaknesses, vulnerabilities that could be exploited.

You press the button for the fourth floor, leaning against the elevator wall as the doors close. Tomorrow, you'll go back to being just another seduction division member and he'll be the cranky chief medical officer who patches everyone up with equal parts skill and irritation.

No one will know about the gentle way his fingers trembled when he touched your face, or how your name sounded different on his lips when you were alone. No one will see the way he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching, or how you find excuses to pass by the medical wing even when you're perfectly healthy.

These are your secrets to keep, dangerous and precious in equal measure.

Tomorrow will be another day of pretending.

But today—no, now—you have the memory of sandalwood and gentle hands and a kiss that felt like coming home.

@jungkoode 2025

[jungkoode]

Command Strings

→ PAIRING : Iron Man!Hoseok x F!Reader

→ RATING: Explicit, 18+.

→ DATE POSTED: November 1st, 2025.

→ CS index post / masterlist.

→ SUMMARY : You’re a grad student working at a coffee shop near campus when you start noticing a pattern: Jung Hoseok—billionaire, tech genius, and literal Iron Man—has become a regular. He orders the same americano, sits in the same corner, and listens to you ramble about superhero theory like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard. You tell yourself he’s just being polite, because the alternative means admitting that maybe Iron Man doesn’t just come for the coffee. Maybe he comes for you. (LMAO does he come.)

→ TAGS : second person perspective used, female pronouns used, grad student au, coffee shop au, iron man au, captain korea is namjoon, spider-man is jungkook, korean setting, university setting, rom-com chaos, mutual pining, hoseok is a disaster in a tom ford suit, reader is oblivious as hell, namjoon fucked his ex while wearing the suit (yes really), excessive coffee drinking, superhero banter as stress relief, FRIDAY is the real MVP, elevator malfunctions, stuck in elevator, elevator sex, semi-public sex, first time together, dry humping, grinding, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, coming inside, multiple orgasms, cunnilingus, cum eating, hoseok eats his own cum out of you (yes that happens), praise kink, mild embarrassment kink, premature ejaculation (but make it cute), hoseok has been waiting MONTHS for this, explicit consent, soft dom hoseok, reader rambles when nervous, excessive use of the word ‘geumsa’ (golden thread), cushion arranging as a love language, FRIDAY cockblocking and then un-cockblocking, robots throwing tantrums mid-battle because heroes won’t pay attention to them, namjoon’s terrible texting skills, found family dynamics, the most expensive coffee shop visits in history.

→ PLAYLIST: set the vibes.

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 17.2k

→ A/N: Hi everyone! Welcome to my first official attempt at writing a romcom, which is WILD because anyone who knows my work knows I’m psychologically incapable of not traumatizing my characters. My little psychology-lover heart just wants everyone to suffer beautifully, but I promised myself I’d try something light for once! 🌟 And honestly? I LOVED how stupidly adoring this came out. Hoseok is a simp in a $10k suit and I’m obsessed with him. Reader is me every time I try to have a normal conversation and end up lecturing people about leadership theory. FRIDAY (yes, FRIDAY, not JARVIS—she’s a woman here and she does NOT let Hobi breathe) is the real hero of this story. Also that robot in scene 2 that’s just demolishing buildings because our boys are too busy arguing about their love lives? Peak comedy. If you enjoy watching competent people become absolute MESSES when they catch feelings, this is for you. Fair warning: there’s elevator sex. Extremely detailed elevator sex. I have no excuse except that I’m weak for confined spaces and emotional desperation. Sorry (but not really). Hope you enjoy this catastrophe! ✨

Edit: Also yes, I gave Hoseok a dead childhood best friend named Friday as his emotional anchor because apparently I CAN’T write anything without at least a LITTLE trauma. Baby steps, people. Baby steps. (ᵕ—ᴗ—) And apparently, it is through this fic that I find out there's a length limit on Tumblr so... Yeah. Yeah it cuts at Hobi saying "Impeccable timing" and impeccable timing indeed. So part 2 in the reblogs I guess?

“Please stop talking about him.”

Okay, so that maaaaaay have slipped a bit rougher than he intended, because the way you freeze mid-gesture—coffee pot suspended in air, eyes wide with surprise—almost makes him wince. Almost.

And yeah, immediately he’s thinking ‘smooth, Hoseok, really smooth’, because this isn’t exactly his usual MO.

Jung Hoseok doesn’t snap at people, especially not at you, the ridiculously adorable barista who’s somehow managed to become the best part of his increasingly chaotic superhero-slash-CEO existence.

But honestly? If he has to sit through one more lovingly detailed breakdown of Kim Namjoon’s ‘incredible leadership presence’ and ‘flawless shield technique,’ he’s going to lose what’s left of his sanity.

Which, granted, wasn’t that much to begin with.

“I—sorry,” you stammer, setting the coffee pot down with the kind of movement that suggests you’re rattled. “I didn’t mean to ramble again. I know you probably don’t care about superhero stuff—”

“It’s not that.”

He drags a hand through his hair, mentally kicking himself for being such an idiot.

Because here’s the thing—he does care about superhero stuff. Kind of hard not to when you literally are one. He lives it, breathes it, gets punched in the face by it on a semi-regular basis.

But listening to you wax poetic about his teammate—his friend—with actual literal stars in your eyes while he’s sitting right here, Jung Hoseok, also known as Iron Man, nursing his third americano and trying to work up the nerve to ask you out?

Yeah, that’s a special kind of torture. The ironic kind. His favorite.

You’re looking at him with those ridiculously expressive eyes—seriously, it should be illegal how much emotion you can pack into one look—and that little crease of concern between your brows that makes him want to smooth it away with his thumb.

And just like that, his irritation dissolves faster than sugar in hot coffee.

This is why he keeps coming back to this tiny shop in Sinchon, wedged between a bookstore and a ramen place, despite having coffee machines in his penthouse that probably cost more than your monthly rent.

It’s not really about the coffee—though you do make a damn good americano.

It’s about the way you practically glow when you get excited about something. It’s about how you remember his order down to the extra shot on Mondays and the switch to decaf after six because apparently you’ve noticed he gets ‘too bouncy’ with caffeine late in the day.

(And listen, yes, he’d been offended by the ‘bouncy’ comment for exactly thirty seconds before realizing it was actually kind of endearing.)

It’s about the genuine interest in your voice when you ask how his day went, like you actually give a damn about the answer.

It’s about you, and he’s been way too chicken to do anything substantial about it.

“Your americano,” you say softly, sliding the cup across the counter.

Your fingers brush his as he takes it, and he wonders if you notice the way his breath catches, the slight tremor in his hands that has nothing to do with caffeine withdrawal and everything to do with the simple touch of your skin against his.

“Thank you.”

He takes a sip, buying himself time to figure out how to salvage this conversation.

The coffee is perfect, as always—bold and smooth with just a hint of sweetness that somehow captures your personality in liquid form.

“I’m sorry for snapping. It’s been a long week.”

You shake your head, ponytail doing that swishy thing that’s definitely too cute for his cardiovascular health.

“No, I totally get it. I do talk way too much about… well, everything really. My friends are constantly telling me I need to learn when to stop.” You laugh, but there’s something self-conscious about it that makes his chest do this uncomfortable tightening thing. “Occupational hazard of spending too much time with academic papers and superhero documentaries, I guess.”

“You don’t talk too much,” he says, and wow, okay, that came out way more sincere than he was planning. “I actually like listening to you.”

There. Cards on the table.

Well, some of them anyway.

And there it is—that blush that starts at your cheeks and works its way down your neck like watercolor paint.

You duck your head, suddenly finding the spotless counter absolutely fascinating.

He wants to bite his own knuckles.

“That’s… really sweet of you to say. Most people’s eyes glaze over the second I mention leadership theory and tactical analysis.” You peek up at him through your lashes in a way that should probably be classified as a weapon. “I’m doing my master’s thesis on modern heroism and public influence. Super riveting stuff, I’m sure.”

“Are you kidding? It’s not boring at all.”

And honestly? If only you knew how many times your random observations about public responsibility and the psychology of hope have popped into his head during missions. How your academic theories have actually influenced some of his decisions in the suit.

“Your whole analysis about superhero visibility and social cohesion was brilliant.”

Your eyes go wide. “You actually remember that?”

“I remember pretty much everything you tell me.”

Aaaand there goes his mouth again, running ahead of his brain.

But the way you’re looking at him now—like he just said something genuinely surprising instead of mildly stalkerish—makes it worth the temporary panic attack.

Maybe you’re thinking about how Iron Man probably has better things to do than listen to graduate student theories about superhero psychology.

Maybe you’re wondering why he keeps coming back here instead of getting coffee delivered to his fancy penthouse like a normal rich superhero would.

But then you get this soft, wondering expression that has absolutely nothing to do with his suit or his public persona and everything to do with the fact that maybe, possibly, hopefully, Jung Hoseok the regular guy is just as interesting to you as Iron Man the hero.

“That’s…” you bite your lip—a habit he’s definitely noticed and definitely filed away under ‘things that are adorable and slightly distracting’—“no one’s ever told me that before.”

And okay, that physically hurts to hear. Like, actual chest pain.

How is that even possible? How can someone as brilliant and passionate and genuinely good as you be surrounded by people who don’t appreciate the way your mind works?

“Then they’re all idiots,” he says, rougher than he means to.

Your blush deepens, spreading down your neck in a way that makes him think some very unprofessional thoughts about tracing that path with his fingertips.

“Hoseok…”

The way you say his name—all soft and uncertain and maybe, just maybe, a little hopeful—does things to him that should probably require a medical consultation.

This is it. This is the moment where a normal person would ask you out. Where he’d suggest dinner somewhere that doesn’t involve a counter between you and the weird professional distance of customer-and-barista. Where he’d finally grow a pair and—

His phone buzzes against his thigh. That specific pattern that means Namjoon is calling with something urgent. Something that probably requires Iron Man’s immediate attention and completely terrible timing.

Of course. Of course.

Because apparently the universe has a sense of humor, and that sense of humor involves his teammate cockblocking him at every possible opportunity.

Even when said teammate has no idea he’s doing it.

“I should probably…” He pulls out his phone, confirming Namjoon’s name on the screen with a mental string of profanity that would make his mother wash his mouth out with soap.

“Of course!” You step back, and he doesn’t miss how quickly that polite smile slides back into place. “I should let you get back to your day anyway. I’ve probably kept you here long enough with all my superhero rambling.”

“Hey, no—I told you I don’t mind—”

“Hoseok-ssi?” Namjoon’s voice crackles through the speaker, tinny and urgent. “We need Iron Man. There’s a situation in Gangnam—”

He lifts the phone to his ear so fast he probably looks like he’s swatting a fly. “Yeah. On my way.”

When he hangs up, you’re already helping another customer, but you catch his eye and give him this little wave that’s somehow both casual and melancholy.

He wants to say something—wants to finish what felt like the beginning of something important—but duty calls.

Literally.

As he heads for the door, he can hear you laughing at something the next customer says—bright and genuine and utterly captivating.

He pauses with his hand on the door handle, looking back one more time.

Fucking Namjoon and his stupid spectacular timing. He’ll shove his foot up his ass later.

But first? First he’s got to go save Seoul.

Again.

Honestly, Hoseok’s pretty sure this is the most ridiculous conversation he’s ever had while actively getting shot at by laser cannons.

“So,” Namjoon grunts, deflecting another energy blast with his shield before hurling it at the oversized robot currently trying to level half of Gangnam District. “How’s your coffee shop girl doing?”

Hoseok pauses mid-flight, nearly getting clipped by a stray laser beam.

“Are you seriously asking me about my love life right now?” He fires off a repulsor blast that takes out two of the smaller drones buzzing around the main threat. “We’re literally in the middle of preventing Seoul from becoming a crater.”

"I'm just asking!" There's that insufferably reasonable tone that Namjoon uses when he's being deliberately obtuse. "You've been going there for what, three months now? Same girl, same order, same dopey expression every time you come back from—"

"I do not have a dopey expression."

"You have the dopiest expression. Jin said you look like a golden retriever who's been told he's a good boy."

Hoseok wobbles in the air. "Jin said what now?"

"Focus, Iron Man." But he can hear the grin in Namjoon's voice even as he's launching himself through the air with enough force to dent the robot's thorax. "I'm just saying, maybe you should actually ask her out instead of pining dramatically over your americanos."

"I don't pine dramatically."

"You absolutely pine dramatically. It's like watching a K-drama in real time."

“I do not—and by the way how do you even know about her?”

“Well. FRIDAY mentioned you've been asking her to look up 'best gift flowers for graduate students' and 'how to ask someone out without seeming like a creepy rich guy.'"

Oh, he's going to have words with his AI when they get back. Possibly involving some creative reprogramming.

“FRIDAY needs to learn about privacy settings, clearly.”

"She's worried about your mental health. Apparently you've been pacing around the workshop muttering about 'academic brilliance' and 'the way she bites her lip when she's thinking.'"

"I'm going to murder you."

The robot chooses this moment to release what appears to be some kind of sonic screech that rattles every window in a three-block radius, which honestly is perfect timing because it drowns out the string of profanity that Hoseok definitely shouldn't be saying in public while wearing the suit.

"Anyway," Namjoon continues conversationally, as if they're not currently trying to prevent a giant robot from turning Gangnam into a pile of rubble, "she seems sweet. Really enthusiastic about superhero theory, from what you've mentioned. Actually listens when you talk about your work without getting all weird about the celebrity thing."

"Yeah, she's great," he says slowly, nailing the robot with a concentrated blast that finally seems to do some actual damage. "Really smart. Has this whole theory about leadership dynamics in crisis situations that's actually pretty brilliant when you think about it.”

“She sounds really passionate about her research.” There’s something almost fond in Namjoon’s voice that makes Hoseok’s eye twitch.

“Yeah, well, she’s passionate about a lot of things.” Hoseok takes aim at the robot’s power core, charging up his chest piece. “Unfortunately, most of those things involve gushing about Captain Korea’s ‘incredible tactical mind’ and ‘inspiring leadership qualities.’”

He fires, and the blast connects perfectly, sending the robot staggering backward into a conveniently empty building.

“She talks about me?”

And okay, now Namjoon sounds genuinely pleased, which is just fantastic for Hoseok’s blood pressure.

“Oh, she talks about you alright.” Hoseok lands on a nearby rooftop, already calculating the best angle for his next attack. “Just yesterday she spent twenty minutes explaining your shield trajectory physics to me like I don’t have three degrees in engineering. Apparently your ‘intuitive understanding of aerodynamics’ is ‘absolutely fascinating from an academic standpoint.’”

“That’s actually pretty insightful—”

“I swear to God, Namjoon, if you start getting a ego boost from this I will personally reprogram my suit to electrocute you every time you touch that shield.”

Namjoon’s laugh crackles through the comm as he leaps from building to building, pursuing the robot as it tries to retreat. “I think it’s cute that she’s so enthusiastic about superhero theory. Most people just see the flashy stuff.”

“Cute.” Hoseok’s repulsors whine as they charge up again. “Yeah, it’s real cute watching the girl you’re trying to ask out spend forty-five minutes analyzing another guy’s combat techniques while you’re sitting right there.”

“You still haven’t asked her out?”

“It’s complicated!” Hoseok dives after the robot, which has apparently decided that fleeing toward the Han River is a brilliant strategy. “Every time I work up the nerve, she starts talking about you, and then I remember that I’m competing with Captain fucking Korea for her attention, and it’s just—”

“Language.”

“—incredibly frustrating because she obviously has a type and that type is apparently ‘noble leader with a shield’ not ‘sarcastic genius with abandonment issues.’”

The robot takes a swing at Hoseok with one massive mechanical arm, and he barely dodges in time. The wind from the near-miss sends him spinning, and he has to fire his stabilizers to avoid crashing into a bridge support.

“You know,” Namjoon says, sounding way too casual as he sprints along the riverbank below, “you could always just tell her how you feel. Worst case scenario, she says no and you move on.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have to worry about dating complications.” Hoseok circles around behind the robot and starts targeting its joints. “Must be nice having your whole mysterious secret identity thing going on. No messy personal entanglements.”

There’s a pause.

A longer pause than usual, which is weird because Namjoon’s normally quick with the self-deprecating humor when Hoseok brings up his commitment to keeping his Captain Korea identity separate from Kim Namjoon the museum curator.

“Right,” Namjoon says finally. “No complications.”

Something about his tone makes Hoseok glance down at him.

Even from this distance, he can see the tension in Namjoon’s shoulders that has nothing to do with the giant robot they’re fighting.

“Actually,” Hoseok continues, because apparently he has a death wish today, “speaking of complications, how’s that journalist you’ve been not-talking about? The one who keeps requesting interviews with Captain Korea through official channels?”

And there it is. Dead silence on the comm.

Hoseok knows he’s hit a nerve because Namjoon usually deflects personal questions with some variation of “focus on the mission, Hoseok” or “my private life is private for a reason.”

The fact that he’s not saying anything at all is basically a flashing neon sign that says ‘EMOTIONAL VULNERABILITY DETECTED.’

“Oh no,” Hoseok says, slowing his pursuit of the robot as pieces start clicking together in his brain. “Oh no no no no.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Namjoon’s voice cracks slightly.

“You met her, didn’t you.” It’s not a question.

More silence.

“Oh my fucking God, you absolute fucking disa—”

“She was at Seokjin’s party, okay?” Namjoon’s words come out in a rush, like he’s ripping off a bandaid. “And she looked so, so, so pretty, Hoseok. She was wearing a blue dress, a BLUE dress, do you know what that does to a man?”

“—ster, Jesus fucking Christ, how many times do I have to tell you that exes are exes for a reason and—”

“Like, blue is one of my literal colors, it was fate, definitely has to be fate.” Namjoon’s voice gets soft and wistful in a way that makes Hoseok want to crash his suit directly into the nearest building. “She’s always been pretty, but after so many years you don’t understand how pretty—”

“—I cannot believe you would—wait, what?” Hoseok nearly flies into a street lamp. “Many years? How long were you two together?”

“Two years. We broke up right before I became Captain Korea because I couldn’t figure out how to balance everything and I thought it was better to end things than lie to her constantly and—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Namjoon—”

“—and she needed help with interviewing Captain Korea, so I said ‘sure, I can help you with that’ because I AM Captain Korea, obviously, but she doesn’t know that, so I had to…”

Hoseok’s brain stutters to a complete halt. “You WHAT?”

“…I had to say that I kind of… work with him? And that maybe I could talk him into doing an interview and…”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘AND’? THERE’S MORE?!”

The robot, apparently tired of being ignored, chooses this moment to fire a massive energy beam directly at the bridge they’re fighting near.

Hoseok barely manages to deflect it with his repulsors, sending the beam harmlessly into the river where it creates a spectacular explosion of steam.

“Focus, guys!” Namjoon calls out, but his voice is strained in a way that has nothing to do with physical exertion.

“Don’t you dare ‘focus guys’ out of the subject!” Hoseok swoops down and grabs Namjoon around the waist, lifting them both to a safer vantage point on top of a nearby skyscraper. “Finish the story!”

“I… I did the interview.” Namjoon’s voice is barely above a whisper. “And I might or might not have… slept with her.”

“YOU FUCKED YOUR EX?!”

“Language!”

“Oh my God, that is literally in the rule book of keeping superhero identities separate! Why would you sleep with your ex, you absolute—”

“No, wait!” Namjoon holds up his hands defensively. “I didn’t sleep with her as Namjoon. I slept with her as Captain Korea. I didn’t… I didn’t take off the mask. Or much of the outfit, for that matter.”

Hoseok stares at him.

Just… stares.

Because there’s no fucking way he heard that correctly.

There’s no way his best friend, his partner, the most responsible and rule-following person he’s ever met, just told him that he had masked superhero sex with his ex-girlfriend who has no idea it was actually him.

“I’m sorry,” Hoseok says slowly, “but did you just tell me that you catfish-fucked your ex-girlfriend with your own secret identity?”

“It’s not catfishing if it’s technically still me!”

“IT’S DEFINITELY CATFISHING!”

Below them, the robot has apparently given up on whatever its original plan was and is now just smashing things at random, probably frustrated by the lack of attention it’s been getting.

A few police helicopters are circling at a safe distance, and Hoseok can see news vans setting up on nearby streets.

“We should probably—” Namjoon starts.

“Oh no, we’re not done here.” Hoseok crosses his arms and hovers in place, using his suit’s systems to maintain position. “Let me get this straight. Your ex-girlfriend, who you’ve been pining over for three years, shows up asking for an interview with Captain Korea. So instead of either refusing or coming clean about your identity, you decide the best course of action is to pretend to be a middle-man, set up a fake interview, and then have anonymous superhero sex with her?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds really bad.”

“IT IS REALLY BAD! It’s insane! It’s the kind of thing that happens in really terrible romantic comedies!” Hoseok starts pacing back and forth in mid-air. “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that I missed her!” Namjoon’s voice cracks again. “I was thinking that she looked beautiful and sad and I wanted to comfort her, but I couldn’t do it as myself because then she’d ask questions about why I disappeared, and I can’t tell her the truth because of the whole secret identity thing, but as Captain Korea I could be there for her without any of the baggage…”

“That’s…” Hoseok pauses his pacing. “That’s actually really fucked up, Joon.”

“I know.”

“Like, really, really fucked up.”

“I know!”

“She thinks she slept with a stranger!”

“I KNOW!”

A chunk of debris flies past them as the robot continues its rampage below. Hoseok absently blasts it out of the air before it can hit a news helicopter.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Okay, we’re going to table this conversation because we have a job to do. But after we stop this thing from turning Seoul into a parking lot, we’re going to have a very serious discussion about your complete and utter lack of judgment.”

“That’s fair.”

“And you’re going to figure out how to fix this situation without completely destroying this poor woman’s life.”

“Also fair.”

“And you’re buying me coffee for a week because listening to this story has taken years off my life and I need caffeine to cope.”

“…can we get it from August Coffee shop?”

Hoseok turns to stare at him again. “Are you seriously trying to use your romantic disaster as an excuse to meet my coffee shop crush?”

“I’m just saying, if I’m buying coffee anyway…”

“I’m going to murder you.”

“Language!”

“I’m going to murder you in a very family-friendly way!”

The robot must really dislike being ignored because it now lets out a mechanical roar and starts charging directly toward their building.

Hoseok sighs and powers up his repulsors.

“We’re finishing this conversation later,” he warns as they leap back into action.

“Looking forward to it,” Namjoon says, but there’s relief in his voice that suggests he’s actually grateful to have someone to talk to about his monumentally stupid decision.

Hoseok makes a mental note to call Yoongi after this fight is over.

If anyone can help him figure out how to unfuck Namjoon’s romantic life, it’s their resident genius hacker who’s seen every possible way superhero secret identities can go wrong.

He’s also making a mental note to never, ever tell you about this conversation.

Because if you find out that Captain Korea is not only taken but also potentially a manipulative disaster when it comes to relationships, Hoseok might actually have a chance.

Which makes him feel guilty about feeling hopeful, but honestly? After listening to Namjoon’s confession, Hoseok’s pretty sure his own romantic problems are significantly less complicated.

At least when he finally works up the courage to ask you out, he’ll be doing it as himself.

You’re pretty sure this is the best day of your entire academic career, and that’s including the time your thesis advisor actually said “good work” instead of just circling everything in red pen.

Because right now, right here in August Coffee after closing time, you’re having an actual conversation with Captain Korea. THE Captain Korea. The man whose leadership theories you’ve been analyzing for months, whose shield techniques you’ve probably watched on YouTube more times than is socially acceptable, and who is currently sitting across from you looking even more impossibly heroic in person than he does on television.

Well, what you can see of him anyway. The mask covers most of his face, leaving only his mouth visible, but somehow he still manages to look like he stepped off a propaganda poster.

“—and that’s exactly what I mean about your tactical adaptability!” you’re saying, gesturing so enthusiastically with your hands that you nearly knock over the coffee you just made for Hoseok, who is currently face-down on one of the corner tables like he’s given up on life entirely. “The way you adjusted your strategy during the Gangnam incident last week—switching from offensive to defensive positioning when you realized the civilians needed evacuation routes—that’s such good situational leadership theory, but applied in real-time under pressure, which is just incredible!”

Captain Korea gives you this smile—or at least, you think he’s smiling based on how his mouth curves—that’s probably caused at least twelve diplomatic incidents and three international peace treaties.

“Well, I mean…” He adjusts his mask slightly in a way that seems carefully calculated to look humble while actually being the opposite. “It’s not easy being the symbol of hope for an entire nation, you know? The responsibility, the weight of expectations… but someone has to do it.”

You nod so vigorously you’re surprised your neck doesn’t snap. “Absolutely! And the psychological pressure of maintaining that public image while making split-second decisions that could affect thousands of lives—I actually wrote a whole section in my thesis about the mental resilience required for that kind of symbolic leadership role.”

“Did you really?” His visible expression lights up in a way that suggests he’s absolutely loving this conversation, and you feel a little thrill of academic validation mixed with pure fangirl joy. “That’s fascinating. You know, not many people understand the philosophical implications—”

“Oh my god, he just fucked his ex.”

The words cut through like a knife through butter, and you freeze mid-pour, coffee pot still suspended in the air where you were about to refill Captain Korea’s cup.

The voice came from Hoseok’s corner, where he’s finally lifted his head from the table to glare at Captain Korea with an expression that could probably melt steel.

“I’m sorry, what?” you squeak, because surely you misheard.

Surely Iron Man did not just announce to the (empty but still, principles?) coffee shop that Captain Korea—Captain Korea!—had relations with someone.

“Did you just—”

“You heard me,” Hoseok says, sitting up fully now, and there’s something almost manic in his grin. “Our perfect symbol of hope and unity over here just had a very educational evening with his ex-girlfriend. While wearing the suit, I might add.”

Your brain makes a sound like a computer crashing. “While wearing the—what—how do you even—I mean, the logistics alone—”

Captain Korea’s visible skin has gone approximately the color of his shield, which is to say red, white, and blue all at once, and he’s making frantic cutting motions with his hands.

“Hoseok, maybe we shouldn’t—”

“Oh no, I think we absolutely should,” Hoseok continues, and he’s definitely lost his mind because nobody talks to Captain Korea like this, except apparently Iron Man does. “Tell our friend here about how you conducted a very thorough interview. For journalism purposes. Very professional.”

“HOSEOK.”

But it’s too late, because your brain has put the pieces together—Captain Korea, journalism, ex-girlfriend, educational evening—and you’re pretty sure your worldview just shifted off its axis entirely.

“Oh my god. Oh my GOD. You—she was interviewing you and you—but she didn’t know who you were so you were basically—oh my GOD this is like the plot of every fanfiction I pretend I don’t read!”

Captain Korea makes a sound like a dying whale and launches his shield directly at Hoseok’s head.

Hoseok catches it one-handed without even looking up from his coffee, which is probably the most impressive thing you’ve ever seen and also completely terrifying.

“Careful there, buddy,” he says, examining the shield like he’s checking for damage. “This thing probably costs more than most people’s cars.”

“Give that back,” Captain Korea demands, but his voice cracks a little on the word ‘back,’ which ruins the commanding effect entirely.

“What, this old thing?” Hoseok spins it on his finger like it’s a frisbee instead of a vibranium shield that could probably split a building in half. “I thought you were done using it for the evening. You know, since you were busy using other things.”

You’re still trying to process this entire conversation when your brain helpfully supplies you with an even more disturbing parallel.

“Oh god, this is like Spider-Man all over again.”

Both men freeze and stare at you.

“What?” Hoseok asks slowly.

“Spider-Man! He comes in here all the time—well, not all the time, but regularly enough that I know his coffee order, which is complicated because he orders it through the mask so it’s all muffled, but he always gets the same thing—and he’s always hanging around that journalism student who comes in to study.”

You’re rambling now, but you can’t stop because this is actually important information that they need to understand.

“Literally hanging. From the ceiling sometimes. It’s adorable, he calls her ‘noona’even though nobody knows how old he actually is under the mask, and she just sits there typing away on her laptop while he hovers upside-down asking if she needs anything and—” You stop, realizing both superheroes are staring at you like you’ve grown a second head. “What?”

Hoseok sets Captain Korea’s shield down on the table with a very deliberate clink.

“So let me get this straight. Spider-Man also has a thing for journalism students?”

“Well, I mean, I don’t know if it’s a thing exactly, but he definitely spends a lot of time making sure she’s comfortable and bringing her snacks and asking about her articles, and last week he actually hung a little web banner over her table that said ‘Fighting for truth and justice!’ which was honestly the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, and—” You pause again. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“No reason,” Hoseok says, but his voice has taken on a very dangerous tone. “Just seems like there’s a pattern here. Superheroes and journalist women. Very interesting pattern.”

Captain Korea has buried his face in his hands. “This is a nightmare.”

“This is karma,” Hoseok corrects. “This is what happens when you don’t listen to your teammates’ very reasonable advice about keeping your personal life separate from your superhero life.”

“You’re one to talk! You’ve been mooning over—”

“Geumsa,” Hoseok interrupts, turning to face you directly, and you feel your cheeks warm at the nickname he’s started using recently. “Maybe you could make us some more coffee? This seems like a conversation that’s going to require a lot of caffeine.”

Captain Korea’s head snaps up. “Wait, hold up. Geumsa? You have a nickname for her?”

Your hand automatically goes to touch the golden thread holding your ponytail in place, and you can feel your face getting redder by the second.

You turn your head slightly, pointing bashfully at the golden bow securing your hair, because that’s why he started you calling you that in the first place.

Golden thread.

“It’s just… the thread. I always wear it when I work, so…”

Captain Korea looks between you and Hoseok, and even with the mask covering most of his expression, you can tell he’s grinning.

“Oh. Okay, that’s actually really sweet—”

The shield goes flying again, this time with considerably more force.

Captain Korea barely dodges it, and the shield embeds itself in the wall behind him with a solid thunk.

“HOSEOK!”

“That’s what you get for being smug,” Hoseok says, completely unrepentant. “And before you say anything, yes, it’s different.”

“How is it different?”

“Because I’m not sleeping with her while pretending to be someone else!”

You’re pretty sure your brain has officially given up trying to process this conversation, because now you’re just standing there holding a coffee pot, watching Iron Man and Captain Korea bicker like an old married couple about their respective love lives.

This is definitely not how you imagined your first real conversation with Captain Korea would go.

“Um,” you say, raising your hand tentatively like you’re in class. “Should I… make more coffee?”

Both men turn to look at you, and for a moment, the coffee shop is completely silent.

Then…

“Yes,” Hoseok says finally. “Make a lot more coffee. And maybe something stronger.”

“I don’t have anything stronger. This is a coffee shop, not a bar.”

“Then make the coffee stronger.”

“I can do that.” You pause, looking between them. “Are you two going to be okay? Because I feel like I just witnessed something that’s either going to end in friendship or homicide, and I’m not qualified to deal with either of those outcomes.”

Captain Korea makes another whale noise. “I think I need to go home and rethink my life choices.”

“Good idea,” Hoseok says, getting up to retrieve the shield from the wall. “Maybe start with the choice to have emotional conversations while wearing a patriotic costume.”

“You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Never. I’m going to bring this up at every team meeting for the rest of our natural lives.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you too, Cap.”

You’re pretty sure you’re witnessing the natural habitat behavior of superheroes, and it’s simultaneously more and less dramatic than you expected.

“Also,” you say, because apparently your mouth has decided to operate independently of your brain’s better judgment. “Can I ask how you two know each other, or is that classified information?”

They both stare at you again.

“We work together,” Hoseok says slowly.

“Teammates,” Captain Korea adds.

“Right. Of course. That makes sense.”

It doesn’t make sense at all, actually, because you’re pretty sure Iron Man is more of a solo act while Captain Korea works with the government, but you’ve learned enough today to know when not to push for details.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re both doing great work. You know, saving the city and all that.”

“Thanks,” they say in unison, and then glare at each other for the synchronization.

“Okay,” you continue, because apparently you’re committed to this awkward conversation now. “I’m going to make that coffee, and you two are going to figure out whatever… this… is. And maybe next time, we can discuss superhero theory without any shocking personal revelations?”

“Deal,” Captain Korea says quickly.

“No promises,” Hoseok adds, because of course he does.

As you turn back to the espresso machine, you can hear them starting to bicker again behind you, something about proper disclosure and emotional maturity and the ethics of costumed dating, and you can’t help but smile a little.

Because this is your life now, apparently. Making coffee for superheroes while they have relationship drama in your shop after hours.

You could probably write a whole thesis about this too.

And maybe you could—

The thought hits you like a repulsor blast to the face, and you nearly drop the espresso portafilter.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” both superheroes say in unison, and then glare at each other again.

You whirl around, abandoning the coffee machine to face them with what you’re sure is an absolutely manic expression.

“My thesis. My research. You two—you’re perfect.”

Captain Korea shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m not sure I like where this is going.”

“No, listen!” You’re gesturing wildly now, academic excitement overriding your starstruck nervousness. “I’ve been analyzing superhero leadership from media coverage and public statements, but that’s all external observation. Secondary sources. But you two actually do this—the teamwork, the decision-making under pressure, the tactical planning—”

“Geumsa,” Hoseok interrupts, and there’s something careful in his voice. Something that sounds almost… hopeful? “Are you saying you want to study us?”

“Not study exactly, that sounds weird and creepy, but—” You pause, trying to organize your thoughts into something coherent instead of the excited word-vomit currently happening. “Research? Observe? Get a behind-the-scenes understanding of how superhero collaboration actually works?”

There’s a long moment of silence.

Captain Korea looks at Hoseok.

Hoseok looks at Captain Korea.

Some sort of silent communication happens that you absolutely cannot parse.

“That,” Hoseok says slowly, “is actually a really interesting idea.”

“It is?” you and Captain Korea say at the same time.

“Sure.” Hoseok leans back in his chair with the kind of calculated casualness that probably looks natural to most people but somehow feels deliberate. “We could help you out. Show you some footage, maybe walk you through some of our tactical models. Give you that primary source material you need.”

Your heart does a little flip. “Really? You’d do that?”

“Of course. Always happy to contribute to academic research.” He’s smiling now, that confident Iron Man smile that makes headlines. “Why don’t you come by my place tomorrow? After your shift. We can set up a proper research session.”

“Why would we—” Captain Korea starts.

“Shut up,” Hoseok says pleasantly.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, shut up, of course we’d love to help.” Hoseok’s grin has taken on a slightly manic quality. “It’s important work. Educational. Beneficial for everyone involved.”

Captain Korea tilts his head, and you can practically see him trying to figure out what game Hoseok is playing.

“I don’t think I can make it tomorrow, actually. I have a—”

“With us!” Hoseok says brightly, kicking something under the table that makes Captain Korea grunt. “You have plans with us. The three of us. Working together. On this very important research project.”

“I really don’t think—”

“He’s very enthusiastic about it,” Hoseok continues, his smile never wavering. “Aren’t you enthusiastic about it?”

There’s another beat of silence where Captain Korea seems to be running through several different responses in his head.

“Sure,” he finally says, voice flat. “Enthusiastic. That’s… Yeah. That’s me.”

You’re too excited to notice the weird tension between them.

“This is amazing! I can’t believe—I mean, the primary source access alone will be incredible for my thesis, and getting to see actual tactical models and decision-making processes—” You stop, a horrible thought occurring to you. “Wait, is this classified? Am I going to have to sign an NDA? Because I can do that, I just need to make sure my advisor is okay with—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hoseok says, waving a hand dismissively. “We’ll handle the logistics. You just focus on your research.”

He pulls out his phone—not the fancy Iron Man gauntlet interface you’ve seen in videos, just a regular phone—and types something quickly.

“I’ll send a car to pick you up tomorrow. What time do you finish your shift?”

“A car?” Your brain is struggling to keep up. “You don’t have to—I can take the subway, it’s really not a problem—”

“Nonsense. You’re doing us a favor by including us in your research.” He looks up from his phone, and there’s something warm in his expression that makes your stomach do a weird little flip. “What time, Geumsa?”

“Um. Six? I close at six.”

“Perfect. Car will be there at six-fifteen.” He goes back to typing. “Wear something comfortable. We might be going through footage for a while.”

“This is really happening,” you say, mostly to yourself. “I’m going to be doing primary research with Iron Man and Captain Korea. I should probably prepare questions, right? And bring my laptop? Oh god, I need to charge my laptop—”

“Breathe,” Hoseok says, and his voice is gentle enough that you actually do. “Just bring yourself and whatever you need to take notes. We’ll provide everything else.”

“Okay. Okay.” You press your hands to your cheeks, trying to cool the flush you can feel spreading. “This is the best day of my entire life.”

“Better than meeting Captain Korea?” Hoseok asks, and there’s something odd in his tone that you can’t quite identify.

“Well, I mean—” You glance at Captain Korea, who’s watching this interaction with what you think might be amusement under his mask. “Meeting Captain Korea was incredible, obviously. But getting to actually work with both of you? Getting primary source material for my thesis? That’s—that’s career-defining. That’s going to make my advisor actually take my research seriously.”

“Your advisor doesn’t take your research seriously?” Captain Korea asks, and he sounds genuinely offended on your behalf.

“He thinks superhero studies are ‘frivolous’ and ‘lack academic rigor.’” You use air quotes for emphasis. “He only approved my thesis topic because I framed it as leadership theory with contemporary case studies.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hoseok says firmly. “Your research is brilliant. The analysis you did about public responsibility and symbolic leadership? That’s publication-worthy material.”

You blink at him, startled by the vehemence in his voice.

“You really think so?”

“I know so.”

There’s a moment where you just stare at each other, and something warm unfurls in your chest.

Iron Man—Iron Man—thinks your research is brilliant. Thinks it’s publication-worthy.

That’s…

Captain Korea clears his throat. “So. Tomorrow. Six-fifteen.”

“Right.” You shake yourself back to reality. “I should finish making that coffee. The stronger coffee. That you asked for.”

“Probably a good idea,” Hoseok agrees, but he’s still looking at you with that expression you can’t quite read.

You turn back to the espresso machine, hands slightly shaky from excitement and caffeine and the surreal nature of your entire evening.

Behind you, you can hear the two superheroes having some sort of whispered argument.

“—know exactly what you’re doing—”

“—helping with legitimate academic research—”

“—can’t believe you’re using her thesis as an excuse to—”

“—shut up or I’m telling Spider-Man about the journalist thing—”

“You wouldn’t—”

“Try me.”

You smile to yourself as you pull the espresso shots, watching the dark liquid stream into the cups.

Tomorrow you’re going to Iron Man’s house.

Tomorrow you’re going to do actual primary research with actual superheroes.

Tomorrow is going to be the best day of your academic career.

You’re almost completely sure of it.

The coffee finishes brewing, rich and dark and strong enough to wake the dead, and you bring it over to their table with hands that are only slightly trembling.

“One extremely strong americano,” you announce, setting Hoseok’s cup down first. “And one regular coffee for Captain Korea, unless you’d like something stronger too?”

“I think I’m going to need it,” Captain Korea mutters, but he’s accepting the regular coffee anyway.

“So,” you say, unable to contain your curiosity any longer. “What exactly will we be doing tomorrow? Is it just footage review, or—”

“Footage, tactical models, maybe a demonstration if you want.” Hoseok takes a sip of his coffee and makes a satisfied sound. “Perfect as always, Geumsa. We might order dinner too—can’t do proper research on an empty stomach.”

“Dinner?” Your voice comes out squeakier than intended.

“Unless you’d rather not—”

“No! No, dinner is great. Dinner is perfect.” You’re definitely blushing now. “I just—I didn’t expect—”

“It’s the least we can do,” Hoseok says smoothly. “You’re giving up your evening for this research. Feeding you is basic hospitality.”

Captain Korea is very quiet, and when you glance at him, you could swear he’s trying not to laugh.

“Well,” you say, straightening your apron and trying to regain some composure. “I should let you two finish your coffee and your… discussion. I have closing duties to finish.”

“Of course.” Hoseok raises his cup in a small salute. “See you tomorrow, Geumsa.”

“Tomorrow,” you echo, and the word feels full of promise.

As you head back behind the counter, you catch Captain Korea leaning toward Hoseok and saying something that sounds suspiciously like “—really doing this, aren’t you—” but Hoseok just grins and takes another sip of his coffee.

You’re going to need to figure out what to wear.

And maybe reread all your thesis notes.

And definitely charge your laptop.

Hoseok adjusts the sofa cushion for the third time, realizes it looked better the second time, and moves it back.

Then he takes a step back to evaluate.

Is this trying too hard? This feels like trying too hard.

But also, leaving the cushions in their normal ‘I literally threw these here last week and haven’t thought about them since’ arrangement seems like not trying at all, which is somehow worse.

He’s wearing a suit. A suit. Not the Iron Man suit—that would be weird, even for him—but an actual Tom Ford suit that cost way too much. It’s charcoal grey, perfectly tailored, and he’d convinced himself this morning that it struck the right balance between ‘successful tech CEO’ and ‘definitely not trying to impress anyone.’

Looking at himself in the reflection of his floor-to-ceiling windows, he’s starting to think he might have miscalculated.

“FRIDAY,” he says, tugging at his collar. “Honest opinion. Is this too much?”

“For a research session with a graduate student, boss? Absolutely.”

“Thanks. Super helpful. Love the support.”

“You did ask for honesty.”

Hoseok glares at the nearest speaker. “Remind me to reprogram your sarcasm protocols.”

“You’ve been threatening that for two years now.”

“And I mean it every single time.”

He checks his watch. 

Five-forty.

The car should be picking you up in about thirty-five minutes, which means you’ll be here around six-thirty accounting for Seoul traffic. 

Which gives him just enough time to make sure everything is perfect.

Not that this needs to be perfect. Because it’s just research. Academic research. Very professional, very educational, very not-a-date.

Except he’s wearing a Tom Ford suit and he’s rearranged the cushions three times and he’s had FRIDAY order enough food to feed the entire nation because he wasn’t sure what you’d like and figured variety was the safe option.

Yeah. He’s totally fooling everyone. Especially himself.

His phone buzzes. Namjoon’s name flashes on the screen.

Hoseok answers it immediately. “Remember, you’re not coming.”

There’s a pause. “I… know?”

“Great. Just wanted to make sure we were crystal clear on that.”

“We’ve been clear on that since you kicked me under the table last night. I have a bruise.”

“Good. Perfect. Excellent.” Hoseok moves another cushion half an inch to the left. “So you should probably say something in the group chat. Make it official.”

“The group chat that you insisted we create even though we could have just texted her individually?”

“The group chat that establishes professional boundaries and appropriate research protocols, yes.”

“Hoseok.”

“Namjoon.”

“You’re using her thesis as an excuse to have dinner with her.”

“I’m facilitating important academic research.”

“You’re wearing a suit right now, aren’t you.”

Hoseok looks down at his perfectly tailored charcoal grey Tom Ford. 

“That’s completely irrelevant to this conversation.”

“You are. Oh my god, you’re absolutely wearing a suit.”

“Some of us like to maintain professional standards—”

“Some of us are trying way too hard—”

“Just send the message, Namjoon. Tell her you can’t make it.”

“Okay, okay. What should I say?”

“I don’t know, something believable. Something that sounds like an actual emergency.”

“Like what?”

“Like—like—” Hoseok’s brain scrambles. “Like you have a government meeting! Or a training session! Or a debriefing! Literally anything that sounds official and Captain Korea-ish.”

“It’s six PM. What government meetings happen at six PM?”

“The important kind! The classified kind! The ‘symbol of national security’ kind!”

“Fine, fine. How about… ‘Hey, something came up. Won’t be able to make it tonight. Sorry!’”

Hoseok nearly drops his phone. “No. Absolutely not. That sounds like you’re blowing her off!”

“What? It’s casual and apologetic—”

“It’s lazy and suspicious! She’s going to think we’re not taking her research seriously!”

“Then what do you want me to say?”

“Something with more gravitas! More—more heroic responsibility! Like ‘Apologies, duty calls’ or ‘Unfortunately, Captain Korea is needed elsewhere’ or—”

“That sounds pretentious.”

“You’re literally a walking symbol of national pride, Namjoon, don’t talk to me about pretentious.”

“Okay, how about—” There’s a pause where Hoseok can hear typing. “What about this: ‘Really sorry, but Captain Korea duties are calling. You and Iron Man should still proceed with the research session!’”

“Yes! Perfect! Send that!”

“Sending now—”

“Wait, not the—”

His phone buzzes with a notification. Hoseok pulls up the group chat with a sense of impending doom.

𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐃𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐬: 𝙷𝚎𝚢, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙. 𝚆𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚂𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢!

“NOT LIKE THAT!” Hoseok nearly shouts into the phone. “Oh my god, are you—you’re a complete dimwit! I literally just told you not to send that exact message!”

“You told me to send it!”

“I told you to send the SECOND version! The one with gravitas! The heroic responsibility one!”

“You said ‘send that’ and I sent!”

“Context, Namjoon! Context matters! We literally just discussed why that first message was terrible!”

“Well maybe if you’d been more clear—”

“I WAS clear! Incredibly clear! A child could have understood—”

“You know what, I’m trying to help you with your weird elaborate dinner date scheme, so maybe don’t yell at me about message clarity—”

“It’s not a dinner date, it’s RESEARCH—”

“In a SUIT—”

“—and now she’s going to think we’re not taking her seriously because you sent ‘something came up’ like you’re ditching study group!”

“I am literally ditching study group! That’s the entire point!”

“The point is to make it seem like you WANT to be there but CAN’T because of IMPORTANT HERO THINGS, not that you just forgot about a dentist appointment or whatever ‘something came up’ implies!”

There’s a long suffering sigh from Namjoon’s end. 

“You’re so lucky you’re my friend.”

“Best friend,” Hoseok corrects, still glaring at the chat. “I’m your best friend. Which means you’re supposed to be better at this.”

“Better at what? Lying to nice graduate students so you can have romantic dinners under the guise of academic research?”

“Yes! Exactly that! That’s exactly what best friends are for!”

“I think you need to reevaluate your friendship expectations.”

“I think you need to reevaluate your texting skills.”

Namjoon laughs, the bastard. “Look, it’s fine. Just—fix it. Do your smooth Iron Man thing and make it work.”

“My smooth Iron Man thing.”

“Yeah, you know. The charisma. The confidence. The thing you do where you make everyone think you’ve got everything under control even when you’re clearly panicking.”

“I’m not panicking.”

“You’ve rearranged the cushions, haven’t you.”

Hoseok looks at the cushion in his hand. “…No.”

“Liar. Look, just—be yourself. She already likes you.”

“She likes IRON MAN. Not Jung Hoseok.”

“Pretty sure she likes the guy who listens to her thesis ideas and remembers her coffee theories and came up with a nickname based on her work uniform. That’s Jung Hoseok, not Iron Man.”

Hoseok is quiet for a moment, staring at his reflection in the window.

“When did you become the emotionally intelligent one?”

“Someone has to balance out your disaster energy. Now stop arguing with me and go be charming.”

“I’m always charming.”

“Sure you are, buddy. Good luck. Try not to make a complete fool of yourself.”

“No promises.”

Namjoon laughs again and hangs up.

Hoseok looks back at the chat. Sure enough, the dots are appearing.

𝐆𝐞𝐮𝐦𝐬𝐚: 𝙾𝚑 𝚗𝚘! 𝙸𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢?

He watches as Namjoon types, probably trying to salvage his terrible first message.

𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐃𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐬: 𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏. 𝙷𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜.

𝐈𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐧: 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢, 𝚠𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍

𝐆𝐞𝐮𝐦𝐬𝐚: 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎? 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚠…

Hoseok’s fingers fly across the keyboard.

𝐈𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐧: 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝙲𝚊𝚙 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚠𝚜.

𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐃𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐬: 𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝

𝐈𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐧: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘

𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐃𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐬: 𝚂𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚓𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛

𝐈𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐧: 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍!

𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐃𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐬: 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚌𝚊𝚗

𝐆𝐞𝐮𝐦𝐬𝐚: 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢! 𝙶𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚢𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚜!

𝐆𝐞𝐮𝐦𝐬𝐚: 𝙸 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚍𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝐈𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐧: 𝚂𝚎𝚎? 𝚆𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑

𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐃𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐬: 𝚄𝚑 𝚑𝚞𝚑

𝐈𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐧: 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗

𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐃𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐬: 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙷𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 “𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑”

𝐈𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐧: 𝚆𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜

Hoseok sets his phone down and looks around the penthouse one more time.

The cushions are arranged. The food is ordered. The suit is… well, the suit is staying on because changing now would just be admitting that Namjoon was right, and that’s not happening.

His reflection in the window shows a man who is definitely, absolutely, completely not nervous about spending the evening alone with the cute barista who makes perfect coffee and has the most brilliant mind he’s encountered in years and looks at him like Jung Hoseok is interesting instead of just Iron Man being famous.

“FRIDAY, dim the lights a bit. Not too much—we need proper visibility for research purposes—but maybe like, fifteen percent?”

“Mood lighting for academic purposes, boss?”

“I will reprogram you.”

“You always say that.”

“And one day I’ll actually do it.”

“Sure you will. Dimming lights by fifteen percent.”

The penthouse takes on a softer glow, and okay, yeah, it does look better. More comfortable. Less ‘sterile tech CEO office’ and more ‘welcoming research space.’

Totally professional. Completely academic.

“FRIDAY?”

“Yes, boss?”

“If at any point tonight I start to make a complete fool of myself, feel free to create a distraction.”

“Boss, with all due respect, I’ve been doing that since I was installed.”

“…Fair point.”

Hoseok tugs at his collar again, straightens his tie, and tries to remember how to act like a normal human being around someone he definitely isn’t developing feelings for.

This is fine. This is going to be fine.

It’s just research.

In a Tom Ford suit.

With mood lighting.

And enough food to feed the entire nation.

“I’m an idiot,” he mutters.

“Just now figuring that out, boss?”

“FRIDAY.”

“Yes, boss?”

“Play something. Background music. Something that says ‘professional research environment’ but also ‘I have excellent taste and am very sophisticated.’”

“Ah yes, the ‘definitely not a date’ playlist you’ve been curating.”

“I—” Hoseok stops. “Okay, first of all, that’s not what it’s called.”

“You’re absolutely right. It’s labeled ‘Background Music For Research Sessions (Professional).’”

“…Just play it.”

“Excellent choice, boss.”

Soft music fills the penthouse—carefully selected tracks that are interesting enough to appreciate but not intrusive enough to distract from conversation. 

Jazz, mostly. Some acoustic. Nothing too romantic, but nothing too impersonal either.

Because it’s for research.

Obviously.

Hoseok moves a cushion one more time, then forces himself to step away from the sofa before he starts a fourth round of rearranging.

He can do this.

He’s faced down alien threats and interdimensional monsters and hostile board meetings with shareholders who wanted to weaponize his technology. 

He can handle one evening with a graduate student who happens to be brilliant and beautiful and completely unaware that he’s been half in love with her since she first explained the sociological implications of superhero merchandising while making his coffee.

The cushions are perfect.

The lighting is perfect.

The music is perfect.

Now he just has to not completely screw this up.

Hoseok straightens his tie one more time and tries to remember how to breathe like a normal person.

This is fine.

Everything is fine.

It’s just research.

The doorbell chimes—because of course his penthouse has a doorbell chime that sounds like it belongs in a five-star hotel—and Hoseok’s heart does this stupid stuttering thing that would probably concern a cardiologist.

“Show time, boss,” FRIDAY says helpfully.

“Not helping.”

“Wasn’t trying to.”

He makes his way to the private elevator entrance, trying to remember how to walk like a normal person instead of someone whose knees have suddenly forgotten their primary function. Through the security camera feed on the wall panel, he can see you standing in the lobby, looking around with wide eyes and clutching your laptop bag like it’s a shield.

You’re wearing jeans and an oversized sweater that somehow makes you look softer than your coffee shop uniform does, and your hair is still tied back with that golden thread that inspired the nickname he definitely doesn’t think about too much.

Hoseok presses the button of the elevator and waits.

The secondary elevator—the one that goes to all floors—opens immediately, and he steps inside, pressing the button for the floor just below the penthouse. 

It descends smoothly, numbers ticking down on the display. 

Hoseok checks his reflection in the polished metal doors, smooths down his tie, and tries to arrange his face into something that looks welcoming and professional and definitely not like someone who spent forty-five minutes rearranging cushions.

The elevator slows.

Stops.

The doors open.

And there you are, in the lobby, eyes widening in surprise as you see him.

“Oh! Hi!” You wave, which is adorable because you’re literally ten feet away. “I was just—I’m coming up! The elevator is—it’s very nice! Very smooth! I was waiting—”

“Geumsa,” he says, and wow, okay, his voice actually sounds normal. Points for him. “Hey. I thought I’d come meet you.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to—I mean, I have the floor number, and the elevator is pretty straightforward, there’s really only one button—”

“Ride up with me,” he says, because apparently his mouth has decided to just go for it.

You step into the elevator.

Hoseok presses the button for the penthouse.

The elevator starts moving.

And that’s when the lights flicker.

“Oh,” you say. “That’s—is that normal?”

“Totally normal,” Hoseok lies, at the exact same moment FRIDAY says in his nearly-invisible earpiece: “Boss, we have a problem.”

The elevator lurches.

You stumble forward with a small yelp, and Hoseok’s hands automatically reach out to steady you, catching your shoulders before you can fall. 

You’re close now—close enough that he can smell whatever shampoo you use, something light and clean that makes him think of those fancy organic stores—and your hands have landed on his chest, right over his arc reactor.

The elevator grinds to a complete stop.

The lights flicker again and then settle into emergency lighting, dimmer and somehow more intimate than the regular fluorescents.

“Okay,” you say, voice slightly higher than normal. “That seems less normal.”

“FRIDAY?” Hoseok says, trying to keep his voice level despite the fact that you’re still touching his chest and he’s still holding your shoulders and this is either the best or worst timing in the history of technology malfunctions.

“Minor power fluctuation in the building’s eastern grid,” FRIDAY responds in his ear. “Backup generators are compensating but the elevator system has automatically locked down as a safety precaution. Estimate fifteen to twenty minutes for a full system reboot.”

Fifteen to twenty minutes.

In an elevator.

With you.

In a suit that’s suddenly feeling very warm.

“So,” Hoseok says, because someone should probably say something. “This is not ideal.”

You let out a slightly hysterical laugh and step back, which should make him feel better but actually makes him miss the warmth of your hands on his chest, which is ridiculous because it’s been approximately five seconds.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you’re saying, words tumbling out in that way they do when you’re nervous. “I don’t know why I’m apologizing, it’s not like I broke the elevator, unless I did? Can a person break an elevator by stepping into it? I mean, I know I’m carrying my laptop and I had a big lunch but I don’t think I’m over the weight limit—”

“You didn’t break the elevator,” Hoseok says, and he can’t help smiling because you’re genuinely worried about whether your laptop and lunch broke his multi-million won elevator system.

“Are you sure? Because I have a lot of research files on this laptop, and I guess technically data has weight, although it’s like, negligible, we’re talking electrons and—” You stop yourself. “Sorry. I’m rambling. I ramble when I’m nervous.”

“I’ve noticed.” He leans back against the elevator wall, trying to project calm despite the fact that his heart is doing gymnastics. “It’s actually kind of cute.”

Your eyes go wide. “Cute?”

Oh shit. Did he say that out loud?

“I mean—informative. It’s informative. For research purposes. The way people communicate under stress is very relevant to your thesis about superhero psychology.”

Smooth. Very smooth. Namjoon would be so proud.

(Namjoon would absolutely not be proud. Namjoon would be laughing his ass off.)

“Right,” you say, and you’re blushing now, which makes the elevator feel about fifteen degrees warmer. “Research. Yes. Although technically I’m supposed to be studying your communication patterns, not the other way around.”

“Mutual observation,” Hoseok says. “Very scientific.”

“Very scientific,” you echo, and then you laugh again, a little less hysterical this time. “Okay. Okay, we’re stuck in an elevator. This is fine. This is totally fine. How long do you think—?”

“FRIDAY says fifteen to twenty minutes.”

“FRIDAY?”

“My AI,” Hoseok explains. “She runs the building systems. And also judges my life choices.”

“I do not judge, boss. I simply observe and comment.”

You look around the elevator like you’re expecting to see speakers. “Is she—can she hear us right now?”

“Unfortunately,” Hoseok mutters.

“That’s amazing! I didn’t know you had a fully integrated AI system—I mean, obviously you do, you’re Iron Man, but I thought that was mostly for the suit? Having it run your residential building is actually brilliant from a security standpoint, and the processing power required for that kind of real-time monitoring must be—” You stop again, pressing a hand to your face. “I’m doing it again. The rambling thing.”

“Don’t stop on my account,” Hoseok says, and he means it. He could listen to you ramble about processing power and security systems for hours. “It’s interesting.”

“It’s nerdy.”

“I’m literally a tech CEO who builds flying suits of armor. I think I’ve cornered the market on nerdy.”

That gets a real smile out of you, and Hoseok feels a little surge of victory.

Then you shift your laptop bag on your shoulder, and the movement draws his attention to the fact that the elevator is definitely getting warmer. 

The emergency lighting isn’t helping—it’s making everything feel closer, more intimate, like the space has somehow shrunk.

You seem to notice it too, because you tug at the collar of your sweater. 

“Is it just me, or is it getting hot in here?”

“Not just you,” Hoseok says, loosening his tie slightly. “Emergency power means reduced climate control.”

“Right. Of course. That makes sense.” You set your laptop bag down on the floor and fan yourself with your hand. “I’m glad I didn’t wear layers. Well, more layers. This sweater is already—” You pull at the fabric. “Do you mind if I—?”

“Go ahead,” Hoseok says, trying very hard not to think about the fact that you’re about to remove clothing in an enclosed space with him.

You pull off the oversized sweater, revealing a simple tank top underneath, and Hoseok suddenly needs to focus very intently on the elevator’s control panel.

The tank top is white. Basic. Completely innocent.

It’s also showing off your collarbones and the curve of your shoulders and the golden thread is still in your hair, catching the emergency lighting like it’s specifically designed to draw his attention.

He is in so much trouble.

“That’s better,” you say, fanning yourself again. “Sorry, I run warm when I’m nervous. Which is unfortunate because I’m nervous a lot, so I’m basically always temperature-regulating poorly, which my friends say is probably stress-related but I think it’s just—” You stop, bite your lip. “I’m rambling again.”

“I told you, I don’t mind.”

“You’re just being nice because we’re trapped in an elevator and you have to be polite.”

“I’m really not that polite,” Hoseok says, shrugging off his suit jacket because the elevator genuinely is getting warm and also because he needs something to do with his hands that isn’t reaching for you. “Ask anyone. Politeness is not my defining characteristic.”

“What is your defining characteristic?” you ask, and then immediately look like you regret the question. “Sorry, that’s—you don’t have to answer that. That’s too personal for someone you barely know.”

“You don’t barely know me,” Hoseok says, hanging his jacket on the elevator railing. “You’ve been making my coffee for three months. You know I take an extra shot on Mondays and switch to decaf after six because I get ‘too bouncy.’”

You laugh, covering your face with your hands. “I can’t believe you remember me saying that.”

“I remember everything you say.”

The words come out more intense than he intended, and suddenly the elevator feels even smaller. 

You lower your hands slowly, looking at him with those expressive eyes that always give away exactly what you’re thinking.

Right now, they’re saying you’re surprised. Flustered. 

And maybe—maybe—something else.

“I should—” you start, then seem to forget what you were going to say. “It’s really warm in here.”

“Yeah,” Hoseok says, because his brain has apparently decided to take a vacation and leave his mouth to fend for itself. “It really is.”

You’re both just standing there now, in the dim emergency lighting, and Hoseok notices every detail about you. 

Like the way you’re breathing slightly faster than normal, or the flush on your cheeks that might be from the heat or might be from something else, or the way your fingers are playing with the strap of your tank top.

“So,” you say, voice slightly breathless. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Give or take.”

“That’s not very long.”

“Feels long,” Hoseok says, and okay, he needs to get his brain back online because this is getting dangerous.

You bite your lip again—seriously, you need to stop doing that—and look away. “I should probably use this time productively. For research. I could—I have questions prepared. On my laptop. I could pull them up and we could start going through them?”

It’s a good idea. A sensible idea. The kind of idea that would definitely help him remember that this is supposed to be professional and not at all like a romantic comedy setup where two people get trapped in an elevator and—

“Or,” Hoseok hears himself say, “we could just talk.”

You look back at him. “Talk?”

“Yeah. Just… talk. No research. No questions. Just two people stuck in an elevator, talking.”

“About what?”

“Anything.” He slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him. “Everything. Whatever you want.”

You hesitate for a moment, then slowly sink down to sit across from him, your back against the opposite wall. Your legs are crossed, and there’s maybe three feet of space between you, which feels simultaneously too much and not nearly enough.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Let’s talk.”

And even though the elevator is too warm and you’re both stuck and this was definitely not part of his plan, Hoseok can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this is exactly where he wants to be.

“So,” you say, fiddling with the hem of your tank top. “No research questions. Just… talking.”

“Just talking.”

“About anything.”

“Anything,” Hoseok confirms.

You’re quiet for a moment, and he can practically see you cycling through conversational options in your head. 

Finally, you land on: “Why did you really come to the coffee shop that first time?”

Hoseok blinks. 

Of all the questions he expected, that wasn’t one of them. 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re Iron Man. Jung Hoseok. You probably have coffee machines that make better coffee than I could ever make. You could have coffee delivered. You could have a personal barista. But you came to August Coffee.” You tilt your head, curious. “Why?”

He should probably lie. 

Say something smooth about supporting local businesses or needing a change of scenery. 

But something about the way you’re looking at him—genuinely interested, no judgment—makes him want to tell the truth.

“I was avoiding a board meeting,” he admits. “Walked into the first place I saw that looked quiet. And then you asked me what I needed.”

“I’m pretty sure I asked what you wanted to order.”

“No.” Hoseok shakes his head. “You said ‘what do you need?’ Not want. Need. And I don’t know, it just—it felt different.”

You’re blushing now, which makes the elevator feel even warmer. “I always ask that. It’s just my thing. I think it sounds more personal than ‘what can I get you.’”

“It does,” Hoseok says. “That’s why I kept coming back.”

“For the personal service?”

“For you.”

The words flutter between you in the dim emergency lighting. 

Your eyes go wide, and Hoseok thinks maybe he should backtrack, make it less intense, but then you’re smiling—soft and wondering and real.

“Oh,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” Hoseok says. “Oh.”

“I thought—” You stop, start again. “I thought you just really liked coffee.”

“I do really like coffee. But I like the person making it more.”

You press your hands to your cheeks like you can physically push away the blush. 

“You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes my brain stop working! I had a whole plan for tonight—questions prepared, research objectives, professional boundaries—and now we’re sitting on an elevator floor and you’re saying things that make me forget how to form coherent sentences.”

Hoseok grins. “You’re forming sentences just fine.”

“I’m rambling. That’s different. Rambling is what happens when my brain panics and just starts throwing words out hoping some of them make sense.”

“They make sense,” he says. “They always make sense to me.”

You groan and let your head fall back against the wall. “This is not how tonight was supposed to go.”

“How was it supposed to go?”

“Professional! Educational! I was going to ask you intelligent questions about tactical decision-making and leadership philosophy and maybe, if I was brave enough, mention that I think your approach to humanitarian technology is really inspiring.” You lift your head to look at him. “I was not supposed to end up trapped in an elevator having a conversation that feels like—like—”

“Like what?”

“Like it matters,” you finish quietly. “Like it’s more than just research.”

Hoseok’s heart does that stupid stuttering thing again. “What if it is?”

“More than research?”

“Yeah.”

You’re staring at him now, and he can see the exact moment you process what he’s saying. 

“But you’re—you’re Iron Man. You save people and build incredible technology and have press conferences and attend galas with people who are important and sophisticated and—”

“Boring,” Hoseok interrupts. “You forgot boring.”

“I was going to say accomplished.”

“Same thing. Trust me, those galas are terrible. Everyone talks about market shares and portfolio diversification and I spend the whole time wishing I was somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“Lately? A coffee shop in Sinchon where a brilliant graduate student explains superhero psychology while making perfect americanos.”

You look like you’re trying very hard not to smile. “That’s a very specific location.”

“I’m a very specific person.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m honest,” Hoseok corrects. “FRIDAY, back me up here. Tell her I’ve been talking about her for—”

Silence.

He waits for FRIDAY’s inevitable sarcastic response, but nothing comes through his earpiece.

“FRIDAY?”

Still nothing.

“That’s weird,” he mutters, tapping his ear. “She never just stops responding.”

“Maybe the power outage affected her?”

“No, she runs on independent servers. Building power shouldn’t—” He stops. “Unless she shut herself down.”

“Can she do that?”

“Technically no. But FRIDAY is…” Hoseok trails off, remembering. “She’s just like the person she was named after. Same attitude. Does whatever she wants when she wants to.”

You lean forward slightly, interested. “Really?”

“My sister,” Hoseok says, and wow, he hasn’t talked about this in a while. “Not my actual sister—I don’t have biological siblings—but my best friend growing up. She lived next door, and we did everything together. She was brilliant. Funny. Always called me out on my bullshit.”

“Was?”

“She died,” Hoseok says simply. “Car accident when we were sixteen. Drunk driver.”

Your hand moves like you want to reach for him, then stops. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s been years. But when I was developing the AI system, I wanted to name it after someone who would keep me grounded. Someone who wouldn’t let me get away with being stupid or reckless or too caught up in my own head.” He smiles, though it aches a little. “She used to say Fridays were the best day because they meant possibilities.”

“That’s beautiful,” you say softly.

“Yeah.” Hoseok clears his throat. “Anyway. The AI—FRIDAY—she’s incredibly smart, she knows when to back off. When to give me space. She probably realized we needed privacy.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know, this,” Hoseok says. “I guess.”

You’re looking at him with so much emotion in your eyes that it makes his chest tight. “You named your AI after your best friend who died.”

“Yeah.”

“And you just told me about it. Even though we’re basically strangers.”

“We’re not strangers,” Hoseok says. “We’ve known each other for a few months. That’s not nothing.”

“It’s not everything either.”

“Then let it be something,” Hoseok says. “Let tonight be something.”

The elevator is so quiet he can hear both of you breathing.

You’re still looking at him, and there’s something building in the space between you—something electric and terrifying and inevitable.

“Hoseok,” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m going to do something really stupid.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And then you’re moving, crossing those three feet of space faster than he can process, and your hands are cupping his face and your lips are on his.

For a split second, Hoseok’s brain completely flatlines.

Then it comes roaring back online with the singular thought: oh thank god.

He kisses you back, one hand coming up to tangle in your hair—careful of that golden thread he’s been thinking about for months—while the other settles on your waist. You make this small sound against his mouth, surprised and pleased, and it sends electricity straight down his spine.

You taste like the mint chapstick you must have applied in the car, and you kiss like you do everything else—enthusiastically, a little unsure, but completely genuine. Your hands slide from his face to his shoulders, gripping his shirt like you need the support.

When you shift closer, your hand lands on his thigh—high on his thigh—and Hoseok makes a sound that is absolutely not professional or research-appropriate.

“Sorry,” you gasp, breaking the kiss. “Is that—should I—”

“Don’t you dare move,” Hoseok says, and his voice comes out rougher than intended.

He slides his hands to your hips, tugging gently.

“Come here.”

“Where?”

“Here,” he says, guiding you forward until you’re straddling his lap, your knees on either side of his thighs.

You let out a soft “oh” as you settle your weight on him, and Hoseok has to close his eyes for a second because this is—this is—

“Is this okay?” you ask, breathless.

“This is so far beyond okay,” Hoseok says. “This is—I’ve been wanting to do this for weeks.”

Your eyes go wide. “Weeks?”

“Months,” he corrects, sliding his hands up your sides, watching your face as you process that. “I’ve been thinking about kissing you for months.”

“Months,” you repeat, and you’re blushing so hard he can feel the heat radiating off your cheeks. “But you never—you didn’t say anything—”

“I’m saying something now.”

He pulls you down into another kiss, deeper this time, and you melt into him with a sigh that he wants to bottle and keep forever.

Your fingers thread into his hair, and when you tug slightly, he groans into your mouth.

“That’s,” you gasp between kisses, “that’s a nice sound.”

“You’re going to hear a lot more of them,” Hoseok promises, and kisses you again before you can overthink whatever that means.

You shift in his lap, and the movement makes both of you inhale sharply.

The elevator suddenly feels about a thousand degrees hotter, and it has nothing to do with the climate control.

“Hoseok,” you breathe against his lips.

“Yeah?”

“This is—we’re—”

“I know.”

“In an elevator.”

“I’m aware.”

“We should probably—”

“Probably,” he agrees, but neither of you moves to stop.

Your hands slide down from his hair to his chest, fingers finding the buttons of his shirt, and Hoseok thinks distantly that this is absolutely not how he planned tonight to go.

It’s better.

So much better.

You work at his shirt buttons, clumsy and eager, and Hoseok is pretty sure he’s never been more attracted to anyone in his entire life.

“Can I—” you start, and he doesn’t let you finish.

“Yes,” he says against your mouth. “Whatever you’re asking, yes.”

You laugh, breathless and a little nervous, and pull back just enough to actually see what you’re doing with his buttons.

Your hands are shaking slightly, which shouldn’t be as endearing as it is, but Hoseok finds himself wanting to kiss every one of your trembling fingers.

Instead, he slides his hands up your sides again, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your tank top, and watches your breath catch.

“Can I?” he asks, echoing your question.

You nod, biting that bottom lip again, and Hoseok is definitely going to have fantasies about that lip for the rest of his life.

He finds the hem of your tank top and pulls it up slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind.

You lift your arms to help him, and then the fabric is gone and you’re sitting in his lap in just your bra—simple, white, completely devastating—and Hoseok has to take a moment to just breathe.

“You’re staring,” you whisper.

“I’m appreciating,” he corrects, running his hands up your sides again, watching goosebumps rise in the wake of his touch. “There’s a difference.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Staring is passive,” Hoseok says, leaning forward to press a kiss to your collarbone. “Appreciating is active.”

He kisses across to your other collarbone, feeling your pulse jump under his lips. Your skin is so soft here, and warm, and when he uses his teeth just slightly, you make this sound—small and surprised and absolutely perfect.

One of your hands comes up near your mouth, like you’re trying to muffle the sound, while the other grips his shoulder hard enough that he can feel your nails through his shirt.

“Don’t,” Hoseok says, pulling back to look at you. “Don’t hide those sounds.”

“They’re embarrassing,” you protest, but your voice is already wrecked.

“They’re perfect.” He kisses you again, deep and thorough, until you’re making those sounds into his mouth instead. “You’re perfect.”

“I’m really not—”

“Shut up and let me appreciate you,” he murmurs against your lips, and you laugh, which turns into a gasp when his hands find the clasp of your bra.

“This okay?” he asks, fingers poised.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, god, yes—”

The clasp gives way easily, and Hoseok pulls the straps down your arms, watching your face the entire time.

You’re blushing so hard it’s spread down your neck to your chest, and your eyes are wide and dark and full of want that makes his cock throb almost painfully against his zipper.

The bra falls away, and Hoseok has to close his eyes for a second because he’s nineteen again and seeing his first pair of breasts, except he’s not nineteen, he’s an adult man who should have some semblance of control.

“Hoseok?” you say, uncertain.

He opens his eyes. “I’m going to die.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re—” He gestures helplessly at you, at all of you, perfect and half-naked in his lap. “Look at you.”

You try to cover yourself, but he catches your wrists gently.

“Don’t,” he says. “Please don’t. I want to see you. I want—can I—”

“Yes,” you say again, and it’s becoming his favorite word in any language.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to the center of your chest, right over your sternum, and feels your heart racing under his lips.

Then he kisses lower, to the swell of your breast, and you make that sound again—the one he wants to record and play back when he’s alone.

When he takes your nipple into his mouth, your whole body jolts.

“Oh,” you gasp, and your hand flies to his hair, gripping tight. “Oh my god—”

Hoseok hums in agreement, using his tongue in slow circles while his hand comes up to cup your other breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until it’s hard against his palm.

You’re squirming in his lap now, and every movement sends sparks of pleasure-pain through his cock.

He’s so hard it’s actually uncomfortable, trapped in his pants, and when you shift again—grinding down just slightly—he has to pull back with a gasp.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your skin.

“Is that—should I not—”

“No, you should definitely—” He switches to your other breast, giving it the same attention, and you reward him with another one of those perfect sounds. “You should keep doing exactly what you’re doing.”

His hand works your breast while his mouth focuses on the other, gentle kisses and rougher attention that makes you whimper.

Your nails are definitely leaving marks on his shoulder now, and he fucking loves it—the idea that he’ll have proof of this tomorrow, evidence that this actually happened.

“Hoseok,” you gasp, and his name sounds delicious on your mouth. “That feels—I can’t—”

“What?” He pulls back to look at you, lips wet. “What can’t you do?”

“Think,” you manage. “I can’t think when you—when you do that—”

“Good,” he says, and takes your nipple between his teeth gently, just enough pressure to make you cry out.

Your hips rock forward, and the pressure against his cock is so intense that Hoseok has to freeze.

Actually freeze.

Every muscle locked, not breathing, because if you move even one more time he’s going to come in his pants and that is absolutely not how this is going to go.

“Hoseok?” Your voice is concerned now. “Are you okay?”

He presses his forehead to your sternum, right between your breasts, and tries to remember how to form words.

“I need,” he starts, then has to stop and breathe. “I need a second.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” He laughs, slightly hysterical. “No, you did everything right. That’s the problem.”

“I don’t understand—”

“I’m about to come,” he says bluntly, because there’s no point in pretending otherwise. “In my pants. Like a sixteen-year-old who’s never been touched. If you move one more time, I’m done.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then you laugh—surprised and delighted and maybe a little bit smug—and Hoseok can feel it vibrating through your chest against his forehead.

“That’s not funny,” he mutters.

“It’s a little funny.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s hot,” you correct, and your fingers card through his hair gently. “You’re that turned on?”

“I’ve been thinking about this for months,” Hoseok reminds you, still not lifting his head because he needs at least thirty more seconds before he can look at your naked breasts again. “Months of imagining what you’d sound like, what you’d taste like, how you’d feel. And now you’re here and you’re perfect and making these sounds and I’m—I’m—”

“Overwhelmed?”

“Completely fucking gone,” he finishes.

Your fingers keep moving through his hair, soothing, and gradually Hoseok’s heartbeat starts to slow to something approaching normal.

His cock is still hard enough to cut diamond, but at least he’s not on the immediate edge anymore.

“Okay,” he says finally, lifting his head to look at you. “Okay, I’m—”

Whatever he was going to say dies in his throat because you’re looking at him with so much want that it steals his breath.

Your lips are swollen from kissing, your chest is flushed, your nipples are still hard from his attention, and you’re sitting in his lap like you were made to be there.

“We should probably stop,” you say, but you don’t sound like you mean it.

“Probably,” Hoseok agrees, running his hands up your sides again because he literally cannot help himself.

“The elevator could start working again any second.”

“Any second,” he echoes, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.

“Someone could see—”

“There are cameras,” Hoseok admits. “But FRIDAY has them on a loop.”

Your eyes widen. “She does?”

“She’s very thoughtful like that.”

“So no one can see us?”

“No one can see us.”

You bite your lip, considering. “How much time do you think we have?”

Hoseok grins. “How much time do you need?”

Your hands move to his belt. “However much we have.”

He chokes with his own spit for approximately three seconds before he speaks again.

“Wait,” he manages, catching your hands even though it physically pains him. “Are you sure? We don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you say, and the certainty in your voice makes his cock throb so hard he actually sees spots. “I want this.”

And okay, Hoseok has imagined this moment approximately eight hundred times in the last three months—at 2 AM when he couldn’t sleep, in the shower when he was supposed to be getting ready for meetings, during actual board meetings when he should have been paying attention to quarterly reports.

He’s imagined kissing you over the coffee counter (sappy and completely against his whole ‘cool tech CEO’ brand, but whatever).

He’s imagined asking you out properly, taking you to dinner somewhere nice where he could actually focus on making you laugh instead of just ordering coffee.

He’s imagined slowly, carefully building up to this moment over weeks or months of actual dating.

He did not imagine fucking you in an elevator twenty minutes after you arrived at his place.

But hey, he’s nothing if not adaptable.

His hands join yours at his belt buckle, and together you manage to get it undone despite the fact that both of you are shaking.

The button of his pants follows, then the zipper, and when your hand brushes against his cock through his boxer briefs—Jesus fucking Christ—Hoseok has to bite back a groan that probably would’ve echoed through the entire elevator shaft.

“You’re really—” you start, eyes wide as you palm him through the fabric.

“Really hard? Yeah. That’s what months of wanting someone does to a person.” He’s trying for casual but his voice comes out strained. “Turns out sexual frustration is a very real thing and I’ve been living it.”

You flush beautifully, and Hoseok files away that particular shade for later contemplation.

Much later.

When he’s not about to die from wanting you.

“Condom,” he forces out, even though the word tastes like ashes. “I should have—probably in my wallet—”

“I’m on birth control,” you say suddenly, and Hoseok’s brain whites out for a full five seconds. “And I haven’t been with anyone in over a year, actually, which is probably too much information but I just wanted you to know that we don’t need—I mean, if you’re comfortable with—”

“No it’s—I’m comfortable, to be honest and I haven’t—” He’s definitely talking too fast now. “And it’s been—fuck, it’s been since before I started coming to your coffee shop. Turns out when you’re spending all your mental energy thinking about one person, everyone else kind of becomes irrelevant.”

You make this small sound—surprised and pleased—and Hoseok wants to bottle it.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he continues, because apparently he’s just going to confess everything now. “About this. About touching you. Not even—I mean yes, this, obviously this, but also just—holding your hand. Kissing you in broad daylight like I have the right to. Taking you to dinner and not having it be weird that I’m asking too many questions about your thesis because I genuinely want to know every thought in your brilliant head.”

“Hoseok,” you breathe.

“I know. It’s sappy. It’s completely against my whole brand. Tony Stark would be embarrassed for me.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Can I please be inside you now before I say something even more embarrassing?”

You laugh—bright and genuine—and pull back, your hands going to your jeans.

Hoseok helps you, both of you working the denim down your hips in the awkward confines of the elevator. You’re wearing white cotton underwear—simple, normal, and somehow the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

His boxer briefs go next, shoved down just enough to free his cock, and the relief of not being constrained anymore makes him groan. He’s so hard it’s actually painful, precum already beading at the tip, and when you look down at him your eyes go wide.

“That’s—you’re—” You seem to lose your words, which Hoseok would find adorable if he wasn’t about to lose his mind.

“Second thoughts?” he manages, even though the idea of stopping now might actually kill him.

“No!” You shake your head quickly. “No, I’m just—processing. You’re very, um. It’s very… substantial?”

Despite everything, Hoseok laughs.

“Substantial. I’m going to remember you called my dick substantial.”

“It’s a compliment!”

“I know.” He runs his hands up your thighs, feeling you shiver. “Come here.”

Together you work your underwear off, and then you’re completely bare, and Hoseok has to close his eyes and count backwards from ten in three different languages because this is happening, this is actually happening, and he needs to not come immediately.

“Is this okay?” you ask, stroking experimentally, and okay, apparently he’s going to die.

This is how Jung Hoseok dies.

Not in battle, not in some heroic sacrifice, but from a handjob in an elevator.

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect. Everything is perfect and if you keep doing that I’m going to cum in about thirty seconds.”

“That’s okay—”

“It’s not okay,” he says firmly, catching your wrist even though it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. “Not yet. I want—I need to be inside you. Please.”

You nod, and together you position yourself over him.

Hoseok grips your hips as you guide his cock to your entrance, and that first touch—the head of his cock against your slick heat—makes his vision white out for a second.

“Okay,” you breathe, and start to sink down.

Slowly. So fucking slowly.

And Hoseok can feel every single inch—how tight you are, how wet, how your body is adjusting to take him.

His fingers dig into your hips hard enough that he’s definitely leaving bruises, but he can’t make himself let go.

Because if he lets go, he might actually float away or spontaneously combust or some other dramatic thing that his mind can’t quite process because all his blood has traveled south.

“Oh,” you gasp when you’re halfway down. “Oh my god, you’re—that’s—”

“Too much?” Hoseok forces out through gritted teeth. “We can stop. We can—fuck—”

“Don’t you dare stop,” you say, and sink down the rest of the way in one smooth motion.

The sensation of being fully seated inside you—completely surrounded by your heat and tightness, your thighs bracketing his, your hands gripping his shoulders—is so overwhelming that Hoseok actually has to close his eyes and count fucking sheep in his head.

“Hoseok?” Your voice is breathless, concerned. “Are you—”

“Give me a second,” he manages. “You feel—I can’t even describe—I need a second or this is going to be over in about five seconds and that would be really embarrassing.”

Your hands come up to cup his face, and when he opens his eyes, you’re looking at him with so much affection that it makes his chest physically ache.

“I don’t think it would be embarrassing,” you say softly. “I think it’s sweet. That you want me this much.”

“Sweet is not the word I would use.” Hoseok laughs, slightly hysterical.

“I like it,” you whisper, and kiss him.

It’s gentler than your previous kisses—slower, sweeter—and something about the tenderness of it makes Hoseok’s control snap.

“Move,” he breathes against your lips. “Please move. I need you to move.”

You do, rising up experimentally and then sinking back down, and the friction is so intense that Hoseok genuinely thinks he might black out. His hands guide your hips, helping you find a rhythm, and soon you’re riding him with increasing confidence.

And the sounds you’re making—breathy little gasps and whimpers that go straight to his cock—are going to live in his brain forever.

He’s going to be ninety years old and still remember the way you sound when you’re taking his cock, the way your face looks in the dim emergency lighting, the way your nails dig into his shoulders like you need the anchor.

“That’s it,” he breathes, watching your face. “Just like that. You’re so perfect. You feel so fucking good.”

“Hoseok,” you gasp, and your rhythm is getting faster, less coordinated. “I can’t—this is—”

“What?” His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. “What is it?”

“So good,” you manage. “You’re so—I’ve never—”

And fuck, if that doesn’t make him feel like a king.

But then you roll your hips just right, grinding down on him, and Hoseok realizes with a jolt of panic that he’s way closer to the edge than he thought.

“Wait,” he gasps, but you do it again. “Fuck, wait—”

“Are you close?” you ask, and there’s something almost curious in your tone.

“I’m—yes—but I want you to—”

You lean down and kiss him, deep and thorough, and that combined with the way you’re clenching around him is too much.

“I’m going to come,” he gasps against your mouth. “I’m sorry, I can’t—”

“Do it,” you breathe. “Come inside me. I want to feel it.”

And that’s it. That’s the end of any control Hoseok thought he had.

His hips jerk up as his orgasm slams into him, and he comes with a groan that’s probably loud enough to wake the entire building.

It feels like it goes on forever—pulse after pulse of pleasure so intense it’s almost painful—and through it all you’re there, still moving, drawing it out until he’s gasping and boneless and completely wrecked.

“I’m sorry,” Hoseok says immediately, because he’s many things but he’s not going to pretend that didn’t just happen. “That was—that was not the plan. That was the opposite of the plan. I wanted to make you feel good and instead I just—”

“That was really hot,” you interrupt.

Hoseok blinks. “What?”

“That was really hot,” you repeat, and you’re smiling now. “You were so turned on that you couldn’t even—I mean, I barely moved and you just—” You bite your lip. “No one’s ever been that attracted to me before.”

“Then everyone else is an idiot,” Hoseok says flatly. “And I’m still sorry because you didn’t come and that’s—that’s not acceptable.”

“It’s okay—”

“It’s not okay,” he says firmly. His cock is starting to soften inside you, and he can feel his cum beginning to leak out around where you’re joined. “But I’m going to fix it.”

“How?”

Hoseok grins. “Get up. I’m going to eat you out until you can’t remember your own name.”

Your eyes go wide. “But you just—I mean, you came inside me—”

“I’m aware.”

“That’s—you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Hoseok says, and he means it with every fiber of his being.

He’s imagined what you’d sound like, what you’d taste like, how you’d look when you fell apart.

He just didn’t imagine he’d be tasting himself too.

But honestly? He doesn’t give a single fuck.

“I want to taste you,” he says, meeting your eyes. “I want to make you feel so good you forget your own name. And then I want to watch your face when you cum, and I’m going to remember it forever. I’m probably going to ask FRIDAY if I can marry a memory.”

You make this sound—half laugh, half gasp—and Hoseok takes that as permission.

He helps you up carefully, and when he slides out of you, he can see his cum starting to drip out.

It’s obscene and perfect and everything he’s been fantasizing about.

“Sit back against the wall,” he says, voice rough. “Spread your legs for me.”

You do, movements shaky, and Hoseok settles between your thighs like he’s been planning this for months.

Which, technically, he has.

“You’re really going to—” you start.

“Yeah,” Hoseok says simply. “I really am.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before leaning forward and dragging his tongue through your folds in one long, slow lick.

He can taste his own cum, can feel it coating his tongue, and instead of being strange it just makes him harder.

Because weirdly enough, there’s something fundamentally right about this—about tasting himself inside you and cleaning up the mess he made; about making you feel good in the aftermath of his complete loss of control.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, hand flying to his hair. “Hoseok—”

He groans against you, the sound vibrating through your core, and sets to work in earnest. More of his cum leaks out as he works, and he licks it up eagerly, using it as additional lubrication as he fucks you with his tongue.

Then he seals his lips around your clit and sucks, and your whole body jolts.

“Fuck,” you gasp, and your grip on his hair tightens almost painfully. “That’s—don’t stop—”

Hoseok has no intention of stopping.

He works you with his tongue, and it’s messy and wet and so fucking hot that he thinks he might be able to go again, despite having just come.

When he slides two fingers inside you—easy with how wet you are, how open from taking his cock—you cry out and your thighs tremble around his head.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your clit. “Let me hear you.”

He crooks his fingers, searching for that spot he knows is there, and when he finds it your whole body jolts.

“There?” he asks, even though he knows the answer.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Right there, please—”

He fucks you with his fingers while his mouth works your clit, and he can feel more of his cum leaking out around his fingers. He’s essentially fingering his own cum back into you while eating you out, and the thought makes him groan against you.

“Oh god,” you whimper. “That feels—I can’t—”

He looks up at you then, wanting to see your face, and the sight makes his cock throb.

You’re completely wrecked—head thrown back against the wall, chest heaving, one hand in his hair and the other pressed against your mouth like you’re trying to muffle your sounds.

“Look at me,” he says against you, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “I want to see your face when you cum.”

Your eyes are already hazy and unfocused, but you manage to look down at him.

Hoseok holds your gaze as he seals his lips around your clit and sucks hard while his fingers press insistently against that spot inside you.

Your mouth opens in a silent scream, your whole body going taut, and Hoseok watches every single second of it.

The way your eyes squeeze shut despite trying to keep them open.

The way your back arches off the wall.

The way your thighs tremble around his head.

It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and he’s going to remember it until the day he dies.

He works you through it, fingers and tongue gentling as you come down, and when you finally slump back against the wall—boneless and gasping—he presses soft kisses to your inner thigh.

“Holy shit,” you breathe.

Hoseok grins, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s what I said earlier.”

“That was—I can’t—my brain stopped working.”

“Good.” He sits back on his heels, admiring his handiwork. “You’re gorgeous like this.”

You make a weak sound that might be embarrassment, covering your face with your hands.

“I can’t believe we just had sex in an elevator.”

“Best elevator malfunction of my life,” Hoseok says, finding your underwear and gently helping you back into it.

“What if someone saw—”

“No one saw. FRIDAY had it handled.”

“FRIDAY is my new favorite person.”

“She’s an AI.”

“My new favorite AI,” you correct, and then start giggling—slightly hysterical, post-orgasm giggles that make Hoseok’s chest feel warm. “Oh my god. This is insane. I came here for research and instead I—we—”

“Had incredible elevator sex?” Hoseok suggests, pulling his own pants back up.

“I’m never going to be able to ride in an elevator again without thinking about this.”

“Good,” Hoseok says, tugging you gently into his lap—careful this time, tender. “I want you thinking about this. About me. About what just happened.”

“Kind of hard not to,” you mutter, but you’re smiling.

“So,” Hoseok says, and his heart is suddenly beating too fast for someone who just had an orgasm. “I know we did this backwards—”

“Very backwards—”

“—but I’ve been wanting to ask you out for months. Properly. Dinner, dating, the whole thing.” He takes a breath. “Would you—I mean, are you interested in—”

“Yes,” you say, before he can finish stumbling through the question. “Yes, I want to go on a date with you. Many dates. All the dates.”

Relief floods through him so intensely that he actually laughs.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, you made me come so hard I saw stars. I’d be an idiot not to want to see where this goes.”

“Romance,” Hoseok says dryly. “Thy name is post-orgasm pragmatism.”

You laugh, and the sound fills the elevator with warmth.

That’s when the elevator lurches back to life, lights flickering to full brightness, and starts moving smoothly upward.

“Impeccable timing,” Hoseok mutters.

[jungkoode]

“Impeccable timing,” Hoseok mutters. “FRIDAY?”

“Yes, boss?” Her voice comes through crystal clear now, and Hoseok would swear she sounds smug. “I hope you enjoyed your extended maintenance period.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I believe you mean ‘the best.’ You’re welcome, by the way.”

You’re laughing so hard you’re shaking, and Hoseok can’t help but join in.

The elevator dings its arrival at the penthouse, and the doors slide open to reveal his living room—cushions perfectly arranged, lighting set to that subtle fifteen percent dimmer, soft music still playing in the background.

“So,” you say, looking around. “I guess we should probably do that research now?”

“Or,” Hoseok says, standing and offering you his hand, “we could order that dinner I mentioned. Talk. Get to know each other properly before we do this again.”

“Again?” Your voice is slightly breathless.

“Geumsa,” Hoseok says, pulling you to your feet and into his arms. “I’m going to want to do that again approximately eight hundred more times. But next time, I’m going to do it in a bed like a civilized person. And I’m going to take my time. And I’m going to make you come at least three times before I even think about coming myself.”

You look up at him, eyes wide. “Three times?”

“Minimum,” he confirms. “I have a reputation to rebuild after that embarrassing display.”

“That wasn’t embarrassing—”

“It was a little embarrassing,” Hoseok admits. “But you make me crazy. You’ve been making me crazy for months. So I’m blaming you.”

“How is this my fault?”

“You’re too perfect. Too smart. Too cute when you ramble about superhero theory. Too good at making coffee. It’s very distracting.”

You laugh and kiss him, soft and sweet, and Hoseok thinks that maybe—just maybe—getting stuck in an elevator was the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

“So,” you say against his lips. “Dinner?”

“Dinner,” he agrees. “And then we can do some actual research. If you want.”

“I should probably at least pretend that’s why I’m here.”

“Or,” Hoseok says, “you could admit that you’re here because you like me.”

“I like you,” you say softly, and his heart does that stupid stuttering thing again. “I really, really like you.”

“Good,” Hoseok says, and kisses you again. “Because I really, really like you too.”

And for the for the first time in some time, he feels happy.

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© jungkoode 2025

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[jungkoode]

command strings

type of work: series | official BTS AU series: the strings theory pairing: iron-man!hoseok x reader(f) rating/genre: m (18+) ; romcom, smut, fluff, barista!reader, crushes summary: “iron man walks into your coffee shop and you immediately recognize him—of course, because he works with captain korea. he’s not particularly thrilled about you asking for his autograph. no, not his his—captain korea’s. hoseok's ego has never been so bruised or so intrigued.” warnings: in each part mood: playlist | moodboard status: ongoing

🤖 parts ➺ command strings | part one fluff, smut ; 17k

🤖 extras ➺ readers ask: about the fic ➺ ironslices: drabbles and shenanigans based on asks (open) ➺ ask/tell irondorks (open)

other links: masterlist | taglist

cr: banner and dividers by @eerieedits ( @shadowkoo )