Lowkey though A|23|She/Her

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[bbangtan-ddaeng]

trust me (kim namjoon) [p. 2]

Summary; he thinks you cheated.

part 1

Namjoon looked everywhere. Every single place you’ve ever visited, every single place you’ve ever named in front of him, every existing place you spared a glance at. But all his efforts were in vain. You were nowhere.

You.. vanished, it seemed so.

Namjoon didn’t ask anyone, though. He didn’t want to give you the chance to dodge him by figuring out his motive before he got the chance to make a move. He planned every move carefully, trying to avoid the radar as much as possible. But now, he had reached a dead end, especially now that he was in front of your house, ready to knock. Your parents could be the only ones willing to help him, he believed.

He knocked thrice on the first go, rapidly. His heart, he could feel beating rapidly in his rib cage when he heard footsteps approaching the door. What was he going to say? He hadn’t planned.

Fuck. He hadn’t planned.

What was he supposed to say when they question why he left their daughter, deserted her out of the blue? How was he supposed to make them believe it wasn’t entirely his fault when even he couldn’t prove that to his own self?

“Mr. Kim,” your dad’s rough voice seemed even rougher, given the circumstances, as he called out to the young boy. Namjoon smiled slightly when he saw the huge grin that had taken over the man’s expression, something he did not expect when he decided to come over. “It’s a pleasure to see you after all this time, come on in.” he left the door open for Namjoon as he walked back inside the house. Confused and dumbfounded, Namjoon followed him, closing the door behind himself.

The house smelt like breakfast, scrambled eggs and toast with some herbal tea, as it should at 9 am. Namjoon hung his hat behind the door and walked inside, still trembling with what was to come.

“I’ve been expecting you for quite a while now.”

“Pardon,”

“I said I’ve been expecting you.” the man repeated with a hint of laughter in his voice as he looked at Namjoon in confusion. “Everything alright, son?”

Son.

Namjoon fiddled with his fingers beneath the table, on his lap as he struggled in maintaining a normal facade, “yes, of course. How come you were expecting me?”

“Well, because A, it has been a while,” he couldn’t help the smile on his face when he heard your father say this, clearly having a moment since he has always struggled in being one to talk lightly. “And B, y/n mentioned that you’d visit to grab something of yours.”

“Something of mine? Uh- Mr. y/l/n, where’s y/n?”

“With her grandparents, still. Two days till she pays us a visit, didn’t she tell you?” he turned around from he was facing before, the kitchen counter, the cube of butter stuck against the knife as he cut them into blocks and intended to set them up to warm. Namjoon’s face showed no sign of excitement or mere contentment. It looked deadly, as if he had just seen a ghost, and it was a sight for sore eyes, one could bet. “Oh my.. oh no, she must’ve been planning to surprise you and I-” the gullible man spoke, shaking his head as he began chuckling slightly, “Please act surprised when she does arrive, keep this forgetful act a secret between us.”

“O- Of course, Mr. y/l/n.. please be sure to inform me of her arrival.. just so I can make the required preparations on time, that’s all.”

Even though he just got an answer, he still felt like he had no idea where you were, and he didn’t possess the guts to ask your dad about your whereabouts and your- plans, afraid to see the look of utter disgust or even worse, sadness on the man’s face. Receiving a treatment contrary to the one he just got, even though he deserved it. So, he left. After a forceful breakfast his stomach couldn’t digest, but he was requested by your father, so he had to. And he could swear he was on the verge of throwing up, his stomach twisting and churning and doing God knows what inside there, maybe it was the food or maybe it was the place.. or maybe you.

Maybe it was how careless he had been when he had time, when he was too busy being a dick a month ago. Oh, he had time. So much of it.

Reaching just the corner of the street, he threw up. Every bit of the food he had consumed, he was thrown on the concrete floor by his own lack of power, and he threw up the remainder he possessed. Tears blurred his eyes as he thought of you, that maybe you’ve left forever, shifted, migrated, God knows what you did. But it was enough to shatter him into a million pieces, as he did.

-

The sun mocked him as it peaked from behind the clouds, showering rain drops here and there now and then. Even though he was halfway through to your house, his heart did not possess the strength to go on or even reverse, and he felt sick one again. But he was so careful in the morning, not to eat, he came empty stomach with barely two glasses of water. Where did he go wrong?

Where did he possibly go wrong except for deserting a person he loves without even a minor closure?

Namjoon was a bad driver, and everyone who had ever intimately known him, knew that was the reason why he would prefer not to drive, unless it was dreadfully required. But today, nothing was stopping him. Not the driving skills, not the empty stomach, not his stupid mistakes, and definitely not the fact that he was the last breathing creature you wanted to see at that moment, he believed.

The car came to a violent stop as he decided to park it a bit farther from the house, beside a tree, after noticing an additional two cars already standing in front of the garage. The walk towards the porch was like time spent waiting for ones’ execution. But he knocked, without any gap, he knocked thrice. His impatience was getting the best of him and he did so twice, until the door finally opened.

He didn’t know what he expected to happen before the door opened, maybe an intermission, an interval of 20 seconds for him to gather hit shit, or maybe he didn’t expect you to open the door at all. But you did. And the look on your face was in-explainable. Love, hatred, compassion, joy, anticipation, none of this was even hinted. It was shock, yes, and confusion, a lot of that. And just.. nothing, indifference. Was that even possible, in just a mere month? Or was he even one to question that?

“y/n-”

“What are you doing here?” even when you weren’t smiling, you were ever so beautiful. You were always this beautiful, he remembered, but maybe it was the distance, maybe it was the timing, maybe it was your innocence screaming right at his face that made him want to kiss you right there and then.

“I- I came to see you.” he was stuttering and trembling, things the Kim Namjoon had long forgotten what felt like because even performing in front of an audience of 20,000 in the Staples Center or in Rose Bowl Stadium with an audience of almost a 100,000 didn’t make him tremble as much as he was right now. What had BTS even prepared him for?

“Why?” you were beyond confused regarding his arrival, not much surprised.

“Can we talk? Please?”

“We’re talking.”

“No, I mean- can you please step out for a minute? In private?”

You opened your mouth to protest and he was ready for it, but for some reason, you decided not to. Staring at him for a minute before walking a step forward and closing the door behind yourself, “let’s sit.” you said, sitting on the patio swing as he chose the bench next to it. Pushing the floor slightly to get the swing going, you looked ahead of you, noticing his gaze on you from the corner of your eyes.

He wasn’t prepared, once again. The two long days and nights he spent talking to himself, thinking of the worst case scenario, preparing himself did absolutely no good as he gazed at your face with utter disbelief at what you were making him feel at the instance. Blinking, he pulled at his collar and coughed, making you look at him. Quickly putting his hand back down on his lap, he gulped as he struggled to look in your eyes.

“What is it, Namjoon? We don’t have all day,”

“I do, actually,” he replied, a hint of laughter in his voice.. but a sad kind.

“What?”

“I said I do,” he repeated, more clearly this time, finally looking at you. “I have all the time in the world for you.”

You gazed at him, barely blinking for a good few minutes, his eyes, his cheekbones, his lips, all his facial features. It dripped with a kind of emotion you couldn’t relate to anyone, or maybe you couldn’t comprehend.

“Kim Namjoon,” you began, hands grasping the pillow you were sitting on by your sides as you stopped swinging, feet against the wooden floor for grasp. “Why are you really here?”

“I- I.. New York, y/n? Really?”

Sighing, you looked away, “yes, my career allowed me.”

“In one month?”

“Things change overnight, Namjoon. You, of all people, should be familiar with that.”

There it was. The first hit. First to of lord knows how many. His gaze shifted, somehow finding the pillar so fascinating as he tried to swallow the lump forming in his throat without throwing up again.

“You didn’t even tell me.”

“Why should I have? You made it clear you didn’t want anything to do with me, why are you even asking me all this? It’s none of your concern-” he held your arm as soon as you stood up.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, feeling the warmth of your wrist engulfed amidst his thumb and the rest of his fingers. “I’ve missed you.. I’ve been waiting.. for this.” Oh, how he missed this touch so so much. And how much he yearned to tell you this. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve talked to you.”

“About what? What the fuck even happened, Namjoon?” he flinched as soon as you spoke, even though your voice wasn’t even that high. But the fact you cursed during a fight, in all seriousness, being genuinely irritated, at him is what was the second hit for him. He knew he deserved it.

“I was just- I was.. insecure.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You deserve someone better than me.. and I thought that’s what had happened and..”

“Excuse me?” He was beating about the bush but he was just majorly struggling to gather a pair to tell you the real deal face-to-face.

“During MAMAs, I was just worked up and was looking for you.. I- I saw you leave someone’s makeup room..” he trailed off when he saw your eyebrows lift in realization, instantly pulling your hand out of his grip and stepping back so now you were completely facing him.

“That’s why you did this?”

“I realized later, I- I talked to her, I know about everything.”

“I don’t give a fuck about what you know, Namjoon, how could you?!”

He quickly got up, grabbing both of your wrists as he brought them closer to his chest, eyes burning up with tears and his voice trembled, “Baby, I’m so-”

“Don’t touch me!” you exclaimed, pushing him away. “Just don’t touch me.. I can’t believe you.. get out of here.”

“y/n, please, just give me another chance.” his lips quivered, he felt helpless as he saw how adamant you were at this point. He was ready to beg, if that’s what he had to do, but he wasn’t leaving. “I’m truly sorry.”

“Your sorry isn’t going to bring jack shit back, I- I can’t be around you right now. You made your mind up a month ago, I’ve made mine up now. Please, leave.”

That’s when he saw the tears laying on the brim of your lower eyelash, threatening to fall any time. He wanted to squish you in a hug instantly, heal your broken heart, just somehow put you back together. He really did. He hated himself.

“Leave, and don’t ever come back, Namjoon. I can’t believe you had so little faith in me, in us, I can’t be with someone like you, ever. You’re a weak man.” you spat, pointing towards the staircase. “And don’t wait this time.” Giving him one last look, you stomped inside your house.

And just before you were about to slam the door shut, you swore you heard him merely state, “I’ll always wait.”

-

OJKAUHJHESCUS

we HAVE to talk.

1. TUMBLR STOPPED WORKING ON MY LAPTOP OR MOBILE AT ALL GUYS IDK WHY and i kept using proxies and different vpns and they’d all run out of mbs for me xD but anyways, i’m back!

2. i have sooo many stories in store for you guys, can’t wait to share!

3. stay in, stay SAFE. quarantine might not be your best definition of enjoyment but it is still very important, so find something to make out of this time given to you. i know i am! and i’m enjoying every bit of it, so can you. <3

Taglist: @hopetookmysoul @heartsforhoran @greenmoriiii @rjsmochii @armixers-unite @ettessray @mydear-youresopretty @and-sprite13 @joonie-vevo @jeonvaleria626 @mtgforall @its-joyvely @saiosstuff @queenoftheuniverseandmyroom @annoyingpessimist @gnoloo1 @songwingi @delilah-lyle @somewhereinthestarss @magic-fetus909 @lidda @jungellie00 @jungcocobust-a-nut @mrs-ari-tokoyami

[spiderlilyserendipity]

Jaded & Imperfect (But it's Love) Chapter 32: The Ugly, Embarrassing Truth Pt.2

Series masterlist here. Minors DNI, this is a mature fic. Cross-posted to AO3.

Tags: ABO, OT7 Fic, Alpha!Namjoon, Alpha!Seokjin, Alpha!Yoongi, Alpha!Hoseok, Alpha!Jimin, Alpha!Taehyung, Alpha!Jungkook, Omega!Reader, please read chapter specific warnings!!!!, smut (obviously), ruts, heats, knotting (the usual)

Chapter warnings: None

Taglist:

@therealjaken, @mymagicshop13, @osakis-gf, @onyxthornseer, @parapiop7, @kit9doctordreamer, @polarbearsnickers, @lindsayjoy444,  @madwriter16-blog,  @lunalulola,  @bangtanxberm, @flowinj, @esposadomd, @rinkud, @vinylphwoar, @fluffysheepmaster, @uknowbtss, @em--ilysm, @darkphoenix5037, @lilmeowmeow, @mgdixon, @hoseokhasmyheartxx, @delliriumn, @shakespeare-in-the-park7, @genu7, @genderlessfairy, @mysticaal-vee, @kapten-xouk, @lachlaniah, @libriaryshelf, @brieally, @themaladaptiveauthor, @bangatanily, @juju-227592, @gossamersatin, @shynotded, @wonznme, @why4anne, @elliott-calls, @babygirlskz98, @demarie04, @princess-sunshyn, @xxxhobixxx, @screechingninjamusic, @lovemarysblogposts, @rosekpopfanfic, @reducedreuserecycle, @tazzi-baby, @soo-jung01, @kawennote09, @prongs-wolfstar-marauders, @myselfxbangtan, @rosiejasmine123, @minjianhyung, @kayways, @likeshatteredrainbowglass, @isthara-7, @daesung-wrecks-me, @sleepyeclipes, @straylovingwhore, @angel-121, @taehaoyoongi, @chaoticgoodandi, @ot8srzlover, @lexi52291, @cprcupcakke, @qari-v4w, @jungkoookieee, @fan143, @nemtodd-barnes1923, @human169, @orphicroutines, @hobithesunflower, @beyibu, , @deaddumblbumble, @jellycrusher, @willowpains, @wissy-woo, @btskzfav, @gimmythatjib00ty, @igetcarriedawaywithyou 

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© spiderlilyserendipity 2026 (do not edit, re-upload, or translate. All rights reserved).

At Namjoon’s holler, the entire house wakes up fast. Within minutes, the remaining five alphas are clamouring down the stairs and into the living room. Meanwhile, Namjoon paces back and forth, running his hands through his hair. You’ve never seen the head alpha so livid, nor so anxious. It fills you with unease, seeing Namjoon act so out of the ordinary.

The other alphas blink sleep out of their eyes, yawns and groans getting cut short the minute they pick up the two sour scents in the room. You’re so anxious that nausea begins to stir in your belly. You lower your head. So much for holiday cheer.

“Where’s Hobi-hyung?” Jungkook asks, glancing at you.

Namjoon waves a hand dismissively. “Rut.”

Jungkook looks confused, exchanging looks with the others. You hear a few murmurs of “Already?” and “It’s not the 28th yet…” but no one dares to press the head alpha any further. Namjoon sighs heavily and sinks into his usual armchair at the head of the living room. With one look, Namjoon nods for everyone to take a seat on the sofas. Immediately, everyone falls into line. 

You scurry behind Jungkook, about to sit beside him, when Namjoon calls your name. You stop. “Come here.” The dragon-eyed alpha orders. You shiver, unintentionally trying to make yourself small as you approach the head alpha.

The remaining five alphas sit gingerly on the sofas, exchanging nervous looks. You hover awkwardly in front of the head alpha. A muscle quivers in Namjoon’s jaw as he assesses you. Then: “Omega, kneel.”

Your blood runs cold. You glance at Jungkook, who watches on with utter confusion. You take a deep breath, ready to speak, but Namjoon cuts you off. “I’m not going to repeat myself. Now.”

Fresh tears spring into your eyes, and you bow your head so Namjoon won’t see them. You look down at the rug. It looks soft enough. You suppose there are rougher surfaces to kneel on. You look back at Namjoon, whose expression is stony. You look around the room, at the tense, displeased looks on all of their faces. You’re normally not the type to succumb to others’ dislike for you, but it’s different because it’s them. Because you’re newly mated. Because you’re sick. The excuses go on and on, but the ugly, embarrassing truth is this: you want to be loved. You want these alphas to look at you with love not hate. You want to be one of them, even though you’ve tried a million times to convince yourself otherwise.

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic! The voice in your head screams at you. 

You kneel before Namjoon’s legs. 

For a long moment, he says nothing. You can hear Namjoon breathing deeply, as if trying to calm himself down. You hear him crack his knuckles, the sound making you wince. Then, his hands move in your peripheral. You flinch, but the alpha’s hands are gentle in your hair. Namjoon cards one hand through your hair, then applies slight pressure to make you tip your head up to look at him.You swallow, knowing you’re extremely vulnerable now, on your knees and with your bite exposed. From this angle, the head alpha is pure danger. 

Namjoon smiles faintly, but there’s no kindness in it. “I should’ve had you like this a long time ago.” He murmurs, taking his other hand and wrapping it around your throat. You shudder. The hold isn’t tight enough to cut off your breathing, but it’s enough to remind you of who has your life in his hands. Your bite tingles under the alpha’s hand. “Jimin was right. I have been too lenient with you, haven’t I?”

Your heart beats wildly in your chest. You can’t muster even a word in reply. Namjoon’s cold smile grows at the sight. “You told me once that I must think I’m some sweet, perfect alpha from the movies. Admittedly, that made me want to prove I am. I wanted us to be gentle and accommodating, to give you time to come to us. I should’ve known that this is what it really takes to claim an omega like you.”

“I-I’m sorry.” You apologize, but you’re not really even sure what you’re sorry for. Maybe everything.

Namjoon scoffs. “We’re 1:1 now, sweetheart. You were right, I’m not a sweet alpha from the movies. But I was right, too. You’re every bit of a liar as I thought you were from the very beginning.” 

Tears roll down your face for everyone to see, but you don’t dare reach up and wipe them. You just keep your hands in your lap, not daring to move an inch unless Namjoon permits it. 

“There, see? How hard is it to submit when you’re told?” Namjoon asks coldly.

“It’s not hard.” You whisper. 

“If it isn’t hard, why did it take you so long to do it?” Namjoon criticizes you. You take it as a rhetorical question, but Namjoon presses you for an answer. “Tell me.”

“It was my pride.” You tell your clasped hands.

“Your pride didn’t seem to get in the way when I fucked you in your apartment.” Your face burns. 

Terrible. You’re terrible, you’re terrible! Your mind runs in circles. They all hate you! 

Your wolf cries with you. She begs to be held and comforted. She begs for forgiveness. You have to fight to keep your mouth shut to stop yourself from saying something stupid. 

Namjoon releases you, sitting back in his armchair. You look down at your folded legs, crying quietly. Addressing the room now, he continues. “Hoseok said Y/N is sick. If my thoughts are right, at least one more of you has to know about this. Who else knows anything about this?”

Seokjin sighs deeply. He stands from the sofa, coming over to stand a few steps behind you to your right. Then, he kneels. Pack Alpha casts a cold look around the room, waiting. Then, Jimin comes over, kneeling to your left.

Namjoon curses sharply, running his hands through his hair like he wants to rip the silky strands out. “Unbelieveable. THREE of my alphas knew our omega was sick and none of you thought to tell me? Am I a fucking joke to you all?” He roars.

None of you dare to reply. 

Namjoon clicks his tongue. “When did you all learn about this?” He demands from Seokjin.

Seokjin hesitates, then answers. “I don’t know about Jimin, but Hoseok and I both found out after she was hospitalized. I found her sick note for work and Hoseok approved her leave.”

Namjoon’s look turns to something murderous. “Hospitalized.” He whispers. You flinch under his glare. “You chose to work yourself to the point of hospitalization while living in my fucking house?” He all but roars.

You shuffle backwards, carpet burning against your legs. You bump into Jimin in the process. “I–I—” You stammer.

Namjoon stands, shaking his head in disbelief. “For what, to protect your fucking secret? Would you rather die than rely on us, rather die than submit? Is that it?!” A whimper escapes you. 

Namjoon leans forward. You see his hand move in your peripheral. You move before you can think, driven solely by fear. You’re so afraid that you scramble behind Jimin to hide. You grip his shirt tightly, face buried in his back as you cry. 

Now I’ve really done it. You think. 

I’m fucked now.

“I wanna go home!” You cry. The room stills. You continue to sob into the alpha’s back. “I want my mom. I want to have my heat. I don’t wanna live like this anymore!”

You open your eyes, peering at the head alpha around Jimin’s shoulder. Namjoon crouches in front of you, hand hovering midair. His mouth hangs open in shock. You shuffle back even more, hiding your body behind Jimin. The head alpha’s eyes soften. 

“I wasn’t…” Namjoon trails off. You dig your hands into Jimin’s shirt, burying your face into his wide back and wailing.

“You’re so mean to me. All of you are so mean.” You cry, rubbing your face against Jimin’s back. The alpha moves, turning around to look at you. You flinch. To your surprise, his expression is gentle. 

“Y/N, you’re going into your headspace again.” Jimin informs you in a calm, collected voice.

“No I’m not!” You retort, not caring that you sound childish. But indeed, you feel that familiar panic and the fog beginning to form in your mind. “D-Don’t talk like you know me! So mean to me. So mean.” You repeat, feeling yourself lose the ability to speak just as you did before. It only sends you spiralling further as you can no longer defend yourself verbally from the hateful alphas around you.

“Yes, you are.” Seokjin interjects. He pries your hands off Jimin’s shirt, then pulls you up onto his lap. You flinch away from the head alpha, burying your head in the crook of Seokjin’s neck. The alpha wraps his arms around you tightly, and you wrap your legs around his wide hips. 

“Go home. Home, home.” You repeat, falling further and further into the headspace.

“That’s not true.” Seokjin whispers, caressing your hair. “You like it here, but you’re scared. You just want us to be nice to you.”

“Scared, scared, scared.” You echo, trembling in the alpha’s hold. Seokjin rocks you back and forth gently, never shushing you or speaking over you but letting you get out your feelings. You dig your nails into the alpha’s shoulders. “Alpha, scared.”

“I know.” Seokjin murmurs in the softest voice you’ve ever heard from him. “Come on, let’s get you in bed.”

The alpha carries you up the stairs like you’re weightless, leading you to the largest bedroom. It’s almost double the size of the other rooms with a king sized bed, and everything smells like petrichor and pine. Namjoon’s room. You wriggle as Seokjin sets you down in Namjoon’s bed, not wanting to be near anything associated with the angry head alpha. But Seokjin is firm. “Turn around.” He orders. You roll onto your side, and Seokjin gets you out of your clothes. Goosebumps appear on your skin as the alpha strips you down until you’re just in your bra and panties. Your hair clip is next, releasing your hair onto the silky sheets. 

“She’s really deep in her headspace, hyung.” Someone comments off to the side. You flinch as another scent enters your nose. Cinnamon. Yoongi.

“Yeah, I know.” Seokjin grits, quickly discarding his shirt and pants. “Go get her as many of our blankets and clothes as you can, I’m gonna make her a nest.”

“Nini, Nini!” You cry. Seokjin wraps his arms around you. You sigh as you feel his bare chest against yours, then feel him tuck the duvet in around you. Despite his own rose scent being as sour as your own, the alpha scents you gently, slow and methodical despite how upset you both are. “Bad omega, bad.” You mumble, crying continuously throughout Seokjin’s care. “Don’t deserve!”

“I’ll help.” Someone else says, and you feel the bed dip beside you. Sour lilies fill your nose. You wrinkle your nose. Jungkook. 

“Bad omega, bad. Bad.” You mumble, beginning to tire yourself out from all the crying. Unbeknownst to you, six alphas watch on with concerned expressions. The alpha closest to you, Jungkook, looks heartbroken. “Alpha hate. Alpha mad. Omega bad, bad.”

“Where are those fucking blankets?” Seokjin says over your head to someone. 

Meanwhile, Jungkook sheds his shirt and pulls you on top of him. You feel the firm muscles of his chest, whimpering into the crook of his neck. Your tears slow down, your wolf more soothed by the alpha that marked you more than all the others. “Alpha.”

“Shh. I know.” Jungkook reassures you, lifting you up onto his chest. You calm down as you lay on his chest, his heartbeat a steady, soothing sound in your ear.

You fall asleep like that, exhausted from crying and heartbroken beyond belief.

[muskoxen]

My friend just sent me this 😂

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

･:*࿔.ೃ.⋆☀︎ 127 Love Island!au ☀︎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Islander!Johnny who you’ve been coupled up with since day one. You had signed up for Love Island as a total joke. It was the result of a girls night, too much alcohol, and a dare. Now, months later you’ve made it. You walk into the island hand in hand with a girl you’ll soon come to love like a sister and stop in your tracks at the sight of Johnny. It’s like the producers created him in a lab just for you. He’s the very embodiment of your type. You’re lucky enough that he picks you after you step forward for him, and the luck continues with every recoupling that comes after. Not only is physically your type, his personality is hot too! He brings you breakfast and coffee just the way you like it, refills your water bottle without you even asking, he lets you ogle him while he works out, and even coordinates his outfits with your own. By the end of week two you’re both locked off. You don’t want anyone beside Johnny. He’s your dream man! The weeks tick on by, you fall more and more head over heels for him, and huh, would you look at that... your drunken joke has turned into you making it to the final four. Who would have thought?

Islander!Taeyong who you honestly don’t have any hope for. You’ve been in the villa since day one, hopping from couple to couple. With every recoupling and bombshell entrance, your hope fades. Every guy you've been coupled up with has been making you look like a total fool! They flirt with every bombshell that comes in, steal kisses and lie about it, tell you you’re the only one for him, and it seems like you’re left alone, miraculously safe at every recoupling. You think you’re just an easy in for every new bombshell. They win you over just enough to secure their spot in the villa before going after who they’re really interested in. You're sad to say that you've lost hope in the Love Island experience. Taeyong comes in as a bombshell, inviting you on a date that follows its usual routine of good conversation, shy smiles, and simmering hope in the pit of your stomach. It’s hope that turns into butterflies when you guys discuss your interests and learn you actually have a lot in common, which becomes more when he stands behind the fire pit and announces that he’s decided to couple up with you. After the recoupling he doesn't follow the unfortunate sequence of redirecting his attention. His sights are set on you and you begin to have hope again...

Islander!Yuta who you have your sights set on before you even enter the villa. Yuta has been in a toxic couple since day one. He’s aware that the point of the first couple of weeks is to explore but somehow every conversation with an islander of the opposite sex ends in his partner throwing a fit and crying her eyes out while claiming he’s cheated on her. He tries to stay calm, telling her that he’s into her, there’s no one else he really feels a connection with. His reassurances seem to work until the next thing sets her off and he realizes he’ll be in for a long summer… until you come in. It’s a blindfolded kissing challenge where each islander has to rate each kiss from 1 to 10. He’s not going to lie and say he hasn’t enjoyed the kisses, he just hasn’t been wowed. The last kiss steals the air from his lungs, the softest pair of lips yet, gentle hands cupping his face and the unexpected, but very pleasant, drag of someone’s tongue against his own makes him breathe out, “10!” It’s just that, when he pulls his blindfold off, his partner is seething with a 6 written beside her name. And you, a brand new bombshell, are standing beside the scoreboard with a wide smile and a bold 10 in your row. Every other guy ranked you no higher than a 5 and he can hear the girls murmuring about you being respectful by giving all the guys simple pecks except for him. He thinks his luck is beginning to turn…

Islander!Doyoung who you have been coupled up with since day one in a friendship couple more than anything. Talking to him feels like drawing water from a rock, but he’s nice and cute. Scratch that, Doyoung's really, really hot, but your personalities just aren’t suited. You’re hoping that a bombshell will walk in and sweep you off your feet because you don’t feel like it’s going anywhere with Doyoung. You really try to make conversation and be open to him, but he clams up and the conversation never goes deeper than small talk. Yet, again and again, bombshells walk in, and there are no connections. You stay loyal to your new friend, recoupling with him when the time comes and he does the same for you. Unbeknownst to you, he’s been pretty vocal to the guys, during confessionals, and to every bombshell that’s taken him on a date— you’re his ideal type. He’s just so overwhelmed by you that he doesn’t know how to be himself. Somehow, the two of you have lasted in the villa for weeks now with you hopeful that someone more suited to you will come in and turn your head. That is, until a challenge with a tweet that reads: “I’m so obsessed with the way blank looks at blank. He’s so in love with her!” That couldn’t be about you and Doyoung could it?

Islander!Jaehyun who you actually already know when you come into the villa as a night two bombshell… the mix of nerves and confidence turn into confusion at the sight of him. You introduce yourself, standing up straight, flipping your hair over your shoulder and batting your lashes at all the other islanders. It’s only when you’re sitting around the fire pit with everyone that you reveal that you actually already know Jaehyun. He’s your ex-boyfriend’s best friend, the very person that let you know that same ex cheated on you. Of course, the two of you have conversations after that. They start off with reminiscing on old times and that horrendous ex and turn into genuine conversations where you get to know each other. It makes you wonder if you and Jaehyun always had so much in common or if you were just blinded by infatuation for your ex. It takes a few days and the push of a challenge for you two to finally kiss. And hey, would you look at that… could that warmth you always felt around Jaehyun have been hidden sparks all along?

Islander!Jungwoo who you’re actually not even initially coupled up with. You’ve both been here since day one, coupled up with the same people for a week now, but you don’t feel a real connection. You haven't been shy about getting to know the other guys, exploring your connections and being open with the girls about it. Is it really your fault that you actually feel something for Jungwoo? His partner has made it clear that she does not like you. She doesn’t support your exploration, with her man especially, but you’re not here for her. You’re here for love and if it’s with Jungwoo— sorry girl! The perfect opportunity comes during a game of truth or dare around the fire pit. It’s your turn to perform a dare after one of the guys chose you for his ideal pair of legs on a woman. Your phone pings with a text and you don’t even try to hide your smile as you read: “Kiss the islander you’re not coupled up with that you like the most.” You’re making your way straight to Jungwoo, kissing him passionately with his hands on your ass and your own tangled in his hair. By the time the kiss is broken, your lungs burn and your lips are numb, but you don’t regret it. The two of you might even talk about it while everyone makes their way inside to get ready for bed. You’re just thirsty for water, nothing else…

Islander!Mark who you meet during Casa Amor. He’s already in a couple, steady and consistent. He thinks it’s more of a slow burn, eventually he’ll feel a real connection and the sparks will go from there. He’s respectful and polite, sharing a bed with you because he already knows how bad the bugs get out on the day beds. You’re not as showy as the other Casa Amor girls, not laying on your flirting as thick as they are, clearly looking for a real connection and not just a ticket into the villa. While the other girls flirt excessively, you and Mark just kind of hang out by default, have conversations about anything and everything under the sun. He finds that he enjoys these conversations, a lot actually. He’s still set on staying in his original couple… until the dreaded Casa Amor post card comes in and there’s the undeniable image of his partner kissing a guy who couldn’t be more his opposite. By the end of Casa Amor, you and he have become close friends and he’s decided to couple up with you in the hopes that you’ll find a real connection with a bombshell or maybe… with him?

Islander!Haechan who you get coupled up with after a public vote. All summer long you’ve been lucky enough to stay in the villa, though within various couples that just never work out. The guys are all nice, albeit drawn to the other girls and you don’t fault them. You’ve had a good summer, made some good friends, and you’re glad to have had the experience. Your very best friend would have to be Haechan, who you think is the male version of yourself. The public have been watching it all unfold and then some. You and Haechan are a beloved couple who’s not even coupled! Unseen bits is made up mostly of the two of you being silly, cracking each other up to the point of tears, or communicating across the villa with exaggerated hand movements or excessively loud shouts. The producers certainly aren’t mad about all the extra buzz the two of you are drumming up for the show, so what better choice than a public vote after the mess that was the Casa Amor recoupling that left the two of you vulnerable?

a/n: are we cool if one or some of these become a fic? Possibly??? Don't hold me to it tho I would love your feedback <3

[crzy-baby]

The way I can see Doyoung breaking down in the confessional after a bad date or a challenge where he trips or embarrasses Y/N

[kumawaii]

BETTER THAN YOU, ALWAYS | JWW

cw - yandere themes, possessiveness, manipulation, cheating, cucking kink, recording, oral sex (m), unprotected sex, creampie, cockwarming

– original request

∘₊✧─── 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓻𝓼 𝓭𝓸 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓽 ───✧₊∘

bestie!wonwoo is someone who can pull. even when he doesn’t try, both men and women flock to him like bees on honey. it gets even worse when people get to know him because he’s just so likable and handsome that no one can ever stay away. so many people love and admire him, and your boyfriend is no exception.

you’ve never thought anything about how much your boyfriend admires bestie!wonwoo because you get it. god, do you get it. aside from being good looking, he’s smart and kind and gentle. even though you would never admit it out loud, you had a small crush on him when you two first met. so, yeah. you know better than anyone why your boyfriend is so starstruck by your best friend.

bestie!wonwoo finds it cute. your boyfriend is always so happy to see him and is so eager for his approval. he’s a good guy despite being a little clumsy and inattentive. but it was fine because he made you happy. well, for the most part.

another one of bestie!wonwoo’s wonderful traits is his attention to detail. he had noticed a long time ago that something is off about your relationship. not in a toxic or concerning way, but enough for him to wonder if there was something lacking between you two. he doesn’t push the subject with you, and you’re grateful. because telling him would be downright humiliating.

but you should’ve known that there’s no such things as keeping secrets from bestie!wonwoo.

you’re over at his house playing video games when you realize that his head isn’t really in it. this isn’t like him because he has this insatiable need to win at everything he does. especially video games. so after you beat him for the second time, you have to pause and look at him seriously.

“what’s wrong?”

bestie!wonwoo is usually straightforward which is why you feel concerned over seeing him hesitate. he sighs and pulls out his phone. wordlessly, he hands it to you.

his phone is open to a text thread — one between him and your boyfriend. you don’t think anything of it until you start reading the messages. apparently, your boyfriend was playing around with the idea of letting bestie!wonwoo fuck you. in the texts, he reveals how he had never made you cum and maybe learning how to properly fuck a woman would help him achieve that.

you’re absolutely mortified as you hand your friend his phone back. it’s absolutely humiliating that your boyfriend admitted to being a cuck who’s never made you cum before. in the messages he sounded so eager to watch bestie!wonwoo fuck you since he has this apparent sex god reputation. it’s worse because your boyfriend had gone on to say that you would be just as eager to have your best friend fuck you.

“i have to go.” you rush out, wanting nothing more than the earth to open up and swallow you.

bestie!wonwoo gently grabs your wrist, gentle eyes pleading and understanding. “don’t be embarrassed. he’s just trying to be a good boyfriend.”

it kills you that he’s being so cool about this. your boyfriend was an embarrassing fool who didn’t know any boundaries, yet bestie!wonwoo was still being the kind guy you know and love. you slowly deflate, skin burning with humiliation.

“this is so embarrassing!” you mumble, just wanting to curl up into a ball. “i’m so mad right now i could kill him!”

your best friend shifts closer to you until your thighs are touching. wonwoo’s gently caressing your wrist now, eyes looking at you with something you can’t place.

“what if you did something else?”

you don’t care that you’re betraying your boyfriend in the worst possible way as you lick up and down bestie!wonwoo’s big cock. he’s making the hottest faces and prettiest sounds as you deep throat him. his weeping tip is hitting the back of your throat as look up at the camera being pointed at you.

“fuck. just like that, baby.” wonwoo groans as he pets your head. “you’re so fucking hot.”

you’re slobbering all over his cock, chocking and gagging a bit as you take as much of him as you can. wonwoo cries out in pleasure when you hum around his cock, feeling the sensation all the way up his spine. you smirk around his thickness. if your boyfriend thought he could slut you out like you meant nothing, then that’s what you would do. but not for him. never for him.

you don’t think bestie!wonwoo can look any hotter but you’re proven wrong when he cums in your mouth. pretty moans bounce off the walls as you swallow every drop of his seed. you release his cock with a pop, opening your mouth to show the camera that you swallowed everything. he tosses the phone on your bed and pulls you up to smash lips on yours.

his lips are addicting. you can’t get enough as you fall back on his bed, giggling and moaning into his mouth. bestie!wonwoo sets up his phone on his nightstand so it’s pointing directly at you two. he folds your legs against your chest and shoves his thick cock into you with one harsh thrust.

you cry out for him, feeling so full. wonwoo’s dick is so bit that you feel him splitting you open, molding your hot cunt into the shape of him as he fucks you. he’s already found the spot inside you that makes you cream around his cock until all he can see is your arousal covering him.

“god damn.” wonwoo groans, loving how he can see and smell your arousal so clearly. “my pretty girl was just waiting for a real man to fuck her, huh?”

“yes!” you cry out wantonly. “fuck, nonu. your dick is so big!”

it feels like he’s fucking every coherent thought out of you. his cock is reaching spots inside you that you never thought anyone could touch. your eyes roll back as you let him stretch you open and use you exactly how he wants.

“tight little pussy’s all mine now.” wonwoo sounds ravenous. “that fool doesn’t know what to do with it, doesn’t deserve it.”

bestie!wonwoo smirks when your hot cunt grips him tighter and stains him with more of your arousal. he keeps fucking into you, already obsessed with the sight of you trembling and moaning under him. the moment your lips touched his cock, he was never going to let you go. you cuck of a boyfriend just didn’t realize it yet.

“feel so fucking good. make me cum, wonwoo. please, please, please!”

bestie!wonwoo smirks with a fucked out groan as you plead like you’re life depends on it. he slams his cock into you, juices completely coating his throbbing length and heavy balls. skin slapping and your moans mix in together, all captured perfectly by his camera.

“let go for me, baby. show him what it looks like when a real man makes you cum.” wonwoo growls, drilling his cock deep into you with insatiable desire.

you do as you’re told, cumming with a loud yell of your best friend’s name. it doesn’t take long for his orgasm to follow. bestie!wonwoo groans your name as he spills his hot cum inside you. he swoops down to capture your lips in a messy, sloppy kiss. you’re swallowing each other’s moans as he gently fucks his cum deeper into you.

your boyfriend replays the video over and over again, fucking his hand an embarrassing amount of times to the sight of your best friend fucking you. it’s not surprising that you made noises and faces he was never able to get out of you, and for some sick reason it just turns him on.

after pulling himself together, he sends you a text. he’s a little mad that you didn’t tell him you were going to follow through with the idea bestie!wonwoo had suggested to him last week, but he knew you’d done it for your relationship.

when he sends the text it doesn’t go through. he tries again but the result is the same. when he tries to call you, it goes straight to voicemail. his heart sinks as he goes to call the man he knows you’re with.

bestie!wonwoo picks up on the third ring.

“hey, man. i was trying to get a hold of y/n—”

“she doesn’t want to speak to you.” wonwoo says in that calm tone that always used to seem so cool to him. now it just sounds condescending. “you should know that she’s done with you. don’t call again.”

“but—”

your best friend hangs up the phone and tosses it aside before pulling you closer to his naked chest. you nuzzle against him, mewling in your sleep as his cock slips further inside you. bestie!wonwoo feels his heart and cock swell at the adorable sight. he was never going to let this or you go. your idiot ex had fallen into his trap perfectly, and now the only one who would have you this way was him.

[joonam]

proximity - chapter 7 | jjk

Pairing: Chaebol!Jungkook x Reader (f)

Genre: chaebol!au, conglomerate!au, non-idol, slow burn, angst, obsession.

Summary: Jeon Jungkook has everything from wealth, brains, and the reputation of the perfect heir. But behind all of that, he hides one secret: you.

Warnings: themes of stalking and obsession, angst, possessiveness, slow burn, violence.

Word count: 4866 | Status: Completed

a/n: help. i slept for a total of 8 hours in 2 days :DDDD and its already past midnight where i live. but i really wanted to finish this chapter so i can write one song too many. its a small-ish chapter, but i hope you enjoy it!!

check out my: masterlist prologue | chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5 | chapter 6 | chapter 7 | chapter 8 | chapter 9 | chapter 10 | chapter 11 | chapter 12 | chapter 13 | chapter 14 | chapter 15

taglist: @mae-murdock @yooforeaa @magicalnachocreator @ennvfv @star-candyian @7karulla @nanmolla @misschelliejeon @mar-lo-pap @jggui @hotelcortezghost @jeonzll @adhderme @asyr97 @almatiarau @dna-black-and-blue @kooliv @cuntessaiii @khalhaimdad @jazzyb22 @llallaaa @senaqsstuff @guwol @slvt4her @muhhpfuuu @nbjch05

His mother touched your hand gently, “Believe me, my husband likes you,” she whispered with a smile.

But as you walked out of the dining room with Jungkook, you knew the evening wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

Mrs. Jeon insisted on Jungkook taking you back home. Even after you refused, telling her you’ll be just fine going back on your own.

You’ve learned by now that it’s no use to try and say no to the Jeon family. They have a power to make you eventually agree with what they want.

So, after Mrs. Jeon said her goodbyes, telling you to come back again, Jungkook led you outside. The Jeon residence still amazes you by how grand yet sophisticated and classic it looks. Jungkook walked straight to the sleek black car parked in the open parking lot of his house, or a mansion fits it better, you thought.

He opened the passenger door for you, a courtesy that surprised you from Jeon Jungkook. But you got in without question, setting your bag on your lap. The leather seat feels cool against your skin.

He walked around to sit on the driver’s seat, he then adjusted the mirrors in the car for a good one minute as if there was a perfect angle to each of the mirrors. He started the engine, and the car started moving. The drive to the Jeon’s residence gate from the mansion took about 2 minutes, and beyond the gates, the familiar area of wealthy houses awaited.

Neither of you spoke for the first 10 minutes of the ride. It wasn’t uncomfortable, it felt right if anything. You unzipped the bag on your lap, trying to find the small velvet box. You took the box out and held it in your hand for a moment before you finally decided to break the silence.

“I should return this,” you said.

His eyes flicked to the box in your hand before turning his head back to the road again. “No,” he simply said.

You groaned before responding, “It doesn’t belong to me, and I never asked for it.”

“It does,” Jungkook stated.

“You gave it to me without me asking.” “I know,” he flatly replied.

“Then take it back.” “No.”

You sighed and turned to look at Jungkook. You noticed how, even when driving, Jungkook looks steady, calm, and somehow calculated. It was like even the red lights seemed to turn green just as he reached them. You couldn’t tell if it was luck or just the way he timed everything in his life.

You still feel like keeping the bracelet was something you shouldn't do, so you pressed the matter again, “I think you should take it back. You can send it to the store and get your money.”

You swore you could hear him chuckle under his breath before replying, “I don’t need money.”

You rolled your eyes at his obvious statement, and your fingers tightened around the box. “But this isn’t,” you stopped, searching for the right words, “this isn’t something I can wear. I don’t deserve it.”

“You do.”

You blinked at him. “What can I do for you to accept it back?”

“Your compliance,” he said, “which is to keep it.” You almost laughed, “You think keeping this, is compliance?”

“I think keeping it is non-negotiable.” And there it was, the firmness in his voice. It no longer surprised you, but you knew that this meant he already made his choice of not accepting the bracelet back.

You set the box gently on the dashboard in front of you. “I’ll leave it here,” you added, “that way you won’t have to take it back. It would be like it’s just left here.”

His hand moved to the dashboard, his two fingers pushing the box back from the dashboard until it rested on your thigh.

“It stays with you,” he said. “Because you said so?” you scoffed. “Because I gave it to you,” he answered simply, “and I don’t take back what I’ve given.”

“You can’t decide what I want to do.” “I already did,” he said, “you can disagree.” “And if I do?” you said, looking at Jungkook, whose gaze never left the road.

“If you leave it somewhere,” he said, “I will put it back in your bag. If you post it to my house, the envelope will return to you unopened. If you leave it in my car, I will make you wear it myself. And if you throw it away, it will find you again.”

Your breath stopped, “That’s not how things work.”

“It is how this works.” “Why?” His hands tightened on the wheel, “Just do as I say,” he said.

“It’s an expensive jewelry, Jungkook.” “It is not.”

Silence stretched in the car. You looked down at the box as he took a right, then another, avoiding the busy streets.

You felt the urge to give the bracelet back to him rise like a stubborn determination, “I don’t belong in your world,” you said, “your mother and father were kind to me but kindness can’t change the fact that I don’t belong there.”

“You came from the same world,” he said.

“I no longer exist in that world, and I can’t carry something that tells people otherwise.” “It doesn’t say you do,” he answered, “it just says I will walk into mine with you.”

You looked at him, the streetlamp carving a clean edge along his cheekbone, “Did you just assume that I’ll walk where you’ll be walking?” you asked.

“I assume you’ll go wherever you want. I’ll adjust everything else.” You picked up the box from your lap, “It still doesn’t belong to me.”

“It belongs on you.”

The traffic slowed near an intersection where a road worker had left bright orange cones. Jungkook looked at you for a few seconds before turning his attention back to the road.

“Say I keep it,” you started, “purely hypothetical.”

“Keep it,” he said. “And if I don’t?” “You will,” he replied. “You can’t know that.” “You already are keeping it,” he said. “You sound very sure, Jungkook.”

“Always,” he replied flatly.

“Because you’re used to getting what you want?”

He didn’t say anything back to that. You let the silence fill the car. The road narrowed to the smaller streets that you recognized. The car slowed at your apartment building, and he stopped the car right in front of the building entrance.

Before you could reach for the buckle, he leaned over and unfastened it for you, the quiet click breaking the silence. The movement was simple, but it sent a rush through your body.

You should have pulled back, should have told him you could do it yourself. Instead, you froze, caught between the heat of how close he was to you and the cool certainty in the way he did it, like it was the most natural thing in the world. It left you unsettled, because it felt less like a courtesy and more like a reminder that he would always act first, before you could.

“Text me when you’re inside,” he said.

“I’m not reporting to you.”

And to that, Jungkook said nothing, but you got the feeling that he knew you’d text him anyway.

You stepped out of the car with the velvet box tucked back into your bag. The night air feels colder than before, the wind felt sharp against your skin. You closed the door of the car and turned to face him once more.

“Thank you,” you said.

Jungkook didn’t answer, only gave you a small nod.

You turned away and walked toward your building. The entry light buzzed faintly as you unlocked the door and slipped inside.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

After Jungkook dropped you off that night and during the 2 weeks mid semester break, you heard nothing from him.

No a text or call.

Not a word about the dinner with his parents, the ride home, or the bracelet you tried to hand back to him. He didn’t mention how close he leaned to your face in his bedroom or how close he was when unfastening your seatbelt.

Nothing.

You told yourself you shouldn’t have expected more. He was the Jeon heir afterall. The untouchable one, a man people watch but rarely approach. And yet, for a moment, you thought you were getting closer to knowing the Jeon Jungkook.

But he was Jungkook again, quiet and distant.

The bracelet stayed with you. You kept it hidden, tucked under folded clothes in the back of your drawer. Out of sight and out of reach. You couldn’t bring yourself to wear it and yet you didn’t throw it away.

Days blurred into each other, filled with assignments to submit before the semester break is over, flowers, ribbons, orders, and deliveries. Customers came and went, you tried to let their presence fill the silence in your life.

Sometimes, only sometimes, when the bell above the door chimed, your heart caught in your chest. For a split second, you thought it might be Jungkook again. But it never was. And each time, you were disappointed even though you told yourself you were relieved.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The next morning shift was just like any other working day for you.

The watering can was filled to water the plants in the shop, you trimmed the flowers and tied ribbons around bouquets. It’s a routine you can get easily lost in it.

The bell above the door chimed.

“Welcome,” you automatically said, not looking up from the daisies you were organizing for a bouquet a customer custom ordered.

Then a familiar voice greeted you. Your hands froze as you slowly lifted your head, “Uncle.”

He looked smaller than you remembered. His suit was wrinkled, the collar stained with what you assume to be alcohol stains, and his hair sticking out at odd angles. His eyes looked restless, something that has never changed. The eyes of a man who always expects something.

You forced a smile, “It’s been a while.”

He stepped closer, hands rubbing together nervously, “Too long. You’ve grown, look at you, working like this,” his eyes swept over the shop, his gaze moving from the buckets to the register, and to the stain on your apron, “after everything your father gave you.”

Your stomach tightened, “What do you need?”

The smile dropped from his face, he leaned over the counter, and his face right in front of yours, “Money.”

Of course.

“I don’t have any,” you replied flatly.

“You're at work, aren’t you? You make something here.”

“Barely enough.”

His jaw tightened, “Don’t lie to me. Your father always said he raised you to be clever, because he wouldn’t want his only daughter being poor and living in dirt.”

The words cut you sharper than you expected. You took a slow breath, “My father isn’t here, and I don’t have anything for you, uncle.”

He slammed a hand against the counter, making the scissors laying on it rattle.

“You owe us,” he hissed, “your father ruined everything for this family. He left us debts, do you think you’re free of it just because you’re playing flower shop girl?”

Your throat burned and you felt your stomach twist, “I didn’t ask for any of that! I didn’t know what he was doing and he didn’t leave me a single cent.”

“But you had it,” his eyes narrowed at you, “the school, clothes, life. You had it all, don’t you forget it.”

Your fingers curled tight around the counter’s edge.

“Please,” he said then, voice cracking, shifting into something more desperate, “just a little to get me through the week, you’re all I’ve got left.”

You wanted to scream. But instead, you forced the words out quietly yet firm, “I can’t help you.”

He stared at you for a long moment, breathing hard, before his face twisted into something ugly,

“You’re just like him,” he spat, “ungrateful. You think you’re better than us because you got a scholarship, because you’re still standing. But you’re nothing. Nothing.”

The bell above the door chimed again. You exhaled, relief flooding your body that a customer can now help you escape this hell.

But when you looked towards the entrance, Jungkook stood in the doorway.

He was wearing a hat and his hands were in his pockets, his expression unreadable. His eyes swept once over you, then over your uncle, and something in the air shifted instantly.

Your uncle straightened, blinking, “Who’s this?”

Jungkook didn’t answer. He stepped forward once, his presence filling the room like a storm rolling in. “Leave,” he said quietly.

Your uncle raised his eyebrows, “Excuse me?”

Jungkook’s eyes locked onto his, “Leave.”

Your uncle’s hands twitched at his sides. Then, with a muttered curse, he walked away from the counter and stormed out of the shop. Meanwhile, you stood there, frozen, and your heart racing.

Jungkook stepped closer, gaze dropping briefly to your hands clenched on the counter, “Are you hurt?” he asked.

You shook your head quickly, “No. I’m fine.” But your voice cracked and you hated it. You also hated that Jungkook is here to see you break.

“Where are the roses?” he asked looking at you.

“Over there,” you pointed to where the roses are, but your eyes never met his.

He walked to the bucket of roses, selecting a few stems with precision, before bringing them back to the counter.

Your hands shook as you wrapped the roses he picked. Jungkook’s presence filled the shop like fire and smoke, heavy and impossible to ignore.

When you slid the bouquet across the counter, the words burst out before you could stop them, “Why are you here?”

His eyes lifted to yours.

“You didn’t have to meddle,” you said quickly, voice sharper than you intended, “that was private business.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away, “Private,” he repeated with a flat tone.

“Yes,” you forced your chin higher, though you feel like you were suffocating, “you don’t know anything about my family and honestly you don’t get to just step in like that,” you looked away, clutching the counter, before continuing, “are you really stalking me?.”

The air shifted. He didn’t flinch, but he was studying every twitch on your face, “Is that what you think?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, “You’re always there. At night in the street, now here. Do you expect me to believe it’s coincidence?”

For a moment, something flickered in his gaze. Then he straightened his posture and said, “I just happened to be here.”

He tilted his head slightly, as though the conversation was finished. His eyes dropped to the roses in your hands, “You missed a thorn,” he said softly.

Before you could react, he reached across the counter, plucked the stem from your hands, and broke the thorn off with a precise snap. Then he set it back down on the paper, his fingers brushing yours just barely, “Careless,” he murmured.

Your heart raced, “You,” you started, but the words didn’t come out. He picked up the bouquet, “I’ll take these.”

The bell chimed softly as he turned to leave after paying for his roses.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The message came around 4 hours later.

Uncle: Meet me at the cafe by the station. Please. Just this once.

You stared at it, and you should have ignored it, or deleted it and gone back to trimming stems or to arranging tulips into another bouquet. Instead, you told your boss you’d be gone early. And you went to see your uncle.

Your uncle was already there at the cafe. When he spotted you, his whole body shifted with relief, “Y/N, I knew you’d come.”

Your stomach clenched, “Let’s make this quick.”

He swallowed hard, his voice cracking, “Do you, do you have it?”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you reached into your bag and pulled out the envelope, “Five hundred. That’s all I can give you.”

His fingers snatched it before you could change your mind. He tore it open right there, counting the money, like he didn’t believe it was real, “This will help. This, this buys me time,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

“It’s from my emergency fund,” you said sharply, “I don’t have much left. If you come back again, I won’t have anything more for you.”

For a second guilt flickered across his face, “You’re a good girl,” he said, stuffing the money into his jacket, “just like your father always said,” he was already backing away, “I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

“You won’t,” you whispered but he was gone before you could say more, swallowed by the crowd.

The city moved on around you, students playing with friends, families laughing, and the smell of roasted sweet potatoes filling the air. But you felt stuck like you just cut into yourself with your own hands.

By the time you reached your apartment, the sky darkened. You dropped your bag by the door, sank onto the small couch, and stared at the ceiling. You told yourself you didn’t have a choice, and it was only part of your savings, not everything. You can rebuild it again, slowly, it’s just money after all.

But deep down, you know it wasn’t about the money. It was about how easily you gave it. The shame sat heavy in your chest. You pressed your palms over your eyes, fighting the tears.

You felt like you were 15 again, like the first time you found out the floor beneath you is never as steady as you thought.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

“She met him again,” Taehwan said. A muscle in Jungkook’s jaw tightened. “She gave him money,” Taehwan added.

“How much?” Jungkook’s voice was calm, but the glass of water on his desk trembled from the way his hand clenched on the table.

“Five hundred, in cash,” Taehwan hesitated, then added, “I was close enough to hear her telling him it was from her emergency savings.”

Jungkook dropped the pen he was holding, standing up slowly from his chair, and he walked closer to the window. Below, in the city; cars and people move endlessly. But all he could see was you, handing an envelope into the hands of a man who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you.

“She gave him her emergency fund,” Jungkook repeated.

“Yes, sir.”

“She,” he stopped, exhaling sharply through his nose, “she’s a fool.”

Taehwan didn’t dare reply. “Five hundred,” Jungkook’s tone sharpened, “that’s her emergency fund and she handed it over to some trash.”

He wanted to find your uncle and drag him into the street, make him beg on his knees for daring to take what wasn’t his. For daring to use your softness against you. Jungkook was itching to break something.

But more than that, he wanted to shake you. To ask why you gave away what little you had. To make you understand how reckless you were being and how much it infuriated him that you rather bleed yourself dry than let someone down.

Jungkook turned back from the window, “Watch him. Every step and every place he shows his face in. I want to talk to this uncle.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jungkook lowered himself back into the chair, he wouldn’t confront you, not yet. The next time he sees you, he would say nothing. But beneath it, was his fury. Not at you, never at you.

But at the world that keeps taking from you. And at your uncle who dared to exploit you. Jungkook would not let it happen again, not because he was kind or noble.

But because you are his.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The next day, Taehwan’s call came around 9 PM, “I found him,” he said, “at an alley off the station road.”

Jungkook didn’t waste time asking him questions, “Stay there, I’m coming.”

The alley had the stench of beer, cigarettes, and urine. And a single streetlight flickered overhead. The man, your uncle, slouched against the brick, muttering under his breath as he counted money on his hands. Your money.

Jungkook stepped into the light. The man blinked, squinting, “What the?! who the hell are you?!”

“Stand,” Jungkook said.

The command drove the man to push himself up slowly on unsteady legs. Your uncle’s eyes flicked past Jungkook to where Taehwan waited just behind him.

“Loan shark?” the man muttered, bitterness in his voice, “Figures, thought you’d send someone sooner. But I didn’t think you would look so damn young.”

Jungkook didn’t correct him. He only stepped forward to say, “You owe.”

The man laughed, nervously, “Don’t I know it? Tell your boss I’ll get it. I just need a little more time.” Jungkook’s hand fisted in his collar before the sentence finished. With a slight push, he slammed the man into the brick wall, the sound echoing down the alley.

The cash scattered across the ground like trash.

“Time,” Jungkook said quietly, “is something you don’t have.”

The man moved around, breaking free of Jungkook’s grip on him, “Wait! Wait! I said I’ll pay!”

Jungkook punched him hard in the jaw. The man’s head jerked to the side, blood spilling from his lip as he slumped against the wall.

Jungkook grabbed your uncle and forced him to stand on his feet.

“You think this is a game? You think you can just take and take?”

The man’s eyes widened, confusion now slowly replaced his fear, “What are you talking about? I’ll pay, I swear!”

Jungkook’s face stayed expressionless, “You won’t.”

The man trembled, trying to nod, “Then, then what do you want? Huh? You going to kill me here? Is that it?”

Jungkook leaned in close, “If you ever go near her again, if you so much as think of her name, that five hundred dollars will be the last of what you own.”

The man froze, “Who?!”

“You won’t ask.” Jungkook stated coldly, “You won’t call or touch her. You’ll forget she even exists. Because if you don’t,” his lips curved into a smirk, “I’ll make sure you vanish so completely no one remembers you did.”

The man trembled, blood dripping onto his shirt. Your uncle nodded frantically, too afraid to speak. Jungkook released him with a shove and the man collapsed against the wall, groaning.

“Take care of it,” he told Taehwan, “and have someone follow him. If he even looks her way, I want to know.” “Yes, sir,” Taehwan replied.

Jungkook turned and walked out of the alley, the night air felt cool against his skin, his heartbeat steady despite the adrenaline burning throughout his body. Behind him, the man whimpered in pain.

Your uncle thought he was just threatened by another debt collector. Good. Let him think that.

The less he connected it back to you, the safer you are.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

On the drive back, Jungkook flexed his bruised knuckles once. He didn’t regret it, if anything he only regretted not doing more.

Because that man dared to take whats yours. And Jungkook would not let it happen again.

You still don’t understand that Jungkook isn't your enemy, that everything he does is for you. He pressed his fist against his thigh, the ache in his knuckles grounding him.

You would never know what happened tonight. But one day, you would understand why.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The lecture hall was filled with its usual chaos, papers shuffling, fingers slamming on keyboards, and students whispering about assignments they haven’t finished.

You slid into your seat, already tugging out your notebook. A moment later, the chair beside you shifted, Jungkook.

He moved the same way he always does, quiet and calculated. His presence filled the space without effort.

But then you saw it, his hand. Resting on the desk, knuckles with a faint bruise. You blinked and looked at it again. It looked like he just punched something or someone.

Before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out, “Did you kill someone for fun?”

His head turned slowly to look at you ,  “I mean,” you rushed, heat rushing to your cheeks, “your hand.”

Jungkook didn’t answer right away, he studied you for a few seconds before finally responding, “Would it scare you if I did?”

You chuckled, that was such a Jungkook answer, “That’s not funny.”

“Then why are you smiling?” He replied, amused.

You froze, realizing too late that your lips had, in fact, turn into a smile, “I’m not,” you lied.

He leaned slightly closer, his voice just above a whisper “You’re curious about me.”

Your chest tightened, “I’m not curious.”

“Sure,” he leaned back and his eyes were on the lecturer again, as if the conversation never happened.

The professor’s voice filled the room, explaining case studies and investment strategies, but you couldn’t hear a word.

All you could hear was his voice, echoing in your head. And no matter how many words you wrote on your notebook, the only thing you could see was the faint bruise on his knuckles.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

This Saturday afternoon was supposed to be for you to catch up on sleep, not for getting cryptic texts from Jeon Jungkook.

Your phone vibrated once on the counter while you were making instant ramen. You almost ignored it, until you saw his name.

Jungkook: Are you free.

You frowned, typing back.

You: Why?

The reply came almost instantly,

Jungkook: Meet me at the mall.

The mall? Jungkook? You almost laughed.

You: Why? Jungkook: Tie. You: What? Jungkook: Don’t make me ask twice.

The mall was crowded, filled with families, kids, and couples on dates. Jungkook was standing near the escalators, wearing a black leather jacket and his hands in his pockets. He looked so out of place. When his eyes found you, the tension in his posture eased.

“You came,” he greeted.

You crossed your arms, “Do you not have any other friends?” The corner of his mouth twitched, “No.”

You rolled your eyes, “Sure," you said sarcastically, before continuing, "but first, explain to me what you meant by 'tie'?”

“I need your help on picking a new tie.”

You let out a little laugh, “This is the weirdest thing you’ve ever asked me.”

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The store was bright and polished, the walls lined with suits and accessories.

He stood in front of a display of ties, arms folded, staring at them like they were aliens instead of a piece made of fabric.

You looked between him and the neatly arranged racks of ties, “You really don’t know how to pick a tie?”

“I have never needed to,” he replied with a flat tone. “What? Do they magically appear in your closet?”

His silence was answer enough.

You shook your head, pulling a deep navy tie from the rack, “Here. This one is simple and classy, you can’t go wrong.”

He took it from you, fingers brushing yours, and his gaze lingered on you, before he turned back to the rack, “Pick another.”

You groaned, “What am I, your stylist now?”

“Yes.”

His bluntness caught you off guard. You laughed, shaking your head, pulling a burgundy tie this time, “Fine. This one too, but only because I feel bad imagining you standing here staring at ties all day.”

Finally, he looked at you again, before nodding. You've understoond now that sometimes this was Jungkook's way to say thank you.

You shrugged, trying to hide the sudden flutter in your chest, “Don’t mention it, really.”

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

You left the the store with Jungkook ending up buying four ties. You were ready to go home but Jungkook stopped in front of another store. “Let’s go in,” he said, or commanded really.

You frowned, “Why?”

He looked at you, calm as always, “I want to buy you something.”

Your stomach tightened, “No.”

“Yes.”

“Jungkook,” you crossed your arms, “You don’t have to.” “I didn’t ask if I had to,” he replied. “I don’t need anything," you argued.

He tilted his head slightly, then, without another word, he pushed the glass door open and waited for you to enter. You groaned under your breath, “You’re impossible.”

And somehow, ten minutes later, you were standing in the middle of the women section in the store, surrounded by racks of clothes that probably cost more than your weekly rent.

It was supposed to be one thing. One shirt, maybe. Something small, just to end the argument, but Jeon Jungkook doesn’t do “small.”

He handed you clothes without hesitation. A sweater, a dress, a coat, everything. “Take them,” he said as he handed you different types of clothes, “or I’ll buy the whole store.”

Your mouth dropped open, “You wouldn’t.” His lips curved in amusement, “Try me.”

You glared at him, "You’re insane.” "Maybe.”

You just slipped into the green dress he pushed into your hands. The fabric was softer than you expected. You hesitated, staring at yourself in the mirror, your heart was racing way too fast.

Then you slid the door of the changing room open to ask his opinions on it. But Jungkook was standing right there, a shirt in his hand that he clearly meant to pass to you. But the moment his eyes landed on you, he froze.

Your eyes flicked up, meeting his gaze, and you were sure of it, he was looking at your lips and the world seemed to stop.

Without thinking, your hand reached up, fingers curling lightly into his leather jacket. You gave the smallest tug, just enough to pull him down towards you.

And before you could stop yourself, before you could think about what would happen next, your lips pressed against his.

You kissed Jeon Jungkook.

[crzy-baby]

THE WAY THE ENDING HAD ME SCREAMING!!

[bebx]

[weltenwellen]

Adonis, tr. by Khaled Mattawa, Selected Poems

[honeywithcake]

ABOVE THE SHEETS .✦ ݁˖ JJK (M)

pairing — ceo jungkook x secretary oc (named minseo)

genre — one night hookup turned into affair, infidelity (he’s married and cheating on his wife), smut, angst.

warning —depressed, lost and sexually frustated jungkook, mention of miscarriage, marital problems, drunk hookup, boob sucking, brief blowjob, bold and initiative oc, vague description of their first time hookup, unprotected sex, oral. (f receiving), brief cock grinding, needy jungkook x equally needy oc, drunk consensual sex, top! jungkook, bottom!oc, creampie.

Jeon Jungkook was a man of god.

He believed every good thing in his life was a fragment of the prayers and faith he held in his religion. He strongly believed that was also the reason behind his massive rise in the business market.

From a young age he carried an optimistic and honest outlook in life; this was why he was more capable and forward than his peers.

He didn’t take anything for granted. His life had been structured and disciplined ever since he was a young lad. He grew up in a Catholic household, with hard working middle-class parents who taught him to be truthful and to keep close what you cherish. He’s abided that throughout 32 years of living.

He was, is and will remain a man of strong morals, ethics, and unbreakable values.

That was until Jung Minseo stumbled into his picturesque life like a turbulent tsunami.

She wasn’t his secretary, but she was assigned as an acting assistant…at least that’s what Kyungsu, his advisor told him.

To him she was a mere employee just like the rest, he always tried his level best to remember every employees name but it was impossible. Usually his employees didn't take it personally when they had to reintroduce themselves, yet Minseo was a woman who didn’t accept being forgotten or ignored especially by Jungkook, her adonis looking boss, she made sure that wherever she went or passed by people would remember her, take notice of her, and it was no doubt the male species in the office were drawn to her like moth to a flame.

She had this naturally alluring charisma.

Yet, Jungkook was one of the few people to not give into her practiced charm, her red lipstick, her tight little skirts and those cheap low cut blouses... they did nothing to entice him, never.

She could never compete against his Mirae.

Mirae could be wearing a decade old oversized tee, that had holes in it and he would get rock hard and needy for her.

It wasn't about the clothes, it was about the focus, the feelings.

Jungkook knew he was a lucky bastard, and that he must have done some great deed in his past seven lives to be granted with someone as pure hearted, breathtakingly beautiful as Mirae.

He knew she deserved better but too bad, he’s greedy.

Nobody could compete against his Mirae.

So, Minseo’s feeble little attempts to grasp his attention, or make him converse with her outside work related topic only amused him.

She was one audacious woman.

He didn’t pay heed to her stares or her flirty remarks, brushing her off with one stern look and a firm voice, albeit with her persistence he soon realised it were no different from giving directions to a blind woman.

He didn’t understand where that boldness came from.

Everyone in this company knew about his marriage.

Mirae’s beauty was a

She had seen that picture on his desk.

The ring on his left finger.

It was absurd to even let the thought exist in his mind.

Not when he was blessed with Mirae’s companionship, she had built this company with him.

She believed in him when everyone told him his dreams were too “unrealistic” and “unattainable”.

She was his ray of sunlight, his anchor, his comfort when life turned chaotic, and the object of all his desires.

Yet these days, even his love was beginning to fracture under major pressure.

He knew for a fact that marriage wasn’t an easy task, it was a commitment he made under the church, he had sworn in the name of the holy bible to love Mirae till he’s buried and resting in the grave but he was only human.

Mirae and Jungkook had been having constant arguments, disagreements mostly regarding his mother, who began pushing Mirae for a grandchild not long after another miscarriage, even though his dear mother was aware the emotional wreckage it did to him and Mirae. He stood by his wife as much as he could, yet it still wasn’t enough because at the end of the day his mother was getting old now, he understood where they came from even if he didn’t agree with her 100%, yet Mirae always puts him in a position where he’s given an ultimatum.

Do you agree with me or your mother?

How can you be so normal with her after she treated me like that?

Why couldn’t she understand that just because his mother told her to conceive and try again, doesn’t mean they actually need to do it and make it happen, at least as long as Mirae’s not ready.

As if the pressure from his demanding job wasn’t enough, she began to place the blame on him for her miscarriage, completely discarding the equal amount of pain he felt at loosing his unborn child.

He wanted to be a father desperately.

It’s been one of his greatest dreams.

He hated how insensitive Mirae was being to his loss, he couldn’t sleep for a year straight…remembering their unborn baby everytime he’d pass by the nursery they had both painted trembling from joy & excitement of their first born, yet it was snatched away from him just as quickly, he hated how Mirae acted like he didn’t have to go to therapy because of the mental toll it took on him.

It was his breaking point.

He had never felt more wounded and misunderstood.

He vaguely remembers that it was one month after their 5th anniversary, he had a massive fight with Mirae about the same old topic yet this time it wasn't his mother but his aunt who pushed Mirae's buttons.

It was the worst fight they ever had in five years of marriage, it ended with her storming out of the house and threatening divorce.

He had a hard time breathing, her words stung so deep, he didn't know how else to react other than choking on his own sobs.

'You used to be my happiness once, Jungkook, now you're a reminder of the pain I endure everyday. I can't even look at you.'

He would never forget these words.

3 days had passed since then.

And Mirae wasn't home.

What if she meant it?

What if she asks for a divorce?

After another episode of a bad nightmare, he shot up awake, reaching for his phone, spamming texts that were left unread and calls that were left unanswered, he reached to his last resort and called his sister-in-law, and to his greatest relief Mirae was at her house and wanted to be left alone.

And he had no other choice but to accept defeat to her wish.

With a heavy chest, he forced a composed face and arrived at the company party hosted by his business partner. He had forgotten it was Sunday; it was late in the evening.

He drank himself to the brink at the bar, words slipping, vision blurred, while he sank into his solitude. The jazz music was soft, almost sensual.

Someone sat beside him. He turned to his left to find a beaming Minseo, her dark eyes dancing across his face.

It began with awkward one-line questions and hesitant stuttering from Minseo. He was drunk enough not to push her away; surprisingly, he found himself tolerating her presence or rather enjoying it.

Hours passed as he drifted into conversation with her. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so light, with no weight pressed against his chest. She smelled ridiculously pleasant, he couldn't help but move closer, her voice was low and unhurried, and there was a childlike glimmer in her eyes that pulled him in. He didn’t realize how close they had become until their noses brushed, and her eyes slowly closed. He leaned in until their lips hovered mere inches apart.

“Mister Jeon, are you alright?” Minseo breathed, her nose brushing his, waiting.

Her hand moved up and down in chest in a comforting motion.

He closed his eyes, surrendering to the voices in his head.

He haven't been touched that gently in a long time.

He hasn't felt loved in a long time.

Lately he only felt like a failure.

He just wanted to be free from the pain, the heaviness pressing down on his chest.

And she was offering him exactly what he needed.

“No, but I think you can help me get alright, Miss Jung…”

And her glossy lips engulfed his with a fiery passion.

⏔⏔⏔꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱⏔⏔⏔꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔

When he woke at dawn in that unfamiliar bedroom, with a the strong smell of bellies, his consciousness returned in shards. He jerked up, eyes widened at his naked form, and the equally naked back of an unfamiliar woman laying down next to him, all he felt was disbelief, rage, and shame followed in equal measure.

He didn’t dare look twice at the woman asleep. His stood up on shaky legs, hands trembling as he dressed and left like a fugitive.

The woman he slept with wasn’t…Mirae.

Hell.

It wasn’t even his house to begin with.

He was so drunk, he couldn’t remember an ounce of yesterday’s occasion no matter how hard he tried to.

Mirae.

No.

No.

No.

He rushed back home in a yellow taxi, his teeth biting into his lips to stop the sob wanting to break free from his throat, the thought of Mirae coming back to their home, waiting for him even though it was 6AM barely crossed his mind.

He roughly typed into the passcode and slammed the entrance door open.

He barged into the shower, tearing the shirt & pant off his skin like the fabric burned him.

Hypothetically, it did burn his chest.

He sobbed, his chest heaving as he shouted, fist slamming onto the wall repeatedly until his knuckles turned sore and bloody. He didn’t give a single fuck.

He sounded like an animal as he cried while violently scrubbing away the invisible remnants of his dark deed. He spent two hours under the scalding water until his hands wrinkled like soaked paper and his skin bore bruises from his own desperation.

It wasn’t wife.

He screamed.

He wailed.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

How?

Why did it happen to him?

How could he lose control?

How would he face Mirae now?

Would he even reveal this to her?

Would she understand that he was completely unconscious?

Would she even believe him?

He leaned against the wall, his body and hair wet, he closed his eyes taking in a deep breath flinching when someone knocked on the door.

“Honey…I'm so sorry, please open the door.”

His knees almost gave up.

He didn’t deserve to be called so lovingly.

Not after this.

‘You should slap me, Mirae.’

'You set me off in a fire.'

He thought.

He exhaled.

Three times.

Before he gathered the courage to see her, it was the great fear of losing her that gave him the strength, he needed to see Mirae, hug her and make sure she was real and not a fragment of his illusion.

He emerged in a towel. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, as though she’d been crying for hours, and his heart only grew heavier at her sight.

His stomach twisted into uneasy knots and there was this sudden urge to vomit out, yet before he could think futher, Mirae crashed into his chest not caring about his wet body, her arms locking tight around his waist as she sobbed into him, leaving kisses on his shoulder, whispering apologies. that she shouldn’t have left him, that she loved him too much to exist without him.

His arms hung uselessly at his sides as tears silently fell.

Regret filled his chest

He was disgusted at himself, at that vile woman for letting that happen when she was the conscious one.

He worked from home for two full months after that.

He was determined to mend his relationship with Mirae, to move forward and bury the drunken mistake in the past. It was a sin he was even afraid to acknowledge in thought; guilt and self-reproach grew with every passing day, fed by fragments of memory.

He went to the nearest church that same day.

It was in the evening once he tucked Mirae to bed.

He went down on his knees and sought forgiveness for his sin till his tears dried and stopped flowing.

He pleaded to God to have mercy on him and guide him through this fractured existence.

After the visit to the church, his head cleared off from the battlefield of his inner voices, he made a promise to fix everything for the sake of Mirae.

His sole focus shifted to Mirae.

He used the guilt, and the fear of losing her as his determination to stay glued to her side, and continue being an ideal husband to her.

He woke her with breakfast in bed, massaged her feet, scratched her back, made rough and needy love to her with devotion every night till sunrise. He didn’t let ger get away for more than an hour or two, and she didn’t complain once, not when he was being so soft to her.

It was slow and gradual, but they were healing.

His racing heart softened; as long as she was near, and in his arms, he felt momentarily at peace.

When he was certain he was stable enough to return to the company, his mind firm as steel, he resolved that if he encountered Minseo, he would address it plainly, that it was inappropriate, and it should be treated as though it never happened.

But the truth was, it had happened, and no matter how hard he tried to deny it, it remained.

The ambition drained from him the moment he stepped back into that space.

The entire day passed in stolen glances and this suffocating tension, he couldn’t wait to be done with the day and rush back home to Mirae.

He needed to see Mirae because he had a bad feeling about this.

He was aware that he was bound to address it, yet he didn’t know how, maybe acting ignorant was the better option that’s what he thought initially.

The moment Minseo entered the room close to midnight, certain that every exhausted employee had already left, she slowly walked toward a baffled Jungkook with quiet, hopeful eyes, he stood up as if the mere sight of her burned his eyes.

After a dramatic loud rage filled conversation and many hurtful remarks, he found himself leaning against the wall, his head thrown back as he let himself get lost in the dark sinful desire, her sinful and skilful tongue wrapped around his hard cock, she hollowed her cheeks sucking him dry, while fisting his cock with her palms.

“‘Miss Jung…that day was a mistake,” he muttered, but it came out weak, it was a fruitless attempt in comparison to her skilled ministrations, Minseo paid no heed to him, ambitious to make him give in to the pleasure she was bringing him, to surrender to her.

And it was working.

“Fuck…” he grunted as he felt the pleasure rising, his climax nearing, his plams fisted her hair tightly, hips thrusting back and forth, she cried softly, her free hand cupping her pussy, her index finger rubbing circles over her clit desperate to reach her own peak.

Every thrust inside her hot mouth became uneven and sloppy, his breath turned sharp and ragged as his body edged closer to the breaking point, his head tipped back against the wall for a second like he was trying to hold it off, but it was already too late, the tension snapped through him in a wave that left him shaking, breath torn from his lungs as everything in him clenched and gave way all at once.

As the high died down, shame crawled up his spine.

He didn’t mean to. He vowed to himself he wouldn’t. But the second she pressed her body closer, hips brushing his, her plump lips curling, every promise he made that morning dissolved like smoke.

He no longer recognised himself.

it wasn’t a drunken mistake.

He was conscious today.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

Let himself sink into the dark abyss of lust.

And…that was five months ago.

He no longer felt guilt, only an increasing hunger for Minseo’s body, it was something darker now, more embedded in him than regret ever was. His only outlet for everything he couldn’t say, couldn’t fix, couldn’t contain was Minseo, with her, he didn’t need restraint, he stopped performing control altogether, he let himself unravel completely, and she never flinched at the edges of it rather she met him there, as if that version of him was the only one she had ever known.

It consumed him in a way he couldn’t rationalize anymore. Not because it was new, but because it was something habitual now, it was something he walked into willingly even when his mind insisted he shouldn’t.

Minseo became the pressure valve for everything he buried in daylight, his anger, frustration, the slow erosion of discipline he once believed was unbreakable.

With Minseo, there was no careful distance left to maintain, no version of himself curated for consequence.

And she never treated their ‘arrangement’ as something easily breakable or forbidden.

That was what made it worse.

There was no fear only acceptance, she never asked him to be anything better, or to be perfect and somewhere along the way, that acceptance felt relieving.

He knew, in the part of him that still tried to think clearly, that he should have stopped long ago.

That it had already gone too far to pretend it was temporary, or accidental, or contained.

But knowing never translated into action anymore.

Because whatever this had become, it no longer felt like something he chose in moments of weakness.

It felt like something he returned to on purpose.

And the most dangerous truth of all was that stopping no longer felt like an option he could easily return to especially not when there was still a wife waiting in the life he kept drifting further away from.

It was another one of those days.

Minseo and Jungkook kept it as lowkey as they could when they were at the company, especially after that one day someone almost walked in on him giving her a toe curling orgasm on his sofa. Jungkook chocked with panic. It was a good thing the lights had been off and they had slipped away into the restroom just in time, breathless and panicking… neither of them spoke about it after but silently maintained distance.

They never dare try doing something like that again in the office, everyone knew Jungkook as a respectable, committed man. He couldn’t risk the loosing his reputation in the eyes of the people who leaned onto him and looked up to him.

Minseo suggested they scheduled their weekly meetups at her place after contemplating for a whole day, it made sense since it was the most secluded option out of all, her house was a little far from the office, almost a 40-minute drive.

They could be away from observant people who knew his wife.

His life would be over if it ever reached her ears.

Loosing Mirae was worse than death.

He knew he should put a stop to this secret affair, stop before it turns into a fucked up sin he couldn’t tidy up, but it was too late, he was too deep in to understand the damage it was doing to his soul and his marriage, It’s not like he was head over heels in love Minseo, it was impossible when Mirae and the remorse of his crime was at the back of his head like a mantra every moment and every second, it would be delusional to pretend to not know that he was a married man with years of marriage and a wife he loved more than life itself, he would never give it up. Nonetheless he barely knew Jung Minseo, what she was like outside, or literally anything about her personal life, he only fucked her and used her body to take out the frustrations of his marital problems.

The truth was…Minseo became an addiction he couldn’t stop, the more he engaged with her, the harder it was to stop meeting her.

⏔⏔⏔꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱⏔⏔⏔꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔

As soon as Minseo unlocked her door, she entered quickly and he trailed behind her, his eyes hooded in lust.

He remembered her lips first, glistening from their intense makeout session earlier, they were red and sinful, wrapping around him as she knelt between his legs. Her tongue was hot and wet, sliding along his cock while her hands gripped his thighs, stroking him with a hunger that made his head fall back. The image blurred and sharpened, every sloppy lick, every wet suck burned into his memory.

By the time she rose from her knees, her blouse was gone, her bra sliding down her arms. He grabbed her before she could even shrug it off, wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in her chest. His mouth latched onto her hard nipples greedily, sucking, flicking, biting until she moaned helplessly. Her hips rolled against him, grinding her soaked heat over his cock through the thin barrier between them, dragging a groan from deep in his chest.

“Fuck…” he hissed, mouth still full of her breast, grinding harder as she rocked on him, their bodies rutting desperately together.

Then, in a messy blur, he had her on her back, clothes scattering on the sheets. His hands pressed her down while his mouth returned to her tits, sucking, kneading, tugging until she was writhing beneath him. He trailed lower, tongue dragging down her stomach, until he buried himself between her thighs. His hot tongue was everywhere making her cry out as he sucked on her clit with sloppy hunger.

Her hands fisted the sheets, her body trembling as he devoured her until she was shaking and grinding up against his face. When she broke with a sharp cry, he groaned into her, the taste of her only spurring him on.

“Mister Jeon.” Minseo mewled softly.

And then he crawled on top of her again briefly stopping to suck on her perky nipples, his throbbing cock sliding against her soaked slit, smearing her arousal he grunted, eyes locked on hers, teeth gritted as he let her tease him. “You’re driving me insane,” he rasped, her head fell back when he pressed harder against her clit before he aligned his hard cock right at her entrance, sinking in deep with one desperate thrust. Her walls clenched around him, and he groaned into her mouth as he kissed her hard, hips slamming against hers in a sloppy, breathless rhythm.

Every movement was messy and raw, his mouth finding her nipples again, sucking them as his cock drove into her mercilessly, her hips desperately lifting to meet his, the two of them grinding, clawing, ravishing each other like they had been starving for this moment. The air was filled with moans, gasps, the wet slap of skin, the lewd sounds of him sucking her tits between kisses that tasted like sin.

Her nails raked down his back as he fucked her harder, deeper, hips slamming in a reckless rhythm that made the headboard rattle. His mouth was glued to her tits, sucking greedily at her nipples, tugging with his teeth until she cried out and arched against him.

“Fuck, you’re so so tight,” he groaned, pulling almost all the way out only to grind back in slow and heavy, making her feel every inch. His cock rubbed against every spot inside her, dragging broken moans from her throat. She clung to him, hips rolling wildly to meet each thrust, her body begging for more, for everything.

He pressed her wrists above her head, body pinning hers to the mattress as his mouth worked on her neck to send her to her peak.

Her moans grew louder, sharper, spilling from her lips without restraint. He could feel her clenching, fluttering around him, her body on the verge of breaking.

“Cum for me, Minseo.” he rasped looking at her with dark eyes, while poundimg into her with faster thrusts, his thumb finding her swollen clit and rubbing fast circles. She sobbed his name, legs shaking, body convulsing as she shattered around him, pussy squeezing his cock in pulsing waves.

The feel of her breaking apart dragged him under too. He buried himself to the hilt, hips jerking in messy, uneven thrusts, grinding desperately as the heat coiled and snapped. With a guttural groan, he spilled inside her, filling her as he sucked onto a nipple, teeth catching, tongue soothing in the same breath.

The room was filled with the lewd mix of their panting, the wet slap of their bodies still grinding together as they rode out the aftershocks. He collapsed against her chest, lips still latched onto her breast as if he couldn’t bear to let go, both of them trembling, ruined, and drunk on the mess they’d made.

He stayed buried inside her even after his release, his hips giving weak, instinctive grinds as if his body couldn’t accept it was over.

His mouth lingered on her tits, lips swollen from sucking, tongue lazily circling her nipple until she whimpered and trembled beneath him.

The sheets were damp, sticky with sweat and sex. Her chest rose and fell in uneven gasps, her hands tangled in his hair, torn between pushing him off and pulling him closer.

He finally stilled, cock still pulsing faintly inside her.

For a few stolen seconds, it was silent, just their ragged breathing, the wet sounds of him pulling out slow, the slick slide leaving her clenching around nothing.

Their mingled arousal smeared her thighs, the mess seeping into the sheets, and he groaned at the sight of it.

But then the silence grew heavier.

The haze thinned, the guilt pressed in. He collapsed against her chest, forehead buried between her breasts, he let out a shaky breath.

Neither of them spoke. They couldn’t. Because the moment words entered, it wouldn’t just be lust anymore……it would be real.

And real was the one thing they couldn’t afford.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

my greetings to all the jungkook lunatics, this is my first time writing a fic on tumblr, I’m a devoted reader but I also wanted to try writing even though english isn’t my first language, i hope whoever reads this oneshot had a fun time reading it! leave reviews if you can i would appreciate it so much <3 also I ain’t nobody’s mama but if I by any chance catch a minor engaging with this post, I will report their account.

[crzy-baby]

BABES, THAT WAS AMAZING!!! CAN WE PLEASE GET A PART 2 AND 3??

[crzy-baby]

We’re have you been hiding if this is just your first time writing?? Your work IS PHENOMENAL!!

[honeywithcake]

ABOVE THE SHEETS .✦ ݁˖ JJK (M)

pairing — ceo jungkook x secretary oc (named minseo)

genre — one night hookup turned into affair, infidelity (he’s married and cheating on his wife), smut, angst.

warning —depressed, lost and sexually frustated jungkook, mention of miscarriage, marital problems, drunk hookup, boob sucking, brief blowjob, bold and initiative oc, vague description of their first time hookup, unprotected sex, oral. (f receiving), brief cock grinding, needy jungkook x equally needy oc, drunk consensual sex, top! jungkook, bottom!oc, creampie.

Jeon Jungkook was a man of god.

He believed every good thing in his life was a fragment of the prayers and faith he held in his religion. He strongly believed that was also the reason behind his massive rise in the business market.

From a young age he carried an optimistic and honest outlook in life; this was why he was more capable and forward than his peers.

He didn’t take anything for granted. His life had been structured and disciplined ever since he was a young lad. He grew up in a Catholic household, with hard working middle-class parents who taught him to be truthful and to keep close what you cherish. He’s abided that throughout 32 years of living.

He was, is and will remain a man of strong morals, ethics, and unbreakable values.

That was until Jung Minseo stumbled into his picturesque life like a turbulent tsunami.

She wasn’t his secretary, but she was assigned as an acting assistant…at least that’s what Kyungsu, his advisor told him.

To him she was a mere employee just like the rest, he always tried his level best to remember every employees name but it was impossible. Usually his employees didn't take it personally when they had to reintroduce themselves, yet Minseo was a woman who didn’t accept being forgotten or ignored especially by Jungkook, her adonis looking boss, she made sure that wherever she went or passed by people would remember her, take notice of her, and it was no doubt the male species in the office were drawn to her like moth to a flame.

She had this naturally alluring charisma.

Yet, Jungkook was one of the few people to not give into her practiced charm, her red lipstick, her tight little skirts and those cheap low cut blouses... they did nothing to entice him, never.

She could never compete against his Mirae.

Mirae could be wearing a decade old oversized tee, that had holes in it and he would get rock hard and needy for her.

It wasn't about the clothes, it was about the focus, the feelings.

Jungkook knew he was a lucky bastard, and that he must have done some great deed in his past seven lives to be granted with someone as pure hearted, breathtakingly beautiful as Mirae.

He knew she deserved better but too bad, he’s greedy.

Nobody could compete against his Mirae.

So, Minseo’s feeble little attempts to grasp his attention, or make him converse with her outside work related topic only amused him.

She was one audacious woman.

He didn’t pay heed to her stares or her flirty remarks, brushing her off with one stern look and a firm voice, albeit with her persistence he soon realised it were no different from giving directions to a blind woman.

He didn’t understand where that boldness came from.

Everyone in this company knew about his marriage.

Mirae’s beauty was a

She had seen that picture on his desk.

The ring on his left finger.

It was absurd to even let the thought exist in his mind.

Not when he was blessed with Mirae’s companionship, she had built this company with him.

She believed in him when everyone told him his dreams were too “unrealistic” and “unattainable”.

She was his ray of sunlight, his anchor, his comfort when life turned chaotic, and the object of all his desires.

Yet these days, even his love was beginning to fracture under major pressure.

He knew for a fact that marriage wasn’t an easy task, it was a commitment he made under the church, he had sworn in the name of the holy bible to love Mirae till he’s buried and resting in the grave but he was only human.

Mirae and Jungkook had been having constant arguments, disagreements mostly regarding his mother, who began pushing Mirae for a grandchild not long after another miscarriage, even though his dear mother was aware the emotional wreckage it did to him and Mirae. He stood by his wife as much as he could, yet it still wasn’t enough because at the end of the day his mother was getting old now, he understood where they came from even if he didn’t agree with her 100%, yet Mirae always puts him in a position where he’s given an ultimatum.

Do you agree with me or your mother?

How can you be so normal with her after she treated me like that?

Why couldn’t she understand that just because his mother told her to conceive and try again, doesn’t mean they actually need to do it and make it happen, at least as long as Mirae’s not ready.

As if the pressure from his demanding job wasn’t enough, she began to place the blame on him for her miscarriage, completely discarding the equal amount of pain he felt at loosing his unborn child.

He wanted to be a father desperately.

It’s been one of his greatest dreams.

He hated how insensitive Mirae was being to his loss, he couldn’t sleep for a year straight…remembering their unborn baby everytime he’d pass by the nursery they had both painted trembling from joy & excitement of their first born, yet it was snatched away from him just as quickly, he hated how Mirae acted like he didn’t have to go to therapy because of the mental toll it took on him.

It was his breaking point.

He had never felt more wounded and misunderstood.

He vaguely remembers that it was one month after their 5th anniversary, he had a massive fight with Mirae about the same old topic yet this time it wasn't his mother but his aunt who pushed Mirae's buttons.

It was the worst fight they ever had in five years of marriage, it ended with her storming out of the house and threatening divorce.

He had a hard time breathing, her words stung so deep, he didn't know how else to react other than choking on his own sobs.

'You used to be my happiness once, Jungkook, now you're a reminder of the pain I endure everyday. I can't even look at you.'

He would never forget these words.

3 days had passed since then.

And Mirae wasn't home.

What if she meant it?

What if she asks for a divorce?

After another episode of a bad nightmare, he shot up awake, reaching for his phone, spamming texts that were left unread and calls that were left unanswered, he reached to his last resort and called his sister-in-law, and to his greatest relief Mirae was at her house and wanted to be left alone.

And he had no other choice but to accept defeat to her wish.

With a heavy chest, he forced a composed face and arrived at the company party hosted by his business partner. He had forgotten it was Sunday; it was late in the evening.

He drank himself to the brink at the bar, words slipping, vision blurred, while he sank into his solitude. The jazz music was soft, almost sensual.

Someone sat beside him. He turned to his left to find a beaming Minseo, her dark eyes dancing across his face.

It began with awkward one-line questions and hesitant stuttering from Minseo. He was drunk enough not to push her away; surprisingly, he found himself tolerating her presence or rather enjoying it.

Hours passed as he drifted into conversation with her. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so light, with no weight pressed against his chest. She smelled ridiculously pleasant, he couldn't help but move closer, her voice was low and unhurried, and there was a childlike glimmer in her eyes that pulled him in. He didn’t realize how close they had become until their noses brushed, and her eyes slowly closed. He leaned in until their lips hovered mere inches apart.

“Mister Jeon, are you alright?” Minseo breathed, her nose brushing his, waiting.

Her hand moved up and down in chest in a comforting motion.

He closed his eyes, surrendering to the voices in his head.

He haven't been touched that gently in a long time.

He hasn't felt loved in a long time.

Lately he only felt like a failure.

He just wanted to be free from the pain, the heaviness pressing down on his chest.

And she was offering him exactly what he needed.

“No, but I think you can help me get alright, Miss Jung…”

And her glossy lips engulfed his with a fiery passion.

⏔⏔⏔꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱⏔⏔⏔꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔

When he woke at dawn in that unfamiliar bedroom, with a the strong smell of bellies, his consciousness returned in shards. He jerked up, eyes widened at his naked form, and the equally naked back of an unfamiliar woman laying down next to him, all he felt was disbelief, rage, and shame followed in equal measure.

He didn’t dare look twice at the woman asleep. His stood up on shaky legs, hands trembling as he dressed and left like a fugitive.

The woman he slept with wasn’t…Mirae.

Hell.

It wasn’t even his house to begin with.

He was so drunk, he couldn’t remember an ounce of yesterday’s occasion no matter how hard he tried to.

Mirae.

No.

No.

No.

He rushed back home in a yellow taxi, his teeth biting into his lips to stop the sob wanting to break free from his throat, the thought of Mirae coming back to their home, waiting for him even though it was 6AM barely crossed his mind.

He roughly typed into the passcode and slammed the entrance door open.

He barged into the shower, tearing the shirt & pant off his skin like the fabric burned him.

Hypothetically, it did burn his chest.

He sobbed, his chest heaving as he shouted, fist slamming onto the wall repeatedly until his knuckles turned sore and bloody. He didn’t give a single fuck.

He sounded like an animal as he cried while violently scrubbing away the invisible remnants of his dark deed. He spent two hours under the scalding water until his hands wrinkled like soaked paper and his skin bore bruises from his own desperation.

It wasn’t wife.

He screamed.

He wailed.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

How?

Why did it happen to him?

How could he lose control?

How would he face Mirae now?

Would he even reveal this to her?

Would she understand that he was completely unconscious?

Would she even believe him?

He leaned against the wall, his body and hair wet, he closed his eyes taking in a deep breath flinching when someone knocked on the door.

“Honey…I'm so sorry, please open the door.”

His knees almost gave up.

He didn’t deserve to be called so lovingly.

Not after this.

‘You should slap me, Mirae.’

'You set me off in a fire.'

He thought.

He exhaled.

Three times.

Before he gathered the courage to see her, it was the great fear of losing her that gave him the strength, he needed to see Mirae, hug her and make sure she was real and not a fragment of his illusion.

He emerged in a towel. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, as though she’d been crying for hours, and his heart only grew heavier at her sight.

His stomach twisted into uneasy knots and there was this sudden urge to vomit out, yet before he could think futher, Mirae crashed into his chest not caring about his wet body, her arms locking tight around his waist as she sobbed into him, leaving kisses on his shoulder, whispering apologies. that she shouldn’t have left him, that she loved him too much to exist without him.

His arms hung uselessly at his sides as tears silently fell.

Regret filled his chest

He was disgusted at himself, at that vile woman for letting that happen when she was the conscious one.

He worked from home for two full months after that.

He was determined to mend his relationship with Mirae, to move forward and bury the drunken mistake in the past. It was a sin he was even afraid to acknowledge in thought; guilt and self-reproach grew with every passing day, fed by fragments of memory.

He went to the nearest church that same day.

It was in the evening once he tucked Mirae to bed.

He went down on his knees and sought forgiveness for his sin till his tears dried and stopped flowing.

He pleaded to God to have mercy on him and guide him through this fractured existence.

After the visit to the church, his head cleared off from the battlefield of his inner voices, he made a promise to fix everything for the sake of Mirae.

His sole focus shifted to Mirae.

He used the guilt, and the fear of losing her as his determination to stay glued to her side, and continue being an ideal husband to her.

He woke her with breakfast in bed, massaged her feet, scratched her back, made rough and needy love to her with devotion every night till sunrise. He didn’t let ger get away for more than an hour or two, and she didn’t complain once, not when he was being so soft to her.

It was slow and gradual, but they were healing.

His racing heart softened; as long as she was near, and in his arms, he felt momentarily at peace.

When he was certain he was stable enough to return to the company, his mind firm as steel, he resolved that if he encountered Minseo, he would address it plainly, that it was inappropriate, and it should be treated as though it never happened.

But the truth was, it had happened, and no matter how hard he tried to deny it, it remained.

The ambition drained from him the moment he stepped back into that space.

The entire day passed in stolen glances and this suffocating tension, he couldn’t wait to be done with the day and rush back home to Mirae.

He needed to see Mirae because he had a bad feeling about this.

He was aware that he was bound to address it, yet he didn’t know how, maybe acting ignorant was the better option that’s what he thought initially.

The moment Minseo entered the room close to midnight, certain that every exhausted employee had already left, she slowly walked toward a baffled Jungkook with quiet, hopeful eyes, he stood up as if the mere sight of her burned his eyes.

After a dramatic loud rage filled conversation and many hurtful remarks, he found himself leaning against the wall, his head thrown back as he let himself get lost in the dark sinful desire, her sinful and skilful tongue wrapped around his hard cock, she hollowed her cheeks sucking him dry, while fisting his cock with her palms.

“‘Miss Jung…that day was a mistake,” he muttered, but it came out weak, it was a fruitless attempt in comparison to her skilled ministrations, Minseo paid no heed to him, ambitious to make him give in to the pleasure she was bringing him, to surrender to her.

And it was working.

“Fuck…” he grunted as he felt the pleasure rising, his climax nearing, his plams fisted her hair tightly, hips thrusting back and forth, she cried softly, her free hand cupping her pussy, her index finger rubbing circles over her clit desperate to reach her own peak.

Every thrust inside her hot mouth became uneven and sloppy, his breath turned sharp and ragged as his body edged closer to the breaking point, his head tipped back against the wall for a second like he was trying to hold it off, but it was already too late, the tension snapped through him in a wave that left him shaking, breath torn from his lungs as everything in him clenched and gave way all at once.

As the high died down, shame crawled up his spine.

He didn’t mean to. He vowed to himself he wouldn’t. But the second she pressed her body closer, hips brushing his, her plump lips curling, every promise he made that morning dissolved like smoke.

He no longer recognised himself.

it wasn’t a drunken mistake.

He was conscious today.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

Let himself sink into the dark abyss of lust.

And…that was five months ago.

He no longer felt guilt, only an increasing hunger for Minseo’s body, it was something darker now, more embedded in him than regret ever was. His only outlet for everything he couldn’t say, couldn’t fix, couldn’t contain was Minseo, with her, he didn’t need restraint, he stopped performing control altogether, he let himself unravel completely, and she never flinched at the edges of it rather she met him there, as if that version of him was the only one she had ever known.

It consumed him in a way he couldn’t rationalize anymore. Not because it was new, but because it was something habitual now, it was something he walked into willingly even when his mind insisted he shouldn’t.

Minseo became the pressure valve for everything he buried in daylight, his anger, frustration, the slow erosion of discipline he once believed was unbreakable.

With Minseo, there was no careful distance left to maintain, no version of himself curated for consequence.

And she never treated their ‘arrangement’ as something easily breakable or forbidden.

That was what made it worse.

There was no fear only acceptance, she never asked him to be anything better, or to be perfect and somewhere along the way, that acceptance felt relieving.

He knew, in the part of him that still tried to think clearly, that he should have stopped long ago.

That it had already gone too far to pretend it was temporary, or accidental, or contained.

But knowing never translated into action anymore.

Because whatever this had become, it no longer felt like something he chose in moments of weakness.

It felt like something he returned to on purpose.

And the most dangerous truth of all was that stopping no longer felt like an option he could easily return to especially not when there was still a wife waiting in the life he kept drifting further away from.

It was another one of those days.

Minseo and Jungkook kept it as lowkey as they could when they were at the company, especially after that one day someone almost walked in on him giving her a toe curling orgasm on his sofa. Jungkook chocked with panic. It was a good thing the lights had been off and they had slipped away into the restroom just in time, breathless and panicking… neither of them spoke about it after but silently maintained distance.

They never dare try doing something like that again in the office, everyone knew Jungkook as a respectable, committed man. He couldn’t risk the loosing his reputation in the eyes of the people who leaned onto him and looked up to him.

Minseo suggested they scheduled their weekly meetups at her place after contemplating for a whole day, it made sense since it was the most secluded option out of all, her house was a little far from the office, almost a 40-minute drive.

They could be away from observant people who knew his wife.

His life would be over if it ever reached her ears.

Loosing Mirae was worse than death.

He knew he should put a stop to this secret affair, stop before it turns into a fucked up sin he couldn’t tidy up, but it was too late, he was too deep in to understand the damage it was doing to his soul and his marriage, It’s not like he was head over heels in love Minseo, it was impossible when Mirae and the remorse of his crime was at the back of his head like a mantra every moment and every second, it would be delusional to pretend to not know that he was a married man with years of marriage and a wife he loved more than life itself, he would never give it up. Nonetheless he barely knew Jung Minseo, what she was like outside, or literally anything about her personal life, he only fucked her and used her body to take out the frustrations of his marital problems.

The truth was…Minseo became an addiction he couldn’t stop, the more he engaged with her, the harder it was to stop meeting her.

⏔⏔⏔꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱⏔⏔⏔꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔

As soon as Minseo unlocked her door, she entered quickly and he trailed behind her, his eyes hooded in lust.

He remembered her lips first, glistening from their intense makeout session earlier, they were red and sinful, wrapping around him as she knelt between his legs. Her tongue was hot and wet, sliding along his cock while her hands gripped his thighs, stroking him with a hunger that made his head fall back. The image blurred and sharpened, every sloppy lick, every wet suck burned into his memory.

By the time she rose from her knees, her blouse was gone, her bra sliding down her arms. He grabbed her before she could even shrug it off, wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in her chest. His mouth latched onto her hard nipples greedily, sucking, flicking, biting until she moaned helplessly. Her hips rolled against him, grinding her soaked heat over his cock through the thin barrier between them, dragging a groan from deep in his chest.

“Fuck…” he hissed, mouth still full of her breast, grinding harder as she rocked on him, their bodies rutting desperately together.

Then, in a messy blur, he had her on her back, clothes scattering on the sheets. His hands pressed her down while his mouth returned to her tits, sucking, kneading, tugging until she was writhing beneath him. He trailed lower, tongue dragging down her stomach, until he buried himself between her thighs. His hot tongue was everywhere making her cry out as he sucked on her clit with sloppy hunger.

Her hands fisted the sheets, her body trembling as he devoured her until she was shaking and grinding up against his face. When she broke with a sharp cry, he groaned into her, the taste of her only spurring him on.

“Mister Jeon.” Minseo mewled softly.

And then he crawled on top of her again briefly stopping to suck on her perky nipples, his throbbing cock sliding against her soaked slit, smearing her arousal he grunted, eyes locked on hers, teeth gritted as he let her tease him. “You’re driving me insane,” he rasped, her head fell back when he pressed harder against her clit before he aligned his hard cock right at her entrance, sinking in deep with one desperate thrust. Her walls clenched around him, and he groaned into her mouth as he kissed her hard, hips slamming against hers in a sloppy, breathless rhythm.

Every movement was messy and raw, his mouth finding her nipples again, sucking them as his cock drove into her mercilessly, her hips desperately lifting to meet his, the two of them grinding, clawing, ravishing each other like they had been starving for this moment. The air was filled with moans, gasps, the wet slap of skin, the lewd sounds of him sucking her tits between kisses that tasted like sin.

Her nails raked down his back as he fucked her harder, deeper, hips slamming in a reckless rhythm that made the headboard rattle. His mouth was glued to her tits, sucking greedily at her nipples, tugging with his teeth until she cried out and arched against him.

“Fuck, you’re so so tight,” he groaned, pulling almost all the way out only to grind back in slow and heavy, making her feel every inch. His cock rubbed against every spot inside her, dragging broken moans from her throat. She clung to him, hips rolling wildly to meet each thrust, her body begging for more, for everything.

He pressed her wrists above her head, body pinning hers to the mattress as his mouth worked on her neck to send her to her peak.

Her moans grew louder, sharper, spilling from her lips without restraint. He could feel her clenching, fluttering around him, her body on the verge of breaking.

“Cum for me, Minseo.” he rasped looking at her with dark eyes, while poundimg into her with faster thrusts, his thumb finding her swollen clit and rubbing fast circles. She sobbed his name, legs shaking, body convulsing as she shattered around him, pussy squeezing his cock in pulsing waves.

The feel of her breaking apart dragged him under too. He buried himself to the hilt, hips jerking in messy, uneven thrusts, grinding desperately as the heat coiled and snapped. With a guttural groan, he spilled inside her, filling her as he sucked onto a nipple, teeth catching, tongue soothing in the same breath.

The room was filled with the lewd mix of their panting, the wet slap of their bodies still grinding together as they rode out the aftershocks. He collapsed against her chest, lips still latched onto her breast as if he couldn’t bear to let go, both of them trembling, ruined, and drunk on the mess they’d made.

He stayed buried inside her even after his release, his hips giving weak, instinctive grinds as if his body couldn’t accept it was over.

His mouth lingered on her tits, lips swollen from sucking, tongue lazily circling her nipple until she whimpered and trembled beneath him.

The sheets were damp, sticky with sweat and sex. Her chest rose and fell in uneven gasps, her hands tangled in his hair, torn between pushing him off and pulling him closer.

He finally stilled, cock still pulsing faintly inside her.

For a few stolen seconds, it was silent, just their ragged breathing, the wet sounds of him pulling out slow, the slick slide leaving her clenching around nothing.

Their mingled arousal smeared her thighs, the mess seeping into the sheets, and he groaned at the sight of it.

But then the silence grew heavier.

The haze thinned, the guilt pressed in. He collapsed against her chest, forehead buried between her breasts, he let out a shaky breath.

Neither of them spoke. They couldn’t. Because the moment words entered, it wouldn’t just be lust anymore……it would be real.

And real was the one thing they couldn’t afford.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

my greetings to all the jungkook lunatics, this is my first time writing a fic on tumblr, I’m a devoted reader but I also wanted to try writing even though english isn’t my first language, i hope whoever reads this oneshot had a fun time reading it! leave reviews if you can i would appreciate it so much <3 also I ain’t nobody’s mama but if I by any chance catch a minor engaging with this post, I will report their account.

[crzy-baby]

BABES, THAT WAS AMAZING!!! CAN WE PLEASE GET A PART 2 AND 3??

[inthelow]

YOU’RE LOSING ME — kim namjoon.

Pairing: fem! art dealer reader x idol! kim namjoon

Summary: You fall in love with Kim Namjoon. A love full of passion, a love that burns quietly and intensely. But what’s the point of love if no one’s willing to risk for it?.

Genre/warning: fluff, angst, heartbreak/emotional absence, cursing. +19k words.

Author’s note: bring ur tissues and a cup of tea cuz i’m about to write my longest fic ever hoes

The apartment wasn’t loud about you leaving.

There was no shouting. No slammed doors. Just the gentle zip of a suitcase being opened for the first time in months, the sound of folded sweaters being laid down like old apologies. Even the air felt subdued, like the room was holding its breath with you.

You moved slowly, deliberately, the way someone does when they’re unsure if what they’re doing is brave or stupid. Your fingers hesitated over every item. The scarf from the Amalfi trip. The beanie he used to steal from your drawer because he said it smelled like your shampoo. A mug he bought at a gas station in Seoul because it had a crooked cat on it and made you laugh for five minutes straight. You touched those things like they were burning.

Should you throw it or keep it?

That line had been circling your brain for weeks now. At the gallery, on the subway, even during your meetings, where you were supposed to be discussing lighting angles and shipping crates but instead you were wondering how it was possible to be surrounded by beauty and still feel so hollow.

You didn’t even know when the emptiness started. That was the cruel part. It wasn’t a moment. Not one big, ugly heartbreak. It was slow. Like rot beneath paint, like silence growing in a house until it swallowed everything else. The pain had become numbness and then just… nothingness.

You were tired of waiting for something, of just waiting for basic things. You were tired for even trying to ask for basic things your partner was supposed to give you in a relationship. Romance, touch, a place— nothing. You hated how you started not expecting, not making it such a big deal. Trying to understand had become a task, a reflex. And you hated it. You were so understanding that it had become a fight for your standards. Now nothing was accomplished. Nothing was expected anymore.

And you had stayed. For too long. Giving CPR to a relationship that hadn’t had a heartbeat in ages. And mow you moved quietly through the bedroom you two had once made it feel like home. Your home. Your place to land, a place for you. Now it was just a big, boring apartment.

You folded the last shirt and paused. Your eyes landed on the nightstand. His nightstand. And you hated yourself for opening it one last time to see it.

There it was. The ring.

In a box that was already more than eight months old, waiting for the right moment that was never going to arrive. It was just… there, like him. You hadn’t put it on. Not the first time you accidentally found it, excited. Not when he told you he was waiting for the right time to ask you to marry him. Not three months later when you were bored. Not ever. And not because you didn’t want to. But because you had been waiting. Waiting for the moment he’d really ask the question. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the fight. Waiting for him to see you.

But he hadn’t.

You sat down slowly at the edge of the bed, ring glinting dully in the low light. Your throat felt like it was full of water, like if you opened your mouth, it would all come spilling out. And you looked at the ring and thought that maybe you could’ve stayed. Maybe if he had just said something. Done something. Fought for you… But all you’d gotten was silence. And silence had a way of becoming truth.

Your hand hovered over the nightstand, opening the drawer to leave the box inside. Down all the mess of papers and cables. You left it there, becoming dust as it already was. And you hated yourself for a second, for staying there more than necessary, wishing for a change of heart. For a fight that was never coming. For a life that you had planned with him in your mind. For him. For something… but nothing came. It was just you. Like always.

Your gaze drifted to the window, where the city lights blinked in soft, distant rhythms. And somewhere in the quiet, somewhere in the ache, a memory stirred—of an art gallery.

Of a man in sunglasses.

Of the first time Namjoon made you smiled.

< Four year and a half ago. Manhattan, USA. >

The late afternoon sun filtered softly through the gallery’s floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, warm shadows across the polished concrete floor. You moved quietly among the canvases and sculptures, your heels clicking against the cold surface. The space smelled faintly of turpentine and fresh paper. An honest scent, one that grounded you even on the most restless days.

You were adjusting a label next to a large canvas when the front door chimed. A man entered, head low, wearing a faded baseball cap and oversized sunglasses that hid most of his face. The kind of low-key disguise that almost screamed the opposite. Definitely trying not to be noticed, which was always the most noticeable thing a person could do in a room like this.

Some visitors needed to be approached. Others needed to be left alone until the silence got too heavy. He was the later one. You let him wandered, let him take his time since there wasn’t a lot of people to entertain as it was getting late.

He drifted toward the centerpiece of the current exhibit you were standing in front of a sprawling, abstract piece by Maya Lin, whose sculptures and installations played fluidly between form and space, light and shadow. This particular canvas was a riot of twisted metal shapes and soft washes of color, both chaotic and meticulous. The man lingered, taking his glasses and studying it with the kind of focus usually reserved for something personal.

After a moment, he said quietly, “It’s strange. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel unsettled or calm looking at this.”

You nodded, folding your arms thoughtfully. “Well, Maya’s work isn’t about giving you an answer. It’s about making you sit with the tension, between order and disorder, permanence and fragility. This piece, ‘Fragmented Horizon’, is her take on how modern life fractures time and memory. There’s a sort of… simultaneous push and pull in the shapes.”

He nodded slowly, eyes tracing the jagged lines. “Like trying to hold onto something slipping away.”

“Exactly,” you said. “But without nostalgia or softness. More like… acceptance of the messiness.”

He chuckled. “That’s one way to make chaos feel elegant.”

You smiled, watching how the afternoon light hit the canvas and made the colors shift. “That’s Maya for you. Always precise but never neat.”

He tilted his head, curiosity sharpening his tone. “Do you come here often? I mean, to places like this.”

You considered the question. “Well, they send me here since I was in the city for vacation and they were exposing Korean artists. They needed someone to speak the language so—”

“Working in holidays, you must like your job.” he muttered, interested. “Are you a translator?.”

“I’m an art dealer. I mostly work with living artists, commissioning pieces, managing exhibitions, negotiating with collectors who want to own a bit of that chaos.” you shrugged.

His eyes sparkled. “Sounds like you get to know the chaos pretty well.”

You laughed softly. “More than I care to admit.”

He paused, then said, “I talk a lot about art. I like to come to galleries and met new artists, they always have good stories to tell with their art.”

“Stories are everywhere,” you replied, “but it’s rare to find someone who listens.”

He smiled, a genuine, almost shy expression that softened the guarded set of his jaw.

“Speaking of stories,” he said, “what about the piece over there?” He gestured toward a smaller sculpture. A delicate, twisting form made from layered sheets of transparent resin.

You followed his gaze. “That’s by Lee Ufan. He works with space and material in a way that makes the invisible visible. Like, the silence between sound, or the emptiness around matter. It’s minimal, but it forces you to rethink presence and absence.”

He looked impressed. “I like that. It’s… quiet. But it says a lot without saying much.”

You nodded. “That’s the goal with good art. It’s always better when you can discuss it with someone.” your eyes met his briefly.

A beat passed.

He hesitated. “Do you… do you usually give your number out at galleries?”

“No,” you said slowly, “I don’t unless is work related.”

“Lucky for me.” He smiled. “I’m an art activist. I know a lot of small artist who are dying to have a place. As an art dealer I think you would be great for that. You have a place in Korea, right?.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Do you have credentials?”

“Uhm…. not really, but would you pass an opportunity like that?.”

He looked a little nervous. You liked his courage. You thought for a moment, then walked to the counter to grab your card. A small business card that said your name, work number and the gallery you worked in back in the city.

“You’ll have to book a meeting if you want an actual art deal.” you said.

“Work phone” he nodded, slipping the card carefully into his pocket. “Y/n, I like your name.”

“And you are?.”

He stretched his hand and you grabbed it, delicate and soft. He had a musician’s hands, long and unpolished.

“Kim Namjoon.”

For a second, the hum of the gallery seemed to quiet around you two.

You knew that name. Of course you did. The disguise might’ve fooled most people, but not someone who paid attention for a living. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t let the recognition bloom on your face. And for that, he looked almost grateful.

“Do you usually ask for numbers in art galleries, Kim Namjoon?.”

He chuckled. “I usually don’t ask for numbers at all. But I’d knew I regret it if I didn’t.”

You smiled. “I’m hoping it is because of my great work.”

“That, and something else.” He didn’t let you say anything more, turning around to leave. “Y/n. I’ll be in touch.”

And then he was gone. But his absence stayed in the air, like music that had just stopped.

— — — — —

It took Namjoon only a day to text you. A Saturday night.

Unknown Number: Hi. I keep thinking about the sculpture made of resin

Unknown Number: The one about presence and absence. That stayed with me

You were curled on the hotel’s couch when the message came through, bare feet tucked under you and a cup of green tea slowly going cold on the table. You read it twice before replying. You’d given your number before and never expected much from it. This felt different. Still uncertain. But thoughtful. You typed slowly.

You: Lee Ufan

You: He’s brilliant. Still refuses to overexplain anything, which makes everyone else write 6,000-word essays about him to cope

A minute passed.

Unknown Number: So basically he’s a mystery that intellectuals are desperate to solve

Unknown Number: Sounds familiar

You smiled.

You: Are you referring to yourself or to the sculpture?

Unknown Number: …. maybe both

Unknown Number: But I’m easier to approach in daytime

You: And without sunglasses?

Unknown Number: Maybe

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then you typed:

You: I’m not sure that’s true

You: you walked around the gallery like you’d been briefed on how not to be noticed by anyone

Unknown Number: Was I that obvious?

You: Obvious in a very practiced, low-effort kind of way

You: The hat was a nice touch, very 2010s indie musician energy.

Unknown Number: Ouch

Unknown Number: Now I regret not buying the resin sculpture to distract you

You: You couldn’t afford it

Unknown Number: You don’t know what I do

You: I know that people who buy art like that don’t wear converse with holes in them

Unknown Number: You noticed my shoes?

You: I notice everything

There was a pause, a longer one. You wondered if you’d overstepped.

Unknown Number: So do I

Unknown Number: That’s probably why I came back

A small knot twisted in your chest. You stared at the screen.

You: You came back? Wdym?

Unknown Number: Three times before I said anything

Unknown Number: You were always rearranging a frame, or telling a couple that “meaning variates” with that one eyebrow lift you did a lot when we talked

Unknown Number: I think I liked that more than the art

You snorted at how cheesy that was.

You: So what do you do for living?

Unknown Number: Music

Unknown Number: bit of writing, some pretending I’m not in music.

Unknown Number: still an art dealer?

You chuckled at that.

You: Yes, but not in the evil capitalist way

You: I find work for the artists who still rent apartments with roommates

Unknown Number: That sounds noble

Unknown Number: also so suspiciously underpaid.

You: I also make deals with big people, that’s where I get my checks from and how I can get not-much-known artists to the gallery

Unknown Number: Very smart

You: That’s why I accepted your number request

You: High risk, high reward

Unknown Number: Is this your way of saying you want to meet again, or of keeping me guessing?

You: … maybe both

There was a pause again. A beat that stretched just long enough to make you think the moment had passed. Then:

Unknown Number: Next Friday, in Seoul. I’ll be in your gallery

Unknown Number: Of course, asking for a tour

Unknown Number: This is a business thing

You: I see, only professional matters.

You: I have a group at 7pm you can join

You: Only if you agree to remove the hat this time

Unknown Number: Done

—————

Friday next week came pretty quickly.

And the gallery had never felt so still.

It was 8:52 PM. The lights were dimmed— soft, intimate track lighting casting long shadows over the concrete floor. Outside, the city was moving in its usual Friday-night blur, but inside, everything had slowed to a hush. Specially since it was 8 minutes from closure and the person you had been waiting for didn’t show up to the tour you had given an hour before. But you were okay with that. Finally able to get a rest while finishing the closure.

You stood barefoot behind the front desk, about to flip the lock on the gallery door. You’d swapped your usual heels for flats and hour ago and pulled your hair up into a loose twist that had started to fall by the time he arrived. Namjoon walked in wearing a dark coat and no hat this time, his sunglasses tucked into his front pocket, not on his face.

Good. He was trying.

“Evening,” he said softly, stepping inside.

“You’re late,” you said, not looking up from the wine you were uncorking.

“Traffic.”

You understood it was probably because he didn’t want to be notice by so many people. You could deal with that. So you handed him a glass without asking his preference. He took it with a small nod of thanks.

“No hat. New shoes. You kept your word,” you noted, glancing down. He was wearing clean boots. Expensive ones, slightly scuffed. Still lived-in.

“I felt like the gallery deserved more respect this time.” His tone was dry but sincere. “And I didn’t want to get roasted again.”

You smirked and walked toward the center of the room. “Come on then. You wanted the tour.”

You moved from piece to piece, your voice low but certain. Not a script, just fluid context. Enough to make him look twice at something he thought he understood.

“This one,” you said, pausing at a large mixed-media piece hung on raw linen, “was done by Hyun Seo Kim. She uses burned textiles, thread, and ash in her work. Her whole process is destructive, controlled chaos. But then she stitches it back together. The idea is that memory can’t be preserved, only reconstructed.”

Namjoon stepped closer. “I’ve never seen ash look… gentle.”

“That’s because she bleaches it after. She doesn’t want the trauma to be obvious. Just present.”

He studied it in silence. “That feels honest.”

You turned to him. “Most honest things do.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Just nodded, like he was storing it for later.

You two moved through the space in slow, deliberate loops, glass in one hand, silence in the other. You weren’t trying to impress him. You didn’t perform your intelligence. You just let it unfold, like a door left half-open for him to walk through if he wanted. And he did. When you both reached the back alcove, you stopped in front of one of your favorite works. A minimalist installation of hanging wires and glass, perfectly balanced so that even the weight of breath shifted the alignment.

“It reacts to people,” you said. “Subtly. Like the way someone’s mood changes the feel of a room.”

He leaned in, careful not to disturb the piece. “So it’s never still.”

“Exactly. But the movement’s so small, most people miss it.”

He looked at you. “You don’t.”

You shrugged. “I spend a lot of time with things that don’t speak.”

He took a sip of wine, but his gaze didn’t leave yours. “That’s funny. I make a living off speaking and I still can’t say half the things I mean.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your fingers traced the edge of your glass. “What is it you want to say right now?”

The question hung between you two like one of the wires, weightless, waiting.

Namjoon’s brow furrowed slightly. Not defensive. Just… unpracticed. Like no one asked him questions he didn’t already have answers to. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But I haven’t thought about music once since I got here. That feels… rare.”

You tilted your head, curious. “That’s a compliment or a warning?”

He smiled. “Both.”

You two stood there in the hush, just watching each other for a few long seconds. Then you turned, setting your glass down on the narrow bench against the wall.

“Well, since you didn’t book an official tour, this is where the curated experience ends.”

“No encore?” he teased.

You walked back toward the front desk, your voice thrown over your shoulder. “You’ll have to come back and pretend to like conceptual video art like the rest of our donors.”

“I might do it.” He followed you slowly, letting his fingers brush the edge of a sculpture as he passed.

When you reached the desk, you glanced at him sideways. “So?”

“So…?”

“Was it worth it?”

He didn’t smile this time. He just said, “Yes.”

You exhaled, a laugh almost escaping. “Good. I was worried I’d have to break into the champagne fridge to rescue the night.”

He stepped closer, not touching, just close enough that you could smell the trace of whatever cologne he wore, something cedar-based and quiet.

“You still might have to,” he murmured.

Your pulse kicked just slightly. “Maybe next time,” you said, steady. “We close in five minutes.”

“I thought we were already closed.”

“I’m very professional,” you said. “Even during off-hours.”

He looked at you for a moment. Then pulled his phone from his coat pocket and opened a new contact.

“Remind me to thank Lee Ufan,” he said. “Without him, I’d still be pretending to care about Rothko in Chelsea.” You took his phone, typed your personal phone number and name before handed it back. And just before he left— hand brushing the door handle, head half-turned— he said: “Y/n?”

“Hmm?”

“I haven’t wanted to stay somewhere in a long time. But this was… good.”

You watched him go. You said nothing… But as the lock clicked into place behind him and you turned off the lights, you realized you were smiling. And you hadn’t done that in days.

< Four years ago. Seoul, Korea. >

It started with tea.

Neither of you two had wanted more wine. It was already past one, the air inside heavy and comfortable, and you had stood, stretched, and mumbled something about chamomile. Namjoon had followed you into the kitchen, because he couldn’t not. Now, two mugs sat cooling on the coffee table, untouched. You were curled at one end of the couch, socked feet tucked under you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. Namjoon lay on his side across the other end, head propped on a throw pillow.

He didn’t want to go home. Not yet.

“I still think you’re lying about never writing a book,” you said, pointing a finger at him like it was a scandal.

“I told you,” he said, grinning, “I tried one time and I got so stressed for it to be perfect I had to throw it out. I almost had to take pills for anxiety.”

You snorted. “You probably are better just writing music and poems.”

“You’re cruel.”

“I’m honest.”

He looked at you then, a little too long. Your hair tied back in a loose knot, a small smudge of eyeliner still clinging to the corner of your eye. To him you always looked like you were halfway between leaving and staying forever.

“Your turn,” he said, lazily. “Ask something.”

You pressed your lips, thinking. Then: “What do you miss most about before things got big?”

Namjoon blinked. “That’s a surprisingly good question.”

“I’m full of them.”

“I miss…” He paused. “Having time to be bored. Back then, I used to wander for hours. Not even writing. Just… looking. People, cracks in the sidewalk, signs on buses. Now everything’s either scheduled or monetized. Or both.”

You watched him. “You sound older when you say that.”

“I feel older when I say it.”

“Do you regret it?”

“The music?”

“No. The scale of it. The attention.”

He thought about it. Then shook his head. “No. But sometimes I wish I could mute it. Like— have it without the echo.” You nodded slowly, as if you understood without needing him to explain more. “Okay,” he said, recovering his grin. “Now you, what’s something no one knows about you?”

“I once wanted to be a florist.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“For about four days when I was twelve. I used to rearrange bouquets from the grocery store and get upset when they were ‘imbalanced.’ I told my mom I was going to run a flower shop where people could come in and say how they were feeling and I’d match them to a bouquet.”

Namjoon’s mouth twitched. “That’s actually adorable.”

“And extremely impractical.”

“You’d make a very judgmental florist.”

“I’d be selective,” you corrected. “No carnations. No baby’s breath. And absolutely no Valentine’s Day roses.”

He laughed, soft and full.

There was a moment of quiet again. Not awkward, just long enough for the air to shift. Then he asked, “Do you believe in soulmates?”

You looked at him for a moment, eyes unreadable.

“I think some people fit. In a way that doesn’t have to be explained.”

“Not fate?”

“No,” you shook your head. “More like… they recognize something in each other. Something old. Something familiar.”

Namjoon watched you for a long second. “You sound like someone who’s already met theirs.”

You smiled, but didn’t answer. Instead, you asked, “What’s your worst habit?”

He grinned. “Interrupting people when I’m excited.”

“Accurate.”

“Also… leaving too soon. From everything.”

You raised a brow. “Even from people?”

“Especially from people,” he said, then added, more quietly, “Until now.”

You looked down at your hands, picking at the hem of your hoodie. He could tell you were deciding whether or not to believe him. Eventually, you said, “You haven’t left yet.”

He nodded, and said, “Ask me something else.”

You smirked. “What’s my middle name?”

Namjoon grimaced. “…Do I get a hint?”

“No.”

“Is it tragic?”

“That depends on your taste in poetry.”

“Oh god.”

You leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Guess.”

“Something with vowels. It feels like vowels.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Something French?” You shook your head. He sighed dramatically. “Is it… Eleanor?” You blinked. “Is it Eleanor?!”

You smiled, then mouthed, “maybe.”

Namjoon threw his head back. “I am a genius!”

“It’s not Eleanor.”

“Yah!” he frowned. “I got excited.”

“I just wanted to break your hopes of being a genius.”

He smiled, like you just told him the biggest compliment. “You’re in love with me.”

“I am not.”

He smirked. “You’re very close.”

And you said nothing, but didn’t look away.

Outside, a car passed. The candle flickered. The playlist looped again. And somewhere between the questions and the not-quite confessions, you both realized: whatever was growing wasn’t temporary.

—————

You were lost.

Not metaphorically. Actually lost.

A wrong turn, a closed road, and a stubborn GPS had led you two somewhere outside of Busan city, into a mess of winding hills and stone walls and olive trees that all looked like something from a postcard Namjoon had definitely lied about sending once… It was your first road trip/travel with him. Now that you were dating you were spending more and more time together so a little travel while you two had time off was great. Specially since it was only the two of you. But this, this was a mess. And it had been funny for the first twenty minutes…

Now you had your feet on the dash, sunglasses slipping down your nose, and Namjoon was squinting at his phone like it had personally betrayed him.

“Why don’t you just ask someone?” you offered, trying not to roll your eyes.

“Because I’m a man and I’m supposed to figure it out through trial, error, and unnecessary detours.”

“That’s not charming. That’s a cliché.”

“Exactly. And clichés are comforting.”

You finally did roll your eyes and leaned over to look at his phone. “We’re fifteen minutes from the villa. You just missed a left after the sheep farm.”

“That could describe this entire region.”

You smirked. “So dramatic.”

He pulled the car to the side of the dirt road, sighed, and finally looked at you. “Okay,” he said. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Whatever sarcastic thing you’ve been holding in for the last twenty minutes. I deserve it.”

You tilted your head. “I was going to say this might be the most relaxed I’ve ever seen you.”

Namjoon blinked.

“That… wasn’t sarcastic.”

“I know.”

He looked at you. Really looked. The sunlight was pooling in your lap, catching the hem of your linen shorts, the small scar on your knee, the lazy twist of your smile. Your hand was curled around a bottle of water, your nails chipped, your phone face-down on your thigh. You were quiet. Present. Not curating anything.

He hadn’t written a song in two weeks and hadn’t even cared. And maybe that should have terrified him. But instead, what slipped out of his mouth, simple and sudden, was:

“I love you.”

You stilled.

He felt it immediately. The way the air changed. Not colder. Not distant. Just heavier, like the room had shrunk and the road had stopped moving and time was now very, very slow.

You looked at him, your eyes unreadable behind the glasses.

“You said that like you didn’t mean to.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

He swallowed. “Because it’s true.”

A beat.

Then another.

You reached up, slid your sunglasses into your hair, and studied him. Not like a critic. Not like a curator. Just a girl who’d been kissed in the middle of a detour and hadn’t expected it to feel like a beginning.

“I don’t think I can say it yet,” you said softly.

“I know.”

“But I’m not getting out of the car.”

He smiled, something small, barely there, but real.

“Good.”

You reached over, laced your fingers through his, and said, “Now turn the car around before I start doubting your sense of direction and your emotional timing.”

He laughed. It shook out of him without resistance.

And when he drove back toward the sheep farm, your hand stayed in his the whole way.

—————

It was late.

Not late like the night you’d always stayed up talking till sunrise. This was the quiet late. The end of a long day, the kind that left your bones a little heavier, your thoughts a little slower.

You had come back from a full weekend at the gallery. An opening, a surprise artist visit, two canceled deliveries, and a handful of clients who talked too much and bought too little. Namjoon had waited up for you. Not because you asked him to. He just always did. He liked to be in your apartment, waiting for you when he was available. Seeing you, being with you anytime he could. He liked being available for you, even in your worst moods.

You came in, dropped your bag, kicked off your shoes with one hand still holding your phone, hair messily pinned, and your lipstick worn off in the center. He didn’t say anything at first, just handed you the takeout he’d ordered and a glass of water. And you two sat on the couch like you’ve been doing the last couple of months when you gave him the key to your apartment, when you came home like this: your legs over his lap, your head leaned back on the armrest, one of his hands tracing slow, lazy lines down your tights.

“You smell like oil paint,” he said quietly.

You didn’t open your eyes. “Someone spilled gesso all over the hallway. I slipped in it. My knees are a war crime.”

He laughed under his breath. “You’re very sexy when you’re bruised and tired.”

“I’m always tired.”

“You’re always sexy.”

“Your standards are deeply flawed.”

He smiled. “They’re deeply yours.”

And then there was quiet for a while.

You were finishing your noodles slowly. His fingers hadn’t stopped tracing your skin. The TV was on but muted, some cooking show with too much steam and too many close-ups of butter. It wasn’t a romantic night. There were no candles. No dramatic pauses. Which is why it felt exactly right when you suddenly said it.

“I love you.”

Namjoon blinked, mid-chew. He swallowed too quickly and coughed once. You didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. You just looked at him with this almost-shy, almost-tired certainty, like the words had been sitting under your tongue for weeks and simply slipped free before you could second-guess them.

He opened his mouth, but you spoke again, softer this time. “I didn’t say it before because I didn’t want it to sound like… thanks. Or obligation. Or like I was catching up.” He nodded slowly, still not trusting himself to speak. “But I do,” you added. “I love you. I know it. And it’s quiet, but it’s… constant. Like breathing. I don’t have to check if it’s there anymore.”

Namjoon didn’t say anything right away. He just reached for your hand, lifted it gently, and kissed the inside of your wrist, the same spot he’d brushed his thumb across that first night on the floor you two spent together. And then, without needing to say it again, he smiled that slow, stunned smile people only make when they hear what they didn’t know they’d been waiting for.

“About damn time,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, but let him pull you close.

And in the quiet, with nothing grand or profound around you both, you thought: this is great. This is perfect.

< Three years ago. Seoul, Korea >

You two were cooking.

Or trying to. The kitchen was a mess. Half-sliced vegetables, three open spice jars, a pan smoking slightly on the stove. You had flour on your cheek, and Namjoon was holding a wooden spoon like he was conducting an orchestra.

“Okay,” he said, voice stern. “I don’t want to alarm you, but we may have invented a new form of food poisoning.”

You glanced at the pan, then at him. “That’s just… slightly over-caramelized garlic.”

“It looks like regret.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m a realist. A realist with a fire extinguisher under the sink.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned over to nudge him out of the way with your hip. “Move. I’m saving this.”

“You’re gonna dump it.”

“I’m going to elevate it.”

“Oh, now it’s Chopped?”

You gave him a look. “You’re lucky I love you.”

He paused. Still every time you said it. Like it rearranged something in him.

“You’re even luckier,” he said, quieter. “Because I would eat your elevated garlic poison a thousand times.”

You two grinned at each other for a moment. Then you turned back to the pan. He didn’t move. Just watched you. Then, softly: “Do you think about where this is going?”

You didn’t turn around, but he saw the way your shoulders shifted.

“Sometimes,” you said, casual but not distant. “Do you?”

“All the time.”

He stepped closer. Rested a hand on the counter beside your hip.

“I think about what it would be like to wake up next to you somewhere quieter. Somewhere with windows that face east and a real coffee machine.”

Your voice was light. “You hate waking up early.”

“For you, I’d tolerate sunrises.” You smiled at the pan. Stirred once. He went on. “I think about your bookshelves of art history in my space. My guitar in your hallway. Arguing over what color to paint the bedroom.”

“We’d never agree.”

“Exactly. That’s how I know it would work.”

You turned then, leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, wooden spoon still in hand. “You’re making this sound a little like a proposal.”

Namjoon stepped closer, but didn’t touch you. “I’m making it sound like a possibility.”

You studied him, eyes sharp, searching, soft.

“And you’re not scared?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Terrified.”

“But?”

“But I love you more than I fear the part where it could all fall apart.”

A silence passed, then you said, “I think I’d want a balcony. Wherever we are.”

Namjoon grinned. “See? That’s already a ‘we.’”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t deny it. And then you reached out, quietly, fingers brushing his.

“We could take it slow.”

Namjoon nodded. “We could take it together.”

The garlic burned. The pan hissed. Neither of you moved. Because in that moment, over smoke and risk and flour on your cheek, the future stopped feeling theoretical. It started to feel like something you could build.

Not in one night. But maybe, If you two kept choosing it… Every night after.

—————

The gallery was already humming.

Rows of suited collectors, critics, young interns holding wine glasses too tightly. Warm lighting made everything glow just a little too perfectly. You stood near the entrance to the main room, your talk scheduled in less than twenty minutes. You weren’t nervous. Not about the speaking. You’d done this before. Art history, curation, your specialty in contemporary Korean painters, this was your terrain. What was sitting heavy in your stomach was the ghost of Namjoon’s absence.

You hadn’t expected him to come. Really. He was across the country, prepping for an upcoming televised performance that morning, stuck in rehearsals and press for the next week too. He’d sent a voice note that morning. Tired but warm. “You’ll be brilliant, and I’m not only saying it because I love you but because I know you. You don’t need me there to see it. I’m proud of you, baby.”

And you understood. You always understood. Still. You kept catching yourself glancing at the door.

“Y/n,” someone said. Sophie, your co-curator, adjusting her headset. “They’re ready for you in five.”

You nodded, adjusted your blazer, smoothed your palm against the small stack of notes you wouldn’t end up using. You moved toward the front of the space, where the podium stood framed by two large pieces from the exhibit. Bold, saturated strokes and raw canvas textures behind you. It was a big night. You were hoping to expand your contacts, specially after your conference. The microphone gave a small feedback pop as you stepped forward.

You were two lines into your opening when it happened.

A flicker of movement near the back of the room. Someone slipping in quietly. You didn’t pause. Not really. Just a half-breath longer between phrases. But your eyes caught him— Namjoon. Hair a little messy, jacket half-buttoned, eyes red-rimmed from a redeye flight. His body carried the energy of someone held together by caffeine and adrenaline and the sheer force of trying.

He was here. He shouldn’t have been.

But he was.

You kept going, finished your opening, sliding into your thoughts on spatial symbolism and absence in modern Korean brushwork, but your heart was no longer still. It beat like it knew him again. Like it was grateful. When the talk ended, the applauses were polite, enthusiastic, a few flashes from someone with a press badge. But you stepped down and walked past all of it, past compliments and handshakes and gallery assistants offering you wine, and headed straight toward him.

Namjoon stood near the wall, half out of the spotlight, holding a paper cup of truly terrible gallery coffee.

“You’re not real,” you said, quietly, breathless.

“I’m very poorly rested, but real,” he answered.

“You said you—”

“I changed my mind at 1 a.m. Took the first flight out. Rehearsals be damned.”

You stared at him. “Did you just show up?” you asked, voice smaller now.

“No,” he said. “I came through. There’s a difference.”Your throat tightened. “You were amazing,” he said. “I mean, I only caught the last twenty minutes, but I wanted to stand up and yell like a lunatic.”

You exhaled a shaky laugh. “I didn’t ask you to come.”

“I know.”

“And I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t.”

“I know that too.” He looked at you gently. “That’s why I had to.”

You stepped forward then, and for a moment you didn’t hug him, didn’t kiss him. Just stood in front of him, looking.

“Are you flying back tonight?” you whispered.

“No. We’re going back to the apartment. I plan to sleep for eighteen hours and then take you to that place you love. The one with the ugly chairs and perfect tiramisu.”

You smiled. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything,” Namjoon said.

“I love you so much.” You leaned into him. Tired. Grateful. A little stunned.

And he kissed you hair, right there between gallery walls and strangers, and whispered, “I love you.”

—————

You knew how Namjoon’s world worked… barely. He knew yours pretty well since every time he had an open space he tried to spent it with you at work or home. It was really rare for you to tag alone with his since it was mostly out of country or when you were working. The most you had been with him at work was at concerts, small shows or when he was working in music in his studio at the company.

So when you were on vacation for two weeks, you decided to tagged along to one of his normal days.

“It’ll be boring,” he warned. “Just me in a chair and people talking too fast.”

But you’d smiled, kissed his shoulder, and said, “I like chairs.”

So you went. And it wasn’t boring. It was… relentless.

From the moment you two arrived at the studio, people swirled around Namjoon like a weather system. Stylists, managers, PR handlers, producers. His name was said in every sentence, but never to him. He was always in motion: adjusting in front of a camera, changing his shirt, signing something, nodding through directions, practicing lines.

You sat on a folding chair in the corner of the dressing room, half-listening to the buzz. You pulled out your laptop to answer emails, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. And at one point, he caught you watching. He mouthed, Rescue me. You smiled.

Later, when there was a brief break, he slumped beside you, stealing your water bottle.

“How do you do this every day?” you asked.

“I don’t,” he said. “Some days I hide in closets.”

“Respect.”

He leaned against you lightly. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Just absorbing it all.”

“It’s not always like this,” he added quickly. “This week is… extra.”

You didn’t challenge him. But you also didn’t say, It seems like it’s always ‘extra.’ Instead, you said, “Do you have an actual lunch break?”

He made a face. “Technically, yes. Practically, no.”

You pulled something from your bag. A sandwich you’d picked up that morning, wrapped in wax paper and still a little warm. Namjoon stared at it like you had pulled gold from a shoe.

“I forgot what love tasted like,” he said dramatically, taking it.

You nudged his foot with yours. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I haven’t eaten since… yesterday, I think?”

“You’re the reason I carry snacks.”

He grinned around a bite. “Marry me.”

“I’ve seen how you cook. Absolutely not.”

He laughed, mouth full.

You two sat like that. Your laptop balancing on your knees, him chewing too quickly, his head resting briefly on your shoulder. Just a moment, in the eye of the storm. And still… you felt the distance. Not between you two exactly, but between his life and yours. Between the slow, curated hush of gallery walls and the frantic, blinking pulse of his world.

You didn’t resent it. But it felt… heavy.

When he got pulled into his next segment, you stayed behind. Alone again in the dressing room. You looked at the schedule taped to the wall. Seven more things to go. A different building after this one. No end in sight. You opened your phone and scrolled through your messages with him. A few voice notes. A photo he’d sent last week of you eating breakfast half-asleep, captioned “Exhibit A: cutest person alive.”

You smiled. But something inside you tugged. You started typing: “Can we maybe block a day off next week? Just us? Nothing huge. Just… be still?”

Then you stared at it. Deleted it. Instead, you sent:

You: You’re killing it today, proud of u

He replied seconds later.

Namjoon: Only cause ure here

You locked your phone. Stared at your reflection in the makeup mirror. Still smiling. Still here. Still wondering how long you could keep up with the pace of a life that never paused. But you were sure you could as long as you want it, because you love him. And if he was always trying for you. You could try for him too.

—————

Rain tapped lightly against the kitchen windows, the kind of soft, even rain that didn’t interrupt plans so much as cancel them without asking. You had moved in only three months ago, bare walls, bare windows, the kind of clean that felt temporary. But tonight, it was warm.

You stood barefoot in front of the stove in an oversized sweatshirt that definitely used to belong to Namjoon. Your hair was twisted into a low bun, lazy and lopsided, and you were humming, off-key and quietly, to a song playing through the tiny Bluetooth speaker on the counter. Something old. Sam Cooke, maybe. Or Ella. You liked to listen to music that made you feel like you were in a slower decade. And your boyfriend always had great recommendations.

Namjoon leaned in the doorway, holding a peeled orange in one hand, watching you stir something in a small pot.

“You’re doing it again,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“That thing where you pretend you’re not a domestic goddess, but you are. Like— look at you! Apron, slippers, vintage jazz, homemade jam?”

“This is store-bought jam,” you said.

“Doesn’t matter. The energy is jam you made at midnight while processing intergenerational grief.”

You turned slightly to glare at him. “Why do you talk like that?”

“Because I’m in love with a woman who makes toast look romantic,” he said, stepping closer and placing the orange in you mouth before you could protest.

You laughed, cheeks puffed, chewing exaggeratedly. “You’re ridiculous.”

He gave you a peck. “You like it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You adore it.”

“You’re pushing your luck.”

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as you stirred. You leaned into him, sighing softly.

The world felt quiet here. Warm, not in the literal sense—though the stove certainly helped—but in the way your back pressed into his chest, in the rhythm of the rain, in the simple reality of two people with nowhere else to be.

“What are we making again?” he asked.

“Chai.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s enough.”

He smiled into your hair. “You’re enough.”

You didn’t answer immediately. Just reached for the mugs and poured, carefully, like it was a spell. He watched your hands, how precise they were, how steady, and thought about all the things you touched that weren’t meant to last but somehow lasted anyway. You two sat at the little table by the window, legs tangled under the chairs, sipping the tea in silence for a while.

Then Namjoon said, “When we’re eighty, can we still do this?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think you’ll still like me when I’m eighty?”

“No,” he said dramatically. “I think I’ll worship you. I’ll be the weird old man in the building who writes poems about his wife and forgets to wear matching socks.”

“Joke’s on you,” you said. “I’m going to make you wear orthopedic shoes.”

“I’ll write a song about that too.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re smiling,” he said, nudging your foot under the table.

You were .

And in that tiny kitchen, with your knees touching and the storm rolling gently outside, you thought: If it always feels like this, I’ll never want more.

< Two years ago. Seoul, Korea >

It was late afternoon when he showed up.

You weren’t expecting him to be back yet. He’d been in back-to-back rehearsals for days, barely texting, let alone appearing in person. Specially since he was supposed to be in another country soon. But there he was. Sweaty, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy under a cap. The kind of entrance that always made you pause halfway through whatever you were doing.

“I had a twenty-minute window,” Namjoon said, breathless, stepping inside. “Thought I’d spend it doing something irresponsible.”

You raised a brow, arms crossed. “Oh? And what exactly is your idea of irresponsibility?”

He grinned. Walked toward you like he already had the answer.

“Kissing you until I forget how time works.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Bold plan. Does it come with snacks?”

Namjoon leaned in, hands settling lightly on your waist. “Just me. Very limited edition.”

You didn’t move away. Not when he bent closer. Not when his mouth brushed yours, slow and soft like a question he already knew the answer to. The kiss deepened easily, like you’d missed it. Like you two had both been holding tension in your shoulders, your spines, your jaws. He kissed you like he was catching up, and you responded like you’d been waiting. His hands slipped beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers brushing warm against your skin. You gasped slightly, which only made him smile against your mouth.

“I forgot how good you smell,” he murmured. “Like coffee and painting and whatever it is you put on your neck that drives me insane.”

“I can’t believe that works on someone famous.”

“I’m extremely weak for you,” he whispered, kissing the edge of your jaw. “Pathetically so.”

You laughed, pulling him down onto the couch with you, your legs sliding around his. His body pressed into your, heavy and warm, and for a second, it felt like everything outside that room had stopped. No shows. No flights. No noise. Just him. Just you.

Your hands were in his hair. His fingers curled under your thigh. Both of your breathing picked up, uneven, mouths parting between kisses like you were saying each other’s names without sound. And then—

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

His phone, on the floor. Lighting up like it knew exactly what it was doing.

Namjoon groaned into your shoulder. “No.”

You didn’t move. “Ignore it.”

“I want to.”

“Then do it.”

But he was already reaching for the phone. Still half on top of you, reading the message with a growing frown.

“Shit.”

You sighed. “You have to go.”

“I do,” he said, not moving. Still hovering above you. Still touching you like he didn’t want to stop.

You stared at the ceiling. “You always have to go.”

Namjoon looked at you then. Really looked. “I don’t want to leave.”

“But you will.”

“I’ll come back.”

“And I’ll wait.”

A beat.

Then he kissed you again. Slow. Like a promise. Or maybe an apology.

When he stood, he adjusted his hoodie, cheeks flushed, lips still red. “I’ll text when I land.”

Yoy nodded, quiet. And when the door closed behind him, the room stayed warm. But only with the ghost of him.

You curled into the couch, your body still tingling with all the things you two didn’t have time to finish. And outside, the sun dipped behind the buildings. An unhealthy understanding was growing.

—————

The golden hour fell across the apartment like spilled honey.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, a glass of wine balanced on the edge of a book you weren’t really reading. Namjoon was curled up sideways on the rug beside you, head resting in your lap, hair still damp from a shower, one sock missing. His eyes were half-closed. Music played low from the speakers, something string-heavy and slow, the kind of instrumental that made the windows feel like museum glass.

You two hadn’t had a day like this in months. No flight, no soundchecks, no exhibitions, no rehearsals. Just that. Sunlight and soft clothes, the smell of jasmine from the candle you always forgot to blow out, the quiet hum of domestic peace. You had called in sick to have a moment for you two, you had missed it.

You trailed your fingers through his hair. “You’re shedding.”

“I’m molting,” Namjoon murmured. “It’s part of my rebranding.”

“To what? A golden retriever?”

“No. A misunderstood sculptor. Quiet, mysterious, tragic.”

You snorted. “You’re none of those things.”

“I’m trapped in rap persona, Y/n. Don’t mock my inner artist.”

“Your inner artist drinks chocolate milk and watches anime at 3 a.m.”

He grinned, eyes still closed. “Exactly.”

You two sat like that for a while, just breathing. Just being. Then Namjoon said, “You know that piece we saw in Berlin? The one with the floating glass?”

“The installation with the suspended shards?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.”

“Why?”

“It looked fragile,” he said slowly, “but it was all anchored by invisible tension wires. If you didn’t know the structure, you’d think it was about to fall apart.” You nodded, thoughtful. “And it made me think,” he continued, voice softer, “that love is kind of like that.”

“Like invisible tension wires?”

“Yeah. It looks like it’s floating, like it could fall any second— but there’s stuff holding it together that you don’t always see.”

You looked down at him, touched. “That’s very you,” you said.

“What? Romantic?”

“No. Structural.”

He laughed. “I’m trying to be profound, woman. Don’t ruin it.”

You smiled, leaned down, and kissed his forehead. “I love your brain.”

“I love that you’re the only person who never makes me feel like I have to perform smart.”

“You are smart.”

“You’re smarter.”

“True.”

You two grinned at each other. His hand found yours, fingers tangling like habit.

The apartment smelled like soy candles and laundry. The light was amber and fading. The dishes from the late lunch were still in the sink. Your blouse was hanging from a chair, his hoodie on the floor. Everything was a little bit messy, a little bit imperfect.

But he was there. And you were there. And time, for once, wasn’t the enemy.

So you took everything to make that day even better. Deciding in the night to have a cozy dinner to chat and just be homebodies, at least for a day.

At night the apartment smelled like garlic, olive oil, and ambition. You stood barefoot at the stove, chopping cherry tomatoes with practiced ease. Your hair was half up, your sleeves rolled, and you moved like someone who actually knew how to cook without setting off the smoke alarm. Namjoon, meanwhile, stood to your left, holding a bell pepper like it was a small animal he wasn’t sure how to approach.

“You’re watching it like it’s going to blink,” you said, not looking up.

“I’m observing it,” he said defensively. “I believe in understanding your enemy.”

“It’s not an enemy. It’s a pepper.”

“It’s raw. Which I believe is an important stage in its villain origin story.”

You rolled your eyes. “Cut it into strips. Not chunks. Not chaos. Strips.”

He squinted. “Define ‘strip.’”

You turned, raised an eyebrow, and took the knife from him. In one fluid motion, you sliced a piece and handed it to him. “This. This is a strip.”

Namjoon took it. Bit into it dramatically. “Incredible. Revolutionary. Culinary genius.”

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” you said, taking the knife back.

He grinned, stepping closer behind you, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. “And smart,” he murmured.

“Depending on the topic.”

“Rude.”

“Or honest?.”

You nudged him away with your hip, still focused on the sauce pan.

“Okay,” he said, hands in his hoodie pocket, “book question.”

“Hit me.”

“Would you rather live inside a Haruki Murakami novel or a Donna Tartt novel?”

You paused, considering. “So, either surreal existentialism with a chance of magical cats and jazz… or beautiful ruin, Greek references, and murder?”

Namjoon nodded solemnly. “Exactly.”

“I’d die in a Tartt novel.”

“You’d thrive in a Tartt novel,” he corrected. “You’d be the one saying devastating things about beauty over a glass of wine right before the plot collapses.”

“And you?”

“Murakami,” he said. “I already feel like a guy wandering through metaphors, missing the point, haunted by dreams.”

You smiled at that. “You just want to talk to a ghost as well.”

“Maybe.”

You stirred the sauce. “Do you ever miss reading just for pleasure?”

“Always,” he said. “Sometimes I get two chapters in and then I get a call or an edit note and it’s over. Makes me feel like my brain is made of bubble wrap.”

“I know the feeling,” you said. “I miss reading slowly. Like… the kind of slow where you reread a sentence five times because it sounds good in your mouth.”

Namjoon walked over to the counter and perched on it, stealing a cherry tomato from the bowl. “What’s the last sentence you did that with?”

You looked over your shoulder at him, smiling softly. “Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”

Namjoon blinked. “Tartt?” You nodded. He whistled low. “Yeah, okay. I’d die in her world too.”

“Probably in a linen shirt. Tragic and elegant.”

“Promise me if I get murdered by aesthetics, you’ll make it sound romantic in the eulogy.”

You smirked. “I’ll say you died holding a first edition and looking mysterious.”

“Perfect.”

He slid off the counter and came to stand beside you again, watching you stir the bubbling sauce. “You’re really good at this,” he said softly.

“At what?”

“This,” he said, gesturing around. “Making things feel warm. Real. Like we’re just… people.”

You looked over at him, eyes soft. “We are just people, Namjoon.”

“Sometimes I forget.”

“Then remember.”

And you leaned over and kissed him, fingers brushing his jaw lightly.

Outside, the city glowed through the windows. Inside, the pasta boiled over, and neither of you two moved to stop it right away. Because sometimes, you let the water spill, when the conversation is that good. When the love feels that close. When time, for once, is yours.

—————

You were late to your own morning.

You’d woken up disoriented, your phone lighting up with a 9:17 a.m. alert and three missed calls from Sophie. You hadn’t meant to sleep in. But Namjoon hadn’t come in until 3 a.m., and when he did, you’d stayed half-awake for an hour listening to him wind down in pieces, shower running, suitcase unzipping, soft cursing as he looked for a charger. He’d crawled into bed around four, smelling like cold air and exhaustion. And even then, he reached for you.

So you stayed awake a little longer. Just so he wouldn’t feel alone.

Now, your hair was still damp from the fastest shower in recorded history, and you were pulling on a wrinkled blazer with one hand while tying your boots with the other. You texted Sophie. “On my way, sorry, cabbing now.”

Your calendar pinged. You’d missed your standing espresso run with Mina, the new artist you had brought in to curate a modernist reinterpretation series. A small thing. Just coffee. But it was already the third time this month.

In the hallway mirror, you caught herself. Tired eyes. Lipstick half-finished. You used to be early to everything. Precise. Present. Punctual. Now?. You’d started sleeping in his rhythm. Eating in his rhythm. Turning down dinners with friends because he might be back in town that night. You’d canceled a trip to Berlin because his rehearsals shifted and he “might have a free weekend.” He didn’t, in the end. You never rebooked.

You smoothed your collar. Stared at your reflection. Said out loud, “You’re still you.”

And for a second, you weren’t sure if you believed it. Because that night, you got home after 8. Namjoon was already there, sprawled on the couch in sweatpants, hair damp from a shower. There was takeout on the table, he’d actually ordered this time, and a bottle of wine he must’ve picked up on the way back.

“You look like capitalism chewed you up,” he said, grinning.

You dropped your keys. “I feel like it.”

He opened his arms. “Come here.”

You did. You sat beside him, tucked yourself into his chest. Let yourself sink. You loved him so much. You were exhausted and tired, but there, with him now, it felt good. You were risking so much, your job, your money, your time. But everything disappeared in a moment like this, when you were tangled in his arms and he was whispering sweet things in your ear…

So you had something to eat. You two watched something neither of you really paid attention to. He kissed your temple and made you laugh. Everything felt okay.

But later, when he dozed off, arm still draped across your waist, you looked over at your laptop. Unanswered messages. Missed calls. That gallery invite you meant to RSVP to. A workshop you forgot to confirm. Your life was shrinking. Not disappearing. Just… folding around his.

And you weren’t sure he’d noticed.

< A year ago. Seoul, Korea. >

You had never been one for anniversaries.

Not the showy kind, at least. No big speeches, no couple selfies with champagne flutes. But you did believe in marking things. Quietly, intentionally. A special dinner. A handwritten card. A night with no interruptions. A day that reminded you why you’d stayed. Namjoon was good in that too. At least for the first one, he had flew you to Paris and took you to an art museum you were dying to go. The second one he was in a tour but bought you a ticket to Barcelona where you two had dinner and he introduce you to a painter you loved. Everything was magical with him.

This year, the anniversary fell on a Tuesday.

You had work all day—client meetings, artist calls, a minor crisis about a mislabeled shipment. You were exhausted by the time you got home, but you still lit the candles in the kitchen. Still set the table for two for later to drink some wine. Still wore the green dress Namjoon once said made you look like you were about to ruin someone’s life in a French film. And he loved it. Namjoon wasn’t in the country. He and the group had a show overseas, a major one.

You hadn’t expected him to cancel it. But the show had wrapped the night before. You’d watched it from your laptop in bed, wine in hand, wrapped in his old sweatshirt. He’d looked beautiful under the stage lights. Exhausted, yes, but alive.

He hadn’t said he was flying back. But he hadn’t said he wasn’t, either.

And Namjoon was always good at the last-minute surprise. The unannounced flight. The knock on the door just when you’d given up. He had that kind of magic, the kind that made you believe in things even when you knew better. So in a special night like that day, when you knew he was only eight hours and could make it in time, you decided to go on with the schedule.

You went to your share favorite restaurant, the one with the rooftop and the quiet view of the city lights. You already had a reservation, Namjoon had made it weeks ago thinking it would be a great place— before the show was confirmed. However, he didn’t cancel it, nor he say he wasn’t going. He did tell you he might not make it and it was very obvious it would be a surprise if he actually did but he always did that. Specially since he didn’t text you all day. So, you decided to wait for him, like always.

At 8:00 p.m., you ordered a glass of red.

At 8:15, you declined the menu, just in case.

At 8:40, you checked your phone.

At 9:00, the waiter asked gently if you’d like to order. You shook your head, throat tight.

The food smelled amazing. The candle flickered between empty seats. Your phone buzzed at 9:12.

Namjoon: Happy anniversary. I love you.

That was all it said.

You stared at the message for a full minute before locking the screen.

The waiter came back. “Still waiting?”

You smiled, small and practiced. “No. I think I’ll take the check.”

You walked home slowly, heels in your hand by the end of the block, the city alive around you in a way you weren’t. You didn’t cry. You didn’t text him back. You didn’t even take off the dress when you got home, just sat on the edge of the bed, lights off, wondering when it had started to feel like this. Like something one-sided. Like hope was an embarrassing thing to hold onto.

It was embarrassing now waiting for him. Did it make you a bad person?. After everything he did for you, was this something to punish him for?. But he had made you have big standards about him, about how he could do anything to see you. But why now it felt like you shouldn’t be hurt?. Was it wrong to hold him to the standards he had made you put him on?. A little mistake, a little thing under the bridge. Was it something to worry? or was it just something you were making a big deal?.

Was waiting for someone to show up too much now?.

The light was soft and grey when you woke. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep on top of the covers, still in the green dress from the night before, makeup smudged beneath your eyes like a fading memory. You sat up slowly, your body stiff, your mouth dry, your phone still beside you on the bed, screen black. You didn’t reach for it right away. The apartment was quiet—almost aggressively so. The kind of silence that hums in your ears, that dares you to fill it. You made coffee without thinking, poured it into the chipped blue mug he always used when he was home. Then, almost accidentally, you poured yourself a second cup.

You stared at them both for a while.

The phone buzzed around 8:45 a.m. Namjoon

Incoming call

You hesitated only a second before picking up.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was rough with sleep, but too alert. The kind of voice that knew it was calling a fire it couldn’t put out.

“Hi,” you answered. Calm. Soft. Nothing in your tone gave you away.

“I wanted to call last night, but everything was chaos. Press, crew dinner. I tried to find a flight, but there was nothing that would get me to you in time.”

“I figured,” you said.

“I thought about video calling, but I didn’t want to…” He trailed off.

“Don’t worry.”

A pause. “How was dinner?”

“I didn’t stay long.”

Another pause.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it. “I should’ve done more.”

You sipped your coffee. It was still too hot, but you didn’t flinch. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“No,” you agreed quietly. “It’s not.”

He was silent on the other end. You imagined him sitting in some hotel bed, probably still in stage makeup, phone pressed to his cheek, trying to read you through the static.

“You’re mad,” he said.

“No,” you said again, and this time it wasn’t soft—it was far. “I’m just tired.”

“Of me?”

“Of hoping for things you used to do without thinking.”

He exhaled hard. “Y/n…”

“I’m not going to fight with you over the phone,” you said gently.

“I’m not trying to fight.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I love you,” he said finally, quiet and uneven.

“I know.”

Another silence. This one worse than all the others.

“I’ll be back in two days,” he said.

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. “Okay.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You closed your eyes. Hating that word. You hated hearing that, always did. But more so now than ever.

“Okay,” you repeated, and it sounded like maybe.

Not yes. Just… maybe.

He didn’t come back the next day. It was a week later he finally had time to come back to the country. And almost two days later he was able to be back home. But by that time, it was already too late to talk about something that has already passed. So you two stayed quiet. And for the first time and not last, that night it was just something small that happened.

—————

You found it on a Wednesday, tucked in the back of the nightstand drawer he never used. You were searching for a charger. His drawer was chaotic. Full old receipts, ticket stubs from cities he barely remembered, notes of night thoughts. And then, under a stack of guitar picks and a long-dead pen, you saw it. A small, square box.

You paused. Everything in you stilled. Your fingers hovered above it for a breath, then two. You opened it.

Inside: an engagement ring.

Simple. Elegant. A soft, brushed gold band with a quiet, imperfect diamond that looked more chosen than flashy.

Your heart gave a quiet, panicked lurch. You didn’t cry. Didn’t gasp. Just closed the box slowly and put it back exactly where you found it. You didn’t say anything to him either Not that night. Not the next. You didn’t know why. Maybe because it felt like looking at a letter addressed to you that hadn’t been sent yet. It felt like love in transit. Like something that belonged to his timing, not yours. And you trusted him. Even if everything was hectic. Even if you were fraying around the edges.

You trusted him to get there.

It was two weeks later, near midnight, when he finally told you.

The night was unusually quiet. Outside, the city seemed to hold its breath. No honking, no sirens, just the low hum of a world that had finally decided to rest. Inside your share apartment, the windows were cracked open to let in the cool air, and the sheets tangled loosely around your legs as you two lay there, close but not speaking yet. It had been one of those rare days when the two actually had time. Real, unscheduled time. A slow morning. Grocery shopping. Making pasta without burning it. Watching a movie neither of you finished because you fell asleep halfway through, limbs knotted, breath in sync.

Now, the lights were off. Only the occasional gleam from a passing car painted stripes across the ceiling. You lay on your side, your fingers tracing slow, absentminded lines along Namjoon’s chest. His arm was wrapped around your waist. He hadn’t spoken in a while.

Then, softly, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should say it: “I’ve been thinking about marrying you.”

You didn’t move, didn’t stiffen. Your fingers paused briefly, then continued their path across his skin.

“I mean, not just thinking,” he said, a small, sheepish laugh escaping. “Planning, really. Secretly. Clumsily.”

Your smile was audible, even in the dark. “That sounds very on-brand.”

He let out a breath, clearly relieved you weren’t panicking. “I keep trying to find the perfect moment. The kind you tell stories about later. But every time I think I’ve got it, something happens—another show, an art event, a delay, a rehearsal running late. You didn’t interrupt. “I just…” His voice grew a little quieter. “I want to do it right. For you. You deserve something beautiful. Not rushed. Not after a long flight or in a hallway or between meetings.”

You turned slightly, tucking your face into the space where his neck met his shoulder. You could hear the nervous flutter in his chest. Like your silence was the only thing louder than the city.

Namjoon gently shifted his hand to cradle your face. “Can I ask you something?”

“Mm-hm.”

“If I asked you… someday soon,” he said carefully, “would you say yes?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, fixed on you like you were the only thing he could see.

Your voice was steady and warm, no hesitation. “Of course I would.”

Namjoon’s face softened completely. He looked stunned by how easy it was for you to say. Like part of him had been bracing for uncertainty, and instead got home. “Yeah?” he asked, because part of him needed to hear it again.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Without blinking.”

He exhaled like it was the first full breath he’d taken all day, burying his face in you shoulder with a groan. “God, I love you.”

You laughed softly, brushing your fingers through his hair. “I know.”

“I mean it,” he mumbled. “I want all of it. Boring weekends. Matching mugs. Bad schedules. Waking up next to you every day until we’re old and weird.”

“We’re already weird.”

“Okay. Older and weirder.”

You kissed the top of his head. “I want that too,” you said. “All of it. And more.”

Namjoon looked up at you again, eyes sleepy and full of so much love you almost couldn’t hold it. “I’ll find the right time,” he promised. “It won’t be long.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” you said. “As long as it’s you.”

He kissed you once. Lazy, warm, and deep with knowing. And when you two fell asleep, it was with yours hands clasped between both, like two people who had already chosen each other, formally or not.

The ring stayed hidden. And you let it. Because you already had the answer. And he already had your heart.

< Seven months ago. Seoul, Korea >

You two were supposed to go away that weekend.

Just the two of you. A quiet place in the countryside, two hours outside the city. No cameras. No phones. No work. Just a cabin, a fireplace, books, and each other. You had planned it for weeks. Namjoon hadn’t had a proper day off in months. You wanted to give him a weekend where he didn’t have to perform, or talk about a setlist, or be anything except yours.

He seemed excited when you told him. He even kissed the tip of your nose and said, “God, I need that. You. Us.”

You booked it that night.

But on Thursday evening, two days before the trip, he called while you were at work. His voice was careful.

“Babe, listen, I know we had the cabin this weekend, but I might need to stay in the city. Something came up with Badu’s label and they want to do a session on Saturday. I know, I know, it sucks.”

You sat in the storage room of the gallery, your phone pressed to your ear, surrounded by crates of borrowed sculptures. You didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Is it urgent?” you asked finally.

“It’s… time-sensitive. I think they’re trying to fast-track something before Badu flies out to Tokyo. I can say no. I mean— if this is a big deal for us, I’ll say no.”

But he said it the way people do when they don’t want to say no. When they’re already halfway to saying yes.

You smiled, though he couldn’t see you. “It’s okay. We’ll reschedule.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. You should do it.”

“Rain check?”

“Rain check,” you repeated, soft.

You hung up, and you stared at the weekend itinerary you had printed out. His favorite bakery for the drive. A wine tasting in a small town. That local bookstore you thought he’d love. Even a museum you wanted to visit… You folded it all up and slid it into a drawer.

When you got home that night, he was already asleep. Studio hours were brutal. You curled in next to him, your arm across his back, your nose against his shoulder. You didn’t cry. You didn’t get angry. You just waited for him to say something about it the next day. Maybe suggest a new weekend. Maybe show up with coffee and a smile and say, “Hey, let’s pick a new date.”

He didn’t. It was just one weekend, you told yourself. Just one plan. People get busy. People cancel. Still, it sat with you, quiet and dull, like a match that never got lit.

Not a flame. Not yet. But something you wouldn’t forget. Something was changing.

< Six months ago. Seoul, Korea. >

You locked yourself in the gallery’s back office and let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding since 10 a.m. The artist had walked out. Just like that—mid-meeting, hands flailing, voice raised—and declared he wouldn’t be participating in the upcoming show. Something about the press release tone being “too colonial,” which you had tried to explain wasn’t even written yet. Your director blamed you. The interns stared at you like a live grenade. And to top it all off, you’d spilled coffee on your blouse five minutes before a meeting with one of the museum board members.

By the time it was 7:00 p.m., you felt like the whole day had been gnawing at you from the inside out.

You didn’t want to go home. Not yet. Instead, you curled up on the lumpy chair in the corner of the office, legs pulled up, jacket still on. The gallery lights were out except for a low amber track that lit the sculptures like ghosts. You pulled out your phone and called Namjoon.

He answered on the third ring, his voice half-absent. “Hey, love. You okay?”

“No,” you said.

You didn’t mean to sound so small, but it leaked out anyway.

He hummed. “What happened?”

You exhaled. “Everything.”

“Specifics?”

You tried to organize it, the chaos of your day, into something coherent. “The artist dropped out. Just walked out mid-meeting and said we were culturally tone-deaf. My director was furious. I got blindsided in front of the entire board.”

“That sucks,” Namjoon said, still distracted.

There was a pause. You could hear faint voices in the background, maybe someone talking over a beat. Music. Studio noise. You imagined him in his headphones, half-listening. You waited. Nothing else came.

“I just feel like I’m failing,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to him. “Like I’m drowning in details and no one else sees the full picture. Or me.”

Namjoon clicked his tongue. “You’re not failing. You’re just being dramatic because you’re tired.” You went quiet. He didn’t notice. “I’ve gotta finish this mix,” he said after a beat. “But do you want to come by later? We’ll order something.”

“I don’t really want to be around people tonight,” you said, tears starting to form in your eyes of frustration you couldn’t get out. “I just wanted to talk.”

“You’re the strongest person I know,” he replied, not unkindly. “You’ll be fine.” Then, softer: “I’ll text you when I’m done, yeah?”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “Sure.”

“Love you.”

“You too.”

He hung up.

You stayed in the dark a little longer.

Your phone screen dimmed in your hand, and you didn’t move. You weren’t angry, at least not in the dramatic sense. No door slamming. No actual tears. Just a subtle ache, like the one you get when you realize a song you loved doesn’t hit the same way anymore.

You had needed to feel heard. Held. Instead, you’d been reassured like a child with a scraped knee.

“You’ll be fine.”

You always were. You always had to be. Of course you will be fine later but you wanted someone to actually hear you out. For the first time, you wondered what it would be like to be with someone who didn’t expect you to already have the answers. Someone who wouldn’t call your strength a reason not to show up.

You stood, stretched your legs, and grabbed your bag. The gallery was quiet, but you left the light on in the main room as you walked out. Let it shine for someone, even if it wasn’t going to be you.

< Five months. Seoul, Korea. >

It wasn’t an anniversary. Not a birthday. Not anything capital-I Important. It was just a Wednesday night you two had agreed on a week ago, in the quiet way people do when they’ve both been slipping through the days without touching each other long enough to notice. You both. were sitting on the couch when Namjoon had looked over at you—half-asleep, feet on his lap, a half-finished script on your tablet—and said, “We should have dinner together next week. Just… be normal for a night. Just us.”

You smiled. “Wednesday?”

“Perfect,” he said. “Wednesday.”

You had marked it in your mind like you do when you don’t want to hope too much, but still want to remember. It had been so long since you two had made time. The kind that wasn’t reactionary. The kind that wasn’t just falling asleep next to each other with takeout on the floor and emails still open. So you planned.

On Wednesday, you left the gallery early. You picked up fresh pasta from that little place down the hill, the one with the handmade ravioli Namjoon once called “dangerously life-changing.” You bought wine, nothing fancy, just something warm and red and meant to be shared. You even found the candle you two used on your first official dinner date, now half-burned and tucked into the back of a drawer.

By seven, the table was set.

By eight, the pasta was cold.

You texted him around 7:30.

You: Everything okay?

He didn’t respond.

You waited until 8:10 before calling. It rang four times before it went to voicemail.

You tried not to spiral. He probably lost track of time. Maybe a recording session ran late. Maybe he was caught in traffic or had bad signal. You checked his location, then immediately felt guilty. It pinged from his studio downtown. You opened the wine anyway. Not to be dramatic, hust to keep your hands busy.

At 8:44, your phone buzzed.

Namjoon: Shit. Fuck. I’m so sorry.

You stared at it for a second. No follow-up. No call. Just those four words blinking on your screen. That’s it?. You typed something. Deleted it. Typed again.

You: It’s okay.

You put your phone down, slowly, and stared at the food. The wine bottle. The candle burning low. It wasn’t the missed dinner that hurt most. It was how easily it had happened. How he hadn’t thought about it until too late. How you didn’t even feel surprised.

At 9:03, your phone buzzed again.

Namjoon: I have an open hour but I’ll have to go back to the studio later

Namjoon: I’ll go now, should I bring dessert or something?

You closed your eyes. Bit the inside of your cheek.

You: It’s late. I’ve got work early.

Namjoon: I’ll make it up to you. I swear.

You didn’t answer.

You turned off the candle. Put the wine in the fridge. Packed the cold ravioli into a Tupperware. You washed the dishes slowly, methodically, like you were erasing the evening in reverse. The bubbles slid over your rings. The water turned lukewarm. The kitchen dimmed as the sun fully disappeared. When you finally sat on the couch, the apartment was quiet. Not sad, exactly. Not angry. Just… silent. Like nothing had happened. And that, you thought, was the worst part.

Because this was supposed to be the night you two tried. The night you looked at each other again, for real. But instead, you looked at your glass of wine. Still full. Still waiting.

And you wondered, When did I start doing this by myself?

< Four months ago. Seoul, Korea. >

You had told him about it a month ago. You had brought it up at dinner, early, gently, the way you do when you’re trying not to pressure someone into caring about something that matters deeply to you.

“I’m giving a talk,” you had said, slicing your vegetables with slow precision. “It’s for the Rothko Foundation event. Big gala. Black tie, way-too-much-champagne type of thing.”

Namjoon glanced up from his phone, nodded absently. “That’s amazing.”

“They picked me to speak about the new acquisitions,” you continued, not hiding your excitement. “I’m going to be in the program. I have ten minutes. It’s kind of a huge deal for the gallery.”

He smiled. “Look at you, Miss Spotlight.”

You’d laughed. “It’s important for me. Would you be there?.”

Namjoon smiled slightly, nodding slowly, like a promise. “Of course I will.”

You’d worked your ass off for it. Navigated donor egos and fragile artists, put together the exhibit proposal in a week, fought for your voice at the table when everyone else wanted a safer, duller speaker. And they chose you. That night, you sent him the event details. He RSVP’d yes.

But it would have been less disappointing if he had just tell you that he’ll try to be there.

The night of the gala, you stood in front of the mirror in your shared bedroom, adjusting the sleeves of your navy-blue dress. The fabric fell just below your knees, structured and classic, the kind of thing that made you feel confident without trying too hard. You wore your hair up. Your earrings shimmered when you moved. There was a part of you, stupid and stubborn and hopeful, that still expected him to knock on the bathroom door with a “Wow,” and a kiss on the cheek, and a “Let’s go make rich people uncomfortable with your brilliance.”

But the apartment was quiet. Namjoon wasn’t home.

At 6:34 p.m., you checked your messages.

Namjoon: Hey, baby. I hate this so much. They moved up the shoot. We’re filming all night now. I’m so, so sorry.

There was a second message.

Namjoon: I sent something to the venue for you. Should arrive before the talk. I love you.

You didn’t reply.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the carpet. Your heart was doing that thing, folding in on itself like paper too many times creased in the same place. He’d known. He’d known this was important. Not optional. Not a charity auction or a friends-of-the-gallery dinner. This was your night.

And once again, work had won.

The way to the gallery was quiet, frustrated and almost too annoying. Specially since it was a special night where you were supposed to be excited or nervous— Instead you were angry with your boyfriend.

The venue was beautiful, if clinical. Crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes, lacquered smiles. You shook hands with people whose names you couldn’t remember. Your name was printed in the program beneath a black-and-white headshot you hated. And at 8:12 p.m., just before your speech, an usher approached you with a bouquet of white orchids. There was a small card attached. Handwritten.

You’ll kill it tonight. So proud of you.

— N.

You stared at it like it had come from a stranger.

“You’ll kill it tonight.” you repeated.

It sounded like something you’d write to a colleague, not a partner. Not the man who knew what this moment cost you, who’d kissed your forehead while you wrote your talking points and rubbed your back during your mini spiral about what to wear. Not from a man that promise that he would be there tonight when you told him it was important for you.

You folded the card and threw it in the trash.

The worst thing that night was that your speech was perfect. You spoke for ten minutes. Didn’t stutter. Didn’t shake. It was flawless, perfect in any way a good and smart speech could be. Everyone clapped. Someone on the board teared up. The director beamed at you like you were an investment finally paying off.

And Namjoon wasn’t there.

When you stepped off the stage and walked backstage alone, the applause didn’t stick. What did was the silence waiting for you in the dressing room. The hollow space where he should’ve been. No hug. No “You did it.” Just orchids in a vase, propped against a wall.

You pulled out your phone and called Namjoon.

It rang once. Twice.

He answered, breathless, wind muffling his voice. “Hey, babe. I’m still on set. Can I call you in a bit?”

“I just finished the talk,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

He hesitated. “Shit—already? How did it go?”

“Well,” you said quietly. “It went well.”

“That’s amazing. Knew you’d kill it,” he said. There was a clatter on his end, voices shouting something in the background. “Sorry, hang on—what was I—yeah, we’re good—sorry, babe, what were you saying?”

Your throat was tight. “I just… I really wanted you to be here.”

A pause.

“Y/n,” he sighed, and not unkindly, just tired. “I wanted to be there too. You know that.”

“I know. I do.” you leaned against the edge of the vanity, your hand clutching the phone tighter. “But it mattered. It wasn’t just about the speech—it was about you seeing it. Being in the room. With me.”

More voices. A door opened and shut.

“I sent the flowers,” he said, gently. “Didn’t they get there? I thought they’d be there before you went on.”

“They did,” you replied. “They were… fine.”

He chuckled, not catching the edge in your voice. “That’s the most Y/n response ever.”

You closed your eyes. “Namjoon.”

“I know this sucks. Believe me, I know. But I can’t get into this right now. We’re literally rolling in ten minutes, and I still have to fix my makeup. I just—I need to focus for a bit, okay?” You didn’t speak. “Can we talk later?” he added. “I want to talk. I just need to get through tonight.”

You almost nodded out of habit. Almost said, Of course, it’s fine, I get it, go be brilliant.

But something inside you ached to say it out loud. To ask him to stay, to make it a big deal and fight. Instead, you murmured, “Sure.”

“You’re amazing,” he said. “Love you.”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t notice. He’d already hung up.

You sat still for a long time, phone in your lap, your hands folded like someone waiting for a train that wasn’t coming.

That’s when it hit you.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love you. It’s that now he loved you comfortably.

He loved you like something that would always be there, even when neglected. Even when ignored. Even when standing alone in a velvet dressing room with someone else’s applause still echoing in your ears. And your pain? It didn’t fit in his schedule anymore. it was only an imposition.

You blinked hard, once. Twice. And then the tears came. Not loud. Not messy. Just steady. A soft unraveling, like thread pulled from the edge of a seam that no one bothered to sew back up.

You cried for ten minutes. Then you stood. Smoothed your dress. Wiped your eyes and went outside to continue the event. Because even if he was not there, it was still your night.

< Three months ago. Seoul, Korea. >

Another fight unraveled the same week. Fight after fight without any income had been followed you two. And the last one came because of laundry.

You had asked him, gently, to please not mix your wool sweaters with the rest of the wash—again. You were tired. You’d been working weekends. The gallery’s next exhibit was massive, and you were overseeing three interns who didn’t know the difference between a loan form and a press release. And Namjoon—half-distracted, headphones slung around his neck—said something like:

“It’s just laundry, Y/n. Not a crisis.”

That was it.

That was the crack that splintered into something bigger than either of you two meant it to.

“Do you know how much I’ve been doing lately?” you asked, trying to stay calm, even as your voice wavered. “I ask for one thing. One thing.”

“You always make everything sound like an indictment.”

“And you make everything feel like it’s not worth your energy.”

He turned then, clearly hurt. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you said, and your voice was rising now, sharp with every silent moment you’d swallowed those past months. “Do you even know what I’m working on? Who I’m curating next? Have you even asked?”

“I’ve been drowning, Y/n.”

“So have I. The difference is I still check in. I still try.”

He rubbed his face, eyes heavy. “I didn’t come home to fight.”

“You barely come home at all.”

You two stared at each other. The apartment was still. The dryer buzzed in the background. It wasn’t the first fight but you were with the same exhaustion as the ones before.

After a long pause, he dropped his shoulders. “You’re right,” he said, quieter now. “I’ve been selfish.” You blinked, a little surprised. “I’ve been stretched so thin I stopped noticing what I was letting go of,” he continued. “I hate that I made you feel like I wasn’t trying. I am trying, Y/n. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I am.”

You didn’t say anything. Not right away. Not because you didn’t believe him. But because you weren’t sure if it mattered anymore.

He stepped forward, reached for your hand. “Can we start over tomorrow? I’ll make dinner. We’ll talk. I’ll actually show up.”

You nodded. You let him hug you. Let his arms wrap around your waist. Let him kiss the side of your head and tell you how much he loved you. And you said it back, softly, automatically.

Later that night, you two lay in bed, facing each other in the dark. He whispered one more apology, then fell asleep with his hand over your waist like a promise. And you stared at the ceiling. You weren’t sad. You weren’t angry. You were just… tired. Tired of trying to be the whole relationship. Tired of reminding him who you two used to be. Tired of convincing yourself that love should be this hard all the time.

And the worst part? You realized you didn’t feel much of anything anymore. No ache. No flutter. No rage. Just quiet. Like your heart had packed its bags long before your hands ever would.

Next week was normal, it felt natural. But two weeks later Namjoon was leaving again. And with him, his word of trying too. And your empathy and understanding were no longer there. Because words meant nothing anymore. Because love can survive almost anything… except being met with indifference

< Two weeks ago. Seoul, Korea. >

It started with nothing.

No fight. No harsh words. Just a missed message. A day passes. Then two. You didn’t text first. You told yourself it wasn’t a test—but of course it was. Not the childish kind. Not a game. Just a quiet question you couldn’t bring yourself to say out loud:

If I stop trying… will he even notice?

The weekend blurred. You worked a long day at the gallery, came home to a half-empty apartment, cooked yourself pasta you didn’t finish. The wine bottle you two opened earlier that week still sat on the counter, uncorked and flat. You kept checking your phone, out of habit more than hope. But there was nothing.

No hey, how’s your day?

No sorry, been crazy, thinking of you.

Not even a meme, a song, a voice note.

It felt surreal. The kind of surreal that doesn’t hurt yet, just itches at the edges. Like something vital is missing but you don’t realize it until you go to touch it.

On the third day, You ran into Sophie, your coworker of years, the one you almost tell everything. You two chatted about curation and studio space until she tilted her head and asked, “How’s Namjoon?”

You smiled too quickly. “Busy.”

Sophie nodded, awkward. “You two are so… I don’t know. Solid. I love that.”

You laughed, soft and brittle. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You didn’t mean to lie. You just weren’t sure what the truth was anymore.

That night, you lay in bed scrolling through old photos of the two of you. Namjoon at the park in spring, lying in the grass, one arm shielding his face from the sun. Namjoon holding a cat that didn’t like him, grinning anyway. Namjoon in your old kitchen, burning pancakes, laughing while you mocked him. It used to be like that. We used to be like that.

At 1:23 a.m., you turned off your phone. Not out of drama, but fatigue. Not to make a point. Just because the ache of waiting was heavier than the ache of stopping.

He finally texted on the fourth day.

Namjoon: Hey. Sorry, this week’s been brutal. Everything okay?

You stared at it.

Not I missed you.

Not I’m sorry for going silent.

Just… a check-in. Like you were a loose appointment on a calendar he’d finally flipped back to. You could’ve said so many things. But all you wrote was:

You: All good. You?

He replied twenty minutes later.

Namjoon: Tired. Always tired lol.

You didn’t write back.

You weren’t angry. You weren’t even sad. Just… done.

Not the kind of done that comes from bitterness or rage. The kind that comes from knowing. From finally understanding that what you’d been holding together with two hands for months was already slipping through the cracks, because he wasn’t holding it with you. Because loving someone isn’t enough if they don’t love you back in the same language, with the same weight.

And sometimes, silence tells you everything you need to know.

< Three days ago. Seoul, Korea >

The apartment was too quiet when Namjoon came home. It was almost midnight, but every light was on. He kicked off his sneakers by the door, half-listening to the click of the lock behind him, the low hum of the refrigerator. He spotted you at the dining table, still as glass. Your coat was still on. Your hair pinned up like you hadn’t touched it since morning. There was a glass of wine in front of you, mostly full. You weren’t drinking it.

“Y/n?” He stepped toward you, rubbing his temple. “Hey. Today was a nightmare, my phone died in the studio, then we lost the mix and—”

“Namjoon.”

The way you said it. Low. Level. Like a wire pulled tight. He looked at you properly now. And he saw it. Not the exhaustion, he was used to that. But something else. Something quieter, colder. Final.

He straightened. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him with eyes that looked like they’d already wept and dried a hundred times in silence.

“We need to talk,” you said.

He glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was 11:43 p.m.

“I leave for Tokyo in six hours,” he said gently. “Can this wait?”

“No,” you said. “It can’t.”

At first it was small things. Your voice low, steady, almost rehearsed. It started with you asking questions.

Did he know how long it had been since you spent a whole day together? Did he remember the last time you two laughed without checking the time? Did he remember you, even… outside of the girlfriend title, outside of the steady, convenient role you played in the margins of his life?

He got defensive. You got louder.

And then it all came out… The missed dinners. The forgotten promises. The way he used to look at you like you were art, and now you felt like a painting nobody wanted to take.

“You think I’m being dramatic,” you snapped. “But I’ve been trying for months, Namjoon. You didn’t even notice I was disappearing.”

He paced. Ran a hand through his hair. “That’s not true. Don’t make this into—”

“What?” you shouted. “Into what it is?”

“I’ve been doing everything I can to keep things together—”

“No,” you cut in. “You’ve been doing everything you can to keep your life together. Your job, your music, your deadlines. And you expect me to just—what—applaud from the sidelines while I shrink myself smaller and smaller so I don’t get in the way?”

Namjoon threw up his hands. “I don’t know what you want from me anymore, Y/n!”

Your voice cracked. “I want you to do something!” He stared at you, stunned. “I want you to stop making me the only one sacrificing,” you said, trembling. “I want you to stop treating this like a luxury. Like love is this extra thing you do when your calendar clears.”

“I’m not choosing work over you.”

“You are,” you said. “You just won’t admit it because your dream looks noble, and my hurt looks selfish.”

He stepped closer, his voice low and sharp. “So what, you want me to blow up my career? Throw a tantrum? Cancel everything and make myself the bad guy—what, to prove a point?”

You laughed, bitter and sharp. “Not always. Not recklessly. But yes— once in a while, yes!” He opened his mouth, but you didn’t stop. “I want you to risk something! Just once. Not because I asked. Because you want to. Because being here, with me, matters enough to make other people mad. To screw up your schedule. To miss a flight. To let someone down who isn’t me.”

His mouth opened. Closed. You could see it—he wanted to fix it, say something, anything, but there was nothing left that words could fix.

You went on, quiet now, your voice laced with every scar.

“I’ve missed meetings. I’ve rescheduled events. I’ve lied to clients and board members because you needed me. I’ve left rooms I fought to be in. I’ve given things up. Not because you asked me to, but because I love you. And I thought… if I just held on a little longer, you’d meet me halfway.” Your voice broke then. “I don’t want perfection. I don’t want you to quit. I want you to want me enough to inconvenience yourself.”

Silence. It was heavy, crushing.

Namjoon looked away, jaw clenched. “So what—what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I can’t keep doing this alone.”

He looked at you like you’d struck him. “You’re not alone. That’s not what this is.” He shook his head, searching for words. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” you whispered. Silence fell between you two again. You turned from him, brushing your hands down the front of your coat like you were smoothing your own rage. “You love me when it’s easy,” you said. “When I’m quiet, supportive, soft. When I don’t ask you to make space. But the moment I need more, I become a burden. An inconvenience. You treat me like a child who needs attention, not your partner who is asking you for a basic thing.”

“That’s not what this is,” he said, stepping forward. You didn’t move. He lowered his voice. “Y/n, I’m under so much pressure right now. I didn’t think—”

“I know you didn’t think,” you said. “That’s the problem.” Your voice broke again, and he flinched. “I thought we were building something. I thought this was real. But now? Now it feels like I’m holding all the weight while you fly above it all. And you don’t even look down.” Namjoon was silent for a moment. “Say something,” you said, almost begging.

He ran his hands through his hair again. “I can’t fix this tonight. I have to go. I have a flight—”

“I know,” you said softly. “You always have to go.”

He stepped toward you. “Please. When I get back, I’ll fix this. We’ll take time. I’ll plan something. I’ll make this right.” You didn’t answer. He reached for your hand. “Y/n… please. Say something.”

You looked down at his fingers touching yours. But you didn’t hold them back. Because this wasn’t a pause in the storm. This was the end of the rain. He’d leave. And you’d still be here. Alone. Picking up the pieces of a love that had been cracking for months while he sprinted toward a future that no longer had room for you.

“Just go, Namjoon,” you whispered.

“I’m coming back,” he said, almost desperate now. “I’ll fix this—”

But you turned away. Not because you wanted to hurt him. Because you knew: you’d already left a thousand times in your mind. You were just finally listening to yourself.

The tears didn’t come right away. Not that day, or the next. Because this wasn’t the kind of heartbreak that arrived in an instant. This was the heartbreak of staying too long. Of trying too hard. Of loving someone who didn’t even realize they were letting go. You looked around the apartment—your shared apartment—and thought of all the promises you had made in silence. All the ways you had made yourself small to keep you two alive. And then you walked to the closet, pulled out your suitcase, and continued what you had started days ago in your head.

The slow, deliberate act of leaving.

The familiar click of the key turning in the lock was supposed to bring relief — a signal that he was finally home. Instead, it felt like the first note of a dirge. Namjoon pushed open the door, the creak sharp in the stillness. The air inside was colder than he remembered, stripped of warmth. His boots echoed on the hardwood floor, too loud in the silence that swallowed the apartment whole.

He set down his luggage by the door, eyes searching the space instinctively for some sign of life. The small collection of framed photos on the wall, now oddly bare, caught his eye. His breath hitched. The couch where you two used to curl up together was devoid of the usual scatter of blankets and pillows. The side table was clear except for a lone coaster. He moved deeper in, heart thumping unevenly, the pit in his stomach widening. The soft glow of streetlights filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows over the empty rooms.

In the kitchen, his eyes darted to the counter. The bottle of wine from three days ago — gone. The small dishes you always left soaking in the sink — all cleared away.

His throat tightened, a sudden chill crawling over him. He stepped into the dining area. There, a half-packed suitcase sat on the chair, its contents sparse, folded with a cold kind of care. Clothes he didn’t recognize, a scarf you must have left behind, and the space where your things used to overflow. His hands shook as he reached toward the fabric, but recoiled before touching it.

Suddenly, a cold wave of panic swept over him, dragging his breath into a tight, ragged gasp.

“No,” he whispered, voice trembling.

He stumbled back, clutching the wall to steady himself. You’re gone. The weight of it crashed down like a falling building. He pulled out his phone with shaking hands, desperate to hear your voice, see any sign that this was a mistake, that maybe you had a last minute trip, an emergency. Maybe it was a bad dream.

He dialed your number. Ring. Ring But the line never connected. A terse message flashed on the screen.

The number you have dialed is not in service.

He pressed buttons frantically, trying again, but it was the same.

His heart hammered so hard it felt like it might burst through his ribs. He sank to the floor, hands pressed over his face as tears began to fall. His breath came quick, shallow, uneven. A tightening gripped his chest. His vision blurred. He tried to focus on something — anything — but the room spun, the walls closing in.

Please, please, he thought, don’t let this be real.

But it was. The apartment, the ring, the suitcase, everything was proof. And now, the cruelest truth of all: he couldn’t reach you. You had cut him off completely. You didn’t want to see him. Panic seized him fully, and he couldn’t stop the sobs that wracked his body as he crumpled into himself on the floor. He gasped, his hands shook as he reached toward his drawer to grab the little box that was under all his mess. The small velvet box, its lid slightly open. The engagement ring gleamed like a painful secret. He was supposed to asked you this week. You were supposed to be here. “I’m sorry.” he sobbed, his voice breaking through the silence.

He closed his eyes, wishing desperately for a second chance, a sign, anything that could undo the emptiness you left behind. But the only sound was the echo of his own heartbreak.

How could he fix it?.

Namjoon sat on the cold floor for what felt like hours, clutching the engagement ring box like a lifeline. The panic slowly ebbed into a crushing weight, exhaustion threading through his grief. Finally, wiping the tears from his face with trembling hands, he forced himself to stand. He needed to find you.

The cold night air stung Namjoon’s cheeks as he stepped out of the apartment building. His legs still trembled from the panic attack that had clawed at his chest moments before, and his fingers trembled as he pulled the small velvet box from his pocket again—the engagement ring, a symbol of everything he thought he could fix but had only ever endangered. He didn’t know what he expected when he arrived at the gallery — maybe to find you there, or maybe just to stand in the place that had once held your laughter, your quiet moments of shared wonder. It was worst. You were actually there.

The gallery’s lights were low, the air tinged with the faint scent of turpentine and old paper. Chairs had been stacked and art pieces carefully covered, but the quiet hum of closing time lingered like a fragile bubble waiting to burst. He stood just inside the door, clutching the small velvet box in his palm, as if it alone could hold together the pieces of everything breaking inside him. You sat behind the receptionist desk, your shoulders slumped beneath the weight of exhaustion. The sharp lines around your eyes had deepened, etched by months of sleepless nights and silent compromises.

When you saw him, a flicker of surprise and something colder flashed across your face. You said his name quietly, without invitation.

“Namjoon.”

He swallowed hard, stepping forward. “Y/n, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for everything. For the time I missed, the promises I broke, for making you feel like you weren’t enough.”

You didn’t meet his eyes. “Namjoon, I have a lot of work—.”

“Please—”

“I don’t want to hear you. I’m not in the mood.”

“Y/n.”

“What?!” you exploded, looking at him. “I don’t want to hear more words. I’m tired of hearing you out.”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “But I mean it, every time. But this— us, it’s the most important thing in my life. I’ve been a fool to let everything else swallow me up.”

Your fingers drummed on the desk, sharp and impatient. “You say all the right things when you want something. But what about the times you didn’t? The times I was waiting, and you were gone?”

He bit his lip, desperate. “I was caught up, I know. But I want to fix it. I want to make it right.”

You looked up then, eyes tired but steady. “Fix it? Namjoon, you can’t fix things with words. Your words don’t mean anything anymore.”

“I’m willing to try,” he pleaded. “Every day, every moment. I’ll change, I’ll be better. I swear it.”

Your laugh was bitter. “You say that like it’s a choice. Like you can just flip a switch.”

“I know it’s not that simple. But I’m trying — I’m really trying.”

Your gaze sharpened, a flicker of something distant in your eyes. “Trying feels like a job you clock out from. Like it’s not me you’re fighting for, but your own guilt.”

Namjoon’s throat tightened. “I want it to be you.”

You exhaled slowly. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one bleeding here?”

He reached out, but you pulled back, a wall rising between the two of you.

“Y/n, please. I love you. I know I don’t deserve your patience, but I’m begging you. Don’t give up on us. Not like this.”

Your eyes shimmered with tears now, but your voice was cold. “Namjoon, I’m done.” you said. “I’m tired of being the only one who shows up. I’m tired of carrying us when you’re too busy to hold my hand.”

The words hit him like a blade.

Namjoon closed his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I’m sorry I made you doubt us.”

You shook your head, voice shaking. “It’s more than doubt. It’s exhaustion. I’m worn down, Namjoon. So worn down.”

His lips pouted, he tried to clean his tears. “I don’t want to lose you— ”

“You already did.”

There was a silence. Hard. Cold. The way you looked at him, like a decision was already made. Like leaving him was something you had planned for months and finally got the courage to do it. It break him.

He took a deep breath. Then, in a fast and crude way took your hand to put the velvet box you already knew very well.

“If you’re leaving,” he said, voice breaking, “take this with you. It’s yours. Always was.”

You stared at your hand, your throats tightened. And you thought how of a bitch he was for making you do that.

“It was never mine.” You pushed to his chest with anger. Leave

He wanted to beg, to get on his knees and fight for you. But the way you were looking at him. The way you were so exhausted, the way you were angry. He knew he couldn’t make you change your mind in the moment, not when you were so out of reach with your mind and heart, so far away from him.

And just like that, the distance became unbridgeable.

< Three months later. Seoul, Korea. >

The city had softened by spring. The cold that once clung to the buildings like regret had lifted, replaced by light that poured between high-rises and cracked sidewalks like apology. You crossed the street with your coat half-buttoned, a coffee in one hand, the hem of your skirt brushing your legs with each careful step. Your heels clicked a quiet rhythm, one that no longer needed to keep pace with anyone else.

You had moved. Not far, just far enough to start again. A new apartment, a quieter part of town. You still worked at the gallery, but now you curated independently, traveling to other cities for new artists, giving talks where your voice didn’t tremble anymore. You were learning how to live without waiting. You didn’t think about him as much anymore… Not like you used to. But sometimes, still, in the stretch of silence between waking and sleep, he would appear in your mind like a fading note of music. Still familiar. Still unfinished.

It didn’t hurt that much anymore. Because you knew he regret it. He was still looking for a way of calling you, sometimes sending you coffee or things you had forgotten in your shared apartment. You hadn’t being able to unblock him, not really looking for another conversation where you knew would just revive everything that had happened. Specially since it was still new. But you tried to keep your mind busy and away from him.

And it was working, at least a little bit.

That day, your last meeting ended early, and you found yourself walking through a museum you hadn’t visited in years. No one knew you were there. No one expected you. You wandered slowly, the hush of the gallery pressing gently around you like a blanket. And then, like muscle memory, you turned the corner and froze.

There he was. Kim Namjoon.

Standing alone in front of a large canvas, hair longer, posture more closed. He looked like someone who had learned how to carry regret without crumbling under it. He saw you immediately. And before you could make a run, he was walking slowly to you. Standing just in front. And you could have left. Should have. But you didn’t. You two stood there in silence for a beat — not the old silence, thick with grief and expectation. This one was gentler. Like you two were ghosts in a place that had once belonged to both.

“Hey.” you said softly.

He swallowed. “Hi.”

Another pause.

You nodded toward the painting. “You still come here?”

“Sometimes.” His voice was rough. “It’s quieter than my apartment.”

A sad smile tugged at your lips. “It always was.” Silence again. “I heard about your solo project,” you said, eyes meeting his. “The foundation. The benefit shows. That’s… big.”

Namjoon shrugged, sheepish. “It felt like the first thing I did for someone other than myself.” You nodded. Then he said it. Gently, carefully: “I miss you.” You didn’t flinch, didn’t say anything. He looked down. “I wasn’t brave enough.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “No,” you finally said. “You weren’t.”

He blinked. “Do you hate me?”

“No.” your voice was soft. “But I think I spent a long time trying to forgive you before you’d even asked for it.”

He looked like he might cry… but didn’t. You stood there, letting the quiet settle in again.

“I’m sorry.”

Finally, you smiled and took a step back. “Take care of yourself, Namjoon.”

He gave you a nod, tight and broken. “You too.”

You turned to leave but he was quick to grabbed your wrist. You looked back confused. Namjoon had a broken gaze and looked nervous. like he was about to break.

“What are you—.”

“Before you leave. I need to say it. Finally. I need to do something.” You didn’t move. “I’ve been waiting days around your gallery wondering how to tell you this and I found you here just like this… It can’t be casual— I need to tell you” he sighed, eyes getting glassy. “You left, and I didn’t stop you. I didn’t even reach out— Not because I didn’t care. Because I was a coward. I thought if I stayed quiet, if I didn’t fight… I wouldn’t lose. But I did.”

“Look Namjoon—“ You looked away but he kept talking, cutting you off.

“You asked me to risk something and I didn’t. You asked me to do something and I stood there like a goddamn statue. I was an idiot, I thought— I don’t know why I didn’t fight harder and I regret it every second. But I’m here now. And I’m risking everything.”

You frowned confused. “What exactly do you think is left to fight for?” you said, voice like a bruise. “There’s nothing now, Namjoon.”

He stepped closer, just one step, but it felt like a hundred miles. He kept holding your wrist “You, you’re the only thing left I want, even if it’s your hate and resentment. Even if you just want to punch me in the face and scream at me or give me the silent treatment. I’ll take it, I swear I’ll take it. I’ll take anything from you, anything I can have… And I see it now— I see you. Everything you gave. Everything I didn’t.” His voice cracked. “You told me I was losing you. And I just let it happen. I kept waiting for something to change on its own. But love isn’t autopilot. It’s not maintenance. It’s war. It’s showing up.”

You shook your head. “There nothing anymore. Why are you telling me this now?”

He didn’t blink. “Because this time, I’ll risk being wrong. I’ll risk hearing no. I’ll risk everything I should’ve risked when you still believed in me— I love you,” he said. “And I’m not asking you to forget what I didn’t do. I’m asking you to give me one chance to do something now. To fight for you the way you fought for me. Because I swear to God, Y/n… I’ll risk everything for you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was holding itself.

You looked at him like you didn’t recognize him. And maybe you didn’t. Maybe now, this time … he was someone new.

i’m so in love with open endings rn

now bitch why tf i can’t write more than 1k paragraphs tfff???? i had to delete so many shit and make the paragraphs bigger i hate itttt

but anyway here’s a namjoon silly little story that i was going to make it a long fic with lot of parts but thought it would be better as just one. i hope you like it >_< my man fr (let’s hate him on here a lil bit tho)

also, i studied art history for a month so don’t quote me on the comments of the artist cuz i don’t know shit i was just trying to be quirky and shit,, also with the books 😓🙏🏼

[crzy-baby]

The Angst I NEEDED!

[lovesuhng]

did you kiss me?

1.2k / fluff, friends to lovers (AGAIN)

When you started university, you didn’t really know if you had made the right choice, nor what you were going to do once you finished. But as time went by, you began to find yourself, to fall in love with the field you had chosen, and finally decided what your next step would be when everything was over: you were going to pursue a PhD.

It was days and nights of studying, preparing for exams and projects, giving up going out with your friends just to study, because you always felt like you weren’t doing enough. Now, you were sitting in front of your laptop, waiting for the scheduled time for the results to be announced. Your hands were sweaty, and you kept switching between tabs as if that would somehow calm you down, which clearly wasn’t working, especially now that there were only a few minutes left.

“Calm down, it’s going to be okay.”

You were slightly startled when you heard your friend’s voice. You were so nervous that you had completely forgotten he was even there. You met Johnny in university. You went through your undergraduate years together, supporting each other through everything, getting drunk just to survive another semester, staying up until ridiculous hours studying for endless exams. Unlike you, Johnny didn’t want to continue in the field he graduated in and instead opened a cozy café in the city center, a decision you supported with your whole heart.

Maybe that was why you had called him to be with you at this exact moment. After all, he celebrated your victories as if they were his, just as he felt your defeats. But more than that, he knew how to calm you down.

“But how am I supposed to calm down when you can’t even stop shaking your leg?”

Johnny was caught off guard, because you didn’t even need to look to know he was, in fact, bouncing his leg nervously. It was just another sign that you knew each other like no one else did.

The time came. “It’s time!” You refreshed the page, looking for the results section and then for your name on the list. Johnny pretended to be calm, sitting casually on your bed, but he only grew more anxious when you brought your hand to your mouth after letting out a nervous breath, unable to believe what you were seeing. He called your name, but you couldn’t react.

“So? For God’s sake, say something.”

Seeing that you couldn’t answer, Johnny stood up and went to check the results himself. From your reaction, he assumed you hadn’t gotten the spot you wanted so badly, but he froze when he saw your name on the list of accepted candidates.

“You… got in?”

Still in shock, you just nodded, your eyes still glued to the screen.

“YOU GOT IN!”

The question had now turned into a statement, as if reality was finally starting to sink in for both of you. That’s when you finally said, or rather, shouted:

“I GOT IN!”

You quickly stood up from your chair, jumping in place, and soon Johnny was doing the same, throwing small punches in the air, clapping, completely overjoyed for you.

“I can’t believe it! I got in, Johnny!!!”

“I knew you would, you worked so hard for this!”

Your friend opened his arms, and it didn’t take long before you threw yourself at him like a koala clinging to a tree. Johnny laughed, surprised by your reaction.

“You said I would! Thanks for all your support, Johnny.”

You were so euphoric that you started covering his face in kisses, until, without thinking, your lips met his in a quick peck. Just a second, but long enough to make Johnny’s brain completely short-circuit.

But you didn’t seem to realize what you had done, because as soon as you stepped away from him, you kept pacing around the room, running your hands through your hair, laughing as if you still couldn’t believe it.

“Like, I thought that even after trying so hard, I wouldn’t make it, but I actually-”

You stopped when you looked at your friend and realized he was completely still, one hand touching his lips.

“Johnny?”

He didn’t answer.

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

He blinked slowly.

“You… kissed me.”

“What? Johnny, yeah. I gave you a few kisses on the cheek, your forehead…”

“…and on my mouth.”

You laughed, incredulous.

“On your mouth?! Of course not!”

“You did kiss me.”

“I didn’t kiss you.”

“You did.”

“Johnny, are you crazy?”

He finally snapped out of it and looked at you again. You had your hands on your hips, pretending to be offended by his accusation, but your flushed face gave you away.

“I’m not! You jumped on me and kissed me. And I know very well when someone kisses me.”

You hadn’t even noticed how close he had gotten, but you tried not to lose your composure.

“Yes, I jumped on you and gave you a few kisses, but the one on the mouth you made up.”

“I MADE IT UP?”

“Yes, you made it up.”

Silence settled between you. Johnny was starting to wonder if it really had all been in his head, but his racing heart told a different story.

Still, he needed something more. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a small, incredulous laugh.

“If it was all in my head, then we’re going to settle this right now.”

You frowned, confused.

“Settle what?”

He took another step, cornering you against your bedroom door.

“If it was all in my head, then we’re going to have to do it again.”

“Do what?”

“The kiss. Kiss me again.”

Your brain freezed, but you laughed nervously.

“You must have gone crazy. That doesn’t even make sense.”

You tried to sound indifferent, but the slight tremble in your voice gave you away. Johnny noticed.

“It makes perfect sense to me.”

He tilted his head, keeping his gaze locked on yours.

That closeness wasn’t helping at all. You were so nervous you were sure he could hear your heartbeat. And for the first time, you noticed things you had never paid attention to before, especially how… kissable his lips were. And you hated yourself for noticing that right now.

You took a deep breath, as if you were finally able to breathe again. You looked at Johnny, who simply raised an eyebrow, as if saying what are you waiting for?

And you don’t wait. Not another word, not another joke. You step into his space.

You cup his face with both hands and press your lips to his. Johnny’s eyes widen for a second, but he closes them as soon as he realizes what’s happening. The kiss isn’t as quick as the first one, nor accidental. There’s no denying it now.

You pull away, looking to the side, once again trying to hide how nervous you are.

“See? That was different…”

Johnny takes a second to respond. Maybe two.

“Very different…”

His hands find your waist, pulling you closer.

“This time you wanted it. No denying that.”

Your stomach flips, and you can’t find the words to respond.

“Don’t be nervous… I wanted it too. For a long time.”

And before you can say anything, Johnny kisses you.

Not just a simple brush of lips, but something warmer, deeper, something that makes your thoughts blur.

A kiss that feels even better than getting accepted into your PhD.

[wildestdreamsblog]

The Story of Us

Pairing: Mahwa Character!Min Yoongi x Reader

Summary: You wake up in the body of the second female lead in a manhwa, determined to rewrite your fate. No longer willing to be trapped in unrequited love for the elusive main lead, Min Yoongi, you set out to change the ending of the story. But leaving him behind isn’t as simple as you thought. As the lines between fiction and reality blur, the narrative begins to shift in unexpected ways—Yoongi, who was once only devoted to the main female lead, starts to see you in a new light. Can you escape the cycle of heartbreak, or will you find yourself entangled in a love story you never asked for?

or in which Yoongi found out you aren't from that world and refuses to let you leave.

Warnings: Yandere behavior, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Mention of death, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: Happy 6k to me!!! It's finally here. Those who already read the unedited fic know the scenes I added here... I went crazy again and wrote additional 3kish words. I hope you enjoy!

“Does self-love mean nothing for you?”

You commented lightly at the second female lead as you flipped the page. In your hand was the manhwa your friends were gushing about. They went on and on about how dreamy the main lead was for weeks and how annoying the second female lead was until you finally gave in and went to a bookstore one late night. The cover was unassuming, a mere illustration of a man with dark hair and a milky white skin. Despite the chatters of the few customers, it was like it all went silent when you held the manhwa in your hand. You had no rationale as to why you were staring so hard at the main lead, nor why you felt a jolt of electricity when you traced your finger on his face.

The sudden and inexplainable zap of electricity was enough for you to put the manhwa back to its shelf where it belonged. You had enough for today, you thought. It must be your late nights that finally got to you. You turned and started to walk away when you heard someone called your name.

“Are you not going to buy that?”

You blinked owlishly, turning to look your surroundings before realizing that the voice had come from behind you where an old woman with a pleasant smile on her face stood. You didn’t hear her walk, sure that it was only you in that section of the bookstore.

“Excuse me?” you asked in confusion with her sudden question.

She offered you a smile before reaching for the manhwa you were touching moments ago. “This. Are you not going to buy this?”

You glanced at the book in her hands, the cover innocuous enough—a pale-faced man with dark eyes, his expression unreadable, a haunting sort of beauty that seemed to shimmer under the dim light of the store. The same man whose face had burned into your mind the moment you’d traced your finger over it.

"Huh?" you muttered, not entirely sure what to say. "Oh, no... I—" You fumbled with your words, caught between politeness and that unsettling pull you couldn’t deny. “I’m just looking.”

She tilted her head slightly, her smile never wavering, but there was something deeper there now—an unreadable warmth and perhaps... a warning? "Such a shame. This is the last piece," she continued, her fingers running over the cover with a tenderness that made your heart race. "Are you sure you don’t want to enter his universe?"

You stared at her, perplexed. The bookstore was quiet again, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant murmur of other customers. But it felt like there was something else in the air now—something heavier. More alive.

As if on cue, your phone buzzed in your pocket, breaking the strange tension that had settled between you and the clerk. You fumbled it out, your heart still racing. It was a text from one of your friends: "Did you finally get the manhwa? He's sooooo hot, right?!?"

You looked from your phone to the manhwa and there it was again. It was like something was calling you to touch the book. On the other hand, your flight or fight instinct had never been this high, urging you to walk away as soon as possible. The old woman’s gaze never left you, her expression still serene, as if she knew exactly what you were thinking. The tension between you felt palpable, like a tether was drawing you back to the book, back to the man on the cover.

"You know what, dear," she continued, her voice now almost conspiratorial, "since we're almost closing, it’s on the house. Let me wrap it up for you."

When you asked her why, it was a line you should have taken in face value.

She said that reading this will change your life.

All that was how you found yourself on your bed with the manhwa and feeling bad for the second female lead. Okay fine, she was not exactly kind. She was a bit bitchy and the typical rich kid who fell for her childhood friend who of course, fell for another woman below their stature. She devised devious ways to get the main female lead out of their lives which only managed to push Min Yoongi, the male lead character, away from her. She wanted him so badly, and she had nothing else to cling to. In the end, he left her alone when all she had was him.

She was left alone, Yoongi gone from her life, and all she had left were her schemes and bitterness. You couldn’t help but wonder what she could have been if she had just let go. If she had let him go, instead of holding on so tightly that she suffocated herself.

She wasn’t a villain, you told yourself, though you knew she was far from a saint.

It wasn’t that you were defending what she did. It was just that you felt for her, strangely. You had no family of your own too, and maybe that was why you held on to your friends. You thought that if you were as pretty and as wealthy as her, then you wouldn’t spend all your time and energy pining after Yoongi. You thought about her—so pretty, so polished—and you wondered, If I were her, would I have acted the same way? If you had that beauty, that wealth, that presence, would you still feel this same deep ache for someone who couldn’t love you back? Sure, he was all that. He was handsome, smart, and so manly. For a while, it was just the two of them in their little world until he met the female lead. But then again, if you were her, you would let them be and look for someone who would love you as you were. Surely, there was someone out there for her. You wondered if it would be easy to just walk away, you thought. But then, you didn’t know what it was like to have everything and still lose the one thing that mattered most. To feel like there was no one left who could make you feel whole.

The story was so intriguing with the right amount of suspense that kept you up all night. Despite you being a non-mahwa reader, you could not bring yourself to stop reading until you reached the ending.

The words of the final chapters echoed in your mind as you read through them. Yoongi’s happiness came at her expense, and as you turned the page, you saw the final blow: She died. She died because Yoongi decided to save the main female lead from drowning instead of his childhood friend. Just like that. No grand redemption, no change of heart. She was gone. “Of course, she dies,” you murmured in annoyance as you flipped the page. “Was that really necessary for this Yoongi to get his happy ending?”

You put the manhwa down on your chest and looked up at your bedroom ceiling. You felt tears forming in your eyes and before you knew it, they were streaming down your cheeks and onto the manhwa. “Poor you. You deserved better,” you whispered as sleep took you away.

You didn’t remember falling asleep, but the next time you opened your eyes, it felt like you were in a dream. More precisely, you woke up to a familiar room. You just couldn’t place it yet where you saw this room before. You sat up from the most comfortable bed you had ever been on, your eyes roaming over the whole room. Where were you?

You looked down and noticed that you were wearing a silk sleepwear…You didn’t own this. In fact, you never liked it because you couldn’t afford it. Did someone dress you in this? Were you kidnapped?

Panic surged through you like a wave, a cold knot tightening in your stomach. The thought alone pushed you to stand up quickly, your head turning rapidly to every corner of the room when a mirror across the room caught your eye. You walked over, unsure of what you were even looking for, but the reflection that met you made your heart stop.

Holy shit.

You froze in front of the mirror, your breath caught somewhere between disbelief and panic. The face staring back at you was undeniably familiar but was definitely not yours. It was her—the woman from the manhwa.

Your hand lifted slowly, as if drawn by an invisible force, and touched your cheek, tracing the delicate curve of your jaw. The reflection mimicked your every move, except there was no mistake: it wasn’t you. This version of you was flawless—her skin porcelain smooth, her lips full and painted in a soft, understated pink. You blinked hard, willing the image to change, but it remained the same, impossibly perfect.

And then it hit you, harder than any realization should have: You were in her world. You were in her body. You were the second female lead.

What the fuck was this dream?!

You pinched yourself, willing yourself to wake up from this peculiar dream where you were not you, and instead, you were someone of a fictional character. All that it did was reddened her fair skin. You truly tried not to panic, but no one and nothing could have ever prepared you from waking up in someone else’s body! More so of a fictional one. Similarly, you knew this could not be possible. You must have been dreaming.

You were just dreaming…right?

The knock on the door snapped you out of your stupor, your mind reeling as the panic tightened its grip.

“Miss? Sir Yoongi is here to see you,” the voice outside the door called, timid, hesitant.

You blinked, the words barely registering at first. Yoongi? No. No, no, no. Your heart dropped to your stomach, and the world around you seemed to tilt at an impossible angle. You opened your mouth to respond, but all that came out was a shaky, disbelieving breath.

"Y-yoongi?" Your voice sounded strange, foreign in this body, yet with an edge of authority, the voice of someone accustomed to being looked at, obeyed.

“N-no. Why?”

“T-to visit you, Miss. He went straight here from the airport after his three-month work in New York,” she explained with a terrified tone in her voice as though one wrong word would upset you. It did upset you upon horrifying realization that you were in the first chapter of the manhwa. He was coming to see the second female lead, the one who would only ever be a part of his life for the briefest, most painful moments. The one who would disappear when the main female lead entered the picture, leaving behind nothing but heartache and regret.

This was the moment—the beginning of her unraveling. The beginning of your unraveling.

You stumbled back from the mirror, almost tripping over the hem of the silk nightgown that clung to your skin. It felt wrong. This wasn’t your body. This wasn’t you. You couldn’t be her. You couldn't.

But there you were—she was—standing in front of a mirror, and it was your face that stared back, the same face that would soon be abandoned in favor of the main lead. The face that would die tragically, just as Yoongi chose someone else.

A cold sweat broke out on your skin as you pressed your hand to your chest, feeling your heart race, the pulse throbbing in your throat. The maid outside the door was waiting. She was waiting. Yoongi was waiting.

“Miss? Are you coming?” The maid asked again, sounding more nervous now. “Sir Yoongi is waiting.”

You felt your legs walked to where the door was as though they had a mind of their own, as though they were simply following the plot where you had to face her childhood bestfriend, as though you had no choice in this. The door creaked as it slowly opened, and the maid stepped back with a small, nervous bow. “Miss,” she murmured softly, her eyes flicking between you and the hallway.

There he was. Yoongi. Standing in the hallway, waiting for you.

His broad back was turned to you, his focus was on the huge window overlooking the garden below. His hands were in his pockets. You couldn’t help but notice the bags of designer clothes and jewelries beside him. It was always like this. Yoongi would spoil her with everything, his love a quiet promise wrapped in material things. His affection was given in expensive packages, just because he missed her. It was a thing the main lead, Yoongi, and her had for the longest times. He spoiled her rotten, and in turn, she loved him unconditionally until he realized that it wasn’t her love that he wanted. It was someone else’s.

You felt your chest tighten as you stepped forward, closer to him. And then, slowly, he turned around, his gaze landing on you, his eyes sharp and calculating, as though he was seeing you for the first time. He was just as handsome as you'd imagined, his sharp features bathed in the soft light of the chandelier overhead. His expression, however, was unreadable—his usual aloofness on full display. He had on a simple black jacket, the sleeves rolled up slightly, revealing his forearms.

He was standing there, just as he had been in the manhwa—distant, untouchable, and perfect. The kind of person who seemed to have everything. Everything except the one thing that would make him whole. His lips curved into a faint smirk, the usual aloofness settling over him like a second skin. Yoongi. So damn confident. So certain of himself. Yet there was something flickering beneath that exterior, something you couldn't place.

He took a step toward you, his gaze unwavering, and for a moment, everything felt too heavy, too real. The space between you both seemed like an eternity, but somehow you couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

He raised his brows when you remained motionless – so dissimilar to how the second female lead threw herself in his arms in the first chapter. “What?” he said, his voice a quiet challenge. “Didn’t you miss me?”

His words hit you like a cold wave. Didn’t you miss me?

The phrase was so familiar, but it made you flinch. It was the same thing he had said to her. The second female lead. Her. The woman you had now become. You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Your breath caught in your throat, the weight of his gaze leaving you paralyzed. How were you supposed to feel? What was the right answer?

Yoongi’s smirk deepened as he took another step closer, his presence commanding the space between you both. He wasn’t giving up.

“Aigoo,” he muttered, as though your silence had amused him. “Is my princess mad at me?” He reached out, cupping your cheeks in his hands and squishing them gently, his thumb brushing across your skin in a familiar, playful gesture. “I promise I won’t be away for that long again, okay?”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. My princess. Mad at me? It was just like the manhwa. Just like how the second female lead had fallen for him—how she’d craved his affection, how she had convinced herself that he was the only one who could make her whole.

How could she not fall for him? How could she not love him when he was this—this?

See, who wouldn’t fall for that? You understood the second female lead for falling in love with him, or why she did all those terrible things when he suddenly withdrew all his affections from her. But maybe…you could change the ending. Maybe you could find a happy ending of your own away from him. You could choose differently. You could walk away. You could find your own path, away from him, away from this tragic loop. Maybe—just maybe—there was a way for you to have a happy ending. Not the one written in the manhwa, but one you could choose. One where you didn’t lose yourself in the love of a man who could never return it.

What if you and him could all have your separate happy endings?

But also, what if this was just a dream where you’d wake up later and be in your own bed?

It was almost a week later when you realized that this wasn’t a dream. Despite repeatedly pinching yourself, you still couldn’t wake up from this nightmare. You hadn’t gone out of your room since Yoongi visited, and all messages and calls from him were promptly ignored.

You couldn’t even rule out that you were actively going insane because there was no way that this was now your reality. Something inside you was telling you to do something. It was urging you to fight, to survive, not matter how difficult it would be. It was proven when he visited you and you had no control over what happened. However, you also noted that you could do things somehow differently like not hugging him when he visited, or not being affectionate to him.

There were canon events, yes. There were things that should happen as were already dictated by the manhwa. But you also had a will in this story. And if there was a chance that this was your new reality, then you would do absolutely everything to make sure that you end up living.

You had to be smart. You had an edge, you surmised. You read the entire manhwa and you knew what was going to happen. You knew what to anticipate. And the next scene? The next scene was where Yoongi met the female lead and it would be in a charity ball you and him were attending.

You were dressed to the nines, your makeup was impeccable. Around your neck was one of the second female lead’s extravagant necklaces. The dress that she chose was immaculate, a light-colored floor-length gown that would later on be ruined by the female lead’s accident in the ball. You looked down from the unfamiliar eyes staring back at you in the mirror as your maid informed you that the car was waiting downstairs. You got this.

You weren’t used to her life of extravagance and you could feel a shot of anxiety pumping in your veins as the car neared the event. You could see reporters and cameramen lining up to capture the entrance of the wealthiest of the wealthiest. Nothing in your life could have prepared you for this. You were not a confident person…but she was. You only needed to get through this night and then slowly let the events happened. You would let the two of them fall in love with each other like it needed to be.

“We’re here, miss,” your driver announced, meeting your eyes from the rearview mirror. You took a deep breath and counted to three.

1…2…3-

The door opened and just when you opened your eyes, there he was.

Camera flashes illuminated the scene from his back, yet his focus was on you. His hand was outstretched, waiting for you to reach for it. But damn it, Min Yoongi was impeccable. Just like you, he was dressed to the nines with his tailored dark suit and his brushed up dark hair. He was the epitome of what a main lead should look like. Still, you couldn’t fault both the main and second female lead for falling in love with that face. If only you weren’t trying to stay alive, then you would most probably fall for that face, too.

Too bad you were trying to stay alive.

The weight of the moment settled heavily on your chest as you stared at his outstretched hand. The flashes of the cameras were relentless, their bursts creating a kaleidoscope of light and shadow that painted Yoongi's face with an almost ethereal glow. His dark eyes bored into yours, and for a split second, the world seemed to pause.

You hesitated, your hand hovering just out of reach. This was one of those moments, wasn't it? One of the canon events you couldn’t avoid. Taking his hand was expected, a necessary step to ensure the night unfolded as the manhwa demanded. Yet, the knowledge didn’t make it any easier.

“I don’t think you can hide from me now, princess,” Yoongi’s voice was soft but firm. In fact, there was no annoyance in his tone, only a quiet patience as though you didn’t spend the past days dodging him in every turn.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to push past the whirlwind of nerves. You had to remember who you were now—or at least who you were pretending to be. She wouldn’t falter, wouldn’t hesitate. She was poised, confident, the kind of woman who could command a room with a single glance. She was a woman who knew the power she had over society.

Plastering on a polite smile, you placed your hand in his. His fingers were warm, steady, and for a moment, the contact felt grounding. You couldn’t help but notice how his hand completely engulfed yours, how he made your hands seemed dainty in comparison to his. He helped you out of the car with a practiced grace, his touch lingering for a fraction longer than necessary. You didn’t want to dwell on the fact that you felt the same electricity that you did when you first touched the manhwa.

“Shall we?” he asked, his voice low enough that only you could hear it.

You knew you had no choice as he guided you up the grand entrance. This was a canon event. The canon event leading up to their meeting. You had to play your part if you wanted to not experience dying in her body.

The flashes of cameras almost blinded you had it not been for Yoongi’s broad back that shielded you from them. The two of you stopped in the middle to smile for the camera, a PR thing Yoongi had to do for his company. His hand rested on the small of your back, gently pushing you closer to him. You knew what would happen like the back of your hand, and just as written, one of the reporters asked him to define his relationship status with you.

She’s the most important woman in my life.

“She’s the most important woman in my life,” Yoongi declared with unwavering sincerity, his deep voice resonating through the flashes and murmurs of the crowd. As he looked down at you, his lips curved into that signature, disarming smile—the kind that could melt even the coldest of hearts.

The ball was just as grand as you imagined. It was apparent that the rich spared no expense in this and you couldn’t imagine that you would experience this in your life. Yoongi’s gaze lingered on you, an unreadable expression flickering in his eyes as he watched you take it all in. There was something almost amused about the way he observed you, though he said nothing. It was almost comical to him how you were impressed with this when the friend he knew practically grew up in this extravagance. You were in awe at the intricate details, the food and drink being served, and the expensive jewelries that would be auctioned tonight.

“What do you want me to bid for?” Yoongi asked, his voice low and smooth as he tipped his wineglass to his lips, his dark eyes not straying from you.

You let out a short chuckle, already knowing what to say. “I want that old ring the Queen once owned,” you answered monotonously. It was the most expensive item in the auction, and exactly the kind of thing the second female lead would desire. You, on the other hand, felt that it was ridiculous to desire something that was given by someone who dearly loved the Queen. Yoongi merely lifted his dark brow before nodding his head.

As always, her will was always his command– until it wasn’t.

The bidding war for the final piece, the ring, didn’t take that long as Yoongi continuously bidded ridiculously high amounts that the businessmen could not keep up with the younger man. Yoongi didn’t even flinch as the bids shot up. He stood there, effortlessly cool, his back straight and shoulders squared, his eyes locked on the auctioneer like a predator stalking its prey. The others tried to keep pace, their offers becoming desperate, their faces flushed with a mix of anger and humiliation as Yoongi continued to raise the stakes, his voice cold and assured as he increased his offer without hesitation.

In the end, Yoongi won. And it showed with the way he turned back to you, that same smirk still dancing at corner of his lips.

This was it.

This was the moment.

Yoongi was walking to you, his expression still that of a triumphant victor as he made his way to you. You couldn’t help but keep your eyes to him. The way his dark eyes were trained on you was captivating and you were captivated. It was as though you were the only one in this room to him, like all other people could disappear and he wouldn’t even blink. In fact, you were too captivated that you almost forgot what the next scene was.

But just as was written by the author, a waitress tripped, your light-colored dress now splashed with red wine, a stark contrast. The sound of glass breaking, the accident itself, was enough to silence the whole ballroom. Your mouth hanged agape as you looked down at your dress, and then slowly, you lift your eyes to the waitress.

Your eyes met the female lead’s. Hers was comically wide as she continuously apologized to you, her expression that of panic as her manager and more people flocked to where you were.

“What happened?” Yoongi’s voice was sharp, his usual calm replaced by a low, controlled edge. His hands clasped your arms with a firm but steady grip, his gaze darting between your face and the ruined fabric of your gown. The pristine, light-colored dress was now stained with crimson, the deep red wine soaking into the fabric and spreading like an ominous bloom.

Your eyes flicked back to the waitress—her—the female lead. Just as the manhwa dictated, there she was, the unassuming heroine, standing in front of you with wide, tear-filled eyes. Her cheeks flushed crimson as she stammered apology after apology, her hands trembling as she bent down to pick up the shards of broken glass at her feet. You saw her flinched.

“I—I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to! Please forgive me, Miss!” she pleaded, her voice shaky and sincere. The panic on her face was painfully familiar. You’d read this scene before. You knew every word, every gesture.

And yet, being in it now, living it—felt different.

Your dress was ruined, yes, but more importantly, this was the moment. The one where Yoongi, the ever-distant, untouchable main lead, would first notice her. Where his protective instincts would be stirred, his curiosity piqued by her clumsy, honest nature. This was where it all began—their love story.

Except right now, he wasn’t looking at her. He was still looking at you

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice quieter now, his brows furrowed as his thumb lightly grazed your arm, checking for any sign of injury. There was no recognition in his gaze for the woman kneeling at your feet, no acknowledgment of her presence.

You blinked, caught off guard. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. By now, he should have been helping her, offering her a reassuring smile, gently lifting her to her feet. That was what the script demanded

But here he was, his focus entirely on you.

“I…” Your voice faltered as your mind raced to adjust. You needed to steer this back on track. The story needed to progress, or everything could spiral out of control. “I’m fine. It’s just the dress,” you said, forcing your tone to be light, dismissive, as though the ruined gown didn’t matter.

Yoongi’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze hardening. “It’s not fine,” he said, his voice firm. He turned, his sharp eyes landing on the waitress. The poor girl visibly flinched under his scrutiny, her hands freezing mid-motion as she tried to gather the broken pieces.

“It was an accident,” you said quickly, stepping forward and placing a hand on his arm to stop him. “Yoongi, it’s fine.” Your words were deliberate, almost desperate. You needed him to look at her, to notice her, to play his part in the story.

He hesitated, his jaw tightening, but at last, his gaze shifted to the waitress. There it was—that flicker of recognition. The moment his eyes softened, his expression melting into something less severe.

“Are you hurt?” he asked her, his tone still carrying a note of authority, but the sharp edges were gone. This was it—the moment you’d been waiting for.

The girl shook her head quickly, her cheeks turning an even darker shade of red. “N-no, sir! I’m fine. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Enough,” Yoongi interrupted gently but firmly. He crouched down, his movements slow, deliberate, as he began picking up the shards of glass alongside her. The room seemed to collectively hold its breath, all eyes on the enigmatic businessman lowering himself to help a clumsy waitress. “Be careful. You’re going to hurt yourself,” he said with a much softer voice. His gaze lingered on her face, and it was apparent that you were now forgotten.

And there it was—their first connection. The moment the story truly began.

You exhaled slowly, stepping back as the crowd around you began to disperse, the murmurs of the guests returning to their usual buzz. This was how it had to be. You just had to step back now and let their love story grow.

You reached the balcony and you thanked heavens that you were alone. You breathed a sigh of relief, both for the gratitude that you were alone and for surviving that scene. You were looking up at the stars when you felt a suit jacket landed on your shoulders, safely engulfing you with warmth and against the cold night.

You turned, not knowing who to expect but he was definitely not it. You didn’t even know who he was.

The handsome man met your eyes before flashing you a charming smile of his own that was enough to disarm you. “What a shame…”

You blinked, confused by his sudden appearance, your heart still racing from the scene inside. "What is?" you asked, voice quieter than you'd intended, as your eyes darted back toward the ballroom doors.

"That your dress was ruined," he said smoothly, his tone playful, though his eyes seemed to hold something more—curiosity, maybe, or perhaps something deeper. "You were the most beautiful girl there. You managed to catch everyone’s attention when you entered the room– including mine."

Sputtering at his confidence, you felt your cheeks heated up from his statement. “Were?”

The side of his eyes crinkled as he looked at you. He couldn’t believe that the elusive and untouchable you were giving him the time of the day. You were always in Yoongi’s orbit, and everyone knew how powerful his family was. It was always the two of you in your own little world, and Yoongi was seldom far from you. It was the reason why suitors couldn’t reach you. No one needed the Min Yoongi for an enemy.

It was safe to say that the relationship between the two of you were always a question mark to the onlookers. In the world of the rich, the two of you should have been long engaged if that was the case. And a chance that Yoongi was far from you was not to be wasted. And so, he took the chance.

“You still are,” he breathed honestly. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You were so magnificent and he understood why Yoongi was similar to a guard dog when it came to you. He extended his hand to you. “I’m Kim Taehyung.”

You only had to wait, but the waiting got boring. When you’d read the manhwa, the pacing had felt seamless, the love story unfolding with a rhythm that kept you turning the pages. Here, however, their love story took time.

It turned out that not only were you bored, but you were also extremely wealthy in this life. You rationalized that it would be okay to enjoy her life just a little.

Leaning on the balcony railing, you released your fifteenth sigh of the day, staring blankly at the sprawling estate below. Behind you, the ever-dutiful maid hovered, hands clasped nervously in front of her. Her expression flickered between concern and trepidation, as though bracing for one of the infamous tantrums her mistress was known for. Lately, though, you’d given her nothing of the sort—no sharp words, no impatient outbursts. That, in itself, seemed to unsettle her.

However, another sigh from you finally prompted her to ask you what was wrong.

Her eyes widened, startled by the question. “I… I suppose I’d pay off my family’s debts,” she admitted, voice small. “It’s been weighing on us for years.”

“How much?” you asked, your tone casual, as though inquiring about the weather.

“Three million,” she murmured, her cheeks coloring as though the very amount embarrassed her. “But I couldn’t possibly—”

“Consider it done,” you interrupted breezily, waving off her protests. “Next?”

“Maybe…I’d go to Paris?”

You nodded, your eyes gleamed as the spark of inspiration ignited within you. A brilliant, slightly impulsive idea. “That’s perfect. Grab your passport.”

It turned out that Paris was also someone’s favorite place.

You were sitting in a café one late afternoon, willing the time to pass by quickly so you could return to your life as evidenced by your poor attempt at reading a book when the chair in front of you was suddenly occupied. With your peace suddenly gone, you looked up and met his eyes. He was smiling at you, his dark hair brushed away from his face, so dissimilar to how formal he looked when you met him.

“We must stop meeting like this.”

He chuckled at your expression before he leaned in on the table. “In Paris, of all places. I have to say, this is starting to look like fate.”

Who was he exactly?

You tried to rack your brain of his scenes in the manhwa, and you had been ever since you met him in that ball. He wasn’t supposed to be in the scene…or was it possible that that happened behind the scene when the focus wasn’t on you, but on Yoongi and the female lead?

“Do you believe in fate, Mr. Kim?” you titled you head in curiosity, looking at him intently for any sort of familiarity that may come your way.

“I do and I don’t. I think that fate is an abstract concept that no man can ever define. There are some things that we are just too powerless to stop; and there are some things that we are too powerful to accept,” he stated with a smile on his face. “You’re here because of fate, Y/N. Don’t you think so?”

“What?”

Taehyung chuckled and patiently waited as the waiter placed his cup of hot chocolate on the table. “I think that you’re fated to be here at this exact moment.”

“What are you saying, Taehyung?”

“I’m saying, have dinner with me tonight.”

It was your second week in Paris when curiosity finally got the better of you. On the other hand, you could say that the past few days were one of the most interesting days of your life. You never knew that that little dinner with Taehyung could result to you gaining a true friend here. He was interesting, quirky, wise, and full of life. You also learned that he went to the same school as the original second female lead and Yoongi attended, and that he could never befriended you before because Yoongi was always with you. He offhandedly noted that it was so rare for him not to be with you when before, wherever you went, he would follow. Speaking of the character that you assumed, her phone—your phone now—sat untouched on the marble nightstand of your hotel suite. You’d avoided it so far, reasoning that it felt like rifling through a stranger’s diary. But tonight, as the soft glow of the Eiffel Tower illuminated the room, you gave in.

Plugging it in, the device vibrated to life, and a flood of notifications lit up the screen. Your jaw dropped slightly as you skimmed through the endless stream of missed calls and messages. Most of them were from Yoongi.

“Of course,” you muttered under your breath, scrolling through the list. There were texts, voicemails, and even some emails from him, all timestamped over the last two weeks.

His messages started casual enough, asking you where you were and if you were still avoiding him. He even stopped by the mansion only to find out that you weren’t there, let alone in the country. Not one in your mansion could tell him where you were despite his endless threats. As days passed by, however, his tone shifted to frustration.

I’m not kidding anymore. If I don’t hear from you, I’m coming to find you.

I am hiring a team to find you, princess.

His final message was dated today.

I do hope you remember that it is my birthday today. We always celebrate it together. We’re not gonna stop now just because you’re hiding from me.

You stared at the phone for a moment longer, the screen dark now but somehow still demanding your attention. Should you respond? What would you even say?

The phone vibrated in your hand, the screen lighting up with his name. Your stomach did a little flip, but you shook your head firmly. No. You weren’t going to answer. It was better this way—for him, for you, for the storyline. Yoongi belonged with the female lead, and the longer you stayed out of their orbit, the better. If you wanted to live, you had to do the opposite of what the second female lead did.

Instead, you grabbed your jacket, ready to explore the city some more with Taehyung. Paris was too beautiful to waste time fretting over a fictional man’s messages. Let Yoongi wait.

But just as you opened your hotel room, there he was with his signature stoic face, his dark brow raised. He pointedly looked at your phone, his name on the screen. He had his phone on his ear, while you had yours in your hand. You were literally caught red-handed ignoring his calls.

He ended the call with a deliberate tap and tucked his phone into his pocket, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Going somewhere?”

“What are you doing here?” you asked, shocked at his sudden appearance. He was supposed to be with her. The story said that he was supposed to be with her, celebrating with her, saving her from any other accidents or situations she found herself in. You did your part by staying the hell away from them….so why was he here?

Yoongi tilted his head slightly, his gaze narrowing. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” His tone was calm, but the edge was unmistakable. He stepped inside as though he owned the place. He didn’t ask for permission, didn’t wait for an invitation. He was just… there, filling the room with his presence like he always did. “And Paris, of all places? You’re more predictable than you think, princess.”

“I-I mean, I didn’t think you’d notice,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper, already regretting how ridiculous it sounded.

“What? How could I not? You literally disappeared on the face of the earth. You think I wouldn’t notice when you disappeared? When you’re not there?”

The intensity in his gaze left you momentarily stunned, your thoughts scrambling for coherence. “Y-you’re not supposed to be here…” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. Your disbelief bled into your words, your mind struggling to reconcile his presence with what you knew—or thought you knew. “The story says you’re supposed to be with her. This isn’t—this isn’t how it goes.”

“What story?”

You blinked owlishly, realizing what you’d said. “Huh? Nothing!” you exclaimed a little too quickly, waving your hands as if to physically push the moment away. “Anyway! Happy birthday!” you added, your voice unnaturally bright, hoping to distract him.

His squint deepened, a mix of curiosity and frustration flickering in his eyes. He clearly didn’t buy your deflection, but he let it slide—for now. Without a word, he crossed the room to the small bar cart in the corner, casually pouring himself a glass of whisky.

The tension in the air was thick as he swirled the amber liquid in the glass, his movements deliberate. He raised the glass to his lips, his gaze never leaving yours. You could practically see the wheels turning in that intelligent brain of his as he sized you up. After taking a slow sip, he finally spoke, his voice low, “Glad you remember my birthday, princess.”

Okay, fine. You were at loss. How were you supposed to know what you should say? This was not in the manhwa! Yoongi was basically going off-script!

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Instead, you turned your gaze to the door, silently willing him to leave. But Yoongi didn’t move. If anything, he seemed more determined, his presence as unyielding as ever.

“Fine,” he said after a long moment, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. “If you won’t come back, then I’ll stay. Paris is nice this time of year, isn’t it?”

He stuck by you like a shadow and he all but bought the entire hotel floor. He was adamant on spending every moment with you. The most baffling part? He still kept in touch with her. He called, he texted, he checked in on the female lead—but here he was, right beside you, refusing to leave. It made no sense. To add confusion to the mix, Yoongi kept on shooting dark glares at your phone whenever it chimed from Taehyung’s messages and he felt himself getting irritated. He wondered who was brave enough to message you when no one used to before except him.

You had been away for him for just a short time and yet, he felt like you were so far away already, like something shifted, like your entirety changed. It was like you were not the best friend he used to have.

You looked down at your phone as soon as it chimed again and you couldn’t help but chuckled at the silly selfie he took with a duck. You were too engrossed in your phone that you missed the way Yoongi gripped his utensils. You and him hadn’t spent time together since you were so busy evading him and now that he finally caught up with you, your attention was somewhere else.

Why were your attention not on him?

Who was stealing your attention away from him?!

Was this how you punished him because of his current fling?

The sound of Yoongi’s sharp exhale pierced the air, and you glanced up just in time to see his fingers grip the edge of his glass with more force than was necessary. His jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed—not at the phone in your hand, but at you. He didn’t say anything, but the silence between you both was thick with something unspoken, a tension you had been drowning in since he followed you here.

It wasn’t that you wanted to ignore him, but the truth was... you didn’t know how to deal with this version of Yoongi. The one who wasn’t following the script. The one who was here in Paris, beside you, watching you laugh at Taehyung's ridiculous duck selfie like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“What’s so funny?” Yoongi’s voice was quiet, but it was sharp. He didn’t bother to look at your phone. Instead, his gaze stayed locked on your face, his eyes a shade darker, deeper than you remembered them being.

You blinked, momentarily stunned by the sudden shift in his mood. “Oh, nothing, just a ridiculous selfie from my friend,” you said, still chuckling to yourself. “He’s with a duck.”

“He?” His voice held a dry amusement, but there was an edge to it that made you uncomfortable.

You could feel the subtle tension thickening in the air, like the weight of a storm about to break. Yoongi's question hung between you like a spark in dry tinder. You shrugged, pretending to be casual, though the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. "Yes, he. My friend Taehyung," you said, not looking up from your phone.

But you could feel Yoongi’s eyes boring into you, every syllable of his next words like a tightening coil. “Taehyung,” he repeated, his voice cold and deliberate, as though testing the name on his tongue. His grip on his glass had tightened to the point where his knuckles were white, but it didn’t stop the slow, calculated sip he took, his gaze never leaving you.

The way he said his name made it seemed like your friendship with him was a mistake, a simple blunder on your end that shouldn’t have happened. It did feel like you stepped on a live mine, and you wondered why you were feeling like this when from what you knew about his character in the manhwa, Yoongi was a pure person. However, right now he felt like a dangerous one.

What were you supposed to do?

“You’re thirty now,” you said instead, steering the conversation away from an unfamiliar territory as you placed the phone facedown. The two of you were having brunch in a famous restaurant and you were thoroughly enjoying the croissant moments before the conversation turned sour.

He regarded you for a moment, fully aware of how you this was your sad attempt at changing the subject until he decided to put you out of misery. He nodded, waiting for you to make your point.

“You’re not getting any younger-”

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “What’s the point of this conversation, princess? You’re starting to sound like my grandma." He paused, as if savoring the thought. "By the way, she keeps asking for you. Says, and I quote, ‘her favorite grandchild never comes to visit anymore.’ Not even a phone call. Meanwhile, I’m still here, the actual grandchild, and I get nothing."

His glare was sharp, but there was no real venom behind it—just the familiar teasing edge that made you both roll your eyes and laugh, despite yourself.

“W-well! I’m just concerned that you won’t have a wife and any children of your own and that you’d grow old alone! I’m just a friend expressing concern over her best and oldest friend…” you rationalized. Fine, you were having fun teasing him while nudging him in the right direction. Yoongi was fun to mess with, you thought, if he was being himself and not the confusing and quite off-putting mood he was in a while ago.

You thought that he would react the way you anticipated him to, that he would get defensive and after which, hopefully, that he’d go back to their love story.

He did none of those things.

Instead, Yoongi leaned in, his manly scent permeating. He tucked a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, all while looking at you. “Why are you saying that I’ll be alone when I have you?”

You blinked, trying to process what Yoongi had just said. His voice, low and warm, carried a weight that wasn’t there a moment ago. You wanted to laugh, to brush it off like the teasing banter you two always shared, but the way his dark eyes held yours made it impossible. “I have you for always, right, princess? You’re not going to leave me for someone…beneath us, right?”

What?

His words seemed like he was pointing to another thing, like what he was asking you was a promise to be set in stone and not a mere assurance on his part. What was the real second female lead to say in situation like this?

“O-of course! We’re best friends! N-now let’s get out of here. I saw this beautiful necklace in that shop. It’s going to look beautiful on her. Maybe if you buy her that, then she’d forgive you for spending your birthday away from her,” you joked to deflect him, standing up and gathering your purse to escape the situation you found yourself in before he could even blink.

Think, Y/N. Think.

You gripped the stem of your wine glass, staring blankly at the flickering candle in the center of the table. The plot was veering off course, drifting further from the original narrative you knew by heart. Yoongi wasn’t supposed to be here with you, his steady presence upending the delicate balance of the story.

The main lead wasn’t supposed to stay by your side like this

Across the room, Yoongi was speaking with one of his father’s acquaintances, his posture relaxed but exuding the quiet authority that came so naturally to him. It gave you a few precious moments to breathe—and to think.

Ever since Paris, Yoongi almost never let you out of his sight. He would spend every free time of his with you. You couldn’t even refuse because he would get so suspicious. His best friend never said no to him, he knew that. Your previous actions of distancing yourself from him resulted in him latching on to you. What could you do to push him in the right direction which was to be with her?

What was the next canon event?

And then it hit you.

The company gala. The turning point. That was when he would bring her, the female lead, into the lion’s den. His family’s icy disapproval, their sharp-edged words of disdain, and their outright rejection of his choice would culminate in a dramatic declaration. Yoongi would stand by her side, rebel against his family, and announce that she was the one he wanted to marry.

It was a pivotal scene. A non-negotiable in the grand arc of his story.

You exhaled shakily. If you could just steer him toward that event, everything will fall back into place. You just needed to figure out when it was happening now that the timeline was unraveling in ways you couldn’t predict.

You just had another problem, though. The man that was now walking back to you was acting like someone who had his heart set on another, so unlike the Min Yoongi from the manhwa who only had eyes for her. His attention was unwavering, but it should not have been pointed to you but to her. The way his gaze softened whenever he looked at you, his refusal to leave your side—it was all wrong. None of it fit.

“Sorry about that,” Yoongi’s voice broke through your thoughts as he returned to the table. He slid back into his seat, his sharp eyes scanning your face. “You okay? You look… distracted.”

You forced a smile, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m fine. Just lost in thought.”

“About what?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious, and the warmth in his gaze made your stomach twist. He did hope that your attention was not being diverted by someone he didn’t even want to mention. He couldn’t even understand why the thought of you with someone else didn’t sit right with him. He couldn’t understand why he had this urge to remove the pest away from you.

“Doesn’t you company have an annual gala? I was thinking of what to wear. When is it again?” you asked, taking a sip of your drink to hide your nerves.

He was looking at you as though deep in thought, as though you were forgetting something. He tilted his head to the side, “You know it’s always in December. You always choose your dress a year in advance, princess,” Yoongi said, his voice laced with mild curiosity. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he studied you. “Why? You’ve never been one to care much about those kinds of things before.”

Your breath caught at his words. You always choose your dress a year in advance, princess. The familiarity, the ease with which he said it, threw you off. That line—it didn’t belong here. Not in this timeline. Not in this version of the story where your role was supposed to be temporary, a placeholder in the grand narrative between him and her.

“Right,” you said, forcing a light laugh that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Guess I forgot for a moment. Been busy, you know.”

Yoongi didn’t buy it. His gaze sharpened, a hint of amusement mingled with curiosity. “You? Forget? That’s not like you.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his posture relaxed but his eyes piercing. “What’s really going on?”

The intensity in his gaze made your stomach twist again. Stay calm. Don’t let him see.

“Nothing’s going on,” you said, a touch too quickly. You took another sip of your drink, using the motion to avoid his eyes.

“Anyway, December’s coming up fast, and I’m guessing you’re planning to bring her, right?” You kept your tone light, as if the question didn’t weigh heavily on your chest.

Yoongi’s expression shifted, the smirk fading as his brows furrowed slightly. “Her?”

You swallowed hard. “You know… the one you’ve been calling and texting all the time.” You gestured vaguely, hoping to seem indifferent. “The woman you’ve been—well, I thought you were planning to introduce her to your family at the gala.”

Yoongi smiled again, but this time, it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Let’s see, princess.”

“Admit that you had fun,” Taehyung teased you as he drove you home.

You couldn’t help the smile that crept across your lips. Against all odds, you’d genuinely enjoyed yourself. You did have fun. You always thought that movie dates were boring and full of cliché, but not with him. With Taehyung, everything felt effortless—light and uncomplicated, like breathing.

“Fine,” you conceded with mock reluctance, your tone carrying the weight of faux irritation. “It was a fun…”

“Date,” he finished smoothly, his eyes glinting with amusement as your voice trailed off.

Your cheeks burned at his audacity, the straightforwardness of the word stealing your ability to respond for a moment. A "date"? Could you even call it that? The way your heart fluttered betrayed any argument you might have tried to form.

You glanced away, fidgeting with the strap of your bag as thoughts tangled in your mind. Was it okay to feel this way? To bask in fleeting moments of happiness when the life you were living wasn’t truly yours? When you were still determined to set things right, to restore the balance of a narrative that had gone astray?

So caught up in your musings, you barely noticed the car slowing to a stop in the estate’s driveway. The towering grand doors loomed ahead, a stark reminder of the world you’d return to the moment you stepped out.

“Thank you,” Taehyung’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. It was quiet, genuine, and when you turned to look at him, his face was softer than you’d ever seen it.

“For what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“For being here,” he replied simply, his gaze holding yours.

The weight of his sincerity pressed against your chest, making it harder to breathe. Before you could respond, he leaned in, closing the distance between you. The world seemed to slow as his hand moved to cup your face, his fingers brushing against your skin with a tenderness that made your heart stutter.

Your breaths mingled, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips hovered so close to yours it was almost unbearable. You could feel the moment hanging on a fragile thread, teetering on the edge of something irreversible.

The room’s golden hues seemed to dim as the sound of the car horn echoed through the driveway, shattering the fragile intimacy between you and Taehyung. You jolted back, your heart pounding in your chest as if caught in an act of betrayal—though you hadn’t technically done anything wrong. Yet.

Taehyung sighed, his expression softening as he glanced toward the car behind him. “Looks like your knight in shining armor doesn’t know how to wait,” he said lightly, though there was a hint of tension in his voice.

You managed a shaky laugh, your hand gripping the strap of your bag tightly. “He’s just… overprotective.”

“Right,” Taehyung said, leaning back in his seat. His eyes met yours, warm and understanding, but with a flicker of something else—something that made your chest tighten. “Still, I meant what I said. Thanks for tonight.”

Before you could respond, the honk came again, sharper this time, as if Yoongi were making a point. You turned to glance at his car, the sleek black exterior glinting under the estate’s lights. Even from this distance, you could feel his piercing gaze locked on you.

“Goodnight, Taehyung,” you said hurriedly, fumbling with the door handle.

Taehyung smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

You stepped out of the car and started toward the grand door, the cold evening air biting at your skin. Yoongi’s car door slammed shut behind you, and the sound of his footsteps was a quiet storm approaching. You didn’t dare look back, your heart a riot of guilt, frustration, and confusion.

“Princess,” Yoongi’s voice cut through the quiet, smooth and controlled, but laced with an edge you couldn’t ignore.

You stopped in your tracks, turning slowly to face him. He was already close, his dark eyes scanning your face like a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. His suit was immaculate, as always, but there was an undercurrent of tension in his posture—shoulders just a little too stiff, jaw a little too tight.

“You’re back late,” he said, his tone deceptively casual.

“I went to see a movie with Taehyung,” you replied, keeping your voice neutral.

At the mention of Taehyung, Yoongi’s gaze flicked past you to the car that was now idling at the end of the driveway. You followed his line of sight and felt a pang of unease as his expression shifted. His brows raised slightly as he studied Taehyung through the window, his head tilting just enough to convey an air of quiet disdain.

And then he smirked—a slow, deliberate curl of his lips that sent an unfamiliar shiver down your spine. It wasn’t the Yoongi you were used to seeing. In that moment, he was something else entirely: sharp, commanding, almost cruel. The kind of presence that demanded submission without a word.

“What did you say his last name was, princess?” he asked, still watching Taehyung with that same unsettling smirk. His tone was light, but there was something in it—something dark—that made your heart beat faster.

“Kim?” you replied thoughtlessly, your mind too preoccupied with wanting to escape the tension. “Why did you ask?”

Finally, he turned his attention back to you, his gaze softening just enough to make the moment feel surreal. The shift was so subtle, so practiced, that it left you second-guessing the sharpness you’d just seen. He reached out, his arm sliding around your shoulders with an ease that felt both natural and calculated.

“No reason, princess,” he said smoothly, steering you toward the grand doors of the estate. “Just… curious.”

The warmth of his arm contrasted sharply with the coldness that lingered in the air. It was disarming, the way he could shift so easily between roles—between the man you knew and the one you weren’t sure you ever wanted to meet again.

As he guided you inside, you cast one last glance over your shoulder. Taehyung’s car hadn’t moved, the figure inside still watching. You couldn’t see his face, but you imagined the tension mirrored your own.

When the doors shut behind you, the weight of Yoongi’s presence beside you grew heavier. His hand rested lightly against your shoulder, his touch far gentler than the unease simmering just beneath the surface.

"Don’t you have better things to do than come to my dress fitting? Like, I don’t know, actually run your empire or something?" you asked, stepping out of the fitting room with a huff.

Yoongi sat sprawled on the plush sofa, one arm draped lazily along the backrest, a glass of champagne balanced effortlessly in his other hand. He looked utterly at ease, as if this boutique was his second home and not a place he had followed you to.

He shrugged, “Well, we can’t have you running away from me again, can we?”

“For the last time, I didn’t run away! I was in Paris because croissant sounded nice that day-”

“Sure, princess,” he agreed condescendingly. Yoongi’s gaze swept over you, lingering a moment longer than you expected. “On the other hand, you look immaculate in that dress,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “You’re going to make the rest of the gala feel underdressed.”

Heat crept up your neck at his words, but you quickly masked it with a scoff. “Flattery doesn’t suit you, Yoongi. Save it for the boardroom or—better yet—for her.”

He raised an eyebrow, swirling the champagne in his glass as if you hadn’t just tried to divert the conversation. “Her?” he echoed, tilting his head with mock curiosity.

You rolled your eyes, refusing to meet his gaze. “Yes, her. The one you met in the previous ball? The waitress? The one you’ll be introducing to your family at the gala, remember? Does she ring a bell?”

“We’re still talking about that?” Yoongi asked, his tone laced with amusement as he leaned back into the plush sofa. The glass of champagne in his hand tilted slightly, catching the light as he swirled the golden liquid. “Why are you so invested in my relationship with her?”

“I’m just concerned and curious as a friend.”

He chuckled softly, setting his glass down on the table beside him. “Curious, huh? And here I thought you were just jealous.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. “Jealous?”

Yoongi leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze never leaving yours. “You keep bringing her up. You’re obsessed with the idea of me introducing her to my family, of me texting her. You sure this isn’t just about you not wanting to share me?”

Your face burned, and you turned away, pretending to adjust the dress in the mirror. “You’re ridiculous and I refuse to discuss this further,” you muttered. “I’m going to buy this!” You announced before stalking back to the fitting room to avoid wondering about why your heart was skipping a beat and why you shouldn’t venture into that.

You were huffing as you tried to reach for the zipper behind you when the curtain suddenly opened and Yoongi stepped in, making the room felt impossibly small. You instinctively turned your back to him, clutching at the unzipped dress as though a protection against whatever this was.

“What are you doing here?!”

Yoongi leaned casually against the side of the fitting room, his smirk firmly in place. “Helping you, obviously,” he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I don’t need your help!” you snapped, tugging at the zipper yourself but struggling to reach it.

“Doesn’t look like it,” he said smoothly, taking a step closer. His fingers brushed against yours as he gently moved your hand away. “Relax, princess. I’ll take care of it.”

You froze, your heart pounding as his hands moved to the zipper. His touch was surprisingly delicate, his fingers grazing your back as he carefully pulled the zipper up. The sound of the zipper seemed deafening in the silence.

“There,” he said softly, his voice low and close to your ear. “All done.”

You were about to turn around when he stopped you. You met his dark eyes through the mirror, and the intensity in his gaze held you captive. His hands lingered lightly on your shoulders, warm against the smooth fabric of the dress. There was something unreadable in his expression—a mix of curiosity, amusement, and something far deeper that you couldn’t quite name.

“You’re very beautiful, princess. Do you know that?” he whispered, resting his chin on your delicate shoulder.

“Yoongi, what are you doing?”

He was quiet for a moment as though in contemplation whether to say what he wanted to say. Like in the manhwa, Yoongi was calculating. He never did anything without a reason, one of which would benefit him. “I had a nightmare the night after the ball,” he finally confessed, his voice low and almost distant, as if recalling something that lingered in his mind. “We were on the yacht. I think it was a party. You were there… She was there. I was there. And the yacht… it slammed into a rock. The two of you were thrown off.”

If he felt your body went rigid, he didn’t mention. He never broke eye contact, his arms around your waist as he told you of his dream. The one exactly what happened in the manhwa– the one where the main lead chose to save the main female lead first, only to find out the it was already late for the second female lead.

His body was so close that you could feel the slight tremble in his arms as he spoke, his fingers grazing your waist with the same careful intensity.

You met his gaze in the mirror again, and something twisted in your stomach. There was an almost predatory look in his eyes, but there was something else too—something far more vulnerable, raw. He didn’t break eye contact, and his grip on you tightened just slightly, as though he wanted to hold on, as though he was afraid you’d slip away.

“In my dream,” he continued, his voice barely a whisper, “I saw you die because I saved her first. It felt so real, like I was remembering something that already happened.” He paused, and you felt the weight of his words sink in. “Why would I save her first when I know I can’t lose you?”

 “It’s just a dream…” you tried to console him. How could he remember something that happened in the ending? Was the barrier between the characters and the plot weakening? What was changing? And how could you go back to your own world when he was holding onto you so tight as though if he looked away, you’d disappear?

“It is, right? It’s not going to happen... I’ll make sure of it.”

December came.

It was the month you were both dreading and anticipating. You were almost at the end of the story, and so far, you did your absolute best to let their love story unfold without a second female lead antagonizing it. You did your part by staying away from them. One problem though, the male lead was not acting like he was written in the manhwa. He was not acting like a man in love should be to her. Instead, he was out there sticking to you like

It was safe to say that Min Yoongi went rouge.

You did not know what to expect in the annual gala. You no longer have the upper hand. You were in the blind as though you were a real character and no longer a reader. You feared that the longer you stayed in this fictional world, the more likely that you’d be incorporated in the story and no longer as a second female lead that could just easily disappear.

You needed answers on how to escape from this fictional world. Answers eluded you. Worse still, so did the only person who seemed to see you for who you were. Taehyung. Since that night, not once did Taehyung answer you calls nor respond to your numerous messages. You tried asking your trusted staff about him, but even they were mummed. It was only your closest maid who whispered to you what transpired and how Taehyung’s budding business empire had crumbled overnight, crushed under the weight of lawsuits—tax evasion, fraud, and other accusations you couldn’t fathom. The news left you hollow. You hadn’t seen this coming. The man who had been your one source of normalcy, the one who made you feel like a real person instead of a pawn in someone else’s story, had disappeared into the shadows of scandal. You thought to yourself that maybe you really didn’t know him at all and that it was best to just focus on how to once and for all, leave this universe.

But who could you ask?

You continued anxiously tapping your heels on the marbled flooring, observing the guests. You were in the corner, trying to hide in the shadows so you could freely look for her. He would be bringing her, right?

Where is she?

Your eyes scanned the room again, trying to keep your presence hidden in the shadows. The guests were mingling, lost in the glitter of conversation and champagne. Laughter bubbled up in the air, but none of it felt real. Not like it should have. None of this was real, in fact. This was a fictional world where you were stuck in.

You wondered what would happen if you stopped playing her role. But before you could dwell on that thought, the door opened again, and you stiffened. You were expecting to see the main female lead, yet instead, it was Yoongi. The man of the hour. He entered the room and all the guests he passed greeted and congratulated him for setting another record in his empire, yet his eyes always returned to you. Where was she? This was not supposed to be like this. Yet, you knew in the back of your mind that something integral changed. You were in denial about how you no longer had control over this, that you might as well be truly in the story now, no longer an observer, no longer able to hide behind the pages of the manhwa.

You stepped back involuntarily, no longer feeling the courage you had faked for so long. You lost control. You had to find a way out. However, when you slipped away and turned the corner, you bumped into an old, yet dignified woman. You bowed in apologies when it dawned upon you.

You have seen her before.

Slowly, your eyes lifted to hers. You knew her. She was the woman who gave you the manhwa… How was she in this world?!

Your mouth hanged agape as the corner of her lips lifted, her eyes crinkling when she saw the dawn of recognition on her face. “I told you reading it will change your mind.”

“It’s you,” you whispered, taking an unsteady step back. Your eyes darted over her, as if trying to piece together a puzzle that didn’t belong in this world. “H-how… How are you here? What’s going on? Y-you have to help me. Why am I here? How can I leave?!”

She studied you for a moment, her gaze steady, unreadable. “You’re here because someone wants you here, dear.”

“I don’t want to be here! I want to go back.”

Her head tilted slightly, her calm demeanor unwavering. “But why? What do you have in your old life that you so desperately want to return to? Aren’t you alone there? Didn’t you have no one to love you?”

“That’s not the point!” you shot back, a tremor running through your voice. “And it’s not different here. No one loves me—no one even knows the real me.”

Her smile deepened, a glint of something—mischief, perhaps?—in her eyes. “Ah, but who do you think was desperate enough, filled with enough sorrow, to pull you into this universe?”

Your breath caught, confusion clouding your mind. “I… I don’t understand.”

“When she died,” the woman began, her voice lowering, as if unveiling a truth long buried, “the manhwa ended. But did you think the characters would simply cease to exist? No, dear. They continued, burdened by the pain of their story. Yoongi was devastated. He regretted everything—every word, every choice, every moment that led to her death. He mourned her. His sorrow was so great, it transcended the story’s limits and reached you.”

Your head spun. “Me?” you repeated weakly, disbelief dripping from your voice.

“Dear, you are her. Just in a different universe. It’s the reason why you sided with her, why you felt for her, why her character called on you, why her pain felt like your own. You are her.”

“I don’t want to be her,” you said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t choose this. Please—just send me back to my own universe.”

The woman sighed, her expression softening, though her eyes retained their strange, knowing glimmer. “The only way out,” she said slowly, “is through. The manhwa will only release you when its story ends. And you know how it ends, don’t you?”

A cold realization began to settle in your chest. “When he marries the female lead,” you murmured, dread weaving through every syllable. Your words hung in the air, heavy and final.

The sharp sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, breaking your trance. You barely had time to gather your thoughts before a familiar voice cut through the suffocating stillness.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you. What are you doing here?”

Yoongi’s low, commanding tone sent a jolt through you, but it was his grip—firm but not harsh—as his hand closed around your arm that made your breath hitch.

You turned to face him, his dark eyes locking onto yours. They were intense, holding a darkness that made your stomach churn. Something simmered beneath his composed exterior, something unsettling.

“How long have you been standing there?” you asked, your voice unsteady.

His lips quirked into a small, unreadable smile. “I just arrived, princess,” he said, the pet name rolling off his tongue like silk. “What are you doing here? Alone?”

“I…” You hesitated, your mind racing for an excuse. “I was just talking to—”

When you turned back, the old woman was gone.

Your heart sank, panic surging through you. The corridor where she had stood moments ago was now empty, as though she had vanished into thin air.

Yoongi frowned, his grip on your arm tightening slightly. “Talking to who?” he pressed, his voice dropping.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze, but the weight of it was crushing. “No one,” you said quickly, your voice barely above a whisper. “She must’ve left before you got here.”

Yoongi looked down at you, his expression calm, his gaze steady. Yet, something about the way he held himself—the deliberate gentleness, the faint curve of his lips—made unease coil tightly in your chest. A part of you whispered that this tenderness was a mask, that he wasn’t as naïve or benign as he seemed.

But then he smiled.

It was a tender smile, soft around the edges, and for a fleeting moment, your doubts dissolved like mist under the morning sun.

“Let’s get back to the party, princess,” he said, his voice a soothing balm against the tension humming in your veins. “Your parents arrived.”

Your steps faltered. “My parents?”

The mention of them sent a jolt through you. They were a peripheral presence in the story, barely more than a footnote in the manhwa’s narrative. They were always overseas, managing their company, distant figures who left their daughter to fend for herself. Their absence was a plot device, a catalyst for your dependence on Yoongi.

But now, they were here.

“W-why are they here?” you asked, your voice trembling despite your effort to steady it.

Yoongi stopped walking, turning to face you fully. His expression didn’t change, but there was something unsettling in the way his eyes softened, like he was trying to calm a skittish animal. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, his tone quiet yet resolute.

The words only made your pulse quicken. He offered his arm to you, his demeanor so effortless, so composed, as though he hadn’t just upended everything you thought you knew about the storyline. “Shall we?”

Were you imagining things, or were the guests’ gazes lingering just a little too long as you and Yoongi re-entered the ballroom? Conversations paused, eyes flickering in your direction, a murmur of whispers spreading like ripples across the sea of elegantly dressed attendees.

Yoongi, as always, was composed. His hand rested lightly on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd with an ease that belied the tension curling in your chest. You tried to focus on the glittering chandeliers, the music, the familiar opulence of the space, but the weight of the stares made it impossible.

“There’s our little girl!”

The warm, dignified voice cut through the hum of the crowd, pulling your attention to its source. Your mother stood near the edge of the room, resplendent in a gown that rivaled the grandeur of the occasion. Her face lit up with delight as she strode toward you, arms outstretched.

“Y-you’re here…” you stammered, shock rendering you momentarily immobile as she pulled you into an embrace. Her movements were graceful yet firm, as though she’d been waiting for this moment.

“Of course, we’re here,” she said, stepping back to study your face, her smile warm but tinged with something calculating. “Why wouldn’t we be? It’s not every day that our dear daughter gets engaged.”

Your heart raced, panic rising as you tried to process what was happening. “I… I don’t understand,” you managed, your voice trembling as you looked between your parents and Yoongi.

Yoongi stepped closer, the warmth of his hand on your back turning into a subtle yet firm pressure. His voice dropped to a low murmur, meant only for your ears, as his sharp eyes held yours in an unrelenting gaze.

“It’s all been arranged, princess,” he said softly, his words almost tender but laced with steel. “Your parents and mine have been discussing this for some time. They thought tonight was the perfect opportunity to make it official.”

Your heart pounded in protest, the world around you narrowing to just him and the enormity of what he was saying. “I didn’t agree to this,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “This is wrong! You don’t want this, Yoongi. You have her. And I—”

“You what?” he interrupted sharply, his eyes narrowing. “You have Taehyung?”

“No!” you snapped, shaking your head. “This isn’t about him. This is about them deciding for us. This is about tying your life to mine when you don’t even want to!”

He tilted his head slightly, his smirk returning but without any real humor. “Who says I don’t want to?”

“Yoongi—”

“Look, princess,” he cut you off, his voice soft but commanding. “We just have to act like we’re going along with this. Just pretend. Can you do that for me?”

Your breath caught, and you searched his face for some hint of his true feelings. But all you found was a calm determination that left you more uncertain than ever.

The murmur of the crowd reached you, the polite applause growing louder as you turned toward the center of the room. Yoongi extended his hand, his posture exuding confidence and charm as he guided you toward the raised platform where your parents and his waited.

The spotlight followed the two of you as you ascended albeit reluctantly, every step feeling heavier than the last. The room seemed to hush, the weight of their expectations bearing down on you.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Yoongi began smoothly, raising his glass in a toast. His voice carried easily, commanding the attention of the entire ballroom. “Tonight is a special night, not just for our families, but for me. I’m honored to announce my engagement to this incredible woman beside me, my childhood best friend, the only woman who have never left my side. I cannot live without her, and soon, I’ll never have to.”

The applause erupted, deafening and overwhelming. You felt trapped, the walls closing in as Yoongi turned to you, his smile perfectly composed for the crowd.

“Shall we make it convincing, princess?” Yoongi murmured, his voice low and unreadable, carrying a weight you couldn’t quite place. 

Before you could respond, he cupped your face with a gentleness that felt at odds with the deliberate precision in his movements. His touch was warm, grounding, yet it sent a jolt through you—a mix of dread and something far more dangerous. 

Your breath hitched. 

Never in your wildest dreams did you think Min Yoongi—the composed, untouchable Min Yoongi—would lower his head to capture your lips. Even more unthinkable was the way his kiss shattered every expectation, unraveling something deep within you. 

Yoongi kissed like a man starved. His lips moved against yours with a consuming intensity, a hunger that left no room for hesitation. It wasn’t gentle or tentative; it was deliberate, almost punishing. He took and took, claiming you with every movement of his mouth. His tongue brushed against yours, coaxing and demanding at the same time, leaving you breathless. 

His free hand cradled your face, tilting it to him as if to ensure you couldn’t escape—not that your body seemed capable of responding. Your knees felt weak, your heart thundered in your chest, and the noise of the crowd faded into an inconsequential blur. 

For a moment, there was only him. 

The crowd erupted into applause, the sound jolting you back to reality. The cheers and whistles surrounded you, the noise pressing in like a tidal wave. You blinked, realizing that your hands had gripped the fabric of his jacket, as though anchoring yourself to him. 

Yoongi pulled back slowly, his gaze locking with yours. His eyes were dark, burning with something you couldn’t decipher. His lips curled into a faint, triumphant smile, as if he knew exactly what effect he’d had on you. 

You barely had a moment to catch your breath before he took your hand in his. The velvet box you hadn’t even noticed being opened now sat empty in his other hand. And then, before you could process what was happening, there it was—a massive diamond glinting on your finger, its size almost blinding under the ballroom lights. It was familiar. How could it not when it was the same ring he won in the auction?

Why did he have this now? When was this entire fiasco prepared?

Your chest tightened as you stared at the ring, the weight of it feeling heavier than it should have. 

Yoongi raised your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, his gaze never leaving yours. To the crowd, it was the perfect picture of a devoted fiancé. But to you, it was something far more unnerving. 

“You wear it well,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. 

The applause swelled around you again, the sound nearly deafening as you tried to steady your racing thoughts. 

This wasn’t part of the story. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

But Yoongi, ever the master of control, seemed to have rewritten the script entirely. And you were left standing in the middle of his narrative, unable to tell where the performance ended and the truth began.

The evening air outside was cool and calm, a sharp contrast to the warmth and chatter of the grand party you had just left behind. As the crowd dwindled and the night settled, Yoongi offered you his arm, escorting you toward his sleek black car. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, and his dark eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than usual.

The night seemed to be endless. You were never left alone even for a moment. You wanted nothing more than to lie down and plan your next step. You had to, or else you were stuck here.

“I’m sorry I missed your speech,” you said as the car pulled away from the glowing mansion. “I’m sure it was great.”

He glanced at you, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That’s fine. You’ll always be here to hear my next speech anyway.”

You returned his smile, but it was brittle, not quite reaching your eyes. Had your plan succeeded, this would be one of your last moments with him. You’d return to your world, leaving this Yoongi—and this universe—behind. The thought tightened something in your chest, but you pushed it aside.

“I’m sorry about the sudden engagement, princess.” His voice was soft, laced with what sounded like regret, but his eyes told a different story. “My hands were tied. Our families went behind our backs, and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

Lies. All of it.

What you didn’t know was that Yoongi had orchestrated everything. He had whispered into the right ears, pulled strings behind the scenes, and crafted a perfect storm to ensure this engagement would bind you to him. He didn’t care what the truth was, whether or not you were from this world. He cared about one thing only—keeping you by his side.

Something in him had shifted the moment he realized how easily you could slip away. The very idea of losing you—to this world, to Taehyung, to anything—was unbearable. It drove him to actions he never thought himself capable of, cruel and unapologetic. Taehyung was out of the picture now, his budding empire crushed under the weight of scandal. Yoongi had ensured that, and he felt no remorse.

What mattered was you.

You offered him a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes because if what you were planning was successful, you’d return to your own world and he’d be left in this universe. Yoongi quietly offered you a champagne as the driver smoothly drove back to the mansion.

“Are we celebrating something?” you asked, eyeing the sparkling liquid.

“Just…for always, princess,” he said softly, the words carrying an undertone you couldn’t quite place.

You hesitated, but took the glass, sipping the sparkling liquid. The conversation flowed effortlessly, a dance of shared humor, mutual interests, and a surprising depth of understanding. With each exchange, you were reminded of why you had felt drawn to Yoongi in the first place. For all his intensity and mystery, he was undeniably charming, and being with him felt easy in a way you hadn’t expected.

The spirit of alcohol definitely made you forget about the ruckus that happened tonight. If he said that he didn’t have anything to do with it, who were you to question him when he was characterized in the manhwa as someone who was good?

Your conversation with him was fun. It was grounding.

Until the world began to tilt.

Dizziness crept over you, subtle at first but quickly overpowering. Your fingers loosened around the champagne flute as your head grew heavier, and before you knew it, your cheek was pressed against his shoulder.

“Yoongi…” you murmured, your voice weak as you leaned against him.

He steadied you, his hand moving to cradle your head as you slumped against his shoulder. “It’s alright,” he said softly, his voice carrying a note of finality.You tried to sit up, to stay awake, but your body refused to cooperate. Everything blurred together, and then, there was nothing.

Yoongi’s hand moved to steady you, his touch gentle as he adjusted your position so you rested more comfortably against him. He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, before shifting his gaze toward the driver.

“To the airport,” he instructed, his voice calm but firm.

The driver nodded without hesitation, changing course.

Yoongi turned his attention back to you, his jaw tightening as he studied your sleeping face. He’d heard everything earlier—the old woman’s cryptic words, your desperate plea to leave, and your determination to escape this world.

It all made sense. The nightmare that brought terrors in his heart really happened. You died because of his foolishness, because he chose someone else over you when he knew he couldn’t survive a world without you. It had been like living his worst nightmare all over again, the fear of losing someone he wasn’t ready to let go. But this time, he refused to let it happen.

He wasn’t a religious man, but your presence in this universe felt like a miracle—a second chance, no matter how strange or impossible. Whether you were the original her or not didn’t matter. You were here. You were his.

And he wouldn’t let you leave.

His gaze darkened, his grip on your hand tightening slightly.

“You’re not going anywhere, princess,” he murmured softly, more to himself than to you.

The first female lead was no longer his focus. She was gone.

Now, it was you.

And Yoongi would do whatever it took to keep you by his side—even if it meant tying you to him so tightly you could never untangle the threads.

[milk-moonbunnies]

Dimples [Namjoon x Plus Size! Reader]

synoposis: the one where Namjoon is trying to show he's down bad for you

warnings: mdni, 18+, popular! Namjoon, plus size! reader, praise, namjoon fell first, dirty talk, alcohol mentioned, multiple orgasm, protected smut, a cute love story, college au, mention of jin, mention of jimin, flirting, chain necklace, manhandle, etc.

requested: Can you write plus-size girlie fics for Namjoon and Yoongi? I appreciate plus-size rep especially when it’s for Namjoon (Yoongi too), but there aren’t tons of fics for Joon. Don’t know why the man is fine as hell☺️- inside and out.

Tagging: @gottafightwhentheysaybehave

A/N: shout out to @ahgasegotarmy116 for reading this when it was only half done and sharing similar brain cells as me! Also, ignore that I've used these photos before. I love them, okay? lol

wc: 4.3k +

Everything about Namjoon is big.

If you were to ask his friends to describe him, they’d laugh, bunching their shoulders up to give off a taller and broader stance before simply saying, “big body.”

And it was true.

Namjoon had bulked up in college, finishing long days in the gym with a workout to relieve all the stress of classes, a part-time job, and the dread that one day in the future he might actually have to get a driver’s license and not ride a bike everywhere he went.

His body had developed thick muscles, toned hips, and broad shoulders that he almost had to enter through doorways sideways to get in.

He was a big man, and only someone soft and warm could ever handle his strength.

Someone like you.

-

You didn’t believe Namjoon liked you at first.

He was tall, big, and popular. A dimple smile that made anyone who saw it swoon, he was smart too, top ten in all his classes he took.

You really didn’t think he would notice you.

I mean, you’re pretty positive he had a secret fan club of girls and guys who adored him. You’re also pretty sure the president of the club was Jeon Jungkook, but don’t quote you on that.

You were just happy to keep your head down, pass your classes, and enjoy your college life with your little friend group. You didn’t need to get roped in with the unnecessary stuff like who was popular or who was dating whom.

But that all changed when Namjoon asked if he could sit at the table you were sitting at in the campus library. You were catching up on some assignments, preparing for one that wasn't even due till the end of the month, and suddenly there he was.

Tall, three books in one hand, flashing you those dimples like there wasn’t a free table, two tables to your left.

You had thought it was a one-off situation, letting him share a table with you.

You two had quietly studied together for a few hours without even exchanging a word.

It was honestly very refreshing. And when you had finally closed your laptop, standing up to give a little stretch, you didn't even notice the way his eyes trailed over you.

You simply gathered your stuff, shoving your books and laptop in your bag as he continued to pretend to read. You didn't know he had read the same sentence from the book in front of him five times in a row at this point.

When you sling your bag over your shoulder, you finally look over at him, a soft pink dusting your cheeks with color as you speak up. "See ya in class." It's a simple, small sentence you throw out as you accidentally brush your body against his shoulder to scoot past to leave. You mentally curse the chairs being so close together, feeling your soft body rub against his firm one, while Namjoon is "thanking" whoever designed the building to allow the physical contact to happen.

And you think that's it. Nothing would change in your life other than possibly giving him a head nod in acknowledgment the next time you two were in a class together. But you were sorely mistaken.

-

Namjoon is sitting next to your usual spot in class the next time you see him. He's got his textbook out, pen twirling nonchalantly in between his long fingers as he gives you another dimpled smile in greeting, and you only stumble once while heading to your seat.

"Hey," he greets, and you try not to think about how much you spill into his space. The chairs in most of your classes weren't made for bigger-sized people, and you usually tried to keep your bag in the seat next to you so you wouldn't bother people with how you filled your seat.

But with Namjoon occupying the seat, your thigh is pressed against his, your body squeezing into the chair with a blush. "Hi," you reply softly. You were already trying to figure out how to make yourself smaller. The metal arms of the chair dig into your plush thighs, and you notice that Namjoon doesn't move his leg from yours.

His long legs are spread, his foot barely a centimeter away from your left shoe, and your mind flashes a brief thought: how would it feel to have his arm wrap around the back of your chair? To have him welcome your body into his as you two attend this class.

Instead of diving into that thought any longer than you should, you shake your head clear, not noticing the way Namjoon fails to fight his giddy smile. He tries to keep it cool, bouncing his left knee as his right knee leans into your leg. And you're distracted by Namjoon once again, noticing how comfortable he seemed next to you.

Namjoon mentally sends another "thank you" to whoever designed this college, thankful to have someone so warm and soft squishing into his space. He wonders how much better it'd be if he could just sit you on his lap, and his face flushes all the way up to his ears.

You two don't exchange another word, the professor stepping inside the room with a warm greeting.

And for the rest of the class, both of you blush, pressed into each other, trying to focus.

-

And then it becomes routine.

You would come to your Psych class to Namjoon already seated.

And like the first time, you'd squeeze into your seat, your hip bumping into his until it became natural for him to rest his elbow on the arm of your chair. He did it slowly, building up the courage to get more than just a simple greeting for you.

Eventually, you stopped furrowing your eyebrows, confused why he was sitting next to you, let alone talking to you. And it's not long before you two start passing notes. You easily grab his pen from his hand to doodle something random in the margins of his notebook during the professor's lectures, and it's the highlight of Namjoon's day when you did it.

Your dynamic progressed from notes being passed between you to him offering you a snack, and then, every Thursday, a bag of gummy bears rested on his desk as you two slowly ate them throughout class. He naturally gave you every orange-flavored bear, resting it on your open book while you traded him the pineapple-flavored bears in return. And then finally, he took the next step when the following Thursday came around.

You had figured it'd be the same routine. The class was already going by quickly as you two leaned into each other. But then Namjoon is getting up first once the class is over. He seems a little nervous. You had started understanding his body language a bit better as time moved on. Still, you never seemed to think much of the lingering touches when he borrows a pen or when he slides his notebook over for you to draw random swirls in the top corner absentmindedly.

Namjoon runs a hand through his hair, his eyes not meeting yours as he watches the class begin to empty. "There's a- There's a party tomorrow night."

You blink.

A party? And then you remember.

Yes, a frat party for spring break. It had been the talk on campus this week; everyone was excited for a weekend party to welcome the start of spring break, the small vacation away from classes needed so much for everyone on campus.

And when Namjoon looks down at you, still seated, you're giving him doe eyes as you nod your head - and his heart squeezes.

"I think I'm gonna go," Namjoon adds and then quickly rushes, "to the party. I think I'm gonna go to the party." His fingers twitch, but you give him a pretty smile, your lips curving up in amusement as you nod your head again.

"Yeah?" You stand up and know that if you barely move an inch, you'd be pressed up against him. You give him another cute look as you tilt your head up to look at him, and decide to give him the chance to tell you this isn't what you were thinking. "Maybe I'll see you there?"

You know you're flirting, and you don't know if you should be - you don't know that he's truly catching what you're putting down, but you decide to give him another smile as you leave before him, looking forward to Friday night more than ever before.

And Namjoon groans the moment you're gone, he stands alone in the empty classroom, his brain replaying your coy smile over and over again.

-

You can't believe you're showing up at this party, but then you see his dimple smile flash in your mind alongside all the small moments in class that made you feel warm throughout your body. It's anticipation, it's undeniable now that you have caught feelings, and you feel a little nervous as you walk up Greek Row.

The party is in full swing, with crowds of people lingering on the front porch and lawn as you get closer. The music is already loud from where you stand across the street, and you just know the house shakes on the inside as you watch groups of people spilling out while more saunter in.

Your stomach flips, butterflies fluttering inside your tummy as you really think about this.

If anything, if you read the signals wrong, you can still have fun and tell your friends you officially attended a college party, even if it took you basically four years to do so.

And that's what gets you stepping inside.

The house is packed, and people are everywhere. The entry hallway, the stairs leading to the second floor, the little glimpse of the kitchen you can see towards the back of the house, and the living room, most of all, are packed with dancing bodies. All the couches had been moved along the walls to give space in the middle of the room for people to dance, and a mock DJ booth was set up in the right corner of the living room, where you could see one of the fraternity brothers acting as DJ.

Strobes of lights flashed from purple to blue, red, and green, changing to match the beat of the song currently playing as people bumped and grind already drunk off of cheap alcohol provided from the kitchen. You weren't sure if the smoke swirling in the rooms was from a fog machine or if it came from weed that you knew was being smoked inside another room, but it was the cherry on top of the cake for a classic frat party aesthetic.

It was a little overwhelming, to be honest, and you made your way to the kitchen to get a shot of courage before you tried to see if Namjoon was here.

You didn't know Namjoon was sitting on one of those couches in the living room, a drink in his hand while he tried to nonchalantly keep an eye on the front door. He had been at this party for a while now, his eyes flickering to the streams of people endlessly coming and going, in hopes it would be you walking through the door.

And when he finally did see you, he couldn't stop the grin from forming on his face.

-

Namjoon is able to catch up with you in the kitchen. You're standing there, a little lost, as your eyes scan all the bottles lined up on the counter. A lot of cheap alcohol, and a punch bowl that was mysteriously filled with a blue liquid you weren't sure about.

"I wouldn't drink it," Namjoon hums, and you twirl to see him on your left. He's giving you that dimple smile again, his body relaxed as he stands close to you. He looks good. He always looks good. But he looks really good tonight.

He's wearing a graphic t-shirt, jeans, with a chained bracelet that went with his chained necklace. It glints in the overhead light of the kitchen, and it's then that you realize you're staring too long.

"And what would you recommend?" You ask, you haven't had a sip of alcohol yet, but you could feel your body hum, slightly leaning closer to Namjoon as he bit his lip. Your eyes flicker to his lips from the action, and your own lips part before you meet his gaze again.

"Nothing," he smirks, and you can feel the heat that comes from him as he tilts his head. "But do you want to take a shot with me?"

- One shot turns into three, and you feel a little buzz thrumming under your fingertips as Namjoon leads you back to the living room. You try not to focus on the way his hand rests on your lower back as he guides you through the waves of people. But you do notice how many people greet him.

It's not surprising; you knew Namjoon was popular, but it was still interesting to see how many people said his name or nodded in his direction as he stayed close to you. It seemed the majority of the people knew him or of him, and silently followed him with their eyes as you two made your way back to one of the couches.

You notice Jin, a friend of Namjoon's, already sitting on one of them. He's nursing a drink in his hand when you two approach and gives you a charming grin. "And how does Namjoon know you?" His lips turn up in an amused grin, knowing eyes flashing from you to Namjoon, whose ears burn red. You sit, smiling at the older friend, and try not to react as Namjoon sits so close to you. But you fail, your thighs squeezing together as you give your own charming smile back to Jin.

"Psych with Volkov."

Jin winces, knowing how tough the professor could be, and nods his head. "Say no more, your next shot is on me."

-

True to Jin's word, your next shot is from him, and you two become quick friends as more of Namjoon's friends come around. And as the night goes on, you become more and more relaxed - leaning into Namjoon as you listen to Jimin talk about the projects he needs to work on during spring break. You would complain too if you had to work on schoolwork instead of taking a break like everyone else.

But soon enough, the couches become crowded, and everyone is trying to squeeze together before Namjoon literally takes you into his hands. "C'mere," he mumbles, and your face flushes from how easily he lifts you and places you onto his lap to make room for more people to hang out. Your weight settles on him, and you're a little drunk but not enough to overthink it.

"Wait," Your blush reaches your ears as Namjoon doubles down by wrapping a strong arm around your waist, keeping you against him as you squirm a little. "Everyone is looking." You mumble out, your back is against his broad chest as warmth pools in your lower stomach, and you are acutely aware of the way his large hand rests on your stomach.

You feel him laugh softly, little warm huffs tickling the back of your neck as he holds you tighter. "Who cares? Everyone's drunk. If they're looking, then they just see how pretty you look on my lap."

He says it so easily, so carefree, like it was only natural that you'd be in his lap. He says it like it's obvious you should be with him, and that makes your head get a little fuzzy from the thought of it. His words echo in your head a few times that you can't hide the smile that dances on your lips, and maybe it's the alcohol that makes your tongue a little loose, but you can't help but turn your head a little sideways to look at him. "Yeah? Are there any other positions you'd think I'd look pretty in?"

-

Namjoon’s eyes are hooded when he looks down at you. He's focused on the way your body squishes under his large hands, molding you to him as he has you lie on your back.

Your legs are straining up onto his shoulders, your full breasts spilling from the sides as your knees bend under the pressure of Namjoon’s body leaning over yours. He was folding you in half, making your thigh muscles burn as your lungs shook to breathe properly. All your rolls and curves were squeezed together under the stretch, and your head spun with the way he was able to manhandle you so easily.

Namjoon had always said he could bench press your weight as a warm-up, but you hadn’t taken it to heart. It always made a soft blush form on your cheeks as you nodded your head during your Psych class, dismissing his comment until he physically proved you wrong now.

Your pretty pussy clenched around nothing as Namjoon smirks down at you. His silver chain dangled between the two of you as his big body draped over yours, and you’re already sucking in another deep breath when you feel Namjoon guide his cock between your plush thighs.

"You don't know how long I've been wanting to do this." He murmurs, his voice almost sounding breathless as he guides the fat tip of his cock between your puffy folds. You can't see the way your pussy drools, mixing your arousal with his precum or that it's glossing his cock with a wet sheen that makes his balls tense from just the sight of it. But you do feel him.

Namjoon is big, just like everything else about him, and you can feel the weight of his cock as he presses his hips forward, sliding his cock between your chubby cunt until the tip nudges your clit. Each time he knocks the head of his cock into your sensitive bundle of nerves, your thighs twitch, and your jaw drops from the tingles of electricity shooting all the way through your body.

You're everything he had imagined and then some.

You're softer, your skin dipping to the hold he has on your body. The weight of your legs on his shoulders grounds him while he gets lost in the way your pretty cunt drools all over his cock. He hasn't even done anything yet, and you're coating him with your sweet slick. He can't wait to taste you, but right now, he needs you first.

Mentally, he promises to take his time next time. He wants to map every curve of your body with his tongue and then his fingers, but when you plead his name with a whine, he can't deny you. He'd been wanting this longer than you probably knew, and it doesn't take him long to lean on his knees, stretching your legs open as his cock notches on your entrance.

Then he's giving you something to really stretch over. The first few inches of his cock pressing in leaves you gasping. Your toes curl, your mouth gapes, and your eyes widen as he bullies his way inside slowly. You can feel every inch, every dip and ridge of his cock maze through your gummy walls until you're grabbing onto his biceps for mercy.

"Oh, oh!" Your head falls back, and Namjoon smirks as he holds one of your legs under the knee to open you up wider as your other leg slips off his shoulder. Your eyes are already glossing over, and he's never been more turned on than right now with you.

You're warmer, wetter, taking him better than he could have imagined, and it makes his stomach flex as he listens to the way you cry for him. Both you and your pretty pussy are talking back incoherently when he finally bottoms out. "Fuck baby, I think we might need to do this every day," Namjoon huffs, and your pussy clenches around him in agreement. "Heh- you'd like that, huh? Do you want to fuck you until your body remembers the shape of me days later, Baby?"

"Oh fuck, please, please-" Your eyes roll back just as his hips push backwards, sliding out until just his tip remains. He leans back to see how shiny you left his cock with your slick before he surges forward, knocking the breath from you once more.

He doesn't have to worry about being too rough; your body moves with his like you were meant just for him. And he tells you that too, as he begins to carve the shape of him inside your pretty pussy as he promised. Shivers run down your spine straight to your sopping cunt, your hole fluttering around his length as he picks up the pace gradually. You take the heavy weight he throws into every thrust with a sweet whimper, your nails digging into his arms as his fat tip smacks into your plush cervix with a filthy kiss.

Your swollen folds meet the tufts of dark hair at his base, and you keen at the way his cock massages all the right spots inside you. Your mouth hangs open, drool forming at the corner of your lips as he abuses the sweet spot that makes you see stars with your eyes open. "You're squeezin' me so tightly, you really don't want me to leave, huh?" Namjoon's words only make your head spin more, your hands clutching to his arms, the bedsheets, his shoulder - anywhere to ground you to reality as he builds the knot in your stomach tighter and tighter.

You never thought that the day you two studied together in the library would end up like this, with Namjoon splitting you open with his cock, his fingers digging into your plush thigh and hip as he fucks you, but you're so happy it did. You can feel his balls slap against your ass, the sounds of skin hitting skin resonating with your whines, and it's too much.

"M'gonna- fuck just like that, just like that!" Your chubby cunt slurps his cock deeper, gripping tighter and making it harder for him to leave as his tip swirls a heart against your sweet spot, and just as your brain realizes what Namjoon has done, your vision whitens. You can barely warn him, "m'cumming - oh fuck - oh my god!"

Your pussy gushes, pulsing around Namjoon so violently that he almost cannot keep fucking into you. Your walls flutter, milking his shaft as your brain blanks; the only coherent thought in your mind is him. Namjoon, just Namjoon, as you tremble underneath him.

Namjoon stares at you in awe, the image of your lewd expression crossing over your face searing into his mind as you cum. And the feeling of your body melting under his as he grinds his hips into yours is something he didn't know he needed until now. He fucks you through your orgasm, praising you for taking him so well, how he's wanted this for so long. He tells you how pretty you look cumming on his cock, that he wants to feel you cum on his fingers and tongue too - and it's not long before your orgasm subsides, only to be built back up as he lets your legs fall apart while his toned hips rut into you harder.

You can only hold onto the bedsheets and his back as he drapes his body over yours. You two are pressed hip to hip, stomach to stomach, as he slides in deeper, his hands resting on either side of your head as he makes your pussy squelch with each thrust. He's got you caged in, making you feel each slide forward until the familiar knot in your stomach twists again, and your brain fogs up. He reduces you to just saying his name like a chant, half-broken between gasps as you whimper, "Joon! Mmph, ngh Joon!"

When your pussy clamps around him the second time, your orgasm triggers his own, and his hips stay flush against your ass as he groans lowly. His cock swells, throbbing as he cums heavily while your walls pulse around him. It makes his own eyes roll to the back of his head, your addictive cunt sucking him deeper.

And you're no better, your thighs twitch around his waist, your breath coming up short while you feel him press his weight onto you. You can feel each jerk of his cock along your gummy walls, and you whimper when he eventually begins to slide out. You can feel the loss of him almost immediately as he slips the condom off, both of you panting as you pathetically squeeze around nothing.

Namjoon throws the condom in the trash, disappearing to the bathroom for a moment before he returns with a wet rag. His breaths are still labored like yours as he gently cleans you up, his fingers massaging your quivering thighs as he does so. When he's done, he easily slides into his bed next to you, wrapping an arm around you to pull you close.

"I meant it."

You blink, turning to face him as your leg hooks over his. His hand rests on your lower back, keeping you pressed against him as you tilt your head up to see him.

"I've been wanting this for a long time." Your heart flutters at his words, and your cheeks darken as he continues. "I also meant it when I said we might need to do this every day."

You smile, giggling, and are thankful that it's spring break because you know Namjoon is going to be true to his word. By the time spring break is over, he'll know how you look cumming on his fingers, his tongue, and any other position he can get you in.

대박 - you made it to the end.

Tell me about it.

my bts mstrlst - svt mstrlst

[monstersholygrail]

Free Use City P!Links: NCNL Monsters

Come take an inside look at these Twitter links with the men of the FUC series ‘New City, New Life.’ Ft. Their style of fucking || afab!reader || mdni

a/n: I’d also like to thank you guys for helping me reach such an insane milestone. I wanted to do this as a celebration for you all as well!

Hot Neighbor Wolf Hybrid

ft. rough sex, face sitting, oral (f!receiving), masturbation, marathon sex, breeding, outdoor sex, knotting

Chasing you down, Sleepovers at his place, Domestic mornings, How he plays with you during his ruts, Being a good pup and licking you up, Running into each other after taking out the trash, Walking past the open window in your pretty lingerie enough times before he snaps, When he’s eager to get that knot inside you

Sexy Orc Friend

ft. car sex, oral (f!receiving), rough sex, size k!!nk, sloppy sex, fingering, creampie, teasing

Reimagining of your first time together , He’s cocky about his skills and not afraid to show it, Wait till he gets you alone and see what he can really do, No matter how big you are he’s always bigger, Loves seeing you so responsive for him, Passenger Princess treatment , Nothing better than seeing you drip, Trying to tease you but ending up too desperate

Minotaur Boss

ft. light breath play, oral (m!receiving), spanking, fingering, standing up sex, creampie, cowgirl, squirting

Encouragement for getting your work done, What he means when he needs help in the office , Red is his favorite color on you , He likes to see how sensitive you can get, A multitasking King, Putting everything where it belongs (stuffed inside you), When he’s too busy you can do what you want with him, He can cause a mess as much as he can clean them up

Dragon Headhunter

ft. teasing, edging, sex toys, bondage, rough sex, fingering, orgasm control, oral (f!receiving), public sex, hand/blowjob, multiple orgasms

Being an asshole about teasing you bc he can, He doesn’t care how much you whine but loves you vocal, Demanding you finish again even when you think you can’t , Seeing how twitchy and fucked out he can get you just to laugh , How he gets you begging before he’s even really started , High risk and high reward, It’s hard to admit how much you want him but he knows, He may be a Dragon but he’s the one riding you tonight

Secretary Bunny Hybrid

ft. teasing, oral (f!receiving), squirting, lingerie play, orgasm control, spanking, pussy slapping, dry humping, roleplay,

Torturing you by making you tease yourself , His instincts often take over with the need to burrow and make a home where you’re most warm, He likes to buy you pretty things so he can ruin them and you, Nothing feels sweeter than your release, When your bad he has to find unique forms of punishment , Nothing beats his after work cuddles, He goes feral when you dress up for him

[vmoonheart]

The Man Who Forgets Every Morning | Jungkook x fem!Reader

✦ ݁ ˖ pairing jeon jungkook × fem!reader

✦ ݁ ˖ synopsis every morning at 8:15, jeon jungkook walks into the same café and falls in love with the same woman.

and every morning, he forgets her.

after an accident leaves him unable to form new memories, jungkook wakes up to a world that resets daily — one where he remembers his past, his music, the life he lived before… but not the woman who chose to stay.

she remembers everything.

love becomes a choice instead of a promise. devotion exists without memory. and even when his mind is blank, his heart keeps pulling him back to her — quietly, stubbornly, endlessly.

✦ ݁ ˖ genre romance · angst · slow burn · hurt/comfort · slice of life · bittersweet

✦ ݁ ˖ warnings memory loss (anterograde amnesia), emotional exhaustion, bit angst, mentions of accident, soft intimacy

✦ ݁ ˖ 5k.wr

✦ ݁ ˖ author note this fic is me trying a different writing style than what i usually do. i wanted to explore something quieter and more emotional, and just see where it would take me. i wrote this while listening to stay alive, still with you, and shot glass of tears by jungkook, which really shaped the mood of the story. thank you for reading and for being open to me experimenting 🤍

✦ ݁ ˖ spotify playlist for late mornings, empty cafés, and loving someone who forgets

— still with you — jungkook — begin — jungkook — the night we met — lord huron — cherry wine (live) — hozier — liability — lorde — all i want — kodaline — slow dancing in the dark — joji — moon — jin — blue — taeyeon

The morning light filtered through the lace curtains of your small apartment in Seoul, casting a soft, golden haze over the cluttered kitchen table. You sat there, nursing a cup of coffee that had long gone cold, staring at the faded photograph in your hands. It was one of the few remnants you allowed yourself to keep—a snapshot from before the accident. Jungkook's arm slung casually over your shoulders, his doe-like eyes crinkled in that infectious smile, the kind that made his nose scrunch up just a little. You both looked so carefree, so utterly in love, standing against the backdrop of Han River at sunset, the water shimmering like a promise of forever.

But forever had shattered in an instant.

Flashback: The rain-slicked streets of Gangnam blurred under the relentless downpour. Jungkook's motorcycle roared beneath him as he weaved through traffic, his laughter echoing in your ear through the phone's speaker. "I'll be home soon, jagi. Just picking up your favorite takeout. Miss me already?" His voice was warm, teasing, laced with that boyish charm that always made your heart flutter. You remembered giggling, telling him to be careful. But then—the screech of tires, the blare of horns, a sickening crash that cut the line dead. The world tilted on its axis that night. Hours blurred into a frenzy of hospital lights, beeping machines, and doctors' grave faces. "Anterograde amnesia," they said. "He'll remember everything up to the accident, but new memories... they won't stick. Every day will be a reset."

You blinked away the sting of tears, setting the photo face down. It had been two years since that night. Two years of waking up to a world where Jeon Jungkook, the man who once promised you the stars, forgot you existed every single morning. But you? You remembered everything. The way his laugh could fill a room, how he'd hum BTS songs under his breath while cooking—remnants of his idol days, before he stepped back from the spotlight to chase a quieter life. The accident had taken more than his memory; it had stolen the future you'd built together. Yet, here you were, choosing him anew each day.

The café bell jingled softly as you pushed open the door to "Morning Brew," the quaint little spot tucked away in a quiet alley of Itaewon. The air was thick with the aroma of freshly ground beans and buttery pastries, a comforting ritual that grounded you. You'd taken this job after the accident, needing something stable, something that didn't remind you of the life you lost. But fate, cruel and kind in equal measure, had other plans.

He came in every morning at exactly 8:15 AM, like clockwork. Jungkook. Dressed in simple jeans and a oversized hoodie that hid his famous features—though these days, with BTS on an indefinite hiatus, he blended into the crowd more easily. His dark hair fell messily over his forehead, and those piercing eyes scanned the room with a mix of curiosity and quiet confidence. He was still the same Jungkook: humble, yet carrying an effortless charisma that turned heads. But he didn't know you. Not anymore.

"Good morning," you said, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. You slid behind the counter, tying your apron with practiced ease. "The usual?"

He paused, tilting his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. It was that smile—shy at first, then blooming into something genuine, warm. "Uh, yeah. Americano, black. And... whatever pastry looks good today." His voice was soft, melodic, with that slight Busan lilt that snuck in when he was relaxed. He leaned on the counter, his tattooed hand drumming lightly—a habit from his performing days, always in rhythm with some invisible beat.

You nodded, busying yourself with the espresso machine to hide the way your hands trembled. Every day, it was like this. He'd order, linger a bit, make small talk. And every day, without fail, he'd fall for you all over again. It started with a glance, then a joke, then that spark in his eyes as if he was discovering something precious for the first time.

As you handed him his coffee, your fingers brushed his—electric, familiar. He froze for a second, his brows furrowing in that adorable way, like he was trying to place a memory that wasn't there. "Have we... met before?" he asked, his tone curious, not suspicious. It was the same question, phrased differently each time, but always laced with that underlying pull.

You forced a light laugh, shaking your head. "Maybe in another life." It was your standard deflection, one that kept the truth at bay without lying outright. You couldn't bear to explain it all every morning; the doctors had advised against overwhelming him. Let him discover the day naturally, they'd said. So you did. Gently. Always gently.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent warmth pooling in your stomach. "Well, if that's the case, I'm Jeon Jungkook. And you are...?" He extended his hand, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the world fade. It was his empathetic side shining through—the way he always made you feel seen, even when he couldn't remember why.

"Y/N," you replied, shaking his hand. His grip was firm yet kind, calloused from years of guitar playing and workouts. He was a perfectionist at heart, always pushing himself, even now in his quiet life. You'd seen it in the way he'd sketch in his notebook during lulls, erasing and redrawing until it was just right.

"Jungkook," he repeated your name like it was a melody, tasting it on his tongue. "Beautiful name. Matches the barista." There it was—the flirtation, innocent and bold, a glimpse of his confident, playful personality. He wasn't the shy maknae of BTS anymore; time and trials had matured him into someone calm, dedicated, with a quiet strength that drew people in.

You felt your cheeks heat, the familiar butterflies stirring despite the exhaustion. "Flattery will get you an extra shot of espresso," you teased back, falling into the rhythm effortlessly. It was humanity at its rawest—two souls connecting in the mundane, over steaming cups and shared glances.

As he settled into his usual corner booth, sipping his coffee and pulling out a worn sketchbook, you watched him from afar. He drew with focused intensity, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration—a habit that always made you smile. Humble as he was, he never boasted about his talents; he'd just create, lost in the moment. Today, he sketched the café's interior, his lines fluid and precise, capturing the light dancing on the wooden tables.

Mid-morning, when the rush died down, you brought over a plate of fresh croissants. "On the house," you said, sliding into the seat across from him. It was bold, but you'd learned to seize these moments. Every day was a blank slate for him, but for you, it was a tapestry of accumulated heartaches and joys.

He looked up, surprised but pleased, his eyes lighting up. "Thanks, Y/N. You didn't have to." His voice was gentle, appreciative—the courteous side of him that made fans adore him worldwide.

"I wanted to," you admitted, your heart pounding. "You look like you could use a break from all that intense drawing."

He laughed, setting his pencil down. "Guilty. I'm a bit of a perfectionist. Can't stop until it's right." He tore off a piece of croissant, offering it to you first—a small, thoughtful gesture that spoke volumes of his caring nature. "So, tell me about yourself. What brings a girl like you to a place like this?"

And so it began, the daily dance. You shared snippets—your love for quiet mornings, how the smell of coffee reminded you of home. He opened up in return, his stories vivid and animated: tales of his idol days, the thrill of performing, the quiet satisfaction of a life now focused on personal passions like art and music. He was funny, cracking self-deprecating jokes about his "golden maknae" title, humble in admitting his flaws. "I'm not perfect," he'd say with a wink, "but I try."

But beneath the lightness, you felt the weight. As the conversation deepened, his gaze grew more intense, that spark igniting. "There's something about you," he murmured, leaning closer. "Like I've known you forever."

Your breath caught. It was always like this—him sensing the connection without the memories to back it. The emotional core hit you hard: love as a choice, not a given. You chose to stay, to laugh, to let him fall anew, even as it chipped away at you.

By noon, he was smitten, asking for your number with that boyish grin. "I don't want this to end here," he said earnestly, his empathy shining as he sensed your hesitation. "Let me take you out sometime?"

You nodded, typing your number into his phone—the same one he'd forget by tomorrow. As he left, waving with a promise to text, you sank against the counter, the exhaustion creeping in. How many times could you do this? Relive the falling, without the staying?

Little did you know, tonight you'd start leaving notes. Gentle guides, not full truths. A post-it on his mirror: Go to Morning Brew. Trust the barista. A whisper of devotion in a world of forgetting.

But for now, the day reset, and you braced for tomorrow's dawn.

The alarm on your nightstand pierced the pre-dawn silence like a shard of glass, pulling you from a dream where Jungkook's arms wrapped around you, his breath warm against your neck, whispering promises that lingered like smoke. But as your eyes fluttered open to the dim glow of your Seoul apartment—walls adorned with faded concert posters from his BTS era, a time when the world knew him as the Golden Maknae—you felt the familiar weight settle in your chest. It was heavier today, a cumulative ache from two years of scripted mornings. You rolled over, burying your face in the pillow that still faintly smelled of his cologne from the nights he'd sneak over before the accident. How many times had you washed it? Not enough to erase him. Never enough.

You dragged yourself to the mirror, splashing cold water on your face, watching droplets trace paths down your cheeks like unshed tears. The reflection staring back was a ghost of the woman he'd once loved—eyes shadowed with fatigue, lips pressed into a thin line of resolve. Emotional exhaustion wasn't just a phrase; it was the marrow in your bones, the fog in your mind. Every day, you rebuilt the bridge to him, only for dawn to burn it down. But love, you'd learned, was a masochistic architect. It demanded reconstruction, no matter the cost.

Flashback: The spotlight bathed the stage in ethereal light, ARMYs chanting his name like a heartbeat. Jungkook moved with effortless grace, his body a symphony of precision and passion—hardworking to his core, pushing through rehearsals until his muscles screamed, all for that perfect performance. After the show, in the quiet of the dressing room, he'd pull you into his lap, shy smile breaking through the exhaustion. "Did I do okay?" he'd ask, humble despite the adulation, his doe eyes seeking your approval. You'd laugh, tracing the tattoos on his arm, feeling the compassionate rhythm of his heart. "You were golden, Kook. Always." He'd blush, playful spark igniting as he tickled you, his laughter a melody that drowned out the world.

Shaking off the memory, you grabbed your bag and headed to the café. The streets of Itaewon were awakening, street vendors setting up carts under the soft blush of sunrise, the air crisp with the promise of autumn. You walked with purpose, but each step echoed the internal mantra: Choose him today. Just today. The bell jingled as you entered Morning Brew, the scent of roasting coffee a balm and a blade—comforting routine laced with reminder.

You prepped the counter, arranging pastries with mechanical precision, your mind wandering to the notes. It had started small, a desperate bid to ease the reset. Last night, after he'd texted you (as he always did, post-café charm offensive), you'd slipped into his apartment—using the spare key he'd given you pre-accident, now a relic of trust. His place was a haven of creativity: canvases stacked against walls, guitar in the corner, sketches scattered like confetti. You'd placed a post-it on his coffee machine: Morning Brew calls. The barista's smile is worth the walk. Nothing overt, just a nudge. A gentle guide in his fog of forgetting.

8:15 AM sharp. The door swung open, and there he was—Jeon Jungkook, in faded black jeans and a white tee that hugged his athletic frame, built from years of disciplined workouts. His hair was tousled, as if he'd run his fingers through it in confusion, and those piercing eyes held a flicker of uncertainty. But as they landed on you, something shifted—a spark of recognition that wasn't memory, but instinct. His compassionate nature, always attuned to others, made him pause, tilting his head with that curious glint.

"Morning," he said, voice husky from sleep, approaching the counter with a tentative smile. It was shy at first, reserved, like the introvert he truly was beneath the stage persona. "Americano, please. And... uh, do you recommend anything sweet today?"

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing brightness into your tone. "The almond croissants are fresh. Melt-in-your-mouth good." As you prepared his order, your hands steady despite the tremor in your soul, he leaned in, drumming his fingers—a rhythmic habit from his music days.

"You know, I woke up with this weird note on my coffee maker," he confessed, his tone light but probing, eyebrows furrowed in that adorable concentration. "Something about this place and a barista's smile. Ring any bells?"

Your heart stuttered. The note had worked—guided him here without force. But the lie tasted bitter. "Sounds mysterious," you replied, sliding his cup over. Your fingers brushed again, sending a jolt through you. He felt it too; his eyes widened slightly, that multi-talented mind of his piecing together invisible puzzles.

"I'm Jungkook," he introduced, as always, extending his hand. His grip was warm, calloused from sketching and strumming—hardworking hands that created beauty from nothing.

"Y/N," you echoed, the ritual carving deeper grooves in your heart.

He lingered longer today, settling into his booth with sketchbook in hand. You watched him surreptitiously, the way he bit his lip in focus, erasing lines with humble dissatisfaction until they sang. Curious by nature, he'd glance up occasionally, catching your eye, a playful smile tugging at his lips. It was humanity distilled: a man talented beyond measure, yet seeking connection in the ordinary.

During a lull, you brought him a refill, unbidden. "Thought you might need this," you said, sitting across from him without invitation. Boldness born of desperation.

He looked up, surprised, but his face softened into genuine warmth. "Thanks. You're observant." Compassionate eyes studied you, as if sensing the storm beneath your calm. "What about you? Long day ahead?"

The conversation flowed like a river—effortless, deepening. He shared stories of his art, humble in his talent: "I'm no Picasso, but it keeps me grounded." You laughed at his self-deprecating jokes, the funny side of him emerging, courteous in how he asked about your dreams. "Tell me something real," he urged, leaning forward, his loving nature drawing you out. You spoke of quiet ambitions, omitting the shared history that haunted you.

As hours ticked by, the spark ignited into flame. He sketched you subtly, his pencil dancing with precision. "There's this pull," he admitted softly, voice laced with wonder. "Like I've drawn you a thousand times before." He showed you the page—a vivid portrait, capturing your essence with heartbreaking accuracy. Tears pricked your eyes; it was so him, thoughtful and dedicated.

The emotional core twisted like a knife: he fell for you anew, asking you out with boyish earnestness. "Dinner? Tonight? I don't want to miss this... whatever this is."

You agreed, as always, the yes a double-edged sword. Joy in the moment, agony in the morrow.

But as the café emptied, the exhaustion crashed over you like a wave. You locked up, leaning against the door, breaths coming in ragged gasps. Flashbacks assaulted: pre-accident nights, tangled in sheets, his whispers of forever. Now? A daily erasure. You slid to the floor, sobs wracking your body—raw, ugly, human. The hurt outweighed the comfort, a void where memories should be. How much longer could you endure this devotion without possession? Love as a choice, yes, but choices eroded the chooser.

That night, after a dinner filled with laughter and lingering touches—his hand on yours, eyes alight with fresh affection—you left another note on his nightstand: Call Y/N. She's the one. A whisper in the dark, guiding him back. But as you slipped out, tears streaming, you wondered if tomorrow's reset would finally break you.

Chapter 3: Fractured Frames

The rain came down in sheets that night, hammering the roof of your apartment like it wanted in. You hadn’t bothered turning on more than the single lamp in the corner; the rest of the room stayed swallowed in shadow. On the coffee table lay the evidence of another long evening: half a cold cup of tea, your phone screen still glowing with the last message he’d sent before you left his place.

“Tonight felt different. Like I almost remembered something bigger. Don’t disappear on me tomorrow, okay?”

You stared at the words until they blurred. Different. Almost. The qualifiers that haunted every goodbye.

You didn’t cry right away. The tears came later, silent and slow, while you folded the clothes you’d worn to dinner—his scent still clinging to the collar of your sweater. You pressed your face into the fabric once, twice, then forced yourself to hang it up. Small rituals of survival. You couldn’t afford to drown tonight; tomorrow would demand you swim again.

By the time the sky began to lighten, the rain had softened to a drizzle. You dressed in the half-dark, movements mechanical: black jeans, the soft gray sweater he always said made your eyes look like storm clouds, the apron already folded in your bag. No makeup. No energy left to pretend brightness you didn’t feel.

Morning Brew opened at seven. You arrived at six-forty-five, unlocked the door with shaking hands, and went straight to the espresso machine. The hiss and grind were the only sounds that felt safe.

At 8:17 he walked in—later than usual. Hair damp, hoodie zipped to his chin, eyes carrying the same restless energy you’d seen the night before. He paused just inside the doorway, scanning the room like he was looking for something he couldn’t name.

When his gaze landed on you, the shift was instant. Subtle, but unmistakable. That quiet spark. The one that lived somewhere deeper than memory.

He approached the counter slowly.

“Morning,” he said, voice low, almost careful. “Americano. Black.”

You nodded. Didn’t speak. Just turned to the machine.

He didn’t move away.

“I found your note,” he said after a beat. “The one on the nightstand.”

Your fingers tightened around the portafilter.

“‘Call Y/N. She’s the one.’” He pulled the folded paper from his pocket and set it gently between you. “That’s you.”

The café was empty except for the two of you and the soft patter against the windows.

You finally looked up. “Yeah.”

His brows drew together—not anger, not confusion exactly. Something rawer. “How long have I been coming here… like this?”

“Every morning for two years.”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw working. “And every morning I—”

“Meet me. Talk to me. Fall for me.” The words came out quieter than you intended. “And every night I leave something so you’ll come back.”

He stared at the note like it had personally betrayed him. Then at you. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because the first time I did, you panicked. You got quiet for three days. Didn’t come in. I thought I’d lost you for good.” Your voice cracked on the last word. “So I stopped explaining. I just… kept choosing the version where you still smiled at me.”

Silence stretched thin and sharp.

He leaned forward, forearms on the counter, close enough that you could see the faint tremor in his hands. “I don’t remember the crash. Not really. Just flashes. The rain. The sound. Waking up and not knowing why my chest hurt so much.”

You swallowed. “It hurt because you were calling me when it happened.”

His eyes snapped to yours.

“You were on the phone. Telling me you’d be home soon. That you missed me already.” A bitter laugh escaped you. “I told you to be careful. You laughed. Said I worried too much.”

He closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, they were wet. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” You shook your head hard. “Don’t apologize for something you can’t control.”

“But I’m still the reason you look like this.” His voice broke. “Like you’re carrying the whole damn world.”

The dam inside you cracked.

You turned away, bracing both hands on the sink, shoulders rising and falling too fast. “I’m tired, Jungkook. Not of you. Never of you. I’m tired of being the only one who remembers how your laugh used to echo in our apartment at three in the morning. How you used to hum while you cooked. How you’d trace my spine when we fell asleep and whisper that I was your favorite place.”

Behind you, he stayed silent. Listening. Absorbing.

When you turned back, he hadn’t moved. Just watched you with those dark, searching eyes—eyes that still saw too much, even without the context.

“Tell me now,” he said quietly. “Everything. No filter. No protecting me.”

So you did.

You told him about the first time you met—at a quiet fan sign years ago when he was still touring the world and you were just another face in the crowd. How he’d lingered on your hand a second longer than necessary. How he’d slipped you his personal number on a signed Polaroid because “you looked like someone who’d keep a secret.”

You told him about stolen weekends in hotel rooms between schedules, about the night he cried after the last concert because he didn’t know how to be Jeon Jungkook without a stage. About the accident. The hospital. The doctors explaining anterograde amnesia like it was a weather report. About the first morning he walked into Morning Brew two years ago and looked at you like he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

By the time you finished, your voice was hoarse and the rain had stopped.

He hadn’t interrupted once.

When you were done, he rounded the counter without asking. Pulled you into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You broke then—really broke. Face pressed to his chest, fists curled in his hoodie, sobs tearing out of you like they’d been waiting years.

He held you tighter. One hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles on your back. The same way he used to.

“I don’t know how to keep this,” he whispered against your hair. “But I know I don’t want to lose it again.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, jaw tight with emotion he rarely let show.

“Then don’t let me go tonight,” you said. “Stay. Even if it’s just for today.”

He nodded once. Firm. Decided.

“Okay.”

The rest of the morning passed in quiet fragments: him helping you behind the counter when the lunch rush came, sleeves rolled up, focused and precise like he was learning choreography all over again. You teaching him how to steam milk the way he used to tease you about being “too perfect.” Him sketching on napkins while you worked—quick studies of your hands, your profile, the curve of your smile when you thought he wasn’t looking.

But underneath every touch, every shared glance, the hurt pulsed louder now. Because this—this fragile, beautiful day—was still temporary.

When closing time came, he locked the door behind the last customer and turned to you.

“No note tonight,” he said. “No backup plan. Just… us. And tomorrow, whatever happens, happens.”

You nodded, throat too tight for words.

He took your hand. Led you out into the damp evening air.

The city lights reflected off wet pavement like scattered stars.

For the first time in two years, you walked home without leaving anything behind.

And for the first time in two years, the fear felt bigger than the hope.

But you still chose to hold his hand tighter. Because even if tomorrow erased everything, tonight was yours.

The apartment was quiet except for the soft tick of the wall clock and the occasional drip from the faucet neither of you had remembered to tighten. Jungkook sat on the edge of your couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it held answers he couldn’t find anywhere else. You stood by the kitchen island, arms wrapped around yourself, watching him watch nothing.

Neither of you had spoken much since you walked through the door.

He’d insisted on coming up. Not for anything dramatic—just to be in the same space a little longer. You’d let him because saying no felt like severing something vital.

Eventually he lifted his head.

“I keep waiting for it to click,” he said quietly. “Like there’s a door in my head and if I just push hard enough, everything will flood back. But it doesn’t. It just… stays quiet.”

You nodded once. You knew that silence better than anyone.

He looked at you then—really looked. Not the soft, smitten gaze from the café mornings. This was heavier. Sadder. More awake.

“How do you do it?” he asked. “Every single day. Knowing I’ll wake up tomorrow and none of this—” he gestured between you, the room, the night “—will be there for me.”

You exhaled shakily.

“I don’t always,” you admitted. “Some mornings I sit on the bathroom floor for twenty minutes before I can stand up. Some nights I cry so hard I can’t breathe. But then I remember the version of you that exists right now. The one looking at me like I matter. And I decide—for just that day—that it’s worth it.”

His throat worked. “That’s not fair to you.”

“Love was never supposed to be fair.”

He stood slowly, crossed the small distance between you. Stopped just short of touching.

“I don’t want to keep hurting you,” he said, voice cracking on the last word. “But I also don’t know how to walk away from this feeling. Even if it resets every morning… it’s still real when it’s happening.”

You reached up, brushed your fingertips along the line of his jaw. He closed his eyes like the contact physically hurt.

“Then stay tonight,” you whispered. “Not because I’m asking you to remember. Just because I want one more night where you’re here. All of you.”

He opened his eyes. Nodded.

You didn’t rush.

There was no frantic reclaiming, no desperate attempt to overwrite the inevitable. Just slow, deliberate closeness. His hands learning your shape again like it was the first time and the thousandth time at once. Your fingers tracing the ink on his arm, the same paths you’d followed years ago. His lips against your temple, your collarbone, the inside of your wrist—gentle, reverent, grieving.

When you finally fell asleep tangled together, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, you let yourself pretend—just for a few hours—that tomorrow wouldn’t come.

But it did.

Morning arrived without permission. Pale January light sliced through the blinds in sharp, unforgiving lines across the bed. No warmth, no softness—just cold clarity.

You woke to Jungkook’s arm still curled loosely around your waist, his breath slow and even against the back of your neck. You didn’t dare move. You counted his inhales instead, measuring time in the rise and fall of his chest, terrified that the next breath would be the one where everything vanished again.

His fingers twitched first. Then a small, confused sound in his throat. Then stillness.

You felt the exact second awareness returned.

He didn’t speak right away. He just… tightened his hold. Barely. Enough that you knew he was awake and choosing not to let go.

After what felt like forever, he murmured against your hair, voice thick and rough:

“You’re here.”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

He exhaled shakily. Shifted so he could see your face. His eyes — those dark, searching eyes — locked onto yours and didn’t waver.

“I woke up,” he said quietly, “and for the first time in… I don’t even know how long… the first thing I felt wasn’t emptiness.” He pressed the heel of his hand to the center of his chest, hard, like he was trying to keep something from spilling out. “It was this… ache. Not pain. Need. Like I’d been holding my breath my whole life and someone finally let me breathe — but only if I didn’t let go of you.”

Your vision blurred.

He kept going, words careful, like he was afraid they’d break if he spoke them too fast.

“I don’t know what happened yesterday. I don’t know where we were, what we ate, what we said. There’s nothing — no pictures, no movie in my head. Just… this.” Again, the flat palm over his heart. “This feeling that if I open my hands right now, I’ll lose the most important thing I’ve ever touched. And I can’t — I physically can’t — do that.”

A tear slipped down your temple into the pillow.

He caught it with his fingertip, then leaned in until your foreheads touched.

“I don’t remember the why,” he whispered. “But my body remembers the who. My heart remembers how much it hurts to imagine a morning without you in it. Even if every other part of me is blank… this part isn’t.”

You let out a broken sound — half sob, half laugh.

He pulled you closer, arms wrapping around you like he could physically shield you from tomorrow.

“I’m not promising I’ll wake up tomorrow and suddenly know everything,” he said against your skin. “I’m not promising the fog will lift. But I am promising this: every single morning I open my eyes, the first thing I’m going to do is look for the feeling. And when I find it — when that ache shows up again and tells me there’s someone I can’t lose — I’m going to follow it. Straight to you. Every time.”

You clutched the front of his shirt so hard your knuckles ached.

“Even if it takes me longer some days?” you asked, voice small.

“Even if it takes all day,” he answered without hesitation. “Even if I have to sit in that café booth like a stranger and wait for the pull to get loud enough to drown out the blankness. I’ll wait. I’ll show up. Blank or not.”

Silence settled between you — heavy, sacred.

Then, softer:

“Tell me your name again.”

You smiled through tears.

“Y/N.”

He repeated it slowly, like tasting something holy.

“Y/N.”

A beat.

Then, quieter, almost to himself:

“The one I keep choosing.”

Outside, the city was already moving — horns, footsteps, life that never paused.

Inside, the two of you stayed wrapped in the wreckage and the miracle of one more morning.

Love wasn’t memory. Not anymore.

It was the stubborn, bleeding refusal to let go of a feeling that refused to die — even when everything else reset.

So he chose.

And tomorrow, if the slate was blank again, he would choose again.

And the day after.

And the day after that.

Until the universe either gave the memories back or got tired of fighting the man who refused to forget how it felt to love you.

[crzy-baby]

Jesus Christ..I know I was looking for angst but OMG way to break my heart.

I didn’t think it would end in this out come but I love it…did I cry YES!!!

I’m absolutely in love with this writers style 10/ 10. Can’t wait to read more of the work. 💜

[alexlwrites]

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

✿𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Alpha! Hyung line x Omega! Reader

✿ 𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: "And through some happenstance, casual and cruel, shaped by the hands of the Moon goddesses, you ended up face to face with what They considered your fated mates.

Of course, they didn’t know that - how could they recognize their goddess-given match if you had no scent? As long as you didn’t reach maturity, only you would feel this pull, this constant urge pooling at your lower abdomen when their scents filled your nose and sent your eyes rolling back.

You knew your place and it was not amongst royalty."

OR  

The one where you find your fated alphas, but they can't find you.

✿ 𝑻𝒂𝒈𝒔:  Romance, Humor, Fluff, Angst, ABO, Soulmate AUs.

°•. 𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕  .•°

Part one - Scentless

Part two - Sleepless

Part three - Breathless (now available on my ko-fi but soon to be posted here)

°•. ✿ .•°

𝐌𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧! 𝐂𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝

°•. ✿ .•°

(Fanfic masterlist) (support me on my ko-fi if you enjoy my work <3)