DTSUGA

Prod. AGUSTD

[dtsuga3991]

Jeon Jungkook ᯓ🪼₊⊹ Security before Sunrise

"I can't take my eyes off of her" | "I don't want him to look away"

Synopsis: At Costa de los Sueños, everything is meant to be perfect. The ocean glitters under golden light. Music drifts through open courtyards. Guests arrive searching for paradise—and they find it. Justin Jeon built his life behind the scenes of that perfection.

Since he was ten years old, he’s worked every corner of the resort—washing dishes, fixing broken walls, guiding strangers through a place he knows better than anyone. Not for passion, but for survival. With a sick mother waiting at home and bills that never stop coming, Justin doesn’t have the luxury of dreaming.

Y/n L/n was born into the resort’s legacy.

As the daughter of its owner, she’s spent her life learning how to protect what generations before her built. Graceful, composed, and endlessly responsible, Y/n knows exactly what’s expected of her—even when it costs her the freedom to choose her own future.

Between them, there has always been something unspoken. A glance held too long. Conversations that linger after sunset. A quiet understanding neither of them dares to name.

But love was never part of the plan.

wc: 3.4k (not proof read sorry lol)

Justin was born in a small coastal neighborhood just outside the city — close enough to see the lights of the resort at night, far enough to never feel part of it.

His earliest memories are soft. His mother, singing while sweeping sand out of the doorway. His father lifting him onto his shoulders during beach festivals. Music drifting in from the shore. Fireworks reflecting off the water.

They weren’t rich, but they were warm.

Until they weren’t.

His father left when he was six—not violently, not dramatically. Just… gone. One day there, the next gone to “find better work.” He never came back.

Justin lost two things that day, his father, and his infancy.

When he left, his mother didn’t become bitter.

She became quiet.

Justin was eight the first time he realized his mother was pretending. Pretending she wasn’t tired. Pretending the coughing wasn’t serious. Pretending the eviction notice wasn’t terrifying. Doctor visits that came with folded paperwork and tight smiles. Justin learned quickly that medical language meant money. And money meant sacrifice. So he started helping neighbors carry groceries. Cleaning boats at the marina. Anything small for spare bills. He didn’t resent it.

But something inside him shifted.

His childhood shrank.

Responsibility grew.

At ten years old, Justin stepped into the back kitchen of the resort for the first time. Not as a guest. But as help. One of his mother's old friends worked in housekeeping and mentioned they sometimes hired local kids for small jobs—washing dishes, running towels, clearing tables during peak season.

Justin lied about his age.

They hired him anyway.

The kitchen staff fed him extra rice when they could. The older cooks teased him, called him “pequeño jefe.”

He learned how to move quietly around wealthy guests. How to fix broken chairs without being noticed. How to carry heavy trays without spilling. How to disappear when important people walked through.

The resort became a second home.

But it also became a silent lesson in class difference. He saw children his age running across marble floors while he mopped them. He didn’t envy them. He just noticed.

As he grew, so did his responsibilities. by fourteen he was helping maintenance fix plumbing, driving small supply vehicles, translating for English-speaking tourists. By sixteen, he knew the resort better than some managers, he knew which beams creaked, which doors stuck during humidity and which vendors overcharged.

He became indispensable.

But never irreplaceable.

He kept his grades steady—not exceptional, but consistent. Enough to avoid attention. Enough to stay invisible. He didn’t dream big after all. It felt irresponsible.

Then, he met her.

They first really notice each other sophomore year, same private-city school….but very different worlds inside it.

Y/n arrived in the mornings in a car with tinted windows while he took the bus, sometimes late because he worked a night shift. They had shared classes before, but one afternoon, a teacher assigns paired presentations. and when he got paired with her? He almost asks to switch partners. But she didn't hesitate to slide into the empty seat next to him.

Their first conversation? It was freaking awkward. He was polite, Y/n was composed. But there’s no condescension in her voice. She thanked him for staying late to work on the project. He shrugs it off. And when she mentions she works at her family’s resort after school, he froze for half a second. He doesn’t say he works there too. Not yet.

A week later, Y/n walks into the resort to drop off paperwork for her father. She sees Justin in the lobby, not as a student, but as staff. He was carrying luggage then their eyes lock. He looked embarrassed. She looks confused, and then something softer, Instead of pretending not to know him, she waved her hand and smiled.

That moment matters more than either of them realizes.

.

.

.

Becoming friends at the Resort, it started out small. Y/n brings him water during long shifts, Justin fixes a flickering light in her office without being asked. She stays late at the front desk some evenings. He finishes maintenance rounds around the same time.

They start walking out together. Not touching. Not flirting. Just talking.

About school.

About annoying teachers.

About how exhausting expectations are.

Y/n's surprised by how much he knows about the resort.

Justin’s surprised by how much she cares about the employees.

She doesn’t treat him like charity.

He doesn’t treat her like royalty.

They understand each other’s pressure in different ways, and somewhere between shared textbooks and late-night maintenance calls…They become each other’s quiet safe place.

Y/n?

She has been raised on legacy.

Her great-grandfather built the resort from nothing. Her father expanded it and she’s expected to protect it. Her greatest fear? Letting everyone down. The town. Her family. The staff who’ve worked there for decades.

Y/n's first memory of the resort is falling asleep under her father’s desk while he signed contracts. She grew up surrounded by marble floors and ocean views—but she also grew up watching her father panic over payroll.

When she was twelve, the resort nearly went bankrupt during an economic downturn. She remembers everything, her father not sleeping, her mother crying quietly at night, whispering how she wasn't ready to let the resort go, and staff panicking from hearing rumors about layoffs.

So she studied finance, she worked the front desk, she memorized spreadsheets before she memorized poetry.

But it wasn't enough.

The resort only survived because of a political favor.

Marrying the son of the Governor, Marcelo Alvarez.

Marcelo wasn’t her first crush. But he was her first smart decision towards keeping the legacy of her family resort alive.

Y/n's father wasn’t born rich, his own father passed the resort down to him and almost lost it. He made risky investments, he'd often trust the wrong partners and would carry silent shame for years.

When he encouraged Y/n's engagement to Marcelo, it wasn't greed or cruelty behind his words.

It was fear. He constantly reminds himself what almost losing everything felt like and he didn't want his daughter to inherit that instability.

So he pushes her toward security. Even if it costs her happiness.

.

.

.

[ June 2nd, Friday, 20:03 pm, 2015 ]

His alarm went off at 05:12 a.m. today morning. But the truth was that he doesn’t need it anymore. He’s awake before it rings most mornings, staring at the thin crack in the ceiling where humidity has peeled the paint. how the house smells faintly of salt and old wood. The ocean is close enough to hear at night if the windows are open.

He rolls out of bed quietly. His mother is still asleep in the next room. He pauses outside her door, listening. Breathing stead…Good.

By 06:00 a.m, he’s already washed dishes from the night before, ironed his school shirt, and set aside his mother’s medication next to a glass of water. He leaves a note on the kitchen table:

'Call if you need anything ! , Love you.'

He always writes that. Even though she never calls. (She doesn't like to worry him.)

School is….noise. Lockers slamming. Laughter. Expensive cologne. Conversations about weekend yacht trips and summer plans abroad. Justin moves through it like a ghost. He sees Y/n between second and third period.

She’s standing by the courtyard fountain, sunlight catching in her hair. She looks the same as always—poised, composed, Gorgeous.

Except now there’s a diamond on her finger. The engagement was announced two weeks ago at the annual festival at the resort, there were lanterns in the sky, music swelling, Marcelo, smiling like he had just secured a business contract.

Which, in a way, he had. His father funded the resort, Y/n had placed her feelings aside in order to follow along with their wedding.

The resort isn’t just a luxury playground, it’s the main source of income for the town. If it falls, hundreds of families lose jobs.

Justin knew that, the rest of the damn staff did too. He had watched from the edge of the crowd. He didn't clap. but he didn't leave either.

He doesn’t look at her hand now. But he knows it’s there.

After school, he heads straight to the resort. Costa de los Sueños rises from the coastline like it owns the horizon. White stone walls. Terracotta arches. Bougainvillea climbing up sun-warmed columns. Music drifting from the beach bar. It’s beautiful.

He hates that it’s beautiful.

He changes into his work shirt in the staff locker room and starts his shift. Fixing a loose railing, replacing light bulbs, helping a family whose luggage cart wheel snapped.

Marcelo is here today. Touring investors, laughing too loudly, shaking hands with important people. Justin watched from a distance as Marcelo places a hand at the small of Y/n’s back—possessive, practiced.

Justin looks away first. He tells himself it’s fine. This was always how it was going to go. Girls like Y/n don’t end up with boys who grew up scrubbing kitchen tiles.

That night, he stays late. The sky is deep indigo by the time most guests retreat to their rooms. The music from the beach fades. The resort softens into quiet luxury. He finds himself up in the maintenance office when the lights flicker. Once, twice, then—darkness.

A few distant gasps echo from the main building. Backup generators should kick in. They don’t. His radio crackles. “Power outage in the east wing. Spa building’s down completely.” Of course it is. He grabs a flashlight and jogs across the courtyard. The moonlight reflects off the pool, casting silver ripples against the walls.

The spa building sits dim and silent. He pushes the door open. “Hello? Anyone here?" Then he pushes the door open completely before slipping inside He finds Y/n near the front desk of the spa, phone flashlight dimly glowing against marble countertops. Her engagement ring catches the light like a small star.

“You shouldn’t be here this late.” Justin speaks up before looking around the Spa with his flashlight, pretending to look around for something. Y/n looked up for the mess of documents sprawled out on her desk, "Could say the same to you.” She raised the unfinished signed documents she was in the middle of going over before the lights decided to give out.

He huffed a soft laugh, "AC's out too, it's gonna get pretty unbearable in here." (Like he should even care.)

Y/n sighed, ”Gotta beat the heat before it’s too late then.” She propped her phone against the cup of pens on the marble desk before going back to reviewing the legal documents in front of her—financial statements, payrolls, taxes—work.

She examined each one of them carefully—circling what needed to be updated, what buildings needed new replacements and funding—they’d get the money soon….after the wedding. ”What’s up with the lights anyways? Do we need a new grid or something?” She thought loudly to herself as she tapped her pen against the desk.

Justin’s flashlight flickers slightly as he adjusts it, casting shadows across Y/n's paperwork. He shifts his weight, one hand resting on his tool belt. "Ah, yeah. Grid’s been...temperamental." He leans slightly against the desk, careful not to disturb her work. His voice is quieter than usual, like he’s trying not to disrupt the quiet of the darkened spa. "Maintenance requested upgrades months ago, but... paperwork." He gestures vaguely at her documents with a half-smile. "Guess we’re all waiting on signatures."

There’s a beat. The air between them feels thicker than the humidity. He glances at the papers—numbers, budgets, things that decide fates—then away.

The beat stretches just a second too long.

Then—The radio crackles.

A sharp burst of static cuts through the quiet, loud enough to make Y/n flinch slightly. Justin straightens, instinctively reaching for it, but before he can shut it off, the static melts into something softer.

Old, Familiar, Music.

The beat stretches just a second too long.

A slow guitar. Gentle. Melancholic. Bésame mucho.

“Bésame, bésame mucho~…”

The sound fills the empty spa, echoing faintly off marble and glass, wrapping around them in something warmer than the dark. Justin can't breathe for a second.

(Of course, off all nights, of all songs.)

He exhales softly through his nose, shaking his head under his breath. “Radio’s got a mind of its own,” he mutters, though he doesn’t move to turn it off this time.

Y/n doesn’t go back to her papers, her pen stops tapping and for a moment, she just listens. "Como si fuera esta la noche la última vez~"

“There used to be a band that played this,” she says quietly, almost like she’s speaking to the room instead of him. “My great grandfather hired them when the resort first opened. Every Friday night.”

Justin glances at her.

“I remember,” he says.

She looks up at that.

“You do?”

He shrugs, but there’s something softer in his voice now. “Kitchen doors used to stay open. You could hear it from the back.” A small pause. “Some of the staff would dance while they worked.”

Y/n smiles—small, real. “I would dance with my father,” she admits. “But he was too tall for me back then, I could barely reach his shoulders.’”

They both laugh softly.

The song continues, slow and aching....the kind of music that lingers.

"Bésame, bésame mucho que tengo miedo a perderte, perderte después~"

Y/n looks down at her papers again, then at the pen in her hand, then… she sets it down, deliberately.

“Justin.”

He doesn’t like the way she says his name like that. Careful. So certain. He straightens slightly. “Yeah?”

She hesitates, just for a second. Then—“Dance with me.”

It lands between them, quiet but impossible to ignore. Justin blinks.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

He lets out a breath, almost a laugh, shaking his head as he looks away. “Y/n…”

“That’s not my name when it’s just us,” she says softly.

That hits, harder than it should. He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “This isn’t—” he gestures vaguely around them, the dark, the silence, the everything “—a good idea.”

“Why not?”

He looks at her then. Really looks. The dim glow from her phone, the reflection of light catching on that ring, the way she’s standing there like she’s already decided something he hasn’t caught up to yet.

“Because things are different now,” he says, quieter.

She steps around the desk.

Closer.

“They don’t have to be.”

“They do,” he says, a little firmer now. “You—” his eyes flick to her hand, the ring, then back up “—you made sure of that.”

The words hang there, sharp, but she doesn’t back away. “If everything is already decided,” she says, her voice barely above the music, “then one dance shouldn’t matter.”

He swallows.

Because she’s right.

And that’s the problem.

The song swells slightly, the vocals softer now, more intimate.

"Quiero tenerte muy cerca, mirarme en tus ojos, verte junto a mí~"

Y/n lifts her hand out, not touching him, just… offering. “Just this,” she says. “Please.”

Justin stares at her hand like it’s something dangerous. Like if he takes it, something will shift that he won’t be able to fix later, but he’s already in the room, already standing too close, already listening to a song that sounds like memory.

“…one dance,” he says finally, almost to himself. then he takes her hand. It’s warm, familiar.

Wrong.

He steps closer, hesitating only a second before placing his other hand carefully at her waist—like he’s afraid even that might cross a line and she steps in naturally, like she’s done this a hundred times.

Like she belongs there. Like he does too.

They start moving slowly.

"Piensa que tal vez mañana, yo ya estaré lejos, muy lejos de aquí ~"

It's slow and unsteady at first, then falling into rhythm. The space between them disappears faster than it should. Y/n's hand tightens slightly in his.

“We shouldn't be doing this,” he murmurs, his words betraying the warmth that had already begun to spread in his chest—and it had nothing to do with the growing heat in the room.

“Then let go,” she whispers. Easy. Simple. Like it was supposed to simple. Because if maybe she pretended like she didn't want this either, she'd be able to ignore the guilt that conflicted her every time their eyes met.

But he doesn’t. Instead, his grip shifts—subtle, but closer. “That’s not fair,” he says.

“Neither is this.” Her voice cracks just slightly.

That’s what does it, he looks down at her, really looks this time. Not the resort owner’s daughter. Not the girl with a ring.

Just her.

And then she looks up, his eyes already gazing down at her. Too close.

“You think I wanted this?” she asks quietly.

“I think you chose it.” He fired back

“I didn’t have a choice.” She answered almost instantly.

“You always have a choice.” He's being difficult now.

“And what would you have me choose, Justin?” she presses, stepping closer—closing what little space was left. “You?”

The word hangs there, dangerous.

His hand tightens at her waist without him meaning to. “Yes,” he says. Too fast. Too honest.

They both freeze, Neither of them expected him to say it.

The song keeps playing.

"Bésame, bésame mucho que tengo miedo a perderte, perderte después~"

Like it’s pushing them forward.

Y/n frowns, “Then why didn’t you say something?” she asks quietly.

Justin laughs under his breath, but it’s hollow. “Say what? That I—” he cuts himself off, jaw clenching. Damn it.

“Say it,” she whispers. Urging him on, desperate to hear the words that lingered on his mind for the longest times now.

“I don’t get to say things like that,” he snaps, quieter but sharper now. “Not to you.”

“Why not?” She doesn't know why she asked that. Was it not obvious enough? She was engaged, her lover always chosen for her. And it wasn't Justin.

He gestures between them. “Because look at you. Look at me. This was never—”

That does it for her,“—Don’t,” she cuts in. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Decide for me.” That lands harder than anything else.

The music slows, softer now. Fading.

Y/n's hand slides slightly from his shoulder to the back of his neck. Not planned, not careful. Just instinct. It makes Justin still. Everything in him goes rigid.

“Y/n…” her name comes out like a warning now, But his hand doesn’t move away. His gaze drops briefly—to her mouth. Then back up. He exhales shakily. “Nothing you say will make this okay....”

Y/n can only look up at him, not with the fiery intensity of the girl he knew, but with a quiet, solid gaze that said he was her home, “I know.” She whispers in defeat. But not the defeat that makes you feel sadness, but the bittersweet realization of knowing that winning had always been out of her reach despite the growing fire in her heart.

Everything tilts.

Justin's shoulders sag as he exhaled quietly. He was a goner. A coward. An embarrassment for not being able to give the woman he loved what she wanted to most. And yet, he couldn't stop looking at her, he couldn't let her go, not when he could feel her warmth underneath his palms, and especially not when she held onto him like this.

Y/n didn't press on further, instead, she let her forehead rest against his shoulder and let out a shaky exhale. She doesn't want to pull away, she didn't want to be the one to create distance between them.

"Bésame, (Bésame) bésame mucho (Bésame mucho)~"

Then, he something in him cracks.

Before he can stop himself, one of his hands resting on her waist, slides up her spine and moves to cup her jaw, tilting her face upwards. For a long second, he doesn't say anything. You can feel it. The line breaking, the consequences catching up later, and for once, he ignores it.

He leans in, just barely. Like he’s testing gravity, like he’s giving her time to pull away, "Y/n..." he murmured adoringly, he doesn't wait for her response, he's already leaning in with a single purpose in mind.

When suddenly, the lights slam back on, bright, harsh, and blinding.

Reality crashes in.

Justin pulls back immediately, like he's been burned.

Y/n steps away just as fast, running a hand through her hair, breath uneven. Heart pounding loudly in her ears.

The music faded away. It stopped a while ago, actually.

Despite that, both of them still haven't looked away.

note: super sorry for abrupt ending. 😭😭😭

might make a series of this... if people like it lol

[dtsuga3991]

Kim Taehyung ‧₊˚🍊༉‧₊˚. The way things go

"We're not the same, Y/N"

"We all bleed red, Taehyung."

Synopsis - In a small town divided by quiet differences, Kim Taehyung and L/N Y/N build a friendship that seems to defy everything that separates them. But kindness cannot erase inequality.

w.c : 2.9k (not proof read lol )

The thing Taehyung hated most wasn’t hunger.

It wasn’t the ache in his arms after long days under the sun, or the way his back stiffened from hours bent over soil that never seemed to give enough back. It wasn’t even school—though that came close.

It was the difference.

The invisible line drawn between him and everyone else.

He saw it in the way his classmates wrinkled their noses when he passed by, the quiet snickers when he pulled out the same worn notebook, its edges curled and softened from years of use. He heard it in the careless comments—“Don’t you ever buy new clothes?” said like a joke, like it didn’t matter.

Like he didn’t.

Taehyung learned early how to smile through it. How to laugh, how to shrug, how to act like it didn’t burrow under his skin and sit there, festering.

Because at home, there was no room for that.

At home, he was the son his parents could rely on. The one who understood without being told. The one who stepped in before anyone had to ask. Perfect?

He carried crates heavier than his own weight. Counted bills faster than the buyers could question him. Skipped school on days his father’s hands shook just a little too much from exhaustion.

He told himself it was enough. That they were enough.

And they were. They really were.

Which was why it made him feel so much worse, because somewhere along the way, Taehyung realized something ugly had taken root inside him.

Something bitter.

Something he couldn’t quite pull out no matter how hard he tried. He hated people like them.

People who didn’t have to think about the price of things, those who didn’t measure meals, the same people who didn’t look at their parents and feel that quiet, suffocating guilt for simply existing.

People like his best friend. Y/N.

If someone asked Taehyung to describe Y/N, he wouldn’t know where to start, not because there wasn’t anything to say—But because nothing about her ever fit into one thing.

She wasn’t kind.

Not in the way people expected.

She didn’t smile softly or speak gently or offer comforting words when things got difficult, she didn’t hesitate before pointing things out—flaws, mistakes, weaknesses, or embarrassing. Sometimes she said things that should’ve hurt more than they did.

Sometimes they did.

But she also wasn’t cruel, and cruel people didn’t stay.

They didn’t show up uninvited and start working like they belonged there. They didn’t kneel in the dirt without complaint, hands buried in soil, learning things no one had ever expected her to care about. They didn’t memorize which fruits were ripe just by color. Didn’t argue with customers over prices like it actually mattered to them. Didn’t sit at the edge of the table during dinner, quietly eating whatever was given to them without ever asking for more.

Y/N did.

And that was the problem.

Because she acted like none of it was a big deal, like helping his mother in the kitchen or carrying crates alongside his father was just… something to do. Like defending him at school was nothing more than swatting away an inconvenience.

Like he was just another part of her routine. Taehyung didn’t understand that.

Didn’t understand how someone like her—someone who could go back to a house bigger than their entire farm, to a life where none of this struggle existed, with a mother whose name could make a whole room turn silent—could stand in the middle of his world and look completely unaffected.

She didn’t pity him. That was the strange part.

If anything, she seemed… annoyed.

Annoyed when he brushed things off, annoyed when he smiled too easily, annoyed when he acted like things didn’t bother him.

Like she expected more from him.

Like she saw something he didn’t.

And Taehyung hated that.

He hated the way she spoke to him like he wasn’t fragile, like he wasn’t someone to be careful around. Like he didn’t need to be handled gently. Everyone else either looked down on him—or looked at him like something that might break.

Y/N did neither, she just… looked. Straight at him. Unfiltered. Unimpressed. Unafraid, and somehow, that was worse. Because it made him feel exposed in a way he couldn’t explain.

Like she could see past the smile, past the easygoing attitude, past everything he carefully kept in place.

Like she knew.

Not everything.

But enough to stay.

That part bothered him, because Y/N wasn’t supposed to fit into his life.

She wasn’t supposed to stand behind a worn wooden counter, counting change with hands that had probably never needed to before him. She wasn’t supposed to sit on the floor with his sisters, letting them braid her hair badly while she pretended not to care. She wasn’t supposed to exist in the same spaces as him so… easily.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing about her did.

And maybe that was the problem. Because no matter how much dirt clung to her shoes, no matter how much time she spent under the same sun, doing the same work—Y/N still had a place to return to that he didn’t.

A house that wasn’t falling apart with a liife that wasn’t held together by sacrifice, where she had a future that didn’t depend on how much he could endure.

She could walk away from all of this. From him. At any time.

So when she stood beside him, like it was a choice—when she defended him, like it was obvious—when she looked at his life and didn’t flinch, didn’t pity him, didn’t treat it like something lesser—It didn’t feel comforting.

It felt…Wrong.

Because Taehyung didn’t know what to do with someone who saw everything he tried to hide—And stayed anyway.

.

.

.

The oranges were the best they’d had all season.

Taehyung knew that without needing to be told. He could see it in the color alone—bright, almost too perfect, the kind that would sell fast without much effort. No bruises, no dull patches, no signs of rot hiding beneath the skin.

Perfect on the outside.

He stacked them carefully into the crate, wiping his hands against his pants before reaching for the next, Y/N sat on the low wooden step nearby, one leg bent, the other stretched out lazily in front of her. She’d been quiet for a while now, which wasn’t unusual. When she didn’t feel like talking, she just… didn’t.

No explanations, no real need for them anyways.

After a moment, she reached into the crate and picked one up, “You’re going to mess up the count.” Taehyung spoke out first as he stalked the second crate on top.

“I’m taking one.” Y/N drawled.

“That’s still messing it up.” He added

“I’ll pay for it.” She shot back at him. Taehyung would let out a quiet breath through his nose, like that somehow made it worse. Of course she would.

Y/N turned the orange in her hand, inspecting it briefly before pulling a small knife from her pocket. He didn’t question why she had it. She always carried things like that—random, practical, slightly out of place. The blade pressed into the skin, a soft tear, then—a thin line of juice welled up instantly, catching the light before spilling over her fingers.

She didn’t react, she just cut deeper, splitting it open with clean, precise movements.More juice. Sticky now. Running along her fingers, dripping down to her wrist. She brought it to her mouth without hesitation, biting into one half.

A pause.

Then she chewed. “…It’s sour,” she said around the mouthful of orange. Taehyung huffed quietly. “They’re not all sweet.”

“I can tell.” she answered, and yet, she took another bite. Juice clung to her skin. She didn’t wipe it off. Didn’t seem to care as it dried, tacky and slow. Taehyung watched for a second too long before looking away “You could’ve picked a better one.”

“How? they all looked the same.”

“That doesn’t mean they are.”

Y/N hummed, glancing down at the other half in her hand. "Still all oranges..."

He almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he reached for another orange, gripping it a little tighter than necessary. “You don’t have to eat it.”

“I know.” She didn't even look at him.

“Then why are you?” He pressed on.

That tone made her finally glance over her shoulder to meet his gaze, she looked at him, not in a confused way, not defensive, just… direct. Then she answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “Because....I already cut it?” Like that was enough of an answer.

The boy scoffed softly under his breath. He could end the conversation right now, maybe say something less blunt to lessen the tension settling between them. But he didn't.

“That doesn’t mean you have to keep going.”

She shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“It’s sour.”

“It’s still food.”

That—that made something twist. This was never about the oranges.

“You don’t have to force yourself,” he said, his voice a little flatter now.

“I’m not.” She narrowed her eyes, just slightly as she looked at him.

“You just said it’s sour.”

“And?”

“And you don’t have to act like that’s okay.”

She blinked once, “I said it’s fine.”

“It doesn’t have to be fine,” Something in his tone must’ve shifted, because she stilled slightly, her gaze settling on him more carefully now.

“…It’s just an orange.”

Taehyung let out a quiet, humorless laugh. 'Sure' He picked one up from the crate, turning it in his hand before pressing his thumb into the skin, not enough to break it, just enough to feel the give. “They all look perfect,” he murmured. “Doesn’t mean they are.”

Y/N didn’t respond, she didn’t interrupt. So he kept going. “They sell better that way, though, right?” he added. “No one wants the ones that look bad.”

The words sat heavier than they should have. Even to him.

Y/N stopped chewing. She tilted her head slightly to the side as her eyes examined him. He wasn't talking about the oranges, right? of course he wasn't. There it was again. That same attitude he gave her whenever he stuck around for too long, whenever she showed that she cared. "You're not talking about the same thing I am." She pointed out.

Taehyung's brows furrowed, his face showed it before he could old himself back, "About the oranges, yes I am." He'd fire back.

"This ain't about the damn oranges."

"and you would know?" Taehyung's voice rose just slightly.

Y/N stared at him for a long second, "I usually do." She answered with calm certainty, that quiet, unshaken confidence that always made him feel like he was the one a step behind.

Taehyung's grip on the orange in his hand tightened just slightly. He didn't look away like he normally did when bengals confronted, instead, he kept on pressing the topic. "Fine—" He scoffed, "—If I'm not talking about the oranges then what am I talking about?" Y/N held his gaze for a moment, then, simply, “You’re annoyed...” She look back down at the half eaten orange in one hand, like she was considering how honest she wanted to be. "...at me." She didn't say it arrogantly. She said it like it was a fact. One they both tried to ignore.

Taehyung let out a quiet breath, something sharp sitting just behind his ribs. For a second, he almost wanted to drop the topic, say he was sorry and continue to bottle up the words that clawed at his throat whenever he let his eyes linger on her for a second too long. “You think everything’s that simple?”

“I think you make things more complicated than they are.” There was a long pause. Y/N watched him carefully, her expression unchanged, but there was something more attentive in her gaze now. Like she knew she’d stepped into something, even if she didn’t understand where it would lead. “You’ve been like this all day,” she said. “If you’re going to say something, just say it.”

Taehyung could only look at her as if she was the one who was in the wrong. She was his problem. She always said things like that—direct, unfiltered, like words didn’t have consequences. Like once something existed, it should just be spoken.

But those feelings he felt didn't deserve to be expressed. Not to her. Never to her. But that was the funny thing, feelings don't follow rules. Feelings are just manifestations of one's internal desires, from that unconscious part of our being that knows what it wants.

Finally he found the strength to speak again, “Why do you even come here?” He dragged a hand through his hair, not even giving her a chance to react. “This—” he gestured vaguely around them, at the farm, the crates, the dirt beneath their feet, “—this isn’t your life.”

The words hung heavier than he intended, but he didn’t stop.

“You get to choose this,” he continued, his voice tightening. “You get to come here when you feel like it, play farm for a few hours, and then go back to your house, your life—like none of this actually matters.”

Y/N words caught in her throat. She was thrown off balance. how weird. "I'm not playing around, even if it might seem like it, what kind of crazy person would? I know—" But he caught her off short, "—Do you, Y/N?” The question came out harsher than anything before it. Because that was the part that always got him, that quiet confidence she had—like she understood.

Like she could.

“You say that like you get it,” he went on, his voice lower now, but no less sharp. “Like you know what this is like besides playing pretend.”

Y/N fingers tightened slightly around what was left of the orange in her hand, juice drying against her skin. “I help because I can,” she shot back, “That’s all." Her voice held an undertone of urgency.

"Exactly,” Taehyung said, a bitter edge creeping in. “Because you can. A pause. Then, quieter—“Because it doesn’t cost you anything.”

That landed.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

But it landed.

Y/N didn’t respond right away. Her gaze stayed on him, searching now, like she was trying to understand where this was coming from. “It does,” she said after a moment.

Taehyung shook his head immediately. “No—it doesn’t.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“And you don’t get to pretend this is the same,” he voice louder than hers.

“I’m not pretending.”

“Then what are you doing?”

Y/N hesitated. Just for a second. And for someone like her—that was enough. “…I’m just here,” she said. 'Im just right here. next to you. Isn't that enough?'

Taehyung let out a short, hollow laugh. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s the problem.” The words slipped out before he could catch them, on cue, he saw it then—the smallest shift in her expression. Not dramatic, not obvious. Just a flicker of something quieter.

Something hurt.

But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. “Do you know what people say?” he went on. “At school?”

Y/N didn’t answer.

“They think it’s funny,” he said, voice saccharine sweet. “You. Coming here. Hanging around me like this.”

Her gaze hardened slightly at that. “I don’t care what they think.” She bit.

“Yeah, well, I do.” he nodded, silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. “They think I’m some kind of charity case,” Taehyung added, his voice tightening. “Like you’re doing me a favor just by being here.”

“I’m not—” “That’s what it looks like!” he cut in sharply.

She flinched, it was small, barely noticeable. But it was there. And he saw it.

And still—He kept going.

“They look at you and they see someone who has everything,” he said. “And then they look at me—” He should've stopped. But it was too late, the next words came out anyway. “They look at me and wonder why you’d even bother.”

Y/N went very still. The air between them shifted, something fragile snapping clean in half. Taehyung felt it the second it happened. But instead of pulling back—He pushed to the point of no return.

“Maybe they’re right,” he said, quieter now. “Maybe this is just… something you do when you’re bored.”

Y/N stared at him. Not angry, not defensive, just… still. Like she was waiting and giving him one last chance to take it back. He didn’t.

“Because that’s what it feels like,” he finished. “Like I’m just—”He hesitated, “—something you can pick up and put down whenever you feel like it.”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

Y/N looked at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable in a way it had never been before. Then, slowly she stood up. The movement was calm, controlled. Almost too controlled. “You’re wrong,” she said. her voice wasn’t sharp, it wasn’t raised. If anything, it was quieter than usual.

That made it worse.

Taehyung swallowed, something twisting uncomfortably in his chest, but he didn’t speak. He didn't rush to apologize.

She glanced down at the orange still in her hand, now half-crushed, juice sticky against her fingers.

“…It’s just an orange,” she said softly. “It’s not that serious.”

The words echoed from earlier.

But they didn’t mean the same thing anymore, she looked back at him, and for the first time—he couldn’t read her at all. “That’s the way things go,” she added. Then she dropped the orange back into the crate.

And walked away.