✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader
✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Situationship, idol!au, angst, smut, coworkers, love triangle maybe
✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Across sleepless cities on tour, you and Yoongi cling to each other in an unspoken arrangement neither of you knows how to end until someone new makes you wonder if you should.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: angsty introspections, smut, fluff (kinda), more arirang song references, oral (f. receiving), penetrative sex, edging!, implied nipple stimulation leading to orgasm, exhibitionist kink (if you squint), mc being dense af, yoongi being dense af, miscommunication or lack of?, denial isn’t just a river in Egypt, Madrid OH Madrid
✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 7k
✎ ˎˊ˗ Betaread by: Aqua (this is for you!), Tea, and Catie
✎ ˎˊ˗ Playlist by @angellekookie
✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Since you really wanted it...💜 I had to split up the original chapter bec it was getting to 14k it didn't want to end. But the good news is the next chapter is about 80% done atp. Please let me know what you think and enjoy. Taglist to follow because I need to clock in for work in a few minutes. And sorry in advance if I don't get to tag everybody, but I will try! <3
Series Masterlist | Masterlist
You don’t really do casual. Or fuck buddies. Or situationships.
There’s a first time for everything.
Because this is where you currently stand with one Min Yoongi.
Your last real relationship was four years ago. After that, it’s just been a string of dates that never really turned into anything.
The plan was simple: focus on yourself, your career, travel the world.
This was not in the plan.
At least your career is thriving. And you are traveling the world. And maybe that’s how you justify it.
Because somehow, you start to understand why Tiff and Bina and Angel agreed to something like this with the other boys. The work is stressful, the hours are insane, and this arrangement takes the edge off in a way nothing else really does. There’s something about being in the same place at the same time a little too often that makes whatever this is with Yoongi… convenient. Easy.
That’s why it works. Theoretically.
You’re focusing on yourself. Your well-being. And if that well-being happens to come in the form of a chemical-induced haze on the regular—dopamine, not drugs—then so be it.
There’s an easy, unspoken rhythm to it now. Between rehearsals, Yoongi glances at you from across the room. A tilt of his head. You follow. In the evening, a text from him. Midnight. Sometimes as late as 2 or 3 a.m. when he’s still buzzing from adrenaline or when he can’t quite figure a track out. You’re out the door and into his lap.
It’s always him. You don’t really initiate. You don’t have to. Not when he seeks you out first and gives it to you all night.
⊙⊝⊜
Yoongi is a generous lover. This to say, he is a munch.
Now you get why he sings about giving good head every chance he gets. That tongue technology. Feeling the high waves coming. That salt in his tongue. Yeah, that’s your salt on his tongue.
Yoongi knows what to do to make your toes curl. How to pull pleasure out of you like no lover has before. Maybe it’s because of the secrecy, the risk. It heightens everything. Mostly you know it’s him. He’s clocked the hours to up his dick game. There are times you’re bothered by it. There are times you don’t care.
He’s mapped the places in your body that fall apart with his touch. Makes sure he does it again. And again. That’s what keeps you coming back for more.
The part that always gets you though is that brief moment of clarity after the act. The way he pulls you in after like it’s the right thing to do. You know it’s bare minimum. It doesn’t mean anything at all.
But for that stretch of time, danger looms. When your brain conjures a different version of you and him. A version where you’re allowed to ask questions like why he cut his hair. Why he doesn’t eat more. How his cat is doing. Why he keeps pressing on his shoulder like that-Is his past injury bothering him again? Is he gonna do another marathon?
You swallow all of it down. Because those aren’t your questions to ask. They belong to the people Yoongi loves. Jimin, for one. Not you.
Despite the many things you want to say in between the moment you come and the moment you go, you stop yourself because that’s not your role in his life.
Whatever this is has rules. Unspoken, but clear. You’re a big girl. You’ve come to terms with the fact that this doesn’t extend beyond closed doors and dim lights. That this is temporary. A placeholder until he finds something real and true and worth risking his idol life for.
So you draw your own lines for your own good.
You don’t stay the night. Not once. You leave before things can settle into something softer, something harder to walk away from in the morning.
You don’t let him clean you up, either. Never. The first time he brings you a washcloth, you take it from his hand with a muttered I got it, like it’s nothing. Like you don’t want the care. Like you don’t need it.
Every now and then, a casual baby slips from his lips because he must know exactly how much it gets to you. You’re not his baby, you know that, so you never call him anything sweet. It should be enough for him that the world calls him SUGA.
And kissing. None of that. Let him take, let him unravel you however he wants. Just not your kryptonite.
The rules keep you grounded. You hold the line firmly where you can, even if sometimes things feel like they are starting to blur.
Yet, there are moments when they do blur in your favor.
When he’s with you, breath uneven, composure slipping in ways not many get to see. When his hands tighten their grip on your hair as he struggles to stay grounded. When his eyes—usually so guarded, so distant—roll to the back of his head as you give him bliss. When he calls you that one word in a voice so strangled and desperate, and punctuates it with please as you have his warm and heavy cock wrapped tightly around your fingers and he chants your name and curses over and over before white blooms across your skin.
That’s the power you have. It does something crazy to you. Because for all the secrecy, all the restraint, all the careful distance you keep, you know this much is yours.
This version of him that comes undone in your hands. Pretty. Putty. It’s enough for now.
[Busan, SK, June 2026]
“Ughhh…”
You’re backstage, in one of the new costumes created for Festa, and this frickin’ zipper won’t—
“Hold still.”
You know the voice, and you don’t even argue. Yoongi steps behind you, tugging the zipper up in one smooth motion, the back of his hand brushing your spine in the process.
“You could’ve cut your skin,” he lightly scolds you with an eyebrow raise.
“Thanks,” you say, not meeting his eyes, ignoring the thump in your chest.
Down the hallway you hear a gaggle of noise and spot some of the dancers congregating by the catering table. You should probably join them and get something to eat, too. Though you’re feeling kinda…
“Nervous?” Yoongi asks.
“What?”
“You seem stressed.”
You don’t even realize you were showing it. “…maybe a little.”
Yoongi nods once like he’s satisfied that he read your mood. “Why?”
“Uh, my family is watching today.”
“Really?” His eyes widen. “Did you ask to seat them in the suites?”
“Oh, there’s no need for that. They should be okay in the 300s.”
Yoongi plucks his phone from his back pocket and starts tapping away. You don’t even know if he heard you or anything, but suddenly he’s furiously texting someone, fingers flying across the screen.
Since he seems distracted, you decide to bounce.
“I’m gonna go.” You jerk a thumb behind you. “I have to meet with Seung Eun to orient some of the… anyway, bye.”
Yoongi lifts his head and nods absently, before going back to whatever has him occupied.
⊙⊝⊜
Your phone rings and your sister’s goofy smile fills your screen. You swipe to answer it immediately. “Hey…”
“Unnie!!” There’s an unmistakable tone of delight in her voice. “Yo, the seats were amazing! Thank you for the upgrade!”
You pause mid-step, phone pressed to your ear. “…upgrade?”
“We got moved to the sky suite,” your sister gushes. “There was a buffet and everything. It was so cool!”
You stop walking entirely now, trying to piece it together. “Huh.”
Your sister is none the wiser about your confusion, still gushing about her experience. “We even met V, J-Hope, and RM!” She continues, sounding a little breathless. “Eomma introduced herself to RM. She thanked him for helping with her surgery. He was so nice, unnie. And so hot.”
Ah. That tracks.
Namjoon.
Of course it was him. Now you’re not surprised because you might have mentioned this to him one time. Honestly, you can’t remember. But he’s a generous soul. Does thoughtful things and he never expects anything back. Who else would have done this for you anyway.
“That’s great,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “I’ll thank him later.”
“I couldn’t really find you though,” your sister adds sheepishly. “All the dancers looked the same.”
You laugh. “That’s kind of the point.”
“You should come home when you can, okay?”
“How are things with eomma and appa?”
“They still haven’t killed each other.” She chuckles wryly and something pricks at your chest.
“Were they at least happy today?”
“So happy,” she assures. “I’m proud of you, unnie. We are all proud of you.”
Your heart feels like it expanded two sizes. “...Thank you.”
“Come visit when you get back from tour, okay?”
“Yeah… I should be able to after US. We’ll have a short break.”
“Okay. I miss you.”
“Miss you, too.”
You say your goodbyes as you reach Yoongi’s door, still feeling a little frayed around the edges. It seems to be the case anytime you speak to your younger sister these days, who is literally the best person in your life. You wish you could tell her your worries, but she already has enough to deal with at home.
You sigh deeply, trying to reset yourself before you lift your wrist to knock.
Yoongi has asked you to come over that night and there wasn’t really any reason for you to say no. You still had some surplus energy you wouldn’t mind burning off. And it should take your mind off things.
He tells you he just wrapped up a Weverse live with the members and you suspect his body is still high from all of the adrenaline and excitement from today.
One thing about Yoongi is that he always knows exactly where to put all that restless energy.
By the time he’s done with you, your thoughts have gone blissfully quiet, your body boneless beside his.
The room is quiet except for the steady rhythm of your breathing, bodies still warm, the sheets a mess around you.
You’re staring up at the ceiling when he speaks. “Did your family enjoy the show?”
You turn to him, brightening instantly. “Yeah. They loved it. I was on the phone with my sister on the way up.”
Yoongi smiles, soft and pretty in the afterglow. “Your dad must’ve liked the unlimited beer in the sky suite.”
You grin. “I think he did. They really appreciated being there.”
“You’re wel–”
It clicks then. “Oh shit.” You sit up suddenly, clutching the sheet to your chest. “I forgot to text Joon.”
“Namjoon-ah?”
“Yeah,” you say, already reaching for your phone. “To thank him for doing that for my family. That was really thoughtful of him.”
You don’t look at Yoongi.
You don’t see the way his expression stills. Flattens.
He watches you for a second longer, something stormy settling behind his eyes. Then he sits up, reaching for the shirt draped over the chair.
“I need to sleep.” He says as his head pokes through the tee.
You glance up from your phone, blinking as realization hits. “Oh. Yeah, of course.” You take it as your cue, slipping out of bed without question.
This isn’t new. This is how it usually goes.
“Sorry,” you mumble, already gathering your clothes. “I’ll get gone.”
He shrugs lightly. “It’s fine.”
You don’t think anything of it. He doesn’t really kick you out per se. But you guess in the few times you’ve done this, he’s figured out you never stay so he doesn’t expect you to.
You dress quickly and head out the door mumbling a goodbye. He doesn’t say anything back.
⊙⊝⊜
You’re walking down the hallway when Namjoon’s reply comes through.
You smile, opening the message.
Namjoon: Your family was so nice. I’m glad to finally meet your eomma. She looks healthy.
Namjoon: Wasn’t me though. You should have told me they were coming and I would’ve arranged for it.
You read the last bit again. Confused.
Wait, so if it wasn’t him…
The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime.
You step inside slowly, thumb hovering over your screen uselessly.
Before it closes, your eyes lift to the door at the end of the corridor, thinking of the man behind it.
Oh.
Your stomach drops.
Could it be…?
You type before you can overthink it.
You: Was it you?
No reply comes.
⊙⊝⊜
Until a week after, where a u free tonight? graces your thread and you’re up and out the door in a green hoodie you copped from the Goyang tour kick-off. It seems like ages ago now, you think, as you pull some loose threads on the sleeve, but it’s really the comfiest thing ever.
You’re back in Seoul now. There’s two weeks of rest and rehearsals before flying out again. Seoul feels strangely still compared to months of constant movement, but it’s nice to come back to this pace after being crazy-busy.
This is the first time Yoongi has messaged you outside the tour bubble, and the fact that he wants to meet at his actual house sends a strange little thrill through your chest.
The lobby of his high-rise is massive, luxurious, infinitely more intimidating than your condo complex. You half expect security to arrest you, but the moment you say your name at the desk, the concierge nods immediately and sends you up without a problem. Still, maybe you should have dressed up a bit? Ah, it’s useless thinking about that now. Yoongi probably just has a random tee and his favorite sweats on anyway.
When you get to his room at the penthouse level, you press the doorbell on the digital screen. The door swings open not five seconds later.
See, Min Yoongi is a menace.
A white ribbed tank clings tightly to his toned chest, biceps completely exposed, the slim-cut brown trousers tapering perfectly against his narrow waist. He smells so good, too. Soapy and musky from having just showered, hair combed back showing his fresh new undercut.
Damn. Okay.
Yoongi chose violence tonight.
“Hi,” you say stupidly, suddenly hyperaware that this is the first time you’ve seen him outside of HYBE, arenas, and hotel hallways.
(Except Hannam. But you don’t talk about that.)
Yoongi leans against the frame barefoot. “Hi,” he echoes, quieter, stepping aside to let you in.
His apartment is exactly what you imagined and somehow not at all.
Minimal. Clean lines. Classy. Smells nice. Huge windows wrapping around the open plan layout of his spacious living room, connecting to the kitchen towards the farther side of the room.
“Wow,” you mumble, toeing your shoes off near the entrance. “This is where you live…”
Yoongi snorts softly behind you. “Shut up.”
“Wae? I haven’t even said anything!”
A tiny smile pulls at his mouth as he watches you slowly wander further inside, your fingertips brushing lightly over the back of the couch as you take everything in.
You stop near one of the framed photos on the shelf. “You decorated this yourself?”
“Mm. Mostly.”
You glance around once more, genuinely impressed. “It feels very…”
“Go ahead,” he sighs. “Make fun of me.”
“No, I was gonna say warm.” You look around once more before teasing lightly, “Like a rich man in a K-drama lives here.”
“The lead or the second lead?”
The question catches you off-guard, but makes you grin. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters!”
“They’re not usually both rich, you know.”
“But what if they both are?” He shrugs, still waiting for the answer. “So?”
“Lemme think.” You consider it, making a show of surveying the space like you’re a reality show judge. “The Pinterest touches. I dunno ‘bout those…”
“What do you mean?”
“Yankee candle in Fresh Laundry. Bottle of Rose on the counter with two wine glasses.” You point accusingly. “Succulents.”
The place kinda looks a bit showroom-y, like he got the model unit from the realtor. But there are obvious traces of him everywhere. A pair of ear buds lying on the coffee table outside of its case, shelves of vinyls from many years of collecting, a Spotify plaque for D-day hanging on a wall beside some other accolades, a cat scratching post on the corner.
The one thing making this place feel the most like a K-drama set though is the man standing in front of you right now. In that fit. So fucking handsome. Looking at you with those stupidly hopeful eyes like your opinion of his apartment matters way more than it should.
Hands twitching faintly at his sides, Yoongi seems to be combusting for praise tonight, so you give it to him. It’s the truth anyways.
“Lead guy.”
His mouth twitches. “There it is.”
You smile softly as you watch him pour the wine. The sweet tang of the rosé glides across your tongue, cool and refreshing down your throat while Yoongi leans against the kitchen counter, watching you over the rim of his own glass with far too much satisfaction.
Like he’s pleased you like it here. Like he’s pleased you’re here.
“C’mere,” he mutters eventually, nodding toward the living room.
You follow him deeper into the apartment, eyes trailing after the broad line of his shoulders as he strolls toward the massive couch like he doesn’t realize how unfair he looks in soft pants and that stupid tank top.
He gestures casually toward the sofa. “Sit befo—”
Before he can even finish the sentence, your hands are on him.
“You have no idea how hot this is,” you inform him seriously, shoving lightly at his chest.
“Yah—”
He drops onto the couch with a startled laugh, and you immediately climb into his lap, your knees sinking into the plush cushions on either side of his thighs. His palms slide instinctively up your bare legs, settling at your waist before dipping lower, squeezing at your ass like he can’t decide where he wants to hold you most.
“Why are you wearing this?” you accuse, tugging lightly at the neckline of his tank.
“Why are you wearing that?” he accuses back.
You blink innocently. “Wearing what?”
“That.” He gestures vaguely toward your mouth, already looking annoyed. “The lip thing.”
Oh. You smile slowly. “You like it?”
“Hate it,” he deadpans immediately.
Which means you’ve already won.
You drag your bottom lip between your teeth before licking over the stain deliberately, just enough for it to catch the light, glossy and wet.
“Mm,” you hum. “Tastes good, too.”
Yoongi’s tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
His hands tighten slightly on your waist. “You know what.”
You tilt your head, pouting playfully now. “No, I don’t think I do.”
His gaze drops to your lips again like he can’t help it. Like he’s actively losing a battle with himself.
“Y/N,” he warns.
You lean closer on purpose, close enough for him to smell the sweet strawberry tint on your mouth. “What?”
He exhales slowly through his nose, eyes darkening in that way you’ve become very familiar with. “I need to fuckin’ do something with my mouth.”
“Is that your way of asking if you can kiss me?” You laugh softly, pleased with yourself, as you deliberately grind down against his length, just once. “You’re so romantic.”
A groan. A slap on your ass. Then a long, suffering sigh. “What if I say please?”
“Oh wow, big bad Agust D wants to say please?”
“Y/N.”
“You know you can’t kiss me, Yoongi.”
Another sigh. Deeper this time, just like the slow drag of your clothed cunt against the ridge of his cock.
His head tips back slightly against the couch like he’s asking the universe for patience while your smile grows impossibly smug.
“Fuuuuck,” he curses. “You’re evil.”
“Just suck on my tits. I don’t care.”
His brow quirks. “You don't care?”
You shrug dismissively.
You don’t know it then, but he bookmarks that as a challenge. Not for tonight, though. He’s already so worked up.
“Lie back,” he smacks your ass again and maneuvers you towards the couch cushions, already halfway peeling your shorts and panties off your legs.
“Show me your tits. Wanna see them while I eat you out.”
You comply, promptly pulling the zip of your hoodie down, showing you’re bare underneath. His eyes bug out temporarily before he shakes his head and drops his gaze between your legs.
He presses his lips to the soft inner flesh of your thigh, inching up to your core. He switches to the other leg, pressing butterfly kisses there to drive you insane.
Then, his tongue darts out to part your folds, gently, shallowly, wiggling it as if to make room.
Your hips arch off from the cushions, chasing his wet muscle immediately. But he holds you down, soft thighs locked against strong arms as he tsks a warning for you not to squirm too much.
He lifts his head and grits, in mock seriousness. “Can I have my meal in peace now?”
God, what the fuck is he saying? No matter, it got you clenching around nothing.
Yoongi lowers his chest further where you’re spread open for him. The warm air from his nose tickles your skin before letting his lips touch yours.
What he does next tracks, because he’s a little shit.
Yoongi makes a show of making out with your puffy lips as if it was your mouth. You prop yourself on elbows to watch him do it, applying the faintest pressure before pulling it with a gentle suck. He licks and suckles noisily and you whine as his tongue snakes between your slit to flick against your clit. Just the first swipe almost breaks you.
Yoongi doesn’t really talk much when he gets into a flowstate. Not before he props a pillow behind your head because he knows you love this show.
“Watch…” he instructs, before your eager nod makes him smirk.
He keeps it soft, steady at first, his fat tongue sliding up and down your aching nub. He takes his time with this, just gives you maddeningly slow, torturous flicks at a glacial pace. The heat pools low on your belly, gradually increasing in intensity as he shakes his head against your mound, tongue zig-zagging against your clit.
You run your fingers through his short hair, scratching his scalp. He purrs when you do that and the vibration makes you shiver.
This is the view you retrieve from your mind palace on nights you’re alone. Yoongi’s dark hair and even darker eyes between your legs.
Fuck. He’s so insanely good at this. He moves lower to lap at the trail of juices leaking from your hole. You moan helplessly when he fucks you shallowly with his tongue, the sharp tip breaching your entrance but just barely.
“God… Yoongi, what the fuck?”
As if he wants to drive you even more insane, he adds pressure to your clit with his thumb and you’re just moaning and panting haplessly now, mind going numb.
Just when you’re about to—
Of course, of fucking course, he pulls back. You tip your head back, chasing the breath that has left your lungs.
“Look at you, baby.” Yoongi admires how his spit and your juices make your pussy all shiny and pretty. Eyes full of stars, he breathes out, “this perfect fuckin’ cunt…”
“Yoongi,” you squirm, biting your lip as he continues to just ogle at you. “Stop teasing…”
“Okay, okay…” he chuckles, giving your clit one quick swipe.
Yoongi takes your hand on the back of his neck and swallows two fingers, wetting the pads. He bites it playfully before telling you to “play with your tits...”
You pluck at your right nipple, swirling his spit around it before pulling it taut and releasing it with a jiggle. You didn’t realize your eyes fluttered shut until you feel the moist heat of his mouth envelop your other nipple, sucking at it greedily to force your eyes open.
“You ready to come?” he mumbles against your chest, kissing the sweat off your sternum.
“Please…” you scratch the tufts of his hair behind his ear, earning you another deep groan as he nuzzles his cheek against the softness of your tits.
He trails gentle kisses down your body as he goes back to his previous position. And you gasp when he does the thing for you. The finishing move. It’s when he sucks your clit in between his soft, pink lips and the tip of his tongue circles it while inside the warmth of his mouth.
“I love it when you do that… shit…”
His brows are furrowed while he hums against you, still suckling like he’s addicted, even moaning indulgently for you.
“Yoongi, please. Don’t stop…”
And just like that…
“Not yet.”
He smirks as he withdraws just enough to look you dead in the eye before stuffing two fingers right through your cunt without warning.
“Fuck!” you cry out, walls clamping tight at the intrusion.
God his fingers. They’re moving so fast and it feels impossible. You’re too close to hold back.
“Not yet,” he snarls, fingers moving rapidly in and out of your sopping hole now. “Not until I say so.”
Everything feels fucking lit. Your skin is burning up, electricity running up and down your veins.
But this is where he likes to play, because Yoongi enjoys edging you. Works you up, but forces you to control yourself as if it doesn’t take every ounce of willpower not to explode. He’s a fucking problem.
“Don’t act like you don’t like this,” he mutters, almost to himself, as he watches you tremble. “I know you do.”
You loathe to admit that you like that sadistic grin on his face when he knows you’re close, but even better, the tiny tilt of his brow when he finally tells you to let go.
Your fingers curl against his bicep, grounding yourself as you start to grind against his fingers. You meet his every thrust, the noisy squelches of your pussy filling the room. You’re writhing, desperate, mouth hanging open to take every ounce of pleasure seeping into your bones and dribbling down your thighs.
There’s something glinting in his eyes when he asks. “You let anyone else see you like this?”
You’re still hyperfocused on rocking against him.
“Answer me,” he says, adding a third finger now as he scissors your gummy walls open.
You roll your eyes, even as your pulse races. “You’re the only one stupid enough to deal with me.”
That seems to satisfy him.
“Good,” he smirks. “Come for me.”
Your brain seems to respond to his voice because suddenly you’re shuddering as your orgasm racks your body, spine bowing towards him, while he continues to piston his fingers inside, your cunt weeping violently in surrender.
His fingers slow, helping you ride out the wave. You sink back into the couch cushions, smiling a little dopey as you stare at the ceiling above.
“I’m not done with you…”
“I’m not done with you, either,” you reply, more breath than your actual voice, still heaving from your release.
He grins all big and cocky, licking your juices clean off his bony digits and you feel another twitch right in the spot where he just left.
You move to stand up, jelly legs still a little wobbly. He catches you by the ass, and you shove his cheeky face back, giggling.
An equal opportunity lover he maintains, but you suspect deep down he’s an ass man.
Yoongi licks his bottom lip while you shrug off the hoodie, eyes on him. He looks chuffed as hell as he palms his crotch, the stiff one underneath the thin material already making itself known.
“Pants off,” you say sweetly, sliding your hands from your sides to cup the underside of your breasts.
A sharp inhale mixes with the shuffle of pants and briefs as it joins your hoodie in a messy puddle.
Yoongi is big. You already know he packs a wallop, but it still surprises you every damn time.
He tugs at the velvety shaft languidly, a tiny bead of white pooling at the tip.
You bite your lip, heart racing, as you watch him spread his cum around his cockhead with his thumb.
The grin he has on his naughty, just one corner lifted up, eyes shining with mischief. “Sup?”
The fucking audacity.
So tonight, you decide to lean into every unfair advantage your years of dancing gave you. You know exactly how to move your body to elicit the right reactions and bring Yoongi to his demise.
You turn around, gathering your hair on one side, then glance at him from over your shoulder as you throw your ass back, just once. Okay, maybe twice.
Yoongi groans appreciatively. “You’re so sexy. So fuckin’ sexy.” He combs his hair back, eyes glued to the soft jiggle of your behind as he gives his cock a few more pumps.
You spank your bum playfully, a pretty shade of red blooming on your skin, before spreading your cunt open for him as you bend forward.
“Holy fuuuck.” Yoongi slurs. “I gotta–”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, just presses his face against your ass so suddenly that you almost tip forward if he wasn’t gripping your hips. Then, you feel him trail his tongue from your glistening hole and up towards the rim. That makes your knees buckle but thankfully he catches you by the waist and plants your ass firmly against his cock.
Yoongi’s already so hard against you and that just makes you want to tease him a bit more. You shift a little so his thick cock sits snug between your cheeks. He huffs a satisfied chuckle at the feeling, rutting up once to stuff himself even deeper into the soft squish of your ass.
You hook one hand around his neck, pulling him forward to kiss the underside of his jaw, tasting his clean sweat as you move your hips in a slow swivel.
“Fuckiiiin’ hell…”
The groan you pull from his throat with each calculated roll gets lower and a little more wrecked with each pass. But when you drag your tongue slowly along the shell of his ear, the sound he lets out is downright nasty. A low, desperate rumble that went straight to your pussy.
Wetness spreads along his cock as you continue to rub against him, a little faster, panting sweet sighs against his ear. You flick your warm tongue along his lobe again, licking along the cartilage before capturing it inside your mouth.
“A-ahhh,” Yoongi chokes out a shudder like he was caught off-guard. “Shit, baby, that’s…”
“You like that?” You hum and continue to lick and suckle, the sensual noises making his dick twitch. It’s the first time you pulled this move on him and you’re satisfied with his reaction.
Hands sliding up to make your breasts spill from his hands, he grits. “I think you need to get fucked hard.”
“Can you do that for me, Yoon?” you mewl as he pinches your nipples between his calloused fingertips, pleasure pricking at your chest. “You wanna fuck me hard?”
“You know I do.” he rasps, voice an octave lower. “Bend over the arm rest, baby.”
You rearrange yourself on his utterly debauched couch as he rolls a condom on himself that he grabs from behind a lamp like he has it at the ready. You can’t even clock him for that because you’re desperate to have him inside you.
Thighs still burning from your little performance, you rest your weight on your belly.
Yoongi stands behind you, lining himself up on your entrance as he lets his fat cock be swallowed inch by inch.
“Fuck, baby. It’s so tight.” he groans, as your pussy flutters all over him.
You moan when he finally pushes himself to the hilt, crescent shapes blooming on the soft skin on your waist.
“Yoongi…” You call his name like a broken plea.
His pelvis bounces against your ass as he thrusts his dick in and out of you at a ruthless pace. There’s no show build up here, just a quick ascent to the top. You claw at the cushions finding something to grip as he slams against you, rough and unrestrained, and you’re reduced to a wailing mess.
He bucks his hips even harder, faster, working himself stupid. You know he’s fucking gone, you can feel it.
“Touch yourself, baby. Fuck, I’m so close…”
You slip your index between your battered cunt, your clit so slippery it doesn’t take much for you to reach your peak for a second time.
You rub quick finger eights and reach cloud nine even quicker, shaking as you cum, your walls pulsing against his cock.
“Where?” he asks when he knows you’ve finished.
“Back.”
He slips out of you so fast, and before you can whine at the sudden emptiness, you feel the warm ropes of Yoongi’s gooey cum splash against your spine as your name leaves his lips.
[Madrid, June 2026]
You should have known that of all the girls it would be Rei who clocks you first.
You’ve barely stepped out from behind the dim green room partition when she narrows her eyes at you. You shift your slightly twisted top and wince as it chafes against your too-sensitive nipples.
After challenging Yoongi with making you come from just nipple stimulation, you found yourself on top of spare music equipment as he decided to grant your wish like some fucked-up genie.
Behind you, he walks out a beat later.
Rei’s lips part, then press into a thin line.
“Wow,” she mutters, low enough that only you hear. “He looks like an evil king.”
You look at Yoongi over your shoulder—and yeahhhh. There’s no denying what just happened. His lips are red, slightly swollen, and his hair? God. You shouldn’t have tugged that hard. It’s sticking out every which way.
“I know Mujin don’t do hair like that,” Rei comments.
You’re still mute, refusing to meet her eyes as she falls into step beside you.
“You doing hair now, sweets?” Rei teases. “I didn’t realize glam was short-staffed.”
“I’ve no clue what you’re talking about,” you say quickly, already walking faster.
She cackles, not convinced in the slightest. But it’s fine. If there’s one person you can trust here it’s Rei.
“Adios, mamacita,” she calls out as you round the corner to find the nearest bathroom.
⊙⊝⊜
Rehearsal runs late. But the minute it’s over you return your eomma’s call.
Your dad and your mom got into a fight.
Something about his pension.
Something about the trash.
Something about him never listening to her needs.
Rei looks over to you, a silent question if she should hang back. The hotel is 10, maybe 15 minutes on foot, so you wave a dismissive hand. You don’t want witnesses to this. Not for this. You can make your way back easily. You just need to get through this phone call.
You let your mom spill her guts to you. You know love is there. But you also know how something can be real and still not work.
At some point, your legs just give out. You’re slumped on the floor, the base of your spine against the worn walls of the dance studio as you control your breathing. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.
Your heartbeat hasn’t fully come down yet, still knocking against your ribs, and this news isn’t doing you any favors.
By the time the call finishes, your skin is no longer tacky with sweat, but your limbs still feel heavy. You think about what your mom said. Not everything, just the last part. That love isn’t always enough.
You drag a hand down your face, pressing your palms into your eyes until you see white. After a few minutes, you push yourself up, roll your shoulders. You don’t want to cry over something you can’t control.
You’re locking up behind you when you see him.
Yoongi’s leaning against the wall like he’s been there a while, arms crossed loosely, gaze unfocused as he chews on the skin on his bottom lip.
“You waiting for someone?” you ask, keeping it light, like your pulse is not racing.
“Mm.”
“…who?”
This time he looks at you properly. Just for a second. You look away, not wanting to show him truths buried beneath your lids. You dig through your bag for your pepper spray, something to keep in hand for the walk back to the hotel.
“Don’t worry about it.”
You scoff softly. “Okay.”
As you start heading out, he pushes off the wall like he’s been waiting for that exact moment, falling into step beside you like it was always the plan.
“My car’s still outside,” Yoongi says, like you should already know what that means.
You hesitate for half a second. But your tired legs are screaming hallelujah as you follow him out.
⊙⊝⊜
Inside the SUV neither of you says anything at first. Personally, you don’t know what the hell you’re doing here. Maybe he wants to fuck in the car? You really don’t know…
You glance over to where he’s seated. The city moves outside in streaks of gold and shadow, streetlights slipping across his profile in intervals. He also looks worn, tired. 10% battery life.
So you let your head fall back against the seat, eyes half-lidded, letting your body finally start to come down from everything.
“Is it okay if we stop somewhere?” he asks when the driver nears the hotel cul de sac.
You turn your head slightly. “Where?”
“Place I heard about.”
You study him for a second. “What if I say no?”
There’s no hesitation. “Then it’s a no.” He sounds serious.
“Relax. I’m kidding.” You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Just pretend I’m not here, I’m wiped.”
He leans over and presses a small button on your armrest, the recliner whirring quietly as it tilts back, letting you sink into the seat a little more.
“Thanks,” you mumble, curling a little to the side away from him, so you can watch the view from outside.
⊙⊝⊜
Tucked into a narrow street, the shop is easy to miss. You never would have gone here not with how small it is, how unassuming. It’s like a Spanish deli. A butcher shop and a little restaurant rolled into one.
You step inside and the smell hits you. Salt, cured meat, something rich and fatty and indulgent, layered over the faint tang of wine and old wood.
Yoongi steps towards the till, pointing to something in the menu. You don’t hear what he communicates except for the faint “Gracias.”
You couldn’t help but snicker at how he said it so cutely.
“I got this for us,” he says, showing you a picture of an open sandwich called bocadillo de jamon.
You raise a brow. “You ordered for me?”
He smirks playfully. “Got a problem with it?”
“Why do you keep bossing me around?”
He shakes his head, a tiny grin playing in his lips, before he tsks. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”
“Wha—“ a puff of air escapes your gaping mouth. How dare he.
⊙⊝⊜
Back in the car, the wrappers crinkle softly between you as you take the first bite, grease soaking faintly through the paper, the taste immediate and overwhelming in the best way. It’s salty, rich, and so indulgent.
“Wow,” you gush. “This is so fuckin’ good.”
He nods, a lump on the side of his cheek as he chews thoughtfully.
You glance at him. “You been there before?”
“No,” he says simply. “But it was on the Michelin Bib Gourmand.”
Honestly, you have no idea what that means. But Yoongi is always researching random shit, his knowledge running weirdly deep in ways that constantly catch you off guard, so you assume it’s basically the equivalent of five stars on Yelp.
Yoongi tells the driver to head back to the hotel, but not before he also hands the man a sandwich of his own.
Then, he reaches into the bag and pulls out two tiny bottles of red wine, twisting one open with ease before handing it to you.
“Yay,” you smile, oddly delighted by the unexpected treat.
You glance back toward the little jamon spot as the car pulls away, the warm glow of the restaurant fading slowly into the Madrid night. “That’s the kind of place you see in movies, y’know?” you muse lightly. “Somewhere people accidentally fall in love on the first date.”
Yoongi takes a slow swig of wine, thumb swiping across his bottom lip afterward. He doesn’t reply with words. Just a tiny wine-stained smile.
You take another crunchy bite of your sandwich then take your phone out to snap a quick pic. God, it’s amazing.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks after a while.
“It’s my off,” you say, leaning your head back again. “So, nothing. Sleep. Maybe walk around if I feel like being a human. I know the girls wanna hit the beach.”
He nods. “Mm. You like the beach?”
“Sometimes. You?”
“Nah, I hate water.”
You smirk. He is never beating the catman allegations. “You got plans tomorrow?”
“Sleep,” he laughs.
You snort softly. “Of course.”
The rest of the ride is quiet after that. You part ways at the lobby drop off, where you go down, while the driver takes the private entrance for him as per protocol.
But later, in your room, the silence feels different. You catch your reflection in the mirror as you take the day off with a makeup wipe.
Your mom’s voice echoes faintly in your head. You sigh. You need to call her back in the morning. See if she changes her mind.
You peel your lashes away, letting your eyes revel in relief for a second.
You lick your lips and still taste the wine, the salt. You remember the quaint restaurant.
And Yoongi. The way he waited for you outside the studio. The softness in his face inside the car. The baby-sized bottle of red. Then shake your head lightly.
Was it a–? No way.
That couldn’t be what it felt like.
That couldn't have been a date.
A/N: Hehe <3
Please let me know what you think. Leave me a note, or a reblog with your review. It's the best way you can show your support.
Thank you for reading you lovely, beautiful human xo
✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader
✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Situationship, idol!au, angst, smut, coworkers, love triangle maybe
✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Across sleepless cities on tour, you and Yoongi cling to each other in an unspoken arrangement neither of you knows how to end until someone new makes you wonder if you should.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: BTS fucks a lot!, except one (he’s kinda depressed), implied smut, angst, heavy make-out, mention of death :c, mention of mental health struggles, second-hand embarrassment, MC handles rejection not super well, drinking, Mean Yoongi, canon moments I manipulated for my own sick pleasure, the ending, that fucking Hannam scene, holding hands (it deserves a warning in this fic), angst i guess, and again Mean Yoongi, redemption arc when?, he’s an idiot but he has heart I promise, probably wrong ways to play LOL chess/teamfight tactics, foyer quote was inspired by something i randomly saw in my feed, watch out for the time skips (one flashback and a tiny flash forward)
✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 10.3k whuuuut
✎ ˎˊ˗ Betaread by: Aqua (this is for you!), Tea, and Catie; credits to Aqua for inspiring one of MC’s quotes (marked **)
✎ ˎˊ˗ Playlist by @angellekookie (my very first fic with an OST i'm sobbing, ty sweets)
✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: A whole ass year in the making and it took a trip to South Korea and experiencing Arirang in all its glory for me to finally bring this fic to life the way I envisioned it. After dropping two teasers I guess y’all really fw this plot, so I do hope you guys like it. Don’t forget to comment or reblog. I’d really appreciate it. I might take time to tag everyone that requested, so bear with me. Other than that, enjoy~ 💜
Series Masterlist | Masterlist
You’re part of BTS’ BTS.
Bangtan Tour Sluts.
It’s a term one of the make-up unnies coined half-jokingly, after realizing the truth: you’re a group of women who’ve practically dedicated your lives to seven men who are not even your family.
You’re a sorority of girls who go on tour with the group, taking on multiple hats, making sure every tour stop goes as best as possible.
You willingly do every beck and call of theirs because you actually like them. They are nice and you want to see them succeed. And even if they’re not being nice (oh the stories you could tell!), you still do everything for them. Like good girls. Like sluts.
Maybe that’s just what devotion looks like in this business.
Yours started with Hoseok.
Back before you had a name that anyone could recognize, you were just another girl on YouTube flexing dance moves in her tiny apartment. Somehow, he saw one of your clips, a clean cover of Dope, and sent your link to their performance director.
You got the email weeks later, went in for an audition, and the rest is history.
Then came the rehearsals. The late nights. The endless counts of eight. You were still so broke in those early days that you couldn’t even afford a cab after a late night practice, so you’d wait at the bus stop outside the studio, hoodie soaked through, sneakers squishing from the rain.
One night, Jin pulled up beside the curb and offered you a ride. You remember Yoongi was in the passenger seat. Wordless for the most part, but he blasted the heater so you wouldn't get cold. You thanked Jin profusely as he dropped you off.
He shrugged and said, “Good thing Yoongi saw you.”
You still remember the heat sinking back into your bones.
It added up over time.
Jimin once wrapped your ankle when you landed wrong after some crazy choreo you were trying to hit. Even crazier, Namjoon paid for your eomma’s emergency medical bills, because you were still struggling then.
You tried to pay him back. He just looked at you, shrugged, and said, “If you really want to, just stay with us. Stay in the team.”
So you do.
The boys noticed you beyond your work. Not all at once, but steadily, gradually, eventually. And maybe that’s all it takes. You’d follow them anywhere after that. From MOTS to PTD Live On Stage to Arirang.
The thing is, some of the Bangtan Tour Sluts do become that over time.
You once overheard a manager say: stupid idols date fans; smart idols date other idols. Or each other.
The boys are fine as fuck. But after living together for years, the latter feels… borderline incestuous. Except for two of them, who you suspected had something non-platonic going on, but you don’t want to speculate further.
You’ve seen some of them try dating other idols too, but it’s chaos. Too many schedules to align, too many eyes watching, security doubling the second they want to meet up even in a different city for a simple fuck.
It’s easier this way. Closer. Quieter.
You don’t even blame them for it. This arrangement. The girls are hot as hell.
There’s Angel from Wardrobe who’s become Taehyung’s emotional support buddy. She’s on-call to dress him and undress him, whenever the situation calls for it.
Jungkook’s got a couple in his roster. Bina from glam and Tiff, also from glam. It could be problematic, sure, but so far they’re having fun.
Somehow, even if you highly considered becoming Seokjin’s…
You ended up becoming Yoongi’s.
…and it all begins with a very mature game of Spin the Bottle.
You and the rest of the crew had stayed back in the rehearsal studio to celebrate the birthday of Rei, assistant performance director, resident tyrant, and class president of your little dysfunctional sorority.
There’s food, balloons, and too many empty soju bottles. One of which is currently spinning… and lands on you.
“Shit,” you mutter, already reaching for your beer. “Truth.”
A chorus of groans.
“Boring!”
“Ask her something good!”
The birthday girl leans forward, eyes glassy, tipsy as hell. “Aight, gun to your head—which member you gonna fuck?”
You choke on your drink. “No way I’m answering that. Next question.”
“Nah,” Tiff tosses a handful of popcorn at you. “You know the rules.”
You groan, tilting your head back dramatically before swatting the kernels off your lap. “You guys…”
“Wuss!” Bina teases.
“C’mon, you’ve thought about it. Don’t even play,” Rei smirks.
All eyes are on you. The pressure is mounting so high that you almost want to hurl. You take another swig. Rei is right though, as she almost annoyingly always is. You’ve definitely checked the boys out. It’s not even a question of who (singular), because if you’re gonna be honest, you have biblical levels of greed and there’s two in particular you’d let rearrange your guts.
But ugh. You’ll play along.
Just one name to satiate these hoes.
“Fine,” you huff, wiping your lip with the back of your palm, readying to reveal your answer:
“Kim Seokjin.”
The room erupts.
“OHHHH—”
“I knew it!”
And even if you know you could stop at that, the alcohol kicks your courage into overdrive.
“I’d let him fuck me raw until the inside of my coochie moulds to the shape of his dick...”**
The rest spills out of you in a half-slurred, disgustingly specific ramble that has the girls screaming and Angel spilling her shot.
You’re laughing, face hot, still high off everyone’s reactions when you feel the heat of someone’s stare.
You glance up and holy shit. It’s the name you withheld.
Feline eyes piercing and lips curling at the corners, oh Yoongi looks hella amused. He’s right there and he heard it all.
Fucking hell. Your life is literally over.
It’s later, much later, when you run into him again.
The hallway outside the bathrooms is quieter, the bass from the dance studio muffled into a distant thrum. Your head is a little light, steps a little uneven, but you’re mostly sober now. Okay, not really.
You push the door open and there he is, almost like he’s been waiting.
Yoongi’s leaning against the wall, one foot propped up, head tilted just enough that his hair falls into his eyes. He looks… loose. Drunk, then. Obviously. Just like everyone else in the party.
His gaze slides over you and that same almost-smile returns. “Seokjinnie-hyung, huh?”
You groan immediately, covering your face. “Oh my god, don’t.”
He huffs out a scratchy laugh and your fist collides against his arm.
He rubs the spot with his palm. “Didn’t know you had that much to say about him.”
“I didn’t know you were listening,” you shoot back.
“Right place at the right time,” he shrugs.
You narrow your eyes. “You’re enjoying my demise way too much.”
“Am I?” he says, pushing off the wall.
He steps closer. “I mean…” his gaze flicks down, then back up. “You were pretty detailed.”
This close, he smells like warm musk and whisky. It hits you all at once, heat creeping up your neck before you can stop it. You swallow it down, deflecting. “You’re drunk.”
“So are you.” He smiles sweetly, pretty teeth and pink gums on show. Then he circles back smoothly to the topic because he is a piece of shit. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”
You scoff, folding your arms like that’ll save you. “Oh, there’s a lot of things you don’t know ‘bout me.”
His gaze dips, trailing down the exposed skin where your cardigan has conveniently fallen off your shoulder, towards your breasts hugged by your camisole. His eyes linger just a second too long before dragging back up to your face.
And there it is. He did the thing for you. That thing he does where his tongue presses into his cheek. Fucker.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
Alarm bells are ringing in your head because is Min fuckin’ Yoongi lowkey hitting on you right now?
“Well…” his head tilts, voice dropping just enough to feel it. “Was that just talk?”
He is! Fuck. Why? No, shut up. It doesn’t matter right now. Say something.
You swallow, then tilt your chin up, meeting him head-on as liquid courage pushes you to say the next words. “What?” You shrug, forcing a smirk. “You wanna stand-in for your hyung?”
His lips curve, slow and amused. “Maybe.”
“I… could be open,” you say almost lazily.
And then he moves.
Rough hands find your wrist, tugging you down the hall before you can think too hard about it. You let him and the next thing you know you’re pressed behind his studio door.
Just the two of you.
Too close that you feel the heat emanating from his body.
“Jin’s got a girl,” he murmurs, close enough that you feel his hot breath grazing your cheek.
That makes you pause, because you didn’t know Jin was steady with someone. Else you wouldn’t have said what you said.
“And y’all won’t fuck nasty like that.”
Your breath catches, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you lean in, just enough that your lips brush his when you speak.
“No?” You lick between his parted mouth, pulling back with a smirk. “And… we would?”
“Like animals.”
And then he cups the back of your neck and crashes his lips into yours.
Monday comes faster than you’d like.
You don’t know what you were expecting from Yoongi exactly. A text, maybe? Something more than the thumbs up he sent after you told him you got home safe. Friday night feels like it happened in a vacuum, sealed off like crime scene evidence the second he booked you that Uber.
You’ve spent the weekend turning it over in your head, wondering if things are supposed to be different now that you’ve had sex. Are you supposed to be different? Is it going to be awkward?
You’re about to find out.
You don’t usually hang around after hours unless there’s a reason.
Tonight, the reason is Jimin, who’d dragged you in with the promise of early access to the new tracks you’d be helping to choreograph. You felt a little strange when you entered the studio and found just two members of Bangtan and one of their producers, who nodded at you casually as you entered.
So here you are, curled up on the couch in the corner of the studio, laptop open but mostly forgotten, as the last bits of a track play through the speakers. You’re too deep in thought to notice the delivery guy come in, but you do notice when Yoongi picks up the coffee tray, wordlessly plucking a cup free and walking it over to you.
He holds it out, no expression, no explanation.
“Hyung,” Jimin calls lazily from where he’s sprawled out on the floor. “Where’s my coffee?”
Yoongi doesn’t even glance up. “Just grab a Coke from the fridge.”
You stifle a laugh as Jimin groans dramatically, dragging himself up to rummage through the mini fridge.
A few minutes later, Yoongi slips out of the room, muttering something about finding Namjoon because he should have joined you all 30 minutes ago.
As soon as the door clicks shut, Jimin flops back down beside you, grinning like he’s got a secret he can’t wait to spill. “That’s him flirting, by the way.”
You blink at him. “What?”
Jimin points at the cup still in your hand. “Hyung doesn’t even order me coffee.”
“Why would he? You’re an annoying lil bitch.”
Jimin playfully slaps the visor of your baseball cap down so that it covers your eyes.
Which works out just fine because as you glance down at the cup again, you’re suddenly hyper-aware of the warmth seeping into your palms. You shake your head, trying to play it off, but the corners of your mouth betray you, tugging up into a smile you can’t quite hide.
You take a sip of your warm drink and pretend it doesn’t taste sweeter somehow.
Namjoon finally walks in ten minutes later, forehead sweaty, hoodie hanging off his shoulder. Yoongi follows behind him.
“Sorry, sorry,” Namjoon says, already reaching for the aux like he owns the place. He knocks over a cup of pens as he does so.
Then, his eyes land on you. “You ate?”
You nod, lifting your coffee, lipstick-stained spout and all.
“That’s not food,” Namjoon shakes his head, dimples deepening, as he reaches for something in his pocket. “This one’s better.”
A tiny Quaker Oats bar, a bit warm from pocket heat, lands on your lap.
“Thank you.”
The crinkle of the granola bar mixes with Jimin’s whines. “Why doesn’t anyone give me food?”
In the weeks that follow, when tour prep shifts into high gear, nothing else really happens—not in the way you thought it might, at least. Yoongi doesn’t seek you out. Doesn’t text. Doesn’t bring up that night, ever. You’re not really suprised, considering…
But you do notice he lingers in small ways. A bottle of water left by your things before you even realize you’re thirsty. A quiet “eat” when the catering after a shoot finally finishes setting up. The occasional glance. Maybe even a tiny smile here and there. You fall into an easy rhythm with him, familiar but not quite the same, and you catch yourself thinking, maybe something did shift.
Maybe this is just how it starts.
Rehearsals just wrapped up and your heart is reckless with exhaustion.
You’ve never asked anyone out before. Let alone a fuckin’ idol. But you’re young and dumb. Heavy on the dumb, actually. Anyway, you’ve already slept together. And you’re convinced the chemistry is off the charts. So, why not? And it’s just hanging out anyway. It’s not that deep.
You approach Yoongi as he’s wiping off his neck with a white terry cloth, still breathing heavily. It’s probably serendipity, how everyone else has already slipped out of the room, leaving just the two of you.
He lifts his eyes towards you, mouth slightly agape as he gulps oxygen back in.
Ugh.
Your earlier bravado is slowly evaporating.
This is stupid. So stupid. But wasn’t it him who said if you know you’re going to crash, accelerate harder?
“So there’s this café in Yeonnam,” you say, stopping in front of him as he ties his shoelaces.
“Apparently, the building it’s in has been standing since the Joseon dynasty. Crazy. Used to be an apothecary or a medical clinic and they restored it so well it looks so legit...”
You’re blabbing. His face is unreadable, but you press on, fumbling toward hope.
“You’re into historical shit… Daechwita vibes, right? Anyway, the place looks pretty cool. If you’re free sometime, we could—”
There’s an audible inhale as Yoongi stands, dusting off his jeans, slow and careful, before he lifts his head towards you.
“Look,” he says, and you already know how this ends just from the weight of that word. You wish the floor would just open up and swallow you whole.
“I’m not really…” he tilts his head, like you should know. Like you shouldn’t even be having this conversation. “You get it, right?”
You force your face into something neutral, something that won’t betray you. Shrug like embarrassment is not a fire razing you from the inside.
“‘S all good.” You smile albeit tightly. You even pat his shoulder as you pass, casual, almost laughing. But inside you’re ash.
“Oh, get that shoulder pop on 2.0 sharper,” you toss on the way out. “I’ll tell Junho to run it with you again tomorrow.”
Behind you, his eyes slant with what you can only tell is pity.
You make it to the hallway before the first tear slips free, quick and traitorous and pathetic, falling soundless onto the worn carpet.
You’re already a few beats away when you hear it, “Hey Y/N!“ and then frantic steps.
You don’t stop walking. No. No fuckin’ way. You speed up.
He can’t see you like this.
You round the corner and run straight to the fire exit to extinguish the heat of shame before you’re burned to a crisp.
It’s sort of easy to get back into the normal swing of things, despite everything. You’re not friends. You probably never will be. And that’s okay.
You have your dignity.
You have the girls.
You have Rei.
…who proceeded to scream at you when you explained to her why your eyes were bloodshot the day after you made that reckless decision to ask a world-famous idol out.
She had to re-orient you how this goes. The boys are not off-limits per se, but they do have limits. Fuck, it’s not like you forgot, you just thought… it was different. You were different. Or you could be, given your history. You’ve been in the team for years now and you’d like to consider yourself not just a colleague, but maybe even a friend.
Because there was that one time in Hannam when he… fuck. It’s probably irrelevant. Unimportant. You’re just making it a thing.
And you know what, honestly, you’re fine with rejection. You’ve had practice.
Jongho, back in fifth grade, returned the paper heart you gave him because Bora sent him one first. Bigger, more glittery.
Baekhyun, in college, dumped you for that French exchange student with ginormous tits.
Even recently, word got to Seokjin about your little drunken speech, and he wasted no time reminding you exactly where you’ve always stood—firmly in the friend zone. He has a girl after all.
It was during the Swim choreo shoot. Jin flicked your forehead when he caught you staring too long during break. He was sweaty and his lips were really plump and pink, and…
“Focus,” he said. “I know I’m handsome, but you can’t do that. Next time, I’ll have to charge you.”
You flipped him off. And thank God he laughed like a windshield wiper, otherwise it would just be really unfair.
As always, you survive. You move on. You always do.
But the real problem? Life is dangling you the man of your dreams like a keychain and you can’t seem to catch it.
Yoongi’s haircut. Right before tour.
It’s almost cruel, because Yoongi’s long hair is most revered by society, widely beloved. Tiktoks and shrines were dedicated to that lionesque mane. ARMY yearned for it. Scissors were manifested to disappear within a 5-mile radius from him.
But you? You personally liked cleaner cuts on guys. When you joined the team circa-MOTS, he had that sharp, neat cut that you were very much into.
To add insult to injury, you’ve always liked Nerds. You consider yourself one, too.
And now Yoongi’s walking around with this new pair of specs—rimless frames, whenever he feels like wrecking your equilibrium. It sits low on his nose when he’s tired or playing League of Legends Chess during breaks or sipping on his coffee in between takes, and it’s…
Torture. Pure, unadulterated torture.
Comeback season officially starts and everything else falls away. Days blur into soundchecks and rehearsals, quick meals eaten standing, ears popping from cabin pressure.
There’s no time to think about anything else when you’re moving from the Netflix show in Gwanghwamun to New York for that Spotify event and then back home again. You’re running on three hours of sleep and caffeine, counting formations in your head even when you’re off-work. You don’t have time to breathe, but somehow it’s easier like this.
Once in a while during rehearsals, Yoongi still asks for your input on how to execute a move better. Of course you give it; it’s your job. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting when he, famously allergic to eye contact, suddenly makes an effort to meet your gaze.
Honestly, you don’t know why he bothers. He doesn’t owe you anything. No line was crossed without your consent. And whatever that was, it’s not happening again. You almost wish you could just hate him, because that would be easier than this neutral middle ground you’re stranded in.
But you can’t.
Because you see the quiet way he takes care of people, especially Jimin. He shows up, every time, steady and professional and so annoyingly good at what he does. There’s something about that you can’t ignore.
You respect it, because you respect him.
Maybe that’s the worst part. Because he didn’t string you along and didn’t blur the lines more than you let him. You gotta hand it to him, he shut it down clean.
So… you just gotta move on.
Right?
And you… You’ve built this life carefully, piece by piece. You didn’t fight this hard just to get distracted now. So you buckle up. You lock in.
It’s days before the World Tour kicks off and you’re knee-deep in rehearsals. Day in, day out, you’re in the dance studio, double-hatting as a dancer and an assistant choreographer. You’re exhausted–bone-deep, muscle-aching tired, but you’re focused on the grind, on making this show the best fucking tour in history. The boys deserve it. The whole team deserves it. So do you.
You used to rewind dance practice videos frame by frame, pausing just to study the angle of an arm, the timing of a step. Back then, it was just you, your reflection, and the stubborn belief that if you worked hard enough, you could belong in rooms like this. And now you do.
“Let’s start?” Seung Eun calls and everybody hops back into formation. You drop your strawberry lip balm back in your bag.
There’s this sequence in Hooligan.
You and the other dancers crowd Yoongi during his verse, closing in until there’s barely any space left between bodies. It’s choreographed, calculated chaos. You’re meant to get in his face, invade his space just enough to look dangerous, just enough to feel menacing for him. And he’s supposed to hold eye contact, like he’s unbothered.
For this run, you’re standing in for Kian, who pulled his calf muscle and needed to get iced real quick. Injuries are part of the game, but there’s always a medic on standby to ensure any impact is minimized.
The music starts and your bodies move to the choreography. You slide into position on the last count, stepping into Yoongi’s space. He recites his line.
“Hooligan, like hooligan, ttaeryeo buswo like hooligan…”
You tilt your chin up slightly, eyes on his—ready, steady, professional. But that’s when it shifts.
His gaze doesn’t land where it usually does with the others. It drops to your mouth.
Anyone else might miss it, but you don’t.
And suddenly you’re hyper-aware of the way you’re breathing, the way your lips part just slightly, the way your body feels a fraction too close to his.
“Sigan dwaesseuni jom bikyeo jom…”
His next line stumbles.
“Ah, fuck—”
The music cuts.
Yoongi lifts a hand, already half-turning away. “My bad.”
There’s a ripple of movement around you as everyone resets, but you’re still standing there as blood rushes up your neck, your cheeks warming before you can stop it.
You glance at him. He glances back.
And then, quieter—almost under his breath—he mumbles to you without meeting your eyes. “That‘s… distracting.”
You gulp.
When the next sequence starts, there’s a faint smudge of red staining the back of your sleeve. You don’t remember doing it. But you do remember how Yoongi doesn’t miss a single beat when Kian steps back in to take your place.
⊙⊝⊜ Goyang, SK, April 2026 ⊙⊝⊜
“Stay safe out there!” Namjoon calls just before the curtains are drawn and the opening beat of Hooligan detonates through the speakers.
The crowd goes wild as the bassline rattles your ribs, syncs with your pulse, turns your body into music before you even think. On cue, you surge forward with the rest of the dancers, breaking through the curtain like a wave, energy ripping out of you in sharp bursts, boots slamming against the stage in perfect unison.
You’re gripping a red smoke stick, heat blooming in your palm as it spits thick plumes into the air, bleeding color into the stage until everything is drenched in crimson. It curls around your bodies, around the lights slicing down from above like blades, burning the stage with fire without flames.
Man. Goyang hits different.
Maybe it’s because it’s home. Maybe it’s because this is the first real show where everything finally clicks into place—not just in your head, not just in rehearsals, but out here, in front of thousands of people screaming like the world is ending.
The 360 stage feels massive under your feet, lights slicing through the dark in perfect sync, pyro exploding at just the right beat. Every cue lands. Every formation locks. Every transition you’ve drilled into muscle memory finally breathes.
It’s insane and you feel even more insane because you’re in it. On stage, moving with everyone, keeping up, matching energy, feeding off it. The crowd roars and it vibrates through your bones, through your chest, through everything.
As rain pours down from the sky like blessings from above, you feel genuinely alive. Even though you’re damp and drenched and soaked to your very core, there really is no place else you’d rather be.
When you hit backstage after the encore, everyone’s wet, loud, breathless, half-laughing, half-shouting over each other, still riding the high of the first show. You don’t even think; you’re just moving, adrenaline buzzing under your skin as you high five whoever’s in reach, grinning like an idiot.
“Good job!” someone yells.
“You killed it!” another voice.
You barely register who’s who.
Hoseok finds you in the middle of it all and just pulls you into the biggest hug, squeezing tight like he’s just as proud of you as you are of yourself.
“You did so good,” he says, bright and warm and Hobi, and you laugh into his shoulder, still catching your breath. He praises you like you’re the global superstar, not him.
When you pull back, everything’s still squishing about, still loud and electric.
Namjoon messes up your hair. Jungkook gives you a high five. Yoongi’s across the room, exchanging quick fist bumps with some of the dancers, head dipped, saying something you can’t quite catch. Then he looks up and sees you.
There’s a split-second of indecision. But, you smile. He nods. A tiny one. He looks a little tired. He’s never been one to hide when he’s exhausted, but just like you he’s glowing. Tired, but certainly happy.
And then someone grabs him from the side, pulling him into a quick hug, and the moment’s gone just as easily as it came, replaced by high-pitched screams, and too-tight hugs from your girls.
⊙⊝⊜ Tokyo, JP, April 2026 ⊙⊝⊜
You find Hobi slumped against the wall of the green room, half-hidden behind a rack of wardrobe like he’s trying to make himself smaller than he is.
You’d heard. Everyone had, in that quiet, careful way news like that travels—soft voices, lowered eyes, staff moving around a little more gently than usual.
You hesitate for a second, unsure if it’s your place. When you think about it, Hoseok isn’t just one of them to you. He’s your mentor. The reason you’re even here. The first person who saw something in you and decided it was worth something. And more than that, he’s someone you really care about.
Before you can think yourself out of it, you move closer. He looks up and red-rimmed eyes meet yours. Then, something in his expression breaks the distance you were trying to keep. You’re kneeling in front of him the next second, and he’s leaning into you, folding into your arms like he’s been holding himself together for too long.
His sobs are quiet, restrained, but they shake through him all the same.
You wrap your arms around him, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, the other rubbing slow, steady circles into his back.
“I’m sorry, Hobi,” you murmur softly. “I know she meant everything to you.”
He lets out a shaky breath against your shoulder, voice breaking. “I hate this. I should be home. I should be there, but I…” his grip tightens slightly. “I fuckin’ can’t.”
Your chest caves at that.
“She knows,” you say gently, pulling back just enough to look at him. “She understands. She’s looking down on you right now, smiling, so proud of you. I promise.”
Hobi looks up at you then and for a second, beneath the stage makeup and styled hair and everything that makes him him to the world, he just looks like a little boy.
Small. Hurt. Lost.
As your heart breaks a little, a soft cough breaks the moment.
You glance over your shoulder. Yoongi stands a few steps away, hands tucked into his pockets like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them, like he walked in on something he wasn’t meant to interrupt.
“I—um…” he shifts slightly. “They told me to come get you.” He means Hoseok, but for some reason, his eyes are fixed on you.
“Shit,” Hobi exhales, scrubbing at his face as he pulls away. “Yeah. Yeah, give me a second.”
Hobi stands, walking over to the makeup station, picking up a tissue and carefully blotting at his cheeks, trying to undo what he can.
It feels like your cue to leave. Rei’s probably already looking for you anyway because there’s a hole in the formation.
Hobi disappears into one of the changing rooms, pulling the curtain shut behind him as he gets ready.
You turn to go, but a hand catches your arm.
“Y/N,” Yoongi says quietly, before his fingers lose their grip.
There’s something in Yoongi’s expression that stops you for half a second. You don’t know what it is. But mostly you think, it’s gratitude sitting heavy in his gaze like he doesn’t know all the words for it.
You shrug lightly, because it doesn’t feel like something you should be thanked for. It’s the least you can do for someone who changed the trajectory of your life without ever asking for anything in return.
He just nods, still looking at you. You see his fingers reaching then drawing back.
It’s… a lot. More than you’re used to with him.
So you look away first, swallowing the tightness in your throat before the sting in your eyes turns into something else.
⊙⊝⊜ Tampa, FL, April 2026 ⊙⊝⊜
Being in America is always exciting. Something about stepping onto U.S. soil flips a switch in the boys, like there’s something in the water, or maybe it’s just the distance from home loosening something in their bones.
Tae, for one, fully commits to the bit—gray sweats, tank tops, lewd little ad libs to the choreo. No one questions it. Angel is definitely going through it. Lucky bitch.
Jungkook is on his phone 24/7, liking everything in sight to send any and all users in a frenzy to fuel them until their next life. He also films these borderline menacing TikToks alone in his hotel room at ungodly hours, looking fucked out because well, he probably has done just that.
Jimin wakes up one day and decides he wants to have an even longer ponytail. And suddenly the internet is in shambles, ARMY collectively just losing their shit.
And that’s just the maknaes.
It’s fascinating to watch all of them, seeing different versions surface depending on where they are, like they’re all just slightly more themselves here. Or maybe just slightly less guarded.
After the last show in Tampa, the members decide to treat the crew to KBBQ at some nearby strip mall. You squeeze into a long table with some of the dancers and a couple of the boys, smoke from the grill curling into your hair, soju flowing a little too easily.
For one reason or another, as people made room for others, and chairs were moved left then right, you somehow end up in front of Yoongi like you just played musical chairs.
“How’s it going?” you say.
“Not bad. You?”
You shrug, “I’m okay.”
“Okay.”
The awkwardness is like a knot that loosens as drinks flow. Then, the easy back-and-forth comes like you do this on a daily basis instead of pretending you don’t think about him at all.
“You’re in a good mood,” you say, watching as he pours you another shot.
“Am I?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you shrug. “You talk more when you are.”
He huffs softly, like he doesn’t agree but won’t argue it either. He looks pretty like this, barefaced and sleepy. Then you remember something and you decide to be a menace. “Give me a reason to not tattle.”
His brows meet in the middle. Confused. “What do you mean?”
“Oh you know full well.” You mimic a head turn and flail your arms.
Yoongi’s cheeks turn pink. He fumbled the Run choreo. AGAIN.
“I recovered faster this time.”
“Not the point,” you reply pointedly.
“I ate in Day 1.”
“You did,” you nod. “Not the point though.”
He gives a wary glance over at Hoseok who has half a rib inside his mouth at the moment, when he looks back at you and challenges. “Name your price.”
“RP gift card. Could use some new arena skins.” You smile sweetly, knowing he’s been obsessed with LoL Teamfight Tactics, too. You’ve seen it on his phone.
“Fine.” Yoongi laughs, actually laughs, because he didn’t expect the response. “We should play sometime.”
And it was your turn to not expect that response.
“Oh, alright. Sure.” You nod, a little flustered even as you recall the nugget you’ve seen from one of his interviews. “Congratulations, by the way.”
Yoongi smiles, so gummy and wide, like he has a praise kink that you just discovered. “Thank you. Diamond is very hard to achieve.” So you let him brag a bit, before you decide to knock him down a peg.
“Trust me, I get it.” You bring the spout of your beer to your mouth and before you take a swig, you quip. “I’m a grandmaster.”
His jaw hits the floor and you almost spit your beer out. “You are not.”
You tilt your head as if to say, try me. He is still waiting. And the smirk disappears from his mouth when swipes of your screen later you show him your profile and your level is as you disclosed.
“Wow.”
“I know. Wow.” You say, smug. “Anyway, do you think you’re gonna get away with it, or is there a fan cam already circulating?”
“You tell me. I don’t watch those things.”
“My phone probably heard us and is about to add it to my algorithm. I’ll let you know.”
“Taehyung-ie threw me off, honestly.” He leans back and exhales deeply.
A giggle slips out of you because you know exactly what he means. “Yeah, no, everyone was just feeling it. Kookie did the dougie to Life Goes On. Namjoon was fucking the air to Butter of all songs. Insane behavior from all of you, actually.”
“I’m innocent.”
Oho. “You’re not off the hook.” You wag your finger.
“Wae?”
“Baepsae.” You lean your chin on your palm, referring to the Army time surprise song.
“What?”
“You got real close to a camera and let ‘er rip.”
“Did no such thing,” His lips stretch into that infuriating bracket-like grin. He’s obviously lying.
“Don’t even play. I saw the smile you tried to hide when you turned around, you dog.”
“So you were really watching me, huh?”
“I was monitoring the performances from backstage. As it is my job.”
“Mhm,” he hums, biting his lip to hide a smile as he shakes his head.
“Shut up.”
“I’m not saying anything,” he chuckles, voice a little higher than usual.
“Silence is admission.” You point your chopsticks at him and smirk. “It’s fine. You were just feeling yourself.”
You thought you were gonna have the last laugh. But as always, Yoongi knows how to render you speechless.
“And if I am,” he tilts his head slightly, eyes straight to yours. “What you gon’ do ‘bout it?”
You have a comeback. You definitely do. It’s just stuck in your brain traffic, unable to come out.
He pushes his glasses up higher on his nose bridge and the single action almost makes you fall to your knees.
God, you hope he doesn’t notice.
But he does.
That’s the only explanation for the text that you get while you’re settling in your hotel room that night.
Rei is on her bed already semi-snoring, her phone still lit up as a TikTok live seller continues to peddle a hyaluronic acid sheet mask bundle. 3+1 event—you’d check it out if you didn’t have a booty call staring back at you.
You check it again. Still not sure if you’re reading the text correctly.
Yoongi: 2004
Yoongi: come over if ur feelin it
So you find yourself on his floor thirty minutes later, the faint scent of your perfume still clinging to your blouse as you walk down the hallway.
Room 2002 has a very loud and dramatic show playing inside. For sure it’s one of the members as they’re typically roomed in the same floor. You just don’t know who.
A few steps over is your destination. Room 2004.
Fuck. You’re doing this. (Again.)
Except… There’s a sound.
No. A moan.
Your knuckles are frozen, inches from the door.
Someone is definitely having a great time in there.
You check the text again, because maybe you got the room wrong.
The numbers match. And yet, the math is not mathing. If he invited you, then why—
Oh.
Oh shit.
You look at your messages again and realize, all at once, what happened.
Your reply sits there with a red exclamation point. Which only means one thing. It was Unsent.
You: yeah, i’ll come ❗
Well.
Now?
No, you won’t.
“Fucking shit,” your phone flies out of your hand when you trip on the carpet floor like a complete klutz. You can’t believe you’re risking injury and getting benched for the rest of the tour for this stupid cat man.
“Y/N?”
Noooooooooo
You straighten up immediately, thankful it wasn’t Yoongi’s door that flew open. “Namjoon, hi.”
“Is this yours?” he bends to pick up your phone, which is resting by his doorway.
“Yeah, umm. That’s mine.”
He studies you as you take the device from his hand. Your screen is still bright and open and your Kakao app is just there. Ain’t no way he didn’t see who’s on your thread.
“Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m totally fine.” You pocket your device, forcing a light smile. But before you can say anything else, Namjoon is pulling his door wider.
You stay rooted in place, even as your eyes dart inside the plush suite. You realize he is wearing a black tank top and matching pajamas.
“I got food and a drama. Could use some company,” Namjoon says simply. No malice, no undertone. You’re sure Namjoon has no way of knowing you had a lacy thong underneath, so this is really just a simple invitation to hang out.
You consider it. At the same time, you think, huh, his dimples are really, really deep. Your reply came easy after that. “I–sure, yeah. I’m down.”
“Cool.” he tilts his head, gesturing you in.
The night settles into something softer in Room 2002, the noise in your brain fading into nothing thanks to room service, wine samplers from the mini bar, and Namjoon’s running commentary over a drama. He’s literally such a yapper. You lean back into the couch, listening to him more than watching the show, letting his voice fill the space instead of your thoughts.
It’s easy hanging with Namjoon. No guessing. No second-guessing. And you don’t realize until now how much you needed Namjoon’s friendship until now, but you’re glad he is offering it.
And maybe more than that, you’re glad he didn’t ask any questions you couldn't answer even if you tried.
The next day, rumors fly that Gwayoung from Digital was bragging about being on the receiving end of that tongue technology.
The same day, you also receive a 50,000 won gift card credited in your mobile game.
You know it’s from the same person. And you know which one you would’ve wanted more.
The tour goes on. It starts off like a high you can’t come down from. New cities, new crowds. You collect moments like souvenirs—late-night convenience store runs, inside jokes backstage, someone filming content here and there, drinking sessions inside someone’s hotel room. There’s always something happening, always someone around. You don’t have to think too much because everything moves too fast. It feels like living ten lives at once, and for a while, it’s enough.
But somewhere along the way, the novelty starts to thin out. The cities blur into one long stretch of airports, hotel hallways, empty highways, and backstage corridors that all feel vaguely the same. You wake up and sometimes it takes a second to remember where you are. Your suitcase never really gets unpacked—just opened, lived out of, closed again. Everyone’s tired in that bone-deep way that makes even laughter feel like effort. You’re surrounded by people all the time, and somehow, it still feels lonely.
You and the girls have a kind of unspoken understanding between all of you now, forged in cramped dressing rooms and shared mirrors, in the quiet rituals of getting ready before a show. Someone’s always borrowing someone else’s lip tint, someone’s fixing a crooked lash, someone’s complaining about a bruise they didn’t notice until they caught it under the harsh vanity lights.
“Why are we like this?” Angel groans one night, poking at a purple mark on her thigh.
“Occupational hazard,” Bina shrugs, already halfway through redoing her eyeliner for the third time.
“Is that the one that you banged on the clothing rack, or, ahem…”
Angel’s face heats. It was Tae. Rough Tae, as per usual.
Rei rolls her eyes. “Alright, we know you’re getting it good. No need to shove it in our faces.”
“You know who I wouldn’t mind shoving something in my face?” Lisa pipes in. She’s one of the newer dancers that joined the US leg.
“Who?” You ask, curious.
“Yoongi. Fuck. He looks so daddy these days. Literally need that.”
Rei shoves a protein bar into your hand, with a stern look to match. “Eat.”
You do, because if you don’t you might say something you’ll regret.
Since that late night hallway encounter several stops ago, you and Namjoon have somehow made hanging out into a thing. It just happens seamlessly. Over meals, passing conversations end up lasting longer than expected.
Off-handedly, he confides in you that he struggles to sleep. You piece together the rest on your own. Military life has altered his mental state in ways he is still struggling to undo and it’s been tough, but at least he’s a work in progress.
As far as you know, he’s the only member who doesn’t really… distract himself the way the others do on tour. Nobody waiting for a quick one backstage, no regular to help release all that adrenaline after long shows.
So instead, he watches dramas. It’s funny, really. But you guess, it works for him. He really likes those cheesy lovey dovey ones or those about heartache. Tells you it’s the closest he can feel something real and he lets them play until he passes out.
He invites you to join him sometimes.
At first, you’re suspicious. You wouldn’t have blamed him (or minded, to be honest) if there were other intentions. Everyone has needs, after all. And honestly, you would have been flattered to be considered by a catch like him. But after the third or fourth time of bingeing on drama and food, it becomes clear that he doesn’t want you like that. And you have to admit—he’s a fun time. So it’s cool.
When you hang out, he tells you about the books he’s reading, summarizing them in a way that makes you want to pick them up yourself. You tell him about choreography ideas, about how certain movements sit in your body, about how you think music should look when it’s danced.
“You think in shapes,” he says once, mimicking the way your hands move as you explain.
“You think in paragraphs,” you shoot back.
He laughs at that, dimples deep, eyes soft. “True.”
“Long-ass paragraphs, actually. Mr. Yapper.”
Sometimes, when the days feel too long and the nights stretch a little too quiet, you find yourself standing outside his door without really remembering how you got there.
No matter, Namjoon always lets you in.
⊙⊝⊜ Las Vegas, NV, May 2026 ⊙⊝⊜
One night, you get a message from Hobi inviting you for drinks. You haven’t hung out with him in a while, so it was a no-brainer when you said yes. You don’t go out every night at every tour stop, but you made an exception this time.
You put on something cute. Not to impress Hobi particularly, but because you know he always dresses well, and you will not be caught dead looking shabby beside him. Lips a little glossy and cheeks a little rosy, you make your way to the hotel bar, heels clicking against the marble.
But instead of Hobi, you find someone else instead.
“Hey.”
“You stalkin’ me?” Yoongi smirks at his lowball.
“Yup, this is exactly what this is. Call Mr. Lee,” You deadpan, sitting on the bar stool beside him. “Where’s Hob-ah?”
He shrugs. “Not his keeper.”
“Is there another hotel bar?” You ask the bartender who was polishing off a wine glass.
“Yes, miss. There's another on the 31st.”
Realizing you might’ve gotten the venue wrong, you grab your clutch and start to slide off the stool. “I guess I’ll—”
“Stay.”
He says it so quietly, almost like he was hoping you don’t hear it.
You pause.
When you look at him, he’s not even looking at you—just staring into his drink like there’s something at the bottom of it worth pondering. You know you should leave, but you don’t.
“You look… a little worse for wear,” you say as you settle back into your seat.
“You can say I look like shit.”
You glance at him, then nod once. “Okay. You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
A beat.
“Everything okay?”
He shrugs. Noncommittal. Dismissive. Yoongi core.
You signal the bartender for a drink, letting the noise of the bar fill the space between you for a while as you wait for your cocktail.
It’s him who breaks first.
He slides a bowl of roasted edamame toward you, like a peace offering he doesn’t want to acknowledge.
“I dunno,” he mutters, more to the glass than to you.
You wait.
He exhales, long and slow, the amber liquid in his glass rippling with the movement.
“I keep listening to the album and it all just…” He trails off, jaw tightening. “Trash.”
You blink, shock evident in your face. “What do you mean?”
“Like I should’ve done it differently.” He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Every track. Every arrangement. Feels like I missed out on changing something obvious.”
“That’s just—”
“I know,” he cuts in, already shaking his head. “I know it’s not real. I know it’s just…” He gestures vaguely, searching for the word. “Fatigue. Whatever.”
But it doesn’t sound like he believes that.
“I can’t turn it off,” he adds, quieter now. “Even when I see how fans enjoy the songs, the doubt just eats at me.”
There’s something raw in that. Something he doesn’t usually let slip. You watch him for a second, really look at him. And it pulls something up from the back of your mind:
Hannam-dong.
A random weeknight. You’d gone out alone, too proud to call anyone after your ex ended things over something stupid that somehow still shattered you. You were busy ugly-crying over your gin until someone slid into the seat beside you.
Him. Yoongi.
“What are you doing here, Yoongi?”
He shrugs, like it’s obvious. “You looked like you needed someone.”
“You heard me crying from across the room?”
“It was a bit loud, yeah.”
Your face crumples again and you let out a broken sound, covering your eyes. “Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing…”
“It’s fine,” he says, voice low, even. “No one’s looking.”
You sniff again. “I look disgusting.”
“You look like you’re crying.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not.” He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to you.
You let out a weak huff, somewhere between a laugh and another sob, before taking it.
He didn’t ask questions or make it a big thing. Just sat there with his black face mask, providing you with the comfort of company. He let you talk when you wanted. Let you cry when you couldn’t stop.
At some point, you’d leaned into him without thinking, and he’d just let you. Steady. Warm. He rubbed your back as you wrapped your arms around in his slight torso, sobbing slightly against his tee.
“Yoongi. Why are men pigs?” you sniff.
“I dunno. I’m a cat.” He shrugs. “...apparently.”
That makes you laugh, all wet and snotty. But it makes all the difference to lighten your mood.
“Look. I don’t know who the guy is. But I know he’s an idiot.”
“He is,” You nod immediately. “… but I am, too.”
A pause, before he chides. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
“I just…” You trail off lifting your head from his shoulder and looking up at the track lights hanging from the bar. “I just really love love, you know?”
He doesn’t interrupt.
“I like the idea of it,” you continue, words coming slower now, more honest. “Falling for someone. Growing with them. Having… I dunno, fuck…” you laugh weakly, shaking your head. “Someone to hold your hand ‘til it’s all sweaty and gross, like… I love that shit.”
It sounds stupid out loud.
“So even if I knew he wasn’t it, I tried to hold on. Because I’m scared of being alone. And I’m scared I won’t find someone who’d want me again.”
Jeez, that was a lot to unpack. You expect him to say something dry. He’s good at that.
No words come.
Instead, his fingers brush against yours where your hand rests on the bartop.
You glance down.
He’s not looking at you. Just placing his palm on the back of yours, before turning it over. And slowly, his hand closes around yours, fingers interlacing between each digit.
You’re staring at your conjoined hands and then his stoic face. He doesn’t look back, but he squeezes your hand tighter as if to say: I’m here. Not forever. But at least you’re not alone for now.
And that was enough. That night, you had someone to hold your hand til it was all sweaty and gross. You swallow, something tight in your chest easing just a little.
He walks you out after, hands still clasped. Makes sure you get into a cab. Waits until the door shuts before stepping back. Your hand feels cold without the feel of his when the car drives off.
But after that… nothing. He never brought it up again. Neither did you. Life got complicated. You don’t know what happened during his enlistment. So now you both just act like it didn’t happen.
If you will be honest, you still think about Hannam-dong sometimes. More than you will ever admit.
You’re reminded of it every time you see that random quote hanging on your foyer.
“The most romantic thing in the world is being understood. It’s even deeper than love.”
Things with Yoongi never really took off. But you will always have Hannam-dong.
Yoongi looks at you now, the same way you looked at him then, a little lost, a little broken, trying to stay strong. So you don’t make it a big thing either. You just reach for an edamame, pop it into your mouth, pull the peel, and shrug lightly as you mash the beans with your teeth.
“Sounds like your brain needs to shut the fuck up for a bit.”
He huffs, something almost like a laugh slipping out. “Yeah,” he mutters. “If only.”
“For what it’s worth, Album of the year, in my opinion.”
Yoongi can’t stop his lips from curling.
Satisfied, you call for the server. “Let’s eat something first. Then we solve your existential crisis.”
He glances at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Yeah,” you shrug. “I’m the best, right?”
He gives you a thumbs up. “Kkaepjjang.”
Ass.
You order food, which comes out quicker than expected, but what you really wanted to do to distract him comes in the form of a mobile game.
“You still play?” you ask, showing the app now loading in your phone.
Face instantly lighting up, he unlocks his phone and presses the same app sitting on the home screen. “One game.”
You grin. “Double Up?”
A small nod.
“Don’t drag me down,” he mutters as the queue pops.
“Tsss,” you shoot back. “I’ll carry.”
He huffs, but there’s no bite to it.
You fall into rhythm without needing to talk much—checking in here and there, nudging each other when it matters, covering where the other slips. Just quiet coordination, the kind that only happens when both people know what they’re doing.
At some point, you lose a round you shouldn’t have. You fumble a turn.
“I got you,” he says, and he does.
By the time the game ends—with a win you barely scrape—you’re both facing each other, knees touching, smiles plastered on your faces.
“Not bad,” you murmur, setting your phone down. “You did well.”
“But I always do well?” he replies.
You push him lightly. “Take a humble W for once.”
“No, cause I can’t remember ever doing poorly…”
“Oh my gooood, I’m tired of you.” You roll your eyes, attempting to swivel away from him, but his knees stop you.
He glances at you, something softer flickering through his expression. You look away first, because what’s with the face? You reach for your drink, swirling what’s left and sip.
“Thanks,” he says, and why are his fingers drumming on your knee? It’s kind of distracting, actually.
“Are you feeling a little better now?” You reply, forcing a neutral expression.
He pauses, exhales. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I just got tired of my own head.”
And maybe it’s the fact that you’re sipping the final dredges of your margarita that the next words carelessly tumble out. “Maybe you just need good head.”
The dining area is still loud around you, but somehow, between you and him, it has become z-z-z. His fingers cease tapping against your skin.
Panicking, you blab. “Just text Gwayoung. Or Haein… I’m sure they’re available. You don’t have to look too far, you know.”
His eyes bear a weight you didn’t anticipate.
“I’m not,” he says quietly.
And the way he’s looking at you makes it very clear he’s not looking far at all. He doesn’t need to.
You don’t remember deciding to leave or how he even paid. Just the deja vu of how his hand found your wrist and the way you let it. Of how a door opens and then your back is firmly against it.
The next thing you feel is Yoongi’s soft lips sliding against your own.
His hand drifts up the side of your neck, fingers settling at the base like he’s keeping you right where he wants you, and it does something weird to your breathing—shortens it, stutters it—without needing to press.
The strap of your dress sags against your shoulder, but you make no move to fix it.
Your fingers find his hair instead, threading through the longer strands at the nape. It’s softer than you remember, just enough length to catch between your fingers, and when you tug, he groans against your mouth, the sound going straight to your center.
Total brain fog.
Your heartbeat, faint but present, is somehow the one that warns you about the risks. Because you’ve been in this situation before with Yoongi. You’ve been vulnerable in Hannam, and in his studio, and in the rehearsal space, and in room 2004. There’s a host of reasons why you should run away.
But it’s only taking one slow, smooth swipe of his tongue against the roof of your mouth for you to run in.
Your mouths part at the same time, an accidental knock of teeth, before he catches your lower lip between his and sucks softly, almost sweetly.
God. Yoongi makes your head swim.
And all this kissing is making you feel like there’s something more, when there is none. You’d do well to remind yourself of that.
By some miracle you find the strength to pull away.
“Yoongi, if we’re doing this, just…” you place your palm gently against his chest, pushing him back. “Don’t confuse me.”
Yoongi frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I know what this is,” you say, still a little breathless. “And I’m down, but I just… let’s not…”
The words stall out, slipping through your fingers no matter how hard you try to hold onto them. You inhale sharply, trying to piece together something that makes sense, something that doesn’t sound as messy as it feels in your head.
Because if you’re being honest—really honest—you’re already in deeper than you should be.
You never quite bounced back from his rejections. It lingers, quieter now, but still there, still tender in places you don’t like to acknowledge. And that’s not something you can tell him. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Not when he’s this close. Not when his lips are a soft, distracting pink. Not when he’s looking at you like this—like, for once, all of his attention is yours.
So you decide on something, albeit hastily. You shift your weight, looking him dead in the eye. “You can’t kiss me.”
He studies you curiously, too amused for your liking. His eyes are transfixed on your mouth, observing how they’re still shiny from his own spit. “Too late for that, don’t you think?”
“No, you can’t do it again. Not anymore.”
If he is confused, he doesn’t let it show. He scratches his nape. “Just your mouth, right? Anywhere else is fair game?”
His eyes dip, trailing your body like he’s already mentally undressing you. You feel heat building beneath your skin.
“Yes.”
“Sweet.” His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, dragging lightly across your lower lip to wipe away the trail he left behind. Then he turns, moving further into his hotel room, dropping the keycard into an empty fruit bowl. “Anything else?”
You follow him in, dragging your feet on the plush carpet, still deep in thought.
You exhale through your nose, trying to keep your tone even. “Don’t make me sign an NDA.”
“No need, your current NDA’s already airtight.”
That—
You blink, thrown for half a second. The reminder lands colder than you expected, like a bucket of reality dumped over something that was just starting to feel… not real.
“Right.” You nod slowly, arms tightening across your chest. “Way to make a girl feel special, Yoongi.”
“Legal contracts don’t turn you on?” Yoongi drops to the couch.
“Not particularly. My dad’s a lawyer.”
He makes a face.
You snort. “What? Talking about my old hairy lawyer dad doesn’t turn you on?”
“Pass.”
That gets a real laugh out of you, the tension cracking just enough to breathe again.
He watches you when you do, like he’s taking note of something. Almost like he’s fascinated with you.
Then his head tilts slightly, a small gesture, almost nothing. “C’mere.”
You hesitate for half a second, but step forward anyway, closing the distance until you’re right in front of him, standing between his parted legs as he looks up at you.
His hand finds your wrist first, then your waist, guiding you down like it’s nothing. You end up on his lap, breath catching just a little as his hand slides under your dress, resting on your upper thigh.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over your face, slower this time. “What does?”
The question sinks somewhere low, coiling tight, as he squeezes your soft flesh, so close to where you need him.
You open your mouth to respond, but he’s already leaning in.
His lips brush your collarbone first, not really doing anything but press his mouth against your skin. It’s almost absent-minded, the way he does it, like he can ask a question and distract you at the same time.
You inhale sharply.
His mouth drifts lower, grazing the hollow between your chest, and your thoughts start slipping, unraveling faster than you can catch them.
“Yoongi…”
He hums against your skin, like he heard you, but doesn’t want to stop. Frankly you don’t want him to when you feel his lips latch on the top of your breast and your brain goes foggy, words dissolving before they can form.
And that’s exactly why you…
“Wait.” You feel the solidness of him under your palms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, as you lean back.
He stills, mouth swollen.
“Mm?” he hums, lifting his head but not moving far, like he’s willing to wait—but only just.
“Don’t you have your own rules?”
There’s a brief flicker of something, before his expression smooths back out.
He blinks once and huffs. “Don’t leave me on read.”
You almost react. Almost say something about that night, about the message that never sent, about the door you stood in front of, and the sounds that destroyed you before his friend picked up the pieces of you that shattered in front of room 2004.
But you swallow it down. He doesn’t need to know.
“That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
You study him for a second longer, like you’re trying to find something deeper and coming up short.
“Okay.”
A beat.
It’s decided.
“So,” he says, voice lower, like it’s already done. “Are we gonna do this, or—”
“Fuck me, Yoongi.”
His mouth curves, just slightly one corner. “Gladly.”
Part 2
A/N: .....hi? :)
Please let me know what you think. Leave me a note, or a reblog with your review. It's the best way you can show your support.
Thank you for reading you lovely, beautiful human xo
🎹 Pairing: BTS Suga (Min Yoongi) x Reader (Arts Center Founder!Reader)
Min Yoongi calls you after eight months of silence and asks you to pretend to be his girlfriend for two weeks. You say yes, because you're apparently that person. The plan: convince his parents, collect the grant funding, don't catch feelings. The problem: you already have them. The bigger problem: so does he. The biggest problem: he wrote a whole song about it and neither of you has said a single word out loud.
Two weeks. A Fake relationship. Real everything else.
🎹 Genres: Fake Dating, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Angst with a dahs of Hope, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Celebrity x Non-Celebrity, Emotional Drama, He has written eight songs about her and she doesn't know it yet, It's a bit of a rom-com, Min Yoongi and his hair, (Yes, that is a genre) 🎹 Short summary: "The deal was twelve days of fake. It ended up being the only thing that wasn't."
🎹 Chapter index: Read Part One
🎹 Rating: 18+ (minors DNI)
🖤 THE B-SIDE SERIES MASTERLIST
He is in the Flower Room when you arrive on Thursday afternoon.
This is a problem.
For eight months you have known which days he comes.
Not because you asked. Because Dani tells you, and Dani tells you because some information is simply necessary, like weather forecasts and expiration dates and which days to be somewhere else.
He comes on Wednesdays. Or he used to — every Wednesday, without fail, without announcement. Now it depends on the schedule, on rehearsals, on wherever the comeback cycle is pulling him that week. He tells Dani when he's coming. Dani tells you. You arrange yourself accordingly.
So you have grant meetings on Wednesday afternoons. You do home visits on Wednesday afternoons. You have become, over eight months, a person with a very full Wednesday schedule, and this has worked perfectly, and you have never discussed it with anyone.
Today is Thursday.
He is not supposed to be here on Thursday.
You find out because Dani looks up when you walk through the door at four-fifteen and does the thing with their eyes — and then you realize something else. Dani did not text you. Dani did not call. Dani, who texts you when the supply closet is running low on glitter, who called you once at seven AM to tell you Seojun had left his metronome overnight, who knows everything that happens in this building before it finishes happening —
Dani did not warn you.
You look at them.
They look at their clipboard.
"He's in the Flower Room," they say.
You stand in the entrance.
"Since when."
"Three."
You look at the clock. It is four-seventeen.
"Why is he in the Flower Room," you say. "His session isn't until—" You stop. "He doesn't have a session today."
"No," Dani says. "He just. Came."
"Yes."
"On a Thursday."
"It is Thursday," Dani confirms, helpfully.
You look at the Flower Room door at the end of the hall. Yellow, like everything else in this building, with a small painted flower above the handle that Kim Soomin added five or four years ago and that has since become load-bearing in terms of the room's entire identity.
The Flower Room is the best practice room in the center.
It has the best acoustic panels, the best lighting, the best cello stand. It did not used to be the best practice room. It became the best practice room quietly, incrementally, over the course of approximately a three and a half years— new panels here, better stand there, a small lamp in the corner that appeared one Wednesday without explanation. You have never asked who arranged this. You already know. You have known since the second panel went up and nobody mentioned it.
Jisoo has the Flower Room every Thursday at four.
"So he's here," you say, "on a Thursday, at four, in the Flower Room."
"Yes," Dani says.
"Did he say why he's here?"
Dani looks at their clipboard. "I couldn't say."
"Dani."
"He said he was in the neighborhood."
You look at them.
"We are not," you say carefully, "in a neighborhood anyone is just in."
"No," Dani agrees. "We are not." They make a small note on their clipboard. "Should I tell him you're here?"
"No," you say, immediately.
Dani nods. Makes another note. Does not look up. "Your office is upstairs by the end of the hall," they say. "Past the Flower Room."
"I know where my office is."
"The window is quite small," Dani says, turning a page. "Very easy to walk past without looking in."
You pick up your bag.
"I'm not going to look in," you say.
"Of course not," Dani says.
You walk down the hallway.
You look in.
Through the small rectangle of reinforced glass.
And you see them.
Jisoo is at the cello. She plays it like she is having an argument with it
She’s too smart for her age, the instrument almost too large for her in a way she has decided is nobody's problem but hers. She came to the center through a school referral four years ago. The note said exceptional, difficult circumstances, please consider. You called the same afternoon.
What the note didn't say — what you learned later, in pieces — was that she had been holding a cello since she was five years old, that her parents used to drive her forty minutes each way to lessons every Saturday morning, that when they died she stopped playing for seven months because the instrument smelled like the back seat of their car. That she came back to it not because anyone asked her to but because she couldn't stay away. Because some things are louder than grief.
She plays like she is proving something. Has always played like this — not to an audience, not for approval, but to the music itself, like she is making a case for her right to be in it. Like she arrived somewhere she was told she might not belong and decided the telling was irrelevant.
You recognized this immediately.
You recognized it immediately. You have seen it before, in different forms, in people who have learned that the world does not automatically make space for you — that you have to insist on it, take up room, prove that you belong here as loudly and precisely as possible.
And when Yoongi walked into the center three and a half years ago and heard her through a closed door and you watched his face do the thing it does when something lands — not surprise, not admiration, something older than both of those — and you thought: oh, he recognizes it too.
He's hearing something else entirely.
He's hearing a seventeen year old in Daegu who knew the underground rap scene better than he knew his own reflection, who got on a bus to Seoul because Seoul made sense and staying didn't, who walked into a basement practice room with mirrors that fogged in winter and stayed until they didn't fog anymore. He's hearing the training years — the hunger of them, not metaphorical hunger, the real kind, the kind that lives in your stomach and your chest simultaneously and makes you work harder because stopping is worse than the hunger. He's hearing the rage that became Agust D and the grief that became his last album and the thing underneath both of those that was always just a boy who heard music differently and needed the world to know it.
He's hearing all of that in a twelve year old girl with a cello.
And he knows — because he is the person who got on that bus, who had exactly one person in his corner and not much else — what it means that Jisoo has a sister who works three jobs to make sure there is food and a roof and clean clothes. He knows what it means that there is no space left in that equation for lessons, for instruments, for someone to sit in a chair and listen to her play like it is the most important thing happening anywhere in the world.
He knows because nobody did that for him either.
So he does it for her.
He doesn't say any of this out loud.
Neither have you.
He upgraded the Flower Room instead.
Inside, Jisoo has stopped playing and is saying something. You cannot hear it through the glass but you can see the shape of it — unhurried, precise, a twelve year old making a point she has clearly decided needs to be made.
Yoongi is sitting on the floor beside her cello stand, back against the wall, legs crossed. Not in a chair. The floor, like he decided the chair was optional and the floor would do. He is looking up at her with the expression he gets when someone has said something that caught him off guard — not surprised, exactly. More like recalibrating.
She finishes whatever she was saying.
He looks at her for a moment.
Then he laughs.
You know his laughs. You have three and a half years of them filed away without meaning to. This one catches him completely — his head drops back against the wall, something in his face goes briefly, entirely unmanaged, and then it's gone.
Jisoo watches this with the satisfaction of a person who set out to accomplish something and accomplished it. Then she turns back to her sheet music with the focus of someone who has said what needed saying and is now ready to move on.
You stand in the hallway.
You should keep walking. Your office is six feet further and you have forty-three emails and a center to run and nine days of pretending to survive and you should absolutely not be standing outside the Flower Room watching Min Yoongi laugh at something a twelve year old said like it is the best thing that has happened to him all week.
You should keep walking.
You were never going to keep walking.
He sees you through the glass at four twenty-three.
You have been standing here for six minutes, which you know because you looked at your watch at four-seventeen and you have been looking at it every thirty seconds since, as though time is something you can manage by checking on it frequently. It is not. Six minutes. You are still here.
He turns his head and there you are, caught completely, hand half-raised to wave, the universal gesture of someone who was absolutely just walking past.
A beat.
You wave.
A small, caught, entirely undignified wave.
He looks at you for a moment.
Then he raises his hand back.
Jisoo swivels on her chair, sees you, and waves with her whole arm in the large uncomplicated way of someone who has not yet learned that enthusiasm requires apology.
You wave back at her the same way.
Something moves in his face that you don't have a clean word for. He says something to Jisoo, who nods and turns back to her sheet music, already somewhere else entirely. He gets up off the floor and comes to the door.
You are standing in the hallway like a person who was absolutely just walking past.
"Hey," you say.
"Hey," he says.
A pause.
"She's getting better," you say, nodding toward Jisoo, who is already playing again, slow and deliberate, like she and the cello are negotiating something.
"She fights it less," he says. "The tempo."
"I've been working on that with her."
"I know."
Of course he knows. He knows everything that happens at this center whether he is here or not, because Dani tells him, and Dani tells him because Dani understands that some information is infrastructure, and you have never discussed this with anyone either.
You look at each other.
Eight months of careful scheduling. Eight months of Wednesdays becoming grant days or becoming site visit days and all the elaborate, exhausting choreography of two people in the same orbit who have decided not to collide. And now it is Thursday at four twenty-three and you are both just — here. In the hallway. Standing in the ordinary space of each other like no time has passed and like all the time has passed and both of those things are true at once.
"I didn't know you were coming today," you say.
"I didn't know you'd be here," he says.
Which is, you realize, the first honest thing either of you has said that has nothing to do with his parents or the deal or the nine days remaining.
You look at him.
He looks at you.
"I'll get out of your way," he says.
"You're not in my way," you say, which is not strictly true, which you both know, which neither of you addresses.
From inside the Flower Room: Jisoo, starting the piece from the beginning. Slower this time. Like she and the cello have finally agreed on something.
"She said something funny," you say. "I saw you laugh."
Something shifts in his expression. "She said I didn't have to pretend I came to hear her play."
You look at him. "She said that."
"Yes."
"So then what did she say."
He is quiet for a moment. Not the quiet of someone deciding whether to answer — the quiet of someone deciding how.
"She asked me why I came."
"And?"
"I told her I was in the neighborhood."
You look at him.
He looks at the wall just past your left shoulder. This is one of his tells — Min Yoongi, who will hold eye contact across a dinner table and a card game and eight months of loaded silence, cannot look directly at the person in front of him in the small moments when looking would mean admitting something. The wall past your left shoulder means he knows exactly how the thing he just said sounds and is not ready to watch you hear it.
"We are not," you say, "in a neighborhood anyone is just in."
"I'm aware."
"What did she say to that."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"She said Teacher Min, it's Thursday." He says it in the particular flat delivery of someone quoting a sentence that destroyed them a little. "And then she looked at me. And then she looked at the door."
He stops.
You look at the door.
Your office door. Closed. Twelve feet down the hallway, the same door it has always been, the same door you have walked through every day for almost 8 years, the same door that is — you are realizing, standing here, with the information currently being handed to you by a man who cannot look directly at you — apparently something a twelve year old pointed at as an explanation.
The hallway is very still.
You understand what Jisoo was saying.
You understand it completely. Immediately. You have been not-understanding it for eight months with considerable effort and apparently all it took was a girl and a Thursday and a look at a door and now you understand it and there is nowhere to put that.
Teacher Min, it's Thursday.
Not: you don't come on Thursdays. Not: why are you really here. Just the day. Just the fact of it, stated plainly, with a look at a door, by a child who has been watching two adults move around each other in this building for eight months and has apparently run out of patience for the performance.
You look at the door to your office.
You look back at him.
He's not looking at you.
"She's twelve," you say.
"She's twelve," he says, "and she made a face at me that I have only ever seen on people who are in their seventies and have run out of patience for everyone around them."
"What kind of face."
"The kind," he says, carefully, "that meant she already knew the answer and was asking the question as a courtesy."
"She's inconveniently perceptive," it's the only thing you can force yourself to say.
"She gets it from spending too much time with adults."
He looks at you.
"Present company included," you add.
From inside the Flower Room, entirely unbothered, Jisoo plays on. Like she said what she needed to say and has moved on to more important things. Like the answer was obvious and the only question was how long it would take everyone else to catch up.
You look at each other.
Neither of you says anything else about it.
You press your lips together.
"Don't," he says.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're doing the face."
"I don't have a face—"
"You have," he says, "several faces."
You look at him.
He looks back.
And there it is again — the real laugh, small and private and completely unguarded, and this time you are right in front of it. Close enough to feel the rarity of it. Close enough to remember every version of it you have collected over three and a half years without meaning to.
The laughter fades.
The hallway goes quiet again.
The distance between you is not very large and is also enormous and you are both aware of this and neither of you moves.
"I should—" you start.
"Yeah," he says.
"Emails," you say.
"Right."
You take a step back.
"Yoongi," you say.
He looks at you.
You want to say something. You can feel it — the thing that has been sitting exactly where he put it for eight months, the morning neither of you has named, the words that came out of his mouth that he did not mean and has never taken back. It is right there. It has always been right there.
You look at him and you think about a kitchen and something sharp and a door closing behind you and eight months of Thursdays spent somewhere else.
"The sheet music," you say instead. "She'll want to keep it."
A pause.
"I know," he says. "It's hers."
You nod.
You walk to your office.
You sit down at your desk.
You open your email.
You close your email.
From down the hall, through the walls of the Flower Room: Jisoo, still playing. Slower than before. Like she has finally decided that the music does not need to be won. Like it is enough to just — be in it.
You sit with that for a moment.
Eight months ago, it was also a Thursday.
The restaurant was the kind of place that required reservations two weeks in advance and had a sommelier who took his job very seriously and lighting so carefully considered that everyone inside it looked like the best version of themselves. Your boyfriend had made the reservation. He had told you about it three days in advance, which was the kind of thoughtfulness you had been trying to remember to appreciate, the kind that deserved appreciation, the kind that you were genuinely grateful for.
The mint green dress had been hanging in your closet for six months. You had bought it for something else and never worn it. Tonight you had put it on because it was a nice restaurant and he had made a reservation and you were trying.
You were trying.
Outside, Seoul was being dramatic about the weather. June rain — not the polite kind, not a drizzle, but the full committed version, the kind that hits the pavement and bounces back up, that turns the streets into moving rivers, that makes the city look from inside a warm restaurant like something from a film about a city. The windows were streaked with it. The light from the street lamps broke into pieces on the glass. Everything outside was blurred and everything inside was warm and your boyfriend was telling you something about a patient, something funny that had happened, and you were laughing in the right places.
You were doing fine.
Your phone buzzed.
You glanced at it under the table. A habit — you run a center, there are children, sometimes things happen after hours. A reflex.
Min Yoongi: Can you come over.
Not a question. He didn't punctuate it as a question but you read it as one anyway — the way he says things that are actually asking when he has decided that asking directly is not something he can do right now. You looked at the message for a moment. Then you looked up at the restaurant, at the sommelier taking his job seriously, at the rain doing its thing to the windows, at the man across the table from you who had made a reservation two weeks ago because that is who he is.
Your boyfriend was watching you.
Not accusingly. Just — watching. The way he always did, with a patience that was one of the things you loved most about him and that tonight felt like something else entirely. He was a good man. He is a good man. He knew about the center, about the kids, about the piano guy who came on Wednesdays and wasn't just a colleague and wasn't quite a friend and wasn't something you had a clean word for. He never pushed. Never made it a thing.
He understood, genuinely, that you were someone who ran toward people who needed help and that this was not a character flaw but the whole of your character, and he loved you for it.
But he was also a doctor. A pediatrician specifically — a man who had spent years learning to read what people couldn't say yet, what children couldn't articulate and parents were too frightened to name, the truth that lived in the space before the words arrived.
He was very good at this.
It was one of the things you admired most about him and it was, tonight, the thing that made it impossible to pretend.
He had been watching your face for long enough to know what it did when your phone lit up with that name. What it did when you came back from the center on Wednesdays quieter than you left. What it did right now, in this restaurant, in the careful light, when you looked at your phone and then looked up at him with the expression of a woman who has already made a decision and is only now telling her face about it.
He didn't need you to explain.
That was the thing about him — he never needed you to explain. He just waited, with the same patience he brought to every frightened child and every worried parent, for the truth to find its own way out.
"You need to go," he said. Not a question either.
"I—" you started.
"Is it him."
Is it him.
Not who is it. Not what's wrong. Just: is it him. Like he already knew. Like he had known for a while and had been waiting, with that same patience, for the moment you caught up.
He was not angry.
That was almost worse.
You looked at your phone. At the message that was not a question.
"Yes," you said.
You meant more than you said.
He knew that too.
He was quiet for a moment. Something moved across his face. The expression of a man who has understood something that he wishes he didn't understand quite so clearly.
"Go," he said.
"The food—"
"I'll have them box it." He picked up his wine glass. Set it down again. "My roommate will appreciate it. She's been in back to back tibial plateau fracture repairs since six AM and I guarantee she hasn't eaten since yesterday." A small, careful smile. The kind that costs something to produce. "Go."
You picked up your bag.
You stood.
You looked at him across the table, in the restaurant he had reserved two weeks ago, in the careful light that made everyone look like the best version of themselves.
"I'm sorry," you said.
"I know," he said.
You went.
Outside, the rain was immediate and total.
You had not brought an umbrella because you had come from the center and at the center you never thought about umbrellas until you needed one, and now you needed one, and you didn't have one, and so you walked to your car in the June rain in the mint green dress and told yourself this was fine.
It was ten-fourteen PM.
You drove to Hannam with the rain doing everything it could to the windshield and your wipers losing the argument and the city blurred and brilliant outside the glass. His building appeared through the rain like something out of a different category of life — the kind of building that exists in a part of Seoul where the buildings are allowed to be quiet about what they cost, where the security is good and the lobby is marble and the elevator operates with a smoothness that implies it has never once considered having a bad day.
You had been here before.
You knew the code.
He had given it to you a year ago after the first time you had shown up because he called, and you had thought: this is a line we are crossing, and you had crossed it anyway because that was the kind of people you apparently were with each other.
The elevator opened on his floor.
You knocked.
He opened the door before you finished knocking.
He was standing back from the door, already moving toward the window, like he had opened it and then needed to be somewhere else immediately. The apartment was dark except for the city — Hannam falling away below the glass wall, the Han beyond it, all of it refracted through rain until it looked like a painting of itself rather than the actual thing.
He was still dressed — dark clothes, like he'd come home from somewhere and not changed, or like he'd been somewhere in his head all day and the clothes were just what he'd been wearing when it started. His hair was pushed back from his face. He had a glass in his hand, nearly empty, and there was a bottle on the counter that you clocked immediately and that told you most of what you needed to know.
Not drunk. He was not drunk.
But he had been drinking in the careful, deliberate way he did when he was trying to stay level and the level was getting harder to maintain.
"Hey," you said.
"Hey." He didn't turn from the window. "You're wet."
"It's raining."
"I know." A pause. "Sorry. I should have—" He stopped. "You didn't have to come."
"I know," you said. "I'm here."
You set your bag down by the door. You found a towel in the bathroom, you knew where the bathroom was, you knew where the towels were — and you dried your hair and your arms as much as was practical and you came back into the living room and stopped.
Tang was sitting in the middle of the floor looking at you.
Tang was a black cat that the center kids had found shivering behind the recycling bins eight months ago and that Yoongi had taken home after three weeks of pretending he was still deciding. He had said, with great seriousness, that the cat reminded him of someone. He had not elaborated. You had not pushed because you were laughing too hard.
Tang did not behave like a cat. Tang behaved like a golden retriever who had been told he was a cat and found this information irrelevant. He was loud and opinionated and constitutionally incapable of understanding that personal space was a thing that existed. He had opinions about everything — your bag, your coat, the towel in your hand, the specific way you were standing in his living room — and he was sharing all of them simultaneously.
You crouched down.
He walked directly into your knees and started talking.
"I know," you told him.
He had more to say.
"I know," you said again.
He headbutted your hand with the urgency of someone who has been waiting all day for this specific interaction and needs you to understand the gravity of it. You scratched behind his ears. He closed his eyes and leaned into it with his whole body, swaying slightly, purring at a volume that suggested the concept of subtlety had never once occurred to him.
From the window, without turning around: "He's been like that all day."
"Stressed?"
"Loud," Yoongi said. "Same thing."
You looked at Tang, who had now climbed partially into your lap despite the fact that you were crouching and this was not a structurally sound arrangement for either of you. You looked at Yoongi at the window, his back to the room, the city below him and the rain against the glass.
You sat down on the floor.
Tang rearranged himself immediately, completely, with the efficiency of someone who has been waiting for exactly this and knew it was coming.
You sat with him for a while.
Yoongi stayed at the window for a while longer.
The rain.
The city.
The glass in his hand that he set down on the windowsill eventually without finishing it.
Then he came and sat on the floor too.
He tells you about the meeting.
He talks.
This is the first thing that tells you how bad it is — Yoongi, who measures words like they cost something, who will sit in silence for twenty minutes rather than say a thing he hasn't finished thinking, is talking fast. Faster than you have ever heard him talk. Like he has been holding this for days and the pressure of it has finally found the crack and now it is coming out whether he is ready or not.
The label first. The new album.
Four years — four years of solo work and military service and their own lives growing in directions nobody planned for, and now the label wants the biggest comeback and tour of their careers and all seven of them have come back to the table with four years of different opinions about what that looks like and none of those opinions are the same.
He talks about the charts and losing the Grammys and the award shows and the comments he doesn't read, can't read, because he knows himself well enough to know that reading them right now would break something he has only recently finished putting back together.
He talks about the fight — one of the worst in fifteen years, he says, and the way he says it tells you that fifteen years of fights is a number he has counted, that he knows exactly where this one lands in the ranking and it is not good.
They love each other. That is not the question.
The question is that they are not just seven men in a group anymore.
They are seven men with businesses and families and futures that extend beyond the thing they built together, and protecting all of that simultaneously while also trying to make something worthy of four years of waiting is — he reaches for the word and doesn't find it and keeps going.
Hoseok is getting married.
He says this and something in his face goes genuinely, unguardedly happy for a moment — the anger pausing around it, the fast talking slowing down, because this one is good news, this one is the kind of thing that cuts through everything else. They are so happy, he says. Both of them. Yoongi says it like it is the one clean thing in an otherwise complicated evening.
You smile when he says it.
Jin and his wife are trying for a baby. Their first. Yoongi says this and then goes quiet for a second, the fast talking pausing around it like even he needs a moment to hold it carefully.
They are trying to start a family in the middle of all of this. In the middle of comeback season and label meetings and a fight still sitting unresolved in the group chat. They shouldn't have to do this right now. They should have quiet. Space. Time. The thing that being in BTS has always made very difficult to come by.
It really gets to him. You can hear it underneath everything else — the anger, the whiskey, the words coming out too fast. This one is actually breaking his heart.
Namjoon is having episodes again, not sleeping, the weight of the comeback already sitting on him like it always sits on him, heavier than it sits on anyone else because that is what being the leader has always cost and Namjoon has always paid it without complaint and Yoongi has always hated that about him.
Namjoon is also seeing someone.
He hasn't said so.
He doesn't have to say so.
Yoongi has known him for fifteen years and he knows exactly what Namjoon looks like when he has stopped being careful, when something has gotten past the walls he builds, when he is trying very hard to act normal about something that is not normal for him at all.
Taehyung has disappeared — gone to wherever he goes before comeback season, the place nobody is given an address for, the place he comes back from quieter and more himself and ready.
Jimin is pouring everything into his own dance center, his own vision, and Yoongi says this with pride and something more complicated underneath it.
And Jungkook — that kid, he says, that absolute kid — has a motorcycle now and is being reckless with it in a way that keeps Yoongi up at night in a manner he will not fully articulate.
They are all drifting, he says.
He says it quietly. The fast talking has run out of momentum somewhere in the middle of Jungkook and the motorcycle and now he is just — here, on the floor, with the city below the glass and the rain against it, and he has poured himself another whiskey at some point and he is looking at it like it is something he is disappointed in himself for needing.
He hasn't been angry in months, he says.
He's angry now.
You look at him.
Your heart is doing something you don't have a name for and are not going to name right now, something that lives in the chest just below the ribs, something that has been there since the moment you walked in and found him at the window and has been getting louder with every sentence.
You know this man.
You know what it costs him to talk this fast, to say this much, to let any of it be visible. You know that the whiskey glass is not about the whiskey.
You know that I haven't been angry in months is not a complaint but a grief — the grief of someone who worked very hard to stop being angry and is watching it come back and doesn't know yet if he has the tools to stop it again.
You don't say any of this.
You sit with Tang in your lap and you listen and you let him finish.
He talked for a long time.
You listened the way you always listened to him — without filling the spaces, without offering solutions before he'd finished the problem. He needed to say it. You let him say it.
At some point you realized you were both crying.
You didn't know when it had started. His first, probably, quietly, in the way he cried — without drama, without announcement, the tears just there, like the next honest thing after words. And then yours, because you knew how much this cost him, how much he had carried, how long he had been the person who converted pain into output and now the output was stalling and the pain had nowhere to go.
The rain against the windows.
The city lights broken into pieces.
His hands on his knees, and your hand not quite touching his, and the space between you charged with three and a half years of almost.
He kissed you.
It wasn't the first time. You both knew it wasn't the first time.
There was the practice room first — seven months ago, a Wednesday evening after everyone had gone, him showing you a chord progression on the piano because you had asked and he had sat down without making it a thing, and somewhere between the third and fourth time he moved your hands to the right position the distance just closed. You were not with your boyfriend then.
You and him had been off for three months, one of the longer offs, the kind that felt like it might be permanent this time. You were just — you, and him, and a piano in an empty room, and something that had been building since the first Wednesday he walked through the door.
Then the fundraiser.
Four months after the practice room. A good night — the center had hit its grant target, there was wine, and you had ended up on the same side of your office desk laughing about something you couldn't remember afterward because what you remembered was the way he looked at you when the laughing stopped.
You were not with your boyfriend then either. You and him had tried again briefly in spring and it hadn't taken and you had both known it hadn't taken and ended it quietly, without drama, still friends, always friends.
And then tonight. The third time. The rain and the floor and his hands and the city below the glass.
And then tonight. The third time.
His hands first — they were always his hands first, the way they found your face like he had been thinking about exactly this, like the decision had been made somewhere before the moment and the moment was just where it arrived. He kissed you the way he did everything that mattered to him, slowly, with complete attention, like he had nowhere else to be and nothing else worth being present for.
You kissed him back.
You had always kissed him back.
That was the thing you could never explain cleanly — not to yourself, not to the version of you that sat in good restaurants in mint green dresses and tried to choose the right thing.
When Yoongi kissed you the careful part of you went quiet. The part that managed and planned — quiet. Just him and his hands and the rain against the glass and the city below and the floor of his apartment that you had somehow ended up on, and your fingers in his hair, and his mouth, and the specific warmth of being wanted by someone who does not want things lightly.
You forgot, for a moment, everything you were supposed to remember.
Then you remembered the restaurant. The rain on the windows there too. The careful smile across the table.
Go. My roommate will appreciate it.
You were not supposed to be back with your boyfriend now either.
Except that you were.
Three weeks. New enough that you hadn't told anyone yet. New enough that you had told yourself it was different this time, that you were ready, that the thing you kept almost-choosing and then not choosing was not the reason you kept coming back to something familiar and safe.
You had been lying to yourself.
You were very good at this, it turned out, when the truth was inconvenient enough.
You pulled back.
"Yoongi." His name, just that. The way you said it when you meant it directly.
He looked at you.
And then his eyes moved — down, and you watched him actually see you for the first time since you'd walked in. Not the you who showed up when he called, the you in the mint green dress that had been hanging in your closet for six months, the you who had left a restaurant to come here, the you who was here because he asked and you came, you always came—
"Are you back with him," he said.
Not a question. A recognition. The way he said things he already knew but needed confirmed.
You didn't answer.
He looked at the bottle in the corner. Back at you.
"How long, Y/N." he said your name fell from his lips like an accusation. Because it was.
"Yoongi—"
"How long."
"A few weeks," you said. "It's new, it's—"
He made a sound. Not a word. Just — a sound, low and brief, the sound of something landing somewhere it wasn't supposed to land.
"We agreed are just friends," you said. "You and I. We agreed—"
"I know what we agreed," he said. "I know exactly what we are, Y/N"
Tang had moved off your lap at some point during the kissing and was now sitting three feet away observing the situation with the detached interest of someone who has seen this before and has opinions about it but has decided tonight is not the night to share them.
You looked at Yoongi.
He was looking at the rain.
"You had a bad day," you said.
He didn't answer. Which was an answer.
"Yoongi." You said it quietly. "You need to talk to someone. A professional. You stopped seeing Dr. Chae, didn't you."
He was quiet for a long moment.
"I had a bad day," he said finally. Then, without looking at you: "Is that why you kissed me back."
The question landed somewhere between your ribs and stayed there.
You thought about the practice room. The fundraiser. The three weeks of trying to choose the right thing in a mint green dress in a restaurant that required reservations. You thought about the way the careful part of you went quiet when he touched you and how that had never once happened with anyone else and what that meant and how long you had been not-meaning it.
Is that why you kissed me back.
You wanted to say yes. Yes would be easier. Yes would mean it was circumstantial — the rain, the floor, the bad day, the orbit tightening in a weak moment. Yes would mean it was about him and his bad day and your tendency to run toward people who needed help and not about the thing that had been sitting in your chest since approximately the first Wednesday he walked through the center door and looked at everything you built like it was worth looking at.
You wanted to say yes.
"No," you said.
He looked at you then. Really looked at you, the way he almost never did up close — direct, unmanaged, the dark eyes doing the thing they did in low light where they stopped being unreadable and became something else entirely. Something that asked a question he wasn't going to finish out loud.
You looked back.
You should not have said that.
You meant it completely.
"You should talk to someone," you said again, because the alternative was continuing to look at each other like that and you were not ready for where that went. "You stopped seeing Dr. Chae. You're not sleeping. You're drinking again and the last time—"
"This isn't a bad day," you said. "I know what a bad day looks like and this isn't—"
"Come to the center," you said. "More than Wednesdays. It helps, you know it helps, being with the kids, being somewhere that isn't—"
"Stop," he said.
"I'm just saying—"
"Stop." He looked at you. Something in his face had shifted — the grief from earlier still there but something else coming through it now, something harder. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what."
"The thing," he said. "The fixing thing. The — come to the center, see your therapist, here is the solution, let me organize your recovery—"
"I'm not trying to—"
"You treat me like one of your kids," he said. "Like something you found that needed help and brought inside."
"That's not what I'm doing—"
"The company sent me to your center," he said, "because I was broken. And you fixed up the schedule and you talked to Dani and you made it work and that was—" He stopped. Something moved through his face. "That was your job. And now when I'm not okay you show up and you bring solutions and you try to—"
"You called me," you said. "You called me, Yoongi. I was at dinner—"
"You were with him," he said. "In that dress." His voice was very level now. The leveler it got the more you knew it was costing him. "Does he know? About the fundraiser? About the practice room?" A pause, and when he says the next part his voice drops just slightly, deliberate, the word landing with everything it carries and everything it means beyond what it says. "Does he know that when I call — you come?"
The silence after it is very loud.
You feel your face do something you cannot control. It turns, you are fairly certain, the exact color of the Dragon Room door.
Red.
He knows exactly what he said.
He meant both things.
You are not going to acknowledge either of them.
"We are friends," you said. "What happened between us—"
"I know what we are," he said. "Do you?"
The rain.
The city.
The empty bottle in the corner of your vision.
"You're not one of my projects," you said quietly.
He looked at you.
And then he said it.
He said the thing — and later you will not be able to explain exactly how he knew where to aim, except that he had always paid attention, had always listened, had three and a half years of knowing you and knowing therefore exactly where the soft places were, the ones you didn't talk about, the ones underneath the sunshine and the building and the I feel things fully and I say them when they need to be said — he found one of those places and he said the thing that lived there.
Quietly.
Without raising his voice.
The way he said everything that was true.
It took the air out of your lungs completely.
You stood up from the floor.
The mint green dress. The restaurant. His roommate and the takeout boxes and the careful smile.
"Fuck you, you have no right. You—" you interrupted yourself. "Good luck, Min Yoongi."
You picked up your bag.
You walked to the door.
Behind you: the sound of glass shattering. Not thrown at you — never at you, not even close, he was broken and broken people break things that are near them when they have nothing left, and the glass was on the counter and it was not near you, it was nowhere near you.
But you heard it.
And you didn't turn around.
The elevator was smooth and quiet on the way down.
The lobby was marble.
Outside, the rain had not stopped.
You stood under it for a moment, your hand on the strap of your bag, the city blurred and brilliant in every direction, and you thought: you knew. You knew he was going to hurt you eventually. Everyone who burns that bright does.
You walked to your car.
You drove home.
You did not cry until you were in your apartment with the door closed and the mint green dress on the floor, and even then you were not entirely sure what you were crying about — the thing he said, or the empty bottle, or the way he looked at you right before he said it, like he was sorry and was going to do it anyway.
Both, probably.
All of it.
Three days later you went back to your ex-boyfriend's apartment and told him you were sorry. He said he knew. He said it the way people say things they have been preparing to say for a while.
You were not back together after that.
That was the first thing Yoongi broke without meaning to.
Eight months.
Eight months of Wednesdays spent elsewhere and forty-three unread emails and Dani telling you which days were safe and which days to have grant meetings, and all of it — every single arranged Thursday, every carefully scheduled Wednesday afternoon — collapsing on a Thursday in February when his name appeared on your personal phone and his opening line was I need a favor.
You said yes.
You are still not entirely sure which version of yourself said it — the practical one with the budget page, or the one who stood under his awning in the rain and thought: everyone who burns that bright does.
Maybe both.
Maybe that's the same person.
You are on email number seven when someone knocks on your office door.
You know it's him before you look up. Not because of anything dramatic — not because of some deep cosmic awareness of his presence, though you would like to formally lodge a complaint about the fact that that also exists — but because Dani doesn't knock, the kids don't knock, and you are not expecting anyone else.
And because it is Thursday.
And he is still in the building.
And because eight months of knowing exactly where he is and making sure you are somewhere else has apparently not cured you of knowing exactly where he is.
"Yeah," you say.
He opens the door and stands in the doorway.
He does not come in. Yoongi has always done this — knocked, opened, stood at the threshold like he is giving you the option of the visit before committing to it. You used to find it considerate. You used to say come in and he would, and that was that. Today you do not say come in and he does not come in and you both exist in the doorway arrangement with the full weight of eight months and a rainy June Thursday and everything you now know sitting between you like a third person in the room.
It is six thirty-seven PM and the light is doing what late afternoon light does in a west-facing office in February — coming in low and golden and entirely unreasonable, hitting everything at the angle that makes ordinary things look significant. It is hitting him now. His brown eyes, which are normally dark enough to be unreadable, have gone somewhere else entirely in this light — warm, open, the color of something you do not have a practical use for thinking about right now.
You think about it anyway.
You think about the last time you were alone in this office. The fundraiser. The lamplight. The two of you on opposite sides of this desk and then not on opposite sides of this desk and everything that happened in the space between those two things. You think about a rainy June night and a mint green dress and is that why you kissed me back and no said too quickly and too honestly and you are absolutely not thinking about any of this right now.
You look at your computer screen.
He is still in the doorway.
You become aware, at some point, that you have been looking at your computer screen without reading anything on it for what feels like a reasonable amount of time and is probably not. You look back at him. He is looking at you. You have the distinct impression that he has also been somewhere else for the duration of this silence and has also just returned.
His hair is longer than it was eight months ago. There are two grey hairs that fall on his left eye that were not there before, or that you didn't notice before, or that you noticed and filed somewhere you are no longer able to access. You notice them now. You notice them with the specific, unwelcome clarity of someone whose brain has decided that this is the important information to process right now, with everything else available.
He clears his throat.
"Have you checked your phone," he says.
You look at your phone. Seventeen notifications, which is normal for six thirty-seven on a Thursday. You scroll. Three from your mother. One from Dani — sent four minutes ago, which means Dani knew about this four minutes ago and did not tell you in person despite being twelve feet away, which is a conversation you will absolutely be having — and then a chain from a number saved as Mom in law 🌸 that you did not save with that emoji or name and that has therefore been saved that way by the woman herself, directly, at some point when you handed her your phone and she handed it back and said nothing and smiled.
You read the chain.
You read it again.
"Your aunt," you say.
"Yes."
"And your mother."
"Yes."
"Are at—" You squint at the address. You do not recognize the address. You do not know what is at the address. You have a feeling, gathering quietly in the back of your mind, that you are not going to know what is at the address until you are already inside it, at which point it will be too late to make a different decision. "Why are they there."
"I don't know."
"Why do they need both of us."
"I don't know."
"Has anyone asked them—"
"I asked," he says. "My mother sent back a voice note that was four minutes long and did not answer the question."
You put your phone down.
You look at your computer. Email number seven, still open, the cursor blinking with the patience of something that has decided to wait you out and has nowhere else to be.
Outside the window, Seoul is going gold. In eight months you have sat at this desk on approximately one hundred and sixty Thursdays and none of them have felt like this one — charged in a way you cannot name cleanly, the air in this room doing something it does not normally do, the doorway occupied by a man you have been managing the absence of with considerable effort and mixed results.
He is right there.
He has always been right there.
"Can it wait," you say, "for me to finish my emails."
"I'll be in the car," he says.
He turns to go.
"Yoongi." He stops. "I'll need to come back after. To get my car."
He turns back. Something moves across his face — quick, almost nothing. "I'll have someone pick it up."
"That's—" you start.
"Give me your keys."
You open your desk drawer. Your keys are on a ring with a small enamel sun charm that one of the kids gave you for your birthday last year and a bottle opener and the key to the supply closet that you have never once successfully located when you actually needed it. You hold them out across the desk.
He crosses the room.
Min Yoongi is terrible at eye contact up close. From across a dinner table, across a car, across eight months of distance he can look at you directly and it costs him nothing. But this — a desk between you and only just, close enough that looking would mean something neither of you has agreed to yet — he finds the keys instead. He has always found something else when you are this close. You have never pointed this out. You have filed it away instead, the way you file everything about him that you are not supposed to be keeping track of.
He looks at the keys.
His fingers close around them.
Yours have not moved.
For approximately two seconds — not long, long enough — the keys and the sun charm and the bottle opener and the supply closet key that never works are held between both of your hands, and his fingers are against yours, and neither of you moves, and the afternoon light is doing its unreasonable thing through the west-facing window.
You think about a kitchen floor. About rain on a window. About no said in the dark.
He takes the keys.
Steps back.
"I'll be downstairs," he says, to the doorway.
"I'll be five minutes," you say, to your computer screen.
He leaves.
You look at email number seven.
You read the same sentence four times.
You close the laptop.
You do not know what is at that address.
You get your coat anyway.
The shop is called Blanc et Bonheur.
It is a bridal shop.
You would like the record to reflect that nobody told you it was a bridal shop.
The text from Yoongi's mother said address, come quickly, we need you both with urgency, like woman describing a minor emergency, and you had imagined — pharmacy, dry cleaner, some errand that required two people for reasons that would become clear upon arrival.
You had not imagined this.
You had not imagined the chandelier in the waiting area, or the bolts of ivory fabric arranged against the walls like clouds that have been professionally organized, or the smell of the place — something floral and expensive and bridal, unmistakably, irreversibly bridal — or the woman at the front desk who looked up when you walked in and smiled at you both like she has decided what kind of day this is going to be for you.
"Welcome," she said, looking between you and Yoongi with an expression that made several assumptions simultaneously.
You looked at Yoongi.
Yoongi looked at the chandelier.
Neither of you looked at each other.
This is because you are in a bridal shop.
Together.
Four days into pretending to be a couple, two days after a card game where his father said he calls you by your name, always your name, since the beginning. You are standing in a bridal shop and the woman at the front desk is smiling at you like she knows something and the chandelier is enormous and everything smells like wedding and Yoongi is looking at the ceiling like he find the architectural details up there extremely interesting.
Here is why you are here, technically:
Yoongi's cousin Ji-eun is getting married in six weeks. Ji-eun is in New York for work and cannot fly back for her fitting. You are, apparently, exactly Ji-eun's size — a fact his aunt established by looking at you once, at dinner, with the measuring eye of a woman who has been doing this her entire life and has never once been wrong about it. She announced this with the confidence of someone delivering useful logistical information and not at all with the energy of someone who has had a plan since approximately the second course.
The plan, you are now understanding, was this.
"It'll take an hour," Yoongi told you in the car, which tells you he knew it was a bridal shop and said nothing, which is a conversation you will be having.
"You said that about dinner," you said.
"This is different."
"You said that about the card game."
He had no response to this because there was no response to this.
You are in a bridal shop.
His mother, his aunt, and their friend Mrs. Oh are already inside, arranged on a cream velvet settee with the settled energy of women who arrived early, got comfortable, and are now simply waiting for the main event to begin.
His mother smiles when she sees you.
His aunt smiles when she sees you.
Mrs. Oh looks between you and Yoongi and says, to the room in general: "Good. You're both here."
Yoongi looks at the chandelier again.
You look at the bolts of ivory fabric.
The woman at the front desk has already appeared with a measuring tape.
You look at Yoongi.
He is still looking at the chandelier.
"Yoongi," you say, quietly, in the voice you use when you need him to be present for something.
He looks at you.
This is a mistake. You are in a bridal shop and he is looking at you directly for the first time since the office and the keys and the two seconds, and the chandelier light is doing something unreasonable to his face, and you are standing in front of bolts of ivory fabric and his entire family is on a settee watching this happen with the patient satisfaction of women who have been waiting for exactly this moment.
The look lasts approximately three seconds.
It contains, in those three seconds, the full weight of everything that has happened between you— the center, the friendship, the practice room, the fundraiser, the kitchen floor, the June rain, the thing he said that took the air out of your lungs and the glass that shattered after you left and eight months of Wednesdays spent somewhere else. It contains no said too quickly in the dark. It contains today is Thursday delivered by a twelve year old who has run out of patience for both of you. It contains his father's face at and the way he looked at it too long.
Three seconds.
You look away first.
"One hour," you say.
"One hour," he says.
Mrs. Oh makes a small sound that is not quite a word and is completely a comment.
His mother stands. "Come," she says, already moving, already knowing where the private fitting room is because of course she does, because she has known where everything in this situation is going since approximately the second course of the first dinner. "The seamstress is waiting."
Then she looks at Yoongi.
"You," she says, with the loving authority of a woman who has made a decision, "will wait here."
Yoongi looks at her.
"In the waiting area," she clarifies.
"Eomma—"
"There is a chair," she says. "And magazines. You will be fine."
His aunt has already appeared at his other side with the gentle but absolute energy of someone closing a gate. "We won't be long," she says, patting his arm.
"How long," he says.
"Not long," his mother says, which is not an answer.
You look at him over your shoulder as they guide you toward the back of the shop.
He looks back at you with the face of a man who has run the numbers and arrived at a conclusion he does not love. He is in a bridal shop. His mother put him here. He looks at you with not quite alarm, not quite resignation, something in between, something that on anyone else might be called help but on Yoongi is just the face of a person who has understood that the situation has developed beyond his ability to manage it and is now simply in it.
His aunt is closing in from the left. Mrs. Oh is on the settee and has already formed opinions. There is no exits strategy that does not involve disappointing his mother and he has never once in thirty three years successfully disappointed his mother when she has decided to want something.
He knows this.
You know this.
You almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
You feel, absurdly, like you are being separated at customs.
You mouth: one hour.
He mouths something back.
You are fairly certain it is: I'm sorry.
You are not certain if he means the bridal shop.
You turn around.
You follow his mother.
author's note 🎹
so. here we are.
the cat is officially out of the bag. the bag is lost. the bag never existed.
now you know what happened eight months ago. why he never called but never stopped showing up. he fucked up — he knows that — and showing up quietly to a center he has no scheduled reason to be at on a Thursday is his way of apologizing without knowing how to say it out loud yet. he knows it's not enough. don't worry. we'll get there.
and reader. my girl. I love her so much. she is someone who wears her heart on her sleeve, who feels things fully and says them when they need to be said, who built an entire center out of love and stubbornness and spite — and somehow, with this one specific person, she has been lying to herself for months. she is human. she fucks up in her own way too. we'll know her reasons too.
they were friends first. they made things complicated. and they have been lying to each other for months — even before they had to lie to the rest of the world. that's the real thing about fake things. they never start from nothing.
also. the ex-boyfriend. 👀
if you've read WHWYF you absolutely know who he is. you've known since the tibial plateau fractures and the roommate who hasn't eaten since yesterday. and yes — we will see more of him in this story. in every story, actually, because I am completely in love with that character and I don't apologize for it. and now that tiny moment where Yoongi acknowledges someone in the backstage tent but not the person standing next to them? that has a whole other meaning now, doesn't it?
🤭🤭🤭
I really loved writing this chapter because the thread that connects all the stories in this universe is starting to expand and pull and I can feel it and I hope you can too. you can absolutely read every single one of these stories as a standalone — I won't judge you, I promise. but if you read all of them? I will kiss you on the forehead. I don't make the rules. that's just how it works.
I wanted to end this chapter on a higher note because at the end of the day — underneath all the flashbacks and the rain and the June kitchen and the things nobody said — this story is a love story. a messy, complicated, fake-dating-real-feelings disaster of a love story. and I wanted you to feel that going into the weekend.
speaking of which — I'm traveling this weekend 🌍 I will absolutely try to write. I make no promises about the timeline but I make every promise about the quality because these two deserve that and so do you.
thank you for the asks and the notes and the reblogs and the questions that make me want to spoil everything immediately. you have no idea what it means.
see you soon. 🖤
— Ria
The Real Thing — Part Two Part of The B-Side Series Truths and Lies Book 1
🖤 THE B-SIDE SERIES MASTERLIST
curious about a character or a story? want to know more before it drops? → ask me anything
want to know the second a new part goes up? → join the taglist — permanent or fic-specific | click here
✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: idol Min Yoongi x choreo female Reader
✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Idol!au, situationship, angst, smut, coworkers (pretend to be shocked pls), love triangle
✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Across sleepless cities on tour, you and Yoongi cling to each other in an unspoken arrangement neither of you knows how to end, until someone new makes you wonder if you should.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Hi! New fic, yup. Warnings to be included within each chapter. Verrryy excited with this one esp cause it’s been cooking for a while. I think it’s gonna be angsty, and sexy, and yummy. Written for @glossdebut for winning a little contest I ran last year.
Story taglist is open.
Preview // .01 // .02
INTRO UNDER THE CUT
You’re part of BTS’ BTS.
Bangtan Tour Sluts.
It’s a term one of the make-up unnies coined half-jokingly, after realizing the truth: you’re a group of women who’ve practically dedicated your lives to seven men who are not even your family.
You’re a sorority of girls who go on tour with the group, taking on multiple hats, making sure every tour stop goes as best as possible.
You willingly do every beck and call of theirs because you actually like them. They are nice and you want to see them succeed. And even if they’re not being nice (oh the stories you could tell!), you still do everything for them. Like good girls. Like sluts.
Maybe that’s just what devotion looks like in this business.
Yours started with Hoseok.
Back before you had a name that anyone could recognize, you were just another girl on YouTube flexing dance moves in her tiny apartment. Somehow, he saw one of your clips, a clean cover of Dope, and sent your link to their performance director.
You got the email weeks later, went in for an audition, and the rest is history.
Then came the rehearsals. The late nights. The endless counts of eight. You were still so broke in those early days that you couldn’t even afford a cab after a late night practice, so you’d wait at the bus stop outside the studio, hoodie soaked through, sneakers squishing from the rain.
One night, Jin pulled up beside the curb and offered you a ride. You remember Yoongi was in the passenger seat. Wordless for the most part, but he blasted the heater so you wouldn't get cold. You thanked Jin profusely as he dropped you off.
He shrugged and said, “Good thing Yoongi saw you.”
You still remember the heat sinking back into your bones.
It added up over time.
Jimin once wrapped your ankle when you landed wrong after some crazy choreo you were trying to hit. Even crazier, Namjoon paid for your eomma’s emergency medical bills, because you were still struggling then.
They noticed you beyond your work. Not all at once, but steadily, gradually, eventually. And maybe that’s all it takes. You’d follow them anywhere after that.
So you do.
The thing is, some of the Bangtan Tour Sluts do become that over time.
You once overheard a manager say: stupid idols date fans; smart idols date other idols. Or each other.
The boys are fine shyt. But after living together for years, the latter feels… borderline incestuous.
They’ve tried dating other idols too, but it’s chaos. Too many schedules to align, too many eyes watching, security doubling the second they want to meet up even in a different city for a simple fuck.
It’s easier this way. Closer. Quieter.
You don’t even blame them for it. This arrangement. The girls are hot as hell.
There’s Angel from Wardrobe who’s become Taehyung’s emotional support buddy. She’s on-call to dress him and undress him, whenever the situation calls for it.
Jungkook’s got a couple in his roster. Bina from glam and Tiff, also from glam. It could be problematic, sure, but so far they’re having fun.
Somehow, even if you highly considered becoming Seokjin’s...
✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Office Crush!Min Yoongi x Reader
✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: The plan was simple: kiss a stranger at midnight and fuck ‘til dawn. But what happens when you wake up next to your office crush instead—with zero memory of how you got there?
✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Suggestive, Mild Angst, Non-idol, Coworkers to Lovers, Idiots tbh
✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: 18+ MDNI. MC drinks too much and blacks out (drink moderately y’all!), Mind the timestamps as the story switches from present day to flashbacks
✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: ~10k
✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Happy New Year, ARMY! ✨ Year of Bangtan 2K26, who’s ready?? I hope you enjoy this little one-shot. Just when you thought I’d wrung every last drop of the office romance trope, surprise… there’s more! Lol. I got inspired by this one Tiktok that I forgot to save, but basically it's a POV of waking up beside your office crush. And now here we are.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes 2: Thank you to Tea and Aqua for betareading some parts of this fic. <3 If you see mistakes, it’s on me. Thank you also to the Church of Yoongism for all the love and support and for doing this dream collab with me. Love you guys! <3
Collab Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Present Day
📅 01 January 2026
📍Raemian Residences, Seongdong-gu
Your company’s year-end bash was a smash.
By which you mean you got smashed, and that made everything exponentially better last night. Right now, however, is a different story. Your head is pounding like it’s still trapped inside the speakers they rented for the party, the ones with bass so heavy it rattled your ribs.
Your mouth is drier than the Sahara, cotton clusters lodged somewhere between your throat and esophagus. You pat blindly at the nightstand for the bottle of water you usually keep there, eyes still shut because opening them feels like opening the gates of hell.
Your fingertips hit something.
A lump.
It shifts under your hand.
You snap your eyes open, instantly regretting it because there is a person in your bed.
Fuckin’ shit. You don’t remember a thing. How drunk were you? This has never happened before.
You ponder pretending to go back to bed. Maybe when you wake up the stranger will have yeeted himself out of your apartment, if you’re lucky.
You shut your eyes again, control your breathing. You’re fine. This is totally fine.
But gosh, you’re curious now.
So instead of dealing with the anxiety in the next few days, you resolve to nip it in the bud and find out who the “lucky man” is beneath your sheets. You tap your lamp open, keeping it at the lowest setting, but it’s enough to cast a dim glow around your room.
The man is facing away from you. Broad shoulders and pale skin against a white sleeveless undershirt, and a soft disarray of black hair across your silk pillows.
Something glints in the corner of your eye. Two silver hoops looped on his ear. And there’s something peeking from his shoulder... Is that..? You squint. It’s a tiny 7 tattoo.
Oh. Oh no.
There’s only one person who has ever told you that they had that number inked on their shoulder.
You are so so fucked.
Because you know who this mass of hair and limbs and skin and ink belongs to. But there’s no way he is in your bed right now.
Min Yoongi.
The co-worker you’ve spent the better part of two years not-thirsting-over-and-failing. Your favorite colleague. Some may have even referred to him as your work husband. You work extremely well together and you seem to have chemistry beyond corporate projects, but neither of you have dared cross a line.
Until now.
‘Cause he’s here. In your bed. Still sleeping.
You stare at his back for another beat, then exhale the only thing that makes sense. “Fuckkkkkkkk.”
He stirs. Shit. No no. Go to sleep!
Too late, though. He is already fidgeting in that way when you’re unceremoniously roused from slumber. A deep, gravelly voice fills the room. “Quit squirming, Y/N.”
You clamp your lips shut, containing your panic.
“Go back to sleep,” he says, twisting his body so he is now facing you.
Is he for real? How is he even getting comfortable right now? Why is he not as alarmed as you?
“You’re in my bed.”
“Astute as always.”
“Why are you in my bed?”
A beat of silence follows.
“Alright,” he sighs, propping his torso up with his elbows. And in the rustle of sheets, his scent assaults your nose. He smells like the way he always does, manly, musky, and so attractive.
“Let’s get into it.” His nose flares as he stifles a yawn.
“So…?”
“You were shitfaced and asked me to take you home.”
You can feel blood rushing to your cheeks. “Ah. Shit. Okay. Thank you… for that.”
“I gotchu.” He nods, settling back against your pillows. He looks so eepy like he’s about to doze off any minute now.
You tear your eyes away from him and direct it towards the ceiling. You sigh.
God, how do you even look right now? There’s probably a ring of smudged mascara around your eyes, dry drool on the side of your mouth, and you know you smell ratchet. You need to kick him out. This is too humiliating for you. But first, you gotta know something…
You lift the duvet cover and you clearly see what you’re wearing, and what you’re not wearing. Definitely no shorts, no shirt. Just a matching polka-dot bra and panties set to bring you luck for the New Year.
“I can hear the gears in your head turning,” his voice snaps you out of your spiral.
You don’t respond. You don’t know what to say anyway.
“Ask it,” he prods, and you can feel the heat of his gaze burning the side of your face.
Alright then. “Yoongi?” You pull the covers towards your chin.
“Yeah?” There’s amusement in his tone and as much as you want to clock him for it, you have to ask...
“Did we fuck?”
A beat passes. When he doesn’t answer, you finally chance a glance at him.
His mouth curls up into a smirk. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
Asshole!!!
Your last office was filled with middle-aged men with pot bellies and bad haircuts, but Persona Publishing is most definitely not your average workplace. It’s one of the biggest multimedia conglomerates in the country. You’re surrounded by pretty people all day, which feels both inspiring and mildly nerve-racking. Persona does everything: digital content that breaks the internet by lunch, glossy magazines that sit in salons and airplane seat pockets, editorial shoots on fashion and luxury.
The office runs like a sitcom—zany characters, overlapping conversations, chaotic meetings, inside jokes you don’t fully understand yet but laugh at anyway. Some days are brutal, deadlines stacking and egos clashing, and you go home questioning every career decision you’ve ever made. But even then, there’s a strange thrill to it, a sense that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. You like the pace, the pressure, the challenge of keeping up. And when Persona throws its legendary New Year’s Eve bash—the biggest in the country, meant to rival the ball drop in New York’s Times Square—you get why people kill to work here.
Namjoon, the CEO, head honcho, the man. Your boss is the dumbest genius and the smartest dumbass you know. One moment, he’s presenting the most brilliant 3-year omnichannel strategy, then the next he is walking into a glass door because he forgot it existed. Still, you are enamored by his enigmatic presence.
Seokjin, CFO and Office Clown, (heavy on the clown, actually) has somehow made “Worldwide Handsome” his official email signature and no one has called him out on it. He signs the payroll after all.
Yoongi, the aloof creative director, who has the—let’s come back to him later.
Hoseok, the HR manager, is charm on crack and sunshine on steroids. He diffuses conflicts with a single smile and somehow knows piping hot tea about everyone.
Jimin, your office rival, is beautiful, petty, and hella annoying. He competes with you in everything, including getting the attention and affection of a certain CD.
Taehyung, the resident heartthrob slash fuckboy, fittingly works in Partnerships, smells like strawberry vape, and dresses like he’s on his way to an indie film premiere at all times.
Jungkook, frat boy extraordinaire from Digital, is Hulk in streetwear. Everything he pitches goes viral on TikTok. He apparently goes by user International Playboy on the platform and streams games in his spare time. Oh, and he also does dance challenges that rack up millions of views, just because he's golden like that.
And you? You’re the new girl who thought she just came here to keep her head down and work…
Until this guy.
Min Yoongi hit you with a nonchalant ‘hey’ and a slow drag of his fingers through his inky hair when you first met. You didn't stand a chance. Every visible inch on him was your type to a T. And even those inches that are not visible? Sexy as hell, you just know it. It was just a pleasant surprise that he turned out to be a good human, too.
So Min Yoongi was never supposed to become your work husband.
At first, he was this untouchable deity. The creative director who existed on the periphery of your work life, hoodie-clad, perpetually sleepy, headphones on like it’s another limb. Your interactions were brief and professional. A nod in the hallway. A clipped “sent you the deck.” The occasional sigh when your team’s revisions landed back on his plate.
But it didn’t stay that way.
It was late one Thursday when the office had thinned out, everyone else just about done after a heated internals on that Louis Vuitton project. Your deck wouldn’t export, the EOD deadline breathing down your neck, panic creeping in. You didn’t have any particular plans for the night, nothing to chase, but it’s been a long-ass day and your brain was just not braining anymore.
“UGHHHH.” You banged your forehead on the desk thrice, your cup of pens toppling over and rolling on the floor.
Before you could bend to retrieve your ballpens, black and white Dunks stopped one on its tracks.
Yoongi helped gather your writing instruments up, took one look at your screen, and without a word pulled up a chair. Twenty minutes later, your file worked, your shoulders unclenched, and you sent the email to the client with a sigh of relief. Two things you learned about him that night: 1) the spicy cologne he wore suits him; and 2) his hands… oh they deserve its own fan club.
You were still spaced out when said hands made another appearance, as he slid a bottle of strawberry milk on your desk–the same one you got from the office pantry on the daily. And with that, he’d gone, trailing of freshly brewed coffee and a hint of cigarette smoke.
There was another moment that you remembered when things started to really shift. You usually ate lunch with Sana, one of the marketing girls, but since she took a sudden two-week sabbatical, it’d just been you in the big cafeteria. You watched people as you chewed your chicken fillet, minding your own business. You spotted Yoongi entering alone, hands shoved in his pockets. He scanned the room and when his eyes landed on yours, you dared to wave. Surprisingly, he waved back, small and awkward, before he queued up to get his tray.
“This seat taken?”
You didn’t expect him to join you, but you welcomed it. In the next few days, this one lunch turned into several. And when Sana eventually resigned to focus on a safe pregnancy, you had a new unofficial lunch buddy. It’s not that you talked about it. You just met in the cafeteria, at the same time and same place, sat at the same spot like an unspoken agreement. Conversations drifted from work to music, to dumb internet videos, to shared complaints about Namjoon, who both of you would defend to death outside, but inside, there are days you just want to kill him yourself. Somewhere between sharing banchan and developing inside jokes, it stopped feeling like coworkers killing time and started feeling like friends hanging out.
Then, came the third moment. It happened during a shoot gone wrong. Tempers flared, egos bruised, voices raised. You snapped back at the photographer when he talked over you, heart pounding but spine straight. You hated confrontations, but that day, you gave no fucks. They were late for an hour, messed up the lighting, and brought the smallest monitor, it was so hard to track the shots.
Later, you found Yoongi leaning against the hallway wall outside the studio, watching you with something new in his eyes.
“Didn’t know you had that in you,” he said, flicking his lighter. Flame on. Flame off.
“Disappointed?”
“Nah,” he replied, with a smile. “Impressed.”
After that, the chemistry settled in, as well as a new nickname. He called you Ace. He said you were the best Brand Marketer they ever hired, and he needs you in every pitch assigned to him from now on. Everybody in the office started to catch on to this… partnership.
You enjoyed his brand of affection. Lingering looks across conference tables. His knee brushing yours under the table during meetings. Strawberry milk and mochi appeared on your desk once in a while. Private jokes whispered just for you.
Jimin noticed. Everyone probably did. There were days you wondered if it was turning into something more, but Yoongi was a professional. Nothing ever crossed the line. Although you spent time with each other at work, too much time even, outside of it, you lived separate lives.
Present Day
📅 05 January 2026
📍Persona Publishing, Yongsan-gu
The first day back at work is a cruel fuckin’ joke. Everyone is bright-eyed and pretending to love being back—especially that asswipe Jimin, now sporting freshly dyed blond hair. Ugh.
Meanwhile, you have overgrown roots and an unresolved problem. You’re still living in the nightmare of New Year’s. You don’t remember what happened after you got home. All you have are fragments from before that—midnight fireworks, the freckles on Yoongi’s nose, and a kiss. Maybe. Between you and someone. With a 98% chance it was Yoongi, if he would just ever so kindly confirm it.
The problem is... Yoongi is acting brand new. Like the New Year’s Eve situation was a mild inconvenience quickly forgotten.
He strolls past your desk like you were not sucking face three days ago. Boy even has the audacity to say, “morning.” He never does more than a grunt.
Criminal behavior.
You decide you need answers, and the soonest you can corner him, you will. But of course, the meetings are endless, the e-mails are toxic, and soon you’re drowning in work.
Sometime mid-afternoon, Yoongi is walking towards the printing room, twirling a USB dongle in his index. That’s when you decide to pounce. You close your laptop, brisk-walk to follow him in, and slide the door close behind you.
He turns, clearly not expecting any company in the cramped room. “Hi?”
“Don’t ‘hi’ me,” you whisper-shout. “We need to talk.”
His expression is the picture of innocent confusion. It’s infuriating. “About what?”
“You know what,” you say, folding your arms across your chest. “New Year’s.”
He hums, as if searching back through his mental files. “What about it?”
“Yoongi.” Your voice pitches higher in panic. “We kissed.”
“Did we?”
You blink. “Did we? You were there.”
“Was I?” he says lightly, leaning against the printer like this is a totally normal conversation to have next to reams of A4 paper.
Your eye twitches. “C’mon, Min.”
“What? Seems you have a clear memory of the night. What are you really asking me?”
“Did we—” you lower your voice, “—sleep together?”
He looks up at the ceiling like he’s considering the flickering lightbulb right now just to keep evading you. “They should switch to daylight bulbs. The cool lighting makes this office look so depressing.”
“Stop avoiding the question.”
“Am I?” he asks, tone smooth enough that you want to guillotine his dick with the paper cutter.
“Yah! Yoongi, it’s been three days! I am still racking my brain if we crossed a fuckin’ line.”
He finally gives you his gaze, one that should be reserved for the bedroom, and it steals all the remaining oxygen from your lungs.
“You want me to explain everything?” he asks.
You swallow audibly, watching him step closer. “Yes.” You back up and your ass hits the table, bracing yourself from behind.
Yoongi tilts his head, studying you, and for a second you think (or you hope) he might actually kiss you again. His thumb brushes the side of the table behind you, just beside your hip, close enough that your skin sparks even without contact.
“You really wanna know?” You can almost feel his breath tickling your cheek.
You nod dumbly.
A slow smirk curls on his lips. “Where’s the fun in that?”
You gape. “YOONGI—”
He straightens, dusts invisible lint off his sweater. “Look, you survived your hangover. You’re alive. That means whatever happened or didn’t happen… is moot. Otherwise, you’d remember it.”
“I was fucked up.”
“It’s cool.” He shrugs. “Could’ve been worse, y’know.”
“How?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “You could’ve kissed the blonde dude.”
You scoff. “I was never going to kiss Felix.”
“Oh, I know.” His voice drops, teasing. “You made that pretty clear when you kissed someone else instead.”
Your face heats. “So you DO remember—!”
“Mhm.” He moves toward the door, shaking his head in denial.
“Yoongi, come back here!”
“Happy New Year, Ace!” He exits the doorway, deuces to the sky, without turning back.
One Year Ago
📅 22 January 2025
📍LVMH Headquarters, Gangnam-gu
You listened and observed as Yoongi and his team presented their pitch deck. Usually a picture of cool, Yoongi was a little off that day. The untrained eye would not have noticed it, but you did. It was in the way that his tone was a little higher, just a tad. His words were not as concise, in fact, he seemed a little like he was over-explaining, and it wasn’t resonating with the room.
The client watched with a measured expression, lingering on nothing. No nods. No interjections. It was a bad sign.
Yoongi stood at the head of the table, hands loose at his sides, fist tightening. “Our concept leans into restraint,” he said, even though he himself was having a hard time practicing it at the moment.. “We wanted the visuals to breathe. Show, not tell. Luxury doesn’t need to shout. We don’t want to dramatize it to the point of exhaustion. Let the viewer infer…”
One of the executives hummed. Not convinced.
“I hear that,” the marketing director nodded slowly. “But I’m not sure it moves enough. It feels a little… safe.”
You saw it, the muscle in Yoongi’s jaw tightening, once, then again. He scratched the corner of his mouth with his index.
“Safe isn’t the word I’d use,” Yoongi replied, voice strained. “Intentional is.”
“But intention doesn’t always translate,” one of the clients challenged. “Our last campaign had reach because it was bigger, flashier.”
The room went quiet. Too quiet.
You leaned forward before Yoongi could dig in.
“If I can jump in,” you said lightly. “What Yoongi’s laid out is the framework–the tone, the aesthetic. But where this really comes alive is in how we deploy it. And vis-à-vis all that flash you see from other brands, this campaign in its simplicity and depth, will slice through all that noise.”
The client’s gaze shifted to you. Interested now.
“Go on.”
You click back a slide. “We keep the core visuals minimal, but we let them travel. OOH in expected and unexpected cities around the world. Paris, Beijing, Kingston, Cebu. We’ll have some digital content plug-ins. Short-form video cuts. Editorials that tell a story instead of selling a product.”
Yoongi glanced at you, just briefly. He caught it—the spark. And instantly you knew, he was about to set the room on fire. Bultaoreune.
“Instead of shouting,” he added, smoothly picking it up, “we let people lean in. It becomes aspirational without being inaccessible.”
“But doesn’t that risk losing scale?” another exec asked.
“Not if we’re strategic,” he replied. “We lock in with a strong hero piece. The visual I showed you earlier. Then we’ll let the message echo across platforms.”
“Is this gonna go viral?”
Ah, that’s always the question isn’t it?
“We could. But it’s not about going viral for the sake of. It’s about purpose. And when people see it has depth, that’s when it scales.” Yoongi paused. “But of course, we will deploy tactics for aided virality. Influencers, retail partners, news sites. We have a network of earned media players that we can tap, if need be.”
A flicker of agreement rippled through the room, the fire from Yoongi’s match finally took hold.
More questions started flying now. Engagement. Timelines. Budget. This is good. You wanted them talking and interested, not the stoic clown faces they had on earlier.
Yoongi answered with precision. You jumped in to contextualize. He sharpened your points; you softened his conviction. When one of you paused, the other filled the gap like it was rehearsed.
“This,” the boss leaned forward. “Feels right.”
Relief flowed between you and Yoongi. With firm handshakes and a promise to get back to you by the end of the week, the client saw you off.
Outside the office building, the rain started to pour. It was just light, a drizzle. You remember your mother, who leaned into superstition, would have believed this to be an outpour of blessings. It did feel like you just closed a campaign a while ago.
You ducked under the awning as Yoongi pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with practiced ease.
You checked your phone. Uber’s four minutes away.
He exhaled, smoke curling into the night. “You saved me there.”
You scoffed. “Nah. You had it all along.”
He looked at you, eyes like crescents. “You changed the temperature of the room. Gave me time to think of a pivot.”
“Team effort.” You offered your fist. He knocked it with his.
A beat. Rain drummed lightly against the concrete.
“Yah, I think you’re my ace.” He took a slow drag of his cigarette. “Just like last week at the Jinro account, you had my back.”
“We’re just good together,” you replied.
He nodded. “Yeah. We are.”
You didn’t know it then that this was the birth of his nickname for you. Ace. For being his good luck charm. For being his tag-team buddy during client pitches. For being his most trusted teammate.
Your phone buzzed.
The Uber pulled up, headlights cutting through the rain.
You stepped off the curb. He pulled the door open for you and lingered with a soft smile. You don’t know what that expression meant, or why it felt like his eyes were trained on your lips. Before your throat launched an invite that you might regret, he thankfully pushed the door shut.
The car pulled away, rain blurring the city into streaks of light. You glanced back through the window, and even as his figure faded into the distance, you had the unmistakable feeling that his eyes were still on you.
You didn’t quite understand the emotions swirling in your stomach. Perhaps it was still the surplus adrenaline from a successful client pitch. But it could also be something else. If you would truly be honest with yourself, it felt like you were both standing on the edge of something you weren’t quite brave enough to cross.
Present Day
📅 27 January 2026
📍Persona Publishing, Yongsan-gu
It’s late. Most people have gone home. The lights above the common area are dimmed, the cityscape of Seoul casting a glow on some of the unoccupied cubicles.
You’re at the pantry, sipping water from your just-refilled Owala, when Yoongi walks in with a storm cloud over his head.
“Hey,” you say.
“Hey,” he replies curtly like he’s in one of his moods.
You walk closer, about to ask him if you can help with anything when he scoffs.
“If you’re about to grill me again about New Year’s, don’t.”
That makes your chest tighten. What is up his butt? You watch him grab a mug, rinse it out, and dry it with a paper towel. He doesn’t look at you again.
“I was just gonna ask how you were.” You mutter defensively.
He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. There’s that tick again. “I don’t buy it. It’s all you seem to care about these days,” he says. “Just save it, okay. Now’s not a good time.”
You roll your eyes. “Funny. It’s never a good time.”
He sets the mug down with a soft clink. “I don’t owe you a breakdown.”
You flinch. “I’m not asking for one.”
“Liar,” he smirks. And it irks your nerves.
“See, I dunno why you’re so cagey about it. It’s just a stupid fuckin’ night. It’s not like I’m asking you to marry me.” You don’t realize your voice has increased in volume until you notice his shoulders stiffen.
He reaches out. “Ace–”
“No,” you swat his hand away, “I’m done with this. I’m over it.”
He stares at you for a few seconds and when you don’t look back, he shrugs. “Ditto.”
Great. Something in you deflates, but you’re still seething and the fact that he just moved on and started making coffee infuriates you further. “That’s it?”
“Yes?” Spoon clinks inside the mug as he stirs.
You nod slowly, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “‘Kay.” You grab your tumbler and your phone, turn toward the door.
“Shit, Ace… Yah!” He calls, and his voice is tight. Like your chest is right now..
You pause but don’t turn around.
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he says, as if that will undo all the damage that has been done in the last five minutes.
It takes all of your professionalism not to flip him off, so you settle for, “Good job anyway.”
You leave before he can respond.
Present Day
📅 28 January 2026
📍Head of HR’s Office
It’s probably a bad idea to involve the head of HR in your interoffice affairs, but he did insert himself in the situation. Hoseok has always been nosy, but you trust him enough to be candid if need be.
“So, what's with the shouting match last night?” Hoseok crosses his arms as he leans back on his leather computer chair.
“Who snitched? Or do you watch the CCTV like a hawk 24/7?”
“I can’t answer that.” He says with a tight-lipped grin. “But, I did ask you a question.”
“Yoongi and I…” you begin.
Hoseok can’t even mask the clown face he has on.
Honestly, there’s no way around this. Hoseok, as you know, is one of Yoongi’s oldest and closest pals. You’ve hung out at work with both of them and found out that they go wayyyy back. Like way before Persona. Yoongi once told you they b-boyed together or some shit. You still haven’t seen their dance moves to confirm it, but you have a feeling that he isn’t lying.
You sigh resignedly. “Yoongi and I kissed on New Year’s. I think.”
“You think?” Hoseok echoes.
“I got drunk on Moët,” you explain. “And I don’t trust a single memory left in my brain. Almost feels like I hallucinated the entire night. But the one person who can clear the air keeps blowing me off.”
You pause when you realize he’s staring at you like a particularly fascinating exhibit in an aquarium. It suddenly dawns on you that you’re talking to the one person in the office who’s clocked everyone’s tea.
“You’d know though, wouldn’t you?” you say carefully.
He shrugs, twirling his pen between his fingers.
“So did we?” You lean forward and snatch the pen mid-spin. “Hobi?”
“Y/N,” he says flatly, “did you really just ask me that?”
“I’m losing my mind,” you groan, slouching back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling.
He laughs. “Alright. I’ll throw you a bone.” Then he leans in. “The answer is yes. My sources can confirm that you were sucking face by the balcony.”
He really said sources? Your expression sours immediately, which only makes him laugh harder.
You should feel relieved that your memory isn’t completely unreliable and you didn’t imagine the whole thing after all. But instead, a new, deeply mortifying thought creeps in.
You wonder if he knows who initiated it.
But you decide asking for that level of detail would be a new low.
He snatches the pen from you and places it atop his keyboard. “It was actually kind of sweet, if not for you groping his ass.”
Your eyes bulge from their sockets, more mortification zooming inside your blood veins. Did you really do that? Oh my god. :( Drunk you probably would. You have always been um, fascinated by Yoongi’s shapely posterior.
“But that’s as far as I can tell ya.”
You sigh. Of course.
“Listen. Everyone can see that you two have something going on. Yoongi is my friend, so I’m not about to air him out, but I will tell you that I’ve never seen him give a peer assessment as wordy as he did yours.”
You lick your teeth, suppressing the grin threatening to spread.
“Plus,” Hoseok continues, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms, “I don’t think he really smiles at anyone in this office.” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “You know… the real one. The gummy smile.”
You grimace. You know exactly which one he means.
“And I’ve only ever seen that since you joined the team,” he adds pointedly. “Which says a lot.”
You rub your temple. “Great. Love that for me.”
Hoseok pushes on. “Anyway, I called you in because some people heard your little lovers’ quarrel.” He gives you a look over the rim of his glasses. “So maybe play nice. Or pipe down.”
You scoff, crossing your arms. “I hope you’re slapping Yoongi’s wrist too. Not just mine.”
Hoseok snorts, “Relax. I spoke to him this morning.”
“And?”
“And,” he says with a wicked smile, “I locked the staff sleep rooms. So he’s not getting his precious catnaps as punishment.”
“That’s nasty on your part.”
“I know,” Hoseok says, pleased. “That’s why it works.”
Four Months Ago
📅 21 August 2025
📍Persona Publishing, Yongsan-gu
It was getting close to midnight. The office was quiet in that eerie, after-hours way. Your shoulders ached and you rolled them back twice for relief. But it was your brain that hurt the most, feeling like it had been wrung dry.
“You’re done,” Yoongi said.
You blinked up at him. “What?”
“You’re done for tonight,” he repeated, already reaching over to close your laptop before you could argue. “You’ve been staring at that screen for an hour. And you’ve been straining your neck, too.”
You huffed. “Says the guy who’s still here.”
He paused, studying you for a moment. “Why do you always work so late?”
You tilted your head. “I should ask you the same thing.”
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “I asked first.”
You had a joke ready. Something flippant, but it got stuck on the way out.
“Home’s quiet,” you said instead, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “There’s nobody really waiting for me there.”
Yoongi’s expression shifted—subtle, but you caught it. “Oh?” he said lightly. “That you tryna tell me you’re single?”
You scoffed. “Fuck you.”
He grinned and the words that escaped his mouth were NSFW. “You really want to?”
Heat crept up your neck. You looked sideways, in case people were still lurking. Thankfully, you don’t see any of the usual night owls. You slap his shoulder. “God, you’re so...”
“Mm,” he hummed, rubbing the spot you attacked. “Sexy? Handsome?”
You didn’t know what female urge possessed you to say, “Go home to your girl, Yoongi.”
He laughed, almost soundless. Just shoulders and Adam’s apple bobbing at the same time. “I don’t got one, Ace. So I’mma stay right here.”
You knew he’d been single for well over a year, having broken things off with Sylvia, his on-again, off-again model girlfriend. You’d say you didn’t know anything about her, but one undignified night fueled by soju and beer involved a very thorough Google search/stalking session. She was gorgeous. Long hair, long legs, toned thighs, perfect skin. Everything you believed you weren’t.
It’s why at first you couldn’t fathom how Yoongi could possibly mayhaps probably be into you. But having known him for a while now, the man had no air of superficiality. He was as real as real could get.
“Suit yourself,” you said, training your voice to be even-keeled before you could think too hard about what you’d both just admitted.
Yoongi reached into his pocket and slid his phone across your desk.
“Pick something,” he urged, tipping his chin.
The screen showed a playlist labeled Cats > People.
You laughed. “Why though?”
“Helps me decompress,” he replied. “I like cute things.” Then he pat pat pats your head. You swat his hand away.
Taking his phone, you tapped a video because of the thumbnail. It showed an orange cat spectacularly failing to jump onto a counter with a comic bubble that said CRASH.
The video did not disappoint. You laughed out loud, the sound bouncing off the empty office. Yoongi watched you instead of the screen, lips twitching like he was pleased with himself.
You watched another. Then another. Somewhere in between, you pulled a half-finished bag of chips from your cubby and offered it to him. He took a few. You shared the bag, shoulders brushing when you leaned in to watch the screen.
While you were distracted, he grabbed a Post-It from your desk and started doodling. You didn’t notice until he pressed it gently to the edge of your monitor.
It was a cat. Simple lines. Grumpy little face. Under it, his messy handwriting stating: stay calm.
You stared at it, then cooed at him. “Aww… you drew me a cat?”
He shrugged. “So he can keep you company when I’m not around.”
See, if you were somewhere else entirely, your mouth would already be on his. ‘Cause that moment—the gesture, his smile, his words, the ambiance—would have been the perfect point to have your first kiss.
On that night, the moon was your witness. But still, it wasn’t written in the stars.
When you finally stood to leave, he stood too, like it was a given. “Let’s go?”
“I’ll walk you to your car,” he offered, and before you could even refuse, he was taking your laptop bag from your hand.
The elevator ride down was quiet, but not awkward. Companionable. You stood close enough that your sleeves brushed, the whirr of the lift filling the silence.
When the doors opened, he waited while you dug for your keys.
“Text me when you get home,” handing you your bag, he said it like it was something normal, even though it was the first time he ever muttered those words to you.
“Yeah, I will.”
You watched him re-enter the lift and for one reckless second you wondered what it would feel like to not part ways. What it would feel like to head home with Yoongi.
Even just for one night.
You shook the thought away as you entered your car and turned on the ignition.
Present Day
📅 06 March 2026
📍Raemian Residences, Seongdong-gu
You don’t really mean to ignore Yoongi for a month.
It just… sort of happens.
After being called out by Hoseok and having at least the kiss confirmed, you settle on an explanation that finally makes sense. You know Yoongi remembers. You kissed–that much is undeniable. But he keeps denying it, denying you the truth. And in your head, there’s only one logical reason why.
You, girl, are in the friend zone.
Obviously, he doesn’t feel the same way, cause If he did, he wouldn’t be this evasive. He wouldn’t joke, deflect, or act like it was nothing. Instead, he’s sweeping everything under the rug because he wants it to disappear. Wants you to forget it ever happened. And because he’s Yoongi, because he’s decent to a fault, he’s choosing avoidance over an awkward conversation or a painful rejection. He doesn’t want to embarrass you or ruin the friendship or the working relationship.
Yet somehow, that hurts more than honesty ever could.
So you pull back. And slowly, quietly, the pangs of self-pity sink in like fangs under your skin.
At first, it’s just self-preservation. You stop sitting beside him in meetings. You keep conversations clipped but still civil. You answer emails, not Slack messages. You tell yourself it’s professionalism, maturity, growth… and most especially, boundaries.
You really don’t mean to do it. But the walls you built started to stack higher.
You stop laughing at his jokes. Stop having lunch in the cafeteria. Stop glancing up when he walks into a room. You become polite. Still efficient. But distant..
And Yoongi notices.
At first, he tries small things. Little gestures to test the waters. Like a “You heading out?” that you pretend not to hear, letting the elevator doors close before he can join you. Strawberry milk left on your desk that you return to the pantry fridge. A direct invitation for lunch sent on Kakao (not Slack) that you leave on read.
So far nothing works. Of course Yoongi notices that, too.
Which leads him to tonight.
Your doorbell rings.
You’re already in pajamas, hair damp from the shower, brain blissfully empty since it’s finally a Friday. You frown at the clock, then open the door without thinking.
Yoongi stands there in glasses that soften his sharp edges, long hair falling into his eyes like he hasn’t bothered to comb it. He is wearing black on black casual streetwear that probably costs thousands of dollars.
He looks tired and wired and unfairly attractive.
“Hey,” you say, though it sounds more like a question than a greeting.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
You hesitate just long enough for his eyes to flicker something anxious and wounded, before you step aside. He takes his slides off and enters your space, not looking around, not allowing himself the curiosity of seeing how someone they know lives. He just stands there in the middle of your living room, hands shoved inside his hoodie.
Politeness doesn’t evade you even though you’re in a state. “Have a seat, Yoongi. Can I offer you something to eat or drink?”
“Don’t,” he snaps immediately, tipping his head back like he's already tired of the conversation that has not commenced. “Don’t do that.”
Your stomach drops. “Don’t what?”
“I’ve been trying to give you space,” he says, voice rising in volume. “I can’t do it anymore.”
“Unbelievable.” You fold your arms, triggered. “You showed up at my house to yell at me?”
“I showed up because I don’t know how to fix this,” he fires back. “God, you won’t even look at me.”
You don’t turn to him. You keep your gaze fixed somewhere over his shoulder, steady, detached.
“Have I been unprofessional with you in any way, Yoongi?” you ask evenly. “Have I missed a deadline? Compromised a project? Failed to do my job as your colleague?”
“Unprofessional?” he scoffs. “Jesus. Can you stop this nonsense? Is that really what this is to you?”
“I’m asking a straightforward question,” you reply. “Because as far as I know I’ve been efficient. Productive. Respectful.”
He lets out a sharp laugh, pacing a step away like standing physically hurts. “Yeah, great. Fuckin’ employee of the month. You’ve turned yourself into the perfect coworker. Happy?”
“That was the goal.”
“No,” he snaps, spinning back toward you. “Be for real, Ace. You sound like a robot.”
Silence stretches and it's deafening.
“You really think I came all the way here to talk about your KPIs?” he adds, voice breaking around the edges.
You finally look at him. “If you want something else from me,” you say calmly, “you should’ve said so.”
Between you: sharp inhales, slow exhales.
You consider your options. You could kick him out and let this rot, which would eventually mean finding another job. Or you could get this over with now, which would also probably mean finding another job.
Lose-lose. Fantastic!
“What do you want?” Yoongi asks, motioning a palm up to you. You look up.
Your armor cracks just by the sight of him. “I just wanted the truth and you treated it like it was funny. Like it—like I was a joke.”
“What?”
“New Year’s.”
His laugh is short. Bitter. “Wooow. That’s funny.”
“Really?” You snap. “I wanted to talk about what happened, but you’ve been such a dick about it. You kept teasing me and I felt like shit.”
“You think it didn’t fuck with me?” he spits, voice rising. “That I remembered everything and you remembered nothing?”
You shake your head. “Why did you downplay it then?”
“Because it was easier,” he admits, dragging a hand across his mouth. “I wanted New Year’s to be good. Instead I wake up next to you and you’re confused, embarrassed, and I felt like a fucking loser.”
“So you punished me for it?”
“I didn’t mean to,” he retorts. “I was just protecting myself.”
“By making me feel stupid?”
His jaw tightens. “You know what’s stupid? Knowing the first time we crossed that line, you can’t even remember how you looked at me.”
It’s like air is sucked right out of the room. Your chest constricts. “Yoongi, I—“
“You kissed me first,” he cuts in. “We were having a good time. You said you’d wanted to do it for a while.” His voice drops, laced with melancholy. “God, you were so sweet. We made out beside stinky cheese.” He laughs then, but it's devoid of mirth.
You go still.
“You had no idea how badly I wanted you that night,” he continues. “When you asked me to take you home, you were already drunk. Nothing happened. I would never take advantage of you like that. Just made sure you got home safe.”
You swallow. “Look, I’m sorry for icing you out. I started feeling like I just imagined everything. Either that or you regretted it.”
His anger drains into something devastated.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “That’s not what it was.”
“Then what was it?” you ask.
There’s a sadness in the way Yoongi lilts his lips. “If I never admitted it then I didn’t have to deal with the fact that the night I’ve wanted for two goddamn years just… wasn’t worth remembering.”
New Year's Eve
📅 31 December 2025
📍Four Seasons Hotel, Jongno-gu
Persona never did subtle. And when it came to the party meant to be the Asian equivalent of the ball drop in New York City, of course they pulled out all the stops.
Commissioned by the city government for the event, your company invited the crème de la crème: idols, celebrities, models, politicians. Anyone with influence. Anyone who mattered. Beautiful people. Rich people. Trending people. If you could name them, they were here.
One of the biggest five-star hotels had been completely taken over to make it happen, and if anyone could pull this off, it was Kim Namjoon. Your boss is truly an icon. Could probably win if he runs as President.
The room pulsed with music and champagne and people who suddenly liked each other very much. You schmoozed on autopilot, smiling until your cheeks hurt, your glass never quite empty. You had clients to babysit, but this was also your night to let loose and have fun. It was New Year’s Eve, after all.
“Is that Mayor Lee with—” Jimin gasped, his bird lips meeting the rim of his wine glass before he could finish.
You tried not to look. You failed. The tea was too hot.
The town mayor had arrived not with his wife, but with his chief of staff—who also happened to be rumored as his favorite bedmate.
And the wife?
Arm in muscled arm with Song Baekhyun, CrossFitter and YouTuber recently dubbed The Nation’s Biceps.
So messy and soooo good! You and Jimin gossiped to your hearts’ content, while Jungkook kept handing you colorful drinks. See, tonight even Jimin was… tolerable. Maybe New Year was really about turning a new leaf.
You were tipsy. Not falling-over drunk. Just loose and buoyant and happy. This night was about being wild and free.
Going in, you thought you’d kiss a stranger underneath the fireworks and take them home for more explosions, if you know what I mean.
But then you spotted Yoongi once and now you were painfully aware of him with every second that passed. And suddenly, plans changed.
Truth be told, you had been aware of Yoongi for a while now. Months of heightened tension and unresolved something, building steadily since you realized, two years ago, that you were dangerously compatible. As colleagues.
Lately, though, you had started to suspect that outside the four walls of the office, that compatibility might still hold. The thought lingered in the space between glances and touches and half-finished conversations. Tonight, it felt more charged than ever.
Blue looked criminally good on him.
He was slouched into his seat, legs spread, hands laced loosely between his thighs. His hair was longer, dark strands slick and styled away from his face to show… forehead. It’s silly, but you found that wildly attractive. The blue satin jacket hung open, glossy under the lights, drawing your gaze back every time you tried to look away.
Your eyes met.
Sometimes by accident. Sometimes not.
Once, he watched you laugh at something Taehyung said, mouth twitching like he was fighting a smile himself. Another time, he lifted his glass at you from across the room and the gesture sent a small thrill straight down your spine. When you mouthed what? at him, making sure to purse your glossy lips, he only shrugged, chewing on the inside of his cheek before turning back to a yapping Namjoon.
At some point, Taehyung leaned in and whispered, “Y’all need to fuck once and get it out of your system.”
You smirked. “That what you and Kira did? And now she moved to another company.”
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “But we’re still on each other’s rosters, so no harm, no foul.”
You rolled your eyes. Taehyung’s playboy ways were just not your style.
Yoongi found you near the bar not long after as you were chatting up with some people from Digital.
You’d like to think your sequined dress caught the light every time you moved, and like a moth to a flame, he just couldn’t stay away.
He leaned in and you caught the familiar mix of patchouli and tobacco. His scent was scrumptious.
“You look pretty,” he said simply and it caught you off guard with how direct it was. Just stated like a fact.
Warmth flooded your chest. “You clean up okay yourself.”
“Yeah?” His gaze dipped, slow and unapologetic, before coming back up to your face. “Glad you noticed. But it’s Hoseok’s doing. Said I need to up my fashion game.”
“Checks out that he’d say that. Look at him in head-to-toe Louis Vuitton.” You both glance over at Hoseok who was sauntering over to a table, Speedy 30 hanging stylishly on the crook of his arm. "He looks fresh as fuck."
“So I take it you don’t like my hoodies?” He laughs, a bit self-deprecating, referring to his preferred work and life outfit
“I do like your hoodies, except that you won’t let me steal them.”
“Maybe I will, if you ask nicely.”
You turned back toward the group you’d been chatting with, pretending to rejoin the conversation, but with Yoongi so close that you could almost feel his body heat, well it wasn't easy. Your thoughts tangled, refusing to settle. A little loose tonight, he chimed in easily, laughing when one of the guys mimicked a trending meme. And then his palm settled briefly at the small of your back.
Hello? Your heartbeat lost its rhythm.
Brave from the champagne, you glanced over your shoulder. Yoongi was already watching you, onyx eyes steady, like he’d been waiting for you to look. One eyebrow lifted, just slightly, a smug little smirk challenging you.
You’d hoped to spend more one-on-one time with him after that, but the leadership team promptly kidnapped him for a series of “important things.” The last time you saw him, he was raising a highball while Jin delivered a speech about brotherhood, complete with several fishing metaphors that somehow made things less clear.
During that time, you had new company.
Felix was the marketing manager of one of your retail clients. He’s nice, sort of. A little slimy, if you’d really be honest. He slid into the space beside you, smiling too polished as he adjusted his cuff links. He asked about your night so far and if he could get you another drink or something to eat.
You’re nothing if not polite, so you replied and decided to stay with him for a respectable time before planning on making your French exit. Only, it wasn’t so easy.
“So,” he said, grinning, “midnight’s coming up. You know in Australia there’s a tradition to kiss someone when the clock strikes 12.”
“Ah, really?” Your stomach tightened. You nodded politely, already planning your immediate exodus, because you were 90% sure you were being gently maneuvered into becoming someone’s New Year’s kiss. That someone, however, is not that man you wanted.
“It’s just harmless fun, nothing too—“
“Ace.”
Yoongi entered the chat. Whew.
“Hey,” he said easily, catching his breath a little but sliding into the conversation like he’d always belonged. He nodded at Felix, respectful, professional. “Sorry to interrupt, but can I steal her for a sec? Need her opinion on something.”
Felix hesitated, eyes darting between you and Yoongi, but eventually nodded.
“See you later,” you said quickly, waving a small hand to Felix.
Yoongi’s hand settled at the small of your back as he guided you away. Relief washed through you, chased immediately by something hotter and far more electric.
Once you were clear, you exhaled. “Thank you.”
He glanced down at you, amused. “Looked like you needed an out.”
“I did. You have excellent timing.”
“I know,” he said, then softer, “You okay?”
You nodded, suddenly very aware of how close he was. How easy it felt to stand there with him. How much you didn’t want to move.
Fireworks started popping outside. The 10-minute timer began on the screens, cheering and chatting grew louder.
Yoongi leaned in so you could hear him. “Better view outside.” He nodded toward the balcony, and you followed without thinking.
The rooftop was super packed. People were almost shoulder to shoulder, drinks clinking, music blasting from every corner. The crowd whistled and shouted as Aespa took the stage. It was exhilarating and intense all at once. With the champagne haze and the anticipation between you and Yoongi building, you felt overstimulated.
Ever observant, Yoongi placed a hand on your shoulder. He noticed the discomfort in your expression immediately.
“I might have another option,” he said.
You let him guide you away, one hand slipping into yours while the other snagged two champagne flutes from a passing tray in one smooth motion.
Moments later, you were back inside the hotel, stepping into a sprawling penthouse suite reserved for a select few—a quieter VIP pocket amid the madness. Screens played the countdown and the concert upstairs. Music carried through the space, but softer here. There was food, drinks, and a balcony that wrapped around the room. You spotted Hoseok on one side, already deep in conversation with a famous TikToker. A few others lingered nearby, but it was blessedly sparse. You could move without bumping into anyone. People minded their own business. The carpeted floors were visible.
Alcohol in your veins kept you light, floaty, entranced by the glittering balloons and the generous spread laid out across the counters.
Yoongi handed you one of the champagne glasses, then tilted his head toward the balcony.
The cold hit you immediately. The city stretched below, fireworks blooming across the skyline. You hugged your arms around yourself before you feel the weight of fabric draped over your shoulder.
Yoongi had slipped off his jacket and now it’s on you.
“Looks amazing up here,” he quipped, colorful lights swirling in his irises.
“Yeah,” you said softly, looking up. “Just… wow.”
You turned toward him again. He was already looking at you.
Up close, you noticed the freckles on his nose and that little mole, not quite on the tip but a little to the left. He had a scar on his forehead that bent out of shape when he furrowed his brows. But your favorite are the smile lines, from when his eyes softened.
You take a sip of your drink, a thought crystallizing. And at that moment, it made total sense. “I think you’re shaped like a cat.”
“That’s not an insult, is it?”
“No,” you decide immediately. “Cats are… cute and trustworthy.”
You studied him again, a little more openly this time. Yes, he’s attractive–painfully so, actually. It’s obvious to anyone with a working pair of eyes. But standing here, it felt almost secondary. What hit harder was the ease of being near him. The quiet pull. The way your body relaxes when he is around. The way your brain either hyperfocuses or turns into mush.
You wondered when that happened. When wanting him stopped being just physical and turned into something more.
You shifted a little closer. It was chilly, sure. But that wasn’t the point.
He didn’t move away.
Instead, he turned toward you fully, eyes searching your face like he’s trying to decipher something you were afraid to say out loud.
Fireworks cracked overhead. And the countdown began.
10…
You looked up at him, smile crooked as you mumble his name, heart loud in your ears. “You’re very easy to like.”
He let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “I’m really not.”
“Fine,” you agreed. “You’re a pain in the ass.”
“Mmh. And?” His gaze dropped to your mouth.
Yours lifted to his.
“And I want to kiss you so bad.”
He licked his lips at that, a slow, lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. He didn’t interrupt. Just waited, because there were more words dancing at the tip of your tongue.
“I’ve wanted to for a while.”
Your noses brushed, breath mingling.
“So,” he murmured, voice low and steady, “do it.”
1…
You leaned in and crashed your mouth against his.
At that moment you decide it was and forever will be your favorite kiss.
Everything about the moment felt impossibly right. Fireworks bloomed overhead in dazzling bursts, painting the sky in color and light, their echoes vibrating through your chest. The city below felt distant, unreal, as if you’d stepped into a pocket of time meant only for the two of you. You’d wanted this in quiet ways for so long, but it felt forbidden. It still did, but now it was here, gentle and unfolding, like a dream you didn’t want to wake from.
His hand settled at your waist, steadying you. Yours met behind his neck, caressing the strands curling on his nape.
You smiled into the kiss and then, because you were drunk and emboldened and apparently unhinged, your hand dropped, smoothing down his back until it reached its destination and you gave his butt a playful tweak.
"Aish!" He yelped, pulling back, small eyes scandalized.
You burst out laughing. “I’m sorry! It’s just… there… perky and shit.”
“You know that saying an eye for an eye, a cheek for a cheek?”
“That is NOT how it goes!”
He shook his head, laughing despite himself. “Says who?”
Well now your cheeks were aflame, both sets.
“I’m not touching your ass, Ace.” Then his voice dropped, teasing. “Not today.”
Well damn.
You hadn’t felt this elated in so long. It's really happening, isn't it? Yoongi and you. you and Yoongi. Fuck.
You went back inside, got settled in the kitchen of all places. Propped on the island, the kissing resumed beside trays of quiche and blue cheese, and caviar. Your mouths are more playful now, a bit messier. More champagne, and even more kissing ensued.
At some point, another flute emptied and your energy dipped.
You yawned, “I’m sleepy.” You leaned into him, your head finding his shoulder like it belonged there. His thumb brushed absently along your back.
He hummed. “Poor baby.”
You would have melted if the pet name registered. You tilted your head up, eyes half-lidded. “Can you take me home?”
He didn’t answer right away. You barely noticed, because the rest blurred and softened around the edges.
"Anything for you, Ace."
Present Day
📅 06 March 2026
📍Raemian Residences, Seongdong-gu
His words hang between you, fragile and raw.
“The night I wanted for two goddamn years… wasn’t worth remembering.”
You shake your head quickly, stepping closer before you even realize you’re moving. “That’s not true.”
“You woke up panicking.”
“I woke up scared,” you correct gently. “There’s a difference.”
You exhale, steadying yourself. “I didn’t forget because it didn’t matter. I forgot because I drank too much and my stupid fuckin' brain failed me.”
Yoongi’s eyes flick up to yours. You know him enough to understand the vulnerability in his expression. His shoulders were stiff, but there was a slight quiver in his lip that he quelled by worrying it in between his teeth.
He was there. He saw you sloshed. You know he understands that you blanked from the alcohol, but perhaps it still doesn't mean that it didn't hurt.
"Maybe I’ll get us some coffee,” you excuse yourself, needing the distance to steady your pounding heart.
After a few minutes, you set the cups of coffee down. Yoongi has migrated to the couch. When you walk back, his gaze was transfixed on a photo in your shelf. It was of you and him and some guys from work in a teambuilding activity. He had his arm loosely around your shoulders, and the top of your head was angled toward his cheek.
Wow, you two were really obvious, huh?
He lifts his eyes towards you, mumbles a thanks before sipping on his black coffee once.
“It’s decaf,” you say. “I remember you get tummy aches.”
He nods with a hint of a smile.
You sit beside him, smoothing down your pajama bottoms. “So what happens now?”
“You tell me, Ace. I think I’ve been clear where I stand.”
Fair enough.
“Yoongi, I’ve wanted you for a long time too,” you admit, thinking back to that day he carded his fingers in his hair and said hey. It was downhill from there. “Just didn’t think I was allowed to, since we work together.”
“Namjoon knows.”
You choke on your coffee.
“…If that’s what you’re worried about.” He adds, before you can even process that. “He doesn’t give a shit to be real frank with you. He knows you’re my ace. We kill every pitch… together. We’re good for business.”
Suddenly your clock makes a beeping sound as it does every 12 o' clock.
It’s funny, actually. The timing of it.
“So,” you say, tilting your head. “Do we… want a do-over?”
His eyes flick up to the clock, then back to you realizing the same thing. It's midnight.
He doesn’t answer with words.
Instead, his hand cups your jaw, careful, steady, unmistakably sure, and then, he kisses you.
This one is different.
In fact, it was nothing like the first.
There’s no champagne haze to soften it, no noise to distract you. Just the two of you, side by side in the quiet of your apartment, fully awake to what this means. His mouth slides against yours perfectly, and when his tongue licks into your mouth, goosebumps trail across your arms.
You taste coffee instead of champagne. Feel certainty instead of fear. And somewhere between gentle tugs and tender strokes, you understand it isn’t the memory that mattered. It’s what happens next.
He rests his forehead against yours, eyes fond, and it takes your breath away.
You feel his soft hair in between your fingers and dynamite lighting up your chest.
And for the first time since New Year’s Eve, the night doesn’t feel like a question anymore.
Finally, you’ve kissed...
and there’s no telling what could happen next.
:)
A/N: I wish you all a fantastic start of the year. May 2026 be kind to all of us.
Make sure to check out the other stories from #DONTDROPTHEBALL!
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Thank you for reading you lovely, beautiful human xo
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