→ Summary: Moving in with three four hot strangers in Seoul? Bold.
Catching feelings for the quiet overachiever with devastating eyes and a secret fiancée? Unfortunate.
Jeon Jungkook is humble, helpful, and annoyingly good at everything—from cooking dinner to driving you insane. He doesn’t say much, but when he does? It lingers. He lets you steal his hoodies. He never calls you out. He just watches—and instigates.
Between forbidden hookups, loaded glances, and rules you definitely shouldn’t be breaking, you’re both in way too deep. The only house rule? Don’t fall in love.
Hard to follow when you’re the emotionally repressed one, Jimin’s clocking your every move, Jin thinks he’s in charge, and Taehyung has fully entered his detective era.
Secrets are piling up.
And love was never supposed to be part of the lease.
→ Pairing: Jungkook x reader (female)
→ Side Ships: Jimin x Yoongi, Seokjin x ?, Tae x ?
→ AUs: roommate!au, New Girl AU, fwb!au, arranged marriage!au(jungkook x jisoo)
→ Genre: comedy, smut, fluff, slow burn, angst
→ Trope(s): strangers to roommates to friends to FWB to lovers, roommates to lovers
→ Rating: Explicit 18+ (minors GTFO… pls)
→ Word Count (total+drabbles): 292,907+
→ Status: ONGOING
→ Warnings/Triggers: Will be tagged on each chapter
→ Total Chapters: 24 / 30 [not including the .5 chapters]
→ Author’s Note: Wassup fool Hey besties! When I started this fic, I had a vision. A plan. A literal outline. A PINTEREST BOARD. Now, I’m just as surprised by the plot as you are🙂. My characters have gone rogue. It’s like herding cats, but the cats have emotional baggage and unresolved sexual tension.
Inspo: This story is loosely (and sometimes alarmingly) inspired by my day-to-day life, New Girl vibes, and the chaotic genius of our tannies on Run BTS. Somehow, it’s all managed to spiral into one big feelings-fueled fever dream—and I wouldn’t have it any other way🥹.
Update Schedule: Updates will appear as mysteriously as Jungkook’s tattoos—sporadic but always worth the wait. But usually on weekends :)
Feedback: Comments are my love language. Shower me with your thoughts, theories, and memes. Feel free to scream, cry, or throw virtual tomatoes at me in the comments. Your reactions fuel my writing (and my ego).
Disclaimer: Yes, No Room for Secrets is heavily inspired by New Girl—especially the chaotic roommate energy and the apartment layout. So if you notice similarities… you’re not wrong. But don’t sue me, sue my nostalgia. In writing terms, it’s called “borrowed structure.” But any resemblance to real people(besides idols) or events is purely coincidental. (Except the latte addiction. That’s painfully real.) This is 100% fiction, and I’m so glad you’re here for the ride. 💞
You move into your new apartment and quickly bond with your roommates(and Taehyung). A deeper conversation with Jungkook about life sparks subtle flirting and an unexpected connection.
Chapter 2: And They Were Roommates - 6.2k
A new roommate initiation gone sour. Or. You go out drinking with your roomies and jealousy is a green monster.
Chapter 2.5: You’re Screwed (jk’s pov) - 2.7k
When he saves you from the guy on the dance floor. And where he went when he left the bar. Details of Jungkook & Jimin’s past are revealed.
Chapter 3: Trivia Love - 7.8k
Yoongi keeps secrets. You play trivia with your roommates and a special guest. You unintentionally hurt someone's feelings.
Chapter 4: Seven Days of Silence - 7.8k
Week-long silent war, Yoongi delivers wisdom(and bibimbap), one rain-soaked almost-kiss, Jimin walks in at the best worst possible moment.
Chapter 4.5: Barely Breathing (jk’s pov) - 2.3k
Jungkook deals with the fallout of a week-long silent war, questioning everything from his feelings to the promise that’s slowly breaking him.
Chapter 5: Fire, Flour, & Feelings (m) - 13.3k
Taehyung starts a fire, Jungkook starts a problem. You end up in his lap. God doesn’t answer your prayers.
Chapter 6: Say It Again (m) - 9.8k
The tension finally breaks—twice. But morning brings more than afterglow: missing underwear, suspicious roommates, & the first crack of jealousy you can’t ignore.
Chapter 7: The Things We Don’t Say (m) - 7.1k
You spend the day avoiding Jungkook, but a rain-soaked night—and one impulsive choice—pulls you back into his arms, where everything you’re trying to deny only gets harder to ignore.
Chapter 7.5: Always Listening (jk’s pov) - 2.4k
Jungkook sits with the weight of your silence, wondering if wanting you was always a mistake.
Chapter 8: Rules, Coffee, & Chaos (m) - 11.3k
You make rules with Jungkook, immediately break them, accidentally host an exes reunion, and try to cook dinner like everything’s normal—spoiler: it’s not.
Chapter 8.5: This Is Totally Fine (yg/jk’s pov) - 4.5k
Yoongi’s past collides with the present when Jimin walks into the café. Meanwhile, Jungkook returns home hungry—for more than dinner—and breaks the rules in your kitchen.
Chapter 9: Something Like This (m) - 10.3k
From Monday’s jealous meltdown to Thursday’s domestic bliss, you and Jungkook spiral deeper into your secret.
Chapter 10: Something Like Love (m) - 18k
You put on the dress. Jungkook loses his mind. And somehow, in a coat closet and a room full of witnesses, something between you starts to sound a lot like love.
Chapter 11: Quiet Kind of Love (m) - 9.5k
Jimin breaks. You spiral. Jungkook stays soft—through the panic, the quiet, and the Mercedes tension. And for once, you let him in.
Chapter 11.5: Still Yours, Somehow - 7k
Jimin and Yoongi finally confront everything they’ve been avoiding. It doesn’t end the way either of them expected.
Chapter 12: Lowkey in Love (m) - 11.8k
Morning chaos, impulsive flirting, dream house revelations, under-the-table tension, quiet confessions, and one very territorial splash.
Chapter 13: Safe (m) - 10.5k
He calls you baby. Jin starts baking with Hobi. Tae wants to help. You wish the world would stay quiet—but it doesn’t.
Chapter 14: Claiming Season (m) - 11.9k
There’s popcorn in a heart-shaped bowl, a cake in danger, & one very stubborn boy in sweatpants.
Chapter 15: Fondant, Forgiveness, & Festival Food - 8.2k
You face Jin’s wrath just to be surprised by his words. You, JK, Jimin, and Yoongi have a cutesy double date. And Yoongi… kisses you? Enter: your ex.
Chapter 16: Not A Secret (m) - 9.2k
Your ex is a shithead. Yoongi is the only sane one in this conflict. Jungkook… loves you so much.
Chapter 17: The Soft Betrayal - 12.8k
Love and lies can’t coexist. You attend the gala with JK, Jin, & YoonMin. Your heart breaks.
You hide out at Yoongi’s while the world burns. Jungkook faces the fallout—and finally fights back.
Chapter 19: Ghosts - 20.7k
A Halloween party to remember.
Chapter 19.5: The Velvet Winter -4.1k
Jungkook isn’t fine. But a December morning, a Polaroid, and a stranger named Kai remind him that maybe someday, he could be.
Chapter 20: What’s Missing -6.3k
Gingerbread lattes, found family, Yoonmin being gross, and you—finally choosing to try.
Chapter 21: All The Lights That Stayed -15.6k
Snowed-in cabin, the chaos squad, a reunion with Jungkook for the first time since Halloween, someone almost doesn’t survive a blizzard, emotional landmines, and the threat of a hot tub with your ex.
Chapter 22: Almost -14.7k
The hot tub scene doesn’t help anyone, nor does colliding with your ex half-naked in a hallway. There’s a winter morning, an almost-empty house, and the kind of closeness that isn’t asked for but might be required.
Chapter 23: Still With You (m) - 15.3k
Trapped together, Jungkook and you confront the past, reconnect, are rescued, and end Christmas quietly choosing to take it slow.
Chapter 24: Sixty Candles, Minimum - 11.7k
You begin to trust Jungkook again. You go snowboarding. Yoongi makes a life changing decision.
Chapter 25: Normal - ?
Yoongi gives you a reality check about Jungkook, but a chaotic morning at The Velvet Bean proves he still feels like home.
title: angel (m)
pairing: 3tan!yoongi x reader(f)
series: masterlist | three tangerines | fireworks | house party | basketball | stay | sidewalk talk | friends | dalo | like that | anytime | sundress season | yoongi’s interlude | forfeit | flutter | video call | busted | broken pt. 1 | broken pt. 2 | fugue pt. 1 | fugue pt. 2 | fugue pt. 3 | fugue pt. 4rating/genre: m (18+) ; angst , fluff , smut ; brother’s best friend au, implied age gap au
summary: right before he leaves, your brother’s conversation makes your heart stop. and it forces you to make a decision that you need to stick to, no matter what the future holds.
note: it’s been.. two years since the last main storyline update. many things have happened since then, i’ve learned more about myself, and touched more grass than ever. but we’re finally back to our scheduled tangerine programming, and it feels so surreal. incredibly grateful to everyone that has stayed, and welcome to all of you that are new to the 3tan universe!
note 2: also, happy birthday to @somebodydoesluv, @al3ejandra, and anyone else who is celebrating around this time! may you all celebrate a prosperous and healthy year around the sun.
warnings: how it starts LOL, language, explicit scenes, angst, tension, overthinkers overthinking, sibling fights, abandonment mentions, yoongi in those gd glasses again, jimin…?, obligatory kissing warning, everyone being a ride or die i’m weeping, we give the yoongi the business oops, ermm did i say angst, crying, hand holding since it’s a warning now, weapon mentions, wound mentions, yoongi on the phone :), blanket kicks incoming, feelings at an all time peak, fluff??, bro best bro, yoongi in tanks….., vmin best vmin, reader is so strong, but both siblings just need hugs man😩, studio………. time……?, things get so nasty i was blushing y’all ngl
explicit warnings: under the cut and dear god help me lmao
mood: off my face - justin bieber ; ojitos lindos - bad bunny
drop date: july 14th, 2026, 7:17pm est
word count: 25.2k…….. :’)))
explicit warnings: cursing, thigh riding, cowgirl, oral (m rec), naughty studio time(??), couch sex, rough sex, giving yoongi the business, bold as fuck reader, choking, spanking, penetrative sex, kissing deserves to be here too lol, alexa play no hands by waka flocka, deep throating, hair/head tugging, nipple play, yoongi in that gd tank, yoongi in those gd glasses, teasing, titty fucking hello!!!!, stripping while he watches…. yeah, missionary, sub!3tanyoongi?????, scratching, multiple orgasms, protected sex, emotional sex, good god they’re so hot i’m blushing
—
—
It’s morning when Jimin gets a call.
Shifting in sheets that aren’t his, he sleepily blinks once before eyeing the blue light with a squint, wondering who dares wake him up before his natural rise. What time even is it anyway? It’s gotta be an ungodly hour if his circadian rhythm is disturbed.
Still, he grabs his cell from the nightstand, flinching at the movement behind him and inwardly slinging out curses.
Because waking him up is one thing.
But if anyone disturbs Taehyung he’s gonna give them hell—
Min Yoongi: Incoming Call
Shit.
Jimin yanks the covers off, rushing out of bed and snapping Tae awake anyway. For what? Don’t fucking know, but they’re ready. Wherever. Whatever. They already stayed up clutching their phones until they physically couldn’t keep their eyes open.
Because as much as Yoongi assured him nothing would happen, Jimin still couldn’t let go of his car keys.
Answering slow, he feels his chest winding and winding, eyes locked with Taehyung while they both wait on edge, “…Yoongi?”
“Yeah.”
Thank the fucking stars.
Yoongi’s okay. He’s on the line. He made it to morning or whatever fucking time it is, and he’s doing exactly what he said he would.
And it’s enough, enough, enough.
Burns zing up the corners of Jimin’s eyes, and he swipes hard as Taehyung moves, likely to hear what’s happening and even more likely to just be by his side.
Jimin is grateful for either one. But he tries to keep composure as he croaks, “You better have woken me up for a reason.”
The slight hum on the line induces a wobbly smile. “You slept?”
“Fuck you,” Jimin shakily laughs, wiping liquid relief from an eye before Taehyung’s thumb brushes tenderly over the other. His gaze is thankful while continuing, “We did but not much.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Sniffling, Jimin walks to Tae’s door, letting him into the hallway first and finally drinking in the sight of his ass in those sweats. Because he can finally function like a normal, smitten loser again. “We’ll come over so we can—”
“No need.”
“What?” Nope. Back to panic mode. And judging from his boyfriend’s posture, Taehyung has backpedaled into that, too. “What do you mean no need?”
There’s a slight pause on the line, and small noises make their way through the speaker. It sounds like bedsheets, but it also sounds like…
“She’s still sleeping.”
Oh.
Oh, shit.
A tidal wave of relief crashes into Jimin’s ducts as he hangs his head, palming his face caught in a heavy tide of emotion. When he turns, Taehyung fairs no better, his eyes red and fingers wiping at a perfect, perfect cheek. One of them sniffles, but Jimin can’t tell if it’s him or not, because his vision is blurry and his heart is beating, beating, beating again.
Whether you know it or not, whatever you did last night may have just changed Yoongi’s entire life.
Because Jimin knows this man through and through. Years of picking up his habits and tells didn’t amount to nothing. It’s how he was able to sense exactly when to intervene, and how he knew exactly what that hauntingly hollow tone in Yoongi’s voice meant when he busted in that day.
The tone he hears now? The man that just spoke on the line?
That is a Min Yoongi so in love he can’t even hide it over the phone.
Fuck.
Gathering himself, Jimin squeaks out, “I… I’m glad you…” What the fuck does he say? Every thought jams in his throat so hard he has to hand the phone off.
Thankfully, Taehyung perfectly continues his thoughts, voice scratching rocks under a waking river, “We’re glad you’re both safe.”
“Mm.”
“So when’s the wedding?”
Jimin huffs through a fresh batch of tears, clearing his face before grinning at Tae very seriously awaiting an answer. Honestly, at this point? It’s not far-fetched. Jimin’s seeing your future clearer than his present, and maybe he will be a fun uncle sooner than he thinks.
If only Yoongi would just get the fucking talk with your brother over with.
But Jimin understands the hesitation. If he were in that same position, there’s no telling when he would be courageous enough to stand up to the guy. There’s a reason he’s quick to command a room, and his lifelong mission to protect his younger sister made him grow up a lot faster than everyone else.
Still… Yoongi just deserves to be happy. And you’re the very obvious answer to helping with that.
As much as he may have wanted some chances of his own, Jimin is grateful you found your way into his best friend’s heart. Not just anyone is invited inside, and even less people can truly be allowed to stay.
And you’re probably the only one that has permanent residence.
“You guys should get some sleep.”
Taehyung pouts right on cue, and Jimin can’t fight those sleepy, droopy eyes. “You didn’t answer me.”
Cute as fuck! He must be stopped. Taking the phone, Jimin speaks into the line fully recovered, shooting his cheeky partner a teasing glare, “We will if you get some, too.”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Got some things to do at the studio—”
“No!” They reject together, both equally as appalled because what the fuck kinda answer is that?
“After what happened last night? Are you crazy?”
“What happened to spending time with her? Men!”
“He’s going on a business trip, I can’t lose to him.”
“So what?” Tae asks before they both share an even further confused look. Yoongi may be a lovesick fool but that doesn’t give him an excuse to be a dumbass! “You’re just gonna leave her alone?”
There’s a sigh on the line before Jimin plants a hand on his hip. “Not just that. You gotta rest, too, bro. If she doesn’t tell you to take it easy or at least get checked—which she will—we’re going over there to annoy you.”
“You serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious.” Jimin cocks his head and leans closer to the phone. “At least rest easy for the next couple days. Especially if you have all this time to see each other.”
The timing couldn’t be more perfect. Your brother is leaving for his trip and Yoongi caught some unfortunate hits to his ribs. The dude basically has a free pass to spend the whole week with you, and he’s not even taking full advantage of it? Oh, the things Jimin has to say about the thin line of work ethic and relationship effort.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Think about it for a long time,” Taehyung cuts in before Jimin can pop off, walking away into the living room.
It’s fine. Let him figure out that you aren’t a woman he can just leave. Frankly? That would tickle Jimin to no end to see Yoongi folding his plans so fast just to be with you.
But he spares him the tirade only because you’re fast asleep right next to him. “Thank you for calling, man.”
“Said I would.”
“I know.”
Because above all else, Jimin is happy to hear that voice. Even if it’s obvious he’s a little banged up from last night, it’s still Yoongi. In one piece. That’s all Jimin wanted, and he can’t thank you enough,
“Don’t overwork yourself, and stay with her as long as you can.”
There’s a small laugh on the other end. “I plan on it, Chim.”
And Jimin catches on to why. “I’m holding you to that then.”
—
—
Dawn breaks through open blinds, stretching its orange tint across a clean, spotless table.
You don’t know what got you up so early. But when you peer into the kitchen, you tell yourself you woke up right on time.
Because seeing Yoongi when you’re wide awake is better than any dream you’ll ever have.
Not because of his appearance, even though the sight of him sends a pang through your chest. No. It’s the way he’s quietly prepping a morning meal, using the arm on his better side that’s not sporting a nasty hit to the ribs, without you even asking.
Bits of sunlight dance right out of your eyes.
The effort. The consideration. This man shouldn’t be lifting a finger, yet here he is cooking before you even left his bed. Isn’t this the same man that got caught up in a fight hours ago? Isn’t this the same man you almost walked out on with a frozen heart?
Yes. But he’s also the same man that loves you. And you still can’t grasp that concept in any of the fingers playing with his tee you borrowed.
“Hi,” you whisper, telling him a thousand things.
To which he regards before smiling soft, voice travelling over linoleum and circling around your heart, “Morning, doll.”
Damn. You hear it. Yoongi’s sore as hell.
But instead of getting into that right away, you silently take residence by his side. Because this moment feels too delicate, and you admire his willingness to take care of you unprompted. You didn’t even know you’d eat before going back home.
With a hand warming his back, you wait until Yoongi’s done tossing food on the stove to peck his morning-chilled cheek. “Thank you for cooking,” you murmur, admiring those beautiful brown eyes. “Sleep okay?”
“Cus of you,” your lover softly responds, eyeing your lips before gliding back up to your gaze. “You?”
Ugh. He’s gotta know those glasses are so unfair. They’ve gotten you repeatedly before, and they’re certainly getting you now.
But you can’t help but deflate at the cuts behind those rims, while knowing there are even more bruises hiding underneath his oversized tee. How is Yoongi cooking right now? How is he even awake? “Same.”
“Good.”
These instant, deep shivers at his deeper morning voice will never, ever go away. But anything you wanna do about them isn’t important right now. Right now, you need to make sure Yoongi is either okay, or finds a way to get better.
Sliding your hands down the slopes of his chest, you delicately rest one on his ribs. “Does it still hurt?”
Yikes. That wince is enough. But Yoongi doesn’t shy away from your touch, and you appreciate the way he stays honest. “It’s sore. But I should be good.”
“You gonna get it checked?”
There’s a slight upward tilt of his lips. “Not right now.” At least the honesty persists, as much as you don’t want him following the typical manly response to hospital visits. “But I will if you want me to.”
“Please go,” you gently urge, lest you disturb the soft morning dew before it melts with the sunrise. “For me?”
Only sizzles from the stove fill the space until Yoongi nods, and his voice is just as low and tender, “I’ll go after work.”
Oh. “You’re working today?”
Just like breakfast, you didn’t expect this, either. Frankly, you figured neither of you were gonna even think about work, much less go. Sure, he’s due a hospital visit and you owe some friends immediate explanations for your absence. But other than that, shouldn’t Yoongi be resting?
Does his craft truly mean that much?
Well, shit. You gotta respect his work ethic, that’s for damn sure. Because you would sequester yourself to your bedroom and have endless dates with your television if you were sporting a good jab or two. This music thing must mean more to Yoongi than you previously thought. And who are you to step on that dream?
Suddenly, all thoughts and concerns flee from the kiss on your cheek.
“I’ll stay if you stay,” he says, turning to move the pan and scrunching his face with a grunt. Fuck.
“I…” Shit, you were gonna go back to the house anyway. And from Yoongi’s smartass smirk, you can tell he already knew that. “Just need to check on him, too. And he doesn’t have a car right now, so. I should at least give him a ride.”
“Figured.” In a move so domestic your head spins, Yoongi turns your body and gently pats your butt. “Now go sit. Let’s eat and figure this out.”
—
—
As you devour a flawless meal and clean your dishes, you plan out the day. You’ll head home and check on your brother while Yoongi heads to the studio, and then you’ll rendezvous with your friends to hang out until he’s done with work. They’re already lighting up your phone like no one’s business—especially Yuri.
Yoongi flicks the sink off before you both head to his bedroom, and you melt at the way he slowly wraps his arms around your front halfway there, all four of your legs slowing to close the rest of the distance.
What’s he doing? This is joyfully new, but you have a pretty tight deadline. Warming his forearm and your own cheeks, you chuckle out, “We have to hustle, old man.”
“You hustle me all the time,” he accuses into your shoulder blade, kissing its ridge and making you reconsider walking out the door entirely. “Lemme have this.”
Your second laugh is more subdued, and you’re right between his bed and desk when you lift both hands to hold him close. “You have everything I got,” you wisp into his skin, planting your lips once, twice before you feel his arms press further in. “So this is nothing.”
Seconds and silence slide by, the delicate veil of early morning still hovering around the room. When Yoongi doesn’t say anything, you make to turn and face him.
But you’re stopped before your heart skips.
“I could stay like this all day,” he admits, voice so low it rumbles through your bones. “And it’d be perfect.”
“What, you don’t wanna see my face?” You joke with a giggle. “Rude, but that’s fine.”
Yoongi only buries his nose further, his glasses sliding against your skin peeking from his shirt. “I’m much braver right here, doll.”
Oh.
The leap your heart does is more of a dive, plummeting into the seafoam swirling around your feet. All the words you want to respond with jump off right after, leaving you with nothing but the clouds in your eyes.
You don’t quite know what he means by that. But it feels like those six words hold the weight of a thousand, so you simply let another kiss on his smooth forearm linger. “Do you want me to go with you?”
A puff of laughter warms you right through and, despite his earlier admission, Yoongi does slowly spin you around.
And when you follow, you realize you’re much braver when you aren’t facing him, too.
“It’s not that, babe,” he says through a dashing curve. “But the offer was cute.”
“I take it back then.”
“Damn!”
Both of your laughs whoosh out and collide, sweeping as Yoongi pinches your side and you flinch towards the bed. “You fucker—!”
Before you know it, your back hits a comforter before a weight presses your stomach, emotions clashing as you’re elated and shy and immediately concerned for your boyfriend’s side. “Baby, be careful—”
Lips capture yours, sucking up your warning before a hand slides under your head. Sighing, you arch into his chest, feeling the weight of his chains slip across your breasts.
Euphoria isn’t an adequate enough word to describe how you feel. Where there used to be flutters in your ribcage now reside strong, powerful wing beats, gusts of want and desire lifting you off the ground and launching you into clear skies. Starlight of every color exists within each kiss you share, and your fingers feebly grab his tee to keep you from falling back down to earth.
“If we don’t go now,” Yoongi rasps before sliding his mouth against yours, “We’re never going anywhere again.”
“I know,” you whisper, willingly letting him kiss you once more, “Is that a promise?”
“Fuck, I wish.”
You do, too. But you know you’re running out of time for what you need to do. And weren’t you just saying you had to respect his aspirations? Shit, you really do need to snap out of it. “Come on,” you order with a pat to his chest. “We have all week to do this. We got time.”
Turns out, you’re still amongst the heavens. The way Yoongi’s looking at you? This is the closest you’ll ever get to being held by an angel.
Did he get more handsome overnight? Or is it the light in his eyes sustained since his confession in the kitchen? You don’t quite know, and you may never pinpoint why, but the tug he has on your heart spans space and time.
And you’ll run through both forever to keep meeting him again and again.
Burns prick your eyes, but he mercifully stands before he can catch any evidence of your yearning.
Just like that, the two of you bounce back to getting ready, with him sliding notebooks and headphones in a backpack while you change into your own clothes. As you sling your bag over a shoulder, he reaches for the closest hoodie, and you wordlessly make your way to the front door.
You really do hope he gets looked at today. But just like the calm after a storm, you want to encourage him gently rather than shove him out. At least he seems receptive to your gentle suggestions.
But after you ask one more time and he simply nods, you lower your eyes to his kicks. “Sorry if I’m nagging. I’d just worry less if you went right away, that’s all.”
“You aren’t nagging, babe.” Your freshly bloomed lover reaches out to hold your wrist, smoothing a rough thumb over your skin. Fucking hell, you can’t help but frown at the gashes and cuts marring his knuckles. “I’ll go as soon as I can.”
Not just his hands, but his face. His ribs. And maybe other places you haven’t even seen yet.
You don’t wanna leave his side.
But you have to head out before your brother leaves. Things need to get patched up before he flies out into more stress, and you owe him an apology for walking out when he was still aching. Based on Yoongi’s physical state? Your brother could be hiding some big wounds and you didn’t even wanna talk to him.
However. Was last night necessary? Absolutely. You cannot entertain the possible outcomes had you not tried hard enough to get through Yoongi’s door. His eyes were so dulled, his hands felt so cold. What would have happened if you didn’t force yourself inside?
Why was that guitar smashed to pieces?
This is also why you refuse to leave. So many questions, so many things you still don’t know. Like what all happened when you were separated? And how in the hell is this man in love with you?
“I don’t wanna go,” you confess, instantly encased in his arms and warmth. “I’d much rather keep kissing you.”
“True,” he says with a resigned huff, shifting his glasses with an adorable nose scrunch. If only he didn’t have so many little red lines of conflict on his face. “But we both have stuff to take care of, so let’s get all that done first.”
“Ugh, fine.” Your groan is more teasing than serious, and Yoongi’s laugh is nothing but understanding.
Damn. You still feel it. You really don’t wanna go. Be it the rawness of last night still on your skin, or the confessions still on your tongues, you just wanna stay by his side. “Sorry,” you breathe out, lacing your fingers to pepper love along his strong, reddened ridges. “I’m serious. I don’t wanna leave you right now.”
Walking out of Yoongi’s door just doesn’t feel right. Even if he’s right there and will be following you out. Is this feeling normal? Are you supposed to feel this tightly woven to someone? Because the stitching between your hearts has only gotten stronger in the tempest of last night, as if you bonded together just to hold on for dear life.
Maybe that’s exactly what happened. And it’s exactly why you can barely take one step out of his place.
“Then don’t.”
Not one second passes before your chin is held, and lips slide so tenderly across yours that they may as well melt into your touch. Your reaction is quickly swooped into his mouth, and everything falls away as you let him seize your every thought. Lightning from last night zips out of your limbs, your toes, your fingers clasping his loose tee.
You might just cry where you stand.
How have his kisses gotten even better? How have you never felt this way even though you’ve done this far more times than you were ever supposed to? It should be impossible, and yet, this man finds even more ways to astound you.
Yoongi slips a hand over your cheek, giving one more beautiful push of his lips as he confesses, “I don’t wanna leave you, either.”
And your breath stutters onto his features. “You, too?”
Slow, he kisses your cheek, the clear rim of his specs skimming your nose. When he draws back, you look right into his eyes, wondering why he’s watching your mouth instead.
“Me, too.” Yoongi kisses your other side with a quiet peck. “Fuck, me, too.”
You fucking hate what you have to do, but you don’t have a choice.
With one last lingering kiss, you both gather enough courage to set out and do what you must.
—
—
Your house is already a flurry of activity as you enter to see your brother in the kitchen, packing his leather duffle that’s a constant companion on his trips.
Of course. The memory of him purchasing the lavish accessory pops into your head every time you watch him scurry around, dimples ever present on his proud cheeks. It’s almost enough to make you smile yet again.
But you can’t when the same face is currently scratched to hell. Just like Yoongi’s, if not worse.
Fuck, is he really gonna travel looking like that?
“Hey,” he rasps out, still fighting off slumber. “You’re back earlier than I thought.”
“Wanted to check on you before we left.” Fuck, your voice sounds like it’s being forced through a clogged pipe. Loosen the hell up! “And dude. Put some bandaids on, yeah?”
“Yeah, just give me a sec. Making sure I have everything before my ride gets here.”
“Huh?” He got a ride? You’re here now so you can take him to the airport. “You sure you don’t need me to drive you?”
“Yeah, it’s all good. I didn’t know you were coming back.”
Shit. His body seems just as angular as it did last night. Which, quite frankly, could still be from what went down in the lot.
Because even though you see both men banged up, you suddenly realize you don’t actually know what all transpired.
After all, there wasn’t much talk of it after you walked into the tempest of Yoongi’s living room.
Of course, you aren’t gonna bring it up just this second. There are other things to ask about and make sure of first. “Wallet? Phone? Passport?”
“Yup, yup, uhh.. Yup.”
Zippers sling in the quiet morning air as you continue, “And you’re coming back on Friday, right?”
“Oh.. Nah.” When you start crossing the kitchen, your brother hauls his leather bag over his better shoulder. Honestly, no one would be able to tell the other one’s bruised with his suit on. That thing damn well covers everything except the cuts on his face and hands. “Saturday.”
You pause in your journey to the medicine cabinet. “Wait.. Saturday? The release party’s on Friday.”
“Yeah.. I know.”
What the fuck? That’s bullshit they’re keeping him longer than they have to. Struggling to understand how corporate can keep your brother on a leash and get away with it, you urge, “Tell them to at least let you go home a day early. Don’t you wanna support your friends?”
“You mean Yoongi?”
A zing of terror zips through your eyes, freezing every vein in an instant.
The fuck was that question? Never mind. Stay calm stay calm stay fucking calm. “Uhh, yeah, he’s one of them? But the other guys, too, right? I know you care about them and this is huge.”
Mercifully, your sibling just shakes his head and waves you off. “Don’t you think I already tried? I don’t wanna miss it but I don’t have a choice. Conference schedule is pretty tight and I’m heading the panel on Friday.”
“Is it in the morning? You can fly out after—”
“Why are you fighting so hard?”
“Why aren’t you fighting harder!”
Okay, what in the hell is happening right now? Screw optics and how this must look for you, your brother needs to be there. Him and Yoongi are the tightest of friends, the most ride or die duo you’ve ever seen. You can’t picture a timeline where he misses this monumental moment, and it’s starting to really upset you that he’s barely trying.
“You think I’m not fighting for it?”
“I certainly don’t think you’re trying enough—”
“Alright, you know what?” Hard steps surge forward as you stand rigid, a duffle hastily dumped onto tile. “You don’t know what I’ve tried. You don’t even know if I even told him yet.”
Fucking shit. You hold his stare before turning away, tossing out the idea of bandages entirely and searing footsteps into the hallway—
“Or do you.”
Before icing over with the unforgiving frost of zero gravity space.
Slow, you turn, not quite facing him but not backing down, either. “…Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You talkin’? What else has he been doing to you?”
Oh. Fuck that.
Doing to you?
Fuck all of this. This is too much to handle right now and you know you’re gonna snap if he keeps pushing because you are not having this conversation right before he leaves. You’ve already thought about this before, right? You cannot fuck with his head right before business trips because he needs to be on and locked in.
But now he’s fucking with your temper and those are some choice fucking words pulled out of his ass.
You don’t think you’ve ever legitimately threatened this man to his face and meant it before, and it tears a sharp corner of your heart, “You better be very careful. With whatever you wanna say next.”
The air proves too thick to slice. While your body stands aflame, your brother is iced over, brimming with an energy that damn near takes physical form. “All I’m saying is? I find out some fucking bullshit is going on—”
No no no, not now.
Reacting fast is your only instinct, brain haywire and fizzling fizzling boiling. Harsh, you spin on your heel and shout the first thing you can think of, “Oh, come on—”
“You better hope to god you’re ready for what’s coming—”
“Stop!” Fuck fuck fuck, this is so frustrating because your head is exploding and your body is screaming to just tell him already. Fuck the consequences at this point this is ludicrous.
Doing to you? Yoongi? How dare he speak about his best friend like that how dare he accuse him without outright saying the words all you have to do is tell your brother how wrong he’s got it.
But you can’t be the one. Yoongi said he would, and he probably took months to get to that point of strength—and healing, from what you can tell.
This is between them. Them. You have to honor that, as much as you wanna just confess everything now and deal with it yourself.
But goddamn your brother is pulsing with anger and it’s leaking into your own charged air.
What does he think is happening? Does he think Yoongi’s just, what, playing you? He’s wrong. He’s so wrong. Yoongi’s been nothing but the best thing that’s ever happened to you and shit your heart hurts because…
Your brother is valid in thinking that.
How foolish. Didn’t you guard your heart from Yoongi for the longest? Didn’t everything start because you figured you knew who he was because of his reputation? You got him all wrong, too. So how can you be mad at your brother for doing the same?
Fuck, think. Just think before someone gets hurt.
Because if you aren’t careful, someone—or multiple someones—will get hurt in seconds. You have to bear the pain alone right now. To protect them both, you have to keep your trembling mouth shut.
And? You have to admit that something isn’t fair here. Not to you, not to Yoongi, but to him. Last night was rough as fuck but, while you both got to have raw, beautiful closure, the one standing in front of you had to go to sleep in an empty house.
So chill the fuck out.
Breathing to cool down, you tense and loosen, tense and loosen. “I get it. You’re angry, and you have a lot going on. But,” you bite down on your lip to keep going. “We’re talking about something else. We’re talking about you, and I’m still pissed you even let those guys goad you into a fight. What are we, twelve?”
Seething, your sibling takes the switch of pace. But it is not what you want to hear. “Are you seri—? What the hell was I supposed to do? That son of a bitch grabbed you—”
“I know,” you recoil. “Don’t tell me like you were there, because you weren’t.”
Finally—finally—those angry lines in his face vanish.
But they make way for something much worse than anger. Because your older brother, someone that’s been there for you your whole life..
Looks absolutely stricken over the one time he wasn’t.
Damn it.
Regretful, you drop your shoulders in exhaustion and quiet compromise. When you continue, your voice is much softer, “But I told you: they were. Your friends, they were there because they knew you wanted that. Jimin got me away, Yoongi took me home and stayed.”
You really have got to stop saying his name like you love him. It could start becoming too obvious.
Shuddering, you shift your weight, folding your arms and shrinking into yourself.
That night, despite Yoongi’s best and most gentle efforts, still clings to where that loser touched you at Dalo. You hate that you haven’t gotten over it, and you loathe the way you still rub over the same spot. Over, and over. “What did you want him to do? Leave me here?”
“No.”
“Exactly. And he didn’t.” You adjust your stance again, making an impromptu gamble as you decide to let some truth leak out. Because your brother is owed at least this much. “And fine, you wanna know something? We do talk more because of it.”
Your brother’s head snaps up, and you brace. Because if you show any shred of weakness or hesitation, he’ll see right through your weak attempt to hide most of the truth,
“But don’t ever accuse him of doing anything to me. That was fucked up to say and you know it.”
“Fuck.” In agreement, he rubs his hair back. “It was. I’m sorry.”
“Trust me,” you swallow, hating that this is how things have to be for now. “You have nothing to worry about. He’s never.. Never done anything to me, anyway.”
It’s not a lie. Everything he’s done has been with you. For you. Because of you.
But your heart’s in anguish as it sinks. Because that expression on your older sibling’s face can only be one thing.
Pure. Utter. Relief.
Fire singes your eyes before you can quell the flame. It’s the hardest technical truth to swallow.
Sure, he doesn’t have anything to worry about as far as you being safe. And on top of that, he doesn’t have to worry about any fake shit because Yoongi confessed to you last night.
But as far as his best friend sleeping with and now dating his sister behind his back? That is still very much sitting right in the center of the table.
And now you’re starting to see just how fucked all three of you are as soon as you sit down to eat the truth.
But Yoongi said he’d be the one to tell, so he will.
This feeling is so fucking miserable, though.
In the end, your brother is effectively convinced, raking a hand across his head and sighing. “Jimin told me what all went down at Dalo, I just… Last night was… Fucked up.”
“Well, yeah.”
“No. See, this is just like what you said to me. You can’t say it like you were there.”
It’s your stomach’s turn to twist. “So? You were scratched and bruised to hell, and Y…” Shut up, shut up. You’re not supposed to know about the state of anyone else. “And you were… quieter.”
“Because of what happened, dude.”
You blink. “What… What happened?”
Your brother looks at you—really looks at you.
And suddenly, your gut flares in terror, storming in an instant across your abdomen.
“That bitch pulled something on us.”
Your heart.
It’s in freefall.
“Wait… What?” You can’t even form more than one syllable at a time, your legs turning gelatinous and knees starting to give out. “No… What are you…?”
What the fuck did he just say? That bitch pulled a what?
Your sibling slowly walks toward you once again, watching like he’s just waiting for you to say anything. Do anything.
But you’re a complete statue because all you can think about is the horror of something happening and the relief that nothing happened all at once.
Was Yoongi too scared to mention that part? Is this why he was holding back and shaking every time he reached out to touch you? Even this morning, he was so…
You’ve never seen him like that. Is this why?
Your mind is swirling and crashing, overlapping each passing thought and scream running through your head. “I’m so sorry,” you hitch out, “I didn’t know. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Didn’t wanna scare you,” he sighs out. Putting both hands on his hips, your brother stops feet away, visibly still shook as he pierces wooden planks with his stare. “But he pulled it right before Yoongi… and if it weren’t…Fuck.”
Burns flare and slice through your eyes when he has to pause. What is he trying to say? Pulled what?
Before Yoongi what?
Your brother continues, and your throat tightens. “If it weren’t for some random ass sirens, I… Things could’ve been so different.”
What the fuck is happening. What the hell are you hearing?
“It was probably dumb as fuck. But I was so fucking angry,” he grits out, watery eyes crushed looking your way. “So fucking mad at how he was talking about you, I.. Walked right up to him and told him to fuck off.”
You can’t even breathe.
“I still feel it,” he quietly adds, fingers pressed against his side. “Right here.”
“Fuck,” you finally choke out, eyes on fucking fire.
“But all I knew was to keep you all safe,” he says, with hardened resolve and a wobbly chin. “And that’s exactly what I did. I did that shit, even if that meant—”
Tears fling out of your eyes, flowing hot down your cheeks because you wouldn’t want any of them to go out that way. Nothing happened nothing happened nothing happened and yet your body is acting as if something did and it hurts.
Your brother is there as soon as you crumple forward, letting you bury your head in his chest and sob your heart out. For him, for his friends, and for all the time you had with the man you love so, so dearly.
If anything happened to your brother before you came clean… If anything happened before you and Yoongi could even…
Suddenly, you feel equal weights of guilt. For running out on your brother. And for almost walking out on Yoongi.
You decide an apology is in order for both of them, and all the understanding in the world for Yoongi’s frosted demeanor as soon as you get him alone again.
And you are one hundred percent going to tell your brother everything once he’s back.
The tears cannot stop, and you’re sure you are crying unimpeded in a pressed and primmed suit. “I’m so sorry,” you keep repenting like a prayer. “This is all my fault.”
“No—”
“You almost—”
“Hey, stop.” He yanks you back, both of your faces soaked with saltwater. “What did I say before? I threw the first swing. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But it led to all this, I just.. I just feel so fucking stupid.”
“Don’t. Hey, look at me.” Firm but gentle, he holds you at arm’s length, forcing you to face him. “Maybe we’re both stupid, but you weren’t the idiot. I was.”
You feel so many conflicting things in your soul.
What would you have done if Yoongi was in critical condition? What would you have done differently if your brother was instead? Are they the same? Are the two situations really so different anymore?
No they aren’t they aren’t they aren’t.
“Please don’t do that again,” you shake out. “Even if it was for me, if I ever lost you, I...”
“You know I can’t promise anything.” He furrows his brows when you eye him with anger and sadness. “But nothing like that is happening again. Especially with the same dudes.”
“Okay.”
A vicious tornado of emotions sends your whole body into agonizing pain. This isn’t what you expected at all, and it’s causing your limbs to lock at the bends. Too many scenarios are jangling about yet you can’t ask for specifics because that will just make it even more real.
A nightmare is somehow better once you know it ends with you waking up. “I’m… gonna need some time to process everything.”
“I know. And I wasn’t planning on saying anything, but… You deserve to know the things I get into.”
Ah.
The irony is not lost on you.
“At least, if they involve you. We learned our lesson. You were right to tell us off.”
God. You feel numb.
“Thanks,” you murmur, suddenly immensely tired. “I think I need more sleep.”
A blaring honk sounds outside the house, and you both flinch at the noise.
And your throat burns at the way your brother instinctively swept you behind his back.
When you realize what it is, you know what has to come next.
And he’s the first to react as he turns to face you again, “Alright. I’m heading out, just remember to go get my baby when she’s fixed, yeah?”
“Do you have to go?”
Wait.
The question seems to startle him as much as it does you.
How did you blurt it right out before even registering the words? Why does your heart clench at the sight of those eyes looking so pained?
Why does everything feel so shaky within these walls that were always your home?
“I do,” he says, voice tight. “I’m sorry.”
And why the fuck do you feel sad he’s leaving?
“No, no, it’s.. Of course you have to.” You can’t help the lump in your throat from bobbing, the regret in your limbs as they barely move at your side. “I dunno why I asked, I guess I just..”
There’s no response to your sniffle.
“Sorry for yelling,” you squeak out. “I just feel really queasy.”
For a lot more reasons than one.
“We all made it out,” your brother whispers. “That’s what matters.”
“Will you… Will you at least try to be back for the party?”
The man swallows with his brows knit tight, then attempts to crack the tiniest smile. “You know I will. That’s my guy.”
“Okay.” You nod, sniffling again. After what he just told you? You know he’ll do anything for the ones he loves. “See you there.”
Your brother rubs a comforting palm over your head before turning, heading for the door and grabbing his leather duffle.
When he stops to glance at you one more time, you give a little wave of your hand before watching the door click shut.
Chest caving as you collapse to the ground in tears.
—
—
The need to call Yoongi burns so harshly your fingers damn near set your top aflame.
But he’s at work, and you can’t fuck things up right when you’re approaching the finish line. You almost did with your brother, and that gave you twelve heart attacks in the span of minutes.
Still. Your chest aches so much that a thirteenth could very well be approaching. You don’t even realize you’re bracing the hallway wall for support until you try to stand, back sore and aching from bending so far for so long.
What did your brother mean to say about Yoongi? What did that coward pull on them? Do you even want to know what happened?
Fighting back tears, you reach down for your phone, shakily typing out a message only to erase it. Then again. And again.
And again.
Giving up, you forcefully swallow all your worries, cringing at the bitterness of the unknown and the burnt molasses of hidden truths.
It’s going to be okay. No matter what you think or imagine in your head, they made it out, they made it out, they are all alive.
That’s the only reason you can move forward, each step getting you from your room. To your bathroom.
And back again.
—
—
After showering, you feel lighter and refreshed, though the soreness between your legs has yet to leave.
But you wouldn’t want it any other way, as it’s another reminder of Yoongi’s apparent brush with survival. His broken living room spurned the creation of your bond, your devotion to him as he confessed before you gave him your utmost trust in his sheets.
The end is so close. As soon as this week is over, you’ll rip the last bit of peel from your pair of tangerines, baring all truths to your brother and facing the consequences.
Finally ready, you head to your car, opening your text threads with a plan: start slow.
Start with something that can be interpreted neutrally if anyone saw it on his phone screen, especially if your headstrong ex is in the room.
You [12:31pm]: how are you feeling?
Yoongi [12:34pm]: 1 Attachment
You close your door with brows furrowed.
Yoongi’s at the hospital?
That’s not what you expected at all.
Your chest swells with relief knowing he’s there, but you also wanna make sure he’s feeling okay. Especially his mental state after whatever the fuck your brother just dropped on you before leaving.
Goddamn, that’s going to gnaw at your brain until you find the right time and right amount of courage to ask about it. Because it’s very possible Yoongi won’t tell you.
Because it’s probably something he knows you won’t like.
Fuck.
You [12:34pm]: Loved an Attachment
You [12:34pm]: thank you for listening🤍 still sore?
Yoongi [12:35pm]: Yeah, but not bad. Just there.
Wait. He’s not at the studio. That means you can—
Yoongi: Outgoing Call
“Hey.”
“Hey,” you slowly say as you pull out into the street. “I’m driving now so this is easier.”
“Course. You going to Tae’s?”
“Maybe. I’m going to Yuri’s first.” You swallow, realizing that you didn’t tell him about what you let slip before driving over. “I.. Told her. About you.”
There’s a little bit of silence on the line, just some adjustments and muffled speaker sounds. “Sorry, just writing this down. What’s wrong with that?”
You huff through your nose. Gotta be those patient forms that always take forever to fill out. “Oh. Just more and more people knowing, is all.”
“Everyone’s gonna know eventually.”
You hold back a small smile. Because he’s right. “Yeah. I’m just tired of this feeling.”
“Like you’re hiding something.”
It’s your turn for silence. He doesn’t know how accurately that was played out today. The only answer you can provide is a curt, “Exactly.”
“Same.”
Wings beat around your heart again.
He wants this. Yoongi really, really wants this. And years ago, that outcome wouldn’t have even crossed your mind as an option.
“Thank you for going, baby.”
“The guys made me.”
You hum. “Which ones.”
After a pause, you hear a puff of amusement. “All of them at some point today, actually.”
All of them? Does that include your brother? Did they talk about the trip already?
Your laugh is bittersweet. “Well. Glad to know you can be forced by everyone else except me.”
“Hey, I was already gonna go because of you!” Yoongi quietly retorts, and you giggle at the pout in his words. “Just wanted to get a headstart on work first.”
You were right. He really does wanna go all out for his musical endeavors.
It’s extremely admirable, and wildly attractive, but it does come to a point. “As much as I love your passion, old man, I wanna keep you upright.”
He laughs soft into the line, and you think you can listen to that specific sound on an infinite loop. “That’s fair.”
“How long is it gonna take, you think?”
“Dunno. But I’ll keep myself busy until I’m out.”
Of course he will. You don’t doubt he won’t waste any time. Didn’t he bring journals in his backpack? You wouldn’t be surprised if he wrote ten thousand songs before being called in. “Just call me if you need anything, please?”
“Of course, babe.”
“Thank you,” you say with utmost sincerity. “If only my brother would be less stubborn and get checked, too.”
“He’ll probably do it once he gets there.”
“Did you convince him?”
“Nah. But once he knows I did, he’ll do it.”
“Figures.” You scoff. “Okay, I’m almost there. Let me know how it goes.”
“K. Bye, doll.”
You didn’t ask him what went down. But it’s not the time nor place, and you have plenty of chances this week to figure out when that would be—if at all.
“Talk soon.”
—
—
For a normally bustling household, Yuri’s house is quiet.
So it’s not shocking when you walk into the kitchen and see all your friends glance your way, slowly vacating their chairs with eyes never leaving your face. Even Reia is on high alert.
Did Yuri tell her? Did Yuri tell anyone else?
No. She’s a talker and loves spilling, but she promised. And when she promises something, you know you can trust her to keep it.
It’s what pours emotion in your voice as you meekly greet, “Hey, guys—”
A crushing hug closes your throat. Yuri’s the one that gets to you first, with Reia and Dominique waiting their turns to offer you healing, relieved embraces.
“What happened?”
“Scared us half to death.”
Dom puts you at arm’s length to give a once over, noting your face rubbed raw and eyes still a little bloodshot. Thankfully, her pupils hold more concern than disappointment. “You good?”
Your eyes wobble alongside your smile, and you think it’s enough proof. “More than that,” you still decide to whisper, and your heart beats again at her reaction.
“Thank god. I was ready to kick your ass if you weren’t.”
Heading up to Yuri’s room, you all wait until the door is swung back before mounting her canopy bed, sitting in a tight circle as you divulge everything.
Well. Almost everything.
You tell them that Yoongi is the one you’ve been seeing, how you went to check on him last night in a panic, and the terrifying reason why. When you mention the fight after the basketball game, all three of your friends erupt in questions, and you have to assure them everything turned out okay. Honestly, you also do this to assure yourself, too.
“So… Your brother’s just fine with all of this?” Reia asks, not noticing the tick of Dom’s jaw.
“Well,” you start with a higher pitch, earning a pair of groans. “He doesn’t exactly know yet—”
“Yup. He’s gonna murder him.”
“Yeah, should we say our condolences now or..”
“How long has this been going on?” Reia fires off another question that digs into your chest. “Was he the one you were seeing the whole time?”
“Yes,” you admit with a sigh. “I should’ve told you guys from the beginning, but. The whole thing just felt so delicate. But! We just started making things official recently, so..”
Dom turns your way. “Official how?”
Well. Here goes everything.
With a shaky breath, and lingering feelings from the time it happened, you reveal with watery eyes, “Yoongi… Told me he loves me.”
Both Yuri and Reia react in yelps, Dom’s gaze lowering as the girls reach to grab your hands.
Wait. What’s going on with her? She’s the one that knows the most, she’s the one that covered for you all those months ago. She has to be the one that is the least surprised at all this.
Blinking, you note to confront her about it later. Right now, you’re too focused on trying not to cry as your friends tumble out questions and support,
“He said it? Did you say it first or did he?”
“How did it happen! Oh, I’m so happy for you, babe—”
“Thank—thank you, Yuri,” you squeeze out as she hugs you close. “I couldn’t believe it, but he just.. Said it. We weren’t even doing anything, I was just.. Looking up what injuries he could have..”
And he confessed in the most Yoongi fashion he could have.
Looking back, it shouldn’t shock you at all. He’s always found ways to sweep you off your proverbial feet, so why would a confession plucked from the heavens be any different?
She lets you go before wiping her eyes, Reia and even Dom now sporting watery pupils, too.
“As much as I’m upset at you for not telling us, I’ve never been so happy for you.” When Yuri’s features crease in another sob, you sniffle along with the rest. “It’s been so long since you… And you really.. Fuck.”
You know what she’s trying to say, and the realization has your throat constricting so tight.
It’s been forever since you’ve had something like this, someone like this. When you and Jungkook were together, you told him that you loved him before he broke it off.
Sure, you bought the rings together, but he never uttered those words until years after when it didn’t even matter. And all your relationships after his were complete and utter bullshit, so you don’t think you ever even heard those three words and knew them to be true.
Yoongi was the first to ever say them so sincerely.
And that fact makes your ducts burn and burn.
And when Yuri finally speaks, it breaks the dam holding your real deluge back,
“I can’t think of anyone else that deserves to be loved more than you.”
All at once, everything streams out as you hunch forward. The pain of everything you’ve endured, the hopelessness of knowing you’d most likely end up alone, the excruciating prospect of a future that you never deemed bright, or peaceful, or comforting.
And to think that even this man could’ve been snatched away from you in a snap? Even more tears overlap with the ones you’re shedding, and you can’t even reach out to hug all three beautiful, angelic souls surrounding you with tight arms and sobs because your limbs lock at all bends.
It’s the exact release you need. All your friends supporting you, all the pent up anxiety of last night and today, the truth setting itself free in some capacity—all in the comfort of a plushie-laden bed you only doubted yourself in last time.
Everything’s gonna be alright. It has to be. You’re gonna fight for the ones you love, even if a war between them is inevitable.
It takes a few minutes of heavy silence for you all to separate, swiping and rubbing tears while letting out happy sniffles.
When you thank them for being understanding, they assure you it’s okay. And when you say you’re going to tell your brother soon, a force from the doorway has all of you leaping from lilac sheets,
“Tell him what?”
Jia stands firm with a laundry basket at her hip, and Yuri scoffs at her older sister for barging in. “A knock would’ve been nice!”
Fuck!
You can’t tell Jia of all people. If you spill anything about Yoongi, she’s one hundred percent going to tell your brother. They’re the same age, and run in pretty tight circles, so of course you are not going to risk it.
But you can tell her something else you’re going to tell your older sibling, so you fire out a half-truth,
“Tell him not to pick any other fights that could get him killed.”
Jia’s eyes zoom to your wrecked face, and she drops the laundry with haste before asking, “What happened? When? Tell me now.”
Huh. Maybe your brother has a type, if he’s still into Jia like he said before.
You feel a little spark in your chest as you let her know they all got in a scuffle after the basketball game, and another pang as she immediately abandons the room and clothes with a fierce declaration,
“I’m gonna kill them myself!”
“Don’t worry, I already hounded my brother!” You call out after her, sighing as Yuri shakes her head with a smile. “She gets like that when she’s really worried, huh.”
“Yeah..” Your friend leans to look around you, noticing the basket left alone on the ground. “And if she’s super fired up, she drops everything and doesn’t stop until it’s handled. Clearly.”
Maybe both older siblings really are similar.
The firestorm of an interruption seemed to break the tension in the room, with all of you finally relaxing and catching up. When they ask you questions, you answer what you can.
And when you divulge information that has your ears burning, their squeals and yells give you whole new reasons to live.
—
—
After a very comforting lunch Yuri’s mom cooked, you head to the bathroom when your phone suddenly vibrates through your palm.
Huh? That’s weird. You expect the name on your screen to be Taehyung, not Yoongi.
Not that it’s a bad thing. You’ve been waiting to hear from him, so this is a pleasant surprise.
Closing the door to the guest bathroom, you gaze at the calming sage decor with a smile. “Hi, how did it—”
“You’re coming over later, right?”
Oh, shit. Is he okay?
“Yes, baby,” you respond with a soothing lilt, ears perked and body on high alert.
Does he think you aren’t anymore? You both decided on the plans earlier. Surely he knows you’d never just flake on him. “I’m coming back once you’re done with work, remember?”
There’s an uncomfortable pause on the line, which makes your boyfriend’s next question jab you so far in the lungs you can’t breathe,
“…Can it be now?”
Shit.
Just like Jia earlier, you drop every plan you have to the wayside. You’re sure that Taehyung will understand, and you already got through the biggest conversation you needed to with your friends.
“Of course,” you whoosh out. “Lemme just say bye and I’ll go.”
“Take your time.” A small shuffling interrupts. “It’ll take me a bit to get back.”
“Okay. See you there.”
The strained urgency in his voice makes your hair stand on end, so you vacate the bathroom to inform the girls that you gotta go—but not without a quick head tilt towards Dom, who follows you outside and into the afternoon sun.
—
—
You wait until you’re next to your car on the street, turning with a concerned expression and jittery nerves, “What’s up with you? Did I do something wrong?”
Turns out, you read Dominique correctly. Her jaw locks before loosening, and it reminds you of the time she confronted you about Yoongi before. God, how much has changed since then. That feels like ages and ages ago.
“It’s not about you,” your best friend clears the air and the tightness in your shoulders. “I’m just.. Glad he came around.”
“Yoongi?” When Dom nods, you blink. “Wait, what?”
“At your house that night.. After he left your room, we had—I dunno, a heart-to-heart.” She sighs, flicking braids over her shoulder. You note to compliment the beads she chose this time, because they remind you of summer and simpler times. “I might’ve pressured him a bit, and.. I think he wanted to tell me that he loved you. All the way back then.”
Something in your heart stutters, and you can only repeat your last question, “What?”
“Yeah. Something about needing to do something first,” she continues, holding your gaze with perfect brows furrowed in sunlight. “But I could tell he was damn serious about whatever it was. And if he was willing to do it for you? I let it go.”
Your mind whirls.
Yoongi was already in love with you back then? Is that why he needed to let you go? To deal with whatever he had to do?
One side of you breaks thinking he had to go through all that alone; the other side is screaming at his past self for not even giving you a choice. What did he go through? What did he have to do?
Now you really have to see him. Immediately.
“Thank you, Dom,” you rush out while opening your door. “I’m just happy it’s over.”
“The hell it’s not.” Shooting you a glare that heats the oncoming breeze, she reminds, “It’s not over until your brother knows. And based on everything that’s happened? That conversation is not gonna go over well.”
A dark, simmering boil starts in your stomach, and you’re already feeling queasy again. Tightening your door handle, you gulp hard. “I know.”
“Trust me, I’m happy for you both. I am.” Both hands find her hips as she levels a gaze that you really, really don’t enjoy. “But I’m gonna be honest, I think this is gonna ruin their friendship for good.”
Both of your lungs clamp shut.
“Please don’t say that,” you beg, “I’m gonna fight for all of us. I will.”
“I don’t doubt that, babe. Hey, uh uh, come here.” Reaching out, she gives you a tight hug just when you feel fragile again.
“Listen to me. I don’t doubt that,” she says into your shoulder. “I’m just here to be realistic. Just don’t be shocked if that’s how it goes. We’ll be here for you no matter what, too.”
“Okay,” you say with a scrunched face into her scent. God, she always smells so good, and it’s almost enough to calm you down. Almost almost almost. “Thank you. But I’m not giving up.”
“That’s my girl.” She squeezes you one more time. “I love you.”
With eyes searing over, you choke and grip her tighter. “I love you, too.”
—
—
Yoongi’s door warms your back as you wait for him to show.
But there’s a good chance it can just be your volcanic anxiety.
Ever since your arrival, you’ve paced, you’ve gnawed on your lips, you’ve had to shake the nerves out of your hands.
And over and over, you’ve strained your neck to look for your favorite cat, because you could sincerely use even a glimpse of her right now.
While she doesn’t end up showing, Yoongi rounds the nearest corner minutes after your last desperate scan.
Fuck, he’s so handsome.
Even now, as he simply walks toward you with a backpack slung over his shoulder, you watch with undying yearning to feel those flowing bangs over his forehead. You’d even settle for a single touch of his cheeks, one of them currently sporting a thin bandage.
But the closer Yoongi gets, the quicker your admiration morphs into concern. There’s a deep bend in his brows that you can’t decipher, and his fist is balled pretty tight.
Seriously, what happened? He looks so troubled that you slowly push off the doorway to ask,
“Baby, what’s—”
A bag hits the ground before you’re swooped into a kiss so electric your lips spark.
Him. Him, him, and more him. For the love of everything you don’t understand what’s happening but you kiss Yoongi back with everything you have, arms slinging around his strong shoulders and tugging him closer because he clearly needed this.
And fuck if you didn’t need it just as much. Screw it if anyone sees you. This is all you want and you’ll stay right here until he pulls away.
When he finally does, both of you swallow to catch your breaths, and your soul glimmers when his forehead meets yours.
“Hi, baby,” you whisper to his exhales. “Missed you, too.”
Silent, your lover kisses your forehead before hugging you close, and you’re more sure of your prediction than ever. Something is bothering him.
He doesn’t look worse, at least. But there’s clearly something off and he’s not hiding it. His lack of words is loud enough.
“Let’s go inside,” you quietly suggest. “I would’ve gone in already but I don’t have a key.”
He nods, fishing out his keyring to let you both inside.
When you set your bags down and slip off your shoes, it’s only seconds before you’re softly pulled into a hug again, surprising yet so, so welcoming.
Even only after a few hours, you’ve missed the fuck out of him. Which makes all of this an outright dream.
“Sorry,” Yoongi finally murmurs against your shoulder. “I just…”
“Nothing to be sorry for.” You stroke a hand along his hair, massaging his scalp and loving how soft it feels. The windswept strands fall back into place as you keep running your fingers through. “Did you at least get your appointment?”
“Yeah, I did.” He buries his face further. “Nothing bad. Just can’t lift anything heavy for a couple days.”
“Good. That’s easy to manage,” you whisper back into his tee, feeling the chill of lingering air conditioning and body warmth all at once. “Is something else bothering you?”
“Not exactly.” Whatever that means. “I’ll tell you about it later. Just wanted this, and you.”
Oh. That’s…
“I’m here now, love,” you assure with a melting heart, wondering what happened to cause this behavior.
Is it because of last night? Or something that happened today? You’re anxious all over again, but from the way Yoongi’s acting, your worries are second to his. “Have you eaten yet?”
He shakes his head, only pulling you closer with not a word from his lips.
And from this point on, you make a silent vow to yourself. Whatever Yoongi needs, you’re going to take care of him.
No matter what, these next few days are all about him—a minuscule sacrifice in comparison to everything he’s done for you, whether you knew about it or not.
“I’ll make you something then. Come on.”
When you walk, you slip your hand down his arm to hold his hand, and your lead into his kitchen is short.
“Any requests?” You cheerfully ask as you spare a smile over your shoulder. “We can do… Something light…”
Only to see him staring back with nothing but a lingering sense of longing.
Okay.
You need to get to the bottom of this now.
Stopping right over linoleum, you leave no room for arguments, “Yoongi. Tell me what’s wrong.”
He blinks before his gaze meets the floor. So you’re confused when he simply, quietly..
Laughs?
“It’s not that something’s wrong,” he slowly starts, a shy smile carving his features. “For the first time in my life, nothing’s wrong.”
Your heart beats extra loud.
“But it’s too much to explain right now.” His eyes rise to meet yours. “Just know that I’m so in love with you.”
Oh.
“And I want you to know that every day I live.”
Fuck.
Your body responds before you can say anything, lips connecting to remove any need for speech. The knowledge of them all staring death in the face last night makes this confession sear your insides, and you can’t help but kiss him like you’ll never get to again.
Yanking him back, you spin on your heel until he flings into the kitchen, clutching your wrists before gripping your jaw with both hands.
His mouth heats on yours, his glasses the only barrier between your skin. Everything sizzles from your head to your toes, and you both bang into a countertop before—
“Fuck, ouch.”
“Shit, you okay?”
Yoongi rubs his side with one eye pinched shut, a corner of his teeth present. “Yeah. Worth it, though.”
“Be serious,” you reprimand. Looks like he’s gonna have to take it easy, which means no going at it like animals until he’s on the mend. “No more until you feel better, yeah?”
“Says who?”
“Babe.”
His deadly pout almost breaks your resolve. “Fine.”
But you can wait. You’re sure it won’t take long, and for this man? You’ll wait however long you need to.
Besides, there’s plenty of things you can do in the meantime that don’t require running into hard objects.
“Good. Now let’s…” You turn away to get started before you’re held, and pulled back into yet another embrace.
What the hell is happening today? Your lungs and your melting pile of a brain can only take so much. It’s beautifully overwhelming how Yoongi can’t seem to let you go, because you’re the one that always loses control.
This whole time, it’s been you that can’t hold yourself back.
So now? Being on the other side? You don’t think you ever want him to restrain himself again.
This time, he moves slow. Sensuously slow, and it would occur to you that he’s finding a very cheeky loophole to your plan if you weren’t so hazy-eyed.
Whatever Yoongi’s doing, you won’t stop him.
Your back touches a counter before Yoongi cages you in, and your lips mold together as perfectly as his body does with yours. Your unhurried strokes match his, and your minds communicate without a single word.
There’s yearning still ever present. But there’s comfort in abundance, and a whole new level of need.
After he pulls away, you can visibly see him drink you in from head to toe.
“You know.. I’m good holding off on all the other shit.” Pulling you in, his lips curve as he confidently declares, “But I’m never gonna stop kissing you.”
His hands, his lips, his words. They all have healing powers, you’re so sure of it. If Yoongi hasn’t yet realized his unending pain has blossomed into a safe haven, you need to let him know no matter what,
“Good.”
There’s still a pining in his eyes, but he lets you free, hand skirting your hip before he walks to his room. “Gonna change then I’ll help.”
“You don’t have to, baby,” you say as you struggle to catch your breath. “I got it.”
Three minutes later, he’s chopping an onion anyway.
But you’re loving how serene everything feels with the two of you prepping and dicing, thumps of knives on wood intertwining in sound before you laugh at his crying over the pesky vegetable. Maybe if he wore contacts instead of specs, he’d be better off.
Not that his choice of eyewear is what you’re complaining about. But those glasses paired with the cream tees he’s been wearing? There will be hell to pay as soon as you get a chance at revenge.
Your pot is set to boil for a bit, so you finally rest against the counter and start a timer on his microwave. “Go ahead,” you gesture to your very handsome cooking partner. “You can sit now.”
“Huh? We’re not done yet.”
“Oh.” Blinking, you tilt your head in confusion because you could’ve sworn you heard him yawn a couple times. “You aren’t tired?”
“I am,” he says before squeezing his eyes, rapid blinks to follow. “But I’m fine here.”
You toss and turn the food around, sprinkling a little more seasoning and hearing the bubbles and fizzes. When you stir a little more, a sudden thought occurs, halting your movements and spinning you around,
“Are you staying there to watch my ass.”
Yoongi’s slow smile gives everything away, but he also makes up for the blatant staring.
“Can’t deny that’s one of the things.” Pushing off the sink, he stands right next to you, slotting a hand behind your neck and angling you for a kiss. “But I meant it earlier. I just…”
You’re completely silent as you watch him slide his eyes from your face to the sizzling food. Whatever he’s thinking about, you’re gonna give him all the room to talk.
“Just like being where you are.”
How you went from almost running out of his door to here, you aren’t quite sure. But you’re grateful for that split second of him deciding to fight for the two of you instead of against, because you really were going to leave.
And you may have taken much, much longer to even try going back.
Your voice is barely heard over the aromatic smell and fizzle, “Good thing I like having you around.” When he smiles again, you let out a breath of a giggle, going back to shuffling the pan around and tilting your head to the fridge. “I put some fruit in there if you wanna eat that, too.”
“I’m down.”
“K.”
Your food is ready soon enough, and the two of you eat while talking about easy topics. Like work and your workplace dynamics, what Yoongi’s team has been working on at the studio.
At one point, your curiosity about the album release party grows from something he says. “Speaking of. The party’s on Friday, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I thought so,” you deflate, setting your bowl down on the table. “Sorry he can’t go.”
“Huh?”
Your body stills. “Wait. Did he not say anything? About his trip being extended?”
So much for nothing in his life being wrong. From the lost look on his face, you may have given him another reason to fold back in on himself. “No.. No, he didn’t.”
Both of you sit in silence.
This could be nothing. Right? That means your brother is confident he can make it so there’s no point in telling Yoongi he’s gonna miss it. Or maybe he’s not trying hard enough and then not being able to say it to his face?
“I’m sorry,” you apologize. “I thought he told you.”
“It’s okay.” Clearly it’s not. “Not much to do about it now.”
“Yoongi… What if he knows?” At your own question, you stiffen, curling into a proverbial ball. Fear and the sick backfire of fibbing has your mouth going drier than desert air. “What if he actually knows?”
Setting down his chopsticks, Yoongi looks your way, eyes unreadable behind his specs. “If he did, do you think he’d leave us alone?”
He’s got a point. “Guess not.”
“Mm.” Flicking his eyes to the window, he adjusts uncomfortably in his chair. “And I dunno if I mentioned this, but.. He thinks I got back with my ex.”
“Fuck, really?”
“That’s the real reason why he hasn’t been talking to me. Maybe he thinks she’s gonna be there on Friday.”
“Oh.” Your shoulders sag, and sag. Not owning up to your relationship is one thing; Yoongi having to dwell in his previous relationship is another. “Is that… worse?”
“Kinda.” Yoongi’s eyes fall. “Much worse.”
“Shit.” Reaching across wood, you close your hand around his fingers for support. It’s the only thing you can think to do. At least, it’s what you would want if you were in his shoes. “I think you should tell him she won’t be.”
A million seconds later, Yoongi thankfully agrees. “Yeah, I will.”
You feel better. Somewhat. At least a little less nauseous about the possibility of your brother knowing.
But it still sucks knowing that he’s actively avoiding Yoongi because of an ex he used to have.
How bad was it back then if this is the case? What exactly happened? Is this why Yoongi went radio silent on you for weeks?
It seems like he doesn’t even wanna talk about her. So you won’t pry just yet, as much as you wanna know every single thing she’s done wrong so you can hound her through every timeline in existence.
Instead, you talk about a much better subject,
“We should feed my cat now.”
And you quickly laugh at the saucy glint in Yoongi’s eyes.
—
—
Everything is set where it needs to be. Sugar’s food and water fill their respective bowls, your shoulder leans into Yoongi’s good side, and his arm rests around your back as he’s propped up by his banged up doorway.
You remember the first time you saw him lean against the wood like this. Only that time, you were a shell of a girl, waiting with shaky breaths and shaken confidence to hear his response to your inappropriate request.
Who would’ve thought that you’d be on the same side as him all these months later? In his arms, resting a head on his warm chest?
When you let out a short chuckle, Yoongi turns to your smile. “Hmm?”
“Nothing,” you wisp out. “Just thinking about us.”
His fingers press into your side a fraction more, and you can feel him lift his head again. “Me, too.”
Umm.
You can say things like that. He isn’t allowed!
You’re about to set some one-sided rules before your gift pops out of the bushes a few feet away.
“My baby!” you quietly call, leaving Yoongi’s side to crouch down. “Come here, love. You hungry?”
She cautiously makes her way over, sniffing your hand when you leave it outstretched. After careful consideration, the little one nudges your palm, letting you glide fingers down her back as she approaches her bowls.
“You’re so tiny,” you observe with slight pity. “We’ll get you well fed in no time—”
“Hey, Sugar! Oh, is this her? She’s gorgeous, no wonder!”
Huh? Sugar?
Who else knows the cat’s name already?
Your neck almost strains when you look up to see who’s talking. When you notice an older lady donning a really comfy, fluffy robe, you feel like it looks super familiar before you stand.
“Hi,” you greet before introducing yourself, extending your hand and shaking the woman’s soft, delicate fingers. “Sorry if we were too loud.”
“Call me Miss Dion. And you weren’t too loud this time, sweetie,” she says with a wink, glancing down at the kitty eating what you laid out. “Was just comin’ out to water my plants so it’s good to see you’re here, too. Looks like he finally got some sense back in that head of his.”
“I’m standing right here, you know.”
“Oh, I know!”
Back? How long has she known about you? Do her and Yoongi actually converse regularly? Their banter is… Really adorable.
It’s making you fall even more in love with the man biting his cheek in amusement.
Wait.
Is Yoongi Sugar?
That is so fucking cute you could cry.
“I’m back to take care of this guy,” you explain with a head tilt. “And the little one, of course.”
It’s when you say this that Miss Dion notices the bandages on Yoongi’s face, concern pushing down her brows. “What happened to you, young man?”
“Nothing to worry about.”
“You sure? I got some ointment in my kitchen somewhere—”
“It’s all good—”
“We’ll take it,” you cut him off, not looking but feeling his stare on your face. “How much do we owe you?”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that.” With a snuff at Yoongi and a smile your way, Miss Dion heads inside to fetch a bottle.
In the meantime, you give your lover a quiet stare before bending down to run your hands over soft fur.
“Papa Sugar is gonna need that so he can’t argue,” you coo to your cat, cheekily ignoring Yoongi’s sputtering puff of air above your head.
“Papa Sugar? Really?”
You glance up to his smile with a mischievous one of your own. “What, you wanna be Sugar Daddy instead?”
The swirl in your belly is instant. Because Yoongi can only look out into the distance, biting his lip and failing to hide his grin.
Sigh. If only he didn’t have those injuries across his face. You’d push him back into the door and slam it shut if it was any other day.
Patience, patience, patience.
Those hits aren’t gonna heal with just one round of gauze.
When you have to replace the cotton patches, at least you’ll have something to help.
—
—
It’s not until you’re about to tuck in for the night that Yoongi approaches your side of the bed. Judging by the headphones slung around his neck, he’s about to work, so you assume he’s just coming to give you a kiss goodnight.
But after he does exactly that, he asks you a question that warms your chest,
“Where’s your keys.”
“In there,” you motion to the nearest wall, bag propped right under his windowsill. “Inside pocket, I think.”
Yoongi bends with a prolonged grunt, slowly rummaging until he finds your jangling keyring with its charms. When he grabs it, he silently sits on the edge up against your stomach, body heat permeating your tee while he fiddles with the clasps.
God, you’re so in trouble. You know exactly what he’s doing.
Unlike the last time he offered you complete access to his place, this time he didn’t even hesitate. And the way he secures a key amongst the loop, it’s his silent way of cementing permanence.
That’s not another key for you to borrow.
Because that key is yours.
—
—
continued in angel, pt. 2
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a/n: holy crap we're doing it we are actually back in the main storyline?! how do we feel right now because i am over the damn moon diving into this story again. here's a slight pitstop before you make your way over to part two (THE CONTINUATION IS IN A REBLOG!) so take a breather before heading into the resttttttt
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a/n 2: we did this for 3tanfugue and the energy was great! just like last time, some of you guys suggested that we have post goals to encourage interaction. no one voted against it yet, so we'll keep it goin!
note goal: since we're back in main storyline, upping the goal! 1,000 notes is the goal, so when we hit that, 3tan14 will be dropped as soon as it's done! thank you all for reading and would love to hear any thoughts: what did you like about the chapter? how did a certain scene make you feel? what are you excited to see next? any shares, comments, tags, and reblogs with commentary count, and i appreciate anything you guys have to say.
Summary: What starts as friendship built on inside jokes and late-night takeout slowly turns into something messier, heavier, and impossible to ignore. From the first meet through the birthday party, jealousy, confessions, and one hangover later—you and Yoongi finally cross the line you’ve both been toeing for far too long.
Content/Warnings: Explicit sexual content (smut), jealousy, alcohol use, language, angst with eventual comfort, friends-to-lovers, oral (f receiving), fingering, protected penetrative sex, multiple positions, creampie (with condom), aftercare(barely), many many confessions. Please tell me if I missed anything!
Playlist: We can’t be friends by Ariana Grande // Tears by Sabrina Carpenter
A/N: This story got away from me in the best way—it’s long, indulgent, and absolutely filthy but also stupidly tender. Yoongi really said “dreams do come true.” God I love him😭 thank you @sorilyae for being my positive enabler 🫶 I love you
The first time you meet Yoongi, you’re not even supposed to be there.
Namjoon is an old friend from college—the kind who pops in and out of your life like seasons, but always feels like home when he’s around. He’s in town for a few days, texts you last-minute with, “come out tonight, I’ve got people you should meet.”
You almost say no. It’s been a long week, and you’re not in the mood for new faces. But it’s Namjoon, and you’ve missed him, so you drag yourself out anyway.
The little get-together isn’t what you expect. Not a packed bar, not a fancy dinner. Just a corner booth in a half-empty lounge, dim lighting and a low playlist in the background. Namjoon waves you over, grinning, introducing you one by one to the friends crammed into the booth with him.
And then there’s Yoongi.
He doesn’t smile when your eyes meet. He barely looks up from his glass. But when Namjoon says your name, Yoongi repeats it under his breath like he’s testing it out, then gives you the faintest nod.
You slide into the booth across from him. Conversation flows easily with the others—Jimin’s brightness, Taehyung’s chaos, Jin’s effortless banter—but every so often, you catch Yoongi’s eyes on you. Not in a way that feels rude. More like he’s quietly assessing you, deciding if you’re worth the effort.
It isn’t until someone makes a dumb joke—something dark and a little twisted—that you instinctively add a one-liner of your own. The table goes silent for half a beat, surprised. And then Yoongi huffs out a laugh. A real one, quick and sharp, before he shakes his head and mutters, “finally, someone with decent humor.”
That’s it. The thread is tied.
For the rest of the night, you find yourself leaning into his side comments, his dry observations. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, it lands—and you volley it right back. The others notice, of course. Namjoon gives you a knowing look, like he planned this all along.
And by the end of the night, you and Yoongi are sharing a basket of fries across the table, comfortable in a silence that doesn’t feel awkward at all. When you leave, he doesn’t ask for your number. He just says, “you’ll be around again, right?” And somehow, you know you will.
After that first night, you figure it’s a one-off. You’ll catch Namjoon next time he’s in town, and Yoongi will stay in your memory as the guy with the sharp laugh and sharper humor.
Except—two days later, your phone buzzes.
A new group chat.
Namjoon: Squad expansion pack unlocked. Everybody say hi to [Y/N].
Taehyung: ooooh new friend
Jin: more people to roast me, great
Yoongi: …
Yoongi: who let her in here
Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, smirking. You type back:
the bouncer at the booth last night liked me more than you, sorry.
And just like that, it’s on.
From then on, Yoongi isn’t just Namjoon’s friend—you start seeing him at every casual hang. Movie nights, random bar meet-ups, late-night drives when Taehyung insists everyone needs ice cream at 1 a.m. Somewhere in the shuffle, Yoongi stops feeling like “Namjoon’s brooding friend” and starts feeling like your favorite person to stand next to at parties.
You don’t notice it right away, but the others definitely do. The way you two end up sharing snacks. The way Yoongi actually texts back in the group chat if it’s you he’s answering. The way his humor sharpens whenever you’re around, like he’s performing for an audience of one.
It takes weeks before you realize: you’ve been texting Yoongi directly. No big moment, no “can I get your number”—just the natural bleed from group chat to late-night one-on-ones. Memes, song recs, dumb observations. A thread that winds tighter without either of you naming it.
And somehow, without noticing, Yoongi becomes the person you look for first when you walk into a room.
It doesn’t take long before you and Yoongi develop your own rhythm.
At first, it’s little things—dry commentary during group hangs, a quiet laugh shared while everyone else is too loud to notice. But soon, it becomes a whole thing. Inside jokes stitched together from throwaway comments, looks you can read without words.
Once, at a party, someone suggests a cheesy icebreaker game. You and Yoongi exchange a glance, already mocking it in your heads.
He leans closer, murmurs just for you:
“if I have to list two truths and a lie, I’m going with ‘I buried a body once’ as a truth.”
You snort into your drink, choking on laughter. When you wheeze out your own response—“make sure you don’t pick the basement, that one’s already mine”—Yoongi nearly spits out his beer.
Everyone else at the table just stares. Jungkook looks genuinely concerned. Jin mutters something about “what the hell is wrong with you two,” while Hoseok squints like he’s not sure if you’re kidding. You and Yoongi, meanwhile, are doubled over in the corner, entirely unbothered.
It becomes a pattern:
You’re the only one who laughs when Yoongi mutters his driest, darkest lines.
He’s the only one who notices when you deadpan something outrageous under your breath.
The others stop asking, eventually, because it’s your brand of humor—private, sharp-edged, and weirdly intimate.
In between the jokes, though, it’s softer things that stitch you together.
Falling asleep on his couch after a late-night hang, and waking to a blanket tossed over you.
Him sending you half-finished demos at 3 a.m., knowing you won’t judge.
You picking up takeout when you know he hasn’t eaten all day.
You become constants in each other’s lives—reliable without ever saying you would be. And maybe that’s why no one teases you about it; because for all the dark humor and the sharp laughs, everyone can see the gentleness underneath.
Of course, you don’t call it that. Neither of you do. It’s just friendship. Comfortable. Easy. Unshakable.
At least, until it isn’t.
It happens on a Saturday night, the kind of night that’s quietly become yours.
Most weekends end this way—takeout boxes on Yoongi’s coffee table, a movie playing half-forgotten in the background, you two tucked into opposite ends of the couch. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don’t. It doesn’t matter; the routine is what matters.
So when you casually say, “I can’t do next weekend—I think I’ve been asked on a date,” you don’t even look up from your carton of noodles. It’s offhand, thoughtless, like mentioning the weather.
But Yoongi hears it like a record scratch.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just sets down his chopsticks, leans back, stares at the TV like it suddenly got interesting. His pulse thuds in his ears, steady and unwelcome.
A date.
“Cool,” he says finally, voice low, flat enough you almost don’t notice it’s sharper than usual.
You glance at him, puzzled. “What?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Have fun.”
You wait for him to make a joke, to say something snarky about your type or the guy probably being boring. That’s how it usually goes—you throw the ball, he bats it back. But this time, Yoongi doesn’t even lift his eyes from the screen.
The silence feels heavier than it should.
You don’t press, because Yoongi gets like this sometimes—quiet moods, long stretches of silence. You’ve never pushed too hard when he walls himself off.
But for Yoongi, it’s different. He’s sitting there, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral, to not let his hand tighten around the beer bottle in his lap. He knows it’s stupid. You’re not his. You’ve never been his. He has no claim to feel anything at all.
And yet, the thought of you smiling across a table at someone else makes his chest tighten in a way he absolutely does not want to look into right now.
When you finally lean back and sigh, half-smiling at him like nothing’s changed, Yoongi manages to nod, force out a faint smirk.
But later, when you leave, his apartment feels too quiet. And Yoongi realizes—for the first time—that the idea of losing your Saturdays hurts a lot more than he’s ready to admit.
You swipe a layer of mascara onto your lashes, blink at your reflection, and try not to think about how strange Yoongi has been all week.
Normally, Saturdays are yours. Movie nights, half-eaten takeout cartons, his sarcastic commentary muffled against the couch cushions. But tonight you’re in front of your mirror, curling iron still hot, lip gloss still tacky, because you told him you had a date.
The word had landed heavy between you, like a rock in a still pond. Yoongi hadn’t teased you, hadn’t grumbled about your taste, hadn’t even made a joke at your expense. Just that flat cool and nothing else. And that—not the date, not the guy—has been tugging at your thoughts ever since.
You smooth the hem of your dress and pause, because another memory presses forward, uninvited.
It’s from months ago. A night you weren’t even supposed to stay late, but the group hang bled into Yoongi’s apartment, and then bled into just the two of you, cross-legged on his floor with a half-empty bottle between you.
Yoongi doesn’t drink often—not enough to get loose, anyway. But that night, he let himself unravel just a little. Enough that the words spilled out softer, slower, like he’d been holding them back too long.
“You know…” He’d swirled the last inch of whiskey in his glass, eyes half-lidded, mouth quirking like he wasn’t sure if he should keep going. “…you’re… fuck. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met.”
You laughed then, awkward, ready to brush it off. But Yoongi hadn’t let you.
“No, seriously. You don’t get it.” His gaze had been steady, almost too much to bear. “You bring… light. To people. To me. Like—you’re funny as hell, yeah, but it’s more than that. You make shit feel… less heavy. You make people feel lucky just by being around. Anyone would be blessed to have you in their life. And if they don’t see that? They’re idiots.”
The words had settled in your chest, glowing, impossible to forget. But you couldn’t answer. You just sat there, staring, memorizing the way his voice dipped low on lucky.
He smiled after, small and crooked, and took another sip like he hadn’t just turned your whole world upside down.
The next morning, when you teased him about it—“you get weirdly poetic when you’re drunk, Min Yoongi.” He’d blinked at you, blank-faced, and muttered, “don’t remember a thing.”
You’d laughed it off then. But now, pulling on your jacket and glancing at your phone, you wonder if maybe that’s why his silence stings so much.
Because even if he doesn’t remember saying it, you do.
And some stupid part of you wishes he meant it.
You find yourself at the restaurant. And you don’t even really want to be here.
His name is Daniel. Works in accounting two floors down from your office. Nice enough—clean shoes, polite smile, remembered to hold the door when you walked in. You only said yes to this date because he asked twice and because somewhere in the back of your head was Yoongi’s voice from months ago, telling you to put yourself out there. To let people see how “light” you are.
You thought Yoongi would be proud.
But twenty minutes into the date, you already know how this ends. Daniel talks about office politics like it’s a full-contact sport, and when he laughs at his own joke, it’s just… loud. Not sharp, not dry, not shared with a sly glance across a crowded room.
Not Yoongi.
You poke at your pasta, nodding at the right times while he continues talking, but your mind betrays you. Imagining what Yoongi would say about the way Daniel uses the word “synergy” three times in one awful story. How he’d smirk across the table, mutter something dark under his breath just for you, and you’d choke trying not to laugh too loud.
With Yoongi, there’d be inside jokes and banter, even in silence. With Daniel, it’s small talk and forced smiles. And you’re not really hitting it off.
By the time dessert comes, you’re already exhausted. You tell yourself, at least you tried. At least you showed up.
When you get home, you peel your makeup off in the bathroom, watching mascara smudge into raccoon eyes. Relief sinks into your bones when you pull on your favorite hoodie and curl up in bed.
The date wasn’t a disaster. But it wasn’t him.
Your phone buzzes. One name.
yoon: How was the date?
You stare at the screen. Wonder where he is right now. On his couch, knees tucked up, TV on low? Or stretched out in bed, thumb hovering over the keyboard the same way yours is?
You type:
you: it wasn’t… horrible.
Your thumb hesitates, then moves again. The truth itches under your skin until it spills out in the way only Yoongi will get:
you: next time I’ll just ask my Uber driver to drag me behind his car through traffic—probably less painful than sitting through another date like that.
There’s a pause. Then:
yoon: lmao
yoon: finally, some honesty
And just like that, the tightness in your chest eases. Because no matter how awful the night was, at least you get to end it with him.
Jin’s apartment is loud, the kind of loud that comes from seven different conversations stacked on top of each other. The coffee table is a graveyard of takeout boxes, Taehyung is half-off the armchair like he doesn’t understand gravity, and Jungkook is shoveling fried rice into his mouth like it’s a competition no one else signed up for.
You’re curled into one corner of the couch, drink in hand, Yoongi beside you with his usual air of disinterest. It’s comfortable, the background noise, until Jimin suddenly cuts through it.
“Hey—your birthday’s coming up, isn’t it?”
You blink, startled. “…How do you even know that?”
Taehyung chimes in, “Because I make it my business to know everyone’s birthdays.” He sits up, grinning. “And we’re throwing you a party.”
A laugh slips out before you can stop it. “What? No. You’re not.”
Jin yells from the kitchen doorway, without missing a beat, “Yes, we are! I’ll bake the cake!”
Hoseok, from an armchair, “I’ll handle the playlist.”
Jungkook with his mouth full, “I’ll bring snacks.”
You hold up both hands, shaking your head. “Guys, seriously—don’t. I don’t want a party. It’s not a big deal.”
Taehyung gasps. “Not a big deal? It’s your birthday! That’s literally the definition of a big deal.”
The room hums with agreement. You try to smile, but your chest tightens. The idea of being the center of attention makes your skin prickle. “I’m fine with just… hanging out. Like we always do.”
Beside you, Yoongi doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you. The way he sees past the casual shrug, the way his gaze sharpens at the way your fingers worry the rim of your glass. He knows you’re tense—of course he does. He always does.
Jimin continues, “Nope, too late. We’re making this happen. We’ll invite everyone. Work friends, too.”
Your stomach drops. “That’s—no, you don’t have to—”
“What about that guy… Daniel, was it? Im sure he’d come.”
The name hangs heavy. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Yoongi’s shoulders go rigid, his thumb pausing against the armrest.
You force a laugh. “He’s… really not party material.”
Ever the ‘party-material-maker’, Taehyung reassures you: “Then we’ll vet him. If he’s boring, he’s out.”
Yoongi finally says something, voice low, snarky enough to offend. “Then half the people you invite won’t make the cut.”
The group bursts into laughter, but you hear the edge under his tone. You glance sideways—his expression is neutral, almost bored, but the tension in his jaw is undeniable.
You take a sip of your drink, trying to hide the heat rising in your chest. You told yourself you didn’t want a party. But now, with Yoongi sitting so close you can feel the shift in his mood, you can’t help wondering if what you really don’t want is him seeing you with anyone else there.
The laughter from Yoongi’s jab is still bouncing around the room when the bathroom door creaks open. Namjoon steps out, fanning the air behind him like he’s trying to chase away a demon.
“Do not,” he says, voice solemn, “go in there.”
A collective groan rolls through the room.
Jin throws his head back. “Again?”
Jungkook groans through a mouthful of rice. “Hyung, get your life together.”
Hoseok presses a hand to his chest, already laughing. “I told you not to eat the extra kimchi.”
Namjoon just lifts his hands in surrender. “I’m sparing you, trust me.”
The chaos bubbles up, Jimin clutching his stomach, Taehyung dramatically collapsing onto the armchair like he’s fainting from the stench. You laugh, shaking your head, but the sound catches in your throat when you feel the shift beside you.
Yoongi stretches an arm lazily across the back of the couch. Casual. Effortless. Like he’s done it a hundred times before. Except he hasn’t—not once in the year you’ve known him.
Your heart kicks against your ribs. The distance between his hand and your shoulder is nothing, barely inches, and suddenly you’re hyperaware of the space you’re taking up.
He leans just slightly toward you, voice pitched low enough to skim under the noise. “You really don’t want a party?”
You glance at him, caught off guard. “Not really.”
His eyes flick to your face, steady, unreadable. “Even with people who actually matter?”
The question knots in your chest. You swallow. “It’s not about that. I just… don’t like being the center of attention.”
Yoongi hums, quiet. “Fair. But it wouldn’t be the worst thing, you know. Letting people celebrate you.”
The words are gentle. Too gentle. For a second, it feels like the whole room fades—Taehyung whining dramatically about Febreze, Jin telling Namjoon he’s banned from kimchi forever—and all you can hear is Yoongi, sitting close enough that his warmth skims along your arm.
You manage a small smile. “You sound like drunk-you again. Semi-inspirational.”
That earns you the barest twitch of his lips. “Maybe sober-me means it too.”
The air shifts, heavier than it should be, and your breath catches before the moment’s swept away because Hoseok suddenly narrows his eyes at you and Yoongi.
“Look at these two,” he says, gesturing with his chopsticks. “Whole room of people and they’re having their own private conversation again.”
Taehyung perks up immediately. “It’s every hangout. Soulmates, clearly.”
Namjoon sighs and mutters under his breath, clearly feeling sorry for the teasing about to take place. “Here we go, again.”
Jin smirks from the kitchen doorway. “They’re so locked in, I’m surprised they even hear us.”
You roll your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “We do not—”
“Yes, you do,” Jungkook cuts in, grinning around his drink. “Half the time you’re whispering and laughing and the rest of us are just sitting here like chopped liver.”
Yoongi doesn’t look at them. Doesn’t move his arm from the back of the couch, either. He just takes a slow sip from his glass, face unreadable.
But then Jimin, always the instigator, leans forward with a wicked smile. “You’re sitting close enough to kiss right now.”
Oh, he knows what he just did.
The room erupts with laughter, wolf-whistles and fake gagging sounds.
Your entire body ignites. Heat flares across your cheeks, your ears, all the way down your neck. You choke on your drink and duck your head, suddenly incapable of looking anywhere near Yoongi.
And still, Yoongi doesn’t move. Doesn’t laugh, doesn’t shrug them off, doesn’t roll his eyes the way he usually does.
But you feel it—a shift. A subtle double take, the weight of his gaze flicking toward you and then lingering, like he’s just realized something that doesn’t quite add up.
You don’t have to look to know he’s studying you, puzzled, maybe even a little thrown. Because you turned red. You.
And if you’re blushing like that… what does it mean?
The laughter from Jimin’s jab keeps bouncing around the room, Taehyung dramatically fanning himself like he just witnessed something scandalous.
“Save it for after the cake,” Jin calls from the kitchen, smirking as he disappears back to check the oven.
“Cake?” you echo, desperate for any subject change. “There’s no cake.”
“There will be,” Jin sing-songs.
Hoseok leans forward, grinning. “Bet Yoongi already has flavors picked out for you.”
That earns another round of oohs and whistles, the group loving the way your face heats even more.
“I do not,” Yoongi mutters, voice flat as stone. But his arm stays stretched casually along the back of the couch, and you swear you can feel the weight of his gaze still lingering on you even as the conversation shifts.
Jungkook slaps his thigh, cackling. “This is my favorite game. Tease them until one of them breaks.”
“I’ll give it a month before they admit it,” Jimin adds, wiggling his eyebrows. “Soulmates can only play dumb for so long.”
“Stop calling us that,” you groan, pressing your palms to your cheeks.
Taehyung gasps theatrically. “Oh my god, she didn’t deny it this time!”
The room explodes again, everyone talking at once—bets being made, exaggerated wedding toasts being shouted, Jungkook offering to DJ your “first dance.”
You bury your face in your drink, wishing the floor would open up and swallow—just you—whole. But out of the corner of your eye, you catch it: Yoongi’s lips twitch. Not a laugh, not really—but something close.
And though he doesn’t say a word, you can feel the undercurrent humming between you, sharper than it’s ever been.
But the chaos doesn’t really settle until Jin emerges from the kitchen with a dish towel over his shoulder and announces, “Alright, everybody out. I’ve got to work in the morning and you’re all too loud.”
Groans and protests ripple through the room, but one by one the boys start gathering their things. Hoseok is still humming an obnoxious melody about soulmates, Namjoon rubbing his temples as he walks to the door, Taehyung swears he’s bringing balloons to your “surprise-not-surprise” party, and Jimin smirks like he’s got ammo for the next week.
You stand, smoothing your shirt, trying to will the redness from your cheeks. Yoongi rises beside you, stretching lazily like none of this touched him at all.
But inside?
Inside, he knows the truth.
He’ll never admit it—not to them, not to you—but he doesn’t actually hate it when the group teases you both. He pretends to roll his eyes, pretends he’s annoyed, but secretly… secretly he loves it. Loves the way they say “soulmates” like it’s obvious, loves the way you fluster and stumble through denials.
Because maybe that’s what it would be like if you were his.
If he didn’t keep everything locked behind his ribs. If he could reach out and claim what he wants without losing the comfort of what you already are. The way the others laugh and tease—it’s the closest glimpse he’ll ever get at what life might look like if he was allowed to have you.
And so he lets them tease. Because dreaming is safer than losing you.
On the way out, your shoulders brush in the narrow doorway. Your sleeve skims his arm, and the static crackles all the way down to his fingertips. You look up, meeting his eyes for half a second before glancing away, flustered again.
Yoongi swallows hard, shoving his hands into his pockets. For a moment he doesn’t trust himself to speak, doesn’t trust the way the words might come out.
But when you turn to him at the door, pulling your jacket tighter around you, you give him that small smile—the one that always cuts through him—and say softly, “Goodnight, Yoongi.”
His throat works, tight, but he manages a low reply. “Night. Get home safe.”
You nod, slip out into the breezeway of Jin’s complex, and the sound of the door clicking shut behind you feels louder than it should.
Yoongi lingers there for a beat longer, staring at the space you just occupied. He needs to breathe for a second. He inhales deep, then exhales slow and quiet, and heads out into the night with one thought looping through his head.
If blushing means you like me… then maybe I’m already too far gone.
It’s Wednesday night when your phone buzzes. You’re curled up on your bed, laptop open but untouched, scrolling mindlessly until the notification flashes.
yoon: You figured out what you’re wearing yet?
You blink, reread it twice. Yoongi doesn’t usually care about that kind of thing.
you: For what?
yoon: …your birthday. The one Tae’s been yelling about all week.
you: Oh. That.
you: I’m not picking out anything special.
yoon: Why not.
you: Because it’s not that serious.
There’s a pause. You can almost see him on the other side of the screen, thumb hovering, brow furrowed like he’s trying to phrase something without giving too much away.
yoon: You should. Pick something that makes you feel good.
you: You sound like Hobi.
yoon: Hobi would tell you to wear sequins or some shit. I’m saying just… don’t downplay it.
Your chest tightens. He always sees it, the way you try to shrink yourself.
you: Are you seriously texting me about clothes right now?
yoon: Somebody has to. Don’t want you showing up in your office hoodie.
You bite back a smile, fingers tapping before you can stop yourself.
you: That hoodie is a classic.
yoon: It’s fucking tragic.
You laugh, low in your throat, and set the phone down for a second to breathe. It’s not much, just a string of texts about nothing. But the warmth in your chest lingers long after the screen goes dark.
The Birthday Party
Namjoon pulls up to the curb like your chauffeur, killing the engine and getting out to walk around and open the passenger door for you. He looks half amused, half resigned as you climb out, tugging at the hem of your dress.
“Just so you know,” he says, offering his arm with mock formality, “I briefed you in the car, but… I’m apologizing again in advance. Jimin and Tae went feral with this party.”
You laugh, slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow. “How bad can it be?”
The answer greets you the second your heels hit the red carpeted stairs.
It looks like New Year’s Eve collided with a music video shoot. Glittering lights spill down from the awning, a velvet rope corrals guests into the entrance, and inside the glass doors you can already see the crowd—everyone dressed to kill, champagne glasses flashing under the chandeliers.
Your jaw slackens. “This is… a birthday party?”
“Your birthday party,” Namjoon corrects, grimacing. “Tae literally said, ‘If she doesn’t walk in and feel like the hottest girl in Seoul, then what’s even the point.’”
You bite back a nervous laugh, tugging your dress down again. The dress you picked is short, tight, the kind of outfit your parents would faint over. But you’d looked in the mirror earlier and thought of Yoongi’s words—pick something that makes you feel good—and this was it. Bold, a little reckless, enough skin showing to make you feel powerful.
As you walk up the stairs, gripping Namjoon’s arm for balance, he leans down with a smirk.
“You know he’s gonna freak, right?”
Your stomach flips. You don’t even have to ask who. But you do anyway. “What?”
Namjoon chuckles, low. “I mean… he won’t show it. Not on his face. But internally? Yoongi’s gonna be strangling himself when he sees you in that dress, Y/N.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you turn your face toward the glittering doors before he can notice. You tell yourself he’s exaggerating, teasing like always. But the flutter in your chest won’t stop.
Because part of you wonders—maybe hopes—he’s right.
The second the doors open, sound swallows you whole. Music pumps from hidden speakers, bass rattling in your chest, laughter and voices layered so thick it’s dizzying. Chandeliers glitter overhead, catching on sequins and champagne glasses, and everywhere you look there are people—people you don’t know, people dressed like they’re waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square, people who definitely don’t belong at a party for you.
It’s too much. Too big. Exactly what Taehyung and Jimin would think is perfect.
You paste on a smile as Namjoon steers you through the crowd, murmuring greetings to familiar faces. But your eyes keep wandering, scanning, searching every corner. You don’t even realize how obvious it is—the way you’re subconsciously hunting for him. For Yoongi.
Your Yoongi.
Instead, you’re intercepted first by Hoseok, who comes practically skipping across the room, sequined jacket catching the light with every step. “Birthday girl!” He pulls you into a hug that smells like cologne and champagne, then holds you at arm’s length. His grin widens. “Damn, you look good.”
“Too good,” another voice chimes in, and Jungkook slides up with a glass in each hand. He passes one to Hoseok before adjusting the lapels of his sharp black suit like he knows he looks incredible. “Happy birthday, Y/N.”
You laugh, heat blooming in your cheeks as Jungkook tips his glass toward your dress in approval. “Wow. You two actually clean up nice.”
Hoseok gasps in mock offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “Excuse you—I always look good.”
Jungkook just smirks, boyish and smug. “But admit it. We’re killing it tonight.”
You shake your head, laughing again, but your gaze is already drifting over their shoulders, past the glitter and noise, through the sea of strangers.
Still no sign of him. What the fuck.
And that unsettles you more than you want to admit.
Namjoon still hasn’t let go of your arm, playing the role of dutiful escort as he weaves you through the crowd of bodies toward a literal tower of champagne flutes stacked high like something out of a luxury gala.
How hard did Jimin and Tae go for this party?
You let out a breathless laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Not my idea,” Namjoon mutters, steering you into the line. “I told you—I’m just here as damage control.”
He plucks two glasses from the table and hands you one. The bubbles tickle your nose as you take a careful sip, the taste sharp and sweet on your tongue.
And then—
“Birthday girl!”
The greeting comes in stereo, Jimin’s high-pitched cheer layered with Taehyung’s deep drawl. They appear together like they rehearsed it, grins wide and eyes bright.
Jimin immediately pulls you into a hug, nearly sloshing champagne down both of your outfits. “Happy birthday, gorgeous!”
You hug him back, “Thank you, guys.”
“Look at you,” Taehyung adds, spinning you lightly by the wrist so he can take in your whole outfit. “Short, shiny, and scandalous. And honestly? Exactly what I envisioned.”
You laugh, cheeks heating, trying to tuck yourself back under Namjoon’s arm like a fucking shield. “This is… insane. All of this.”
“Insane in a good way,” Jimin insists, bouncing on his toes. “Tell me you love it!”
You look around—at the chandeliers, the glittering crowd, the champagne tower sparkling in the light—and your chest squeezes. It’s too much. But they did it for you. Because they care.
“I do,” you admit, soft and honest. “I love it. Thank you.”
Jimin beams. Taehyung wiggles his eyebrows. And for a moment, the noise of the party fades under the weight of how lucky you are to have them.
Still, as you take another sip of champagne, your eyes wander past their shoulders, scanning the crowd again. Looking for the one person who hasn’t shown up yet.
Where could he be? Is he even here? Why isn’t he with the guys?
You’re half-caught in your head and Taehyung’s theatrics when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.
“There’s my birthday girl.”
Jin appears with a glass in hand, tailored blazer sharp enough to make him look like he owns the place. He leans down to press a quick kiss to the top of your head, then straightens and claps Namjoon on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Joon. Thanks for keeping her in one piece.”
Namjoon huffs a laugh. “Doing my best.”
Jin’s eyes drop to your dress, and he sighs the way only Jin can—long-suffering, dramatic, equal parts fond and exasperated. “This is what you wore?”
You flush, tugging at the hem. “Don’t start. It’s fine.”
“It’s your birthday, so I’ll allow it,” he says, lips twitching. “But if your parents ever see photos… I don’t know you.”
You laugh, shaking your head, but then the words tumble out before you can stop them. “Hey, have you seen Yoongi?”
Beside you, Namjoon tenses—so subtle anyone else would miss it, but you don’t. You feel it in the shift of his arm under your hand. Like he wasn’t expecting the question.
Jin’s smile falters just slightly. His eyes flick to Namjoon, then back to you, a worried crease forming between his brows. “Not yet,” he says after a beat. “But… don’t worry about him. Just keep enjoying your party, okay?”
Your stomach twists. The easy warmth of the moment curdles, a faint unease threading through it.
That was fucking weird.
The night spins forward in a blur.
You let Jimin and Taehyung drag you to the dance floor, Hoseok already in the center hyping the crowd like it’s a concert. Namjoon groans but still sways dutifully beside you, Jin waves a champagne flute overhead like he’s at a wedding, and Jungkook spins you until you nearly trip over your own heels.
It’s ridiculous. Chaotic. Too much. And yet, with your friends circling you in glitter and laughter, you feel lighter than you expected.
Then—a shiver down your spine. The sense of eyes on you.
You glance up, scanning past the lights, past the crowd. And then you see him.
Yoongi.
He’s on the second-floor balcony, leaning casually on the rail, a champagne flute hanging from one hand. His long dark hair curls around his face, catching in the glow of the chandelier, and his gaze is locked—glued—to you.
Your chest stutters. It feels like time itself stutters. The music, the noise, the laughter—it all dims under the weight of his stare.
And you smile. The biggest smile you’ve smiled all night, wide and uncontainable. Like gravity pulling you in one direction only.
Your smile is already lifting when something inside it snags.
Because you see him—and then you see her.
She’s half-turned toward him, shoulder angled into his space like she belongs there, a thin gold chain glinting at her throat. Close. Comfortable-close. The kind of close that says this isn’t the first minute they’ve been standing like that.
Yoongi is looking at you.
But he’s talking to her.
His mouth moves—something low, something easy—and she watches him like she’s used to the gravity he creates, like it doesn’t pull her apart the way it threatens to pull you apart right now. When she laughs, it’s a soft curve of sound you can’t hear over the bass, and his lips answer with the ghost of a smile.
He doesn’t look like he doesn’t want to be there.
Your stomach goes cold, then hot, then cold again.
Taehyung spins you by the wrist, oblivious. “Birthday girl! Stop zoning out, you’re killing my groove.”
You snap your gaze away from the balcony so fast your neck twinges. “I’m not zoning out.”
“Liar,” Jimin sings, popping up at your other side and fitting his palms to your shoulders from behind, swaying you on beat. “This is your party. Eyes on us, miss ma’am.”
“Yeah,” you say, too bright, too quick. “Eyes on you.”
You force your body to move. To laugh at something Jungkook says. To let Hoseok spin you out into a loop you nearly botch because your heels are not designed for this much enthusiasm. You let Jimin tilt your chin and quip about how you’re “glowing” and “devastating” and “a menace,” and you pretend the whole time that the top of your skull isn’t buzzing with the exact shape of the woman’s hand where it rests on the balcony rail, three inches from Yoongi’s wrist.
Ignore him. Ignore that.
The music surges, a chorus that rattles the floor, and you pour your attention into the only thing you can control: the way your head tips back when you laugh, the way your hips find the bass line, the way your dress catches the light like it’s armor.
Namjoon leans in at your ear, voice pitched under the noise. “You okay?”
You don’t hesitate. “Of course.” Your smile stretches just a little too tight. “It’s great.”
He studies you for a beat—he always has been annoyingly perceptive—but then he nods like he’s not going to pry here, not now. “If you need air, tug my sleeve.”
“I won’t,” you say, and you mean it like a challenge to yourself.
You don’t look back up at the balcony. You do not.
Except your body betrays you in small ways: the way your pulse stutters when the chandelier light shifts; the way your head tilts a fraction, as if lining up your peripheral vision with the stretch of the upper rail. You keep your focus fixed on Hoseok’s ridiculous body roll and Taehyung’s scandalized gasp at Jungkook’s footwork, and still you feel it—a prickling heat along your cheek like a spotlight.
He’s still looking.
You won’t give him the satisfaction.
“Shots,” Jimin declares, because he’s a menace and because the universe has a sense of humor. “It’s illegal not to do birthday shots.”
Before you can protest, a tray materializes—Hoseok works miracles—and you let them press a glass into your hand. Clear. Mean. The kind of burn that will either cauterize the jealousy or make it liquefy and pour out your eyes.
“To the hottest girl in Seoul,” Taehyung intones, scandalously sincere.
“To sequins,” Hoseok declares, glittering under the lights.
“To,” Jungkook smirks, “telling anyone who flirts with you that they’re not on the guest list.”
“Please stop,” you groan, but your grin slips in anyway, helpless.
You fling your gaze straight at the bottom of the shot glass and tip it back. The burn is instant, bright, a clean white-out that blurs the edges of your thoughts. When it hits your stomach, the heat spreads. It helps.
“Again,” Jimin threatens.
“No,” Namjoon says, parental. “Later.”
“Traitor,” Jimin pouts, already winking at the bartender for later.
You move. Harder now. It’s easier to outrun a feeling than to look it in the face. You dance like you owe your body something, like you can sweat this out, like the bass can be a wall.
Someone bumps your shoulder in the crowd and murmurs an apology; someone else asks if you want a drink; a stranger in a too-tight shirt tries to sidle in closer until Jungkook simply appears, big-brothering him with a smile that’s all teeth. Your friends orbit you, constellation-steady, but even with all that, there’s a slice of cold aware in your ribs—because you can feel him, the way you can feel a storm before it breaks.
You do not look.
You laugh at something Jin says when he finally decides to return to the dance floor, his hand slicing through the air as he reenacts Namjoon banning kimchi, and you let that laughter sit bright on your mouth, weaponized. You’re fine. You’re glittering. You’re busy.
“Back in two,” you shout to nobody in particular, tapping your chest and miming a sip. You need water. The good kind—flat, unassuming. Something to anchor your mouth around that isn’t his name.
At the edge of the floor, the air thins a little. The bar is a line of elbows and straws and clinking glass, but the bartender spots your wave and slides you a highball of blessedly clear water like you’re a favorite regular. You take two grateful pulls and press the cold glass to the underside of your jaw.
“Happy birthday,” someone says at your left.
You turn your head. It’s the woman from the balcony.
Up close, she’s even more composed. Winged liner like a threat, lipstick that doesn’t dare smudge, a dress that looks like it was sewn on. She’s taller than you by a breath in her heels, and her perfume is a soft, expensive thing that settles around you like a verdict.
You find your manners where you dropped them. “Thank you.”
“Taehyung outdid himself,” she says, amused. Her gaze flicks over your shoulder, toward the floor, past it. Not calculating—cataloguing. “You look beautiful.”
“Thanks,” you answer, neutral, careful. “Enjoying the party?”
Her mouth tilts. “I am now.”
You take another drink of water to cover the sound your throat makes.
“I’m Sori,” she adds, offering her name like a business card.
You give her yours, because what else are you going to do? Pretend names don’t exist?
She nods, as if checking a box in her head. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Your heartbeat trips over itself. “From…?”
“From everyone,” she says lightly. “Small universe.”
You let out a sound that is not a laugh but would like to be when it grows up. “Yeah.”
Silence stitches between you, quick and neat. She doesn’t fill it. She just lets it sit there, poised, like she knows exactly how long to wait before it starts to itch.
“Yoongi mentioned the humor,” she says finally, as if she’s commenting on the weather. “He was right.”
The glass sweats against your palm. “He talks a lot for someone so quiet.”
“That’s the trick.” She lifts her own drink—champagne, of course—and tips it toward you, gaze steady. “Happy birthday.”
You clink without looking away. “Thanks.”
She leaves you there—mercifully—with her perfume and the ghost of her smile, threading back toward the stairs with an unhurried confidence that makes you want to kick something. She doesn’t have to look over her shoulder to know if he’s still where she left him. People like that never do.
You exhale hard, set the water down, and march yourself back into the heat of the dance floor like it’s a battlefield. Namjoon clocks your expression in a second and lifts a brow. You shake your head, a tiny, surgical movement. Later.
Jimin latches onto your hand and spins you again, yelling something about “chorus!” and “arms!” over the music, and you let him, because this is what you can control: the angle of your wrist, the slice of your smile, the decision to keep your eyes anywhere but up.
You feel Yoongi like static earlier; now it’s a low-voltage hum under your skin. You don’t have to see him to know he’s moved. You don’t have to look to know he’s closer.
You won’t look.
“Yo,” Jungkook shouts in your ear, breathless, grinning. “You’re on fire. Whoever breaks your heart is gonna die.”
“Bold of you to assume it’s breakable,” you throw back, dry, and Jungkook howls like you just body-slammed a line of defense.
Hoseok plants a feather-light kiss to your temple when he passes behind you. Jin shouts, “Shots later, water now,” like a dad. Taehyung declares that he’s stealing you for a “birthday twirl,” and you let him tug you three steps left, pivot, laugh, pivot again—
—and then you stop.
Because you know the shape of that stillness. It has a weight all its own.
You can feel him at the edge of your orbit before he says your name.
“Hey.”
It lands low, built for just you, a thread through the noise. You don’t turn for a full heartbeat. You finish the step you’re in, hand still in Taehyung’s, then you let go and face him because pretending to be oblivious in a three-foot radius is a different kind of embarrassing.
Yoongi stands there in a black suit that fits like a decision, hair ink-dark and loose around his face, the chandelier picking out lines of silver at his wrist and throat. The room could vanish and it would still feel too bright.
His eyes are on your mouth, then your dress, then your eyes, and he does not disguise the part where he has to swallow. The sound is swallowed by the bass, but you see it in the cut of his throat.
“Happy birthday,” he says.
Your smile is neat. Unbothered. “Thanks.”
A beat. You don’t ask why he’s late. You don’t ask who she is. You don’t ask anything. You’re not giving him that.
He studies your face like he’s trying to solve a song he’s heard a thousand times and can’t quite play.
“You look…” He searches for a word and discards five. “…good.”
“Yeah?” you say, and let your mouth tilt. “Must be the lighting.”
It lands and he almost smiles—almost—but something shadows his eyes when he realizes you’re not stepping into the usual rhythm, not handing him the joke and the soft landing. He shifts, just enough that your shoulders almost brush.
“You met Sori,” he says finally. Not a question.
You look over his shoulder at nothing at all. “She met me.”
“She’s—” He stops, tiny, and you watch him pick between truths. “—Jin’s friend.”
“Everyone’s friend tonight,” you say lightly. “You’re popular.”
His jaw flexes like he wants to bite the word in half before it gets to you. “It’s not like that.”
You lift your brows. “I didn’t say it was.”
Another beat. The bass thumps. Taehyung spins by with a finger-gun and zero chill. Jin is arguing with the bartender about cake plates. Jimin is mouthing, Tell him he’s hot, at you across three bodies because he wants to die.
Yoongi tilts his head, searching your face. “You’re mad.”
You laugh, genuine and bright and a little sharp. “It’s my birthday, Yoongi. I don’t have time to be mad.”
“Jealous, then,” he says quietly.
Your smile doesn’t change. “Of who?”
He flinches at that—not visibly, not for anyone else, but you feel it like a ripple under your feet. For a heartbeat his mouth opens like he’s going to say something he can’t unsay. Then he closes it, looks down, looks back.
“Dance with me,” he says.
You let the smallest silence bloom. You weigh everything inside it—his eyes, the ghost of the balcony, the woman’s perfume, your own stupid heart, the fact that all of your friends are absolutely watching this from the corners of their eyes and pretending they’re not.
You tip your chin toward the crowd, neutral as gravity. “I’m busy.”
It’s soft. It’s nothing. It hits him like a door.
He nods, once. Slow. Like he deserves it. Maybe he thinks he does.
“Okay,” he says, and steps back.
You turn away before your mouth can do something reckless. You catch Namjoon’s gaze over Hoseok’s shoulder, and he only inclines his head—once, commander-calm, we’ll talk later written in the lines of his mouth.
Jungkook reappears like a wall, grinning, hands up. “C’mon, birthday menace. Show me that murder footwork.”
You do. You move. You laugh too loud at something that isn’t funny and throw your arms up when the chorus hits and let Taehyung spin you until you’re dizzy. You let Jimin scream-sing into your ear and Hoseok beam like a lighthouse and Jin scold you for forgetting hydration. You pretend the entire time that you cannot feel the heat of a gaze trailing the edge of your orbit like a planet that refuses to admit it’s caught.
You don’t look back up at the balcony.
You don’t look when he disappears into the crowd.
You don’t look when, two songs later, the lights dim for cake and everyone howls your name and Jin marches forward with a confection so extra it probably has a birth certificate.
You breathe in. You breathe out. You lean into the noise and the sugar and the sparkler-bright chorus of voices.
You make a wish you refuse to name. And you keep your eyes closed a second longer than you need to, because for one more second, you don’t have to see who’s standing where when you open them.
The garden hits like a slap—cold air and the smell of damp earth, hedges trimmed within an inch of their lives, fairy lights strung in polite arcs that make everything look softer than it feels. The bass from inside is a heartbeat through the walls. Your own heartbeat is doing its own fucked-up drum solo.
Bench. Cold. Good. You drop onto it like you’ve been thrown, palms on either side of your thighs, eyes squinting up at a sky that refuses to stand still.
“Motherfucker,” you mutter to no one in particular, lips tingling where that stranger’s mouth was a minute ago. Did you say yes? You said “mmm.” That’s not yes. That’s… not words. Your stomach flips. You swallow it down with the aftertaste of liquor and sugar and something bitter you refuse to name.
Gravel crunches. Footsteps. Then:
“Y/N.”
Namjoon’s voice folds around your name like a blanket you didn’t ask for but kind of needed anyway. He steps into the spill of fairy lights, tie loosened, blazer open, worry etched neat between his brows.
“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” he says, already shrugging out of his jacket.
You try for breezy and land somewhere near winded. “I’m communing with nature.”
He drapes the jacket over your shoulders before you can protest. It’s warm from his body; you burrow without meaning to. “Why didn’t you come find me?”
You roll your head toward him, slow with the spin of the stars. “I didn’t want to cockblock your… whatever that was with the bartender about poetry.”
He huffs, half a laugh, mostly exhale. Then he crouches in front of you so you don’t have to chase his face with your eyes. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” you lie, perfectly, beautifully.
“Try again.”
“Some dude asked if he could kiss me,” you say, airy, like it was weather. “And I said ‘mmm.’ And then he kissed me.”
Namjoon’s jaw does a thing. “Where is he.”
“Relax, Kim Heights. He’s probably back in there telling his friends he blessed the birthday girl.” Your laugh scrapes your throat. “I’m fine.”
“Are you.”
“Yep.” You pop the p. “Just needed air. And fewer mouths.”
His eyes search your face—smudged lipstick, glitter on your cheekbone, the stubborn set of your mouth. “Do you want me to get him thrown out?”
You shake your head. Regret that decision immediately because the sky cartwheels. You catch the bench with both hands, breathe through it. “No bouncers. No scene. Please.”
He nods once, shifts, then reaches into his pocket and produces a small plastic bottle like he’s a magician. “Water.”
“Have you been hoarding hydration?”
“Jimin will over-serve you just to prove he can. I plan ahead.” He twists the cap and hands it to you. “Sip.”
You do. It’s blessedly cold, the kind of clean that slices through fog. You let it sit on your tongue before you swallow, like you can wash the taste of someone else’s decision out of your mouth.
Namjoon watches you drink, then tilts his head. “Jimin told you.”
“About?” You keep your eyes on the hedge line like it’s very interesting.
“Balcony? Sori?”
You shrug, small under his jacket. “He tells me lots of things.”
“Does it bother you?” he asks, gentle, like someone picking up a glass shard with two fingers.
You snort. “No. Why would it. It’s his life.”
“Right.”
You scrape your heel against the gravel, little crescent moons appearing where your shoe skids. “She has very sharp eyeliner,” you add, as if that’s neutral. “Could cut a man.”
Namjoon’s mouth twitches. “You’re allowed to be pissed.”
“I am allowed to be unbothered,” you counter, too fast. You tip the bottle back again. “Look at me. Unbothered.”
He lets the lie sit down beside you without challenging it. That’s the thing about Namjoon—he knows when to hold a mirror and when to cover it. He shifts from a crouch to sitting at your side, angled so you don’t have to move.
“You want to go home?” he asks after a beat. “I’ll get the car.”
Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with glitter or alcohol. “It’s my party.”
“And we can leave it,” he says, steady. “You don’t owe the room your body.”
You stare at the fairy lights until they double, then settle. “Maybe… in a minute.”
He nods, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, the picture of patience. The bass inside thrums through the soil; a night breeze lifts the hair at your temple, cools the heat at your throat.
Gravel again. Another set of footsteps. You don’t have to see him to know; your bones clock him like weather changing.
Yoongi stops at the mouth of the garden path, darkness and chandelier glow cutting him into edges. Black suit. Hands in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them. His eyes find you first, then flick to Namjoon’s jacket on your shoulders, then drop quick to your mouth. Something tightens, minute, in his face.
“Joon,” he says, a greeting that’s also a question.
“Hey,” Namjoon answers, just as neutral. Then he stands, a wall that’s also a door. “She needed air.”
Yoongi nods. His gaze tracks back to you, lingering like he’s bracing for impact. “You okay?”
You take your time answering. Lift the water bottle. Tip it like a toast. “Peachy.”
He absorbs the dryness without flinching. “You disappeared.”
“People do that when they’re magicians,” you say. “Or when they’re bored. Or when a stranger confuses a non-vowel sound for consent.”
Silence slices clean. Namjoon’s head whips toward you. Yoongi goes very, very still.
“Who,” Yoongi says. Not loud. Stripped.
“I handled it,” you reply, eyes on the hedge. “With my legs. I walked away. See? Fully functional.”
Yoongi’s jaw moves like he’s grinding a thought down to powder. “What did he look like.”
“Like a man I won’t think about again,” you say, flat. “Drop it.”
Namjoon lifts a hand, a quiet stall. “We’ll deal with it if you want us to.”
“I don’t,” you snap, and regret the snap, and let the sigh chase it out. “I don’t want this to be a thing. I want to sit on this cold bench and not be a headline at my own party.”
The men exchange a look. A whole conversation passes between them in the tightness around their mouths.
Namjoon inhales, decides something. “I’m getting the car,” he says, and when you open your mouth, he adds, “You can decide in sixty seconds if you’re getting in it. If you want to go back in, I’ll walk you. If you want to leave, I’ll drive. Either way, I’m retrieving it because the valet system here is a hellscape.”
You huff a laugh despite yourself. “Coward’s way of giving me an out.”
“Guilty.” He squeezes your shoulder over his jacket, a pressure that says I’ve got you either way. Then he steps past Yoongi, pauses just long enough to stare him down with brotherly menace, and disappears up the path.
The garden hums. Distant laughter. A bottle clinks somewhere inside. A moth flutters idiotically at a light.
Yoongi doesn’t sit. He steps closer, then stops like the air itself is a boundary he’s not sure he can cross. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that,” he says, low, like it’s a fact and not a feeling.
“Welcome to women,” you reply, dry. “We get party favors.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to be sick. “I’m—” He cuts off, jaw working. “I should’ve—”
“Been glued to my side all night?” You tilt your head, smile like a blade. “You seemed busy.”
He takes that hit, doesn’t try to dodge. “I was an idiot.”
“Cool,” you say, light. “Add it to the list.”
He finally moves, sits on the far end of the bench like he’s respecting a no-man’s-land only you can cross. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The fairy lights buzz faintly, a sound you’ve never noticed until now.
“I saw you on the balcony,” you say after a beat, because alcohol makes a coward brave and a brave person reckless. “Jimin says you went up there the second you got here.”
He exhales through his nose. “I did.” A beat. “I saw you first.”
You bark out a laugh. “Romantic. You saw me, then went the other way.”
“I panicked,” he says, honest in a way that makes your blood run hot and cold. “You looked—” He stops. Shakes his head. “I didn’t trust myself not to say something I can’t take back. Sori said hi on my way to the stairs. That’s all.”
You force yourself to ignore the way your heart flutters hearing the confession he quickly buried.
You stare at the gravel. A moth finally gives up on the light and flutters to the hedge. “She met me, too.”
His head snaps, eyes sharp. “What did she say.”
“That you talk about me,” you say, careful. You roll the cap of the water bottle between your fingers. “That I’m funny.”
He looks at the ground, then at you, like the angle might change the truth. “I do talk about you.”
Your laugh is softer this time, and it hates you for it. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what.”
“Don’t say shit like that when I’m drunk,” you murmur, tipping your head back against the bench slat. The stars blur into smeared city glow. “I’ll think it means something tomorrow.”
He goes quiet. Not empty—full. Brimming with all the words he keeps barricaded behind his teeth. When he speaks, it’s careful, like stepping across thin ice. “It means something tonight.”
Your throat works. You swallow, water useless against that kind of heat. “You’re late.”
“I know.”
“And you’re stupid.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not a back-up plan.”
His voice doesn’t waver. “You never were.”
You look at him then. Really look. The shadowed cut of his jaw. The suit that fits like he put it on to keep himself together. The way his hands are fisted in his pockets because if they weren’t, he’d be reaching.
“Namjoon’s gonna be back in, like, thirty seconds,” you say, because time is a thing you can hold when everything else slips. “He’s going to ask me if I want to leave.”
Yoongi nods once. “Do you?”
You let the question sit in the cold, let it fog, let it clear. You think of Sori’s perfume. Of a stranger’s mouth. Of the bench and the fairy lights and the way your name sounded when he said Hey in a room that was screaming.
“I want to not be in there,” you admit. “I don’t know what I want beyond that.”
“Okay,” he says, immediate, no argument threaded anywhere in it.
You look back at the path, the slice of light where the building breathes out party heat. “If I go,” you add, voice low, “I’m not doing it so you can play knight. I’m doing it because I don’t want to be watched while I figure out whether I’m allowed to be mad at you.”
His mouth tips, bruised at the edges. “You’re allowed.”
“Cool,” you say, eyes stinging with something you refuse to call anything. “I’m mad.”
Gravel again. Namjoon appears, keys raised like a flag. “Valet miracle,” he announces softly, taking in the scene with a general’s calm. “Car’s out front.”
He looks at you. Not at Yoongi. You.
“What’s the move, birthday girl?”
You breathe in. You breathe out. The bench is cold. The stars are still spinning, but slower now.
“I’m going home,” you say. “With Joon.”
A flicker crosses Yoongi’s face—pain, quickly leashed. He nods like it’s the only correct answer. “Text me when you’re safe.”
You slide Namjoon’s jacket tighter around you and stand. Your knees wobble; Namjoon is there without making a fuss of it. You take two steps, then pause, turn, and find Yoongi’s eyes in the half-light.
“Tomorrow,” you say, the word heavy as a promise you haven’t decided if you’ll keep. “Don’t be late.”
His exhale is almost a laugh, almost a prayer. “Okay.”
You turn and let Namjoon guide you up the path. Behind you, Yoongi sits very still on a bench that remembers your weight, fists his hands tighter in his pockets, and stares at the fairy lights until they buzz like a confession.
The night air is cool against your flushed skin, the thud of bass from the party muffled now, like it’s trapped inside a different universe. Namjoon keeps pace with you, his strides long and steady, his voice filling the quiet.
“…like, honestly, who needs three champagne towers? It’s not a wedding. And don’t get me started on the playlist—Taehyung thinks he’s a DJ but he only knows five songs. Five. Songs.” He huffs out a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “The bartender was cute, though. Kept quoting poetry at me when he poured—can you believe that? Like, Rilke over rum. Wild.”
You let him talk, words washing over you, but your mind isn’t with him.
It’s back in the garden.
On the bench.
On Yoongi.
You tell yourself you’re not mad—what right do you even have? He doesn’t owe you anything. He came, he mingled, he spent time with people. He was allowed to smile at someone else. Allowed to stand too close to someone else.
But it was your night. Your birthday.
And he wasn’t really with you.
He wasn’t at your side for the cake. He wasn’t laughing in the circle of friends when Jimin made you blush. He wasn’t with you when Jungkook spun you so hard you nearly fell. All the little pieces that were supposed to add up to tonight—the you-and-him pieces—he wasn’t in them.
And maybe that’s what hurts.
Because it feels like the night was supposed to be about you. But you’re walking away feeling like it wasn’t.
You blink, and suddenly the silver gleam of Namjoon’s car door is right in front of you. Three steps away. Namjoon is still talking, now about stanza breaks and the bartender’s dimples, and you realize you’ve barely heard a word.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “But you said you wanted to leave. You just said goodbye to everyone.”
Your stomach drops. You did? When? The thought slips through the fog of champagne and vodka like a knife—you don’t remember saying goodbye to your friends. You were too busy in your own head, running laps around the hollow ache in your chest.
“I need to tell him, Joon.”
Your voice cracks on the words, thin and begging.
Namjoon doesn’t ask who. Doesn’t need to. He’s known. He’s known since you bought Yoongi that guitar, since you remembered a birthday you never should’ve remembered, since you started saving your best one-liners for him and him alone.
But he shakes his head, steady, gentle. “Not tonight, Y/N. You need to go home and get in bed.”
The devastation crushes you in a sigh. Your throat burns. Your eyes prickle. “Namjoon—” your voice breaks again, and then the tears come hot, unbidden, “Please, I—”
“I know.” He cuts you off, but his tone is soft, like he’s carrying the weight for you. His eyes glint in the dim parking lot light. “You don’t have to tell me. I know.”
The words make your chest splinter. You want to say it anyway. Want to shout it out loud just to hear what it feels like leaving your mouth. But the look on Namjoon’s face tells you everything: save it. Save it for Yoongi.
You swallow hard, wipe at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Maybe I can text him then?”
Namjoon exhales, long, patient. “If you do, you’ll regret it in the morning.”
“But—”
“No buts. Not like this. Not drunk, not half crying in a parking lot. You’ll hate yourself if those words land the wrong way.”
You sag against the car door, shoulders trembling under his jacket, phone heavy in your hand like it’s burning a hole straight through your palm.
And still, the ache won’t let go. Because the truth is there, heavy and undeniable:
You don’t want to go home.
You want to go back.
Back to the garden.
Back to him.
You wake up and your head is pounding, pounding, pounding—
Fuck, what time is it?
You glance at the alarm clock on your nightstand. 11:52 a.m.
You groan, ready to roll back into the abyss, when the pounding comes again. Not from your skull this time—from somewhere out in the living room.
Dragging yourself upright is an Olympic event. You crawl to the door, use the handle to haul yourself up, and silently thank the blackout curtains for saving you from spontaneous combustion. The apartment is dark, mercifully quiet—until you unlock the front door and crack it open.
Blinding light sears your eyes. You hiss, slapping a hand up to shield your face. “AGH—fuck.”
Blink, blink, blink. And then—
Yoongi.
He’s standing there, hair swept back casually, black hoodie, dark navy jeans, and somehow he looks so fucking hot your hungover brain considers dragging him inside and—wait. Why is he here?
“Can I help you?” Your words come out sharper than intended.
“Uh. I got your text. Thought you might need some water and stuff from the store.”
You blink again, this time at the plastic bags in his hands. Two of them, filled to the brim. Groceries. Supplies. Nourishment.
Text?
“I… texted you?” You step aside to let him in, then speed-walk back to your room, heart pounding harder than your head.
Your phone is right where you left it. You snatch it up and scroll.
You [9:48am]: might be dying. send me nourishment.
yoon [9:49am]: be there soon.
Your stomach sinks. Because you remember saying it out loud this morning. Into the void. To Siri. “Hey Siri, text Joon.” Not Yoon.
The universe, apparently, had other plans.
You shuffle back, sheepish, clutching your phone like it’s the smoking gun. “Ahh. My phone texted you on accident. Siri was supposed to text Joon. Not Yoon.”
He stares at you. Unreadable.
“Sorry, Yoongi.”
But he just shrugs, unbothered. “All good. I’m here now.”
And that’s the end of it, at least for him.
The grocery bags rustle as he sets them down on your counter like he’s done this a hundred times before. Bottled water, Gatorade, bananas, a loaf of bread, instant ramen, some kind of canned soup. Practical. Quietly thoughtful. So Yoongi it hurts.
You hover near the hallway like a feral animal half-ready to retreat. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know.” He doesn’t look up, just lines the bottles on your counter. “But you asked.”
Your throat tightens, because technically? No, you didn’t. Not him, anyway. But the evidence is glowing on your phone, timestamped, undeniable.
“Thanks,” you murmur, rubbing your temples.
He glances at you then—sharp, assessing—and points at your couch. “Sit.”
It’s not a suggestion.
You shuffle over, flopping onto the cushions with a groan. The pounding in your head has synchronized with your heartbeat, steady and merciless. Yoongi appears a moment later with a cold water bottle and two painkillers, pressing them into your hands without ceremony.
“Drink.”
You obey, swallowing around the lump in your throat, wincing when the pills scrape down. The water’s blissfully cold, shocking you back into your body.
Yoongi sits on the other end of the couch, angled toward you, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. Casual, except not at all—because his eyes never leave your face.
You shift under the weight of it. “You really didn’t have to come.”
His mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. “Guess I wanted to.”
The room is too quiet after that. Only the hum of your fridge, the faint city noise leaking through your blackout curtains. You fiddle with the bottle cap, unscrewing and rescrewing it, until the words tumble out before you can stop them:
“Sorry about last night.”
Yoongi’s brows twitch, but he doesn’t move. “What are you sorry for?”
You bite your lip, eyes darting away. “I don’t know. Being weird. Disappearing. Getting too drunk. Take your pick.”
He leans forward, forearms on his knees, finally breaking his stillness. His voice is low, deliberate. “You don’t have to apologize for any of that.”
You risk a glance, and it’s almost worse—the softness in his gaze, the way he looks at you like you’re something fragile he doesn’t know how to hold.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because you don’t want to be fragile. You don’t want him to carry you like glass. You want to be wanted.
Your pulse hammers. You clear your throat. “Still… thanks. For showing up.”
“All good,” he says again, simple, final.
But he doesn’t leave. Doesn’t move. He just stays there, steady as ever, like he has all the time in the world to sit on your couch and wait for you to stop spinning.
You tip the water bottle back again, the plastic crackling against your palm. “The room’s not moving anymore,” you say, voice rough, “just… swaying.”
“Good,” he murmurs. “Means your stomach hates you a little less.”
He’s still angled toward you, one knee on the cushion, hoodie soft where his forearm brushes the back of the couch. From here he smells like detergent and whatever clean thing lives in the dark fabric of his clothes—cool, familiar, a scent your body recognizes faster than your head does.
“You brought a whole survival kit,” you add, nodding at the lined-up bottles and the bananas he peeled and then un-peeled because you said the stringy bits were “criminal.”
“You texted,” he answers like it’s math.
“I texted Joon,” you correct, then wince. “Apparently.”
“Lucky for you Siri can’t spell.”
“You’re annoying.”
His mouth twitches; he lets it die. “You okay?”
“Define okay.”
He watches you. Not the hungover kind of watch—no pity, no soft head tilt. He tracks your eyes, your mouth, the way your fingers worry the ridges of the bottle cap like you’re trying to sand yourself smooth.
“I should’ve been with you,” he says.
The sentence lands heavy and simple, no preamble, like he ripped a stitch so it wouldn’t fester.
You blink. “At the party.”
“Yeah.”
“You were there,” you say, because that’s the safe version.
“Not with you.”
It scrapes something raw. You chase it with water; it doesn’t help. “Why weren’t you?”
He drags a hand over his jaw, eyes dropping to the coffee table like he can line his thoughts up next to the Gatorades. “I walked in, saw you on the floor, and—” He exhales a quiet, stuttering laugh with no humor in it. “—my brain just… shorted. You looked—” His gaze flicks back to you, sticks for a second on your mouth. “—and I got stupid. I went upstairs to get it together and then people kept talking and—”
“And Sori said hi,” you say, neutral as a knife laid flat.
His throat works. “She said hi.”
Silence folds in around you. The clock on your microwave stutters out a soft electronic tick every minute; the apartment’s old pipes clink somewhere in the wall like they’re chewing on ice.
He leans in, forearms on his thighs now, voice low enough you feel it in your ribs. “I’m sorry I wasn’t where I should’ve been. I’m sorry you blew out candles without me next to you. I’m sorry you went outside alone. I should’ve been with you.”
You want to deflect—aim a joke at his chest and watch it bounce—but the way he says it pins you to the cushion. “Why say it now?”
“Because you asked me last night not to be late,” he answers, eyes steady. “And I don’t want to be late for this.”
“For what?” Your mouth is dry again. But you don’t reach for the water.
“For the part where I stop pretending this doesn’t matter,” he says, and the words are so bare you almost flinch. “You’re—” He swallows. “You’re my best friend.”
Your laugh comes out thin and mean to hide the way your pulse kicks. “Congratulations, you and Namjoon can share custody.”
He almost smiles. But he doesn’t. “You know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “I hurt you yesterday.”
You look at the floor, the gray weave of the rug you bought on sale because the reviews said it hid red wine. “I hate that you can tell.”
“I hate that I gave you a reason.”
Something loosens in your chest and tightens at the same time. “Then don’t do it again.”
“I won’t.”
“You say that like you can control the future. Like it’s easy.”
“It’s not.”
You sit with that and so does he. The fridge hums in the kitchen, a car door thunks somewhere on the street. You can feel the apology vibrating in him, the unsaid parts pressing hard against the back of his teeth.
Your phone, abandoned face-down on the coffee table, gives a useless little buzz of an insignificant notification. His, tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie, is quiet.
“You know,” you say, softer now, “I didn’t even want a party.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“But the one thing I did want was…” You stop yourself, throat hot, eyes stinging. Feeling a little ridiculous right now.
“Me there,” he finishes, no triumph in it, only truth.
You meet his eyes and hate that they’re careful. “Yeah. That’s what I was looking forward to. And where were you?”
He shakes his head, slow. “Not there.”
“Then say it again. Properly this time,” you push, because you want to hear him choose it twice. “What you’re sorry for.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t with you,” he says, steady. “I’m sorry I let the party swallow me when I should’ve found you. I’m sorry that I made you wonder if you mattered more than the people I was with.”
Your living room holds the words like they might break if it breathes too hard.
You drag a fingertip along the sweating ridge of your water bottle. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“It’s a start.”
His shoulders drop a fraction, tension leaking out like air from a pinhole. “I’ll take a start.”
“Hey! Don’t get cocky.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
You’re about to say something reckless and small and yours—something about how you would have let him hold the sparkler while you made your wish—when a low vibration murmurs against denim.
He glances down. The sound is so quiet it could be the building creaking, but you feel the shift in his focus like a draft under a door. He fishes his phone out, checks the screen with that same careful face he wears when he listens to a half-finished demo.
He hits decline.
The buzz dies.
You watch his thumb hover a second too long over the glass, as if his finger can erase a name. He tucks the phone back into his pocket, looks up at you, opens his mouth—
The phone vibrates again. Louder now, insistent, trapped in fabric. He doesn’t move at first, like not acknowledging it might starve it of oxygen. It keeps ringing, patient and relentless.
“Do you need to get that?” you ask, voice very calm, like you’re asking if he needs a coaster.
“No,” he says, just as calm.
The ring keeps threading between you.
“Who is it?” You tip your head, trying for breezy, landing on brittle.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Humor me.”
He shakes his head, jaw tight. The buzz goes on, familiar rhythm looping, and something inside you decides it’s done being polite. You reach forward, fingers wrapping around his wrist where the cuff of his hoodie meets warm skin.
“Let me see.”
He stills. Not resisting—shocked still. The privacy reflex hits late; you’ve already slid your hand down, already dipped your fingers into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie like you own the right, already brushed knuckles to glass.
The screen flares up against your palm.
It’s only four letters. White text, black background, neat little vibration under your hand like the phone itself is smug about it.
Sori.
You don’t even really know her. Didn’t know she existed until last night. Don’t know if she’s an old friend, a new one, or just a passing shadow to Yoongi. You don’t know if she’s someone who laughs at his sarcasm the way you do, if she knows the way his voice drops when he’s serious, if she’s ever had him smile at her the way he smiles at you like you’re his.
But you know this: the second you see her name, your stomach twists sharp and painfully mean.
It’s nausea, hot and cold at once, like you’ve swallowed something that doesn’t belong in your body. It coils low, climbs high, catches at the back of your throat. Your pulse stutters, and suddenly the whole room feels too small, too loud—even though it’s just you, him, the hum of the fridge.
Why should it matter? He can have friends. He can have whoever-the-hell Sori is. You’re not his girlfriend. You’re not his anything. You don’t get to have a say.
And still—you hate it. Hate the way her name looks lit up in his pocket. Hate the way it rang twice, like she knew he’d ignore her once and was ready for round two. Hate the way your hand trembled when you pulled it out, like you were already bracing for the blow.
It’s pathetic, you think. It’s not even her. It’s the not-knowing.
Where she came from. Why she knows him. How close they are. If she knew him before you did.
That last thought lands like a sucker punch. You swallow hard against the bile.
You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t—
“Y/N.”
His voice cuts through your thoughts. Low and so careful.
You look up, and he’s already watching you. Watching the exact way your jaw tightens, the exact way your fingers still press against his wrist like you forgot to let go.
He sees it all.
And the worst part? You see him see it. The flicker of realization in his eyes, quick and sharp, like a spark hitting kindling. He knows.
He knows you’re jealous.
Yoongi tilts his head, still caught under your fingers where they’ve wrapped around his wrist. His mouth curves, faint, the kind of smirk that says he’s decided not to let the silence swallow you whole.
“So,” he says, slow, amused, “we’re just grabbing people’s phones now? That a new birthday tradition or…?”
You blink, throat tight. “I wasn’t grabbing, I was—” You stop. Heat crawls up your neck. “—I don’t know what I was.”
“Investigating?” His smirk deepens, but his voice softens with it. “That’s bold. Didn’t peg you for the jealous type.”
The word hits too close. Your stomach flips. “I’m not jealous.”
“Mm.” He leans back, wrist still loose in your hold, like he’s giving you the chance to let go and not making a big deal out of the fact that you don’t. “Sure. Totally. That’s why you look like you’re about to fight Siri for connecting Sori’s call.”
Her name on his lips does something ugly to your insides and you suddenly feel like throwing up again.
You groan and drop his wrist like it burns all the sudden. “Shut up.”
He chuckles, low and warm, no sting in it. “I mean, you didn’t even ask who she was before you went full detective. Kind of flattering, actually.”
Your chest squeezes. “It’s not—” You rub your temples, voice wobbling at the edges. “I just… I don’t even know who she is, Yoongi. I don’t know how you know her, or if you knew her before, or if she’s—” You bite the words off, sharp. “It doesn’t matter.”
His smirk eases, eyes steady on yours now. “You really want to know?”
You freeze. The question hangs there, heavy, tempting, terrifying.
“…No,” you say finally, lying through your teeth. “I don’t care.”
Yoongi hums, like he hears the truth tucked under the denial. Not pressing, not pushing—just sitting with it. Then he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, voice dipping quiet.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, simple, sincere, “you’re the one I’d have rather been with last night. Not her. You.”
Your throat works, traitorous. You want to laugh it off, toss the line back, make it light. But the words sit heavy, glowing, and you can’t quite find the air to move them.
So instead, you look down at your lap, tugging at a loose thread on your blanket, and mutter the safest thing you can manage.
“You’re annoying.”
“Yeah,” he says, smiling now. “But I’m your annoying.”
You half-smile, acknowledging his words that make your heart flutter more than they should.
He looks down at his lap before finding your eyes again. “And you have nothing to worry about.”
You let out a humorless laugh. “What does that even mean.”
“It means,” he says, confident and steady, “I could never replace you. If that’s why you’re… jealous.”
Your chest goes tight. “I’m not worried about being replaced,” you shoot back, too fast. “I’m worried about—”
You hear yourself hit the edge and slam on the brakes. No. Not like this. Not with last night still in your throat, not with someone else’s name still buzzing in his pocket.
“Worried about?” he asks, softer now. Patient, like he’s learned your tells and is offering you a way down.
You take a breath that doesn’t go anywhere. Then the words arrive all at once, tripping over each other like they’ve been queued for hours.
“Look. I don’t care if you’re having fun and going on dates or fucking around and just looking for casual sex.” Your voice is too bright, too sharp. “But last night I was super fucking annoyed that all your attention was on someone I don’t even know and never even heard of, when I wanted to be having the time of my life with you. You. My hot best friend. The one person I could joke with about that horribly fantastic party. But you weren’t there. And I know you said sorry, and I guess I forgive you, but I’ll be hurt for a little bit, but my point is… I wore that dress for—”
BZZ-ZZZZ.
You flinch like the sound touched your skin. His phone rattles in his hoodie pocket again, insistently, as if the universe just cannot help itself.
You’re halfway to smacking it out of him when you see his face.
He’s looking at you like you just said something holy by accident. Like you hung the moon and he’s been figuring out how to thank you ever since. Warm, startled, wrecked all at once. It’s not a look you’ve ever seen him aim at anyone else.
BZZ. BZZ.
He doesn’t even glance down this time. He reaches into his pocket without breaking eye contact, pulls the phone out, hits decline, and sets it face-down on your coffee table like he’s putting a lid on a pot before it boils over.
Silence spreads, thin and shimmering.
“You wore the dress for who,” he says, voice low, as if he’s afraid of scaring the truth back into its hole.
“For—” The word tangles. You swallow, hate the quake in your throat. “For feeling good,” you say, cowardly. Then quieter: “For… me.”
His mouth twitches—there and gone. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and searches your face like it’s the only sheet of music he knows how to read.
“I didn’t give Sori my attention,” he says, measured. “I stood upstairs because I panicked. She said hi because Jin dragged her over. I nodded through a conversation I didn’t hear because every time you laughed, it was like the floor moved. Nothing happened. I left the balcony because I couldn’t stay one more second where I couldn’t touch you.”
Your pulse stumbles, catches, sprints. “You didn’t touch me downstairs either.”
“I tried,” he says, winces at himself, corrects quietly, “I asked. You said you were busy. You were right to say it.”
“I was mad,” you admit. It feels like handing him your throat. “I wanted you next to me and you weren’t. Then there was this… person. This name. And I—” Your voice roughens. “I hated not knowing if you were choosing her over me.”
His eyes soften like that’s the one hit that lands. “I wasn’t choosing anyone over you.” He taps a knuckle against the table, once, a valve for something hotter. “Sori is… Jin’s friend. She works A&R. Last night she wanted to talk about a feature for an artist. I told her no. Twice.”
“But she’s calling,” you say, because the facts are stacked on the table blinking up at you in bold font.
He drags a hand over his jaw. “She’s calling because I texted her at 2 a.m. to give her my number because Jin told me to.” A brief, humorless laugh. “She told me I was insane for texting her so late. Then she said happy birthday to you. Then she left her coat upstairs and thinks I can magic it out of the very locked building.”
“Oh.” The word is light; the drop in your stomach is not. “That’s… anticlimactic.”
“I’m sorry it isn’t salacious enough for your spiral,” he murmurs. “Want me to pretend I eloped?”
“Don’t tempt me. I’ll plan the reception out of spite.”
He smiles properly this time. Small. Real. Then it fades, not because it’s gone but because he’s turning the volume down to say the rest.
“You said you don’t care if I’m dating,” he says. “I’m not.”
“That’s a convenient coincidence.”
“It’s an inconvenient truth,” he replies, and if he were anyone else he’d be grinning at his own line. He isn’t. He’s looking at you like the next choice will rearrange the room.
Your heartbeat is a clumsy thing in your chest. “So what am I worried about, Yoongi?”
He tips his head, patient. “You tell me.”
You stare at him. At the hoodie you’ve seen a hundred times, the one you’ve stolen twice. At the hands he keeps hiding from the space between you like they might give him away. At the mouth that has laughed with you, cut with you, said things drunk that sober-you memorized and buried.
“I was worried,” you say, each word picked out like it’s lying under glass, “that I was the only one who felt… how I feel. And if I say it out loud, and I am the only one, I won’t get to have the part I already have.”
He inhales, slow, the kind of breath you take before you step onto thin ice. “The part where we’re… us.”
“Yeah.”
“And if you weren’t the only one?” he asks, so gentle you want to shake him.
“Then I’m still mad about last night,” you say, because your brain is a wild animal that insists on bargaining even with the door cracked open. “But maybe not… terrified.”
His gaze flicks, quick, to your mouth and back. “You wore the dress for me.”
It isn’t a question this time. It’s a mercy.
You let your eyes drop to your hands, the faint half-moons your nails pressed in your palm. “I wore it hoping you’d look at me and—” You bite down on the rest. Enough honesty for one breath.
“I looked,” he says. “I haven’t stopped.”
BZZ-ZZZZ.
The phone on the table makes a valiant attempt at resurrecting itself, skittering once against the wood. You glance at it, then back at him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.
“Let it ring,” he says softly. “Please.”
You do. For once you let something that isn’t him wait.
He shifts closer, not enough to crowd, enough that his knee brushes the cushion seam next to your thigh. The hoodie smells like detergent and something that’s just him; your stupid body registers all of it like facts it’s been starving for.
“Say the rest,” he asks. “The part after ‘I wore that dress for—’”
You breathe out a laugh that’s almost a sob. “God, you’re greedy.”
“I learned from the best.”
You look at him, and it’s like the party, the garden, the bench, the whole world has been a long hallway pointing here.
“For you,” you say. Quiet. True. “I wore it for you.”
His eyes close for a second like the sentence hits bone.
When he opens them, there’s nothing careful left.
“Come here,” he says.
You move first—not because he told you to, but because the space between you has been lying this whole time. You shift across the cushion, knees knocking, and his hand comes up like gravity to your jaw, thumb gentle at the corner of your mouth where last night smudged something you didn’t want.
He pauses, searches your face for a no you aren’t giving.
“Yoongi,” you warn, a wry smile trying to save you both and failing. “If you ask me if this is okay I might combust.”
He huffs a laugh that’s more breath than sound. “Then save us both.”
You do.
And when your lips touch, it’s not fireworks. It’s not a car crash. It’s the simple, devastating relief of something finding its right place. He kisses you like he’s been waiting at a red light for a year and it finally turned green—he’s careful, then not, then careful again because he knows the shape of your edges. Your hand fists in the front of his hoodie. His fingers slide into your hair like they were always meant to be there.
The room doesn’t sway anymore. It stills.
When you pull back, barely, it’s only to breathe his name against his mouth and see the way it lands. He’s smiling, small and rueful and respectful in a way that makes your ribs ache.
“I’m still mad,” you whisper, because some small, stubborn part of you needs to plant a flag.
“I’ll earn my way out,” he murmurs. “Stay mad. Stay.”
“I planned to.” Your forehead tips to his. “For a long time, actually.”
BZZ. BZZ. BZZ. BZZ.
You both glance at the table like you’re looking at a mosquito that thought it was a hawk. Yoongi reaches out without looking, flips the phone over with two fingers, and finally silences it.
“I’ll block her later,” he says, almost amused. “Tell her Jin has her coat but she has the wrong number.”
“Please do not drag the coat into your lies.”
“It’s not a lie.” He kisses you once, quick and devastating. “I’ll change my number.”
You snort, breathless, and he grins against your mouth like he just solved something complicated. The headache behind your eyes is a faint pressure now, not a drum. Your stomach is quiet. The buzzing is gone.
“Yoongi,” you say, and he hums, thumb tracing the hinge of your jaw like he’s afraid you might vanish if he stops touching you. “I want to be stupid with you for a while.”
“Good,” he says, like he’s been waiting for someone to hand him permission to breathe. “I’m great at stupid.”
“Prove it.”
He leans back just enough to look at you, really look, and the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes go soft. “I’ll start by making you soup and holding your hair if you throw up.”
“Hot.”
“And then I’ll spend the rest of the day telling you every version of ‘nothing happened’ until even your jealousy gets bored and falls asleep.”
“Ambitious.”
He kisses your temple. “And after you nap, I’m going to apologize again for last night. Better. With sentences that aren’t trash. Then I’m going to ask you if I can take you on a date that doesn’t end with you wanting to fight Siri in the street.”
You blink. That word sits different now. Not heavy. Possible.
“And if I say yes?”
He smiles, quiet, certain. “Then I’ll try not to be late.”
You search his face for a loophole you can hide in. You don’t find one. “Okay,” you say. “Okay.”
He exhales like a man who’s been underwater and finally broke the surface.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, and you do, tucking yourself into the corner of the couch with him like it’s been waiting for this exact geometry. His hoodie is soft under your cheek. His heartbeat is stupid and steady against your ear. The city hums. Somewhere in your kitchen, a Gatorade bottle sweats itself into a little ring on the counter.
When your phone buzzes on the table, it’s a text from Namjoon.
Joon: alive?
You smile into cotton and type with one hand.
you: yeah
you: soup incoming
you: don’t worry about the coat
Three dots. Then:
Joon: …what coat
You huff a laugh you didn’t know you had left. Yoongi doesn’t ask what’s funny. He already knows. He just kisses the top of your head like he intends to make a habit of it.
“Tomorrow,” you murmur, eyes already slipping shut despite yourself, “don’t be late.”
“I won’t,” he says, and the way he says it makes your body believe him before your brain does.
The phone on the table stays quiet. The soup pot waits. The dress is hanging somewhere in the dark of your closet like a witness.
You think about the way he looked at you before he kissed you, like the moon finally turned around and noticed who’d been holding it up.
And you reckon no one has ever looked at you that way before.
The soup tasted better than it should’ve.
Maybe it was because you were hungover and half-dead, maybe it was because Yoongi had leaned against your counter in that hoodie, scowling at the recipe on his phone like broth was a personal enemy, maybe it was because he kept sliding glances at you like he couldn’t believe you were really there.
Whatever the reason, you ate it. Slowly, gratefully. He made you drink water in between bites, muttered something about “keeping electrolytes up” like he wasn’t the one who showed up with a bag of bananas and Gatorade in the first place.
You laughed at him. He kissed you quiet.
Later, you curled up on the couch with a blanket big enough for two, his arm slung heavy and sure around you. Movies played half-forgotten in the background, your head on his chest, his thumb tracing idle circles against your arm. The kisses came soft and unhurried, the kind you could fall asleep in.
At some point, you must’ve.
Because when you open your eyes again, it’s morning.
Your room is flooded with pale light that slips past the blackout curtains, painting everything in soft gray. Your head doesn’t hurt anymore; your body feels loose, weightless. For half a second you let yourself drift, float in the warmth cocooned around you—until you realize that warmth isn’t the blanket.
It’s him.
Yoongi is behind you, his chest pressed firm against your back, his breath slow at your nape. His arm is heavy over your waist, tucked under your shirt just enough to graze bare skin. And when you shift, careful, testing—
Oh.
Your ass fits right up against his front.
Every nerve ending in your body lights up like fireworks.
You freeze. Absolutely still. Wide awake now in a way that feels criminal. Your brain, traitorous, starts cataloguing everything at once: the heat of him pressed along your spine, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the solid weight against your hip that tells you exactly how real this is.
Shit.
Slowly—so slowly—you breathe in. Out. You try to convince yourself you can relax, that it doesn’t mean anything, that this is just what happens when two people fall asleep in the same bed. Gravity. Logistics. Biology.
But then his fingers twitch at your waist. Just the barest curl, like even in sleep his body knows it wants you closer.
And you realize: you’re not going back to sleep. Not like this.
Your heart is in your throat, your pulse hammering loud enough you’re afraid it’ll wake him. You tell yourself not to move. You tell yourself you can stay perfectly still until he wakes up first. You tell yourself—
Then his breath shifts, deeper, warmer, nosing the back of your neck.
Oh, fuck.
“Yoongi…” you whisper, so quiet you’re not even sure you meant for him to hear it.
He stirs, the smallest sound in his throat, voice thick with sleep. “Mm. Still dreaming.”
Your chest tightens. “Of what?”
He shifts, breath warm against your neck, words barely brushing your skin. “You. Always you.”
The confession hits you harder than his body pressed against yours. Your pulse spikes, your body aching with the knowledge of how close he is—how hard he is—and how much you want him.
You twist carefully in his hold until you’re facing him, and he looks wrecked in the soft light—hair a mess, lashes heavy, lips parted. Beautiful. Real. Yours.
Your hand finds the fabric of his hoodie, clinging. “We should…” you murmur, breathless, “brush our teeth first.”
That earns the faintest crook of his mouth, still half-asleep. “Practical.”
You slip out of bed on wobbly legs, padding toward the bathroom. He follows a moment later, dragging a hand through his hair, hoodie slouched off one shoulder cause he couldn’t be bothered to fix it.
The two of you stand at the sink, shoulders brushing, toothbrushes moving in quiet sync. He’s always had an extra toothbrush at your place. It should feel ordinary, domestic. Instead, the air between you hums, electric, sharp with what you’re not saying.
When you spit and rinse, lifting your gaze to the mirror, you catch him watching you—awake now, eyes dark and unflinching.
You set your toothbrush down, breath caught. “Yoongi—”
But he closes the space before you can finish, hand cradling your jaw as his mouth finds yours, cool mint still fresh on his tongue, and suddenly you’re gone—burning, melting, needing him like air.
It’s not the soft, careful kiss from last night—it’s greedy, impatient, like he’s been holding his breath for years and finally decided to inhale.
You gasp, hands fisting in his hoodie, and he uses that tiny opening to lick into you, tongue sliding against yours until you’re dizzy. The counter digs into the backs of your thighs before you even register he’s moved you, his hands braced firm at your hips, lifting, setting you down on the cold marble like it’s nothing.
The world tilts, and then it doesn’t matter—because Yoongi is standing between your knees, kissing you like the end of everything. Hard. Hot. Like if he stops, the whole world will collapse.
Your fingers claw into his hair, tugging, desperate. He groans into your mouth, the sound low and wrecked, vibrating straight through you.
You break for air only long enough to see him—lips red, pupils blown, hoodie collar bunched in your fists. His forehead tips against yours, breaths ragged. “Fuck, Y/N,” he mutters, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper, hungrier, like he’ll never get enough.
His hands roam—up your sides, over your waist, sliding beneath your shirt to find bare skin, warm palms branding every inch they touch. You arch into him, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer until you feel the solid, unmistakable press of him right where you need it.
The sound you make is shameless. His answering groan is worse.
“Been dreaming about this,” he rasps against your mouth. “About you. For so long.”
You kiss him harder, swallowing the confession whole, because if you don’t, you’ll beg. And you’re already half a second from begging anyway.
The kiss doesn’t slow. It only deepens—messier, hungrier, your lips swollen, teeth clashing as his tongue tangles with yours. His hands grip your thighs like he’s terrified you’ll slip off the counter, thumbs pressing into the soft skin there as if reminding himself of the fact that this is real.
“Fuck,” Yoongi groans into your mouth, breaking away just long enough to drag his lips across your jaw, down your throat. “You taste… fuck, you taste better than I dreamed.”
Your head falls back against the mirror with a soft thud, a whimper spilling out before you can swallow it. “Yoongi—”
“Say it again,” he murmurs against your skin, lips hot at the hollow of your throat. “Say my name like that.”
“Yoongi.” It’s desperate this time, broken open.
He bites down gently, sucking a mark into your skin that will brand you tomorrow, and the sound you make has his breath hitching. His hands slide higher, skimming beneath your shirt until his thumbs are brushing the underside of your breasts, not quite touching, just teasing, making your body arch toward him instinctively.
Your fingers dig into his hair, tugging him back up so you can crash your mouth against his again. He takes it, gives it back tenfold, kissing you like he’ll starve without it.
“I wanted this,” you pant against his lips. “Last night. The night before, at the party.” You dive in for more kisses. “All night. You—”
“Me too,” he cuts in, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. “Wanted you so bad I couldn’t breathe. Thought I was gonna lose it if I touched you.”
You whimper, and his grip on your thighs tightens. He kisses you once more, then pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look. His eyes are dark, blown wide, but there’s something steady under it, something careful.
“Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough but low and respectful. His thumb strokes against your skin, grounding. “Let me go down on you.”
The question hangs in the air, heavy, sparking against every nerve in your body.
Your breath stutters. Heat pools low in your stomach, your legs already parting without thought, like your body made the decision before your mouth could.
You nod frantically, hips jerking forward, the word tumbling out of you on a broken pant. “Please.”
Something in his face twists—like he’s both wrecked and relieved at once. He kisses you again, hard and quick, stealing your breath before dropping to his knees on the cold tile.
The sight alone nearly undoes you. Yoongi, kneeling between your thighs, hoodie hanging loose around his frame, dark hair falling into his eyes as he pulls off your sleeping shorts and presses your knees wider. Like you’re something to be opened. Something to be savored. But he leaves your lacy panties on.
“Fuck, look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and gravely, hands sliding up the insides of your thighs. His thumbs trace soft circles there, teasing closer, closer, until you’re arching toward him without shame.
He glances up once, eyes locking with yours, dark and steady. “I need to taste you.”
You moan just at the sound of it, head tipping back against the mirror, and then he leans in—pressing one hot, open-mouthed kiss over the thin fabric of your panties. The wet heat of his tongue seeps through, and you jolt, a whimper breaking free.
“Yoongi—”
He groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. “So sweet already.” His fingers hook under the edge of your underwear, tugging them down your thighs with agonizing slowness, eyes never leaving yours.
When the fabric hits the floor, he nudges your knees apart wider, settling in like he belongs there, and lowers his mouth to you.
The first stroke of his tongue has your whole body jerking off the counter. He grips your thighs firmly, holding you open as he licks into you again, slow and deliberate, like he’s learning you by taste.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groans against your cunt, tongue circling your clit before flattening to lap at you with long, unhurried strokes. “How do you taste so fucking good?”
Your hands slam against the counter edge, searching for stability. You’re panting, gasping, every nerve ending set on fire as he works you open with his mouth. His tongue teases, licks, sucks, alternating pressure until your thighs tremble around his head.
“Please,” you whimper again, tugging his hair without realizing it, and he moans into you like he likes the desperation, like he needs it. The sound shoots straight through you, white-hot.
He pulls back just enough to look up at you, mouth wet, lips red, eyes molten. “Yeah? You want more?”
You nod frantically, words spilling out ragged. “Don’t stop—please, Yoongi, don’t stop.”
His smirk is faint, wicked. “Wasn’t planning to.”
And then he dives back in, tongue relentless, sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking until your vision blurs out.
You choke on a moan, your whole body arching, thighs trembling around his head, and Yoongi just holds you steady, eating you like he could live here forever. Like he’s been starving for this exact moment, for you.
You’re so fucking close.
And Yoongi doesn’t let up. His tongue works you with steady, devastating precision—long, slow licks that drag all the way through your folds, sharp flicks against your clit, then sucking it into his mouth until you’re keening, your hips jerking helplessly against his hold.
“Yoongi—fuck—” you gasp, fingers tangled in his hair, pulling without thought.
He groans like your desperation is feeding him, his mouth sealing over you tighter, tongue pressing into you with purpose. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice wrecked but steady. “Give it to me. I’ve got you.”
Your thighs tremble around his head, every nerve firing, heat winding tight in your belly. He feels it—of course he does—because his grip on your thighs tightens, pinning you open as his pace grows just a fraction more deliberate.
He draws lazy circles over your clit with his tongue, building, building, relentless in the way only he could be. You’re panting, breaking apart, teetering on the edge—
“Yoongi, I—I’m—”
“Yeah,” he rasps, pulling you impossibly closer to his mouth. “Come for me.”
And right before you do, he slides his middle finger inside you and curls it perfectly.
You gasp, “Fuck—YOON—“
It rips through you sudden and hard and sharp, your whole body arching off the counter as pleasure detonates in waves. Your cry echoes against the bathroom tiles, thighs clamping around his head while he groans into you, pumping and curling his finger just right inside you. His mouth still on your clit, licking you through it, slow and unhurried, savoring every twitch and pulse.
Your grip in his hair turns shaky, your body slumping back against the mirror as aftershocks roll through you. You’re wrecked, panting, dazed—and Yoongi finally pulls back, lips wet, chin slick, eyes dark and glowing all at once.
“Fuck,” he breathes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re gorgeous like this.”
You barely manage a whimper before his arms are sliding under you, lifting you off the counter like you weigh nothing. You bury your face against his shoulder, still trembling, as he carries you out of the bathroom.
Each step toward your bed feels surreal, dizzying. The sheets are cool against your back when he lowers you down, settling between your knees, his hands braced on either side of you like he’s caging you in.
He leans down, kissing you deep—mint, salt, and you—and you can taste yourself on his tongue. He doesn’t let you look away, doesn’t give you space to doubt.
“Round one,” he murmurs against your lips, voice low and hot on your skin. “Now let me ruin you properly.”
His mouth trails down your throat, across your collarbone, slow and chaste even as his hands are shaking with urgency. He kisses you as if he wants to memorize every inch of your skin before he dares take more.
Then he leans back, tugging his hoodie over his head. It falls to the floor in a heap, followed by his t-shirt, leaving him bare chested above you—lean muscle, pale skin, the rise and fall of his chest unsteady as he stares down at you.
“Your turn,” he murmurs, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt. He pauses, searching your face. “Can I?”
You nod, frantic. “Please.”
The shirt comes off, your bra following, and for a long moment he just… stares. His mouth parts, his chest heaves, and he shakes his head like he can’t believe this is real.
“Beautiful doesn’t even come close,” he says, voice raw, almost angry at the limitation of language. “Fuck. I wish I had a better word, but you—” He swallows hard. “You make me stupid.”
Heat floods your face, your chest, all the way down to your core. You reach for him, dragging his mouth back to yours, kissing him messy, urgent, because if he keeps looking at you like that, you’ll combust.
His sweats are loose at his hips, and your hand slips down, tugging at the waistband until you find him. Hard, hot, heavy in your palm. You wrap your fingers around him, pumping slow at first, and the moan he lets out into your mouth nearly undoes you.
God, he’s thick. Not the longest, but girthy, solid, filling your hand so completely you know the stretch is going to wreck you in the best way. You stroke him again, thumb swiping over the damp slit, and his hips jerk helplessly against your hand.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he groans, kissing you harder, tongue pushing deep like he can’t control himself. His whole body shudders above you as you pump him, and it makes your stomach twist with heat knowing you’re unraveling him this fast.
But then he breaks the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. “Stop—”
You freeze, eyes wide. “Did I—?”
“No,” he blurts, voice wrecked, hands gripping your hips like he’s holding on for dear life. “It’s not that. It’s—” He exhales shakily, eyes squeezed shut for a moment before he looks at you again, raw and unguarded. “This is too much. You’re too much. I’ve wanted this for so fucking long, and now it’s actually happening, and if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna last. Not the way I need to. Not the way you deserve.”
Your heart thuds, your chest tight. He’s not joking. He’s deadly serious, like the gravity of this moment is messing with his entire body.
Yoongi kisses you again, slower this time but with more passion. “Let me take it slow first. Let me make it last.”
For a moment, time itself slows down.
You’ve imagined this—fantasized about it in quiet, shameful corners of your mind—but nothing could have prepared you for the reality of Yoongi above you, stripped down and wrecked, telling you he’s waited for this as long as you have. It feels unreal. Like the universe pressed pause just so you could see him clearly: your best friend, the man who knows your darkest jokes and your softest silences, looking at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. You’re so in love with him it feels like your body can’t contain it. Every heartbeat is a reminder: you’ve waited for this. You’ve lived for this. And now it’s happening, right here, in his hands.
Yoongi’s mouth returns to yours, slow and languid, even as his hands tug at the last barrier between you. He peels his sweats and underwear down, dragging them over his hips without disconnecting the kiss. When he’s completely bare, he pulls back just enough to look at you beneath him—really look—and the sound he makes is guttural, torn straight from his chest.
“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes dark, hungry, but shining with something more. “You’re… god, I don’t even have the words. You’re everything.”
Heat floods through you, your thighs pressing together instinctively. But he’s already there, easing them apart with gentle hands, sliding down the bed until he’s between them again. He kisses along your inner thigh, slow, worshiping your skin, then presses one finger inside you, careful but firm.
You gasp, back arching. He groans at the sound, eyes locked on your face as he works you open, sliding deep, curling just right until your hips jerk. “So tight,” he mutters, kissing your knee. “Need to get you ready for me.”
Another finger joins, stretching you more, and the pressure builds deliciously. You clutch at the sheets, moaning helplessly as he pumps them steady, scissoring you open while his thumb circles your clit. He watches you unravel, his lips parted, his breathing rough. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Open up for me. Let me feel you.”
When your thighs start trembling again, he pulls back, dragging his fingers out slowly, leaving you empty and whimpering. He’s already reaching into the pocket of his sweats, pulling a condom out and tearing it open with his teeth.
Your eyes widen. “You—?”
“Always prepared,” he rasps, rolling it down his cock with practiced hands. He catches your expression and gives a small, crooked smirk. “What? You think I didn’t come over here prepared after seeing you in that dress?”
And then he’s there—thick and hot and heavy in his fist, lining himself up against your entrance. He pauses, hovering over you, one hand cupping your jaw, his forehead pressing to yours. His voice is low, almost shaking. “This is it. Are you okay?”
Your body is already begging, already slick and open for him. You nod frantically. “Yes. Please, Yoongi. I need you.”
He exhales sharply, hips rolling forward, and you feel it—his cock pushing into you, slow, careful, stretching you inch by inch. Your jaw falls open, a broken cry spilling out as the stretch burns in the best possible way. He’s thick, filling you so completely you can barely breathe.
“Fuck,” he groans, head dropping against your shoulder, his voice raw. “You feel—shit—you feel so good.”
The stretch has your body clenching tight around him, every nerve alight. He’s the biggest you’ve ever had, not in length but in sheer girth, the kind of fullness that makes you dizzy, makes your thighs shake. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, your nails digging in as he bottoms out, burying himself fully inside you.
“Yoongi—oh my god—”
He holds still, chest heaving, giving you time to adjust. His lips find your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, peppering kisses like he can’t stop himself. “Tell me when,” he pants. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
You shift, rolling your hips experimentally, and the shock of pleasure rips a moan out of you. “Now,” you whisper, desperate. “Move, please.”
He pulls back, slow, then thrusts in again, and the world tilts. The drag of his cock against your walls is overwhelming, toeing the line between pain and ecstasy, and you cling to him, panting his name.
“Fuck—” he grits out, thrusting again, harder this time, the rhythm building as he loses his control. “So tight, so perfect—been dreaming about this for so long. About you.”
Your heart lurches, tears stinging your eyes at the rawness in his voice. You kiss him hard, swallowing his moans, your body clenching around him with every deep, deliberate thrust.
He fucks you slow but rough, every push in like a confession, every pull out dragging another plea from your lips. His grip on your hips is bruising, his mouth a litany against your skin: beautiful, mine, always wanted you, fuck, I love the way you feel.
The world shrinks down to this—the stretch, the heat, the sound of his moans in your ear, the way he’s finally, finally inside you.
Yoongi thrusts into you again, slow and deep, and then suddenly pulls out, chest heaving. Before you can protest, his hands are on your hips, flipping you gently onto your stomach.
“Want to see you like this,” he mutters, voice rough, guiding you onto your hands and knees.
And then he’s pushing back inside, thick cock sliding into you from behind, and the angle makes you cry out, the stretch sharper, deeper. You drop your head forward, moaning his name as you rock your hips back into him.
“Yoongi—fuck, yes—”
His grip tightens, and he drives into you harder, each thrust making the headboard slam against the wall. The sound is obscene, wet and desperate, the slap of skin against skin echoing in your ears.
“Holy fuck,” he groans, and then he stops—just stops moving. His hands hold your hips while you keep grinding back on him, fucking yourself on his cock like you’ll die if you stop. The stretch is brutal, dizzying, but you don’t care—you need it, you need him.
And then his hand reaches around to find your clit. His middle finger makes contact with your bundle of nerves, drawing tight circles on you, and your whole body jolts back, forcing his cock even deeper as you cry out.
“Ahh! Yoongi—mmm—”
He watches you, totally entranced by your sounds alone. Then he rocks his hips—just a little—and he has you aching for more.
You whine, voice wrecked. “Want to ride you.”
He groans, ragged, and pulls out just long enough to shift. “Come on, then.”
He falls back against your headboard, sweat-damp hair clinging to his temples, cock hard and gleaming. You climb onto his lap, straddling him, and take him in hand, guiding him back to your entrance.
The second you sink down, both of you moan in unison—loud, broken, unrestrained. The angle is deeper like this, his cock spearing you open until you feel him in your gut.
“Oh my god,” you pant, nails digging into his shoulders. “So—so deep—”
He fists your hips, holding you steady, but it’s your body doing the work, bouncing on him, taking him in over and over as your tits sway with every movement. He leans forward, mouth hot and desperate against your chest, sucking a nipple into his mouth, tongue circling, teeth grazing.
You cry out, arching into it, and he switches to your other breast, leaving marks on your skin, kissing and sucking like he wants to brand you. Because he does.
Your body is on fire, every nerve ending alive. The words almost spill out—I love you, I love you, I love you—but you choke them down, terrified it’s too soon, terrified it will shatter this moment.
But the way he looks up at you as you ride him—eyes wide, blown, gazing at you like you’re his epiphany—almost gives him away. Like he’s holding back the same words. Like he’s already yours. And you both know it.
“Yoongi,” you gasp, hips bouncing faster, harder, chasing the edge.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he growls, head falling back against the wall, jaw clenched as he watches you take him. “You’re perfect—you’re fucking perfect—”
The coil in your belly snaps, and your orgasm crashes through you, violent and consuming. You scream his name, clenching tight around his cock, body shaking as you ride it out.
“Shit—” he groans, hips thrusting up into you desperately, chasing his own release. “Can’t—fuck, I’m gonna—”
You grip his hair, pulling his face against your chest as he unravels beneath you, spilling hot inside the condom with a guttural moan of your name. His whole body shudders, his cock pulsing inside you as he rides it out, holding you down on him like he can’t stand the thought of letting you go.
You collapse against him, both of you panting, trembling, sweat-slicked. His arms wrap around you, tight, like he’s gluing you to him.
And in the quiet that follows, the only sound your ragged breaths, you realize the truth you almost said out loud: you love him.
And maybe, just maybe, the way his lips press against your temple, lingering, passionate, means he feels the same.
But then—his hands shift. One trails down your spine, settling at your ass, squeezing lightly as if testing the weight of you. He groans low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your collarbone.
“Still so fucking tight,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Even after that.”
You jolt, still full of him, your body clenching reflexively around his cock where he’s still buried inside you. He hisses through his teeth, his grip on your hip tightening.
“Yoongi—” you gasp, shivering.
“Yeah,” he grits, forehead pressing to yours, breath hot on your lips. “You feel that? Can’t even move without—fuck.”
And just like that, the aftercare melts right back into heat.
You shift in his lap, rocking your hips the slightest bit, and his eyes roll back, a groan tearing out of him. “You’re insane,” he mutters, kissing you hard, teeth clashing, desperation bleeding into every stroke of his tongue.
“Can’t stop,” you pant against his mouth. “Don’t want to.”
He grabs your ass with both hands, grinding you down against him, his cock twitching inside you as if his body agrees. “Good,” he growls. “’Cause I’m not letting you off me yet.”
You moan into the kiss, your thighs trembling as you start moving again—slow, steady rolls of your hips that have him swearing, begging under his breath. His lips find your neck, sucking fresh marks into your skin, as if he needs to leave proof that this really happened, that you’re his now.
Every touch, every kiss feels like aftercare and hunger at once—his hands soothing over your back while his cock drags deep inside you, his mouth worshipping your skin while his teeth nip and claim. It’s overwhelming, addictive.
And as you ride him again, slower this time but no less intense, you realize you could live in this loop forever—heat and tenderness, hunger and care, his arms around you and his body inside you, the two of you unable to stop because stopping would mean admitting this isn’t a dream.
You keep moving until your thighs ache, until your chest is heaving and his hands are clutching you like he’ll die if you stop. He kisses you through it, messy and hot, every groan spilling into your mouth until finally your body gives up and collapses against his chest.
Yoongi doesn’t let you go. He rolls with you, easing both of you down until you’re sprawled across the sheets in a tangle of limbs, still connected, still pulsing with aftershocks. His hand drags lazy circles along your spine, his breath ragged against your temple.
“Holy fuck,” he mutters, voice rough with awe.
You laugh weakly into his chest, too exhausted to form words, your smile pressed against his damp skin. He tightens his arms around you in answer, burying his nose in your hair.
The room is quiet but charged, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, your bodies still humming. Every shift of your hips makes him groan, and every groan makes your pulse kick up again.
“You’re insatiable,” you murmur, teasing, though your voice is thin and shaky.
“Pot,” he mutters, squeezing your ass lightly, “meet kettle.”
You laugh again, softer this time, and let yourself melt into him. His hand drifts down to your hip, his thumb stroking absent patterns into your skin like he’s playing the piano.
It should feel like the aftercare part—gentle, winding down. But it doesn’t. Not really. Because beneath the laziness, beneath the sweat cooling on your skin, there’s still that ache, that pull. The knowledge that if either of you moved just right, it would start again.
You tilt your head, brushing your lips over his collarbone, and his body jerks, breath catching like the touch alone could get him hard.
Any feedback is always welcome and appreciated🫶 your comments motivate and inspire me to write more and even the smallest words go such a long way💞💞Thank you for reading🙏
I know it’s been a REALLY long time since I last updated, but I’ve finally had a little time to myself and managed to finish No Room for Secrets Chapter 25: Normal 🥹
And yes… it’s kind of a slower chapter.
I KNOW. I’M SORRY.
But I love this story way too much to immediately throw Jungkook and Y/N back into bed and magically solve all their problems overnight. They’ve both been through a lot, and I really wanted the emotional progression to feel earned.
That being said…
I’m not posting Chapter 25 until Chapter 26 is finished too 👀
Which means the next time I update NRFS, it’ll be a DOUBLE UPDATE.
Chapter 25 one day. Chapter 26 the next day.
You will be FED.
Also, a very special thank you to my bestie @sorilyae, who has been absolutely ON MY ASS about getting back to work on this series. Everybody say thank youuuu. The bullying worked lmao 💀
And thank you guys so much for all the birthday wishes yesterday 🥺💜
It’s honestly so weird being in my late-twenties now. Like… what do you mean my age starts with a 2 and ends with a 6? That feels fake. Somebody should probably be supervising me because I swear I’m still a teenager in an adult body😭😭
Summary: What starts as friendship built on inside jokes and late-night takeout slowly turns into something messier, heavier, and impossible to ignore. From the first meet through the birthday party, jealousy, confessions, and one hangover later—you and Yoongi finally cross the line you’ve both been toeing for far too long.
Content/Warnings: Explicit sexual content (smut), jealousy, alcohol use, language, angst with eventual comfort, friends-to-lovers, oral (f receiving), fingering, protected penetrative sex, multiple positions, creampie (with condom), aftercare(barely), many many confessions. Please tell me if I missed anything!
Playlist: We can’t be friends by Ariana Grande // Tears by Sabrina Carpenter
A/N: This story got away from me in the best way—it’s long, indulgent, and absolutely filthy but also stupidly tender. Yoongi really said “dreams do come true.” God I love him😭 thank you @sorilyae for being my positive enabler 🫶 I love you
The first time you meet Yoongi, you’re not even supposed to be there.
Namjoon is an old friend from college—the kind who pops in and out of your life like seasons, but always feels like home when he’s around. He’s in town for a few days, texts you last-minute with, “come out tonight, I’ve got people you should meet.”
You almost say no. It’s been a long week, and you’re not in the mood for new faces. But it’s Namjoon, and you’ve missed him, so you drag yourself out anyway.
The little get-together isn’t what you expect. Not a packed bar, not a fancy dinner. Just a corner booth in a half-empty lounge, dim lighting and a low playlist in the background. Namjoon waves you over, grinning, introducing you one by one to the friends crammed into the booth with him.
And then there’s Yoongi.
He doesn’t smile when your eyes meet. He barely looks up from his glass. But when Namjoon says your name, Yoongi repeats it under his breath like he’s testing it out, then gives you the faintest nod.
You slide into the booth across from him. Conversation flows easily with the others—Jimin’s brightness, Taehyung’s chaos, Jin’s effortless banter—but every so often, you catch Yoongi’s eyes on you. Not in a way that feels rude. More like he’s quietly assessing you, deciding if you’re worth the effort.
It isn’t until someone makes a dumb joke—something dark and a little twisted—that you instinctively add a one-liner of your own. The table goes silent for half a beat, surprised. And then Yoongi huffs out a laugh. A real one, quick and sharp, before he shakes his head and mutters, “finally, someone with decent humor.”
That’s it. The thread is tied.
For the rest of the night, you find yourself leaning into his side comments, his dry observations. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, it lands—and you volley it right back. The others notice, of course. Namjoon gives you a knowing look, like he planned this all along.
And by the end of the night, you and Yoongi are sharing a basket of fries across the table, comfortable in a silence that doesn’t feel awkward at all. When you leave, he doesn’t ask for your number. He just says, “you’ll be around again, right?” And somehow, you know you will.
After that first night, you figure it’s a one-off. You’ll catch Namjoon next time he’s in town, and Yoongi will stay in your memory as the guy with the sharp laugh and sharper humor.
Except—two days later, your phone buzzes.
A new group chat.
Namjoon: Squad expansion pack unlocked. Everybody say hi to [Y/N].
Taehyung: ooooh new friend
Jin: more people to roast me, great
Yoongi: …
Yoongi: who let her in here
Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, smirking. You type back:
the bouncer at the booth last night liked me more than you, sorry.
And just like that, it’s on.
From then on, Yoongi isn’t just Namjoon’s friend—you start seeing him at every casual hang. Movie nights, random bar meet-ups, late-night drives when Taehyung insists everyone needs ice cream at 1 a.m. Somewhere in the shuffle, Yoongi stops feeling like “Namjoon’s brooding friend” and starts feeling like your favorite person to stand next to at parties.
You don’t notice it right away, but the others definitely do. The way you two end up sharing snacks. The way Yoongi actually texts back in the group chat if it’s you he’s answering. The way his humor sharpens whenever you’re around, like he’s performing for an audience of one.
It takes weeks before you realize: you’ve been texting Yoongi directly. No big moment, no “can I get your number”—just the natural bleed from group chat to late-night one-on-ones. Memes, song recs, dumb observations. A thread that winds tighter without either of you naming it.
And somehow, without noticing, Yoongi becomes the person you look for first when you walk into a room.
It doesn’t take long before you and Yoongi develop your own rhythm.
At first, it’s little things—dry commentary during group hangs, a quiet laugh shared while everyone else is too loud to notice. But soon, it becomes a whole thing. Inside jokes stitched together from throwaway comments, looks you can read without words.
Once, at a party, someone suggests a cheesy icebreaker game. You and Yoongi exchange a glance, already mocking it in your heads.
He leans closer, murmurs just for you:
“if I have to list two truths and a lie, I’m going with ‘I buried a body once’ as a truth.”
You snort into your drink, choking on laughter. When you wheeze out your own response—“make sure you don’t pick the basement, that one’s already mine”—Yoongi nearly spits out his beer.
Everyone else at the table just stares. Jungkook looks genuinely concerned. Jin mutters something about “what the hell is wrong with you two,” while Hoseok squints like he’s not sure if you’re kidding. You and Yoongi, meanwhile, are doubled over in the corner, entirely unbothered.
It becomes a pattern:
You’re the only one who laughs when Yoongi mutters his driest, darkest lines.
He’s the only one who notices when you deadpan something outrageous under your breath.
The others stop asking, eventually, because it’s your brand of humor—private, sharp-edged, and weirdly intimate.
In between the jokes, though, it’s softer things that stitch you together.
Falling asleep on his couch after a late-night hang, and waking to a blanket tossed over you.
Him sending you half-finished demos at 3 a.m., knowing you won’t judge.
You picking up takeout when you know he hasn’t eaten all day.
You become constants in each other’s lives—reliable without ever saying you would be. And maybe that’s why no one teases you about it; because for all the dark humor and the sharp laughs, everyone can see the gentleness underneath.
Of course, you don’t call it that. Neither of you do. It’s just friendship. Comfortable. Easy. Unshakable.
At least, until it isn’t.
It happens on a Saturday night, the kind of night that’s quietly become yours.
Most weekends end this way—takeout boxes on Yoongi’s coffee table, a movie playing half-forgotten in the background, you two tucked into opposite ends of the couch. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don’t. It doesn’t matter; the routine is what matters.
So when you casually say, “I can’t do next weekend—I think I’ve been asked on a date,” you don’t even look up from your carton of noodles. It’s offhand, thoughtless, like mentioning the weather.
But Yoongi hears it like a record scratch.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just sets down his chopsticks, leans back, stares at the TV like it suddenly got interesting. His pulse thuds in his ears, steady and unwelcome.
A date.
“Cool,” he says finally, voice low, flat enough you almost don’t notice it’s sharper than usual.
You glance at him, puzzled. “What?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Have fun.”
You wait for him to make a joke, to say something snarky about your type or the guy probably being boring. That’s how it usually goes—you throw the ball, he bats it back. But this time, Yoongi doesn’t even lift his eyes from the screen.
The silence feels heavier than it should.
You don’t press, because Yoongi gets like this sometimes—quiet moods, long stretches of silence. You’ve never pushed too hard when he walls himself off.
But for Yoongi, it’s different. He’s sitting there, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral, to not let his hand tighten around the beer bottle in his lap. He knows it’s stupid. You’re not his. You’ve never been his. He has no claim to feel anything at all.
And yet, the thought of you smiling across a table at someone else makes his chest tighten in a way he absolutely does not want to look into right now.
When you finally lean back and sigh, half-smiling at him like nothing’s changed, Yoongi manages to nod, force out a faint smirk.
But later, when you leave, his apartment feels too quiet. And Yoongi realizes—for the first time—that the idea of losing your Saturdays hurts a lot more than he’s ready to admit.
You swipe a layer of mascara onto your lashes, blink at your reflection, and try not to think about how strange Yoongi has been all week.
Normally, Saturdays are yours. Movie nights, half-eaten takeout cartons, his sarcastic commentary muffled against the couch cushions. But tonight you’re in front of your mirror, curling iron still hot, lip gloss still tacky, because you told him you had a date.
The word had landed heavy between you, like a rock in a still pond. Yoongi hadn’t teased you, hadn’t grumbled about your taste, hadn’t even made a joke at your expense. Just that flat cool and nothing else. And that—not the date, not the guy—has been tugging at your thoughts ever since.
You smooth the hem of your dress and pause, because another memory presses forward, uninvited.
It’s from months ago. A night you weren’t even supposed to stay late, but the group hang bled into Yoongi’s apartment, and then bled into just the two of you, cross-legged on his floor with a half-empty bottle between you.
Yoongi doesn’t drink often—not enough to get loose, anyway. But that night, he let himself unravel just a little. Enough that the words spilled out softer, slower, like he’d been holding them back too long.
“You know…” He’d swirled the last inch of whiskey in his glass, eyes half-lidded, mouth quirking like he wasn’t sure if he should keep going. “…you’re… fuck. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met.”
You laughed then, awkward, ready to brush it off. But Yoongi hadn’t let you.
“No, seriously. You don’t get it.” His gaze had been steady, almost too much to bear. “You bring… light. To people. To me. Like—you’re funny as hell, yeah, but it’s more than that. You make shit feel… less heavy. You make people feel lucky just by being around. Anyone would be blessed to have you in their life. And if they don’t see that? They’re idiots.”
The words had settled in your chest, glowing, impossible to forget. But you couldn’t answer. You just sat there, staring, memorizing the way his voice dipped low on lucky.
He smiled after, small and crooked, and took another sip like he hadn’t just turned your whole world upside down.
The next morning, when you teased him about it—“you get weirdly poetic when you’re drunk, Min Yoongi.” He’d blinked at you, blank-faced, and muttered, “don’t remember a thing.”
You’d laughed it off then. But now, pulling on your jacket and glancing at your phone, you wonder if maybe that’s why his silence stings so much.
Because even if he doesn’t remember saying it, you do.
And some stupid part of you wishes he meant it.
You find yourself at the restaurant. And you don’t even really want to be here.
His name is Daniel. Works in accounting two floors down from your office. Nice enough—clean shoes, polite smile, remembered to hold the door when you walked in. You only said yes to this date because he asked twice and because somewhere in the back of your head was Yoongi’s voice from months ago, telling you to put yourself out there. To let people see how “light” you are.
You thought Yoongi would be proud.
But twenty minutes into the date, you already know how this ends. Daniel talks about office politics like it’s a full-contact sport, and when he laughs at his own joke, it’s just… loud. Not sharp, not dry, not shared with a sly glance across a crowded room.
Not Yoongi.
You poke at your pasta, nodding at the right times while he continues talking, but your mind betrays you. Imagining what Yoongi would say about the way Daniel uses the word “synergy” three times in one awful story. How he’d smirk across the table, mutter something dark under his breath just for you, and you’d choke trying not to laugh too loud.
With Yoongi, there’d be inside jokes and banter, even in silence. With Daniel, it’s small talk and forced smiles. And you’re not really hitting it off.
By the time dessert comes, you’re already exhausted. You tell yourself, at least you tried. At least you showed up.
When you get home, you peel your makeup off in the bathroom, watching mascara smudge into raccoon eyes. Relief sinks into your bones when you pull on your favorite hoodie and curl up in bed.
The date wasn’t a disaster. But it wasn’t him.
Your phone buzzes. One name.
yoon: How was the date?
You stare at the screen. Wonder where he is right now. On his couch, knees tucked up, TV on low? Or stretched out in bed, thumb hovering over the keyboard the same way yours is?
You type:
you: it wasn’t… horrible.
Your thumb hesitates, then moves again. The truth itches under your skin until it spills out in the way only Yoongi will get:
you: next time I’ll just ask my Uber driver to drag me behind his car through traffic—probably less painful than sitting through another date like that.
There’s a pause. Then:
yoon: lmao
yoon: finally, some honesty
And just like that, the tightness in your chest eases. Because no matter how awful the night was, at least you get to end it with him.
Jin’s apartment is loud, the kind of loud that comes from seven different conversations stacked on top of each other. The coffee table is a graveyard of takeout boxes, Taehyung is half-off the armchair like he doesn’t understand gravity, and Jungkook is shoveling fried rice into his mouth like it’s a competition no one else signed up for.
You’re curled into one corner of the couch, drink in hand, Yoongi beside you with his usual air of disinterest. It’s comfortable, the background noise, until Jimin suddenly cuts through it.
“Hey—your birthday’s coming up, isn’t it?”
You blink, startled. “…How do you even know that?”
Taehyung chimes in, “Because I make it my business to know everyone’s birthdays.” He sits up, grinning. “And we’re throwing you a party.”
A laugh slips out before you can stop it. “What? No. You’re not.”
Jin yells from the kitchen doorway, without missing a beat, “Yes, we are! I’ll bake the cake!”
Hoseok, from an armchair, “I’ll handle the playlist.”
Jungkook with his mouth full, “I’ll bring snacks.”
You hold up both hands, shaking your head. “Guys, seriously—don’t. I don’t want a party. It’s not a big deal.”
Taehyung gasps. “Not a big deal? It’s your birthday! That’s literally the definition of a big deal.”
The room hums with agreement. You try to smile, but your chest tightens. The idea of being the center of attention makes your skin prickle. “I’m fine with just… hanging out. Like we always do.”
Beside you, Yoongi doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you. The way he sees past the casual shrug, the way his gaze sharpens at the way your fingers worry the rim of your glass. He knows you’re tense—of course he does. He always does.
Jimin continues, “Nope, too late. We’re making this happen. We’ll invite everyone. Work friends, too.”
Your stomach drops. “That’s—no, you don’t have to—”
“What about that guy… Daniel, was it? Im sure he’d come.”
The name hangs heavy. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Yoongi’s shoulders go rigid, his thumb pausing against the armrest.
You force a laugh. “He’s… really not party material.”
Ever the ‘party-material-maker’, Taehyung reassures you: “Then we’ll vet him. If he’s boring, he’s out.”
Yoongi finally says something, voice low, snarky enough to offend. “Then half the people you invite won’t make the cut.”
The group bursts into laughter, but you hear the edge under his tone. You glance sideways—his expression is neutral, almost bored, but the tension in his jaw is undeniable.
You take a sip of your drink, trying to hide the heat rising in your chest. You told yourself you didn’t want a party. But now, with Yoongi sitting so close you can feel the shift in his mood, you can’t help wondering if what you really don’t want is him seeing you with anyone else there.
The laughter from Yoongi’s jab is still bouncing around the room when the bathroom door creaks open. Namjoon steps out, fanning the air behind him like he’s trying to chase away a demon.
“Do not,” he says, voice solemn, “go in there.”
A collective groan rolls through the room.
Jin throws his head back. “Again?”
Jungkook groans through a mouthful of rice. “Hyung, get your life together.”
Hoseok presses a hand to his chest, already laughing. “I told you not to eat the extra kimchi.”
Namjoon just lifts his hands in surrender. “I’m sparing you, trust me.”
The chaos bubbles up, Jimin clutching his stomach, Taehyung dramatically collapsing onto the armchair like he’s fainting from the stench. You laugh, shaking your head, but the sound catches in your throat when you feel the shift beside you.
Yoongi stretches an arm lazily across the back of the couch. Casual. Effortless. Like he’s done it a hundred times before. Except he hasn’t—not once in the year you’ve known him.
Your heart kicks against your ribs. The distance between his hand and your shoulder is nothing, barely inches, and suddenly you’re hyperaware of the space you’re taking up.
He leans just slightly toward you, voice pitched low enough to skim under the noise. “You really don’t want a party?”
You glance at him, caught off guard. “Not really.”
His eyes flick to your face, steady, unreadable. “Even with people who actually matter?”
The question knots in your chest. You swallow. “It’s not about that. I just… don’t like being the center of attention.”
Yoongi hums, quiet. “Fair. But it wouldn’t be the worst thing, you know. Letting people celebrate you.”
The words are gentle. Too gentle. For a second, it feels like the whole room fades—Taehyung whining dramatically about Febreze, Jin telling Namjoon he’s banned from kimchi forever—and all you can hear is Yoongi, sitting close enough that his warmth skims along your arm.
You manage a small smile. “You sound like drunk-you again. Semi-inspirational.”
That earns you the barest twitch of his lips. “Maybe sober-me means it too.”
The air shifts, heavier than it should be, and your breath catches before the moment’s swept away because Hoseok suddenly narrows his eyes at you and Yoongi.
“Look at these two,” he says, gesturing with his chopsticks. “Whole room of people and they’re having their own private conversation again.”
Taehyung perks up immediately. “It’s every hangout. Soulmates, clearly.”
Namjoon sighs and mutters under his breath, clearly feeling sorry for the teasing about to take place. “Here we go, again.”
Jin smirks from the kitchen doorway. “They’re so locked in, I’m surprised they even hear us.”
You roll your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “We do not—”
“Yes, you do,” Jungkook cuts in, grinning around his drink. “Half the time you’re whispering and laughing and the rest of us are just sitting here like chopped liver.”
Yoongi doesn’t look at them. Doesn’t move his arm from the back of the couch, either. He just takes a slow sip from his glass, face unreadable.
But then Jimin, always the instigator, leans forward with a wicked smile. “You’re sitting close enough to kiss right now.”
Oh, he knows what he just did.
The room erupts with laughter, wolf-whistles and fake gagging sounds.
Your entire body ignites. Heat flares across your cheeks, your ears, all the way down your neck. You choke on your drink and duck your head, suddenly incapable of looking anywhere near Yoongi.
And still, Yoongi doesn’t move. Doesn’t laugh, doesn’t shrug them off, doesn’t roll his eyes the way he usually does.
But you feel it—a shift. A subtle double take, the weight of his gaze flicking toward you and then lingering, like he’s just realized something that doesn’t quite add up.
You don’t have to look to know he’s studying you, puzzled, maybe even a little thrown. Because you turned red. You.
And if you’re blushing like that… what does it mean?
The laughter from Jimin’s jab keeps bouncing around the room, Taehyung dramatically fanning himself like he just witnessed something scandalous.
“Save it for after the cake,” Jin calls from the kitchen, smirking as he disappears back to check the oven.
“Cake?” you echo, desperate for any subject change. “There’s no cake.”
“There will be,” Jin sing-songs.
Hoseok leans forward, grinning. “Bet Yoongi already has flavors picked out for you.”
That earns another round of oohs and whistles, the group loving the way your face heats even more.
“I do not,” Yoongi mutters, voice flat as stone. But his arm stays stretched casually along the back of the couch, and you swear you can feel the weight of his gaze still lingering on you even as the conversation shifts.
Jungkook slaps his thigh, cackling. “This is my favorite game. Tease them until one of them breaks.”
“I’ll give it a month before they admit it,” Jimin adds, wiggling his eyebrows. “Soulmates can only play dumb for so long.”
“Stop calling us that,” you groan, pressing your palms to your cheeks.
Taehyung gasps theatrically. “Oh my god, she didn’t deny it this time!”
The room explodes again, everyone talking at once—bets being made, exaggerated wedding toasts being shouted, Jungkook offering to DJ your “first dance.”
You bury your face in your drink, wishing the floor would open up and swallow—just you—whole. But out of the corner of your eye, you catch it: Yoongi’s lips twitch. Not a laugh, not really—but something close.
And though he doesn’t say a word, you can feel the undercurrent humming between you, sharper than it’s ever been.
But the chaos doesn’t really settle until Jin emerges from the kitchen with a dish towel over his shoulder and announces, “Alright, everybody out. I’ve got to work in the morning and you’re all too loud.”
Groans and protests ripple through the room, but one by one the boys start gathering their things. Hoseok is still humming an obnoxious melody about soulmates, Namjoon rubbing his temples as he walks to the door, Taehyung swears he’s bringing balloons to your “surprise-not-surprise” party, and Jimin smirks like he’s got ammo for the next week.
You stand, smoothing your shirt, trying to will the redness from your cheeks. Yoongi rises beside you, stretching lazily like none of this touched him at all.
But inside?
Inside, he knows the truth.
He’ll never admit it—not to them, not to you—but he doesn’t actually hate it when the group teases you both. He pretends to roll his eyes, pretends he’s annoyed, but secretly… secretly he loves it. Loves the way they say “soulmates” like it’s obvious, loves the way you fluster and stumble through denials.
Because maybe that’s what it would be like if you were his.
If he didn’t keep everything locked behind his ribs. If he could reach out and claim what he wants without losing the comfort of what you already are. The way the others laugh and tease—it’s the closest glimpse he’ll ever get at what life might look like if he was allowed to have you.
And so he lets them tease. Because dreaming is safer than losing you.
On the way out, your shoulders brush in the narrow doorway. Your sleeve skims his arm, and the static crackles all the way down to his fingertips. You look up, meeting his eyes for half a second before glancing away, flustered again.
Yoongi swallows hard, shoving his hands into his pockets. For a moment he doesn’t trust himself to speak, doesn’t trust the way the words might come out.
But when you turn to him at the door, pulling your jacket tighter around you, you give him that small smile—the one that always cuts through him—and say softly, “Goodnight, Yoongi.”
His throat works, tight, but he manages a low reply. “Night. Get home safe.”
You nod, slip out into the breezeway of Jin’s complex, and the sound of the door clicking shut behind you feels louder than it should.
Yoongi lingers there for a beat longer, staring at the space you just occupied. He needs to breathe for a second. He inhales deep, then exhales slow and quiet, and heads out into the night with one thought looping through his head.
If blushing means you like me… then maybe I’m already too far gone.
It’s Wednesday night when your phone buzzes. You’re curled up on your bed, laptop open but untouched, scrolling mindlessly until the notification flashes.
yoon: You figured out what you’re wearing yet?
You blink, reread it twice. Yoongi doesn’t usually care about that kind of thing.
you: For what?
yoon: …your birthday. The one Tae’s been yelling about all week.
you: Oh. That.
you: I’m not picking out anything special.
yoon: Why not.
you: Because it’s not that serious.
There’s a pause. You can almost see him on the other side of the screen, thumb hovering, brow furrowed like he’s trying to phrase something without giving too much away.
yoon: You should. Pick something that makes you feel good.
you: You sound like Hobi.
yoon: Hobi would tell you to wear sequins or some shit. I’m saying just… don’t downplay it.
Your chest tightens. He always sees it, the way you try to shrink yourself.
you: Are you seriously texting me about clothes right now?
yoon: Somebody has to. Don’t want you showing up in your office hoodie.
You bite back a smile, fingers tapping before you can stop yourself.
you: That hoodie is a classic.
yoon: It’s fucking tragic.
You laugh, low in your throat, and set the phone down for a second to breathe. It’s not much, just a string of texts about nothing. But the warmth in your chest lingers long after the screen goes dark.
The Birthday Party
Namjoon pulls up to the curb like your chauffeur, killing the engine and getting out to walk around and open the passenger door for you. He looks half amused, half resigned as you climb out, tugging at the hem of your dress.
“Just so you know,” he says, offering his arm with mock formality, “I briefed you in the car, but… I’m apologizing again in advance. Jimin and Tae went feral with this party.”
You laugh, slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow. “How bad can it be?”
The answer greets you the second your heels hit the red carpeted stairs.
It looks like New Year’s Eve collided with a music video shoot. Glittering lights spill down from the awning, a velvet rope corrals guests into the entrance, and inside the glass doors you can already see the crowd—everyone dressed to kill, champagne glasses flashing under the chandeliers.
Your jaw slackens. “This is… a birthday party?”
“Your birthday party,” Namjoon corrects, grimacing. “Tae literally said, ‘If she doesn’t walk in and feel like the hottest girl in Seoul, then what’s even the point.’”
You bite back a nervous laugh, tugging your dress down again. The dress you picked is short, tight, the kind of outfit your parents would faint over. But you’d looked in the mirror earlier and thought of Yoongi’s words—pick something that makes you feel good—and this was it. Bold, a little reckless, enough skin showing to make you feel powerful.
As you walk up the stairs, gripping Namjoon’s arm for balance, he leans down with a smirk.
“You know he’s gonna freak, right?”
Your stomach flips. You don’t even have to ask who. But you do anyway. “What?”
Namjoon chuckles, low. “I mean… he won’t show it. Not on his face. But internally? Yoongi’s gonna be strangling himself when he sees you in that dress, Y/N.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you turn your face toward the glittering doors before he can notice. You tell yourself he’s exaggerating, teasing like always. But the flutter in your chest won’t stop.
Because part of you wonders—maybe hopes—he’s right.
The second the doors open, sound swallows you whole. Music pumps from hidden speakers, bass rattling in your chest, laughter and voices layered so thick it’s dizzying. Chandeliers glitter overhead, catching on sequins and champagne glasses, and everywhere you look there are people—people you don’t know, people dressed like they’re waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square, people who definitely don’t belong at a party for you.
It’s too much. Too big. Exactly what Taehyung and Jimin would think is perfect.
You paste on a smile as Namjoon steers you through the crowd, murmuring greetings to familiar faces. But your eyes keep wandering, scanning, searching every corner. You don’t even realize how obvious it is—the way you’re subconsciously hunting for him. For Yoongi.
Your Yoongi.
Instead, you’re intercepted first by Hoseok, who comes practically skipping across the room, sequined jacket catching the light with every step. “Birthday girl!” He pulls you into a hug that smells like cologne and champagne, then holds you at arm’s length. His grin widens. “Damn, you look good.”
“Too good,” another voice chimes in, and Jungkook slides up with a glass in each hand. He passes one to Hoseok before adjusting the lapels of his sharp black suit like he knows he looks incredible. “Happy birthday, Y/N.”
You laugh, heat blooming in your cheeks as Jungkook tips his glass toward your dress in approval. “Wow. You two actually clean up nice.”
Hoseok gasps in mock offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “Excuse you—I always look good.”
Jungkook just smirks, boyish and smug. “But admit it. We’re killing it tonight.”
You shake your head, laughing again, but your gaze is already drifting over their shoulders, past the glitter and noise, through the sea of strangers.
Still no sign of him. What the fuck.
And that unsettles you more than you want to admit.
Namjoon still hasn’t let go of your arm, playing the role of dutiful escort as he weaves you through the crowd of bodies toward a literal tower of champagne flutes stacked high like something out of a luxury gala.
How hard did Jimin and Tae go for this party?
You let out a breathless laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Not my idea,” Namjoon mutters, steering you into the line. “I told you—I’m just here as damage control.”
He plucks two glasses from the table and hands you one. The bubbles tickle your nose as you take a careful sip, the taste sharp and sweet on your tongue.
And then—
“Birthday girl!”
The greeting comes in stereo, Jimin’s high-pitched cheer layered with Taehyung’s deep drawl. They appear together like they rehearsed it, grins wide and eyes bright.
Jimin immediately pulls you into a hug, nearly sloshing champagne down both of your outfits. “Happy birthday, gorgeous!”
You hug him back, “Thank you, guys.”
“Look at you,” Taehyung adds, spinning you lightly by the wrist so he can take in your whole outfit. “Short, shiny, and scandalous. And honestly? Exactly what I envisioned.”
You laugh, cheeks heating, trying to tuck yourself back under Namjoon’s arm like a fucking shield. “This is… insane. All of this.”
“Insane in a good way,” Jimin insists, bouncing on his toes. “Tell me you love it!”
You look around—at the chandeliers, the glittering crowd, the champagne tower sparkling in the light—and your chest squeezes. It’s too much. But they did it for you. Because they care.
“I do,” you admit, soft and honest. “I love it. Thank you.”
Jimin beams. Taehyung wiggles his eyebrows. And for a moment, the noise of the party fades under the weight of how lucky you are to have them.
Still, as you take another sip of champagne, your eyes wander past their shoulders, scanning the crowd again. Looking for the one person who hasn’t shown up yet.
Where could he be? Is he even here? Why isn’t he with the guys?
You’re half-caught in your head and Taehyung’s theatrics when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.
“There’s my birthday girl.”
Jin appears with a glass in hand, tailored blazer sharp enough to make him look like he owns the place. He leans down to press a quick kiss to the top of your head, then straightens and claps Namjoon on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Joon. Thanks for keeping her in one piece.”
Namjoon huffs a laugh. “Doing my best.”
Jin’s eyes drop to your dress, and he sighs the way only Jin can—long-suffering, dramatic, equal parts fond and exasperated. “This is what you wore?”
You flush, tugging at the hem. “Don’t start. It’s fine.”
“It’s your birthday, so I’ll allow it,” he says, lips twitching. “But if your parents ever see photos… I don’t know you.”
You laugh, shaking your head, but then the words tumble out before you can stop them. “Hey, have you seen Yoongi?”
Beside you, Namjoon tenses—so subtle anyone else would miss it, but you don’t. You feel it in the shift of his arm under your hand. Like he wasn’t expecting the question.
Jin’s smile falters just slightly. His eyes flick to Namjoon, then back to you, a worried crease forming between his brows. “Not yet,” he says after a beat. “But… don’t worry about him. Just keep enjoying your party, okay?”
Your stomach twists. The easy warmth of the moment curdles, a faint unease threading through it.
That was fucking weird.
The night spins forward in a blur.
You let Jimin and Taehyung drag you to the dance floor, Hoseok already in the center hyping the crowd like it’s a concert. Namjoon groans but still sways dutifully beside you, Jin waves a champagne flute overhead like he’s at a wedding, and Jungkook spins you until you nearly trip over your own heels.
It’s ridiculous. Chaotic. Too much. And yet, with your friends circling you in glitter and laughter, you feel lighter than you expected.
Then—a shiver down your spine. The sense of eyes on you.
You glance up, scanning past the lights, past the crowd. And then you see him.
Yoongi.
He’s on the second-floor balcony, leaning casually on the rail, a champagne flute hanging from one hand. His long dark hair curls around his face, catching in the glow of the chandelier, and his gaze is locked—glued—to you.
Your chest stutters. It feels like time itself stutters. The music, the noise, the laughter—it all dims under the weight of his stare.
And you smile. The biggest smile you’ve smiled all night, wide and uncontainable. Like gravity pulling you in one direction only.
Your smile is already lifting when something inside it snags.
Because you see him—and then you see her.
She’s half-turned toward him, shoulder angled into his space like she belongs there, a thin gold chain glinting at her throat. Close. Comfortable-close. The kind of close that says this isn’t the first minute they’ve been standing like that.
Yoongi is looking at you.
But he’s talking to her.
His mouth moves—something low, something easy—and she watches him like she’s used to the gravity he creates, like it doesn’t pull her apart the way it threatens to pull you apart right now. When she laughs, it’s a soft curve of sound you can’t hear over the bass, and his lips answer with the ghost of a smile.
He doesn’t look like he doesn’t want to be there.
Your stomach goes cold, then hot, then cold again.
Taehyung spins you by the wrist, oblivious. “Birthday girl! Stop zoning out, you’re killing my groove.”
You snap your gaze away from the balcony so fast your neck twinges. “I’m not zoning out.”
“Liar,” Jimin sings, popping up at your other side and fitting his palms to your shoulders from behind, swaying you on beat. “This is your party. Eyes on us, miss ma’am.”
“Yeah,” you say, too bright, too quick. “Eyes on you.”
You force your body to move. To laugh at something Jungkook says. To let Hoseok spin you out into a loop you nearly botch because your heels are not designed for this much enthusiasm. You let Jimin tilt your chin and quip about how you’re “glowing” and “devastating” and “a menace,” and you pretend the whole time that the top of your skull isn’t buzzing with the exact shape of the woman’s hand where it rests on the balcony rail, three inches from Yoongi’s wrist.
Ignore him. Ignore that.
The music surges, a chorus that rattles the floor, and you pour your attention into the only thing you can control: the way your head tips back when you laugh, the way your hips find the bass line, the way your dress catches the light like it’s armor.
Namjoon leans in at your ear, voice pitched under the noise. “You okay?”
You don’t hesitate. “Of course.” Your smile stretches just a little too tight. “It’s great.”
He studies you for a beat—he always has been annoyingly perceptive—but then he nods like he’s not going to pry here, not now. “If you need air, tug my sleeve.”
“I won’t,” you say, and you mean it like a challenge to yourself.
You don’t look back up at the balcony. You do not.
Except your body betrays you in small ways: the way your pulse stutters when the chandelier light shifts; the way your head tilts a fraction, as if lining up your peripheral vision with the stretch of the upper rail. You keep your focus fixed on Hoseok’s ridiculous body roll and Taehyung’s scandalized gasp at Jungkook’s footwork, and still you feel it—a prickling heat along your cheek like a spotlight.
He’s still looking.
You won’t give him the satisfaction.
“Shots,” Jimin declares, because he’s a menace and because the universe has a sense of humor. “It’s illegal not to do birthday shots.”
Before you can protest, a tray materializes—Hoseok works miracles—and you let them press a glass into your hand. Clear. Mean. The kind of burn that will either cauterize the jealousy or make it liquefy and pour out your eyes.
“To the hottest girl in Seoul,” Taehyung intones, scandalously sincere.
“To sequins,” Hoseok declares, glittering under the lights.
“To,” Jungkook smirks, “telling anyone who flirts with you that they’re not on the guest list.”
“Please stop,” you groan, but your grin slips in anyway, helpless.
You fling your gaze straight at the bottom of the shot glass and tip it back. The burn is instant, bright, a clean white-out that blurs the edges of your thoughts. When it hits your stomach, the heat spreads. It helps.
“Again,” Jimin threatens.
“No,” Namjoon says, parental. “Later.”
“Traitor,” Jimin pouts, already winking at the bartender for later.
You move. Harder now. It’s easier to outrun a feeling than to look it in the face. You dance like you owe your body something, like you can sweat this out, like the bass can be a wall.
Someone bumps your shoulder in the crowd and murmurs an apology; someone else asks if you want a drink; a stranger in a too-tight shirt tries to sidle in closer until Jungkook simply appears, big-brothering him with a smile that’s all teeth. Your friends orbit you, constellation-steady, but even with all that, there’s a slice of cold aware in your ribs—because you can feel him, the way you can feel a storm before it breaks.
You do not look.
You laugh at something Jin says when he finally decides to return to the dance floor, his hand slicing through the air as he reenacts Namjoon banning kimchi, and you let that laughter sit bright on your mouth, weaponized. You’re fine. You’re glittering. You’re busy.
“Back in two,” you shout to nobody in particular, tapping your chest and miming a sip. You need water. The good kind—flat, unassuming. Something to anchor your mouth around that isn’t his name.
At the edge of the floor, the air thins a little. The bar is a line of elbows and straws and clinking glass, but the bartender spots your wave and slides you a highball of blessedly clear water like you’re a favorite regular. You take two grateful pulls and press the cold glass to the underside of your jaw.
“Happy birthday,” someone says at your left.
You turn your head. It’s the woman from the balcony.
Up close, she’s even more composed. Winged liner like a threat, lipstick that doesn’t dare smudge, a dress that looks like it was sewn on. She’s taller than you by a breath in her heels, and her perfume is a soft, expensive thing that settles around you like a verdict.
You find your manners where you dropped them. “Thank you.”
“Taehyung outdid himself,” she says, amused. Her gaze flicks over your shoulder, toward the floor, past it. Not calculating—cataloguing. “You look beautiful.”
“Thanks,” you answer, neutral, careful. “Enjoying the party?”
Her mouth tilts. “I am now.”
You take another drink of water to cover the sound your throat makes.
“I’m Sori,” she adds, offering her name like a business card.
You give her yours, because what else are you going to do? Pretend names don’t exist?
She nods, as if checking a box in her head. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Your heartbeat trips over itself. “From…?”
“From everyone,” she says lightly. “Small universe.”
You let out a sound that is not a laugh but would like to be when it grows up. “Yeah.”
Silence stitches between you, quick and neat. She doesn’t fill it. She just lets it sit there, poised, like she knows exactly how long to wait before it starts to itch.
“Yoongi mentioned the humor,” she says finally, as if she’s commenting on the weather. “He was right.”
The glass sweats against your palm. “He talks a lot for someone so quiet.”
“That’s the trick.” She lifts her own drink—champagne, of course—and tips it toward you, gaze steady. “Happy birthday.”
You clink without looking away. “Thanks.”
She leaves you there—mercifully—with her perfume and the ghost of her smile, threading back toward the stairs with an unhurried confidence that makes you want to kick something. She doesn’t have to look over her shoulder to know if he’s still where she left him. People like that never do.
You exhale hard, set the water down, and march yourself back into the heat of the dance floor like it’s a battlefield. Namjoon clocks your expression in a second and lifts a brow. You shake your head, a tiny, surgical movement. Later.
Jimin latches onto your hand and spins you again, yelling something about “chorus!” and “arms!” over the music, and you let him, because this is what you can control: the angle of your wrist, the slice of your smile, the decision to keep your eyes anywhere but up.
You feel Yoongi like static earlier; now it’s a low-voltage hum under your skin. You don’t have to see him to know he’s moved. You don’t have to look to know he’s closer.
You won’t look.
“Yo,” Jungkook shouts in your ear, breathless, grinning. “You’re on fire. Whoever breaks your heart is gonna die.”
“Bold of you to assume it’s breakable,” you throw back, dry, and Jungkook howls like you just body-slammed a line of defense.
Hoseok plants a feather-light kiss to your temple when he passes behind you. Jin shouts, “Shots later, water now,” like a dad. Taehyung declares that he’s stealing you for a “birthday twirl,” and you let him tug you three steps left, pivot, laugh, pivot again—
—and then you stop.
Because you know the shape of that stillness. It has a weight all its own.
You can feel him at the edge of your orbit before he says your name.
“Hey.”
It lands low, built for just you, a thread through the noise. You don’t turn for a full heartbeat. You finish the step you’re in, hand still in Taehyung’s, then you let go and face him because pretending to be oblivious in a three-foot radius is a different kind of embarrassing.
Yoongi stands there in a black suit that fits like a decision, hair ink-dark and loose around his face, the chandelier picking out lines of silver at his wrist and throat. The room could vanish and it would still feel too bright.
His eyes are on your mouth, then your dress, then your eyes, and he does not disguise the part where he has to swallow. The sound is swallowed by the bass, but you see it in the cut of his throat.
“Happy birthday,” he says.
Your smile is neat. Unbothered. “Thanks.”
A beat. You don’t ask why he’s late. You don’t ask who she is. You don’t ask anything. You’re not giving him that.
He studies your face like he’s trying to solve a song he’s heard a thousand times and can’t quite play.
“You look…” He searches for a word and discards five. “…good.”
“Yeah?” you say, and let your mouth tilt. “Must be the lighting.”
It lands and he almost smiles—almost—but something shadows his eyes when he realizes you’re not stepping into the usual rhythm, not handing him the joke and the soft landing. He shifts, just enough that your shoulders almost brush.
“You met Sori,” he says finally. Not a question.
You look over his shoulder at nothing at all. “She met me.”
“She’s—” He stops, tiny, and you watch him pick between truths. “—Jin’s friend.”
“Everyone’s friend tonight,” you say lightly. “You’re popular.”
His jaw flexes like he wants to bite the word in half before it gets to you. “It’s not like that.”
You lift your brows. “I didn’t say it was.”
Another beat. The bass thumps. Taehyung spins by with a finger-gun and zero chill. Jin is arguing with the bartender about cake plates. Jimin is mouthing, Tell him he’s hot, at you across three bodies because he wants to die.
Yoongi tilts his head, searching your face. “You’re mad.”
You laugh, genuine and bright and a little sharp. “It’s my birthday, Yoongi. I don’t have time to be mad.”
“Jealous, then,” he says quietly.
Your smile doesn’t change. “Of who?”
He flinches at that—not visibly, not for anyone else, but you feel it like a ripple under your feet. For a heartbeat his mouth opens like he’s going to say something he can’t unsay. Then he closes it, looks down, looks back.
“Dance with me,” he says.
You let the smallest silence bloom. You weigh everything inside it—his eyes, the ghost of the balcony, the woman’s perfume, your own stupid heart, the fact that all of your friends are absolutely watching this from the corners of their eyes and pretending they’re not.
You tip your chin toward the crowd, neutral as gravity. “I’m busy.”
It’s soft. It’s nothing. It hits him like a door.
He nods, once. Slow. Like he deserves it. Maybe he thinks he does.
“Okay,” he says, and steps back.
You turn away before your mouth can do something reckless. You catch Namjoon’s gaze over Hoseok’s shoulder, and he only inclines his head—once, commander-calm, we’ll talk later written in the lines of his mouth.
Jungkook reappears like a wall, grinning, hands up. “C’mon, birthday menace. Show me that murder footwork.”
You do. You move. You laugh too loud at something that isn’t funny and throw your arms up when the chorus hits and let Taehyung spin you until you’re dizzy. You let Jimin scream-sing into your ear and Hoseok beam like a lighthouse and Jin scold you for forgetting hydration. You pretend the entire time that you cannot feel the heat of a gaze trailing the edge of your orbit like a planet that refuses to admit it’s caught.
You don’t look back up at the balcony.
You don’t look when he disappears into the crowd.
You don’t look when, two songs later, the lights dim for cake and everyone howls your name and Jin marches forward with a confection so extra it probably has a birth certificate.
You breathe in. You breathe out. You lean into the noise and the sugar and the sparkler-bright chorus of voices.
You make a wish you refuse to name. And you keep your eyes closed a second longer than you need to, because for one more second, you don’t have to see who’s standing where when you open them.
The garden hits like a slap—cold air and the smell of damp earth, hedges trimmed within an inch of their lives, fairy lights strung in polite arcs that make everything look softer than it feels. The bass from inside is a heartbeat through the walls. Your own heartbeat is doing its own fucked-up drum solo.
Bench. Cold. Good. You drop onto it like you’ve been thrown, palms on either side of your thighs, eyes squinting up at a sky that refuses to stand still.
“Motherfucker,” you mutter to no one in particular, lips tingling where that stranger’s mouth was a minute ago. Did you say yes? You said “mmm.” That’s not yes. That’s… not words. Your stomach flips. You swallow it down with the aftertaste of liquor and sugar and something bitter you refuse to name.
Gravel crunches. Footsteps. Then:
“Y/N.”
Namjoon’s voice folds around your name like a blanket you didn’t ask for but kind of needed anyway. He steps into the spill of fairy lights, tie loosened, blazer open, worry etched neat between his brows.
“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” he says, already shrugging out of his jacket.
You try for breezy and land somewhere near winded. “I’m communing with nature.”
He drapes the jacket over your shoulders before you can protest. It’s warm from his body; you burrow without meaning to. “Why didn’t you come find me?”
You roll your head toward him, slow with the spin of the stars. “I didn’t want to cockblock your… whatever that was with the bartender about poetry.”
He huffs, half a laugh, mostly exhale. Then he crouches in front of you so you don’t have to chase his face with your eyes. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” you lie, perfectly, beautifully.
“Try again.”
“Some dude asked if he could kiss me,” you say, airy, like it was weather. “And I said ‘mmm.’ And then he kissed me.”
Namjoon’s jaw does a thing. “Where is he.”
“Relax, Kim Heights. He’s probably back in there telling his friends he blessed the birthday girl.” Your laugh scrapes your throat. “I’m fine.”
“Are you.”
“Yep.” You pop the p. “Just needed air. And fewer mouths.”
His eyes search your face—smudged lipstick, glitter on your cheekbone, the stubborn set of your mouth. “Do you want me to get him thrown out?”
You shake your head. Regret that decision immediately because the sky cartwheels. You catch the bench with both hands, breathe through it. “No bouncers. No scene. Please.”
He nods once, shifts, then reaches into his pocket and produces a small plastic bottle like he’s a magician. “Water.”
“Have you been hoarding hydration?”
“Jimin will over-serve you just to prove he can. I plan ahead.” He twists the cap and hands it to you. “Sip.”
You do. It’s blessedly cold, the kind of clean that slices through fog. You let it sit on your tongue before you swallow, like you can wash the taste of someone else’s decision out of your mouth.
Namjoon watches you drink, then tilts his head. “Jimin told you.”
“About?” You keep your eyes on the hedge line like it’s very interesting.
“Balcony? Sori?”
You shrug, small under his jacket. “He tells me lots of things.”
“Does it bother you?” he asks, gentle, like someone picking up a glass shard with two fingers.
You snort. “No. Why would it. It’s his life.”
“Right.”
You scrape your heel against the gravel, little crescent moons appearing where your shoe skids. “She has very sharp eyeliner,” you add, as if that’s neutral. “Could cut a man.”
Namjoon’s mouth twitches. “You’re allowed to be pissed.”
“I am allowed to be unbothered,” you counter, too fast. You tip the bottle back again. “Look at me. Unbothered.”
He lets the lie sit down beside you without challenging it. That’s the thing about Namjoon—he knows when to hold a mirror and when to cover it. He shifts from a crouch to sitting at your side, angled so you don’t have to move.
“You want to go home?” he asks after a beat. “I’ll get the car.”
Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with glitter or alcohol. “It’s my party.”
“And we can leave it,” he says, steady. “You don’t owe the room your body.”
You stare at the fairy lights until they double, then settle. “Maybe… in a minute.”
He nods, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, the picture of patience. The bass inside thrums through the soil; a night breeze lifts the hair at your temple, cools the heat at your throat.
Gravel again. Another set of footsteps. You don’t have to see him to know; your bones clock him like weather changing.
Yoongi stops at the mouth of the garden path, darkness and chandelier glow cutting him into edges. Black suit. Hands in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them. His eyes find you first, then flick to Namjoon’s jacket on your shoulders, then drop quick to your mouth. Something tightens, minute, in his face.
“Joon,” he says, a greeting that’s also a question.
“Hey,” Namjoon answers, just as neutral. Then he stands, a wall that’s also a door. “She needed air.”
Yoongi nods. His gaze tracks back to you, lingering like he’s bracing for impact. “You okay?”
You take your time answering. Lift the water bottle. Tip it like a toast. “Peachy.”
He absorbs the dryness without flinching. “You disappeared.”
“People do that when they’re magicians,” you say. “Or when they’re bored. Or when a stranger confuses a non-vowel sound for consent.”
Silence slices clean. Namjoon’s head whips toward you. Yoongi goes very, very still.
“Who,” Yoongi says. Not loud. Stripped.
“I handled it,” you reply, eyes on the hedge. “With my legs. I walked away. See? Fully functional.”
Yoongi’s jaw moves like he’s grinding a thought down to powder. “What did he look like.”
“Like a man I won’t think about again,” you say, flat. “Drop it.”
Namjoon lifts a hand, a quiet stall. “We’ll deal with it if you want us to.”
“I don’t,” you snap, and regret the snap, and let the sigh chase it out. “I don’t want this to be a thing. I want to sit on this cold bench and not be a headline at my own party.”
The men exchange a look. A whole conversation passes between them in the tightness around their mouths.
Namjoon inhales, decides something. “I’m getting the car,” he says, and when you open your mouth, he adds, “You can decide in sixty seconds if you’re getting in it. If you want to go back in, I’ll walk you. If you want to leave, I’ll drive. Either way, I’m retrieving it because the valet system here is a hellscape.”
You huff a laugh despite yourself. “Coward’s way of giving me an out.”
“Guilty.” He squeezes your shoulder over his jacket, a pressure that says I’ve got you either way. Then he steps past Yoongi, pauses just long enough to stare him down with brotherly menace, and disappears up the path.
The garden hums. Distant laughter. A bottle clinks somewhere inside. A moth flutters idiotically at a light.
Yoongi doesn’t sit. He steps closer, then stops like the air itself is a boundary he’s not sure he can cross. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that,” he says, low, like it’s a fact and not a feeling.
“Welcome to women,” you reply, dry. “We get party favors.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to be sick. “I’m—” He cuts off, jaw working. “I should’ve—”
“Been glued to my side all night?” You tilt your head, smile like a blade. “You seemed busy.”
He takes that hit, doesn’t try to dodge. “I was an idiot.”
“Cool,” you say, light. “Add it to the list.”
He finally moves, sits on the far end of the bench like he’s respecting a no-man’s-land only you can cross. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The fairy lights buzz faintly, a sound you’ve never noticed until now.
“I saw you on the balcony,” you say after a beat, because alcohol makes a coward brave and a brave person reckless. “Jimin says you went up there the second you got here.”
He exhales through his nose. “I did.” A beat. “I saw you first.”
You bark out a laugh. “Romantic. You saw me, then went the other way.”
“I panicked,” he says, honest in a way that makes your blood run hot and cold. “You looked—” He stops. Shakes his head. “I didn’t trust myself not to say something I can’t take back. Sori said hi on my way to the stairs. That’s all.”
You force yourself to ignore the way your heart flutters hearing the confession he quickly buried.
You stare at the gravel. A moth finally gives up on the light and flutters to the hedge. “She met me, too.”
His head snaps, eyes sharp. “What did she say.”
“That you talk about me,” you say, careful. You roll the cap of the water bottle between your fingers. “That I’m funny.”
He looks at the ground, then at you, like the angle might change the truth. “I do talk about you.”
Your laugh is softer this time, and it hates you for it. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what.”
“Don’t say shit like that when I’m drunk,” you murmur, tipping your head back against the bench slat. The stars blur into smeared city glow. “I’ll think it means something tomorrow.”
He goes quiet. Not empty—full. Brimming with all the words he keeps barricaded behind his teeth. When he speaks, it’s careful, like stepping across thin ice. “It means something tonight.”
Your throat works. You swallow, water useless against that kind of heat. “You’re late.”
“I know.”
“And you’re stupid.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not a back-up plan.”
His voice doesn’t waver. “You never were.”
You look at him then. Really look. The shadowed cut of his jaw. The suit that fits like he put it on to keep himself together. The way his hands are fisted in his pockets because if they weren’t, he’d be reaching.
“Namjoon’s gonna be back in, like, thirty seconds,” you say, because time is a thing you can hold when everything else slips. “He’s going to ask me if I want to leave.”
Yoongi nods once. “Do you?”
You let the question sit in the cold, let it fog, let it clear. You think of Sori’s perfume. Of a stranger’s mouth. Of the bench and the fairy lights and the way your name sounded when he said Hey in a room that was screaming.
“I want to not be in there,” you admit. “I don’t know what I want beyond that.”
“Okay,” he says, immediate, no argument threaded anywhere in it.
You look back at the path, the slice of light where the building breathes out party heat. “If I go,” you add, voice low, “I’m not doing it so you can play knight. I’m doing it because I don’t want to be watched while I figure out whether I’m allowed to be mad at you.”
His mouth tips, bruised at the edges. “You’re allowed.”
“Cool,” you say, eyes stinging with something you refuse to call anything. “I’m mad.”
Gravel again. Namjoon appears, keys raised like a flag. “Valet miracle,” he announces softly, taking in the scene with a general’s calm. “Car’s out front.”
He looks at you. Not at Yoongi. You.
“What’s the move, birthday girl?”
You breathe in. You breathe out. The bench is cold. The stars are still spinning, but slower now.
“I’m going home,” you say. “With Joon.”
A flicker crosses Yoongi’s face—pain, quickly leashed. He nods like it’s the only correct answer. “Text me when you’re safe.”
You slide Namjoon’s jacket tighter around you and stand. Your knees wobble; Namjoon is there without making a fuss of it. You take two steps, then pause, turn, and find Yoongi’s eyes in the half-light.
“Tomorrow,” you say, the word heavy as a promise you haven’t decided if you’ll keep. “Don’t be late.”
His exhale is almost a laugh, almost a prayer. “Okay.”
You turn and let Namjoon guide you up the path. Behind you, Yoongi sits very still on a bench that remembers your weight, fists his hands tighter in his pockets, and stares at the fairy lights until they buzz like a confession.
The night air is cool against your flushed skin, the thud of bass from the party muffled now, like it’s trapped inside a different universe. Namjoon keeps pace with you, his strides long and steady, his voice filling the quiet.
“…like, honestly, who needs three champagne towers? It’s not a wedding. And don’t get me started on the playlist—Taehyung thinks he’s a DJ but he only knows five songs. Five. Songs.” He huffs out a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “The bartender was cute, though. Kept quoting poetry at me when he poured—can you believe that? Like, Rilke over rum. Wild.”
You let him talk, words washing over you, but your mind isn’t with him.
It’s back in the garden.
On the bench.
On Yoongi.
You tell yourself you’re not mad—what right do you even have? He doesn’t owe you anything. He came, he mingled, he spent time with people. He was allowed to smile at someone else. Allowed to stand too close to someone else.
But it was your night. Your birthday.
And he wasn’t really with you.
He wasn’t at your side for the cake. He wasn’t laughing in the circle of friends when Jimin made you blush. He wasn’t with you when Jungkook spun you so hard you nearly fell. All the little pieces that were supposed to add up to tonight—the you-and-him pieces—he wasn’t in them.
And maybe that’s what hurts.
Because it feels like the night was supposed to be about you. But you’re walking away feeling like it wasn’t.
You blink, and suddenly the silver gleam of Namjoon’s car door is right in front of you. Three steps away. Namjoon is still talking, now about stanza breaks and the bartender’s dimples, and you realize you’ve barely heard a word.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “But you said you wanted to leave. You just said goodbye to everyone.”
Your stomach drops. You did? When? The thought slips through the fog of champagne and vodka like a knife—you don’t remember saying goodbye to your friends. You were too busy in your own head, running laps around the hollow ache in your chest.
“I need to tell him, Joon.”
Your voice cracks on the words, thin and begging.
Namjoon doesn’t ask who. Doesn’t need to. He’s known. He’s known since you bought Yoongi that guitar, since you remembered a birthday you never should’ve remembered, since you started saving your best one-liners for him and him alone.
But he shakes his head, steady, gentle. “Not tonight, Y/N. You need to go home and get in bed.”
The devastation crushes you in a sigh. Your throat burns. Your eyes prickle. “Namjoon—” your voice breaks again, and then the tears come hot, unbidden, “Please, I—”
“I know.” He cuts you off, but his tone is soft, like he’s carrying the weight for you. His eyes glint in the dim parking lot light. “You don’t have to tell me. I know.”
The words make your chest splinter. You want to say it anyway. Want to shout it out loud just to hear what it feels like leaving your mouth. But the look on Namjoon’s face tells you everything: save it. Save it for Yoongi.
You swallow hard, wipe at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Maybe I can text him then?”
Namjoon exhales, long, patient. “If you do, you’ll regret it in the morning.”
“But—”
“No buts. Not like this. Not drunk, not half crying in a parking lot. You’ll hate yourself if those words land the wrong way.”
You sag against the car door, shoulders trembling under his jacket, phone heavy in your hand like it’s burning a hole straight through your palm.
And still, the ache won’t let go. Because the truth is there, heavy and undeniable:
You don’t want to go home.
You want to go back.
Back to the garden.
Back to him.
You wake up and your head is pounding, pounding, pounding—
Fuck, what time is it?
You glance at the alarm clock on your nightstand. 11:52 a.m.
You groan, ready to roll back into the abyss, when the pounding comes again. Not from your skull this time—from somewhere out in the living room.
Dragging yourself upright is an Olympic event. You crawl to the door, use the handle to haul yourself up, and silently thank the blackout curtains for saving you from spontaneous combustion. The apartment is dark, mercifully quiet—until you unlock the front door and crack it open.
Blinding light sears your eyes. You hiss, slapping a hand up to shield your face. “AGH—fuck.”
Blink, blink, blink. And then—
Yoongi.
He’s standing there, hair swept back casually, black hoodie, dark navy jeans, and somehow he looks so fucking hot your hungover brain considers dragging him inside and—wait. Why is he here?
“Can I help you?” Your words come out sharper than intended.
“Uh. I got your text. Thought you might need some water and stuff from the store.”
You blink again, this time at the plastic bags in his hands. Two of them, filled to the brim. Groceries. Supplies. Nourishment.
Text?
“I… texted you?” You step aside to let him in, then speed-walk back to your room, heart pounding harder than your head.
Your phone is right where you left it. You snatch it up and scroll.
You [9:48am]: might be dying. send me nourishment.
yoon [9:49am]: be there soon.
Your stomach sinks. Because you remember saying it out loud this morning. Into the void. To Siri. “Hey Siri, text Joon.” Not Yoon.
The universe, apparently, had other plans.
You shuffle back, sheepish, clutching your phone like it’s the smoking gun. “Ahh. My phone texted you on accident. Siri was supposed to text Joon. Not Yoon.”
He stares at you. Unreadable.
“Sorry, Yoongi.”
But he just shrugs, unbothered. “All good. I’m here now.”
And that’s the end of it, at least for him.
The grocery bags rustle as he sets them down on your counter like he’s done this a hundred times before. Bottled water, Gatorade, bananas, a loaf of bread, instant ramen, some kind of canned soup. Practical. Quietly thoughtful. So Yoongi it hurts.
You hover near the hallway like a feral animal half-ready to retreat. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know.” He doesn’t look up, just lines the bottles on your counter. “But you asked.”
Your throat tightens, because technically? No, you didn’t. Not him, anyway. But the evidence is glowing on your phone, timestamped, undeniable.
“Thanks,” you murmur, rubbing your temples.
He glances at you then—sharp, assessing—and points at your couch. “Sit.”
It’s not a suggestion.
You shuffle over, flopping onto the cushions with a groan. The pounding in your head has synchronized with your heartbeat, steady and merciless. Yoongi appears a moment later with a cold water bottle and two painkillers, pressing them into your hands without ceremony.
“Drink.”
You obey, swallowing around the lump in your throat, wincing when the pills scrape down. The water’s blissfully cold, shocking you back into your body.
Yoongi sits on the other end of the couch, angled toward you, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. Casual, except not at all—because his eyes never leave your face.
You shift under the weight of it. “You really didn’t have to come.”
His mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. “Guess I wanted to.”
The room is too quiet after that. Only the hum of your fridge, the faint city noise leaking through your blackout curtains. You fiddle with the bottle cap, unscrewing and rescrewing it, until the words tumble out before you can stop them:
“Sorry about last night.”
Yoongi’s brows twitch, but he doesn’t move. “What are you sorry for?”
You bite your lip, eyes darting away. “I don’t know. Being weird. Disappearing. Getting too drunk. Take your pick.”
He leans forward, forearms on his knees, finally breaking his stillness. His voice is low, deliberate. “You don’t have to apologize for any of that.”
You risk a glance, and it’s almost worse—the softness in his gaze, the way he looks at you like you’re something fragile he doesn’t know how to hold.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because you don’t want to be fragile. You don’t want him to carry you like glass. You want to be wanted.
Your pulse hammers. You clear your throat. “Still… thanks. For showing up.”
“All good,” he says again, simple, final.
But he doesn’t leave. Doesn’t move. He just stays there, steady as ever, like he has all the time in the world to sit on your couch and wait for you to stop spinning.
You tip the water bottle back again, the plastic crackling against your palm. “The room’s not moving anymore,” you say, voice rough, “just… swaying.”
“Good,” he murmurs. “Means your stomach hates you a little less.”
He’s still angled toward you, one knee on the cushion, hoodie soft where his forearm brushes the back of the couch. From here he smells like detergent and whatever clean thing lives in the dark fabric of his clothes—cool, familiar, a scent your body recognizes faster than your head does.
“You brought a whole survival kit,” you add, nodding at the lined-up bottles and the bananas he peeled and then un-peeled because you said the stringy bits were “criminal.”
“You texted,” he answers like it’s math.
“I texted Joon,” you correct, then wince. “Apparently.”
“Lucky for you Siri can’t spell.”
“You’re annoying.”
His mouth twitches; he lets it die. “You okay?”
“Define okay.”
He watches you. Not the hungover kind of watch—no pity, no soft head tilt. He tracks your eyes, your mouth, the way your fingers worry the ridges of the bottle cap like you’re trying to sand yourself smooth.
“I should’ve been with you,” he says.
The sentence lands heavy and simple, no preamble, like he ripped a stitch so it wouldn’t fester.
You blink. “At the party.”
“Yeah.”
“You were there,” you say, because that’s the safe version.
“Not with you.”
It scrapes something raw. You chase it with water; it doesn’t help. “Why weren’t you?”
He drags a hand over his jaw, eyes dropping to the coffee table like he can line his thoughts up next to the Gatorades. “I walked in, saw you on the floor, and—” He exhales a quiet, stuttering laugh with no humor in it. “—my brain just… shorted. You looked—” His gaze flicks back to you, sticks for a second on your mouth. “—and I got stupid. I went upstairs to get it together and then people kept talking and—”
“And Sori said hi,” you say, neutral as a knife laid flat.
His throat works. “She said hi.”
Silence folds in around you. The clock on your microwave stutters out a soft electronic tick every minute; the apartment’s old pipes clink somewhere in the wall like they’re chewing on ice.
He leans in, forearms on his thighs now, voice low enough you feel it in your ribs. “I’m sorry I wasn’t where I should’ve been. I’m sorry you blew out candles without me next to you. I’m sorry you went outside alone. I should’ve been with you.”
You want to deflect—aim a joke at his chest and watch it bounce—but the way he says it pins you to the cushion. “Why say it now?”
“Because you asked me last night not to be late,” he answers, eyes steady. “And I don’t want to be late for this.”
“For what?” Your mouth is dry again. But you don’t reach for the water.
“For the part where I stop pretending this doesn’t matter,” he says, and the words are so bare you almost flinch. “You’re—” He swallows. “You’re my best friend.”
Your laugh comes out thin and mean to hide the way your pulse kicks. “Congratulations, you and Namjoon can share custody.”
He almost smiles. But he doesn’t. “You know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “I hurt you yesterday.”
You look at the floor, the gray weave of the rug you bought on sale because the reviews said it hid red wine. “I hate that you can tell.”
“I hate that I gave you a reason.”
Something loosens in your chest and tightens at the same time. “Then don’t do it again.”
“I won’t.”
“You say that like you can control the future. Like it’s easy.”
“It’s not.”
You sit with that and so does he. The fridge hums in the kitchen, a car door thunks somewhere on the street. You can feel the apology vibrating in him, the unsaid parts pressing hard against the back of his teeth.
Your phone, abandoned face-down on the coffee table, gives a useless little buzz of an insignificant notification. His, tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie, is quiet.
“You know,” you say, softer now, “I didn’t even want a party.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“But the one thing I did want was…” You stop yourself, throat hot, eyes stinging. Feeling a little ridiculous right now.
“Me there,” he finishes, no triumph in it, only truth.
You meet his eyes and hate that they’re careful. “Yeah. That’s what I was looking forward to. And where were you?”
He shakes his head, slow. “Not there.”
“Then say it again. Properly this time,” you push, because you want to hear him choose it twice. “What you’re sorry for.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t with you,” he says, steady. “I’m sorry I let the party swallow me when I should’ve found you. I’m sorry that I made you wonder if you mattered more than the people I was with.”
Your living room holds the words like they might break if it breathes too hard.
You drag a fingertip along the sweating ridge of your water bottle. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“It’s a start.”
His shoulders drop a fraction, tension leaking out like air from a pinhole. “I’ll take a start.”
“Hey! Don’t get cocky.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
You’re about to say something reckless and small and yours—something about how you would have let him hold the sparkler while you made your wish—when a low vibration murmurs against denim.
He glances down. The sound is so quiet it could be the building creaking, but you feel the shift in his focus like a draft under a door. He fishes his phone out, checks the screen with that same careful face he wears when he listens to a half-finished demo.
He hits decline.
The buzz dies.
You watch his thumb hover a second too long over the glass, as if his finger can erase a name. He tucks the phone back into his pocket, looks up at you, opens his mouth—
The phone vibrates again. Louder now, insistent, trapped in fabric. He doesn’t move at first, like not acknowledging it might starve it of oxygen. It keeps ringing, patient and relentless.
“Do you need to get that?” you ask, voice very calm, like you’re asking if he needs a coaster.
“No,” he says, just as calm.
The ring keeps threading between you.
“Who is it?” You tip your head, trying for breezy, landing on brittle.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Humor me.”
He shakes his head, jaw tight. The buzz goes on, familiar rhythm looping, and something inside you decides it’s done being polite. You reach forward, fingers wrapping around his wrist where the cuff of his hoodie meets warm skin.
“Let me see.”
He stills. Not resisting—shocked still. The privacy reflex hits late; you’ve already slid your hand down, already dipped your fingers into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie like you own the right, already brushed knuckles to glass.
The screen flares up against your palm.
It’s only four letters. White text, black background, neat little vibration under your hand like the phone itself is smug about it.
Sori.
You don’t even really know her. Didn’t know she existed until last night. Don’t know if she’s an old friend, a new one, or just a passing shadow to Yoongi. You don’t know if she’s someone who laughs at his sarcasm the way you do, if she knows the way his voice drops when he’s serious, if she’s ever had him smile at her the way he smiles at you like you’re his.
But you know this: the second you see her name, your stomach twists sharp and painfully mean.
It’s nausea, hot and cold at once, like you’ve swallowed something that doesn’t belong in your body. It coils low, climbs high, catches at the back of your throat. Your pulse stutters, and suddenly the whole room feels too small, too loud—even though it’s just you, him, the hum of the fridge.
Why should it matter? He can have friends. He can have whoever-the-hell Sori is. You’re not his girlfriend. You’re not his anything. You don’t get to have a say.
And still—you hate it. Hate the way her name looks lit up in his pocket. Hate the way it rang twice, like she knew he’d ignore her once and was ready for round two. Hate the way your hand trembled when you pulled it out, like you were already bracing for the blow.
It’s pathetic, you think. It’s not even her. It’s the not-knowing.
Where she came from. Why she knows him. How close they are. If she knew him before you did.
That last thought lands like a sucker punch. You swallow hard against the bile.
You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t—
“Y/N.”
His voice cuts through your thoughts. Low and so careful.
You look up, and he’s already watching you. Watching the exact way your jaw tightens, the exact way your fingers still press against his wrist like you forgot to let go.
He sees it all.
And the worst part? You see him see it. The flicker of realization in his eyes, quick and sharp, like a spark hitting kindling. He knows.
He knows you’re jealous.
Yoongi tilts his head, still caught under your fingers where they’ve wrapped around his wrist. His mouth curves, faint, the kind of smirk that says he’s decided not to let the silence swallow you whole.
“So,” he says, slow, amused, “we’re just grabbing people’s phones now? That a new birthday tradition or…?”
You blink, throat tight. “I wasn’t grabbing, I was—” You stop. Heat crawls up your neck. “—I don’t know what I was.”
“Investigating?” His smirk deepens, but his voice softens with it. “That’s bold. Didn’t peg you for the jealous type.”
The word hits too close. Your stomach flips. “I’m not jealous.”
“Mm.” He leans back, wrist still loose in your hold, like he’s giving you the chance to let go and not making a big deal out of the fact that you don’t. “Sure. Totally. That’s why you look like you’re about to fight Siri for connecting Sori’s call.”
Her name on his lips does something ugly to your insides and you suddenly feel like throwing up again.
You groan and drop his wrist like it burns all the sudden. “Shut up.”
He chuckles, low and warm, no sting in it. “I mean, you didn’t even ask who she was before you went full detective. Kind of flattering, actually.”
Your chest squeezes. “It’s not—” You rub your temples, voice wobbling at the edges. “I just… I don’t even know who she is, Yoongi. I don’t know how you know her, or if you knew her before, or if she’s—” You bite the words off, sharp. “It doesn’t matter.”
His smirk eases, eyes steady on yours now. “You really want to know?”
You freeze. The question hangs there, heavy, tempting, terrifying.
“…No,” you say finally, lying through your teeth. “I don’t care.”
Yoongi hums, like he hears the truth tucked under the denial. Not pressing, not pushing—just sitting with it. Then he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, voice dipping quiet.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, simple, sincere, “you’re the one I’d have rather been with last night. Not her. You.”
Your throat works, traitorous. You want to laugh it off, toss the line back, make it light. But the words sit heavy, glowing, and you can’t quite find the air to move them.
So instead, you look down at your lap, tugging at a loose thread on your blanket, and mutter the safest thing you can manage.
“You’re annoying.”
“Yeah,” he says, smiling now. “But I’m your annoying.”
You half-smile, acknowledging his words that make your heart flutter more than they should.
He looks down at his lap before finding your eyes again. “And you have nothing to worry about.”
You let out a humorless laugh. “What does that even mean.”
“It means,” he says, confident and steady, “I could never replace you. If that’s why you’re… jealous.”
Your chest goes tight. “I’m not worried about being replaced,” you shoot back, too fast. “I’m worried about—”
You hear yourself hit the edge and slam on the brakes. No. Not like this. Not with last night still in your throat, not with someone else’s name still buzzing in his pocket.
“Worried about?” he asks, softer now. Patient, like he’s learned your tells and is offering you a way down.
You take a breath that doesn’t go anywhere. Then the words arrive all at once, tripping over each other like they’ve been queued for hours.
“Look. I don’t care if you’re having fun and going on dates or fucking around and just looking for casual sex.” Your voice is too bright, too sharp. “But last night I was super fucking annoyed that all your attention was on someone I don’t even know and never even heard of, when I wanted to be having the time of my life with you. You. My hot best friend. The one person I could joke with about that horribly fantastic party. But you weren’t there. And I know you said sorry, and I guess I forgive you, but I’ll be hurt for a little bit, but my point is… I wore that dress for—”
BZZ-ZZZZ.
You flinch like the sound touched your skin. His phone rattles in his hoodie pocket again, insistently, as if the universe just cannot help itself.
You’re halfway to smacking it out of him when you see his face.
He’s looking at you like you just said something holy by accident. Like you hung the moon and he’s been figuring out how to thank you ever since. Warm, startled, wrecked all at once. It’s not a look you’ve ever seen him aim at anyone else.
BZZ. BZZ.
He doesn’t even glance down this time. He reaches into his pocket without breaking eye contact, pulls the phone out, hits decline, and sets it face-down on your coffee table like he’s putting a lid on a pot before it boils over.
Silence spreads, thin and shimmering.
“You wore the dress for who,” he says, voice low, as if he’s afraid of scaring the truth back into its hole.
“For—” The word tangles. You swallow, hate the quake in your throat. “For feeling good,” you say, cowardly. Then quieter: “For… me.”
His mouth twitches—there and gone. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and searches your face like it’s the only sheet of music he knows how to read.
“I didn’t give Sori my attention,” he says, measured. “I stood upstairs because I panicked. She said hi because Jin dragged her over. I nodded through a conversation I didn’t hear because every time you laughed, it was like the floor moved. Nothing happened. I left the balcony because I couldn’t stay one more second where I couldn’t touch you.”
Your pulse stumbles, catches, sprints. “You didn’t touch me downstairs either.”
“I tried,” he says, winces at himself, corrects quietly, “I asked. You said you were busy. You were right to say it.”
“I was mad,” you admit. It feels like handing him your throat. “I wanted you next to me and you weren’t. Then there was this… person. This name. And I—” Your voice roughens. “I hated not knowing if you were choosing her over me.”
His eyes soften like that’s the one hit that lands. “I wasn’t choosing anyone over you.” He taps a knuckle against the table, once, a valve for something hotter. “Sori is… Jin’s friend. She works A&R. Last night she wanted to talk about a feature for an artist. I told her no. Twice.”
“But she’s calling,” you say, because the facts are stacked on the table blinking up at you in bold font.
He drags a hand over his jaw. “She’s calling because I texted her at 2 a.m. to give her my number because Jin told me to.” A brief, humorless laugh. “She told me I was insane for texting her so late. Then she said happy birthday to you. Then she left her coat upstairs and thinks I can magic it out of the very locked building.”
“Oh.” The word is light; the drop in your stomach is not. “That’s… anticlimactic.”
“I’m sorry it isn’t salacious enough for your spiral,” he murmurs. “Want me to pretend I eloped?”
“Don’t tempt me. I’ll plan the reception out of spite.”
He smiles properly this time. Small. Real. Then it fades, not because it’s gone but because he’s turning the volume down to say the rest.
“You said you don’t care if I’m dating,” he says. “I’m not.”
“That’s a convenient coincidence.”
“It’s an inconvenient truth,” he replies, and if he were anyone else he’d be grinning at his own line. He isn’t. He’s looking at you like the next choice will rearrange the room.
Your heartbeat is a clumsy thing in your chest. “So what am I worried about, Yoongi?”
He tips his head, patient. “You tell me.”
You stare at him. At the hoodie you’ve seen a hundred times, the one you’ve stolen twice. At the hands he keeps hiding from the space between you like they might give him away. At the mouth that has laughed with you, cut with you, said things drunk that sober-you memorized and buried.
“I was worried,” you say, each word picked out like it’s lying under glass, “that I was the only one who felt… how I feel. And if I say it out loud, and I am the only one, I won’t get to have the part I already have.”
He inhales, slow, the kind of breath you take before you step onto thin ice. “The part where we’re… us.”
“Yeah.”
“And if you weren’t the only one?” he asks, so gentle you want to shake him.
“Then I’m still mad about last night,” you say, because your brain is a wild animal that insists on bargaining even with the door cracked open. “But maybe not… terrified.”
His gaze flicks, quick, to your mouth and back. “You wore the dress for me.”
It isn’t a question this time. It’s a mercy.
You let your eyes drop to your hands, the faint half-moons your nails pressed in your palm. “I wore it hoping you’d look at me and—” You bite down on the rest. Enough honesty for one breath.
“I looked,” he says. “I haven’t stopped.”
BZZ-ZZZZ.
The phone on the table makes a valiant attempt at resurrecting itself, skittering once against the wood. You glance at it, then back at him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.
“Let it ring,” he says softly. “Please.”
You do. For once you let something that isn’t him wait.
He shifts closer, not enough to crowd, enough that his knee brushes the cushion seam next to your thigh. The hoodie smells like detergent and something that’s just him; your stupid body registers all of it like facts it’s been starving for.
“Say the rest,” he asks. “The part after ‘I wore that dress for—’”
You breathe out a laugh that’s almost a sob. “God, you’re greedy.”
“I learned from the best.”
You look at him, and it’s like the party, the garden, the bench, the whole world has been a long hallway pointing here.
“For you,” you say. Quiet. True. “I wore it for you.”
His eyes close for a second like the sentence hits bone.
When he opens them, there’s nothing careful left.
“Come here,” he says.
You move first—not because he told you to, but because the space between you has been lying this whole time. You shift across the cushion, knees knocking, and his hand comes up like gravity to your jaw, thumb gentle at the corner of your mouth where last night smudged something you didn’t want.
He pauses, searches your face for a no you aren’t giving.
“Yoongi,” you warn, a wry smile trying to save you both and failing. “If you ask me if this is okay I might combust.”
He huffs a laugh that’s more breath than sound. “Then save us both.”
You do.
And when your lips touch, it’s not fireworks. It’s not a car crash. It’s the simple, devastating relief of something finding its right place. He kisses you like he’s been waiting at a red light for a year and it finally turned green—he’s careful, then not, then careful again because he knows the shape of your edges. Your hand fists in the front of his hoodie. His fingers slide into your hair like they were always meant to be there.
The room doesn’t sway anymore. It stills.
When you pull back, barely, it’s only to breathe his name against his mouth and see the way it lands. He’s smiling, small and rueful and respectful in a way that makes your ribs ache.
“I’m still mad,” you whisper, because some small, stubborn part of you needs to plant a flag.
“I’ll earn my way out,” he murmurs. “Stay mad. Stay.”
“I planned to.” Your forehead tips to his. “For a long time, actually.”
BZZ. BZZ. BZZ. BZZ.
You both glance at the table like you’re looking at a mosquito that thought it was a hawk. Yoongi reaches out without looking, flips the phone over with two fingers, and finally silences it.
“I’ll block her later,” he says, almost amused. “Tell her Jin has her coat but she has the wrong number.”
“Please do not drag the coat into your lies.”
“It’s not a lie.” He kisses you once, quick and devastating. “I’ll change my number.”
You snort, breathless, and he grins against your mouth like he just solved something complicated. The headache behind your eyes is a faint pressure now, not a drum. Your stomach is quiet. The buzzing is gone.
“Yoongi,” you say, and he hums, thumb tracing the hinge of your jaw like he’s afraid you might vanish if he stops touching you. “I want to be stupid with you for a while.”
“Good,” he says, like he’s been waiting for someone to hand him permission to breathe. “I’m great at stupid.”
“Prove it.”
He leans back just enough to look at you, really look, and the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes go soft. “I’ll start by making you soup and holding your hair if you throw up.”
“Hot.”
“And then I’ll spend the rest of the day telling you every version of ‘nothing happened’ until even your jealousy gets bored and falls asleep.”
“Ambitious.”
He kisses your temple. “And after you nap, I’m going to apologize again for last night. Better. With sentences that aren’t trash. Then I’m going to ask you if I can take you on a date that doesn’t end with you wanting to fight Siri in the street.”
You blink. That word sits different now. Not heavy. Possible.
“And if I say yes?”
He smiles, quiet, certain. “Then I’ll try not to be late.”
You search his face for a loophole you can hide in. You don’t find one. “Okay,” you say. “Okay.”
He exhales like a man who’s been underwater and finally broke the surface.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, and you do, tucking yourself into the corner of the couch with him like it’s been waiting for this exact geometry. His hoodie is soft under your cheek. His heartbeat is stupid and steady against your ear. The city hums. Somewhere in your kitchen, a Gatorade bottle sweats itself into a little ring on the counter.
When your phone buzzes on the table, it’s a text from Namjoon.
Joon: alive?
You smile into cotton and type with one hand.
you: yeah
you: soup incoming
you: don’t worry about the coat
Three dots. Then:
Joon: …what coat
You huff a laugh you didn’t know you had left. Yoongi doesn’t ask what’s funny. He already knows. He just kisses the top of your head like he intends to make a habit of it.
“Tomorrow,” you murmur, eyes already slipping shut despite yourself, “don’t be late.”
“I won’t,” he says, and the way he says it makes your body believe him before your brain does.
The phone on the table stays quiet. The soup pot waits. The dress is hanging somewhere in the dark of your closet like a witness.
You think about the way he looked at you before he kissed you, like the moon finally turned around and noticed who’d been holding it up.
And you reckon no one has ever looked at you that way before.
The soup tasted better than it should’ve.
Maybe it was because you were hungover and half-dead, maybe it was because Yoongi had leaned against your counter in that hoodie, scowling at the recipe on his phone like broth was a personal enemy, maybe it was because he kept sliding glances at you like he couldn’t believe you were really there.
Whatever the reason, you ate it. Slowly, gratefully. He made you drink water in between bites, muttered something about “keeping electrolytes up” like he wasn’t the one who showed up with a bag of bananas and Gatorade in the first place.
You laughed at him. He kissed you quiet.
Later, you curled up on the couch with a blanket big enough for two, his arm slung heavy and sure around you. Movies played half-forgotten in the background, your head on his chest, his thumb tracing idle circles against your arm. The kisses came soft and unhurried, the kind you could fall asleep in.
At some point, you must’ve.
Because when you open your eyes again, it’s morning.
Your room is flooded with pale light that slips past the blackout curtains, painting everything in soft gray. Your head doesn’t hurt anymore; your body feels loose, weightless. For half a second you let yourself drift, float in the warmth cocooned around you—until you realize that warmth isn’t the blanket.
It’s him.
Yoongi is behind you, his chest pressed firm against your back, his breath slow at your nape. His arm is heavy over your waist, tucked under your shirt just enough to graze bare skin. And when you shift, careful, testing—
Oh.
Your ass fits right up against his front.
Every nerve ending in your body lights up like fireworks.
You freeze. Absolutely still. Wide awake now in a way that feels criminal. Your brain, traitorous, starts cataloguing everything at once: the heat of him pressed along your spine, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the solid weight against your hip that tells you exactly how real this is.
Shit.
Slowly—so slowly—you breathe in. Out. You try to convince yourself you can relax, that it doesn’t mean anything, that this is just what happens when two people fall asleep in the same bed. Gravity. Logistics. Biology.
But then his fingers twitch at your waist. Just the barest curl, like even in sleep his body knows it wants you closer.
And you realize: you’re not going back to sleep. Not like this.
Your heart is in your throat, your pulse hammering loud enough you’re afraid it’ll wake him. You tell yourself not to move. You tell yourself you can stay perfectly still until he wakes up first. You tell yourself—
Then his breath shifts, deeper, warmer, nosing the back of your neck.
Oh, fuck.
“Yoongi…” you whisper, so quiet you’re not even sure you meant for him to hear it.
He stirs, the smallest sound in his throat, voice thick with sleep. “Mm. Still dreaming.”
Your chest tightens. “Of what?”
He shifts, breath warm against your neck, words barely brushing your skin. “You. Always you.”
The confession hits you harder than his body pressed against yours. Your pulse spikes, your body aching with the knowledge of how close he is—how hard he is—and how much you want him.
You twist carefully in his hold until you’re facing him, and he looks wrecked in the soft light—hair a mess, lashes heavy, lips parted. Beautiful. Real. Yours.
Your hand finds the fabric of his hoodie, clinging. “We should…” you murmur, breathless, “brush our teeth first.”
That earns the faintest crook of his mouth, still half-asleep. “Practical.”
You slip out of bed on wobbly legs, padding toward the bathroom. He follows a moment later, dragging a hand through his hair, hoodie slouched off one shoulder cause he couldn’t be bothered to fix it.
The two of you stand at the sink, shoulders brushing, toothbrushes moving in quiet sync. He’s always had an extra toothbrush at your place. It should feel ordinary, domestic. Instead, the air between you hums, electric, sharp with what you’re not saying.
When you spit and rinse, lifting your gaze to the mirror, you catch him watching you—awake now, eyes dark and unflinching.
You set your toothbrush down, breath caught. “Yoongi—”
But he closes the space before you can finish, hand cradling your jaw as his mouth finds yours, cool mint still fresh on his tongue, and suddenly you’re gone—burning, melting, needing him like air.
It’s not the soft, careful kiss from last night—it’s greedy, impatient, like he’s been holding his breath for years and finally decided to inhale.
You gasp, hands fisting in his hoodie, and he uses that tiny opening to lick into you, tongue sliding against yours until you’re dizzy. The counter digs into the backs of your thighs before you even register he’s moved you, his hands braced firm at your hips, lifting, setting you down on the cold marble like it’s nothing.
The world tilts, and then it doesn’t matter—because Yoongi is standing between your knees, kissing you like the end of everything. Hard. Hot. Like if he stops, the whole world will collapse.
Your fingers claw into his hair, tugging, desperate. He groans into your mouth, the sound low and wrecked, vibrating straight through you.
You break for air only long enough to see him—lips red, pupils blown, hoodie collar bunched in your fists. His forehead tips against yours, breaths ragged. “Fuck, Y/N,” he mutters, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper, hungrier, like he’ll never get enough.
His hands roam—up your sides, over your waist, sliding beneath your shirt to find bare skin, warm palms branding every inch they touch. You arch into him, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer until you feel the solid, unmistakable press of him right where you need it.
The sound you make is shameless. His answering groan is worse.
“Been dreaming about this,” he rasps against your mouth. “About you. For so long.”
You kiss him harder, swallowing the confession whole, because if you don’t, you’ll beg. And you’re already half a second from begging anyway.
The kiss doesn’t slow. It only deepens—messier, hungrier, your lips swollen, teeth clashing as his tongue tangles with yours. His hands grip your thighs like he’s terrified you’ll slip off the counter, thumbs pressing into the soft skin there as if reminding himself of the fact that this is real.
“Fuck,” Yoongi groans into your mouth, breaking away just long enough to drag his lips across your jaw, down your throat. “You taste… fuck, you taste better than I dreamed.”
Your head falls back against the mirror with a soft thud, a whimper spilling out before you can swallow it. “Yoongi—”
“Say it again,” he murmurs against your skin, lips hot at the hollow of your throat. “Say my name like that.”
“Yoongi.” It’s desperate this time, broken open.
He bites down gently, sucking a mark into your skin that will brand you tomorrow, and the sound you make has his breath hitching. His hands slide higher, skimming beneath your shirt until his thumbs are brushing the underside of your breasts, not quite touching, just teasing, making your body arch toward him instinctively.
Your fingers dig into his hair, tugging him back up so you can crash your mouth against his again. He takes it, gives it back tenfold, kissing you like he’ll starve without it.
“I wanted this,” you pant against his lips. “Last night. The night before, at the party.” You dive in for more kisses. “All night. You—”
“Me too,” he cuts in, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. “Wanted you so bad I couldn’t breathe. Thought I was gonna lose it if I touched you.”
You whimper, and his grip on your thighs tightens. He kisses you once more, then pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look. His eyes are dark, blown wide, but there’s something steady under it, something careful.
“Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough but low and respectful. His thumb strokes against your skin, grounding. “Let me go down on you.”
The question hangs in the air, heavy, sparking against every nerve in your body.
Your breath stutters. Heat pools low in your stomach, your legs already parting without thought, like your body made the decision before your mouth could.
You nod frantically, hips jerking forward, the word tumbling out of you on a broken pant. “Please.”
Something in his face twists—like he’s both wrecked and relieved at once. He kisses you again, hard and quick, stealing your breath before dropping to his knees on the cold tile.
The sight alone nearly undoes you. Yoongi, kneeling between your thighs, hoodie hanging loose around his frame, dark hair falling into his eyes as he pulls off your sleeping shorts and presses your knees wider. Like you’re something to be opened. Something to be savored. But he leaves your lacy panties on.
“Fuck, look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and gravely, hands sliding up the insides of your thighs. His thumbs trace soft circles there, teasing closer, closer, until you’re arching toward him without shame.
He glances up once, eyes locking with yours, dark and steady. “I need to taste you.”
You moan just at the sound of it, head tipping back against the mirror, and then he leans in—pressing one hot, open-mouthed kiss over the thin fabric of your panties. The wet heat of his tongue seeps through, and you jolt, a whimper breaking free.
“Yoongi—”
He groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. “So sweet already.” His fingers hook under the edge of your underwear, tugging them down your thighs with agonizing slowness, eyes never leaving yours.
When the fabric hits the floor, he nudges your knees apart wider, settling in like he belongs there, and lowers his mouth to you.
The first stroke of his tongue has your whole body jerking off the counter. He grips your thighs firmly, holding you open as he licks into you again, slow and deliberate, like he’s learning you by taste.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groans against your cunt, tongue circling your clit before flattening to lap at you with long, unhurried strokes. “How do you taste so fucking good?”
Your hands slam against the counter edge, searching for stability. You’re panting, gasping, every nerve ending set on fire as he works you open with his mouth. His tongue teases, licks, sucks, alternating pressure until your thighs tremble around his head.
“Please,” you whimper again, tugging his hair without realizing it, and he moans into you like he likes the desperation, like he needs it. The sound shoots straight through you, white-hot.
He pulls back just enough to look up at you, mouth wet, lips red, eyes molten. “Yeah? You want more?”
You nod frantically, words spilling out ragged. “Don’t stop—please, Yoongi, don’t stop.”
His smirk is faint, wicked. “Wasn’t planning to.”
And then he dives back in, tongue relentless, sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking until your vision blurs out.
You choke on a moan, your whole body arching, thighs trembling around his head, and Yoongi just holds you steady, eating you like he could live here forever. Like he’s been starving for this exact moment, for you.
You’re so fucking close.
And Yoongi doesn’t let up. His tongue works you with steady, devastating precision—long, slow licks that drag all the way through your folds, sharp flicks against your clit, then sucking it into his mouth until you’re keening, your hips jerking helplessly against his hold.
“Yoongi—fuck—” you gasp, fingers tangled in his hair, pulling without thought.
He groans like your desperation is feeding him, his mouth sealing over you tighter, tongue pressing into you with purpose. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice wrecked but steady. “Give it to me. I’ve got you.”
Your thighs tremble around his head, every nerve firing, heat winding tight in your belly. He feels it—of course he does—because his grip on your thighs tightens, pinning you open as his pace grows just a fraction more deliberate.
He draws lazy circles over your clit with his tongue, building, building, relentless in the way only he could be. You’re panting, breaking apart, teetering on the edge—
“Yoongi, I—I’m—”
“Yeah,” he rasps, pulling you impossibly closer to his mouth. “Come for me.”
And right before you do, he slides his middle finger inside you and curls it perfectly.
You gasp, “Fuck—YOON—“
It rips through you sudden and hard and sharp, your whole body arching off the counter as pleasure detonates in waves. Your cry echoes against the bathroom tiles, thighs clamping around his head while he groans into you, pumping and curling his finger just right inside you. His mouth still on your clit, licking you through it, slow and unhurried, savoring every twitch and pulse.
Your grip in his hair turns shaky, your body slumping back against the mirror as aftershocks roll through you. You’re wrecked, panting, dazed—and Yoongi finally pulls back, lips wet, chin slick, eyes dark and glowing all at once.
“Fuck,” he breathes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re gorgeous like this.”
You barely manage a whimper before his arms are sliding under you, lifting you off the counter like you weigh nothing. You bury your face against his shoulder, still trembling, as he carries you out of the bathroom.
Each step toward your bed feels surreal, dizzying. The sheets are cool against your back when he lowers you down, settling between your knees, his hands braced on either side of you like he’s caging you in.
He leans down, kissing you deep—mint, salt, and you—and you can taste yourself on his tongue. He doesn’t let you look away, doesn’t give you space to doubt.
“Round one,” he murmurs against your lips, voice low and hot on your skin. “Now let me ruin you properly.”
His mouth trails down your throat, across your collarbone, slow and chaste even as his hands are shaking with urgency. He kisses you as if he wants to memorize every inch of your skin before he dares take more.
Then he leans back, tugging his hoodie over his head. It falls to the floor in a heap, followed by his t-shirt, leaving him bare chested above you—lean muscle, pale skin, the rise and fall of his chest unsteady as he stares down at you.
“Your turn,” he murmurs, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt. He pauses, searching your face. “Can I?”
You nod, frantic. “Please.”
The shirt comes off, your bra following, and for a long moment he just… stares. His mouth parts, his chest heaves, and he shakes his head like he can’t believe this is real.
“Beautiful doesn’t even come close,” he says, voice raw, almost angry at the limitation of language. “Fuck. I wish I had a better word, but you—” He swallows hard. “You make me stupid.”
Heat floods your face, your chest, all the way down to your core. You reach for him, dragging his mouth back to yours, kissing him messy, urgent, because if he keeps looking at you like that, you’ll combust.
His sweats are loose at his hips, and your hand slips down, tugging at the waistband until you find him. Hard, hot, heavy in your palm. You wrap your fingers around him, pumping slow at first, and the moan he lets out into your mouth nearly undoes you.
God, he’s thick. Not the longest, but girthy, solid, filling your hand so completely you know the stretch is going to wreck you in the best way. You stroke him again, thumb swiping over the damp slit, and his hips jerk helplessly against your hand.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he groans, kissing you harder, tongue pushing deep like he can’t control himself. His whole body shudders above you as you pump him, and it makes your stomach twist with heat knowing you’re unraveling him this fast.
But then he breaks the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. “Stop—”
You freeze, eyes wide. “Did I—?”
“No,” he blurts, voice wrecked, hands gripping your hips like he’s holding on for dear life. “It’s not that. It’s—” He exhales shakily, eyes squeezed shut for a moment before he looks at you again, raw and unguarded. “This is too much. You’re too much. I’ve wanted this for so fucking long, and now it’s actually happening, and if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna last. Not the way I need to. Not the way you deserve.”
Your heart thuds, your chest tight. He’s not joking. He’s deadly serious, like the gravity of this moment is messing with his entire body.
Yoongi kisses you again, slower this time but with more passion. “Let me take it slow first. Let me make it last.”
For a moment, time itself slows down.
You’ve imagined this—fantasized about it in quiet, shameful corners of your mind—but nothing could have prepared you for the reality of Yoongi above you, stripped down and wrecked, telling you he’s waited for this as long as you have. It feels unreal. Like the universe pressed pause just so you could see him clearly: your best friend, the man who knows your darkest jokes and your softest silences, looking at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. You’re so in love with him it feels like your body can’t contain it. Every heartbeat is a reminder: you’ve waited for this. You’ve lived for this. And now it’s happening, right here, in his hands.
Yoongi’s mouth returns to yours, slow and languid, even as his hands tug at the last barrier between you. He peels his sweats and underwear down, dragging them over his hips without disconnecting the kiss. When he’s completely bare, he pulls back just enough to look at you beneath him—really look—and the sound he makes is guttural, torn straight from his chest.
“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes dark, hungry, but shining with something more. “You’re… god, I don’t even have the words. You’re everything.”
Heat floods through you, your thighs pressing together instinctively. But he’s already there, easing them apart with gentle hands, sliding down the bed until he’s between them again. He kisses along your inner thigh, slow, worshiping your skin, then presses one finger inside you, careful but firm.
You gasp, back arching. He groans at the sound, eyes locked on your face as he works you open, sliding deep, curling just right until your hips jerk. “So tight,” he mutters, kissing your knee. “Need to get you ready for me.”
Another finger joins, stretching you more, and the pressure builds deliciously. You clutch at the sheets, moaning helplessly as he pumps them steady, scissoring you open while his thumb circles your clit. He watches you unravel, his lips parted, his breathing rough. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Open up for me. Let me feel you.”
When your thighs start trembling again, he pulls back, dragging his fingers out slowly, leaving you empty and whimpering. He’s already reaching into the pocket of his sweats, pulling a condom out and tearing it open with his teeth.
Your eyes widen. “You—?”
“Always prepared,” he rasps, rolling it down his cock with practiced hands. He catches your expression and gives a small, crooked smirk. “What? You think I didn’t come over here prepared after seeing you in that dress?”
And then he’s there—thick and hot and heavy in his fist, lining himself up against your entrance. He pauses, hovering over you, one hand cupping your jaw, his forehead pressing to yours. His voice is low, almost shaking. “This is it. Are you okay?”
Your body is already begging, already slick and open for him. You nod frantically. “Yes. Please, Yoongi. I need you.”
He exhales sharply, hips rolling forward, and you feel it—his cock pushing into you, slow, careful, stretching you inch by inch. Your jaw falls open, a broken cry spilling out as the stretch burns in the best possible way. He’s thick, filling you so completely you can barely breathe.
“Fuck,” he groans, head dropping against your shoulder, his voice raw. “You feel—shit—you feel so good.”
The stretch has your body clenching tight around him, every nerve alight. He’s the biggest you’ve ever had, not in length but in sheer girth, the kind of fullness that makes you dizzy, makes your thighs shake. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, your nails digging in as he bottoms out, burying himself fully inside you.
“Yoongi—oh my god—”
He holds still, chest heaving, giving you time to adjust. His lips find your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, peppering kisses like he can’t stop himself. “Tell me when,” he pants. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
You shift, rolling your hips experimentally, and the shock of pleasure rips a moan out of you. “Now,” you whisper, desperate. “Move, please.”
He pulls back, slow, then thrusts in again, and the world tilts. The drag of his cock against your walls is overwhelming, toeing the line between pain and ecstasy, and you cling to him, panting his name.
“Fuck—” he grits out, thrusting again, harder this time, the rhythm building as he loses his control. “So tight, so perfect—been dreaming about this for so long. About you.”
Your heart lurches, tears stinging your eyes at the rawness in his voice. You kiss him hard, swallowing his moans, your body clenching around him with every deep, deliberate thrust.
He fucks you slow but rough, every push in like a confession, every pull out dragging another plea from your lips. His grip on your hips is bruising, his mouth a litany against your skin: beautiful, mine, always wanted you, fuck, I love the way you feel.
The world shrinks down to this—the stretch, the heat, the sound of his moans in your ear, the way he’s finally, finally inside you.
Yoongi thrusts into you again, slow and deep, and then suddenly pulls out, chest heaving. Before you can protest, his hands are on your hips, flipping you gently onto your stomach.
“Want to see you like this,” he mutters, voice rough, guiding you onto your hands and knees.
And then he’s pushing back inside, thick cock sliding into you from behind, and the angle makes you cry out, the stretch sharper, deeper. You drop your head forward, moaning his name as you rock your hips back into him.
“Yoongi—fuck, yes—”
His grip tightens, and he drives into you harder, each thrust making the headboard slam against the wall. The sound is obscene, wet and desperate, the slap of skin against skin echoing in your ears.
“Holy fuck,” he groans, and then he stops—just stops moving. His hands hold your hips while you keep grinding back on him, fucking yourself on his cock like you’ll die if you stop. The stretch is brutal, dizzying, but you don’t care—you need it, you need him.
And then his hand reaches around to find your clit. His middle finger makes contact with your bundle of nerves, drawing tight circles on you, and your whole body jolts back, forcing his cock even deeper as you cry out.
“Ahh! Yoongi—mmm—”
He watches you, totally entranced by your sounds alone. Then he rocks his hips—just a little—and he has you aching for more.
You whine, voice wrecked. “Want to ride you.”
He groans, ragged, and pulls out just long enough to shift. “Come on, then.”
He falls back against your headboard, sweat-damp hair clinging to his temples, cock hard and gleaming. You climb onto his lap, straddling him, and take him in hand, guiding him back to your entrance.
The second you sink down, both of you moan in unison—loud, broken, unrestrained. The angle is deeper like this, his cock spearing you open until you feel him in your gut.
“Oh my god,” you pant, nails digging into his shoulders. “So—so deep—”
He fists your hips, holding you steady, but it’s your body doing the work, bouncing on him, taking him in over and over as your tits sway with every movement. He leans forward, mouth hot and desperate against your chest, sucking a nipple into his mouth, tongue circling, teeth grazing.
You cry out, arching into it, and he switches to your other breast, leaving marks on your skin, kissing and sucking like he wants to brand you. Because he does.
Your body is on fire, every nerve ending alive. The words almost spill out—I love you, I love you, I love you—but you choke them down, terrified it’s too soon, terrified it will shatter this moment.
But the way he looks up at you as you ride him—eyes wide, blown, gazing at you like you’re his epiphany—almost gives him away. Like he’s holding back the same words. Like he’s already yours. And you both know it.
“Yoongi,” you gasp, hips bouncing faster, harder, chasing the edge.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he growls, head falling back against the wall, jaw clenched as he watches you take him. “You’re perfect—you’re fucking perfect—”
The coil in your belly snaps, and your orgasm crashes through you, violent and consuming. You scream his name, clenching tight around his cock, body shaking as you ride it out.
“Shit—” he groans, hips thrusting up into you desperately, chasing his own release. “Can’t—fuck, I’m gonna—”
You grip his hair, pulling his face against your chest as he unravels beneath you, spilling hot inside the condom with a guttural moan of your name. His whole body shudders, his cock pulsing inside you as he rides it out, holding you down on him like he can’t stand the thought of letting you go.
You collapse against him, both of you panting, trembling, sweat-slicked. His arms wrap around you, tight, like he’s gluing you to him.
And in the quiet that follows, the only sound your ragged breaths, you realize the truth you almost said out loud: you love him.
And maybe, just maybe, the way his lips press against your temple, lingering, passionate, means he feels the same.
But then—his hands shift. One trails down your spine, settling at your ass, squeezing lightly as if testing the weight of you. He groans low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your collarbone.
“Still so fucking tight,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Even after that.”
You jolt, still full of him, your body clenching reflexively around his cock where he’s still buried inside you. He hisses through his teeth, his grip on your hip tightening.
“Yoongi—” you gasp, shivering.
“Yeah,” he grits, forehead pressing to yours, breath hot on your lips. “You feel that? Can’t even move without—fuck.”
And just like that, the aftercare melts right back into heat.
You shift in his lap, rocking your hips the slightest bit, and his eyes roll back, a groan tearing out of him. “You’re insane,” he mutters, kissing you hard, teeth clashing, desperation bleeding into every stroke of his tongue.
“Can’t stop,” you pant against his mouth. “Don’t want to.”
He grabs your ass with both hands, grinding you down against him, his cock twitching inside you as if his body agrees. “Good,” he growls. “’Cause I’m not letting you off me yet.”
You moan into the kiss, your thighs trembling as you start moving again—slow, steady rolls of your hips that have him swearing, begging under his breath. His lips find your neck, sucking fresh marks into your skin, as if he needs to leave proof that this really happened, that you’re his now.
Every touch, every kiss feels like aftercare and hunger at once—his hands soothing over your back while his cock drags deep inside you, his mouth worshipping your skin while his teeth nip and claim. It’s overwhelming, addictive.
And as you ride him again, slower this time but no less intense, you realize you could live in this loop forever—heat and tenderness, hunger and care, his arms around you and his body inside you, the two of you unable to stop because stopping would mean admitting this isn’t a dream.
You keep moving until your thighs ache, until your chest is heaving and his hands are clutching you like he’ll die if you stop. He kisses you through it, messy and hot, every groan spilling into your mouth until finally your body gives up and collapses against his chest.
Yoongi doesn’t let you go. He rolls with you, easing both of you down until you’re sprawled across the sheets in a tangle of limbs, still connected, still pulsing with aftershocks. His hand drags lazy circles along your spine, his breath ragged against your temple.
“Holy fuck,” he mutters, voice rough with awe.
You laugh weakly into his chest, too exhausted to form words, your smile pressed against his damp skin. He tightens his arms around you in answer, burying his nose in your hair.
The room is quiet but charged, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, your bodies still humming. Every shift of your hips makes him groan, and every groan makes your pulse kick up again.
“You’re insatiable,” you murmur, teasing, though your voice is thin and shaky.
“Pot,” he mutters, squeezing your ass lightly, “meet kettle.”
You laugh again, softer this time, and let yourself melt into him. His hand drifts down to your hip, his thumb stroking absent patterns into your skin like he’s playing the piano.
It should feel like the aftercare part—gentle, winding down. But it doesn’t. Not really. Because beneath the laziness, beneath the sweat cooling on your skin, there’s still that ache, that pull. The knowledge that if either of you moved just right, it would start again.
You tilt your head, brushing your lips over his collarbone, and his body jerks, breath catching like the touch alone could get him hard.
Any feedback is always welcome and appreciated🫶 your comments motivate and inspire me to write more and even the smallest words go such a long way💞💞Thank you for reading🙏
But since NRFS is my first long fic, I had this idea—very casually, very innocently—that maybe… somehow… in some way… it exists in a shared universe.
Like not in a chaotic, “everyone is suddenly here for no reason” way, but in a subtle, interconnected, wait-a-minute-is-that-a-crossover kind of way.
Which is why the thought crossed my mind.
Do I have a fully formed plan? Absolutely not.
Do I think it could be fun? Unfortunately… yes.
ALSO—since some of you didn’t immediately shut me down 😌 I’m gonna put up another poll so you can vote on who would even be involved in said crossover…
Choose wisely. Your decisions have consequences.
And I’m not saying that the member that gets chosen will be romantically involved with OC. So keep that in mind. It’s just for funsies.
Pt 3 of my Yoongi fic recommendations - in order of when I read them :)
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Alive aha Fxck... by @softyoongiionly [fluff, humor/crack, angst, smut, vampire!au, soulmate!au, 18+] 42.6k
An abandoned apartment in your building caught your attention the day you moved in. With a mind full of conspiracy theories, you’ve spent many hours contemplating what might be behind the door of Room 17. Your neighbor, Yoongi, doesn’t seem as eager as you are to solve the mystery but he agrees to help you break in anyway to get you to finally shut up about it. Also, he may or may not think you’re kinda cute. However, the two of you get more than you bargain for when you discover something dangerous is living right next door; Little do you know that this something has quite a lot in common with your snarky neighbor…
or…
“Actually this is kind of cool, I’ve always wanted to star in a Twilight fanfic…”
“I can’t believe you genuinely just compared this situation to Twilight.”
“Yoongi- I hate to break it to you but, this literally happened in Twilight.”
Schemin by @dollfaceksj [angst, smut, slow-burn] 70.2k
Your dream comes true when world renowned music producer and CEO of D-Town Records, Agust D, discovers you in the underground rap scene and wants to sign you to his label. It all goes well for a few months and you can’t believe you’re actually living your dream. However, things start to shift when Agust D offers to do something for you and you can’t stop thinking about it for weeks to come. Your boyfriend doesn’t like it one bit.
Terms & Conditions by @ktownshizzle [fluff, smut, idol!au, 18+] 49k
Managing Min Yoongi as one of your encoders during his alternative military service should’ve been simple. He is quiet, punctual—and can apparently type as fast as he can rap! Not to mention the fact that he is easy on the eyes and keeps wanting to help you. You’ve signed an iron-clad NDA, detailing the full terms and conditions of his temporary employment, so you’re supposed to keep things professional, but what happens if neither of you wants to?
That Tricky Hicky by @ktownshizzle [fluff, college!au] 2.5k
Drabble request - drunk, soppy Yoongi ♡
Wild & Free by @ktownshizzle [fluff, angst, smut, idol!au, childhood friends to lovers]
Part 01, 7.2k | Part 02, 11k
While on the last leg of their PTD tour, Yoongi discovers there was such a thing as drive-thru weddings in Las Vegas - spontaneous, wild, exciting - something his pretty little brain can't seem to process having lived the last decade of his life planned to perfection by his management team, which includes you. When he goes down a rabbit hole of Youtube videos about The Little White Wedding Chapel (Omo! Michael Jordan got married there!), he starts getting all sorts of ideas - all of it starring him and you.
Latibule by @wildestdreamsblog [smut, yandere!au, 18+]
In which you didn’t know who he truly was- until it was too late. Or in which he found heaven in you.
Always You by @jjungkookii [smut, comedy, angst, fluff] 20.9k
What starts as friendship built on inside jokes and late-night takeout slowly turns into something messier, heavier, and impossible to ignore. From the first meet through the birthday party, jealousy, confessions, and one hangover later—you and Yoongi finally cross the line you’ve both been toeing for far too long.
So your relationship with Namjoon has gone to shit. Your solution? Hit up a sex shop and try to salvage things in the bedroom instead of dealing with the real issues. (Solid plan, right?) What you didn’t expect is to walk out with a blind box and pull a toy called SUGA—magical, stupidly hot, and guarantees to fix your 99 problems, but he actually becomes one.
Want a Taste? by @suga-kookiemonster [smut, humor, friends to lovers] 18.3k
pretzel pro. most skillful tongue in the food court world. allegedly. thats what yoongi keeps telling you, anyway. of course, you're reasonably skeptical of his claims - but if there's one thing that motivates the notoriously-lethargic man, it's proving skeptics wrong.
Back to Friends by @inthelow [angst, crack, fluff, idol!au]
Six months after your breakup, you and Yoongi reunite at a wedding on Jeju Island. As old feelings resurface over one emotional week, you must decide if love deserves a second chance— or if “just friends” will actually work.
proceed with care by @seokbite [smut, angst, fluff, 18+] 11.6k
When Yoongi stays quiet every time you’re together, never letting a sound or reaction slip, doubt slowly takes root in your mind, leaving you wondering if he even enjoys being with you at all. The insecurity builds until, the next time, you force yourself into something more performative, but Yoongi notices immediately, and what starts as confusion turns into an honest conversation neither of you expected.
best laid plans by @glossdebut [angst, smut, fluff, 18+] 13.6k
You meet Min Yoongi at a GS25 on a nothing Tuesday. You don't expect him to change your life. You certainly don't expect to change his.
take a bite: remastered by @glossdebut [smut, fluff, angst, humour, producer!Yoongi, 18+] 43.1k
Your fledgling career as a music journalist is finally going in some kind of direction that must be on the path to success. Your coworkers like you enough to invite you out on Fridays, your boss is starting to think you're competent enough to let you score a few bylines, and you're finally getting the hang of InDesign. All of your hard work, late nights, and complete lack of social life are starting to pay off... Even if it all came at the expense of the longest relationship of your life. Fine. You've accepted the fact that romance isn't for your, under any circumstance. you won't risk your career for anybody. Not even Min Yoongi.
