An attempt @joons-cinnamon-bun - Tumblr Blog

Oct 6, 2025

A series of unfortunate Dates -2-

Summary: Fate has never been a determining factor in Namjoon’s life. Destiny, if it existed at all, seemed to have a sick sense of humor, and his horoscope barely got it right half the time. In fact, the only otherworldly forces Namjoon puts any stock in are his mother’s divine meddling…and his unlucky dating streak. So when she signs him up for what can only be described as a modern, barely legal, arranged marriage agency operating somewhere out of Seoul, he’s not even surprised. Resigned? Yes. Hopeful? Not in the slightest. But then he meets you. The girl from the bus, many months ago. The one who felt like a missing piece from his story, but slipping away through the fates' threads. And through what can only be described as a bizarre serries of coincidences (or, as your mother would say, divine intervention), you’re here. Wearing a pink dress. Wondering if maybe, just maybe…soulmates do exist. Namjoon doesn’t believe in fate. And maybe, just maybe—he could believe in you. word count: almost 12K Genre: Borderline rom-com with an arranged marriage kick. Matchmaking. Fluff. Smut. Warnings: Explicit smut scene. oral sex. fluffy sex. the author pokes a lil fun at mysticism masterlist

taglist: @uniquetravelerone @sexytholland @codeinebelle @annyeongbitch @rpwprpwprpwprw @goldietigers294 @amarawayne @oneshallsmile @ktownshizzle @jimineepaboya @lili-spots @themwordsblog @jub-jub @tryingtotwice @callmenoona25 @angellekookie

Namjoon’s lips drag into a slow smile. His heart ticks up when he catches your eyes drop to his lips, like you can’t help it. Like you’re thinking about it—about him—in that very same way he’s been thinking about you all night.

He normally isn't one to chuck up moments of his life to ‘destiny’ or ‘stars’ or even on his karmic balance. In fact he is a proven rationalist. But there’s something about this moment—about you—that makes him want to believe in all of it. In missed connections. In soulmates. In the unspoken glances on the bus. In ironing his shirt for a first date. In the way your fingers lingered a bit too long when he lead you to the table. In the way your laugh cracked open the night like a lighter held to wax.

In the way you step just slightly closer to him, and he doesn’t pull away.

“No,” he says finally, voice low, steady. “Not the last time I checked.”

You nod, once, and it’s all the invitation he needs to let his heart figure-four leg lock his brain into submission. No more pretending this is just a good match on paper, or just a lucky coincidence orchestrated by the universe and meddling parents.

“So…” you start, barely louder than the rustle of wind through the leaves. You’re standing at the corner you’re supposed to turn down to get home—but your feet don’t move. Neither do his. “I know this wasn’t exactly in the matchmaking procedure, but—”

He tilts his head, curious. Heart absolutely stupid in his chest.

“There’s this exhibit down the block.” You offer, pointing with your chin like he can see it. “They’re doing a late-night show. Local artists. A light installation from what I gathered, glow-in-the-dark stuff… All the makings of a very respectable second date.”

His smile grows, slow and bright and so full of genuine delight, it feels like it might light up the sidewalk.

“Lead the way,” he says, voice warm—tinged with that rare, boyish kind of joy that slips out when he’s caught off guard by something good. Really good.

And maybe that’s what this is. Not just a good night, or a good date. But something good.

A second chance to fix the unbalance that was left in the universe that day when you returned his umbrella on the bus; when he wasn’t certain if he should speak, or follow or do anything beyond watch you disappear into the crowd with a polite smile and his heart held loosely on his sleeve.

Back then, he’d told himself it was fine. That not everything unresolved needed resolution. That some people are meant to be passing moments, not permanent fixtures. But now—walking beside you as your hands swing just close enough to brush—he wonders if that logic was just fear, dressed up as pragmatism.

Because here you are. In front of him again, months and lifetimes later, offering him not closure, but possibility. Like destiny is adamant not to let him screw this up again.

You turn before he can see your blooming smile, and he falls in step besides you like he’s done it for years, slipping an arm around your shoulders with something his mother might deem too forward. But he can’t quite bring himself to care.

Not when you’re practically sharing his warmth as you set off on another quiet street.

The gallery is only a few blocks down, tucked between a bookstore and a café that smells like burnt espresso even when its closed. The light from the entrance spills onto the sidewalk in soft waves—cool blue and lavender, gently shifting like reflections on water.

The entrance is marked only by a low-lit sign and a hand-painted poster peeling slightly at the edges. But Namjoon looks at it like it’s the Louvre.

The door softly chimes when he pushes it open, and you step into darkness punctuated only by the gentle glow of the installations. A corridor to the side, one that leads to a room with suspended lanterns pulsing in shades of pinks and oranges; each one swaying ever so slightly, casting rippling shadows across your faces. Your shoes echo against the polished concrete.

“Woah.” You slip away from his arm to brush a finger against one lantern—warm paper, almost like it’s humming against your fingertips. “It’s like a daydream.”

Namjoon lingers behind for a beat, something catching in his chest. The light pools across your shoulders, catches in your hair, glints off your cheeks as you move. You’re looking up, eyes wide, lashes tipped in gold—and he forgets, briefly, about the gallery, the installations, the rest of the world.

The only thing on his mind is that ridiculous manuscript he read many years ago about the red sting that tied fated souls together. It was cheesy, ridiculously syrupy and chucked full with cliches.

But now, even for someone who doesn’t believe in destiny, he sure as hell can feel it pulling taut between you.

He’s always scoffed at the idea before—chalked it up to folklore and sentiment. But there’s something about this moment, about you illuminated in all this soft, shifting light, that makes the whole myth feel less like fantasy and more like gravity. Not a string, exactly. But a weight. A pull. A line drawn from some unseen center straight through the quiet place behind his ribs.

Something about the way you tilt your chin up to see more of the ceiling, the way your fingers linger in the air even after the lantern sways back into place. Like you belong among the blinding lights, because they too, are trying to memorize the shape of wonder.

He should say something about light. About the meaning of the patterns painted on the lanterns. He should keep things easy.

But instead, it slips out—quietly, helplessly honest.

“You are.”

You glance over. “What?”

He blinks, half-embarrassed to have said it out loud. “I meant the room,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting down. “The whole thing. You were right. It’s like a daydream.” He pauses without meaning to, perhaps digging his grave a little deeper. “That’s what I meant.”

You watch him for a beat. Narrow your eyes. But you let it slide, lips curving with something softer than amusement as you walk deeper into the space.

Namjoon doesn’t follow right away.

He stays still, breathing through the sudden, aching swell beneath his ribs.

He’s always known how to be careful. Always kept his hope on a leash. He’s familiar with his own limits, with the way his heart learned to flinch before it could reach. The detachment wasn’t indifference—it was armor. It was survival. He was never scared of love itself, just what it asked of him. What it took when it left.

And right now—watching the way your silhouette slips through glowing strands of light, how you don’t even realize the effect you have just by being here—he feels it again.

That timeworn want.

That quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, this time he’ll be chosen back.

So now, with you…

He exhales, slow and steady, and lets his feet move. One step. Then another. He’s not sure where this goes, but he knows he wants to find out.

“Hey,” he says gently, catching up to you just as you part the curtain that leads into the next room—this one lit in a soft, underwater blue, where fiber optics ripple from the ceiling like kelp and stars and rain.

Fiber‐optic strands immediately brush around you like the a waterfall—thin, cool tendrils of light that tickle your cheeks and arms. You gasp, and he laughs softly, steadying you with one hand while he lightly brushes the sea of glowing fibers away from your faces with the other.

“They should really warn people.” You murmur, blinking through the light like you’ve just stepped into another universe.

“They kind of did,” Namjoon says, voice low and close. “There was a sign. You were too busy floating.”

You nudge him gently with your elbow, but you don’t step away. Neither does he.

This room is smaller, silence deeper—like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you and the hush of soft light. The strands pulse faintly, changing color every few seconds. Pale blue. Violets. Soft greens. It paints his skin in shifting hues, shadows brushing beneath his cheekbones, catching the warmth in his eyes.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head slightly toward him, “for someone who tried to backpedal out of a compliment five minutes ago, you’re surprisingly smooth when you’re not thinking about it.”

Namjoon smiles, but it’s the kind that flickers—bashful and unsure. “I think I just get clumsy when it matters.”

You study him for a beat. “This matters?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It does.”

And it’s stupid, maybe—it’s barely been a night, you’ve only just begun—but there’s something in the way he says it that lands like truth. No embellishment. No overthinking.

Just real.

Your breath slows.

You don’t say anything, not at first. You just reach out, fingers ghosting over his sleeve, the edge of his wrist, like you’re not sure what you’re doing until you’ve already done it.

Namjoon doesn’t move. But he looks at you like he might.

“I think…” you begin, voice quiet, almost shy, “...if you kissed me right now, I wouldn’t stop you.”

Namjoon exhales, the air knocked clean out of him. “Yeah?”

You nod. Just once.

He moves in, slow and careful, as if waiting for you to change your mind, letting the strands slowly fall back around you.

But you don’t pull away. Your chin just tips up, lips part just slightly, and his fingers lift, brushing a strand of glowing fiber from your cheek.

“Stay still,” he murmurs, voice low. Catching the strand between his fingertips, drawing it gently across your lips. You swallow around a pulse of heat.

His thumb brushes the filament against your lower lip. He holds it there, the delicate glow outlining his fingertip, and you nearly tremble under his touch. The whole universe sums up to hush and halo—to lights suspended between you, breath and body caught in the stretch of the undeniable certainty that feels almost too overwhelming for words.

You part your lips just slightly, and Namjoon stills. His eyes search yours, asking one last time. Offering you one last out.

But you don’t take it. You don’t want to.

So you close the gap—only a few centimeters, really—but it feels like a leap. Like a decision. And when your lips finally meet his, it’s soft, almost hesitant, like a step taken into the unknown.

Then he kisses you back.

Fuller. Warmer. His hand slipping to the curve of your jaw, anchoring you to him as the filament falls away, forgotten. His other arm wraps loosely around your waist, drawing you closer, and you feel it—his steadiness, his quiet restraint, the way he’s holding back just enough to be respectful, but not so much that you can’t feel how much he wants you.

The kiss deepens naturally with all it’s warmth and unhurried movements, the kind that tastes faintly of strawberry soju and a hundred things still unsaid. And when you melt into him, finger curling in his shirt, lips sweet and slow, he knows he can die happy.

The kind of kiss that steals the breath right from his lungs without asking.

When you finally pull back, it’s only by a breath. He doesn’t let go. His eyes open slowly, lashes low and heavy, and he searches your face with that same quiet attention he’s held all night—like you’re an answer he didn’t realize he had the question for.

“You good?” he asks, voice husky.

You nod. “Yeah. It’s just…”

You kiss him again.

Because how else do you say thank you for the way he’s looked at you all evening? How else do you say please, don’t stop without giving him every single part of your heart right here and then?

This one is softer. Briefer. But somehow deeper—like a secret passed from mouth to mouth, like a promise sealed not with words but with the way your hand finds his again and stays there.

Namjoon exhales against your lips, like maybe he wasn’t sure you’d come back, like maybe this second kiss is the one that undoes him. His forehead rests against yours and you feel his smile before you see it.

“Okay,” he says quietly, thumb brushing your jaw.

You laugh, quiet and breathless, the sound curling between you like another thread tying future, circumstances and intention together.

Namjoon leans in, just slightly—enough for your noses to brush, for his smile to press against your cheek like a whisper. You feel it in your chest, that dizzy, buoyant thing rising, rising, rising. Hope, maybe? Or something even more dangerous.

“Okay,” he says again, like he’s trying to ground himself. Like maybe saying it out loud will help him believe this isn’t some flickering, impossible dream. “That was… definitely not in the matchmaking brochure.”

You smile, still so close your breath warms his lips. “No, but if it were, I’d sign up again.”

He lets out a laugh that melts into a sigh, and you feel him shift—his arm still around your waist, holding you like you’re something fragile but already his. His thumb strokes gently at your back beneath his jacket, like he needs to remind himself he’s not hallucinating.

The gallery hums around you, quiet and alive. Blue and violet and gold light shimmers on the walls, on your skin, on the edges of your shared silence. Somewhere deeper in the room, the soft whir of a projector starts, casting delicate patterns that ripple across the floor like light on water.

Neither of you rushes to move.

Eventually, he tilts his head, voice quieter now. “So... third date?”

You tilt your head slightly. “Confident, are we?”

“I kissed you twice,” he says, grinning now. “That has to earn me something.”

You lean back just enough to see his face, to read the smile tucked into the corners of his mouth and the warmth simmering in his eyes

“Do I still get points for tteokbokki?” He continues, and you snort.

Your smile stretches helplessly, warmth rushing in from somewhere deep in your chest. “You get a lot of points for tteokbokki,” you murmur, letting your fingers play lightly with the lapel of his jacket still hanging on your shoulders. “And the soju. And the walk. And, well… everything else.”

Namjoon leans in just a bit closer, voice dipping. “So that’s a yes?”

You press your lips together, pretending to think. “Hmm. I don’t know…”

His brows rise, exaggerated mock offense already painting his features. “Wow. Tough crowd.”

You shrug, stepping back through the curtain of light. “Better keep up, then.”

And Namjoon follows—because of course he does—his fingers finding yours like it’s second nature now, like you were meant to be holding hands all along. The lights ripple over your skin as you walk deeper into the exhibit, casting moving constellations across your joined palms.

By the next room, Namjoon’s brain finally reconnects to the server—sparking back to life with enough clarity to remember that he’s supposed to be intelligent, and articulate, someone who can string a sentence together without being entirely distracted by the feeling of your lips on his.

He clears his throat softly, as if that might reset the system.

The next few displays are quieter, dimmer. The lights are cooler—crystalline, and almost sharp. Glass orbs suspended from the ceiling spinning, catching slivers of light and scattering them in fractured bursts across the floor. A projector room that had animations interacting with the walls themselves.

The final corridor is lit by candlelight—flames flickering in unison, guiding you back toward the real world. Outside, the night is deeper than before, colder, and the sky stirs quietly overhead.

Namjoon lifts his eyes towards the black night, bracing against the sudden gust of wind that blows out the few candles outside the exit.

“Was there a rain warning today?”

“Not that I remember of…” But just as the words leave your lips, the clouds open with a loud thunder. Rain comes down suddenly, soft at first, a gentle patter against the gallery’s doorway—but quickly growing in urgency, as if the sky itself can’t hold back any longer. You both freeze in the doorway, caught between the warm cocoon of the exhibit and the cool, unexpected downpour outside.

“Guess the night’s not done surprising us.” He sighs before shifting his gaze over at you. “No chance of you having an umbrella stuffed in that little bag of yours, huh?”

You laugh, breathless and a little wild. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, fingers brushing back a strand of your hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you an Uber.”

You peer up at the night, cheeks flushed. “Isn’t your place close by?”

Namjoon pauses, rain splashing at his shoes. His gaze drifts to the street, then back to you—umbrella-less and close to being drenched.

“My place?” He echoes, voice soft, quickly picking up on the implications. “It’s not far. Maybe five minutes if we run.”

“I—” You stop, “If it’s okay. I don’t want to overstep.” You glance back at the rain slowly puddling the street. “Just to borrow an umbrella…”

He blinks, then smiles—slow and warm. “Borrow an umbrella? I was thinking more along the lines of borrowing your evening.”

You frown, half-smile tugging at your lips. “That sounds… generous.”

He shrugs, eyes sparkling with that same undeniable allure, before he pulls you close, lifting his jacket off your shoulders carefully and sheltering you beneath it. “Come on,” he says, tipping it your way. “Let’s run.”

His jacket settles over your shoulders, the fabric cold against your skin. You slip an arm into a sleeve, the other one around his waist, the collar brushing your neck. He drops his own shoulders under the rest of the fabric, creating a makeshift canopy against the downpour.

“Ready?”

You nod, heart fluttering. “Ready.”

And you dash down the street—feet splashing through fresh puddles, laughter tangled between ragged breaths. The rain pelts the makeshift covering, a thunderous applause that only draws you closer.

Five minutes later, you skid to a stop in front of a tall building, breaths visible in the misty air. He lifts the jacket just enough for you to slip inside first, then follows, shielding you both as he closes the building door against the storm.

The hallway light flickers to light when you move, soft and golden. He peels the wet outer layer from your shoulders with gentle fingers, revealing the pink dress damp at the hem. “Come on,” he murmurs, leading you toward the elevator, completely unbothered by the water he’s trailing behind on the tiled floor.

The elevator dings open, its doors sliding apart with a soft hum. You step inside first, the warmth of the building pressing against your chilled skin. Namjoon follows, pressing the button for the last floor.

“You live in the penthouse?” you ask, brows raised.

He glances at you, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. “Technically, yes. But it sounds more impressive than it is.” He says, scratching the back of his neck like it’s a little embarrassing. “Just means I don’t have anyone stomping around above me.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “So modest.”

He laughs under his breath. “I mean, it’s no castle.

You huff a laugh. “Still sounds like you’re trying to charm me.”

He leans a little closer, voice low. “Is it working?”

You don’t answer—just smile and look forward again, heart doing its own reckless thing inside your chest. And beside you, Namjoon tries not to grin too obviously, as if you haven’t both already completely given yourselves away.

The elevator hums upward, slow and steady, carrying you somewhere high above Seoul. The lights overhead casting a warm glow across his face—his wet hair slightly mussed, his shirt clinging just a little at the collar. You catch yourself staring and look away too late, heat blooming in your cheeks.

He notices, of course. But he doesn’t say anything. Just slides his hand gently back into yours, thumb brushing your knuckles.

When the doors open, the hallway is quiet, carpeted, softly lit. He leads you a few steps down, then unlocks a wide modern looking wooden door.

Inside, his apartment opens up into warm tones and wide windows—a soft, inviting space that smells faintly of cedar wood and something like bergamot. Books line tall shelves, and for some reason they frame his couch too, where a few shirts are strewn across the back of it. A turntable sits quietly in the corner, covered in plants, and a half-used mug of something forgotten rests on the kitchen counter.

The walls decorated in paintings that range from minimalism to neoclassicism.

Namjoon toes off his shoes by the door, gently guiding yours next to them before stepping further in. He moves through the space like someone used to solitude—quiet, unhurried, but there’s a steadiness in the way he turns on a few low lamps, casting the room in amber glow. It’s not the sterile kind of clean. It’s thoughtful. Lived-in in a way that feels intentional, not lonely.

“I’ll get you some dry clothes.”

“Thank you.”

You stand still for a moment, taking it all in.

Books by the armrest, manuscripts marked with reds and blues, a blanket draped over the side like it’s been used recently. Records leaning against the console—Miles Davis, Chet Baker, Bon Iver, something obscure in Japanese. There’s another sweater thrown over the back of a chair, and a framed photo tucked beside the speaker: Namjoon with someone older, maybe his father, both of them mid-laugh.

Namjoon reappears with a soft, oversized sweatshirt slung over one arm and a pair of black joggers folded neatly in his hand. “They might be big, but they’re warm.” He says, holding them out to you.

You take them, fingers grazing his. “I don’t mind big.”

His smile tugs a little wider, but he doesn’t comment—just tips his head toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s just down the hall. First door on the right.”

You follow his direction, padding down the hall as your bare feet sink lightly into the carpet. The bathroom is like the rest of the place; stone-toned, curated and clean, with eucalyptus hanging from the shower head. A candle, nearly burned to the end, flickers faintly beside the sink.

You change quickly, slipping into his clothes. The sweatshirt hangs loosely on you, the sleeves swallowing your hands and you have to double tie the joggers. They smell like clean laundry, rain and him.

When you return, Namjoon’s already in the kitchen, barefoot, pouring hot water into two mugs. He looks up when he hears you, and something in his face shifts—fond, quiet, maybe a little undone.

“You look comfortable,” he says, handing you a mug. It’s warm between your palms, chamomile and something faintly floral.

“I am.” You glance down at yourself. “I might not give this back.”

He chuckles. “I’ll allow it. As long as I get visitation rights.”

You settle onto the couch, tugging your knees up beneath you, the oversized fabric pooling around you. Namjoon joins you, a little closer than necessary, his own mug cradled between his palms. For a moment, there’s only the soft clink of ceramic, the patter of rain still against the windows, and the rustle of his breathing beside you.

Then—

“I haven’t brought anyone here in a long time,” he says, not quite looking at you.

You glance at him. “No?”

He shakes his head. “Not because I didn’t want to. Just…didn’t feel right.”

His voice is low, almost cautious, like he’s not sure if it’s too soon to say something like that—but says it anyway. And it hangs there, soft and honest, between the two of you.

You study him, the gentle slope of his shoulder where it meets the couch, the tension he’s clearly trying to mask in the line of his jaw.

“Why now?” you ask quietly.

Namjoon’s thumb runs slow circles along the edge of his mug. He exhales through his nose. “Because tonight felt… different.” He pauses, searching for the right words. “For some reason, it’s easy with you. You don’t ask for anything I wasn’t already offering. It just feels like you see me. Not the vision I sometimes hand out.”

You blink at that, unexpectedly moved. Because you know what he means. What it feels like to be seen and not simply looked at. That’s exactly what he does to you.

“I didn’t know I was waiting for that,” he adds, finally meeting your eyes. “But I think I was…ever since the umbrella scene.”

And you don’t know what kind of Fate or Moirai or Kismet is working in your favor. Or if its just two equally stubborn people, avoiding love, who finally decided to stop running.

Without quite meaning to, you reach out—resting your hand lightly over his, fingers curling around the edge of his mug. It’s a small touch, but it roots something between you.

His hand turns instinctively beneath yours, palm meeting palm, like it’s been waiting.

Namjoon doesn’t speak right away—just watches your fingers fit with his, the quiet press of skin to skin. There’s no urgency in the gesture, no need to rush past it. Just a kind of stillness. A shared breath.

Then he says, quietly, “I don’t really believe in fate.”

You nod, not pulling away. “Me neither.”

“But this feels like something,” he murmurs, glancing down where your hands rest between you. “Doesn’t it?”

You don’t answer right away. You just hold his gaze. Let it say everything your words can’t yet touch.

And when you do speak, it’s not a confession. Not a grand declaration. Just simple, quiet truth.

“Yes.”

Namjoon exhales like that was what he’d been holding out for. Like your agreement unlocks something in him.

He shifts, not closer—but deeper, and you move with an impulse, free hand cradling the side of his face, palm meeting the warmth of his cheek, your thumb grazing just beneath his eye. The soft stubble along his jaw, the way he leans into your touch, like it means something—it’s all disarmingly intimate, like a kind of closeness that’s been patiently waiting in the quiet between your words.

Namjoon doesn’t rush it. He just closes his eyes for a beat, like he’s memorizing the weight of your hand, the safety of this moment.

When he opens them again, they’re softer. Clearer. Lit with something that looks a lot like wonder.

His voice is barely above a whisper. “If I kiss you again, I won’t want to stop.”

And your heart stumbles, caught near the fear and the ache of wanting the same.

“Kiss me.”

His breath stutters—just for a second—and then he’s closing the space between you. The kiss is slower this time, surer. Less searching, more knowing. Your mugs forgotten somewhere on the table. Your fingers slip into his hair, nails dragging gently across his scalp, and his hand finds your waist like its meant to rest there. To pull you closer.

There's no background music. No dramatics. No closeups. Just the rain.

Rain on the windows. The tick of the clock. The hush of two people finally arriving at the same place at the same time.

The kiss deepens slowly—like it’s unfolding, not erupting. Like it’s been waiting in the wings, rehearsed in glances and half-smiles and every soft pause between you.

Namjoon tilts his head, just slightly, adjusting the angle, the pressure, the pace. One of his hands slips from your waist to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, anchoring you. His other arm is a quiet weight around you, steady and sure.

You shift, instinctively, knees brushing his thigh, the fabric of his joggers warm against your skin. The couch creaks softly beneath you when you move to straddle his lap—slowly, carefully—like you're not quite sure if it's boldness or gravity pulling you there. Namjoon doesn't stop you. If anything, his hands guide you, one resting at the curve of your hip now, grounding you against him.

The kiss never breaks. It just changes, to fuller, to deeper, bracing at the edge of something molten that tugs at the space between wanting and having. The kind of heat that grows steady, reverently, with no call to rush.

Your fingers trail from his hair to the sides of his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones, memorizing him with every soft drag. Namjoon’s breathing shakes slightly against your mouth, and you feel it when he exhales, his chest rising to meet yours.

When your lips part, it’s only to rest your forehead against his, breath shared in the quiet lull that follows.

He’s the first to speak, voice low, almost rasped. “Okay. Yeah. I definitely don’t want to stop.”

You smile, slow and flushed, heart tumbling in your chest. “Then don’t.”

His eyes flicker open—dark and shining and impossibly soft.

And he kisses you again.

A little hotter. A little bolder. Like he’s memorizing the way you taste and is desperate to have it all to himself. His hands find your hips fully, holding you in place, anchoring you with all the reverence of someone who doesn’t take intimacy lightly.

You shift in his lap, just a little, just enough to feel the way he tightens his grip, more certain than anyone has ever held you before. Like he’s been holding back long enough and now, finally, he’s been given both permission and freedom.

Your hands move again, dragging slowly down the back of his neck, thumbs brushing his pulse point, feeling the way it kicks up beneath your touch. He groans softly against your mouth, the sound low and almost surprised, like maybe he hadn’t expected the way you’d undo him so easily.

His lips trail down, brushing your jaw, the slope of your neck, each kiss a question he’s too careful to ask aloud. And you answer with the arch of your back, the way your fingers twist in the hem of his shirt, tugging, pulling it out of his jeans.

The sweatshirt you’re wearing shifts slightly, slipping off one shoulder. Namjoon leans back just enough to see it—see you—and his breath hitches. His thumb ghosts over the exposed skin, reverent and slow, like he’s not sure how he got this lucky but he’s not going to waste a second of it.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, half into your shoulder.

You laugh, a breathless sound that doesn’t even try to hide how wrecked you already are. “You haven’t seen me yet.”

He lets out a soft laugh, the kind that’s half amusement, half awe, and presses another lingering kiss to the curve of your neck. His fingers tighten just a bit on your waist, pulling you that much closer.

“I’m getting there,” he says, voice like honey, like a promise unfolding.

You feel it in your spine—in the low, slow drag of his hands along your sides, the tug at the hem of your shirt, the warm press of his mouth as it returns to your collarbone, kissing lower now. His breath fans against your skin, and your fingers thread into his hair again, gently tugging, urging.

“Joon,” you whisper, not sure if it’s a plea or a warning, or if it matters.

He hums against you like he heard both. When his hands slide beneath the hem of the sweatshirt, they pause at your waist—fingertips stroking over bare skin as if to ask, this much? And when you nod, he moves upward, deliberate and slow, slipping the fabric higher. It peels off over your head with a soft sound, and for a beat, he stops.

Your chest is bare before him, flushed like your cheeks and Namjoon doesn’t speak—doesn’t know how to anymore. He just stares.

Like he’s trying to memorize the curve of you, the way the light catches your skin, the rise and fall of your breath. One hand lifts slowly, and rests just beneath your breast, palm warm, fingers splayed wide. You stutter slightly, and his eyes flicker to yours.

He finds no fear in your gaze, just the same quiet, open awe that took refuge in his own heart.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, steady, thumb brushing lightly against your ribcage like he’s trying to soothe you even as you unravel.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… it’s you.”

His hands slide up, featherlight, thumb brushing just beneath you nipple and you tremble again.

“You’re unreal,” he says, like it’s something he’s trying to convince you of.

You don’t hide from it. You reach for him instead, fingers moving to his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “Touch me,”

He leans forward, pressing a kiss just above your heart—soft, almost shy—and then another, lower, slower, his lips brushing the swell of your breast like he’s learning the shape of your skin by his lips. His other hand slides up your side, calloused fingertips trailing over sensitive skin until they meet the curve of your back. When his mouth closes around your nipple, warm and wet, your back arches instinctively, his palm keeping you steady, a breathy sound escaping you that you’re too far gone to care about hiding.

Namjoon groans at that—deep and quiet, vibrating where his mouth presses against you. His teeth drag over your nipple and you moan again, wrecked, melting against him fully. Only when he deemed you wrecked enough he switches sides, lavishing the same attention to your other nipple, his hands never fully leaving your skin.

You feel yourself pulsing already, thighs tightening around his waist where you still sit in his lap, hips rolling without quite meaning to. The friction is slow, but it’s enough to drag a sound from both of you—his head dropping slightly, teeth catching his bottom lip as he exhales hard through his nose.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice cracking on it, running cold over your wet chest. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You give him a weak laugh through the haze, eyes fluttering half-shut. “That’s not the plan.”

He grins, kissing above your heart again.

“Take this off,” you murmur back, undoing just the top few buttons before tugging the shirt fully out of his jeans.

He doesn't hesitate.

Namjoon lifts his arms, and you pull the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, letting it fall somewhere behind you both. And suddenly there’s nothing between you anymore; just bare skin and rugged breath and the thrum of something heady and unstoppable threading through every second spent apart.

You take a second to look at him. Tracing the lines of his chest with your hands, the dip between his collarbones, the slope of his shoulders. His skin is warm beneath your palms, muscles shifting under your touch like he’s barely holding still. When you lean in to press a kiss to his sternum, you see the way his eyes flutter shut, and feel his heart jump beneath your lips.

The moment swells again when you rock against him, hips shifting just enough to draw a weak sound from his throat—low and guttural, his hands returning to your hips, gripping tighter now.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says, voice strained.

“Don’t stop.”

That’s all it takes.

He lifts you, carefully, arms hooked around your thighs, slowly moving you down the hall. His kisses hungrier now—your jaw, your throat, the slope of your chest. The warmth of his body pressed against yours, drawing you closer with every step, every breath.

By the time he lays you down, the bed creaks under your weight, sheets cool against your back in stark contrast to the heat of his body above you. Namjoon hovers for a moment—like he needs that final second to catch up, to make sure this is real. That you’re here. That he’s allowed. And he kisses you, a little demanding now, impossibly tender, full of intent. Tongue sliding slow against yours, one hand braced by your head, the other trailing along your side, smoothing down the curve of your waist. You gasp softly into his mouth when his palm cups your thigh, guiding it around his hip, anchoring you.

His body fits over yours like it was made to.

Your own hands roam, tracing the planes of his back, feeling the taut muscles flex under your touch, nails softly tracing confessions of love until he shivers beneath your fingertips.

He groans against your mouth, and you answer in the same breath. You reach down between you, tugging at the waistband of your sweats, and Namjoon stills, just for a second, before helping you out of them. The fabric slides down your legs with your underwear, and joins the rest of your clothes somewhere forgotten. He kisses down your torso as he goes, mouth brushing each inch of newly exposed skin like a silent thank you.

When he settles between your thighs, his breath is already shaky.

“You sure?” he asks again, voice weak, reverent, gaze stolen by the wetness pooling between your legs.

You nod, and this time, you say it with your whole body—rising up on your elbows to brush away the strands of hair that have fallen over his forehead. “Yes. I just—” your breath shakes. “I never do this.”

Namjoon stills at that—just for a moment—his hand still resting on your thigh, thumb sweeping gently over the apex of your thighs.

His expression softens, gaze flicking between your eyes. “We don’t have to,” he says, voice low, steady. Not pulling away, just… waiting. “I want you, but not more than I want you to feel safe.”

You exhale, “No. I want to,” you say, and your voice is steadier now, like his patience gave you permission to mean it. “I just don’t usually—” You trail off, words failing, head sinking in his pillow, but he seems to understand.

Namjoon leans in, brushing a kiss to your hip. Then your thigh. Then the inside of it. “Then we go slow.”

His breath is warm where his mouth lingers, kissing down the tender skin between your hip and knee, charting you, piece by piece, before hiking your knee over his shoulder. “Tell me what you like,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin. “What feels good.”

You’re already trembling, and he hasn’t even touched you properly yet.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, not to guide, just to hold. “You.”

He smirks at that. You feel it against your thigh before the sudden rush when he sinks his teeth right there in the doughy skin.

You gasp, fingers tugging, but it’s enough to distract you from the way he lowers himself fully, settles between your legs like he belongs there, like he’s not just willing, but eager to worship and take his time at this altar. His arms curl around your thighs, grounding you with the weight of his palms as his mouth dips lower, his breath teasing against your folds.

And when he finally licks you, it’s slow. A single, unhurried stroke from your entrance all the way to your clit that makes your hips twist and your breath falter. He moans softly, like the taste of you confirms something he’s been hoping not to long for, the sound rolling against your sensitive clit.

“God,” he murmurs. “You’re already so wet.”

You whimper, hips tilting toward him, and he takes the invitation gladly.

His mouth seals over your clit, tongue flicking with soft, rhythmic pressure—exploratory at first, then purposeful. Like he’s learning what makes you gasp and then doing it again. And again. And again.

Your thighs begin to tense, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other still anchored in his hair. You glance down and find him already watching you, eyes half-lidded and dark, utterly focused.

“Just like that,” you breathe, your voice so airy it hardly sounds like your own.

He moans into you—low, rough, vibrating straight through your core—and your whole body shudders.

When he shifts slightly, you feel the press of his tongue lower, dipping just inside, slow and deliberate. His hands adjust, one palm pressing against your lower belly, the other keeping you open for him as he moves back, mouth closing around your clit again—sucking just once, firmly—and your whole body arches.

You can’t stop the sounds you’re making now. You’re past that. Every flick of his tongue is unraveling you, making it harder to remember anything but his name, the way he tastes you like it’s Sacrament, like he’s been starving.

“Na-Joon,” you gasp, and he hums in response.

That’s all it takes. The rhythm. The hum. The patience in the way he doesn’t rush you, but feel you.

You come with a cry that splits the silence, fingers twisting in his hair, back arching, heels digging into the bed, his name catching in your throat like a prayer you weren’t prepared to say.

Namjoon doesn’t pull away—not right away. He lets you ride it out, only slowing when your body starts to tremble from oversensitivity. He presses one last kiss to your thigh, then rises over you, lips swollen and chin slick, eyes molten with something between adoration and hunger.

“Still okay?” he murmurs, voice hoarse, mouth ghosting over yours.

You nod, barely able to form words, breath catching as you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him back down to you.

“More than okay,” you whisper. “Come here.”

He kisses you again, slower this time, less urgent but no less intense. You can taste yourself on his lips, but there’s no shame behind it—just fucking heat you’ve never felt before. A flicker of something raw and real between you. His hand cradles the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek, your jaw, your neck, like you’re still something he needs to hold carefully.

You kiss him back just as fully, fingers threading into his hair, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress in all the ways you didn’t know you needed. And when you shift beneath him—bare skin sliding against the fabric of his jeans—you both groan at the same time.

“Namjoon, baby, my love,” you murmur, voice low and frayed, so wild it doesn’t even register what you’re saying. “I want to feel you.”

His gaze darkens at that. His hand trails slowly down your side, over your hip, between your legs again—touching you softly, testing how sensitive you still are. You twitch under his fingers, and he smiles against your mouth.

“You’re still shaking,” he whispers.

“I want you” you breathe again. “I want all of you. Please.”

You can see how that undoes him. The way his eyes flutter , jaw tightening without him wanting it, like he’s holding something back—like he has been for too long. He groans low in his throat, kissing you again, slower this time, like he needs it to confirm the last piece of his puzzle, to bring himself back to earth, to feel you, the sound of your voice saying things he never thought he’d get to hear.

“Okay,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark and full, pupils blown wide. “Okay, yeah.”

You nod, lips parting with the ache of it, and he leans in to kiss you again—this time quicker, just to indulge himself. His hand moves to your thigh, fingers curling around it, anchoring you open beneath him, and he reaches down without breaking the kiss—fumbling for the drawer beside the bed.

The soft rip of the wrapper breaks the hush between you, and you breathe in shakily when you feel him shift back, just enough to strip the last of his clothing away, enough to reach for the fly of his jeans, and for your gaze to follow him instinctively.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen someone undress in front of you—but it feels like the first time. Maybe it’s the low light, or the hush of rain still ticking against the windows. Maybe it’s the reverence with which he wrecks you—or maybe it’s just him. But as Namjoon pushes his jeans down, your breath catches all over again.

You take him in slowly, eyes tracing the lines of him, the quiet power of his frame. The solid line of his thighs. The long stretch of his torso, skin kissed with warmth, marked by the rise and fall of his breathing. The way his cock hangs heavy, already hard for you, fucking big and flushed at the tip. He’s beautiful in a way that makes your throat tighten.

He doesn’t shy from your gaze. If anything, his stance softens. His hands fall loosely at his sides when he’s done with the condom, waiting for your reaction—not cocky, not proud, just… there.

You swallow. “You’re…”

He tilts his head. “Yeah?”

“God,” you breathe, sitting up more fully now. “You’re kind of ridiculous.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips, breath catching as your fingers reach for him, grazing lightly along his hip before you look back up. “That’s a good thing, right?”

You nod, unable to keep the heat from your voice. “It’s a very good thing.”

Namjoon laughs—quiet and a little unsteady, like you’ve knocked the breath out of him again. His shoulders relax, his stance falters just enough to reveal the truth behind it: he’s just as wrecked as you are. Just as undone by your eyes, and your voice, and the way you’re sitting there with your legs parted and your fingers on his skin.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he says softly, kneeling on the bed again, letting your hand guide him closer.

You hum, fingertips brushing along the V of his hips, watching the way his stomach flexes under your touch. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he echoes, leaning in until his lips meet your shoulder, then your jaw and his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling. “You’re everything".”

You don’t reply, you just kiss him instead.

His hand comes up to cradle the side of your face again, thumb brushing the line of your cheek before sliding into your hair, as he exhales into your mouth.

Then you shift, pulling him down with you, and he follows without hesitation—settling between your thighs, the heat of his body a welcome weight, grounding and electric all at once, pushing you against the mattress. He lines himself up, careful, steady, eyes flicking to yours for that last silver of confirmation.

You nod.

And he pushes in slowly, and it steals the very breath from your lungs.

The stretch is otherworldly. Intimate. painful and pleasurable all at once. His hands brace your hips, guiding you through it, and the moment he’s fully seated inside you, you both freeze, overcome. Your hand clutches at his shoulder. His forehead presses to yours again.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, barely audible.

Namjoon lets out a sharp breath, grounding his weight on one forearm. “You feel—fuck” he whimpers. Fucking whimpers. “Fuck,” he repeats every syllable drawn out, trembling. “You feel—you feel—” doesn’t even finish the sentence. Just groans, his hips rolling once, testing the fit, the friction, and your body clenches around him on instinct.

“I know,” you gasp, blinking up at him, swallowing down the sound building in your throat. “I know.” But it still dissolves into a wrecked moan when he starts to move.

Slow at first, measured. The roll of his hips smooth and sure, dragging heat out of you one breath at a time. You’re impossibly hot around him, slick and gripping tight, and it pulls a curse from his lips that has you tightening again, and his slow rhythm almost stutters.

“Fuck. Don’t do that.” He breathes, voice cracking low in your ear, like he's trying not to unravel right then and there on top of you. “You’ll kill me woman.”

But you do it anyway—tighten around him, just to see the way he loses control again. The way his voice wavers, the way his hips jerk forward harder than he meant to, pulling a moan from your throat that you don’t have time to swallow down.

“Fuckin’” he doesn’t finish. Just buries his face in your neck like he’s overwhelmed. “God you’re…”

He doesn’t even know what. Evil? How can you when you feel like heaven. Perfect? He already knows that, and suspects you know it too with the way you arch into him, chasing every slow thrust, one leg wrapping tighter around his waist to draw him in even deeper.

The love of my life. Like what it means to want someone without fear.

His hand moves, cradles the back of your knee, lifting your leg higher around his waist, and the angle shifts—deeper, perfect, a little faster—and you keen again, clinging to him, nails scratching down his spine.

And he’s back at evil again. Because how else can you explain it when someone breaks you like that? So easily, so completely, just with the way you say his name.

“Jesus, baby,” he pants, the endearment slipping out raw, like it doesn’t need permission anymore. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You smile—wrecked, breathless, wild around the edges—because you want to. Because the power feels electric in your blood and you can’t stop rocking up to meet every thrust, trying to pull more of him, all of him, deeper. “You’re already ruined,” you manage to say, even though your voice barely holds.

Namjoon groans like you’ve struck something in him, something buried, something feral. He braces both hands now, caging you in beneath him as his rhythm falters—harder, deeper, no less reverent, but touched with desperation.

The bed cries in protest, headboard fully slamming against the wall now, the sound of skin and breath and everything unspoken crashing into the space around you like a storm too long held back.

You can’t think anymore. Just feel. Just take him—the way he fucks into you, every push, every sound he makes, the way his breath runs hot against your sweaty skin. The way his teeth sink into your neck. The way you let go so easily with him.

“Say it again,” he grits out, voice wrecked, ragged, like he’s chasing something he can’t name.

You blink up at him, barely able to hold his gaze, but you do. You do. You reach for him—both hands cupping his face, your thumb sweeping over the sweat at his temple. “You’re mine.”

And that’s what breaks him.

Namjoon shudders like he’s trying to hold himself together and failing gloriously. Like he’s not just inside you but completely undone by the fact that he gets to have you. All of you, without pretense or performance.

His lips crash into yours again, breath mixing, teeth grazing, and it’s not graceful anymore—it’s reduced to it’s essence. It's raw. Devastation in its honesty. His rhythm stutters, faster now, deeper, each thrust drawing a sound out of you you’ve never made for anyone else.

You feel yourself tightening around him again—close, so close—and your fingers tangle in his hair as you gasp, “I’m gonna—Joon, I—”

“I know,” he whispers, forehead against yours, his voice cracking on the edge of it. “Come with me. Come on, baby.”

And when it hits—when your body seizes around him, when the moan breaks from your throat so loud it almost scares you—it drags him down with you. His hips stutter once, twice more, then he’s pulsing inside you with a groan torn from somewhere deep, too deep to name.

He collapses onto you slowly, carefully, doing his best not to crush you.

But you don’t mind. Not really. Not when you’re both there. And in the silence that follows, with chests heaving, limbs tangled together, skin flushed and trembling, you feel it.

The weight of everything you just said without words.

He kisses your shoulder. Then your cheek. Then your mouth.

Slow. Soft, like gratitude.

“You okay?” He whispers a moment after, brushing your hair back.

You nod, eyes glassy, lips parted, still catching your breath. “I think you just rewrote my brain.”

“Good. I’ve been meaning to leave an impression.” Namjoon laughs, quiet and breathless. and you can’t help but laugh too.

Outside, the rain still hasn’t stopped. But it’s falling slower now, softer. Like even the sky got the message that it’s time to quiet down.

You're still wrapped around each other, his arm heavy cross your waist, your fingers drawing aimless shapes into his back. Neither of you speak for a long while. Not because there's nothing to say. But because there is no urgency to say it. Not now. Not when it feels like everything that needed to be known has already been shared somewhere in the in-between.

Eventually, Namjoon shifts, slowly easing out of you with care, kissing your cheek before sliding out of bed with reluctance. You’re too tired to watch him pad across the room, still you pick up on the soft rustle of tissues and the low thunk of the bathroom bin as he knocks into it. Then the faint splash of water, the crackle of a wet wipe package.

He comes back with both—water first, holding the glass steady while you sip, then the warm, damp wipe he uses gently, reverently, to clean between your thighs. His touch is so careful, you almost want to cry, because you’ve never been handled quite like this—so cherished, even in the quiet after.

You whisper his name, blinking through tired eyes, and he only smiles—soft, boyish, exhausted in the way that means he gave you everything.

Namjoon tosses the wipe in the trash, then slides back into bed beside you. The sheets are cool, your skin still flushed from the heat between you, but he pulls the covers over both of you and wraps his arms around your waist like he’s never letting go.

You’re just beginning to drift—his heartbeat steady against your chest—when you hear him speak again, barely above a whisper.

“You’re not going to disappear in the morning, are you?”

You smile faintly, pressing your forehead to chest. “No. Are you?”

He laughs under his breath, the sound gently shaking you. “No. This is my house.”

You laugh then, quietly—tired and soft and maybe a little in love with the way he says it. Like it’s obvious. Like of course he’s not going anywhere.

“I guess that makes it harder to sneak out unnoticed,” you murmur, your fingers brushing over the line over his heart, lazy and affectionate.

Namjoon shifts, just enough to nudge his nose against the crown of your head. “Exactly. You’d have to climb out a window. And I’m not sure you’re up for that after—”

You cut him off with a light pinch to his side, and he huffs a laugh, catching your wrist gently and bringing your hand back to his chest.

“Okay,” he says, quieter again, thumb stroking once across your knuckles. “Then stay. Just… stay.”

You nod. No teasing now. No hesitation.

“I’m here.”

And you mean it. Not just tonight, not just in the warmth of his bed. You mean here, with him. Maybe forever.

~~~

The light is soft when you wake—filtered through thin curtains and rain-slicked windows, casting a muted gold across the room. It takes a moment to remember where you are. The scattered clothes. The unfamiliar ceiling. The warmth at your back.

Namjoon’s arm is draped over your waist, his chest flush to your spine, breath slow and steady against your shoulder. His hold is loose, but sure. Like even in sleep, he’s still holding on.

You shift just enough to glance over your shoulder.

He’s still asleep. His hair is a mess, smushed from the pillow, lips slightly parted. He looks peaceful—unreasonably handsome in that soft, unguarded way people only look when they forget they’re being seen.

Then he stirs.

Nudges his nose into the crook of your neck like he’s chasing your warmth in his sleep. A beat later, voice low and scratchy from sleep, he mumbles, “Mornin’”

You turn to face him, smiling into the space between you. “Morning.”

“You’re warm,” he mutters.

You nuzzle into his chest, letting yourself settle there, your smile hidden in his skin. “You’re clingy in the morning.”

“You like it.”

You do. God, you do. You just don’t say it yet. Instead, you tease, “Do you always get this handsy before breakfast?”

His lips brush your temple, and you can feel the grin in his answer. “Only with you.”

You stay like that a while. Wrapped in the quiet. In each other. Long enough for the sun to climb higher, for the real world to knock softly at the edges of the room.

“Do you have a plan for today?” He murmurs.

You shake your head, cheek against his chest. “Not really. I just want a shower.”

Namjoon hums, his hand flattening gently against the small of your back. “Later.”

You laugh, quiet and warm, your legs tangling more deliberately with his under the covers. His fingertips trace idle patterns on your spine now, slow and lazy, like he’s in no rush to be anywhere but here. And maybe you aren’t either.

“I should text my mother,” you murmur eventually, not moving.

“Mhm.” He still doesn’t let go.

“And Jimin.” You smile at the way his eyes flutter close, hands still moving. “He’s my friend. He’ll probably grill you even harder than my mother.”

Namjoon just hums.

“I should grab my shirt.”

“No need,” he mumbles into your hair.

You snort softly, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before slipping free—slowly, reluctantly. He makes a quiet noise of protest, half-heartedly reaching for your wrist but missing.

“We need to work on this morning person tendencies you have if we want this marriage to work.” He mutters, rubbing a hand down his face, his hair spiking up even more when he runs that same hand through it.

You grin, tugging the crumpled sheet with you as you stand up. “That’s fine. I’ll just marry you in the afternoon instead.”

Behind you, Namjoon groans into the mattress. “You can’t say stuff like that when I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

“You started it,” you call back, voice light even despite the ache between your thighs.

“I’ll get you a towel,” he says around a yawn, already swinging his legs over the bed just as you leave the bedroom in search of your phone.

You pad into the living room and grab your sweatshirt too, swinging it over your shoulder, muscles still deliciously sore. Your phone is right where you left it—wedged in the couch cushions—and as you pick it up, it lights up immediately.

[12 notifications – Jimini 🐸]

You swipe.

12:30 PM: did he come? 12:30 PM: lol come. 🤣😂🫣😏 12:31 PM: no. joking. your mother arranged this—DISGUSTING✨💕 12:31 PM: maybe… send me a pic! a sneaky one. just make sure ur flash isnt on like last time.😂 4:13 PM: Are we still getting drinks with Tae or…? 4:17 PM: helloooooo?!?! 6:27 PM: babe. are you alive? 10:37 PM: I swear if you’re dead I’m gonna be so pissed 12:10 AM: do you know CPR? because I might need it when you finally tell me what happened with that tall korean man. 8:55 AM: okay it’s morning! say something. 9:00 AM: HELLLOOOOOOOOO 9:01 AM: fine. I hope he’s ugly.

You bite your lip, suppressing a grin.

From the hallway, you hear Namjoon’s voice, still hoarse, “Do you eat in the mornings?”

You blink at your phone, thumb hovering over Jimin’s latest message.

You: he’s not.

Then—just loud enough for him to hear, a grin already creeping up your face—you call back, “Eat what?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then: a choked sound, and Namjoon’s footsteps.

You don’t even bother turning around.

“…Food,” he deadpans, emerging around the corner, already dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, towel in his hand, the other combing through his wild, sleep-ruined hair. “I’m going to get us some coffee. Wanted to know your order too.”

You nod slowly, pretending to consider it, even though your smile is already betraying you. “Hmm. Something strong. Hot. Sweet, but not too sweet.”

Namjoon raises an eyebrow at you like he knows exactly what you're doing when you grab the towel from his hands. “You want me or coffee?”

You grin, finally meeting his eyes. “I can have both.” You tease, walking towards the bathroom.

He exhales a short laugh, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as you pass by. “I’ll be back before you finish.”

You glance back at him over your shoulder, already half down the hallway, towel slung loose over your arm. “Don’t rush on my account.”

Namjoon smirks, leaning his weight against the doorframe for a moment like he’s debating whether to follow you in after all. “Too late. I'm already thinking about round two.”

You snort. “Bold of you to assume I won’t lock the door.”

Namjoon grins, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Challenge accepted.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you walk into the bathroom, door completely open behind you, even when you step into the shower.

Namjoon chuckles, heart full and a little dumb, suddenly eager to actually keep his promise of being back before you finish. He slides on a pair of slides and heads down the hall. Waiting for the elevator, he pulls his phone from his pocket, scrolling through yesterday’s notifications.

Work mails, with nothing urgent still, his sister wishing him luck on his date.

Then, five missed calls from his mother and a message that makes him pause.

Eomma 💮: I can’t believe you Kim Namjoon. You are completely something else! How could you even think about skipping on the date!? let alone leave that poor girl hanging??? Ajumeoni Bae said she’d considering lowering your profile!! LOWERING IT! I am deeply disappointed.

His thumb hovers over the screen, mind momentarily blank.

Skip the date?

Namjoon blinks, glancing at the timestamp. The message came in sometime last night—hours after he’d already been tangled up with you in his sheets, your mouth on his, your laugh caught in his chest. Definitely not skipping anything.

Unless—

He swipes back to his call log. All the missed calls from his mom came after dinner.

Well after he’s already met you…

His brow furrows.

“The fuck?”

The elevator dings, but he doesn’t step in right away. Instead, he rereads the message before stepping inside and calling his mother.

The phone rings twice before his mother picks up—no hello, no greeting, just straight to the point.

“Namjoon-ah, you better have a good explanation.”

He closes his eyes briefly, already bracing himself. “Hi, Eomma.”

“Don’t ‘hi Eomma’ me. Do you know how embarrassed I was when I got that call from Ajumeoni Bae? I practically begged her to keep your file active! I told her you’re a good boy—just shy, busy, thoughtful. But this? Skipping on a date without so much as a message?”

He rubs a hand over his face. “I didn’t skip.”

“Oh really?” She huffs. “Because the girl you were supposed to meet complained you never showed!” She lets out something he can only describe as profound disappointment. “I can’t believe you did this—”

“No, I—” Namjoon blinks hard, staring at the elevator doors like they might provide answers. “I met with her, Eomma. At the Cafe next to the SeMa? A girl in a pink dress. Kang Y/N.”

That makes his mother stop mid rant, a long pause following. So long it makes him wonder if the elevator ate up all his phone signal.

“What?” she asks, suspicious.

“Yes. We ate lunch, ended up going for a walk and then dinner and a gallery too—” and he stops because that is enough information for her.

“Kang what?” His mother demands.

“Y/N.” Namjoon says, just as certain as before. “Pink dress. works as a paralegal at a firm in Seoul, at the café near the museum. You said—”

“I said your match would be wearing a pink dress, yes,” she cuts in, “but her name is Kang Mirae, Namjoon. Mirae!”

Namjoon blinks. “…Who?”

“Oh my dear God,” she breathes, and he can practically hear her pacing now. “ You mean to tell me you went on a date yesterday and didn’t even download her complete file? Did you just read the debrief?” She sounds borderline outraged.

“I thought—” He stops, then runs a hand through his hair. What did he think? “Listen, I saw a her by the window, she fit the description. I figured it was her.”

“And you just sat down?” The disbelief dripping from his mother’s voice is almost unbearable. He feels like a small kid again, getting scolded for coloring on the walls. “You didn’t even confirm she was sent by Ajumeoni Bae?!”

Namjoon grimaces. “No?”

There’s a pause. A sharp exhale. Then—

“Namjoon-ah. Aigoo.” The sound is somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement now. “How did you manage to pay to go on a date and still end up on the wrong one?”

He closes his eyes, forehead tapping against the cool elevator wall. “I thought she was her.”

“You thought? You thought? Did she even mention Ajumeoni Bae’s services?”

“No,” he admits, voice small. “But she looked… like she was waiting for someone too…”

“She wasn’t waiting for you!” his mom cries, fully amused now. “You just saw a girl in a pink dress and assumed?”

“Well technically she assumed too—she didn’t ask either!”

“Oh my God!” She was full-on giggling now. “Dear God,” she says. “You two really deserve each other. I accidentally raised a himbo.”

Namjoon groans. “Eomma—”

“No, no, don’t you ‘Eomma’ me. This is so stupid it must be destiny. You went on a blind date with the wrong woman,” she cackles. “Is she pretty? You said paralegal? Lawyer was better but paralegal isn't bad. Wait—” She pauses mid tirade “Did she know she was supposed to marry you after this date?”

“Yes…She was supposed to meet a Kim,” Namjoon says, running a hand through his hair again, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “That’s what her mom told her. Just—‘a Kim.’”

There’s a beat of stunned silence on the other end of the line.

Then: “Aigoo.” His mom’s voice turns reverent, like she’s just witnessed divine intervention. “That’s fate, Namjoon-ah! You stumbled into your match without even trying.”

Namjoon makes a low noise in his throat, not quite agreement, not quite denial.

“Does she like you?” His mom asks, immediately nosy again. “She must, if you’re still alive.”

“She stayed the night, didn’t she?”

“Kim Namjoon!”

“I didn’t mean it like—well, okay, maybe I did. But it wasn’t—” He pauses, mouth twitching. “I like her,” he admits quietly.

More silence.

“I really like her,” he adds, just as the elevator doors slide open.

And his mom, predictably, gasps like she’s just been handed a winning lottery ticket. “Then you better fix this before she finds out from someone else and thinks you’re some matchmaking scammer!”

Namjoon winces. “Why would she even think that?”

“I don’t know! I’m just being thorough. Now go! Make it right. And Namjoon?”

“…Yes?”

“You’re both idiots.”

“Thank you, eomma.” He deadpans.

His mother snorts. “Anytime sweetheart. Now go! I want to meet her soon!”

“You will.” He chuckles and hangs up with a sigh, slipping his phone back in his pocket as he steps out of the elevator and into the soft, overcast morning. The morning smells like rain and city steam, and his brain is buzzing, equal parts panic, disbelief and something stupidly light and warm.

He accidentally ghosted his match.

He accidentally met his better-half.

And yet—he can’t bring himself to regret any of it.

Not when you’re still upstairs in his shower. Not when he can still picture your sleepy smile and the curve of your neck and the sound of your laugh echoing off the bathroom tile. Not when his bedsheets still smell like you.

He ducks into the café on the corner, nods to the barista who already knows his usual, and adds a second coffee order. Strong, hot, sweet—but not too sweet.

Then he points to the pastry case, zeroing in on the flakiest, most obscenely overpriced croissant he can find. The kind of treat you’d mock and inhale in two bites.

He taps his card. He adjusts the pastry bag under his arm, balancing the coffees carefully as he starts back toward the building.

He’s going to tell you everything….

Just… maybe after caffeine.

Maybe after you’ve stopped smelling like his shampoo.

Maybe after round two.

Maybe.

~~~

Epilogue: The steam curls around you in the shower. Your hands are all over him.

Water runs down your spine in rivulets, hot and heavy, but he’s hotter still—his skin, his mouth, the way his fingers skate over your damp skin, mapping out the slope of your waist, the curve of your ass and he carefully presses you against the cold tiles.

His lips drag across your neck, up to your lips to catch them back in another heated kiss. He tastes like coffee now. Like maybe he stole a sip before he got in with you, and you can’t seem to get enough of it.

His palm finds your thigh and lifts it, slow and deliberate, anchoring your leg around his hip. The movement brings your bodies flush together, and the groan that leaves him—low, ragged, real—makes you clench around him.

You bite at his bottom lip and feel him shudder.

Then—

“Random question, have you ever heard of Ajumeoni Bae?”

You gasp around a moan, a little wrecked, a whole lot confused. “Who?”

skzhotpot

If it weren’t almost midnight I would fr be SCREAMING from my rooftop. This was romantic and funny and utterly captivating. FATE!!!! Obsessed is putting it lightly 🤩🤩