Summary: What happens when you and Yoongi have a little too much to drink on Jin's boat?
Pairing: Basketball Coach Yoongi x Aunt Reader
Genre: Romance, Smut
Warnings: Drinking, Body Shots, Very Unprotected Sex, Swearing
A/N: Missing moment mentioned in The Game of Healing epilogue.
The contrast between the two trips hits you the second the heavy oak front door swings open.
Where your family’s vacation rental had been a loud, chaotic, sun-drenched scramble of spreadsheets and mismatched luggage, this place was a masterpiece of sleek, modern architectural minimalism. Towering glass panes stretched from the polished concrete floors all the way to the vaulted ceilings, framing a panoramic view of the beautiful coastline.
It smelled expensive.
Most importantly, there was no one talking about throw pillows in the hallway and there were no siblings to fight over beds with.
Yoongi lets out a long, low breath beside you, dropping his duffel bags onto the floor with a sound that lacked any of the profound, bone-deep exhaustion from last time. He looks around the pristine foyer, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a rare, completely relaxed smile.
"See?" He murmurs, leaning down to press a quick, casual kiss to the temple of your head. "What did I tell you? No couches. No metal bars in your spine. This is going to be a real vacation."
"I'll believe it when I see the mattress with my own eyes," you tease, looping your arm through his as you walk further into the house. "I have trust issues with coastal listings."
"Hey, the head count was strictly managed this time," Namjoon peeks his head out from the kitchen. He offers a wide, dimpled smile, waving you both inside. "Welcome. Everyone else is already down by the water or unpacking. Your room is the second door on the left upstairs. And yes…it has its own private bathroom and a king-sized bed."
“It really does,” Yeri says walking by. “I checked twice.”
As you climb the floating staircase, the house feels incredibly spacious, echoing only with the distant, muffled sound of bass traveling from a speaker somewhere out on the deck. When Yoongi pushes open the door to your designated room, you actually let out a small, breathless laugh.
It was massive. A pristine, crisp white king-sized bed sits dead center, flanked by floating nightstands and a view of the ocean that made the last rental look like a puddle.
The second the door clicks shut behind you, the noise of the rest of the house disappears completely.
No siblings yelling down hallways.
No one banging on bathroom doors.
No frantic last-minute grocery debates echoing through the kitchen.
Just silence.
You stand there for a second taking it in while Yoongi wanders farther into the room, already toeing off his shoes. Late afternoon sunlight spills across the white bedding in long streaks, the ocean outside rolling lazily against the cliffs below.
“Okay,” you admit quietly, dropping your overnight bag beside the dresser. “This is definitely nicer. I thought the house my mom picked was nice….but man.”
“Told you.” Yoongi snorts softly.
He moves straight for the bed, falling backward onto the mattress with absolutely no grace whatsoever. The comforter puffed around him as he spread out dramatically.
A satisfied groan left him instantly.
“Oh my god,” he mutters toward the ceiling. “I may never leave this room again. We need to figure out what type of bed this is.”
“Move over.” You laugh, walking over to shove his shoulder lightly.
He cracks one eye open but shifts anyway, lifting an arm without a word so you could crawl beside him. The mattress dips beneath your weight, cool sheets soft against your skin as you settle against his side.
For a moment neither of you speak.
The distant bass from outside drifts through the cracked windows. Waves crash somewhere beyond the glass. Yoongi’s fingers absentmindedly trace slow lines against your arm while both of you just…exist for a second.
After the disaster of the last family trip, after work and schedules and endless noise, the quiet almost feels unreal.
“I could sleep for twelve hours,” you mumble.
“You probably will.” Yoongi smirks.
“You say that now until I start snoring.” You joke.
“You already snore.” He informs you.
“I do not.” Your head lifts immediately
“You absolutely do.” He nods.
“I absolutely don’t.” You argue.
You ignore his teasing, letting a few peaceful minutes pass before reality eventually drags you back into the present.
Unpacking.
“If I unpack now, future me will be grateful.” You groan dramatically, as you force yourself upright.
“Future you sounds annoying,” Yoongi mutters, eyes still closed.
“She’s responsible,” you tell him. “You should like that.”
“She’s ruining my vacation,” he says. “I want vacation you.”
You ignore him, moving toward your suitcase near the bench at the foot of the bed. Unzipping it, you start pulling things out one at a time. Swimsuits, shorts, oversized shirts, and toiletries.
Halfway through organizing the bathroom bag, your movements slow.
Then they stop entirely.
You stare down into the open pouch.
Toothbrush.
Makeup.
Face wash.
Hair ties.
Your stomach drops.
“No,” you whisper.
“What?” Yoongi cracks an eye open again immediately at your tone. “What's wrong?”
You dig through the bag faster. Then through the side pocket of your suitcase. Then the smaller zipper compartment.
Nothing.
A cold wave of realization hit all at once. Your birth control pills were still sitting in the medicine cabinet at home.
“Oh my god.” You groan.
“What happened?” Now Yoongi sits up fully, brows pulling together.
“I forgot my birth control pills.” You look up at him, equal parts horrified and irritated with yourself. “I have never forgotten my pills.”
“It's okay,” he says. “We don't have to do anything.”
“Excuse you,” you cross your arms. “We are teenager free. I have plans for you. How's your pull out game?”
“Doll,” Yoongi laughs.
Yoongi’s laugh was a low, grainy rumble that started in his chest and completely took over his face, turning his eyes into crescent slits. He covers his face with one hand, his shoulders shaking as he sits on the edge of the pristine king-sized bed.
"Doll," he manages, his voice dripping with absolute, fond amusement. "We are in a house with six other grown men and Yeri. The walls are thick, but they are not that thick. I don’t think 'testing my pull-out game' was on Namjoon’s official weekend itinerary."
"Namjoon's itinerary is a suggestion, not a law," you deadpan. You toss the useless toiletry bag onto the dresser.
Yoongi drops his hand, his gummy smile still fully on display as he watches you pace the short distance between the suitcase and the bathroom door. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes tracking you with that quiet intensity that always made your heart do a little flip.
“Let’s not tempt fate in a house where Jin will track our exact dinner arrival time down to the minute. Or…where Jimin is lurking around somewhere." He agrees softly, his tone shifting from teasing to something a bit more comforting. “We don't need another Halloween repeat.”
He stands up, walking over to you in his socks. He doesn't hesitate to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, before resting his chin on your shoulder.
"Besides," he murmurs, his hands resting warm and heavy on your sides, his thumbs tracing gentle circles against your shirt. "We have four full days. There's a pharmacy in the town center we passed on the way in. It’s barely a ten-minute drive. It will be open tomorrow. I'm sure we can get some condoms."
“Tomorrow?” You ask.
“Can you keep your hands to yourself until then?” He huffs out a laugh.
"Tomorrow," you echo, leaning back into his chest with a dramatic sigh. "I suppose I can manage twenty-four hours of basic human restraint. But the second that pharmacy opens, you're driving."
"Deal," Yoongi murmurs, his lips brushing against the side of your neck. "I'll even buy the fancy ones just to appease the universe."
Before you could fire back a witty retort, a sharp, upbeat melody shatters the quiet of the room.
Yoongi’s phone is vibrating violently against the hardwood floor right next to his dropped duffel bag. He lets out a soft hiss of annoyance and lets his arms slip from your waist. He slid across the floor in his socks, bending down to fish the phone out of his pocket.
He doesn't even have to look at the caller ID. He just presses answer and holds it to his ear.
"Yeah?" Yoongi grunts.
The speaker is loud enough that even from three feet away, you could hear Jin's voice bursting through the line, completely unbothered by volume control.
"Where are you two?!" Jin shouts over the unmistakable, roaring sound of a high-end boat engine and the heavy thumping bass of a summer anthem playing in the background. "The sun is blazing, the champagne is sweating, and Namjoon is currently trying to tie a knot that looks like a tangled ball of yarn! We are waiting on the dock! Put on your bathing suits and get down here before Jungkook drinks all the high-end tequila!"
"We're coming," Yoongi tells him with little enthusiasm, though his eyes darted to yours, a sudden spark of amusement lighting up his dark eyes. "Give us ten minutes."
"Five minutes! The boat waits for no man, Min Yoongi!" Jin yells, followed by Jimin loudly cheering something about a blender in the background, right before the line goes dead.
Yoongi stares at the screen for a second, shaking his head. He tosses the phone onto the mattress and looks over at you, his hands immediately dropping to the hem of his t-shirt.
"Well," he smiles, pulling the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, revealing the pale, solid expanse of his chest and shoulders. "So much for a quiet afternoon of unpacking."
"Jin's boat waits for no man," you mock, already rushing back over to your suitcase to tear through the neatly folded clothes. You yank out your favorite bikini and a sheer, oversized button-down cover-up. "Did he say tequila?"
"He did," Yoongi says with a nod, already stepping out of his sweatpants and pulling on a pair of dark swim trunks. He grabs a pair of sunglasses from his bag, sliding them into place as he looks at you with a slow, appreciative gaze while you change. "And knowing him, he’s got an entire spread laid out like he's hosting a royal party on the water."
Minutes later, the quiet of the upstairs bedroom is a distant memory.
You and Yoongi practically jog down the floating staircase, your tote bag packed with towels, sunscreen, and sunglasses. The moment you step out through the massive sliding glass doors at the back of the house, the heat hits you like a physical wall. It's thick, golden, glorious summer air, completely saturated with the saltiness of the ocean.
Down at the private wooden dock, Jin’s sleek pontoon boat is idling, its engine a deep, powerful purr. Jin is standing at the helm, looking like a literal movie star in an unbuttoned white linen shirt that billowed in the wind, a captain’s hat perched perfectly on his styled hair, and a glass of flowing champagne held high in one hand.
"Ah! The late arrivals!" Jin bellows, waving his glass dramatically as he spots you two walking down the wooden planks. "Hurry! The ice is melting!"
Down on the plush leather wrap-around seats, the rest of the guys are already living their best lives. Hobi and Jimin are clinking glasses together, their skin already glistening with a thin layer of sunscreen under the blinding afternoon sun. Jungkook, wearing nothing but swim trunks and a pair of dark aviators, is leaning over a massive built-in cooler, actively inspecting the tequila selection with a look of pure, focused intensity. Tae looks like he was trying to get Jin to let him drive the boat.
"They made it!" Yeri cheers from the back sun-pad, lifting her sunglasses to flash you a wide grin, her flowing cover-up catching the ocean breeze. "Come on, get on! Namjoon almost dropped the anchor on his own foot five minutes ago!"
"It was a minor miscalculation," Namjoon defends loudly from the bow, though his face was slightly pink.
Yoongi steps onto the boat first, offering a steady hand to guide you down onto the shifting deck. The moment your bare feet hit the warm vinyl, the energy of the group swallows you whole. The music is loud, the drinks are already flowing, and the sun is comforting against your skin.
Yoongi slides his arm securely around your waist, pulling you against his side as the boat rocks gently under a passing wave. He looks out over the sparkling, deep blue expanse of the open water, then down at you, his sunglasses hiding his eyes but his gummy smile completely on display.
"Alright, Captain," Yoongi calls out to Jin, his voice easily cutting through the music. "Take us out."
Jin doesn't need to be told twice. He throws the throttle forward and the massive pontoon surges away from the dock, the bow lifting as the engine roars to life.
Within minutes, the coastline is shrinking behind you, replaced by an endless expanse of deep turquoise water. The wind is a roaring, whipping your hair across your face and completely billowing Jin’s linen shirt.
"Music! More volume!" Jimin shouts from the back sun-pad, completely sprawling out next to Yeri.
Hobi immediately cranks the boat's audio system. A heavy, infectious pop beat explodes from the speakers, the bass thumping so hard you could feel it vibrating right through the soles of your bare feet.
"Tequila shots!" Jungkook announces triumphantly, emerging from the built-in cooler. He is balancing a silver tray that holds high end tequila, a handful of plastic shot glasses, a plate of dripping lime wedges and salt. "Who is brave enough to join me?"
"Don't look at me," Yoongi says instantly. He has already claimed a shaded corner, leaning back against the plush leather cushions with a cold beer nestled in his hand. He adjusts his sunglasses, looking entirely at peace as the wind cools his skin.
"Oh, come on! Don't be boring!" Jimin teases, throwing a wet towel at Yoongi's shins, which Yoongi kicks away with a lazy, amused scoff.
You, however, are standing right in the center of the deck, the hot sun beating down on your bare shoulders, the adrenaline of the speed and the loud music completely bubbling up in your chest.
"I'm in!" You call out, stepping over Namjoon’s legs to get to the tray.
"Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!" Jungkook cheers, pouring the pale amber liquid into the cups with a practiced hand.
"If she's in, I'm in." Yeri sits up, her eyes sparking with immediate mischief. She has a streak of sunscreen across her nose and a dripping margarita in her hand.
You and Yeri lock eyes. A wild, sudden spark of purely chaotic energy. The kind fueled by a hot summer afternoon, flowing alcohol, and the absolute freedom of vacation flared to life between you.
"Jungkook, hand me a lime," you order, a wicked grin spreading across your face.
You grab a wedge and salt, stepping straight over to the sun-pad, and look down at Yeri. "How game are you?"
"Oh, I'm game," Yeri laughs, immediately laying flat on her back on the plush vinyl cushion, arms spread wide, completely leaning into the bit.
The entire boat seems to slow down for a fraction of a second as the guys realize what was happening. You tuck the lime wedge firmly between Yeri’s teeth. Then, taking the bottle of tequila from a thoroughly stunned Jungkook, you carefully pour a steady splash of liquor right into a plastic shot glass.
Smiling innocently, you lean over your friend and lick over her collar bone where you deposit the fine grains of salt.
"Wait…what are you doing?" Namjoon squeaks. His dimpled smile freezes, his eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. "Yeri? Is that….is that a body shot?! You're a mom now!"
"Shut up, Joon, you're ruining the aesthetic!" Jin yells from the helm, completely abandoning his post for a second to lock the steering wheel and look over the seat.
“Yeah,” Tae agrees. “She's not a mom right now!”
Across the deck, Yoongi’s beer bottle stops exactly two inches from his mouth. He’s completely frozen, his jaw dropping slightly as his dark eyes lock onto you.
You don't give anyone time to protest. You lean down, the scent of the salt air and sunscreen filling your nose, and in one swift, practiced movement, you lick the salt Yeri’s collarbone and swiftly shoot the alcohol. The tequila burns hot in your throat. Without missing a beat, you lean in and bite the lime wedge directly out of her mouth, pulling back with a triumphant yell as you throw your hands in the air.
Yeri burst into hysterical laughter, sitting up and clapping loudly.
The boat absolutely erupts.
"OH MY GOD!" Hobi shrieks, jumping up onto the seat and clapping his hands above his head like a proud hype man.
Jungkook lets out a wild warrior cry, pounding his fists against the side of the boat, while Jimin literally falls off the sun-pad from laughing so hard, clutching his stomach on the floorboards.
"My wife!" Namjoon chokes out, his entire face turning a brilliant, sunburned shade of crimson.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, gasping from the burn of the alcohol, your eyes instantly flying over to the shade to find your boyfriend. Yoongi hasn't moved an inch. He is still holding his beer bottle, staring at you from behind his dark sunglasses. His jaw is still slightly slack, but the second your eyes locked, a slow, dangerous smirk begins to crawl across his face. He lowers the beer bottle, setting it deliberately into the cup holder beside him, his eyes never moving away from you for even a fraction of a second.
"Wow," Yoongi murmurs.
"See?!" Jin yells from the helm, steering the boat into a wide arc that makes everyone tilt to the left. "That is vacation energy! Namjoon, take notes! Stop checking the weather radar and live a little!"
"I am living!" Namjoon protests, though he is currently hiding his face in his hands.
You walk back over to the seating area, your hips swaying slightly with the movement of the boat, feeling the hot flush of the tequila spreading through your chest. The wind catches your hair, blowing it wildly across your face as you slide right into the shaded seat next to Yoongi. The second you sit down, his heavy, warm hand clamps onto your bare thigh.
"I can't believe you," Yoongi rumbles, leaning in close so his lips almost brushed your ear. "What happened to twenty-four hours of basic human restraint?"
"My tongue wasn't on you," you whisper back, turning your head to look at him, your nose almost touching his cheek. "It was on her."
Yoongi lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, his shoulders shaking. He shakes his head, his fingers tracing a slow, agonizingly deliberate line up the edge of your thigh before resting at your hip.
"Yeah. Clearly. I'm starting to think that the pharmacy trip tomorrow needs to happen at 6:00 AM." He muses.
The afternoon sun shimmers off the water. The heat is relentless and intoxicating, pressing down on the boat until the only logical solution is to throw everyone overboard.
"Anchor's down!" Jin shouts, killing the engine.
Jungkook doesn’t even wait for the boat to fully stop. He launches himself off the side in a flawless, flying cannonball, sending a massive wall of saltwater directly over the deck, soaking Hobi, who shrieks in theatrical betrayal. Jimin and Tae are right behind him, hitting the water with a pair of messy, uncoordinated flips, their laughing voices echoing off the nearby cliffs.
"Come on!" Yeri grabs your arm, her eyes still sparkling from the tequila. "Before Jin tries to do a graceful dive and demands we all judge it."
"Hey! My dives are majestic!" Jin defends from the stern, though he’s already adjusting his swim trunks.
You and Yeri plunge in together, the sudden shock of the deep turquoise water hitting your skin. It’s cool, crisp, and instantly washes away the sticky heat of the afternoon. When you break the surface, shaking the wet hair from your face, you look up to see Yoongi still sitting on the boat’s edge.
He’s sitting on the swimming platform, his pale legs dangling in the water. He’s shed his sunglasses, and his dark eyes are fixed entirely on you, tracking the way the water clings to your shoulders.
"Min Yoongi!" You call out, treading water as a wave pushes you closer to the boat. "Get in! It’s perfect!"
"The water is a completely reasonable temperature!" Namjoon adds, floating nearby on a neon pink noodle that looks entirely too small for his frame.
Yoongi lets out a lazy huff, but there’s no real resistance left in him. He slides forward off the platform, sinking into the water with a clean, quiet splash. When he surfaces, his hair is plastered to his forehead, making his pale skin glistening under the harsh sun. He swims toward you with slow, easy strokes, his movements effortless.
The second he reaches you, his hands find your waist beneath the surface of the water. The contrast of his cool skin against yours sends a literal shiver down your spine despite the heat. He pulls you flush against his chest, anchoring you both as the current moves around you.
"Happy?" He rumbles, a genuine, relaxed smile tugging at his lips.
"Very," you beam, wrapping your arms around his neck. "You look good wet."
Yoongi’s eyes darken slightly, his thumb brushing against the bare skin of your hip underwater. "Don't start what you can't finish today, doll."
Before you can reply, a plastic floating tray slides into your peripheral vision. Jungkook is wading through the water, pushing the floating bar ahead of him like a dedicated high-end resort host. The silver tray is back, restocked, but this time, the shot glasses are plastic shot-syringes filled with a bright red, sweet concoction.
"Hydration check!" Jungkook announces with a grin. "Or, well, the opposite of hydration. Jin made these!"
"They’re watermelon-lime Jello shots with a heavy hand of vodka!" Jin yells, leaning over the boat's railing with his own shot in hand. "Drink up, children!"
"Oh, absolutely not," Yoongi mutters, trying to steer you away from the tray. "I am a grown man. I am not taking a shot out of a plastic syringe."
"Come on, Yoongi!" Hobi swims over, splashing Yoongi’s back. "Don't break the chain! Everyone is doing it!"
Jimin appears out of nowhere, grabbing one of the syringes and holding it out to Yoongi with an expression of pure peer pressure.
"For the vacation energy. Don't make Jin cry." Jimin smirks at him before winking at you.
You look up at Yoongi, a wicked, challenging smirk on your face. You grab a syringe from the tray, biting the plastic cap off and spitting it into Jungkook's waiting hand.
"If I take one, you take one." You smile.
Yoongi stares at you, his jaw tight, a battle raging behind his eyes. He looks at the syringe in your hand, then down at your mouth, and lets out a defeated, breathless chuckle.
"Fine," he grumbles, reaching out to snatch a syringe from Jimin, who lets out a victorious cheer. "But if I get a headache later, you’re rubbing my shoulders for the rest of the night."
The entire group shoots the alcohol in unison. The sweet, icy burn of the watermelon and vodka hits your throat, and you immediately dive backward into the water to wash away the sticky sweetness. When you resurface, Yoongi is shaking his head, his face twisted in a grimace that quickly melts into a gummy, white-toothed laugh as Hobi starts chanting his name.
The heat of the alcohol blooms in your chest, mixing with the baking sun and the cool ocean water. The afternoon dissolves into a blur of loud laughter, chaotic water fights, and endless music. At one point, Tae manages to drag a giant floating mat into the water, and everyone attempts to stand on it at the same time, resulting in a giant, tangled pile of limbs collapsing into the sea.
Through it all, Yoongi stays close. Even when he swims off to talk to Namjoon or get another beer from the boat, his eyes always trace back to you.
As the sun finally begins its slow descent, painting the sky in violent shades of purple and burning orange, the group finally starts migrating back onto the boat, thoroughly exhausted, sun-kissed, and pleasantly buzzed.
You climb up the ladder, shivering slightly as the ocean breeze hits your wet skin. Before you can even grab a towel, Yoongi is behind you. He drapes a massive, dry white towel over your shoulders, pulling the ends together to tuck you securely against his chest.
His skin is hot from the sun, smelling of saltwater and the faint remnants of sunblock. He rests his chin on the top of your wet head, his arms wrapped tight around you from behind as the boat sways gently.
"You're burning," he murmurs, his voice low and raspy against your ear, softened by the alcohol and the fading day.
"I feel warm," you admit, leaning back into him, completely content.
"We're going back," he says, his hand sliding down to squeeze your hip through the towel, his thumb pressing firmly into your skin. "And tomorrow morning, first thing..."
"Pharmacy?" You tilt your head back to look at him, a lazy smile on your face.
Yoongi leans down, his lips brushing yours in a slow, lingering kiss that tastes faintly of salt and watermelon vodka. When he pulls back, his dark eyes are burning with a quiet, intense promise that makes the alcohol in your veins feel twice as hot.
"6:00 AM," he confirms, his voice dropping an octave. "Because after today? I'm not risking another twenty-four hours."
The salt-tinged air drifting through the cracked window does nothing to cool the heat between your thighs. Yoongi's mouth is relentless, tongue curling, lips sucking, as he works you closer to the edge. His fingers grip your hips, holding you spread open for him, and every deliberate stroke of his tongue against your clit sends a jolt up your spine. You bite your lip trying to stay quiet as the muffled laughter of your friends playing a loud game downstairs creeps into the room.
"You taste so fucking good," he mutters against you, the vibration making you gasp. "But I said mouth and hands only, remember?"
You barely manage a hum of agreement, your head pressed back into the pillows, fingers tangled in his still damp hair. The buzz of alcohol in your veins melts the sharp edges of your restraint. You want more. Need more. Need him inside you.
His tongue dips lower, circling your entrance, and you buck against his face. He laughs…a low, dark sound that vibrates right through your core and pulls back, leaving you aching and wet.
"Yoongi," you whimper, not being able to hold back.
"What, Doll?" He looks up at you, lips glistening, eyes half-lidded and dark.
You don't get a chance to answer before he drops his head back between your thighs. He licks and sucks, his tongue tracing every fold, circling your clit with torturous precision. A low groan rumbles from his chest, the vibration against your most sensitive parts making you see stars. His fingers soon join, one, then two, sliding into you with ease, crooking inside you to find that perfect, devastating spot.
“Yoongi… fuck…” you pant into your own hand, your hips beginning to rock against his mouth, chasing the building pressure. His fingers pump steadily, his thumb now pressing tight circles against your clit. The pleasure was coiling tight. The sounds from downstairs faded into a haze.
“Please,” you beg, the word muffled and desperate. “Please, just… I need you. Fuck me. Please, just fuck me.”
“You’re begging already?” He teases, but his voice is strained, his own control fraying. He crawls up your body, aligning his hips with yours. The length of him nudges against your entrance, and you gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist.
“Fuck!” He grits out, his forehead dropping to yours. “I'll pull out!”
You nod frantically. Yoongi pushes inside, and the nod turns into a silent, open-mouth scream of relief. He fills you perfectly, stretching you, completing you. He starts with a slow, deep rhythm. However, the friction, the way he hit that spot deep inside with every movement, was too much.
“Faster,” you plead, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Please, Yoongi, faster.”
He obeys, his hips snapping forward with more force, the bedframe giving a soft, rhythmic creak that makes you both freeze for a second, listening. Hearing only the distant roll of dice and laughter, he begins again, his thrusts becoming harder, less controlled.
“Wanna ride you,” you gasp, pushing at his chest.
Smirking, he rolls onto his back, pulling you with him so you straddle his hips. You sink down onto him immediately, taking him all the way with a deep, shuddering sigh of pure pleasure.
And.
You ride him.
You really ride him. You plant your hands on his chest for leverage and set a punishing pace, rising and falling, grinding down in tight circles, chasing your own climax with desperation. The sight of him beneath you, his head thrown back, veins standing out in his neck as he fights to stay quiet, only spur you on. His hands gripping your hips, his fingers most definitely leaving marks for tomorrow.
“Fuck, Doll,” he groans, his voice tight. “You’re gonna… ngh… you’re gonna make me lose it.”
You don't slow down. You couldn’t. The orgasm is a tidal wave forming and you are racing to it. You lean forward, changing the angle, and feel him go even deeper. A broken sob is torn from your throat.
Yoongi’s control starts to visibly slip. His breathing is ragged, his thrusts becoming uneven beneath you, pushing up to meet your frantic descents.
“Okay, hop off,” he orders, his voice strained but firm. His hands, pushing at your thighs. “Now. I’m serious.”
“No… almost… I’m almost there…” You shake your head, riding him harder, your own climax bubbling just out of reach. “Hold it.”
“Y/N,” he growls, a warning and a plea. His eyes were wide, frantic. “I’m about to come. You need to get off. Now.”
“You can come on my face!” He hisses, grabbing at your hips.
“I want your cock,” you moan, leaning forward to wrap your arms around his neck. “Hold it.”
But it is too late. The tension shatters. Your vision whites out as your orgasm crashes over you. Your walls clenches around him violently, milking his length as waves of unbearable pleasure radiate from your core. Your mouth opens in a soundless scream, your body seizing.
That was all it took. With a choked, guttural sound that was half curse, half prayer, Yoongi’s hips jerk up off the bed one final, helpless time. His body surrenders completely to the feel of your tight, fluttering core.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of your ragged breathing. He is still inside you, both of you trembling in the aftermath. Slowly, reality seeps back in. The distant cheers from downstairs. The sticky warmth between your thighs. Yoongi’s eyes flutter open, meeting yours. The haze of passion is clearing, replaced by realization.
“I… I didn’t pull out,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.
“I'm sure it's fine,” you mutter against his chest.
“How do you figure?” He asks.
“I've been on the pill since I was fifteen,” you tell him. “I've never missed it. What are the chances it failed me?”
Yoongi still looks unconvinced. You reach up, brushing your fingers through the damp strands of hair falling over his forehead.
“What are the chances?” You ask softly, looking up at him.
His eyes search yours for a second longer before some of the tension finally eased from his expression.
“Low?” He guesses cautiously.
“Exactly.” You nod
“Okay,” he sighs. “Fine. Statistically speaking, we’re probably okay.”
Downstairs, somebody starts singing loudly and badly enough that the entire house erupted into protests.
“That’s Jungkook.” Yoongi groans immediately.
“That’s definitely Jungkook.” You add.
“He’s drunk.” Yoongi murmurs.
You bury your face against his chest to hide your laughter while he presses a lazy kiss into your hair. Outside, waves crash softly against the cliffs below the house. The breeze drifts through the cracked balcony door.
And wrapped together beneath a tangle of white sheets, both of you let yourselves believe the same thing.
Summary: Your life was perfect. You had the perfect fiance, the perfect house and the perfect ring on your finger. The only thing that wasn't perfect …. were the memories you lost years ago and the fact your parents won't talk about it.
Pairing: Yoongi x F. Reader
Genre: Romance, Angst, Hurt-Comfort, Smut
Warnings: Memory Loss, Swearing, Blood Mention, Unprotected Sex, Mention Of Car Accident, Mention Of Drunk Driver. Will add as I go…
The room is noisy with beginner-level chaos. Easels scrape against the floor while people awkwardly introduce themselves to strangers. A woman near the supply shelves is already panicking over everything she sees like she’s selecting surgical equipment. Someone in the back drops a pencil tin loud enough to make half the room jump.
And….
You want to run.
“Oh my god,” you whisper under your breath, clutching the strap of your bag tighter. “I hate this already.”
Beside you, Yura snorts.
“You think you hate this?” She mutters back. “I have an actual art degree and I still feel like I’m about to throw up.”
“What?” You blink at her.
“Y/N. Critiques permanently alter your brain chemistry. You never recover.” She gestures vaguely toward the room. “This place smells like academic trauma.”
A startled laugh escapes you before you can stop it. The tension in your shoulders loosens just slightly. Yura notices immediately, bumping her shoulder against yours as she guides you further inside.
“See? Humor is the best defense mechanism against the Ghost of Critiques Past,” Yura says, flashing a quick smirk before her eyes lock onto an empty pair of easels near the back corner. “There. Prime real estate. Close to the exit in case we need to make a strategic retreat, and far enough from the instructor that he won’t see me rolling my eyes when he explains what a shadow is.”
You follow her lead, navigating the minefield of stray stools and oversized portfolios. The space feels alive with a nervous energy that is entirely different from the suffocating silence of your insurance cubicle. Here, the anxiety is loud, messy, and shared.
As you set your bag down, your hands find the edges of the wooden easel. The surface is scarred and worn. You run your thumb over a particularly deep groove, wondering if a younger, past version of yourself had ever stood in a room exactly like this, feeling this exact feeling of terror.
"Alright, folks, find a spot, settle in," the instructor calls out. He steps up to a central platform where a deceptively simple still life is arranged. You see a dented metal watering can, three green apples, and a draped piece of navy blue velvet.
"I know some of you are looking at that watering can right now and thinking, 'I can't draw that, it's too complicated,'" the instructor says with easy warmth. "But today isn't about drawing a watering can. It's about breaking your brain of its bad habits. I don't want you to draw the object. I want you to draw the negative space around the object."
A collective, anxious murmur ripples through the room. The woman who was panicking over supplies lets out a soft whimpering sound.
Beside you, Yura mimics the instructor’s words silently with her mouth, rolling her eyes so hard you're surprised they don't get stuck. But when she reaches into her bag and pulls out a thick stick of charcoal, her posture changes. Her shoulders drop. Her chin lifts. The sarcastic friend vanishes, replaced instantly by someone who moves without thinking.
With three fluid, sweeping motions of her wrist, she marks the boundaries of her paper. She isn't even looking at her hands. Her eyes are fixed entirely on the velvet drapery on the platform. It's pure, unfiltered muscle memory.
This is nothing for her.
You look down at your own blank pad of paper. The white paper feels like it's practically begging you to ruin it. You pick up a piece of charcoal, your fingers instantly turning black from the dust. Your hand is trembling so hard the stick rattles against the wooden ledge of the easel.
I don't know how, your inner voice whispers, the familiar, safe panic clawing at your throat. I don't remember the rules.
Then, you look at the black smudge already transferring from your fingers onto the edge of the paper. You think of the bright, chaotic blue streak Jimin dragged across the studio wall. You think of Yoongi sitting on a tiny plastic chair, letting a six-year-old braid colorful pipe cleaners into his sleeve without a single complaint.
“Get charcoal on your face, and fail miserably for a few weeks.”
A quiet, shaky breath escapes your lips. You lift your hand, press the charcoal to the center of the page, and pull it downward.
The charcoal drags across the rough paper with a harsh, satisfying scritch.
It’s a terrible line. It’s shaky, uneven, and completely misses the contour of the watering can’s handle. But it is there. The pristine, intimidating whiteness of the paper is officially ruined, and with it, a fraction of your panic evaporates.
"Not bad," Yura murmurs, not looking away from her own page as her charcoal dances in swift, aggressive hatches. "At least you didn't poke yourself in the eye. I saw a guy do that first semester of art school. Had to wear a patch for a week."
A quiet snort escapes you, the tension in your jaw relaxing. You squint at the still life, trying to tune out the voice in your head that demands perfection, the voice that usually categorizes things into neat, orderly spreadsheets. Instead, you look at the empty space between the watering can's spout and the draped velvet.
“The negative space,” the instructor had said.
You press the side of the charcoal stick flat against the paper and begin to color in the darkness around the object. The dust coats your palm, embedding itself into the lines of your skin. It’s messy. It’s chaotic. It’s the exact opposite of your insurance cubicle, where a stray ink smudge on a document meant starting over. Here, the mess is the point.
As the class settles into a rhythm of scratching charcoal and heavy breathing, the initial terror transforms. You actually lose track of time. Your shoulder starts to ache from holding your arm out, and you’re pretty sure you just wiped sweat off your forehead with a hand covered in black dust, completely fulfilling Yoongi's prophecy.
"Alright, everyone, step back from your easels," the instructor’s voice suddenly breaks the trance. He claps his hands together, sending a tiny puff of chalk into the air. "Take a walk. Look at what your neighbors are doing. And remember…be kind. We're all re-learning how to see."
You blink, feeling like you’ve just surfaced from underwater. You drop your charcoal back onto the ledge and take two steps back to look at your creation.
It looks... vague. Like a ghostly, smudged silhouette of a watering can trapped in a heavy fog. But as you look at it, a sudden, fierce spark of pride flares up in your chest. You didn't run. You didn't freeze.
You made something.
"Well, look at you, Michelangelo," Yura says, stepping back to examine your work. She leans in closer, nodding approvingly. "Your proportions are totally warped, the perspective is deeply chaotic." She turns to you with a bright, genuine grin. "I love it. It has personality."
"Thanks. I think half of it is just pure adrenaline." You wipe your hands on your jeans, only succeeded in creating two dark handprints on your thighs.
"The best art usually is," Yura says, slinging an arm over your shoulder, entirely unbothered by the charcoal transferring onto her shirt. "Come on, let's go scope out the competition and feel superior about our messy hands."
As you follow her down the aisle, walking past a dozen different interpretations of the exact same three apples, the heavy weight that had been sitting on your chest for weeks finally feels manageable. You're failing miserably, just like you were supposed to and it feels incredible.
The parking lot is dimly lit, bathed in the orange glow of a few streetlamps, but it feels like the most open space you’ve been in all day.
You and Yura walk side by side, the gravel crunching beneath your sneakers. You’re hyper-aware of the state of your clothes. How your jeans feature two prominent charcoal handprints on the thighs, and a quick check in your phone screen earlier confirmed a dark smudge slashed across your left cheekbone. You look like a disaster.
You feel absolutely alive.
"So," Yura starts, swinging her car keys around her index finger with a wicked little smirk. "First class officially in the books. Look at you, surviving the beginner-level chaos without a single tears-induced bathroom break."
"The night is still young," you joke, though a genuine smile tugs at your lips. "But yeah. I didn't run away. Even when the paper started staring back at me."
"And you shouldn't. For a first attempt at breaking your brain, that watering can showed real promise," she teases, bumping her shoulder against yours as you both stop between your parked cars. She leans against her driver's side door, crossing her arms and looking you up and down with an amused spark in her eyes. "This was a pretty massive first step, Y/N. Forcing yourself out of the cubicle, re-learning how to see, letting yourself be messy..."
She pauses, her smirk widening into something distinctly mischievous.
“If this class is your first step in rediscovering art... is your date with Yoongi your first step to rediscovering him?" She asks.
The sudden shift in conversation hits you out of nowhere. You freeze, your hand halting halfway to your car door handle.
"What?" You blink, your brain scrambling to catch up. "My... my what with Yoongi?"
"Your date," Yura says, pronouncing the word with exaggerated clarity.
"How do you even know about that?!" You exclaim, your voice dropping to a harsh, panicked whisper as you glance around the empty parking lot.
Yura bursts out laughing, a loud, triumphant sound that echoes off the brick facade of the art center. She holds up her hands in a mock surrender, though she doesn't look remotely guilty.
"Okay, okay, full disclosure," she chuckles, leaning in closer. "The guys have a ‘guys only group chat’. The Parking Lot Philosophers. They named it that because they think it makes them sound smart. But really, they named it that because they stand around gas station parking lots trying to figure mystery flavored candy. Anyway, Jungkook lets me read sometimes."
"He what?" You stare at her, horrified and deeply intrigued all at once.
"Apparently, the second Yoongi got home on Saturday, he panicked. Like, full-blown, existential crisis panic." Yura says, eyes full and bright.
"Why would he panic?" You ask, your heart doing a strange, fluttering flip-flop in your chest.
"Because he realized he used the word 'date' he thought he might have scared you off," Yura explains, shaking her head with a fond, exasperated roll of her eyes. "The group chat went absolutely nuclear for about twenty minutes. Yoongi drafted this massive, terrifyingly formal three-paragraph apology text to send you, trying to walk the word back."
"But he didn't send it," you say quickly, suddenly terrified that you missed a giant wall of text.
"No, thank god," Yura laughs. "Namjoon literally had to step in and stop him."
You lean your head against the roof of your car, a mix of pure embarrassment and a strange, bubbling warmth washing over you.
"I can't believe this," you mutter into the cool metal of your car, though you can't stop the massive grin spreading across your face. "We are just spending the day together. Just like I did with everyone else. "
"Everyone else isn't Yoongi.” She gives you a tight smile. “You weren't engaged to any of us.”
You absorb Yura’s words, the ambient hum of the distant highway suddenly feeling a little louder in the silence that stretches between you.
You weren't engaged to any of us.
It’s the truth you’ve been keeping in your nightstand since you discovered the truth. You look down at your charcoal-stained fingers, tracing a line on the roof of your car before looking back up at her.
"Yura," you say softly, the playful banter completely draining from your voice. You hesitate, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat. "Can I ask you something? And you have to be completely honest with me."
"Always, Y/N. What is it?" She asks, turning serious.
"Did he..." You clear your throat, staring at the orange glow of the streetlamp reflecting off her windshield. "Did Yoongi ever date anyone else? While I was... ‘gone’?"
Yura hesitates. It’s only a fraction of a second, but you catch the slight stillness in her shoulders, the way her eyes dart down to her keys before locking back onto yours.
"He did," Yura says gently, her tone dropping into a quieter, more careful register. "I'm not going to lie to you and say he lived like a monk in a cave for years, Y/N. He’s human. He tried."
Your heart does a strange, uncomfortable squeeze…not quite jealousy, but a sharp, hollow ache of reality. Of course he did. Years had passed. The world kept spinning, people kept living.
"Anyone... serious?" You ask, hating how small your voice sounds in the cool night air.
"No," Yura answers instantly, and this time there is zero hesitation in her voice. She steps away from her car door, crossing the small gap between your vehicles to stand closer to you. "He dated a few women over the years. A couple of casual setups through co-workers, one girl he saw for a few months who worked near his school. But it was never anything serious. At least, not on his end."
“What do you mean?” You ask.
“They were ….nice…. I guess.” She shrugs. “But…I don't think he could really ever let himself be open to others like that again. Not like how they needed him to be.”
“I shouldn't have asked that.” You shake your head. “I mean… I was going to get married to someone else.”
Yura doesn’t say anything right away. Slowly, she reaches out and takes your arm, her grip firm. She doesn't mind the charcoal smudging her sleeve.
"Yeah," Yura says softly, her voice entirely devoid of judgment. "You were. But there’s a difference, Y/N."
You look up at her, the orange streetlamp catching the serious, fiercely protective look in her eyes.
"You were building a life with someone else because you thought your past was completely erased. You were moving forward with the pieces you had left," she says gently. "Yoongi was trying to move forward because he thought his past was pretty much dead. Those are two completely different kinds of survival."
She gives your arm a reassuring squeeze, letting the words sink in.
"Neither of you did anything wrong," she continues. "You don't need to feel guilty for trying to live, and he doesn't either. But the point is... those other people? They were just chapters you both forced yourselves to write because you thought the book was already finished. But now? You're both standing in the same room again. The book is wide open."
You let out a long, shaky breath you didn't realize you were holding. She’s right. The guilt, the hesitation, the fear of what had happened during those missing years. It was all just negative space. The empty, messy darkness around the actual object.
And the object, standing right in front of you, was a Saturday with Min Yoongi.
"Now," Yura says, breaking the heavy mood with a sudden, sharp grin as she steps back toward her car. "Go home, scrub the charcoal off your face before you scare your neighbors, and stop overthinking this. He's panicking in a group chat because he thinks he used a scary word, Y/N. The man is entirely at your mercy. He always has been."
A genuine laugh escapes you, bright and clear, melting the last remnants of the tension.
"I'll see you next week, Michelangelo," she calls out, unlocking her car with a loud beep. "Don't wash your jeans too hard. I think the handprints give them character!"
As you watch her car back out of the lot and disappear down the street, you turn to your own reflection in the dark glass of your driver's side window. You really do look a mess. You're smudged, dusty, and completely unraveled from the neat, organized corporate shell you've been hiding in.
You pull out your phone, your thumb hovering over Yoongi's contact name. The text thread is quiet. No three-paragraph formal apologies. Just his last message confirming the time.
Your fingers leave a faint, gray smudge on the screen as you type out a quick response.
You: Just finished my first art class. I failed miserably and I have charcoal everywhere.
You: I'm still on for Saturday. Don't walk the word back.
You hit send before you can lose your nerve, slipping the phone into your pocket. As you start the engine and pull out of the art center parking lot, your heart is beating fast. Not with the suffocating panic of the insurance cubicle, but with the wild, unpredictable adrenaline of a blank page.
"Outdoors? Brilliant! Spectacular! A visionary move, Y/N!" Hobi had cheered earlier, literally doing a little spin in the hallway when you proposed the idea.
Your plan is deceptively simple but high-energy. The kids will lay down massive rolls of butcher paper on the grass, trace their outlines with thick markers, and then let them paint their giant, life-sized selves however they see fit.
Currently, the courtyard is a glorious battlefield of creativity.
"Hobi! Look! I have purple wings!" Minjun shrieks, pointing proudly at his paper double.
Hobi, who is currently wearing a bright yellow apron over a tie-dye shirt, gasps dramatically. He drops to his knees on the grass next to the boy's drawing, hands clutching his cheeks in pure, unadulterated awe.
"Minjun! A purple-winged superhero? The neighborhood is finally safe! But wait…do the wings have glitter capabilities? This is crucial information." Hobi smiles.
"Yes!" Minjun laughs, instantly grabbing a handful of green sequins and tossing them wildly into the air.
"Arts and crafts hazard!" Hobi yells playfully, shielding his face with a laugh that rings out across the lawn like a bell.
He looks over at you from across the courtyard, giving you a flashing, proud smile and a massive thumbs-up. You laugh, shaking your head as you turn back to the little girl lying at your feet.
"Alright, Hana, keep your arms out wide like a starfish. Ready?" You ask.
"Ready!" She chirps, squeezing her eyes shut like the marker might tickle.
You kneel on the grass, pressing your palm against the paper to steady it as you drag a thick black Sharpie around her tiny sneakers. Your hands are clean today at least, they were until ten minutes ago when a rogue blue paint explosion claimed your left forearm. But after surviving the watering can incident with Yura on Tuesday, a little acrylic paint doesn't scare you anymore.
As you trace the curve of Hana's shoulders, a shadow falls over your workspace.
"Are you aiming to turn the entire youth of the neighborhood into abstract art?"
The voice is quiet, a low, gravelly rasp that cuts straight through the high-pitched screams of the children. Your heart does a sudden, violent acrobatics routine against your ribs.
You look up.
Yoongi is standing at the edge of your butcher paper.
"Don't you have students?" You ask, with a small smile.
"They're practicing scales. I told them if they could play a perfect C major five times in a row without looking, I'd give them a break," Yoongi says smoothly.
"Yoongi!" Hobi shouts, clapping a heavy, paint-smeared hand onto Yoongi’s pristine black shoulder.
Yoongi flinches slightly but doesn't pull away, merely sighing with a deeply practiced air of long-suffering patience.
"Hobs. You're getting yellow on me. I have to go back to the keyboards after this." Yoongi sighs.
"It adds character! Just ask Y/N!" Hobi beams, winking at you conspiratorially. He leans in closer to Yoongi, his voice dropping into a stage whisper. "So, the group chat was pretty wild the other night, huh?"
Yoongi’s ears instantly turn a vivid, violent shade of pink. He shoots Hoseok a glare that could melt steel.
"I don't know what you're talking about. Go back to your director duties. Don't you have a superhero with glitter to supervise?" Yoongi asks.
"Right! Duty calls!" Hobi winks at you.
Yoongi clears his throat, coughing into his fist as he looks anywhere but at you. The fierce, untouchable aura he usually carries completely evaporates, leaving behind the man who had panicked over a three-paragraph text.
"I can't believe him," Yoongi mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I think he's great," you counter, a massive grin breaking across your face. "And for the record, Yura told me everything. I would have loved to read that text."
"I am going to kick Jungkook out of that group chat." Yoongi closes his eyes for a brief, agonizing second.
When he opens his eyes, he steps closer to you. He looks down at your paint-stained arm, then back up to your eyes.
"You really aren't scared off?" He asks.
"At this point," you say softly. “I think it's going to take more than calling today a date to scare me off.”
He studies your face for a moment, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, before falling down to the grass.
"Good." He whispers.
"Y/N! I need more blue!" Hana interrupts, tugging aggressively on the hem of your shirt.
"Oh! Right, coming, Hana!" You smile at her and move to get up from the ground.
"I'll get it," Yoongi interrupts smoothly.
Before you can object, he walks over to the supply table, picks up a giant pump-bottle of blue acrylic paint, and returns to Hana’s paper outline. He drops down onto the grass once more, completely uncaring of his dark jeans meeting the dirt, and pours a neat dollop of blue right into the center of the drawing's head.
"Are you making my hair blue?" Hana asks, eyeing his beanie and his dark clothes suspiciously.
"Blue hair is cool," Yoongi says, his voice dropping into that quiet, gentle tone he uses when he's trying to coax a nervous kid to touch the piano keys. He picks up a thick foam brush and hands it to her. "Trust me. I've had it. It makes you run faster."
"Really?" Hana’s eyes go wide.
"Absolutely." Yoongi nods.
Hana doesn’t need to be told twice. She snatches the brush from Yoongi’s hand with a fierce nod of determination and immediately begins violently spreading the blue paint across her paper head, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in deep concentration.
Yoongi watches her for a second, a soft, gummy smile gracing his features before he pushes himself back up to his feet. He brushes a stray blade of grass off his knee, though he completely misses a streak of blue paint that has managed to find a home on his thumb.
"Go go go!" Hana commands, completely dismissing both of you as she uses her entire forearm to smear the blue paint into a massive streak. "I'm going to be faster than a race car!"
"Keep your eyes on the track, lightning," Yoongi murmurs, stepping backward out of her immediate splash zone. He catches your eye, the soft corners of his gummy smile still lingering before he clears his throat, slipping his hands back into his pockets. "I should... go make sure nobody has passed out from playing C major."
"Right. Don't let them slack off," you laugh softly as you get up, adjusting the plastic apron around your waist. "I'll see you at two?"
Yoongi halts his retreat for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a quiet, steady weight that makes the chaotic noise of the courtyard fade into a low, distant hum.
"Two o'clock. Don't wash the paint off your arm too quickly." He smirks.
With a subtle, parting nod, he turns and disappears back through the double glass doors of the community center, leaving you with a racing pulse and a very impatient five-year-old demanding green sequins for her shoes.
By the time the parents arrive to collect their bright, multi-colored children, the lawn looks like an explosion at a crayon factory. You spend the next twenty minutes helping Hobi roll up the paint-soaked butcher paper.
"You are a lifesaver, Y/N!" Hobi says, hoisting a trash bag full of empty paint bottles over his shoulder. He looks at you, his eyes instantly tracking the blue smudge on your forearm and the rogue smear of green that had somehow migrated to your chin. "Look at you. A true artist."
"I'm just embracing the chaos, Hobi," you laugh, wiping your brow with the back of a relatively clean wrist.
"As you should!" He beams, giving you a quick, encouraging nudge with his elbow as you both head back inside. "Go on, get cleaned up. You've got places to be!"
Ten minutes later, you’re standing at the sink in the communal restroom, desperately trying to scrub the stubborn acrylic from your skin. You manage to save your face from looking like a watercolor painting, but your left forearm is still faintly stained a pale, robin's-egg blue.
When you step out into the main hallway, standing near the display cases of kids' pottery is Yoongi.
He’s staring intently at a deeply lopsided clay vase on a shelf, his expression so intensely serious you'd think he was analyzing a classic masterpiece. As if sensing your footsteps, his head turns. His eyes lock onto yours, and the heavy, contemplative crease between his brows instantly smooths out.
"You survived," he says, his voice a low, comforting rumble in the quiet hallway. He steps away from the display case, his eyes immediately dropping to your forearm. A tiny, almost imperceptible quirk touches the corner of his lips. "I see the blue paint won the battle."
"It's a tactical choice," you say, matching his stride as he reaches your side. "Heard it makes me move faster."
"Indeed it does," he murmurs, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Hey! Lovebirds!"
The loud, cheerful shout echoes down the corridor, making both of you halt. Hobi is jogging backward down the hallway toward the administrative offices, a stack of clipboards precariously balanced in his arms. He has a massive, mischievous grin plastered across his face.
"Have fun on your date!" Hobi yells, throwing in a dramatic wink.
Yoongi’s hand instantly flies out of his pocket to rub the back of his neck, his head dropping as a distinct, rosy flush creeps up from his collar to the tips of his ears.
"Hoseok, I swear to god, go file some paperwork," he mutters, though there’s no real heat in it. Just the embarrassment of a man whose friends refuse to let him live in peace.
"Love you guys!" Hobi sings out, spinning on his heel and disappearing around the corner with a loud, echoing laugh.
You break first, a bright, helpless laugh escaping you. Yoongi looks over at you, letting out a heavy, defeated sigh that turns into a reluctant, quiet chuckle of his own.
"I’m kicking him out of group chat too," he mumbles, shaking his head as he guides you toward the heavy glass exit doors. "They’re like children. All of them."
"I think it’s sweet," you tease, pushing the door open and stepping out into the late afternoon air.
The parking lot is pretty much empty now as you stop between your two cars. You look down at your paint-stained arm, then up at Yoongi, who has stopped a few feet away.
"So," you say softly, your heart taking a slow, heavy thud against your ribs. "Where are you taking me, Yoongi?"
Yoongi takes his hands out of his pockets. He steps into the small space between you, the golden sunlight catching the dark, warm depths of his eyes. The nervous, group-chat-panicking man is gone, replaced entirely by the unmovable presence of the man who used to hold your world together.
"Somewhere quiet," he says, his voice dropping into a gentle, reassuring register that completely settles the butterflies in your stomach.
He extends his hand toward you, his fingers open, completely unbothered by the faint blue smudge still visible on his own thumb.
"Ready?" he asks.
You look out the passenger window, blinking at the brick archway and the immaculate, manicured green lawns stretching out under the campus lamps. A massive, brushed-bronze sign stands near the entrance pavilion, as Yoongi pulls his car into a secluded part of the parking lot.
Your eyes trace the letters, and a strange, electric jolt goes straight down your spine.
You know this name. It’s the exact same university stamped on the heavy, gold-embossed degree that Hoseok had handed back to you. The degree with your name on it. The degree you have absolutely no memory of earning.
"Yoongi," you breathe, your throat suddenly feeling tight as you turn your head to look at him. "Why are we at our old college?"
Yoongi doesn’t answer right away. He reaches into the back seat and pulls forward a heavy brown paper bag. The scent of melted sharp cheddar, sourdough bread toasted to an absolute, buttery perfection, and a hint of garlic instantly fills the cabin of the car.
Ten minutes ago, he had pulled up to a food stand on the corner of a busy avenue. He had told you to stay in the car before disappearing. He’d returned with this bag, completely refusing to tell you what was inside until now. He unrolls the top of the brown bag, pulling out two neatly wrapped squares of parchment paper.
"Gourmet grilled cheese," Yoongi says softly, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he hands one over to you. “That food stand stays open late for the college kids. You used to text me at one in the morning sometimes making me take you over there.”
The parchment paper is warm against your palms as you look from the wrapped sandwich to the sprawling brick campus outside.
You stare down at the parchment paper, the warmth radiating through your palms, before looking back up at the brick buildings of the campus. It’s strange how a place can look so entirely unfamiliar, yet feel so familiar at the same time.
Slowly, you peel back the layers of paper. The scent hits you first…sharp, comforting, and intensely familiar.
You take a bite.
The buttery taste of the sourdough crunches between your teeth, followed by the rich, sharp pull of the melted cheddar. It is spectacular, but as you chew, a sudden, sharp sensation pinches the back of your brain. It isn’t a thought. It’s a physical pull, like a hook catching onto a line buried deep underwater and dragging it violently to the surface.
Your eyes wide, your breath hitches, and the campus outside the window disappears.
The air is so biting and cold it burns your lungs with every breath. Huge, heavy flakes of snow are tumbling from a dark night sky, blanketing the campus in an unblemished, blinding white. You are walking down a paved path, laughing so hard your chest aches.
You’re drowning in a thick, oversized black hoodie that clearly doesn't belong to you. The sleeves completely swallow your hands, and you have to repeatedly bunch the fabric up at your wrists just to keep your fingers free.
"I am losing a toe. I am actively losing a toe to frostbite, and it's entirely your fault," a voice groans beside you.
You look over to see Yoongi, his nose and cheeks bright red. He has a black scarf pulled up to his chin, his shoulders hunched so high against the wind they’re practically touching his ears. He looks utterly miserable, but there’s a stubborn, protective way he keeps his body positioned on the outside of the path, blocking you from the worst of the freezing wind.
"You're fine, Yoongi! It's barely below freezing," another voice yells from a few paces ahead.
Taehyung is walking backward in the snow, a brilliant, boxy grin on his face. He’s wearing a ridiculous, fluffy trapper hat with the earflaps bouncing wildly as he steps. In his hands, he’s carefully balancing a steaming paper cup of tomato soup from the exact same food stand.
"Easy for you to say, you're wearing three coats!" Yoongi snaps back, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward. He glances down at you, reaching out with a gloved hand to yank the oversized hood of the sweatshirt further down over your freezing ears. "And you. You're a thief. That's my favorite hoodie."
"It's mine now," your own voice laughs, muffled by the fabric. "And you love me, so you won't take it back."
"We will see about that," Yoongi mutters, but his hand lingers on your shoulder for a second, a quiet warmth cutting through the freezing air.
"Hey, watch this!" Taehyung calls out, attempting to do a dramatic pirouette in the snow while holding his soup. His boot catches on a hidden patch of ice. "Whoa…!"
Time seems to slow down. Taehyung’s arms flail wildly. The paper cup launches from his hands, turning upside down in mid-air. A massive, vibrant splash of red tomato soup paints a perfect, tragic arc across the pristine white snow.
Taehyung lands flat on his back with a soft, heavy thump.
The silence that follows lasts for three seconds. Then, Taehyung lets out a tragic, dramatic wail into the night sky, staring at the empty cup in his hand.
You and Yoongi burst out laughing. Yoongi’s laugh is loud. His eyes crinkling into tiny, happy slits as he doubles over, entirely forgetting about his frozen toes.
You blink rapidly, the dark interior of the car rushing back into focus.
The warmth of the grilled cheese is still in your hands, but your heart is hammering wildly against your ribs. The echo of Yoongi's young, unburdened laughter still feels loud in your ears. You look over at him, your chest tight with a mixture of awe and a lingering, phantom cold.
Yoongi is watching you intently. He hasn't even unwrapped his own sandwich yet. He’s leaning against the driver's side door, his dark eyes searching your face, tracking the sudden wideness of your eyes and the way your hand is trembling slightly against the parchment paper.
"Y/N?" He asks softly, his voice cutting through the remnants of the memory. "You okay?"
You swallow hard, clearing the sudden tightness in your throat.
"Taehyung," you whisper, turning your head to look out at the snowless, green campus lawns. "Taehyung dropped his soup. His tomato soup. In the snow."
A sudden, breathtaking silence fills the car.
Yoongi’s entire posture freezes. His eyes widen just a fraction, a profound, quiet awe washing over his features. He lets out a slow breath, his head tilting slightly as a soft, incredibly tender look replaces the tension in his face.
"You remember that?" He murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, reverent register.
"I... yeah," you say, a breathless, stunned laugh escaping your lips. "We were walking right out there, wasn't it? It was freezing. He tried to do a spin, and he spilled it everywhere. He looked so devastated." You turn back to look at Yoongi, your eyes scanning his face as the details of the memory solidify. "And you were complaining the entire time about losing a toe."
"Because it was negative ten degrees, and you insisted on walking across campus instead of taking the shuttle or driving," Yoongi defends himself, but there is zero heat in it. A beautiful, genuine gummy smile breaks across his face, the exact same one from the memory, instantly bridging the gap between the past and the present. "I had to give you my hoodie because you refused to wear a proper coat."
"I remember," you say softly. You look down at your hands, tracing the edge of the parchment paper.
The warmth of the memory settles into your chest, but with it comes a curious, lingering detail. You remember the easy, comfortable banter, the way his hand had lingered on your shoulder, the way you had teased him about loving you. But there hadn't been that feeling of being couple yet.
It had felt... lighter.
You look back up at him, gathering your courage.
"Yoongi... when did that happen?" You ask, your voice quiet and direct. "Were we... were we dating then?"
Yoongi’s smile softens, turning into something a bit more nostalgic, a bit more careful. He shifts slightly in his seat, resting his forearm on the steering wheel as he looks at you.
"No," he says gently, shaking his head. "We weren't. That was... three, maybe four months before I finally asked you out."
"Really?" You tilt your head, genuinely surprised. "But it felt so... close. The way we were talking."
"We were inseparable by then," Yoongi explains, a quiet chuckle escaping him as he looks down at his own sandwich and takes a bite. He chews, swallowed by his own thoughts for a moment, before looking back at you. "You were always in my space, and I was always in yours. We just hadn't put a label on it yet."
You take another bite of your grilled cheese, the sharp cheddar tasting even better now that it has a history attached to it. The warmth in your chest expands, making the car feel incredibly small and intimate. You look out the window at the manicured lawns and then back at him, a playful thought crossing your mind.
"Yoongi?" You ask, tilting your head. "Did you really bring me all the way to our old college campus just to get sandwiches?"
Yoongi lets out a low, amused huff, shaking his head as he sets his wrapped sandwich down on the center console.
"No," he says softly.
He turns in his seat, leaning his arm against the steering wheel, and points a finger through the windshield. His eyes guide yours past the main pavilion, toward an older, three-story brick building nestled beneath a canopy of large oak trees. It has a slightly weathered, classic collegiate look.
"That building right there," Yoongi murmurs, his voice dropping into a gentle, reminiscent register. "That's dorm rooms over there. That's where I first met you."
Your breath hitches slightly. You look at the building, trying to see if another hook will drag a memory to the surface, but this time, the canvas in your mind remains blank. You turn back to him, eager, your heart doing that familiar, expectant flip-flop.
"Tell me," you say and a soft, nostalgic smile touches Yoongi’s lips, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looks at you.
"There was a party," he says, a quiet chuckle escaping him. "Some end-of-semester bash that the third floor threw together. It was loud, crowded, and entirely too hot inside. Jungkook had been harboring this massive, pathetic crush on Yura for months, and he was finally brave enough to ask her to come."
You can't help but smile, entirely able to picture a younger, panicked Jungkook trying to act cool.
"Yura showed up," Yoongi continues, his gaze locking onto yours, his dark eyes softening completely. "And she brought you. Her friend from art class."
He pauses, his smile widening into a faint, beautiful gummy grin as the details of the past wash over him.
"You had just come straight from the studio because Yura practically dragged you out by your wrist. You had a streak of blue paint dried right into your hair, near your temple that dragged down to your ends, and for some reason I still don't entirely understand. You were absolutely covered in glitter. It was on your arms, your clothes, your face."
"Glitter? Really?" A laugh escapes you.
"Seriously. You looked like a chaotic star," Yoongi murmurs, his voice incredibly tender. "I was standing by the kitchen counter, trying to avoid the crowd, and you walked over to grab something to drink. We both reached for the exact same red solo cup at the exact same time."
He takes his hand out of his pocket, holding his thumb up. The very same thumb that still bears a faint, pale smudge of robin's-egg blue from helping Hana in the courtyard earlier.
"Our fingers brushed," Yoongi says softly, his eyes tracing the lines of his own hand before looking back up to lock onto yours. "You pulled your hand back, apologized, and flashed me this bright, completely unbothered smile. And when I looked down at my hand... my thumb came away covered in green glitter."
He lets out a quiet, breathless laugh, the sound vibrating with a deep, enduring warmth.
"I spent three days trying to scrub that green glitter off my skin," he whispers, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had been marked by you from the very first second. "But the truth is, I think I knew right then, standing in that cramped dorm kitchen with glitter on my hands, that I was never really going to get rid of you."
You take a final bite of your grilled cheese, suddenly realizing you’ve been holding it halfway to your mouth for the last five minutes. You swallow, wiping your hands on napkins Yoongi hands you, and look out at the old brick dorm building. The warmth from the food and the sheer weight of his story make the car cabin feel entirely too small.
"Come on," you say softly, reaching for your door handle. "Show me."
Yoongi blinks, a little surprised by your sudden initiative, but a soft smile quickly follows. He packs the parchment wrappers back into the brown paper bag and sets it aside before stepping out into the evening air.
The car doors click shut, and campus wraps around you both. You walk side by side across the empty asphalt and onto the manicured green lawn, the grass soft beneath your sneakers. Yoongi doesn't head toward the main entrance of the dorm, though. Instead, he guides you around the side of the building, navigating a stone pathway that cuts through a thick cluster of old, sprawling oak trees.
You follow him closely, the golden glow of the campus lamps casting long, dancing shadows ahead of you. Just past the edge of the building's brick foundation, the path opens up into a hidden, architectural alcove. It’s a small, stone-paved courtyard tucked beneath a concrete overhang, shielded from the wind and completely invisible from the main quad. A concrete bench sits against the brick wall.
Yoongi stops in the center of the alcove, slipping his hands into his pockets as he looks around the quiet space.
"This is it," he says.
"What did we do here?" You ask, stepping up beside him, your eyes tracing the worn concrete.
"We worked," Yoongi explains, a nostalgic huff escaping him. "The dorms were always too loud, and the library was too sterile. So we came here. Even when it got a little chilly, we'd just bring jackets. I would lose myself in my music on my laptop, while you sat right there on that bench and drew in your sketchbooks."
"We spent hundreds of hours in this exact spot. We wouldn't even talk for three or four hours at a time. We didn't need to. We just shared the space." He looks over at you, his dark eyes reflecting the warm orange light of a nearby lamp.
A visual tugs at your mind…not quite a full memory, but a feeling of absolute safety, the rhythmic clicking of a keyboard pairing perfectly with the harsh scritch of charcoal on paper.
"Didn't the music distract me?" You ask softly.
"No," Yoongi murmurs, a faint, knowing smirk touching his lips. "We used to wear matching headphones."
"Matching?" You blink at him.
"Yeah." Yoongi reaches into the heavy black bag he had carried out of the car with him. He unzips the main compartment, his fingers searching for a moment before he pulls out a large, heavy pair of over-the-ear studio headphones.
Your breath hitches in your throat.
The headphones are scuffed and clearly well-loved, but what catches your eye…is the thick, slightly peeling strip of bright rainbow-patterned tape wrapped securely around the top arch of the headband. It's exactly what Yura had described to you.
"They were yours," Yoongi says gently, holding them out to you. "I bought a pair to work with, and a week later, you bought the exact same model. We kept grabbing the wrong ones out of our bags, so I went into your art supplies, pulled out this ridiculous rainbow tape, and wrapped it around yours so we could tell them apart."
You slowly reach out, your fingers brushing against the smooth plastic and the textured edge of the tape. The rainbow pattern is bright, loud, and entirely chaotic. The exact kind of mess you’re realizing you used to love.
"They're still in perfect condition," you whisper, looking up from the headphones to his face.
Yoongi doesn't look at you. His eyes are fixed on the scuffed plastic in your hands, his jaw tightening slightly. The soft, nostalgic warmth that had been carrying the conversation for the last hour suddenly shifts, dropping into a heavier, much more fragile territory.
“I need to apologize to you, Y/N." Yoongi whispers.
"Apologize? For what?" You blink, caught off guard.
"For everything else," he says softly. He finally looks up, and the raw, vulnerable honesty in his dark eyes makes your breath catch. "Having you back... seeing you try so hard to piece everything together... It made me realize how much I took away from you by trying to protect myself."
He steps a fraction closer, the orange lamp light catching the deep line of conflict between his brows.
"When we... when the accident happened, and your parents took you away... I couldn't handle it," Yoongi confesses, his voice cracking just a bit before he forces it steady. "Every shelf in our apartment, it was all just a physical reminder of what I’d lost. Your extra sketchbooks, the coffee mugs you left behind, your old sweaters... it felt like living in a haunted house."
You hold the headphones tighter against your chest, listening to the quiet agony of a past you weren't there to witness.
"So, I gave it all away," Yoongi whispers, a look of profound regret washing over his face. "I packed up every single personal thing of yours that I had and I gave it to everyone. I told them to take it, hide it, burn it, do whatever they wanted with it. I just... it hurt too much to keep it. I was weak, Y/N. I forced myself to erase your presence from my life because I was trying to survive the ghost of you."
He lets out a heavy, ragged sigh, rubbing a hand over his face.
"And now you're back. You're back, and you're looking for pieces of your old self, and I don't have them. I threw away your history because I couldn't handle the weight of it. I am so incredibly sorry. I'm just thankful that they kept it all."
You look down at the headphones in your hands. The single, solitary item he couldn't bring himself to part with. Slowly, you step toward him, bridging the small gap between you. You reach out and gently touch his forearm.
"Yoongi," you say softly, waiting until he looks down at you. "Look at me."
He raises his eyes, looking entirely exposed under the dim campus lamps of the alcove.
"Yura told me something in the parking lot on Tuesday," you say, a gentle smile touching your lips. "She said that I was building a life with someone else because I thought my past was erased. And she said you were trying to move forward because you thought your past was dead."
Yoongi’s shoulders drop a fraction as he absorbs your words.
"You don't need to apologize for surviving," you tell him firmly. "You thought the book was finished. Anyone would have tried to close it. You kept my ring….and the fact that you kept these..." You lift the headphones slightly. "...means you didn't erase me. You just kept the pieces that mattered most. The part where we shared space."
Your fingers tighten slightly around the rainbow-taped headphones. The peeling edge of the tape catches against your thumb, and another strange ache moves through your chest…not painful exactly, just heavy with the shape of something missing. You look down at them for a long moment before glancing back up at Yoongi.
“Can I ask you something?” You say quietly.
“Anything.” Yoongi nods immediately.
“What was my favorite song?” You ask.
For a second, genuine confusion flickers across his face. His brows pull together slightly, like the answer should be obvious.
“You don’t even remember that?” He asks softly and you shake your head.
He doesn't hesitate. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. His fingers move across the screen, searching for a moment before he selects a track. He doesn’t turn the volume up to a blast. He holds the phone out between you both, letting the audio play in the quiet stone alcove.
"You used to hum this constantly," Yoongi’s voice drifts in over the intro. "You didn't even realize you were doing it. Half the time you were sketching on this exact bench, your foot would be tapping to this rhythm. There's an old video on my hard drive of you working on a canvas, completely lost in your own head, just softly humming this exact chorus under your breath."
As the chorus hits, a strange sensation ripples across your skin.
It is familiar.
However, it's not familiar from your dream where it sounded like it was under water. It wasn't familiar from you humming it from your cracked phone. No…this was…real. You heard this in person.
The quiet room away from Hobi’s chaotic hallway. Walking away from Taehyung after handing back the scrapbook, taking that tentative, terrifying step into the room where Yoongi sat hunched over the exposed strings of the piano. Sitting right beside him on that worn wooden bench, watching his fingers press those exact notes.
“Are you sure about that?” He had asked you then, his voice a low, knowing voice before he turned back to the ivory keys.
“You played it in the music room.” You look up at him as he nods at you.
“I always find myself playing it when I miss you,” he admits.
You look down at the rainbow tape on the headphones, then back up at the faint blue smudge on his thumb. The pieces of your past are scattered, and some are completely gone, thrown into the fire of a grief you never had to witness but are only now beginning to understand. You don't have the memories of the late-night laughs, the shared hoodies, or the exact moment you realized you were falling for him.
But looking at him now, seeing the raw devotion in his eyes, the pink flush still lingering on his ears, and the steady, unmovable way he stands by your side…you realize you don't need a map of where you've been to know exactly where you are.
"Yoongi," you say softly, your voice steady despite the rapid fluttering of your heart.
He locks his eyes onto yours, completely attentive, waiting for whatever you have to say next.
"I don't remember loving you," you whisper. Yoongi’s expression softens as you step closer, closing the final gap between your bodies. “But…I want to.”
Yoongi’s breath hitches. His posture freezes, his eyes widening in a rare moment of complete, unscripted shock.
Before he can overthink it, before he can draft a three-paragraph mental response or let the ghosts of the past crowd the room, you reach up. Your hand finds the collar of his shirt, and you pull yourself up, pressing your lips gently against his.
He is entirely taken aback. For a fraction of a second, he doesn't move, his mind clearly scrambling to process the sudden, wild shift in the universe. But then, a low, ragged breath escapes him. The shock melts away, replaced instantly by a deep, instinctual surrender.
Yoongi gives in.
His hand comes out of his pocket, his palm sliding up to cradle the side of your waist with tentative care, as if he’s terrified you might vanish if he holds too tight. The kiss is soft, quiet, and completely devoid of urgency. It tastes like the lingering warmth of toasted sourdough, the crispness of cooling of the evening air, and a quiet promise stretching out into the dark.
It isn't a dramatic, sweeping explosion. It's a gentle line pressed onto a completely blank page.
When you slowly pull back, your breath fans across his lips. Yoongi’s eyes remain closed for a second longer, his forehead leaning gently against yours as he takes a slow breath. A faint, beautifully breathless gummy smile breaks across his face, his thumb softly brushing against the fabric of your shirt.
"Well," Yoongi murmurs. "That definitely wasn't in the group chat."
A bright, genuine laugh escapes you, the last remnants of the heavy silence evaporating into air. You lean into his touch, holding the scuffed headphones tight between you, ready to start writing the very next chapter.
"It’s cozy!" Your mother calls out from the massive, sun-drenched master suite, her voice echoing down the hallway. "And look at the pool, kids! It has those little built-in fountains!"
"The grilling area is top-notch," your dad chimes in from the back deck, already inspecting the stainless steel propane setup like he’d just discovered fire for the first time. "Nicky, come look at the size of this yard! We can definitely throw the football around later."
Nicky, still wearing his middle school graduation gown over his shorts because he’d refused to change before the car ride, bounds past you with a massive grin.
"I get the room with the bunk beds! Dibs!" He calls.
You stand in the center of the main hallway, your hand clamped firmly over your mouth as you stare at the final doorway. Yoongi stands right behind you, a heavy duffel bag slung over each shoulder.
Chris and Elly are flanking either side of you. Chris has a cooler balanced on his hip, while Elly is sucking on a green jolly rancher, her arms crossed.
"Let me get this straight," Chris says.. "Mom and Dad have the master. Nicky has the bunk room. And this... is the only room left."
"It's a queen sized bed," you whisper, staring into the beautifully decorated, completely singular bedroom.
It was stunning, yes. It had a private balcony, a flatscreen TV, and a gorgeous ocean view. However, it only has one bed.
"Three bedrooms," Yoongi murmurs. He doesn't sound mad…just deeply, profoundly tired. "The listing definitely said four."
"Three bedrooms," Chris repeats, the corners of his mouth twitching. He looks from the singular, plush queen-sized bed to you, and then slowly over to Yoongi. "Wow. That’s a tough break, guys. Real tough."
"Chris, shut up," you hiss, your face burning hot.
Yoongi steps into the room first, dropping the duffel bags with a heavy thud onto the hardwood floor. For a long second, nobody says anything. The ocean breeze drifts lazily through the cracked balcony doors. White curtains swaying softly. Somewhere downstairs, your mother is still loudly talking about the throw pillows.
Meanwhile, you are actively dying. Chris leans against the doorframe, clearly savoring every second of your misery. Elly snorts around her candy, immediately covering it with a cough when you glare at her too.
Yoongi rubs both hands down his face before walking farther into the room like a man being led to execution. He opens one closet. Empty. Checks the bathroom. Huge. Luxurious.
Useless.
“One bed,” he mutters again, like maybe saying it enough times will magically create another.
“Maybe there’s a Murphy bed.” Chris strolls farther inside, peering around with fake seriousness.
“There is not a Murphy bed,” you deadpan.
“Maybe a trundle?” Elly tries to help.
“No.” You blink.
“A hammock?” Chris smiles.
“Get out.” You grit your teeth.
Yoongi finally drops onto the edge of the mattress with the exhausted sigh of someone who’s accepted defeat. The bed dips slightly under his weight.
“It’s fine,” he says, voice calm but hollow. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Oh?” Chris says. “You got a plan there, champ?”
“I’ll take the couch.” Yoongi points toward the small cream-colored couch sitting beneath the TV. “You three can take the bed.”
You immediately look over at it. It's tiny, uncomfortable looking. There was no way the four of you could even sit on it together.
“No you’re not,” you say automatically causing Chris to burst out laughing.
“I’ve slept in worse places.” Yoongi stares at the couch for another second.
“That thing isn’t even six feet long.” You argue. “I don't want to share a bed with my brother.”
“I can curl,” Yoongi tells you.
“You should not have to curl,” you tell him.
Yoongi has gone suspiciously quiet. When you glance over, he’s looking at the couch again with narrowed eyes. Then he gets up and reaches down, grabbing the front edge of it.
“Wait,” he says.
The couch jerks forward with a loud rolling sound.
There’s a pause.
Then another pull.
And suddenly…the bottom half slides out smoothly into a full-sized pullout mattress.
Silence.
“You have got to be kidding me.” Chris scoffs.
“Oh thank God.” You blink.
Yoongi stares at the unfolded bed like he’s just witnessed divine intervention. Elly starts laughing first. Quiet little giggles that quickly turn into full-body wheezing.
“This is no fun.” Chris points accusingly at the couch.
“You were enjoying this way too much,” you say.
"Alright, well, crisis averted," Chris says, his voice dripping with sudden, mock-disappointment as he eyes the pull-out. "But that leads us to the next logical question. Who gets the real bed?"
You and Chris lock eyes. The playful, competitive dynamic that has existed between you two since childhood instantly flares to life.
"I'm the oldest," you say quickly, taking a strategic step toward the plush queen mattress. "And I'm the one who actually helped Mom organize the trip. The queen is mine."
"Oh, please," Chris scoffs, tossing his head back. "You think spreadsheet hours count as currency? Elly and I are guests of honor. Plus, look at me. I’m a growing boy. My spine needs support."
"You stopped growing years ago, Chris!" You exclaim.
Before you can even take another breath, Chris drops the cooler right onto the hardwood floor with a loud clack and lunges for the bed.
"No you don't!" You shriek, diving forward to cut him off.
You catch him by the waist just as his knees hit the mattress, and the two of you instantly devolve into a chaotic tangle of limbs. It’s a classic, light-hearted sibling wrestle, completely devoid of real malice but fueled entirely by the stubborn refusal to lose. You grab his shoulder, trying to drag him backward off the pillows, while Chris plants his hands on the mattress, laughing like a maniac as he tries to kick your shins away.
Yoongi, meanwhile, hasn't moved an inch from where he was sitting on the pull-out section. He just watches the absolute chaos unfold with a look of amusement. He rests his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, watching you aggressively try to pry your brother's fingers off the headboard.
"You know," Yoongi says, through your heavy breathing and Chris's obnoxious wheezing. "If you break the headboard, your parents are going to have a fit."
"He started it!" You yell, breathless, finally managing to shove Chris completely off the bed. He hits the floor with a dramatic, thudding roll, groaning like he's just been fatally wounded.
"I claim the kingdom," you pant, immediately belly-flopping across the center of the queen bed and spreading your arms and legs out like a starfish. "It's mine. The throne is secure."
Chris sits up, rubbing his elbow and pouting playfully.
"You are horrible." He looks over at Yoongi, waving a hand toward you. "Yoongi, man, how do you deal with this? You're a saint."
Yoongi just offers a slow, gummy smile, his eyes fixed on you as you lie victorious on the mattress.
"I have my ways," he murmurs softly.
"Come on, loser. Let's go before your mom decides the kids need to go grocery shopping. Leave the couple to their victory." Elly rolls her eyes, walking over to grab Chris by the collar of his shirt to haul him up.
"Fine. But I'm taking the first shower. And I'm using all the hot water." Chris lets out one last dramatic sigh, picking up his cooler.
As the door finally clicks shut behind them, the sudden quiet of the room settles in, save for the sound of the ocean waves outside. You're still sprawled out face-down on the bed, catching your breath.
After a moment, you feel the mattress dip beside you. Yoongi leans over, resting his forearm next to your head, his familiar, comforting scent washing over you.
"Are you done defending your territory, or do I need to fight you for a pillow too?" He teases softly, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face.
You roll over onto your back, breathless and grinning, looking up at him. Yoongi is leaning over you, his hair falling slightly into his eyes.
"The territory is mine," you say, looping your arms around his neck and pulling him down a little closer. "But I suppose I can share the kingdom with my co-ruler. On one condition."
"Yeah?" Yoongi murmurs, the corners of his mouth twitching as he lets his weight settle onto the mattress beside you, propping his head up with one hand. "And what's that?"
"You don't let Chris have the first shower." You smile.
Yoongi lets out a low, rumbling laugh, the sound vibrating against your chest as he leans down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.
"Deal," he whispers against your mouth. "But right now, your dad is downstairs, and I can already hear him trying to figure out how to ignite that propane tank. If I don't go save him, we won't have a deck by dinner."
You groan, burying your face in his shoulder, inhaling the comforting, familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the faint tang of salt air.
"Can't we just stay here? Hide out until it's time to go home?" You ask.
"As much as I'd love to," Yoongi says, giving your waist a playful squeeze before pushing himself up off the bed. "Your mom already texted me a list of side dishes. Come on. Up."
An hour later, the backyard is alive with the sound of crashing waves and classic rock blaring from a portable speaker.
Yoongi has successfully commandeered the massive stainless steel grill, looking entirely in his element. With a pair of tongs held expertly in one hand as he flips burgers and chicken breasts with a focused, quiet intensity. Your dad is standing right next to him, a cold beer in hand, nodding as Yoongi explains his specific marinating process.
Down on the sand, just past the edge of the lawn, Chris and Nicky are proving that age is just a number. Specifically, that Chris has the mental age of a middle schooler. Nicky is still wearing his graduation cap, though the gown has finally been abandoned, and Chris is aggressively trying to tackle him into a sand dune while throwing a slightly deflated football.
You're sitting at the outdoor patio table, helping your mother set out the paper plates and napkins, when Elly walks out of the house.
"Need some help?" Elly asks, her voice a little quieter than usual.
"We're all set out here, sweetie!" Your mom calls out, entirely focused on arranging a fruit platter. "Go sit down, relax! You look a little flushed from the drive."
You look over at Elly, and a strange prickle of intuition hits you. She looks incredibly pale despite the warm, golden afternoon sun. She slow-walks over to the outdoor sofa, sinking into the cushions with a heavy, deliberate sigh that looks less like vacation relaxation and more like sheer exhaustion.
As your mom heads back into the kitchen to grab the potato salad, you walk over to the sofa and sit on the armrest next to Elly.
"Hey," you say softly, nudging her shoulder. "You okay? You look a little green. Is it car sickness?"
Elly flinches slightly, her hand instantly darting toward her stomach before she catches herself and forces it back into her lap. She covers the movement by reaching for a bottle of water on the table, taking a slow, careful sip.
"Yeah," Elly says, offering a tight, slightly strained smile. She avoids your eyes, looking out toward where Chris is currently face-planting into the sand. "Just... the heat, I think. And Chris's driving through those winding coastal roads. My stomach is just doing flips. I'm fine, seriously."
You hum sympathetically, immediately accepting the explanation.
“Honestly, fair,” you say. “Chris drives like he’s trying to escape the police.”
“Exactly.” Elly laughs softly into her water bottle.
Down on the beach, as if summoned by the slander, Chris suddenly lets out a shriek loud enough to startle seagulls. You look over just in time to see Nicky absolutely body-check him into the sand.
“Oh my god,” you snort.
Chris pops back up a second later, his sunglasses hanging halfway off his face while Nicky sprints away laughing hysterically.
“THAT WAS A CHEAP SHOT!” Chris yells.
“YOU’RE OLD!” Nicky fires back.
Your dad nearly drops his beer laughing. Even Yoongi has to pause at the grill, shoulders shaking slightly as he watches Chris dramatically chase Nicky across the beach like a wounded gazelle. You grin, shaking your head before nudging Elly lightly with your foot.
“You married directly into chaos,” you tell her.
“That became clear around the third family barbecue,” Elly says dryly.
“Which one was that?” You ask.
“At the lake where your uncle fell asleep in the pool float and drifted into the neighbor’s yard.” She answers.
“Okay, that was iconic.” You immediately start laughing
“It was horrifying,” Elly corrects. “Your mother reacted like the man had been lost at sea.”
Before you can tease her further, your mother bursts back through the sliding glass door carrying an aggressively oversized bowl of potato salad.
“Alright!” she announces. “Who wants to help me cut watermelon?”
“No,” Chris says instantly from halfway up the lawn, still covered in sand.
“You didn’t even hear the rest of the sentence!” Your mom glares at him.
“I heard enough,” he says.
“You track one grain of sand into my kitchen and I’ll make you mop the floors.” Your mom points the serving spoon at him threateningly.
Chris freezes.
Then slowly looks down at himself. His entire left side is practically breaded. Nicky points and laughs so hard he almost drops the football.
“Oh, he’s done for,” you murmur.
“Elly,” your mom says sweetly, completely bypassing Chris now. “Can you hand me the tray from inside, honey?”
You don’t miss the way Chris immediately abandons his argument with Nicky to jog up the lawn toward her. His hand lands automatically at the small of her back as they pass each other. Elly swats him away with a laugh, but she’s smiling.
Something warm twists in your chest at the sight.
The warm evening slowly settles around all of you after that. The sky begins turning streaky shades of orange and pink over the ocean, the air cooling just enough to make the heat pleasant instead of heavy. Music drifts through the backyard while dinner comes together in stages. Your mother arranging food with military precision, your dad hovering near the grill pretending he’s helping, Nicky alternating between football and trying to steal chips directly from unopened bags.
At some point, Yoongi silently appears beside you at the patio table carrying two plates. He nudges one toward you with his hip before sitting down in the chair beside yours.
“You remembered no tomatoes,” you say immediately, eyeing your burger.
“You pick them off and leave them on the plate like evidence every single time,” Yoongi replies calmly. “I adapted.”
You grin, bumping your knee against his under the table. Across the yard, Chris finally reemerges from the house in clean clothes and immediately steals a pickle off Elly’s plate before she can stop him.
“Christopher,” Elly sighs.
“What?” He says innocently around the bite. “Sharing is love.”
“That was my pickle,” she tells him.
“There are more pickles.” He points.
“You two are weird,” Nicky announces.
Dinner stretches long after everyone’s actually finished eating. Nobody wants to move. Your dad starts telling old vacation stories. Your mom interrupts every third sentence to correct details. Chris keeps trying to throw grape tomatoes into Nicky’s mouth from across the table and misses badly enough that your mother eventually threatens him with bodily harm.
The entire thing feels loud and warm and comfortable.
Beside you, Yoongi sits relaxed in his chair, one arm draped lazily across the back of yours. Every now and then his fingers brush absentmindedly against your shoulder or the back of your neck like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it anymore.
And every single time, you notice.
Eventually the sky darkens fully, leaving the backyard washed in soft deck lighting. Nicky is the first casualty of the evening. One second he’s aggressively arguing with Chris about whether dolphins could survive in a lake. The next, he’s half-asleep in his chair with his graduation cap tipped over one eye.
“Oh, buddy,” your mom laughs softly.
“I’m awake,” Nicky mumbles immediately.
“You’re unconscious sitting upright,” you tell him.
“No I’m not,” he mumbles as his eyes close again mid-sentence.
“I got him.” Yoongi chuckles quietly beside you before standing.
Before anyone can argue, he walks around the table and gently shakes Nicky’s shoulder.
“Come on, graduate,” Yoongi says.
Nicky groans dramatically but stumbles to his feet. Yoongi steadies him automatically with a hand on his back while Nicky leans against him like a sleepy toddler despite now being nearly the same height.
“You carrying me?” Nicky asks hopefully.
“No.” Yoongi scoffs
“Rude.” Nicky scowls.
“You’re fourteen, not four,” Yoongi tells him.
“Still family.” Nicky argues.
Yoongi sighs like the request is deeply unreasonable, but a second later he crouches anyway. Nicky grins triumphantly and climbs onto his back immediately.
“There it is,” Chris says, pointing. “That’s why he likes Yoongi better than us.”
“To be fair,” Elly says, “Yoongi doesn’t throw footballs at his head.”
“That happened one time.” Chris shakes his head.
“Three times,” Nicky corrects sleepily from Yoongi’s back as they head toward the house.
“You’ve been keeping stats?” Chris gasps, but the sliding door shuts behind them before Nicky can answer.
“You found a good one,” your mother says quietly beside you.
You blink, looking over. She’s watching Yoongi through the glass doors with a soft expression. You smile, a genuine, completely unforced warmth spreading through your chest as you look at the sliding glass doors where Yoongi had just disappeared.
"Yeah," you say softly, your voice barely carrying over the sound of the ocean waves crashing onto the shore below. "I really did."
"He's a keeper," your dad chimes in, taking a final sip of his beer and setting the bottle down on the table with a satisfied click. "The man knows how to handle a grill, he doesn't flinch when Chris starts acting like a maniac, and he just carried a fourteen-year-old up a flight of stairs without complaining. That's a solid guy right there."
"He did complain, Dad," Chris points out, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms behind his head. "He gave the classic Yoongi sigh. It’s like a low-frequency rumble of pure reluctance. I felt it from here."
"That's just his face, Chris," you shoot back, though you can't help but laugh because it’s entirely true.
"Whatever it is, it works," your mom says, reaching over to pat your hand affectionately. "He fits right in with us. God knows we needed someone sane to balance out... well, all of this."
She gestures vaguely to the table, but mostly toward Chris, who is currently trying to balance a butter knife on his index finger.
"Hey!" Chris protests, the knife immediately slipping and clattering against his plate.
Before the banter can devolve into another round of sibling bickering, Elly stands up from the outdoor sofa. She still looks a bit pale under the deck lighting, her hand resting momentarily on the back of the chair to steady herself.
"I think I'm going to head inside too," Elly says, offering a sleepy smile. "The drive and the fresh air are finally catching up to me."
Chris is out of his chair before she even finishes the sentence. The playful, obnoxious brother instantly vanishes, replaced by that quiet, attentive version of him that still occasionally surprises you. He catches her by the waist, pulling her in close against his side.
"Yeah, come on, let's get you to bed," Chris says softly, his voice dropping into a tone he only ever uses with her. He looks over at your parents. "We're going to turn in, guys. See you in the morning."
"Goodnight, sweetie," your mom calls out. "Get some rest!"
You watch them walk inside, Chris's arm wraps securely around Elly's shoulders, his head tilts down toward hers as he whispers something that makes her laugh.
"Well," your dad says, standing up and stretching his arms over his head, his joints popping in sync with the music still playing from the speaker. "That's my cue. I want to catch the sunrise over the water tomorrow, which means I need to be asleep in the next ten minutes. You coming?"
"In a minute, dear. Go ahead and start the shower," your mom says, already rising to start gathering the empty cups and stray napkins.
"I've got the rest of the table, Mom. Go ahead inside." You stand up to help her, stacking the paper plates into a neat pile.
"Are you sure, honey?" She asks you.
"Positive. Go." You nod.
With a grateful smile, your mother heads inside, leaving you alone on the deck. The evening air has turned crisp, carrying the salty scent of the dark ocean stretching out into the horizon. You switch off the portable speaker, plunging the deck into a peaceful, rhythmic silence broken only by the tide.
A moment later, the sliding door rumbles open behind you.
You don't even have to turn around to know it's him. You hear the soft, heavy thud of his bare feet on the wooden deck, followed by the familiar warmth of his presence settling in right behind you.
Yoongi slides his arms around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. He rests his chin on your shoulder, letting out a long, slow breath that stirs the hair near your ear.
"Mission accomplished?" You ask quietly, leaning back into his embrace and covering his hands with your own.
"The graduate is officially unconscious," Yoongi murmurs, his voice a sleepy, gravelly rumble against your neck. "He didn't even take his shoes off. I had to do it for him."
"You're a softie," you tease, turning your head slightly to press a kiss to his jawline. "Don't think I didn't see you letting him win that argument about the dolphins."
"He's fourteen. Let him have his victories. Besides, I didn't have the energy to explain the ecological differences between saltwater and freshwater to a kid who was literally falling asleep mid-sentence." He chuckles.
You turn around in his arms, looping your hands behind his neck. Yoongi’s eyes are dark and heavy with fatigue, but the look he gives you is so entirely soft it makes your breath hitch.
"Come on. Let's get this mess cleaned up and go to bed before Chris actually figures out a way to lock us out of the bedroom," he tells you.
"Oh, absolutely not," you laugh, letting him guide you back toward the house. "The throne is secure, and I intend to keep it that way."
The next afternoon, your dad is already down by the boat dock. Nicky is practically vibrating with excitement on the deck, bouncing on the balls of his feet while wearing enough sunscreen to blind passing aircraft.
Your mom appears from the kitchen carrying a tote bag the size of a small suitcase.
“Did everyone reapply sunscreen?” She asks and a collective groan answers her. “That's not a yes.”
“It’s in God’s hands now,” Chris says solemnly.
Your mother smacks his shoulder with a rolled-up towel as she passes.
Meanwhile, Elly looks… tired.
Not dramatically tired. Not lazy, tired. Just deeply, strangely worn out in a way you can’t stop noticing now that the thought has planted itself in your brain.
She’s pale again too, curled carefully into the corner of the couch with one hand absentmindedly resting low on her stomach while Chris fusses around her.
Not clingy. Not obvious.
Just… attentive.
“You sure you don’t want to come?” You ask, lingering near the doorway.
“I’m sure. I think I’m gonna stay here, take a shower, maybe nap while the house is quiet.” Elly smiles faintly.
“Chris said you’ve been getting motion sickness,” you say casually.
Chris freezes halfway through zipping the cooler.
Elly glances up at you calmly.
Too calmly.
“Yeah,” she says after half a second. “The roads here are brutal.”
“Hm.” You hum.
It’s not accusatory. Just thoughtful.
But Chris immediately swoops in like the world’s least subtle defense attorney.
“She almost threw up in the gas station parking lot on the way here,” he says quickly.
“Really?” You ask, tilting your head.
“Anyway,” Chris says loudly, steering the conversation away with all the grace of a panicked man fleeing a crime scene, “Elly’s staying here where the ground doesn’t move and the rest of you lunatics are going to get concussions on the water.”
Your suspicion sharpens.
You don’t say anything.
Because maybe it’s nothing.
Maybe it’s exactly what they said it is.
But when Chris walks over to Elly before heading outside and quietly presses a kiss against the top of her head, his hand instinctively sliding to her waist like he’s checking she’s steady.
Yeah.
Something is absolutely going on.
Still, you let it go.
Because the second you step down onto the dock, Nicky is already yelling your name from inside the boat.
“HURRY UP!” He screams
“Why are you screaming?” You yell back.
“BECAUSE WE’RE TUBING!” He continues to scream.
The next hour devolves into complete chaos.
Your dad drives the boat like he’s auditioning for an action movie despite your mother repeatedly threatening divorce from the passenger seat. The water is a blur of bright blue and spraying white foam as the tube skips across the wake like a skipped stone.
You and Chris are crammed onto the oversized inflatable, both of you flat on your stomachs, white-knuckling the nylon handles. The wind is roaring in your ears, completely drowning out the sound of the boat’s engine and your mother’s distant, frantic shouting for your dad to slow down.
"Hold on, loser!" Chris screams over the noise, his face twisted into a mix of pure adrenaline and absolute terror.
"I am holding on!" You shriek back, your knuckles turning entirely white as the tube hits a massive wave left by a passing pontoon.
Your dad, spotting the wake in the rearview mirror, chooses that exact moment to cut the steering wheel sharply to the left. The tube whips out to the side with terrifying velocity. It’s a textbook execution of a whip, and Chris is sitting on the outer edge, taking the brunt of the G-force.
For a fraction of a second, Chris flies.
His grip slips, his legs launch into the air, and he lets out a high-pitched, completely unmanly yelp as he gets violently launched off the side, skipping across the surface of the water before disappearing into a massive splash.
You witness the entire thing from three inches away.
A breathless, hysterical laugh explodes from your lungs. But laughing requires core strength. Strength you currently need to remain attached to the inflatable.
The moment your focus shifts to laughing, your grip falters. The tube hits the secondary wake, tilts sharply, and you are instantly ejected into the open air.
Smack.
The water hits you all at once, a sudden rush of cool, bubbling blue that swallows your laughter. A second later, your life jacket pops you right back up to the surface. You shake the water out of your eyes, gasping for air, and immediately look around.
A few yards away, Chris’s head pops up. His hair is plastered flat against his forehead, and he’s sputtering out a mouthful of saltwater.
"You laughed!" He accuses loudly, pointing a dripping finger at you as the boat idles to a halt a hundred yards away. "I saw you! You lost your grip because you were laughing at my pain!"
"You shrieked like a literal bird, Chris!" You yell back, wiping water from your face, your shoulders shaking as the laughter returns. "You got airborne! It was beautiful!"
"I was maintaining my balance until the gravity shifted!" He yells.
By the time the boat circles back around, you and Chris are both floating on your backs, still trading insults. Yoongi is leaning over the back platform, a dry towel already over one shoulder, watching the two of you with a heavy dose of secondhand embarrassment.
"Are the sea monsters done arguing, or should we leave you out here?" Yoongi asks, his voice dry and amplified as he extends the metal ladder.
"She pushed me!" Chris lies instantly, grabbing the ladder and hauling himself up like a drowned rat.
"I didn't touch you!" You exclaim.
You climb up right behind him, shivering slightly as the ocean breeze hits your wet skin. Yoongi immediately wraps a massive towel around your shoulders, his hands lingering on your arms for a brief second to rub some warmth back into you.
"You alright?" He murmurs, his eyes scanning your face.
"Never better," you pant, grinning up at him. "But you're up next. You and the graduate."
"YES! Coach, let's go! We're breaking speed records!" Nicky immediately lets out a warrior cry, slamming his hands against the side of the boat.
Yoongi slowly turns his head to look at Nicky, then looks out at the choppy, sunlit water, and finally looks at your dad, who is currently grinning like a madman behind the steering wheel. Yoongi lets out that exact, low-frequency rumble of pure reluctance Chris had mocked the night before.
"I'm going to die out there, aren't I?" Yoongi asks, completely deadpan.
"Probably," you smile sweetly, reaching up to adjust the straps on his life jacket. "But do it for the family."
Yoongi sighs, a deeply put-upon sound, but he doesn't hesitate as he steps down onto the platform and lowers himself into the water. Nicky dives right in after him with a massive splash, practically scrambling over Yoongi's shoulders to get onto the tube first.
"Alright, Coach, here's the strategy," Nicky announces loudly as they both hoist themselves onto the inflatable. "We lean into the turns. We form an aerodynamic shield. We don't let the old man win."
Yoongi settles onto his stomach, adjusting his grip on the handles. He looks completely out of his element surrounded by the neon pink inflatable, yet entirely calm. He glances back at the boat, his eyes finding yours.
"If I don't make it back," Yoongi calls out, the corners of his mouth twitching into a tiny, rare smirk, "I love you and the queen bed is yours."
"Don't die, Yoongi! I need a co-ruler!" You yell back, leaning against the boat’s railing.
"Hold on tight, boys!" Your dad revs the engine.
The boat surges forward, the tow rope snapping taut, and the tube launches across the water. Unlike you and Chris, who had been a chaotic mess of screaming and flailing, Yoongi and Nicky are a study in contrast.
Nicky is screaming at the top of his lungs, his face full of wild glee as they hit the first set of wakes. Yoongi, on the other hand, looks like he’s trying to solve a complex mathematical equation while riding a mechanical bull. His eyes are narrowed, his jaw is set, and every time the tube gets airborne, he absorbs the impact flawlessly, his grip absolute iron.
"Look at him go!" Your dad shouts proudly, cutting the wheel to test them.
The tube whips out wide. Nicky lets out a wild screech as the tube tilts almost vertically, but Yoongi shifts his weight perfectly, throwing his anchor-like center of gravity to the opposite side and dragging the tube…and Nicky back down flat onto the water.
"Oh, come on!" Chris complains from the seat beside you, wrapped in his own towel. "Why does he get to look cool? I looked like a flying squirrel!"
"Because Yoongi actually has core strength, Chris," you tease, watching the tube bounce violently across the wake.
For ten minutes, your dad tries everything. He does tight donuts, sharp zigs, and sudden speed bursts. But Yoongi refuses to go down. He clings to that nylon handle like his life depends on it, his quiet intensity entirely on display as he shields Nicky from the worst of the spray.
By the time your dad finally slows the boat to a crawl, idling the engine, Yoongi and Nicky are still firmly attached to the tube, victorious.
"WE DID IT! CHAMPIONS!" Nicky throws his arms in the air.
Yoongi just collapses face-down onto the inflatable, his forehead resting against the wet vinyl, completely spent.
As the boat drifts closer to haul them back in, Yoongi slowly lifts his head. His hair is soaked, clinging to his forehead, and his shoulders are rising and falling with heavy breaths. He looks up at you standing by the railing, and despite the sheer exhaustion lining his face, he lets out that slow, gummy smile.
"The throne," Yoongi pants, his voice carrying across the quiet water as he points a dripping hand toward you. "Is still shared."
The bedroom is pitched in near-total darkness, saved only by the harsh, flickering blue glow of the flatscreen TV mounted on the wall. A random, low-budget action movie is playing on a low volume. Something about a heist that none of you are actually following but nobody has the energy to find the remote to change it.
The air conditioning is running steady, freezing contrast to the humid ocean air locked outside the balcony doors.
Up on the queen bed, you are leaning back against a pile of plush pillows, a half-empty paper plate of leftover grilled chicken and cold potato salad balancing precariously on your lap. Yoongi is stretched out right beside you, about to be dead to the world after his tubing marathon, but his fingers are lazily tracing slow circles on the bare skin of your ankle. Every now and then, he reaches into the communal bag of chips resting between you two, chewing quietly.
Down on the pull-out sofa bed, Chris and Elly are buried under a chaotic nest of white sheets and duvets. Chris is sitting upright, aggressively scraping the last remnants of Mac and cheese from a plastic container, while Elly is curled into a tight little ball against his side.
The room is filled with that comfortable late-night silence where everyone is too tired to speak, but too content to actually close their eyes and go to sleep.
Except you can’t look away from Elly.
From your vantage point on the high mattress, you have a perfect view of the sofa bed. The flickering light of the TV keeps washing over Elly’s face, catching the tight, exhausted lines around her eyes. She hasn't touched her food. Her plate is sitting on the floor, a single roll left completely unbroken. Instead, her hands are clamped tightly over her stomach beneath the sheets, and every time the smell of Chris’s cold mac and cheese wafts over, her jaw tightens and she takes a slow, shallow breath through her nose.
The pieces from the last two days suddenly start colliding in your head.
The pale face. The aversion to the winding roads. The sudden, hyper-attentive way Chris had been hovering over her, a complete departure from his usual loud, oblivious self. The way his hand had instinctively dropped to her waist on the deck.
The realization hits you like a sudden drop on a rollercoaster, sharp and blindingly obvious. Before your brain can even erect a filter, the thought connects directly to your mouth.
"Elly... are you pregnant?" You ask.
The movie suddenly feels incredibly loud. Beside you, Yoongi’s hand freezes instantly on your ankle. He doesn't move a muscle, his eyes darting from you over to the sofa bed in absolute, frozen panic.
Across the room, Chris stops mid-chew, his plastic fork hovering exactly two inches from his open mouth. Elly goes completely, utterly rigid. For three agonizing seconds, nobody breathes. The blue light from the TV dances across her wide, startled eyes as she stares up at you from the pillows.
"What?" Chris squeaks out, his voice cracking violently in a way it hasn't since he was twelve.
"I…" Elly starts, her voice small. She looks frantically at Chris, then back up at you. "How did you... is it that obvious?"
"Oh my god," you breathe, your hand flying over your mouth, the paper plate on your lap tilting dangerously. "You are."
Elly’s eyes fill almost instantly.
She sits up slowly beneath the tangled blankets, one hand still pressed protectively against her stomach as she stares at you across the dark room. The flickering television light catches the shine of tears gathering along her lashes.
She smiles.
Small. Nervous. Trembling at the edges.
And nods.
For a second, neither of you move.
You just stare at each other across the room while reality crashes over both of you all at once.
“Oh my god,” you whisper again, but this time your voice cracks hard in the middle.
Elly lets out one shaky laugh that immediately dissolves into tears.
“I know,” she whispers back.
That’s it.
You launch off the bed so fast the paper plate goes flying onto the comforter beside Yoongi.
“Move!” You cry at Chris.
Chris doesn't just move. He practically flies off the edge of the mattress to give you a clear landing strip.
You scramble down onto the pull-out sofa bed, the sheets twisting around your knees as you slide right into Elly’s space. You throw your arms around her neck, pulling her in tight. Elly buries her face into your shoulder, her fingers bunching into the fabric of your oversized t-shirt, her body shaking with those silent, heavy post-secret-spilling sobs that are half terror and half pure, unadulterated relief.
"You're pregnant," you mumble into her hair, the words finally tasting real now that you're holding her. "You're actually pregnant."
"It's still pretty early," Elly chokes out, her voice muffled against your neck. "We found out four days before the trip. I've been trying so hard not to throw up on your mother's shoes."
"I knew it," you say, pulling back just enough to look at her, your own eyes stinging fiercely. "I knew something was off. The gas station? The car sickness? Chris doesn't drive that bad."
"Hey!" Chris protests from where he's now standing by the bathroom door. His plastic mac-and-cheese container is still held loosely in one hand, his hair sticking up in every direction. "I drive like a professional racer. And for the record, I was a vault of secrets. An iron fortress."
"Sure you were," Yoongi’s voice cuts through the room, low and dry.
You look up. Yoongi has cleared the stray paper plates off the queen mattress and is sitting on the edge of the high bed, his legs dangling over the side. He isn't panicking anymore. Instead, he’s looking at Chris and Elly with an incredibly soft expression. The kind of look he usually reserves for you or Nicky.
"You were hovering," Yoongi tells Chris, the corners of his mouth twitching. "You intercepted three separate side dishes at dinner before they could get past her plate."
Chris opens his mouth to argue, closes it, and then sighs, setting the food container down on the dresser. He walks back over to the bed, sliding his long legs back under the sheets next to Elly, his hand immediately finding the small of her back again. This time, he doesn't care who sees it.
"We wanted to tell everyone together," Chris says softly. He looks at you, his eyes wide and searching. "But... we wanted to wait until the first trimester was done. We wanted Nicky to have his moment. Wanted him to feel special after…"
He trails off, but he doesn't need to finish the sentence. The ghost of your brother will always sit quietly in the corner.
Chris looks down at his hands, his thumbs tracing the seam of the duvet. The playful, obnoxious armor he wears every day cracks just a little bit. He’d wanted Nicky to have this weekend. He’d wanted your parents to celebrate their grandson’s milestone without the bittersweet weight that a new pregnancy would inevitably bring to a family that had already lost a piece of itself.
You look at Chris, then at Elly, your heart aching with a profound, fierce love for them both. Elly squeezes your hand, her own eyes reflecting the quiet sorrow that always lingers in the background of your family’s happiest moments.
Before the silence can pull anyone too deep into the dark, a low, intentional sound breaks the quiet.
Yoongi clears his throat.
He shifts on the edge of the queen mattress, the wood frame giving a soft, familiar creak as he stands up. He looks down at Chris and Elly, his expression entirely steady, wiping away the heavy tension with a single, calm look.
"Right," Yoongi says, his voice a low, commanding rumble that instantly grounds the room. He points a finger directly at Chris, then at the plush queen bed behind him. "You two are taking the bed."
"What? No, man, we're not kicking you guys out of…" Chris blinks up at him, momentarily caught off guard.
"Chris," Yoongi interrupts, his tone brook no argument. It’s the voice he uses when he's completely made up his mind, the one that makes even your dad step back. "Your wife is pregnant, she's nauseous, and she’s currently sleeping on a thin mattress with a metal bar running through the middle of her spine. Take the bed."
"Yoongi, you don't have to…" Elly looks up at Yoongi, a wave of pure, exhausted gratitude washing over her face.
"I do," Yoongi says softly, a small, genuine smile finally tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Besides, I already proved my core strength on the water today. I can handle a couch mattress. Go on. Move."
You wipe a stray tear from your cheek, a watery smile breaking across your face as you nudge Chris's shoulder.
"You heard the man. Up. Before I change my mind and reclaim my throne." You threaten.
Chris lets out a breath, a mixture of a laugh and a sigh of pure relief. He looks at Yoongi, a deep, silent understanding passing between the two men.
"Thanks, brother," Chris says quietly.
"Don't make it weird," Yoongi mutters, though the tips of his ears turn a faint shade of pink as he turns around to help you adjust the blankets on the pull-out.
Within a few minutes, the swap is complete. Chris carefully guides Elly up to the high, plush queen mattress, tucking the heavy duvet around her shoulders as she sinks into the pillows with a soft, blissful groan. Chris slides in right beside her, immediately pulling her back against his chest, his hand resting openly and protectively over her stomach.
Down on the pull-out, you and Yoongi settle under the sheets. The mattress is definitely thinner, and you can slightly feel the frame underneath, but the moment Yoongi pulls you into his side, none of it matters.
"You're amazing, you know that?" You whisper into the quiet room, looping your fingers through his.
Yoongi lets out a soft, rumbling chuckle against your hair, his grip tightening just a fraction around your waist.
"I know," he murmurs, his voice dripping with that characteristic, sleepy confidence. "Just keeping the peace."
The room starts to settle into a cozy, rhythmic quiet, the heavy tension from earlier completely dissolved. You close your eyes, finally ready to drift off, when a loud, thoughtful voice cuts through the darkness from the queen bed.
"Hey, Yoongi?" Chris calls out.
"What, Chris?" Yoongi inhales slowly.
"Since you're basically a saint now," Chris says, an unmistakable smirk evident in his tone, "I'm assuming this means you're volunteering for the 3:00 AM diaper duty when this kid arrives? You've got great core strength for it."
Before Yoongi can even open his mouth, you sit up slightly, pointing a finger blindly toward the queen bed.
"Absolutely not," you chime in, totally shutting it down. "Do not loop us into the diaper contract. I do not deal with babies. They are loud, leaking, and unpredictable. Call me when it's five years old, fully house-trained, and capable of holding a conversation."
From the darkness, you hear Chris let out a muffled snort, while Elly giggles softly into her pillow. Yoongi just hums in agreement, pulling you back down against his chest and tucking the blanket securely over your shoulders.
"Listen to her," he mutters amusedly, his hand resting comfortably on your hip. "We are strictly a fun-aunt-and-uncle household."
"Strictly," you echo, closing your eyes and snuggling deeper into his warmth, completely oblivious to the irony of your words.
Summary: Your life was perfect. You had the perfect fiance, the perfect house and the perfect ring on your finger. The only thing that wasn't perfect …. were the memories you lost years ago and the fact your parents won't talk about it.
Pairing: Yoongi x F. Reader
Genre: Romance, Angst, Hurt-Comfort, Smut
Warnings: Memory Loss, Swearing, Blood Mention, Unprotected Sex, Mention Of Car Accident, Mention Of Drunk Driver. Will add as I go…
You keep your head down, focusing on your keyboard as you process claims for unforeseen water damage and minor fender benders. However, every time the elevator chimes, your shoulders stiffen and your foot starts to tap nervously. Every time a man in a tailored suit walks past your cubicle, you hold your breath until the scent of his cologne fades. You wait for the sharp, expensive notes of Corbyn’s aftershave that thankfully come.
But the day is almost over.
4:55 PM.
"Psst," Leah hisses, rolling her chair back a bit to peek around the partition. "Thirty-five settlements, two denials, and zero Corbyn sightings. I think we’re in the clear."
"Don't jinx it," you whisper, finally letting out a breath. "I just want to get to the parking lot without a performance review on my personal life."
"You’re doing great," she encourages as she shuts down her computer and grabs her bag from under her desk. "Clean break. Professional. Boring. Exactly what we…"
"Y/N? You have... uh... visitors at reception? They say it’s urgent." The intercom at the front desk crackles, cutting her off.
"Corbyn doesn't do reception." Leah’s brow furrows.
You stand up, a knot of dread forming in your stomach. As you walk towards the lobby, you notice the office atmosphere has changed. Usually, at five o'clock, everyone was a zombie. Now, heads were popping over cubicle walls checking out what was going on. People are whispering. Carrie from Accounting is actually standing on her tiptoes to see down the hallway.
When you round the corner, you see why. Leaning against the sleek, minimalist reception desk are two men who look like they have no reason to be talking to you.
Taehyung stands with one ankle crossing over the other, dressed in loose charcoal trousers and a cream silk shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, rings shining as he reaches into the bowl of complimentary peppermints. A pair of sunglasses resting in his dark hair despite the fact he was indoors. Next to him, Jimin is leaning back on his elbows, flashing a blinding, angelic smile at the receptionist, who looks like she has forgotten how to breathe.
"Y/N!" Taehyung’s face lights up the moment he sees you.
"What are you guys doing here?" You laugh nervously, reaching them and trying to ignore the fact that the entire sales team was now watching the exchange.
"We’re here for you, obviously. I mean…I already have insurance," Jimin says, his eyes crinkling as he reaches out to adjust the collar of your blazer. "Operation: Glow-Up Phase Two requires a change of scenery. Also, Taehyung wanted a peppermint."
"They're a bit chalky," Taehyung notes after popping one in his mouth. He then looks past you, his gaze sharpening as he scans the rows of desks. "Where is he? The Beige King? I bet his office doesn't have dust in it either."
“He doesn't work here,” you tell them, shaking your head. “He's a lawyer that works with our firm…. sometimes.”
“That’s honestly disappointing. I had a whole monologue prepared.” Taehyung blinks once.
“You absolutely did not,” you mutter, though a tiny spark of amusement flickered in your chest.
“I did,” he insists, throwing a hand over his heart. “It involved emotional support dust bunnies.”
Before the growing audience of curious coworkers around the reception desk could become any more obvious, Jimin gently hooks his arm through yours, guiding you toward the exit. “Come on.” Jimin smiles.
“Where are we going?” You ask immediately. “I just got off work.”
“And now, you are coming with us.” Taehyung pushes off the desk.
“You two are insane,” you sigh, giving in.
“And yet,” Jimin says smoothly, opening the door for you. “You're coming with us.”
“That’s because I’m too tired to fight you.” You joke.
“Hey,” he says quietly and more seriously. “You survived today.”
You glance at him, surprised by the sudden shift in tone.
“I know that sounds dramatic,” he continues. “But the first days after big decisions are awful. Your body thinks you’re being hunted for sport.”
“That’s… weirdly accurate,” you admit, the honesty of it hitting you square in the chest.
“Thank you. I’m emotionally intelligent.” He winks.
“You cried because a bakery ran out of strawberry cream buns once.” Taehyung scoffs loudly from the other side of you.
“That was grief.” Jimin defends himself. “I was hungry.”
By the time you reach the car, you are smiling again. Barely…but it was enough to keep you moving. About twenty minutes later, however, the realization hit that they still hadn't disclosed their destination.
“Okay,” you say from the passenger seat, narrowing your eyes at Jimin’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “Seriously. Where are we going?”
“The studio,” Jimin replies simply.
“Your dance studio?” You ask. “Why?”
“I need your assistance.” He replies.
“With what?” You question.
“You’ll see.” He smiles, mysteriously.
“That’s …mysterious.” You lift an eyebrow
“Very mysterious. Very cinematic.” Taehyung hums from the driver’s seat, steering the car with a relaxed confidence.
“I can’t dance.” You fold your arms across your chest. “You better not make me dance.”
“We know,” Taehyung says immediately and you frown as Jimin chokes on nothing in the backseat. “No, no…that sounded so much meaner out loud than it did in my head.” Taehyung scrambles to fix it as you give him a horrified look.
“We’re joking,” Jimin says quickly through his laughter. “You don’t need to dance. I actually need you to come.”
There was something in the way he says it that makes you stop fighting it. Instead, you sit back in the seat and watch the city roll by. After a day spent bracing for a confrontation that never came, the silence inside your own head is finally louder than the anxiety. You lean your forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the sun catch on the glass of the passing high-rises.
You catch Jimin’s eye in the mirror again. He’s looking out his own window, his expression softer now, devoid of the playful smirk from earlier. Then there’s Taehyung, humming a tune that doesn't quite match the radio, his rings tapping a steady rhythm on the steering wheel.
A Glow-Up Phase Two. Whatever that means, seems like a terrifying concept. You aren't sure what you're supposed to provide at a dance studio, but as the car slows and the building comes into view, you take one deep, steadying breath. The car rolls to a stop.
"We're here," Taehyung announces, killing the engine with a flourish.
"Ready, Y/N?" Jimin asks, leaning forward to rest his chin on the back of your seat.
You look at the studio doors and then back at them.
"As ready as I'll ever be," you say.
“This is where we teach my youngest dancers,” Jimin says.
You stop short. Buckets of paint are scattered everywhere. Large plastic sheets are spread across the floor. Open jars of brushes sit nearby beside bottles of water, old paint-stained towels, and paper plates smeared with dried color. Blue. Red. Yellow. Green. Actual, vibrant color. Your brows pull together slowly as you take it in.
“What is this?” You ask, looking at him.
“Art therapy?” Jimin shrugs casually, though there was something careful in his eyes now.
“Rehabilitation for former residents of the Beige Void.” Taehyung drops onto the floor cross-legged beside one of the paint buckets.
“The room needs a little make over,” Jimin smiles.
You stare at them both, then back at the paint. You don't understand what they want you to do.
“Go ahead. Paint.” Jimin’s voice softens as he nudges you forward.
“No.” You let out a quiet breath and shake your head almost immediately.
Neither of them push right away.
“Why not?” Taehyung just tilts his head slightly, his gaze curious.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first because the answer sounds ridiculous even inside your own head. Your gaze drifts back toward the paint buckets, the bright acrylic colors almost overwhelming after years of muted neutrals and careful control. Your fingers curled slightly against your sleeves.
“I…” You swallow hard. “I don’t know how.”
The room goes quiet. It isn't an awkward silence. Jimin leans back against the mirrored wall, studying you carefully.
“You think people forget?” He questions.
“I think I did.” You laugh once under your breath, but there is no humor in it.
“You’re acting like somebody’s grading you.” Jimin comments.
“No one’s grading you here,” Taehyung adds. “This isn’t an art exhibit. It’s emotional damage control with supplies.”
A tiny breath of laughter escapes you before you could stop it. Encouraged, Jimin pushes off the wall and walks toward one of the blank walls. He picks up a thick brush, dips it lazily into blue paint, and drags one messy streak across the white surface without looking.
“That’s it,” he says simply as you stare at the line uneven and crooked, and paint begins to drip slowly down the wall.
“Jimin. Your technique. So avant-garde.” Taehyung gasps dramatically.
“Thank you,” Jimin says, semi-seriously. Then, he turns and hands the brush to you.
You stare at it. At the blue paint clinging to the bristles, and at your own reflection in the mirrors behind them. You look uncertain, smaller than you remembered feeling. Your fingers slowly close around the handle, and for the first time in a very long time, nobody told you to keep things clean.
"Mine is a space owl," Minjun announces, slapping a neon purple wing onto a toilet paper roll with enough glue to hold together a skyscraper.
"It's perfect," you whisper, leaning in.
The door to the community room creaks open. You don't look up immediately, too busy helping a girl named Sophie navigate the treacherous waters of safety scissors.
"I heard there was a craft crisis," a deep, gravelly voice enters the room.
You look up, and the breath you’d been holding since 9:00 AM finally leaves you. Yoongi is standing there, his guitar case slung over one shoulder and a keyboard stand tucked under his arm.
"No crisis," you say, offering a small, genuine smile. "Just a lot of googly eyes. I'm surprised Hobi hasn't been in to check in on me."
"He's in the office," Yoongi tells you, setting his gear down on the floor. He walks over to your table, his hands buried in his pockets. He scans the carnage of felt and feathers. "Is that a three-headed owl, Minjun?"
"It's for extra hearing!" Minjun explains.
Sophie, who had been meticulously peeling the backing off a glittery sticker, suddenly stands up. She holds her creation up high in the air. It is a toilet paper roll so heavily decorated with multi-colored feathers, mismatched googly eyes, and neon pipe cleaners that you can't even tell what it is.
"Look, Yoongi!" She chirps, thrusting the creature toward his face. "It’s a Rainbow Owl. He lives in the clouds and eats starlight."
Yoongi pulls back slightly to get a full view of the masterpiece, his eyes widening in mock awe. He reaches out a pale finger, gently poking a stray pink feather that was hanging on by a thread of hot glue.
"Starlight, huh?" He repeats. "That’s a high-energy diet. No wonder he’s so bright. Does he have a name?"
"Sparkle-Cloud," Sophie says, with a smile.
"Great name," Yoongi nods. He looks up at you then, his dark eyes catching yours over the top of Sophie’s head.
"I saw the studio," he says casually. "Jimin sent me a photo of the renovations you three did."
You feel a familiar heat creep up your neck, and you instinctively reach for a stray piece of felt to keep your hands busy.
"Oh, no. I was hoping he’d keep that locked in a vault somewhere." You let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "I wouldn't exactly call it a painting, Yoongi. It’s more like... accidental splatter. It looks like a blue and yellow ink cloud exploded."
"I liked the explosion," he counters, his gaze steady as he watches you shred the edge of the felt. “It felt real…. uncontained.”
He reaches onto the table, his long fingers navigating the sea of sequins until he finds a rogue googly eye. He picks it up, turning it over thoughtfully.
"Jimin told me you were worried about not knowing how," he adds, his voice barely above a murmur so the kids won't overhear. "But art isn't about knowing how to do it right. It's about having the guts to do it wrong."
"I did it very wrong," you mutter, finally looking up at him. "There’s a blue handprint near the ceiling that I’m pretty sure Taehyung is responsible for."
"Taehyung is a menace with a paintbrush. But the point is, the wall isn't beige anymore. And neither are you." Yoongi’s lips twitch, the corner of his mouth curving into a faint gummy smile.
Heat crawls up your neck, and you quickly reach for the nearest distraction before he can say anything else that makes your heartbeat weird. Your gaze flicks toward the pile of equipment he’d carried in.
“Why do you carry extra musical equipment?” You question. “The center has instruments right?”
“The stuff here is usually fine,” he says with a shrug. “The center does what it can.”
“But?” You ask.
His expression softens slightly as he looks over at the kids scattered around the tables. Minjun is now attaching approximately twelve more googly eyes to his owl while Sophie attempts to convince another little girl that feathers improve everything.
“Sometimes my older students need more,” Yoongi says quietly.
“More how?” You tilt your head a little.
He takes a seat beside the table, legs stretching out comfortably in front of him. One of the kids immediately wanders over and starts braiding colorful pipe cleaners around the sleeve of his hoodie like it was the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t even react.
“The younger kids just want somewhere safe to be loud,” he explains. “The older ones…” He pauses briefly, searching for the right wording. “A lot of them are carrying things they don’t know how to talk about yet.”
“So music helps?” Your fingers still against the felt in your hands.
“Sometimes.” He nods once. “Sometimes it’s the only thing that helps.”
The room buzzes around you with the sound of scissors snipping paper and children arguing passionately about glitter placement, but his voice somehow cuts clean through all of it.
Calm.
Steady.
Honest.
Yoongi reaches down absently as Sophie deposits a handful of sequins into his palm like an offering.
“One kid comes in every week and practices until his fingertips blister because it’s the only time he says his brain shuts up,” he says. “Another one writes lyrics instead of talking during group discussions. One girl barely spoke for six months, but she started playing piano when she thought nobody was listening.”
“And the extra equipment?” You ask softly and he rolls one shoulder.
“Some of them can’t afford lessons. Or instruments. So if they want to learn properly…” He nods toward the guitar case. “I bring things.”
He says it like it’s obvious. Like there’s no world where he wouldn’t. You stare at him for a second too long before catching yourself.
“That’s…” Your voice comes out quieter than intended. “Really nice.”
“Don’t say that so loudly. I have a reputation.” Yoongi looks mildly horrified.
You laugh before you can stop yourself. A real laugh this time, warm enough that Sophie immediately looks between the two of you with suspicious interest.
“Oooooh,” she sings suddenly, pointing a glitter-covered finger at Yoongi. “You like her.”
You choke on absolutely nothing.
“HE DOES.” Minjun accuses and points a finger at Yoongi along with her.
Yoongi freezes. Not dramatically. Not obviously. Most people in the room probably wouldn’t notice it at all.
But you do.
You notice the way his shoulders go still beneath the oversized black hoodie. The tiny pause in his breathing. The way his fingers stop turning the googly eye in his hand.
And apparently the children smell blood in the water immediately.
“HE DOES,” Minjun repeats louder, standing up in his chair.
“WAIT. ARE YOU TWO IN LOVE?” Sophie gasps, both hands flying to her cheeks.
“This is inappropriate,” Yoongi says flatly. “Make your owls.”
“Sophie, use your inside voice,” you tell the little girl.
“THIS IS MY INSIDE VOICE,” she argues.
Yoongi finally moves, but it’s only to slowly place the googly eye down on the table. He doesn’t look at the kids. He looks at you, and for a split second, the reputation he’s so worried about protecting is nowhere to be found. His dark eyes are wide, caught in a rare moment of genuine, unscripted vulnerability.
"It’s like the movies! He brought the guitar to sing to her!" Minjun shouts from his chair.
"I brought the guitar for my class, Minjun," Yoongi says, but the kids don't care. It just fuels the fire.
"That’s exactly what a secret boyfriend would say," Sophie whispers loudly to the entire table.
The heat in your neck has now officially reached your ears. You scramble for a distraction, grabbing a handful of pipe cleaners.
"Okay, okay! New rule. Anyone who talks about boyfriends has to help me organize the glitter jars by color," you call out.
The threat of manual labor should have worked on kids, but Sophie is on a mission. She leans over the table, peering intensely at Yoongi’s face.
"Your face is turning pink, Yoongi. You like her.” Sophie blinks innocently.
Yoongi lets out a long, slow breath, pulling the brim of his beanie down until it nearly covers his eyes.
"I’m leaving," he mutters, though he doesn't actually move an inch. "I'm going to go tune the piano. In the dark."
"Wait!" You laugh, your voice a mix of embarrassment and a strange, bubbling amusement. "You’re just going to leave me here to defend myself against the Rainbow Owl investigators?"
"You're doing great, Y/N," he says. "You're stronger than you think."
He winks. It's a quick, sharp movement that felt like a secret code before finally retreating towards his discarded instruments.
"HE WINKED!" Minjun shrieks, nearly falling off his chair. "I SAW THE WINK!"
You bury your face in a pile of neon felt, the scent of glue and cheap acrylic paint filling your senses. Suddenly, you aren't thinking about claims, settlements, or the sharp scent of expensive aftershave. You're just thinking about the fact that your life is currently a mess of glitter and googly eyes…..and you’ve never felt more awake.
"Okay, Sophie," you sigh, peeking out from the felt. "Tell me more about this starlight diet. Does the owl need a cape? I think he needs a cape."
The community center has finally emptied out. The chaotic energy of Sparkle-Cloud the Rainbow Owl and the Wink Investigation Team left, leaving only the muffled sound of Yoongi’s piano from the other room.
You are sitting in Hobi’s office. Hobi isn't his usual whirlwind of sunshine at the moment. He is focused, tapping a rhythmic beat against his desk with a pen as he watches you.
"You look tired," he notes, though his smile remains warm. "But the good kind of tired. The kind that comes from actually doing something."
"I have glitter in places I didn't know glitter could go, Hobi," you joke, leaning back in the guest chair. "But yeah. The good kind."
He chuckles, then his expression shifts into something more intentional. He reaches for a thick manila folder sitting on the edge of his desk and slides it across the polished wood toward you.
"I've been doing some digging," he says simply.
You pull the folder closer, your brow furrowing as you flip it open. Inside were several printed documents. The first page is certification requirements and behind that is a copy of a university transcript that bore your name but felt like it belonged to a stranger.
"Hobi? What is this?" You ask, your voice trailing off as you scan the credits. History of Art Education. Child Psychology. Visual Arts for the Primary Classroom.
"I did some research," Hobi tells you, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the desk. "I know the accident changed everything. I know the memory loss made it feel like you had to start from zero. But your degree? Your hard work? That didn't just evaporate because you hit your head."
You stare at a scanned copy of a diploma.
"You were so close to your own classroom. You and Yoongi…. you guys actually found schools rather close to each other, " Hobi continues softly as you look up at him. "You’ve already done the hard part. The degree is yours. It’s permanent."
He points to a highlighted section on the top sheet.
"Since you haven't been teaching, your license is just inactive. I called the board. You don't have to go back to school, Y/N. You just need to reinstate it." He smiles softly.
Your eyes look at the short bulleted list.
• Step One: A background check (standard procedure).
• Step Two: A few continuing education hours—mostly just to catch up on current classroom tech.
• Step Three: Filing the reinstatement fee.
"That’s it?" You whisper, looking up at him.
Your heart, which had been steady since Yoongi’s departure, started to gallop.
"That's it," Hobi confirmes. "No more fender benders. No more boring cubicles. No more Beige Kings or tailored suits. You could teach, Y/N. For real. Not just volunteering with me on Saturdays."
You look back down at the papers. For the last few years, you had been moving through the world like a ghost, taking the path of least resistance because it was safe. You had let your life become a neutral palette because you were afraid of the mess. However, slowly… you've been becoming unafraid of that mess.
"Why are you doing this for me?" You ask, your eyes slightly misty.
"Because I've been watching you with the kids. I also saw the photo Jimin sent of his studio wall. You think you forgot how to be an artist, but your hands remembered before your brain did." He stands up, rounding the desk to give your shoulder a supportive squeeze.
You look back down the papers in your hand and slowly flip through them.
"Think about it. No pressure. But just so you know..." He winks, a playful echo of Yoongi’s earlier gesture. "The Rainbow Owl could really use a professional mentor."
The air of the parking lot felt like a shock after the stuffy, glue-scented warmth of the community center. You walk toward your car, the manila folder clutched so tightly to your chest that the edges were starting to curl. Your head is currently spinning at Hobi’s words, the sight of your own name on a teaching degree, and the terrifying realization that your safe life was suddenly full of exits you hadn't realized were unlocked.
"Leaving without saying goodbye? That’s cold, even for an art teacher." Yoongi's voice says from behind you.
You jump, spinning around to see Yoongi leaning against the brick pillar of the entryway. He’d swapped his guitar for his keys, tossing them up and catching them in one fluid motion. He looks relaxed, but his eyes are sharp, immediately landing on the folder you were hugging.
"Did Hobi give you homework?" He asks, pushing off the pillar and walking toward you. "I told him to give you a break. You already survived the Great Glitter War of 2026."
"It's not homework," you say, your voice coming out a little breathless. You hesitate, then slowly hold out the folder. "It’s... it’s me. Or who I was."
Yoongi’s expression shifts, the playful expression disappearing as he takes the folder. He flips it open, and as his eyes scans the transcripts and the diploma, he goes very still. The silence of the parking lot feels heavy. He knows these papers. He’d probably seen the originals years ago, back when the two of you were planning a life that didn't involve insurance claims and memory gaps.
"Hobi’s been busy." He looks up, his gaze unreadable.
"He says I can go back," you whisper. "He says I just have to file some papers and take a few classes. He makes it sound so easy, Yoongi."
"And you don't think it is?" He asks.
"I think it’s impossible!" The outburst surprises even you. You gesture wildly at the folder. "I’m overwhelmed, Yoongi. I look at those credits… Child Psychology, Art History….and I don't remember sitting in those lectures. I don't remember the tests. Hobi sees me with the kids and thinks I can lead a classroom, but he's wrong. Helping Sophie glue feathers to a toilet paper roll is a Saturday hobby. Teaching? That’s... that’s a responsibility I don't know how to carry anymore."
You look around at your surroundings and shake your head. This whole situation just seems … like a little too much right now.
"I can’t teach again. I don't know how. I’m just a person who processes fender benders and tries not to trip over her own shadow. That girl in those papers... she's gone." You feel the sting of tears and look away, focusing on a streetlamp.
Yoongi steps closer, closing the distance until you can smell the faint, comforting scent of coffee that clings to his hoodie. He doesn't reach out. He knows you aren't ready for that yet. However, he stands there absorbing your panic.
"You're right," he says quietly.
You blink, looking back at him in surprise. You expected a pep talk, not an agreement.
"You aren't that girl," Yoongi continues, his voice steady. "That girl was young and hadn't been through hell yet. But don't you get it? You think teaching is about remembering a textbook. It’s not. It’s about what you did today. You didn't just 'do crafts.' You made Minjun feel like his three-headed owl was a masterpiece. You made Sophie feel seen. You were 'doing' it for three hours today without even trying."
He steps even closer, his dark eyes searching yours.
"The accident took your memories, but it didn't take your soul. And your soul is a teacher. You can't run away from that just because you're scared of the paperwork." He finishes.
"I'm terrified, Yoongi," you admit, your voice breaking. “I can't even draw Super-Koo.”
“Good,” Yoongi smiles. “Super-Koo is kind of stupid.”
"My hands don't remember, Yoongi," you tell him, your voice cracking as you look down at your palms, stained with streaks of neon blue and dried Elmer’s glue. "I can help a six-year-old with a glue stick because that’s just... mechanics. But a classroom? Parents expecting their kids to learn perspective, shading, color theory? I can't even sketch a basic landscape without my brain short-circuiting. How am I supposed to teach them to find their voice when I can't even find my own brushstroke?"
The panic is rising again, that cold, familiar weight in your chest that usually sent you scurrying back to the safety of beige cubicles and predictable spreadsheets. Yoongi lets out a soft hum, a sound that isn't dismissive, but contemplative. He reaches out, finally, and takes the folder back from you, tucking it under his arm so you are forced to look at him.
"Then be a student first," he says simply.
"What?" You blink.
"You're acting like you have to walk into a university lecture hall tomorrow morning and give a speech," he counters. "If your hands don't remember, then give them something new to learn. Take some classes, Y/N. Not the 'Continuing Education' stuff Hobi highlighted. I mean art classes. Go to a studio where nobody knows your name or your medical history. Sit in a room with a bunch of strangers, get charcoal on your face, and fail miserably for a few weeks."
"Yoongi, I don't have time to…" You try to find a reason to get out of his suggestion.
"You have nothing but time," he interrupts gently. "You've been spending it all processing insurance claims for people who had bad days. Maybe it’s time to spend some of it on yourself."
“Yeah…maybe.” You nod your head, unconvinced and look down at your shoes. You bite your lip, looking up at him through your lashes. “You know…you still owe me a day.”
“What?” He questions staring at you as you look back up at him.
“I've spent a day with everyone but you,” you inform him. “The day with Jin at the bakery doesn't count.”
“What about you storming into my house and stealing your engagement ring back?” He questions and you try not to smile.
“That doesn't count either,” you reply.
Yoongi goes silent. He shifts the weight of the manila folder under his arm, his keys jingling softly as he hooks them onto a belt loop. The playful banter about Super-Koo and the chaos of the community center feels like it’s miles away now, replaced by the sounds of the city and the weight of words that haven't been spoken in a long time. He looks down at the asphalt, his tongue darting out to graze his lower lip as he thinks.
"A whole day," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "Are you sure about that? I mean... really sure, Y/N?"
He takes a half-step closer, his expression softening into something cautious, almost fragile.
"I’m not Jimin, and I’m definitely not Taehyung," he says, his dark eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. "I don't have a 'Glow-Up' plan or an elaborate trip prepared. And after everything… the ring, the things kept from you, the way I've been keeping my distance because I didn't want to overwhelm you..."
He pauses, the edges of his mouth twitching with a shadow of a sad, honest smile.
"Spending a whole day with me means there’s nowhere to hide," he continues. "No kids to use as a buffer. No Hobi to break the tension. It’s just us. Are you sure you want to be alone with me after everything we’ve been through?"
"I wouldn't have brought it up if I wasn't sure, Yoongi," you say, your voice steadier than it has been in years. "I'm tired of hiding. I've spent enough time in the Beige Void. I think I’m ready for whatever color is ready to be thrown at me."
Yoongi studies you for a moment. He’s looking for the flicker of doubt, the twitch of a shoulder that says you’re just being polite. When he finds nothing but your quiet resolve, he lets out a breath he seems to have been holding since you walked out of the center.
"Okay," he says, the word a soft surrender. He nods, a small, genuine smile finally tugging at the corner of his lips. "Okay. If you're sure, then I'm in."
He hands the folder back to you, his fingers lingering against yours for just a second too long. There's a brief, electric contact that makes the neon paint on your skin feel like it’s glowing.
"Next Saturday?" He asks, confirming the plan. "After we’re done dealing with the Rainbow Owl kids and whatever glitter-based disaster Hobi has planned?"
"Next Saturday," you agree, clutching the folder to your chest. "After the center."
"It’s a date," he says.
He goes silent.
However, he doesn't take it back.
For a second, neither of you moves. Yoongi clears his throat, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck where the skin is still flushed a telltale dusty rose. He looks away toward the street, then back to you, the intense vulnerability from a moment ago morphing into a quiet determination.
"Drive safe, Y/N," he says, his voice a little lower now, rough around the edges. "Don't let the folder catch fire from all that overthinking you're about to do."
"I'm not going to overthink it," you lie instantly, lifting your chin.
"Right. Minjun's owl only has three heads for balance." Yoongi lets out a soft, breathy huff that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
“I'll see you Saturday, Yoongi.” You smile.
You scramble into the driver’s seat, your heart hammering against your ribs so violently you can feel it in your throat. You shove the key into the ignition, throw the car into reverse, and pull out of the parking space without looking back once. You don't dare glance in the rearview mirror to see if Yoongi is still standing there, watching you leave. If you look back, you’re entirely convinced you’ll either dissolve into a puddle of neon glitter or sprint right back to him to take it all back.
A date.
He said it. He actually said the word.
A date.
You have a freaking date.
The drive to Leah’s house is a blur. You navigate the streets on pure autopilot, the manila folder sitting in the passenger seat next to you. Your mind is a chaotic puddle of goo, bouncing between the image of Yoongi’s pale finger poking a rogue pink feather, the wide-eyed shock on his face when Minjun accused him of liking you, and the drop in his voice when he said it's a date.
By the time you pull into Leah’s driveway, your hands are shaking so badly you drop your keys. You fish off the floor, grab the folder, and practically burst through her front door.
The lock clicks open, and the familiar, comforting scent of Leah’s living room hits you. Leah is sprawled on the couch with her laptop balanced on her knees and a chip halfway to her mouth. She blinks, taking in your wild eyes, your wind-disheveled hair, and the distinct streaks of neon blue paint still drying on your skin.
"Whoa," Leah says, slowly lowering the chip. "You look like you just escaped a high-stakes hostage situation at a Michael's craft store."
You stand in the entryway, clutching Hobi's manila folder to your chest. You don't take off your shoes. You don't drop your bag. Your brain has completely run out of processing power to filter your thoughts.
"I have a date," you blurt out.
The words hit the quiet room like a firecracker.
Leah freezes. The laptop screen reflects in her widened eyes. Slowly, meticulously, she sets her chip down on a paper towel. She closes her laptop and slides it onto the coffee table, never breaking eye contact with you.
"I'm sorry," she says, her voice dangerously calm as she sits up straight. “You just broke off your engagement to Corbyn and you already have a date?”
"That's exactly what I said," you breathe out, finally kicking off your shoes and dropping the manila folder onto her coffee table. Your hands are still tingling. "I have a date."
"With who, Y/N?!” She exclaims.
"With my ex-fiancé," you say, the words sounding completely bizarre as they leave your mouth.
Leah’s jaw drops so fast you’re worried it might unhinge. She grips the edge of the couch cushion, her knuckles turning white.
"Corbyn?!" She shrieks, her voice hitting a pitch that could shatter glass.
"No! No, not Corbyn!" You scramble to clarify, waving your hands frantically in front of you.
"Yoongi."
Leah freezes, her entire body going rigid as the name hangs in the quiet air of the living room. For three agonizing seconds, she just stares at you, her mouth slightly open, her brain visibly attempting to reboot.
Then, the tension suddenly drains from her shoulders. She sinks back against the couch cushions with a massive, loud exhale, rubbing a hand over her face.
"Oh," she mutters into her palms, her voice muffled. “I completely forgot about the other one for a second."
She drops her hands, looking up at you as you stand there, still covered in the remnants of the day's chaos. Her expression softens, but the protective, sharp line of her jaw returns.
"But wait. Hold on," Leah says, pointing a finger at you. "Yoongi….Honestly, it sounds like a lot."
She shifts on the couch, pulling her knees up to her chest and looking at you with a heavy, grounded seriousness.
"I need you to be careful here," she says softly. "You are still navigating a massive blind spot with your memory. Spending a whole day alone with someone who holds an entire chapter of your life that you can't read yet? That's high stakes. Just promise me you're ready for whatever is coming your way."
You look down at the manila folder on the table, the weight of her words settling over you, balanced against the lingering warmth of Yoongi's dusty rose flush in the parking lot.
"I'm sure, Leah," you say quietly. "I mean…I'm sure he didn't mean date as in DATE. However, I think I'm finally ready for … whatever happens. I can't be scared anymore."
Leah looks at you for a long, silent moment, searching your face for any sign of the frantic, fragile girl who used to hide behind spreadsheet numbers and neutral-toned cardigans. When she finds only that quiet, stubborn resolve, a soft, proud smile finally breaks through her skepticism.
"Good," she says, leaning forward to pull you to sit next to her. "Tell me every single word he said. Do not leave out a single detail."
The weight of your forgotten past is still out there, heavy and unresolved. The blank spaces in your memory haven't magically filled themselves in, and the prospect of the art classes and reinstated teaching certificates is enough to make your stomach do nervous flips. But as you sit in the warmth of Leah’s living room, listening to the TV and the comfort of your friend’s voice, the cold, paralyzing dread is entirely gone.
You don't know what next Saturday will bring. You don't know what it means to be alone with a man who holds a version of you that you’ve lost. You are simply waiting for the weekend. And as you catch sight of your reflection in the windowpane. You're cheeks flushed, hair messy, and eyes wide awake. You realize that whoever you used to be, the person you are becoming right now is finally ready to find out.
Summary: You were fine with your life after years of building walls to protect yourself. What happens when a basketball coach you never saw coming starts breaking them down?
Pairing: Basketball Coach Yoongi x F. Reader
Genre: Smut, Romance, Angst, Hurt-Comfort,
Warnings: Explicit Sex, Unprotected Sex, Drinking, Swearing, Past Domestic Violence, Drug reference.
A/N: Heavy Trigger Warning here!!!! You guys get this early since I was able to get it done and I had extra time with Memorial Day here.
!TRIGGER WARNING! TALKS OF DV !TRIGGER WARNING!
The early evening sunset is dropping fast as Yoongi pulls into your parents' driveway. Before the engine even fully cuts out, the front door flies open and Nicky comes barreling down the steps, nearly tripping over his own sneakers in his excitement.
"You brought it?! Did you get it fixed?!" Nicky yells, skidding to a stop by the trunk.
"Careful, kid. It’s vintage. You drop this and your dad's going to be listening to static for the next ten years." Yoongi climbs out of the car and pops the trunk.
"I got it, I got it!" Nicky says, reaching for the heavy wooden crate with a look of pure excitement. He’s already clutching a slightly crumpled bouquet of grocery-store carnations in his other hand. His contribution for the anniversary gift to his mom. "Mom’s gonna freak. Dad’s gonna cry. It’s gonna be great."
"Go on, get it inside before they see us," you say, leaning against the passenger door.
As Nicky staggers toward the house, struggling under the weight of the phonograph but refusing to let anyone help, you feel Yoongi come up beside you. He hooks his thumbs into his pockets, watching the boy go with that quiet, satisfied expression.
"So," Yoongi says, nudging your shoulder with his. "He’s got the music and the flowers. What exactly did you contribute to this operation besides the muscle?"
"Oh, I gave them the ultimate gift," you say. You reach into your bag and pull out a small, handwritten card. "A golden ticket. One full weekend of me taking Nicky off their hands. No questions asked, no curfew for the parents, and I'll even feed him something that isn't from a microwave."
"A whole weekend?" Yoongi raises an eyebrow.
"A whole weekend," you confirm. "They get a quiet house, and I get to be the favorite aunt who lets him stay up late watching R rated movies. Everyone wins."
"A weekend of Nicky at your place, huh?" Yoongi muses. "Does that weekend include a guest coach? I might need to supervise the R rated portion of the program."
"I think I can be convinced to allow it," you whisper, looking up at him. "But you'll have to bring the popcorn."
"Deal." He laughs.
The walk from the car to the front door feels different this time. Usually, you’re bracing yourself for a whirlwind of sibling rivalry and interrogation, but with Yoongi’s hand resting at the small of your back. You feel like you can actually face whatever's behind that door.
“We’re here!” you call out, as you push the door open.
The smell of your mom’s signature roast chicken hits you instantly. The house is already busy with activity. Nick and Sarah are in the kitchen, their laughter mingling with the clinking of glasses. Your mom is hovering near the oven, and your dad is seated at the head of the table, nursing a beer and looking over a newspaper as Chris and Elly sit comfortably on the couch.
“About time!” Nick bellows, appearing in the kitchen doorway with a dish towel over his shoulder. He stops, his eyes flicking to Yoongi, then back to you. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face. “Coach. Good to see you back in the lions' den.”
“It’s a pleasure, Nick,” Yoongi says, his voice smooth and respectful. He steps forward, offering a hand to your father. “Good to see you again, Mr. L/N.”
“Yoongi,” your dad says, standing up to give him a firm, bone-crushing handshake. “Glad you could make it. I heard you have been working on a phonograph. Nicky’s been talking about it for an hour.”
“Just a slipping belt, sir. It’s a solid piece of machinery,” Yoongi replies with a simple shrug.
“Dinner’s almost ready!” Your mom chirps, emerging from the kitchen with her observant eyes landing on Yoongi. “Yoongi, dear, you look like you’ve lost weight. You're getting extra helpings.”
Yoongi looks at you and you quickly look away. Nicky, unable to contain himself a second longer, drags his parents into the living room. The phonograph is set up on the side table, the brass horn gleaming under the soft lamp light.
“Okay, okay! Look!” Nicky gestures wildly.
Nick and Sarah stand there for a moment, the humor of the kitchen fading into a soft, stunned silence. Nick runs a hand over the dark wood, his expression shifting into something raw and nostalgic.
“Grandpa had one just like this,” Nick says quietly, looking at Sarah. “I haven’t heard that specific hum of a needle in twenty years.”
“It’s beautiful, Nicky. Thank you.” Sarah leans her head against Nick’s shoulder, her eyes shimmering.
“Coach fixed the guts of it. Sunshine just yelled at the guy until he lowered the price.” Nicky beams, looking like he just won the championship.
“It was a collaborative effort,” Yoongi clarifies, though he’s fighting back a smile.
As everyone migrates toward the dining room, you pull out the card you showed Yoongi earlier and hand it to Sarah.
“And this,” you say, gesturing to the card. “It's from me.”
Sarah opens it, her eyebrows shooting up as she reads your ‘Golden Ticket’ for a child-free weekend. She looks at Nick, then back at you, a look of pure, unadulterated relief washing over her face.
“You’re serious?” Sarah asks. “No strings?”
“No strings,” you promise. “Just me, Nicky, and a lot of questionable snacks.”
“I’m in too,” Yoongi adds, looking perfectly at home amidst the family chaos. “I think my supervision is required for the movie marathon.”
“Why didn't we think of that?” He asks Elly. “You made us buy them those crystal glasses.”
“Alright,” Nick says, elbowing your little brother, raising his glass as everyone settles into their seats. “To family, to anniversary surprises, and to finally having a Coach on the team who knows how to handle a defensive line.”
The table erupts in laughter and the clatter of silverware. You look over at Yoongi, who is currently being grilled by your dad about the Ravens' season while your mom piles a mountain of potatoes onto his plate.
Yeah, he's fitting right in.
The dining room is nothing but clinking silverware and overlapping conversations. Your mom is in her element, organizing the flow of food, while Nick and Sarah are already debating which old jazz records they’re going to hunt for next.
Your dad, however, has pivoted from basketball to home maintenance, leaning back in his chair as he points a fork in your direction.
"So," he says. "That radiator still acting up? Last time I was over, it sounded like a steam engine trying to escape through the wall."
You feel Yoongi’s attention shift toward you instantly. He pauses with a forkful of roast chicken halfway to his mouth, his dark eyes narrowing slightly.
"Wait, what’s wrong with your radiator?" Yoongi asks.
"Nothing," you say quickly, waving a hand dismissively. "It’s just… temperamental."
"It’s not temperamental, it’s possessed," Chris chimes in, grinning.
"If it’s making noise, there’s air in the lines or the valve is shot. Why haven't you asked your maintenance man to fix it?" Yoongi sets his fork down entirely now, turning in his chair to look at you.
"Oh, my maintenance guy? Yeah, he’s great. His favorite fix for everything is 'wait and see if it stops.' He's useless, Yoongi." You let out a dry, unamused laugh, reaching for your wine glass.
"So you're just living with it?" Yoongi’s brow furrows. "You can't leave a steam radiator banging like that. It'll blow a seal eventually."
"I have a system!" You protest, while shaking your head. "I don’t just leave it. I have a very specific, technical approach."
"And what's that?" Your dad asks, looking amused.
"I kick it," you say simply. "I give it one good, solid boot right at the base until the clanking stops. Works every time. It’s like a reset button."
The table goes quiet for a heartbeat before Nick loses it, leaning back and laughing. Your dad just shakes his head, sighing into his beer. Yoongi, however, doesn't laugh. He just stares at you, a mixture of disbelief and genuine concern on his face.
"You kick it," he repeats flatly.
"With feeling," you clarify, giving him a smug little nod. "I find that if I really put my back into it, it stays quiet for at least three hours."
Yoongi doesn’t look amused. He looks like he’s mentally drafting a repair plan and a lecture at the same time.
“You kick a pressurized heating system,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to confirm he heard you correctly and not something completely unhinged.
“It’s not that serious,” you argue, though your confidence wavers under his stare. “It just… clanks. And then I kick it. And then it doesn't make any noise.”
“That is not a fix,” he says, leaning closer, voice low but firm.
Chris and Elly laugh into their drinks causing you to glare at them.
“Your mother used to smack the thermostat with a wooden spoon. Didn’t fix a thing, but it made her feel better.” Your dad nods, half-concerned, half-entertained.
“It works,” you insist, pointing your fork at Yoongi now. “You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.”
“I’m not mad,” Yoongi replies, shaking his head. “I’m trying to figure out how you haven’t either broken your foot or made it worse.”
You look around at your family, looking for some to come to your defense. However, they all seem amused by this conversation.
“Alright,” he says, picking his fork back up like he’s made a decision. “I’m coming over tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” You blink
“Tomorrow,” he repeats. “I’ll check the valve, and see what's going on. If it’s knocking, it’s fixable. You don’t need to go to war with it every night when it's cold.”
“Oh, I like him.” Your mom hums approvingly from across the table.
“To coach fixing infrastructure now.” Chris raises his glass again.
“You don’t have to…” You narrow your eyes at Yoongi, but there’s no real heat behind it.
“I know,” he cuts in gently. “I want to.”
Across the table, Nicky, who has clearly been listening this entire time leans forward with wide eyes.
“Can I come watch?” He asks.
"It’s a radiator repair, kid, not a monster truck rally. There’s going to be zero explosions and a lot of me explaining why your aunt shouldn't be allowed near heavy machinery." Yoongi lets out a breath that’s half-sigh and half-chuckle, looking at Nicky’s eager face.
"But there's gonna be tools, right?" Nicky asks, his chin resting on his hand. "And maybe some gross water?"
"Tools? Yes. Gross water? If Sunshine has been kicking it as hard as she says, probably," Yoongi says, casting a side-eye back to you. "Fine. You can come. But you're my apprentice. That means you hold the flashlight and you don't repeat any of the words I might say if the valve is rusted shut."
"Deal!" Nicky chirps, looking absolutely thrilled at the prospect of a manly afternoon of plumbing.
The next morning starts with the sound of Yoongi muttering a profanity under his breath before you finish your first cup of coffee. Your studio apartment is small enough that every noise carries. Especially when one of those noises is metal clanging against old pipes. From the kitchen, you watch him crouch low by the radiator, the sleeves of his black hoodie shoved up his forearms as he assesses the damage.
“Okay,” Yoongi says, with a sigh. “First of all? This thing is worse than I imagined.”
“It's not that bad,” you reply, blowing across the top of your mug but Yoongi doesn't look up.
“I…I can't …” he doesn't even try to finish his sentence.
Beside him, Nicky is kneeling on the hardwood floor clutching a flashlight with both hands despite the fact that it’s broad daylight.
“Coach,” he whispers dramatically. “Is that rust?”
“That is what happens when your aunt ignores problems.” Yoongi replies with equal seriousness
“I didn't ignore it,” you scoff. “I was able to get it to work.”
“You assaulted it with your foot. Please stop saying that like it's a certified technique.” He finally looks at you over his shoulder. “Okay, apprentice. Rule number one. Never force old plumbing.”
“Because it’ll break?” Nicky looks up curiously.
“Because then you cry and spend six hundred dollars.” Yoongi nods.
You lean against the counter, watching them work together. Nicky shines the flashlight exactly where Yoongi asks without complaint, occasionally handing him tools when asked. Yoongi stays patient through all of it. He explains valves, trapped air, and pipes. He never once talks down to him and Nicky absolutely eats it up.
“So Sunshine's solution,” Yoongi says as he carefully loosens a valve. “Was apparently violence.” You call out that it worked, but Yoongi shoots back. “For three hours.”
A sharp hiss suddenly cuts through the apartment.
“WHOA.” Nicky gasps
Steam sputters from the valve followed by a nasty burst of brown water that splashes into the little metal pan Yoongi shoves underneath just in time.
“Oh, that’s disgusting,” you say immediately, but Nicky looks delighted, declaring the mess awesome.
Yoongi laughs under his breath, shaking his head as he finishes the job. Ten minutes later, the radiator falls silent. Yoongi straightens slowly from where he’s crouched, flexing his fingers once before tapping the side of the metal lightly with his wrench.
“There,” he says. “Fixed.”
“That’s it? No kicking required?” You stare at the radiator and then narrow your eyes suspiciously.
“Absolutely no kicking required,” he tells you.
“Coach won,” Nicky announces with a proud smile on his face. You mutter that you hate both of them, but Yoongi replies automatically.
“You love us.” The words slip out so naturally that the room stills for half a second afterward. Yoongi freezes too, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
Nicky remains oblivious, still peering at the radiator.
“Can I touch it?” He asks.
“No,” both you and Yoongi say immediately.
“Wow,” Nicky says. “You guys are getting creepy coordinated.”
Yoongi remains frozen for a beat longer than necessary, his hand still hovering near the wrench, before he clears his throat and begins methodically packing his tools. The heavy clink of metal against metal fills the silence. He doesn't look at you as he speaks, his focus entirely on the latch of his toolbox.
“Since I’ve already got the toolbox here and the apprentice is motivated,” he says, nodding toward Nicky. "Is there anything else in this death trap that needs fixing?”
“Nope. I think you’ve reached your quota for the day. Everything else is in working order.” You look around nonchalantly.
Yoongi finally looks up, his eyes narrowing as he scans the small kitchen behind you. He lets out a dry, skeptical hum.
“You lie,” he says simply. He stands up and walks over to the counter. Before you can protest, he reaches past you and catches the edge of the upper cupboard door, giving it a light tug. The hinge groans, and the door hangs at a slight angle. “Don't think I haven’t noticed your cupboard doors?”
“It adds character,” you argue.
“It adds a headache,” he counters, his thumb tracing the loose metal of the hinge. He looks back at his toolbox, then sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “I can align these, but I’m going to need a specific set of wood screws to really bite into this particle board. These are stripped to hell.”
“Do we have to go to the store, Coach?” Nicky looks up from the radiator, his eyes bright with the prospect of another mission.
“Depends. Does your aunt want to keep her character, or does she want to be able to open her cabinet without worrying it will fall off?” Yoongi looks at you, a challenge dancing in his expression.
“Fine. If it means you’ll stop annoying me, go ahead. Fix the cabinets.” You sigh.
“Good choice,” he says, before looking down at his sidekick. “Alright, apprentice, let’s do an inventory. We need to see exactly what we’re dealing with before we hit the store.”
Nicky scrambles up from the floor, his energy instantly renewed. He follows Yoongi into the tiny kitchen area, and for the next five minutes, the two of them swing each door open and shut. Nicky stands by, reporting the wiggle factor of every hinge.
“This one is holding on by a literal thread, Coach,” Nicky announces, pointing to the door above the sink.
“Standard length won’t work here. The holes are too worn out. We’ll need something wider. Maybe a number eight with a deeper thread to catch the wood.” He looks at Nicky, who is nodding as if he understands everything. “Got that?”
“Got it,” Nicky says firmly.
“Alright, let’s go” Yoongi stands up straight, wiping a smudge of grey dust off his palm onto his jeans. He grabs his keys and his phone from the counter, then tilts his head toward the door.
The door shuts behind them, leaving the apartment in silence. You’re left standing in your kitchen, staring at a radiator that isn't clanking and cabinet doors that aren't rattling…at least, not for long.
Walking over to the window, you watch them walk to the car. Nicky is practically skipping, gesturing wildly as his mouth moves a mile a minute. Yoongi is listening, his head tilted toward the boy.
The you love us comment still hangs in the air. It came out of him way too easily. Too natural. You don't know if it was one of those meaningless things that people say when they aren't thinking. Or…. if he just didn't filter it out in time. Whatever it was, all you knew was, you kind of felt the same.
However, you don't know if you can actually say it back.
Not yet.
About forty minutes later, the sound of heavy boots and high-pitched chatter announces their return. The door swings open, and Nicky enters first, carrying a small paper bag like it’s a chest of gold.
"We got them!" Nicky shouts. "Coach also bought me a drink because I remembered the screw size!"
Yoongi follows behind, a new set of hinges and a box of screws tucked under his arm. He looks at you, his gaze lingering just a second too long before he moves toward the kitchen. "He’s got a good memory," Yoongi says, his voice a bit more guarded.
You fold your arms across your chest, trying to ignore the small, stupid warmth that spreads through you at the sight of them returning together like a tiny construction crew.
“Congratulations,” you say dryly as Nicky proudly sets the paper bag on the counter. “You two survived a hardware store.”
“It was intense,” Yoongi replies, already unloading supplies. “There were at least four different screw lengths. I almost lost him in aisle seven.”
“I was comparing hinge quality,” Nicky argues immediately.
“Without supervision.” Yoongi looks at him.
“I was conducting research.” Nicky rolls his eyes and you smile.
“Alright, apprentice. Hand me the Phillips head.” Yoongi huffs out a quiet laugh under his breath before crouching down beside the lower cabinets.
Nicky passes it over instantly. You watch the two of them settle into an easy rhythm again like they’ve been doing this forever. Yoongi removes the old hinge carefully, explaining each step as he goes while Nicky listens with complete concentration.
“See this?” Yoongi says, holding up one of the stripped screws between two fingers. “This is why the door sags. The threads stopped catching the wood, so every time Y/N slammed the cabinet…”
“I did not slam them.” You cross your arms.
“...the hinge pulled looser.” He continues ignoring you.
“Structural failure.” Nicky nods seriously.
“Exactly.” Yoongi points at your nephew.
You stare at them from your spot against the counter. This should feel ridiculous. Instead, your apartment feels… full.
Not physically. Your studio is still tiny and always full. There are still only a few feet between your couch and the kitchen. Your radiator still looks ancient. One of your dining chairs still wobbles if you lean too far left.
However, somehow the space feels warmer with Yoongi sitting cross-legged on your kitchen floor and Nicky beside him asking eighty-seven questions.
The sound of the drill whirs briefly.
“Okay,” Yoongi says. “Test it.”
Nicky grabs the cabinet door carefully and opens it.
Closes it.
“WHOA.” His eyes widen.
“It’s a cabinet, Nicky.” You snort.
“It’s a smooth cabinet,” he corrects.
The next ten minutes turn into a full apartment-wide repair spree.
Apparently once Yoongi starts fixing things, he cannot stop.
The loose drawer in your kitchenette? Fixed.
The crooked coat hook by the door? Straightened.
And through all of it, you mostly just watch. At one point, Yoongi stands on a chair adjusting the cabinet alignment while Nicky steadies the seat dramatically.
“Tiny adjustment,” Yoongi mutters.
“You’re drifting left, Coach.” Nicky warns.
“I’m aware.” Yoongi replies.
“You’re still drifting.” Nicky points out
“You wanna do this?” Yoongi looks down at him
“Kind of.” Nicky nods.
You laugh before you can stop yourself and both of them look over immediately. Yoongi’s expression softens the second he hears it and something about that nearly knocks the breath out of you. He looks comfortable here.
Truly comfortable.
Like he belongs in your cluttered little apartment fixing crooked cabinet doors while your nephew hands him tools and you stand barefoot in the kitchen drinking coffee. Yoongi tightens the last screw, then hops down from the chair with a satisfied nod.
“There,” he says. “Your kitchen no longer sounds like it’s falling apart.”
"I don’t know what I’m going to do now. How will I know I'm home if the radiator isn't screaming and the cabinets aren't threatening to fall off the wall?" You let out a long, dramatic sigh.
"You'll manage," Yoongi says, as he steps closer to return the chair to its proper place. He brushes a stray bit of wood shaving off your counter with the side of his hand. "And if you get lonely, you can always just kick the wall."
"Ha. Ha." You roll your eyes.
"Hey, Coach?" Nicky asks, already lugging the toolbox toward the door. "Can we go get pizza now? You said if we finished the structural overhaul before noon, we could get the kind with the stuffed crust."
Yoongi checks his watch, then looks at you, an unasked question in his eyes. The you love us comment from earlier is still hovering in the air between you unacknowledged, but definitely not forgotten.
"Stuffed crust was the deal," Yoongi confirms, though he doesn't look away from you. "What do you think? Can you handle a pizza run?"
"Oh, I'm starving," you admit, pushing off the counter and grabbing your shoes. "But only if I get to pick the sides."
"Fair enough," Yoongi says. As you head for the door, he lets Nicky scramble out into the hallway first. He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, waiting for you to pass. As you do, he leans in, his breath warm against your ear. "By the way," he whispers, "I meant it."
"Meant what?" You freeze, your heart skipping a beat.
"What I said earlier," he says. "About you loving us. Because I'm starting to think the feeling is pretty mutual."
He doesn't wait for you to stumble over a response. He just gives you a quick, wink and heads down the stairs after Nicky
Nicky is halfway through the front door before either you or Sarah can get a word in.
“Mom…Mom, Coach let me use the power drill and Sunshine's radiator exploded brown water and we fixed a structural failure.” Nicky says in one breath.
“It did not explode,” you call after him as he disappears into the house.
“It basically exploded,” Nicky argues from somewhere deeper inside.
Sarah laughs softly, shaking her head as she steps aside to let the screen door swing shut behind him.
“So,” she says, folding her arms loosely across her chest. “I’m guessing the apartment survived?”
“Barely.” You lean against the porch railing. “Apparently I’ve been living in what Yoongi called a preventable maintenance disaster. He thinks I should sue the maintenance company.”
“You probably wouldn't get much." Sarah snorts.
You smile faintly, but it fades fast. With Nicky gone and the noise no longer distracting you
the weight of earlier comes rushing back.
Sarah notices immediately.
“Okay,” she says carefully. “What happened?”
You stare out toward the street. Yoongi’s car is still parked at the curb. You can see him through the windshield, head tipped back against the seat while he waits for you. Probably giving you a minute with Sarah on purpose.
“I think I’m in trouble,” you say quietly.
“What kind of trouble?” Sarah’s brows pull together instantly.
“The emotional kind.” You let out one short, nervous laugh.
“Oh,” Sarah says immediately, relaxing. “That kind.”
“He said he loves me.” You rub your palms against your jeans before speaking again.
Sarah goes completely still.
“Well…not really,” you correct quickly. “He heavily implied it.”
“What exactly does ‘heavily implied’ mean?” She asks
“We were leaving the apartment and he said he meant what he said earlier.” You groan, dropping your forehead briefly against the porch post.
“What did he say earlier?” She questions and you hesitate
“He joked that I loved him after I was complaining,” you admit. “And then before we left he said…” Your voice drops softer. “‘I’m starting to think the feeling is pretty mutual.’”
Sarah blinks once.
Then twice.
“And you’re calling that an implication?” She asks.
“Oh my god, Sarah.” You sigh.
“No, seriously,” she says, trying and failing to suppress a smile. “That man practically put up a billboard. I’m just trying to understand how your brain translated that into uncertainty.”
“I don’t know. Maybe because people don’t just… say things like that,” you say trying to defend yourself.
"He isn't 'people,' Sunshine. He’s not the … ones who came before him." She steps closer, lowering her voice.
"I know he isn't," you whisper, your grip tightening on the porch railing until your knuckles turn white. "That’s the problem. It’s so easy with him that it feels dangerous. I keep waiting for something to go wrong. I keep waiting for the moment where he stops being the guy who fixes radiators and starts being... someone else."
"He’s been around long enough now. He’s been in this house, he’s been with Nicky. I would have seen something. Your brothers would have seen something. Has he ever made you feel like you had to hide?" Sarah asks.
"No," you admit. "Never."
"Then maybe the problem isn't him," Sarah says gently. "Maybe the problem is that you’re still braced for a hit that isn't coming."
You look out at the car again. Yoongi has shifted. He’s looking at his phone now, shoulders completely relaxed. He looks so solid. So permanent like he's always promising you.
“I don't know how to say it back to him,” you tell her.
Sarah lets out a soft, sympathetic sigh, her hand coming to rest over yours on the railing. She doesn't push. She knows the weight you're carrying isn't just about Yoongi. It’s about the scars that haven't quite faded.
"You don't have to give him a grand speech, Sunshine," Sarah says. "You don’t even have to say the words today if they’re stuck in your throat. Look at what he’s doing. He fixed your radiator and taught your nephew how to use tools. He speaks in actions."
She tilts her head toward the car, where Yoongi is still waiting, patient as can be.
"Maybe you just say it back the same way," she suggests. "Let him in. Stop waiting for the other Yoongi to show up, because I don't think he exists. Just go be with him." You take a shaky breath, nodding as you pull away from the railing. "Now go. Before Nicky runs back out here convinces him that ice cream is a mandatory follow-up to stuffed crust."
Yoongi looks up from his phone as you pull the passenger side door open, his expression instantly shifting from that neutral, bored mask to something warm and attentive. He doesn't ask what you and Sarah were talking about. He just reaches over and turns the music down a notch.
"Ready?" He asks.
"Yeah," you say, though your voice is a little breathier than you'd like.
You reach for your seatbelt, but your hands are still a bit unsteady. Instead of starting the car, he shifts in his seat, leaning toward you.
"Hey," he says softly. "You're shaking a little bit."
"No I'm not," you lie, giving him a weak smile.
Yoongi doesn't buy it for a second. He reaches out, his hand hovering for a beat before he gently tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger there, his thumb grazing your temple.
“I didn’t say it to freak you out,” he says finally. “I just…” His jaw shifts slightly as he looks down at the steering wheel for a second. “Got tired of pretending I wasn’t thinking it.”
"I know," you whisper. "It’s just... saying the words scares me."
You look at him, really look at him, searching for the flick of impatience or the cold withdrawal you’ve spent years conditioned to expect. But he doesn't move. He doesn't pull his hand away.
"It scares me," you repeat, more firmly this time. "But it doesn't mean..."
You trail off, the rest of the sentence gets stuck in your throat. It doesn't mean I don't feel it. It doesn't mean I'm not already halfway there. It doesn't mean I haven't spent the last hour wondering how I got lucky enough to find a man who fixes my kitchen and treats my nephew like his own little shadow.
Yoongi watches you, his gaze steady and patient, absorbing every bit of the conflict playing out on your face. He doesn’t look like he’s waiting for a win or a confession. He looks like a man who has already settled into his feelings and is perfectly content to let you catch up at your own pace.
"You don't have to say it yet," he says.
"You're not... you're not mad?" You look up at him.
"Mad?" He lets out a soft, dry laugh, his thumb finally dropping from your temple to catch your chin, tilting your face up just a fraction more. "Doll, I’m starting to understand how you work."
“What do you mean by that?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
“I mean,” he says, finally dropping his hand. “I know you’re used to carrying everything yourself. But I also know that you’re letting me in,” he continues, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Even if you aren't ready to say it out loud yet, you’re showing me.”
“I am?” You ask, your heart doing a strange, fluttering flip in your chest.
“Yeah, you are,” Yoongi says softly. “You let me into your apartment to fix that disaster of a radiator. The old Y/N would have rather let the steam blow a hole through the wall before asking for help, let alone letting someone take over. But you let me handle it.”
You look down and play with your fingers.
“You’re relying on me, Doll. You’re letting me be there for you, and you’re letting yourself count on the fact that I’m actually going to show up. To me, that means a hell of a lot more than you forcing out a phrase because you feel pressured. Your actions are telling me everything I need to know.”
Sarah was right. He speaks in actions, and he’s been listening to yours all along.
“So don’t stress about the words,” Yoongi whispers, reaching over to wrap his fingers around your unsteady hands, squeezing it gently. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
The tight knot of anxiety that had been coiled in your chest for years finally, truly, begins to unravel. You look down at your intertwined fingers, letting out a breath you feel like you’ve been holding since…. since you don't know when.
"Thank you," you say softly
They carry the full weight of everything you can't quite articulate yet. How grateful you are for his patience, for his insight, and for the effortless way he has woven himself into your life.
"Anytime, Doll," he says softly.
As the car pulls away from the curb, navigating the quiet, familiar streets of your brother's neighborhood, you lean your head back against the headrest. The future still feels overwhelming sometimes when you think of you and Yoongi. However, that uncertainty doesn't necessarily scare you. You don't need to brace yourself for a hit that isn't coming. You just have to let yourself look forward to tomorrow.
The middle school auditorium is already unbearably loud by the time your family finds a row together near the center section. Programs are crumpled under shoes, folding seats slam every three seconds, and somewhere a child is repeatedly testing a trumpet mouthpiece with the enthusiasm of a dying goose.
“Jesus Christ,” Chris mutters, wincing as another shrill note pierces the room. “Is this what public education sounds like now?”
Up on stage, students in oversized black concert uniforms shuffle nervously into position while teachers speed walk between music stands with the exhausted expressions of people who haven’t sat down since August. Nicky appears near the back row of percussion, craning his neck immediately once he spots all of you.
“There he is!” Sarah waves enthusiastically.
Nicky lights up and nearly misses sitting on the drum stool entirely.
“Atta boy!” Nick bellows loudly enough that several parents turn around.
“Nick,” Sarah hisses. “Indoor voice.”
“What? He looked nervous.” Your brother defends himself.
“He looks nervous now because you screamed at him.” His wife laughs.
Yoongi sits beside you, one arm stretched casually along the back of your seat while he studies the stage with surprising focus.
“What instrument is that?” Your dad asks suddenly, pointing toward a tiny silver instrument being assembled by a painfully serious sixth grader.
“It’s a piccolo.” Yoongi glances over.
“The tiny flute?” Your dad squints.
“Basically,” Yoongi says. “Just louder and more aggressive.”
“Damn. Does Yoongi know everything?” Chris slowly turns toward him.
“Unfortunately,” you answer, making Yoongi snort quietly beside you.
“Oh!” Your mom says suddenly. “Sunshine, remember when you took band class?”
“No.” Your eyes close immediately.
“Yes!” Your mom says nodding her head. “You played the flute.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You deny.
Nick starts laughing before she even finishes the sentence because he already knows exactly where this is headed.
“Oh my god. The Leo incident?” Sarah covers her face.
“What Leo incident?” Yoongi asks, turning toward you.
“There’s nothing to elaborate on.” You look at him.
“There absolutely is,” Chris says, sitting forward eagerly. “You got kicked out of band class.”
“I did not get kicked out.” You shake your head.
“You absolutely got suspended from school.” Nick adds.
“Temporarily removed,” you argue.
“For assault,” Nick clarifies helpfully.
“You assaulted someone with a flute?” Yoongi's eyes are darting around to each family member who is nodding their heads.
“Well,” you say defensively. “He snapped my bra.”
“You hit a boy with a flute?” Yoongi asks, visibly trying not to laugh.
“He reached over during rehearsal and snapped my bra strap hard enough to leave a mark!” You whisper aggressively. “So I reacted.”
“You bent the flute,” Chris says.
“It was obviously cheap!” You hiss.
“You broke it over his shoulder.” Your mother adds.
“He was being disrespectful.” You glare.
“She stood up in the middle of ‘Hot Cross Buns’ and swung like Babe Ruth.” Nick is practically cry laughing now.
“The band teacher called and said, ‘Y/N has strong feelings about personal boundaries.’” Sarah wipes tears from under her eyes.
“I had to pay forty dollars for school property damage.” Your mom sighs dramatically.
“He shouldn’t have touched me,” you mutter.
“Oh my god,” Yoongi says, fully laughing now. “You’ve been violent your entire life.”
Yoongi’s arm shifts along the back of your seat, his fingers dropping to lightly pinch the back of your neck. “First the radiator, now the woodwind section. Your entire history is just structural damage and assault.”
“I was defending my honor!” You protest, though your cheeks are burning as Chris and Nick high-five across the aisle. “And for the record, the school band director was a coward. He should have suspended Leo.”
“Oh, Leo didn't come back to school for three days,” your dad says, checking his watch. “I made sure of that.”
Before you can formulate a proper retort, the house lights finally dim. A collective sigh of relief ripples through the crowd as the trumpet-testing stops, replaced by the chaotic rustle of middle-schoolers trying to sit up straight at the exact same time. Yoongi leans in close, his breath brushing the side of your neck as the audience grows quiet.
“So,” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration beneath the sound of the conductor stepping up to the podium. “A flute, huh?”
“Drop it, Coach,” you whisper, staring straight ahead at the stage.
“I’m just saying,” he chuckles. “Remind me never to mess with your straps. I like my shoulders uninjured.”
“Keep talking and I’ll find a piccolo,” you shoot back, though a helpless smile tugs at your lips.
Up on stage, the conductor raises his baton. The performance is exactly what you expect. It's a slightly chaotic, intensely enthusiastic wall of sound that is about forty percent out of tune but one hundred percent loud. Down in the back row, Nicky is taking his job as the auxiliary percussionist very seriously, staring down his sheet music with the exact same intense, hyper-focused expression he uses on the basketball court.
When it’s finally time for the big cymbal crash at the climax of the piece, Nicky brings the two metal plates together with enough force to make the front row flinch. He catches Yoongi’s eye from across the auditorium and gives a tiny, proud nod. Yoongi just smirks, lifting a hand in a brief, two-finger salute.
Sitting there in the dark, sandwiched between your brother’s loud laughter and Yoongi’s steady presence, the last lingering bit of that old, defensive armor inside you finally completely dissolves. You don't have to watch your back here. You don't have to brace for the hit.
As the auditorium erupts into thunderous applause, you don't even hesitate. You reach out in the dark, sliding your hand up into Yoongi’s, locking your fingers with his.
Yoongi doesn't look over, but his grip tightens instantly, strong and sure, holding on with no intention of ever letting go.
You’re slouched dramatically in the passenger seat, arms folded tight across your chest.
“I just want it officially documented,” you say, staring out the window. “That I think this is a terrible idea.”
“You’ve said that four times.” Beside you, Yoongi snorts quietly.
“Because you aren’t taking me seriously.” You point accusingly at him. “Are you absolutely sure you want to voluntarily triple date with my brothers?”
“Doll,” he says. “I survived much worse with your family. I can handle this triple date."
“That’s not the issue.” You groan. “The issue is that Nick and Chris together become twelve-year-olds with credit cards.”
“I highly doubt it's that bad,” he laughs.
“When mom and dad aren't around,” you say. “And Nick doesn't have to be the responsible dad. He and Chris blow spit balls at each other. It's that bad.”
Yoongi just chuckles, as he cuts the wheel, pulling the SUV into the neon-lit parking lot of the bowling alley. The massive, faded plastic bowling pin atop the building’s sign hums with a faint, buzzing click, casting a retro pink-and-blue glow across the asphalt.
"I'm a basketball coach, Doll," he says, shifting into park and cutting the engine. "I deal with rowdy, undisciplined boys. I think I can handle two grown men who are just excited to eat nachos without sharing with a kid."
"They are the kids, Yoongi," you mutter.
Before you can even reach for your door handle, a loud, rhythmic thumping sounds against your passenger window. You look over to see Chris with his face pressed entirely flat against the glass, his nose distorted into a grotesque pig snout as he aggressively wiggles his eyebrows at you. Right behind him, Nick is leaning against a nearby parked car, holding a giant plastic cup of soda and filming the entire display on his phone.
"See?" You say, gesturing wildly toward the window. "Exhibits A and B. We can still back out. The car is running. We can hit the highway and never look back."
Yoongi doesn't move to start the engine. He just stares at Chris through the glass for a long, unblinking three seconds, an amused, completely unfazed expression on his face. Then, he reaches across the console, his large hand capturing yours and squeezing your fingers.
"Not a chance, Doll," he murmurs. "I want to see if your bowling form involves as much violence as your radiator repair."
He winks, pops his door open, and steps out into the cool evening air.
By the time you open the door, Chris has unpeeled his face from the glass, completely unbothered by his lack of dignity, and is currently trying to initiate a complex, multi-step handshake with Yoongi that he clearly invented five minutes ago.
"Coach! You made it," Chris boisterously declares, stumbling on the third step of his handshake before just settling for a hearty slap on Yoongi's shoulder. "I told Nick you'd show up. Elly tried to bet me twenty bucks that Sunshine would convince you to kidnap her and skip out, but I knew you would show up."
"I considered it," Yoongi admits smoothly, though his arm instantly finds its rightful place, wrapping around your waist and pulling you securely against his side. "But she promised me I'd get to watch Nick blow spitballs, so I couldn't pass that up."
Nick lets out a booming laugh, tucking his phone into his pocket as Sarah and Elly finally walk over from the entrance of the alley, both of them wearing identical expressions of deep, long-suffering solidarity.
“Can we please move this circus inside before security thinks Chris is trying to break into a car with his face?” Sarah asks, stepping up to the group and giving you a warm, knowing look.
“Hey, that was art!” Chris protests, but Elly’s already grabbing him by the elbow, steering him toward the double doors.
“Come on, Babe Ruth,” Elly teases, glancing back at you with a grin. “Let’s go see if you can channel some of that flute-swinging energy into a strike.”
Yoongi chuckles, his hand sliding from your waist down to guide you forward, his thumb rubbing comforting circles against your hip. The moment you step through the doors, the Friday night bowling alley hits you. The thunderous crash of pins, the smell of fried food and cheap wax, and the neon lights tracing the lanes in electric blues and purples.
“Alright, here’s the lineup,” Nick announces, pointing a finger at the screen. “We’re doing Guys vs. Girls. Standard scoring. No bumpers, because we are adults, and if Chris throws it into the gutter, he deserves the emotional damage.”
“I have perfect form, Nick,” Chris fires back, already picking out a bright lime-green fourteen-pound ball. “Just watch.”
The competition sparks instantly. Chris steps up first, doing a theatrical, slow-motion approach that involves an unnecessary amount of hip swaying, before releasing the ball. It hooks beautifully for a solid strike.
“Your turn, Coach! Let’s see what the athletic department has got!” He turns around, screaming in victory, and immediately points at Yoongi.
Yoongi doesn’t even look fazed. He picks up a sleek black ball, steps up to the lane, and moves with that same lazy, effortless grace you’ve come to love. Without any dramatic flair, he releases the ball. It glides down the wood perfectly straight, crashing into the center pin with a deafening crack. Strike.
“Okay. Okay, I see you, Yoongi.” Nick lets out a low whistle.
While the guys quickly devolve into a highly competitive, trash-talking huddle. You, Sarah, and Elly settle into the plastic curved booth, completely content to ignore the scoreboard.
“Elly,” you say, watching Chris and Nick immediately start arguing over a bowling ball. “Remind me why we agreed to this?”
“Because watching men get emotionally invested in recreational activities is free entertainment,” Elly answers easily.
Beside you, Sarah is already laughing into her drink while Yoongi stands near the ball return listening to Nick insist the lane is tilted slightly left. His expression is calm, but you can already tell he’s enjoying himself way too much.
“Oh no,” you mutter.
“What?” Sarah follows your line of sight.
“He’s bonding with them outside of basketball.” You groan.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Sarah says.
“It is a bad thing. They’re going to start a group chat.” You nod.
“You say that,” Elly adds, looking over at you. “Like they haven’t already.”
“Oh my god.” Your stomach drops.
“Too late, Sunshine. Coach is already in the brothers chat.” Chris immediately points at you from across the lane.
“You let him in your chat?!” You gasp.
“He earned it,” Nick says, waving you off as Yoongi looks entirely too pleased with himself.
The front doors open.
At first, you barely notice. It's just another group walking beneath the neon lights and noise.
Someone laughs loudly near the arcade machines. A bowling ball crashes down two lanes over.
Chris is still talking.
Yoongi is reaching for another ball.
Normal. Everything is normal.
Until it isn’t.
Your eyes catch on a familiar profile near the check-in counter and the entire world stops.
Your lungs forget how to work.
No.
No no no….
He’s older now. Broader maybe with a different haircut. However, you know him instantly.
Every nerve ending in your body recognizes him before your brain can even catch up.
Your ex.
The one that led you into a false sense of safety and snatched it all away. He’s laughing at something the cashier says, completely casual, completely unaware, digging through his wallet for cash like he isn’t the reason you still wake up gasping some nights. Like one of your last memories isn't of him with his hands wrapped around your throat staring at his empty eyes.
Your hearing dulls.
The bowling alley noise fades away.
You don’t realize you’ve gone completely still until Sarah’s voice cuts in sharply beside you.
“Sunshine?” Sarah asks, but you can’t answer.
Across the lane, Nick notices first.
Then Chris.
The change in both of them is immediate and terrifying. Every trace of humor moments before vanishes. Nick’s shoulders lock as Chris goes pale with rage so fast it almost looks unreal.
“What?” Yoongi asks immediately, looking between all of you.
“Oh you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Chris finally says.
“Chris.” Elly is on her feet instantly.
“No.” He tries to walk around her.
“No. Absolutely not.” Sarah jumps up.
“Sarah,” Nick says, trying to join your little brother.
“That’s him,” Chris says, voice shaking violently. “That’s him.”
“WE ARE NOT DOING THIS HERE!” She hisses, grabbing Nick's arm to stop him.
Yoongi’s head snaps toward the entrance. Confusion flickers across his face first.
Then concern.
Then something darker when he looks back at you and sees absolutely nothing in your expression.
Because you’re gone.
Completely shut down.
Your hands are numb.
Your chest hurts.
You can’t hear your own heartbeat.
“Yoongi,” Sarah says, struggling with Nick. “Grab her, we are leaving.”
Yoongi doesn’t ask questions. The second Sarah’s voice cuts through the noise, his entire demeanor shifts from relaxed boyfriend to something sharp, alert, and intensely focused.
He doesn’t look back at the entrance. He doesn't look to see who or what your brothers are staring at with such sudden, volatile hatred. His eyes are solely on you, mapping the way the color has completely drained from your face, the way your fingers are locked so tightly into your palms your knuckles are stark white.
"Hey," Yoongi says. He steps directly into your line of sight, blocking out the rest of the bowling alley, the neon lights, and the distant figure by the counter. "Doll. Look at me."
You can't.
"I've got you," he murmurs. He doesn't touch you roughly. He just wraps one large, solid hand around your wrist, his thumb pressing firmly into your pulse point, while his other arm comes around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. "We're going outside. Right now."
He guides you forward, moving with a sudden, immovable force that cuts straight through the crowd. You feel like a ghost inhabiting your own body, your feet moving mechanically only because Yoongi's arm is practically carrying you, shielding you from the rest of the room as he pushes open the heavy glass doors of the bowling alley.
The cool night air hits you instantly, but it doesn't clear the fog. It just makes you shiver.
"Over here," Yoongi says, steering you toward his SUV parked beneath the buzzing, pink-and-blue neon sign. He opens the passenger door, lifting you slightly to get you into the seat. "Sit down. Breathe, Doll. Just breathe."
Behind you, the heavy glass doors slam open again.
Nick and Chris come bursting out into the parking lot, their boots slamming against the asphalt. Chris is completely unhinged, his chest heaving, his face twisted into an expression of pure, unadulterated rage that you have never seen on your little brother before. He’s pacing a frantic line near the hood of the car, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists.
Nick isn't pacing. He’s standing entirely still, but the protective tension in his shoulders has returned tenfold, his jaw locked so tight the muscle is jumping. He looks like a man waiting for a signal to go to war.
"Nick! Chris! Stop!" Sarah’s voice is frantic as she and Elly sprint out behind them, the heavy doors rattling on their hinges. Sarah grabs Nick by the meat of his bicep, her fingers digging in as she forces him to look at her. "Look at me! We are not doing this here! You are not going back in there!"
"Get off me, Sarah," Nick growls, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly low, guttural register. He tries to pull his arm away, his eyes fixed on the glass doors. "He's right there. He's right fucking there."
"I don't care!" Sarah shouts back, her voice cracking with a mixture of fear and authority. She plants herself directly in front of him, her hands flat against his chest. "Look at your sister! Look at what this is doing to her! Going in there and causing a scene is not going to help her!"
A few feet away, Elly throws herself in front of Chris, her hands reaching for his face to force his eyes off the building. "Chris, stop it! Think for one second! You're going to get yourself arrested!"
"I don't give a shit!" Chris roars, his voice echoing across the concrete lot. He's shaking violently, his breath coming in ragged, furious gasps. "He doesn't get to just exist like nothing happened!"
Yoongi stands by your open passenger door, his hand still resting on your shoulder, but his head is turning between your brothers. His dark eyes are narrowed, trying to piece together the fragments of a puzzle no one has ever handed him the pieces to.
"Nick," Yoongi cuts in, his voice slicing through the frantic shouting like a blade. It isn't loud, but it has the absolute authority of a coach on a court. "Chris. Someone tell me what the hell is going on right now."
No one answers him.
Chris is too far gone, his eyes wild as he glares at the glass doors, the neon light casting a sickening purple hue over his features. Nick is still straining against Sarah's grip, his breathing heavy and ragged.
"Hey!" Yoongi steps away from the door, his voice hardening as he takes a step toward Nick. "Talk to me. Who is in there? What are we dealing with?"
"Yoongi, just get her out of here," Sarah pleads, her eyes shiny with tears as she holds Nick back with everything she has. "Please. Just take her home. We'll handle them."
"I'm not leaving until I know why my girl just stopped breathing," Yoongi fires back. He looks back at you, then back at your brothers, his frustration peaking. "Who is he?!"
Chris doesn't answer. He lets out a raw, furious sound. A choked-off sob of pure, helpless rage and pivots on his heel.
CRACK.
With a violent, full-body swing, Chris brings his fist down squarely against the passenger side mirror of his own car parked next to Yoongi's. The plastic housing shatters with a loud crunch, pieces of black casing and shards of silvered glass raining down onto the dark asphalt.
"Christopher!" Elly screams, flinching back.
Chris just stands there, his chest heaving, his knuckles bleeding onto the concrete as he stares at the broken mirror, completely blind to the pain. Yoongi freezes, his eyes tracking the shattered glass on the ground, then slowly moves his gaze back to you, sitting frozen and pale in the passenger seat.
You didn't even react to that.
The sharp, violent crack of Chris’s fist shattering the mirror echoes through the concrete lot, instantly cutting through the frantic shouting. The sudden explosion of breaking plastic and glass acts like a bucket of ice water, snapping Nick out of his trance. His shoulders drop as he looks over at his younger brother.
"Chris!" Nick barks, his voice no longer a low growl, but sharp and alert.
He lunges away from Sarah, completely abandoning his stance toward the bowling alley doors. He covers the distance between them in two large strides, his hands coming down hard on Chris’s shoulders. Chris is tense, staring blankly at his bleeding knuckles and the ruined mirror, his breath hitching painfully in his chest.
"Hey, look at me. Look at me, Chris," Nick orders, his voice rough but steady as he forces his brother to turn around, effectively blocking his view of the building. He grabs Chris’s injured hand, swearing under his breath at the blood. "Elly, get the first-aid kit out of my trunk. Sarah, help her."
Elly doesn't hesitate, scrambling toward Nick's car while Sarah gives your brother a quick, tight nod, stepping in to help stabilize a visibly shaking Chris.
With his brothers temporarily contained, Nick moves, his face deadpan and pale under the buzzing neon lights as he locks eyes with Yoongi. The protective, big-brother authority radiates off him in waves. He points a firm, unyielding finger toward the inside of Yoongi’s SUV.
"Yoongi," Nick says, his voice dropping into a flat, urgent command. "Get her home. Get her out of here. Now."
Yoongi doesn’t budge. He’s still standing by your open passenger door, his jaw tightly set. His dark eyes dart from your bleeding brother to the shattered glass on the pavement, and then back to your completely silent, frozen form in the front seat. The total wall of silence from your family is pushing his patience to the absolute limit.
"I'm not driving anywhere until somebody gives me a straight answer," Yoongi demands. He steps toward your brother, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Who the hell is in there, Nick? Why did Chris just put his hand through a mirror? Talk to me."
"It doesn't matter," Nick snaps back, closing the distance between them until they are standing chest-to-chest, an unmovable wall of family defense. "It's not your problem right now. Your only job is to get my sister away from this place. Drive her home and don't stop until the door is locked behind you. Move!"
"It is my problem when she looks like she's going to faint!" Yoongi fires back. "I'm the one who has to take care of her, and I don't even know what I'm protecting her from! Tell me what happened!"
"Yoongi, please!" Sarah's voice cuts in from beside Chris, her eyes wide and pleading as she looks over her shoulder. "Just go! We will talk later, I promise. Just take care of Sunshine!"
Yoongi looks from Sarah’s frantic face back to Nick, whose expression remains a locked, iron vault. No one is going to tell him anything. Not tonight. The realization hits him like a physical blow, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitches violently in his cheek. He lets out a sharp, frustrated breath through his nose.
He doesn't waste another second arguing.
Yoongi pivots, turning his back on your brothers. He steps up to your open door, his expression instantly softening the moment his eyes land on you. He reaches in, his large, warm hand gently catching your chin, tilting your face up to look at him.
"Doll," he whispers, his voice a stark, gentle contrast to the storm raging in the parking lot. "Look at me. We're leaving, okay? I'm getting you out of here."
You nod.
Yoongi shuts your door firmly, the heavy thud cutting off the sound of Chris’s ragged breathing and the distant clink of the first-aid kit. He speed-walks around the hood of the SUV, yanking the driver’s side door open and throwing himself into the seat.
He fires up the engine, it roars to life beneath the pink-and-blue glow of the neon sign. Without a single glance back at the bowling alley or your family, Yoongi shifts into reverse, the tires chirping against the asphalt as he backs out of the space. Hitting the gas, he tears out of the parking lot and leaves the chaos behind in the dark.
Yoongi pulls into the parking lot of your apartment building. Beside him, you don’t move. You just stare blankly through the windshield at the dark brick siding of your building. The radiator inside is silent now, fixed and perfect, but the structural integrity of the building itself suddenly feels like a lie. Every single step up those stairs, every inch of that hallway, is stained. That apartment is where the safety collapsed. That is the place where his hands had been a suffocating weight around your throat, where the air had vanished, where you had stared into empty, unblinking eyes and realized you were entirely alone in the dark.
Your lungs seize up just looking at the front door.
"Doll," Yoongi says softly, his hand sliding across the center console to rest over your knee. His touch is warm, solid, and incredibly grounding, but it can’t stop the phantom chill creeping up your spine. "We're here. Let's get you inside."
"I can't go in there," you say.
Your voice is flat, a terrifying contrast to the sarcastic person who had been teasing him about bowling forms just an hour ago. Yoongi freezes, his dark eyes instantly locking onto the side of your face.
"What do you mean? What's wrong with the apartment?" He asks.
"I can't go in there," you repeat, your gaze fixed forward, staring at the dark glass of the main entrance like it’s a physical threat. "Not tonight. Just... take me back. Drop me off at Nick and Sarah's."
Yoongi’s brow furrows, his protective streak flaring up as he shifts in his seat, turning his whole body toward you. He still doesn't have the answers, but he can see the sheer, paralyzing terror locking your limbs in place.
"Hey, look at me," he coaxes gently, his hand moving from your knee to cup the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "If you don't want to be alone, that's fine. I’ll stay with you. I promise."
You slowly shake your head against his palm, the movement small and rigid.
"No," you whisper, a sudden, sharp tremor breaking through your flat tone. "No, Yoongi, you don't understand. I can't stay here tonight. Please."
Yoongi stares at you. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t demand the explanation that your brothers withheld. He just looks at your wide, haunted eyes and makes an immediate executive decision.
"Okay," he says. "Okay, we're not staying here. But I'm not dropping you off at Nick's house. Not with everything that just happened."
He pulls his hand back, gripping the gear shift and sliding the SUV back into drive.
"You're coming with me," Yoongi says firmly. "You're staying at my place."
"Yoongi, no," you protest, your voice finally finding a bit of friction against the numbness. You shake your head, pulling your eyes away from the window to look at his sharp profile. "You can't just take me to your place. It's too much."
"It's not too much," he says, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel.
"Jungkook and Jimin," you argue, your panic trying to find any logical foothold to keep from imposing on his life. "They live there too. They're your roommates. They aren't going to want me turning up at midnight ruining their weekend. I'm fine, just let me go to Nick's…"
"I don't care," Yoongi cuts in. His tone isn't angry, but it is completely final, leaving absolutely zero room for negotiation. He doesn't even look over as he takes a sharp left turn. "Jungkook and Jimin will understand, and even if they don't, it doesn't change a damn thing. You're staying with me tonight, Doll. End of story."
After about fifteen minutes of heavy, unbroken silence, the SUV slows down.
You look out the window, expecting a modest suburban block, but instead, Yoongi pulls up to a security gate. A tall, black iron fence stretches out into the darkness on either side, completely closed off from the rest of the city.
Yoongi presses the security code and the heavy iron gates swing open smoothly, letting the SUV roll through into a quiet, meticulously manicured gated community. The streets here are wide and lined with towering trees, the beautiful homes set back on pristine lawns with warm, expensive accent lighting illuminating their brick and stone facades. It is peaceful in a way that feels almost untouchable. A completely different world from the apartment you had just been terrified to enter.
Yoongi navigates the winding neighborhood streets, his expression neutral as he finally guides the car into a driveway. He cuts the engine, the sudden silence inside the cabin settling over both of you as the headlights fade against the dark garage doors.
Yoongi climbs out of the SUV and walks around to your side, opening the door before you can even reach for the handle. He doesn't say anything, just offers his hand, his large fingers closing securely around yours the second you take it. He keeps you tucked close to his side as he guides you up the stone walkway and unlocks the front door.
The house is quiet and remarkably clean
It feels safe.
"Yoongi? Is that you?" Jungkook’s voice drifts from down the hall, followed by the soft padding of socks on hardwood. He rounds the corner with a wide, teasing grin already plastered on his face, holding a half-eaten bag of chips. "Hey, look he decided to finally bring over?"
"Well, well, well…" Jimin appears right behind him, leaning against the doorframe with a playful smirk, ready to join in on the welcoming committee.
"Not tonight." Yoongi doesn't yell, but the sheer, low tone in his tone makes both Jungkook and Jimin freeze.
Jungkook’s smile drops instantly, his eyes darting from Yoongi’s rigid, protective posture down to where his hand is wrapped firmly around your trembling fingers. Jimin’s expression shifts just as fast, his sharp eyes immediately taking in the total lack of color in your face and the hollow, haunted look in your eyes.
Jungkook nods seriously, dropping his hands to his sides, while Jimin steps back into the shadows of the living room, all traces of teasing completely erased.
Yoongi doesn't stall. He keeps his hand locked in yours, guiding you past them and straight into his bedroom. The space is large, dominated by a neatly made king-sized bed, dark curtains keeping the room dim and peaceful.
"Sit down, Doll," he murmurs, gently pressing your shoulders until you sink onto the edge of the mattress.
You sit there, staring at the floorboards, the adrenaline finally starting to crash, leaving you utterly exhausted. Yoongi immediately moves to his dresser, pulling open drawers with a soft, methodical rhythm. He shifts through the fabric before turning back to you, holding a pair of soft, grey sweatpants with the drawstring pulled tight and one of his oversized, worn-in black hoodies.
He kneels down on the floor in front of you, setting the clothes on your lap.
"Change into these," he says softly, his hands coming up to rest gently on your knees. "They're clean. They'll be big on you, but they're warm. Take your time. I'll be right outside the door, okay? No one is coming in here but me."
The door clicks shut behind him. For a long minute, you just sit on the edge of the mattress, staring down at the soft fabric in your lap. The oversized black hoodie smells entirely like him. Mechanically, you pull off your stiff jeans and shirt, slipping into his clothes. The sweatpants bunch heavily around your ankles, and the sleeves of the hoodie swallow your hands completely.
You crawl under the heavy duvet, dragging it up to your chin, and curl onto your side. Your eyes stare blankly at the dark curtains, your mind spinning in a slow, exhausted circle until the door clicks open again.
Yoongi steps back inside, having changed into a simple black t-shirt and grey shorts. He stops a few feet from the bed, looking entirely unsure of what to do. He stands there in the dark, his hands hovering slightly at his sides, his dark eyes searching your face under the covers, terrified of pressing too hard or doing the wrong thing.
"Doll?" he whispers, his voice tentative. "You okay?"
"Lay with me," you whisper.
The hesitation drains out of him instantly. Yoongi moves quietly, lifting the heavy covers and sliding into the bed beside you. He doesn't immediately pull you into him. Instead, he waits, giving you the control. When you instantly shift backward, pressing yourself against his chest, his large arms wrap securely around your waist, tucking you tightly against him. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, his warm breath steady and even against your skin.
"I've got you," he murmurs into the dark. "I'm right here."
Wrapped in his warmth and shielded by the safety of his room, your eyelids grow heavy, and you finally drift off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When your eyes open again, the room is completely dark.
You blink against the shadows, your senses slowly returning. Beside you, Yoongi’s breathing is deep and rhythmic, his arm still heavy and protective across your waist even in his sleep.
Carefully, so you don't disturb him, you slip out from under his arm and slide off the mattress. The cool air of the room hits your bare ankles, but you welcome it. You walk silently across the thick carpet toward the large window on the far side of the room, pulling the heavy curtain back just enough to slip into the alcove.
You sit down on the deep wooden window sill, pulling your knees tightly up to your chest and looping your arms around them. You rest your chin on your knees, staring out into the dark, watching the leaves of a massive oak tree sway lazily in the midnight breeze.
A soft rustle of fabric sounds from across the room. You don't turn around, but you hear the heavy mattress shifting, followed by the quiet sound of footsteps padding across the carpet.
Yoongi emerges from the shadows, his hair messy from sleep and his eyes half-lidded as he blinks in the dim light of the window. He doesn't say a word. He just steps into the alcove, his large frame leaning casually against the drywall beside the window sill, his dark eyes immediately fixing on you.
“Chris was barely nineteen when he found me,” you whisper, staring out at the trees swaying beyond the glass.
“Found you where?” He asks quietly, his voice rough with sleep.
You take a slow breath, your fingers twisting deeper into the cuffs of his hoodie.
“On the floor of my apartment,” you answer.
You still can’t look at him. Your eyes stay fixed on the pale moonlight filtering through the branches outside.
“I had just gotten back from Sarah’s birthday party,” you continue softly. “I wasn’t supposed to go. My ex told me I couldn’t. He hated when I spent time with my family without him. I couldn't even talk on the with them without him next to me.”
Beside you, Yoongi slowly lowers himself onto the edge of the window seat.
“Doll…” he says carefully.
“I thought I could get away with it,” you admit. “He wasn’t supposed to be home.”
“I remember thinking it was weird that the lights were off,” you say quietly. “Usually he’d have every light in the apartment on when he was angry. Like he wanted me to walk into it.”
Yoongi doesn’t interrupt you. He just stays beside you in the alcove, one arm resting along the edge of the window seat behind you, close enough that you can feel his warmth.
“But that night…” Your fingers tighten inside the sleeves of his hoodie. “Everything was dark.”
Your throat works once before you continue.
“I opened the door and it was just… quiet.” The word catches strangely on the way out. “And that scared me more than yelling ever did.”
Beside you, Yoongi goes completely still.
“Usually if he was angry, he’d start immediately,” you whisper. “The second I walked in. He’d yell about what I was wearing, or who I was with, or how long I was gone.” A humorless breath leaves you. “I always knew where I stood when he was yelling.”
Your gaze drifts lower, following the silver wash of moonlight across the empty street below.
“But that night he didn’t say anything. He was just… watching me.”
Yoongi’s hand flexes once against the wood beside you.
“I knew immediately something was wrong,” you whisper. “He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t throwing things. He was…calm.”
The last word comes out almost inaudibly.
“And that was worse.” You nod.
Silence stretches between you for a moment before you force yourself to keep going.
“I remember backing up.” Your breathing turns uneven. “Slowly. I just…” You shake your head once. “I think part of me already knew.”
“Doll…” Yoongi finally speaks.
“I didn’t make it back to the door,” you whisper as your eyes squeeze shut briefly. “He grabbed me before I could reach it. He shoved me back into the wall and I remember thinking if I could just calm him down, he’d let go.”
Yoongi’s breathing has gone almost unnaturally quiet beside you.
“But then his hands were suddenly around my throat.”
You stare out through the glass, but you aren’t seeing the trees anymore.
“I remember trying to pull his hands off me.” Your voice shakes faintly now. “And I remember realizing really fast that I couldn’t.”
Yoongi closes his eyes for one brief second, like the image physically hurts him.
“He was stronger than me,” you say quietly.
“And his face…” You stop. “He didn’t look angry. He just looked… empty.”
Yoongi’s head drops slightly at that.
“Like there was nobody there anymore,” you continue. “No yelling. No rage. Nothing. I remember trying to breathe….and I couldn’t.”
Your hand unconsciously drifts toward your throat before stopping halfway there.
Yoongi notices immediately. His jaw clenches so hard the muscle jumps.
“Everything started fading around the edges,” you say softly. “My chest hurt and I…” Your eyes squeeze shut. “I really thought I was going to die.”
The confession hangs there naked and horrifying between you.
“People always think moments like that are loud,” you murmur after a long silence. “Screaming. Crying. Fighting but it wasn’t.”
Yoongi finally looks away from you then, his face tightening sharply.
“It was so quiet,” you whisper. “That’s what I remember most.”
Your eyes shine under the dim moonlight now.
“And then everything went dark.” Your voice drops to almost nothing.
Your eyes go to him now and watch him run a hand through his hair.
“And then…” Your voice falters slightly. “Nothing.”
The word dissolves into the darkness of the room. Yoongi remains absolutely motionless beside you, but you can feel the tension radiating off him now. Controlled. Contained so tightly it almost vibrates beneath his skin.
“The next thing I remember is beeping.” You say. Your eyes drift downward toward your hands curled inside the sleeves of his hoodie. “Slow beeping. Over and over.”
You swallow hard.
“At first I thought I was dreaming because everything was blurry.” A faint, brittle laugh leaves you. “I couldn’t really open my eyes right.”
Yoongi’s expression changes instantly.
“One of my eye sockets was fractured,” you explain quietly. “Everything was swollen.”
You can feel his leg start to bounce.
“I remember trying to move and…” You wince faintly. “My ribs hurt so bad.”
Your fingers tighten together.
“I had four broken ribs.” You continue.
Yoongi finally drags a hand down over his mouth, staring at the floorboards beneath the window seat like he physically cannot process what he’s hearing fast enough.
“Chris was there when I woke up. He was sitting beside the bed.” The image flickers behind your eyes with brutal clarity now. “And he looked…” You stop, blinking hard. “God.”
Yoongi slowly looks back at you.
“I’d never seen him look scared before.” Your voice finally cracks completely. I wanted to ask him what happened. But my throat hurt too much to really talk.”
Your hand drifts unconsciously toward your neck again.
“And Chris just started crying,” you say softly.
Yoongi shuts his eyes.
Hard.
Like that image alone is enough to wreck him.
“He kept apologizing to me,” you whisper, sounding almost disbelieving even now. “Over and over.”
Your brows pull together.
“Doll…” he whispers hoarsely.
“That’s why he reacted like that tonight,” you say quietly. “That’s why Nick looked ready to kill him.” Your eyes drift back toward the dark window. “They didn’t just see my ex.”
Your voice drops lower. “They saw the night they almost lost me.”
"Where does he live, Doll?" He turns his head slowly "Give me a name. Give me an address."
"No." You shake your head. "I'm not doing that. I'm not giving you anything."
"You think I'm just going to let that slide?" His voice rose slightly, rough and cracking around the edges. "I'm just supposed to go back to sleep? Who is he?"
"Stop it!" You whisper aggressively. "This is exactly why I didn't want to tell you! This is exactly why my brothers didn't want to say anything! Look at you!"
"I am looking at you," Yoongi tells you. "I am looking at you sitting in my clothes, shaking because some piece of shit decided he owned you enough to stop your breathing! You think I'm going to sit back and be civilized about this? I want his name. Now."
"And then what, Yoongi?!" You shoot back, your voice cracking as the years of buried terror and defensive armor finally shattered. "You're going to go find him? You're going to go to war with him in some parking lot? You have a life, you have a career. I am not letting you ruin your life over a ghost from my past!"
"He's not a ghost!" Yoongi's voice breaks. "He was standing there! He's alive, and he's walking around."
He drops his hands, leaning in so close you could feel the furious heat radiating off his skin. "I don't care about my career," he whispers. "I want him gone."
"I don't want you involved!" You cry out. "Yoongi, please… you're the best thing to ever happen to me.
Yoongi stares at you like the words physically hurt him. The fury is still there, simmering violently beneath his skin, but the second your voice cracks around you're the best thing to ever happen to me, something inside him shifts.
His expression breaks.
Not anger. Not rage.
Heartbreak.
“Doll…” he whispers.
“I mean it,” you say shakily, tears burning hot behind your eyes now. “You walk into a room and suddenly everything feels safe. You fix things without making me feel weak for needing help. You love my family. You…” Your breath catches hard enough to hurt. “You make me feel normal again.”
Yoongi’s jaw tightens sharply.
“And I am not letting that man take this from me too,” you whisper, your voice finally splintering completely. “I won’t.”
The room falls painfully quiet.
Yoongi just stares at you.
Then slowly, visibly, the fight drains out of his posture.
Not because he isn’t angry anymore.
But because he finally understands what you’re actually terrified of.
Not your ex.
Losing this.
Losing him.
“I don’t know how to hear something like that and stay calm,” he admits hoarsely. “I don’t know how to picture someone hurting you like that and not want to tear the world apart with my bare hands.”
Your eyes sting.
“I know,” you whisper.
His gaze lifts back to yours instantly.
“And that scares me too,” you admit softly. “Because I finally have something I can’t survive losing again.”
Yoongi goes completely still.
The words hang there between you.
Heavy. Honest. Terrifying.
Your breathing turns uneven under the weight of it.
“I spent so long convincing myself I didn’t need anybody,” you whisper. “That if I kept enough distance, nobody could hurt me that badly again.” A shaky laugh leaves you. “And then you came in with your stupid haircut.”
Despite everything, Yoongi lets out the faintest breath of a laugh.
Tears finally spill over your lashes.
“And now you’re everywhere,” you say brokenly. “You’re in my apartment and with my family and in every part of my life that used to feel heavy, and….”
Your voice catches hard.
“I love you.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Yoongi freezes like the entire world just stopped turning beneath his feet. You look terrified after saying it. Like the words physically escaped before you could stop them.
But you don’t take them back.
“I love you,” you repeat shakily, your eyes shining now. “And I know that probably sounds insane right now but I do. I love you, Yoongi.”
His face completely crumbles.
Not dramatically. Not theatrically.
Just raw devastation and tenderness all at once.
“Doll…” he breathes.
A sharp sob breaks out of your chest as you cover your face with both hands. Yoongi moves instantly. He slides over and pulls you into him so fast you practically fall into him. His arms lock around your body with desperate force, one hand cradling the back of your head as he buries his face against your hair.
“I love you too,” he says immediately, voice rough and wrecked. “God, I love you too.”
You cling to him like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.
“I tried so hard to be okay after,” you cry softly into his chest.
The house is too quiet for how loud the day is supposed to be.
No music. No TV. Just the frantic, off-beat thudding of a basketball hitting hardwood somewhere from in the house.
You pause halfway through tying your shoe, listening.
Thud. Thudthud. Thud.
It’s erratic. Aggressive. You straighten slowly, glancing toward the bedroom door before following the sound.
Nicky’s in the living room.
He’s barefoot, already in his game shorts, his Ravens hoodie pulled up over his head. He isn’t practicing. He's just dribbling the ball hard, making it hit the floor with a thud. It snaps back into his hand as he moves through a crossover.
Dribble. Cross. Spin.
The ball careens off the side of the couch, narrowly missing a lamp. He exhales a sharp, jagged breath, dragging both hands back through his hair until it stands on end.
You lean your shoulder against the doorway.
“Careful,” you say softly. “That couch doesn't have a jersey on. It’s a neutral party.”
“I know,” he mutters, his voice tight. He doesn't look at you. He just stalks after the ball.
“The championship isn't for a few hours, Nicks,” you add. “You’re going to burn out before the tip-off.”
“I’m fine.” Dribble. Dribble. “I’m good,” he says
“You’re sweating in a cold house,” you counter, stepping into the room. “What’s actually going on?”
“Nothing.” He looks at his ball.
Immediate. Defensive. He tries to spin the ball on his finger, but his hand is shaking just enough that it wobbles and falls. You catch the ball before it hits the floor, tucking it under your arm. You just wait, giving him a level look. The silence stretches for five seconds before he finally breaks. He sags, the bravado dropping away to reveal a kid who looks significantly younger than he did five minutes ago.
“It’s a lose-lose,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“How do you figure?” You ask.
“If we lose… I let Coach down.” He looks toward the hallway where Yoongi is getting ready. “He put everything into this season. He trusted me to lead the floor. If I choke in the championship, after everything he’s taught me? I can’t look him in the eye.”
“And if you win?” You watch him carefully.
“Then I’m the guy who walked away from his best friends just to beat them. I’ll be standing there with a trophy while they’re on the other side of the court… and it’ll feel like I’m rubbing it in. Like I’m saying, ‘See? I didn't need you. I’m better off without you.’” He explains
He looks back at you, eyes searching for an answer that isn't there.
“They were my brothers before they were my opponents. How am I supposed to play hard against them knowing I’m the one who’s going to break their hearts?” He questions.
You step closer, handing the ball back but keeping your hand on top of it so he has to meet your eyes.
“You think Yoongi wants a perfect player?” You ask.
“He wants a win.” He hesitates before answering.
“He wants a player who shows up for his team,” you correct him. “Yoongi knows the pressure you’re under. He chose you because he knows you can handle the weight, not because he thinks you’re a machine. If you lose, he’ll be disappointed in the result, sure…but he’s never going to be disappointed in you.”
Nicky swallows hard, his grip on the ball loosening.
“And your old team?” You continue. “They’re competitors, Nicks. If you go easy on them, that’s the insult. That’s telling them you don’t think they’re good enough to handle the real you. You want to honor that friendship? You give them the best game of their lives.”
He stands there for a moment, the ball held loosely between his hands. The frantic energy is gone, replaced by a heavy, thoughtful stillness.
“It’s still going to suck,” he says quietly. “Seeing them after the whistle.”
“Yeah,” you admit. “It might. But you aren’t leaving them behind. You’re just growing up and so are they.”
From down the hall, a door opens. The steady footsteps of Yoongi approach. Nicky’s posture shifts instantly. His shoulders straighten, his chin up. He’s putting the mask back on.
However, as he looks at you one last time, the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Coach gonna kill me if I scuffed the floor,” he mutters.
“Then you better go out there and win him a trophy to distract him.” You smile.
Nicky snorts, spinning the ball once perfectly steady this time before catching it.
“Deal.” He smiles.
You’re squeezed between Mark and Chris, who is leaning so far over the railing that your dad has to keep a firm grip on the back of his hoodie.
“They haven't even started yet. If he doesn't calm down I’m going to have a heart attack,” Chris mutters, his leg bouncing with enough nervous energy to vibrate the entire row.
He’s been analyzing Nicky like he’s the one with the clipboard, his eyes darting between Nicky and the Bearcats' bench.
“Sit back, Chris, you’re blocking the view for the people behind us,” your mom says, though she’s hardly the picture of calm herself.
She’s clutching her purse in her lap, her knuckles white. She keeps glancing at you, then at the court, then…inevitably at the visitors' sideline. She knows exactly who Keeho is. Her son's assistant coach. She knows about the 2:00 AM departures too.
“He’s got it, Mom,” you say, though you’re mostly trying to convince yourself.
“I don't like the way that Keeho is looking at the court,” your dad grumbles, his voice low and protective. “He’s looking for a weak spot. He’s looking for Nicky.”
“You don't think he will play…dirty, do you?” Elly looks over at you.
“Why does our final game seem like a set up?” Mark asks.
“Deep breaths, Mark,” you say, sitting down and smoothing your jacket. “The kids are ready.”
“Are they?” Mark gestures toward the court where the Ravens are warming up. “Nicky looks like he’s trying to dribble the ball through the Earth’s crust.”
You follow his gaze. Nicky is a blur of motion, his face a mask of terrifying focus. He’s playing for two ghosts today. The fear of failing Yoongi and the guilt of beating his past.
However, it's then your eyes drift past the Ravens' basket, across the half-court line to the opposing bench.
The Bearcats.
There, standing in front of the visitors' bench with a clipboard tucked under one arm, is Keeho.
He looks exactly the same, which is the most annoying thing about him. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing the forearms you remember a little too clearly, and his hair is styled with that effortless I just woke up like this look that you know takes at least twenty minutes in a mirror.
As if sensing the shift in the atmosphere, Keeho turns his head.
His eyes lock onto yours instantly. He doesn't look surprised. He just watches you for a moment too long, his expression unreadable before a slow, knowing smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. He offers a sharp, mocking little two-finger salute. The same one he used to give you when he was leaving your apartment at 2:00 AM.
Across the court, Keeho leans down to whisper something to his son Chan. Nicky's former best friend. The boy nods, his eyes cutting toward Nicky with a new, aggressive light. Keeho looks back at you, winks, and then turns his full attention to the court as the buzzer sounds for the start of the game.
The whistle blows, and the gym explodes into a deafening roar.
The game didn't just start. It collides. Every time Nicky touches the ball, the Bearcats swarm him. They know his favorite crossover, they know his tendency to lean left when he is tired, and they are using it like a weapon.
Standing on the sideline, Yoongi is a statue of quiet intensity. His eyes flicker briefly from Nicky to Keeho, then up to where you were sitting with Mark. He knows exactly who is across the court. He knows the history, the messy end of it, and the way Keeho used to occupy space in your life. But Yoongi doesn't look angry. He looks focused, his jaw set in that way that means he is calculating the next three moves.
“Nicky’s forcing it,” Mark groans, clutching his knees. “He’s trying to beat the whole team by himself.”
It is painful to watch. Nicky drives into the court, ignoring an open pass to the corner, and tries to muscle through two defenders. One of them being Chan.
Chan, who used to spend Friday nights at your brother's house eating pizza and playing video games, doesn't hold back. He meets Nicky, his shoulder catching Nicky’s chest. The ball gets knocked loose, and the whistle shrieks.
Foul on the Ravens.
Nicky looks at his former friend, face flushed a deep, angry red. He and Chan stand chest-to-chest for a split second, the air between them thick with years of friendship and a sudden, sharp betrayal.
Across the court, Keeho isn't shouting. He’s just leaning back against the scorer’s table, arms crossed, wearing that same infuriating, lazy grin. He catches your eye again before turning to shout a play to Chan.
“He’s playing him,” you whisper, your heart sinking. “Keeho knows exactly how to get under Nicky’s skin.”
“He’s getting under everyone’s skin,” Mark mutters.
Yoongi finally signals for a timeout. He doesn't wait for the players to reach the bench. He meets Nicky halfway. He grabs the front of Nicky’s jersey…not hard, but enough to make the kid stop shaking.
The gym goes quiet for a moment as the two of them stand there. Yoongi leans in, his voice low and dangerous, audible only to Nicky. He isn’t yelling about the score. He was pointing toward the Bearcats' bench and directly at Keeho. Nicky’s eyes dart from Yoongi to Keeho, then briefly up to you.
The Ravens huddle up, Yoongi’s hand resting heavy on Nicky’s shoulder. When they break the huddle, Nicky doesn't look at the scoreboard anymore. He doesn't look at Chan. He looks at the floor, takes a single, deep breath, and wipes the sweat from his forehead.
The buzzer sounds to resume play. As Nicky moves back to the free throw line, Keeho’s grin falters just a fraction. He looks over at Yoongi, who gives him a look so cold it could have frozen the hardwood.
Yoongi knows that Keeho isn't just trying to win a game. He is trying to prove he still has a hand in your world and Yoongi isn't about to let him have it.
Nicky takes the pass. This time, when Chan steps up to press him, Nicky doesn't drive. He doesn't force the contact. He slows down, his eyes scanning the court with a newfound clarity.
He makes the pass.
The game is far from over, but the rhythm has changed.
The final quarter is harsher. The scoreboard shows the Ravens up by six, but the physicality has reached a fever pitch. The Bearcats are desperate, and desperation is a dangerous thing on a basketball court.
Nicky is bringing the ball up, his movements fluid despite the fatigue. He crosses the court, looking to set up another play for Jun, when it happens.
It isn't Chan. It was a Bearcat forward. A kid named Miller who has always been the muscle of the team. As Nicky pivots to pass, Miller doesn't make a play for the ball. He lowers his shoulder and levels Nicky, a deliberate, blind-side shove that sends Nicky flying into the hardwood.
The sound of Nicky hitting the floor is a sickening, hollow thud that's momentarily louder than the crowd. The whistle blows instantly, but the air in the gym turns electric and volatile.
"Hey!" Jungkook is the first one off the bench.
As the assistant coach, he is usually the good cop, but seeing Nicky go down like that snaps something. He is on the court in a sprint, his eyes flashing with a protective fire. Yoongi is right behind him, not sprinting, but moving with a terrifying, redirected purpose that feels even more ominous.
However, before the coaches can even reach him, a different voice cuts through the chaos.
"What are you doing?!"
It’s Chan. He isn't looking at the ref or the scoreboard. He is standing over Miller, his face twists in pure fury.
"That was dirty, man! What is wrong with you?" He asks his teammate.
Miller tries to shrug it off, muttering something about "setting the tone," but Chan doesn't back down. He steps into Miller’s space, shoving his own teammate back toward the bench.
"He’s my brother, you idiot! We don't play like that! Get out of here!" Chan snaps at him.
The Bearcats' bench goes silent. Across the court, Keeho looks stunned, his clipboard frozen mid-air. He has coached them to be aggressive, but he hadn’t accounted for the fact that loyalty runs deeper than a jersey color.
Your family watches, frozen as Jungkook reaches Nicky first, sliding onto his knees and putting a steadying hand on Nicky's shoulder.
Yoongi stands over them both, his shadow falling across Nicky. He doesn't look at Miller. He looks directly at Keeho. It isn't a look of anger. It's a look of profound disappointment, the kind that cuts deeper than a shout. It's a look that clearly asks, “Is this the kind of team you lead?”
Nicky groans, rolling onto his back. He winces, clutching his ribs, but his eyes are fixed on Chan.
Chan looks back, his chest heaving, the anger leaving him as quickly as it had come, replaced by a raw, aching worry. For a second, the championship doesn't exist. It's just two kids who used to share a locker room, one on the floor and one standing over him, both realizing that some things are too important to break.
"You okay?" Chan asks, his voice cracking just enough for Nicky to hear.
Nicky takes a ragged breath, leaning into Jungkook’s support as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. He looks at Chan, then at the scoreboard, then back at his old friend.
"I'm fine," Nicky rasps, offering a small, pained nod. "Better than your defense, anyway."
A ghost of a smile touches Chan’s lips. Yoongi reaches down, offering Nicky a hand. As he pulls him up, he leans into Nicky’s ear.
"Finish it," he says, his voice like iron. "No more talk. Just finish it."
The whistle slices through the noise, sharp enough to make you flinch.
“Two shots. Ball stays.”
The gym erupts…half outrage, half approval…but it all blends together as you lean forward on the bleachers, your hands gripping the railing in front of you.
“Okay. Okay, this is good. This is… this is points. We like points.” Chris says.
You don’t answer.
Nicky shakes off the haze, takes a ragged breath, and heads to the free-throw line. The walk feels miles long. The gym narrows down to this one, fragile moment.
“He’s got this.” Your dad says, as he leans in.
Nicky doesn’t shoot right away. He stands there, grounding himself. He dribbles once, twice…tension easing out of his shoulders instead of building up.
Swish.
The first one snaps through the net. The second follows a moment later….clean, confident, perfect. As the Ravens take the ball again, you see the shift. Nicky isn't forcing it anymore. He pivots, draws in the team, and snaps a crisp pass to Jun on the wing.
Another swish.
The lead stretches, and the gym explodes. Elly is jumping up and down, accidentally elbowing Chris, while your mom finally lets out a breath, her eyes bright with pride. Across the court, Keeho’s easy confidence is cracked at the edges. Yoongi offers the smallest, faintest nod of approval. Nicky doesn't celebrate. He just retreats on defense, focused and composed, no longer caught between past and present. He’s just playing. He’s finally leading.
The final two minutes transform the gym into a pressure cooker. On the scoreboard, the six-point lead feels like nothing. A thin glass wall the Bearcats are trying to shatter with every possession.
“Stay home! Stay home!” Chris screams from the railing, his voice raw as he gestures wildly at the defensive line.
Keeho is no longer leaning lazily against the scorer’s table. He’s pacing the sideline, his clipboard discarded, barking orders that sound more like threats. He’s desperate. Every time his eyes flicker toward you, he finds you flanked by your family. A solid, unbreakable front. The smirk is long gone, replaced by a frantic, tight-lipped grimace.
On the court, the physicality reaches its peak. Chan is guarding Nicky with a ferocity that is respectful but relentless. They are a blur of sweat and jerseys, two athletes who know each other’s heartbeats.
“Ten seconds!” Elly shrieks, clutching your hand so tightly your fingers are numb.
The Bearcats launch a desperate three-pointer. It clangs off the rim, a harsh metallic sound that makes everyone gasp. The ball flies into the air. Miller leaps for it, but Nicky…ignoring the ache in his ribs from the earlier hit, rockets off the floor. He snatches the rebound out of the air with both hands, a statement of pure ownership.
“Go, Nicky, go!” Your mom yells, her voice soaring above the roar.
Nicky doesn’t look for a foul. He doesn’t look for the clock. He passes the ball to Jun, who runs down the court. The Bearcats scramble, but they’re chasing a ghost. Jun layups it in just as the buzzer sounds. A long, soul-piercing wail that signals the end of the war.
*Ravens: 74 Bearcats: 66
The explosion of sound is instantaneous. The Raven section pours over the railings like a tidal wave. In your row, the celebration is a chaotic blur of limbs. Chris hoists Elly onto his shoulders, nearly knocking Mark over in the process. While your dad pulls your mom into a massive bear hug.
You stand there, breathless, your eyes searching the hardwood through the sea of jumping bodies.
You find them in the center of the court. Nicky and Chan are standing chest-to-chest again, but the tension is gone. Chan reaches out, ruffling Nicky’s hair before pulling him into a brief, rough embrace. It’s a silent truce, a bridge rebuilt in the ruins of a championship game.
Then, you see Yoongi. He’s standing back from the celebration, watching Nicky with a steady, quiet pride. He catches your eye across the distance. No smirk, no salute…just a slow nod that says we made it.
A few feet away, Keeho is staring at the floor, his shoulders slumped as he watches his team begin the long walk to the locker room. He looks up, searching for you one last time, but you’ve already turned away. You’re looking at Chris high-fiving Mark, at your mom wiping a stray tear of relief, and at Nicky, who is finally smiling as he fights his way toward the bleachers to find his family.
The ghosts are gone.
The game is over.
The court dissolves into chaos the second the buzzer dies.
It’s not organized, not graceful…just a surge. Bodies spilling over the sidelines, sneakers squeaking, voices cracking into laughter and shouts and half-choked sobs. The Ravens are swallowed whole by it.
And then your family moves.
“Go, go, go!” Chris is already halfway down the bleachers before anyone can stop him, Elly shrieking as she scrambles after him. Your dad mutters something about not breaking an ankle but he’s moving too, one hand locked around your mom’s as she laughs breathlessly, already crying.
You don’t remember deciding to move. One second you’re standing there, watching it all unfold, and the next you’re pushing through the edge of the crowd, your heart hammering so loud it drowns everything else out.
“Nicky!” Elly’s voice cuts through the noise like a siren.
He turns at the sound of it.
For a split second, he just stands there sweaty, exhausted, jersey clinging to him, chest rising and falling hard like he can’t quite process that it’s over.
Then he sees you all and something in his face breaks open.
“Hey…HEY!” Chris barrels into him first, nearly tackling him backward. “You did it! You actually did it!”
“Careful…my ribs!” Nicky wheezes, but he’s laughing, really laughing now, the sound rough and bright and completely unguarded.
Your mom gets there next, pulling him into a hug that’s firm and grounding and just a little bit desperate.
“You scared me,” she murmurs against his shoulder, voice thick. “You played so hard, honey.”
“I’m okay, grandma,” he says, softer now. “I’m okay.”
Your dad doesn’t say anything at first. He just grips the back of Nicky’s neck, pulls him in, and presses his forehead briefly against his. It’s quiet. Solid. Enough.
Elly wraps around his arm like she’s afraid he might disappear. “You were insane,” she says. “Like…actually terrifying. In a good way.”
“In a great way,” Chris adds.
You hang back for half a second, watching it all…this messy, loud, overwhelming pile of people that somehow still feels like home.
Then Nicky looks up.
Finds you.
And everything else fades out again.
He pulls free from the group just enough to step toward you, his smile softening into something quieter, something real.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” you echo, your voice catching just a little.
“You were right, Sunshine,” he adds after a beat, glancing back briefly at where Chan is laughing with his teammates. “About… all of it.”
“I usually am,” you say lightly.
“Yeah, yeah.” He snorts.
He reaches out quickly, impulsive and pulls you into a hug. It’s tight. Grateful. A little shaky around the edges.
“Thank you,” he murmurs as you squeeze back.
“Go celebrate,” you tell him when he pulls away. “Your team needs their Goalie of the Year.”
“Don’t start that.” He rolls his eyes.
“Go,” you repeat laughing, nudging him.
He goes.
Back into the storm of his team, into the noise and the victory and the future that doesn’t look so heavy anymore.
And that’s when you see him.
Yoongi is still standing a few feet back from it all, exactly where he was before. Same posture. Same quiet presence. Like the center of gravity everything else is orbiting around.
He’s watching his team but when you step closer, his gaze shifts finding you instantly. There’s no big reaction. No dramatic smile. Just that same steady look, softened now, the sharp edges worn down into something warmer.
“You did it again, Coach,” you say as you reach him.
“We did,” he corrects, his mouth tilting slightly.
“You’re the one who pulled him out of that spiral.” You huff out a quiet laugh.
“He chose to listen,” Yoongi replies simply. His eyes flick briefly back to Nicky. “That’s the part that matters.”
You follow his gaze. Nicky’s in the middle of his team now, getting shoved and shouted at and pulled into celebrations he’s not even trying to resist anymore. He looks lighter. Freer.
Like the weight finally gone.
When you look back at Yoongi, he’s already watching you again. There’s something different there now. Not just focus. Not just determination.
Relief.
“You were worried,” you say quietly.
“Yeah.” He nods.
“He didn’t let you down.” You look up at him.
“I know.” He nods again.
The adrenaline of the buzzer is still cooling, but the reality of the season’s end is already settling over the court like a heavy blanket.
You stand beside Yoongi, watching the Ravens. They aren’t just a team anymore. They’re a unit that survived a middle school war. In a few months, this specific magic will dissolve. Black and Blue jerseys will be traded for high school colors, as they hope to stay together into the next chapter of their lives.
“It’s weird, isn't it?” You ask. “Knowing this was the last time this specific group plays together?”
Yoongi’s eyes don't leave Nicky, who is currently being hoisted onto Jun’s shoulders.
“The timing is always the hardest part of coaching. You spend months… years building a machine, and just when it starts running perfectly, you have to take it apart,” he says.
“What are you going to do now?” You ask, turning to look at him. “Your stars are moving on to bigger things. High school ball is a whole different beast. Nicky’s going to be a freshman, fighting for a spot on a high school roster where he actually has to try out. What happens to the guy left behind with the empty gym?”
Yoongi lets out a long, slow sigh. It’s not a tired sound. It's the sound of a man who has carried the hopes of fifteen boys on his back for years. He shoves his hands deep into his jacket pockets and finally looks away from the court, his gaze dropping to the scuffed hardwood at his feet.
“Well,” he says, his voice low and steady. He pauses, a small, tired smile ghosting across his lips. “I start all over again.”
“Doesn’t it get exhausting?” You press softly. “Teaching the same footwork, the same defensive rotations, watching the same mistakes until they finally click. Then you have to give the finished product away to someone else?”
Yoongi finally looks at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before his eyes soften.
“Every year, I think it will be,” he admits. “I think, maybe this is the year I just stay in the office and let someone else handle the whistles. But then I see a kid like Nicky…someone who thinks he’s alone even when he’s standing in a crowd and I realize I’m not just teaching them how to put a ball in a hoop.”
He gestures toward the center of the court where Nicky is laughing. The two of you remember the broken boy who joined the team, trying to figure out where he belonged.
“I’m teaching them how to stand up,” Yoongi says. “And if I have to start at square one tomorrow with a group of kids who can't even dribble with their left hands just to see one of them find that kind of confidence? Then yeah. I'll be here opening the gym. Starting over.”
He looks at you, and for the first time since the game started, the Coach mask is completely gone. There’s just the man underneath. The one who cares a little too much.
“Besides,” he adds with a flick of his eyes toward you. “Starting over isn't so bad when you know what you’re building toward.”
The front door barely has time to shut before Nicky is already talking.
“I’m serious, Coach…no, listen…listen,” he says, walking backward into the living room, still half in his jersey, hair damp, energy practically sparking off him. “You should’ve seen Miller’s face when Chan started yelling at him…like, dude short-circuited … oh! And Jun…did you see that last play? I knew he was gonna cut…”
“You’re tracking mud across the floor,” Yoongi cuts in calmly, toeing off his shoes by the door.
Nicky freezes mid-sentence and looks down.
“It’s victory mud.” He blinks and you try to muffle your laughter.
“It’s still mud,” Yoongi tells him.
Nicky hurriedly kicks his shoes off, nearly tripping over himself in the process before bouncing right back into motion like nothing happened.
“Okay, but listen…next season,” he continues, already pivoting, already thinking ahead. “You’re gonna need help, right? New team, new kids…half of them probably don’t even know how to dribble properly…”
“They don’t,” Yoongi says dryly, hanging up his jacket.
“Exactly! Which is why I can help.” Nicky points at himself like this is the most obvious solution in the world. “I can come by after school, run drills, teach them the basics…like, real basics. Footwork, spacing, how not to panic when someone actually defends them…”
“No.” Yoongi shakes his head.
The word lands flat. Immediate.
“What?” Nicky blinks. “Sunshine?”
“Leave me out of it,” you say.
Yoongi doesn’t even look at him at first, just walks into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water like this is a completely normal, already-settled conversation.
“You’re not helping with the eight-year-olds,” he says, taking a sip.
“Why not? I just won you a championship…” Nicky follows him instantly.
“And now you’re going to work toward making a high school team,” Yoongi replies, finally glancing at him. “Which means conditioning, fundamentals, tryouts. You think varsity coaches care that you can teach third graders how to do a chest pass?”
“I can multitask,” Nicky says.
“You can barely stand still.” Yoongi laughs.
“That’s…okay, that’s not the point…” Nicky shakes his head.
Yoongi sets the glass down with a quiet clink, turning fully toward him now.
“The point,” he says evenly. “Is that you don’t get to plateau right after you win something.”
That hits a little harder. Nicky’s grin falters a little bit after taking in Yoongi's words
“You want to help?” Yoongi continues. “Then get better. Faster first step. Stronger core. Learn to read defenses before they collapse on you. That’s how you help me.”
Nicky exhales through his nose, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to shake off the leftover adrenaline.
“I can still come by sometimes,” he mutters, not quite giving up.
Yoongi’s mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
“Sometimes,” he allows. “When your work is done.”
“Deal.” Nicky perks up immediately.
And just like that, he’s back…energy restored, already halfway to the living room again.
“Also,” he adds over his shoulder, “I’m way better with kids than you are.”
“You are a kid.” Yoongi scoffs.
“Yeah, but I’m a champion kid.” He points out.
From the kitchen doorway, you can’t help it…you laugh.
They both glance over and Nicky beams instantly.
“Hey…tell him I’d be a good assistant coach.” Nicky whines.
You walk over to them arms crossed, taking your time like you’re actually considering it.
“You’d scare them,” you say.
“What?” Nicky questions.
“You’d be pacing like a maniac, yelling about defensive rotations to a group that still thinks double-dribbling is optional,” you tell him.
“That is not..okay, first of all…” Nicky stutters.
“And,” you add, nodding toward Yoongi. “He’s right.”
“Wow. Betrayal. In my own house.” Nicky groans loudly, dragging a hand down his face.
“You don’t own this house,” Yoongi says.
“I brought glory to this house.” He points to himself.
“You tracked mud into this house.” Yoongi points to the dirt clumps on the floor making you snort.
Nicky points at both of you like he’s being personally victimized. “Unbelievable. I win a championship and suddenly nobody’s on my side,” he says
“You have a side,” you say lightly. “It’s just… focused on your future.”
That slows him down again.
Just a little.
He looks between you and Yoongi…really looks this time, not just bouncing off the moment and something steadier settles in his expression beneath all that leftover excitement.
“High school’s gonna be rough, huh?” He admits.
“Yeah.” Yoongi doesn’t sugarcoat it. “But you won’t be the same player walking in as you would’ve been a year ago.”
Nicky nods slowly.
Processing.
Growing into it, piece by piece.
“Okay,” he says finally. Then, with a small grin creeping back, “But when I make varsity…”
“If,” Yoongi corrects.
“When,” Nicky insists, pointing at him. “You’re letting me run a practice.”
“We’ll see.” Yoongi sighs.
“That’s a yes.” Nicky smiles.
“That’s not a yes.” Yoongi shakes his head.
Yoongi turns away like the conversation is over. Like it’s already settled but Nicky doesn’t move. He’s still standing there in the middle of the room, chest rising and falling a little too fast for someone who’s supposedly done playing for the day. His fingers flex at his sides, like they’re still looking for the ball.
“You’re really not gonna let me?” He presses.
Yoongi pauses just for a second before he exhales slowly through his nose and glances over his shoulder.
“You don’t need another team right now,” he says. “You need yourself.”
“That sounds like something you say when you’re about to make me run suicides.” Nicky stares at him.
“It’s exactly that,” Yoongi replies without missing a beat.
You laugh under your breath. Nicky groans, but there’s no real complaint behind it…just the reflex. The habit of pushing back before he accepts what he already knows is true.
“I just don’t want it to be over,” he admits after a moment.
“It’s not,” Yoongi says after studying him for a moment.
Nicky looks up.
“You think this was the finish line?” Yoongi continues, one brow lifting slightly. “This was the start.”
Yoongi nods toward the kitchen. Toward the backdoor where the basketball stands in the backyard.
“New team. New coaches. Bigger players. Faster game. Nobody cares what you did here,” Yoongi says.
“You’re really good at pep talks.” Nicky’s mouth twitches.
“I’m not giving you a pep talk,” Yoongi says. “I’m telling you the truth. I’m also telling you… you’re ready for it.”
That’s the one that sticks.
You can see it.
The way Nicky straightens just a little, not puffed up, not cocky.
Like something clicked into place.
“Okay,” he says again, but this time it sounds different. Steadier. Real.
Yoongi nods once, like that’s all he needed. Then he turns fully, heading toward the hallway.
“Shoes,” he says over his shoulder. “Five minutes.”
“Wait…what?” Nicky blinks.
“Conditioning doesn’t stop because you won a trophy.” Yoongi informs him.
“You are unbelievable…we just played a full game!” Nicky exclaims.
“And you want to make varsity.” Yoongi stares at him
“I hate it here.” Nicky drags a hand down his face.
“You love it here.” You smile.
“I love it here,” he mutters.
You watch, grinning as Nicky jogs past you to grab his shoes, still grumbling under his breath about post-championship child labor and this is how dynasties collapse.
Yoongi pauses as he passes you.
“Five minutes,” he repeats quietly.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” You nod.
The driveway is cool under the fading evening light. The air smells like grass and asphalt and the last echoes of a long day finally settling into night. Nicky is already bouncing on the balls of his feet, laces half-tied, energy somehow still not gone.
“You’re insane, you know that?” He says, pointing at Yoongi. “Normal people celebrate after championships.”
“Normal people don’t make varsity,” Yoongi replies.
“You really need new material.” Nicky glares.
“Start running.” Yoongi glares back.
Nicky groans but he starts. Because of course he does, he always listens. A few sprints in, the complaints fade. The rhythm takes over. Breath, steps, focus. Same as always.
You lean against the porch railing, arms folded, watching them.
Coach and player.
Start and future.
Yoongi doesn’t run with him…not exactly. However. he tracks every step, every slowdown, every push forward. Present in that quiet, steady way that never asks for attention but always demands effort.
After the last sprint, Nicky bends over, hands on his knees, breathing hard.
“Okay…okay…” he pants. “I’m done. I’m actually done.”
“Again.” Yoongi checks his watch.
“You cannot be serious.” Nicky looks up like he’s been personally betrayed by the universe.
“Last one.” Yoongi promises.
“Fine.” Nicky groans.
He pushes off again and this one’s different. Not fast at the start. Not explosive…just determined. Every step is deliberate. Every breath earned. By the time he finishes, he doesn’t collapse.
He just slows.
Stops.
Stands there, chest heaving but upright.
“Better.” Yoongi gives a small nod.
“That’s all I get? ‘Better?’ I almost died.” Nicky squints at him.
“You didn’t.” Yoongi looks at him.
“Felt like it,” Nicky says.
Yoongi steps closer, crossing his arms. For a second, neither of them says anything. Then Nicky straightens fully, rolling his shoulders back despite the exhaustion, a grin slowly breaking through again.
“So,” he says, holding out his hand.
“What is this?” Yoongi looks at it with a raised brow.
“You know what this is,” Nicky says. “Don’t act like you don’t know what this is.”
Yoongi sighs but he steps in anyway and grips Nicky’s hand.
Firm.
Familiar.
“On three.” Nicky’s grin widens, even through the exhaustion.
Yoongi shakes his head like this is ridiculous but he doesn’t let go.
“On three,” he agrees.
You watch from the porch, smiling before you can stop yourself.
“Ready?” Nicky says, already bouncing a little again despite everything.
“One,” Yoongi says.
“Two…” Nicky smiles.
“Three.” Yoongi finishes
“Champions.” They say together.
Their hands break apart at the same time.
And for a second…
Just a second…
It’s not about the game.
Not about the next season.
Not about high school or pressure or anything waiting down the road.
Summary: Your life was perfect. You had the perfect fiance, the perfect house and the perfect ring on your finger. The only thing that wasn't perfect …. were the memories you lost years ago and the fact your parents won't talk about it.
Warnings: Memory Loss, Swearing, Blood Mention, Eventual Unprotected Sex, Mention Of Car Accident, Mention Of Drunk Driver. Will add as I go…
Taehyung spins in a slow circle, his eyes wide as he takes in the monochromatic space. He reaches out to touch a velvet throw pillow that is perfectly fluffed, perfectly beige and then pulls his hand back as if it might bite him.
"Did you... did you actually live here?" Taehyung whispers, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "Or is this a showroom? I feel like I need to show a ticket to be in here."
"It’s so... clean. Y/N, I’ve seen hospitals with more personality than that kitchen." Jungkook nudges a white leather ottoman with the toe of his boot. He looks at you, his expression shifting from amusement to something softer. "How did you find anything? I’d lose myself in all this white."
“Yeah,” you murmur trying to laugh it off, glancing around the space like you were seeing it properly for the first time. “That sounds about right.”
Now that they say it, you can't deny it. Everything is staged. The couch is too straight, the pillows too perfect, and the counters spotless in a way that didn't feel lived-in. It was a space for show, not for a soul. Your fingers trail lightly along the edge of the kitchen island as you walk further in, your touch slow and almost cautious.
“I used to think this place was… calming,” you admit quietly. “Like if everything around me stayed neat and controlled, then maybe I wouldn’t feel so…” You trail off, the word stuck in your throat.
“Lost?” Jungkook offers gently.
“Yeah.” You nod, the weight of the realization settling in.
“It’s not calm. It’s… quiet in a weird way. Like it’s waiting for someone who never shows up.” Taehyung hums, his tone softer now as he scans the room.
The observation lands harder than it should have, a dull ache blooming in your chest. You swallow against the tightness in your throat and shake it off, forcing yourself to move.
“Okay. I don’t want to stay here.” You blow out a breath and Jungkook doesn't hesitate for a second.
“Then we don’t.” He says.
“Alright! Operation: Save Y/N From the Beige Void.” Taehyung claps his hands once.
“Please stop naming things,” you mutter, with a short laugh.
“Absolutely not,” he shoots back immediately. “It’s how I cope.”
“What do you need to take?” Jungkook is already moving, his eyes scanning the space as he begins planning the logistics of the exit.
You pause, realizing the question was much bigger than the physical items in the room. Your gaze drifts over the spotless counters and untouched appliances of the perfect, empty space. Nothing was yours… not really.
“Not much,” you admit. “It's mostly…his. It's mainly my bedroom closet, I guess.”
“Then we take what's yours and go.” Taehyung nods.
“Bedroom’s this way.” You wave them up the stairs.
The bedroom was exactly what they expected. All neutral tones, clean lines, and a haunting lack of personality.
“Wow.” Jungkook steps in first and stops dead.
“Okay, no. This isn’t a bedroom. This is a furniture ad.” Taehyung leans against the doorframe, squinting his eyes. “Do you iron the bedding? Where are the wrinkles?”
They move further in, opening drawers and peeking into Corbyn's closet, but they only find more organization and more impersonality.
“Y/N… there’s nothing here.” Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, glancing back at you with a furrowed brow.
You walk past him to the nightstand and pull open the drawer. Inside was a charger and a book you didn’t remember reading. That was it.
“I don’t think I ever actually lived here,” you whisper.
“Then let’s not treat it like you did.” Taehyung tells you.
“Okay.” You inhale slowly, letting the air fill your lungs, and nod. “Grab a bag. Everything in this closet is mine. I'll sort through it when I get to Leah's.”
“Got it.” Jungkook nods immediately, already springing into action.
“I’m helping, but I am judging your wardrobe.” Taehyung pushes off the doorframe and heads straight for the closet.
“Please do,” you mutter.
They begin pulling things out. Clothes, shoes, random items, and laying them across the bed for you to shove into bags. You didn’t join them right away. Instead, your hand slips into your pocket, pulling out the silver ring. It sits in your palm, simple and warm.
Always.
Your thumb traces the engraving, slower this time. Behind you, Taehyung’s voice cuts through the quiet, not looking at you but aware of exactly where you were.
“Are you okay?” He asks.
“Yeah. We’ve got time.” Jungkook glances over too, his expression soft.
“I just want to get this over with,” you say, slipping the ring back into your pocket.
“You know,” Jungkook says. “You really could have stayed with me and Yura.”
“Thanks.” You smile. “But…we're still….”
“Getting to know each other,” he finishes and you nod, giving him a small grateful smile.
“Yeah,” you murmur, glancing back toward the closet where Taehyung was already halfway buried in hangers. “I just… think I need a little space to figure out who I am without… all of this.”
Jungkook nods, looking like he understood more than you were saying out loud. For a second, the room falls into a rhythm of rustling fabric, drawers opening, and the soft thud of shoes hitting the bed. Then something clicks in your mind. Your brows pull together slightly as you look between them.
“Wait…” you say. “I thought Hobi was going to come help too?”
Taehyung pauses mid-hanger, slowly turning his head toward Jungkook. Jungkook freezes for half a second. They exchanged a look, and that…more than anything…made your stomach twist.
“What?” You ask, your voice growing more cautious.
“He was…” Jungkook says, his tone careful.
“He decided to hang out with Yoongi instead.” Taehyung shrugs.
“Oh.” The word came out softer than you intended.
“It’s not…”Jungkook winces. “It’s not like he bailed on you.”
“Yoongi was going to come,” Taehyung sighs, dropping the hanger onto the bed as he finally turns fully toward you.
The revelation stuns you. Your fingers instinctively feel for your old ringer over your jeans.
“But,” Jungkook cut in gently. “We all kind of figured that would… probably end badly.” “Yeah. Like your former fiancé …. walking into your other ex-fiancé’s house, emotions already high…” Taehyung nods.
“And you trying to figure yourself out in the middle of it.” Jungkook adds.
“So Hobi stayed with him,” Taehyung tells you. “Just… to keep him from doing something impulsive.”
“He shouldn’t need to be kept away,” you say quietly, but Jungkook heard it anyway.
“He’s not being kept away,” he says gently. “We are making sure he’s giving you space.”
“Okay.” Taehyung claps his hands again. “I don't know how much time we have here. But…” He gestures dramatically to the mountain of clothes forming on the bed. “We still have to defeat the Beige Void Boss Level: Closet Edition.”
“Right.” You laugh, as you start stuffing them into a bag.
The three of you work in a surprisingly efficient rhythm, stuffing the remnants of your life into a few mismatched suitcases. Taehyung makes good on his promise to judge your wardrobe, holding up a particularly bland white sweater with two fingers like it’s a biohazard.
"This stays," he declares, tossing it back into the depths of the empty closet. "It’s a ghost of a garment, Y/N. We’re only taking things with a pulse."
"That's it," Jungkook says, zipping the final bag shut. "Let’s get out of here before the walls try to hypnotize us."
As you reach the bottom of the stairs, the front door clicks open. Corbyn steps inside, checking his watch before looking up. He stops in the main entryway, his eyes immediately landing on the suitcases, then tracking upward to Taehyung and Jungkook. He straightens his shoulders, his expression shifting into that familiar mask of polished composure, though his eyes clearly say something different.
Taehyung is the first to break the strange silence. He doesn't move. He just stands with one hand resting casually on the handle of your suitcase, his eyes scanning the pristine, white-on-white entryway.
"Man..." Taehyung starts, his voice a low drawl. "Seriously... how do you keep your house so dust-free? Do you have a specialized vacuum?"
“What kind of hair product do you use?” Jungkook asks. “Not a single hair out of place.”
"Are they making fun of me?" Corbyn asks you in genuine wonder.
You look at Taehyung, who was now examining a glass vase like it was a prehistoric artifact, and then at Jungkook, who looks like he was one comment away from checking the underside of the kitchen island for fingerprints.
"I’m not entirely sure," you say, your voice steadier than you expected as you adjusted the strap of your bag. "But... yeah. I think so."
Corbyn’s gaze flickers to the suitcases at the base of the stairs, then back to you. The presence of the two men clearly agitated the pristine order of his world, but he ignored them, focusing entirely on your face.
“Y/N,” he says, his voice dropping into that measured, persuasive tone he used for negotiations. “Can we talk? Just for a moment. Alone.”
Jungkook steps forward immediately, his shoulder partially blocking Corbyn’s line of sight. The protective softness he’d shown in the bedroom vanished, replaced by a cold, immovable wall of muscle.
“I think she’s done with the talking part of the day,” Jungkook tells him, his voice flat and final. “We’ve got the bags. We’re leaving.”
Taehyung doesn't move, but his playful energy changes into something watchful. He remains leaning against the banister, his eyes narrow as he tracks Corbyn’s every expression.
“Surely you can give me five minutes, Y/N,” Corbyn says to you.
“It’s okay,” you say, reaching out to lightly touch Jungkook’s arm. He tenses under your fingers, but you gave him a small, reassuring nod. “It’s fine. Just give me a minute. I’ll meet you at the car.”
“We’ll be right outside,” he mutters, more of a promise to Corbyn than a statement to you.
He grabs the heaviest suitcases, Taehyung following suit with the smaller bags. As Taehyung passes Corbyn, he doesn't say a word, but the look of pure, unadulterated boredom he sends the man was louder than any insult. The heavy front door clicks shut behind them, leaving the house in silence once more.
“They’re… loud,” Corbyn remarks, his voice echoing. He paced a small circle, finally stopping a few feet away from you. He looks at the door, then back to you, a strange, tight curiosity in his expression. “So, which one is he?”
“Which one is who?” You blink, momentarily thrown.
“The ex-fiancé,” Corbyn says. “The one with the attitude, or the one who looks like he’s ready to throw a punch?”
“Neither,” you say quietly. “You do realize I'm not leaving you because of Yoongi, right? I'm leaving because I'm not happy. I'm leaving because you lied to me this whole time. I'm leaving to find myself.”
“Finding yourself,” he repeats quietly, like he’s trying to understand the phrase instead of dismissing it. “Y/N… I thought that was the point. I thought if I handled everything… if I made things stable… you wouldn’t have to struggle.”
“It was preservation, Corbyn. Not stability.” You shake your head. “You didn’t build a life with me. You loved the version of me they handed to you, Corbyn. I don’t even know if that girl was real.”
Corbyn looks around the house, his gaze lingering on the spot where the suitcases had been just moments ago. For the first time, he looks slightly out of his depth.
“And you think those two….and the ghost of this fiancé are going to help you find this happiness? They’re chaos, Y/N,” Corbyn says softly, almost helplessly. “And maybe that works for them, but… I spent years trying to make sure nothing could hurt you. Your parents said you needed safety. Structure.”
“Maybe I need a little chaos,” you say, moving toward the door. You don't want to give him another five minutes. You don't even want to give him another thirty seconds. “At least in chaos, you know something is actually happening. You know people are actually living.”
You reach for the handle of the heavy front door, but you pause, looking back at him one last time.
“Don't worry about the dust,” you tell him, a tiny, sharp spark of Taehyung’s wit catching in your voice. “I’m taking all my personality with me. It should stay perfectly clean in here now.”
You step out onto the porch, the door clicks shut behind you. Down by the curb, Jungkook is leaning against the trunk of the car, his arms crossed, while Taehyung is halfway out of the passenger window, waving you over like you were a long-lost traveler returning from war.
“Is the boss defeated?” Taehyung calls out as you approach. “Did you get the Rare Loot: Your Sanity?”
“You okay?” Jungkook pushes off the car, his eyes searching yours for any sign of distress. Seeing the small, genuine smile on your face, his own expression relaxes into something warm.
“Yeah,” you tell him, breathing out a sigh that felt like it had been held for years. “I’m great. Let’s go.”
Leah’s house is the polar opposite of where you’d just come from. There was a pile of mail on the entryway table, a faint scent of vanilla and a colorful rug that was definitely not beige.
"I cleared out the guest room." Leah smiles, leading the way. "It’s got a window that gets great morning light. And more importantly, the walls are a color that actually exists in nature."
"See? This is a room. Look at that…a stray thread on the carpet. Evidence of life. I love it." Taehyung steps into the room and immediately hums in approval.
"We can help you unpack," Jungkook offers, looking toward the mountain of luggage. "Or we can just get these out of the way so you and Leah can... do whatever it is you guys do."
"Actually," Leah says, leaning against the doorframe and looking at the two men. "I think what she needs is a glass of wine and a long vent session."
You look around the room. At the patterned curtains and the slightly scuffed floorboards and for the first time in a long time, you didn't feel like you had to be careful where you stepped.
"Thanks, guys," you say, looking at Jungkook and Taehyung. "Really. I don't think I could have done that alone."
"You're never alone," he says quietly, his voice lacking its usual teasing edge while he lingers for a moment. "Just remember that. We're a phone call away."
"Operation: Save Y/N is officially complete. Transitioning to Phase Two: The Glow-Up." Taehyung gives a dramatic salute.
As they head back down the stairs, you hear Taehyung ask Leah if she had any snacks for the road, his voice fading as the front door finally shut, leaving you and Leah in the comfortable, messy silence of your new beginning.
Leah doesn't say anything right away. She waits until the front door clicks shut, until Taehyung’s voice fades down the street, and until the house settles back into its natural, lived-in quiet. Only then does she hand you a glass of wine and nods toward the bed.
“Sit,” she commands softly. You obey, exhaling as you sink down, your body finally catching up to the whirlwind of the day. Leah pulls the desk chair closer and sits across from you, studying your face.
“I’m not going to lie,” she says, her voice a little softer than usual. “Part of me is still in shock that you actually did it.”
“Moved out?” You let out a small breath of a laugh, asking.
“Left him.” She corrects you.
“Yeah.” You look down at your glass of wine and Leah tilts her head watching you.
“I always liked Corbyn,” she admits, her tone not defensive, just factual. “He was… reliable. Predictable. The kind of person you don’t have to worry about.”
“I know,” you reply, while nodding faintly, acknowledging the truth in that.
“But,” she adds quickly, her tone shifting to something clearer. “Liking someone and thinking they’re right for you aren’t the same thing. And right now? I don’t want you going back to him just because it’s familiar.”
“I’m not.” You swallow, your fingers tightening slightly around the stem of your glass.
“I know,” she says softly. “I just want to make sure you don’t start second-guessing yourself later. Because you will. That’s normal.”
“I saw him,” you tell her and Leah’s attention sharpens instantly as she stares at you.
“At the house?” She questions making you nod.
“He came home while we were leaving. Wanted to talk to me. Alone. Like everything was still… fixable if we just had the right conversation.” You explain and Leah hums under her breath, processing the information.
“That sounds like him,” she says after a moment.
“It does?” You blink in surprise and she shrugs lightly.
“Yeah. Corbyn’s not a bad person. He just… solves problems the way he understands them. If something’s wrong, he thinks there’s a conversation or a plan that can fix it.” She explains.
“But I’m not a problem to fix,” you counter.
“I know.” She nods gently. “But … you have to understand. Your parents lied to him too.”
You stare down into your wine, watching the surface shift faintly beneath your grip. At first, your instinct is to reject it. Corbyn had made his own choices. He had ignored your unhappiness. He had built a life around you instead of with you.
But slowly, painfully, another thought slips in beside it.
He really did think he was loving you correctly.
You think back to the house. To the spotless counters. The rigid schedules. The perfectly arranged furniture. The way he talked about stability like it was the highest form of care someone could offer another person.
Your mother loved that about him.
Your father respected it.
Reliable. Responsible. Controlled.
Leah watches the realization cross your face without interrupting it.
“He wasn’t trying to trap you,” she says carefully. “At least… I don’t think he thought he was.”
“No,” you murmur quietly. “I don’t think he did either.”
The admission aches more than anger would have. Because anger would make this cleaner. Easier.
But this? This was sad.
“I think he genuinely believed if everything around me was perfect enough… then I would be okay.” You lean back slightly against the wall behind the bed, exhaling slowly.
“And your parents probably reinforced that every chance they got.” Leah nods.
“God.” You laugh bitterly and rub a hand over your face. “Do you know what the worst part is?”
“What?” She asks.
“I let him.” You answer. “For a while it felt nice having someone else make all the decisions. Everything was so organized. Predictable. I never had to think too hard about anything. I thought feeling safe meant feeling numb.” You glance toward the window.
“That’s not your fault.” Leah’s expression softens immediately.
“No,” you say after a moment. “But it is my responsibility now.”
“So, have you thought about work yet?” She asks after a moment and your stomach drops immediately.
“I was trying not to,” you admit.
“Fair,” she says. “But it’s coming whether you think about it or not.”
You groan quietly, leaning back on your hands, knowing she was right. You could already picture the office, the routine, and the normalcy that wasn't normal anymore.
“He’s going to act like nothing happened if I see him,” you predict.
“Maybe.” She nods. “Or… he might try to talk to you again. Properly this time.”
“That’s worse.” You frown at the thought, but Leah shakes her head.
“Not necessarily. It just means you’ll need to be clear.” She tells you and you look at her doubtfully.
“I don’t know if I can do that without it turning into… something.” You warn her.
“Then don’t let it turn.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “If you see him at work, keep it simple. You don’t owe him a full emotional conversation in the middle of the office. Be firm and walk away.”
“Okay.” You gave a small, uncertain
“If it’s work-related, you handle it. If it’s not?” She shrugs. “You tell him you’re not having that conversation there.” You hesitate, worried about what your coworkers might think.
“That feels… cold.” You tell her.
“It’s not cold. It’s appropriate.” She smiles tightly at you.
“And if he keeps pushing?” You ask and Leah thinks for a second.
“Then you repeat yourself,” she tells you and takes a breath. “Honestly though, I don't think you have anything to worry about. Corbyn is professional. Too worried about his image to make a scene.”
“Do…do you think I’m making a mistake?” You look at her and asked quietly,
“No. I think you’re doing something hard. He was good on paper,” she says with a small tug of a smile. “But you don’t live on paper.”
“No,” you murmur. “I guess I don’t.”
"To not living on paper," Leah says softly, raising her glass.
"To a little bit of chaos." You offer a genuine smile, clinking your glass against hers.
The wine is sweet, the room is warm, and outside the window, the sun is finally beginning to set, casting long, golden shadows across the mismatched bedding. You are starting over from scratch, with a suitcase full of clothes that actually have a pulse, a pocket holding a promise of always, and a world that is no longer neatly arranged in shades of beige.
It's messy. It's uncertain. But as you take another breath of the vanilla-scented air, you realize it's the first time in years you've felt entirely, undeniably alive.
The hot water had done its job, washing away the lingering chill of Corbyn’s home and the physical tension of the move. You step out of the shower wrapped in one of Leah’s plush towels, feeling more like a human being and less like a hollowed-out version of yourself. The air in the bathroom was thick with steam.
You make your way into the guest room, pulling on a pair of oversized sweatpants and a worn-out t-shirt. You kneel by one of the open suitcases, beginning the slow process of moving your belongings into the small dresser Leah had cleared for you.
Mid-fold, your phone vibrates against the hardwood floor. The sharp buzz-buzz makes you jump slightly.
You pick it up, expecting a check in from the group chat or maybe a message from Leah downstairs asking about dinner. Instead, your breath hitches when you see the name on the screen. It isn't the group thread.
It was a direct message.
Yoongi: I heard Taehyung and Jungkook were giving your ex a hard time at the house today.
You sit back on your heels, the fabric of a sweater forgotten in your hands. You watch the screen, seeing the typing bubbles appear and disappear before the next line pops up.
Yoongi: They shouldn't have done that.
A strange mix of emotions swirl in your chest. You could almost hear his voice. You thought back to what Taehyung and Jungkook had said earlier, about Hobi staying behind to keep Yoongi from doing something impulsive.
It was ironic, really. The one person everyone was worried would cause a scene was now the one calling out the others for their lack of decorum.
You stare at the silver ring now resting on the nightstand, then back at the glowing screen. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, unsure if you should defend the boys' chaotic loyalty or acknowledge the unexpected weight of Yoongi’s disapproval.
You stare at the two messages, your thumb still hovering over the screen. There’s a strange comfort in the fact that even through a text, Yoongi sounds like he’s sighing. He isn't making excuses for himself. He’s holding the others to a standard of restraint he’s clearly struggling to maintain himself.
You type back quickly, your heart doing a slow, heavy roll in your chest.
You: They didn't do anything too bad. It's okay.
You hit send before you can overthink it. You don't mention that you know Hobi had to stay behind to keep him from charging over there. You don't mention keeping the ring with you. You just let the words sit there. It's a small bridge between the two of you.
Setting the phone down, you crawl onto the bed. The mattress is a little softer than your old one, the sheets smelling faintly of Leah’s laundry detergent. It’s a relief to finally be horizontal.
As you turn onto your side, your gaze catches on the corner of the nightstand. There, tucked behind a lamp, is your old phone. It’s heavy with secrets, with old photos and unsent drafts that Corbyn never would have understood. It feels like it’s calling to you, a jagged little piece of your soul that you’ve been ignoring for far too long.
You reach out, your fingers grazing the fractured glass, and pull it into the covers with you. Getting comfortable against the pillows, you press the power button, waiting for the glow to hit your face. The screen flickers to life, the harsh light bleeding through the fractures in the glass. As the pixels settle, the wallpaper resolves into a burst of color.
It’s the pier.
Where all of you were crowded barefoot together, a chaotic mess of wind-whipped hair and genuine grins. Now that you know. Now that the truth of that day has been revealed. You can see it in Yoongi’s and your expression. The two of you aren't just posing for a photo with friends. You are looking at the camera knowing your entire world is about to change because the man who loved you more than anything tried to make you his forever.
Your heart thumps a frantic, uneven rhythm against your ribs, a dull ache blooming behind your chest. It’s too much to look at, yet impossible to turn away from.
Blinking rapidly, you quickly enter into your gallery and go into your videos.The timestamps blur as your finger drags down the screen until the colors shift becoming brighter and louder. Your breath catches as you tap a video without allowing yourself time to overthink it.
It opens with a jolt of movement and the sound of your own voice, sounding so startlingly alive that it makes you flinch. The camera is angled poorly at first, pointed up toward your chin before you adjust it, grinning widely at the lens. You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, textbooks opened around you like a failed attempt at productivity amidst a mess of highlighters, sticky notes, and a half-open laptop. It is absolute chaos, and sitting right next to you is Yura.
She’s hunched over her notes, muttering something under her breath with her hair falling into her face as she aggressively underlines a sentence. You, on the other hand, look far too amused.
“Okay,” you whisper dramatically to the camera. “Breaking news.”
“If this is about you failing that quiz, I already know.” Yura doesn’t even look up as she dryly retorts.
“It’s not about the quiz,” you whisper-hiss, your eyes dancing with mischief. “It’s about the fact that Yura has been staring at the same page for twenty minutes because Jungkook just walked past the library window.”
Yura’s head snaps up, her pen skidding across her notebook and leaving a jagged blue streak across her notes.
“I have not! I am studying the socioeconomic impacts of…of stuff!” She glares.
“Stuff? Really?” You let out a loud, bright laugh that echoes through the quiet library, drawing a sharp shush from a nearby table. You don’t care. You turn the camera toward her, catching the way her cheeks are flushed a deep, indignant pink. “She’s in love, folks. Truly, madly, deeply distracted.”
“I’m going to kill you!” Yura yells, though it’s a stage whisper. She drops her highlighter and lunges across the pile of textbooks, her hands outstretched like claws. “He's annoying. I can't stand him!”
The video turns into a blur of motion. All you can see is the ceiling, the carpet, a stray sneaker as you shriek with laughter, scrambling backward on your elbows to escape her. The sound of your own joy on the recording is jarring. It’s a loud, uninhibited sound that feels entirely foreign to you.
“Take it back!” Yura’s voice is muffled as she finally tackles your arm, her face appearing briefly in the frame, grinning despite herself as she tries to snatch the phone away.
“Never!” You gasp out, breathless and wheezing. “OH MY GOD YOU REALLY DO!”
The video cuts out abruptly with a final, joyful thud of the phone hitting the carpet.
For a second, you don’t move.
Then your lips press together before they curve into something small and real. A quiet exhale leaves you, almost like a laugh that didn’t fully make it out.
“We were so loud,” you murmur to yourself.
Your thumb hovers over the screen, tracing the frozen image where it stopped. Yura half in frame, your arm blurred mid-defense, the chaos of it all caught in one imperfect second.
Your head tilts slightly against the pillow.
Your teeth catch your bottom lip, gently, as your brows pull together not in sadness exactly, but in something more complicated.
Thoughtful.
Like you’re trying to piece together a version of yourself that feels familiar but just out of reach.
“I don’t even recognize her,” you whisper, though there’s no real bite to it.
Your gaze softens, lingering on the screen a second longer before your thumb taps back, returning to the gallery. Rows of moments stare back at you. Tiny squares of color and movement, all louder than anything you’ve lived in recently. Pressing a random square you do your best to prepare yourself for what you are about to find.
“Step fourteen, Insert screw H into slot B while holding panel four at a forty-five-degree angle. Note: Do not overtighten.” On video you says.
The camera pans up, and the scene is absolute madness. You are sitting on the floor of the boys' dorm, cross-legged. You are literally shimmering. Fine, iridescent craft glitter is dusted across your forehead, your cheeks, and your sweater like a disco ball exploded in your vicinity.
In the center of the room, Namjoon is surrounded by several slabs of black metal and dark wood. He looks like he’s trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube that’s fighting back.
“I don’t understand,” Namjoon mutters, wiping sweat from his brow, oblivious to the fact that he now has a streak of silver glitter on his forehead from where he probably touched you earlier. “If I hold panel four, I don’t have a third hand for the screw.”
“Evolution failed you, Joon,” Taehyung chimes in.
He’s sitting on the edge of a bed, unhelpful and regal, tossing a singular wooden dowel into the air and catching it. The camera swings to the right, catching Yoongi. He is standing by a desk, arms crossed, staring at the bed Taehyung is sitting on with a look of pure horror.
“Y/N,” Yoongi says, his voice a low warning. “Do not. Move.”
“What? I’m helping!” You chirp, shaking the instructions at him. A small cloud of glitter drifts off the paper.
“You are shedding,” Yoongi says, pointing a finger at you. “You are a biological hazard. If one speck of that shit touches my pillowcase, I’m sleeping in the hallway. Do not get near my bed.”
“Oh, come on,” Jimin’s voice comes from behind the camera. The lens shakes with his giggling. “She’s like a magical fairy. Don't you want a magical fairy in your room?”
“I want a clean room,” Yoongi snaps, though the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Tae, she looks sad,” Jimin says, his voice dropping into a mock-serious tone. “I think she needs a hug to feel better about her instructions.”
Taehyung’s eyes light up. He stands up on the bed, pointing dramatically at Yoongi.
“You’re right, Jimin. Y/N! Give him a hug! He’s being mean about the sparkles!” Taehyung points at Yoongi.
“No,” Yoongi says, backing up half a step. “No. Stay there.”
“HUG HIM! HUG HIM!” Taehyung joins in, jumping rhythmically on the mattress.
You look at the camera, a predatory, glittery grin spreading across your face. You drop the instruction manual. It hits the floor with a soft thud. You scramble to your feet.
“Y/N, I am warning you….!” Yoongi starts, but it’s too late.
With a joyful shriek, you launch yourself at him. You don't just hug him. You tackle him. Yoongi’s survival instinct kicks in. Even though he’s complaining, his arms instinctively go out to catch you, his hands locking around your waist to steady your weight.
The momentum is too much.
“CRAP…” Yoongi grunts as the two of you topple backward, landing directly in the center of his perfectly made bed.
“MY MATTRESS!” Yoongi yells, even as you’re buried in his chest, laughing so hard you’re shaking more glitter into his hair.
“SHE’S MARKING HER TERRITORY!” Taehyung screams in delight.
At that exact moment, a deafening CRACK echoes through the room. The camera whips around to Namjoon. He is standing over a pile of collapsed metal. He had tried to use the distraction to force a piece into place, and the entire shelving unit had folded like a house of cards.
“Uh,” Namjoon says, holding a snapped piece of wood. “I think... I think I broke Step Fourteen.”
“Joon,” Jimin groans.
“My thumb!” Namjoon suddenly yelps, hopping on one foot. “I pinched my thumb!”
The video descends into chaos. Jimin falls over laughing, Taehyung diving off the bed to check on Namjoon, and the camera finally hitting the floor. The last thing the audio catches is Yoongi’s resigned, muffled voice from under you.
“Great. The shelf is dead, Namjoon is wounded, and I’m going to be sparkling until I’m eighty. Are you happy?” Yoongi asks.
“Very,” your voice whispers.
The video ends.
You can’t stop thinking about the moment he caught you. It wasn't a conscious choice he made. There was no hesitation. It was just reflex. You had launched yourself into the air without a single doubt that the world, and Yoongi had stepped into the impact like it was the only thing he was meant to do.
A sudden, sharp heat climbs into your cheeks. It’s not the sting of embarrassment. It’s the overwhelming, late-to-the-party realization of just how much space you occupied in his life.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, the words catching in the quiet of the room.
It wasn't just the tackle. It was the way he looked at you once you were both tangled in his sheets. The specific, soft exasperation look in his eyes. He looked entirely, hopelessly doomed.
“Why did nobody stop me?” You mutter. “How was I that blind?”
A small, helpless smile tugs at your lips.
"Doomed," you whisper, shaking your head at the sheer absurdity of your younger self. "You were so completely doomed."
For a long minute, you just lie there, letting the phantom sound of Taehyung’s dramatic shouting and Jimin’s breathless giggles wash over you. You think about that girl in the video. That girl in the video, the one covered in craft glitter and throwing herself into the arms of a boy who pretended to be grumpy but always caught her. She wasn't gone. She was just buried under a mountain of beige velvet pillows and polite, suffocating expectations.
You shift on your side, the mattress creaking softly under your weight, and tap the screen to bring the gallery back to life.
For a second, the camera points nowhere useful. It was just the dark sky, flashes of firelight, a glimpse of someone’s knee before it steadies upright on what appears to be a cooler.
The beach stretches out under the deep navy sky, waves rolling endlessly in the background while the bonfire crackles bright and crackling at the center of everything.
You and Jimin are closest to the camera, both holding sparklers that spit gold light wildly into the dark. Jimin twirls dramatically through the sand like he’s starring in a music video nobody asked for.
“Be honest,” he says breathlessly. “I look magical right now.”
“Twirl my tiny dancer!” You laugh. “Twirl!”
The two of you start dancing in ridiculous circles around the fire, sparkler trails cutting bright streaks through the night while Jimin nearly trips over his own feet. Your laugh rings through the recording….full-bodied and completely uninhibited.
Further behind you, Taehyung and Jungkook are crouched beside a cluster of fireworks boxes. You all probably should have been more concerned then what you were.
“No, no…hold it steady,” Jungkook says.
“I am holding it steady.” Taehyung hissed.
“It’s literally leaning.” Jungkook snapped.
“That’s because the sand is uneven!” Taehyung grits out.
“That’s because you buried half of it sideways!”Jungkook shoots back.
Near the bonfire, Jin and Yoongi sit with roasting sticks balanced over the flames. Jin is focused entirely on cooking while Yoongi looks like he regrets agreeing to this outing approximately three hours ago.
“You burned mine again,” Jin complains.
“Then cook it yourself.” Yoongi doesn’t even look up.
“I was trusting you.” Jin tells him.
“That was your first mistake.” Yoongi looks at him.
In the background, Hobi and Yura sit wrapped in a blanket together, talking quietly while Yura occasionally bursts into laughter at something Hobi says.
And then there’s Namjoon.
Standing proudly beside an alarmingly large firework launcher.
“Guys,” he announces with absolute confidence, “I figured it out.”
Every single person reacts negatively.
“No you didn’t,” Yoongi says immediately.
“Please don’t touch it,” Jungkook adds.
“That sentence has never ended well.” Hobi points accusingly from the blanket pile.
“There was just a stabilization issue before.” Namjoon ignores all of you.
“Why are you talking about it like it’s a science project?” Taehyung slowly straightens from the fireworks setup.
“Because it is science.” Namjoon stresses.
“It’s explosives!” Jin yells.
Namjoon crouches beside the launcher, fiddling with something near the base while everyone watches with growing concern.
“I fixed the angle,” he says proudly and Yoongi finally looks up from the fire.
“That,” he says flatly. “Is how someone loses a finger.”
Namjoon lights the fuse anyway.
Everyone waits.
Nothing happens.
The beach goes strangely quiet except for crashing waves and the crackle of the bonfire.
“See?” Namjoon says triumphantly. “Perfect.”
“I don’t trust quiet fireworks.” Jimin lowers his sparkler suspiciously.
One by one, everyone slowly starts moving closer. Even you drift toward it, sparkler still fizzing weakly in your hand.
“Maybe the fuse died.” Jungkook squints.
“Can fireworks die?” Taehyung asks seriously.
“Everything dies,” Yoongi mutters.
“I think maybe the ignition disconnected…” Namjoon kneels closer to inspect it.
The firework SCREAMS to life as everyone stands around it.
The video erupts instantly into pure chaos.
The launcher shoots across the sand horizontally like it’s possessed, spraying sparks violently while everyone starts screaming over each other.
“OH MY GOD….”
“NAMJOON!”
“WHY IS IT MOVING?!”
“RUN!”
The camera shakes from the force of footsteps pounding past it. Jimin disappears out of frame shrieking while Taehyung abandons Jungkook completely in the name of self-preservation.
The firework veers dangerously toward the bonfire area and Yoongi moves instantly.
He doesn’t hesitate.
One second he’s by the fire. The next he’s grabbing your wrist and yanking you backward hard enough that you nearly lose your footing in the sand. You let out a startled yelp that dissolves into helpless laughter as he drags you away from the chaos.
“Yoongi…!” You yell.
“Move!” He shouts.
“I am moving!” You laugh.
“You’re laughing!” He yells.
Because you are. Completely breathless, stumbling through the sand while sparks explode somewhere behind you. The firework finally shoots harmlessly toward the shoreline before exploding in a burst of gold over the water.
Everyone’s yelling overlaps at once afterward.
“Namjoon almost killed us!”
“It curved!”
“WHY DID IT CURVE?!”
The phone keeps recording from its abandoned spot in the sand, tilted slightly toward the aftermath.
And in the middle of the chaos, you and Yoongi are still standing there near the edge of the frame. His hand is still wrapped tightly around your wrist but neither of you seem to realize it yet. Your head is tipped back laughing breathlessly while Yoongi stares at you like he’s halfway between annoyed and relieved you’re okay.
“Wow.” Yura’s voice cuts through the background chaos dramatically.
“Yoongi grabbed Y/N first.” Jimin laughs.
“Shut up,” he says flatly as he drops your wrist.
“WAIT…HE DID.”Taehyung gasps loudly from somewhere off-screen.
“No, I didn’t,” Yoongi snaps.
“You literally launched yourself at her like a romantic action hero!” Taehyung exclaims.
“It was a basic survival instinct!” Yoongi defends himself.
“Why didn't you grab me like that?!” Jungkook yells.
Yoongi looks one second away from walking directly into the ocean. You… you are still breathless from laughing and running. However, you can’t stop smiling.
There’s a ghost of a sensation in your arm, a phantom pull that makes your skin tingle. You look at your own hand, flex it. Without letting yourself hesitate, you reach for your current phone. You open the message thread with Yoongi. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that matches the chaos of the firework in the video.
You: So, I just watched a video where Namjoon almost killed us all with a firework.
You hold your breath.
The typing bubbles appear almost instantly.
Yoongi: I told him not to bring that thing. He didn't listen.
Yoongi: You're going through the old phone again?
Your fingers tremble slightly as you type back.
You: Yeah. I looked happy.
Yoongi: You were.
Yoongi: We all were.
Yoongi: Except for the part where I almost had to tackle you.
A small laugh escapes you.
You: Taehyung said you looked like a romantic action hero.
Yoongi: Taehyung talks too much.
Yoongi: I just didn't want to have to explain to the paramedics why you were burnt to a crisp.
You lean your head back against the headboard, closing your eyes. The image of him dragging you back plays on the back of your eyelids.
You: Thank you.
Yoongi: For what?
You: For grabbing me first.
The reply takes a long time. When it finally comes, it makes your hands shake.
Summary: You lived a quiet life running your bookstore cafe. You didn't expect your life to be flipped upside down by some strangers escaping noise …. one sandwich at a time.
Pairing: Music Producer Yoongi x F. Reader
Genre: Romance, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, Small Town
Warnings: Unprotected Sex, Swearing
You have the counter covered in cardstock samples, ink stamps, and ribbon spools. Founders’ Day is the biggest event in town. It's a weekend of historical reenactments, craft fairs, and enough tourists to triple your revenue if you play your cards right.
You are currently debating between a vintage botanical print or a minimalist espresso bean design for your custom bookmarks when the bell chimes.
"If you're here to tell me arugula is out and microgreens are in, Jin, the kitchen is closed." You sigh.
"Actually, I was going to suggest sun-dried tomato pesto," Jin’s voice rings out as they all come walking through the door.
"What is all this?" Jimin asks, picking up a tassel. "Are we starting a scrapbooking club?"
"Founders’ Day," you explain, tapping your pen against a sketch of your booth. "It’s next weekend. I’m doing a pop-up at the town square. Coffee, limited edition bookmarks, and maybe those cinnamon rolls if I can keep up with the demand."
"A pop-up?" Hobi’s face lights up. "Like a festival? Music? Lights? People dancing in the streets?"
"Mostly people dressed like 1800s blacksmiths," you clarify.
"This layout is... efficient. However, it lacks flair." Jin says.
"It's a wooden stall and a plastic table, Jin," you sigh.
"We can make it better," Jin counters, already pulling a pen from his pocket. "You have to sell my sandwiches so we need something that screams 'History, but make it Gourmet'."
"I can handle the aesthetic," Jimin chimes in, his fingers dancing over the ribbon samples. "These colors won't work. We need gold. We need deep velvets."
"I can build the structure," Jungkook says suddenly, grabbing a piece of scrap paper and sketching a three-dimensional frame. "The standard stalls are flimsy. If we're running a coffee machine and a sandwich press, we need reinforced counters and better cable management. I can make it modular."
"We need a playlist. I’ll set up the speakers. I can even do some street promotion. Give me a stack of those bookmarks." Hobi smiles.
You look at the four of them, then back at your modest little plan. It’s being dismantled and rebuilt into something massive right before your eyes.
"You realize I have a budget of about fifty dollars and a dream, right?" You ask.
"You have us," Jin says.
You look over at Yoongi. He hasn't joined the huddle yet. He’s just watching the chaos with that familiar, small curve of his mouth.
"You're awfully quiet," you say to him. "No opinions on the 'Founders’ Day' aesthetic?"
"They’re already going to make it ten times bigger than it needs to be. You don't need my opinion." He shrugs.
You feel that familiar heat hit your face that you try to tame. You should stop them. You should tell them that Namjoon will lose his mind if he finds out they’re spent their week designing a modular coffee stall and debating tassel lengths.
But then you look at Jungkook, who is now arguing with Jin about the load-bearing capacity of a croissant display, and Jimin, who is draping ribbons over Hobi’s head to test the light…you couldn't.
"Fine," you say, throwing your hands up in mock defeat. “I'll be overruled anyway.”
“Correct,” Jin says immediately, not even looking up from your sketch.
“What are we going for?” Jimin hums, holding two ribbon samples up to the light like he’s making a life-altering decision.
“Coffee,” you deadpan. “We’re going for coffee and maybe some local history books.”
“Wrong,” Hobi grins, already grabbing a stack of bookmarks. “People need to feel something when they walk up.”
“They will,” you assure him. “Caffeine.”
Jungkook is no longer sketching. He’s measuring. With a tape measure you’re almost positive did not come from your shop.
“Where did you get that?” You ask.
“My bag,” he answers.
“You just… carry that around?” You ask.
“Yeah, just in case.” He nods.
“In case of what?” You question.
“In case something needs fixing.” He states like it’s obvious.
You stare at him for a second. Behind you, there’s a soft thud as Taehyung sets a small stack of children’s books on the counter.
“Is there… anything I can do?” He asks.
“Actually…” you say slowly, after thinking for a moment. “Mrs. Carter usually runs a temporary tattoo booth every year.”
Taehyung looks back at you a little hopeful.
“She teaches second grade,” you add. “And she always ends up overwhelmed by about the first hour. You’d basically be dealing with sticky hands and kids who can’t sit still.”
“I can do that,” he says quietly.
“I'll let her know she has a volunteer,” you tell him.
“That's perfect,’” Hobi smiles. “We can roll out a deal. Buy a tattoo, get a coffee…”
“No,” you cut him off.
“At least make sure the designs are on-brand.” Jin points his pen at Taehyung
“They’re dinosaurs and butterflies, Jin.” You deadpan.
“I bet I can build a better station.” Jungkook doesn't even look up.
“No one is building anything else,” you say firmly.
Too late.
It’s already happening.
“I’m not talking about the bookmark display.” You warn a couple of days later.
“Come on.” Jungkook slaps the counter.
“What?” You blink.
“You need to see something,” he says, like this is obvious.
“I’m working,” you reply, not moving.
“You can work later.” He argues.
“No, I can’t …hey,” He takes your wrist, cutting you off. “Jungkook, what are you doing?” You ask.
“Trust me,” he says.
“I don’t. This is how people get kidnapped.” You hiss.
“You’ll thank me.” He says, as he pulls you out the door.
Ten minutes later, he pulls up to the warehouse and you shake your head. Jungkook hops out of the car and you slowly get out but don't follow.
“No,” you say.
“What?” He turns.
“You brought me here?” You hiss, lowering your voice. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Namjoon's not here,” Jungkook says.
“If Namjoon even finds out I’m here…” You try to take a step back.
“He’s in a meeting,” Jungkook informs you. “Long one.”
“This is a terrible idea.” You press your fingers to your temple.
“Five minutes and I'll take you back,” he says.
“Five minutes,” you repeat.
The second you step inside you stop again. The space is massive. Cables run clean along the floor, equipment set up in sections that somehow feel both chaotic and organized at the same time. However, that’s not what throws you off.
In the corner was a fully built wooden booth. Jungkook steps around you, watching your reaction like he’s waiting for a verdict.
“Modular,” he says, pointing. “Breaks down into six sections for transport.”
“Jungkook.” You breathe out and walk over to it.
“The counter height is adjusted for your machines,” he continues. “And I added extra storage underneath because Jin said you’d run out of space in under an hour. Also, now there’s space for books.”
“You… built this?” You run your hand along the wood.
“We built it,” he corrects.
“For Founders’ Day?” You ask, quieter now.
“Yeah.” He shrugs.
“You weren’t joking.” You look at him. “This is insane.”
“It’s efficient.” He corrects.
“Told you she’d like it.” You turn to find Yoongi leaning against a doorway you didn’t notice before, hands in his pockets, watching you.
“You knew about this?” You ask.
“Helped design the layout.” He nods once.
“How did Namjoon not freak out about this?” You ask.
“Time management.” Jungkook looks pleased with himself. “He can't complain if we're getting work done.”
“Come on.” Yoongi pushes off the doorway, stepping closer.
“Where?” You ask.
“My studio.” He tilts his head slightly toward the hall behind him.
“Five minutes,” you say and Jungkook snorts behind you.
His studio is… smaller than you expected. There’s a desk, monitors everywhere, scattered notes and things with a bunch of buttons.
“This is where you work?” you ask.
“Yeah.” He nods.
“This is where all that… ‘nothing’ happens?” You glance back at him.
“Something like that.” He laughs.
Yoongi doesn’t sit back down at his desk. He stays in your space, his eyes tracking the way you’re looking around his sanctuary.
"It’s not as intimidating as the rest of the building," you whisper, finally turning to face him.
"It’s just a room," he says.
“I think a lot of people would argue with you about that,” you tell him.
The light from his monitors casts a soft, blue-toned glow over his features and the quiet intensity in his eyes. His hands come up to cup your face and his gaze drops down to your lips.
"You talk too much," he murmurs, his face tilting down, his breath warm against your skin.
Your eyes flutter shut, your hands finding the front of his hoodie, pulling him just a fraction closer.
THUD.
The heavy studio door doesn't just open. It bounces off the interior wall. You jump back so fast you nearly trip his chair. Yoongi clears his throat, spinning around to face the intruder with a glare. Taehyung stands in the doorway, completely oblivious to the romantic moment he just shattered. He’s holding a handful of fabric swatches and an interior design magazine.
"I have an idea!" Taehyung announces.
"Taehyung. We're in the middle of... work." Yoongi rubs a hand over his face, his shoulders slumping.
"This is work. Get out of the way!" Taehyung insists, marching past Yoongi and spreading the swatches across something that looks expensive. "I was thinking about the kids' corner back at Perk and Page. The current rug is... well, it’s a rug. However, it could be a meadow."
“A meadow?" You clear your throat.
"Yes! Look." He points to a deep forest-green velvet swatch. "New furniture. Small, rounded oak chairs…no sharp corners for the little ones. The rug... it needs to be thick, plush. Maybe with some embroidered wildflowers."
He looks at you, his eyes wide and sparking with genuine excitement.
"The children need a place that feels like a storybook, not just a waiting room while their parents get lattes," he explains.
"You want to renovate her entire shop now?" Yoongi sighs.
"Just the corner!" Taehyung corrects, then pauses, tapping his chin. "For now. I also saw a very interesting light fixture shaped like a cloud."
"Taehyung," you laugh. "I don't have the money to redo the kids corner right now."
Taehyung waves a hand dismissively, already pulling a measuring tape out of his pocket. Apparently, he and Jungkook share a hobby.
"Who says you have to pay for it,” he says.
"I'm going to lock the door next time." Yoongi just stares at the ceiling.
“Come on! We need to see if the cloud lamp won't hang too low!" Taehyung grins.
Before you can protest, Taehyung takes your hand, leading you back out toward the chaos of the warehouse where the others are likely already building a miniature oak table.
As you're pulled through the doorway, you glance back at Yoongi. He’s still standing by his desk, watching you go. He catches your eye and gives a tiny, barely-there nod. A silent promise that the five minutes aren't over.
Not yet.
The air smells like cinnamon, woodsmoke, and something fried you’re trying very hard not to think about.
It’s barely ten in the morning and the town square is already busy. Leaves crunching under boots, vendors calling out to early customers, the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer ringing out like a metronome for the entire weekend. Someone in full 1800s attire walks past your stall carrying a basket of apples like they were born to it.
“Don’t even think about handing that out,” Jin says sharply, sliding in beside you and plucking a plate from your hands before you can pass it over the counter.
“It’s a cinnamon roll, not a bomb.” You blink at him.
“It’s uneven,” he corrects, already turning it slightly on the plate like the angle matters. “Presentation is the first bite.”
“They’re eating it, not framing it.” You laugh.
“They’re doing both,” he shoots back, reaching for a dusting of powdered sugar like he’s blessing it.
“Two lattes, one caramel, one vanilla! And…yes…those are fresh, I promise, we don’t lie here!” Hobi’s voice cuts through the noise.
You glance over your shoulder just in time to see him hand off a drink with a bright grin. The customer laughs, already reaching for her wallet again like she’s been personally charmed into it.
“You’ve created a monster,” you mutter.
“I’ve created an experience,” Hobi corrects, not even looking back.
“Less talking, more pouring,” Jin says, nudging you toward the machine again. “Your shot is going to burn.”
You turn back just in time, catching it before it goes bitter. The machine hisses, steam curling up into the crisp fall air, and for a second it almost feels like a normal morning.
Then you look up.
And stop.
There’s a line.
Not just a couple people lingering. Not polite curiosity.
A line.
It stretches past your stall, weaving between a handmade candle booth and a woman selling knitted scarves, people clutching menus, pointing at your display, talking.
About you.
About this.
“Don’t freeze on me now,” Jin says under his breath, following your gaze. “We’re just getting started.”
“I…” you exhale a quiet laugh, shaking your head once like that’ll reset your brain. “I thought we’d have, like… a slow first hour.”
“We did. That was twenty minutes ago.” Hobi leans in just enough to murmur.
To your left, a burst of laughter pulls your attention. You see Jimin, seated at a small folding table surrounded by a group of older women. He found the bingo tent.
“Bingo!” One of them cheers, slapping the table.
“I told you to trust me!” Jimin grins, pointing dramatically at the card like he personally orchestrated the win. “It’s all about intuition.”
“You cheated,” another woman accuses, though she’s smiling too wide for it to stick.
“How can I cheat at bingo?’” He counters smoothly.
A blur passes behind you. You don’t even see where Jungkook comes from anymore. One second he’s not there, the next he’s setting down a crate of milk like it appeared out of thin air.
“You were down to two,” he says simply.
“I didn’t even…” you start.
“I know,” he nods, already moving again. “You’re good for another hour.”
And then he’s gone.
“Does he teleport?” You mutter.
“Focus,” Jin says, sliding another plate into position. “Next order.”
On the far edge of the square, a small crowd of children has gathered around a table covered in bright colors and paper sheets. Taehyung sits in the middle of it, sleeves pushed up, completely focused as he carefully presses a temporary tattoo onto a kid’s arm.
“Hold still,” he murmurs gently. “It has to set properly.”
“I want another one!” The kid immediately declares.
“You just got a dinosaur,” Taehyung points out.
“I want a butterfly too.” The kid smiles.
“Hey! We’re out of napkins!” Hobi calls.
“Under the counter!” You shout back automatically.
You reach for the next cup, sliding it under the machine, your hands finally catching up to the pace your brain’s been trying to process.
“Next!” Hobi calls.
“Next,” You echo, steadier now.
Jin adjusts another plate like it’s a masterpiece.
Jimin cheers again in the distance.
Hobi’s relentless festival voice falters for a split second, long enough for you to look up from a half-poured coffee. Namjoon is standing five feet from the counter, and he looks like he’s been dropped onto a different planet. He’s wearing a dark, expensive-looking overcoat that screams metropolitan boardroom, and his arms are crossed tightly over his chest.
"I told you," Yoongi says, his voice cutting through the hiss of the machine. "Your world didn't collapse because you stepped away from the monitors for two hours."
Namjoon doesn't look at him. He looks at the line of people, then at Jin, who is currently garnishing and finally at you.
"This is..." Namjoon starts, his voice deep, a mix of confusion and reluctant observation. "Logistically improbable to be this busy for such a small town."
"It's a festival, Namjoon," you say, wiping your hands on your apron and stepping toward the edge of the counter. "I'd offer you a seat, but Jimin stole the only extra chairs for his Bingo empire."
Namjoon’s gaze follows your gesture toward the Bingo tent. He watches Jimin high-five a woman who must be eighty-five years old, and he actually winces.
"Get him a coffee before he starts analyzing the foot traffic patterns,” Yoongi tells you.
"I don't need a coffee," Namjoon says stiffly, though his eyes wander to the chalkboard menu Jungkook hand-lettered. "I have work to finish. I merely came to see what was so important."
"You gave us permission to be here today," Jin chimes in.
Namjoon lets out a breath that’s almost a sigh. He looks out of place among the woodsmoke and the children’s laughter.
"I'll take a black coffee," Namjoon says, finally uncrossing his arms. "And... whatever Jin is making."
"That would be the Founders Special,'" you say, already reaching for a cup. "It’s Jin's pride and joy."
"Look at the display, Joon," Yoongi murmurs. "Top shelf. Left side."
Namjoon’s eyes drift to your curated book display. You had tucked a few local history titles among the bookmarks and cups.
Namjoon freezes. His hand reaches out, hovering over a weathered, leather-bound spine: The 1842 Annals of the Valley. "Is this the original print?" He asks, his voice losing that hard, defensive edge. "The town library only has the 1970s reprint. The maps in this edition are supposed to be..."
He stops himself, clearing his throat and trying to pull the mask back into place, but the book is already open. You just watch him for a second, sliding a black coffee across the counter.
“On the house,” you say. “Your sandwich will be up in a moment.”
“That’s unnecessary.” Namjoon doesn’t look up.
“Probably,” you agree easily.
“You’re running a business.” His eyes lift to yours, sharper now.
“And you’re at a festival,” you reply, resting your hands lightly on the counter. “It's not that serious.”
He studies you like you’re a variable he hasn’t accounted for yet. Then his gaze drops back to the book and you place the sandwich down in front of him.
“You’re losing at least fifty dollars,” he says.
“I’ll survive.” You shrug.
Namjoon’s thumb brushes the edge of the page. He doesn’t reach for his wallet. He just closes the book halfway and tucks it under his arm.
“This is…” he starts.
“You're overthinking it,” Yoongi says.
Namjoon’s mouth opens, his brain clearly firing on all cylinders. You can practically see the bullet points forming in his head.
"Logistically speaking," he begins, his tone shifting into that authoritative tone.
"Namjoon," you interrupt, not even looking up as you steam a fresh pitcher of milk. "I’m going to need you to do something very difficult for me," you say. "I need you to take that very expensive coat, that very old book, and those very loud opinions, and walk exactly fifty paces to the left."
"Why fifty paces?" Namjoon’s brow furrows.
"Because that’s where the funnel cake stand is," you say, pointing a stirring spoon at him. "Go buy a plate of fried dough to go with your sandwich and coffee. Then, find a bench under that oak tree and read your maps. Just eat the cake and read the book."
Namjoon looks at the book under his arm, then at the crowded square, then back at you. He looks like a man being asked to solve an equation with no numbers.
"Go away, Joon! You’re blocking the aesthetic!" Hobi shouts from the other end of the counter, popping a stray blueberry into his mouth.
Yoongi lets out a short, dry laugh. It's the kind that sounds like he’s been waiting all day for someone to talk to Namjoon like that. He reaches out, places a hand on Namjoon's shoulder, and physically begins to pivot him away from the stall.
"You heard the boss," Yoongi murmurs, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he catches your eye over Namjoon's shoulder. "Go be a civilian for an hour. It’s an order."
Namjoon stumbles a half-step, looking bewildered, but he doesn't fight it. He looks down at the 1842 Annals, his fingers tightening slightly on the leather spine. As Yoongi leads a grumbling, map-obsessed Namjoon into the crowd, you turn back to your line just as Jimin yells out Bingo.
"I've got the rest of this," Jin says, surprisingly gentle as he wipes down the espresso machine for you. "Go. Before Hobi tries to start a new business venture."
You don't need to be told twice. Your legs ache, and your head is spinning with the sheer volume of caffeine and conversation you had today. You slip out the back of the stall, catching Yoongi’s eye where he’s leaning against a nearby oak tree. He doesn't say a word, just pushes off the tree and starts walking toward you.
"You did it," he says.
"Thankfully I had help" you say.
“You gave them a reason to help,” he smirks at you and takes your hand in his.
The two of you walk out near an old stone bridge, looking out over the creek. The orange light of the sunset hits him sideways, making him look softer. It makes you look away quickly.
"It's never been this busy in the past," you laugh, leaning against the rail of the bridge. "Jin must do something special with those sandwiches."
Yoongi turns to you. The sharp intensity you saw in the studio is back, but there’s something heavier now. Something like regret. He reaches out, his hand sliding into your hair.
He doesn't give you a chance to say anything else. He leans in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss. You reach up in surprise, fisting your hands in his hoodie, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you. When he pulls back, he doesn't let go. He keeps his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes closed.
"Namjoon made the arrangements today," he says, the words barely a breath.
The warmth in your chest that you were feeling turns ice cold. You don't move. You don't breathe.
"We’re going back to the city," he continues. "In two weeks."
"Two weeks," you repeat.
"The others don't know yet," Yoongi says, finally opening his eyes. "Jungkook is planning on changing the shelving for your shop. Taehyung is looking at paint samples for your kids' corner. Hobi wants to plant a garden or … something," Yoongi’s grip on your neck tightens just slightly. "Don't tell them. Not yet. I shouldn't even be telling you, but..."
"But you didn't want to blindside me," you finish for him.
You look back toward the town square, where you can see the guys laughing as they pack up your stall. You knew this was coming. From the moment they crashed into your quiet life with their expensive clothes and their efficient ideas, you knew they were a beautiful, temporary storm.
"We knew this was going to happen, Yoongi," you say quietly, looking back at Yoongi.
“I know,” he says, jaw tightening a little bit.
"Two weeks," you whisper, reaching out to take his hand. "Then we better make them count."
"The Founders’ Day numbers proved my theory," Jin announces, pacing the length of the counter. "People don't just want coffee. We need a signature cake. Something with layers. A Perk and Page torte with gold leaf and a hint of espresso."
"Gold leaf is expensive, Jin," you say, leaning back against the espresso machine.
"We'll adjust the margin!" He counters, dismissively waving his hand. "I’ve already sourced a supplier for edible petals."
“We can do specials based on a book,” Jimin throws in.
In the corner, the quiet click of a measuring tape echoes. Jungkook is standing on a chair, eyeing the ceiling with intense focus. Beside him, a large, oddly shaped box sits open, revealing the soft, white curves of a lamp that looks exactly like a cumulus cloud.
"I can wire the cloud lamp into the main circuit tomorrow morning," Jungkook says, tapping the ceiling. "If I use a recessed mount, it’ll look like it’s floating."
"And the rug!" Taehyung chirps, sitting cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a catalog. "I found the meadow design. It’s coming from a boutique in the city. It should be here by Tuesday. Once the cloud lamp is up, the lighting will be perfect for reading groups."
"I'm thinking we should throw a launch party," Hobi adds, his eyes bright as he scribbles on a napkin. "We do a 'Midnight in the Meadow' event once the renovation is done. I'll handle the invites."
You look across the room, past the gold leaf talk and the cloud lamp, to where Yoongi is sitting on the edge of the far table.
He’s the only one not talking. He’s just watching them, his hands tucked into the pockets of his black hoodie. When he senses your gaze, his eyes shift to yours.
In his eyes, you see the same guilt on the bridge. The knowledge of the calendar and the city that’s already reaching out to pull them back. He watches Jungkook mark a spot on the ceiling with a pencil. He hears Jin talk about a spring menu that probably won't ever be launched. Yoongi gives you a tiny shake of his head.
"You're quiet," Jin says, pointing his spoon at you. "What do you think of the torte? Dark chocolate or white chocolate?"
You look at Jin’s proud, handsome face, then at Taehyung, who is petting the velvet swatch like it’s a tiny treasure.
"Dark chocolate," you say. "It goes better with the coffee."
"Perfect," Jin beams. "I’ll start the test batches on Monday."
Yoongi looks down at his boots, his jaw tightening. You turn away and start wiping down the steam wand, the metal hot against your palm, focusing on the sound of their laughter while you still can.
The bell above the door gives one final, cheerful chime as the last of them spills out onto the sidewalk. You can hear Jimin and Hobi’s laughter echoing down the street, Jungkook and
Taehyung arguing about the best way to hang the lamp, and Jin’s voice rising above it all to remind them that he expects a full tasting panel by noon.
You don’t look up. You grab a rag and start scrubbing a spot on the counter that’s already spotless. You scrub until your knuckles turn white, until the friction starts to burn.
"You're going to rub a hole in the wood." Yoongi’s voice is soft, coming from where he’s still perched.
You stop, but you don’t let go of the rag. You can’t. If you let go, your hands might start shaking.
"I hate this," you whisper. "I hate every second of this, Yoongi."
He stands up, the floorboards creaking under his weight as he walks toward you. He doesn't stop until he’s on the other side of the counter.
"I know," he says.
"Did you see them?" You finally look up. "Jungkook is so proud of the work he does here. Taehyung spent his own money to redo the kids' corner for a shop he’s leaving. They’re building a home here, Yoongi. They’re investing in a future that Namjoon has already erased."
"They're happy," Yoongi says, though his own voice sounds strained. "For now, they're just happy."
"It’s a lie." You throw the rag down. "Every time I smile back at them, I’m lying. When Jin talks about the spring menu and I don’t stop him, I’m lying. It feels like I’m mourning people who are still standing right in front of me."
Yoongi walks around the counter and cups the back of your neck. His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you forward until your forehead rests against his shoulder.
"You think I don't feel it?" He murmurs into your hair. "I have to look at Namjoon every morning while he checks the countdown on his phone. I have to listen to Jungkook talk about wanting to replace your flooring."
“They deserve to know." You let out a shaky breath.
"And then what?" Yoongi’s voice is suddenly sharp. "The next ten days become a funeral. Jungkook stops building. Taehyung stops dreaming. Jin stops cooking. Right now, this shop is the only place where they aren't assets. They’re just guys hanging a lamp in a coffee shop. Do you really want to take that away from them early?"
"I just didn't think it would hurt this much," you admit, your voice breaking.
Yoongi pulls back just enough to look at you. His thumb brushes a stray tear from your cheek, his touch lingering. He looks exhausted, the weight of the secret is affecting him too.
"It hurts because it’s real," he says softly. "Even if the time is short, the way they feel about this place…about you…that isn't a lie."
He leans down, kissing your forehead, a slow, lingering press of his lips that feels like a goodbye and a promise all at once.
"Ten days," he whispers against your skin. "Don't count the minutes. Just let them hang the lamp."
Yoongi’s hand stays on your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw one last time before he slowly pulls away. He looks around the room. At the bookmarks, the sketches, the meadow rug sample and for a moment, he looks like he wants to say something more.
"I have to go," he says, walking back around the counter. "Before Namjoon sends a search party."
"I know." You nod.
“I'll see you tomorrow,” he says, as he pauses at the door before slipping out into the night.
Slowly, you reach over and click off the lights. The shop plunges into darkness, leaving you alone once again.
Ten days.
Ten days and you'll be back to your old normal. The routine you used to find comfort in and yet somehow…you weren't looking forward to it at all.
It had been raining for days. It seemed very fitting for your mood. Behind the counter, Jin is a whirlwind. Multitasking, making sandwiches and pausing to write down a new idea. Hobi is stationed at the end of the bar, his laughter ringing out over the hiss of the espresso machine as he chats with Jenna. Across the room, Jimin leans in close as Mrs. Higgins debates her next move, his expression one of mock-seriousness as he whispers strategic advice that has the entire table giggling like schoolgirls.
Nearby, Taehyung is perched on a small stool beneath the glowing, floating cloud lamp. He is surrounded by a cluster of children who are sitting perfectly still as he reads from a colorful picture book. In the midst of everything, Jungkook is tucked away near the back hallway, half-hidden behind a step ladder as he fine-tunes a shelving unit he’s reinforcing.
Further back, at a small table away from the main flow of traffic, Yoongi sits with his laptop and a pair of headphones pushed back off his ears. His eyes occasionally drift from his screen to track your movement behind the bar. There is a heavy, silent understanding in the way his gaze lingers on the others capturing a mental photograph of a home they are still building, even as the clock in his pocket ticks down the final hours.
Suddenly, the bell above the door clatters violently against the glass as the heavy door is thrown open. Mr. Im, little league coach, pta dad stands there, breathless and drenched despite the rain having slowed down to a light mist an hour ago.
"The middle school!" He bellows, his voice cracking with panic. "The roof in the west wing just gave way. The rain was too much! The main pipes burst and the whole first floor is flooding. They’re trying to move the kids to the gym, but the water’s rising too fast and they can't get the drains clear!"
You don’t remember crossing the street.
Or the parking lot.
Or how your shoes are already soaked through by the time you hit the doors.
They’re propped open. Water spilling out over the threshold.
You step in anyway. It hits mid-calf immediately, jeans dragging, the current stronger than you expect as it pulls toward the far hallway. The lights flicker overhead, buzzing like they can’t decide whether to stay on.
Voices echo.
Shouting.
Directions.
Panic.
You push forward.
“The gym…get them to the gym!” Someone yells.
“Teachers, make sure your students are all accounted for!” Another yells.
Your hand slides along the wall as you move, instinct taking over. Left turn past the office. Science wing floods first. The dip in the floor near the lockers. A chair bumps into your leg, half-floating.
You shove it aside and keep going.
Then….
A splash behind you.
Fast.
Jungkook.
He passes you without a word, just a sharp look, already moving toward a man struggling with a jammed door.
“Got it,” he says, bracing his shoulder into it.
“Careful, there’s glass over here!” Another voice…Hobi…loud, cutting through everything.
“You’re okay…just hold onto me…slow, slow…good…” Jimin's voice is calm and soothing.
“I’ve got you. We’re going this way, okay? You’re okay.” Taehyung, softer. “Show me where the gym is.”
“Don’t force it…you’ll make it worse…wait..” Jin, sharp and controlled.
You stop for half a second.
They’re here.
They just came.
Your breath hitches, but there’s no time. You turn toward the west hallway and a hand grabs your arm.
“Hey.” Yoongi says, pulling you back a step. Water is dripping from his sleeves, eyes locked on yours. “Get out of here,” he says.
“I can help…” you start.
“It’s not safe,” he cuts in. “You don’t know…”
“I do,” you snap, as you pull your arm free, stepping back into the water.
“I went here,” you continue, breath sharp. “I know exactly where everything is. I know this place. So I’m not leaving.”
“Fine,” he mutters.
You lead the way toward the west wing, the water now swirling around your knees, cold and heavy. Behind you, you hear the steady, splashing rhythm of Yoongi’s boots.
"The music room," you shout over the roar of a burst pipe somewhere in the ceiling. "If the west wing roof gave way, the instruments are right under the leak."
You reach the heavy oak double doors. They’re swollen from the moisture, resisting you. You put your weight into it, shoulder bracing against the wood, and feel Yoongi’s hands slam against the door beside yours. Together, you heave. The doors groan and swing open.
It’s a disaster.
A massive section of the ceiling has collapsed, exposing jagged rafters and the grey sky. Water is cascading down in a relentless sheet from the exposed pipes, hitting the pooling water with a deafening rhythm. The room is a lake. Sheet music floats on the surface of the dark water, and the town’s pride. The baby grand piano is currently being poured on.
"The cellos," you gasp, pointing toward the far wall where the cases are half-submerged, tilting precariously as the water level rises.
“They will be ruined in minutes." He says, loudly over the water.
“What do we do?” You ask.
Yoongi doesn't hesitate. He’s already wading into the deepest part of the room, the water reaching his thighs.He reaches the first cello case, hoisting the bulky instrument onto his shoulder.
"Start with the smaller cases!" He yells over the sound of the rushing water. "Get anything you can out! I'll handle the heavy stuff!"
You scramble toward the instrument cabinets, your hands shaking as you grab the violin cases, two in each arm. You pass Yoongi as you head for the door, and for a split second, your eyes meet. He’s drenched, his black hair plastered to his forehead, looking less like a famous music producer and more like a man fighting for your home.
"Don't look at the piano!" He barks as he sees your gaze linger on the grand. "Instruments first! We’ll get to the rest!"
You nod, turning back to the hallway where the others are starting to form a human chain. Jin and Hobi take the cases from your hands, their faces set in the same determined lines. You plunge back into the room, back into the cold, because Yoongi is still in there, and because this room…this school…is part of the life they’re leaving behind, and you’ll be damned if you let it go down without a fight.
As you stumble out of the main entrance and the scene in the parking lot is a blur of flashing emergency lights and huddling groups of teachers and students wrapped in thin foil blankets.
You stop near a row of yellow school buses, your knees finally giving way. You sink onto a concrete curb, your head dropping into your hands.
"Hey." Yoongi says, coming up to you.
"You're shaking," he says, his voice gravelly.
"So are you," you whisper.
He doesn't deny it. He just sits down on the curb next to you, his shoulder bumping yours. In the middle of the parking lot, the others are starting to congregate.
Jin is leaning against a car and handing out dry towels to a group of crying middle schoolers. Hobi and Jimin are standing nearby, Jimin’s arm slung around Hobi’s neck as they both watch the emergency crews with a look of stunned exhaustion.
Jungkook is the last to emerge, his boots making a heavy squelch-thud sound on the pavement. He’s carrying a stack of rescued notebooks.
"Everything from the music wing is out," Jungkook says, his voice flat.
"Good," you breathe out, leaning your head back against the bus. "That’s good."
"We should go," a new voice says.
You look up. Namjoon is standing there. He’s the only one who isn't drenched, though his expensive coat is spotted with rain. He’s holding a phone in one hand, his thumb hovering over the screen. He looks at the school, then at the seven of you, and for the first time since you met him, he doesn't look like he has a plan.
"The road to the city is going to be a mess if the creek keeps rising," Namjoon says, his voice devoid of its usual authority. "The town is due for more rain.”
Jungkook freezes. Jimin’s head snaps up, his eyes wide and searching. Hobi’s hand drops from Jimin’s shoulder. The secret, the one you and Yoongi had been guarding, is finally out.
"What?" Jimin asks, his voice small as Namjoon looks at Yoongi, then back at the group.
"Yes." Namjoon nods. “You knew the project…”
"We discussed the project," Hobi says, stepping forward. "We didn't discuss... this." He gestures vaguely to the school, the town, and finally, to you.
"It's not personal, Hoseok," Namjoon says, though he’s starting to look uncomfortable.
You look at Yoongi. He hasn't looked up from his boots. He looks like he’s bracing for an impact that’s already happened.
"You knew," Jungkook says, looking directly at Yoongi. It’s not a question.
"I knew." Yoongi finally looks up. His eyes are red-rimmed and tired.
“Look around, Joon,” Jungkook says. “They need help.”
“Of course we will help them,” Namjoon knits his eyebrows. “We will donate money…”
“No,” Jungkook shakes his head. “They need manpower. They need people that care.”
“Kook…” Namjoon starts, Jungkook cuts him off again.
“I'm… I'm not going,” he says. “Since Y/N let me start fixing up Perk and Page. I found something that actually… matters. I’m not going back to sitting in a dark room fixing problems that don’t mean anything to me.”
Nobody says anything for a moment. They just look around at the mess, at each other, taking in what Jungkook just said.
“I'm not leaving either,” Hobi says. “I've made friends here. People that are… important.”
You watch as his eyes find Jenna helping a student find their parents. You don't know how you missed that.
“Well,” Jimin exhales, glancing off toward the street, “I have bridge club on Thursdays. Mrs. Higgins will absolutely destroy me if I don’t show up.”
“The kids expect me.” Taehyung’s still looking toward the school doors. “We're in the middle of a series. I’m not leaving before I finish that.”
“I can finally cook again,” Jin says, adjusting his sleeves before looking at Namjoon. “I’m not giving it up. My spring menu is already in the works.”
“So, you're all just going to quit to settle down here?” Namjoon asks. “Do you know how much you're losing?”
“We wouldn't be losing anything if you gave this place a chance,” Hobi tells him. “If we didn't feel like we had to sneak around maybe we could actually focus on everything. We can make it work.”
Namjoon doesn’t argue right away. He just… stands there, looking like his friends just betrayed him. It's then however,
his gaze shifts to Yoongi. The one person who understands the weight of timelines, contracts, and the consequences. If Yoongi agrees to leave.
This ends.
“Yoongi.” Namjoon says.
Yoongi isn’t even looking at Namjoon. His eyes are somewhere else entirely. They are looking back through the open school doors.
“Who’s the music teacher?” Yoongi asks you.
You blink, thrown for half a second before you turn, scanning the crowd until you spot Mrs. Woo. She is standing near the entrance trying to talk to someone from the district.
“Over there.” You point.
Yoongi nods once as he pushes himself off the ground and he starts walking. Mrs. Woo looks up as Yoongi approaches. She clearly was not expecting to be addressed by someone like him.
“I’ve seen this before.” He says
“What?” Mrs. Woo blinks at him.
“Programs like this,” he says. “They’re always the first to go when something breaks. Budgets get tight. Priorities shift.”
Yoongi looks around at the destruction. shoving his hands into his wet pockets. “Music is always the first to go. I’m not going to let that happen.”
“I… what?” Mrs. Woo just stares at him.
“We both know most of those instruments aren't salvageable,” he gestures to where the ruined instruments lay on the ground. “Donate the working ones and I will replace everything.”
“That’s… that’s thousands of thousands of dollars,” Mrs. Woo says softly. “I can't...”
Yoongi shakes his head once.
“The kids don't deserve to have their music taken away because of district politics. Make a list. A true list. You can drop it off to Y/N at Perk and Page when you're done,” he tells her.
Yoongi doesn’t wait for a response. He doesn’t wait for gratitude. He just gives Mrs. Woo one final nod and turns away, wet boots splashing across the pavement as he heads back toward the curb.
The parking lot has gone strangely quiet.
Even the emergency lights feel softer now, red and blue flickering across soaked asphalt and foil blankets. Mrs. Woo is still standing there, stunned, one hand lifted to her chest as if she’s forgotten what she was about to say.
Namjoon quickly catches up to his friend. His expression is no longer just shock.
It’s frustration.
Confusion.
Something dangerously close to hurt.
“Why?” Namjoon asks.
Yoongi stops.
Doesn’t turn around yet.
Rainwater drips from the ends of his hair onto the pavement.
“Why would you do that?” Namjoon takes a step closer. “You just tied yourself to this school. To this town. For what?”
Now Yoongi turns. His face is exhausted, soaked, jaw set hard enough to ache.
“For them.” He says it simply.
“For a school district that will probably replace the entire board in six months?” Namjoon lets out a short, disbelieving breath.
“For kids,” Yoongi corrects, sharper now.
The lot goes quiet. He gestures toward the school, toward the broken windows and the water still spilling out onto the pavement.
“The kids don’t care about budget reports and project timelines, Joon.” His voice stays low, steady. “They care that tomorrow they still have somewhere to play.”
“This is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re making emotional decisions in the middle of a crisis.” Namjoon’s jaw tightens.
“Yeah,” he says. “I am. I’m doing it for the kids who don’t get a second chance when something like this gets cut.”
His eyes flick back toward the school and back to his friend standing in front of him.
“And for the ones who don’t even know yet that this is the thing that’s going to change everything.” He continues.
Namjoon doesn’t interrupt this time. In fact, he almost looks a little ashamed.
“To the thirteen-year-old versions of us,” he adds. “Who met in sixth grade band class and thought that was as big as the world was going to get. Those kids didn’t care about funding or contracts either,” Yoongi continues, quieter now. “They just wanted a place to play. They deserved that. So do these ones.”
You watch as they stare at each other. Years of shared history and hard, grueling work pass between them.
Namjoon looks away first. He looks at the school. Not as a liability or a series of structural failures, but as a building that looks remarkably like the one where they first learned how to breathe through a woodwind reed. The frustration in his body doesn’t vanish, but it morphs. Now he just looks exhausted. Like he just needed to be reminded of who he really was.
“You’re a fool, Min Yoongi,” Namjoon says, slapping a hand on Yoongi's wet shoulder.
“Probably.” Yoongi doesn’t flinch. He just looks at the hand on his shoulder, then back up at his oldest friend.
“You’re going to be exhausted. You’re going to be here every weekend.” Namjoon’s grip tightens, just once, before he lets go. “And I’m going to have to be the one to tell the contractors why we’re ignoring the Safety First signs in the music wing.”
Yoongi feels the corner of his mouth twitch. It's not a smile, but the ghost of one. It’s the first bit of warmth he’s felt since the pipes burst.
“I know someone that can make the coffee. You bring the blueprints.” Yoongi says.
Namjoon sighs, a long, shaky sound that disappears into the rhythm of the slightly harder falling rain. He turns to stand beside Yoongi, both of them facing the waterlogged building.
“Sixth grade band,” Namjoon mutters, shaking his head. “I hated that clarinet.”
“You were terrible at it,” Yoongi agrees softly.
“I was,” Namjoon admits. He clears his throat, straightens his posture, and looks at the flickering emergency lights one last time. “But I liked the room.”
Yoongi nods, a slow, final movement. He turns back toward the curb, his boots clicking more rhythmically now against the pavement. He doesn’t need a thank you, and he doesn’t need a contract. He just needs to know that when the sun comes up, the doors will still unlock.
As they walk toward the car, the sirens in the distance fade. The only sound is the steady, persistent pattering of the rain reclaiming the quiet town.
The rain hasn’t let up.
It taps steadily against your windows. The house smells faintly like your shampoo and clean laundry, a sharp contrast to the soaked wood, metal and panic that still clings to the edges of your mind.
You twist the towel once more through your damp hair, pacing the length of your living room in an oversized shirt and thin shorts. Everything is too quiet. No shouting. No rushing water. No voices calling directions.
Just you, the rain, and the crackling fireplace.
A knock breaks through it.
You freeze.
It comes again and much firmer this time. You weren’t expecting anyone. For a second, you just stand there before you move, crossing the small space and pull the door open.
Yoongi stands on your porch.
He’s soaked. Again. Hair dark and dripping, hoodie clinging to his shoulders like he didn’t bother with an umbrella or common sense. His eyes find yours immediately, but there’s something underneath it.
Something unsettled.
“Hi,” you manage, a little breathless.
“Hi.” He echoes.
“How did you...” You blink once, then lean against the doorframe slightly.
“Hobi’s… friend,” he says, like the explanation barely matters. Like he didn’t think far enough ahead to come up with a better one.
You stare at him for half a second.
“Yeah, Jenna didn't tell me about that,” you mutter.
A faint huff of something almost like a laugh leaves him, but it fades just as quickly. The rain fills the space behind him.
“You gonna keep me out here?” He asks, voice low.
“Right. Yeah…come in.” You step back immediately.
He slips past you, bringing the cold with him, water dotting your floor as he shrugs out of his hoodie. You close the door, the sound of the latch clicking a little too loud in the quiet.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
He takes a few slow steps further inside, gaze moving around. Just… taking it in. Your space is small. Lived-in. Books stacked where they don’t quite fit. A blanket thrown over the back of the couch. Mugs that don’t match.
It’s nothing like the warehouse.
Nothing like him.
And then he stops.
The piano sits against the far wall, dark wood catching the dim light from the lamp beside it. It’s polished, cared for…even if it hasn’t been touched in a while.
Yoongi doesn’t move closer right away.
He just… looks at it.
“It was my grandmother’s,” you say, a little too quickly. “I don’t…” You let out a small breath, shrugging it off. “I don’t play. It’s basically just a very large decoration at this point.”
He finally steps closer, slower now, like the air around it is heavier. His fingers hover just above the edge of the keys, not quite touching.
“You don’t play,” he repeats, quieter.
“I tried lessons. It wasn't for me.” You shake your head, crossing your arms loosely. “Are you really staying?” you ask.
It comes out softer than you meant it to. Not casual. Not teasing.
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze stays on the piano for a second longer before it drifts back to you.
“I was going to expand the warehouse,” he says, voice low, measured. “Build a proper studio.”
You don’t interrupt. He leans back slightly against the edge of the piano, arms loose at his sides, like he’s not entirely aware he’s doing it.
“Didn’t make sense before,” he adds as his eyes meet yours fully now. “It does now.”
“Yoongi…” you start, but it falters.
From the countdown that’s been ticking in the back of your mind like something you’re trying not to hear.
“You’re going to build a studio,” you say slowly, stepping closer without really deciding to. “In a town you were supposed to leave in days?”
“I wasn’t supposed to care either,” he says.
The space between you closes without either of you fully noticing it happen. You’re close enough now to see the way his hair is still dripping slightly at the ends. The way his jaw tightens like he’s holding something back. The way his eyes flicker over your face.
“You showed up,” you say, quieter now.
“Yeah.” He doesn’t deny it.
The rain fills the silence again as it hits your roof.
Louder this time.
Or maybe everything else just got quieter. Your hand lifts before you can think better of it, brushing lightly against the sleeve of his t-shirt.
“You’re freezing,” you murmur.
“I’m fine,” he says softly.
“You’re not.” You shake your head.
“I have towels. Dry clothes, probably something that’ll fit…” You move without waiting for permission, stepping around him toward the hallway. Your wrist is caught before you can take more than a step.
“Don’t,” he says.
Your breath stutters slightly, your gaze flicking from his hand on your wrist back up to his face.
“Yoongi…” you try again, softer this time.
His hand slides from your wrist to your waist. His fingers sink into your dry clothes and pulls you into his wet ones.
“I'm not going anywhere anymore,” he murmurs, voice low enough it almost disappears into the rain. “I’m done pretending I don’t want this.”
He kisses you like he’s been holding his breath for years. There’s nothing tentative about it. His hand slides into your hair, gripping, tilting your head back, and you open for him, a gasp swallowed by his tongue.
You stumble back, pulling him with you, your hands fisting in the wet material of his shirt . He’s dripping on your floor, leaving dark puddles on the wood, but you don’t give a shit. You can’t think past the press of his body, the heat of him beneath the cold, wet clothes. He breaks the kiss, just for a second, his forehead resting against yours. His breath is ragged, his eyes dark and hooded.
“I couldn’t leave,” he says, the words torn from him. “I fucking couldn’t.”
You don’t answer with words. You pull his mouth back to yours, harder this time, your teeth catching his lower lip, a small, sharp sting that makes him groan. His hands drop to your hips, gripping the thin fabric of your shorts, pulling you against him. You feel him, hard and pressing against your belly. You’re walking backward, guiding him.
You push his shirt up, your fingers finding the cool, damp skin of his stomach. He hisses, a sharp intake of breath, and his hands find the hem of your own shirt, tugging it up. You raise your arms, letting him pull it over your head, tossing it aside. You’re naked underneath and his eyes rake over you.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
He doesn’t give you time to feel exposed. His mouth is on your neck, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin, tongue soothing the sting. His hands cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples, and you arch into him, a moan escaping your lips. He’s still wet, the rain cold on your heated skin, a contrast that makes you shiver.
You push him back, just enough to work at the button of his jeans. He watches you, his chest heaving, his eyes never leaving your face. You get the button undone, the zipper down, and you push the denim over his hips, letting it pool at his feet. He kicks it aside, along with his shoes, and stands before you in nothing but his boxers, the fabric tented.
You reach out, tracing the line of his hip. He’s beautiful, all sharp angles and pale skin. He catches your wrist, his grip firm, and pulls you toward the couch.
You go willingly, falling back onto the cushions, pulling him down on top of you. He kisses you again, deep and slow, his hand sliding down your body, over your stomach, between your legs. He finds you wet, ready, and he groans against your mouth.
“Been thinking about this,” he murmurs, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, circling your clit with a precision that makes your hips buck. “Every night in that fucking shop. Watching you bend over to shelve books. The way you bite your lip when you’re concentrating.”
You can’t form a response. His fingers are inside you now, two of them, stretching you, curling against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes. You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, your head thrown back against the armrest.
“Yoongi,” you gasp.
He removes his fingers, and you whimper at the loss. However, he’s shifting, his mouth trailing down your body, over your breasts, your stomach, pausing to nip at the dip in your waist. He settles between your legs, his breath hot against your core, and you look down at him, your vision blurry.
He meets your eyes and then his tongue is on you, flat and warm, licking from your entrance to your clit in one long stroke. You cry out, your hand fisting in his wet hair. He groans against you, the vibration sending a jolt through your entire body.
His tongue works you with a rhythm that’s both relentless and teasing. He sucks your clit into his mouth, flicks it with the tip of his tongue, drives two fingers back inside you, curling and pumping. You’re climbing, the pressure building, your thighs tightening around his head. He doesn’t let up, his eyes locked on yours, watching you come apart.
The orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing through you, leaving you trembling and gasping. He works you through it, lapping at you gently as you come down.
He crawls up your body, his face slick with you, his lips swollen. He kisses you, and you taste yourself on his tongue, salty and sweet. He reaches down, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free. He positions himself at your entrance. He doesn't push in.
“Tell me you want this,” he says, his voice strained. You think you can hear a small thread of vulnerability.
“I want this,” you say, pulling him closer. “I want you.”
He pushes in, slow, inch by inch, stretching you, filling you. You gasp, your eyes fluttering closed, your nails raking down his back. He’s perfect, and when he’s fully seated, he stills, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours.
“Fuck,” he breathes, the word shaky. “You feel…”
He doesn’t finish. He starts to move, a slow, deep rhythm that has you clinging to him, your bodies sliding together, skin on skin. The fire crackles, the rain continues its pattering rhythm, but all you can hear is the sound of his breathing, the wet slap of your bodies, the low moans that escape your throat.
He picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent. He’s chasing something, and you’re right there with him, the pressure building again, coiling tight in your belly. He reaches between you, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles.
“Come for me,” he commands, his voice a growl.
It’s the push you need. You shatter, your body convulsing around him. He follows a moment later, a guttural groan torn from his chest, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you.
He collapses on top of you, his weight a comfort, his face buried in your neck. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, his breath warm against your skin. The fire pops, the rain continues to fall, and you lie there, tangled and sweaty, the taste of him still on your lips.
After a long moment, he lifts his head, his eyes soft, a lazy smile playing on his lips.
“I’m not leaving,” he says, the words simple, final.
You don’t ask him to explain. You just pull him down for another kiss, slow and sweet, a promise of more to come.
Morning comes quietly.
The rain hasn’t stopped, but it’s softer now. It's more of a steady hush against the windows than the relentless downpour from the days before. The light filtering through your curtains is pale and gray. You don’t move at first. Not until something gently plays through your house. Your eyes stay closed as you listen.
Your piano.
You breathe in slowly, shifting just enough to feel the cool air where he isn’t beside you on the bed. That’s what finally pulls your eyes open. Sitting up, you pull up the blanket around you before getting off the bed and taking the blanket with you.
Heading downstairs, you see his back is slightly hunched, shoulders relaxed, head tilted just enough that his hair falls forward as his fingers move over the keys. He doesn’t notice you yet and for a second you just watch him.
It feels… intimate in a different way.
“You’re up.” His voice cuts gently through the music, low and rough with sleep, but his hands don’t stop moving.
“I didn’t know you were awake.” You blink, a little surprised.
“Been up a while,” he murmurs.
His fingers slow, pressing into a softer string of notes before he finally lets them fade out completely.
“I’ve got to go back to the city,” he says.
You draw the blanket a little tighter around yourself, studying the line of his shoulders.
“For how long?” You ask, voice still soft from sleep.
“A week,” he answers. “Maybe less. Just… loose ends. Things I can’t leave hanging.”
“Okay.” You nod.
That’s what finally makes him turn. His gaze finds you, searching like he expected something else.
Resistance.
Disappointment.
Anything.
But you’re just… there. Looking at him. It disarms him more than anything else could have. Your head tilts slightly, eyes drifting from his face to the piano.
“What were you playing?” You ask.
Something in his expression softens just a fraction. He looks back at the keys, fingers brushing lightly over them without pressing down.
“Something I’ve been working on,” he says.
You shift, the floor cool beneath your feet as you move closer. The blanket stays wrapped around you, trailing slightly as you stop a few steps behind him.
“It sounded… familiar,” you murmur.
“Yeah.” He huffs a quiet breath, almost amused. “I wrote it at the shop.”
“At Perk and Page?” You ask.
“Sat in the corner while you were arguing with Jin about cinnamon ratios.” He huffs a quiet breath, almost amused.
“What is it?” You ask.
He doesn’t look at you right away. His fingers finally press down again. Just a few notes this time.
“It’s yours.” He answers.
“You wrote me a song?” You ask softly.
“Don’t make it a big deal.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing.
“I’m not,” you say in disbelief. “I’m just… processing.”
That earns the smallest curve of his mouth. You step closer again, until you’re just beside him now, close enough to see the faint tension still sitting in his shoulders.
You lower yourself carefully onto the bench beside him, the blanket pooling around your legs. Your shoulder brushes his lightly, and neither of you moves away.
“Play it again,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t hesitate this time. The melody starts over, softer than before. You sit beside him, listening. Outside, the rain keeps falling and suddenly, you think whatever this is. It's going to last a lot longer than either of you were expecting.
The shop is quieter than it’s been in days.
Not empty…never empty.
Rain still taps lightly against the windows, a softer echo of the storm that tore through town earlier in the week. The air smells like espresso and cinnamon, something Jin insisted on perfecting until it felt seasonally appropriate.
You’re behind the counter, reorganizing a stack of bookmarks that don’t actually need reorganizing, when the bell chimes.
You glance up automatically and pause when Namjoon steps inside alone. Not in the sharp, intimidating way he usually does. No heavy overcoat, no storm-cloud presence that follows around him. Today, it’s just a sweater. Sleeves pushed slightly at the wrists. Hair still a little damp from the mist outside.
He looks… less like an authority figure.
More like he belongs.
“Well,” you say lightly, setting the bookmarks down. “If you’re here to audit my inventory, I should warn you. I’ve already hidden the evidence.”
“I’m not here to audit anything,” he says. trying to hide the twitch in his lips.
There’s something in his tone that makes you straighten a little anyway. He steps closer to the counter, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket and setting it down between you.
“Yoongi said you might have this,” he adds.
You glance down.
Mrs. Woo’s list.
It was the first draft. The one Yoongi said that she needed to redo. It’s longer now. More organized, detailed, a careful breakdown of everything the music room lost. Instruments, stands, sheet music, storage… even the piano, circled twice like she still can’t quite believe she wrote it down.
You nod, reaching under the counter and pulling out the updated version she dropped off earlier that morning.
“She added a few things,” you say, sliding it over to him. “I told her to be thorough if she didn't want Yoongi to deny it again.”
A kid probably high school age steps in, shaking rain off his hoodie. He hesitates just inside the door, glancing around like he’s not entirely sure he’s in the right place. You recognize the look immediately.
“Hey,” you call gently. “What can I help you find?”
“Uh…do you have anything about, like… early settlement stuff? For a project?” He shifts his weight, a little awkward.
“I might.” You start to move around the counter.
Namjoon’s voice cuts in, not loud, not overbearing. Just… present. The kid looks at him, a little startled.
“What kind of project?” Namjoon steps closer to the shelves, thoughtful already.
“Um…paper,” the kid says. “But like…not just dates and stuff. My teacher said we need… perspectives?”
Namjoon nods once, like that’s exactly what he expected.
“Primary sources will help with that,” he says. “Diaries. Letters. Anything written at the time.” He scans the shelf quickly, then reaches without hesitation, pulling out a worn hardcover from the middle row.
“This,” he says, handing it over. “It’s a compiled set of personal accounts from the town's first twenty years. Not just what happened. How people experienced it.”
The kid blinks, flipping it open.
“This is… actually really good,” he says, a little surprised.
“It should give you something better than a timeline.” Namjoon gives a small shrug.
“Yeah…thank you,” the kid says quickly, already heading for the register.
You ring him up, watching the way he leaves more confident than when he walked in. When the door closes behind him, you glance back at Namjoon. He’s already looking at the shelves again, like he didn’t just do something quietly perfect.
“You’re good at that,” you say.
“At what?” He asks, distracted.
“Knowing exactly what people need before they do.” You answer.
“It’s not difficult,” he says. “You just have to ask the right questions.”
You lean back against the counter slightly, studying him.
“There's a group that's been trying to start something like that here,” you say.
That gets his attention. It's just a flicker, but it's there.
“A historical society,” you continue. “Nothing huge. Just… preserving things. Organizing records. Giving people access to this kind of stuff.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
Just listens.
“People care,” you add with a small shrug. “They just don’t really know how to build it into something sustainable.”
You pause for a moment tapping your counter with your hands.
“They’re missing leadership.” You finish.
Namjoon’s gaze drifts slowly across the shop.
The shelves.
The community board near the door, cluttered with flyers and handwritten notes. The space that’s clearly more than just a little local shop.
“They'd need structure,” he says after a moment.
You don’t react. Just let him keep going.
“Archival standards. Cataloging systems. Funding proposals if they want it to last longer than a year.” His brow furrows slightly, already somewhere deeper in thought. “A governing framework, at minimum.”
“Sounds like you’ve thought about it.” You tilt your head slightly.
“Hypothetically,” he says. “I’ll need to contact a few suppliers,” he mutters. “Strings, brass…those won’t be local. Storage might be. The piano…” he exhales quietly. “I’ll have to look into restoration versus replacement.”
“Coffee?” You push off the counter and step toward the espresso machine.
“Black.” He doesn’t look up from the list.
* Six Months Later *
“No. Absolutely not.” Jin’s voice cuts across the shop before you even see him.
You glance up just in time to see him snatch a sandwich from the counter, holding it up like it personally offended him.
“This is uneven,” he declares, turning it slightly. “And where is the chicken salad? Did it run away?”
“It’s on the bread, Jin,” you say, not even looking up from the register.
“It’s barely acquainted with the bread,” he shoots back, already reaching for the container. “If you’re going to sell something cold, it still needs integrity.”
He adds another generous scoop with the precision of someone plating a five-star dish instead of fixing a lunch rush mistake.
“People trust us,” he continues, pressing the top bun down like he’s sealing a deal. “You can’t betray that trust with inadequate filling.”
“You’re being dramatic,” you mutter.
“I’m being correct,” he counters instantly.
A customer clears their throat, trying not to laugh.
Jin brightens immediately, sliding the now properly constructed sandwich across the counter.
“There you are,” he says smoothly. “Balanced, generous, and worth your money.” Then, under his breath as he turns back to you. “We’re increasing the portion size. I refuse to be associated with mediocrity.”
A bright stack of laminated cards lands on the counter in front of you.
“Okay…hear me out.” Hobi looks at you.
“Hobi…” You don’t even need to look up.
“No, no, just…just one second,” he insists, already flipping the top card around so you can see it.
To Kill a Macchiato
bold espresso, vanilla, a hint of cocoa
You pause and slowly look back up at him.
“Absolutely not.” You shake your head.
“Yes, absolutely yes,” he grins, undeterred. “I expanded on Jimin's idea. It’s a pairing system. Drinks and books. People order both. It’s immersive. It’s branding.”
“Let me see.” Jin appears at your shoulder like he’s been summoned by the word branding alone.
Hobi hands over the stack like he’s presenting a masterpiece.
Jin scans the first card.
“‘Pride and Peppermint,’” Jin reads aloud. “That’s not bad.”
“I know!” Hobi beams.
“‘The Great Gats-bean.’” Jin flips to another.
“Hoseok…” you try.
“It’s memorable!” Hobi argues. “People will talk about it!”
Jin hums, thoughtful now, tapping the edge of the card.
“The flavor balance works,” he admits. “I like it.”
“So we’re doing it?” Hobi looks between you both, victorious.
“We’re testing it.” You exhale slowly, already knowing you’ve lost this battle.
“Yes!” Hobi claps once, already reaching for a pen. “I can build events around this.”
At the corner table, Jimin is surrounded.
Thriving.
“You cannot bluff that aggressively and expect me not to notice,” he says, narrowing his eyes dramatically at Mrs. Higgins.
“I’ve been playing longer than you’ve been alive,” she shoots back.
“And yet,” Jimin grins, laying his cards down. “You walked right into it.”
The table erupts.
Across the room, under the soft glow of the cloud lamp, Taehyung sits cross-legged on the meadow rug. A small crowd of kids leans in, completely still as he turns the page of a book with quiet reverence.
“And then,” he murmurs, voice soft. “The butterfly realized it was never lost. It was just… early.”
One of the kids gasps like this is the most important revelation of their life.
Taehyung smiles like it might be.
There’s a quiet click and whirr overhead. You don’t even look up this time.
“Jungkook,” you call, already knowing.
“I’m almost done,” he replies.
You glance up anyway.
He’s halfway up a ladder near the front wall, tape measure hooked along the space above the counter, pencil tucked behind his ear like he’s been doing this his entire life.
“You said that twenty minutes ago.” You argue.
“I was wrong twenty minutes ago,” he says easily, adjusting the tape by a fraction of an inch. “This needs to be centered properly.”
“It is centered.” You point out.
“It’s visually centered,” he corrects. “Not structurally. Those are not the same thing.”
“They are to me.” You mutter.
He marks something quickly, then leans back just enough to study his work.
“New menu board’s going to fit perfectly,” he adds. “Bigger. Easier to read. Better spacing.”
“You already made one,” you say.
“Yeah,” he nods. “This one’s better.”
Namjoon steps inside, careful as always, but there’s something different now. Less… calculating. More … comfortable. He’s holding a flat, wrapped bundle under his arm.
“Do you have a minute?” He asks.
“For you? Always.” You gesture to the counter.
He approaches, setting the bundle down with surprising care. For a second, he doesn’t unwrap it. He just rests his hand on top of it like he’s deciding how to explain.
“We finalized the first archived piece,” he says.
“That was fast.” Your brows lift slightly.
“Efficient,” he corrects automatically. “It mattered.”
He unwraps the paper, revealing a preserved article. It’s yellowed, fragile, and mounted carefully behind glass.
“A fire?” You murmur, as you lean in.
“The original schoolhouse,” he says. “Early records were scattered after this. Most of what we have now exists because people rebuilt it from memory.”
Your gaze lingers on the date.
On the place.
Where the middle school stands now.
“Would it be alright if we display it here?” He asks.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “Of course you can.”
He nods once, already reaching into his pocket.
“I brought mounting hardware,” he adds as Jungkook snatches it out of his hand.
“Coffee first,” you say, with a smile.
“Black.” He smiles.
The spring evening sunsets were getting longer. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of roasted beans and the lingering warmth of a busy day. Pulling the last window shade down, you reach over the counter, clicking off the main lights, leaving the shop bathed in the soft, ethereal glow of the cloud lamp in the kids' corner. You’ve just turned the deadbolt when a familiar, rhythmic knock sounds against the glass.
You lean your forehead against the cool wood of the door for a second, a smile tugging at your lips, before you slowly pull it open just a crack. Yoongi stands there, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a black hoodie, his hair slightly windblown. He looks tired, but the second his eyes meet yours, that sharp intensity of his softens into something private.
"We’re closed," you say, your voice dripping with mock-seriousness as you block the doorway. "And if you're looking for a caffeine fix, I'm afraid we’re completely out of coffee."
"Out of coffee? In a coffee shop? That’s a bold lie, even for you." Yoongi huffs a short, dry laugh, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back up.
"Supply chain issues," you deadpan, leaning against the frame. "Very tragic. You'll have to try the tea shop down the street."
"I don't want tea," he murmurs, stepping closer until he’s firmly in your space, the scent of the evening air clinging to him. "And I think we both know I’m not here for the espresso."
You let out a soft breath, your resolve crumbling as you step back to let him in. He slips past you, the door clicking shut and the lock sliding home with a finality that feels like a relief.
"Namjoon told me about the archival piece," he says, walking to stand by the mounted article. "The schoolhouse fire. It looks good on the wall."
"It feels right," you say, crossing the room to stand near him. "Like the shop is finally holding all the pieces of the town together."
Yoongi turns, leaning his lower back against the counter. He reaches out, taking your hand and pulling you between his knees.
"Six months," he says, his voice low, almost a marvel. "Jungkook’s already planning a patio out back. Jin wants to host a 'Gourmet Founders' gala. They’ve completely moved in."
"And you?" You ask, your fingers tracing the edge of his hoodie. "The studio is finished. The loose ends in the city are tied up. Do you still feel like you’re missing something?"
Yoongi reaches up, his hand cupping the back of your neck. He looks around the shop. His eyes roam to the meadow rug, the books, the life they all built and then he looks back at you.
"I'm not missing a thing," he says.
The weight of the secret you once shared, the fear of the countdown…it’s all gone. There is only the running of the refrigerator and the quiet peace of a home that was never supposed to happen, but did.
"I love you," you whisper, the words easy and honest in the dim light.
Yoongi’s expression shifts, a flicker of something raw and profound crossing his face. He pulls you closer, his forehead resting against yours.
"I love you," he breathes back.
He leans in then, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that isn't a goodbye or a promise for later. It’s a kiss that belongs to the here and now. It's a slow, deep realization of everything you’ve fought for. His hands slide down to your waist, holding, while the world outside stays quiet, leaving the two of you alone in the glow of the cloud.
Summary: You lived a quiet life running your bookstore cafe. You didn't expect your life to be flipped upside down by some strangers escaping noise …. one sandwich at a time.
Pairing: Music Producer Yoongi x F. Reader
Genre: Romance, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, Small Town
Warnings: Unprotected Sex,
A/N: So, I don't know if I struggled with this so long because this is more of a BTS fic that leans Y/N x Yoongi rather than the pairing being a main focus. Part two will be up tomorrow.
I hope you enjoy part 1!
The bell above Perk and Page chimes before the morning rush has even stopped. The espresso machine hisses softly behind the counter, milk steaming into a steady rhythm. The shop smells like roasted beans and old paperbacks. It's warm, familiar. Just the way you liked most mornings to be.
Outside, the town was already awake in the way small towns always were. Tires crunching over gravel. A dog barking two streets over. Someone’s radio playing classic rock through an open garage.
Inside, it was your own little world.
“Morning, Y/N,” Jenna, the local florist, calls.
“Morning,” you reply automatically, sliding a mug across the counter to her. “Extra foam, two sugars. Don’t lie to me, I know you.”
“You're a saint,” she sighs.
Your shop isn't big. Half bookstore, half café, entirely accidental in how successful it had become. People came for coffee and stayed for
Books. Or came for books and stayed for conversations they didn’t mean to have.
However, you always knew what to expect.
Or… you always did. Until the door opens again. This time with a gust of cool air that meant someone had been standing outside longer than they should have been. Two older women from the morning walking group stood just inside gossiping.
“Ladies,” you smile at them. “Do I want to know?”
“Oh, you haven’t heard?” One of them asks immediately.
“If it involves Mr. Daniels again,” you sigh, shaking your head. “I don't want to know.”
“No, no, better than that,” the other says, hurrying over and leaning in. “New people.”
That got your attention in spite of yourself. New people didn’t come through here often. Not ones that stayed long enough to matter.
“What kind of new people?” You ask, wiping your hands on a towel.
The first woman lowered her voice unnecessarily.
“The kind with cars you don’t see around here.” She raises her eyebrows.“Fancy cars. Black ones. Too shiny. Like… movie cars.”
“Okay…” You frown slightly.
“They’ve been seen near the old highway property,” the second woman adds. “The one nobody’s used since the old warehouse closed.”
Now that did mean something. That building had been empty longer than most people in town liked to admit.
“Are they renting it?” You ask.
“No one knows,” she says. “But I saw at least four of them. Men dressed fancy. City people.”
“And they were carrying big cases,” the first woman whispers.
Before you can ask anything else, the bell above your door chimes. This time letting in a wave of morning light and the sound of the town itself starting to wake up louder than before. Someone at the counter calls your name.
Coffee.
A refill.
You move back into rhythm, but the conversation lingers at the edges of your thoughts. Why would anyone want to move here?
Outside, through the front window, you catch dark vehicles down the street. Too clean for this town that park across from the hardware store.
“Alright,” you mutter under your breath. “Let’s see what that’s about.”
And the bell above the door chimes again.
The town didn’t stop talking about it all day.
You were too busy looking up lefthanded notebook vendors to notice anything unusual. However, the usual chatter about local sports scores died down into a low, curious murmur. That made you stand up straight and look around. As you turn around to face the front of the store, that's when you notice a new face.
"Just a black coffee please."
The voice was low, raspy, and carried a hint of exhaustion that didn't quite match the pristine look of the man standing there. He was pale against the dark, oversized leather jacket he wore. He wasn’t looking at the menu. He was looking at the bookshelf behind you, his eyes narrow and cat-like, scanning the titles with a quiet intensity.
It almost seems like he was avoiding looking around at everyone staring at him.
"Small, medium, or large?" You ask, reaching for a cup.
"Largest you have," he replies.
His gaze finally drops to yours. He doesn't smile. He just leans one elbow on the high part of your wooden counter, tapping a rhythm against the grain with pale fingers.
"Rough morning?" You ask, trying to break the ice.
“You can say that.” He pauses his tapping as the door flies open.
The quietness the man brought with him was instantly shattered by a burst of energy as three more men step inside.
"Yo…" one of them starts, his voice bright and booming, before catching himself. He has a smile that is completely bright and contagious. "Oh, man. It smells like actual paper in here. Look at this place!"
Behind him, a man with broad shoulders and a long, elegant coat steps in, checking his reflection briefly in the glass of your dessert case before pushing his hair back. He looks like he’d stepped off a runway, looking entirely too polished for a place that sold used paperbacks and day old muffins.
"It's charming," the polished one remarks.
Finally, another with tattoos and piercings comes in looking around with wide eyes. You can hear him earn a few sounds of disapproval from some of your older customers.
“You're late,” the quiet one sighs.
"The GPS didn't recognize Gravel Road Number Four," the energetic one laughs, stepping up to the counter with a grin. "Hi! Sorry. Can we get... everything? What’s good here? Everything looks good."
The pale man at the counter takes his black coffee from you, his fingers brushing yours briefly as he takes the cup. He takes a slow sip, wincing at the heat, and then steps back, leaning against the far wall to watch his companions descend upon your counter.
"I'll take a Chai Latte," the broad-shouldered one says, flashing a dazzling, practiced smile. "And whatever she's having." He points to a regular's plate of cinnamon rolls. "In fact, make it two. We have friends in the car who are too grumpy to come inside at the moment."
You grab another stack of cups, realizing the unofficial Perk and Page book club were trying their best to hide behind the shelves and spy.
"Coming right up," you say, meeting the gaze of the quiet man against the wall one last time. He just raises his cup to you in a silent salute.
The rest of your regulars have caught on to who's in the store.
Mrs. Alden lingers by the sugar station far longer than necessary, stirring a cup that definitely doesn’t need stirring. The retirees in the corner have fully abandoned their newspapers.
You don’t comment on it.
You just move.
“Chai Latte,” you say, setting it down carefully in front of the polished one. “And the cinnamon rolls will be out in a minute.”
“Perfect,” he beams, already sliding one toward the loud one.
“Hey, what’s your name?” The loud one asks you, leaning against the counter.
“Y/N.” You answer.
“Y/N,” he repeats, like he’s testing it. “I’m Hobi. Mr. Model over there is Jin.”
That earns you a quiet huff of something that might be a laugh from the quiet one.
“I'm Jungkook,” the pierced one says as his eyes sweep over coffee machines watching your every move.
“Yoongi,” The name directed toward the man still leaning against your wall by a newcomer with a deeper voice.
Yoongi straightens slightly, pushing off just enough to acknowledge the newcomer.
“Thought you weren’t coming in, Namjoon,” Yoongi says.
“Changed my mind,” Namjoon says.
The new arrival is taller than the rest, his posture straight, expression unreadable. His gaze sweeps the shop once before it settles somewhere just past you.
“Is this the only coffee place?” He asks.
It’s not rude, but you arch a brow before you can stop yourself.
“Unfortunately.” You give him a sad smile, making Hobi wince.
“Don’t mind him,” he says quickly. “He’s…”
“I have standards,” Namjoon cuts in.
“And yet you’re here,” you shoot back, reaching for another cup.
A small one.
Hobi chokes on a laugh. Jin turns his head, clearly trying not to smile. Even Jungkook lets out a quiet, surprised sound under his breath.
And Yoongi?
Well, you’re not sure.
“Don't try to get her fired,” Hobi declares. “I like her.”
“I own the place,” you reply.
“Even better.” Jin smiles.
“Coffee?” You slide a fresh cup across the counter toward the newcomer.
“Thanks,” he says.
You turn as Jungkook moves. He’s been quiet this whole time, but now he’s stepping in beside you like it’s second nature. He's reaching for the stack of lids before you even ask.
“Need help?” He murmurs.
“I guess you’re already helping.” You comment, clearly confused.
He nods once, efficient, already falling into rhythm with you like nothing about this is unusual.
“Good luck getting rid of him,” Hobi smiles at you.
You snort before you can stop yourself. The dinging of the cinnamon rolls has you turning to some tongs that Jungkook quickly grabs before you do. He drops them into two white boxes like he's done this for years.
You can't help but laugh and look at Yoongi who still hasn’t left his spot by the wall where he’s watching everything. When your eyes meet again, he doesn’t look away this time. In fact, you think there's amusement behind them.
“You always this busy?” He asks.
“Only when people with fancy cars show up,” you say, as Jungkook gives Jin his cinnamon rolls.
“Let me pay before they forget,” he says, stepping back up to the counter. “Jungkook.”
Yoongi flicks his thumb and Jungkook scurries around your counter to join his group of friends again. He slides a card across the counter.
Black.
Sleek.
The kind of card that does not belong in your small town. You pick it up between your fingers, turning it once like you’re inspecting it. You glance up at him, completely straight faced.
“If this breaks my machine,” you say, tapping it lightly against the counter. “You’re buying me a new one.”
He just looks at you. Slowly, that same small, almost reluctant curve touches the corner of his mouth.
“Deal.” He agrees.
You hum, satisfied, and swipe the card. The machine processes like normal and you hand it back.
“Lucky you.” You joke.
“Feels that way,” he says.
For a second, neither of you move.
“Yoongi,” Namjoon calls as he stands by the door.
Yoongi looks over his shoulder at him before he turns and drops a tip into your tip jar. Nodding his head slightly at you in parting, he walks out of your shop with his friends.
When they finally leave, opinions and questions soon erupt from your customers as they talk amongst themselves. You glance down at the counter, at the space where the black card had been sitting just seconds ago.
“Yeah,” you murmur to yourself, reaching for the next cup.
“That was … new.”
A couple days pass before the town settles back into its usual rhythm, even if the conversations don't. The gossip of the fancy men with their car sightings taper off into speculation, then into something almost normal.
Almost.
You don’t see them again right away. Not until late one morning. It's during that in-between space where everything moves a little slower.
Two of them.
Two new ones.
The first one steps in like he’s not entirely sure where to put his attention. His eyes move slowly across the shop taking it in. The shelves. The tables. The little reading nook by the window.
Behind him, the other pauses just inside the door for half a second.
Then smiles.
And it’s…well.
Devastating.
Mrs. Alden, who had been mid-sentence about her neighbor’s hydrangeas, stops talking entirely. Her mouth literally drops open at the sight of the man.
“Wow,” you mutter under your breath.
“What was that?” Jenna asks from the end of the counter.
“Nothing,” you say quickly.
The second one steps up, hands in his pockets.
“Hi,” he says. “ Is this a normal level of staring?”
“This?” You glance around at the suddenly very attentive room. “This is them being subtle.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, laughing. “I’m Jimin.”
“Y/N.” You smile.
“Oh, I know,” he smiles back, making you raise an eyebrow. “Nice place. It feels… lived in.”
“That’s one way to say it.” You try to figure out if that was a bad thing or not.
Behind him, the other one has already drifted. You hadn’t even seen him move. He ends up at the counter anyway with a worn children’s book already in his hands. He flips it open carefully, like it might fall apart if he’s too rough with it.
His fingers pause on one of the pages.
Illustrations. Bright. Simple.
He smiles.
“You read?” You ask, tilting your head slightly.
“Sometimes,” he says quietly. “Are people usually this quiet here?”
“Only when they’re being nosy,” you reply.
“Good to know.” He laughs slightly.
“They’ve been like this since we walked in,” he says under his breath.
“You get used to it,” you shrug. “Or you don’t.”
“I think I will,” he says easily.
Behind him, Mrs. Alden is still staring. Jimin catches it this time and like he knows exactly what he’s doing. He turns just slightly and sends her another one of those smiles. She physically has to grab the edge of the table. You press your lips together, trying not to laugh.
“Careful,” you murmur. “You’re going to cause a medical situation.”
“I’ve been told that before.” Jimin grins, completely unapologetic.
The other one closes the book gently, like he’s reluctant to let it go, and sets it back on the counter instead of returning it to the shelf.
“You have a whole section for these?” He asks, nodding toward the corner.
“Kids’ corner,” you say. “Parents drink coffee. Kids pretend to read. It works out.”
“I’m Taehyung,” he adds, as he looks at the kids corner.
“Welcome to the quiet version of the chaos.” You greet.
“So this isn’t the full experience?” Jimin glances around once more.
“Not even close.” You slide a cup onto the counter. “My customers are too busy gawking to act normal.”
"Well, Y/N," Jimin says. "If we're going to be the local entertainment, we might as well do it with caffeine in our systems. What do you recommend for someone who's had a very long morning of Namjoon's 'standards'?"
"How about...a maple latte with two shots of espresso?And for your friend?" You suppress a grin.
You glance over at Taehyung, who has wandered to the children's section. He’s currently crouched down, eye-level with a stack of vintage picture books, his long fingers tracing the spine of a worn copy of ‘Where the Wild Things Are’.
"Tae?" Jimin calls out.
"Whatever has the most cocoa. Also, maybe one of those muffins?" Taehyung looks up, his boxy smile appearing slowly.
"Blueberry muffin and hot cocoa it is," you say.
As you work the steam wand, the hiss fills the gap in conversation. You can feel their eyes on you.
"So," you say over the noise. "The old highway property. Planning on turning the warehouse into a modern art gallery? Or is it a secret lair? Are you running from the mob?"
"A secret lair sounds much more exciting. Would you visit if it were?" Jimin tilts his head.
"Depends," you reply, sliding their order toward him. "Do you have better Wi-Fi than the library?"
Taehyung drifts back to the counter, clutching a small, leather-bound book of poetry he must have found tucked away.
"I like this one," he says, placing it next to his cocoa. "I like the way it smells."
You pause, looking at the book. It’s an obscure collection you’ve had for years, tucked in a corner where nobody ever looks.
"You have a good eye, Taehyung. That one’s been waiting for someone to notice it for a long time." You nod.
"I think a lot of things in this town have been waiting for someone to notice them," he says softly.
The bell chimes again, cutting through the moment. It’s Mr. Henderson from the hardware store, and he looks like he’s about to trip over his own feet seeing the two men at your counter.
"Hello, Y/N," he greets, his eyes darting to Jimin’s designer boots.
"Mr. Henderson," you say, your voice welcoming.
Jimin picks up his coffee and Taehyung grabs his book and cocoa after paying. Before they head toward a table in the back. The one that offers the most privacy. Jimin leans in one last time.
"We'll be back, Y/N," he promises.
"For coffee or books?" You ask.
"The company." Taehyung smiles over the rim of his cup, his eyes crinkling.
As they walk away, the shop erupts into frantic whispers among the regulars. You just shake your head and pick up a rag to wipe the counter. Your small town definitely isn't what it used to be, and you hope everyone is ready for whatever changes are coming.
The next day doesn’t feel like it’s supposed to be different.
It isn’t busier.
It isn’t quieter.
The kind of normal you rely on.
“Medium caramel latte, extra shot,” you repeat to yourself midrush, reaching for a cup. “You’re going to start vibrating one of these days, Mr. Greene.”
“It keeps me young,” he insists.
“That’s not how that works.” You respond.
There’s a quiet huff of laughter somewhere to your left. You don’t think anything of it. You slide the cup across the counter, turn to grab the next and ….
The stack of lids you were about to reach for is already in someone else’s hand. Jungkook doesn’t say anything. He just sets two lids down beside the cups like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He then reaches past you to grab a sleeve to slide it onto the next drink.
Efficient.
Clean.
“Do you work here now?” You ask.
“Did you hire me?” He asks.
“No.” You shake your head.
“Then no.” He answers.
“That’s reassuring.” You narrow your eyes slightly and he shrugs.
You turn back to the counter, because there are still people waiting, and apparently you have… help now.
“Caramel macchiato?” You call.
“I’ve got it,” he says quietly, already picking it up and sliding it toward the right customer before you can even double-check.
He moves like he’s paying attention to everything at once. The orders, people, where things are placed.
Learning.
Fast.
“Careful,” you mutter under your breath. “You keep that up, I might actually put you to work.”
He glances at you, raising an eyebrow. You shake your head, turning back to the machine. The rush tapers off slowly after that. Just enough that the line disappears. You wipe down the counter, glancing sideways.
He’s still there.
Restocking napkins now.
“You know,” you say, leaning your hip against the counter. “Most people ask before they start rearranging things.”
“I didn’t rearrange anything,” he replies, straightening a stack without looking at you. “I fixed it.”
“You fixed it.” You stare at him as he nods once.
You look at the napkin holder.
Then the lids.
Then the sleeves.
“Shouldn't you be in your secret lair with your buddies?” You ask.
Jungkook pauses with his hand mid-air, a stray napkin clutched between his fingers. For the first time since he started his shift, he actually looks at you. The corner of his mouth twitches. A ghost of a smirk that softens the edge of his tattoos and piercings.
"Secret lair?" He repeats.
"Well, some of the old men are leaning toward an underground poker ring." You shrug.
Jungkook actually lets out a soft, genuine huff of a laugh. He finishes stocking the napkins and finally turns to face you fully, leaning back against the pastry case.
"It’s just a studio," he says simply. "Blue and Grey Music Production."
"Sounds…important," you muse.
"Important to us," he replies. "It’s quiet here. We like that. Mostly."
He doesn't elaborate, and you find yourself not wanting to push. There's a certain gravity to these men. Something that suggests they didn't just move here for the scenery.
"Well," you say, breaking the silence as you grab a damp cloth to give the espresso machine a final wipe. "Since you unofficially worked half a shift and you're not on my payroll. What would you like for free?"
"Banana milk. If you have it." He looks back at you, his large, doe-like eyes blinking once, twice, as if surprised by the gesture. "Banana milk? I thought you were going to ask for a triple-shot nitro brew or something to match the leather-jacket-and-tattoos vibe." You laugh.
"I like what I like," he says with a shrug, though there’s a slight pink tint to his ears now.
"Coming right up," you say.
He stays for a while, perched on a stool at the end of the counter. He doesn't talk much, but he helps you carry a heavy box of new arrivals to the back and even helps a confused tourist find the local history section. He moves with a quiet grace that makes it easy to forget he's one of the fancy strangers everyone is so enamored by.
"See you tomorrow?" He asks, his hand on the door handle by the time late afternoon rolls around.
"I don't know," you tease. "I might have the napkin situation under control by then."
"I'll check anyway. Just to be sure." He jokes back.
The bell chimes as he steps out, leaving the shop feeling strangely empty. You look down at the napkin holder. Every single one is perfectly aligned.
You just shake your head, but as you go back to your mundane tasks, you find yourself wondering which of the seven will show up tomorrow and what exactly brought them to your little town.
The open sign had been flipped over to closed ten minutes ago. The only noise in your shop was you broom against your floor and the soft instrumental music playing over your laptop.
The bell above the door gives a tired clink.
You lean your chin on the top of the broom handle, watching as Yoongi pushes inside, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his dark leather jacket. He looks even more exhausted than the first time you saw him.
"We're closed," you say, but he didn't stop.
He just kept walking toward the counter, his eyes scanning the darkened shelves.
"The light was on." He shrugs.
"Force of habit," you reply. "But since you’re already here... I hope you like the End of Day Special. It’s about two hours old and tastes like burnt dirt. It’s basically motor oil at this point."
"I’ll take it," he says, his voice raspy and relieved. "Largest cup you've got."
"You’re a masochist, Yoongi." You snort, reaching for a mug instead of a paper cup.
"I'm a producer," he corrects softly. "Which is basically the same thing."
As you pour the sludge, you feel him watching your hands. You set the mug down in front of him, and he wraps his pale fingers around it, seeking the heat. He doesn't add sugar. He doesn't add cream. He just takes a long, slow sip and lets out a long breath.
"God," he mutters. "That's terrible. Thank you."
"Don't mention it and definitely don't send me the medical bill," you joke, leaning your elbows on the counter across from him.
"Jungkook was here," Yoongi states.
"All afternoon," you confirm. "He restocked my supplies, and intimidated at least three members of the local bridge club just by existing. I think he's working for a promotion to Floor Manager."
"He wasn't bothering you, was he?" He asks, sounding concerned. "He gets... restless. When he can't focus on his work, he starts looking for things to take apart or put back together. If he was a nuisance, tell me. I’ll keep him chained to his chair."
"Honestly? He was the best employee I never hired. He’s quiet, he’s efficient, and he likes banana milk. He's a bit of a mystery, but he wasn't a bother." You shake your head.
"Good," he murmurs, relaxing some. "We’re trying to keep a low profile. Hard to do when you're traveling with a pack of extroverts who think a small town shop is a play area."
"You're doing a terrible job of staying invisible," you point out, nodding toward the front window where his shiny black car was parked under a streetlamp. "But for what it's worth? The small town shop owner doesn't mind the company."
Yoongi looks down at his coffee, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The first one you'd seen that actually reached his eyes.
"The company's not so bad either," he says quietly.
For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the wind whistling against the glass. The fancy stranger wasn't so fancy when he was nursing stale coffee in the dark. He just looks like someone who had finally found a place where he could relax.
"Go home, Yoongi," you say gently. "Before that coffee actually eats through your stomach lining."
"Five more minutes," he replies, closing his eyes for a second. "It’s the first time all day it’s been quiet."
Quiet.
That's what Jungkook said.
Maybe there was no mystery after all.
“No, Mrs. Higgins, that is not a scone, that is a muffin. There is a difference,” you sigh.
“There is not,” she argues.
It's becoming normal.
Jungkook is halfway up a small step ladder you definitely didn’t give him permission to use, sleeves pushed up, completely at home in your store.
“You alphabetized my poetry section,” you say slowly.
“It was a complete mess,” he replies.
“Oh! It smells even better today!” Jin announces, coming through the door.
“You’re back,” you say, already pulling two cups.
“Did you miss me?” Hobi asks immediately, sliding up to the counter.
“No.” You smile.
“Wow,” he presses a hand to his chest. “I’m hurt.”
“We need to talk,” Jin says, scanning the pastry case.
“No, we don’t.” You wave him off.
“We do.” He nods. “You don’t have sandwiches.”
“He’s been thinking about this all night,” Hobi stage-whispers.
“I have,” Jin confirms, completely serious.
“This is a bookstore café,” you say, leaning both hands on the counter. “People come here for coffee, books, and carbs.”
“Sandwiches are carbs,” Jin replies instantly, waving his hands. “Turkey and brie with apple slices. Toasted sourdough. Honey drizzle.”
“I didn’t ask..”You blink.
“Ham and swiss. Croissant. Dijon. Simple, classic, reliable.” Jin rubs his hand together.
“Oh, oh wait, that sounds good.”Hobi’s eyes light up.
“Chicken salad,” Jin continues, ignoring both of you now. “But not the sad kind. Fresh herbs. Maybe grapes. Texture matters.”
“Texture does matter.” Hobi is nodding like he’s in a business meeting.
“You are not opening a sandwich shop in my bookstore.” You throw your hands up.
“I’m expanding your menu.” Jin smiles.
“I can help!” Hobi says brightly.
“With what?” You ask.
“I’m great with people,” he says, completely serious. “Customer interaction, upselling, vibes.”
“Vibes?” You repeat.
“Vibes are important,” he insists. “Jin can make the sandwiches, I sell the sandwiches, Jungkook does what you need.”
“I can do that,” Jungkook pipes up.
“This is not happening.”You press your fingers to your temple.
“It is,” Jin says calmly. “You have the space.”
“You do.” Hobi nods.
“I don’t have staff. You already have jobs,” You add.
“We’re very dedicated,” Hobi says, leaning against the counter.
“I can see that,” you deadpan.
“You’re underutilizing your business,” Jin says, crossing his arms as the two of you stare at each other. “Also, you need better display flow. The pastries should be more visible from the door.”
“Get. Out.”Your eye twitches.
“No.” Jin shakes his head.
“Jin.” You warn.
“Y/N.” He says back.
“I think this is the start of something beautiful,” Hobi says, fully invested in this entertainment.
“This is the start of me banning all of you,” you reply.
“You wouldn’t,” Hobi gasps.
“You’re right,” you sigh. “But I’m thinking about it.”
A throat clears.
Yoongi stands beside the counter, hands tucked into his jacket, eyes already on the scene in front of him.
Jin mid-argument.
Hobi half over your counter.
Jungkook on a ladder.
You, clearly losing control of your own establishment.
“What is this?” Yoongi asks.
“A hostile takeover.” You answer.
“A business opportunity.” Hobi grins.
“An improvement plan.”Jin nods.
“Do you need help?” Yoongi asks, trying not to laugh.
“Yes,” you say flatly.
There’s the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth. He steps up to the counter.
“Are you all done?”
You don’t even see him walk in.
But suddenly, Namjoon is standing just inside the doorway, one hand still on it like he didn’t bother to close it all the way.
Jin straightens first.
Hobi freezes.
Jungkook pauses on the ladder, a book still in his hand.
Yoongi doesn’t move.
“Define done,” Hobi tries.
“You’ve been here,” Namjoon says, glancing at his watch as he steps fully inside. “Long enough.”
“No we haven’t,” Jin says automatically.
Your fingers tap once against the counter as you glance between them. This isn’t the same energy as before. This isn’t teasing or arguing over food.
This is… something else.
Namjoon’s gaze moves slowly across the shop.
The ladder.
The counter.
The too-comfortable way they’ve taken over your space.
“We are here to work,” he says.
“It’s just a coffee shop, ”Hobi says.
“Exactly.” Namjoon finally looks at him. “It needs to stay that way.”
Jungkook quietly slides the book back into place.
“We’re taking a break.” Jin crosses his arms.
“You’ve been on a break,” Namjoon replies.
You shift your weight slightly, suddenly very aware you’re standing in the middle of something you don’t understand.
“I’m not asking again. If you don’t get back to the studio in the next five minutes. I will make sure you don’t leave it again.” He stares at them.
“Okay…yep. That sounds like a solid plan. Love that plan.” Hobi straightens immediately.
“This isn’t over,” Jin mutters to you.
“It better be,” you shoot back, though there’s less bite in it than before.
Jungkook is already climbing down the ladder.
And Yoongi…
You glance at him. His gaze is on Namjoon now like he already knew this was coming. Namjoon doesn’t look at him directly, but something passes between them anyway.
“Sorry,” Yoongi says quietly.
“It's okay,” you reply.
“We’re revisiting the sandwich conversation.” Jin lingers a second longer, pointing at your pastry case like this is unfinished business.
“Get out,” you say.
Jungkook follows last, glancing once at the napkin holder like he’s mentally noting if it's full.
Then they’re gone .
“Yeah,” you murmur to yourself. “They’re not going anywhere.”
The morning air is colder than you expect as you make your way down the sidewalk, keys already in hand, toward Perk and Page. Your footsteps slow when you see a familiar figure. Jin is sitting on the step and there's a box beside him with two grocery bags at his feet. He looks up the second you freeze.
“Good,” he says, like he’s been waiting longer than he should admit. “You’re here.”
“You’re… here,” you repeat.
“I am,” he nods once.
“Do I want to know?” You ask flatly.
“It’s a sandwich press.” Jin looks offended.
“I’m not open yet.” You turn the key in the lock and push the door open.
“I know,” he says, following you in.
The shop comes to life as you turn everything on. You hear the box scrape lightly against the counter a second later as you move about your morning.
“You realize,” you start, reaching for the espresso machine. “Most people don’t bring appliances into someone else’s business.”
“You would have said no.” He points out.
“Correct,” you confirm.
“Exactly,” he says simply, opening the box on one of the small side tables.
There’s something different about him today. He’s focused, quieter as he starts unpacking without another word. The box opens to reveal a sleek, stainless steel sandwich press.
“You bought that,” you say, watching him plug it in. “For a place you don’t work at.”
“Yes.” He nods.
“You’re not opening a sandwich shop here.” You turn back to the machine before you can argue further, filling it with water.
“I’m not opening anything,” he replies.
He’s already pulling things out of the grocery bags now. He has bread, wrapped meats, cheese, and small containers.
“I’m testing,” he adds.
“That’s bold.” You huff out a quiet laugh despite yourself. “You don’t even know what my customers want.”
“They want to stay longer,” he says, like that’s the easiest question in the world.
“They already do,” you reply, softer now.
“They leave for lunch,” he counters. “Or they bring food from the diner that's not very good.”
“You’ve thought about this too much,” you decide.
“Yes,” he agrees easily.
“GOOD MORNING, oh my god, you started without me.” Hobi bursts through the door.
“You’re late,” Jin says.
“It’s early,” Hobi argues, dropping his bag onto the counter. “Okay, but listen, breakfast sandwiches.”
“No.” You sigh.
“We can bundle them with coffee.” He suggests. “Discount them if they smile at me.”
“That’s not a real business model,” you say.
“It is if I’m involved,” he grins.
Jin, meanwhile, has already turned the press on. The soft click echoes in the quiet shop.
“You’re really doing this?” You ask and he hums. You exhale slowly, bracing your hands on the counter. “Fine.”
Both of them look at you.
Hopeful.
“This is not permanent,” you say firmly. “This is not a menu change. This is not a takeover.”
“Of course,” Jin nods.
“We’re just demonstrating value,” Hobi adds.
“You are testing,” you correct.
“Yes,” Jin agrees. “Just in the mornings before Namjoon catches me.”
“Fine.” You give in.
Hobi gasps like you’ve just handed him the world as Mrs. Alden steps in, mid-complaint about the weather.
Her eyes land on the counter.
On the ingredients.
“Well,” she says slowly.
“Would you like to be our first customer?” Hobi leans forward immediately.
Jin closes the press with a quiet, decisive click. You look at the door and at the growing line outside that didn’t exist ten minutes ago.
And just like that… your normal morning is gone again.
“This is a terrible idea.” You shake your head, reaching for your apron strings.
“Probably,” Jin agrees.
“But it’s a delicious one.” Hobi grins.
The bell doesn’t stop chiming.
It just… keeps going.
You barely have time to ring up one customer before another walks in, drawn in by the smell.
“This is your fault,” you mutter.
“I accept that,” Jin replies calmly, already assembling another sandwich with unnerving precision.
“Order for Jenna!” Hobi calls brightly, weaving through tables with a plate balanced in one hand and a coffee in the other. “Careful, it’s hot!”
“Well,” Your florist friend says, inspecting it. “If this ruins me for all other breakfasts, I’ll be sending you the bill.”
“I’ll gladly pay it,” Hobi shoots back with a grin.
“You’re just in time to witness my downfall,” you reply, not missing a beat.
“I don’t know,” he hums, slipping his hands into his pockets as he walks closer. “It looks like a success story to me.”
Jimin laughs softly, but his attention is already drifting to the corner table. The one that always belongs to the older ladies. They’re mid-game. Their cards spread out, glasses perched low, fully invested in something that looks serious and competitive. Jimin watches for exactly three seconds before he turns back to you.
“Question,” he says. “Do you think they will let me join them?”
“They will eat you alive.” You laugh.
“I think I’ll survive.” He smirks.
“I don't know.” You cross your arms.
“I’m willing to take that risk.” He stares at them.
He turns before you can stop him, heading straight toward the table like he’s been invited. Mrs. Higgins looks up first followed by the others. Jimin offers them that same soft, devastating smile.
You can't hear what he says, but you do see Mrs. Alden sit up straighter as one of the others scoots a chair out. You see cards being gathered, reshuffled, space being made.
“What happened?” Hobi appears beside you out of nowhere, leaning over the counter to follow your line of sight.
“He’s integrating,” you say flatly.
“Already? That’s so fast.” Hobi gasps, as the sandwich press clicks open again behind you.
“Next,” Jin says.
“Let’s go!” Hobi claps his hands once.
Across the room, Jimin leans in closer to the table, listening carefully as Mrs. Alden points at the cards like she’s about to declare war.
Hobi rushes past you with another plate.
Jin doesn’t slow down.
You sigh….
Maybe they know what they are talking about after all.
The door is actually locked this time and you’re halfway through wiping down the counter when the knock comes. Yoongi stands on the other side of the glass, hands tucked into his jacket. His gaze lifts when he realizes you’ve noticed him and he doesn’t look away.
“You know how locked doors work, right?” You ask, pulling it open.
“Still worth checking.” He shrugs slightly and walks in.
“Sit,” you nod toward the stool as you disappear into the back, coming back with a plate a moment later.
“Leftover sandwich,” you say, setting it in front of him.
“You let Jin go through with it,” he smirks.
“Temporary insanity.” You lean on the counter.
“That’s really good.” He nods, humming as he takes a bite.
“I know,” you sigh and Yoongi glances at you over the sandwich.
“I think you like it,” he says.
“The sandwich?” You shoot back.
“The chaos.” He clarifies.
“You’re confusing tolerance with survival.” You scrunch your face.
“Mm,” he murmurs. “You haven’t kicked us out yet.”
“You’re all very persistent.” You narrow your eyes slightly.
“Some of us more than others,” he says, eyes locking on yours.
“You look less dead than the last time you showed up after hours.” You joke.
“Thanks,” he laughs.
“You’re welcome.” You smirk as he leans back slightly, one hand loosely holding the sandwich.
“It was getting loud,” he says.
“What?” You look confused. “Your lair?”
“The city,” he corrects. “Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t work. Couldn’t… think. People were coming and going that shouldn't have even had access to my space.”
“So you ran away,” you finish.
“Yeah.” He sighs.
“And they all just followed you?” You ask. “No complaints?”
“Namjoon complained.” A quiet exhale leaves him. “He didn’t want to come. Still doesn’t.”
“But you did.” You rest your chin in your hand.
“I didn’t at first.” He leans forward now, forearms resting on the counter. Closer than before. “But it felt like I had no choice. It’s… easier here. Quieter.”
“Jungkook said that,” you nod. “About liking the quiet.”
“He would.” Yoongi nods.
“And you?” You ask. “You like it enough to stay?”
“I like parts of it,” he says, looking right at you.
“Parts,” you repeat.
“Yeah.” His gaze doesn’t shift.
You hold it for a second longer than you mean to before you glance down at the counter.
“Careful,” you mutter. “You’re going to offend the entire town.”
“They’ll deal with it. You always stay this late?” He asks.
“Someone has to keep the place from getting taken over,” you say. “Apparently.”
“Or,” he says, voice softer now. “You just don’t want to leave.”
“You knocked on a locked door,” you counter. “So what does that say about you?”
“That I was hoping you’d still be here.” His mouth pulls slightly at the corner.
“You’re a problem,” you say, shaking your head.
“So I’ve been told.” He smirks.
You snort quietly, turning to rinse out the rag just to give yourself something to do.
“You know,” you say, glancing back at him. “If Jin hears you liked that sandwich, I’m losing full control of my own business.”
“You already did,” Yoongi replies.
You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth now.
When you look back at him. He’s still watching you.
And he's not ashamed of it at all.
“When will the new romance come out?” Mrs. Lee asks.
“Next week,” you reply, checking your computer. “You can try something new. Have you ever tried a mystery?”
She sends you a look like you're crazy and you almost smile.
“Hi,” comes a quieter voice.
Taehyung stands just inside the door, a book already in his hands. It’s something he brought with him. He’s holding it loosely, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with it.
“Hi,” you echo.
His gaze drifts past you toward the kids’ corner. The little rug. The low shelf. The scattered cushions.
“Do you mind if I… use that?” He nods toward it.
“For what?” You blink.
“Just for a bit.” He lifts the book slightly.
“Go ahead,” you say. “Just… don’t break anything.”
“I won’t,” he promises, already moving.
He moves and settles onto the rug, long legs folding awkwardly at first before he adjusts. He opens the book and flips a page. At first nothing happens. Then one kid wanders over. Then another. A mom lingers nearby, coffee in hand, watching. Taehyung doesn’t look up. Doesn’t call attention to himself.
He just starts reading.
The kids lean in.
You glance over once….twice.
“What's going on?” Jenna murmurs, stepping up beside the counter.
“He's reading to the kids,” you say, watching Taehyung turn a page carefully.
Jenna hums and orders her usual. You make it without taking your eyes off the corner for too long.
“Morning.” Jungkook sets something down on the counter with a soft thud.
“What is that?” You ask, eyeing the two medium sized chalkboards on legs and a box of chalk.
“It's for the sandwich menu.” He opens the box, snapping a piece of chalk in half.
“I… have a sandwich menu now,” you say to yourself.
His handwriting is annoyingly neat. Clean lines. Balanced spacing. The whole thing looks like it belongs somewhere much nicer than your slightly crooked menu board ever did
Across the room, one of the kids laughs. You look over again.
Taehyung’s doing voices now. Not big, not exaggerated. Just enough to make the moment land. The kids are fully hooked. One of the older regulars has turned her chair to watch.
The bell chimes Yoongi steps inside. He pauses just past the door, watching the way Taehyung sits on the floor with the kids gathered close. He walks up slowly, stopping at the edge of the counter beside you.
“Your control is gone,” he says finally, voice low.
“I know,” you reply.
Yoongi hums quietly, leaning his forearms against the counter.
For a second, you both just stand there watching Taehyung with the kids.
“You going to stop them?” He asks, looking between his two friends.
“No,” you say and he nods.
“What is Tae doing?” Namjoon asks under his breath, joining the two of you.
Yoongi doesn’t answer right away. Namjoon takes a step forward, but Yoongi’s hand catches his sleeve.
“Leave him,” he says quietly.
“We have work,” Namjoon says.
“We always do,” Yoongi replies.
After a second, Namjoon exhales and steps back. You fight back the smile that threatens to break across your face. Instead, you turn back to look at the shipping dates of the new romance books and take in the sounds of Taehyung's storytelling and Jungkook's writing.
“They don’t do this everywhere,” Yoongi nods toward the corner.
Taehyung’s halfway through another page. A kid leans against his arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“No?” You question.
“They’re comfortable here. Is this what you always wanted?” He asks.
You lean back slightly, glancing around your shop.
“Yeah,” you say finally. “Something like it.”
“Something like it,” he repeats.
“Maybe with less interference,” you admit.
“But you have yet to truly complain,” he smirks.
“Ask me again when Jin installs a full kitchen.” You joke.
“He will,” Yoongi says.
“I know,” you sigh.
“You ever think about leaving?” Yoongi asks.
You don’t answer right away. You glance down at the counter, at the faint ring left behind by someone’s coffee cup, and trace it once with your thumb before you stop yourself.
“Yeah,” you say finally. “I did. I left for a while,” you add, like it’s not a big deal. “School. Thought I was going to… stay gone, I guess.”
“What happened?” he asks.
“Nothing dramatic,” you shrug. “It just wasn’t… home.” You gesture vaguely around you. “Everyone was always in a hurry to get somewhere. I spent more time trying to find a quiet place than actually enjoying anything.”
“So you came back,” he says.
“Yeah.” You nod. “This place was empty. The old bookstore had closed, and the bakery was about to close. It made sense to try and rebuild something.”
“Not everyone goes back home,” Yoongi hums quietly.
“Not everyone wants to,” you reply.
“You ever regret it?” he asks.
“No,” you say simply. “This is my home. This is where I belong.”
Yoongi stares at you for a moment before Namjoon taps him on the shoulder and points to his phone. He gives a quick tap to your counter and turns, leaving with Namjoon.
“Do you want a daily special or a weekly one?” Jungkook asks and you give him a tight smile.
“Ask Jin.” You laugh, making him nod.
The shop’s been quieter the past few days.
Not empty. Just… missing something.
Mrs. Higgins still argues over pastries. Jenna still comes in at the same time every morning. The bell still chimes, the espresso machine still hisses, the pages still turn.
But…
The chaos hasn't been there.
The lights dim one by one until only the front remains. With a slight yawn, you reach for the door. The keys already in your hand. When you pull it open….
“Jesus.” You jump.
“Sorry.” Yoongi steps back slightly, hands lifting just a fraction like he didn’t mean to startle you.
“You can’t just appear like that."You let out a short laugh, pressing your hand briefly to your chest. Your eyes drop to the bag in his hand.
“What’s that?”
“Food.” Yoongi glances down like he almost forgot he was holding it.
“From where?” You narrow your eyes slightly.
“I made it.” He says softly.
“You cooked?” You knit your brows.
“I can cook,” he says, a little defensive now.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t,” you reply quickly, stepping back into the store.
He just stands there for a second looking at you.
“Is there somewhere…?” He gestures vaguely.
“Yeah.” You tilt your head before glance up.
The roof door creaks a little when you push it open, the cool night air hitting you immediately. The town stretches out in soft, scattered lights. A couple streetlamps. A porch light left on somewhere down the road. The faint sound of a car passing. The two of you sit in the old beach chairs you had up there. You watch as he opens the bag, pulling out two containers that clearly came from his kitchen.
“You weren’t kidding,” you say.
“I don’t joke about food.” He smirks.
You open it. Steam rises faintly in the cool air.
“This smells really good.” You compliment.
“It’s simple,” he says. “Don’t expect too much.”
“Okay, that’s actually unfair.” You say after a bite
“What is?” He asks.
“That you can cook this good.” You take another bite. “You all disappeared.”
“Yeah.” He looks down at his food for a second. “Namjoon. We’ve been working…A lot.”
“And avoiding my shop?” You joke
“Also that.” He admits.
“I didn’t realize I was such a distraction.” You laugh.
“You are,” he says and you hum. “Not that it's a bad thing. We just need to stay on Joon's good side.”
“I looked you up.” You admit.
“You did?” Yoongi asks.
“Blue and Grey Productions,” you say, glancing over at him. “Out of curiosity.”
“Shouldn’t have done that,” he mutters, shifting in his chair.
“Why?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t realize you made… all that.”
“It’s nothing.” He stares down at his food, pushing it around slightly with his fork.
“That's not true.” You laugh lightly and a faint flush creeps up the back of his neck, just visible above his collar.
“It’s just work,” he shrugs.
“Well,” you say, taking another bite like it’s not a big deal. “Good for you.”
“That’s it?” He glances up.
“I mean, I don’t really listen to that kind of music,” you admit honestly. “But clearly someone does.”
“You’re unbelievable.” A quiet, surprised huff of a laugh leaves him.
“What?” you grin slightly. “You want me to start fangirling?”
“God, no.” He shakes his head.
“Good, because I won’t.” You smile
“You’re the only person who’s ever said that to me,” he says.
“What… that I don’t listen to your music?” You raise an eyebrow.
“That and then you said ‘good for you’ like I just told you I learned how to bake bread or something.” He laughs.
“Well,” you glance down at the container and decide on a shrug. He huffs again, quieter this time. “You like it?” you ask.
“What?” He questions.
“The work,” you clarify. “The music. All of it.”
“Yeah.” He leans back slightly, eyes drifting out over the town again.
“We're used to pushing out music at a high speed rate for artists. The guys….me…we just need to breathe and that scares Joon I think.”
“He doesn’t seem like the type to like… slowing down,” you say.
“He doesn’t,” Yoongi agrees. “He thinks if we stop, even for a second, everything we built is just going to… fall apart.”
“And you don’t?” You glance at him.
“I did,” he admits.
“What changed?”Your brows lift slightly.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. Thinking.
“This,” he says.
“This?” you repeat, glancing around. “My slightly questionable roof setup?”
A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah,” he says. “This.”
The town lights.
The quiet.
The fact that no one’s asking anything from him.
“You just…” he trails off. “You let things happen.”
“That’s a generous way of saying I lost control of my own business.” You huff softly
“No,” he says. “You just didn’t fight it.”
“Some things aren’t worth fighting,” you say after a moment. “They’re not hurting anything.”
“You built something good,” he says after a beat.
“Yeah,” you say, quieter. “I did.”
“Cold?” He asks, looking you over.
“A little bit,” you say.
Yoongi shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. You thank him and settle back down in your chair. The both of you return to your food as the town grows darker.
You glance at him once, then away. It would be easy to stay like this.
Too easy.
Because you could convince yourself that this isn't temporary.
But he is.
You’re halfway through writing when Jin changes something again.
“No, wait,” he says, leaning over the counter, tapping the page with one finger. “The turkey one needs arugula. Not lettuce. Lettuce is lazy.”
“Lettuce is normal,” you mutter, crossing something out anyway.
“Arugula,” he repeats.
“Arugula,” you echo, scribbling it down.
“Also…” he trails off.
“No,” you cut in, not even looking up. “Finish one sandwich before you start another.”
Behind you, there’s the soft scrape of a chair and the faint clink of metal.
“You’re going to drop that,” you call.
“I’m not,” Jungkook replies calmly.
You glance over your shoulder just in time to see him balanced on one of your chairs, one hand steadying himself against the wall as he twists a lightbulb into place.
“That chair is not a ladder.” You tell him.
“It’s working,” he says.
The light flickers once before it steadies. He hops down like it was nothing, already moving the chair back where it belongs.
“Fixed,” he adds.
“Great,” you deadpan, turning back to your notebook. “Add ‘liability’ to the list of things I didn’t ask for.”
“At least write that one down properly,” Jin mutters, pointing again.
Across the shop, Hobi is mid-conversation with Jenna. He's slightly leaning on her table with one hand, talking like they have known each other for years.
“I’m telling you,” he says, gesturing toward the counter. “You trust me once, just once, and it will change your entire morning routine.”
“That’s a bold claim,” She says, eyeing him.
“I’m a bold person,” he grins.
You shake your head, flipping the page.
“Okay,” you say. “Turkey, brie, apple, honey, arugula…”
“Light honey,” Jin corrects, making you pause and slowly look up at him.
“Light honey,” you repeat flatly, writing it down anyway.
At the table by the window, Yoongi hasn’t looked up in the last ten minutes. Laptop open. Headphones around his neck. One hand moving lazily across the trackpad while the other rests near his coffee like he forgot it was there.
He claimed the table earlier.
Just sat down and… stayed.
You don’t say anything about it.
You just keep writing.
“Okay,” you say, tapping your pen against the page. “Next sandwich…”
“We missed a deadline.”
Hobi stops mid-sentence.
Jungkook’s hand stills where he’s adjusting the chair.
Jin doesn’t turn around right away.
Yoongi’s the first to move.
He doesn’t close his laptop.
Just lifts his head.
Namjoon’s gaze shifts across the room where it lands on you.
“They’ve been here,” he says.
You don’t move, your pen poised over the notebook where arugula is written in your messy, hurried script. You just stare at the grain of the wooden counter, the silence stretching until it feels like it might snap. Namjoon doesn’t raise his voice, but the weight of his presence is enough to make the room feel small.
"We’re three hours behind on the feedback for the title track," he says, his gaze finally shifting from you to the others. "And two of you are playing restaurant while another is... whatever this is."
Hobi slowly lowers his hand from the table he was leaning on, the bright smile he’d been wearing for Jenna flickering out. Jin’s shoulders tense, his hand still resting on the handle of the sandwich press.
Then, the sound of a laptop lid clicking shut cuts through the tension.
Yoongi stands up slowly. He doesn't look at Namjoon immediately. Instead, he looks at you. He sees the way you’ve gone still, the way you’re holding your breath as if trying to make yourself invisible in your own shop.
He walks toward the counter, his boots thudding softly on the floorboards Jungkook just fixed. He stops a few feet away, leaning his hip against the wood.
"Namjoon," Yoongi says, his voice low and raspy.
"Yoongi, not now. We have to…" Namjoon looks at him, his jaw tight.
"I know what we have to do," Yoongi interrupts, his tone calm but final. He shifts his gaze back to you, catching your eye and holding it.
“It’s not your fault, Y/N.”
He looks back at Namjoon, a small, tired smirk playing on his lips. "We’re the ones who keep showing up. We’re the ones who won’t leave. Don’t look at her like she’s the distraction. We chose to be distracted. Pack it up," Yoongi says to the others, though he’s still looking at you. "The break is over."
You look down at your notebook. The word arugula stares back at you as the men leave your shop one by one.
"Well," Jenna says, walking over to you. "That was a little... intense."
"Yeah," you murmur, slowly closing the notebook. "Intense is one word for it."
You were sweeping the last of the stray grounds near the counter, the rhythmic shush-shush of the broom the only sound in the room.
Until the bell clinks.
You didn't even look up.
"We’re closed, Yoongi. And I’m pretty sure if Namjoon finds out you’re here, he’s going to actually seal the warehouse doors shut." You joke.
"He probably would," a raspy voice replies.
"Then go back,” you say, though your voice lacks any real conviction. You lean the broom against the counter. “Go back to the studio, Yoongi. Go be the person everyone expects you to be.”
He doesn’t move. Instead, he closes the distance between you, stopping only when the toes of his boots clip the base of the wooden counter. Up close, the pale light of the single lamp catches the sharp angles of his face, making him look less like a fancy producer and more like a man who’s simply exhausted from the weight of his own success.
“That’s the problem,” he says, his voice dropping to that raspy, low register that always seems to vibrate in the space between your ribs. “I’ve been that person all day. I’ve been that person for years.”
He reaches out, his fingers tracing the grain of the wood inches from your hand.
“Namjoon thinks this place is a detour,” he continues, finally looking up. “He thinks you’re a distraction. But he’s wrong.”
“Yoongi…” You try to cut him off.
“He’s wrong because this is the only place where I don't have to put on that stupid professional mask,” He cuts in. He shifts, his shoulder brushing yours as he leans into your space. “I don’t care what he thinks. I don’t care about the schedule or the cars or the fact that I’m supposed to be somewhere else. I just wanted to be here. With you.”
You shake your head, the movement tight and pained, as you pull back just enough to look him in the eye. The warmth of his jacket is a lie you can’t afford to believe.
“This isn’t fair, Yoongi,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “This town... me... I am just a pit stop. I’m the quiet place you go to recharge. You’re going to leave. You know it, and I know it.”
The air between you stays heavy. Yoongi doesn’t offer a hollow promise. He doesn’t tell you that he’ll stay forever or that his world won't eventually pull him back into its orbit. He just stands there, his expression fracturing under the weight of your honesty.
“I know,” he agrees, his voice barely a breath. He doesn't look away, even as the truth of your words settles between you. “It’s not fair. To either of us.”
He reaches out, his hand sliding along your jaw and into your hair, his touch firm but desperately gentle.
“But it’s also not fair to be this close and not know what we could have,” he murmurs. “Even if it’s just for right now. Even if the clock is ticking.”
He leans in again, but this time there’s no hesitation. He presses his mouth to yours. It’s the kind of kiss that acknowledges the end before the beginning has even finished. Your hands brace yourself against his chest as he pulls you closer.
It almost feels like it's too much.
You slowly pull back, your breath hitching as the cool air of the shop rushes between you, replacing the heat of his presence. You keep your hands flat against his chest for a second longer than necessary, feeling the steady, heavy thrum of his heart through the leather of his jacket.
“I need to finish cleaning,” you whisper, your voice sounding small even to your own ears. You try to step around him, reaching for the broom you’d abandoned. “The morning rush doesn’t care about… whatever this is. It still happens at 7:00 AM.”
It’s an excuse to find your footing, a desperate attempt to put the counter back between you before you lose your resolve entirely.
Yoongi doesn’t move toward the door. Instead, he reaches out and catches the handle of the broom before you can pull it away.
“Then let’s finish,” he says.
“Yoongi, you don’t…" You start.
“I’m not leaving yet, Y/N.” He gently pries the broom from your hand, his fingers lingering against your palm. “And I’m pretty sure Jungkook taught me enough about the napkin situation to be useful.”
He doesn't wait for your permission. He starts where you left off, sweeping with a quiet, focused intensity, his movements rhythmic against the worn floorboards. You watch him for a moment, the sight of a world-class producer meticulously chasing dust bunnies in a small town bookstore feeling like a fever dream.
You let out a soft, tired exhale and grab the damp cloth, moving to the other end of the counter.
Neither of you speaks. The only sound is the of the broom and the soft friction of your cloth against the wood. It’s a different kind of quiet than before. It’s a kind that holds a shared secret. The clock was still ticking, just like he said, but as you worked together in the dim light of the shop, the silence felt a little less like an ending and a little more like an understanding.
You toss your rag into a bin to wash later.
The floor’s clean.
Counters wiped.
Everything back where it belongs.
“Guess that’s it.” You sigh.
“Yeah.” Yoongi nods, eyes lingering on the shop like he’s memorizing something he won’t get to keep.
“Come on.” You grab your keys from the counter.
The night air hits cooler than before when you step outside. You pull the door closed behind you, turning the key with a soft click.
Locked.
For a second, neither of you moves. The two of you just standing there on the sidewalk, the town stretched out in low light around you.
You turn to him and he’s already looking at you. There’s no lead-in this time. No hesitation. You step closer first. His hand finds your jaw like it did before and you lean into it without thinking.
The kiss is softer this time.
Slower.
Like something you both understand better than you did ten minutes ago.
It lingers.
When you pull back, it’s easier this time. You rest your forehead lightly against his for a brief second before stepping back.
“Go,” you murmur.
“Yeah.” He doesn’t argue.
He doesn’t try to stay. He just nods once, like he already knew that’s how this ends tonight. You take a step in the opposite direction.
So does he.
A few paces in, you glance back.
He doesn’t.
He keeps walking.
And you let him.
The street stays quiet as you head home, the echo of it all settling somewhere you don’t quite touch yet. You don't know if you can let yourself.
Summary: Your life was perfect. You had the perfect fiance, the perfect house and the perfect ring on your finger. The only thing that wasn't perfect …. were the memories you lost years ago and the fact your parents won't talk about it.
Warnings: Memory Loss, Swearing, Blood Mention, Eventual Unprotected Sex, Mention Of Car Accident, Mention Of Drunk Driver. Will add as I go…
The drive to Yura and Jungkook’s is a blur of a white-knuckle grip on a steering wheel and shallow breathing. Every time you glance at the passenger seat where the old phone lays, the cracked screen seems to mock you.
“Too late. I already said yes.”
Those six words shattered everything. You didn’t just date him. You didn't just have a past. You had committed yourself to a man. A man you were clearly happy with.
As you reach their door, you don't knock. You hammer your fist against it. The door swings open, and Jungkook stands there, his hair messy and a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. His easy grin vanishes the second he sees your face. He doesn't even have to look at the phone in your hand to know.
"Y/N…" He tries, but you don't let him finish.
"Where is she?" Your voice was sharp. You weren't here to mess around. "Where is Yura?"
"In the kitchen," he mutters, stepping back.
He looks uncharacteristically small, his shoulders pulling in as if he were bracing for a physical blow. You storm in the house past him. Yura is sitting at a small table, a laptop open in front of her. She looks up, her expression shifting from surprise to shock, when she sees the way your eyes are red-rimmed and watery. You don't say anything as you slam the phone onto the table top between you. The screen flickers, showing the frozen frame of the silver ring.
"Where did you get that?" Yura’s hands shake as she closes her laptop. “Kook!”
"No! Don’t you get mad at him!" You shout, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. "I spent years thinking I was broken. I spent years letting my mother pick out my clothes and Corbyn pick out my life because I thought I didn't have one of my own! I thought I was a ghost!"
You point a trembling finger at the screen.
"I was engaged to him. I was living a life with him. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't anyone tell me?” You look between Yura and Jungkook. “All this time I've been spending with all of you and no one told me anything.”
"We wanted to," Jungkook says quietly, joining you from the doorway. He has abandoned the sandwich on a side table, his hands now shoved deep into his pockets. "God, Y/N, do you know how many times I almost tripped over my own tongue? Seeing you walk around like a stranger in your own skin... it killed us."
"Then why?" You choke out, your voice cracking. "If it killed you, why let me keep drowning?"
"Because it wasn't our place to tell you that part. Not that part. Not the ring, or the promises, or the way you used to look at him." Yura finally looks up, her eyes swimming with guilt.
“Because he asked us not to.” Jungkook exhales.
“What?” Your head snaps toward him.
“Kook…” Yura closes her eyes for a second, like she knew it was coming.
“No,” he says, shaking his head, voice rough now. “She deserves to know that much.”
Your pulse spikes again, something sharp and hot crawling up your spine. The secrets just keep coming.
“He asked you not to tell me?” You repeat, slower this time. “He made that decision?”
“It wasn’t like that…” Yura tries.
“Then what was it like?” You cut in, your voice rising again. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like he got to decide what I remember and what I don’t!”
“He didn’t decide what you remember,” Jungkook says firmly. “That was… everything else.” He gestures vaguely. “We've been honest about your past with us. Just not….” He swallows. “He asked us not to say anything.”
“That’s insane.” Your laugh is sharp, disbelieving.
“It wasn’t easy,” Jungkook adds quickly, stepping closer now. “You think I wanted to pretend I didn’t know? That I didn’t see it every time you looked at him like he was just… some guy?”
“We argued about it.” Yura’s voice is softer when she speaks again.
“What?” Your eyes flick to her.
“We didn’t all agree,” she admits. “There were nights….God, so many nights…where we thought about just telling you anyway. Sitting you down and laying everything out.”
“Then why didn’t you?” You whisper
Yura’s mouth opens, a sharp intake of breath that suggests she’s finally going to break the silence. Then it closes. Behind you, the floorboards groan. Jungkook is shifting, his energy restless. You’re waiting for the spark of guilt to catch, for him to look away in shame, but his posture isn't defensive. He doesn't look like a man caught in a lie. He’s just….stuck.
“Then why didn’t you?” You repeat. Your voice has lost its edge, dropping into a low, hollow register.
Yura exhales a long, shaky breath and she looks at you. Her eyes then go to your old phone, staring at the ring suspended in time on your broken screen.
“I can’t answer that,” she says. It’s so quiet you almost miss it.
“What do you mean you can’t?” Your brows pull together, frustration bubbling back up through the cracks of your exhaustion. “It’s a simple question, Yura. Why?”
“You need to talk to Yoongi,” Jungkook interrupts.
His voice is steady, but there’s an underlying note of warning there…or maybe it's pity.
Your jaw tightens, a dull ache beginning to pulse in your temples.
“And what….he’s just going to explain everything? Tie it up neatly with a bow?” You ask with a laugh.
Jungkook meets your eyes then, and for the first time, you see the exhaustion mirrored there. He shakes his head slowly, a grim smile on his face.
“No,” he says, the honesty of it hitting like a physical blow. “Probably not.”
You throw your hands up as Yura moves. It’s a slow, deliberate motion, like she’s finally crossed a threshold she spent years avoiding. She reaches for the notebook beside her laptop. It has frayed edges and the pages softened by constant use. You watch her, your confusion mounting as she flips through the pages finding a clean piece of paper.
“What are you doing?” You ask, the fight leaving your voice, replaced by exhaustion.
She doesn’t answer immediately. She simply grips the edge of a page and pulls. The sound of paper tearing in the quiet room is loud enough to make you flinch.
She grabs a pen and begins to write. Her hand moves in quick strokes. Jungkook shifts behind you, but he doesn't intervene. He just watches her, watches you. When she finishes, Yura stares at the paper for a heartbeat, her expression unreadable. Then, she folds it once and slides it across the table toward you. Yura hesitates, a flicker of something like grief passing over her eyes.
“He gets home at home at 4:30,” she says and you stare at the paper. “He’s always home at the same time,” she adds quietly.
“Y/N,” Jungkook says softly, his hand almost reaching out before he thinks better of it. “You don’t have to go today.”
You let out a quiet, shaky breath. It isn't relief. It’s the sound of a decision being made. Because even as he offers you the exit, you already know the door is closed behind you.
“Yes,” you say, the word barely audible even to yourself. “I do.”
Yura watches you, her expression changing. The guilt and worry are still there, but there’s something underneath now. It’s a quiet trust, as if she’s handing you something fragile and hoping you won't break it.
“Just… listen to him,” she says gently. “Even if it’s not what you expect. Even if it makes you mad. Just….hear him out.”
You reach out and grab the paper. You unfold it just enough to see the address. It’s simple. Ordinary like any other address you have ever seen. And yet, the ink seems to hold the weight of every question you’ve ever asked. You fold it back up and slip it into your pocket.
Your heart is still racing, your thoughts are a jumbled mess in your head, but beneath everything, there is finally a direction. A destination. You push away from the table. Jungkook steps aside without a word, carving a path for you. Yura doesn’t try to stop you.
As you reach the door, your hand hesitates on the handle. Just for a second.
Because you realize this isn’t just about a confrontation or a demand for answers. It’s about something you lost without knowing it. Something everyone else remembers with perfect clarity. Something Yoongi chose to carry alone in the dark.
And now, you’re about to walk into his house and shine a huge light on it.
The drive to the address on Yura’s torn piece of paper feels longer than it should.
Every red light seems to linger more than normal.
Every slow car in front of you feels deliberate.
Your fingers tap anxiously against the steering wheel while the folded paper sits in the cupholder beside the cracked phone. It took a bit longer to talk yourself into leaving your house again than you thought it would. However, you knew you had to leave before Corbyn got home. Before you face another round of questions or another argument that you weren't prepared for. One you didn't want to deal with.
When you finally turn onto the street, the neighborhood is quieter than you expected.
Small houses. Narrow driveways. Nothing dramatic. Nothing cinematic.
Just ordinary.
Your chest tightens at that.
Because for some reason, the idea of Yoongi living somewhere ordinary feels more intimate than if he lived in some towering penthouse or cluttered artist loft.
This is where he wakes up.
Where he eats.
Where he exists when no one is looking.
You slow in front of a modest house with a low porch and a single car in the driveway.
No movement.
No shadows.
No sign that inside these walls lives the man currently splitting your entire reality in half.
You park crooked and leave the engine running for three full seconds before shutting it off. You continue to sit there, hands still on the wheel taking shallow breaths.
You could leave.
Right now.
Drive back to Corbyn’s sterile kitchen. Put the ring back on straight. Pretend the phone died for real.
Pretend you never saw yourself saying yes.
Instead, you grab the old phone and get out. Gravel crunches beneath your shoes as you walk up the short path. You stand in front of the door and suddenly forget how to move.
What exactly are you here to say?
Hi. Apparently I was engaged to you before my life was erased.
Hi. Why did you let me become someone else?
Hi. Do you still love me?
Butterflies dance in your stomach.
Your hands violently shake.
You lift your hand and knock.
Three sharp raps. The sound echoes louder than it should.
Nothing.
You wait.
A dog barks somewhere down the street as your pulse hammers in your ears.
You can hear footsteps coming closer on the other side of the door.The lock clicks and
your stomach drops so hard it almost hurts.
The door opens.
Yoongi stands there in gray sweats and a black T-shirt, one hand still on the knob.
His hair is damp like he showered recently. No guard up yet. No social armor. Just bare-faced surprise.
For one lingering second, neither of you speaks. His eyes flick to your face and then to the phone clutched in your hand.
“You're not supposed to have that,” he rasps.
“'Not supposed to have it'?” Your voice is a ghost of a sound, trembling with a mix of fury and heartbreak. “That’s what you have to say to me? Not I’m sorry, or let me explain, but a reprimand because I found a piece of myself you tried to bury?”
Yoongi doesn’t move. He looks like he’s turned to stone, his hand still white-knuckled on the doorknob. However his eyes…those dark, cat-like eyes…are swimming with pain that makes your lungs ache. He looks exhausted. He looks like a man who has been holding onto so much pain for years and has finally run out of strength.
“I didn't bury it,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly frequency. “I just...”
“I’m not a child, Yoongi!” You step forward, forcing him to either retreat or let you in. He steps back instinctively, and you cross the threshold into his world.
You hold the phone out, the screen still frozen on that silver ring, that promise of a forever that never happened.
“You asked them not to tell me,” you say, the accusation hanging heavy in the air. “You watched me struggle. You watched me try to piece together my life. Why? How could you look at me and not say a word?”
Yoongi finally lets go of the door. It swings shut with a soft thud.
“You’re right,” he says. It’s flat. Hollow. “I did ask them to stay quiet. I told them if they breathed a word of it to you, I’d never speak to them again.”
“But why?” You scream, the word tearing out of your throat. “You loved me! You were going to marry me! How do you just… stand back and watch me live a lie?”
Yoongi finally moves. He takes a single, heavy step toward you, then stops, as if there’s an invisible line between you that he’s no longer allowed to cross. He gestures vaguely toward your left hand….the hand where Corbyn’s diamond sits, heavy and cold.
“Because when you walked into Jimin’s studio to meet us,” he starts, his jaw working as he fights to keep his voice steady. “You weren't looking for me. You were looking for missing pieces of your old life with a shiny ring on your finger, Y/N.”
He lets out a breath that sounds like a sob he’s been holding in for years.
“It wasn’t mine. It was his… And you looked… okay. You looked healthy and I wasn't about to be the reason you were going to have a complicated life. I wanted you to be happy. And if that wasn't with me…” He trails off.
“You wanted me to be happy?” You repeat, your voice trembling. “You decided, all on your own, that my happiness was better off as a lie? You saw me standing there, wearing another man’s ring, and you just… gave up?”
Yoongi flinches, his gaze dropping to the floor, but you don’t let him off the hook. You step into his space, the old phone still clutched like a weapon.
“Why didn’t you fight for me, Yoongi?” You demand, the words spilling out. “If what we had was so real….if that video was real….how could you just stand back?”
“Y/N, I thought I was protecting you…” he whispers.
“No!” You shout, cutting him off. “You weren’t protecting me. You were abandoning me! Did you even care? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you couldn't wait to get rid of the burden I’d become. It looks like you never really loved me at all.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Yoongi’s head snaps up, his eyes wide and fractured. For a second, you think he might scream back. You want him to. You want him to break.
Instead, his hand trembles as it reaches for the collar of his black T-shirt. He hooks a finger under a thin silver chain that you hadn't noticed before, hidden beneath the fabric. With a slow, deliberate tug, he pulls it out.
Dangling from the end of the chain, catching the dim light of the window, is a ring.
It isn't the flashy, oversized diamond Corbyn put on your finger. It’s a simple, elegant silver band. It’s the twin to the one on the phone screen.
“Don’t you ever tell me I didn't care,” he rasps, his eyes searching yours with a desperate, raw agony. “I loved you enough to let you go. Do you have any idea how much that destroyed me?”
Your breathing stutters as you stare at him.
Loved.
It echoes wrong.
Your brows pull together, hurt flashing across your face before you can stop it.
“You said loved,” you say.
Yoongi stills. You take a small step forward, your voice quieter now.
“Do you not love me anymore?” You question.
For a second, he doesn’t answer. His fingers tighten around the chain, the ring swaying faintly between you.
“I didn’t say that.” He replies.
“You didn’t say you did either.” Your throat burns.
His jaw clenches, like the words are fighting him on the way out.
“I do,” he says finally, low and strained. “I just… don’t get to anymore.”
“You don’t get to?” Your breath catches.
“You’re engaged,” he shoots back,
Your hand instinctively curls slightly. The pretentious ring sitting on your finger suddenly feels heavier than ever. You look at him, really look at him, at the way he won’t quite meet your eyes now.
Then your gaze drops.
To the chain.
To the ring.
Your ring.
Your stomach twists.
“Give it back,” you tell him.
“What?” Yoongi’s head snaps up as the words slip out of your mouth.
“That ring,” you say, forcing your voice to stay steady even as your chest cracks open. “It’s mine. It was mine before everything. So give it back.”
For the first time since you walked in. he looks shaken. Really shaken. His hand instinctively closes around the ring, like your words physically threatened to take it.
“No.” He shakes his head.
It’s immediate.
Firm.
“No?” Your eyes widen slightly.
“I’m not giving you this,” he says, quieter now, but somehow more solid. Like this is the one line he won’t let you cross.
“It belongs to me,” you argue, frustration bleeding through again.
“It belonged to us,” he cuts in.
“Give it to me,” you say again as you hold out your hand.
“No.” He shakes his head again.
“Why?” You ask.
“Because it's the only piece of you that I have that truly means something,” he says.
“The only piece of me?” Your voice rises, thick with tears. “I am standing right here, Yoongi! I’m not a ghost, I’m not a memory, I am a person and that is mine. You don’t get to keep it as a trophy for your suffering while I walk around with a hole where my life used to be!”
“It’s not a trophy,” he growls, his voice cracking. “It’s a weight. It’s been a weight around my neck for years. Every time it hits my chest, it reminds me of the day I lost you. It reminds me that I stayed behind while you moved on without me.”
“Then let it go!” You take another step, closing the distance until you are inches from him. You can smell the soap on his skin, a scent that triggers a phantom ache in your chest….something familiar, something safe. “Give it back to me. If it hurts you so much, why are you fighting to keep it?”
“Because if I give it to you, it’s really over,” he whispers, his eyes searching yours, desperate and bloodshot. “As long as I have this, you’re still the girl who said yes. If I give it back, you’re just… his.”
“I’m already his,” you say, the words tasting gross. You hold out your hand, palm up, steady despite the violent shaking happening inside you. “But I can’t decide who I want to be until I have it. Give. It. Back.”
Yoongi stares at your open palm for what feels like an eternity. His chest heaves, his breathing ragged. Slowly, painfully, he lifts his hand to the back of his neck. His fingers fumble with the clasp of the chain. It's a motion he’s clearly done a thousand times in the dark, but now his hands are shaking too hard to be precise.
Finally, the click of the metal echoes in the silence.
He pulls the chain through the ring, the silver band sliding into his palm. He looks at it one last time, his thumb brushing over the metal. His face crumples just for a second. A flash of the boy who thought he was going to spend the rest of his life with you.
Then, he reaches out.
He doesn’t drop it into your hand. He takes your fingers in his, his skin searingly hot against yours, and presses the ring into your palm. He closes your fingers over it, his grip tight, forcing you to feel the cool, hard metal.
“There,” he rasps, his voice breaking completely. “It’s yours. It was always yours.”
He lets go of your hand as if the contact burned him, stepping back into the shadows of his home. He looks empty, like he’s just handed over his own heart. You look down at your hand. You slowly uncurl your fingers.
The silver band sits there, humble and simple compared to the diamond on your other hand. You turn it over, and there, in a tiny, elegant script on the inside of the band, are the words.
Your thumb traces the inside of the band.
At first, the letters blur. Your vision is still swimming, your hands still trembling.
Then they sharpen.
Always — Yoongi.
Your breath catches.
It’s… simple.
Not dramatic. Not poetic. Not something written for a moment like this.
Something written for a lifetime.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the ring. A promise made without hesitation.
Always.
You swallow hard and look up to find that Yoongi is already looking at you.
Not at the ring.
At you.
Completely still, like he’s bracing for impact. Like whatever you say next is going to decide something he’s been holding onto for years. Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Because how do you respond to something like that? Your grip loosens just enough for the ring to rest in your palm again.
“I… don’t remember this.” Your voice barely above a whisper.
His expression flickers, something breaking quietly behind his eyes, but he nods once, like he expected that. Like he prepared himself for it.
“I know,” he whispers
That hurts more than if he’d argued.
You shake your head slightly, frustration and something deeper twisting together inside you.
“But she did,” you say, more to yourself than to him. “The version of me that said yes… she meant it and you kept it,” you add softly, a tremor slipping through now. “All this time.”
“I didn’t know how not to,” he admits.
Looking down at your old broken phone, you exit out of your photo app. The screen shifts and background comes into view. The pier with the sunset bleeding gold and pink across the water. All of you barefoot on the wooden planks. The wind tangling hair, laughter caught mid-motion. Yura with her arms wrapped around you. The guys gathered around cheering like nothing in the world could possibly ruin that moment.
A small sound slips from Yoongi beside you. Something sharp, like it hits him physically and your head turns. He’s staring at your phone.
Not blinking.
Not moving.
Like he’s been pulled backward in time and didn’t land softly.
“Yoongi?” You whisper.
He doesn’t answer you. His eyes stay locked on the screen.
“That’s the day,” he tells you.
“What?” Your fingers still slightly on your phone.
“That’s the pier,” he says, voice rougher now. “That’s when it happened.”
“When what happened?” Your stomach twists and finally, he looks at you.
There’s something in his expression that makes your pulse stutter because it isn’t confusion.
It’s certainty.
“That’s when you said yes,” he says and you look down at the photo again. “You and I drove there. Everyone else followed a little bit after. You were standing at the railing watching the sunset. Your hair was blowing in the wind. You looked so peaceful at that moment. I took your picture with your camera.”
You gasp softly and blink at him as you think about the polaroid hiding in your bathroom.
“I just…. I walked up behind you and wrapped my arms around you.” He continues.
“My dream.” You cut him off and his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline.
“Your dream?” He repeats, the words barely leaving his throat. He takes a half-step toward you, his guard completely shattered. “Y/N, what are you talking about?”
“The pier,” you whisper, your eyes darting between the photo on the cracked screen and the man standing in front of you. “I thought I was going crazy. A sunset, the smell of the water, and someone… someone holding me from behind. I couldn’t see the face.”
You look down at the silver ring in your palm, the one that says Always.
“It was you,” you breathe out, the realization hitting you with the force of a tidal wave. “It was always you.”
Yoongi’s hand goes to his mouth, his shoulders shaking. He turns away for a second, a muffled sound escaping him….a sob he can no longer repress. When he turns back, his face is wet, his eyes raw.
“It wasn't a dream,” he says, his voice thick. “I turned you around. I was so terrified. My heart was pounding so hard I thought you’d feel it through my chest. I told you that I didn't want another day to go by where you weren't officially mine. You didn’t even let me finish. You just grabbed my face and said Always. That’s why I had it engraved. Because that was your promise to me.”
He looks at your left hand. At Corbyn’s diamond, which now looks like a gaudy, intrusive weight.
“And then,” Yoongi whispers. “Your parents took that away from us because they hated me.”
Your fingers curl around the silver band in your palm.
Always.
Your chest aches.
Oh god… your chest aches.
“I need to go,” you say.
“Y/N…”Yoongi’s head lifts slightly.
“I need to go,” you repeat, steadier this time. “I need to hear it from them. I need to see their faces when they try to explain this to me.”
Yoongi doesn’t try to talk you out of it. He sees the fire in your eyes. The same stubborn, unbreakable spark that he fell in love with long before the world went quiet.
"I'm coming with you," he says. It isn't a request.
"Yoongi, no. If they see you, they'll just use it as an excuse to call me confused or say you manipulated me." You shake your head.
"I'm not going inside," he promises. "I'll be in the car. I just...I can't let you do that alone. If you need me, I’m ten feet away. If you don't, I'm just a shadow in the driveway."
You nod, unable to find words that won't break your voice.
The drive to your parents' house is tense. Yoongi drives your car. You didn't trust yourself to drive. You watch the familiar, manicured streets of your new life roll by, as you figure out what you're going to say to them. When he pulls into the driveway, your heart stops. Corbyn’s SUV is parked there.
"He's here," you whisper. “Why is he here?”
Yoongi’s jaw tightens. He shifts the car into park but doesn't turn off the engine. He looks at the front door, then at you. He reaches over, his hand covering yours for a brief, searing second.
"Go," he says. "I'm right here."
As you push open the door slowly, the familiar creak sounds louder than it ever has before. The house smells the same. Clean, controlled, untouched by anything messy or real. It’s completely devoid of any real emotions or feelings. Voices drift from the living room, low and tired, as you step inside. All three of them are there. Your mother is perched on the edge of the couch, her posture perfect even in exhaustion. Your father stands near the fireplace with his arms crossed, tension sitting heavy in his shoulders. Corbyn is by the window, jacket off and sleeves rolled, looking like he’s been there a while…like this has been an ongoing conversation.
They all look up at once. Relief flashes across your mother’s face first.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she exhales, pressing a hand to her chest. “There you are.”
Your father’s expression hardens, but there’s something under it. Concern, maybe, buried under control. Corbyn straightens immediately, his eyes scanning your face.
“Hey,” he says carefully. “Are you okay?”
“It’s time to stop avoiding this,” your mother cuts in, her tone sharpening as she stands. “The wedding is already on hold, and now you and Corbyn are….”
“Who is Yura?” You ask, cutting her off.
The room freezes. It isn’t loud. You don’t yell it, but the way the atmosphere feels...you might as well have. Your mother blinks once, then twice.
“I’m sorry?” She says lightly, far too lightly. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Who is Jungkook?” Your father shifts now, a subtle movement, but you catch it…a crack.
“I think you’re confused,” your mother says, a little firmer this time. “You’ve been under a lot of stress…”
“Stop.” That one is sharp and clean. It slices straight through her. “Stop right now.”
Your hand tightens around the phone before you step forward and unlock it. Your fingers don’t shake this time….not anymore. You turn the screen and hold it out. The pier, the sunset, all of you barefoot, laughing, and alive.
“I found them,” you say quietly. “All of them. Yura … Jungkook … Jimin … Hobi … Namjoon … Jin…Taehyung.”
Your mother doesn’t take the phone. She doesn’t even look at it. Your father’s gaze flicks to it and then away just as fast. However, Corbyn steps forward slowly.
“Can I?” He asks, already reaching. You let him take it. He studies the photo, his brows pulling together as confusion settles over his face, real and unfiltered. “Who… are these people?” He asks, glancing between you and the screen. “Are these friends… from before the accident?”
You don’t answer him. You look back at your mother. Her face has gone pale now, no longer composed or controlled, but afraid.
“Answer me,” you say, your voice quieter but infinitely more dangerous. “Who are they?”
“I don’t know what you think you’ve found….” she starts.
“Don’t lie to me.” You grit your teeth as your words crack.
“That’s enough. You’re upset, and you’re jumping to conclusions…” Your father steps in now, his voice firm.
“Who is Yoongi?” You ask quietly.
Silence.
“You're confused,” your father tells you.
“STOP LYING TO ME!” You yell. You grab your ring out of your pocket and pinch it between your fingers. “I WAS ENGAGED TO HIM.”
“And thank god it ended!” Your mother snaps. “A music teacher! Two teachers struggling living paycheck to paycheck. You would have had nothing!”
“I would have been happy,” you whisper, the realization blooming in your chest like a fire. “I wouldn't have cared about the paychecks or the struggle. I was happy in that photo. Look at my face! I haven't looked like that in years. I don't even recognize myself there. I was LOVED there.”
“You are happy now!” Your mother snaps, gesturing wildly at the sprawling, expensive house. “You have security! You have a future that isn't precarious. You have a man who can actually provide for you, who belongs in our world!”
“I am a shell of a person!” You scream back, the sound tearing from your lungs. “I’ve spent years feeling like I was wearing a costume, like I was a ghost haunting my own life! You didn’t save me from a struggle, mom. You saved me from myself. You erased the only version of me that actually felt alive because she was too inconvenient for your social standing.”
You turn, your eyes landing on Corbyn. He was still holding your old phone, his face a mask of shock and something else. Something that looked suspiciously like guilt. The room goes deathly quiet. You feel the weight of the silver ring in one hand and the cold diamond in the other.
“Corbyn,” you say, your voice trembling. “Did you know?”
Corbyn doesn’t look at you. He looks at the floor, at the rug, at the phone…anywhere but your eyes.
“Corbyn, look at me,” you demand. “Did you know I was engaged to someone else?”
He finally lifts his head. His jaw is tight, and for the first time, the polished, perfect man you thought you knew looks… small.
“I knew there was someone,” he admits, his voice barely audible. “Your parents…when they told me about the accident. They told me that before it happened, you had been involved with a man. They said it was a mistake. That he was… he was a bad person, Y/N.”
He takes a step toward you, his expression pleading. “They told me that bringing him up would only trigger your trauma. They said the doctors advised against it. I thought I was helping you move on. I thought I was being the stable choice you needed to heal.”
“Oh my god!” You breathe out and put your hands to your head before dropping them.
“They said I need to help you stick to your routines,” he continues. “Keep you in the present and not the past.”
“Oh my god!” You look down at the diamond on your finger. The one Corbyn had placed there.
The room is far too suffocating, as if the very walls are leaning in to witness what you would do next. Your mother is still breathing hard from her outburst, her chest heaving. Your father’s expression is hardening, his mind clearly already miles ahead, calculating his next argument. And then there is Corbyn. He is watching you with a desperate, hollow look in his eyes, like a man realizing he is about to lose something he had never truly understood in the first place.
But as you stand there, you feel nothing. There is no fire of rage, no cold spike of panic, and no lingering fog of confusion. There is only a sudden, piercing clarity. Your fingers move slowly to your left hand, catching the light as you begin to twist the diamond ring. It resists for a fleeting second before it gives way. The ring slides free, leaving your finger feeling strangely light.
You step forward and walk toward the coffee table, setting the diamond down with a small, metallic click. It is barely a sound at all, yet it lands with the weight of something irreversible. "Y/N…" Your mother inhales sharply, but you simply shake your head at her.
When you finally speak, your voice isn't loud, it is empty.
“You're all liars," you say, the words hitting harder than anything you’d screamed all night. "I can’t trust any of you."
"Wait…Y/N, don’t do this like…." Corbyn takes a tentative step forward, his hand half-extended.
You didn't even look at him. You simply reach out and take your phone back from his hand. He lets you take it without a fight. There is nothing else left for him to do. Your fingers tighten around the cracked device, grounding yourself in the only thing that felt like it actually belongs to you. Then, without a hint of hesitation or a second glance, you turn and walk out of the house.
Everything feels distant and muted, as if you were moving through deep water. Your car is still running in the driveway, the headlights cutting through the darkening evening, and inside, he is waiting. Yoongi doesn’t move right away when you open the door. He just sits there, his dark eyes searching yours, waiting for a signal.
You get in and shut the door, the mechanical thud sealing the rest of the world away. For a long moment, it stays silent. The silence stretches until your voice, sounding strange and hollow to your own ears, finally breaks it.
"It’s over." You blink.
“What is?" Yoongi’s grip tightens slightly on the steering wheel as he asks carefully.
"Everything." You breathe out.
That was the moment your composure finally fractures. It isn't a loud collapse, just a slow, painful breaking.
"Oh my god…" you whisper, pressing your hand to your mouth. "What did I do…?" Your breathing began to stutter, the reality of the last hour crashing down. "I just…. I walked away from all of it. My parents, my life, my…." Your chest tightened painfully "I have nothing, Yoongi."
He moves instantly, driven by an instinct he’d been suppressing for years. His seatbelt clicks off, and then he is pulling you into him. One arm wraps firmly around your shoulders while the other cradles the back of your head, tucking you into the safety of his chest. He was solid, warm, and real. You didn't fight him. You simply collapse against him, your hands clutching at his shirt as your forehead presses into his shoulder. Everything you had been holding back finally spills over in a wave of uneven breaths and shaking shoulders.
Yoongi holds you like it was muscle memory, his chin resting against your hair.
"Hey… hey," he murmurs, his voice low and steady despite the raw emotion threaded through it.
"I don’t have anything." You repeat, keeping your fingers curled into his shirt.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, though he doesn't lose contact. His thumb brushed firmly against your shoulder to ground you.
"You’re not alone," he says, his voice softening. "You have me and you have them. All of them. Yura, Jungkook, Jin ….everyone who never stopped loving you. You didn’t lose everything tonight. You just stopped living in something that was never yours to begin with."
Your fingers are still twisted in the fabric of his shirt when the words finally leave you.
"Where do I go?" You ask.
It isn't just a question about tonight. It's a question about everything. You wonder where you were supposed to go when your past had been stolen, your present was built on lies, and your future had just shattered in your hands. Yoongi doesn’t answer right away, not because he didn't have one, but because he heard what you were really asking. His hand shifts, gentler now, brushing your hair back from your face as his eyes search yours.
"I know where we can go," he says quietly.
There was no hesitation or doubt in his voice, and for the first time tonight, you don’t question it.
You just nod.
Your hands sit in your lap, one loosely curled around the silver ring, the other empty where the diamond used to be. You keep glancing at your reflection in the window like you were trying to meet yourself for the first time, and maybe you were. Yoongi doesn't rush or push. He just drives. Familiar roads start to appear, and you close your eyes. When the car slows, your gaze lifts to a simple building with the lights on inside and music faintly spilling through the walls.
"Jimin’s studio," you whisper.
"Yeah." Yoongi glances at you briefly, something soft flickering across his face, as he replies.
Your pulse races because this is the place where you first met them. This is their sanctuary. This is where he brought you.
The moment you step out of the car, your heart starts racing again, but not the same way it had at your parents’ house. This wasn’t fear. It was something else, something bigger. Yoongi comes around to your side but doesn't touch you this time. He stays just close enough until you reach the door and push it open.
The music doesn't fade as you make your way back to the familiar room. It cuts, as if someone had hit stop the second they saw you. Suddenly, you weren't so alone. They were all there. Yura, Jungkook, Taehyung, Namjoon, Hoseok, Jin, and Jimin himself, standing near the mirrors and frozen mid-step. No one speaks at first. They just stare at you.
"Y/N…" Yura breaks, but she doesn't even finish your name before she's moving, fast and desperate. Her arms wrap around you so tightly it knocks the breath from your lungs, but you don't pull away and you cling back just as hard. "I’m so sorry," she chokes into your shoulder. "I’m so, so sorry."
"I know." You whisper and you mean it.
Jungkook was next, pulling you into a hug that was somehow both strong and careful at the same time.
"You scared the hell out of us," he mutters, his voice thick.
"Yeah… I think I scared myself too." A small, shaky laugh escapes you as you reply.
One by one, they come. There are hands on your shoulders, soft squeezes, and tearful smiles, as if they’d been holding their breath since you came back into their lives and you’d just given it back to them. The strangest part was that it didn’t feel like strangers welcoming you. It felt like something clicking back into place. It wasn't full or perfect yet, but it was enough. When you finally pull back, your eyes scan the room, taking in every face and every emotion. It's then, you look at Yoongi. He was still near the door right over your shoulder.
Through the blur of your own tears, you look past the circle of friends to where Yoongi remains by the door. He looks like he was afraid to intrude, as if he were still playing the part of the ghost he had been forced to become. You don't want him on the outside anymore. Slowly, you reach your arm out, palm open and fingers trembling, silently holding your hand out for him.
Yoongi’s eyes lock onto your hand, his breath hitching as he realizes you were calling him back into your world. Before he can even take the first step, the others caught on. Jungkook reaches out and grabs his shoulder, and Jimin steps forward to hook an arm around him, none of them letting him stay in the shadows for a second longer. They surge forward, a tide of hands and familiar voices, pulling him into the center of the messy circle with you.
As he is folded into the group, the space between the two of you finally vanishes. The circle closes, tight and unbreakable, and for the first time since you woke up in that hospital bed years ago, the hollow ache in your chest felt full. You weren't just a girl with a broken past anymore. You were back among the people who had guarded your story when you couldn't, led by the man who had never truly let you go. In the middle of the crowded, tearful studio, the silver ring pressed firmly into your palm, and you finally felt like you had come home.
Okay I just caught up with before i forgot and its driving me crazy. whats her favorite song?
Lol! So, I was going to leave it ambiguous to fit your personal (Y/N) . I probably still will. However....... if you want something to imagine. Since Yoongi established it was a sad song but she didn't care and I don't listen to KPOP when I write... here are just a few that I listened to when I was writing.
* Indigo - Sam Barber
* Colorblind - Counting Crows (I mean the piano alone in this)
* The Night We Met - Lord Huron
* Never Say Never - The Fray
BUT... If you want to imagine a BTS song..... please imagine a BTS song.
hi there i’m curious to know how old were yoongi and y/n when they met? and how long has she been with corbyn? just curious cause in the last chapter he said something about them being together for years
Okay so my loose timeline right now... it might tighten later..... Yoongi and y/ met around 19 when yura brought her around. Probably started dating end of sophomore year in college. Engaged senior year then the accident happened.
Corbyn and her met at work probably less than a year after the accident and have been together around maybe three years.
Hope this helps. I even had to double check some things so I hope Im right lol.
You truly do make my weeks better, I have not been having a good time lately,,, u know life happens and sometimes it's shitty and hard, and it may sound stupid but having something to look forward every Friday does make me feel somewhat better. It's the way you put so much passion and effort into your words that I truly feel everything in my soul, it all feels so real and magical, it makes me forget about reality for a little bit at least and for a few minutes it's just me and your words. I just wanted to let you know how much power you have in your hands and in your awesome and creative mind! Not to put any pressure on you at all!! Just because I wanted to let you know how much I appreciate you and your books, even though they are fan-fiction you make them feel like they are so much more than that, because they are!!
I'm so sorry you're having a rough time right now! I am so happy that my works can be a little something you can look forward to. I don't think it's stupid at all. Readers like you are the reason I keep going. There are so many times I threaten to log out and walk away when I get stuck in my head and I keep going. I happily keep going. Thank for reading and sticking with me. My words will be here for you too.
Summary: Finally, after marrying the love of your life everything is coming together. Now, it's up to the two of you to tackle the biggest step in your life. Parenthood. Will it open old wounds or will it bring everyone closer together?
Pairing: Husband Yoongi x Pregnant Reader
Genre: Romance, Fluff, Low Angst,
Warnings: Swearing, Arguments, Unprotected Sex, Pregnant Sex
A/N: My OG series/couple has officially come to an end. I seriously can't believe where I am now. I didn't think I was going ever to write beyond Whispered Secrets. It was just a ‘dumb’ idea I had that I couldn't get out of my head. I didn't know where to post…how to post. Then bam… couldn't sleep because of a tornado watch and figured WHY NOT!
Now… I have so many AMAZING readers and you all truly do keep me going with my chaotic writings that I have going on.
Annnnywhooo….here's the final chapter!
The drive home feels shorter than the drive to the hospital and longer at the same time. The world outside the windows moves as it always has. The traffic lights change, people crossing streets, someone walking a dog without any awareness that your entire life had changed overnight. You sit in the passenger seat with Jisung strapped carefully into the carseat behind Yoongi, your body still tender and heavy in ways you hadn’t fully expected. Every bump in the road registered somewhere new. Every turn made you instinctively glance back.
Yoongi is driving with both hands fixed at ten and two, jaw set, shoulders tense beneath his shirt. He’s continuously checking the rearview mirror every twelve seconds and slows to nearly a stop at speed bumps that would normally barely earn a brake tap. He hasn't even turned the radio on. The car is quiet except for the soft hum of the engine and the occasional tiny sound from the backseat that made both of you look up immediately.
“You know,” you say gently, watching him side-eye a sedan attempting to merge too close. “We’re going fifteen under.”
“We’re alive, aren’t we?” He replies flatly.
You smile faintly and turn to look out the window again, your hand resting over the ache low in your abdomen. Exhaustion moves through you in slow waves now that adrenaline has finally loosened its grip. However beneath it was something brighter and stranger. You keep waiting to feel ready, to feel like someone had formally handed you permission to be responsible for another human being. Instead, they had simply buckled him into a car seat and sent you home.
From the back came a small, questioning noise. Yoongi’s entire posture changes.
“What was that?” He asks.
“A sound,” you say.
“Was it a bad sound?” He questions.
“It was a baby sound.” You shrug and he glances at you, unconvinced, then checks the mirror again.
“He sounded dissatisfied.” He blinks looking out in front of him.
“He’s three days old, Yoongi. He's going to be dissatisfied.” You laugh.
When the house finally comes into view, something in your chest tightens unexpectedly. The driveway. The porch. The front windows that reflect the afternoon light. It looks exactly the same as it had the day you left, and completely unfamiliar at the same time.
Yoongi parks with absurd precision.
Neither of you move right away.
For a moment, the car stays silent. You can hear Jisung breathing softly in the backseat. Yoongi keeps his hands on the steering wheel, staring through the windshield as if he needs a second to process what comes next.
“They really let us take him home,” he sighs and the laugh that escapes you was tired and immediate.
“Apparently.” You agree.
He turns to look at you then, his expression open in a way that still startles you sometimes. It's fatigue, wonder, fear, pride, all layered together. Something only you get to see from him.
“That feels irresponsible.” He jokes.
“You were there the whole time,” you remind him. “You saw them discharge us.”
“I know,” he says. “Still feels…unreal”
He gets out first, circling the car quickly before you can touch the handle. By the time your door opens, he is already there, one hand out for you.
“I can get out of a car on my own,” you say.
“I know,” he says softly, but he doesn't move his hand.
“Go get our son.” You smile, taking his hand as you step out of the car.
The air outside feels fresher. Home air. Familiar air. You stand carefully, steadying yourself as your body reminds you that bringing life into the world came with consequences no one could politely summarize in parenting books.
Yoongi practically runs back around to the other side of the car. Watching him unbuckle the carrier would have been funny if it weren’t so tender. He reaches in with total concentration, lips pressed together, moving with the seriousness of someone defusing a bomb. When he finally lifts the seat. He seems to surprise himself.
“Got him,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.
“I’d hope so,” you say.
He ignores you, already halfway to the porch. You follow more slowly, one hand on the rail, your steps careful. At the front door, Yoongi stops and looks back, waiting until you reach him. Jisung sleeps on, oblivious in his little cocoon.
For one suspended second, the three of you stand there. This threshold you had crossed a thousand times. Leaving for dinners. Returning from trips. Coming home after long nights. Ordinary entrances to a pretty ordinary life.
Now nothing about it is ordinary.
Yoongi shifts the carrier gently and looks at the door like it requires a strategy.
“You gonna open it,” you ask softly. “Or just stare until he’s in kindergarten?”
He shakes his head, but smirks as he pushes open the door. The house greets you just how you left it. Your bowl of strawberries still lay forgotten. Your towel on the couch from when your water broke and from downstairs, faint and distant. The soft loop of piano notes play on.
Yoongi stops.
You both listen.
The lullaby.
It’s still playing from the studio speakers where he must have left the track running when everything changed. Your eyes burn unexpectedly. Yoongi looks down at the sleeping baby, then back toward the basement door.
“Guess it waited,” he says quietly.
“Come on,” you whisper and step inside, holding the door wider for him. “Bring him home.”
Yoongi steps over the threshold, and the click of the door behind him sounds final. The closing of a long, heavy chapter and the start of a story that didn't have an ending yet. He doesn't put the carrier down in the entryway. He keeps walking, his boots muffled by the rug, as he navigates the living room like he was seeing the furniture for the first time.
"He looks so small in here," Yoongi whispers, setting the carrier down in the center of the rug in the living room.
"The house got bigger while we were gone." You lean against the back of the sofa, watching him.
"Or we got smaller," he murmurs. He crouches beside the carrier, his fingers lingering on the plastic handle before he slowly starts to unbuckle the straps.
This was the part that hadn't happened in the hospital. There, everything was supervised. The swaddling, the feeding, the moving from bed to bassinet. Here, there were no nurses in sensible shoes to tell Yoongi if he was holding the baby’s head at the right angle. It was just the three of you and the persistent, hauntingly beautiful melody drifting up from the studio.
"Go turn it off," you tell him.
"What?" Yoongi looks up, his hand pausing over Jisung’s chest.
"The music. Go down and stop the loop. You’ve been living in that rehearsal for months, Yoongi. It’s time to let it finish." You smile softly at him.
He hesitates, looking from you to the baby, who was just beginning to stir, his tiny face scrunching into a pout that was a mirror image of the man kneeling beside him.
"I'll watch him," you promise. "Just go."
He nods once and stands, moving toward the door within the kitchen with a stride that was less frantic than it had been days ago. You sit on the edge of the couch and reach down, sliding your hand into the carrier. Jisung’s tiny fingers instinctively curl around your pinky, a grip that feels like a tether.
Downstairs, the music stops.
It doesn't take long for Yoongi to return to you, leaning into your side and looking up at you. The exhaustion was there, etched into the shadows under his eyes. However, this was a completely different type of exhaustion that you were used to. This is a new one you're going to get to know very well.
"We’re going to be okay at this, aren't we?" He asks, taking Jisung from the carrier and holding him to his chest.
“No,” you say, sliding your hands through his hair.
“No?” His eyes widen just slightly.
“We’re going to be terrible at parts of it.” You smile, tired and warm.
A short, startled laugh escapes him.
“We’re going to second-guess everything,” you continue. “We’ll call people at weird hours. We’ll panic over rashes and temperatures and whether he’s breathing too quietly. We’ll argue when we’re exhausted. We’ll get things wrong.”
Yoongi studies your face as if bracing for the rest.
“And,” you say, your hand drifting down to touch Jisung’s cheek. “We’re going to love him so much that most of the mistakes won’t matter.”
Yoongi looks down at Jisung, who has now fully awakened and is blinking up at the ceiling.
“He has your judgmental face,” you joke, a smile breaking out over your own face.
“He absolutely does not.” Yoongi argues, but his mouth twitches
“He absolutely does.” You nod.
Jisung answers by letting out a small, sharp cry that sounds offended. You both freeze as you stare at him all red faced and fist curling. Yoongi moves first, instinct overriding thought. He adjusts the blanket, checks the baby’s position, bounces once too carefully to count as a bounce, then looks at you with immediate concern.
“What does that one mean?” He stares at you, hoping you know the answer.
“It means he’s a baby.” You reply.
“No, that one was different.” He shakes his head.
“They’re all different to you right now,” you say.
“It had layers,” he argues. “It had different pitches.”
You laugh hard enough to regret it instantly, one hand flying to your abdomen.
“Ow…don’t make me laugh.” You close your eyes waiting for the pain to subside.
“Did I hurt you?” His panic redirected immediately.
“No,” you say through another laugh. “Childbirth hurt me. You’re just annoying.”
He looks relieved enough to accept the insult. Jisung fusses again, smaller this time, hand smacking blindly against Yoongi’s chest.
“I think he’s hungry.” You tilt your head.
“Already? We fed him an hour ago.” Yoongi stares at the little bundle in his arms.
“Welcome to parenthood,” you sigh.
You push yourself carefully upright on the couch. Every muscle protests, but the movement felt easier than it had that morning. Maybe because it is much more comfortable at home than at the hospital.
“Come here,” you say softly, holding out your arms.
Yoongi stands and lowers Jisung into your embrace. Once the baby settled against you, Yoongi didn’t sit back down. He continued to hover.
“You can sit,” you tell him.
“I’m okay.” He stays put.
“You’re hovering,” you tell him as you undo your top.
“I’m supervising.” He corrects you.
“You’re pacing in place.” You stare at him.
He ignores that and reaches to adjust the corner of the blanket by half an inch.
You watch him for a moment, the tenderness of it almost too much to carry.
“Yoongi,” you sigh and he glances at you. “You can breathe.”
Something in his face softens. He lowers himself beside you on the couch this time, close enough that his thigh presses to yours. Then, after only a second’s hesitation, he reaches over and strokes Jisung's head.
This…this you can do.
You both need to just breathe.
The living room is cast in the amber glow of the floor lamp, the shadows stretching long as evening descends on the house. You lean back against the cushions, watching Yoongi pace a tight, rhythmic circle on the rug.
Jisung is currently draped over his shoulder, a tiny, pale bundle against the dark fabric of Yoongi's hoodie. Yoongi’s hand is moving in a steady, rhythmic pat-pat-pat against the baby’s back. It's firm enough to be effective, but there's a lingering hesitation in the movement after he admitted he was afraid he might break something.
Jisung, however, is not appreciative of the technique. He lets out a sharp cry, his little legs kicking against Yoongi’s body in protest.
"Still nothing?" You ask softly, your voice thick with sleepiness.
"Nothing," Yoongi mutters, his jaw tight. "He’s just getting more worked up. I think I’m doing it wrong. Am I doing it wrong? I’m following the diagram from the pamphlet."
"The pamphlet doesn't account for a stubborn Min," you tease gently. Jisung lets out another frustrated wail, his face turning a dusty shade of red. "Here, Yoongi. Give him to me. I'll try the sitting-up method."
You start to reach out, your arms already aching from the weight of him, but Yoongi pivots away. It wasn't a sharp movement, but it was deliberate. A protective shield of his shoulder between you and the baby.
"No," he says, his voice low and strained. "You just spent forty minutes feeding him. You can barely keep your eyes open."
"I'm fine, really. If he doesn't burp, he's going to get colicky, and then neither of us…" you start, but you get quickly cut off.
"I've got it," Yoongi interrupts, more firmly this time. He stops his pacing and looks at you, his eyes bloodshot but burning with determination. "I need to do this. You’ve done the hard part. You’ve done... everything. Let me do something."
The raw honesty in his voice stops you. It wasn't just about the burp. It was the look in his eyes. The desperate need to prove to himself, to you, and to the tiny human screaming into his neck that he was capable of being the support system he’d promised to be.
"Okay," you whisper, pulling your hands back and resting them in your lap. "Okay. Try sitting down and leaning him forward a bit. Support his chin with your hand, but don't put pressure on his throat."
Yoongi nods slowly, processing the instructions like a complex piece of sheet music. He sits on the edge of the coffee table, facing you. He moves Jisung with excruciating care, seating the baby on his lap and bracing the tiny, wobbling chin with his thumb and forefinger.
"Like this?" He asks.
"Perfect. Now just lean him forward slightly and rub in circles." You instruct.
Yoongi begins to rub, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in deep concentration. For a long minute, the only sound was Jisung’s ragged, unhappy breathing and the soft friction of Yoongi’s palm against the baby's pajamas.
"Come on, Jisung," Yoongi hovers his face close to the baby's ear, his voice dropping to a gravelly, private murmur. "Work with me here, kid. Help your old man out."
He gave three more firm, rhythmic pats.
Burp.
It was a surprisingly loud, wet sound for such a small person. The silence that follows is…peaceful. Yoongi freezes, his hand still mid-air, his eyes wide as he looks at the baby, then up at you.
"Was that... did he...?" He questions, tucking your newborn back into his chest.
"That was it," you laugh, the tension bleeding out of your shoulders. "Mission accomplished."
Jisung sighs. A long, dramatic sound of pure relief and promptly slumping against Yoongi’s chest, his eyes fluttering shut as the discomfort vanishes. Yoongi lets out a breath. He slumps forward, tucking his face into the curve of Jisung’s neck, his shoulders finally dropping from the tension.
"See?" You say softly. "You're a natural."
"I'm a wreck," he corrects into the baby's skin, though you could hear the small, triumphant smile in his voice. "But I'm a wreck who got a burp."
The room falls back into stillness, but the air between you feels a little thin. Yoongi remains on the coffee table for a long moment, his forehead still resting against Jisung’s crown, the baby now a warm, sleeping weight on his chest.
Yoongi shifts slowly. He doesn't look up at you immediately. Instead, he carefully transitions Jisung back into the crook of his arm, making sure the baby’s head was perfectly supported. Only then does he slide off the coffee table and sink onto the couch beside you.
"Hey," he says, his voice scratchy.
"Hey," you reply softly.
"I shouldn't have snapped at you. Back there. When you offered to help." He clears his throat, his thumb tracing the edge of Jisung’s blanket over and over.
"Yoongi, it’s fine. You were stressed." You tell him.
"It's not fine," he counters, finally turning his head to look at you. There's a vulnerability there now that makes him look even more tired. "You’re healing. You’re the one who’s been through something I can't even imagine, and I... I just felt like I was standing around watching you do all the heavy lifting. I wanted to be the one to fix it. I got frustrated that I couldn't even handle a tiny bit of gas without panicking."
He reaches out, his free hand finding yours and squeezing it tight.
"I’m sorry," he whispers. "I'm just terrified that if I don't figure out how to do every little thing right now, I'm going to fail both of you. But that’s no excuse to take it out on you. You're the last person who deserves that."
You reach over, sliding your hand from his grip up to the side of his face. Your thumb brushing against the dark circles under his eyes, tracing the line of his jaw that has been tense for seventy-two hours straight.
"You're not failing," you tell him, your voice steady despite the fatigue. "The fact that you’re terrified is actually proof that you’re doing it right. If you weren't scared, I’d think you weren't paying attention."
Yoongi leans into your touch, closing his eyes for a brief second. He lets out a long, shaky exhale against your palm.
"I'm paying attention," he murmurs, his voice muffled. "I don't think I've ever been this awake in my entire life, even when I'm nodding off."
He opens his eyes and looks down at Jisung. The baby is deep in that heavy, milk-drunk sleep that makes infants feel twice their actual weight. Yoongi shifts again, carefully leaning back until his spine finally meets the cushions of the sofa. He doesn't let go of your hand. He pulls it toward his chest, sandwiching it between his own hand and the warm bundle of your son.
"He's so quiet now," Yoongi whispers, as if the sound of his own voice might break the spell. "It’s louder in here when he’s quiet. Does that make sense?"
"Perfect sense," you reply. You move closer, resting your head on his shoulder, careful of your own lingering aches.
For a while, neither of you speak. The shadows in the room deepen into a soft indigo as the sun finishes its descent. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen, and a floorboard creaks somewhere upstairs….the usual ghosts of the house.
Yoongi’s thumb continues its rhythmic stroking across the back of your hand.
"I keep thinking about that track downstairs," he says suddenly. "The lullaby."
"What about it?" You ask.
"I think I need to rewrite the bridge." He looks at the sleeping baby. “Something about it doesn't feel right now.”
"You’re already a stage dad, Yoongi. He’s been home for six hours and you’re already giving him a remix." You smile against the fabric of his hoodie.
"It’s not a remix," he defends himself, though there was a hint of his old spark in his eyes. "It’s an evolution. Like us."
He turns his head slightly, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your hair. The scent of the hospital was fading, replaced by the familiar smell of your laundry detergent and the faint, new-baby scent of Jisung.
"Go to sleep," he whispers. "Right here. I’m not moving. I’ve got the perimeter secured."
"You’ll wake me if he…" You start.
"I’ll wake you if the world ends," he promises. "Otherwise, just... be. I’ve got him. I’ve got both of you."
You let your eyes drift shut, the steady rise and fall of Yoongi’s chest acting as a much better lullaby than anything he could have composed in the studio. As you slip into a shallow, much-needed drift, you feel him adjust the blanket around your shoulders.
Your eyes open, blinking against the soft gold of morning, and for a second, nothing makes sense. The couch. The blanket tucked around you. The empty space at your side.
Empty.
You sit up too fast.
“Yoongi?” You ask, groggily.
Your voice is rough with sleep, your heart already tripping over itself as your gaze snaps around the room trying to find your little family. The house is quiet. There’s no crying. No hurried footsteps. Just … quiet.
Turning your head to the kitchen. It's then you notice the door leading downstairs to his studio open. A breath you didn’t realize you were holding slips out of you, slow and shaky. Of course. Of course. You push yourself up carefully, your body protesting the sudden movement, and make your way across the living room. Every step feels heavier than it should, but the pull is stronger than the discomfort.
The closer you get, the more you hear it.
Soft.
Familiar.
The lullaby.
It’s just loud enough to drift up the stairs in a gentle, steady loop. It drifts around you before you even reach the doorway, something warm and grounding threading through your chest.
You descend slowly, one hand trailing along the wall for balance.
The main studio door is already open. The monitors glow softly as the cables rest in careful chaos. The space smells faintly of coffee and nights that used to stretch too long.
And in the center of it…..
Yoongi.
He’s in his chair, turned slightly away from the console, one foot planted to keep a slow, absent rhythm.
Swiveling.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
His head is tilted just slightly to the side, chin tucked toward his chest. His eyes are closed, his face finally…finally at rest.
And strapped to him.
Jisung.
Nestled against Yoongi’s chest in a carrier, impossibly small, his cheek pressed into the soft fabric of the hoodie. One tiny hand has worked its way free, curling loosely against Yoongi’s collarbone like it belongs there.
You stop in the doorway, your breath catching. The scene is so perfect in Yoongi's little sanctuary. The piano loop is different now. It’s the evolution he spoke of. It's deeper. It’s the sound of the heartbeat translated into the melody.
You step further into the room, your footsteps silent on the heavy rug. As you get closer, you realize Yoongi isn’t actually fully asleep. His hand, pale and slender, is splayed across Jisung’s back, his fingers moving in a subconscious, rhythmic tap that matches the tempo of the music.
“He wouldn’t settle in the bassinet,” Yoongi whispers, his voice so low it’s barely more than a vibration.
He doesn't open his eyes, but his head shifts just enough to acknowledge you.
“How long have you been down here?” You ask, your voice hushed to match his. You move to his side, resting a hand on the back of his chair.
“Since four-thirty,” he murmurs. Finally, his eyes flutter open. They are bloodshot, heavy-lidded, but incredibly soft. He looks down at the bundle strapped to his chest with a look of pure, unadulterated wonder. “He liked the sub-frequencies. Stopped crying the second I sat in the chair and hit the low C. Little guy has taste.”
“Or he just wanted to be near the noise,” you tease gently, leaning down to press your forehead against Yoongi’s temple.
“Maybe. But as soon as I put him in the wrap, he just… melted. I think he knows this is where things get made.” Yoongi lets out a long, slow breath, finally relaxing his shoulders against the back of the chair.
He reaches out with his free hand, catching your fingers and pulling them toward his lips. His skin is cool, but his breath is warm against your knuckles.
“I finished the bridge,” he says, nodding toward the monitors where the waveform of the track is visible, a jagged, beautiful landscape of sound. “It’s not thin anymore. It’s got enough weight to hold him.”
You look at Jisung, whose tiny chest rises and falls in perfect sync with his father’s. The baby’s face is smooth, his expression one of total, uncomplicated safety. He has no idea that the man holding him is a world-class producer, or that the room they’re in is a sanctuary of art. To him, this is just the place that sounds like peace.
“He looks like you when he sleeps,” you observe.
“Poor kid,” Yoongi huffs, a tiny, tired smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Shut up. He’s perfect.” You smile.
“Yeah,” Yoongi whispers, his gaze dropping back to the baby. The smirk fades into something much more profound. “He is.”
He looks up at you then, the exhaustion in his eyes overshadowed by a fierce, quiet clarity. The panic from the drive home, the second-guessing over the burp, all the spiraling ….it’s all still there, but it's manageable.
“Why don't you go take a shower,” he says softly, squeezing your hand. “I’m going to sit here for another minute. I want him to hear the end of the track one more time.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone if you haven’t slept,” you murmur, as your fingers stay tangled in his.
“I slept.” Yoongi’s thumb brushes over your knuckles lazily.
“You absolutely did not.” You accuse.
“I had my eyes closed.” He argues as you stare at him flatly.
A tired laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Jisung stirs faintly at the sound, making a small squeaking noise against Yoongi’s chest before settling again as the low piano note thrums softly through the room.
Yoongi immediately stills. The movement is instinctive now. Immediate. Total attention redirected to the tiny person strapped to him.
You watch the way his hand spreads wider across Jisung’s back, protective without thought. How naturally he rocks the chair once. Twice. He still looks exhausted enough to fall asleep mid-sentence, but there’s confidence beginning to form now.
“You know,” you say quietly. “You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?” His voice stays hushed.
“That dad thing where you stop functioning like a normal person every time the baby twitches.” You joke.
“He made a suspicious noise.” Yoongi looks down at Jisung defensively.
“He sighed,” you tell him
“It was an aggressive sigh.” he shoots back.
“You’re unbelievable.” You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.
“Maybe,” he murmurs. “But he’s alive, so my methods are clearly effective.”
Your eyes drift toward the monitors again. The waveform stretches across the screen in uneven peaks and valleys, and beside the keyboard sits the cold mug of coffee he must have forgotten hours ago if not days ago. Everything about the room still screams Yoongi. The cables. The notebooks. The scribbled lyrics taped beside the speakers.
But now there’s a pacifier resting beside a synthesizer.
A burp cloth draped over a mixing console.
A newborn sleeping against the chest of a man who used to disappear into this room for days at a time.
The sight hits you somewhere deep and aching.
“What?” Yoongi notices your expression immediately.
“Nothing,” you say softly.
“That’s a lie.” He narrows his eyes slightly.
“It just looks good on you.” You lean down, pressing a slow kiss to his forehead this time.
“What does?” He questions.
“This.” Your hand gestures vaguely toward all of him. The baby carrier. The messy hair. The exhaustion. “Being somebody’s safe place.”
For a second, Yoongi says nothing as he stares at you. The studio falls quiet except for the lullaby looping softly beneath you all. Then his expression changes in that subtle way only you know how to read. The slight tightening around his eyes. The tiny shift in his mouth like he’s trying not to feel too much at once.
“I was always your safe place too,” he says quietly.
“Yeah, you were,” you whisper.
Yoongi looks back down at Jisung so quickly it’s almost shy. His fingers tap unconsciously against the baby’s back again, keeping time with the music.
“He’s going to outgrow this carrier in like… three business days,” he mutters, voice rougher now.
“Probably.” You laugh softly.
“And then eventually he’s going to be too big to fall asleep on my chest.” He continues.
“That’s usually how children work.” You nod.
“No,” he decides with a frown. “I reject that timeline.”
Jisung makes another tiny sound, somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. Yoongi instantly looks victorious.
“See? He agrees with me.” He laughs
You smile so hard your cheeks ache.
God, you love him.
You love this version of him maybe most of all. Stripped raw by exhaustion and fear and devotion. Just Yoongi, holding your son like he’s holding the most precious thing he’s ever touched.
Your chest tightens suddenly with it. With all of it.
The terror.
The tenderness.
The unbearable enormity of loving something this much.
Yoongi notices the shift in your face immediately because of course he does.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“I’m okay.” You blink quickly.
“You’re crying,” he says quickly.
“No, I'm not,” you mumble tiredly.
“You just had a baby like four days ago. I think you’re allowed to cry,” he whispers.
You laugh wetly through the tears, and Yoongi’s entire posture eases at the sound.
Carefully, so carefully not to jostle Jisung, he reaches toward you again.
“C’mere,” he whispers.
You step between his knees and let him pull you close. His forehead rests against your stomach, arms wrapping awkwardly around you and the baby at the same time.
The lullaby continues around you, warm and low and endless.
And standing there in the middle of the studio, surrounded by wires and music and the low studio light, it finally settles into your bones completely.
This is home now.
*** Three Summers Later ***
The backyard is too loud, but not in the overwhelming, what-have-we-done kind of way from those first fragile weeks. This noise felt lived-in and earned, like it finally belonged here. The grill hisses with the sound of searing meat while someone argues about whether the steaks were burnt or simply charred with intention. A cooler slams shut, and laughter overlaps with shouting, all of it competing with the music playing just a little too loud from a speaker balancing on the patio railing. Cutting straight through the chaos was a high-pitched, delighted shriek.
“JISUNG, NO….!” Hobi yells, sprints across the grass. Jisung zigzags ahead of him, clutching something in his tiny fist. “That is NOT how this works, you tiny criminal! Give it BACK!”
Hobi skids to a stop, laughing despite himself as Jisung veers straight into Mingyu’s legs. Mingyu scoops him up mid-run with a grin.
“Whoa…hey…what did you steal this time?” Mingyu asks and Jisung opens his hand proudly to reveal a pair of sunglasses.
“Those are prescription!” Hobi pointed an accusing finger.
“You let a toddler rob you?” Your sister calls out lazily.
“Let?” Hobi scoffs. “That kid is fast.”
Mingyu gives his little nephew a high-five before proceeding to tickle the toddler causing him to let out a high pitched laugh. Across the patio, Jimin is balancing three plates of food with the confidence of a man who absolutely should not be trusted. Lisa doesn't even look up from the table as she adjusts the table settings.
“You’re going to drop that,” she says.
“I’ve got it,” Jimin insists.
“You said that at our wedding, too. You dropped the cake server, Jimin.” Lisa reminds him.
“I was nervous, it slipped, but I recovered,” he tells her.
“You tried to pretend it didn’t happen. You hid it behind the flowers.” Seungkwan points out immediately, confirming he'd seen it, while Jisoo laughs and smoothes down Seungkwan's collar in a practiced motion.
“At least I didn't pass out before my wedding,” Jimin tells Seungwan. “We thought we were going to have to call an ambulance.”
“I thought we weren't talking about that anymore,” Seungkwan mumbles, as Jisoo kisses his cheek.
On the other side of the yard, Yoongi watches the spectacle with his arms crossed. His expression is neutral, but there is a quiet ease to him now, something deeply settled beneath the surface. You step beside him, nudging his arm.
“You gonna help your friend, or just observe your child?” You ask.
“Hobi shouldn't have left his glasses within reach.” Yoongi shrugs.
You watch the chaos for a moment, before you turn your gaze back to Yoongi. He looks different in this light. He looks like a man who knows exactly where he belongs.
You lean into his side, hooking your thumb into the belt loop of his jeans.
"They’re a lot, aren't they?" You murmur, nodding toward the crowded backyard.
"Always have been," Yoongi replies, though his eyes never leave Jisung. "But he likes it. He likes the noise."
"Yoongi?" You take a breath, the air smelling of charcoal.
"Yeah?" He doesn't look away from the yard yet, his mouth twitching as Jisung successfully dodges Hobi’s reach again.
"Do you think you’re up for doing this all over again?" You ask.
The silence that follows is instantaneous, at least on your side of the yard. Yoongi’s posture stiffens. He turns his head slowly, his brow furrowed in a way that says he’s processing a very complex piece of music. He looks at you, then his eyes dart to Jisung, who is currently trying to climb Namjoon.
"Doing... this?" He repeats, his voice dropping an octave. "The sleepless nights? The 'is he breathing' marathons?"
"The evolution of the track," you add softly, stepping closer until your chest brushes his arm. "The messy hair. The late-night studio sessions with a tiny person strapped to your chest. All of it."
Yoongi stares at you, his expression open and startled in that way that still belongs only to you. You can see the gears turning. The mental math of diapers and college funds and the sheer, terrifying volume of love he’d have to double.
Then, the tension in his jaw breaks. A slow, lopsided smirk. The one that always precedes his best ideas spreads across his face. He reaches out, his hand sliding around the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.
"You're serious?" He whispers.
"Yeah." You breathe out.
Yoongi looks back at the yard, watching his son scream with laughter as Jungkook and Tae chase after him. They run past Jin causing him to drop his ice cream cone. He looks at the life you’ve built, the house that stopped feeling too big a long time ago.
"Well," he says, pulling you in until your foreheads touch, his voice thick with a sudden, fierce warmth. "I guess a song like that could always use another verse."
He kisses you before pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. You laugh, leaning your head on his shoulder as the noise of your family rises around you, the melody of your life finally finding its rhythm.
Summary: Finally, after marrying the love of your life everything is coming together. Now, it's up to the two of you to tackle the biggest step in your life. Parenthood. Will it open old wounds or will it bring everyone closer together?
Pairing: Husband Yoongi x Pregnant Reader
Genre: Romance, Fluff, Low Angst,
Warnings: Swearing, Arguments, Unprotected Sex, Pregnant Sex
A/N: I guess I couldn't have timed this better. Happy Mother's Day to all the moms out there. ❤️
Thirty-eight weeks has turned everything into a kind of waiting room, even at home. It isn't tense or exactly anxious, just as if every day is a placeholder for the one where something actually happens. You pop another strawberry into your mouth, chewing slowly, when a familiar tightening arrives. It's low, deep, and familiar. You don't react. You don't sit up, check the time, or even pause the TV. For the past couple of days, your body has been doing this strange, quiet rehearsal. The waves that rolled through your abdomen, wrapped around your back, and dissolved before they could build into anything worth worrying about. You let out a slow breath through your nose as the Braxton Hicks peak, murmuring okay to no one in particular. It isn't painful, just present. It lingers a little longer than usual….maybe thirty seconds…but you deliberately don't count, avoiding the slippery slope over-analysis. Eventually, it eases, and you relax back on the couch to reach for another strawberry.
Time moves strangely, stretching and collapsing, and a few minutes pass before another one arrives. This time, you pause. It isn't sharper or stronger, but it’s clearer and more defined, as if someone had turned the volume up just a notch. You inhale slowly, letting your shoulders drop and riding it out with deliberate breathing. It lingers before easing, though not as quickly as the ones before. You sit there for a moment, your thumb tracing the rim of the bowl, feeling less convinced that this meant nothing. You check your phone, a habit more than anything and see a notification from Jisoo, but you don't open it. You lock the screen and sit it face-down on your stomach, deciding you weren't doing this yet. The house remains calm, and from downstairs, you can hear the soft loop of notes drifting up from Yoongi’s studio. He’s been down there all morning, just letting a lullaby melody exist. Jisung shifts in response, a slow movement beneath your ribs, and you whisper that you hear it too.
Then the third one hits. It isn't sudden or violent, but it’s undeniable. Your eyes open immediately as the tightening comes in deeper, starting in your lower back before pulling forward and wrapping around your abdomen with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. You sit up slowly, sitting the fruit bowl aside on the coffee table and pressing your hand flat against your stomach as if to map the sensation. It holds longer this time. Your breathing becomes slower and more deliberate. You glance toward the kitchen and the door, where the lullaby continues, soft and unwavering. When the contraction finally tapers off, pulling back like a receding wave, you stay seated, admitting quietly to yourself that it is different.
There is no fear in the realization, only truth. You wait a minute or two to see if your body would return to its pattern of unpredictability, but when nothing comes immediately, you push yourself up from the couch. Bracing one hand against the armrest and the other over your stomach, you move toward the kitchen. Halfway there, you pause and wait. Nothing happens. You let out a small breath, almost laughing at yourself, and murmur that it was still just a rehearsal. But… you don't fully believe it anymore. Your hand slides down, fingers curling gently against the curve of your stomach as you whisper for the baby not to be subtle if he was planning something. As if in response, Jisung shifts with deliberate weight. Somewhere downstairs, the lullaby loops back to the beginning, and you stand in the quiet sunlight of a house that looks unchanged, yet it feels entirely different. Then, faintly, it starts again.
The fourth wave didn't roll in. It hit you. It was heavy. It demanded that you stop pacing and you grip the edge of the kitchen island, your knuckles turning white against the marble. The sensation was no longer a suggestion or a what if...it was a physical command. You look down at your hands, watching them tremble slightly at the peak of the contraction. This wasn't the fleeting tightness of the last few days. This was the curtain rising, the lights dimming, and the show finally beginning. "Okay," you breathe, and this time the word wasn't a question or a checkpoint.
It was an acknowledgment.
You wait for it to pass, and when it finally does, it leaves you feeling heavy and breathless. Looking at the stairway, you go to the door leading to Yoongi's studio. The music is still playing. That same, repetitive, hauntingly beautiful sequence of notes Yoongi had been perfecting. It feels like a tether, pulling you down into the cool, dim light of the stairwell. Each step feels significant, a quiet march toward the end of one life and the start of another.
When you reach the bottom, the studio door is slightly ajar. Through the gap, you can see the silhouette of his shoulders, bent slightly over the keys, his head tilted as he listens. He looks so still, so peaceful in his element, that for a split second, you hesitate to break the silence. However, your body signals the start of the fifth wave. A sharp, low pull that makes you gasp, a small, involuntary sound that cuts through the music like a blade.
The lullaby stops instantly. The silence that follows is broken only by the sound of his chair skidding back against the floor. Yoongi doesn't ask if you are okay. He doesn't need to. He’s across the room in three strides, his hands catching your elbows just as your knees started to dip. His eyes search yours, wide and suddenly very dark, stripping away the calm producer and leaving only the man who has been waiting for this exact moment. He feels the tension in your arms, the way you lean into him, and his expression shifts from concern to a sharp, clarity.
"Now?" He asks, his voice a low, rough murmur against your temple.
You can't speak, so you just nod against his chest, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt as the house, the music, and the normal world finally falls away, leaving only the two of you and the bridge you were finally crossing together.
For a split second, everything goes completely still. Not the room, but your body. The contraction holds you there, suspended against him, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Yoongi doesn't move or speak. His hands stay exactly where they were, firm at your elbows and steadying you, while his entire focus locks onto you. He was your anchor, and you feel it. You feel it in his actions. He doesn't rush, doesn't reach for his phone, and doesn't look past you. He just stays. As the tension peaks, sharp and consuming, you tighten your grip on his shirt and press your forehead harder into his chest.
“Okay,” he murmurs, low and even, right above your ear. “I’m here. Just ride it. I’ve got you.”
Your breath comes out uneven, but you follow it anyway, in and out. The rhythm wasn’t perfect. Everything you learned in lamaze class goes right out the window, but he matches it without thinking. He stays right with you until the wave finally breaks, releasing its grip one finger at a time.
You stay where you are for a second longer, just recovering, and Yoongi doesn't pull away.
“Was that..” he starts, then stops himself. He swallows the questions about timing and intensity. “Do you need to sit?” “No… just…give me a second.” You shook your head against him, the movement small.
“Okay,” he whispers, as one hand slides from your elbow to your back, spreading wide and warm between your shoulder blades.
He wasn't guiding or pushing. He was just present. Just like your father had told him to be. You exhale slowly, your grip loosening.
“That one was different,” you say, your voice quieter and steadier, but no longer dismissive.
“I know,” he replies with certainty.
You pull back just enough to look at him. His expression isn't panicked or frantic, but it wasn’t the easy, controlled quiet he usually wore in the studio, either. This was sharper and focused entirely on you.
“How far apart?” He asks, the instinct finally surfacing.
“I… don’t know. I didn’t check.” You frown slightly, thinking.
“Okay.” He nods once, offering no lecture or spiral of worry. A quiet moment passes before you feel him move. His posture adjusts and his focus expands slightly beyond the two of you, taking in the room and the path upstairs.
“Can you walk?” He asks, quietly.
“Yes,” you answer.
“Let’s go upstairs. We’ll get you somewhere comfortable,” he says, taking charge of the situation.
The two of you move together, slowly and then steady once your balance settles. He stays half a step in front of you on the stairs, one hand holding yours while the other hovers behind your back. Each step felt significant, as if your body were demanding your full attention. Yoongi guides you to the living room, easing you back onto the couch. He crouches in front of you at eye level.
“When the next one comes,” he says, his voice low and steady. “Tell me.”
You nod, promising you would. He studies your face for a second longer before his gaze flicks briefly toward the stairs and to the bedroom where the hospital bag was, but he lets the thought go almost instantly to bring his eyes back to yours. “Jisoo,” he says. You blink, and he asks. “Do you want me to call her now?”
A wave of awareness moves through you. Not a contraction yet, but a building pressure.
“Maybe,” you say slowly. “Yeah. I think… yeah.”
He nods, reaching for his phone without stepping away, his hand still resting over yours as he makes the call. It rings twice before she picks it up.
“Hey,” he says, his voice even and calm. Much calmer than you would have given him credit for. “Can you come over?” There is a pause before he adds, quieter but unshaken. “I think it’s time. Yeah. We’re at home. She’s okay. Just…come.” He ends the call and sets the phone down. “She’s on her way,” he tells you, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
“Okay,” you whisper. A quiet moment passes, and then it starts again. You feel it before it fully forms. That deep, pulling sensation in your back that was no longer asking permission. Your fingers tighten in his immediately. “Yoongi.”
“I’m here,” he promises, his forehead pressing to yours. “Breathe with me,” he murmures, and this time, you didn't have to find the rhythm alone.
The contraction crests hard enough that it pulls your focus completely under again, your hand tightening in Yoongi’s and your breath catching before you could smooth it out.
“I’m here,” he repeats, already shifting closer, his palm finding your lower back again like it belongs there. This one demands more. You lean forward slightly, your forehead pressing into his shoulder this time instead of his. Your body instinctively searches for something solid to brace against.
“Yeah,” you breathe, uneven. “Okay…okay…”
He adjusts without hesitation, one arm coming around you to hold you steady while the other presses firm, grounding heat into your back.
“Same place?” He asks. You nod against him, unable to form much else, and he answers with a low, certain. “Got it.”
His voice doesn't rise or rush. It stayed low and even, something you could follow even when everything else blurs. If you weren't in so much pain you would have hated that you would have doubted him in the past thinking about this moment. “In,” he murmurs, and you try. “Out.”
The wave builds stronger than the last and your fingers dig into his shirt again as your body stops questioning whether this is real. It is. It holds, then finally begins to ease, your breath breaking on the release and your weight sinking more fully into him as the tension lets go. You stay there for a second, longer than before, recovering while Yoongi remains still. He doesn't loosen his hold, letting you come back down at your own pace.
“You’re okay,” he says quietly. You nodded faintly against him, still catching your breath.
“I think…” you start, then stop, exhaling. “I think …”
“Hello?” Jisoo’s voice calls calmly as she opens the door. “I didn’t knock because I figured if this was happening, we weren’t doing formalities today.”
She rounds the corner into the living room and stops just enough to take in the scene. You are half-curled into Yoongi, and Yoongi holding on to you and focused with one hand still pressed firmly at your back. Her expression softens into something knowing.
“Oh,” she says gently. “Okay. We’re here.”
Yoongi glances up at her briefly before looking right back at you.
“They’re closer,” he says to her.
“I figured,” Jisoo replies easily, moving toward you and setting her bag down. “Hi.”
“Hi.” You let out a small, breathless laugh as she crouches slightly on your other side, not crowding but joining the space. “Talk to me,” she says softly. “What are we feeling?” You admit they were stronger and not going away as fast, and Jisoo nods. “Okay. Good. That’s progress.” Yoongi’s hand shifts slightly at your back, adjusting pressure as if he’d already learned your body’s map.
“She’s been having a false contraction for a while,” he says. “But the last few…”
“Are different.” Jisoo finishes the thought for him.
“Yeah.” Yoongi nods and she glances between the two of you, something warm and approving flickering in her eyes.
“Alright,” she says, looking completely calm. “We’re not rushing. We’re just going to watch, breathe, and keep things calm.”
For a moment, everything is calm. The house, the light, the three of you in that small space on the couch. Then something changes, subtle and internal. Your brows pulled together.
“Wait,” you whisper, and Yoongi’s attention snaps back immediately.
“What?” Yoongi asks.
You don't get a chance to finish because something happens. Not a contraction, but a release. Warm and sudden, yet not explosive. Just unmistakable. Your eyes widen as you look down, your hand instinctively gripping Yoongi’s arm.
“Oh,” you say and Jisoo leans forward just enough to see your expression, her own breaking into a small, knowing smile.
“Did your water just break?” She asks gently.
“I think it did.” You nod.
There is a brief pause as you all look at each other. Not panic, but a quiet, collective oh settling into the room. Yoongi freezes, a stillness running through him as his system processes the news.
“Your water…” he starts, but Jisoo cuts and goes to the kitchen to grab a towel like she’d done this a hundred times. “It’s okay. It’s not a movie scene. We’re fine.” She hands it to you with a calm smile. “Here. No rush.”
“That was… not what I expected.” You let out a small, disbelieving laugh.
“Yeah,” Jisoo says lightly.
“Are you okay?” Yoongi asks and you nod, adjusting the towel under you.
“Yeah. I’m okay.” You answer.
“Well,” Jisoo laughs, glancing between you with amusement. “On the bright side…be very thankful Seungkwan isn’t here.” You blink and ask why, and her smile widens. “He would’ve passed out by now.” A short, surprised laugh escaped you, and even Yoongi let out a quiet huff of breath.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Probably.”
“Okay.” Jisoo nods. “We have contractions and a broken water. Let's go.”
The tension in the room doesn't break. It simply reorganized. The waiting room feeling was gone, replaced by a sudden, sharp clarity.
Yoongi moves first. He doesn't scramble, but the speed with which he transitioned from anchor to operator was dizzying. He was on his feet, his hand lingering on your shoulder for one last squeeze before he pointed toward the stairs.
"The bag is by the bed. I'll grab it and then I’ll get the car pulled up," he says.
"Wait," you say, your voice catching as you try to stand. The sensation of the water breaking was followed by an immediate, heavy pressure. It was as if Jisung had realized the exit was finally open and decided to make a run for it.
"Take it slow," Jisoo says, her arm sliding firmly around your waist to take your weight. She looks over at Yoongi, her gaze sharp and professional. "Yoongi, towels in the car seat. And grab a bottle of water. We’re not in a race, but we’re not stopping for snacks, either."
"On it," he says. He disappears into the bedroom, and you hear the distinct thud of the hospital bag being hoisted before his steps run into the kitchen and out the backdoor.
As Jisoo guides you toward the door, another contraction begins to curl deep in your pelvis. It was different now…tighter, wetter, and more urgent. You stop mid-stride, your fingers digging into Jisoo’s forearm. You don't even have to say it. She feels the change in your posture.
"Breathe, honey. Right here with me," she whispers, her voice a steady rhythm against the rising heat in your nerves.
From the driveway, the low rumble of Yoongi’s car came to life. A growl that sounded like a promise. A moment later, the front door swung open wide, and he was there. He takes one look at your face. The way your jaw is set, the way you were leaning into Jisoo and he was at your other side in an instant.
"I’ve got her," Yoongi says to Jisoo.
He slides his arm under yours, his body a solid, warm wall for you to lean on. Together, the three of you navigate the porch. The afternoon sun was bright, almost jarringly normal against the monumental change happening inside you. Yoongi helps you into the passenger seat with a tenderness that felt like he was handling glass, tucking the towels around you and checking your seatbelt twice.
Before he closes the door, he pauses. He reaches out, his thumb brushing a stray hair from your forehead, his eyes searching yours. For the first time since this insanity started, the intensity in his gaze flickered with something raw…a brief, vulnerable flash of the boy you met when you were 16 who was about to become a father.
"Are you ready?" He asks, his voice barely a whisper.
"I'm ready, Yoongi." You reach up, squeezing his hand.
"Then let's go meet him." He shuts the door, the solid clunk of the latch sounding like the final note of the lullaby he’d been playing downstairs. As he rounds the front of the car and Jisoo climbs into the back, you look out the window at the house. It looks exactly the same. However, as Yoongi shifts the car into gear and the gravel crunches under the tires, you know that the next time you see that front door, the world would be entirely, beautifully different.
The transition from the car to the hospital was a blur of fluorescent lights, cold linoleum, and the rhythmic squeak of a wheelchair that Yoongi had insisted on, despite your protests that you could still walk. Now, the world had narrowed down to the four walls of the delivery room and the steady, digital beep-beep-beep of the fetal monitor.
You lie back against the propped-up pillows of the hospital bed, clad in a thin gown that felt like a flimsy shield against the magnitude of what was coming. The room was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of a passing person in the hallway, but the air inside was thick with anticipation.
Yoongi is a restless shadow at your side. He hadn’t sat down once since you’d been admitted. He is currently pacing a three-foot track between the bed and the window, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his pants. Every time the monitor’s pitch changed or a nurse poked her head in to check a chart, his head snapped up, his jaw tight.
“Yoongi,” you murmur, reaching out a hand. “You’re going to wear a hole in the floor.”
He stops mid-stride, looking at your hand as if he’d forgotten it was there. He moves to the bedside immediately, his fingers lacing through yours. His skin was cool, but his grip was firm…almost too firm.
“I’m just... thinking,” he says. “I’m checking the logistics. They said the doctor would be back in twenty minutes. It’s been twenty-four.”
“He’s on edge,” Jisoo remarks from the vinyl armchair in the corner. She looks remarkably relaxed, scrolling through her phone with a bag of pretzels in her lap. She looks up and gives Yoongi a pointed look. “The baby doesn't care about the clock, Yoongi. Relax. If the doctor was worried, there’d be more people in here.”
Yoongi exhales a sharp breath through his nose, not quite a laugh but close.
“I’m relaxed. I’m perfectly relaxed.” He turns his focus back to you, his thumb tracing circles over your knuckles. “Are you…do you need more water? Ice chips? Should I find the remote and turn the thermostat down? It feels warm in here.”
“I’m okay, Yoongi,” you say, though the words were cut short as your stomach began to harden again.
You feel the familiar pull starting in your lower back, migrating forward like a tightening noose. Your breath hitches, and your eyes instinctively close.
“Another one?” Yoongi’s voice is instantly lower, the on-edge energy channeling into a sharp, protective focus. He doesn't wait for an answer. He moves closer, his free hand finding the crown of your head, smoothing back your hair. “Okay. Here we go. Look at me.”
You open your eyes to find him right there. The restlessness was gone, replaced by that vibrating intensity you’d seen in the studio when a track was finally coming together. He was leaning over the rail of the bed, his face inches from yours.
“Deep breath,” he commands softly. “Match me.”
In the corner, Jisoo sets her pretzels aside. She doesn't jump up or start checking monitors. She just leans forward, her presence grounding the room.
“You’re doing great,” she says, her voice calm, steady. “Just a few more seconds of this one. Keep your shoulders down, babe. Don't let the tension climb into your neck.”
You follow her voice, consciously dropping your shoulders as the contraction reaches its peak. It felt like a mountain you had to climb, the air getting thinner at the top. Yoongi’s eyes never leave yours. He is silent, but his presence was loud, a solid wall of "I've got you" that kept you from drifting into the pain.
As the wave finally began to break, receding into a dull ache, you let out a long, shaky exhale. Your head falls back against the pillow, and you feel the sweat cooling on your skin.
Yoongi doesn't move away. He stays right there, his hand lingering on your cheek. He looks at the monitor, then back at you, his eyes dark with a mix of awe and a very thin veil of terror.
“That was a long one,” he whispers, his voice slightly rough. He reaches for a cup of water, holding the straw to your lips with a hand that had a barely noticeable tremor.
“You’re doing the hard part,” he murmurs after you take a sip. “I’m just... I’m just here.”
“Being here is the part I need,” you breathe.
Jisoo stands up then, stretching her arms over her head. She walks over and checks the clock, then pats Yoongi on the shoulder.
“He’s right. You’re doing the heavy lifting. He’s just the roadie today.” She winks at you, then looks at Yoongi. “Why don’t you go find a nurse and ask for some more of those heated blankets? She’s shivering a little from the adrenaline.”
“Heated blankets. Right.” Yoongi nods once, glad for a task. He squeezes your hand one last time…a quick, nervous pressure…before heading for the door. Once he is out of the room, Jisoo leans against the bed rail, offering you a small, knowing smile.
“He’s about five minutes away from trying to rewire the heart monitor just to feel useful,” she jokes softly. “But he’s holding it together. How are you feeling? Really?”
You look at the door where he’d disappeared, then down at the bump that was lower than it had been an hour ago.
“It’s getting closer,” you admit, your voice a mix of exhaustion and excitement. “The waiting room is almost empty.”
“Good. Because I think Jisung is tired of waiting, too.” Jisoo reaches out, squeezing your toes through the hospital socks.
Jisoo moves from the foot of the bed, perching on the edge of the guest chair and checking her phone.
"By the way," she says, her voice low and soothing, "I just sent a mass update. Everyone has been texted. Your parents, Lisa and Jimin… the whole lot of them. I told them to stay put and keep their ringers on, but that they aren't allowed to show up until you give the all-clear. Jin is already replied asking if he should bring enough food for a week."
"Tell him maybe just a day's worth for now." A small, tired smile tugs at your lips.
"I'll keep them at bay," she promises, sliding the phone into her pocket. "Today is just about you, Yoongi, and the little guy."
The reprieve was short-lived. A sudden, sharp heat flares in your abdomen, skipping the gradual build of the previous waves and hitting with a heavy pressure. You gasp, your body tensing instinctively, your heels digging into the mattress.
"Already?" Jisoo’s expression shifts instantly. "Okay, breathe through it. Don't fight the wall, just climb over it."
The door swings open and Yoongi practically marches in, draped in three white blankets that look like they had just come out of an oven. He freezes halfway to the bed, his eyes locking onto your face. On the way your eyes were squeezed shut and your knuckles were white against the bed rail.
"What happened? It’s only been a couple of minutes," he says, his voice dropping into that frantic edge again. He drops the blankets onto the foot of the bed and is at your side in a second. "Wasn't the last gap seven minutes?"
"Patterns change, Yoongi," Jisoo says calmly, not letting go of your hand. "Give her the warmth."
He fumbles with the blankets, spreading one over your legs with hands that were moving a mile a minute. He looks like he wanted to do a thousand things at once. Call the doctor, check the monitor, hold your hand, pace the floor. Instead, he forces himself to stay still, leaning over you so his face was the only thing you could see.
"I'm here," he whispers, his voice vibrating with a nervous energy he was trying desperately to suppress for your sake. "I've got the blankets. I've got you. Just... keep breathing. Like we practiced."
You reach out, blindly grabbing the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as the contraction peaks. The intensity was undeniable now. It feels like your body is being physically trying to be ripped from the inside out. You groan, a low, guttural sound that makes Yoongi’s jaw lock. He looks toward the door with a desperate sort of hunger, waiting for a professional to walk in and tell him exactly what to do.
"Yoongi," you manage to choke out between breaths. "Focus."
His gaze snaps back to yours, his dark eyes wide and searching.
"Right. Sorry. Focus. I'm focusing." He takes a breath, trying to settle his own racing heart.
He starts to hum. Not the lullaby from the basement, but a low, rhythmic vibration that you could feel against your forehead as you lean into him. It was something steady to hold onto while the world felt like it was breaking apart.
The contraction finally fell away, leaving you limp against the pillows. Yoongi doesn't move. He stays arched over you, his hand trembling slightly as he wipes a bead of sweat from your temple.
"That was two minutes and forty seconds," he mutters, his eyes flicking toward the digital clock on the wall.
He is counting. He is analyzing. He is clearly terrified, but he is standing his ground. Jisoo stands up, smoothing the blankets over your feet.
"They're picking up speed. I'm going to go poke my head out and see where that doctor got off to. Not because we're in a rush," she adds, giving Yoongi a pointed look to keep him from spiraling. "But because I think our friend Jisung is done with the rehearsal."
She squeezes your hand one last time and slips out of the room. Yoongi watches her go, then looks back at you. He looks completely out of his element. No piano, no soundboard, no lyrics to hide behind. Just the raw, terrifying reality of what was about to happen. He leans down, pressing his cool forehead against yours.
"I'm terrified," he admits in a breathy whisper, his voice finally cracking just a little. "But I'm not going anywhere. We're almost there, okay? We're so close."
Before you could respond, the heavy, familiar tightening begins to stir again, and Yoongi’s grip on your hand tightens in anticipation.
"Here comes another one," he says, his voice hardening with a new, fierce determination. "Let's go."
The lights had been dimmed, but the clinical reality of the moment felt brighter than ever. You were no longer riding waves. You were the wave.
“Okay, on this next one, I want you to give me everything,” Dr. Hong says, his voice calm and steady at the foot of the bed.
You felt the familiar, tidal surge of a contraction building, but it was different now. It was heavy, low, and demanding. You reach out instinctively, and your hands are met instantly. On your left, Yoongi’s hand is a vice, his knuckles already white from the previous rounds. On your right, Jisoo leans in, her shoulder presses against yours, her hand steady and cool.
“Here we go,” Jisoo murmurs, her voice a grounded contrast to the chaos. “Deep breath in, chin to your chest. Let’s go.”
You push. It wasn't the cinematic, one-and-done effort you’d imagined. It was a grueling, bone-deep exertion that made your vision blur at the edges. A raw sound tore from your throat, half-growl and half-gasp.
Yoongi is right there, his face inches from yours. He looks like everything in him wishes he could do the work for you. His usual cool composure has been completely stripped away. His hair is a mess, his eyes are wide and glistening, and his breath was hitching in sync with yours.
“You’ve got this,” he hisses through gritted teeth, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. “Come on. Again. Just one more, right here.”
When the contraction fades, you collapse back against the pillows, your chest heaving. The silence of the room rushes back in, broken only by the steady hiss of the oxygen and your own ragged breathing.
“It’s not… it’s not moving,” you choke out, a flash of panic and frustration bubbling up. “It’s too much.”
“It’s exactly enough,” Jisoo says firmly, reaching over to wipe a damp cloth across your forehead. She doesn't look worried. She looks like a captain in a storm. “He’s right there. I can see the top of his head. Don’t you dare quit on me now. You’re the strongest person in this room, you hear me?”
Yoongi doesn't look away from you, not even for a second. He is on edge, his gaze darting to the monitors and then back to your face, his lips moving in a silent, frantic rhythm as if he were composing a prayer.
“I’m right here,” he whispers, his thumb grazing your cheek. “I’m not letting go. If you need to break my hand, break it. Just bring him here.”
The next wave hit before you were ready. It's a massive, unyielding pressure that forces the air from your lungs.
“Now!” The doctor calls out.
You grip their hands. Yoongi’s trembling but solid, Jisoo’s unwavering and strong. This time, the push feels different. It’s a searing, stretching fire, a final threshold that demands every last ounce of your spirit.
“That’s it. That’s it. You’re doing it. He’s right there, I see him…oh my god, I see him.” Yoongi's voice broke on the last word, a jagged sound of pure, unfiltered shock.
That sound gave you the final spark you needed. With one last, agonizing surge of effort, the pressure suddenly gave way to a strange, miraculous lightness.
The room was suddenly filled with a sound that drowned out the monitors and the breathing …. a sharp, indignant, beautiful wail.
The tension in Yoongi’s body snaps. He doesn't pull away, but he slumps slightly against the side of the bed, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder as a sob finally escapes him. On your other side, Jisoo lets out a long, shaky breath, her eyes bright with tears as she laughs softly.
“He’s here,” she whispers, her hand still holding yours. “He’s really here.”
The doctor moves quickly, and a second later, a warm, heavy weight is placed against your chest. You look down through the blur of tears to see a shock of dark hair and a tiny, crumpled face.
Yoongi lifts his head, his face wet and his expression one of absolute wonder. He reaches out a single, shaking finger and touches the baby’s tiny, flailing hand.
“Jisung,” he breathes.
You look at Jisoo, who gave you a tired, triumphant nod, and then at Yoongi, whose world had clearly just narrowed down to the tiny life resting against your heart.
“We did it,” you whisper.
“You did it. You’re incredible.” Yoongi leans down, kissing your forehead.
The medical chaos has finally subsided, replaced by the soft, golden dimness of a room in recovery. The sharp scent of antiseptic has been softened by the smell of new life. A clean, milky scent that seems to radiate from the bundle in Yoongi’s arms.
Yoongi is sitting in the high-backed chair next to your bed. He looks like he hasn't moved a muscle in twenty minutes, terrified that even a heavy blink might disturb the tiny person tucked against his chest. The door creaks open, and the all clear is officially given.
First came your parents, their faces a map of relief and teary-eyed joy. Your mother is already reaching for a tissue before she even reaches the bed, and your father stands behind her, his hand resting on her shoulder, his eyes fixed on Yoongi and the baby. Then comes your sister and Mingyu, followed closely by Lisa, who looks like she’d sprinted through the hospital corridors to get there.
And then, the room truly filled up. The rest of the guys filed in a quiet, uncharacteristically hushed parade. Namjoon leads the way, his expression one of profound respect, while Jin, still in his own scrubs, made sure no one was touching anything they shouldn't.
"Oh, look at him," your mother whispers, leaning over Yoongi’s shoulder. "He has your nose, honey."
"He has Yoongi’s pout," your sister counters with a grin, nudging Mingyu, who was looking at the baby with wide, slightly panicked eyes.
The guys crowd around in a loose semicircle, a chorus of hushed “woahs” and “good job” rippling through them. Hobi was practically vibrating, his hands clasped over his mouth to keep from making too much noise, while Jimin leans in close, his finger hovering near the baby’s tiny, sleeping fist. Seungkwan, who was seemingly in charge of taking pictures, was snapping pictures left and right.
Yoongi doesn't say much. He just looks up at them, his usual guarded expression completely replaced by a soft, exhausted pride. He looks like he is holding the entire world.
Lisa is standing a little further back, her eyes fixed on Jisung with a soft, wistful smile. She looks happy, but she is staying on the periphery, giving the family their space.
Yoongi’s gaze shifts, scanning the room until he finds her. He looks at you for a split second…a silent question…and you give him a small, encouraging nod.
To everyone’s surprise, Yoongi doesn't hand the baby to your mother. He shifts slightly, adjusting the weight of the blanket, and catches Lisa’s eye.
"Lisa," he says, his voice low and still a bit raspy from the hours of coaching you.
"Yeah?" She blinks, surprised to be called out.
"You want to hold him?" He asks.
A collective, quiet gasp went up from the guys. Taehyung’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline, and even Namjoon looks impressed. For Yoongi…the man who guarded his personal space like a fortress…to offer up his firstborn to someone he once banned from his home…was something.
"Me? Really?" Lisa’s face transforms, a look of pure shock washing over her.
"Yeah," Yoongi says, his voice steadying. "Come here."
The room goes silent as Lisa steps forward. Yoongi stands up slowly, with a grace that masks his fatigue, and guides her arms into the proper position. He’s careful, his hands lingering for a second to ensure the baby is secure before he finally lets go.
"Support the neck," he murmurs, his protective instinct still humming just beneath the surface.
Lisa looks down at Jisung, her bottom lip trembling just a little. "He's so small," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. SHe smiles down at the little bundle. "Hi, little one. I'm your Auntie Lisa. Jimin…"
“No,” Jimin says, cutting her off, making you laugh quietly.
You watch as Yoongi stands back, his hands finally dropping to his sides. He looks at Lisa holding his son, then turns back to you. There was a quiet, clarity in his eyes. A realization that the world has grown much larger, and much warmer, in the span of a single afternoon.
"See?" Jungkook whispers from the back, breaking the tension with a small smirk. "I told you he’d be a softie."
Yoongi doesn't even argue. He just sits back down on the edge of your bed, taking your hand in his, and watches his new world settle into place.
