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Smoke & Mirrors, part one | myg

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Situationship, idol!au, angst, smut, coworkers, love triangle maybe ✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Across sleepless cities on tour, you and Yoongi cling to each other in an unspoken arrangement neither of you knows how to end until someone new makes you wonder if you should. ✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: BTS fucks a lot!, except one (he’s kinda depressed), implied smut, angst, heavy make-out, mention of death :c, mention of mental health struggles, second-hand embarrassment, MC handles rejection not super well, drinking, Mean Yoongi, canon moments I manipulated for my own sick pleasure, the ending, that fucking Hannam scene, holding hands (it deserves a warning in this fic), angst i guess, and again Mean Yoongi, redemption arc when?, he’s an idiot but he has heart I promise, probably wrong ways to play LOL chess/teamfight tactics, foyer quote was inspired by something i randomly saw in my feed, watch out for the time skips (one flashback and a tiny flash forward) ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 10.3k whuuuut ✎ ˎˊ˗ Betaread by: Aqua (this is for you!), Tea, and Catie; credits to Aqua for inspiring one of MC’s quotes (marked **) ✎ ˎˊ˗ Playlist by @angellekookie (my very first fic with an OST i'm sobbing, ty sweets) ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: A whole ass year in the making and it took a trip to South Korea and experiencing Arirang in all its glory for me to finally bring this fic to life the way I envisioned it. After dropping two teasers I guess y’all really fw this plot, so I do hope you guys like it. Don’t forget to comment or reblog. I’d really appreciate it. I might take time to tag everyone that requested, so bear with me. Other than that, enjoy~ 💜

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

You’re part of BTS’ BTS.

Bangtan Tour Sluts.

It’s a term one of the make-up unnies coined half-jokingly, after realizing the truth: you’re a group of women who’ve practically dedicated your lives to seven men who are not even your family.

You’re a sorority of girls who go on tour with the group, taking on multiple hats, making sure every tour stop goes as best as possible.

You willingly do every beck and call of theirs because you actually like them. They are nice and you want to see them succeed. And even if they’re not being nice (oh the stories you could tell!), you still do everything for them. Like good girls. Like sluts.

Maybe that’s just what devotion looks like in this business.

Yours started with Hoseok.

Back before you had a name that anyone could recognize, you were just another girl on YouTube flexing dance moves in her tiny apartment. Somehow, he saw one of your clips, a clean cover of Dope, and sent your link to their performance director.

You got the email weeks later, went in for an audition, and the rest is history.

Then came the rehearsals. The late nights. The endless counts of eight. You were still so broke in those early days that you couldn’t even afford a cab after a late night practice, so you’d wait at the bus stop outside the studio, hoodie soaked through, sneakers squishing from the rain.

One night, Jin pulled up beside the curb and offered you a ride. You remember Yoongi was in the passenger seat. Wordless for the most part, but he blasted the heater so you wouldn't get cold. You thanked Jin profusely as he dropped you off.

He shrugged and said, “Good thing Yoongi saw you.”

You still remember the heat sinking back into your bones.

It added up over time.

Jimin once wrapped your ankle when you landed wrong after some crazy choreo you were trying to hit. Even crazier, Namjoon paid for your eomma’s emergency medical bills, because you were still struggling then.

You tried to pay him back. He just looked at you, shrugged, and said, “If you really want to, just stay with us. Stay in the team.”

So you do.

The boys noticed you beyond your work. Not all at once, but steadily, gradually, eventually. And maybe that’s all it takes. You’d follow them anywhere after that. From MOTS to PTD Live On Stage to Arirang.

The thing is, some of the Bangtan Tour Sluts do become that over time.

You once overheard a manager say: stupid idols date fans; smart idols date other idols. Or each other.

The boys are fine as fuck. But after living together for years, the latter feels… borderline incestuous. Except for two of them, who you suspected had something non-platonic going on, but you don’t want to speculate further.

You’ve seen some of them try dating other idols too, but it’s chaos. Too many schedules to align, too many eyes watching, security doubling the second they want to meet up even in a different city for a simple fuck.

It’s easier this way. Closer. Quieter.

You don’t even blame them for it. This arrangement. The girls are hot as hell.

There’s Angel from Wardrobe who’s become Taehyung’s emotional support buddy. She’s on-call to dress him and undress him, whenever the situation calls for it.

Jungkook’s got a couple in his roster. Bina from glam and Tiff, also from glam. It could be problematic, sure, but so far they’re having fun.

Somehow, even if you highly considered becoming Seokjin’s…

You ended up becoming Yoongi’s.

…and it all begins with a very mature game of Spin the Bottle.

You and the rest of the crew had stayed back in the rehearsal studio to celebrate the birthday of Rei, assistant performance director, resident tyrant, and class president of your little dysfunctional sorority.

There’s food, balloons, and too many empty soju bottles. One of which is currently spinning… and lands on you.

“Shit,” you mutter, already reaching for your beer. “Truth.”

A chorus of groans.

“Boring!”

“Ask her something good!”

The birthday girl leans forward, eyes glassy, tipsy as hell. “Aight, gun to your head—which member you gonna fuck?”

You choke on your drink. “No way I’m answering that. Next question.”

“Nah,” Tiff tosses a handful of popcorn at you. “You know the rules.”

You groan, tilting your head back dramatically before swatting the kernels off your lap. “You guys…”

“Wuss!” Bina teases.

“C’mon, you’ve thought about it. Don’t even play,” Rei smirks.

All eyes are on you. The pressure is mounting so high that you almost want to hurl. You take another swig. Rei is right though, as she almost annoyingly always is. You’ve definitely checked the boys out. It’s not even a question of who (singular), because if you’re gonna be honest, you have biblical levels of greed and there’s two in particular you’d let rearrange your guts.

But ugh. You’ll play along.

Just one name to satiate these hoes.

“Fine,” you huff, wiping your lip with the back of your palm, readying to reveal your answer:

“Kim Seokjin.”

The room erupts.

“OHHHH—”

“I knew it!”

And even if you know you could stop at that, the alcohol kicks your courage into overdrive.

“I’d let him fuck me raw until the inside of my coochie moulds to the shape of his dick...”**

The rest spills out of you in a half-slurred, disgustingly specific ramble that has the girls screaming and Angel spilling her shot.

You’re laughing, face hot, still high off everyone’s reactions when you feel the heat of someone’s stare.

You glance up and holy shit. It’s the name you withheld.

Feline eyes piercing and lips curling at the corners, oh Yoongi looks hella amused. He’s right there and he heard it all.

Fucking hell. Your life is literally over.

It’s later, much later, when you run into him again.

The hallway outside the bathrooms is quieter, the bass from the dance studio muffled into a distant thrum. Your head is a little light, steps a little uneven, but you’re mostly sober now. Okay, not really.

You push the door open and there he is, almost like he’s been waiting.

Yoongi’s leaning against the wall, one foot propped up, head tilted just enough that his hair falls into his eyes. He looks… loose. Drunk, then. Obviously. Just like everyone else in the party.

His gaze slides over you and that same almost-smile returns. “Seokjinnie-hyung, huh?”

You groan immediately, covering your face. “Oh my god, don’t.”

He huffs out a scratchy laugh and your fist collides against his arm.

He rubs the spot with his palm. “Didn’t know you had that much to say about him.”

“I didn’t know you were listening,” you shoot back.

“Right place at the right time,” he shrugs.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re enjoying my demise way too much.”

“Am I?” he says, pushing off the wall.

He steps closer. “I mean…” his gaze flicks down, then back up. “You were pretty detailed.”

This close, he smells like warm musk and whisky. It hits you all at once, heat creeping up your neck before you can stop it. You swallow it down, deflecting. “You’re drunk.”

“So are you.” He smiles sweetly, pretty teeth and pink gums on show. Then he circles back smoothly to the topic because he is a piece of shit. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

You scoff, folding your arms like that’ll save you. “Oh, there’s a lot of things you don’t know ‘bout me.”

His gaze dips, trailing down the exposed skin where your cardigan has conveniently fallen off your shoulder, towards your breasts hugged by your camisole. His eyes linger just a second too long before dragging back up to your face.

And there it is. He did the thing for you. That thing he does where his tongue presses into his cheek. Fucker.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

Alarm bells are ringing in your head because is Min fuckin’ Yoongi lowkey hitting on you right now?

“Well…” his head tilts, voice dropping just enough to feel it. “Was that just talk?”

He is! Fuck. Why? No, shut up. It doesn’t matter right now. Say something.

You swallow, then tilt your chin up, meeting him head-on as liquid courage pushes you to say the next words. “What?” You shrug, forcing a smirk. “You wanna stand-in for your hyung?”

His lips curve, slow and amused. “Maybe.”

“I… could be open,” you say almost lazily.

And then he moves.

Rough hands find your wrist, tugging you down the hall before you can think too hard about it. You let him and the next thing you know you’re pressed behind his studio door.

Just the two of you.

Too close that you feel the heat emanating from his body.

“Jin’s got a girl,” he murmurs, close enough that you feel his hot breath grazing your cheek.

That makes you pause, because you didn’t know Jin was steady with someone. Else you wouldn’t have said what you said.

“And y’all won’t fuck nasty like that.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you lean in, just enough that your lips brush his when you speak.

“No?” You lick between his parted mouth, pulling back with a smirk. “And… we would?”

“Like animals.”

And then he cups the back of your neck and crashes his lips into yours.

Monday comes faster than you’d like.

You don’t know what you were expecting from Yoongi exactly. A text, maybe? Something more than the thumbs up he sent after you told him you got home safe. Friday night feels like it happened in a vacuum, sealed off like crime scene evidence the second he booked you that Uber.

You’ve spent the weekend turning it over in your head, wondering if things are supposed to be different now that you’ve had sex. Are you supposed to be different? Is it going to be awkward?

You’re about to find out.

You don’t usually hang around after hours unless there’s a reason.

Tonight, the reason is Jimin, who’d dragged you in with the promise of early access to the new tracks you’d be helping to choreograph. You felt a little strange when you entered the studio and found just two members of Bangtan and one of their producers, who nodded at you casually as you entered.

So here you are, curled up on the couch in the corner of the studio, laptop open but mostly forgotten, as the last bits of a track play through the speakers. You’re too deep in thought to notice the delivery guy come in, but you do notice when Yoongi picks up the coffee tray, wordlessly plucking a cup free and walking it over to you.

He holds it out, no expression, no explanation.

“Hyung,” Jimin calls lazily from where he’s sprawled out on the floor. “Where’s my coffee?”

Yoongi doesn’t even glance up. “Just grab a Coke from the fridge.”

You stifle a laugh as Jimin groans dramatically, dragging himself up to rummage through the mini fridge.

A few minutes later, Yoongi slips out of the room, muttering something about finding Namjoon because he should have joined you all 30 minutes ago.

As soon as the door clicks shut, Jimin flops back down beside you, grinning like he’s got a secret he can’t wait to spill. “That’s him flirting, by the way.”

You blink at him. “What?”

Jimin points at the cup still in your hand. “Hyung doesn’t even order me coffee.”

“Why would he? You’re an annoying lil bitch.”

Jimin playfully slaps the visor of your baseball cap down so that it covers your eyes.

Which works out just fine because as you glance down at the cup again, you’re suddenly hyper-aware of the warmth seeping into your palms. You shake your head, trying to play it off, but the corners of your mouth betray you, tugging up into a smile you can’t quite hide.

You take a sip of your warm drink and pretend it doesn’t taste sweeter somehow.

Namjoon finally walks in ten minutes later, forehead sweaty, hoodie hanging off his shoulder. Yoongi follows behind him.

“Sorry, sorry,” Namjoon says, already reaching for the aux like he owns the place. He knocks over a cup of pens as he does so.

Then, his eyes land on you. “You ate?”

You nod, lifting your coffee, lipstick-stained spout and all.

“That’s not food,” Namjoon shakes his head, dimples deepening, as he reaches for something in his pocket. “This one’s better.”

A tiny Quaker Oats bar, a bit warm from pocket heat, lands on your lap.

“Thank you.”

The crinkle of the granola bar mixes with Jimin’s whines. “Why doesn’t anyone give me food?”

In the weeks that follow, when tour prep shifts into high gear, nothing else really happens—not in the way you thought it might, at least. Yoongi doesn’t seek you out. Doesn’t text. Doesn’t bring up that night, ever. You’re not really suprised, considering…

But you do notice he lingers in small ways. A bottle of water left by your things before you even realize you’re thirsty. A quiet “eat” when the catering after a shoot finally finishes setting up. The occasional glance. Maybe even a tiny smile here and there. You fall into an easy rhythm with him, familiar but not quite the same, and you catch yourself thinking, maybe something did shift.

Maybe this is just how it starts.

Rehearsals just wrapped up and your heart is reckless with exhaustion.

You’ve never asked anyone out before. Let alone a fuckin’ idol. But you’re young and dumb. Heavy on the dumb, actually. Anyway, you’ve already slept together. And you’re convinced the chemistry is off the charts. So, why not? And it’s just hanging out anyway. It’s not that deep.

You approach Yoongi as he’s wiping off his neck with a white terry cloth, still breathing heavily. It’s probably serendipity, how everyone else has already slipped out of the room, leaving just the two of you.

He lifts his eyes towards you, mouth slightly agape as he gulps oxygen back in.

Ugh.

Your earlier bravado is slowly evaporating.

This is stupid. So stupid. But wasn’t it him who said if you know you’re going to crash, accelerate harder?

“So there’s this café in Yeonnam,” you say, stopping in front of him as he ties his shoelaces.

“Apparently, the building it’s in has been standing since the Joseon dynasty. Crazy. Used to be an apothecary or a medical clinic and they restored it so well it looks so legit...”

You’re blabbing. His face is unreadable, but you press on, fumbling toward hope.

“You’re into historical shit… Daechwita vibes, right? Anyway, the place looks pretty cool. If you’re free sometime, we could—”

There’s an audible inhale as Yoongi stands, dusting off his jeans, slow and careful, before he lifts his head towards you.

“Look,” he says, and you already know how this ends just from the weight of that word. You wish the floor would just open up and swallow you whole.

“I’m not really…” he tilts his head, like you should know. Like you shouldn’t even be having this conversation. “You get it, right?”

You force your face into something neutral, something that won’t betray you. Shrug like embarrassment is not a fire razing you from the inside.

“‘S all good.” You smile albeit tightly. You even pat his shoulder as you pass, casual, almost laughing. But inside you’re ash.

“Oh, get that shoulder pop on 2.0 sharper,” you toss on the way out. “I’ll tell Junho to run it with you again tomorrow.”

Behind you, his eyes slant with what you can only tell is pity.

You make it to the hallway before the first tear slips free, quick and traitorous and pathetic, falling soundless onto the worn carpet.

You’re already a few beats away when you hear it, “Hey Y/N!“ and then frantic steps.

You don’t stop walking. No. No fuckin’ way. You speed up.

He can’t see you like this.

You round the corner and run straight to the fire exit to extinguish the heat of shame before you’re burned to a crisp.

It’s sort of easy to get back into the normal swing of things, despite everything. You’re not friends. You probably never will be. And that’s okay.

You have your dignity.

You have the girls.

You have Rei.

…who proceeded to scream at you when you explained to her why your eyes were bloodshot the day after you made that reckless decision to ask a world-famous idol out.

She had to re-orient you how this goes. The boys are not off-limits per se, but they do have limits. Fuck, it’s not like you forgot, you just thought… it was different. You were different. Or you could be, given your history. You’ve been in the team for years now and you’d like to consider yourself not just a colleague, but maybe even a friend.

Because there was that one time in Hannam when he… fuck. It’s probably irrelevant. Unimportant. You’re just making it a thing.

And you know what, honestly, you’re fine with rejection. You’ve had practice.

Jongho, back in fifth grade, returned the paper heart you gave him because Bora sent him one first. Bigger, more glittery.

Baekhyun, in college, dumped you for that French exchange student with ginormous tits.

Even recently, word got to Seokjin about your little drunken speech, and he wasted no time reminding you exactly where you’ve always stood—firmly in the friend zone. He has a girl after all.

It was during the Swim choreo shoot. Jin flicked your forehead when he caught you staring too long during break. He was sweaty and his lips were really plump and pink, and…

“Focus,” he said. “I know I’m handsome, but you can’t do that. Next time, I’ll have to charge you.”

You flipped him off. And thank God he laughed like a windshield wiper, otherwise it would just be really unfair.

As always, you survive. You move on. You always do.

But the real problem? Life is dangling you the man of your dreams like a keychain and you can’t seem to catch it.

Yoongi’s haircut. Right before tour.

It’s almost cruel, because Yoongi’s long hair is most revered by society, widely beloved. Tiktoks and shrines were dedicated to that lionesque mane. ARMY yearned for it. Scissors were manifested to disappear within a 5-mile radius from him.

But you? You personally liked cleaner cuts on guys. When you joined the team circa-MOTS, he had that sharp, neat cut that you were very much into.

To add insult to injury, you’ve always liked Nerds. You consider yourself one, too.

And now Yoongi’s walking around with this new pair of specs—rimless frames, whenever he feels like wrecking your equilibrium. It sits low on his nose when he’s tired or playing League of Legends Chess during breaks or sipping on his coffee in between takes, and it’s…

Torture. Pure, unadulterated torture.

Comeback season officially starts and everything else falls away. Days blur into soundchecks and rehearsals, quick meals eaten standing, ears popping from cabin pressure.

There’s no time to think about anything else when you’re moving from the Netflix show in Gwanghwamun to New York for that Spotify event and then back home again. You’re running on three hours of sleep and caffeine, counting formations in your head even when you’re off-work. You don’t have time to breathe, but somehow it’s easier like this.

Once in a while during rehearsals, Yoongi still asks for your input on how to execute a move better. Of course you give it; it’s your job. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting when he, famously allergic to eye contact, suddenly makes an effort to meet your gaze.

Honestly, you don’t know why he bothers. He doesn’t owe you anything. No line was crossed without your consent. And whatever that was, it’s not happening again. You almost wish you could just hate him, because that would be easier than this neutral middle ground you’re stranded in.

But you can’t.

Because you see the quiet way he takes care of people, especially Jimin. He shows up, every time, steady and professional and so annoyingly good at what he does. There’s something about that you can’t ignore.

You respect it, because you respect him.

Maybe that’s the worst part. Because he didn’t string you along and didn’t blur the lines more than you let him. You gotta hand it to him, he shut it down clean.

So… you just gotta move on.

Right?

And you… You’ve built this life carefully, piece by piece. You didn’t fight this hard just to get distracted now. So you buckle up. You lock in.

It’s days before the World Tour kicks off and you’re knee-deep in rehearsals. Day in, day out, you’re in the dance studio, double-hatting as a dancer and an assistant choreographer. You’re exhausted–bone-deep, muscle-aching tired, but you’re focused on the grind, on making this show the best fucking tour in history. The boys deserve it. The whole team deserves it. So do you.

You used to rewind dance practice videos frame by frame, pausing just to study the angle of an arm, the timing of a step. Back then, it was just you, your reflection, and the stubborn belief that if you worked hard enough, you could belong in rooms like this. And now you do.

“Let’s start?” Seung Eun calls and everybody hops back into formation. You drop your strawberry lip balm back in your bag.

There’s this sequence in Hooligan.

You and the other dancers crowd Yoongi during his verse, closing in until there’s barely any space left between bodies. It’s choreographed, calculated chaos. You’re meant to get in his face, invade his space just enough to look dangerous, just enough to feel menacing for him. And he’s supposed to hold eye contact, like he’s unbothered.

For this run, you’re standing in for Kian, who pulled his calf muscle and needed to get iced real quick. Injuries are part of the game, but there’s always a medic on standby to ensure any impact is minimized.

The music starts and your bodies move to the choreography. You slide into position on the last count, stepping into Yoongi’s space. He recites his line.

“Hooligan, like hooligan, ttaeryeo buswo like hooligan…”

You tilt your chin up slightly, eyes on his—ready, steady, professional. But that’s when it shifts.

His gaze doesn’t land where it usually does with the others. It drops to your mouth.

Anyone else might miss it, but you don’t.

And suddenly you’re hyper-aware of the way you’re breathing, the way your lips part just slightly, the way your body feels a fraction too close to his.

“Sigan dwaesseuni jom bikyeo jom…”

His next line stumbles.

“Ah, fuck—”

The music cuts.

Yoongi lifts a hand, already half-turning away. “My bad.”

There’s a ripple of movement around you as everyone resets, but you’re still standing there as blood rushes up your neck, your cheeks warming before you can stop it.

You glance at him. He glances back.

And then, quieter—almost under his breath—he mumbles to you without meeting your eyes. “That‘s… distracting.”

You gulp.

When the next sequence starts, there’s a faint smudge of red staining the back of your sleeve. You don’t remember doing it. But you do remember how Yoongi doesn’t miss a single beat when Kian steps back in to take your place.

⊙⊝⊜ Goyang, SK, April 2026 ⊙⊝⊜

“Stay safe out there!” Namjoon calls just before the curtains are drawn and the opening beat of Hooligan detonates through the speakers.

The crowd goes wild as the bassline rattles your ribs, syncs with your pulse, turns your body into music before you even think. On cue, you surge forward with the rest of the dancers, breaking through the curtain like a wave, energy ripping out of you in sharp bursts, boots slamming against the stage in perfect unison.

You’re gripping a red smoke stick, heat blooming in your palm as it spits thick plumes into the air, bleeding color into the stage until everything is drenched in crimson. It curls around your bodies, around the lights slicing down from above like blades, burning the stage with fire without flames.

Man. Goyang hits different.

Maybe it’s because it’s home. Maybe it’s because this is the first real show where everything finally clicks into place—not just in your head, not just in rehearsals, but out here, in front of thousands of people screaming like the world is ending.

The 360 stage feels massive under your feet, lights slicing through the dark in perfect sync, pyro exploding at just the right beat. Every cue lands. Every formation locks. Every transition you’ve drilled into muscle memory finally breathes.

It’s insane and you feel even more insane because you’re in it. On stage, moving with everyone, keeping up, matching energy, feeding off it. The crowd roars and it vibrates through your bones, through your chest, through everything.

As rain pours down from the sky like blessings from above, you feel genuinely alive. Even though you’re damp and drenched and soaked to your very core, there really is no place else you’d rather be.

When you hit backstage after the encore, everyone’s wet, loud, breathless, half-laughing, half-shouting over each other, still riding the high of the first show. You don’t even think; you’re just moving, adrenaline buzzing under your skin as you high five whoever’s in reach, grinning like an idiot.

“Good job!” someone yells.

“You killed it!” another voice.

You barely register who’s who.

Hoseok finds you in the middle of it all and just pulls you into the biggest hug, squeezing tight like he’s just as proud of you as you are of yourself.

“You did so good,” he says, bright and warm and Hobi, and you laugh into his shoulder, still catching your breath. He praises you like you’re the global superstar, not him.

When you pull back, everything’s still squishing about, still loud and electric.

Namjoon messes up your hair. Jungkook gives you a high five. Yoongi’s across the room, exchanging quick fist bumps with some of the dancers, head dipped, saying something you can’t quite catch. Then he looks up and sees you.

There’s a split-second of indecision. But, you smile. He nods. A tiny one. He looks a little tired. He’s never been one to hide when he’s exhausted, but just like you he’s glowing. Tired, but certainly happy.

And then someone grabs him from the side, pulling him into a quick hug, and the moment’s gone just as easily as it came, replaced by high-pitched screams, and too-tight hugs from your girls.

⊙⊝⊜ Tokyo, JP, April 2026 ⊙⊝⊜

You find Hobi slumped against the wall of the green room, half-hidden behind a rack of wardrobe like he’s trying to make himself smaller than he is.

You’d heard. Everyone had, in that quiet, careful way news like that travels—soft voices, lowered eyes, staff moving around a little more gently than usual.

You hesitate for a second, unsure if it’s your place. When you think about it, Hoseok isn’t just one of them to you. He’s your mentor. The reason you’re even here. The first person who saw something in you and decided it was worth something. And more than that, he’s someone you really care about.

Before you can think yourself out of it, you move closer. He looks up and red-rimmed eyes meet yours. Then, something in his expression breaks the distance you were trying to keep. You’re kneeling in front of him the next second, and he’s leaning into you, folding into your arms like he’s been holding himself together for too long.

His sobs are quiet, restrained, but they shake through him all the same.

You wrap your arms around him, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, the other rubbing slow, steady circles into his back.

“I’m sorry, Hobi,” you murmur softly. “I know she meant everything to you.”

He lets out a shaky breath against your shoulder, voice breaking. “I hate this. I should be home. I should be there, but I…” his grip tightens slightly. “I fuckin’ can’t.”

Your chest caves at that.

“She knows,” you say gently, pulling back just enough to look at him. “She understands. She’s looking down on you right now, smiling, so proud of you. I promise.”

Hobi looks up at you then and for a second, beneath the stage makeup and styled hair and everything that makes him him to the world, he just looks like a little boy.

Small. Hurt. Lost.

As your heart breaks a little, a soft cough breaks the moment.

You glance over your shoulder. Yoongi stands a few steps away, hands tucked into his pockets like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them, like he walked in on something he wasn’t meant to interrupt.

“I—um…” he shifts slightly. “They told me to come get you.” He means Hoseok, but for some reason, his eyes are fixed on you.

“Shit,” Hobi exhales, scrubbing at his face as he pulls away. “Yeah. Yeah, give me a second.”

Hobi stands, walking over to the makeup station, picking up a tissue and carefully blotting at his cheeks, trying to undo what he can.

It feels like your cue to leave. Rei’s probably already looking for you anyway because there’s a hole in the formation.

Hobi disappears into one of the changing rooms, pulling the curtain shut behind him as he gets ready.

You turn to go, but a hand catches your arm.

“Y/N,” Yoongi says quietly, before his fingers lose their grip.

There’s something in Yoongi’s expression that stops you for half a second. You don’t know what it is. But mostly you think, it’s gratitude sitting heavy in his gaze like he doesn’t know all the words for it.

You shrug lightly, because it doesn’t feel like something you should be thanked for. It’s the least you can do for someone who changed the trajectory of your life without ever asking for anything in return.

He just nods, still looking at you. You see his fingers reaching then drawing back.

It’s… a lot. More than you’re used to with him.

So you look away first, swallowing the tightness in your throat before the sting in your eyes turns into something else.

⊙⊝⊜ Tampa, FL, April 2026 ⊙⊝⊜

Being in America is always exciting. Something about stepping onto U.S. soil flips a switch in the boys, like there’s something in the water, or maybe it’s just the distance from home loosening something in their bones.

Tae, for one, fully commits to the bit—gray sweats, tank tops, lewd little ad libs to the choreo. No one questions it. Angel is definitely going through it. Lucky bitch.

Jungkook is on his phone 24/7, liking everything in sight to send any and all users in a frenzy to fuel them until their next life. He also films these borderline menacing TikToks alone in his hotel room at ungodly hours, looking fucked out because well, he probably has done just that.

Jimin wakes up one day and decides he wants to have an even longer ponytail. And suddenly the internet is in shambles, ARMY collectively just losing their shit.

And that’s just the maknaes.

It’s fascinating to watch all of them, seeing different versions surface depending on where they are, like they’re all just slightly more themselves here. Or maybe just slightly less guarded.

After the last show in Tampa, the members decide to treat the crew to KBBQ at some nearby strip mall. You squeeze into a long table with some of the dancers and a couple of the boys, smoke from the grill curling into your hair, soju flowing a little too easily.

For one reason or another, as people made room for others, and chairs were moved left then right, you somehow end up in front of Yoongi like you just played musical chairs.

“How’s it going?” you say.

“Not bad. You?”

You shrug, “I’m okay.”

“Okay.”

The awkwardness is like a knot that loosens as drinks flow. Then, the easy back-and-forth comes like you do this on a daily basis instead of pretending you don’t think about him at all.

“You’re in a good mood,” you say, watching as he pours you another shot.

“Am I?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you shrug. “You talk more when you are.”

He huffs softly, like he doesn’t agree but won’t argue it either. He looks pretty like this, barefaced and sleepy. Then you remember something and you decide to be a menace. “Give me a reason to not tattle.”

His brows meet in the middle. Confused. “What do you mean?”

“Oh you know full well.” You mimic a head turn and flail your arms.

Yoongi’s cheeks turn pink. He fumbled the Run choreo. AGAIN.

“I recovered faster this time.”

“Not the point,” you reply pointedly.

“I ate in Day 1.”

“You did,” you nod. “Not the point though.”

He gives a wary glance over at Hoseok who has half a rib inside his mouth at the moment, when he looks back at you and challenges. “Name your price.”

“RP gift card. Could use some new arena skins.” You smile sweetly, knowing he’s been obsessed with LoL Teamfight Tactics, too. You’ve seen it on his phone.

“Fine.” Yoongi laughs, actually laughs, because he didn’t expect the response. “We should play sometime.”

And it was your turn to not expect that response.

“Oh, alright. Sure.” You nod, a little flustered even as you recall the nugget you’ve seen from one of his interviews. “Congratulations, by the way.”

Yoongi smiles, so gummy and wide, like he has a praise kink that you just discovered. “Thank you. Diamond is very hard to achieve.” So you let him brag a bit, before you decide to knock him down a peg.

“Trust me, I get it.” You bring the spout of your beer to your mouth and before you take a swig, you quip. “I’m a grandmaster.”

His jaw hits the floor and you almost spit your beer out. “You are not.”

You tilt your head as if to say, try me. He is still waiting. And the smirk disappears from his mouth when swipes of your screen later you show him your profile and your level is as you disclosed.

“Wow.”

“I know. Wow.” You say, smug. “Anyway, do you think you’re gonna get away with it, or is there a fan cam already circulating?”

“You tell me. I don’t watch those things.”

“My phone probably heard us and is about to add it to my algorithm. I’ll let you know.”

“Taehyung-ie threw me off, honestly.” He leans back and exhales deeply.

A giggle slips out of you because you know exactly what he means. “Yeah, no, everyone was just feeling it. Kookie did the dougie to Life Goes On. Namjoon was fucking the air to Butter of all songs. Insane behavior from all of you, actually.”

“I’m innocent.”

Oho. “You’re not off the hook.” You wag your finger.

“Wae?”

“Baepsae.” You lean your chin on your palm, referring to the Army time surprise song.

“What?”

“You got real close to a camera and let ‘er rip.”

“Did no such thing,” His lips stretch into that infuriating bracket-like grin. He’s obviously lying.

“Don’t even play. I saw the smile you tried to hide when you turned around, you dog.”

“So you were really watching me, huh?”

“I was monitoring the performances from backstage. As it is my job.”

“Mhm,” he hums, biting his lip to hide a smile as he shakes his head.

“Shut up.”

“I’m not saying anything,” he chuckles, voice a little higher than usual.

“Silence is admission.” You point your chopsticks at him and smirk. “It’s fine. You were just feeling yourself.”

You thought you were gonna have the last laugh. But as always, Yoongi knows how to render you speechless.

“And if I am,” he tilts his head slightly, eyes straight to yours. “What you gon’ do ‘bout it?”

You have a comeback. You definitely do. It’s just stuck in your brain traffic, unable to come out.

He pushes his glasses up higher on his nose bridge and the single action almost makes you fall to your knees.

God, you hope he doesn’t notice.

But he does.

That’s the only explanation for the text that you get while you’re settling in your hotel room that night.

Rei is on her bed already semi-snoring, her phone still lit up as a TikTok live seller continues to peddle a hyaluronic acid sheet mask bundle. 3+1 event—you’d check it out if you didn’t have a booty call staring back at you.

You check it again. Still not sure if you’re reading the text correctly.

Yoongi: 2004 Yoongi: come over if ur feelin it

So you find yourself on his floor thirty minutes later, the faint scent of your perfume still clinging to your blouse as you walk down the hallway.

Room 2002 has a very loud and dramatic show playing inside. For sure it’s one of the members as they’re typically roomed in the same floor. You just don’t know who.

A few steps over is your destination. Room 2004.

Fuck. You’re doing this. (Again.)

Except… There’s a sound.

No. A moan.

Your knuckles are frozen, inches from the door.

Someone is definitely having a great time in there.

You check the text again, because maybe you got the room wrong.

The numbers match. And yet, the math is not mathing. If he invited you, then why—

Oh.

Oh shit.

You look at your messages again and realize, all at once, what happened.

Your reply sits there with a red exclamation point. Which only means one thing. It was Unsent.

You: yeah, i’ll come ❗

Well.

Now?

No, you won’t.

“Fucking shit,” your phone flies out of your hand when you trip on the carpet floor like a complete klutz. You can’t believe you’re risking injury and getting benched for the rest of the tour for this stupid cat man.

“Y/N?”

Noooooooooo

You straighten up immediately, thankful it wasn’t Yoongi’s door that flew open. “Namjoon, hi.”

“Is this yours?” he bends to pick up your phone, which is resting by his doorway.

“Yeah, umm. That’s mine.”

He studies you as you take the device from his hand. Your screen is still bright and open and your Kakao app is just there. Ain’t no way he didn’t see who’s on your thread.

“Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m totally fine.” You pocket your device, forcing a light smile. But before you can say anything else, Namjoon is pulling his door wider.

You stay rooted in place, even as your eyes dart inside the plush suite. You realize he is wearing a black tank top and matching pajamas.

“I got food and a drama. Could use some company,” Namjoon says simply. No malice, no undertone. You’re sure Namjoon has no way of knowing you had a lacy thong underneath, so this is really just a simple invitation to hang out.

You consider it. At the same time, you think, huh, his dimples are really, really deep. Your reply came easy after that. “I–sure, yeah. I’m down.”

“Cool.” he tilts his head, gesturing you in.

The night settles into something softer in Room 2002, the noise in your brain fading into nothing thanks to room service, wine samplers from the mini bar, and Namjoon’s running commentary over a drama. He’s literally such a yapper. You lean back into the couch, listening to him more than watching the show, letting his voice fill the space instead of your thoughts.

It’s easy hanging with Namjoon. No guessing. No second-guessing. And you don’t realize until now how much you needed Namjoon’s friendship until now, but you’re glad he is offering it.

And maybe more than that, you’re glad he didn’t ask any questions you couldn't answer even if you tried.

The next day, rumors fly that Gwayoung from Digital was bragging about being on the receiving end of that tongue technology.

The same day, you also receive a 50,000 won gift card credited in your mobile game.

You know it’s from the same person. And you know which one you would’ve wanted more.

The tour goes on. It starts off like a high you can’t come down from. New cities, new crowds. You collect moments like souvenirs—late-night convenience store runs, inside jokes backstage, someone filming content here and there, drinking sessions inside someone’s hotel room. There’s always something happening, always someone around. You don’t have to think too much because everything moves too fast. It feels like living ten lives at once, and for a while, it’s enough.

But somewhere along the way, the novelty starts to thin out. The cities blur into one long stretch of airports, hotel hallways, empty highways, and backstage corridors that all feel vaguely the same. You wake up and sometimes it takes a second to remember where you are. Your suitcase never really gets unpacked—just opened, lived out of, closed again. Everyone’s tired in that bone-deep way that makes even laughter feel like effort. You’re surrounded by people all the time, and somehow, it still feels lonely.

You and the girls have a kind of unspoken understanding between all of you now, forged in cramped dressing rooms and shared mirrors, in the quiet rituals of getting ready before a show. Someone’s always borrowing someone else’s lip tint, someone’s fixing a crooked lash, someone’s complaining about a bruise they didn’t notice until they caught it under the harsh vanity lights.

“Why are we like this?” Angel groans one night, poking at a purple mark on her thigh.

“Occupational hazard,” Bina shrugs, already halfway through redoing her eyeliner for the third time.

“Is that the one that you banged on the clothing rack, or, ahem…”

Angel’s face heats. It was Tae. Rough Tae, as per usual.

Rei rolls her eyes. “Alright, we know you’re getting it good. No need to shove it in our faces.”

“You know who I wouldn’t mind shoving something in my face?” Lisa pipes in. She’s one of the newer dancers that joined the US leg.

“Who?” You ask, curious.

“Yoongi. Fuck. He looks so daddy these days. Literally need that.”

Rei shoves a protein bar into your hand, with a stern look to match. “Eat.”

You do, because if you don’t you might say something you’ll regret.

Since that late night hallway encounter several stops ago, you and Namjoon have somehow made hanging out into a thing. It just happens seamlessly. Over meals, passing conversations end up lasting longer than expected.

Off-handedly, he confides in you that he struggles to sleep. You piece together the rest on your own. Military life has altered his mental state in ways he is still struggling to undo and it’s been tough, but at least he’s a work in progress.

As far as you know, he’s the only member who doesn’t really… distract himself the way the others do on tour. Nobody waiting for a quick one backstage, no regular to help release all that adrenaline after long shows.

So instead, he watches dramas. It’s funny, really. But you guess, it works for him. He really likes those cheesy lovey dovey ones or those about heartache. Tells you it’s the closest he can feel something real and he lets them play until he passes out.

He invites you to join him sometimes.

At first, you’re suspicious. You wouldn’t have blamed him (or minded, to be honest) if there were other intentions. Everyone has needs, after all. And honestly, you would have been flattered to be considered by a catch like him. But after the third or fourth time of bingeing on drama and food, it becomes clear that he doesn’t want you like that. And you have to admit—he’s a fun time. So it’s cool.

When you hang out, he tells you about the books he’s reading, summarizing them in a way that makes you want to pick them up yourself. You tell him about choreography ideas, about how certain movements sit in your body, about how you think music should look when it’s danced.

“You think in shapes,” he says once, mimicking the way your hands move as you explain.

“You think in paragraphs,” you shoot back.

He laughs at that, dimples deep, eyes soft. “True.”

“Long-ass paragraphs, actually. Mr. Yapper.”

Sometimes, when the days feel too long and the nights stretch a little too quiet, you find yourself standing outside his door without really remembering how you got there.

No matter, Namjoon always lets you in.

⊙⊝⊜ Las Vegas, NV, May 2026 ⊙⊝⊜

One night, you get a message from Hobi inviting you for drinks. You haven’t hung out with him in a while, so it was a no-brainer when you said yes. You don’t go out every night at every tour stop, but you made an exception this time.

You put on something cute. Not to impress Hobi particularly, but because you know he always dresses well, and you will not be caught dead looking shabby beside him. Lips a little glossy and cheeks a little rosy, you make your way to the hotel bar, heels clicking against the marble.

But instead of Hobi, you find someone else instead.

“Hey.”

“You stalkin’ me?” Yoongi smirks at his lowball.

“Yup, this is exactly what this is. Call Mr. Lee,” You deadpan, sitting on the bar stool beside him. “Where’s Hob-ah?”

He shrugs. “Not his keeper.”

“Is there another hotel bar?” You ask the bartender who was polishing off a wine glass.

“Yes, miss. There's another on the 31st.”

Realizing you might’ve gotten the venue wrong, you grab your clutch and start to slide off the stool. “I guess I’ll—”

“Stay.”

He says it so quietly, almost like he was hoping you don’t hear it.

You pause.

When you look at him, he’s not even looking at you—just staring into his drink like there’s something at the bottom of it worth pondering. You know you should leave, but you don’t.

“You look… a little worse for wear,” you say as you settle back into your seat.

“You can say I look like shit.”

You glance at him, then nod once. “Okay. You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

A beat.

“Everything okay?”

He shrugs. Noncommittal. Dismissive. Yoongi core.

You signal the bartender for a drink, letting the noise of the bar fill the space between you for a while as you wait for your cocktail.

It’s him who breaks first.

He slides a bowl of roasted edamame toward you, like a peace offering he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

“I dunno,” he mutters, more to the glass than to you.

You wait.

He exhales, long and slow, the amber liquid in his glass rippling with the movement.

“I keep listening to the album and it all just…” He trails off, jaw tightening. “Trash.”

You blink, shock evident in your face. “What do you mean?”

“Like I should’ve done it differently.” He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Every track. Every arrangement. Feels like I missed out on changing something obvious.”

“That’s just—”

“I know,” he cuts in, already shaking his head. “I know it’s not real. I know it’s just…” He gestures vaguely, searching for the word. “Fatigue. Whatever.”

But it doesn’t sound like he believes that.

“I can’t turn it off,” he adds, quieter now. “Even when I see how fans enjoy the songs, the doubt just eats at me.”

There’s something raw in that. Something he doesn’t usually let slip. You watch him for a second, really look at him. And it pulls something up from the back of your mind:

Hannam-dong.

A random weeknight. You’d gone out alone, too proud to call anyone after your ex ended things over something stupid that somehow still shattered you. You were busy ugly-crying over your gin until someone slid into the seat beside you.

Him. Yoongi.

“What are you doing here, Yoongi?”

He shrugs, like it’s obvious. “You looked like you needed someone.”

“You heard me crying from across the room?”

“It was a bit loud, yeah.”

Your face crumples again and you let out a broken sound, covering your eyes. “Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing…”

“It’s fine,” he says, voice low, even. “No one’s looking.”

You sniff again. “I look disgusting.”

“You look like you’re crying.”

“Same thing.”

“It’s not.” He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to you.

You let out a weak huff, somewhere between a laugh and another sob, before taking it.

He didn’t ask questions or make it a big thing. Just sat there with his black face mask, providing you with the comfort of company. He let you talk when you wanted. Let you cry when you couldn’t stop.

At some point, you’d leaned into him without thinking, and he’d just let you. Steady. Warm. He rubbed your back as you wrapped your arms around in his slight torso, sobbing slightly against his tee.

“Yoongi. Why are men pigs?” you sniff.

“I dunno. I’m a cat.” He shrugs. “...apparently.”

That makes you laugh, all wet and snotty. But it makes all the difference to lighten your mood.

“Look. I don’t know who the guy is. But I know he’s an idiot.”

“He is,” You nod immediately. “… but I am, too.”

A pause, before he chides. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

“I just…” You trail off lifting your head from his shoulder and looking up at the track lights hanging from the bar. “I just really love love, you know?”

He doesn’t interrupt.

“I like the idea of it,” you continue, words coming slower now, more honest. “Falling for someone. Growing with them. Having… I dunno, fuck…” you laugh weakly, shaking your head. “Someone to hold your hand ‘til it’s all sweaty and gross, like… I love that shit.”

It sounds stupid out loud.

“So even if I knew he wasn’t it, I tried to hold on. Because I’m scared of being alone. And I’m scared I won’t find someone who’d want me again.”

Jeez, that was a lot to unpack. You expect him to say something dry. He’s good at that.

No words come.

Instead, his fingers brush against yours where your hand rests on the bartop.

You glance down.

He’s not looking at you. Just placing his palm on the back of yours, before turning it over. And slowly, his hand closes around yours, fingers interlacing between each digit.

You’re staring at your conjoined hands and then his stoic face. He doesn’t look back, but he squeezes your hand tighter as if to say: I’m here. Not forever. But at least you’re not alone for now.

And that was enough. That night, you had someone to hold your hand til it was all sweaty and gross. You swallow, something tight in your chest easing just a little.

He walks you out after, hands still clasped. Makes sure you get into a cab. Waits until the door shuts before stepping back. Your hand feels cold without the feel of his when the car drives off.

But after that… nothing. He never brought it up again. Neither did you. Life got complicated. You don’t know what happened during his enlistment. So now you both just act like it didn’t happen.

If you will be honest, you still think about Hannam-dong sometimes. More than you will ever admit.

You’re reminded of it every time you see that random quote hanging on your foyer.

“The most romantic thing in the world is being understood. It’s even deeper than love.”

Things with Yoongi never really took off. But you will always have Hannam-dong.

Yoongi looks at you now, the same way you looked at him then, a little lost, a little broken, trying to stay strong. So you don’t make it a big thing either. You just reach for an edamame, pop it into your mouth, pull the peel, and shrug lightly as you mash the beans with your teeth.

“Sounds like your brain needs to shut the fuck up for a bit.”

He huffs, something almost like a laugh slipping out. “Yeah,” he mutters. “If only.”

“For what it’s worth, Album of the year, in my opinion.”

Yoongi can’t stop his lips from curling.

Satisfied, you call for the server. “Let’s eat something first. Then we solve your existential crisis.”

He glances at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Yeah,” you shrug. “I’m the best, right?”

He gives you a thumbs up. “Kkaepjjang.”

Ass.

You order food, which comes out quicker than expected, but what you really wanted to do to distract him comes in the form of a mobile game.

“You still play?” you ask, showing the app now loading in your phone.

Face instantly lighting up, he unlocks his phone and presses the same app sitting on the home screen. “One game.”

You grin. “Double Up?”

A small nod.

“Don’t drag me down,” he mutters as the queue pops.

“Tsss,” you shoot back. “I’ll carry.”

He huffs, but there’s no bite to it.

You fall into rhythm without needing to talk much—checking in here and there, nudging each other when it matters, covering where the other slips. Just quiet coordination, the kind that only happens when both people know what they’re doing.

At some point, you lose a round you shouldn’t have. You fumble a turn.

“I got you,” he says, and he does.

By the time the game ends—with a win you barely scrape—you’re both facing each other, knees touching, smiles plastered on your faces.

“Not bad,” you murmur, setting your phone down. “You did well.”

“But I always do well?” he replies.

You push him lightly. “Take a humble W for once.”

“No, cause I can’t remember ever doing poorly…”

“Oh my gooood, I’m tired of you.” You roll your eyes, attempting to swivel away from him, but his knees stop you.

He glances at you, something softer flickering through his expression. You look away first, because what’s with the face? You reach for your drink, swirling what’s left and sip.

“Thanks,” he says, and why are his fingers drumming on your knee? It’s kind of distracting, actually.

“Are you feeling a little better now?” You reply, forcing a neutral expression.

He pauses, exhales. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I just got tired of my own head.”

And maybe it’s the fact that you’re sipping the final dredges of your margarita that the next words carelessly tumble out. “Maybe you just need good head.”

The dining area is still loud around you, but somehow, between you and him, it has become z-z-z. His fingers cease tapping against your skin.

Panicking, you blab. “Just text Gwayoung. Or Haein… I’m sure they’re available. You don’t have to look too far, you know.”

His eyes bear a weight you didn’t anticipate.

“I’m not,” he says quietly.

And the way he’s looking at you makes it very clear he’s not looking far at all. He doesn’t need to.

You don’t remember deciding to leave or how he even paid. Just the deja vu of how his hand found your wrist and the way you let it. Of how a door opens and then your back is firmly against it.

The next thing you feel is Yoongi’s soft lips sliding against your own.

His hand drifts up the side of your neck, fingers settling at the base like he’s keeping you right where he wants you, and it does something weird to your breathing—shortens it, stutters it—without needing to press.

The strap of your dress sags against your shoulder, but you make no move to fix it.

Your fingers find his hair instead, threading through the longer strands at the nape. It’s softer than you remember, just enough length to catch between your fingers, and when you tug, he groans against your mouth, the sound going straight to your center.

Total brain fog.

Your heartbeat, faint but present, is somehow the one that warns you about the risks. Because you’ve been in this situation before with Yoongi. You’ve been vulnerable in Hannam, and in his studio, and in the rehearsal space, and in room 2004. There’s a host of reasons why you should run away.

But it’s only taking one slow, smooth swipe of his tongue against the roof of your mouth for you to run in.

Your mouths part at the same time, an accidental knock of teeth, before he catches your lower lip between his and sucks softly, almost sweetly.

God. Yoongi makes your head swim.

And all this kissing is making you feel like there’s something more, when there is none. You’d do well to remind yourself of that.

By some miracle you find the strength to pull away.

“Yoongi, if we’re doing this, just…” you place your palm gently against his chest, pushing him back. “Don’t confuse me.”

Yoongi frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I know what this is,” you say, still a little breathless. “And I’m down, but I just… let’s not…”

The words stall out, slipping through your fingers no matter how hard you try to hold onto them. You inhale sharply, trying to piece together something that makes sense, something that doesn’t sound as messy as it feels in your head.

Because if you’re being honest—really honest—you’re already in deeper than you should be.

You never quite bounced back from his rejections. It lingers, quieter now, but still there, still tender in places you don’t like to acknowledge. And that’s not something you can tell him. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Not when he’s this close. Not when his lips are a soft, distracting pink. Not when he’s looking at you like this—like, for once, all of his attention is yours.

So you decide on something, albeit hastily. You shift your weight, looking him dead in the eye. “You can’t kiss me.”

He studies you curiously, too amused for your liking. His eyes are transfixed on your mouth, observing how they’re still shiny from his own spit. “Too late for that, don’t you think?”

“No, you can’t do it again. Not anymore.”

If he is confused, he doesn’t let it show. He scratches his nape. “Just your mouth, right? Anywhere else is fair game?”

His eyes dip, trailing your body like he’s already mentally undressing you. You feel heat building beneath your skin.

“Yes.”

“Sweet.” His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, dragging lightly across your lower lip to wipe away the trail he left behind. Then he turns, moving further into his hotel room, dropping the keycard into an empty fruit bowl. “Anything else?”

You follow him in, dragging your feet on the plush carpet, still deep in thought.

You exhale through your nose, trying to keep your tone even. “Don’t make me sign an NDA.”

“No need, your current NDA’s already airtight.”

That—

You blink, thrown for half a second. The reminder lands colder than you expected, like a bucket of reality dumped over something that was just starting to feel… not real.

“Right.” You nod slowly, arms tightening across your chest. “Way to make a girl feel special, Yoongi.”

“Legal contracts don’t turn you on?” Yoongi drops to the couch.

“Not particularly. My dad’s a lawyer.”

He makes a face.

You snort. “What? Talking about my old hairy lawyer dad doesn’t turn you on?”

“Pass.”

That gets a real laugh out of you, the tension cracking just enough to breathe again.

He watches you when you do, like he’s taking note of something. Almost like he’s fascinated with you.

Then his head tilts slightly, a small gesture, almost nothing. “C’mere.”

You hesitate for half a second, but step forward anyway, closing the distance until you’re right in front of him, standing between his parted legs as he looks up at you.

His hand finds your wrist first, then your waist, guiding you down like it’s nothing. You end up on his lap, breath catching just a little as his hand slides under your dress, resting on your upper thigh.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over your face, slower this time. “What does?”

The question sinks somewhere low, coiling tight, as he squeezes your soft flesh, so close to where you need him.

You open your mouth to respond, but he’s already leaning in.

His lips brush your collarbone first, not really doing anything but press his mouth against your skin. It’s almost absent-minded, the way he does it, like he can ask a question and distract you at the same time.

You inhale sharply.

His mouth drifts lower, grazing the hollow between your chest, and your thoughts start slipping, unraveling faster than you can catch them.

“Yoongi…”

He hums against your skin, like he heard you, but doesn’t want to stop. Frankly you don’t want him to when you feel his lips latch on the top of your breast and your brain goes foggy, words dissolving before they can form.

And that’s exactly why you…

“Wait.” You feel the solidness of him under your palms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, as you lean back.

He stills, mouth swollen.

“Mm?” he hums, lifting his head but not moving far, like he’s willing to wait—but only just.

“Don’t you have your own rules?”

There’s a brief flicker of something, before his expression smooths back out.

He blinks once and huffs. “Don’t leave me on read.”

You almost react. Almost say something about that night, about the message that never sent, about the door you stood in front of, and the sounds that destroyed you before his friend picked up the pieces of you that shattered in front of room 2004.

But you swallow it down. He doesn’t need to know.

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

You study him for a second longer, like you’re trying to find something deeper and coming up short.

“Okay.”

A beat.

It’s decided.

“So,” he says, voice lower, like it’s already done. “Are we gonna do this, or—”

“Fuck me, Yoongi.”

His mouth curves, just slightly one corner. “Gladly.”

Part 2

A/N: .....hi? :)