[minyoongisnewthing]

슈가 is live is SOOOO GOOD!! just finished and that was so cute 🥹

How it felt to get this ask!. Thank you so much, I had a fun time writing it I'm glad you enjoyed it

[minyoongisnewthing]

쇼가 is live | myg

pairing: Reader x Min Yoongi

Genre: Fluff that is all, just slice of life fluff.

Content warnings: None that I can think of but feel free to let me know if there are!

Word count: 3.6k Roughly

authors note: It’s been a minute since I had both time and inspiration to write but this Yoongi live still lives in my head rent free!

Your morning didn’t begin the way it usually did — not with your alarm, also not with your boyfriend’s grumpy groan about it being too early.

Instead, it started with a soft, startled “oof” beside you… followed by a loud, vibrating purr and an indignant little mrrrow.

“Good morning to you too, Tang-ah,” Yoongi rasped, his voice thick with sleep and fond exasperation. “You trying to assassinate me before breakfast?”

You blinked blearily, still half cocooned in blankets, and reached out blindly from your warm nest of sheets. Your fingers met sleek fur almost immediately. You threaded them through it, slow and lazy, and Tang’s purring deepened into something that felt like it could power a small engine.

The cat was perched triumphantly on Yoongi’s lower stomach, kneading with determined little paws like he was working dough.

You smiled into the pillow and shuffled closer to Yoongi’s warmth, draping yourself partly over his side.

“Told you he could open doors now,” you murmured sleepily. “Our boy is a genius, aren’t you, Tangie? Smartest in the whole house.”

You scratched under Tang’s chin, and he tipped his head back dramatically, soaking up the attention like royalty. His paws continued their rhythmic kneading, entirely unapologetic.

Yoongi’s quiet chuckle vibrated through his chest beneath you. You rolled onto your back to stretch, immediately regretting the movement when Tang transferred his full weight onto you with zero hesitation, absolutely baited into it by your oh so loving boyfriend.

“Yoon,” you protested weakly as the cat settled squarely on your chest like he’d claimed new territory.

“What?” Yoongi shot back, already throwing the blankets off himself. “He was making those biscuits on my bladder. I was two seconds from pissing myself. It was survival. All is fair in cat parenting my love”

He swung his legs out of bed, shuffling toward the ensuite with a sigh and stretch. “You deal with him. He’s your son now.”

You snorted softly and relented, bringing both hands up to scratch behind Tang’s ears. He immediately began kneading again, this time with far too much enthusiasm and absolutely no respect for personal space.

“Ow, that was my nipple!,” you muttered fondly as his paws pressed into your chest. “You have no concept of boundaries, do you?”

Tang answered by purring louder and kneading harder.

From the bathroom, Yoongi’s voice floated back, amused. “He learned that from you.”

You laughed quietly, carding your fingers through Tang’s fur as sunlight began to creep through the curtains, painting the room in warmth. The sheets were soft, the cat was smug, and the faint sound of Yoongi moving around the bathroom grounded everything in that gentle, lived-in way that made mornings feel nice.

You closed your eyes again with a contented sigh, trusting in the universal law of cats — once they had decided you were boring, they would move on to their next conquest. Sure enough, Tang abandoned you within seconds, hopping down from the bed with a purposeful flick of his tail.

“Off to commit crimes, my child” you murmured. “Probably going to scam your grandmother out of treats for breakfast, huh?.”

If you had to bet, he was already halfway down the hall, rehearsing his most pitiful meow.

The mattress dipped beside you again and before you could react, strong arms wrapped around your waist and dragged you backward. You squealed softly as Yoongi pulled you flush against his chest, his warmth enveloping you. He nipped playfully at your shoulder before pressing slow kisses there instead, his lips lingering against your skin.

“Hey,” you laughed breathlessly.

His hand slipped beneath your sleep shirt, warm palm settling just under your chest. The contact made you chuckle, half from surprise, half from the familiar comfort of him.

“Hhmm?” he hummed innocently into your neck.

“Oh nothing,” you said lightly, nudging his wrist with your fingers. “Just thinking your son learned that move from you.”

Yoongi’s face lit up with a wicked little grin as he lifted his head, eyes glittering with mischief. He buried his face back into your neck, planting another kiss there, slower this time.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I’ll behave.”

You felt the words more than heard them.

His hand stilled, resting comfortably instead of wandering, and his voice softened when he asked, “What are your plans for today?”

You groaned a dramatic little sound then rolled onto your side so you could face him. “I have to edit the photos from the Allen wedding, make a start on putting together their album and slideshow… and I’ve also got some emails I’ve been pretending don’t exist.”

You cupped his cheek and kissed him, slow and lingering. “I should probably start editing soon, but what about you, my love? Off to the studio to be a musical genius and lyrical mastermind?”

You grinned when his cheeks flushed pink immediately.

“Hajima,” he muttered, scrunching his nose before the shy smile returned. But then his expression shifted — the teasing softness fading into something more thoughtful. His brows knit slightly as he hesitated.

“I will be… for a bit,” he said carefully. “But… I was also thinking I might go live today.”

You tilted your head. “Live?”

“Yeah,” he nodded faintly. “Maybe when I’m home… or maybe at the studio.”

His voice was quieter now, less certain. He stared at the pillow for a moment before glancing back at you.

“With one of the boys?” you prompted gently.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “By myself.”

Your heart tightened at that. You could see it now — the nerves tucked beneath his calm, the way his fingers fidgeted slightly against the sheets. It wasn’t fear of ARMY. Never them. It was the weight of time, the vulnerability of showing himself again alone, without the comfort of his six brothers, after so long.

You smiled and ran your thumb slowly across his cheek, grounding him. “You know they’ve missed you.”

“I know,” he sighed softly. “I just… haven’t done it like that in a while.”

His eyes lifted to yours, searching.

“Baby,” you whispered with a small grin, “you don’t have to stay long. You could just say hi, show them you’re alive and still handsome.”

He snorted. “Handsome?”

“Devastatingly,” you corrected.

That finally earned you a real smile, slow and fond. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Will you watch?” he asked quietly.

“Of course,” you said without hesitation. “I’ll even be the first ‘Yoongi marry me’ in the chat.”

He kissed you then with a chuckle, gentle and grateful, his arms tightening around you as sunlight crept higher across the bed and the quiet hum of the house wrapped around you both.

Somewhere down the hall, Tang yowled dramatically.

You both sighed.

“See?” you murmured. “Already practicing for his drama debut.”

Breakfast was a quick, lazy affair — toast, sliced fruit, and a few stolen kisses before you finally sent him out the door. You watched Yoongi tug his jacket on, hair still soft and a little wild from sleep, before you pressed one last kiss to his lips and waved him off.

“Don’t forget to eat,” you called after him.

“I won’t forget, and don’t try to act like you're not as bad” he shot back with a grin.

The door clicked shut, leaving the apartment wrapped in a peaceful quiet. Almost immediately, soft paws thudded down the hallway behind you.

You smiled. “Of course you’re coming too.”

Tang followed you like a shadow into your office. You pushed the door open and crossed straight to the window, pulling the blinds up and letting the honeyed morning light spill across the room. Dust motes danced in it, turning the space warm and alive.

“Okay, Tang,” you murmured as you set your coffee beside your laptop and dropped into your chair. “Mumma needs to lock the fuck in on these photos.”

He jumped onto the desk with a soft thump and headbutted your chin in agreement.

Before booting up your laptop, you took a second to glance around the room — and your gaze softened when it landed on your favorite photo frame. Yoongi’s gummy smile was frozen there forever, joy written all over his face as he watched his brother marry the love of his life. You’d taken it without thinking, just another candid moment from the wedding… never knowing it would be the moment that quietly tied your lives together.

That was how you and Yoongi had met — photographing his brother’s wedding.

But that is a story for another day.

You opened your software and spent the first hour answering inquiries and booking new weddings, then finally pulled up the album you planned to work on today. The newlyweds filled your screen — the groom looking at his bride like she’d hung the moon, eyes bright with awe as they cut the cake.

Your chest warmed.

“Definitely going in the album, huh, Tang-ah,” you mused.

Your sentence was punctuated by a solid headbutt to your jaw.

“Violent agreement. Got it.”

You lost track of time after that, sinking into your editing flow — adjusting contrast, fiddling around with grayscale,  softening colors, cropping just right. The only interruptions were the soft click of your mouse, the faint hum of the apartment, and the steady ping of your phone as Yoongi sent updates from the studio.

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : This song we’re working on… it’s so good.

You smiled instantly.

Y/N: Send me a snippet!

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : Nope. you have to wait like everyone else, baby.

You scoffed aloud, already picturing the smug grin he’d be wearing.

Y/N: Even though I’m sleeping with one of the producers?? rude. What kind of non-perks are these Min!!! 

You hit send with a shake of your head, imagining the fond eye-roll he’d give his phone.

Eventually, your stomach betrayed you with an unmistakable growl.

“Okay,” you muttered. “Lunch time i guess, damn.”

It took about five seconds to decide ‘absolutely not’ to cooking. You grabbed your phone, opened the food delivery app, and ordered gimbap and another coffee for yourself — then added a second order for Yoongi to be delivered to the studio without even thinking about it.

You plucked a few strawberries from the fridge to tide yourself over and padded out into the living room, stretching your back out with a groan.

“I really need to fix my posture,” you scolded yourself. “I sit like a shrimp.”

Tang followed, tail flicking as you collapsed onto the couch and scrolled through Netflix, not really watching anything.

A little bit later your mouth full of food your phone buzzed again.

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : Thank you, for the coffee and gimbap my love.

Your lips curved immediately.

Y/N: you’re welcome baby, I even ordered the americano decaf for you and your old man stomach, oh sweet love of my life.

A pause.

Then—

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : Old man?! I am four months older than you…

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : Great now JK is calling me old man I hate you.

You laughed.

Y/N: No you don’t.

You were left on read.

You shook your head fondly, setting your phone down as Tang hopped up beside you and curled into your thigh.

“Bubs?” you told him. “Your dad is dramatic.”

Tang blinked slowly.

The apartment stayed quiet, warm with sunlight and the faint promise of delivery bags and new music somewhere across the city.

By the time you finally surfaced from your editing software again, your eyes felt dry and your shoulders ached in that familiar I’ve been sitting too long way. A decent portion of the album was finished, the rest of the photos neatly tagged and waiting for tomorrow. You saved everything with a satisfied hum and pushed your chair back just as—

Tang suddenly shot out of the room like he’d been fired from a cannon.

You grinned instantly.

The electronic lock disengaged with its familiar chirp, followed by a soft, fond voice from the hallway.

“Yeah, Tang-ah… Dad’s home.”

The loudest, most content meow Tang had made all day rang through the apartment, followed by frantic little paws skidding across the floor.

“Y/N, I’m home!”

“In my office, sweetheart,” you called back, glancing at the clock.

Fuck.

Had it really gotten that late?

You rolled your shoulders, wincing, just as warm hands settled on them and began kneading gently. A startled breath left you before melting into a soft sigh.

“And you have the nerve to get on my ass about my posture,” Yoongi murmured by your ear.

You hummed and reached back, fingers sliding into his long dark hair. You turned your head to press a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m merely helping out the elderly.”

You barely had time to snicker before he pinched your hip lightly.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he muttered, affection thick in his voice.

You turned in your chair fully to face him, as he leaned against your desk while Tang circled his ankles like a tiny bodyguard. Yoongi launched into stories from the studio — how everyone was buzzing because the album finally sounded finished, how Hobi had been utterly clowned by Jimin, Jungkook, and Jin for getting confused over the Super Tuna dance.

“Oh, they’ll never let him live that down,” you laughed. “Hobi’s gonna be out for blood next practice.”

“Exactly why I’m skipping it,” Yoongi said with a grin.

Then he hesitated.

You saw it immediately — the way his shoulders lifted slightly, the way his fingers flexed against the desk.

“Um… do you mind if I use the media room and go live?”

You didn’t even blink. “Baby, it’s your house too. You don’t have to ask.”

His shoulders dropped in relief.

“If we bring Tang in here,” you added. “I’ll keep him occupied. I’ll just shut the door and we can be quiet as a mouse, we will watch on my phone while I finish these last edits.”

You leaned up and kissed him softly. “You’re gonna do great.”

His lips curved against yours, that shy little smile you loved.

“Your glasses are still on the nightstand, by the way!” you called as he headed for the hall.

He lifted a hand in a wave without turning back.

Tang immediately tried to follow him.

“Oh no you don’t,” you said, scooping the cat up mid-betrayal. “Your dad has a very important celebrity thing to do.”

Tang yowled in protest as you shut the door.

You settled back into your chair with the cat in your lap, phone already in hand as you reopened your editing software. Through the closed media room door, you heard faint movement — the scrape of a chair, the soft click of a lamp.

A moment later, the Weverse notification lit up your screen.

쇼가 is live

Your heart fluttered as you tapped into Weverse, propping your phone against your now-empty coffee cup. The screen loaded and—

God.

God he looked so soft it almost hurt.

Dark hair still fluffy from the day, falling gently around his face, the black shirt fitting him criminally well. For a second he just sat there, blinking at the camera, clearly trying to convince himself this was a normal thing to do again.

Then he frowned.

Squinted.

Lifted the phone closer to his face.

“…Ah.”

You smiled so hard your cheeks ached.

He muttered something about his eyesight, fiddled with his hair, then leaned out of frame.

“I’ll be right back.”

You sighed fondly into the quiet office, hearing him move down the hallway picturing his little grandpa shuffle as he searched for his glasses.

“I told you where they were, idiot.” You whispered fondly

On screen, he came back wearing them, immediately looking more put-together and somehow even softer.

He talked about the cold weather first — the safe topic — brushing his bangs back, glancing nervously at the comments, squinting again.

“Why can’t I see the words very well?”

You scoffed quietly. “Old man.”

Comforted by the sound of his deep voice filling the apartment, you turned back to your editing. You adjusted contrast on a photo of the bridal party, smiled at how perfectly the sun caught the bride’s veil, and glanced over at Tang just to be sure.

He was sprawled across his cat tower like a loaf of burnt bread, tail flicking lazily.

“Good,” you whispered. “Stay.”

You dove back into your work, slipping into that familiar focused trance. Yoongi’s voice hummed in the background as he thanked ARMY for waiting, said he’d missed them, promised music soon.

You were so close to finishing.

Then—

“Mrrrow.”

Your heart dropped.

You snapped your head up.

The cat tower was empty.

You whipped around to the office door.

Now opened a fraction.

…Which meant he was surely already in the hallway.

“Fuck,” you breathed.

You froze in your chair, mind racing. You couldn’t go after him — not without making noise, not without being heard. You risked a glance at your phone just in time to see Yoongi’s expression change.

First: surprise.

Next: resignation.

Finally: pure fondness.

He looked and scoffed like a man who knew exactly what was happening, and accepted it.

“Tang,” he called gently.

Your stomach flipped.

“Mrrrow.”

“Yes. Today,” Yoongi said with a sigh. “Yes, Tang. Come on air today.”

You stared in horror as your cat was lifted into frame like a furry offering to the internet. You watched as Min Yoongi, world renowned artist, producer and rapper. Introduced your cat to the world with the most endeared smile, like he was the proudest millennial cat dad alive.

“This is Tang,” he said, smiling as Tang immediately demanded tummy rubs. “He’s… very loud.”

Tang rewarded him by screaming.

Yoongi chuckled and scratched under his chin. Then he frowned slightly and began patting Tang’s neck.

“Wait… where is your bell?”

You slapped a hand over your mouth.

No.

He disappeared off screen for half a second and reappeared holding it.

That stupid bell. So stupid it was adorable.

The tiny, ridiculous, baby chick-shaped bell you had bought at three in the morning because it was cute, yellow and absolutely unnecessary, and that alone made it necessary.

He fastened it back around Tang’s neck proudly.

“There,” he said, smiling like he’d accomplished something great.

Your heart fluttered painfully as he explained how he had originally wanted two cats — one named Sol and one Tang — but couldn’t. How Tang’s dad had been a street cat. How Tang could open doors. How smart he was.

You sank back into your chair, watching the screen with a hand still over your mouth.

Tang fussed in Yoongi’s arms, tail swishing, meowing indignantly. Yoongi answered every sound with hums and a little smile, rubbing his belly, patting his back.

Then came the butt pats.

Firm. Proud. Repetitive.

Tang melted into it instantly demanding more.

The rest of the live passed like a blur — Yoongi talking about music, Tang interrupting, Yoongi telling ARMY even more things about that menace of a beautiful cat.

You watched the whole thing from your desk, heart warm, eyes soft, knowing you would never tease him about this…

…Out loud, anyway.

When the live finally ended, you didn’t move right away.

You just stared at the black screen for a second and whispered:

“I love you, you ridiculous man.”

From down the hall, you heard:

“Mrrrow.”

And then Yoongi’s voice:

“Don’t try and act innocent now Tang-ah.”

Moving on instinct alone, you slipped out of your office and padded down the hallway, apology already forming on your lips.

“Yoon— baby, I am so sorry,” you said softly, poking your head into the media room with your hands clasped in front of you. “I only looked away for a second to fix the contrast on this picture and—”

“It’s okay, sweetheart.”

He was already smiling.

Tang was curled up in his lap like he’d been there all along, a black ball of fur rising and falling with slow, satisfied breaths. A deep purr vibrated through the quiet room, loud enough that you felt it before you fully heard it.

“He just missed his dad,” Yoongi added gently, running his hand down Tang’s back.

Your chest tightened.

“I should’ve noticed him opening the door,” you said, stepping fully inside and lowering yourself beside him on the couch. “I really am sorry.”

Yoongi shook his head. “He… actually helped calm my nerves.” He glanced at you then, eyes soft as they traced your face. “So it worked out.”

You let out a small laugh, leaning into him. “I’m also sorry I wasn’t the first ‘Yoongi marry me’ in the chat, for what it’s worth.”

You rested your head on his shoulder and slid your fingers into Tang’s fur, scratching lightly behind his ear.

Yoongi’s body shook with silent laughter, his arm coming around you automatically.

“Traitor,” he murmured fondly.

For a moment, you just stayed there — the three of you tucked into the quiet aftermath of something that had felt big something vulnerable and somehow small all at once.

You thought, not for the first time, that life couldn’t possibly get any better than this.

A boyfriend who loved you deeply.

A cat who loved you both loudly.

And a home that felt warm in every sense of the word.

Tang shifted slightly, stretching one paw out experimentally until it rested against your leg, as if testing whether he could still charm you too.

Your heart melted.

“Look at him,” you whispered. “He’s deciding if I’m worthy.”

“He is very selective,” Yoongi agreed solemnly.

You smiled into his shoulder, eyes drifting shut.

What you couldn’t know — what you had no way of knowing yet — was that hidden away in the safe at Genius Lab was a small velvet ring box. Waiting patiently. Quietly. Full of promises to make life even sweeter.

But that is a story for another day.

For now, you had this moment.

And it was enough.

[yoonasugar]

I SO LOVE SWEET SOFT STUFF LIKE THIS AND TANG IS SO 🤩🥰🥺🤩🥰🥺🤩🥰🥺

[minyoongisnewthing]

☺️ I am so glad you enjoyed it! 💜💜💜

[minyoongisnewthing]

쇼가 is live | myg

pairing: Reader x Min Yoongi

Genre: Fluff that is all, just slice of life fluff.

Content warnings: None that I can think of but feel free to let me know if there are!

Word count: 3.6k Roughly

authors note: It’s been a minute since I had both time and inspiration to write but this Yoongi live still lives in my head rent free!

Your morning didn’t begin the way it usually did — not with your alarm, also not with your boyfriend’s grumpy groan about it being too early.

Instead, it started with a soft, startled “oof” beside you… followed by a loud, vibrating purr and an indignant little mrrrow.

“Good morning to you too, Tang-ah,” Yoongi rasped, his voice thick with sleep and fond exasperation. “You trying to assassinate me before breakfast?”

You blinked blearily, still half cocooned in blankets, and reached out blindly from your warm nest of sheets. Your fingers met sleek fur almost immediately. You threaded them through it, slow and lazy, and Tang’s purring deepened into something that felt like it could power a small engine.

The cat was perched triumphantly on Yoongi’s lower stomach, kneading with determined little paws like he was working dough.

You smiled into the pillow and shuffled closer to Yoongi’s warmth, draping yourself partly over his side.

“Told you he could open doors now,” you murmured sleepily. “Our boy is a genius, aren’t you, Tangie? Smartest in the whole house.”

You scratched under Tang’s chin, and he tipped his head back dramatically, soaking up the attention like royalty. His paws continued their rhythmic kneading, entirely unapologetic.

Yoongi’s quiet chuckle vibrated through his chest beneath you. You rolled onto your back to stretch, immediately regretting the movement when Tang transferred his full weight onto you with zero hesitation, absolutely baited into it by your oh so loving boyfriend.

“Yoon,” you protested weakly as the cat settled squarely on your chest like he’d claimed new territory.

“What?” Yoongi shot back, already throwing the blankets off himself. “He was making those biscuits on my bladder. I was two seconds from pissing myself. It was survival. All is fair in cat parenting my love”

He swung his legs out of bed, shuffling toward the ensuite with a sigh and stretch. “You deal with him. He’s your son now.”

You snorted softly and relented, bringing both hands up to scratch behind Tang’s ears. He immediately began kneading again, this time with far too much enthusiasm and absolutely no respect for personal space.

“Ow, that was my nipple!,” you muttered fondly as his paws pressed into your chest. “You have no concept of boundaries, do you?”

Tang answered by purring louder and kneading harder.

From the bathroom, Yoongi’s voice floated back, amused. “He learned that from you.”

You laughed quietly, carding your fingers through Tang’s fur as sunlight began to creep through the curtains, painting the room in warmth. The sheets were soft, the cat was smug, and the faint sound of Yoongi moving around the bathroom grounded everything in that gentle, lived-in way that made mornings feel nice.

You closed your eyes again with a contented sigh, trusting in the universal law of cats — once they had decided you were boring, they would move on to their next conquest. Sure enough, Tang abandoned you within seconds, hopping down from the bed with a purposeful flick of his tail.

“Off to commit crimes, my child” you murmured. “Probably going to scam your grandmother out of treats for breakfast, huh?.”

If you had to bet, he was already halfway down the hall, rehearsing his most pitiful meow.

The mattress dipped beside you again and before you could react, strong arms wrapped around your waist and dragged you backward. You squealed softly as Yoongi pulled you flush against his chest, his warmth enveloping you. He nipped playfully at your shoulder before pressing slow kisses there instead, his lips lingering against your skin.

“Hey,” you laughed breathlessly.

His hand slipped beneath your sleep shirt, warm palm settling just under your chest. The contact made you chuckle, half from surprise, half from the familiar comfort of him.

“Hhmm?” he hummed innocently into your neck.

“Oh nothing,” you said lightly, nudging his wrist with your fingers. “Just thinking your son learned that move from you.”

Yoongi’s face lit up with a wicked little grin as he lifted his head, eyes glittering with mischief. He buried his face back into your neck, planting another kiss there, slower this time.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I’ll behave.”

You felt the words more than heard them.

His hand stilled, resting comfortably instead of wandering, and his voice softened when he asked, “What are your plans for today?”

You groaned a dramatic little sound then rolled onto your side so you could face him. “I have to edit the photos from the Allen wedding, make a start on putting together their album and slideshow… and I’ve also got some emails I’ve been pretending don’t exist.”

You cupped his cheek and kissed him, slow and lingering. “I should probably start editing soon, but what about you, my love? Off to the studio to be a musical genius and lyrical mastermind?”

You grinned when his cheeks flushed pink immediately.

“Hajima,” he muttered, scrunching his nose before the shy smile returned. But then his expression shifted — the teasing softness fading into something more thoughtful. His brows knit slightly as he hesitated.

“I will be… for a bit,” he said carefully. “But… I was also thinking I might go live today.”

You tilted your head. “Live?”

“Yeah,” he nodded faintly. “Maybe when I’m home… or maybe at the studio.”

His voice was quieter now, less certain. He stared at the pillow for a moment before glancing back at you.

“With one of the boys?” you prompted gently.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “By myself.”

Your heart tightened at that. You could see it now — the nerves tucked beneath his calm, the way his fingers fidgeted slightly against the sheets. It wasn’t fear of ARMY. Never them. It was the weight of time, the vulnerability of showing himself again alone, without the comfort of his six brothers, after so long.

You smiled and ran your thumb slowly across his cheek, grounding him. “You know they’ve missed you.”

“I know,” he sighed softly. “I just… haven’t done it like that in a while.”

His eyes lifted to yours, searching.

“Baby,” you whispered with a small grin, “you don’t have to stay long. You could just say hi, show them you’re alive and still handsome.”

He snorted. “Handsome?”

“Devastatingly,” you corrected.

That finally earned you a real smile, slow and fond. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Will you watch?” he asked quietly.

“Of course,” you said without hesitation. “I’ll even be the first ‘Yoongi marry me’ in the chat.”

He kissed you then with a chuckle, gentle and grateful, his arms tightening around you as sunlight crept higher across the bed and the quiet hum of the house wrapped around you both.

Somewhere down the hall, Tang yowled dramatically.

You both sighed.

“See?” you murmured. “Already practicing for his drama debut.”

Breakfast was a quick, lazy affair — toast, sliced fruit, and a few stolen kisses before you finally sent him out the door. You watched Yoongi tug his jacket on, hair still soft and a little wild from sleep, before you pressed one last kiss to his lips and waved him off.

“Don’t forget to eat,” you called after him.

“I won’t forget, and don’t try to act like you're not as bad” he shot back with a grin.

The door clicked shut, leaving the apartment wrapped in a peaceful quiet. Almost immediately, soft paws thudded down the hallway behind you.

You smiled. “Of course you’re coming too.”

Tang followed you like a shadow into your office. You pushed the door open and crossed straight to the window, pulling the blinds up and letting the honeyed morning light spill across the room. Dust motes danced in it, turning the space warm and alive.

“Okay, Tang,” you murmured as you set your coffee beside your laptop and dropped into your chair. “Mumma needs to lock the fuck in on these photos.”

He jumped onto the desk with a soft thump and headbutted your chin in agreement.

Before booting up your laptop, you took a second to glance around the room — and your gaze softened when it landed on your favorite photo frame. Yoongi’s gummy smile was frozen there forever, joy written all over his face as he watched his brother marry the love of his life. You’d taken it without thinking, just another candid moment from the wedding… never knowing it would be the moment that quietly tied your lives together.

That was how you and Yoongi had met — photographing his brother’s wedding.

But that is a story for another day.

You opened your software and spent the first hour answering inquiries and booking new weddings, then finally pulled up the album you planned to work on today. The newlyweds filled your screen — the groom looking at his bride like she’d hung the moon, eyes bright with awe as they cut the cake.

Your chest warmed.

“Definitely going in the album, huh, Tang-ah,” you mused.

Your sentence was punctuated by a solid headbutt to your jaw.

“Violent agreement. Got it.”

You lost track of time after that, sinking into your editing flow — adjusting contrast, fiddling around with grayscale,  softening colors, cropping just right. The only interruptions were the soft click of your mouse, the faint hum of the apartment, and the steady ping of your phone as Yoongi sent updates from the studio.

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : This song we’re working on… it’s so good.

You smiled instantly.

Y/N: Send me a snippet!

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : Nope. you have to wait like everyone else, baby.

You scoffed aloud, already picturing the smug grin he’d be wearing.

Y/N: Even though I’m sleeping with one of the producers?? rude. What kind of non-perks are these Min!!! 

You hit send with a shake of your head, imagining the fond eye-roll he’d give his phone.

Eventually, your stomach betrayed you with an unmistakable growl.

“Okay,” you muttered. “Lunch time i guess, damn.”

It took about five seconds to decide ‘absolutely not’ to cooking. You grabbed your phone, opened the food delivery app, and ordered gimbap and another coffee for yourself — then added a second order for Yoongi to be delivered to the studio without even thinking about it.

You plucked a few strawberries from the fridge to tide yourself over and padded out into the living room, stretching your back out with a groan.

“I really need to fix my posture,” you scolded yourself. “I sit like a shrimp.”

Tang followed, tail flicking as you collapsed onto the couch and scrolled through Netflix, not really watching anything.

A little bit later your mouth full of food your phone buzzed again.

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : Thank you, for the coffee and gimbap my love.

Your lips curved immediately.

Y/N: you’re welcome baby, I even ordered the americano decaf for you and your old man stomach, oh sweet love of my life.

A pause.

Then—

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : Old man?! I am four months older than you…

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : Great now JK is calling me old man I hate you.

You laughed.

Y/N: No you don’t.

You were left on read.

You shook your head fondly, setting your phone down as Tang hopped up beside you and curled into your thigh.

“Bubs?” you told him. “Your dad is dramatic.”

Tang blinked slowly.

The apartment stayed quiet, warm with sunlight and the faint promise of delivery bags and new music somewhere across the city.

By the time you finally surfaced from your editing software again, your eyes felt dry and your shoulders ached in that familiar I’ve been sitting too long way. A decent portion of the album was finished, the rest of the photos neatly tagged and waiting for tomorrow. You saved everything with a satisfied hum and pushed your chair back just as—

Tang suddenly shot out of the room like he’d been fired from a cannon.

You grinned instantly.

The electronic lock disengaged with its familiar chirp, followed by a soft, fond voice from the hallway.

“Yeah, Tang-ah… Dad’s home.”

The loudest, most content meow Tang had made all day rang through the apartment, followed by frantic little paws skidding across the floor.

“Y/N, I’m home!”

“In my office, sweetheart,” you called back, glancing at the clock.

Fuck.

Had it really gotten that late?

You rolled your shoulders, wincing, just as warm hands settled on them and began kneading gently. A startled breath left you before melting into a soft sigh.

“And you have the nerve to get on my ass about my posture,” Yoongi murmured by your ear.

You hummed and reached back, fingers sliding into his long dark hair. You turned your head to press a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m merely helping out the elderly.”

You barely had time to snicker before he pinched your hip lightly.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he muttered, affection thick in his voice.

You turned in your chair fully to face him, as he leaned against your desk while Tang circled his ankles like a tiny bodyguard. Yoongi launched into stories from the studio — how everyone was buzzing because the album finally sounded finished, how Hobi had been utterly clowned by Jimin, Jungkook, and Jin for getting confused over the Super Tuna dance.

“Oh, they’ll never let him live that down,” you laughed. “Hobi’s gonna be out for blood next practice.”

“Exactly why I’m skipping it,” Yoongi said with a grin.

Then he hesitated.

You saw it immediately — the way his shoulders lifted slightly, the way his fingers flexed against the desk.

“Um… do you mind if I use the media room and go live?”

You didn’t even blink. “Baby, it’s your house too. You don’t have to ask.”

His shoulders dropped in relief.

“If we bring Tang in here,” you added. “I’ll keep him occupied. I’ll just shut the door and we can be quiet as a mouse, we will watch on my phone while I finish these last edits.”

You leaned up and kissed him softly. “You’re gonna do great.”

His lips curved against yours, that shy little smile you loved.

“Your glasses are still on the nightstand, by the way!” you called as he headed for the hall.

He lifted a hand in a wave without turning back.

Tang immediately tried to follow him.

“Oh no you don’t,” you said, scooping the cat up mid-betrayal. “Your dad has a very important celebrity thing to do.”

Tang yowled in protest as you shut the door.

You settled back into your chair with the cat in your lap, phone already in hand as you reopened your editing software. Through the closed media room door, you heard faint movement — the scrape of a chair, the soft click of a lamp.

A moment later, the Weverse notification lit up your screen.

쇼가 is live

Your heart fluttered as you tapped into Weverse, propping your phone against your now-empty coffee cup. The screen loaded and—

God.

God he looked so soft it almost hurt.

Dark hair still fluffy from the day, falling gently around his face, the black shirt fitting him criminally well. For a second he just sat there, blinking at the camera, clearly trying to convince himself this was a normal thing to do again.

Then he frowned.

Squinted.

Lifted the phone closer to his face.

“…Ah.”

You smiled so hard your cheeks ached.

He muttered something about his eyesight, fiddled with his hair, then leaned out of frame.

“I’ll be right back.”

You sighed fondly into the quiet office, hearing him move down the hallway picturing his little grandpa shuffle as he searched for his glasses.

“I told you where they were, idiot.” You whispered fondly

On screen, he came back wearing them, immediately looking more put-together and somehow even softer.

He talked about the cold weather first — the safe topic — brushing his bangs back, glancing nervously at the comments, squinting again.

“Why can’t I see the words very well?”

You scoffed quietly. “Old man.”

Comforted by the sound of his deep voice filling the apartment, you turned back to your editing. You adjusted contrast on a photo of the bridal party, smiled at how perfectly the sun caught the bride’s veil, and glanced over at Tang just to be sure.

He was sprawled across his cat tower like a loaf of burnt bread, tail flicking lazily.

“Good,” you whispered. “Stay.”

You dove back into your work, slipping into that familiar focused trance. Yoongi’s voice hummed in the background as he thanked ARMY for waiting, said he’d missed them, promised music soon.

You were so close to finishing.

Then—

“Mrrrow.”

Your heart dropped.

You snapped your head up.

The cat tower was empty.

You whipped around to the office door.

Now opened a fraction.

…Which meant he was surely already in the hallway.

“Fuck,” you breathed.

You froze in your chair, mind racing. You couldn’t go after him — not without making noise, not without being heard. You risked a glance at your phone just in time to see Yoongi’s expression change.

First: surprise.

Next: resignation.

Finally: pure fondness.

He looked and scoffed like a man who knew exactly what was happening, and accepted it.

“Tang,” he called gently.

Your stomach flipped.

“Mrrrow.”

“Yes. Today,” Yoongi said with a sigh. “Yes, Tang. Come on air today.”

You stared in horror as your cat was lifted into frame like a furry offering to the internet. You watched as Min Yoongi, world renowned artist, producer and rapper. Introduced your cat to the world with the most endeared smile, like he was the proudest millennial cat dad alive.

“This is Tang,” he said, smiling as Tang immediately demanded tummy rubs. “He’s… very loud.”

Tang rewarded him by screaming.

Yoongi chuckled and scratched under his chin. Then he frowned slightly and began patting Tang’s neck.

“Wait… where is your bell?”

You slapped a hand over your mouth.

No.

He disappeared off screen for half a second and reappeared holding it.

That stupid bell. So stupid it was adorable.

The tiny, ridiculous, baby chick-shaped bell you had bought at three in the morning because it was cute, yellow and absolutely unnecessary, and that alone made it necessary.

He fastened it back around Tang’s neck proudly.

“There,” he said, smiling like he’d accomplished something great.

Your heart fluttered painfully as he explained how he had originally wanted two cats — one named Sol and one Tang — but couldn’t. How Tang’s dad had been a street cat. How Tang could open doors. How smart he was.

You sank back into your chair, watching the screen with a hand still over your mouth.

Tang fussed in Yoongi’s arms, tail swishing, meowing indignantly. Yoongi answered every sound with hums and a little smile, rubbing his belly, patting his back.

Then came the butt pats.

Firm. Proud. Repetitive.

Tang melted into it instantly demanding more.

The rest of the live passed like a blur — Yoongi talking about music, Tang interrupting, Yoongi telling ARMY even more things about that menace of a beautiful cat.

You watched the whole thing from your desk, heart warm, eyes soft, knowing you would never tease him about this…

…Out loud, anyway.

When the live finally ended, you didn’t move right away.

You just stared at the black screen for a second and whispered:

“I love you, you ridiculous man.”

From down the hall, you heard:

“Mrrrow.”

And then Yoongi’s voice:

“Don’t try and act innocent now Tang-ah.”

Moving on instinct alone, you slipped out of your office and padded down the hallway, apology already forming on your lips.

“Yoon— baby, I am so sorry,” you said softly, poking your head into the media room with your hands clasped in front of you. “I only looked away for a second to fix the contrast on this picture and—”

“It’s okay, sweetheart.”

He was already smiling.

Tang was curled up in his lap like he’d been there all along, a black ball of fur rising and falling with slow, satisfied breaths. A deep purr vibrated through the quiet room, loud enough that you felt it before you fully heard it.

“He just missed his dad,” Yoongi added gently, running his hand down Tang’s back.

Your chest tightened.

“I should’ve noticed him opening the door,” you said, stepping fully inside and lowering yourself beside him on the couch. “I really am sorry.”

Yoongi shook his head. “He… actually helped calm my nerves.” He glanced at you then, eyes soft as they traced your face. “So it worked out.”

You let out a small laugh, leaning into him. “I’m also sorry I wasn’t the first ‘Yoongi marry me’ in the chat, for what it’s worth.”

You rested your head on his shoulder and slid your fingers into Tang’s fur, scratching lightly behind his ear.

Yoongi’s body shook with silent laughter, his arm coming around you automatically.

“Traitor,” he murmured fondly.

For a moment, you just stayed there — the three of you tucked into the quiet aftermath of something that had felt big something vulnerable and somehow small all at once.

You thought, not for the first time, that life couldn’t possibly get any better than this.

A boyfriend who loved you deeply.

A cat who loved you both loudly.

And a home that felt warm in every sense of the word.

Tang shifted slightly, stretching one paw out experimentally until it rested against your leg, as if testing whether he could still charm you too.

Your heart melted.

“Look at him,” you whispered. “He’s deciding if I’m worthy.”

“He is very selective,” Yoongi agreed solemnly.

You smiled into his shoulder, eyes drifting shut.

What you couldn’t know — what you had no way of knowing yet — was that hidden away in the safe at Genius Lab was a small velvet ring box. Waiting patiently. Quietly. Full of promises to make life even sweeter.

But that is a story for another day.

For now, you had this moment.

And it was enough.

[minyoongisnewthing]

These tags had me smiling all morning, Thank you for enjoying my little fic ☺️

[minyoongisnewthing]

쇼가 is live | myg

pairing: Reader x Min Yoongi

Genre: Fluff that is all, just slice of life fluff.

Content warnings: None that I can think of but feel free to let me know if there are!

Word count: 3.6k Roughly

authors note: It’s been a minute since I had both time and inspiration to write but this Yoongi live still lives in my head rent free!

Your morning didn’t begin the way it usually did — not with your alarm, also not with your boyfriend’s grumpy groan about it being too early.

Instead, it started with a soft, startled “oof” beside you… followed by a loud, vibrating purr and an indignant little mrrrow.

“Good morning to you too, Tang-ah,” Yoongi rasped, his voice thick with sleep and fond exasperation. “You trying to assassinate me before breakfast?”

You blinked blearily, still half cocooned in blankets, and reached out blindly from your warm nest of sheets. Your fingers met sleek fur almost immediately. You threaded them through it, slow and lazy, and Tang’s purring deepened into something that felt like it could power a small engine.

The cat was perched triumphantly on Yoongi’s lower stomach, kneading with determined little paws like he was working dough.

You smiled into the pillow and shuffled closer to Yoongi’s warmth, draping yourself partly over his side.

“Told you he could open doors now,” you murmured sleepily. “Our boy is a genius, aren’t you, Tangie? Smartest in the whole house.”

You scratched under Tang’s chin, and he tipped his head back dramatically, soaking up the attention like royalty. His paws continued their rhythmic kneading, entirely unapologetic.

Yoongi’s quiet chuckle vibrated through his chest beneath you. You rolled onto your back to stretch, immediately regretting the movement when Tang transferred his full weight onto you with zero hesitation, absolutely baited into it by your oh so loving boyfriend.

“Yoon,” you protested weakly as the cat settled squarely on your chest like he’d claimed new territory.

“What?” Yoongi shot back, already throwing the blankets off himself. “He was making those biscuits on my bladder. I was two seconds from pissing myself. It was survival. All is fair in cat parenting my love”

He swung his legs out of bed, shuffling toward the ensuite with a sigh and stretch. “You deal with him. He’s your son now.”

You snorted softly and relented, bringing both hands up to scratch behind Tang’s ears. He immediately began kneading again, this time with far too much enthusiasm and absolutely no respect for personal space.

“Ow, that was my nipple!,” you muttered fondly as his paws pressed into your chest. “You have no concept of boundaries, do you?”

Tang answered by purring louder and kneading harder.

From the bathroom, Yoongi’s voice floated back, amused. “He learned that from you.”

You laughed quietly, carding your fingers through Tang’s fur as sunlight began to creep through the curtains, painting the room in warmth. The sheets were soft, the cat was smug, and the faint sound of Yoongi moving around the bathroom grounded everything in that gentle, lived-in way that made mornings feel nice.

You closed your eyes again with a contented sigh, trusting in the universal law of cats — once they had decided you were boring, they would move on to their next conquest. Sure enough, Tang abandoned you within seconds, hopping down from the bed with a purposeful flick of his tail.

“Off to commit crimes, my child” you murmured. “Probably going to scam your grandmother out of treats for breakfast, huh?.”

If you had to bet, he was already halfway down the hall, rehearsing his most pitiful meow.

The mattress dipped beside you again and before you could react, strong arms wrapped around your waist and dragged you backward. You squealed softly as Yoongi pulled you flush against his chest, his warmth enveloping you. He nipped playfully at your shoulder before pressing slow kisses there instead, his lips lingering against your skin.

“Hey,” you laughed breathlessly.

His hand slipped beneath your sleep shirt, warm palm settling just under your chest. The contact made you chuckle, half from surprise, half from the familiar comfort of him.

“Hhmm?” he hummed innocently into your neck.

“Oh nothing,” you said lightly, nudging his wrist with your fingers. “Just thinking your son learned that move from you.”

Yoongi’s face lit up with a wicked little grin as he lifted his head, eyes glittering with mischief. He buried his face back into your neck, planting another kiss there, slower this time.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I’ll behave.”

You felt the words more than heard them.

His hand stilled, resting comfortably instead of wandering, and his voice softened when he asked, “What are your plans for today?”

You groaned a dramatic little sound then rolled onto your side so you could face him. “I have to edit the photos from the Allen wedding, make a start on putting together their album and slideshow… and I’ve also got some emails I’ve been pretending don’t exist.”

You cupped his cheek and kissed him, slow and lingering. “I should probably start editing soon, but what about you, my love? Off to the studio to be a musical genius and lyrical mastermind?”

You grinned when his cheeks flushed pink immediately.

“Hajima,” he muttered, scrunching his nose before the shy smile returned. But then his expression shifted — the teasing softness fading into something more thoughtful. His brows knit slightly as he hesitated.

“I will be… for a bit,” he said carefully. “But… I was also thinking I might go live today.”

You tilted your head. “Live?”

“Yeah,” he nodded faintly. “Maybe when I’m home… or maybe at the studio.”

His voice was quieter now, less certain. He stared at the pillow for a moment before glancing back at you.

“With one of the boys?” you prompted gently.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “By myself.”

Your heart tightened at that. You could see it now — the nerves tucked beneath his calm, the way his fingers fidgeted slightly against the sheets. It wasn’t fear of ARMY. Never them. It was the weight of time, the vulnerability of showing himself again alone, without the comfort of his six brothers, after so long.

You smiled and ran your thumb slowly across his cheek, grounding him. “You know they’ve missed you.”

“I know,” he sighed softly. “I just… haven’t done it like that in a while.”

His eyes lifted to yours, searching.

“Baby,” you whispered with a small grin, “you don’t have to stay long. You could just say hi, show them you’re alive and still handsome.”

He snorted. “Handsome?”

“Devastatingly,” you corrected.

That finally earned you a real smile, slow and fond. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Will you watch?” he asked quietly.

“Of course,” you said without hesitation. “I’ll even be the first ‘Yoongi marry me’ in the chat.”

He kissed you then with a chuckle, gentle and grateful, his arms tightening around you as sunlight crept higher across the bed and the quiet hum of the house wrapped around you both.

Somewhere down the hall, Tang yowled dramatically.

You both sighed.

“See?” you murmured. “Already practicing for his drama debut.”

Breakfast was a quick, lazy affair — toast, sliced fruit, and a few stolen kisses before you finally sent him out the door. You watched Yoongi tug his jacket on, hair still soft and a little wild from sleep, before you pressed one last kiss to his lips and waved him off.

“Don’t forget to eat,” you called after him.

“I won’t forget, and don’t try to act like you're not as bad” he shot back with a grin.

The door clicked shut, leaving the apartment wrapped in a peaceful quiet. Almost immediately, soft paws thudded down the hallway behind you.

You smiled. “Of course you’re coming too.”

Tang followed you like a shadow into your office. You pushed the door open and crossed straight to the window, pulling the blinds up and letting the honeyed morning light spill across the room. Dust motes danced in it, turning the space warm and alive.

“Okay, Tang,” you murmured as you set your coffee beside your laptop and dropped into your chair. “Mumma needs to lock the fuck in on these photos.”

He jumped onto the desk with a soft thump and headbutted your chin in agreement.

Before booting up your laptop, you took a second to glance around the room — and your gaze softened when it landed on your favorite photo frame. Yoongi’s gummy smile was frozen there forever, joy written all over his face as he watched his brother marry the love of his life. You’d taken it without thinking, just another candid moment from the wedding… never knowing it would be the moment that quietly tied your lives together.

That was how you and Yoongi had met — photographing his brother’s wedding.

But that is a story for another day.

You opened your software and spent the first hour answering inquiries and booking new weddings, then finally pulled up the album you planned to work on today. The newlyweds filled your screen — the groom looking at his bride like she’d hung the moon, eyes bright with awe as they cut the cake.

Your chest warmed.

“Definitely going in the album, huh, Tang-ah,” you mused.

Your sentence was punctuated by a solid headbutt to your jaw.

“Violent agreement. Got it.”

You lost track of time after that, sinking into your editing flow — adjusting contrast, fiddling around with grayscale,  softening colors, cropping just right. The only interruptions were the soft click of your mouse, the faint hum of the apartment, and the steady ping of your phone as Yoongi sent updates from the studio.

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : This song we’re working on… it’s so good.

You smiled instantly.

Y/N: Send me a snippet!

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : Nope. you have to wait like everyone else, baby.

You scoffed aloud, already picturing the smug grin he’d be wearing.

Y/N: Even though I’m sleeping with one of the producers?? rude. What kind of non-perks are these Min!!! 

You hit send with a shake of your head, imagining the fond eye-roll he’d give his phone.

Eventually, your stomach betrayed you with an unmistakable growl.

“Okay,” you muttered. “Lunch time i guess, damn.”

It took about five seconds to decide ‘absolutely not’ to cooking. You grabbed your phone, opened the food delivery app, and ordered gimbap and another coffee for yourself — then added a second order for Yoongi to be delivered to the studio without even thinking about it.

You plucked a few strawberries from the fridge to tide yourself over and padded out into the living room, stretching your back out with a groan.

“I really need to fix my posture,” you scolded yourself. “I sit like a shrimp.”

Tang followed, tail flicking as you collapsed onto the couch and scrolled through Netflix, not really watching anything.

A little bit later your mouth full of food your phone buzzed again.

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : Thank you, for the coffee and gimbap my love.

Your lips curved immediately.

Y/N: you’re welcome baby, I even ordered the americano decaf for you and your old man stomach, oh sweet love of my life.

A pause.

Then—

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : Old man?! I am four months older than you…

Tang’s dad 🐈‍⬛ : Great now JK is calling me old man I hate you.

You laughed.

Y/N: No you don’t.

You were left on read.

You shook your head fondly, setting your phone down as Tang hopped up beside you and curled into your thigh.

“Bubs?” you told him. “Your dad is dramatic.”

Tang blinked slowly.

The apartment stayed quiet, warm with sunlight and the faint promise of delivery bags and new music somewhere across the city.

By the time you finally surfaced from your editing software again, your eyes felt dry and your shoulders ached in that familiar I’ve been sitting too long way. A decent portion of the album was finished, the rest of the photos neatly tagged and waiting for tomorrow. You saved everything with a satisfied hum and pushed your chair back just as—

Tang suddenly shot out of the room like he’d been fired from a cannon.

You grinned instantly.

The electronic lock disengaged with its familiar chirp, followed by a soft, fond voice from the hallway.

“Yeah, Tang-ah… Dad’s home.”

The loudest, most content meow Tang had made all day rang through the apartment, followed by frantic little paws skidding across the floor.

“Y/N, I’m home!”

“In my office, sweetheart,” you called back, glancing at the clock.

Fuck.

Had it really gotten that late?

You rolled your shoulders, wincing, just as warm hands settled on them and began kneading gently. A startled breath left you before melting into a soft sigh.

“And you have the nerve to get on my ass about my posture,” Yoongi murmured by your ear.

You hummed and reached back, fingers sliding into his long dark hair. You turned your head to press a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m merely helping out the elderly.”

You barely had time to snicker before he pinched your hip lightly.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he muttered, affection thick in his voice.

You turned in your chair fully to face him, as he leaned against your desk while Tang circled his ankles like a tiny bodyguard. Yoongi launched into stories from the studio — how everyone was buzzing because the album finally sounded finished, how Hobi had been utterly clowned by Jimin, Jungkook, and Jin for getting confused over the Super Tuna dance.

“Oh, they’ll never let him live that down,” you laughed. “Hobi’s gonna be out for blood next practice.”

“Exactly why I’m skipping it,” Yoongi said with a grin.

Then he hesitated.

You saw it immediately — the way his shoulders lifted slightly, the way his fingers flexed against the desk.

“Um… do you mind if I use the media room and go live?”

You didn’t even blink. “Baby, it’s your house too. You don’t have to ask.”

His shoulders dropped in relief.

“If we bring Tang in here,” you added. “I’ll keep him occupied. I’ll just shut the door and we can be quiet as a mouse, we will watch on my phone while I finish these last edits.”

You leaned up and kissed him softly. “You’re gonna do great.”

His lips curved against yours, that shy little smile you loved.

“Your glasses are still on the nightstand, by the way!” you called as he headed for the hall.

He lifted a hand in a wave without turning back.

Tang immediately tried to follow him.

“Oh no you don’t,” you said, scooping the cat up mid-betrayal. “Your dad has a very important celebrity thing to do.”

Tang yowled in protest as you shut the door.

You settled back into your chair with the cat in your lap, phone already in hand as you reopened your editing software. Through the closed media room door, you heard faint movement — the scrape of a chair, the soft click of a lamp.

A moment later, the Weverse notification lit up your screen.

쇼가 is live

Your heart fluttered as you tapped into Weverse, propping your phone against your now-empty coffee cup. The screen loaded and—

God.

God he looked so soft it almost hurt.

Dark hair still fluffy from the day, falling gently around his face, the black shirt fitting him criminally well. For a second he just sat there, blinking at the camera, clearly trying to convince himself this was a normal thing to do again.

Then he frowned.

Squinted.

Lifted the phone closer to his face.

“…Ah.”

You smiled so hard your cheeks ached.

He muttered something about his eyesight, fiddled with his hair, then leaned out of frame.

“I’ll be right back.”

You sighed fondly into the quiet office, hearing him move down the hallway picturing his little grandpa shuffle as he searched for his glasses.

“I told you where they were, idiot.” You whispered fondly

On screen, he came back wearing them, immediately looking more put-together and somehow even softer.

He talked about the cold weather first — the safe topic — brushing his bangs back, glancing nervously at the comments, squinting again.

“Why can’t I see the words very well?”

You scoffed quietly. “Old man.”

Comforted by the sound of his deep voice filling the apartment, you turned back to your editing. You adjusted contrast on a photo of the bridal party, smiled at how perfectly the sun caught the bride’s veil, and glanced over at Tang just to be sure.

He was sprawled across his cat tower like a loaf of burnt bread, tail flicking lazily.

“Good,” you whispered. “Stay.”

You dove back into your work, slipping into that familiar focused trance. Yoongi’s voice hummed in the background as he thanked ARMY for waiting, said he’d missed them, promised music soon.

You were so close to finishing.

Then—

“Mrrrow.”

Your heart dropped.

You snapped your head up.

The cat tower was empty.

You whipped around to the office door.

Now opened a fraction.

…Which meant he was surely already in the hallway.

“Fuck,” you breathed.

You froze in your chair, mind racing. You couldn’t go after him — not without making noise, not without being heard. You risked a glance at your phone just in time to see Yoongi’s expression change.

First: surprise.

Next: resignation.

Finally: pure fondness.

He looked and scoffed like a man who knew exactly what was happening, and accepted it.

“Tang,” he called gently.

Your stomach flipped.

“Mrrrow.”

“Yes. Today,” Yoongi said with a sigh. “Yes, Tang. Come on air today.”

You stared in horror as your cat was lifted into frame like a furry offering to the internet. You watched as Min Yoongi, world renowned artist, producer and rapper. Introduced your cat to the world with the most endeared smile, like he was the proudest millennial cat dad alive.

“This is Tang,” he said, smiling as Tang immediately demanded tummy rubs. “He’s… very loud.”

Tang rewarded him by screaming.

Yoongi chuckled and scratched under his chin. Then he frowned slightly and began patting Tang’s neck.

“Wait… where is your bell?”

You slapped a hand over your mouth.

No.

He disappeared off screen for half a second and reappeared holding it.

That stupid bell. So stupid it was adorable.

The tiny, ridiculous, baby chick-shaped bell you had bought at three in the morning because it was cute, yellow and absolutely unnecessary, and that alone made it necessary.

He fastened it back around Tang’s neck proudly.

“There,” he said, smiling like he’d accomplished something great.

Your heart fluttered painfully as he explained how he had originally wanted two cats — one named Sol and one Tang — but couldn’t. How Tang’s dad had been a street cat. How Tang could open doors. How smart he was.

You sank back into your chair, watching the screen with a hand still over your mouth.

Tang fussed in Yoongi’s arms, tail swishing, meowing indignantly. Yoongi answered every sound with hums and a little smile, rubbing his belly, patting his back.

Then came the butt pats.

Firm. Proud. Repetitive.

Tang melted into it instantly demanding more.

The rest of the live passed like a blur — Yoongi talking about music, Tang interrupting, Yoongi telling ARMY even more things about that menace of a beautiful cat.

You watched the whole thing from your desk, heart warm, eyes soft, knowing you would never tease him about this…

…Out loud, anyway.

When the live finally ended, you didn’t move right away.

You just stared at the black screen for a second and whispered:

“I love you, you ridiculous man.”

From down the hall, you heard:

“Mrrrow.”

And then Yoongi’s voice:

“Don’t try and act innocent now Tang-ah.”

Moving on instinct alone, you slipped out of your office and padded down the hallway, apology already forming on your lips.

“Yoon— baby, I am so sorry,” you said softly, poking your head into the media room with your hands clasped in front of you. “I only looked away for a second to fix the contrast on this picture and—”

“It’s okay, sweetheart.”

He was already smiling.

Tang was curled up in his lap like he’d been there all along, a black ball of fur rising and falling with slow, satisfied breaths. A deep purr vibrated through the quiet room, loud enough that you felt it before you fully heard it.

“He just missed his dad,” Yoongi added gently, running his hand down Tang’s back.

Your chest tightened.

“I should’ve noticed him opening the door,” you said, stepping fully inside and lowering yourself beside him on the couch. “I really am sorry.”

Yoongi shook his head. “He… actually helped calm my nerves.” He glanced at you then, eyes soft as they traced your face. “So it worked out.”

You let out a small laugh, leaning into him. “I’m also sorry I wasn’t the first ‘Yoongi marry me’ in the chat, for what it’s worth.”

You rested your head on his shoulder and slid your fingers into Tang’s fur, scratching lightly behind his ear.

Yoongi’s body shook with silent laughter, his arm coming around you automatically.

“Traitor,” he murmured fondly.

For a moment, you just stayed there — the three of you tucked into the quiet aftermath of something that had felt big something vulnerable and somehow small all at once.

You thought, not for the first time, that life couldn’t possibly get any better than this.

A boyfriend who loved you deeply.

A cat who loved you both loudly.

And a home that felt warm in every sense of the word.

Tang shifted slightly, stretching one paw out experimentally until it rested against your leg, as if testing whether he could still charm you too.

Your heart melted.

“Look at him,” you whispered. “He’s deciding if I’m worthy.”

“He is very selective,” Yoongi agreed solemnly.

You smiled into his shoulder, eyes drifting shut.

What you couldn’t know — what you had no way of knowing yet — was that hidden away in the safe at Genius Lab was a small velvet ring box. Waiting patiently. Quietly. Full of promises to make life even sweeter.

But that is a story for another day.

For now, you had this moment.

And it was enough.

[minyoongisnewthing]

drop this sunflower🌻 into the inboxes of the blogs that make you happy ! lets spread a little sunshine☀️

🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻

Thank you so much! 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 I hope you're having a good day and know this made my day today

[minyoongisnewthing]

You used chat gpt for the -at least- smut scenes for your Yoongi fic, right ?

…. No I did use a friend I trust to edit for me but I’m just new and inexperienced in writing and writing smut scenes in general just trying to write the best I can after loosing passion for anything creative for years and years but I felt proud of this so I thought why not! Thank you for the question

[minyoongisnewthing]

Hi, I found Han River Lullaby yesterday and I have already finished it. I kept telling myself 'just one more chapter, then I'll hit the hay' until I got to the epilogue. I didn't even scroll social media. I loved the story. It was like a warm blanket of comfort - cuddling me from head to toe, giving me hope and a little ray of sunshine during these gloomy times. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing this story with us <3 Take care

Thank you sweet anon I am so happy you liked my little story and you found comfort in gloomy times in my writing I hope you’re having the best day

[minyoongisnewthing]

Lines of fate | EC

Pairing: Erik Campbell x Paramedic! Reader

Genre: Fix-it fic, final destination AU, smut, happy ending.

content warning: death, smut, gore, supernatural horror. Graphic violence,

word count: 12.5k

authors notes: THIS FIC CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR FINAL DESTINATION BLOODLINES! As soon as I saw this movie Erik had my ass in a choke hold, This is my first try at a fix it fic I hope I did the Characters justice! As always feel free to let me know what you think in the comments or my ask box!

They say Death has a sense of humor.

You’d go a step further and say the entire universe was in on the joke — a cruel, cosmic stand-up act that never quite knew when to quit. Most days, you could laugh along with it. Most days, you were still blissfully unaware just how dark that punchline could get.

Today had started like that — annoyingly normal. The worst part of your morning, you thought, was a coworker calling in sick and forcing you to cover their shift. It meant missing Erik’s family barbecue — a Saturday tradition you’d grown to love. The Campbells always welcomed you with open arms, stuffing you with food and insisting you take leftovers like you were already one of their own.

Instead, you sat in the back of a cramped, overheated ambulance, your paramedic uniform clinging uncomfortably to your skin as the sun bore down on the city. The vinyl seat beneath you stuck to your thighs every time you shifted. The radio buzzed quietly under the hum of the AC unit struggling to keep up.

You leaned back with a sigh, letting your head rest against the cool metal wall and wondering what they were doing now. Erik was probably manning the grill, in his usual overconfidence, his tattoos catching the light like war paint. Maybe Bobby was mixing drinks and pretending to be a bartender again — probably already three shots in and talking someone’s ear off.

The mental image made you smile. Erik, with his ridiculous “Kiss the Cook” apron stretched over ink and muscle, flipping burgers with dramatic flair while humming the Mortal Kombat theme under his breath — yeah, you could see it clear as day. You’d been looking forward to it all week.

Then the radio crackled to life.

“Attention all units. Emergency at—”

Your breath caught halfway in your throat. The address hit you like a slap to the face. Familiar. Too familiar. You didn’t even wait for the full dispatch code before you lunged forward and snatched up the mouthpiece.

“This is Unit 5-2, we’re en route.”

Tony, your partner, looked up from his clipboard, brow furrowed. “Wait—wasn’t that—?”

“Erik’s mum and dad’s address.”

Your voice came out flat, too calm for how pale you felt. You didn’t even realize you were gripping the mic so tightly your knuckles had gone white.

A beat of silence passed between you, the kind that stretched and warped time until it felt like the air itself was holding its breath. Scenarios fired through your brain at lightning speed. Gas leak. Knife accident. Grill fire. A stupid fall. Something dumb. Something survivable.

It had to be.

Tony was already climbing into the driver’s seat. “We’re six minutes out. I’ll push it.”

You nodded, swallowing hard as you braced yourself against the side of the rig. The siren blared to life, and as the ambulance jerked into motion, your stomach twisted into a thousand cold, writhing knots.

You weren’t ready.

You couldn’t be.

Not for this address.

Not for this call.

No amount of training, no years in the field, no procedural manual or clinical detachment could have prepared you for what awaited as you rounded the corner of the Campbell family home.

The first thing you saw was the blood.

A dark, viscous pool spread across the grass like oil, staining the trimmed lawn an angry maroon. Then your eyes landed on the source — and your breath punched from your lungs like a sucker punch to the ribs.

Howard Campbell’s body lay crumpled in the center of the yard. Lifeless. His limbs at odd angles. But it was his head — dear god, his head — that would be seared into your memory forever. It looked… shredded. Mangled. As though the universe itself had chewed him up and spit him out.

The yellow lawnmower sat a few feet away, blades still whirring lazily, like it hadn’t just been part of something unspeakable. You remembered Brenda’s voice, nagging playfully over Sunday dinner more than once: “I swear, Howard, that thing’s held together by duct tape and a prayer. Get it fixed before it eats one of us.”

You stumbled forward a step, heart hammering in your ears as your eyes darted across the rest of the yard. A slow-motion portrait of devastation.

Brenda was on her knees, face buried in her hands, her shoulders wracked with silent sobs. Bobby stood frozen near the porch, hands in his hair, muttering something over and over that you couldn’t quite make out. Erik—

Erik.

He stood apart from the chaos, just a few feet from the body, shaking. His eyes were wide, glazed over like his brain hadn’t quite caught up to what he was seeing. His mouth was parted, chest heaving, but no sound came out.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, moving without thinking. Your boots crunched over broken glass as you rushed to him, wrapping your arms around his rigid frame. “Erik. Baby. What—what happened?”

His arms came around you automatically, but it was like hugging a statue — he was stiff, trembling, every muscle locked.

“I… I don’t know,” he rasped. His voice was raw, unsteady, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. “It—it happened so fast. I was just coming back from the garage. I heard glass shatter. Dad must’ve stepped on something. He slipped. He fell—then the rake—” he paused, eyes unfocused, as if rewinding the memory hurt to even attempt. “The rake fell. It hit the lawnmower. It just… it started. And then…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. His jaw clenched, and his eyes flicked toward the body again before he looked away with a soundless gasp, burying his face against your shoulder.

Behind you, Tony had already dropped to his knees beside Howard’s remains, snapping on gloves and calling in for backup with a grim efficiency that contrasted the sheer devastation around him.

You held Erik tighter, rocking slightly, grounding him. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you,” you whispered, though you knew nothing about this day was okay. Nothing ever would be again — not for the Campbells.

But right now, Erik needed something to anchor him.

And that was going to be you.

“Erik, baby,” you said gently, your voice cutting through the static fog that had settled behind his eyes. You brought your hands up to cradle his face, guiding his trembling gaze away from the mangled horror on the lawn and back to you — to something living. Safe. Familiar.

His blue-grey eyes locked onto yours, pupils blown wide with shock. Haunted.

“Breathe with me,” you whispered. “In… hold it… count to five… and release.”

You did it with him, slow and steady, your thumb stroking soothing circles over the ridge of his cheekbone, grounding him. Again. And again. You counted out loud until his chest began to rise and fall in rhythm with yours, each inhale less ragged than the last.

“There you go,” you murmured, brushing a lock of damp hair from his forehead. “Good boy. That’s it.”

His lips twitched, a flicker of recognition in his dazed eyes. You leaned in, your forehead resting against his for a breath.

“I need to go check on your mum now, alright? Just for a moment. Will you be okay while I do that?”

His nod was small, slow — almost imperceptible — but it was enough. Enough for you to peel yourself away, though your hand lingered on his arm for just a second longer than necessary.

You rose, your knees aching from crouching on the pavement, and turned toward the others. Brenda was sitting now, her hands trembling as she clutched a tea towel someone had pressed into them. Bobby paced along the edge of the porch like a caged animal, muttering curses under his breath. Stefani — you recognized her now, vaguely — was standing stiffly near the flower bed, arms crossed tight over her chest, face pale and unreadable. You noted Tony now moving to the others you hadn’t gotten to yet.

You moved quickly but carefully between them, checking vitals, offering blankets, asking quiet, grounding questions. Your voice stayed soft but firm, the professional calm in you kicking in like a muscle memory — even as your heart continued to beat out an uneven rhythm inside your chest.

The coroner had arrived. Howard’s body had been moved. There was now only the blood-soaked grass, a few scattered tools, and the silence of a broken family too stunned to cry.

You made your way back to Tony, who was standing near the ambulance, hands on his hips, jaw clenched.

“I’m gonna stay,” you said, glancing back toward the porch where Erik sat like a shadow of himself. “They shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Tony nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He squeezed your shoulder lightly. “I’ll let dispatch know. Call me if you need backup.”

You gave him a grateful look as he stepped off, and then turned back toward Erik.

He hadn’t moved from where you left him, sitting on the edge of the steps like a boy who’d wandered too far from home. You crossed the lawn and crouched back down in front of him, pressing a hand gently to his thigh before wrapping your arms around him.

This time, he folded into you without hesitation.

His head fell against your chest, his entire body sagging like the weight of the day had finally pulled the air from his lungs. His fingers clutched the sides of your uniform like he was afraid you might disappear too.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered into his soft brown hair, voice cracking. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby. I wish I could’ve been here. I’m so, so sorry.”

He didn’t answer — but his grip on you tightened.

And you stayed like that, cradling him as the sun dipped lower in the sky and the world kept moving, oblivious to the fact that the Campbells’ had just shattered into pieces no one knew how to pick up.

The next few days passed in a haze — a blur of grief, casseroles, awkward condolences, and funeral preparations. Nothing felt real. Time folded in on itself, days bleeding into each other without clear start or end. You were stuck in limbo, living on autopilot while the world around you cracked at the seams.

This morning, like the ones before it, you woke to the feel of Erik’s body curled tightly around yours in your shared king bed. His warmth, his scent — familiar and grounding — should’ve brought comfort, but something gnawed at the edges of your mind. A quiet, persistent sense of unease that hadn’t left you since the day Howard died.

You didn’t know if it was intuition or just the residue of trauma, but it lingered like a weight in your chest.

Erik stirred beside you with a sleepy grunt, his arm slinging lazily across your waist, fingers splaying over your stomach as he shifted closer. You stayed like that for a moment, cocooned in silence, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing, the low hum of the ceiling fan overhead.

“I don’t think you should be at work today, hun,” you murmured softly, turning in his arms until you could bury your face into his chest. His skin was warm, the faint scent of sandalwood clinging to him. “Not yet. Not today.”

Erik groaned into your shoulder, his voice muffled and rough with sleep. “I know, sweets. I know… but money’s tight, and my boss has the empathy of a houseplant.”

You frowned, your hand sliding down to trace the familiar outline of the skull tattoo inked across his stomach. Your touch was featherlight, almost absentminded — more about comfort than flirtation. He shivered slightly under your fingers.

“Minx,” he muttered, voice still groggy, giving your hip a half-hearted squeeze.

You scoffed against his chest. “You love it.”

A long breath escaped him, and he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head before slowly pulling away, his reluctance obvious. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

Eventually, the two of you untangled from each other and started the slow shuffle into the day. You showered together in silence, your fingers lathering shampoo into his hair while he leaned against the tiled wall with eyes closed. Neither of you spoke much — there wasn’t anything to say that hadn’t already been said in broken whispers or through held hands in the middle of the night.

Once dressed, you made him a quick breakfast while he pulled on his boots by the door. He looked exhausted — the bruises under his eyes darker than they’d been yesterday. Before he left, you cupped his face in your hands and gave him a lingering kiss, your forehead pressed to his.

“Please don’t overwork yourself,” you said softly, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “You’re not made of stone, Erik.”

He nodded, but you could see in his eyes that he was already building walls — retreating into autopilot the way so many grieving people do. You let him go, even though every part of you wanted to beg him to stay.

Once the door shut behind him, the apartment felt too quiet.

You turned on the dishwasher, wiped down the kitchen counters just to have something to do, and stared blankly at the growing laundry pile before deciding it could wait. Today wasn’t about chores. Today, you needed to check on Brenda… and Bobby… and Julie.

They were family too. And if you were hurting, you could only imagine the hollow ache they were carrying.

You grabbed your keys and a sweater, locking the door behind you with one final glance around your now-spotless kitchen. Everything looked fine. Normal. But something still felt… off. Like the air itself was holding its breath.

You shook the feeling off.

You didn’t have time for paranoia.

Not today.

You had a grieving family to support — and a man to love through hell.

After spending the day with Brenda — who absolutely would not let you leave without one of the many sympathy casseroles stacked in her overflowing fridge — you decided a quick detour wouldn’t hurt. Erik’s shift at MARKED Tattoo should’ve been winding down by now. Evenings were usually slow, mostly walk-ins and the occasional late-night impulsive peircing. He always texted you if he was swamped. You hadn’t heard a word since that morning.

It wasn’t exactly a rational worry. But after the week you’d had, you weren’t trusting anything to be rational anymore.

As you pulled into the lot behind the tattoo parlor, your stomach twisted. The neon sign buzzed erratically in the front window — flickering like a dying star — and the first thing that hit you was the music.

Erik’s sad mix.

He only blasted that playlist when he was spiraling. You knew the exact song too — a rough acoustic cover of “Hurt” playing through the walls loud enough to rattle your bones.

But then your eyes locked onto something far worse than a bad day.

There was smoke.

And fire.

Inside.

The flames licked the far corner of the studio, already blooming along the floor where spilled chemicals had pooled — green soap, disinfectant, ink. The flashpoint must’ve been sudden, because the scent of burning plastic, metal, and alcohol hit your nose after the adrenaline did.

And then — your mind caught up.

Erik.

He was inside.

Your gaze shot upward, and what you saw stole the air from your lungs.

He was dangling — on top of his station’s chair, one foot barely balanced as he clawed at a chain looped through his septum piercing, which had been yanked up and around the massive industrial ceiling fan overhead. The same chain that usually dangled harmlessly from a hook, decorative, almost punk-chic. Now it was tightening. Winding higher, millimeter by millimeter, with every lazy churn of the fan.

Forcing him higher. Lifting him by his face.

“ERIK!”

Your scream tore from your throat as you slammed the car door and bolted toward the shop entrance, nearly slipping on the gravel. The metal door creaked violently as you threw it open, heat slamming into your skin like a furnace.

The fire had grown in the seconds it took you to cross the lot. You could barely see through the smoke, but Erik’s outline was there — flailing, trying to stabilize, voice hoarse as he yelled down at you.

“GET OUT! You have to get out — it’s gonna blow!”

“YEAH, FUCK THAT!” you shouted back, already scrambling along the wall. “WHERE’S THE DAMN FAN SWITCH?!”

You ducked under a falling light fixture, eyes stinging from smoke. Your fingers fumbled against the wall, smacking away framed tattoo designs, cords, until finally — finally — your hand landed on the switch box.

You didn’t even think.

You yanked it down.

The fan groaned and stuttered before grinding to a stop — and Erik dropped like a stone.

His body slammed against the floor with a sickening thud. A scream ripped from his throat, and yours joined it a split second later.

The fire was closing in now. The spilled chemicals flared, sending a sheet of orange heat across the station table. You ran for him, adrenaline overriding your fear, grabbing his ankles and dragging him backward just as a shelf exploded behind you.

You didn’t stop until you’d hauled him clear out the door, collapsing with him in the alley behind the shop.

The cold air hit you like salvation.

You coughed violently, blinking tears from your eyes as you frantically looked him over. He was breathing — panting — blinking in shock, his leather jacket and jeans somehow untouched too badly by the flames. But then you saw it.

His forearm.

A fresh burn — red, angry, and unmistakably in the shape of a heart.

You recognized the charm. It had been hanging from one of his chains. The metal must’ve heated in the fire, branding his skin with a twisted, ironic version of love. Just beneath it, raw and red, was a tattoo he must’ve done himself tonight: DAD, the black ink still shiny.

Your throat constricted.

“You are so fucking lucky, Erik,” you breathed, voice shaking as you threw your arms around him, holding him like you were afraid he’d vanish. “Jesus Christ.”

He clung to you just as tightly, burying his face in your neck, his body trembling now that the shock was wearing off. “And you’re fucking insane,” he panted against your shoulder, voice ragged. “I told you to leave—”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, your expression full of fury and fear and aching relief.

“And let Death charbroil your ass while I stood outside with a casserole like some helpless extra? I think the fuck not, Erik!”

Despite everything, his breath caught in a wild, shaky half-laugh, half-sob. “You’re completely unhinged,” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours.

“Yeah,” you exhaled, finally letting the tears come. “But you’re mine. And no ceiling fan mishap is taking you from me.”

That night, after the ER visit and a tense but thankfully brief grilling from the fire chief, you both returned to your apartment exhausted, soot-stained, and emotionally wrung out. Erik’s arm was freshly bandaged, the heart-shaped burn now hidden beneath sterile gauze and medical tape. You’d made him take two painkillers and drink half a bottle of water you both having a quick shower before you even thought about crawling into bed.

Now, curled up in the dim light of your bedroom, you clung to each other like lifelines. The world outside could keep spinning. In this moment, all that mattered was that he was breathing, warm, solid, alive beneath your fingertips.

You nuzzled into his chest, breathing in that familiar, woodsy scent of him —sandalwood, soap, sweat, and just the faintest hint of burnt leather. Unmistakably him. Comfort. Chaos. Home.

“Hey,” you murmured against his skin. “I know we laughed at her, but… maybe Stef was right. Maybe your grandma Iris wasn’t that insane after all.”

He let out a quiet snort, his fingers lazily stroking up and down your spine. “Baby, we called her Crazy Grandma Iris for a reason. You really think we’ve got some kind of… death curse bullshit happening?”

You shifted slightly, resting your chin on his chest so you could look up at him. “I don’t know, Kiki. All I do know is that my heart fucking stopped when I saw you dangling like a puppet surrounded by fire. I didn’t think—I just ran. And I can’t lose you, Erik. You’re my person. My dumbass, tattooed, partner in crime.”

His expression softened, all the bravado from earlier melted down into something quiet and achingly raw. He pulled you higher until you were lying fully on top of him, your limbs tangling, your cheek pressed to his collarbone. He held you there like he never wanted to let go.

“You’re mine too, sweet girl,” he whispered, voice hoarse from smoke and emotion. “You won’t lose me, okay? I promise. I’m annoyingly persistent. Like a cockroach. Practically indestructible.”

You let out a breathless laugh, tears prickling your eyes even as you rolled your eyes. “That’s gross as fuck, Kiki.”

His mouth tilted into a grin, the kind that never quite reached both sides evenly — a crooked smile just for you. “Told you. Indestructible and disgusting. It’s part of my charm.”

You shook your head and kissed him — slow at first, soft and searching. Like a question with no words. His hand slid up the back of your shirt, warm fingers tracing the curve of your spine, grounding you with every touch.

“God, I love you,” you murmured against his lips before deepening the kiss — this time more urgent, more needy. His hands slipped lower, settling on your ass with a possessive squeeze that made you gasp softly.

“I love you too babe,” he rasped, and despite everything — the fire, the fear, the burns — he was smiling like a man who’d just found his entire world.

You kissed him again like it was the only thing keeping the darkness away.

His hands didn’t rush.

They stayed where they were, splayed over the curve of your ass, thumbs stroking slow, grounding circles through the cotton of your sleep shorts. He held you like he didn’t quite believe you were real — like you might vanish if he let go.

You stayed pressed to him, your heartbeat syncing with his, breath mingling between soft kisses that never strayed far. His lips brushed yours again and again — not with hunger, but reverence. As if each kiss was a thank-you to the universe for not taking you away. For giving him one more night to hold you like this.

You carded your fingers through his messy, smoke-scented hair, letting your touch linger at the nape of his neck. His lashes fluttered when you grazed that sensitive spot behind his ear, his grip on you tightening instinctively.

“You’re really okay?” you whispered, your forehead resting against his.

He nodded, then paused. “Not really. But I am right now. With you.”

That truth settled between you, heavy and real.

You kissed him again, slower this time. Your lips moved against his with a softness that said I’m here, I love you, and I’m not going anywhere. His mouth opened beneath yours, letting you in with a quiet sigh, and when your tongues brushed, the tension between you shifted — not urgent, not frantic… just full.

Full of everything unspoken.

Your hips shifted, your bodies aligning with instinctual ease. He inhaled sharply as you settled against him, your thighs on either side of his, the warmth of you pressing into his lower stomach. The ache that bloomed there was mutual — not just desire, but a desperate need for reassurance. For closeness. For life.

His hands slid beneath your shirt, callused palms dragging gently over the bare skin of your back. He didn’t rush to remove anything. He just touched. Like every inch of you deserved worship.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, his voice rough.

“I know.” Your lips ghosted over his jaw. “You still scared the shit out of me.”

“You dragged me out of a burning building, babe. I’m the one who should be shaking.”

You both chuckled, quiet and breathless. His hand found yours, lacing your fingers together between your chests.

For a long moment, you just stayed there. Breathing each other in. Letting your bodies mold to one another with aching slowness.

Then you dipped your head, pressing a kiss to his neck. And another. And another — following the line of his throat to his collarbone, tasting salt and smoke and skin. He exhaled shakily, his free hand now skimming up your thigh, resting just beneath the curve of your ass.

“You keep doing that,” he rasped, “and this is gonna stop being slow real fast.”

You smiled against his skin. “No rush. We’ve got all night.”

He cupped your jaw, bringing your face back to his. His eyes were dark, wide, filled with something deeper than lust.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

You blinked. “What?”

“That I’m your person.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’re my person.”

He closed his eyes like he was sealing it inside him. “And you’re mine.”

His kiss was different this time — deeper, more certain. And when you shifted your hips just slightly, the quiet gasp that left him was all the invitation you needed.

Tonight, you wouldn’t rush.

You wouldn’t take anything for granted.

His mouth was warm against yours — open, slow, and reverent. There was no rush in the way he kissed you now, just need, filtered through love and disbelief. His hands never stopped moving, one sliding up your spine beneath your shirt while the other stayed laced with yours, anchoring you both.

You shifted on top of him, hips rocking slowly, testing the friction where your bodies pressed together. Erik let out a low, breathy groan, the sound rumbling through his chest and straight into your bones.

“You feel that?” he murmured, voice hoarse, lips brushing yours. “That’s your fault.”

You smiled into the kiss. “Gonna do something about it, or just talk and lay there?”

He chuckled, but it caught in his throat as your hand trailed down his chest, over the lines of ink that stretched beneath his collarbones. Your fingers grazed over one of his pierced nipples, tugging gently on the silver hoop. The way he jerked beneath you — hips bucking up, a hiss escaping his teeth — made heat spark low in your belly.

“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “You know what that does to me.”

“Exactly why I did it,” you whispered, kissing down the side of his jaw as your fingers teased the other nipple, circling the ring before giving it the faintest tug.

He exhaled shakily. “You are so mean.”

“And you’re so sensitive,” you teased, letting your tongue flick over the spot just beneath his ear, where his pulse beat hot and heavy. “It’s almost unfair.”

His hands slipped beneath the band of your shorts, gripping your ass with purpose now. “Then get these off. I need to feel you. All of you.”

You obliged, lifting your hips just long enough to shimmy out of your shorts and panties in one fluid motion, tossing them somewhere into the abyss of your bedroom floor. Erik followed suit, pushing his sweats and briefs down with a grunt, clearly wincing as the band caught on the fresh bandage on his arm.

You slowed him down. “Let me.”

He let you take over, watching with soft eyes as you peeled the fabric from his hips — and there he was, in all his glory. Hard, flushed, and pierced. Your gaze flicked briefly to the glint of silver at the tip of his cock — the Prince Albert piercing he’d joked about once but now wore like a dare to look away. You never could.

“Still think it’s hot?” he asked, a little self-consciousness flickering behind the cocky smile.

You met his eyes and leaned down, placing a kiss just below his navel. “I think you’re beautiful. I always have.”

His breath caught, real and raw, and he reached for you, pulling you back into his arms. The teasing slipped away as his hands cupped your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks.

“Come here,” he murmured, softer now. “I want you close.”

You climbed back into his lap, guiding him to you with a slow grind of your hips. The stretch was familiar, grounding — your bodies slotting together in a way that made it feel like this was exactly where you were supposed to be.

Erik sucked in a breath as he slid inside you, the bar brushing your most sensitive spot with each slow inch. You both groaned at the same time — his head falling back against the pillows, your hands splayed against his chest, feeling every heartbeat.

You stayed like that for a moment — joined, still, breathing each other in.

Then you began to move.

Slow, rolling motions of your hips, drawing him deeper with every pass. His hands roamed your body like he couldn’t decide where to worship first — the curve of your hips, the dip of your waist, the swell of your breasts under your shirt.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Every fucking time, but especially right now.”

“I’m here,” you whispered, brushing his hair from his forehead. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

His eyes met yours — glassy and overwhelmed — and you felt something shift in the air between you. Not just lust. Not even love.

Survival.

The kind that makes your soul cling to the person who dragged you out of hell and held your heart steady when it shook.

He cupped your face again and kissed you — long, slow, devastating. Your bodies moved in tandem, not frantic, just full. Each motion dragged sparks along your nerves, every thrust dragging that piercing in just the right way. You clenched around him, moaning softly into his mouth as your rhythm picked up ever so slightly.

“Shit,” he breathed, “don’t stop — please, y/n, don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You rocked together until that familiar tension coiled low in your spine, pressure building in waves, tightening around him with every breathless grind of your hips. His hands trembled on your thighs, his mouth falling open as you clenched around him harder, closer, there—

“Come with me,” he gasped, holding your hips still as his control shattered.

You fell together — soft cries, gasps, a blur of whispered I love you’s and forehead kisses — until the tremors passed and all that remained was the sound of your mingled breath and the weight of his arms around you.

He didn’t let go.

And neither did you.

The next morning was warm, too bright, like the sun hadn’t gotten the memo that the world was still teetering on the edge of something wrong. Erik drove the two of you toward the Campbell house with the windows down and a juice popper stuck between his teeth, the straw clacking between sips.

You pulled up across the road — the same spot you always parked, but nothing felt normal anymore. Not after fire. Not after near-death. Not after last night.

As you unbuckled your seatbelt, Erik casually opened the door and wandered right out into the street.

“Erik—!” you shouted, your voice shrill with sudden panic.

Too late.

A screech of tires.

A blur of navy blue.

A sickening thud.

Erik bounced off the hood of a dark blue four-door sedan, his juice box flying, splattering sticky orange across the windshield.

“OW! Are you trying to kill me?!” he shouted indignantly, hand slapping the car’s hood like it had offended him.

Your heart leapt into your throat as you sprinted across the road, only registering the driver and passenger as you got closer.

Stefani and Charlie.

Erik’s cousin and her brother looked like they’d just seen a ghost.

“Erik?!” Stefani gasped, eyes wide as saucers behind the wheel.

Charlie fumbled with the door and jumped out. “Dude, what the fuck?! We thought you were dead—the fire, the shop—what the hell, man?!”

You reached Erik just as he straightened, brushing invisible dust off his shirt like he hadn’t just played a game of chicken with a moving vehicle. His whole vibe was maddeningly calm — like he hadn’t just taken years off your life.

“I’m fine,” he said breezily, waving a hand like he was swatting away concern. Your eyes narrowed so sharply he should have combusted on the spot.

“Fine?” you hissed under your breath. “You just played tag with a fucking car, Erik!”

Stefani was out of the car now, rushing toward him, tears welling in her eyes. “Oh my God, are you okay? I was so worried—”

He tried to sidestep, but she wrapped her arms around him before he could bolt.

Erik sighed dramatically. “Firefighters said I was lucky as fuck. Leather jacket probably saved my skin. And Y/N showed up when she did.” He peeled her arms off with all the grace of someone who had no clue how to receive affection. “Barely got burned.”

“But, ruined his favorite jacket,” you added flatly.

“Oh yeah,” Erik said, like it had just occurred to him. “That sucked.”

Stefani grabbed his arm just as he was about to shrug her off again. “Wait—what’s this?” she asked, eyes narrowing at the bandage wrapped around his forearm.

He paused, then smirked. “Oh, right, check it out.” With theatrical flair, he peeled back the gauze. “Got branded.”

You winced as he revealed the raw, shiny heart-shaped burn — still angry red — right beside the fresh tattoo inked in black lines: DAD.

he grinned. “It’s sick, right. You like it?”

You stared at him. He was either coping via complete emotional dissociation or fully losing his grip. Possibly both.

Stefani, however, was not amused. Her entire face twisted with disbelief.

“You said you were asleep!” she snapped, voice rising.

Erik blinked, then rolled his eyes. “You were blowing up my phone like a goddamn stalker. What did you want me to do, text you while I was on fire?”

You swatted his chest, hard. “For fuck’s sake, Erik!”

But Stefani wasn’t letting up. Her breath hitched, her posture rigid. “No. No, I don’t get it. You should be dead. You should have died—”

Erik turned from her, already brushing her off with the same casual energy he brought to everything that wasn’t ink, games, or you.

“Right, yeah. Okay.” He pivoted, walking backward toward the road now, arms spreading like a challenge. “Or maybe death’s not coming for our family. Maybe it’s all just random, huh? Coincidence. Chaos. Leather jackets and timing. Because anything else would be fucking crazy, right?”

Then it happened.

Roaring engine. A blur of black. A deafening horn.

A van tore past, missing Erik by literal millimeters — the wind in its wake ruffling his shirt as he stumbled back mid-sentence, crying out.

“Jesus!” he shouted, actually shaken for the first time. “Shit!”

You felt your entire ribcage tighten.

“You fucking idiot!” you screamed, storming across the road, fists clenched. “*Why?! Why the fuck would you walk into the road like that you cocky asshole, especially after last night?”

You shoved him hard, fist thudding into his chest again and again. “Are you trying to die?! Or just trying to give me a goddamn stroke?!”

But Erik…

He stood there.

Unmoving. Calm. Like the storm hadn’t even touched him.

And then he smiled — wide, crooked, unnerving.

“Or maybe I’m invincible.” He chuckled, he actually had the nerve to chuckle

You stared at him, breath ragged, not sure if you wanted to scream at him, kiss him or shake him until whatever this bravado was shattered into pieces.

Behind you, Stefani was yelling again. “Erik, wait!” Her voice cracked. Charlie echoed her, chasing after both of you as Erik turned and started strolling down the sidewalk like this was just another Tuesday.

Like Death hadn’t already brushed its fingers across his throat twice.

Like he wasn’t daring it to do it again.

“Erik, wait!” Stefani’s voice cracked, thick with desperation as she quickened her pace. “Just because Death didn’t kill you last night doesn’t mean you’re safe.”

The words hit you like a slap of ice water.

Because she was right.

You’d seen death up close in your job — felt its breath, heard its silence. It wasn’t merciful. It wasn’t just. It didn’t forgive mistakes or offer second chances. It took what it wanted, when it wanted. Ruthless. Indiscriminate. Inevitable.

And Erik? He was daring it to try again.

“Stay away from that tree trimmer!” Stefani called, her voice rising in pitch, her eyes darting around like every ordinary object was a loaded gun.

Up ahead, Erik was already sidestepping dramatically around the tree trimmer on the sidewalk, arms out like a pantomime. “Oooh, ooooh! Is it gunna move on its own, Stef? Is that what it’s gunna do?” He shot her a look, all theatrics and eye-rolls.

“Erik, come on,” you chastised, falling in beside her as her fingers trembled at her sides.

“It could fall…” she murmured under her breath, eyes glued to it anyway.

A few houses down, two kids were playing soccer in a driveway. Stefani’s head snapped toward them. “And stay away from those kids,” she said quickly, pointing.

Erik didn’t even slow his stride. “I’ll take my chances.”

Charlie, trailing behind, let out a baffled laugh. “Stef, it’s two kids and a soccer ball. You’re seriously losing it.”

Stefani was breathing faster now, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. Her gaze bounced between the trimmer, the kids, the blower. Her brain was trying to thread impossible connections.

“I don’t know, okay?” she snapped. “The trimmer could fall, hit that guy with the leaf blower — he gets startled and blasts dirt into the kids’ eyes, and then—then the kid panics and kicks the ball into Erik’s face!”

Erik finally stopped. Turned. Raised an eyebrow. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Soccer ball to my face?” He rubbed his chin in mock thought. “That does sound deadly. I should really be more careful.”

And with a grin, he turned and headed up the Campbells’ driveway like he hadn’t just baited fate.

You lingered back for a beat, placing a gentle hand on Stefani’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I know you’re just trying to help.”

She gave you a tight, grateful smile, swallowing whatever scream was sitting at the back of her throat.

Julia came jogging out of the house, dressed for a run in leggings and a zip-up jacket. She paused on the porch when she saw Erik, her brows knitting together. “What happened to you?”

“Charbroiled by Death, apparently,” Erik replied with a shrug, lifting his bandaged arm like it was just another conversation starter.

Julia’s face scrunched in concern as she moved closer. “Kiki, that looks really bad—”

Behind you, the familiar hydraulic hiss of a garbage truck pulling up snapped all of your heads around.

Stefani tensed like she’d heard a gun cock.

“Erik, stay away from the truck,” she warned, stepping protectively between him and the vehicle.

But Erik — predictably — sidestepped her again, now walking backwards toward the looming truck. “This truck? This beautiful truck?”

“Stop, please,” Stefani said, her voice thinner now, trembling.

You reached for him. “Don’t be a dick, Kiki. Not now.”

But he was already running his hands over the back tire like it was a lover. “You like that?” he asked with a grin, then leaned in dramatically. “Mmm. Truck, you filthy girl.” His hands caressed the rubber. Then he spanked the tire.

You groaned audibly. “Erik.”

“Ohhh, Erik’s tempting death again!” he called in a mock announcer voice, grinding once against the tire like a man fully detached from reality. “What’s gunna happen now?!”

“Stop!” Stefani snapped, sharp and desperate.

He danced away with jazz hands and a flourish, twirling like a showman as the truck’s hydraulic brake hissed again, indicating it was moving on.

“See? Nothing!” he shouted, triumphantly striding toward you as the truck began its slow crawl forward. “I told you! I’m invincible!”

“You’re an asshole!” you growled, shoving his chest again.

He grinned. “Yeah, but I’m your asshole, baby girl.” He leaned in, brushing a kiss over the top of your head, annoyingly pleased with himself.

As he brushed past Stefani, she muttered, “I’m just trying to help you all.”

Julia rolled her eyes, plugging in her earbuds. “Honestly, Stef, we are so done with your garbage.” With a scoff, she took off jogging down the street.

You watched her for a second. Something in your gut twisted.

Then it happened.

Julia’s scream tore through the morning like a knife.

Your eyes snapped toward the garbage truck — and what you saw didn’t register at first.

Just a blur of limbs.

Legs kicking.

Up in the air.

She’d tripped — or been pushed — and now her body was halfway inside the mechanical jaws of the garbage bin’s lift.

“JULIA!”

Time fractured.

All of you sprinted. You. Erik. Charlie. Stefani already grabbing the side ladder, screaming for the driver. Erik slammed his fists on the truck’s cab, yelling. Charlie joined him, pounding on the other side.

You reached the side just as Julia was lifted higher — still kicking, still screaming.

Stefani reached into the bin, her hands finding Julia’s arm. “Don’t worry,” she said desperately, gripping tight. “You’re not next. I’ve got you. I swear I’ve got you—”

The compactor activated with a deep whir-clunk.

“NO—!” you shouted, your voice joining the others in a cacophony of panic.

Stefani screamed as Julia was yanked from her grasp. The bin lurched. The lid slammed shut. And then—

CRUNCH.

Bones.

Glass.

Metal.

The sound silenced everything. A dull, sickening finality.

The truck shuddered once more, then idled.

And there stood Stefani — mouth open, eyes frozen — holding only an arm.

Just an arm.

Her scream echoed off the houses, high-pitched and jagged and not human.

You stumbled back, covering your mouth, heart slamming so hard it made your vision tunnel. Erik turned pale, his bravado gone in an instant, the blood draining from his face.

Charlie fell to his knees.

Nobody moved.

Nobody breathed.

Death had come.

And it wasn’t done yet.

The Campbell living room was thick with silence, the kind that lingered like smoke after a fire. You sat nestled beside Erik on the couch, your arms wrapped protectively around his waist. He hadn’t said much since Julia’s death—none of you had. The weight of what had happened still hung heavy in the air all these days later. The blinds were drawn halfway, letting stripes of late afternoon sun stretch across the carpet like prison bars. Grief pressed into every corner of the room.

Erik cradled a chipped black coffee mug between his hands, the one that read show me your kitties in bold white letters. He hadn’t taken a sip. Just held it, fingers wrapped too tightly around the handle, jaw clenched.

From the armchair across the room, Bobby finally broke the silence. “We should’ve believed you, Stef.”

The sigh Stefani let out then—quiet, jagged—was enough to crack your heart open. You watched her eyes cloud over, shoulders drawn in like she was trying to disappear into herself.

“No, I uh…” she began, her voice thin and shaking. “I screwed up the order. And now Julia’s dead. And it’s my fault.”

You didn’t hesitate. You reached across to take her hand, squeezing gently. Her fingers curled around yours, and a small, grateful smile tugged briefly at her lips. But the faraway look in her eyes never lifted.

That was when Marty, her dad, stepped forward.

“Guys, look…” he began, his voice thick but measured. “What happened was traumatic. And awful. But it’s nobody’s fault.”

He moved toward Erik, arms open, clearly meaning to offer comfort. But Erik didn’t budge. His eyes stayed on his untouched coffee, and when Marty drew close, he pulled back slightly and said softly, “Marty, please don’t.”

The air shifted. Everyone stilled.

Then Brenda spoke.

“It’s my fault.”

The words came like a gunshot—quiet but sharp—and they echoed in the room, stunning everyone into stillness. Even Erik looked up, confused.

“Mum, it’s not your fault,” he said, his voice low but certain, as if trying to anchor her before she spiraled.

But Brenda nodded, nodding so hard it looked like her neck might snap. “It is my fault.”

You sat straighter, your hand tightening around Erik’s waist.

Stefani blinked, confused. “What… what are you talking about?”

Brenda’s hands were shaking now. She pressed them to her face, then dropped them into her lap, steeling herself before she looked at Stefani again. “You were only wrong about the order because there’s something you didn’t know.”

Erik’s spine stiffened beneath your arm. You could feel the shift—the electric crackle of tension bracing in his body.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice cold.

Brenda inhaled shakily, eyes glassy. “Erik isn’t Howard’s biological son.”

The silence that followed could have swallowed the world.

You felt Erik’s body go still, his fingers whitening around the handle of the coffee mug. “I’m sorry, what are you talking about?”

Brenda didn’t stop. Couldn’t. “And Stefani, I didn’t believe you, so I didn’t say anything. And now my little girl is dead—”

“I don’t understand. What—what, you had an affair?” Erik asked, stepping slightly forward now, tension radiating off him in waves.

Brenda stood then, moved toward him with trembling steps. “Your father and I… we were having such a hard time. But it was good. It was good, because I got you. I got you out of it.”

But Erik wasn’t listening anymore. He took another step forward, voice shaking now. “So… who’s—who’s my real dad, then? Who’s my real dad?”

Brenda clutched her chest, panic in her eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Because Howard loved you so, so much.”

But Erik’s voice rose, louder now. “Who is it?! Who’s my real dad?!”

Brenda whimpered before the words spilled from her lips: “Jerry Fenbury.”

The name landed like a punch. You watched Erik recoil—physically recoil—his mouth twisting in disbelief and barely suppressed disgust.

“Oh, Jerry Fenbury?” he repeated, the name scraping out of his throat.

Brenda nodded.

Behind you, Bobby whispered, “Oh, shit.”

You moved toward Erik, reaching out a hand to his shoulder. But he shook you off, face pale and stricken.

“No, no, no—Jerry fucking Fenbury!” He jabbed a finger toward Brenda as he backed away, then turned sharply and stormed out of the living room.

You hesitated only a second before following him, pausing in the doorway for one last, futile, whispered attempt to calm him. But Erik turned back, face contorted in disbelief and wounded sarcasm.

“Oh GOD—is that why he always wanted to play catch?!” he shouted, voice cracking, before disappearing into the kitchen.

You hurried after him, quietly closing the door behind you as Brenda followed at a distance. You caught Erik’s wrist before he could go tearing off again.

“Erik, baby, slow down,” you whispered, trying to soothe the wild edge in his eyes.

“I can’t believe this,” he muttered, looking between you and his mother. His voice broke as he gestured vaguely. “Is that why he used to call me buckaroo as well?! GOD!”

You saw him glance toward the keys, and without missing a beat, you grabbed them first. He gave you a look of frustration, but you stood your ground, answering it with a firm, silent challenge. His shoulders slumped slightly. He understood what you were saying without needing words: This is your family. Don’t run.

Brenda stepped forward again. This time, Erik let her take his hand.

“I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “I should have told you. I should have trusted you. But Erik… you were so loved. You still are.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull away either. That was something.

Behind the closed door, you heard the low murmur of voices—chairs scraping, the others standing. You peeked out and saw them heading toward Darlene’s RV, Bobby trailing behind with a half-hearted wave goodbye.

Erik frowned, moving past you. “Oi!” he shouted, throwing the door open. “Any of you fuckers do a nut check?!”

Darlene stopped in her tracks, confused. “Excuse me?”

You and Erik stepped outside. “You made peanut butter cookies in that thing just a few days ago,” he said, pointing toward the RV. “With peanut butter in them.”

You watched realization dawn across Darlene’s face, horror creeping in. She turned sharply to Bobby.

“I am so sorry.”

Erik moved past her, heading for the RV. He stopped at the base of the steps and put a hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “This poor bastard so much as touches a nut, his throat’s gonna close up tighter than—” He paused, gesturing vaguely. “You understand.”

Then he climbed into the RV.

Darlene called after him, “It’s in the cabinet above the sink.”

A moment later, Erik reemerged, jar in hand, and lobbed the peanut butter across the lawn like a live grenade. He sauntered down the RV steps.

“All clear.”

He turned back to Bobby, clapping him on the shoulder again. This time, his face softened, that rare vulnerability peeking through.

“You’re a good brother, Erik,” Bobby said, voice quiet and sincere.

Erik’s expression was full of love. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—then mischief sparked in his eyes like a flicked match.

“Nut check.”

“What?”

WHACK.

Erik’s fist met Bobby’s crotch with precision. Bobby doubled over, gasping.

“Oh God!”

“I get it. It was good,” Bobby groaned, limping up the steps of the RV.

You stared at Erik in disbelief. “For fuck’s sake, Erik.”

He just smirked. That crooked little smile.

But when his eyes met yours again, something passed between you—unspoken but absolute.

If this death curse was real…

If Bobby was next…

You’d protect that sweet boy with everything in you.

“Wait. We’re coming with you,” Erik announced suddenly, already climbing back into the RV.

You nodded, striding forward without hesitation. “Someone’s gotta protect you.”

And just like that, you followed him—into whatever came next.

The RV hurled down the highway, the tension inside as taut as the seat belts cutting across your hips. Charlie and Bobby filled you in between bumps and curves, voices low and urgent. Apparently, in Iris’s infamous journal — now officially dubbed the death book — she’d detailed the name of someone called JB, who worked at Hope River Hospital. She’d once met a man who had survived this very thing — the impossible. Somehow, he’d beat Death.

“Hey, that’s fantastic, right Bobby? Hun!” you said encouragingly, your hand finding his and rubbing your thumb gently across his knuckles.

He gave you a weak smile, nodding, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was scared. No — he was terrified. You felt his palm damp in yours.

“Bobby, you’re my brother, okay? I’m not letting anything happen to you,” Erik chimed in from the front bench seat, spinning around to catch Bobby’s eye. His voice was surprisingly steady, and for a moment it actually seemed to calm Bobby’s frayed nerves.

The hospital came into view not long after — all pale concrete and blue glass, its entrance stretching into the clouds like a promise or a warning. Once parked, everyone piled out of the RV in a quiet, nervous clump. Bobby clung to you and Stefani, dragging his feet slightly as the automatic doors hissed open ahead of you.

You felt him hesitate.

His hand gripped yours tighter as you neared the revolving door, his body stiffening beside you. You knew what was going through his mind. All the ways this could go wrong. All the ways it had.

Erik went through first, followed by Charlie and Darlene. You placed a calming hand on Bobby’s arm.

“It’s okay. Me and Stef will be right behind you, okay?”

He nodded and stepped forward. On the other side, Erik was already holding his arms open, catching his younger brother in a protective embrace. You breathed a little easier.

At the front desk, Darlene leaned over to speak with the nurse in charge, asking where they could find JB. The nurse barely looked up, just pointed down the corridor.

“Autopsy. In the morgue.”

“Fucking grim,” Erik mumbled into your ear, brows raised.

“Quiet. Bobby might hear you — he’s already scared enough, Kiki, okay?” you whispered back, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “You terrorize that boy any more and I’ll nut check you next.”

That earned you a smirk, which you shut down with a kiss before moving to follow the others.

You arrived at the autopsy suite a few minutes later. A flickering yellow light above the door was glowing — on.

You stopped the group with an outstretched arm. “That means an autopsy’s going on inside. Anyone squeamish, stay out here.”

Predictably, no one stayed behind.

You opened the door and ushered everyone in quickly, trying to keep at least Charlie’s view blocked from the open cadaver on the metal table. The room smelled sharp — antiseptic and steel, layered over the coppery tang of blood. Your eyes scanned the lab, falling on the man performing the autopsy.

“Are you JB?” you asked, keeping your voice steady.

The man didn’t even look up. He just sighed, irritated, like you were a mild inconvenience in the middle of his dissection. “Who are you?”

Stefani stepped up beside you, her voice a little breathless. “The front desk told us he was here?”

Then a new voice spoke — calm, deep, and polished.

“That would be me.”

You all turned.

From around the corner emerged a well-dressed man in a crisp blue button-down shirt and black trousers, suspenders clipped neatly over his shoulders. He sat calmly at a computer desk, glasses perched low on his nose, posture relaxed.

“William John Bludworth,” he said. “But my friends call me JB.”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes catching on each of you in turn. Calm. Too calm.

“I’ve been waiting for you. Stefani. Charlie. Darlene. But no Howard. No Julia…” His gaze drifted to Bobby. “So… which one of you is next?”

He asked it like he was inquiring about the weather.

You turned sharply toward Bobby — and your heart sank.

He was pointing to himself.

You slapped Erik’s chest when you realized he too was pointing at Bobby.

“Hi,” Bobby said, voice small and scared.

JB nodded solemnly, offering condolences about Iris. He explained how she had saved his life the night of the Sky View Restaurant Disaster. Years later, she’d found him again — tracked him down — and they became friends. Together, they’d fortified her cabin. Together, they’d tried to outrun Death.

JB told you there were two ways to win this war.

“By killing… or by dying.”

You watched Bobby shake his head. “I wouldn’t kill someone.”

“No, no, maybe we should let the guy finish,” Erik said, raising a hand to hush him, which earned him another eye roll from you.

JB finished his thought like he was reading from a script.

“The only way to truly break the cycle is to die.”

Stefani’s voice wavered. “What does that mean?”

He told you the story of Kimberly Corman — the woman who had drowned herself in a lake once she realized she was next. She had flatlined. And the doctors brought her back. And that, JB said, had broken the chain. Death had been… satisfied.

Erik nodded along. “Alright then, we do that!” he gestured toward JB.

But JB raised a hand. Warned you. If you fuck with Death and lose…

The consequences are very messy.

Everyone in the room begged for another way, a third option, something. Anything.

JB just stood.

“People have been coming to me for years for advice. I’m tired. I’m sick. Just like Iris was. I’m done with that. I’m retiring.”

He straightened his glasses.

“My advice? Enjoy every moment you have left. I intend to enjoy mine. Life is precious. Enjoy every single second. Good luck.”

And with that, he left — like he hadn’t just dropped a live grenade in your lap.

Panic erupted. Papers rustled. Everyone began flipping through drawers, rifling through notes, searching for something.

“Y/N… Stef… come on. He gave us the answer,” Erik said, tone dangerously calm. “Bobby’s gotta die.”

“ERIK, are you fucking insane?! We’re not killing Bobby!” Charlie snapped, stepping between them.

But Erik remained unfazed. “Am I the only guy who listened to that dude? There’s only one way. We kill Bobby. Resuscitate him. Boom. You’re off the list. Congratulations.”

“Erik, baby, we aren’t doing that. That’s fucking insane, and you know it!” you snapped, rifling through papers with shaky hands.

It took you a few moments to register— silence.

You looked up.

Erik and Bobby were gone.

Your stomach dropped.

“Where are Erik and Bobby?” you asked the room. Blank stares. Wide eyes. “Shit. Fuck.”

You broke into a run.

You tore through the hospital’s sterile white corridors, sprinting past the maternity ward, then radiology. Your boots thudded against tile. Breath hitched.

“Erik, I swear to God, I’m going to beat your ass when I find you!” you hissed under your breath, teeth clenched.

Then — brown hair. A wheelchair.

You burst into the room. “ERIK MOTHER-FUCKING CAMPBELL!”

Both brothers jumped like startled deer.

“Not yet I’m not,” Erik muttered. “Unless this is your way of telling me something, sweet cheeks?”

You rounded on him, smacking the back of his head. “No! And not the time, asshole! The fuck are you thinking?”

He grinned like a kid caught with a slingshot. Brandished a peanut butter cup.

“The fucker’s nut allergy is deadly, right?”

You groaned, realizing. “Erik… really?”

Bobby sat up straighter. “He wanted to get me those unsalted bitches at first.”

You couldn’t help it — you chuckled. “Fuck… okay. It’s a good plan.” You pointed at Erik. “Stop it. I can hear your smugness from here.”

You turned to scan the room. Something felt off. Your instincts prickled.

“Guys… how long has the light been on in this machine?”

No answer.

“Guys?”

Still nothing you glanced over to see the two huddled together, Erik in the midst of a pep talk to bobby.

“GUYS!”

That got their attention.

“How long has this light been on?”

“Ever since we walked in. It came on when Erik went to get the wheelchair,” Bobby said with a casual wave.

You didn’t hesitate.

You snatched the EpiPen from Erik’s hand and grabbed the back of his shirt.

“Leave right the fuck now.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

“Don’t argue with me, Erik. Right the fuck now. Leave. Run to the front desk. Tell the nurse there’s a malfunctioning MRI in the room. and to get the shutdown code.”

He squinted. “You know the lingo, babe. Why don’t you run? I’ll stay with Bobby and—”

“I listened to the guy too, Kiki,” you snapped, pushing him toward the door. “He said fuck with death and lose, it gets messy. What are we doing now?!”

“Y/N, baby girl, I’ll be fi—”

“REALLY, ERIK? Because you know what’s in an MRI machine, dumbass? A giant magnet. You know what’s attracted to magnets? Metal. So unless you wanna stay and get pulled into that thing and folded in half like a fucking lawn chair because of your piercings — you. Run. Now. Get the nurse. Stay at the desk. And don’t fucking argue.”

His face paled. He glanced subtly down at his jeans — and the very real danger hidden beneath them, and all over his body. His legs snapped together almost reflexively before he nodded and turned to sprint.

You turned back to Bobby, sliding the EpiPen into your back pocket.

“Why did he glance down?” Bobby asked innocently.

You sighed. “Trust me, sweetie, don’t think too hard about it. And eat your goddamn peanut butter cup.”

Bobby blinked. “Oh Jesus Christ — that’s more than I wanted to know. He actually followed through and got his shit pierced, didn’t he?!”

You said nothing.

But your smile said everything.

“You should really know better than to dare that man to do anything, Bobby, honey,” you chuckled softly, though your eyes were already scanning his face for signs of anxiety. Your hand came to rest reassuringly on his shoulder, thumb rubbing gentle, grounding circles into the muscle. “Now, for real — eat the peanut butter cup. I’m right here, okay? I’ll talk you through it. We’ll handle the panic together.”

Bobby gave a nervous laugh that barely masked the fear in his eyes. Still, he nodded, unwrapped the peanut butter cup with shaking hands, and popped it into his mouth.

“Oh fuck, that’s good,” he groaned, chewing with a dramatic eye-roll that was classic Bobby — trying to keep things light even as doom loomed.

You crouched beside him, watching. Waiting. Listening.

Seconds passed. Nothing.

“You feel anything?” you asked gently.

He looked at you, hopeful. “Hey… maybe I grew out of it!”

You froze.

“Fuck.” You stood up too fast, nearly knocking over a stool. “Grew out of it? Goddamn it!” The words exploded from you as you kicked the closed door to the room, frustration and fear rising fast in your throat. “You’re supposed to be dying, Bobby!”

But then—

The rasp.

You turned.

Bobby was stumbling toward you, mouth open, gasping, eyes wide with panic.

“Woah, woah, okay—Bobby. Okay. You’re doing it, you’re doing it. It’s okay,” you said quickly, your tone switching instantly from frustrated to focused, calming. You dodged his outstretched hand, his fingers clawing toward the EpiPen.

“Sweetheart, I can’t give you that,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You know I can’t.”

He was fighting to breathe now — lips turning redder, skin flushing violently, fingers trembling as he stumbled, weak and desperate. You maneuvered around the room, avoiding him, eyes flicking constantly between his face and the rising danger in the room. You could hear his throat closing in real-time.

“Bobby—Bobby I’m here,” you whispered as he collapsed to the floor, body convulsing in short bursts as oxygen slipped away. Your knees hit the ground beside him, and you pulled him gently into your arms.

His eyes met yours — pleading, terrified — and you smoothed his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead with trembling hands.

“I’m so sorry,” you cried, rocking him, holding his wrists down as his limbs spasmed from adrenaline and panic. “I’m so, so sorry, Bobby. I love you.”

And then —

Movement.

You looked up just in time to see the wheelchair he’d been sitting in lift from where it rested across the room. It groaned, then flew forward — drawn toward the MRI machine like a missile. You watched, frozen, as it slammed into the opening with a horrible screech of warping metal. The steel twisted and folded, buckling into the mouth of the machine like it had been chewed.

A broken gasp left your lips.

Your mind showed you the scene that hadn’t happened but almost was — Erik, standing there, metal piercings in his body, being dragged by force into that monstrous magnet. Bones breaking. Skin splitting. Flesh folding in on itself.

“Fuck.” You clutched Bobby tighter, pressing your forehead to his. “That was almost Erik. That was almost you, Bobby. Just—hold on. Hold on.”

But the fight was leaving him now. His limbs went limp. His eyes rolled.

You pressed trembling fingers to his neck.

No pulse.

Nothing.

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you leaned in, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “Hold on, okay? We’ll bring you back.”

The door slammed open behind you.

A nurse burst into the room — the lanyard around her neck ripping toward the machine, nearly choking her before she backed up fast.

“Oh my God!” she cried, rushing to the panel on the wall. Her fingers flew over the keys, entering the shutdown code. The hum of the magnet wound down into silence, the danger receding — but it was already too late for Bobby.

The nurse dropped to her knees beside you, eyes going wide. “What happened?”

“He ingested peanuts,” you gasped out, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your shirt. “He’s allergic. Severe.”

She shouted for backup, calling a code as two more nurses rushed in. You felt Bobby’s body lift from your lap — cold, limp — as they transferred him to a gurney. You stood slowly, legs barely holding your weight as they wheeled him away.

And then—

“Y/N! Baby—”

You turned just as Erik rounded the corner, breathless, eyes wild.

He saw you, saw the tear tracks, and swept you into his arms like he was trying to protect you from the world. You clung to him, shaking, burying your face into his chest as your body gave in to the sobs.

“Bobby died in my arms, Erik. Right in my fucking arms,” you choked out. “What if they can’t bring him back?!”

“They will,” he murmured, wrapping you tighter in his arms. “Believe they will, okay? They will.” His hands rubbed circles across your back, steady and soothing, anchoring you.

Then his eyes lifted, locking onto the mangled wreckage of the MRI machine.

“Jesus fucking Christ. What happened?” he whispered, breath catching.

You followed his gaze.

“That… that was almost you, Erik. Fuck. If you hadn’t run—” You choked again, fingers curling into the back of his shirt. “I could’ve lost you again, Kiki!”

Your voice cracked into a sob, and Erik pulled you tighter, burying his face in your hair.

You didn’t know what would happen next — whether Bobby would survive, whether Death would be satisfied, whether any of you were really safe.

But right now?

You had Erik in your arms.

And you weren’t letting go.

The fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room buzzed faintly overhead, their hum a dull accompaniment to the tension that wrapped itself around your chest like a vice. You sat pressed close to Erik on one of the stiff vinyl chairs, legs tucked beneath you, his arm around your shoulders anchoring you in place while your mind spun in a hundred directions at once.

Moments later, Darlene, Stefani, and Charlie came rushing in, wide-eyed and breathless, their expressions bouncing between panic and confusion.

“What happened?” Stefani demanded, her voice already fraying.

Erik stood, hands gesturing wildly as he filled them in. “The allergy plan worked. Barely. But we almost didn’t make it. MRI room turned into a death trap. If Y/N hadn’t clocked what was happening…” He shook his head, voice hitching as he looked back at you. “The fucking wheelchair launched into the machine. If I’d stayed—”

“You’d be gone,” Darlene murmured, hand to her mouth.

You couldn’t speak. You just nodded numbly, still seeing the image of twisted metal and an empty pulse in your arms.

Darlene moved to the front desk to check in. “We’re here for the young blonde man who was just brought in,” she told the nurse. “Severe allergic reaction. He’s family.”

You finally rose from your seat, walking over to Erik like gravity was suddenly heavier. You clutched his shirt tightly.

“Erik… what if they can’t?” you whispered again, the words choking in your throat. “What if they can’t bring him back?”

Erik cupped your face, gentle but firm, his calloused thumb brushing away a tear as it slipped down your cheek.

“Sweet girl,” he said, voice low and sure. “They will. You know all the tips and tricks they’ve got here. This isn’t your first rodeo. You’re smart as fuck and brave as hell for getting my ass out of that room and holding my brother through that.”

His forehead pressed to yours. You closed your eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of him — smoke, aftershave, the faintest trace of peanut butter still clinging to his hoodie. You stayed like that, forehead to forehead, wrapped in each other’s warmth, until the soft sound of a nurse clearing her throat made you both look up.

She smiled kindly, clipboard in hand. “It was a close call. He flatlined on the table, but we brought him back.”

Time slowed.

You swayed slightly, and Erik caught your elbow.

“Would you like to see him?” the nurse asked.

You didn’t need to answer — the collective sigh that passed through the group was the answer. The weight lifted visibly from every shoulder. Darlene’s knees nearly buckled. Stefani clutched Charlie’s arm. Even Erik’s posture sagged, his hand dragging through his hair like he couldn’t believe they’d actually done it.

You followed the nurse down the hall like sleepwalkers, the group moving in silence until you reached the room. The door creaked open.

And there he was.

Bobby.

Alive.

Groggy and pale, but alive, his eyes fluttering open slowly like he was waking from a long nap. They were unfocused, glazed, but there — warm and full of wonder.

The wires, the IVs, the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor — none of it mattered.

He was breathing.

Erik didn’t wait. He rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside the hospital bed and grabbing Bobby’s hand like it was the last lifeline to reality.

He pressed his brother’s hand to his forehead, voice cracking. “You pulled through, you little fucker. You pulled through.”

Bobby blinked, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Then — the grin.

Big. Lopsided. Golden retriever levels of dumb joy.

“The plan worked!” he declared with glee.

The whole room burst into relieved laughter. Tears fell freely. You stepped forward, brushing Bobby’s hair back from his sweaty forehead and pressing a kiss to it. Darlene was crying outright now. Charlie fist-bumped Bobby’s ankle from the foot of the bed. Even Stefani let out a tearful breath of disbelief.

And for the first time in days, the impossible didn’t feel quite so impossible anymore.

You thought the universe was finally done with you — at least with the cruel, twisted jokes. But this time, it pulled one more trick out of its sleeve. And against all odds, you could laugh with it.

Not a bitter laugh. Not the kind that came with terror or trauma. This time, it was real.

It had been months since Bobby was released from the hospital, but the vigilance in the Campbell family never truly faded. You all still looked twice before crossing streets, flinched at coincidences, eyed ladders and chains and kitchen knives with suspicion. Death might’ve been delayed, but it hadn’t been forgotten.

Maybe that’s why you were now sitting on the rim of your bathtub, knees drawn up, your hands trembling.

Three pregnancy tests — two on the sink, one in your hand. All positive.

All screaming your life is about to change forever.

Your laugh was barely more than a whisper at first. “Fuck me…” You exhaled, the words caught between awe and disbelief.

But you were smiling.

You glanced at the clock. Erik was still at the tattoo parlour, at least three hours deep into his scheduled cover-up piece. Time — normally so fast, so slippery — was now crawling.

You couldn’t wait that long doing nothing.

You got up, your limbs shaky but determined, and moved with purpose. A small gift box you’d stashed in the hall cupboard caught your eye — baby blue, with teddy bears wearing party hats. Cheesy and perfect. You debated for a second, then remembered the onesie you saw on your last grocery run.

‘At least my dad is cool.’

A snort escaped you. Exactly the kind of thing that would sell it if the tests didn’t click. You rushed to the store grabbing it, mentally high-fiving your own brilliance.

Once home, you agonized for a full ten minutes over what to write on the gift tag. Nausea came in waves, but your excitement overrode it. Finally, an idea struck you like lightning.

Grinning, you grabbed your favorite purple gel pen and wrote in obnoxiously bold all-caps:

ERIK MOTHER FUCKING CAMPBELL

Then, for maximum obnoxious cuteness, you drew a ridiculous little heart above the I in Erik. He’d absolutely roll his eyes. And he’d smile too. You knew him like that.

You arranged the three tests inside the box with care, placed the onesie next to them, then sealed the lid with trembling fingers.

All you had to do now… was wait.

Time felt like it folded in on itself. You watched the seconds crawl past. You counted cars going by the front window. You considered scrubbing the kitchen grout just to keep your hands busy.

Then—

Keys in the door.

His voice.

“Hey, hun! I told Mum you’ve been feeling like ass the last few weeks — she told me to get you some chicken noodle soup,” Erik called out, the door swinging shut behind him.

You heard the rustle of plastic bags. “I went to like three different places for this bitch. Hope it’s at least nice if it doesn’t make you feel better.”

He came into view, bag in hand, placing it on the kitchen counter beside his keys. He looked exhausted. Ink smudged his forearms. His hair was slightly mussed. But he was here. Your heart swelled.

You made a soft noise of contentment, then padded into the living room and immediately crawled into his lap as he flopped onto the lounge. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, like he’d been waiting for you all day.

You kissed him — slow, warm, soft — and the kiss turned hotter quickly, your lips parting, his fingers sliding up the back of your shirt.

“I take it you’re feeling a bit better,” he panted, breath hitching as you pulled back.

“A bit. It’s on and off,” you stated, slipping out of his lap much to his mock-disappointment. “I’ll be two seconds.”

“Don’t tease me like this,” he groaned as you disappeared toward the bedroom.

You returned a moment later with the gift box clutched behind your back. Erik was counting — aloud — with exaggerated flair.

“You said two seconds. I counted at least a minute,” he pouted, flopping his head back dramatically.

“You’re such a dork. Shut up and open this,” you said, standing next to him and handing him the box.

He looked at you, eyes flicking between you and the box like you were pranking him.

“For me?”

You nodded, grinning. “Yes. Hurry up.”

He tugged the gift tag, squinting at your very deliberate message.

“Erik mother fucking Campbell. Awww, you added a love heart to my name. You do care,” he deadpanned, flashing you a crooked smile.

Your heart beat wildly in your chest as he lifted the lid.

You watched every flicker of emotion cross his face.

First — confusion.

Then — panic.

Then… stillness.

His eyes met yours.

Piercing blue-grey. Wide. Wet.

“For real?” he breathed, barely audible.

“Yes. For real.” Your smile trembled.

The box clattered to the floor.

Tests bounced, the onesie landing sideways as Erik was suddenly on you, arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you off the ground. You let out a little yelp as he spun you in a tight, dizzying circle, holding you like he might never let go.

Your legs instinctively locked around his waist. He held you there, forehead pressed to your temple, and you felt the tremor in his body.

He was crying.

“How the fuck,” he choked out, voice shaking, “are we, two dumbasses, going to raise a little gremlin?”

You laughed through your own tears. “I don’t know.”

But you would.

Together.

Because finally — the universe had played a hand you could both believe in.

[johntcarters]

I need you to know I finished this and immediately wanted to re-read it, what the FUCK it’s so good!!!!!

[minyoongisnewthing]

Thank you so much! I’m glad you enjoyed it, 👀 I thought I was done with these two but once again Erik fucking Campbell has my ass in a choke hold

[minyoongisnewthing]

Lines of fate | EC

Pairing: Erik Campbell x Paramedic! Reader

Genre: Fix-it fic, final destination AU, smut, happy ending.

content warning: death, smut, gore, supernatural horror. Graphic violence,

word count: 12.5k

authors notes: THIS FIC CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR FINAL DESTINATION BLOODLINES! As soon as I saw this movie Erik had my ass in a choke hold, This is my first try at a fix it fic I hope I did the Characters justice! As always feel free to let me know what you think in the comments or my ask box!

They say Death has a sense of humor.

You’d go a step further and say the entire universe was in on the joke — a cruel, cosmic stand-up act that never quite knew when to quit. Most days, you could laugh along with it. Most days, you were still blissfully unaware just how dark that punchline could get.

Today had started like that — annoyingly normal. The worst part of your morning, you thought, was a coworker calling in sick and forcing you to cover their shift. It meant missing Erik’s family barbecue — a Saturday tradition you’d grown to love. The Campbells always welcomed you with open arms, stuffing you with food and insisting you take leftovers like you were already one of their own.

Instead, you sat in the back of a cramped, overheated ambulance, your paramedic uniform clinging uncomfortably to your skin as the sun bore down on the city. The vinyl seat beneath you stuck to your thighs every time you shifted. The radio buzzed quietly under the hum of the AC unit struggling to keep up.

You leaned back with a sigh, letting your head rest against the cool metal wall and wondering what they were doing now. Erik was probably manning the grill, in his usual overconfidence, his tattoos catching the light like war paint. Maybe Bobby was mixing drinks and pretending to be a bartender again — probably already three shots in and talking someone’s ear off.

The mental image made you smile. Erik, with his ridiculous “Kiss the Cook” apron stretched over ink and muscle, flipping burgers with dramatic flair while humming the Mortal Kombat theme under his breath — yeah, you could see it clear as day. You’d been looking forward to it all week.

Then the radio crackled to life.

“Attention all units. Emergency at—”

Your breath caught halfway in your throat. The address hit you like a slap to the face. Familiar. Too familiar. You didn’t even wait for the full dispatch code before you lunged forward and snatched up the mouthpiece.

“This is Unit 5-2, we’re en route.”

Tony, your partner, looked up from his clipboard, brow furrowed. “Wait—wasn’t that—?”

“Erik’s mum and dad’s address.”

Your voice came out flat, too calm for how pale you felt. You didn’t even realize you were gripping the mic so tightly your knuckles had gone white.

A beat of silence passed between you, the kind that stretched and warped time until it felt like the air itself was holding its breath. Scenarios fired through your brain at lightning speed. Gas leak. Knife accident. Grill fire. A stupid fall. Something dumb. Something survivable.

It had to be.

Tony was already climbing into the driver’s seat. “We’re six minutes out. I’ll push it.”

You nodded, swallowing hard as you braced yourself against the side of the rig. The siren blared to life, and as the ambulance jerked into motion, your stomach twisted into a thousand cold, writhing knots.

You weren’t ready.

You couldn’t be.

Not for this address.

Not for this call.

No amount of training, no years in the field, no procedural manual or clinical detachment could have prepared you for what awaited as you rounded the corner of the Campbell family home.

The first thing you saw was the blood.

A dark, viscous pool spread across the grass like oil, staining the trimmed lawn an angry maroon. Then your eyes landed on the source — and your breath punched from your lungs like a sucker punch to the ribs.

Howard Campbell’s body lay crumpled in the center of the yard. Lifeless. His limbs at odd angles. But it was his head — dear god, his head — that would be seared into your memory forever. It looked… shredded. Mangled. As though the universe itself had chewed him up and spit him out.

The yellow lawnmower sat a few feet away, blades still whirring lazily, like it hadn’t just been part of something unspeakable. You remembered Brenda’s voice, nagging playfully over Sunday dinner more than once: “I swear, Howard, that thing’s held together by duct tape and a prayer. Get it fixed before it eats one of us.”

You stumbled forward a step, heart hammering in your ears as your eyes darted across the rest of the yard. A slow-motion portrait of devastation.

Brenda was on her knees, face buried in her hands, her shoulders wracked with silent sobs. Bobby stood frozen near the porch, hands in his hair, muttering something over and over that you couldn’t quite make out. Erik—

Erik.

He stood apart from the chaos, just a few feet from the body, shaking. His eyes were wide, glazed over like his brain hadn’t quite caught up to what he was seeing. His mouth was parted, chest heaving, but no sound came out.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, moving without thinking. Your boots crunched over broken glass as you rushed to him, wrapping your arms around his rigid frame. “Erik. Baby. What—what happened?”

His arms came around you automatically, but it was like hugging a statue — he was stiff, trembling, every muscle locked.

“I… I don’t know,” he rasped. His voice was raw, unsteady, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. “It—it happened so fast. I was just coming back from the garage. I heard glass shatter. Dad must’ve stepped on something. He slipped. He fell—then the rake—” he paused, eyes unfocused, as if rewinding the memory hurt to even attempt. “The rake fell. It hit the lawnmower. It just… it started. And then…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. His jaw clenched, and his eyes flicked toward the body again before he looked away with a soundless gasp, burying his face against your shoulder.

Behind you, Tony had already dropped to his knees beside Howard’s remains, snapping on gloves and calling in for backup with a grim efficiency that contrasted the sheer devastation around him.

You held Erik tighter, rocking slightly, grounding him. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you,” you whispered, though you knew nothing about this day was okay. Nothing ever would be again — not for the Campbells.

But right now, Erik needed something to anchor him.

And that was going to be you.

“Erik, baby,” you said gently, your voice cutting through the static fog that had settled behind his eyes. You brought your hands up to cradle his face, guiding his trembling gaze away from the mangled horror on the lawn and back to you — to something living. Safe. Familiar.

His blue-grey eyes locked onto yours, pupils blown wide with shock. Haunted.

“Breathe with me,” you whispered. “In… hold it… count to five… and release.”

You did it with him, slow and steady, your thumb stroking soothing circles over the ridge of his cheekbone, grounding him. Again. And again. You counted out loud until his chest began to rise and fall in rhythm with yours, each inhale less ragged than the last.

“There you go,” you murmured, brushing a lock of damp hair from his forehead. “Good boy. That’s it.”

His lips twitched, a flicker of recognition in his dazed eyes. You leaned in, your forehead resting against his for a breath.

“I need to go check on your mum now, alright? Just for a moment. Will you be okay while I do that?”

His nod was small, slow — almost imperceptible — but it was enough. Enough for you to peel yourself away, though your hand lingered on his arm for just a second longer than necessary.

You rose, your knees aching from crouching on the pavement, and turned toward the others. Brenda was sitting now, her hands trembling as she clutched a tea towel someone had pressed into them. Bobby paced along the edge of the porch like a caged animal, muttering curses under his breath. Stefani — you recognized her now, vaguely — was standing stiffly near the flower bed, arms crossed tight over her chest, face pale and unreadable. You noted Tony now moving to the others you hadn’t gotten to yet.

You moved quickly but carefully between them, checking vitals, offering blankets, asking quiet, grounding questions. Your voice stayed soft but firm, the professional calm in you kicking in like a muscle memory — even as your heart continued to beat out an uneven rhythm inside your chest.

The coroner had arrived. Howard’s body had been moved. There was now only the blood-soaked grass, a few scattered tools, and the silence of a broken family too stunned to cry.

You made your way back to Tony, who was standing near the ambulance, hands on his hips, jaw clenched.

“I’m gonna stay,” you said, glancing back toward the porch where Erik sat like a shadow of himself. “They shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Tony nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He squeezed your shoulder lightly. “I’ll let dispatch know. Call me if you need backup.”

You gave him a grateful look as he stepped off, and then turned back toward Erik.

He hadn’t moved from where you left him, sitting on the edge of the steps like a boy who’d wandered too far from home. You crossed the lawn and crouched back down in front of him, pressing a hand gently to his thigh before wrapping your arms around him.

This time, he folded into you without hesitation.

His head fell against your chest, his entire body sagging like the weight of the day had finally pulled the air from his lungs. His fingers clutched the sides of your uniform like he was afraid you might disappear too.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered into his soft brown hair, voice cracking. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby. I wish I could’ve been here. I’m so, so sorry.”

He didn’t answer — but his grip on you tightened.

And you stayed like that, cradling him as the sun dipped lower in the sky and the world kept moving, oblivious to the fact that the Campbells’ had just shattered into pieces no one knew how to pick up.

The next few days passed in a haze — a blur of grief, casseroles, awkward condolences, and funeral preparations. Nothing felt real. Time folded in on itself, days bleeding into each other without clear start or end. You were stuck in limbo, living on autopilot while the world around you cracked at the seams.

This morning, like the ones before it, you woke to the feel of Erik’s body curled tightly around yours in your shared king bed. His warmth, his scent — familiar and grounding — should’ve brought comfort, but something gnawed at the edges of your mind. A quiet, persistent sense of unease that hadn’t left you since the day Howard died.

You didn’t know if it was intuition or just the residue of trauma, but it lingered like a weight in your chest.

Erik stirred beside you with a sleepy grunt, his arm slinging lazily across your waist, fingers splaying over your stomach as he shifted closer. You stayed like that for a moment, cocooned in silence, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing, the low hum of the ceiling fan overhead.

“I don’t think you should be at work today, hun,” you murmured softly, turning in his arms until you could bury your face into his chest. His skin was warm, the faint scent of sandalwood clinging to him. “Not yet. Not today.”

Erik groaned into your shoulder, his voice muffled and rough with sleep. “I know, sweets. I know… but money’s tight, and my boss has the empathy of a houseplant.”

You frowned, your hand sliding down to trace the familiar outline of the skull tattoo inked across his stomach. Your touch was featherlight, almost absentminded — more about comfort than flirtation. He shivered slightly under your fingers.

“Minx,” he muttered, voice still groggy, giving your hip a half-hearted squeeze.

You scoffed against his chest. “You love it.”

A long breath escaped him, and he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head before slowly pulling away, his reluctance obvious. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

Eventually, the two of you untangled from each other and started the slow shuffle into the day. You showered together in silence, your fingers lathering shampoo into his hair while he leaned against the tiled wall with eyes closed. Neither of you spoke much — there wasn’t anything to say that hadn’t already been said in broken whispers or through held hands in the middle of the night.

Once dressed, you made him a quick breakfast while he pulled on his boots by the door. He looked exhausted — the bruises under his eyes darker than they’d been yesterday. Before he left, you cupped his face in your hands and gave him a lingering kiss, your forehead pressed to his.

“Please don’t overwork yourself,” you said softly, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “You’re not made of stone, Erik.”

He nodded, but you could see in his eyes that he was already building walls — retreating into autopilot the way so many grieving people do. You let him go, even though every part of you wanted to beg him to stay.

Once the door shut behind him, the apartment felt too quiet.

You turned on the dishwasher, wiped down the kitchen counters just to have something to do, and stared blankly at the growing laundry pile before deciding it could wait. Today wasn’t about chores. Today, you needed to check on Brenda… and Bobby… and Julie.

They were family too. And if you were hurting, you could only imagine the hollow ache they were carrying.

You grabbed your keys and a sweater, locking the door behind you with one final glance around your now-spotless kitchen. Everything looked fine. Normal. But something still felt… off. Like the air itself was holding its breath.

You shook the feeling off.

You didn’t have time for paranoia.

Not today.

You had a grieving family to support — and a man to love through hell.

After spending the day with Brenda — who absolutely would not let you leave without one of the many sympathy casseroles stacked in her overflowing fridge — you decided a quick detour wouldn’t hurt. Erik’s shift at MARKED Tattoo should’ve been winding down by now. Evenings were usually slow, mostly walk-ins and the occasional late-night impulsive peircing. He always texted you if he was swamped. You hadn’t heard a word since that morning.

It wasn’t exactly a rational worry. But after the week you’d had, you weren’t trusting anything to be rational anymore.

As you pulled into the lot behind the tattoo parlor, your stomach twisted. The neon sign buzzed erratically in the front window — flickering like a dying star — and the first thing that hit you was the music.

Erik’s sad mix.

He only blasted that playlist when he was spiraling. You knew the exact song too — a rough acoustic cover of “Hurt” playing through the walls loud enough to rattle your bones.

But then your eyes locked onto something far worse than a bad day.

There was smoke.

And fire.

Inside.

The flames licked the far corner of the studio, already blooming along the floor where spilled chemicals had pooled — green soap, disinfectant, ink. The flashpoint must’ve been sudden, because the scent of burning plastic, metal, and alcohol hit your nose after the adrenaline did.

And then — your mind caught up.

Erik.

He was inside.

Your gaze shot upward, and what you saw stole the air from your lungs.

He was dangling — on top of his station’s chair, one foot barely balanced as he clawed at a chain looped through his septum piercing, which had been yanked up and around the massive industrial ceiling fan overhead. The same chain that usually dangled harmlessly from a hook, decorative, almost punk-chic. Now it was tightening. Winding higher, millimeter by millimeter, with every lazy churn of the fan.

Forcing him higher. Lifting him by his face.

“ERIK!”

Your scream tore from your throat as you slammed the car door and bolted toward the shop entrance, nearly slipping on the gravel. The metal door creaked violently as you threw it open, heat slamming into your skin like a furnace.

The fire had grown in the seconds it took you to cross the lot. You could barely see through the smoke, but Erik’s outline was there — flailing, trying to stabilize, voice hoarse as he yelled down at you.

“GET OUT! You have to get out — it’s gonna blow!”

“YEAH, FUCK THAT!” you shouted back, already scrambling along the wall. “WHERE’S THE DAMN FAN SWITCH?!”

You ducked under a falling light fixture, eyes stinging from smoke. Your fingers fumbled against the wall, smacking away framed tattoo designs, cords, until finally — finally — your hand landed on the switch box.

You didn’t even think.

You yanked it down.

The fan groaned and stuttered before grinding to a stop — and Erik dropped like a stone.

His body slammed against the floor with a sickening thud. A scream ripped from his throat, and yours joined it a split second later.

The fire was closing in now. The spilled chemicals flared, sending a sheet of orange heat across the station table. You ran for him, adrenaline overriding your fear, grabbing his ankles and dragging him backward just as a shelf exploded behind you.

You didn’t stop until you’d hauled him clear out the door, collapsing with him in the alley behind the shop.

The cold air hit you like salvation.

You coughed violently, blinking tears from your eyes as you frantically looked him over. He was breathing — panting — blinking in shock, his leather jacket and jeans somehow untouched too badly by the flames. But then you saw it.

His forearm.

A fresh burn — red, angry, and unmistakably in the shape of a heart.

You recognized the charm. It had been hanging from one of his chains. The metal must’ve heated in the fire, branding his skin with a twisted, ironic version of love. Just beneath it, raw and red, was a tattoo he must’ve done himself tonight: DAD, the black ink still shiny.

Your throat constricted.

“You are so fucking lucky, Erik,” you breathed, voice shaking as you threw your arms around him, holding him like you were afraid he’d vanish. “Jesus Christ.”

He clung to you just as tightly, burying his face in your neck, his body trembling now that the shock was wearing off. “And you’re fucking insane,” he panted against your shoulder, voice ragged. “I told you to leave—”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, your expression full of fury and fear and aching relief.

“And let Death charbroil your ass while I stood outside with a casserole like some helpless extra? I think the fuck not, Erik!”

Despite everything, his breath caught in a wild, shaky half-laugh, half-sob. “You’re completely unhinged,” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours.

“Yeah,” you exhaled, finally letting the tears come. “But you’re mine. And no ceiling fan mishap is taking you from me.”

That night, after the ER visit and a tense but thankfully brief grilling from the fire chief, you both returned to your apartment exhausted, soot-stained, and emotionally wrung out. Erik’s arm was freshly bandaged, the heart-shaped burn now hidden beneath sterile gauze and medical tape. You’d made him take two painkillers and drink half a bottle of water you both having a quick shower before you even thought about crawling into bed.

Now, curled up in the dim light of your bedroom, you clung to each other like lifelines. The world outside could keep spinning. In this moment, all that mattered was that he was breathing, warm, solid, alive beneath your fingertips.

You nuzzled into his chest, breathing in that familiar, woodsy scent of him —sandalwood, soap, sweat, and just the faintest hint of burnt leather. Unmistakably him. Comfort. Chaos. Home.

“Hey,” you murmured against his skin. “I know we laughed at her, but… maybe Stef was right. Maybe your grandma Iris wasn’t that insane after all.”

He let out a quiet snort, his fingers lazily stroking up and down your spine. “Baby, we called her Crazy Grandma Iris for a reason. You really think we’ve got some kind of… death curse bullshit happening?”

You shifted slightly, resting your chin on his chest so you could look up at him. “I don’t know, Kiki. All I do know is that my heart fucking stopped when I saw you dangling like a puppet surrounded by fire. I didn’t think—I just ran. And I can’t lose you, Erik. You’re my person. My dumbass, tattooed, partner in crime.”

His expression softened, all the bravado from earlier melted down into something quiet and achingly raw. He pulled you higher until you were lying fully on top of him, your limbs tangling, your cheek pressed to his collarbone. He held you there like he never wanted to let go.

“You’re mine too, sweet girl,” he whispered, voice hoarse from smoke and emotion. “You won’t lose me, okay? I promise. I’m annoyingly persistent. Like a cockroach. Practically indestructible.”

You let out a breathless laugh, tears prickling your eyes even as you rolled your eyes. “That’s gross as fuck, Kiki.”

His mouth tilted into a grin, the kind that never quite reached both sides evenly — a crooked smile just for you. “Told you. Indestructible and disgusting. It’s part of my charm.”

You shook your head and kissed him — slow at first, soft and searching. Like a question with no words. His hand slid up the back of your shirt, warm fingers tracing the curve of your spine, grounding you with every touch.

“God, I love you,” you murmured against his lips before deepening the kiss — this time more urgent, more needy. His hands slipped lower, settling on your ass with a possessive squeeze that made you gasp softly.

“I love you too babe,” he rasped, and despite everything — the fire, the fear, the burns — he was smiling like a man who’d just found his entire world.

You kissed him again like it was the only thing keeping the darkness away.

His hands didn’t rush.

They stayed where they were, splayed over the curve of your ass, thumbs stroking slow, grounding circles through the cotton of your sleep shorts. He held you like he didn’t quite believe you were real — like you might vanish if he let go.

You stayed pressed to him, your heartbeat syncing with his, breath mingling between soft kisses that never strayed far. His lips brushed yours again and again — not with hunger, but reverence. As if each kiss was a thank-you to the universe for not taking you away. For giving him one more night to hold you like this.

You carded your fingers through his messy, smoke-scented hair, letting your touch linger at the nape of his neck. His lashes fluttered when you grazed that sensitive spot behind his ear, his grip on you tightening instinctively.

“You’re really okay?” you whispered, your forehead resting against his.

He nodded, then paused. “Not really. But I am right now. With you.”

That truth settled between you, heavy and real.

You kissed him again, slower this time. Your lips moved against his with a softness that said I’m here, I love you, and I’m not going anywhere. His mouth opened beneath yours, letting you in with a quiet sigh, and when your tongues brushed, the tension between you shifted — not urgent, not frantic… just full.

Full of everything unspoken.

Your hips shifted, your bodies aligning with instinctual ease. He inhaled sharply as you settled against him, your thighs on either side of his, the warmth of you pressing into his lower stomach. The ache that bloomed there was mutual — not just desire, but a desperate need for reassurance. For closeness. For life.

His hands slid beneath your shirt, callused palms dragging gently over the bare skin of your back. He didn’t rush to remove anything. He just touched. Like every inch of you deserved worship.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, his voice rough.

“I know.” Your lips ghosted over his jaw. “You still scared the shit out of me.”

“You dragged me out of a burning building, babe. I’m the one who should be shaking.”

You both chuckled, quiet and breathless. His hand found yours, lacing your fingers together between your chests.

For a long moment, you just stayed there. Breathing each other in. Letting your bodies mold to one another with aching slowness.

Then you dipped your head, pressing a kiss to his neck. And another. And another — following the line of his throat to his collarbone, tasting salt and smoke and skin. He exhaled shakily, his free hand now skimming up your thigh, resting just beneath the curve of your ass.

“You keep doing that,” he rasped, “and this is gonna stop being slow real fast.”

You smiled against his skin. “No rush. We’ve got all night.”

He cupped your jaw, bringing your face back to his. His eyes were dark, wide, filled with something deeper than lust.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

You blinked. “What?”

“That I’m your person.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’re my person.”

He closed his eyes like he was sealing it inside him. “And you’re mine.”

His kiss was different this time — deeper, more certain. And when you shifted your hips just slightly, the quiet gasp that left him was all the invitation you needed.

Tonight, you wouldn’t rush.

You wouldn’t take anything for granted.

His mouth was warm against yours — open, slow, and reverent. There was no rush in the way he kissed you now, just need, filtered through love and disbelief. His hands never stopped moving, one sliding up your spine beneath your shirt while the other stayed laced with yours, anchoring you both.

You shifted on top of him, hips rocking slowly, testing the friction where your bodies pressed together. Erik let out a low, breathy groan, the sound rumbling through his chest and straight into your bones.

“You feel that?” he murmured, voice hoarse, lips brushing yours. “That’s your fault.”

You smiled into the kiss. “Gonna do something about it, or just talk and lay there?”

He chuckled, but it caught in his throat as your hand trailed down his chest, over the lines of ink that stretched beneath his collarbones. Your fingers grazed over one of his pierced nipples, tugging gently on the silver hoop. The way he jerked beneath you — hips bucking up, a hiss escaping his teeth — made heat spark low in your belly.

“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “You know what that does to me.”

“Exactly why I did it,” you whispered, kissing down the side of his jaw as your fingers teased the other nipple, circling the ring before giving it the faintest tug.

He exhaled shakily. “You are so mean.”

“And you’re so sensitive,” you teased, letting your tongue flick over the spot just beneath his ear, where his pulse beat hot and heavy. “It’s almost unfair.”

His hands slipped beneath the band of your shorts, gripping your ass with purpose now. “Then get these off. I need to feel you. All of you.”

You obliged, lifting your hips just long enough to shimmy out of your shorts and panties in one fluid motion, tossing them somewhere into the abyss of your bedroom floor. Erik followed suit, pushing his sweats and briefs down with a grunt, clearly wincing as the band caught on the fresh bandage on his arm.

You slowed him down. “Let me.”

He let you take over, watching with soft eyes as you peeled the fabric from his hips — and there he was, in all his glory. Hard, flushed, and pierced. Your gaze flicked briefly to the glint of silver at the tip of his cock — the Prince Albert piercing he’d joked about once but now wore like a dare to look away. You never could.

“Still think it’s hot?” he asked, a little self-consciousness flickering behind the cocky smile.

You met his eyes and leaned down, placing a kiss just below his navel. “I think you’re beautiful. I always have.”

His breath caught, real and raw, and he reached for you, pulling you back into his arms. The teasing slipped away as his hands cupped your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks.

“Come here,” he murmured, softer now. “I want you close.”

You climbed back into his lap, guiding him to you with a slow grind of your hips. The stretch was familiar, grounding — your bodies slotting together in a way that made it feel like this was exactly where you were supposed to be.

Erik sucked in a breath as he slid inside you, the bar brushing your most sensitive spot with each slow inch. You both groaned at the same time — his head falling back against the pillows, your hands splayed against his chest, feeling every heartbeat.

You stayed like that for a moment — joined, still, breathing each other in.

Then you began to move.

Slow, rolling motions of your hips, drawing him deeper with every pass. His hands roamed your body like he couldn’t decide where to worship first — the curve of your hips, the dip of your waist, the swell of your breasts under your shirt.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Every fucking time, but especially right now.”

“I’m here,” you whispered, brushing his hair from his forehead. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

His eyes met yours — glassy and overwhelmed — and you felt something shift in the air between you. Not just lust. Not even love.

Survival.

The kind that makes your soul cling to the person who dragged you out of hell and held your heart steady when it shook.

He cupped your face again and kissed you — long, slow, devastating. Your bodies moved in tandem, not frantic, just full. Each motion dragged sparks along your nerves, every thrust dragging that piercing in just the right way. You clenched around him, moaning softly into his mouth as your rhythm picked up ever so slightly.

“Shit,” he breathed, “don’t stop — please, y/n, don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You rocked together until that familiar tension coiled low in your spine, pressure building in waves, tightening around him with every breathless grind of your hips. His hands trembled on your thighs, his mouth falling open as you clenched around him harder, closer, there—

“Come with me,” he gasped, holding your hips still as his control shattered.

You fell together — soft cries, gasps, a blur of whispered I love you’s and forehead kisses — until the tremors passed and all that remained was the sound of your mingled breath and the weight of his arms around you.

He didn’t let go.

And neither did you.

The next morning was warm, too bright, like the sun hadn’t gotten the memo that the world was still teetering on the edge of something wrong. Erik drove the two of you toward the Campbell house with the windows down and a juice popper stuck between his teeth, the straw clacking between sips.

You pulled up across the road — the same spot you always parked, but nothing felt normal anymore. Not after fire. Not after near-death. Not after last night.

As you unbuckled your seatbelt, Erik casually opened the door and wandered right out into the street.

“Erik—!” you shouted, your voice shrill with sudden panic.

Too late.

A screech of tires.

A blur of navy blue.

A sickening thud.

Erik bounced off the hood of a dark blue four-door sedan, his juice box flying, splattering sticky orange across the windshield.

“OW! Are you trying to kill me?!” he shouted indignantly, hand slapping the car’s hood like it had offended him.

Your heart leapt into your throat as you sprinted across the road, only registering the driver and passenger as you got closer.

Stefani and Charlie.

Erik’s cousin and her brother looked like they’d just seen a ghost.

“Erik?!” Stefani gasped, eyes wide as saucers behind the wheel.

Charlie fumbled with the door and jumped out. “Dude, what the fuck?! We thought you were dead—the fire, the shop—what the hell, man?!”

You reached Erik just as he straightened, brushing invisible dust off his shirt like he hadn’t just played a game of chicken with a moving vehicle. His whole vibe was maddeningly calm — like he hadn’t just taken years off your life.

“I’m fine,” he said breezily, waving a hand like he was swatting away concern. Your eyes narrowed so sharply he should have combusted on the spot.

“Fine?” you hissed under your breath. “You just played tag with a fucking car, Erik!”

Stefani was out of the car now, rushing toward him, tears welling in her eyes. “Oh my God, are you okay? I was so worried—”

He tried to sidestep, but she wrapped her arms around him before he could bolt.

Erik sighed dramatically. “Firefighters said I was lucky as fuck. Leather jacket probably saved my skin. And Y/N showed up when she did.” He peeled her arms off with all the grace of someone who had no clue how to receive affection. “Barely got burned.”

“But, ruined his favorite jacket,” you added flatly.

“Oh yeah,” Erik said, like it had just occurred to him. “That sucked.”

Stefani grabbed his arm just as he was about to shrug her off again. “Wait—what’s this?” she asked, eyes narrowing at the bandage wrapped around his forearm.

He paused, then smirked. “Oh, right, check it out.” With theatrical flair, he peeled back the gauze. “Got branded.”

You winced as he revealed the raw, shiny heart-shaped burn — still angry red — right beside the fresh tattoo inked in black lines: DAD.

he grinned. “It’s sick, right. You like it?”

You stared at him. He was either coping via complete emotional dissociation or fully losing his grip. Possibly both.

Stefani, however, was not amused. Her entire face twisted with disbelief.

“You said you were asleep!” she snapped, voice rising.

Erik blinked, then rolled his eyes. “You were blowing up my phone like a goddamn stalker. What did you want me to do, text you while I was on fire?”

You swatted his chest, hard. “For fuck’s sake, Erik!”

But Stefani wasn’t letting up. Her breath hitched, her posture rigid. “No. No, I don’t get it. You should be dead. You should have died—”

Erik turned from her, already brushing her off with the same casual energy he brought to everything that wasn’t ink, games, or you.

“Right, yeah. Okay.” He pivoted, walking backward toward the road now, arms spreading like a challenge. “Or maybe death’s not coming for our family. Maybe it’s all just random, huh? Coincidence. Chaos. Leather jackets and timing. Because anything else would be fucking crazy, right?”

Then it happened.

Roaring engine. A blur of black. A deafening horn.

A van tore past, missing Erik by literal millimeters — the wind in its wake ruffling his shirt as he stumbled back mid-sentence, crying out.

“Jesus!” he shouted, actually shaken for the first time. “Shit!”

You felt your entire ribcage tighten.

“You fucking idiot!” you screamed, storming across the road, fists clenched. “*Why?! Why the fuck would you walk into the road like that you cocky asshole, especially after last night?”

You shoved him hard, fist thudding into his chest again and again. “Are you trying to die?! Or just trying to give me a goddamn stroke?!”

But Erik…

He stood there.

Unmoving. Calm. Like the storm hadn’t even touched him.

And then he smiled — wide, crooked, unnerving.

“Or maybe I’m invincible.” He chuckled, he actually had the nerve to chuckle

You stared at him, breath ragged, not sure if you wanted to scream at him, kiss him or shake him until whatever this bravado was shattered into pieces.

Behind you, Stefani was yelling again. “Erik, wait!” Her voice cracked. Charlie echoed her, chasing after both of you as Erik turned and started strolling down the sidewalk like this was just another Tuesday.

Like Death hadn’t already brushed its fingers across his throat twice.

Like he wasn’t daring it to do it again.

“Erik, wait!” Stefani’s voice cracked, thick with desperation as she quickened her pace. “Just because Death didn’t kill you last night doesn’t mean you’re safe.”

The words hit you like a slap of ice water.

Because she was right.

You’d seen death up close in your job — felt its breath, heard its silence. It wasn’t merciful. It wasn’t just. It didn’t forgive mistakes or offer second chances. It took what it wanted, when it wanted. Ruthless. Indiscriminate. Inevitable.

And Erik? He was daring it to try again.

“Stay away from that tree trimmer!” Stefani called, her voice rising in pitch, her eyes darting around like every ordinary object was a loaded gun.

Up ahead, Erik was already sidestepping dramatically around the tree trimmer on the sidewalk, arms out like a pantomime. “Oooh, ooooh! Is it gunna move on its own, Stef? Is that what it’s gunna do?” He shot her a look, all theatrics and eye-rolls.

“Erik, come on,” you chastised, falling in beside her as her fingers trembled at her sides.

“It could fall…” she murmured under her breath, eyes glued to it anyway.

A few houses down, two kids were playing soccer in a driveway. Stefani’s head snapped toward them. “And stay away from those kids,” she said quickly, pointing.

Erik didn’t even slow his stride. “I’ll take my chances.”

Charlie, trailing behind, let out a baffled laugh. “Stef, it’s two kids and a soccer ball. You’re seriously losing it.”

Stefani was breathing faster now, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. Her gaze bounced between the trimmer, the kids, the blower. Her brain was trying to thread impossible connections.

“I don’t know, okay?” she snapped. “The trimmer could fall, hit that guy with the leaf blower — he gets startled and blasts dirt into the kids’ eyes, and then—then the kid panics and kicks the ball into Erik’s face!”

Erik finally stopped. Turned. Raised an eyebrow. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Soccer ball to my face?” He rubbed his chin in mock thought. “That does sound deadly. I should really be more careful.”

And with a grin, he turned and headed up the Campbells’ driveway like he hadn’t just baited fate.

You lingered back for a beat, placing a gentle hand on Stefani’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I know you’re just trying to help.”

She gave you a tight, grateful smile, swallowing whatever scream was sitting at the back of her throat.

Julia came jogging out of the house, dressed for a run in leggings and a zip-up jacket. She paused on the porch when she saw Erik, her brows knitting together. “What happened to you?”

“Charbroiled by Death, apparently,” Erik replied with a shrug, lifting his bandaged arm like it was just another conversation starter.

Julia’s face scrunched in concern as she moved closer. “Kiki, that looks really bad—”

Behind you, the familiar hydraulic hiss of a garbage truck pulling up snapped all of your heads around.

Stefani tensed like she’d heard a gun cock.

“Erik, stay away from the truck,” she warned, stepping protectively between him and the vehicle.

But Erik — predictably — sidestepped her again, now walking backwards toward the looming truck. “This truck? This beautiful truck?”

“Stop, please,” Stefani said, her voice thinner now, trembling.

You reached for him. “Don’t be a dick, Kiki. Not now.”

But he was already running his hands over the back tire like it was a lover. “You like that?” he asked with a grin, then leaned in dramatically. “Mmm. Truck, you filthy girl.” His hands caressed the rubber. Then he spanked the tire.

You groaned audibly. “Erik.”

“Ohhh, Erik’s tempting death again!” he called in a mock announcer voice, grinding once against the tire like a man fully detached from reality. “What’s gunna happen now?!”

“Stop!” Stefani snapped, sharp and desperate.

He danced away with jazz hands and a flourish, twirling like a showman as the truck’s hydraulic brake hissed again, indicating it was moving on.

“See? Nothing!” he shouted, triumphantly striding toward you as the truck began its slow crawl forward. “I told you! I’m invincible!”

“You’re an asshole!” you growled, shoving his chest again.

He grinned. “Yeah, but I’m your asshole, baby girl.” He leaned in, brushing a kiss over the top of your head, annoyingly pleased with himself.

As he brushed past Stefani, she muttered, “I’m just trying to help you all.”

Julia rolled her eyes, plugging in her earbuds. “Honestly, Stef, we are so done with your garbage.” With a scoff, she took off jogging down the street.

You watched her for a second. Something in your gut twisted.

Then it happened.

Julia’s scream tore through the morning like a knife.

Your eyes snapped toward the garbage truck — and what you saw didn’t register at first.

Just a blur of limbs.

Legs kicking.

Up in the air.

She’d tripped — or been pushed — and now her body was halfway inside the mechanical jaws of the garbage bin’s lift.

“JULIA!”

Time fractured.

All of you sprinted. You. Erik. Charlie. Stefani already grabbing the side ladder, screaming for the driver. Erik slammed his fists on the truck’s cab, yelling. Charlie joined him, pounding on the other side.

You reached the side just as Julia was lifted higher — still kicking, still screaming.

Stefani reached into the bin, her hands finding Julia’s arm. “Don’t worry,” she said desperately, gripping tight. “You’re not next. I’ve got you. I swear I’ve got you—”

The compactor activated with a deep whir-clunk.

“NO—!” you shouted, your voice joining the others in a cacophony of panic.

Stefani screamed as Julia was yanked from her grasp. The bin lurched. The lid slammed shut. And then—

CRUNCH.

Bones.

Glass.

Metal.

The sound silenced everything. A dull, sickening finality.

The truck shuddered once more, then idled.

And there stood Stefani — mouth open, eyes frozen — holding only an arm.

Just an arm.

Her scream echoed off the houses, high-pitched and jagged and not human.

You stumbled back, covering your mouth, heart slamming so hard it made your vision tunnel. Erik turned pale, his bravado gone in an instant, the blood draining from his face.

Charlie fell to his knees.

Nobody moved.

Nobody breathed.

Death had come.

And it wasn’t done yet.

The Campbell living room was thick with silence, the kind that lingered like smoke after a fire. You sat nestled beside Erik on the couch, your arms wrapped protectively around his waist. He hadn’t said much since Julia’s death—none of you had. The weight of what had happened still hung heavy in the air all these days later. The blinds were drawn halfway, letting stripes of late afternoon sun stretch across the carpet like prison bars. Grief pressed into every corner of the room.

Erik cradled a chipped black coffee mug between his hands, the one that read show me your kitties in bold white letters. He hadn’t taken a sip. Just held it, fingers wrapped too tightly around the handle, jaw clenched.

From the armchair across the room, Bobby finally broke the silence. “We should’ve believed you, Stef.”

The sigh Stefani let out then—quiet, jagged—was enough to crack your heart open. You watched her eyes cloud over, shoulders drawn in like she was trying to disappear into herself.

“No, I uh…” she began, her voice thin and shaking. “I screwed up the order. And now Julia’s dead. And it’s my fault.”

You didn’t hesitate. You reached across to take her hand, squeezing gently. Her fingers curled around yours, and a small, grateful smile tugged briefly at her lips. But the faraway look in her eyes never lifted.

That was when Marty, her dad, stepped forward.

“Guys, look…” he began, his voice thick but measured. “What happened was traumatic. And awful. But it’s nobody’s fault.”

He moved toward Erik, arms open, clearly meaning to offer comfort. But Erik didn’t budge. His eyes stayed on his untouched coffee, and when Marty drew close, he pulled back slightly and said softly, “Marty, please don’t.”

The air shifted. Everyone stilled.

Then Brenda spoke.

“It’s my fault.”

The words came like a gunshot—quiet but sharp—and they echoed in the room, stunning everyone into stillness. Even Erik looked up, confused.

“Mum, it’s not your fault,” he said, his voice low but certain, as if trying to anchor her before she spiraled.

But Brenda nodded, nodding so hard it looked like her neck might snap. “It is my fault.”

You sat straighter, your hand tightening around Erik’s waist.

Stefani blinked, confused. “What… what are you talking about?”

Brenda’s hands were shaking now. She pressed them to her face, then dropped them into her lap, steeling herself before she looked at Stefani again. “You were only wrong about the order because there’s something you didn’t know.”

Erik’s spine stiffened beneath your arm. You could feel the shift—the electric crackle of tension bracing in his body.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice cold.

Brenda inhaled shakily, eyes glassy. “Erik isn’t Howard’s biological son.”

The silence that followed could have swallowed the world.

You felt Erik’s body go still, his fingers whitening around the handle of the coffee mug. “I’m sorry, what are you talking about?”

Brenda didn’t stop. Couldn’t. “And Stefani, I didn’t believe you, so I didn’t say anything. And now my little girl is dead—”

“I don’t understand. What—what, you had an affair?” Erik asked, stepping slightly forward now, tension radiating off him in waves.

Brenda stood then, moved toward him with trembling steps. “Your father and I… we were having such a hard time. But it was good. It was good, because I got you. I got you out of it.”

But Erik wasn’t listening anymore. He took another step forward, voice shaking now. “So… who’s—who’s my real dad, then? Who’s my real dad?”

Brenda clutched her chest, panic in her eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Because Howard loved you so, so much.”

But Erik’s voice rose, louder now. “Who is it?! Who’s my real dad?!”

Brenda whimpered before the words spilled from her lips: “Jerry Fenbury.”

The name landed like a punch. You watched Erik recoil—physically recoil—his mouth twisting in disbelief and barely suppressed disgust.

“Oh, Jerry Fenbury?” he repeated, the name scraping out of his throat.

Brenda nodded.

Behind you, Bobby whispered, “Oh, shit.”

You moved toward Erik, reaching out a hand to his shoulder. But he shook you off, face pale and stricken.

“No, no, no—Jerry fucking Fenbury!” He jabbed a finger toward Brenda as he backed away, then turned sharply and stormed out of the living room.

You hesitated only a second before following him, pausing in the doorway for one last, futile, whispered attempt to calm him. But Erik turned back, face contorted in disbelief and wounded sarcasm.

“Oh GOD—is that why he always wanted to play catch?!” he shouted, voice cracking, before disappearing into the kitchen.

You hurried after him, quietly closing the door behind you as Brenda followed at a distance. You caught Erik’s wrist before he could go tearing off again.

“Erik, baby, slow down,” you whispered, trying to soothe the wild edge in his eyes.

“I can’t believe this,” he muttered, looking between you and his mother. His voice broke as he gestured vaguely. “Is that why he used to call me buckaroo as well?! GOD!”

You saw him glance toward the keys, and without missing a beat, you grabbed them first. He gave you a look of frustration, but you stood your ground, answering it with a firm, silent challenge. His shoulders slumped slightly. He understood what you were saying without needing words: This is your family. Don’t run.

Brenda stepped forward again. This time, Erik let her take his hand.

“I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “I should have told you. I should have trusted you. But Erik… you were so loved. You still are.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull away either. That was something.

Behind the closed door, you heard the low murmur of voices—chairs scraping, the others standing. You peeked out and saw them heading toward Darlene’s RV, Bobby trailing behind with a half-hearted wave goodbye.

Erik frowned, moving past you. “Oi!” he shouted, throwing the door open. “Any of you fuckers do a nut check?!”

Darlene stopped in her tracks, confused. “Excuse me?”

You and Erik stepped outside. “You made peanut butter cookies in that thing just a few days ago,” he said, pointing toward the RV. “With peanut butter in them.”

You watched realization dawn across Darlene’s face, horror creeping in. She turned sharply to Bobby.

“I am so sorry.”

Erik moved past her, heading for the RV. He stopped at the base of the steps and put a hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “This poor bastard so much as touches a nut, his throat’s gonna close up tighter than—” He paused, gesturing vaguely. “You understand.”

Then he climbed into the RV.

Darlene called after him, “It’s in the cabinet above the sink.”

A moment later, Erik reemerged, jar in hand, and lobbed the peanut butter across the lawn like a live grenade. He sauntered down the RV steps.

“All clear.”

He turned back to Bobby, clapping him on the shoulder again. This time, his face softened, that rare vulnerability peeking through.

“You’re a good brother, Erik,” Bobby said, voice quiet and sincere.

Erik’s expression was full of love. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—then mischief sparked in his eyes like a flicked match.

“Nut check.”

“What?”

WHACK.

Erik’s fist met Bobby’s crotch with precision. Bobby doubled over, gasping.

“Oh God!”

“I get it. It was good,” Bobby groaned, limping up the steps of the RV.

You stared at Erik in disbelief. “For fuck’s sake, Erik.”

He just smirked. That crooked little smile.

But when his eyes met yours again, something passed between you—unspoken but absolute.

If this death curse was real…

If Bobby was next…

You’d protect that sweet boy with everything in you.

“Wait. We’re coming with you,” Erik announced suddenly, already climbing back into the RV.

You nodded, striding forward without hesitation. “Someone’s gotta protect you.”

And just like that, you followed him—into whatever came next.

The RV hurled down the highway, the tension inside as taut as the seat belts cutting across your hips. Charlie and Bobby filled you in between bumps and curves, voices low and urgent. Apparently, in Iris’s infamous journal — now officially dubbed the death book — she’d detailed the name of someone called JB, who worked at Hope River Hospital. She’d once met a man who had survived this very thing — the impossible. Somehow, he’d beat Death.

“Hey, that’s fantastic, right Bobby? Hun!” you said encouragingly, your hand finding his and rubbing your thumb gently across his knuckles.

He gave you a weak smile, nodding, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was scared. No — he was terrified. You felt his palm damp in yours.

“Bobby, you’re my brother, okay? I’m not letting anything happen to you,” Erik chimed in from the front bench seat, spinning around to catch Bobby’s eye. His voice was surprisingly steady, and for a moment it actually seemed to calm Bobby’s frayed nerves.

The hospital came into view not long after — all pale concrete and blue glass, its entrance stretching into the clouds like a promise or a warning. Once parked, everyone piled out of the RV in a quiet, nervous clump. Bobby clung to you and Stefani, dragging his feet slightly as the automatic doors hissed open ahead of you.

You felt him hesitate.

His hand gripped yours tighter as you neared the revolving door, his body stiffening beside you. You knew what was going through his mind. All the ways this could go wrong. All the ways it had.

Erik went through first, followed by Charlie and Darlene. You placed a calming hand on Bobby’s arm.

“It’s okay. Me and Stef will be right behind you, okay?”

He nodded and stepped forward. On the other side, Erik was already holding his arms open, catching his younger brother in a protective embrace. You breathed a little easier.

At the front desk, Darlene leaned over to speak with the nurse in charge, asking where they could find JB. The nurse barely looked up, just pointed down the corridor.

“Autopsy. In the morgue.”

“Fucking grim,” Erik mumbled into your ear, brows raised.

“Quiet. Bobby might hear you — he’s already scared enough, Kiki, okay?” you whispered back, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “You terrorize that boy any more and I’ll nut check you next.”

That earned you a smirk, which you shut down with a kiss before moving to follow the others.

You arrived at the autopsy suite a few minutes later. A flickering yellow light above the door was glowing — on.

You stopped the group with an outstretched arm. “That means an autopsy’s going on inside. Anyone squeamish, stay out here.”

Predictably, no one stayed behind.

You opened the door and ushered everyone in quickly, trying to keep at least Charlie’s view blocked from the open cadaver on the metal table. The room smelled sharp — antiseptic and steel, layered over the coppery tang of blood. Your eyes scanned the lab, falling on the man performing the autopsy.

“Are you JB?” you asked, keeping your voice steady.

The man didn’t even look up. He just sighed, irritated, like you were a mild inconvenience in the middle of his dissection. “Who are you?”

Stefani stepped up beside you, her voice a little breathless. “The front desk told us he was here?”

Then a new voice spoke — calm, deep, and polished.

“That would be me.”

You all turned.

From around the corner emerged a well-dressed man in a crisp blue button-down shirt and black trousers, suspenders clipped neatly over his shoulders. He sat calmly at a computer desk, glasses perched low on his nose, posture relaxed.

“William John Bludworth,” he said. “But my friends call me JB.”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes catching on each of you in turn. Calm. Too calm.

“I’ve been waiting for you. Stefani. Charlie. Darlene. But no Howard. No Julia…” His gaze drifted to Bobby. “So… which one of you is next?”

He asked it like he was inquiring about the weather.

You turned sharply toward Bobby — and your heart sank.

He was pointing to himself.

You slapped Erik’s chest when you realized he too was pointing at Bobby.

“Hi,” Bobby said, voice small and scared.

JB nodded solemnly, offering condolences about Iris. He explained how she had saved his life the night of the Sky View Restaurant Disaster. Years later, she’d found him again — tracked him down — and they became friends. Together, they’d fortified her cabin. Together, they’d tried to outrun Death.

JB told you there were two ways to win this war.

“By killing… or by dying.”

You watched Bobby shake his head. “I wouldn’t kill someone.”

“No, no, maybe we should let the guy finish,” Erik said, raising a hand to hush him, which earned him another eye roll from you.

JB finished his thought like he was reading from a script.

“The only way to truly break the cycle is to die.”

Stefani’s voice wavered. “What does that mean?”

He told you the story of Kimberly Corman — the woman who had drowned herself in a lake once she realized she was next. She had flatlined. And the doctors brought her back. And that, JB said, had broken the chain. Death had been… satisfied.

Erik nodded along. “Alright then, we do that!” he gestured toward JB.

But JB raised a hand. Warned you. If you fuck with Death and lose…

The consequences are very messy.

Everyone in the room begged for another way, a third option, something. Anything.

JB just stood.

“People have been coming to me for years for advice. I’m tired. I’m sick. Just like Iris was. I’m done with that. I’m retiring.”

He straightened his glasses.

“My advice? Enjoy every moment you have left. I intend to enjoy mine. Life is precious. Enjoy every single second. Good luck.”

And with that, he left — like he hadn’t just dropped a live grenade in your lap.

Panic erupted. Papers rustled. Everyone began flipping through drawers, rifling through notes, searching for something.

“Y/N… Stef… come on. He gave us the answer,” Erik said, tone dangerously calm. “Bobby’s gotta die.”

“ERIK, are you fucking insane?! We’re not killing Bobby!” Charlie snapped, stepping between them.

But Erik remained unfazed. “Am I the only guy who listened to that dude? There’s only one way. We kill Bobby. Resuscitate him. Boom. You’re off the list. Congratulations.”

“Erik, baby, we aren’t doing that. That’s fucking insane, and you know it!” you snapped, rifling through papers with shaky hands.

It took you a few moments to register— silence.

You looked up.

Erik and Bobby were gone.

Your stomach dropped.

“Where are Erik and Bobby?” you asked the room. Blank stares. Wide eyes. “Shit. Fuck.”

You broke into a run.

You tore through the hospital’s sterile white corridors, sprinting past the maternity ward, then radiology. Your boots thudded against tile. Breath hitched.

“Erik, I swear to God, I’m going to beat your ass when I find you!” you hissed under your breath, teeth clenched.

Then — brown hair. A wheelchair.

You burst into the room. “ERIK MOTHER-FUCKING CAMPBELL!”

Both brothers jumped like startled deer.

“Not yet I’m not,” Erik muttered. “Unless this is your way of telling me something, sweet cheeks?”

You rounded on him, smacking the back of his head. “No! And not the time, asshole! The fuck are you thinking?”

He grinned like a kid caught with a slingshot. Brandished a peanut butter cup.

“The fucker’s nut allergy is deadly, right?”

You groaned, realizing. “Erik… really?”

Bobby sat up straighter. “He wanted to get me those unsalted bitches at first.”

You couldn’t help it — you chuckled. “Fuck… okay. It’s a good plan.” You pointed at Erik. “Stop it. I can hear your smugness from here.”

You turned to scan the room. Something felt off. Your instincts prickled.

“Guys… how long has the light been on in this machine?”

No answer.

“Guys?”

Still nothing you glanced over to see the two huddled together, Erik in the midst of a pep talk to bobby.

“GUYS!”

That got their attention.

“How long has this light been on?”

“Ever since we walked in. It came on when Erik went to get the wheelchair,” Bobby said with a casual wave.

You didn’t hesitate.

You snatched the EpiPen from Erik’s hand and grabbed the back of his shirt.

“Leave right the fuck now.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

“Don’t argue with me, Erik. Right the fuck now. Leave. Run to the front desk. Tell the nurse there’s a malfunctioning MRI in the room. and to get the shutdown code.”

He squinted. “You know the lingo, babe. Why don’t you run? I’ll stay with Bobby and—”

“I listened to the guy too, Kiki,” you snapped, pushing him toward the door. “He said fuck with death and lose, it gets messy. What are we doing now?!”

“Y/N, baby girl, I’ll be fi—”

“REALLY, ERIK? Because you know what’s in an MRI machine, dumbass? A giant magnet. You know what’s attracted to magnets? Metal. So unless you wanna stay and get pulled into that thing and folded in half like a fucking lawn chair because of your piercings — you. Run. Now. Get the nurse. Stay at the desk. And don’t fucking argue.”

His face paled. He glanced subtly down at his jeans — and the very real danger hidden beneath them, and all over his body. His legs snapped together almost reflexively before he nodded and turned to sprint.

You turned back to Bobby, sliding the EpiPen into your back pocket.

“Why did he glance down?” Bobby asked innocently.

You sighed. “Trust me, sweetie, don’t think too hard about it. And eat your goddamn peanut butter cup.”

Bobby blinked. “Oh Jesus Christ — that’s more than I wanted to know. He actually followed through and got his shit pierced, didn’t he?!”

You said nothing.

But your smile said everything.

“You should really know better than to dare that man to do anything, Bobby, honey,” you chuckled softly, though your eyes were already scanning his face for signs of anxiety. Your hand came to rest reassuringly on his shoulder, thumb rubbing gentle, grounding circles into the muscle. “Now, for real — eat the peanut butter cup. I’m right here, okay? I’ll talk you through it. We’ll handle the panic together.”

Bobby gave a nervous laugh that barely masked the fear in his eyes. Still, he nodded, unwrapped the peanut butter cup with shaking hands, and popped it into his mouth.

“Oh fuck, that’s good,” he groaned, chewing with a dramatic eye-roll that was classic Bobby — trying to keep things light even as doom loomed.

You crouched beside him, watching. Waiting. Listening.

Seconds passed. Nothing.

“You feel anything?” you asked gently.

He looked at you, hopeful. “Hey… maybe I grew out of it!”

You froze.

“Fuck.” You stood up too fast, nearly knocking over a stool. “Grew out of it? Goddamn it!” The words exploded from you as you kicked the closed door to the room, frustration and fear rising fast in your throat. “You’re supposed to be dying, Bobby!”

But then—

The rasp.

You turned.

Bobby was stumbling toward you, mouth open, gasping, eyes wide with panic.

“Woah, woah, okay—Bobby. Okay. You’re doing it, you’re doing it. It’s okay,” you said quickly, your tone switching instantly from frustrated to focused, calming. You dodged his outstretched hand, his fingers clawing toward the EpiPen.

“Sweetheart, I can’t give you that,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You know I can’t.”

He was fighting to breathe now — lips turning redder, skin flushing violently, fingers trembling as he stumbled, weak and desperate. You maneuvered around the room, avoiding him, eyes flicking constantly between his face and the rising danger in the room. You could hear his throat closing in real-time.

“Bobby—Bobby I’m here,” you whispered as he collapsed to the floor, body convulsing in short bursts as oxygen slipped away. Your knees hit the ground beside him, and you pulled him gently into your arms.

His eyes met yours — pleading, terrified — and you smoothed his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead with trembling hands.

“I’m so sorry,” you cried, rocking him, holding his wrists down as his limbs spasmed from adrenaline and panic. “I’m so, so sorry, Bobby. I love you.”

And then —

Movement.

You looked up just in time to see the wheelchair he’d been sitting in lift from where it rested across the room. It groaned, then flew forward — drawn toward the MRI machine like a missile. You watched, frozen, as it slammed into the opening with a horrible screech of warping metal. The steel twisted and folded, buckling into the mouth of the machine like it had been chewed.

A broken gasp left your lips.

Your mind showed you the scene that hadn’t happened but almost was — Erik, standing there, metal piercings in his body, being dragged by force into that monstrous magnet. Bones breaking. Skin splitting. Flesh folding in on itself.

“Fuck.” You clutched Bobby tighter, pressing your forehead to his. “That was almost Erik. That was almost you, Bobby. Just—hold on. Hold on.”

But the fight was leaving him now. His limbs went limp. His eyes rolled.

You pressed trembling fingers to his neck.

No pulse.

Nothing.

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you leaned in, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “Hold on, okay? We’ll bring you back.”

The door slammed open behind you.

A nurse burst into the room — the lanyard around her neck ripping toward the machine, nearly choking her before she backed up fast.

“Oh my God!” she cried, rushing to the panel on the wall. Her fingers flew over the keys, entering the shutdown code. The hum of the magnet wound down into silence, the danger receding — but it was already too late for Bobby.

The nurse dropped to her knees beside you, eyes going wide. “What happened?”

“He ingested peanuts,” you gasped out, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your shirt. “He’s allergic. Severe.”

She shouted for backup, calling a code as two more nurses rushed in. You felt Bobby’s body lift from your lap — cold, limp — as they transferred him to a gurney. You stood slowly, legs barely holding your weight as they wheeled him away.

And then—

“Y/N! Baby—”

You turned just as Erik rounded the corner, breathless, eyes wild.

He saw you, saw the tear tracks, and swept you into his arms like he was trying to protect you from the world. You clung to him, shaking, burying your face into his chest as your body gave in to the sobs.

“Bobby died in my arms, Erik. Right in my fucking arms,” you choked out. “What if they can’t bring him back?!”

“They will,” he murmured, wrapping you tighter in his arms. “Believe they will, okay? They will.” His hands rubbed circles across your back, steady and soothing, anchoring you.

Then his eyes lifted, locking onto the mangled wreckage of the MRI machine.

“Jesus fucking Christ. What happened?” he whispered, breath catching.

You followed his gaze.

“That… that was almost you, Erik. Fuck. If you hadn’t run—” You choked again, fingers curling into the back of his shirt. “I could’ve lost you again, Kiki!”

Your voice cracked into a sob, and Erik pulled you tighter, burying his face in your hair.

You didn’t know what would happen next — whether Bobby would survive, whether Death would be satisfied, whether any of you were really safe.

But right now?

You had Erik in your arms.

And you weren’t letting go.

The fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room buzzed faintly overhead, their hum a dull accompaniment to the tension that wrapped itself around your chest like a vice. You sat pressed close to Erik on one of the stiff vinyl chairs, legs tucked beneath you, his arm around your shoulders anchoring you in place while your mind spun in a hundred directions at once.

Moments later, Darlene, Stefani, and Charlie came rushing in, wide-eyed and breathless, their expressions bouncing between panic and confusion.

“What happened?” Stefani demanded, her voice already fraying.

Erik stood, hands gesturing wildly as he filled them in. “The allergy plan worked. Barely. But we almost didn’t make it. MRI room turned into a death trap. If Y/N hadn’t clocked what was happening…” He shook his head, voice hitching as he looked back at you. “The fucking wheelchair launched into the machine. If I’d stayed—”

“You’d be gone,” Darlene murmured, hand to her mouth.

You couldn’t speak. You just nodded numbly, still seeing the image of twisted metal and an empty pulse in your arms.

Darlene moved to the front desk to check in. “We’re here for the young blonde man who was just brought in,” she told the nurse. “Severe allergic reaction. He’s family.”

You finally rose from your seat, walking over to Erik like gravity was suddenly heavier. You clutched his shirt tightly.

“Erik… what if they can’t?” you whispered again, the words choking in your throat. “What if they can’t bring him back?”

Erik cupped your face, gentle but firm, his calloused thumb brushing away a tear as it slipped down your cheek.

“Sweet girl,” he said, voice low and sure. “They will. You know all the tips and tricks they’ve got here. This isn’t your first rodeo. You’re smart as fuck and brave as hell for getting my ass out of that room and holding my brother through that.”

His forehead pressed to yours. You closed your eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of him — smoke, aftershave, the faintest trace of peanut butter still clinging to his hoodie. You stayed like that, forehead to forehead, wrapped in each other’s warmth, until the soft sound of a nurse clearing her throat made you both look up.

She smiled kindly, clipboard in hand. “It was a close call. He flatlined on the table, but we brought him back.”

Time slowed.

You swayed slightly, and Erik caught your elbow.

“Would you like to see him?” the nurse asked.

You didn’t need to answer — the collective sigh that passed through the group was the answer. The weight lifted visibly from every shoulder. Darlene’s knees nearly buckled. Stefani clutched Charlie’s arm. Even Erik’s posture sagged, his hand dragging through his hair like he couldn’t believe they’d actually done it.

You followed the nurse down the hall like sleepwalkers, the group moving in silence until you reached the room. The door creaked open.

And there he was.

Bobby.

Alive.

Groggy and pale, but alive, his eyes fluttering open slowly like he was waking from a long nap. They were unfocused, glazed, but there — warm and full of wonder.

The wires, the IVs, the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor — none of it mattered.

He was breathing.

Erik didn’t wait. He rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside the hospital bed and grabbing Bobby’s hand like it was the last lifeline to reality.

He pressed his brother’s hand to his forehead, voice cracking. “You pulled through, you little fucker. You pulled through.”

Bobby blinked, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Then — the grin.

Big. Lopsided. Golden retriever levels of dumb joy.

“The plan worked!” he declared with glee.

The whole room burst into relieved laughter. Tears fell freely. You stepped forward, brushing Bobby’s hair back from his sweaty forehead and pressing a kiss to it. Darlene was crying outright now. Charlie fist-bumped Bobby’s ankle from the foot of the bed. Even Stefani let out a tearful breath of disbelief.

And for the first time in days, the impossible didn’t feel quite so impossible anymore.

You thought the universe was finally done with you — at least with the cruel, twisted jokes. But this time, it pulled one more trick out of its sleeve. And against all odds, you could laugh with it.

Not a bitter laugh. Not the kind that came with terror or trauma. This time, it was real.

It had been months since Bobby was released from the hospital, but the vigilance in the Campbell family never truly faded. You all still looked twice before crossing streets, flinched at coincidences, eyed ladders and chains and kitchen knives with suspicion. Death might’ve been delayed, but it hadn’t been forgotten.

Maybe that’s why you were now sitting on the rim of your bathtub, knees drawn up, your hands trembling.

Three pregnancy tests — two on the sink, one in your hand. All positive.

All screaming your life is about to change forever.

Your laugh was barely more than a whisper at first. “Fuck me…” You exhaled, the words caught between awe and disbelief.

But you were smiling.

You glanced at the clock. Erik was still at the tattoo parlour, at least three hours deep into his scheduled cover-up piece. Time — normally so fast, so slippery — was now crawling.

You couldn’t wait that long doing nothing.

You got up, your limbs shaky but determined, and moved with purpose. A small gift box you’d stashed in the hall cupboard caught your eye — baby blue, with teddy bears wearing party hats. Cheesy and perfect. You debated for a second, then remembered the onesie you saw on your last grocery run.

‘At least my dad is cool.’

A snort escaped you. Exactly the kind of thing that would sell it if the tests didn’t click. You rushed to the store grabbing it, mentally high-fiving your own brilliance.

Once home, you agonized for a full ten minutes over what to write on the gift tag. Nausea came in waves, but your excitement overrode it. Finally, an idea struck you like lightning.

Grinning, you grabbed your favorite purple gel pen and wrote in obnoxiously bold all-caps:

ERIK MOTHER FUCKING CAMPBELL

Then, for maximum obnoxious cuteness, you drew a ridiculous little heart above the I in Erik. He’d absolutely roll his eyes. And he’d smile too. You knew him like that.

You arranged the three tests inside the box with care, placed the onesie next to them, then sealed the lid with trembling fingers.

All you had to do now… was wait.

Time felt like it folded in on itself. You watched the seconds crawl past. You counted cars going by the front window. You considered scrubbing the kitchen grout just to keep your hands busy.

Then—

Keys in the door.

His voice.

“Hey, hun! I told Mum you’ve been feeling like ass the last few weeks — she told me to get you some chicken noodle soup,” Erik called out, the door swinging shut behind him.

You heard the rustle of plastic bags. “I went to like three different places for this bitch. Hope it’s at least nice if it doesn’t make you feel better.”

He came into view, bag in hand, placing it on the kitchen counter beside his keys. He looked exhausted. Ink smudged his forearms. His hair was slightly mussed. But he was here. Your heart swelled.

You made a soft noise of contentment, then padded into the living room and immediately crawled into his lap as he flopped onto the lounge. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, like he’d been waiting for you all day.

You kissed him — slow, warm, soft — and the kiss turned hotter quickly, your lips parting, his fingers sliding up the back of your shirt.

“I take it you’re feeling a bit better,” he panted, breath hitching as you pulled back.

“A bit. It’s on and off,” you stated, slipping out of his lap much to his mock-disappointment. “I’ll be two seconds.”

“Don’t tease me like this,” he groaned as you disappeared toward the bedroom.

You returned a moment later with the gift box clutched behind your back. Erik was counting — aloud — with exaggerated flair.

“You said two seconds. I counted at least a minute,” he pouted, flopping his head back dramatically.

“You’re such a dork. Shut up and open this,” you said, standing next to him and handing him the box.

He looked at you, eyes flicking between you and the box like you were pranking him.

“For me?”

You nodded, grinning. “Yes. Hurry up.”

He tugged the gift tag, squinting at your very deliberate message.

“Erik mother fucking Campbell. Awww, you added a love heart to my name. You do care,” he deadpanned, flashing you a crooked smile.

Your heart beat wildly in your chest as he lifted the lid.

You watched every flicker of emotion cross his face.

First — confusion.

Then — panic.

Then… stillness.

His eyes met yours.

Piercing blue-grey. Wide. Wet.

“For real?” he breathed, barely audible.

“Yes. For real.” Your smile trembled.

The box clattered to the floor.

Tests bounced, the onesie landing sideways as Erik was suddenly on you, arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you off the ground. You let out a little yelp as he spun you in a tight, dizzying circle, holding you like he might never let go.

Your legs instinctively locked around his waist. He held you there, forehead pressed to your temple, and you felt the tremor in his body.

He was crying.

“How the fuck,” he choked out, voice shaking, “are we, two dumbasses, going to raise a little gremlin?”

You laughed through your own tears. “I don’t know.”

But you would.

Together.

Because finally — the universe had played a hand you could both believe in.

[minyoongisnewthing]

My brain right now as I’m debating if i should also do my last edit and release my Erik Campbell fix it fic…….. or not

[minyoongisnewthing]

Han river lullaby Epilogue| myg

Chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight, chapter nine

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Genre: angst, fluff, exs to lovers, eventual smut, idol!au, co parents, second chance romance

Chapter warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), mature themes, mild language, emotional content, brief discussion of body image

Word count: 6.3k roughly

Authors notes: I can’t believe were here the epilogue and final of Han river lullaby this fic idea has lived rent in my head for a long time and I want to thank you all for your beyond kind words, encouragement and love you’ve shown this little family. As always please feel free to let me know your thoughts in the comments or my ask box!

The first few weeks of living with Yoongi wasn’t without its growing pains, so to speak. Adjusting to new rhythms was a delicate dance—Han settling into a slightly different preschool routine, you and Yoongi rediscovering each other’s quirks in shared spaces, finding ways to balance his chaotic idol schedule with the quieter, grounding moments of domestic life.

It took time. Patience. The kind that was earned, not assumed.

One of the biggest adjustments, for you at least, was giving Yoongi the creative space he needed. You’d re-learned quickly that inspiration didn’t follow a clock—it struck like lightning at odd hours, sometimes mid-lunch, sometimes just as you were falling asleep beside him. You made a conscious effort not to interrupt when he disappeared into his studio, headphones on, hands moving fast over his keyboard, jaw set in that trance-like focus that meant a song was forming.

But much to Han’s absolute delight, Yoongi didn’t always shut himself away like he used to. There were moments—beautiful ones—where he’d emerge barefoot and sleepy-eyed from the studio just to sit cross-legged on the living room floor and help build train tracks, or play piano with Han balanced in his lap, giggling each time Yoongi hit a high note with dramatic flair.

For Yoongi, the transition came in different shades. He was learning that your job wasn’t just a job—it was a piece of your identity. Your independence mattered. The hours you’d poured into your studies, the grueling shifts, the pride you took in every diagnosis and every patient—he saw it. He respected it.

But that didn’t stop him from suggesting one morning, rather tentatively, over breakfast and the sound of cartoons in the background, “You know… you could stay home with Han. If you wanted. Just for a while.”

You didn’t even look up from buttering toast. “Come again?”

Yoongi blinked, suddenly very interested in the coffee mug in his hands. “I mean—only if you wanted. I wasn’t trying to say you should—just that you could. I can take care of us, that’s all I meant.”

You looked up then, slowly, and gave him a stare that could level entire cities.

His eyes widened a little. “Okay. Noted.”

“No, I know you didn’t mean it to come off the way it did,” you said evenly, sliding the plate toward Han before folding your arms. “But it still did, Mr. big house, big car, big rings.”

The flash of recognition in his eyes was immediate. “Okay, wow my own lyrics back at me, ouch,” he murmured with a low chuckle.

“Yoongi,” you said, softer now but no less firm, “you earned those things. Every one of them, and I’m proud of you for that. But my stethoscope, my prescription pad, those two little letters in front of my name? I bled for those. I’m proud of them. I’m not about to hang up my coat and become a houseplant just because your black card could cover it and has more commas than a legal document.”

He stepped closer to you then, gently taking your hand. His thumb stroked over your knuckles. “I didn’t mean it like that. I promise. I just… I’ve been thinking about how much I’ve missed with Han. How much I used to miss with you. And now that we’re together again, I guess I got a little greedy.”

Your features softened at that. “I get it. I really do. But being a mum doesn’t cancel out being a doctor. Just like being an idol doesn’t cancel out being a dad.”

Yoongi nodded, pulling you into his arms with a deep exhale. His voice rumbled against your ear. “Okay. I hear you. Loud and clear, Doc.”

You smiled into his shoulder. “Good. Because the next time you suggest I quit my job, so help me I will write you a fake prescription for a foot in your ass.”

He chuckled, warm and unbothered, one hand cradling the back of your head. “That’s my girl.”

Both of you broke into laughter, and the tension cracked—just like that.

Growing pains, yes.

But you were growing together.

One late afternoon, you returned home from your shift to the soft thud of feet racing across the floor.

“Eomma!!” Han shouted before you even had your bag set down.

You barely had time to turn before he crashed into your legs, arms wrapping around your knees, his face flushed with excitement. His energy practically sparked off him like static.

“Whoa, slow down, munchkin,” you laughed, crouching to his level and brushing a damp curl from his forehead. “What’s got you so wired?”

“Appa let me sit on his knee while he was making music!” Han announced breathlessly, words tumbling over each other in their urgency. “I pressed the buttons! And I got to wear the big headphones—they were huge, Eomma, they covered my whole head! Like a helmet!”

His whole face lit up with the memory, eyes shining with the kind of joy only a three-year-old could express at full volume.

You looked past him, over his shoulder, and found Yoongi leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, arms crossed loosely, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips. There was a faint smudge of something—probably Han’s snack—on his black t-shirt, and his hair was pushed back like he’d been running his fingers through it while working.

Dinner was already halfway set out, a pleasant surprise you’d come to appreciate more and more. But what caught your attention most was the way Yoongi was watching Han—like every sound out of your son’s mouth was music in its own right.

At the table, Han could barely sit still long enough to eat. He kicked his legs under the chair, animatedly spooning rice into his mouth between bursts of retelling. “He let me tap the little pads! And I made them go boop bang! And Appa said I have a good ear!” He puffed his chest out, beaming.

You reached across with a napkin to wipe the sticky grain of rice stuck to his cheek, smiling softly. You laughed, eyes flicking to Yoongi. “Oh? Did he now?”

Yoongi took a sip from his water, barely hiding the smirk that curved at his mouth. “He kept nodding in time with the beat. Even caught the off-beat accents. Kid’s got rhythm.”

“Maybe he gets it from me,” you teased, nudging Yoongi lightly under the table with your foot.

He raised an eyebrow, all mock challenge. “You? I’ll let you believe that babe”

You shot him a glare, biting back a smile. 

Han giggled at your bickering, clearly pleased with himself for being the center of attention.

Later that evening, after Han was bathed and tucked into bed—his little voice still humming some made-up melody Yoongi must’ve taught him—you padded into the living room and found Yoongi sitting on the couch, scrolling through something on his phone.

“Hey,” you said softly, settling beside him.

“Hey,” he echoed, setting the phone down.

You leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder. “Thank you for today. For letting him into that part of your world, like that.”

Yoongi shrugged one shoulder, casual, but his voice was thick with emotion when he answered. “It didn’t feel like letting him in. He just… fit. Like he was always meant to be there.”

You looked up at him then, chest aching in the best way. “You’re a good dad, Yoongi.”

He blinked, throat working. “I’m trying.”

“You’re doing more than that,” you whispered. “And he knows it. You saw his face tonight.”

Yoongi exhaled, long and quiet, before resting his forehead against yours.

The road hadn’t been smooth. There had been late nights, hard conversations, moments where doubt whispered cruel things in the dark.

But here, in this moment—with Han humming softly in the next room and Yoongi’s arms wrapped around you every growing pain, every adjustment, every stubborn argument or tear shed in frustration, was worth it.

Because you were building something real. Together.

Another aspect of this new dynamic you and Yoongi had to navigate was finding time for yourselves as a couple—outside of just being Han’s parents. That’s why tonight, you had enlisted the help of Namjoon as a babysitter while you and Yoongi went on a long-overdue date.

“Now, his bedtime—” you started, putting in a pair of earrings as you ran Namjoon through Han’s schedule for what felt like the hundredth time.

“I know, 8 p.m. sharp,” Namjoon interrupted with a chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. “Y/N, I got this. You both go have a great night. I promise, Han will be asleep by the time you get back.”

You sighed, slipping on your heels and straightening your deep green cocktail dress. “I know, I know. I just—God, I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”

Namjoon scooped Han up, resting him on his hip. “You have nothing to be nervous about, Y/N.”

“Ready, babe?” Yoongi’s voice interrupted from the doorway.

You turned, breath catching the second you laid eyes on him. He had the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to his forearms, the fabric tucked neatly into a pair of distressed black jeans that did sinful things to his waistline. His hair was styled just the way you liked, and the way he was looking at you—one eyebrow raised, a knowing smirk playing on his lips—made your stomach flip.

“Yeah,” you managed, forcing yourself to look away before you got lost in him completely. You both kissed Han goodbye, making him pinky-promise you both that he’d be good for Uncle Joonie.

But Yoongi, this man, continued toying with your emotions and arousal without even trying. The moment he threw his arm around your seat to reverse out of the parking space, one hand effortlessly on the wheel, his gaze focused behind him, your thighs clenched involuntarily.

Of course, he noticed. He always noticed.

A soft chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Really, Y/N? Me reversing the car?”

“Oh, as if you don’t know how annoyingly hot you are when you do shit like that,” you scoffed.

His laughter grew, and before you knew it, he was grabbing your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “So my baby mama tells me,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips.

The restaurant he took you to was beautiful—secluded, candlelit, the kind of place where soft music thrummed low in the background and the world outside seemed to disappear. Conversation flowed like wine, effortless and warm, laughter spilling easily between bites of food so delicious it almost felt sinful. Yoongi served you generous portions, his thumb brushing your knuckles as he passed your plate, each touch sending a pleasant shiver up your spine. When your glass neared empty, he was already refilling it, his eyes crinkling with that boyish grin that never failed to make your heart flutter.

“We should do this more often,” you said, and Yoongi just hummed in agreement, his gaze lingering on you in a way that promised the night was far from over.

After dinner, the two of you strolled lazily along the Han River, hand in hand. The lights from the city danced across the dark water, casting an ethereal glow around you. His thumb brushed over yours idly, a silent, tender gesture that made your chest ache with love for him. You lost track of time, lost in conversation, lost in each other, until Yoongi glanced at his watch and cursed under his breath.

“Shit, it’s already past ten. We should head back before Han starts a rebellion, I wonder if he went down okay for joon” he mused, tugging you gently toward the car.

By the time you got home, you were drunk on more than wine. The warmth of good food, the lingering press of Yoongi’s hand on the small of your back, and the way he looked at you like you were something sacred had you floating. After thanking Namjoon for watching Han and giving him a sleepy hug goodbye, you turned to close the door—only to be pinned gently against it by Yoongi’s lips.

The kiss was searing. Not rushed, but urgent. Years of buried longing compressed into every swipe of his tongue and press of his body. His hands were everywhere—spanning your waist, splaying wide across your back, curling possessively around your hips as he guided you backward without breaking the kiss.

You gasped when the backs of your knees hit the bed. He followed, looming over you with a hunger in his eyes that made your breath catch. His chest rose and fell like he’d just finished running, but the only thing chasing him was you.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice rough with restraint, his hands hovering just above your thighs. He wasn’t just asking for permission—he was handing you the power.

You nodded, breathless, tugging at his shirt. “Wait,” you whispered suddenly, nerves fluttering up your spine.

Yoongi stopped immediately, his eyes scanning your face. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly, already reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“It’s stupid,” you murmured, eyes falling to the space between you. “It’s just… since Han, my body’s changed. And I—”

“Y/N,” he breathed, shaking his head, forehead resting lightly against yours. “This is the body that gave me my son. Our boy. If you think there’s a single part of you I wouldn’t worship, you’re wrong.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but before they could fall, he kissed them away with the gentlest press of his lips, reverent as a prayer.

“If you’re ready,” he murmured into the curve of your neck, his voice a rasp of devotion, “I’d love to re-learn every inch of you. Every taste. Every sound I can pull from those lips.”

A shiver ran through you, desire flaring hot and bright. You pulled him into another kiss—this one deeper, fuller—wrapping your arms around him like you could anchor yourself to his heartbeat.

Clothes were shed between stolen kisses and greedy touches. Yoongi’s fingers moved with practiced reverence, pushing your dress up and over your head. You tugged his shirt off with impatient hands, sighing when his bare skin pressed to yours. Every inch of him was warm and familiar and overwhelming.

He took his time, kissing along the slope of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, down your stomach. “God, I missed this,” he muttered against your skin. “Missed you.”

When you were finally bare, he paused, eyes drinking you in like he hadn’t eaten in days. “Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered, almost to himself.

His mouth found your breasts, his tongue swirling around one tight peak, lips closing around it in a slow, aching suck that had you gasping. His hand slid down your belly, fingers teasing their way between your thighs, drawing soft, helpless whimpers from you.

“You’re soaked,” he growled, fingers slipping easily through your folds. “Is this all for me?”

You nodded, too far gone for words. He kissed down your stomach, settling between your thighs like he belonged there.

“Y/N,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours, “you sure?”

“Yes,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Please.”

The first drag of his tongue against you made your spine arch off the bed. He groaned into you, the sound vibrating against your core. He licked and sucked with a hunger that bordered on worship, every stroke of his tongue perfectly unrelenting. Your fingers threaded into his hair, hips lifting into his mouth, your cries filling the room.

“Yoongi—fuck—don’t stop,” you gasped.

He didn’t. If anything, he doubled down, one hand gripping your thigh while the other slipped a finger inside you, curling just right. “Gonna make you fall apart on my tongue, baby,” he said between licks. “Need to taste every part of you.”

You shattered a moment later, your climax crashing over you like a wave, your whole body trembling, his name a broken mantra on your lips.

He kissed his way back up, slow and deliberate, mouth slick with your release. His dark eyes were molten as he hovered over you, the thick weight of him pressing against your thigh.

“You ready for me?” he asked, voice strained.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him close. “Please, Yoongi. Need to feel you.”

With a quiet groan, he pressed into you—slowly, deeply, inch by aching inch—until he was fully seated inside you. He stilled, breathing hard, forehead resting against yours.

“Jesus, you still feel like fucking heaven,” he whispered.

You clung to him, your body adjusting, your breath catching at the stretch. He began to move, a slow rhythm that filled you completely, grounding you even as it unraveled you.

Every stroke, every grind of his hips was precise—like he knew your body better than anyone ever had. He whispered against your skin, telling you how beautiful you were, how much he’d missed this, missed you.

“Missed feeling you wrapped around me. Missed the way you sound when I make you cum.”

Your breath stuttered, the heat coiling again in your core. “Yoongi—I’m close.”

“Then let go, baby,” he growled, hips picking up speed. “Cum for me.”

You did, with a choked moan, your body tensing, then breaking apart around him. Your walls fluttered, pulsing around his cock, and he gasped, his own climax close.

“Fuck, baby—where do you want it?”

“Inside,” you moaned, clinging to him. “Please, inside.”

With a final thrust and a guttural groan, he came, hips stuttering as he spilled into you, his warmth flooding you as he kissed your temple, your jaw, your lips.

Afterward, he collapsed onto you, still buried deep, his body heavy and warm and perfect. He pressed lazy kisses to your shoulder, his fingers trailing aimless patterns on your side.

You toyed with his damp hair, your heart full to bursting. “I love—” you started, but the words caught as he moved again, too full, too raw.

Yoongi lifted his head, smiling softly like he already knew what you were going to say.

But then—

“EOMMA! APPA!”

Han’s terrified cry echoed from down the hallway.

Yoongi was up in an instant, pressing one last kiss to your forehead. “I got him,” he said, voice warm. “You go clean up, beautiful.”

And just like that, the heat of the night melted into the soft, steady rhythm of your new life—love, family, and a forever you never thought you’d get, wrapped in Yoongi’s arms.

You watched him tug on some sweatpants quickly and disappear down the hall, heart full and aching, feeling more in love with him than ever.

By the time you returned to the bedroom, the apartment had slipped into a hush, the kind that only came in those fragile hours before morning fully bloomed. Yoongi was sitting against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him, Han curled in his arms like he belonged there—because he did. Fast asleep, your son’s small body was tucked into the curve of Yoongi’s chest, his cheek resting over Yoongi’s heart.

Yoongi was murmuring softly into his phone’s notes app, his voice low and rhythmic, almost like a lullaby. You couldn’t make out the words, but the way his fingers moved in tandem with his whispered cadence told you he was drafting lyrics. There was a soft, dreamy smile playing at the corners of his lips, the kind that only ever appeared when he was holding Han or working on music that meant something.

“What’re you working on?” you asked gently, your voice a whisper against the quiet.

He looked up, caught in the moment, and then gave you that shy, almost boyish smile that still made your chest flutter. “You’ll see when it’s done,” he said, a little blush creeping into his cheeks, like he was protecting something sacred.

You hummed, the curiosity buzzing in your chest, but you didn’t push. You never did—not when it came to his music. Instead, you climbed onto the bed, nestling in beside him and letting your head rest against his shoulder. The warmth of his body seeped into yours instantly, grounding you.

“Can’t wait,” you murmured, your voice already laced with sleep.

He shifted to pull the blankets up, covering you both. Han stirred slightly, sighing in his sleep, but settled again between you, one tiny hand brushing your side. You felt Yoongi press a gentle kiss to your forehead as your eyes slipped shut. The last thing you heard before sleep took you was the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek.

The next morning, you woke to a different kind of quiet.

Yoongi’s side of the bed was cold. You reached out instinctively, frowning at the absence of warmth. Han was still curled up beside you, small fingers tangled in the fabric of your shirt, his breathing soft and even. You smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of his messy curls before carefully easing out of bed, tucking the covers around him like a cocoon.

The apartment was still and bathed in early morning light, the soft hum of city traffic muted by the thick glass windows. As you padded toward the kitchen, you noticed a faint glow spilling from underneath the studio door—and the unmistakable thrum of low music playing from inside.

You sighed. Of course. If Yoongi had been up at 2 a.m. again, there was a high chance he hadn’t gone back to sleep at all.

A part of you debated whether to knock or leave him alone. When inspiration struck Yoongi, it possessed him. Time dissolved, and so did his appetite, sense of self-preservation, and any awareness of his physical limits. But you also knew how drained he could get after a night like this—wired from the high of creating, but crashing hard afterward.

So you brewed a cup of coffee, just the way he liked it—dark roast, splash of milk, one sugar—and grabbed a plate to stack with quick snacks: a few cheese slices, crackers, apple wedges, and a handful of almonds. Quietly, you made your way to the studio, balancing the offerings like you were approaching a very sleep-deprived deity.

You knocked softly. No answer.

You cracked the door open and peered inside.

Yoongi sat hunched at his desk in nothing but a black t-shirt and boxer shorts, legs tangled underneath him. His hair was a wild mess, sticking out in multiple directions, and the dark smudges under his eyes betrayed the hours he’d spent in front of the screen. He didn’t even hear you—he was lost in it, muttering under his breath as his fingers hovered over the keyboard, then dropped in a frustrated flurry.

“Yoon,” you said softly.

He startled slightly, blinking up at you like he was surfacing from underwater. His gaze took a second to focus, but when it landed on the coffee in your hands, his whole body seemed to sag with relief.

“God,” he groaned, making grabby hands toward the mug like a toddler. “You’re a literal angel.”

You laughed quietly. “Jesus, you and Han really are the same person.”

He took the mug and cradled it like it was holy, taking a slow sip and closing his eyes as the caffeine hit his system. “Mmm. Salvation.”

You perched on the edge of his desk, arms crossed as you surveyed the state of him. “What time did you sneak in here?”

He glanced vaguely at the screen, then rubbed a hand over his face. “Uh… Han kicked me in the stomach at, like, two? I couldn’t fall back asleep so I came in here.”

You blinked. “Yoongi—it’s eight. That’s six hours.”

He shrugged, unapologetic, already reaching for a cracker. “I was on a roll. Can’t waste it.”

You sighed, hand brushing his arm. “You need to rest too, you know. Coffee doesn’t count as a meal, no matter how much you wish it did.”

He gave you a flat look over the rim of his mug. “Says the doctor who thinks granola bars count as breakfast and considers intravenous caffeine a viable health plan.”

You smirked. “Touché Min, touché.”

He cracked a smile, but it softened when your hand slipped into his hair, fingers gently taming the mess. His shoulders eased at your touch, and he leaned slightly into your palm.

“I mean it though,” you said, voice gentler now. “Eat something. Sleep. I’ll take Han to creche before my shift today, and you can nap for a few hours without being body slammed by a three-year-old.”

Yoongi’s smirk faded into something more tender. He reached out and squeezed your wrist, his thumb brushing over your pulse. It wasn’t much—but with Yoongi, it never had to be. His gratitude, his affection, always spoke in the quiet.

“I’ll try,” he said finally.

You gave his cheek a gentle pat before sliding off the desk. “You better. Otherwise I’m bringing the full ERs supply of melatonin to spike your drinks with home and dragging your ass to bed.”

He chuckled under his breath, already turning back to the screen, but not before you caught the small smile tugging at his lips.

“Thanks, babe,” he murmured as you stepped out, voice warm, steady, and full of something so soft it settled deep in your chest.

You came home later that evening, the soft click of your keys echoing in the quiet hallway as you eased the door open with one hand and cradled Han in the other. His small body was warm against your chest, breathing slow and even, his head resting heavily on your shoulder in that familiar way that never failed to make your heart swell.

The moment you stepped inside, a wave of warmth hit you—not just from the coziness of home, but from the rich, savory scent that instantly greeted you. Garlic, gochugaru, and something earthy and comforting simmered in the air, wrapping around you like a hug and making your stomach let out a traitorous growl. Whatever Yoongi was cooking smelled incredible. You breathed it in, closing your eyes for a moment to soak in the peaceful domesticity you’d walked into.

You gently nudged Han awake with a soft pat on his back and a kiss to his temple. “Come on, bubba. Let’s get you to your playroom.”

He blinked blearily, then nodded with a small yawn, clutching his favorite toy car in one sleepy hand. You set him down, watching him wobble off, curls bouncing as he made his way to the room just down the hall. Once you heard the soft thump of him flopping onto his playmat, you turned toward the kitchen, already smiling.

What you saw nearly made you melt.

Yoongi stood at the counter, barefoot and comfy in just his worn boxer briefs and a loose black t-shirt that clung slightly to the soft lines of his back, if you're not mistaken the very outfit you'd left him in that morning. His hair was still adorably tousled from what you hoped had been a real nap, and perched on his nose were his glasses—slightly askew as he leaned over the cutting board in intense concentration. The sharp sound of his knife chopping vegetables in a practiced rhythm blended with the gentle bubbling from the pot on the stove.

You just watched for a moment, heart full. There was something magnetic about this version of Yoongi—quiet, domestic, utterly at ease. Not Min Yoongi the performer. Not the producer or the idol. Just the man you loved, in your home, making dinner with a little furrow between his brows.

You couldn’t help yourself.

Padding softly across the room, you slipped your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek to the space between his shoulder blades.

“What’s cooking, good-looking?” you murmured, your voice playful and low, smiling at the way his body instinctively leaned back into yours.

He let out a soft chuckle, tossing the last of the chopped zucchini into the pot. “Sundubu jjigae,” he replied. “You said you wanted comfort food.”

“I love you,” you said instantly, and you felt his shoulders shake with another small laugh.

“I know,” he teased, reaching for a wooden spoon.

You tilted your head to kiss the slope of his neck, your lips brushing the spot just beneath his ear. “Smells amazing,” you said sincerely, pulling in another breath of the spicy, savory steam wafting up from the pot.

Yoongi scoffed lightly, but the tiny upward curve of his lips told you how pleased he was. He stirred the bubbling stew carefully, taste-testing with a thoughtful hum. “Needs a little more salt,” he muttered to himself.

You watched him for a beat longer, the sight of him here—soft, focused, yours—pulling a warmth through your chest that was impossible to describe.

“Did you get some sleep?” you asked softly, lips still brushing his shoulder.

He exhaled through his nose, setting the spoon down. “Solid two hours,” he admitted.

You groaned dramatically. “Yoongi,” you said, voice dipping into mock-scolding as you tightened your arms around his waist.

He smirked, glancing back at you with a shrug. “Hey, I did sleep. That’s an improvement.”

“Yoon I swear,” you huffed, “you are so stubborn.”

“I’m productive,” he countered with a grin, “and I almost finished the track. Joon’s gonna lose his mind.”

You sighed in surrender, knowing better than to argue when he was in this mood. You stepped back—almost—until your hand trailed along the curve of his hip and, with a quick flick of mischief, you gave his ass a firm, playful smack.

He froze.

Then let out a surprised laugh, turning his head to eye you with delighted suspicion. “Oh?”

“What?” you asked innocently, biting back your own grin.

Yoongi raised a single eyebrow, far too composed. “Nothing. Just…” he paused dramatically, returning his attention to the pot, “don’t start something we don’t have time to finish.”

You choked on your own breath. “Yoongi!”

He turned fully now, leaning against the counter, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as he scanned you from head to toe. The glint in his eyes was dangerous—and entirely too smug.

“You’re the one who smacked my ass,” he said, voice low and teasing.

“I—it was playful!” you sputtered, cheeks heating.

“Oh, I know,” he drawled. “But next time, if you do want to grab something, you don’t need an excuse, baby. Just ask.”

You covered your face with both hands, letting out a mortified groan as he chuckled, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

“I’m going to check on Han,” you muttered, spinning on your heel.

“Sure,” Yoongi called after you, his voice full of laughter. “But if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

You could practically feel the smirk without even looking.

his voice turned sweet as you almost reached the doorway. “Oh and Y/N, I love you too”

Shaking your head, still smiling, you wandered down the hallway toward Han’s playroom. The door was cracked open just enough for you to peek in. There he was, sprawled out on his belly, cars lined up in a meticulous track formation, his little brows furrowed in deep concentration as he made exaggerated engine noises.

“Han,” you called softly, stepping just inside.

He barely looked up, too absorbed in his game. “Five minutes, please, eomma,” he murmured, his hand pushing the red car in a perfect loop around a stuffed dinosaur.

You chuckled quietly, crossing your arms. “Five more minutes, then it’s dinner, okay?”

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, not even glancing up.

You left him to it, heart impossibly full. A moment ago you’d been mortified. Now? Now all you could feel was warmth. This was the life you hadn’t dared to imagine a year ago—a home filled with laughter, mischief, teasing, love.

Stepping back into the kitchen, you grabbed a stack of bowls and chopsticks, beginning to set the table. Behind you, Yoongi moved with quiet efficiency, plating up side dishes and spooning hot jjigae into a large bowl for Han.

And somehow, in all the gentle chaos of domestic life, it hit you.

This was happiness.

Messy, noisy, imperfect—but completely yours.

The next morning, you woke with a slow, languid stretch, limbs unfurling beneath the soft covers as you reached out instinctively across the bed—only to find cool sheets and empty space where Yoongi should’ve been.

That wasn’t unusual.

But something felt… off.

There was no distant hum of a melody from his studio. No soft clatter of coffee mugs. No telltale signs of your son’s early-morning giggles echoing down the hallway. Just silence. A thick, still kind of quiet that clung to the walls.

You sat up, blinking against the morning light that seeped through the curtains in pale gold ribbons, and listened. Nothing.

Frowning, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and padded barefoot across the cool floors, the hush of the apartment settling around your shoulders like a blanket too heavy to ignore.

You checked Han’s room first.

The sight melted your worry—there he was, cocooned in his navy comforter, his little body curled protectively around his beloved stuffed bunny, its ears mashed against his cheek. His mouth was slightly open, lips parted in that deep, dreamless sleep that only toddlers could master. His tiny foot peeked from beneath the covers, twitching slightly as he let out a soft sigh.

Your heart gave a quiet, grateful thump.

One down.

You moved toward Yoongi’s studio next, half-expecting to find him hunched over the keyboard, earbuds in, oblivious to the world. But the door was slightly ajar. The lights were off. The chair empty. That alone was strange—he was meticulous about closing that door if he ducked out, even for a minute.

Your stomach twisted just a little.

Kitchen, maybe?

But when you stepped inside, there was no Yoongi. No mug left out. No half-eaten toast or phone charging on the bench. Just the subtle, familiar stillness of early morning domesticity.

And then—your eyes landed on it.

A small note stuck to the fridge with one of Han’s alphabet magnets. The bright green “H” held the corner down.

Sorry, baby. Last-minute change to the filming schedule. There’s a present on the counter. Love you.

A present?

Your gaze followed the edge of the counter until it landed on something small. Familiar. Personal.

Yoongi’s flash drive.

You froze.

He finished it.

The one he’d been hiding behind sheepish smiles and vague promises. The one he refused to let you hear until it was ready—perfect.

Your fingers trembled as you picked it up, cool and light in your hand. You turned it over once, twice, pulse beginning to rise.

He finished it. And he’s giving it to me.

With a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, you grabbed your laptop, the rest of the world falling away as you slid the drive into place.

The file loaded instantly.

Han River Lullaby.

Your heart stuttered.

The name alone hit like a punch to the chest—soft, devastating. Han. Your son. The center of your world. And the Han River. That bittersweet place where promises were broken and hearts cracked open beneath silver moonlight. The place you’d last stood with Yoongi, fingertips brushing, words catching in your throats, neither of you ready.

That title was no coincidence.

The room blurred for a moment, and you swallowed hard as you clicked play.

The first notes floated out—a delicate piano melody, aching and slow, each chord laced with emotion. It sounded like memory. Like nostalgia. Like a second chance bleeding through every measure.

Then Yoongi’s voice.

Low. Bare. Intimate. Like he was singing it from the foot of your bed with a hand on your chest. Like he’d bottled every unsent message and poured them into this song.

The lyrics unfolded like pages of a diary you’d both kept in silence. A love lost, not from the absence of feeling—but from timing, fear, sacrifice. A story of bruised hope and forgiveness, of the boy who became a man and the woman who came back. Of a river that held their secrets. Of a little boy who never knew he was the song all along.

Han.

Your chest tightened painfully.

Every word, every breath Yoongi took between lines, was soaked in love. For you. For Han. For everything he thought he might’ve lost for good.

The tears came quietly. You didn’t sob. You simply felt—too much, all at once.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to steady the way your heart ached and soared at the same time. His voice broke in the final chorus, and that did you in. You pressed a trembling hand over your mouth, letting the weight of it wash over you.

He had told you everything he didn’t know how to say out loud.

He had given you his heart again—this time in melody.

You were still blinking away tears when a small voice startled you.

“Eomma?”

You turned quickly, dragging your sleeve over your cheeks.

Han stood in the doorway, his cheeks still round and pink with sleep, his bunny dangling from one hand. His curls were sticking up on one side, and his eyes were wide with concern.

“Why’re you crying?” he asked softly, padding over to you in socked feet.

You scooped him into your arms the second he was close enough, pressing him tightly against you. His little arms wound around your neck, his body warm and sleepy and entirely trusting.

“I’m okay, baby,” you whispered into his hair, voice thick. “I’m just really, really happy.”

He pulled back slightly, studying you with the same furrowed expression you’d seen on Yoongi’s face a hundred times.

“You’re weird,” he decided, nuzzling into your shoulder again.

You laughed, breath catching on a sob you didn’t let fully escape, pressing kiss after kiss to his curls.

As the last note of the lullaby faded into silence, you held your son a little tighter, heart too full for words.

Because somehow, against all odds, you and Yoongi had rewritten your story.

And this time, neither of you were letting go.

Taglist: @busanbby-jjk @jajabro @kam9404 @yoongiiuu93 @julseka07 @tea4sykes @marihoneywk @maryhopemei @sanarin @misschelliejeon @boraluv @wobblewobble822 @amarawayne @hyuninslutbbgirl @Granataepfelchen @mar-lo-pap @enfppuff @senaqsstuff @vainkiss @rinkud @lanyia @alessioayla @watchingover-hypegirl @muchwita @elliott-calls @kiki-zb @annpeachy

[minyoongisnewthing]

hi! I've been reading (and loving!) the co-parenting yoongi fic and was wondering if the reader was Korean? I'm assuming so because of the description of han, no problem if I'm wrong or right. have a good day<3

Thank you for loving the story dear anon as for the reader in the story, as for the MC you’re not wrong if that’s how you see her! I’ve hopefully succeed in keeping physical descriptions of MC to a minimum so you everyone who reads it can see themselves in her

I hope you have a great day anon! ❤️

[minyoongisnewthing]

Popping up to say the final chapter/epilogue of Han river lullaby is 90 percent done! I have also started on a little Drabble that won’t leave my brain….. also may or may not be working on a fix it fic after I saw the new final destination and Erik has my ass in a choke hold!

[minyoongisnewthing]

Han river lullaby chapter nine | myg

Chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Genre: angst, fluff, exs to lovers, eventual smut, idol!au, co parents, second chance romance

Chapter warnings: mild suggestive content, mentions of medical situation (humorous)

Word count: 5.2 k roughly

Authors notes: I want to thank everyone for there patience waiting for this chapter life indeed kicked my ass between work emergencies and life just lifting I apologise for leaving you hanging I hope this chapter meets expectations as always let me know what you think in the comments and in my ask box if you’d like as well :)

The bliss of Daegu still lingered like the aftertaste of something sweet—but even the most heart-warming moments couldn’t keep the demands of the ER at bay. Life kept moving, and so did your shift. You were nine hours into what was rapidly becoming a twelve-hour marathon, your body aching from the relentless pace, and your brain running on fumes.

Leaning against the nurse’s station, you took a moment to breathe, letting the hum of machines and distant voices blur into background noise. You fished your phone from your scrubs pocket, thumb hovering over the screen. You needed a moment of softness. A tether.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

What did you even call him now that you were back together?

Y/N: Hey sweetie.

No. Too cutesy.

Y/N: Hey honey.

Nope. That felt like a sitcom mom from the ’50s.

Y/N: Hey baby daddy.

Okay, he’d definitely laugh at that one, you could practically hear the scoff of amusement he’d let out when that popped up on his Lock Screen, but still… no.

Y/N: Hey my love.

Your thumb froze. Too much? Maybe. But also… was it wrong? Not even close. You’d felt that way for a long time. You were nearly certain he’d been on the verge of saying it back in Daegu, but then Han had come bounding in, all wide eyes and cookie ambitions, and the moment had slipped away.

You exhaled slowly, your heart thudding, before deleting the message and starting over.

Y/N: Hey Yoon, the ER is wild tonight. Looks like I might be stuck for a 12-hour shift. Is it okay if Han stays over again?

You hit send before you could overthink it.

The reply came fast—like he’d been waiting.

Yoongi: Sure thing, baby. No drama. Han’s currently munching on an apple and telling Tae every single detail about our trip.

You’re welcome to crash here too—so you’re there when he wakes up.

Your heart stuttered. “Baby.” It rolled off his tongue so easily, like it had never left. Like it belonged. The warmth that bloomed in your chest was immediate.

Y/N: Thank you. I’ll head over after my shift.

Kiss Han for me.

Yoongi: I’d rather kiss you.

Your cheeks burned. Right on cue, a familiar voice chirped over your shoulder.

“That Han’s dad?”

You jumped. Grace—your favorite nurse, your chaotic work-wife, and trusted gossip partner—peeked over your shoulder with an infuriating smirk.

You turned, mock glaring. “Mind your business.”

Grace laughed, completely unbothered, already halfway down the hallway. “Too late. I’ve seen the flirty texts. He wants to kiss you and everything. Better be ready to spill.”

You sighed, tucking your phone away—but the smile on your face didn’t budge. Even the ache in your legs felt a little easier to bear with that warmth in your chest.

Fifteen minutes later, you found yourself in the break room, finally snagging a bite of dinner. You collapsed into the chair across from Grace with a sigh, dropping your salad on the table like it had personally offended you.

She arched a perfectly drawn brow. “That kind of sigh usually comes with either a panic attack or a love confession. What’s going on?”

You looked at her for a beat before finally letting it spill. “I need your advice.”

Grace perked up like a cat hearing the treat bag crinkle. “Say less. I live for this. What’s the tea, babe?”

You stirred your salad with your fork, barely picking at it. “Han’s dad… he asked me and Han to move in with him.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Grace’s jaw dropped. “Y/N! What?! That’s huge!”

“I know,” you groaned. “And I’m not saying no. I’m… considering it. It’s just… is it too fast?”

Grace leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, giving you that trademark Big Sister Look™ that was usually followed by painful truths and unrelenting honesty.

“Okay, let’s break this down,” she said, popping a grape in her mouth like a therapist with snacks. “Do you trust him?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still love him?”

Your hand froze halfway to your mouth.

You didn’t answer right away. But you didn’t need to.

Grace’s eyes softened. “Yeah. Thought so.”

“I do,” you whispered. “I love him. I never really stopped, if I’m being honest.”

“And Han?” she asked.

Your expression softened immediately. “He’s obsessed with him. They’re like—ugh, Grace, it’s stupid how much they adore each other.”

“Y/N, that’s not stupid. That’s everything. That’s your kid feeling safe, seen, loved. Don’t you dare brush that off like it’s nothing.”

“I just…” you hesitated, chewing on your lower lip. “I don’t want to ruin it. What if it’s too soon? What if we’re chasing a version of us that only worked because of nostalgia?”

Grace snorted. “First of all, nostalgia doesn’t survive toddler tantrums or early morning school runs. This isn’t a fantasy. You’re living it. You’re showing up for each other. And honestly? You’re already living between his place and yours.”

You blinked. “That obvious?”

“Babe, You left your stethoscope in his bathroom just two weeks ago. That man is basically one romantic dinner away from holding your toothbrush hostage.”

You laughed, unable to deny it. Your heart felt a little lighter, the edges of your anxiety softening under her words.

“And let’s not forget,” Grace added, pointing her fork at you, “you’re not just doing this for you. Han’s happiness matters too. And if moving in makes him feel secure, feel like his little world finally has all the puzzle pieces in place… then don’t let fear stop you from giving him that.”

You nodded slowly, her words settling deep into your bones.

“Okay,” you said, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll think about it. Seriously.”

Grace beamed, victorious. “Good. Because I better be invited to the housewarming. And if you two make another baby, I get to pick the name.”

You choked on your salad. “Grace!”

“What?! I’m great with names. And this time I’ll keep it under four syllables.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the last of the tension bleeding out of you as the room filled with warm, easy banter.

Maybe this wasn’t rushing.

Maybe this was just… finding your way back home.

As you’d predicted—though hoped desperately against—your shift spiraled straight into the dreaded 12-hour marathon. Your feet throbbed in your shoes, your back ached from hours hunched over trauma charts and triage forms, and your brain felt like it was running on static and adrenaline fumes. The ER never let up tonight.

By the time you arrived at Yoongi’s front door, you were barely holding yourself together. Even lifting your hand to knock felt like too much. Instead, you leaned your weight against the cool hallway wall, eyes fluttering shut as you waited for the door to open, silently praying for comfort in any form—a warm bed, a soft word, his arms.

The sound of the deadbolt turning snapped you out of your daze.

The door creaked open, and Yoongi’s familiar voice, warm and laced with concern, greeted you.

“Damn… Wanna talk about it?”

You looked up. He stood there in sweats and a worn gray t-shirt, hair pushed back messily, eyes scanning you with gentle worry. There was something in his expression—equal parts softness and mischief—that nearly undid you. Without a word, you stepped into the apartment, dragging your aching body toward the couch like a survivor returning from battle.

You collapsed with a sigh so deep it shook the room, letting your head fall against the cushion. Yoongi followed you in, a quiet presence as he padded to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water and a folded blanket he draped across your lap. He sat beside you, one knee bent on the cushion, elbow on the backrest as he turned to face you fully.

“Gonna sound like an asshole,” he said, handing you the water with a half-grin, “but you look like you’ve been through hell.”

You took a sip, then let out a tired laugh, the sound raspier than usual. “Oh, you have no idea.”

“Wanna give me the highlight reel?”

You nodded, your body starting to relax into the cushions now that he was close, now that the chaos of the ER had been replaced with the scent of clean linen and the soft rhythm of Yoongi’s voice.

“Okay,” you said, rolling your neck out. “Let’s see. We started the night with a kid who shoved a magnet up his nose—easy fix. Then a guy with a couple of broken bones, pretty straightforward. The usual parade of non-emergency emergencies. One guy came in because he had hiccups. For three hours.”

Yoongi blinked. “…He came to the emergency room for hiccups?”

“Oh yeah,” you said, wryly. “I gave him a glass of water and told him to hold his breath. Then billed him $600.”

That made Yoongi snort, but you weren’t done.

You leaned in a little, dropping your voice conspiratorially. “But the real gem of the night? A couple walks in—early thirties, super flustered. The guy looks like he’s about to pass out. Turns out…” You paused for effect. “He tried to spice things up in the bedroom. Used one of his girlfriend’s toys on himself. And it got stuck.”

Yoongi blinked again. “Stuck?”

You nodded solemnly. “Stuck. And still on.”

There was a beat of silence before the full horror (and hilarity) of it hit him. His mouth dropped open, then shut, then he burst into laughter. That full-body kind—the deep, chesty kind that Yoongi didn’t give away easily. He clutched his stomach, his head dropping back as he gasped, “Nooo—”

“Oh, yes,” you said, holding your hands up. “The vibrating noise echoed through the trauma room. I had to stay composed while this poor guy was practically in tears. He kept saying, ‘Please, make it stop, I can’t feel my legs.’”

Yoongi wheezed with laughter. “Oh my god—”

“I had to give him a sedative just to remove it,” you said, already giggling at the memory yourself. “He thanked me afterwards like I’d just saved his life. The girlfriend couldn’t even make eye contact.”

Yoongi was red in the face, nearly in tears. “I will never complain about a long shift again. That’s… Jesus.”

You nodded. “ER nurses deserve hazard pay and a therapist.”

The laughter faded slowly, replaced with a familiar warmth as Yoongi looked at you—really looked. The exhaustion in your eyes, the tension still lingering in your shoulders. He reached out, brushing a stray hair behind your ear before standing with a stretch and offering his hand.

“Come on,” he murmured. “You’re done for today. Shower. Pajamas. Then I want you horizontal—no arguments.”

You groaned as he helped you up. “I’m getting you a best boyfriend award like right now.”

He smirked, guiding you toward the bathroom. “I already laid your stuff out. Towels, lotion, some fluffy socks. I even found that hair clip you left last time.”

You paused at the door, touched. “You’re dangerously good at this.”

“I know,” he said with a wink. “Now go wash the vibrating trauma off of you.”

You laughed again, then disappeared into the bathroom. The hot water was heaven—steam rolling over your sore muscles, washing away the ER grime and emotional weight of the day. You stayed under until your fingers pruned and the ache in your back melted into manageable warmth.

When you emerged, clean and wrapped in your softest pajamas, the apartment was quiet and dim, the only light coming from Yoongi’s bedroom. You padded in slowly, hair still damp, and found him already under the covers, one arm stretched across the mattress in silent invitation.

You didn’t hesitate.

You slipped into bed, curling into his warmth as he pulled you into his chest without a word. His hand rubbed slow, lazy circles across your back, and the comfort of it nearly undid you. You buried your face in his shirt, breathing in the familiar scent of laundry, skin, and something warm and safe that only belonged to Yoongi.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of your head, voice barely a whisper.

“You’re amazing, you know that?”

You hummed, too tired to respond with words, but your hand slid beneath his shirt to rest over his heart, your thumb tracing the steady beat that grounded you.

As your eyes fluttered shut, the hum of the ER faded from your mind. The only thing left was Yoongi’s breath in your hair, the way his hand held you close, and the subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the air—like something was settling into place.

Then it hit you, you were home.

The next morning, the soft hush of the apartment wrapped around you like a promise. You stirred awake to the sensation of something gently pressing against your ribs. Blinking against the early light seeping in through the curtains, you looked down—and smiled.

There he was.

Han, curled up between you and Yoongi, his little body sprawled out diagonally like a starfish. One sock-clad foot was wedged into your side while the other rested lightly against Yoongi’s stomach. His head rose and fell with the steady rhythm of his father’s breathing, nestled against Yoongi’s chest like it was the safest place in the world. His tiny hand was pressed sleepily to Yoongi’s cheek, fingers twitching in dreams.

Your chest tightened with a fierce, quiet love.

You slid carefully from the bed, tucking the blanket back over the boys. Yoongi stirred slightly but didn’t wake—his arm automatically tightened around Han in sleep, protective and instinctual. The sight etched itself deep into your heart.

Padding quietly into the kitchen, the coolness of the tiles grounded your aching feet. You started the coffee machine, the low hum and rich aroma instantly soothing. The comforting scent of roasted beans filled the space, mingling with the soft light of morning just beginning to filter through the windows. The city outside was still stretching itself awake.

You were halfway through your first sip when the thunder of tiny footsteps echoed from the hallway.

“Eomma!” Han squealed, launching himself into the room like a pint-sized missile.

You winced and chuckled, crouching just in time to catch him. “Bubba,” you whispered, rubbing his back, “inside voice.”

His eyes grew comically wide as he slapped a hand over his mouth. “Oops,” he stage-whispered, and your heart swelled at the sincerity in his face.

You straightened, moving toward the fruit bowl, starting to slice up a banana for breakfast when Han’s attention shifted. His gaze wandered to the partially open door across the room—Yoongi’s studio.

You hadn’t even realized it had been left ajar.

His brows furrowed as he pointed. “Eomma… what’s that room?”

You turned to follow his gaze, realizing the glass display case was in full view—the awards, the gleaming plaques, the golden trophies all standing proud on the back wall. Han’s jaw dropped slightly as he took in the sight.

“Those are Appa’s,” you explained gently, walking over to close the studio door with care. “Trophies from his music. From him and your uncles.”

Han blinked up at you, eyes shimmering with awe. “Appa’s music?” he whispered. “Can I hear it?”

You felt your breath catch for a moment at how reverent his little voice sounded—like he was asking to hear magic. You smiled and nodded.

“Of course, baby.”

You pulled out your phone and tapped into Yoongi’s Spotify. His solo work was already favorited—your little secret indulgence whenever you missed him more than usual. You hooked it up to the speakers, and as the opening beat of “Daechwita” roared softly to life, Han froze.

The percussion vibrated gently through the apartment, and Han’s eyes widened like he was witnessing a superhero transformation. He looked at you, utterly floored.

“That’s Appa?”

You nodded with a soft chuckle. “Yep. That’s Appa.”

Han’s little body twitched with excitement before he started moving—tiny shoulders bobbing, feet bouncing, mimicking the beat. You joined him, unable to resist, rapping along the parts you could, both of you dancing freely in the middle of the kitchen. It was chaotic and hilarious and utterly joyful.

By the time “Who’s the king? Who’s the boss?” hit, Han was spinning in circles, and you were breathless from laughter, clapping along and feeding off his energy.

You were mid-spin when a soft voice drifted in from the hallway.

“Well, damn. Am I interrupting dance rehearsal?”

You turned, cheeks flushed, to find Yoongi leaning sleepily against the doorframe, hair tousled and sticking up adorably in every direction. His hoodie hung lopsided off one shoulder, and his face was still puffy from sleep—but the smile on his face?

It was full-on sunshine.

“You’re up, did we wake you?” you said, brushing hair from your face, flashing him an apologetic look

“No you didn’t wake me,” he replied, voice rough with sleep but warm with affection. “I just didn’t want to miss the show.”

Han gasped when he saw Yoongi and ran full-speed across the room. “Appa! That’s your song!”

Yoongi crouched just in time to catch him, letting Han knock into his chest like a cannonball. He chuckled. “It is, did you like it?”

“Yes!, can I hear more?” Han begged, bouncing in his arms.

Yoongi chuckled again and nodded. “Sure bubs, why not.”

You switched the playlist, letting BTS’s “Mic Drop” take over the room. Han lost it—jumping, spinning, throwing his arms around like he was on stage himself. Yoongi plopped down on the floor next to him, sipping the coffee you handed him while watching his son with unmistakable pride.

You stood beside them, your hand brushing against Yoongi’s arm.

“Hey, Yoon,” you said softly.

He glanced up at you, his smile fading into something more open, more vulnerable. “Yeah?”

You hesitated for just a moment, your heart beating a little faster. But you were done dancing around it. You were ready.

“I’ve made up my mind.”

His brows lifted slightly. He set his coffee down, full attention on you now.

“Han and I…” You inhaled slowly, then smiled. “We’ll move in with you.”

Yoongi froze.

His breath caught, his eyes searched yours like he was trying to make sure he’d heard you right. And then—

His smile broke across his face like sunrise.

“Really?” he breathed.

You nodded, and barely had the chance to say yes again before Yoongi surged to his feet, cupped your face in both hands, and kissed you—deep and full and bursting with happiness.

It wasn’t rushed. It was slow and sure and full of promise, like the closing of a chapter and the beginning of something new all at once.

Han, oblivious to the emotional milestone, was still dancing, spinning in dizzy little circles.

When Yoongi finally pulled back, he pressed his forehead to yours, his voice low and thick.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You brushed your thumb across his cheek. “Don’t thank me yoon, It’s what we should have been all along.”

And right there, with music still thumping low in the background, your son dancing in a blur of joy, and your heart beating steady against the man you never stopped loving—you felt like you were home.

The packing up of your life over the next few weeks had felt… surreal.

This apartment had witnessed so much. It had been your sanctuary during heartbreak, your war zone during toddler tantrums, your safe haven when the world outside was too loud. Every chipped mug in the cabinet, every crayon mark on the wall, every squeaky floorboard under your bed carried pieces of the life you built—just you and Han. A life you’d fought for, protected, and nurtured with everything you had.

And now, it was all being folded into cardboard boxes and labeled in permanent marker. Bedroom—Han’s toys. Kitchen—everyday plates. Hall closet—donate.

It was all so tangible, so final. A chapter closing, not with a slam, but with the quiet reverence of turning the last page.

You stood in the middle of the empty living room, staring at the spot where Han had taken his first steps, where you’d cried after one of your hardest night shifts, where you’d once slow-danced with a glass of wine in hand and music playing through your phone speaker. You let the silence settle around you, breathing it in, letting it echo. Letting it go.

Yoongi had offered to help move, of course. He even suggested hiring a moving service. But you’d wanted to do this part yourself. Not out of pride, but because… this mattered. Closing the door yourself mattered.

With the last box secured in the trunk, you took one last look at the apartment—at your first home as a mother—and shut the door behind you.

You climbed into the driver’s seat, hands pausing on the steering wheel for just a beat longer before you looked into the rearview mirror. Han was already buckled in, his little legs swinging with uncontainable excitement. He was clutching his current favorite stuffed toy—a blue dinosaur with a wonky stitched eye—and humming to himself, a tune made up on the spot, off-key and perfect.

The sight made something twist in your chest—a soft ache of joy and nostalgia. His happiness was radiant. It filled the car like sunlight.

You turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the driveway for the last time. As the apartment disappeared in your rearview mirror, you cleared your throat lightly.

“Alright, Han bubba,” you said, keeping your tone upbeat but firm. “You remember the one room in Appa’s house you’re not allowed to go in unless Appa or I say it’s okay?”

Han immediately let out a loud long groan and flopped his head against the side of his car seat. “Eommaaa… I know! Appa’s music room!”

You raised your eyebrows at him through the mirror in warning. “Wanna try that again without the attitude, mister?”

He sat up straight and nodded quickly, lips pressed together in seriousness. “Sorry,” he said, and then his mouth split into a wide, wiggly-toothed grin. “I’m just… happy!”

That time, you couldn’t help but laugh. You reached your arm back between the seats and he eagerly grabbed your hand with his smaller one, squeezing tightly.

“I know you are, baby,” you said softly. “I am too.”

He beamed at you, his joy bubbling over like a bottle of shaken soda.

“But,” you added, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, “just remember… even though Appa will be home, that doesn’t mean he’s always free. He still has to work.”

Han nodded along enthusiastically. “Because he makes music!”

“That’s right,” you said. “Appa’s music room is really important. That’s where he records his songs and helps other people with their songs too. So we have to respect his space when he’s working, okay?”

“I promise, eomma,” he said, solemn as a judge. And then, his voice dipped shyly. “But… do you think Appa will ever let me hear him make music? Like, really hear it?”

Your heart squeezed.

There was something sacred in the way Han said it. Not just curious. Admiring. Like he already knew his father made something powerful, something special, even if he didn’t fully understand it yet.

You turned back to the road, but your smile lingered. “I think… if you ask nicely, and promise not to touch anything, Appa might let you sit in with him one day.”

Han gasped, practically vibrating in his booster seat. “Really? Like… watch him play? And wear the big headphones?”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “We’ll see, bubba. You know how Appa feels about his buttons.”

“I won’t press any!” he promised, voice high with excitement.

You reached to turn down the music playing quietly in the background, letting the moment settle in as you merged onto the main road, leaving your old neighborhood behind.

As the skyline of Yoongi’s neighborhood began to appear in the distance, something shifted in your chest. A quiet knowing. A peace.

You weren’t running toward a fantasy.

You were moving toward something real.

A home that Han could grow up in. A space where your little family could build—not just exist.

And in the seat beside you? A promise of a second chance. A man who’d never stopped loving you, even in the moments when he couldn’t say it. A man who’d stayed up late assembling a bed with Han’s help, who put up glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling because “Eomma says you sleep better with the stars watching.”

You reached up to adjust the rearview mirror and caught Han watching out the window, his breath fogging the glass as he whispered to himself, “We’re going home.”

And you couldn’t have agreed more.

Walking into Yoongi’s apartment, you barely had a chance to take in the sleek lines and minimalist decor before you were met with absolute chaos.

“Jimin, just stop moving the boxes—I had a system!” Yoongi shouted from somewhere down the hall, his voice echoing off the high ceilings in pure exasperation.

“I’m literally helping,” Jimin fired back indignantly, arms thrown in the air as he stepped around a stack of labeled containers. “You should be thanking me! I’m putting them where they go!”

“Where they go? According to who?” Yoongi barked from another room. “You’re just putting shit wherever it fits!”

A loud thud echoed through the apartment, followed by the sound of a picture frame teetering dangerously.

“Jungkook!” Yoongi’s voice rose another octave, more desperate now. “Stay out of the kitchen!”

You turned just in time to catch the youngest member of the group sheepishly poking his head out from behind the refrigerator door, a guilty grin smeared with something suspiciously like the leftover kimchi you were planning to use at dinner. “I was checking for… perishables,” Jungkook mumbled, cheeks puffed out mid-bite.

Namjoon, the only semblance of calm in the whirlwind, stood by the open front door holding it wide for you. He looked almost serene, though the slight twitch of his eye gave away his internal suffering.

“Thanks, Joon,” you murmured, shifting the box on your hip as you stepped inside.

“No problem,” he replied smoothly, lips twitching in amusement. “Welcome to your new madhouse.”

The second Han’s shoes hit the floor, he bolted forward like a rocket. “Uncle Kookie! Uncle Minnie!” he squealed, his tiny voice slicing straight through the noise like a bell.

Jungkook lit up immediately. “Han!” he called, dropping the snack and scooping the boy up into his arms with a dramatic twirl. “My favorite nephew!”

From the hallway, Yoongi’s voice rang out, deadpan. “He’s your only nephew, genius.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Deep and warm and surprised by how much this noise, this mess, this family had crept into your heart. You had missed them. All of them. Not just Yoongi, but these men who had stood beside him through everything—who were now standing beside you and Han without hesitation, without question, without condition.

Yoongi emerged a moment later, arms full of more stuff, hair a little sweaty, eyes narrowed at Jimin, who was busy pushing a pile labeled “Bedroom – Fragile” suspiciously close to the bathroom.

“I’m warning you,” Yoongi muttered through clenched teeth, “if I open that box and find y/n’s books or something under a damn weighted blanket—”

“You’re welcome for protecting it!” Jimin shot back. “You know the saying saying moisture ruins the sleeves!”

“That’s not what it meant!”

You shook your head, laughter bubbling out of you. Yoongi was trying so hard to maintain order, but it was like trying to herd caffeinated cats.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Namjoon lingering by the entrance, arms crossed as he watched the scene unfold like a man observing art—beautiful in its chaos. He looked like he wanted to intervene… but also like he was enjoying this way too much.

You carefully set your box down on a side table and turned toward him. “Hey, Joon,” you said, your voice quieting just slightly.

He tilted his head, his sharp, perceptive eyes immediately honing in on you. “Hey,” he answered warmly, though there was a subtle question hidden beneath the greeting.

You hesitated only for a moment before exhaling. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you,” you said softly, sincerity threading every word.

Namjoon’s brows lifted in surprise. “For?”

You gave him a knowing look. “You know what for.”

He didn’t answer, just stood there with that typical calm, waiting patiently—offering you space.

“For helping me and Yoongi get to this point,” you said, your voice a little raw, a little vulnerable. “For being his anchor when he needed one. And for being mine… even before I deserved it.”

Namjoon’s face softened, but he stayed quiet.

You chuckled lightly, more at yourself than anything else. “The day you saw me and Han at that café? You could’ve torn me to shreds. You should’ve. I half-expected it. Honestly? And I would’ve accepted it.”

His jaw twitched, his silence turning contemplative.

“But you didn’t,” you continued. “You let me come to him on my own terms. You didn’t pressure. You didn’t guilt me. You supported me through it all, Joon. Without ever making me feel small.”

You looked down, fiddling with a piece of tape still stuck to your hand. “That meant everything. Still does.”

Namjoon let out a long, quiet breath. Then he nodded once, his smile slow and gentle, like sunlight peeking through morning fog. “Yeah, well… it’s what family does.”

The word hit you like a stone dropped in still water. Family.

Not a pitying word. Not a throwaway one. A declaration.

Your breath hitched quietly. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him, solid and sure. No hesitation. No awkwardness. Just… gratitude.

Namjoon hugged you back just as tightly, warm and grounding. “You don’t owe me anything,” he murmured. “Just be happy. Both of you.”

Your eyes burned with unshed tears, but you smiled against his shoulder. “We’re trying.”

Across the room, Han shrieked with glee as Jungkook flipped him upside down, and Yoongi—finally defeated—sat cross-legged in the hallway with a beer Seokjin had handed him, mumbling, “Fine. Let the boxes live where they fall.”

Han scrambled over to him and immediately climbed into his lap, arms around his father’s neck. Yoongi melted, his lips pressing to the top of his son’s head as he murmured something you couldn’t hear. But you didn’t need to. The sight alone sent warmth spilling through your chest.

You turned back to Namjoon, who gave you one final nod and a squeeze on the shoulder.

And as you crossed the room toward Yoongi and Han, your chest felt so full it was almost hard to breathe. This—this glorious, chaotic, imperfect thing—was yours. A life you’d almost convinced yourself you’d never have again. A love you were no longer running from.

You sank down beside them, Yoongi’s hand reaching to find yours instinctively. Fingers intertwined like it was second nature. Han curled against both of you, babbling about where his toys would go and asking if his dino could live next to the window.

You smiled and nodded, pressing a kiss to the back of Han’s head. Yoongi caught your eye and mouthed one word.

Home.

And it was.

Taglist: @busanbby-jjk @jajabro @kam9404 @yoongiiuu93 @julseka07 @tea4sykes @marihoneywk @maryhopemei @sanarin @misschelliejeon @boraluv @wobblewobble822 @amarawayne @hyuninslutbbgirl @Granataepfelchen @mar-lo-pap @enfppuff @senaqsstuff @vainkiss @rinkud @lanyia @alessioayla @watchingover-hypegirl @muchwita @elliott-calls @kiki-zb

[wobblewobble822]

Wow.

What an amazing ending 🥹💕

Truly loved this series—I mean if there’s more chapters…I don’t think Yoongi would mind another baby 😏

@minyoongisnewthing I mean it’s just an idea..

[minyoongisnewthing]

I see you! 👀 I have one more chapter planned and a few Drabbles that may or may not… big hint they may involve just this!

[minyoongisnewthing]

Han river lullaby chapter nine | myg

Chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Genre: angst, fluff, exs to lovers, eventual smut, idol!au, co parents, second chance romance

Chapter warnings: mild suggestive content, mentions of medical situation (humorous)

Word count: 5.2 k roughly

Authors notes: I want to thank everyone for there patience waiting for this chapter life indeed kicked my ass between work emergencies and life just lifting I apologise for leaving you hanging I hope this chapter meets expectations as always let me know what you think in the comments and in my ask box if you’d like as well :)

The bliss of Daegu still lingered like the aftertaste of something sweet—but even the most heart-warming moments couldn’t keep the demands of the ER at bay. Life kept moving, and so did your shift. You were nine hours into what was rapidly becoming a twelve-hour marathon, your body aching from the relentless pace, and your brain running on fumes.

Leaning against the nurse’s station, you took a moment to breathe, letting the hum of machines and distant voices blur into background noise. You fished your phone from your scrubs pocket, thumb hovering over the screen. You needed a moment of softness. A tether.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

What did you even call him now that you were back together?

Y/N: Hey sweetie.

No. Too cutesy.

Y/N: Hey honey.

Nope. That felt like a sitcom mom from the ’50s.

Y/N: Hey baby daddy.

Okay, he’d definitely laugh at that one, you could practically hear the scoff of amusement he’d let out when that popped up on his Lock Screen, but still… no.

Y/N: Hey my love.

Your thumb froze. Too much? Maybe. But also… was it wrong? Not even close. You’d felt that way for a long time. You were nearly certain he’d been on the verge of saying it back in Daegu, but then Han had come bounding in, all wide eyes and cookie ambitions, and the moment had slipped away.

You exhaled slowly, your heart thudding, before deleting the message and starting over.

Y/N: Hey Yoon, the ER is wild tonight. Looks like I might be stuck for a 12-hour shift. Is it okay if Han stays over again?

You hit send before you could overthink it.

The reply came fast—like he’d been waiting.

Yoongi: Sure thing, baby. No drama. Han’s currently munching on an apple and telling Tae every single detail about our trip.

You’re welcome to crash here too—so you’re there when he wakes up.

Your heart stuttered. “Baby.” It rolled off his tongue so easily, like it had never left. Like it belonged. The warmth that bloomed in your chest was immediate.

Y/N: Thank you. I’ll head over after my shift.

Kiss Han for me.

Yoongi: I’d rather kiss you.

Your cheeks burned. Right on cue, a familiar voice chirped over your shoulder.

“That Han’s dad?”

You jumped. Grace—your favorite nurse, your chaotic work-wife, and trusted gossip partner—peeked over your shoulder with an infuriating smirk.

You turned, mock glaring. “Mind your business.”

Grace laughed, completely unbothered, already halfway down the hallway. “Too late. I’ve seen the flirty texts. He wants to kiss you and everything. Better be ready to spill.”

You sighed, tucking your phone away—but the smile on your face didn’t budge. Even the ache in your legs felt a little easier to bear with that warmth in your chest.

Fifteen minutes later, you found yourself in the break room, finally snagging a bite of dinner. You collapsed into the chair across from Grace with a sigh, dropping your salad on the table like it had personally offended you.

She arched a perfectly drawn brow. “That kind of sigh usually comes with either a panic attack or a love confession. What’s going on?”

You looked at her for a beat before finally letting it spill. “I need your advice.”

Grace perked up like a cat hearing the treat bag crinkle. “Say less. I live for this. What’s the tea, babe?”

You stirred your salad with your fork, barely picking at it. “Han’s dad… he asked me and Han to move in with him.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Grace’s jaw dropped. “Y/N! What?! That’s huge!”

“I know,” you groaned. “And I’m not saying no. I’m… considering it. It’s just… is it too fast?”

Grace leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, giving you that trademark Big Sister Look™ that was usually followed by painful truths and unrelenting honesty.

“Okay, let’s break this down,” she said, popping a grape in her mouth like a therapist with snacks. “Do you trust him?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still love him?”

Your hand froze halfway to your mouth.

You didn’t answer right away. But you didn’t need to.

Grace’s eyes softened. “Yeah. Thought so.”

“I do,” you whispered. “I love him. I never really stopped, if I’m being honest.”

“And Han?” she asked.

Your expression softened immediately. “He’s obsessed with him. They’re like—ugh, Grace, it’s stupid how much they adore each other.”

“Y/N, that’s not stupid. That’s everything. That’s your kid feeling safe, seen, loved. Don’t you dare brush that off like it’s nothing.”

“I just…” you hesitated, chewing on your lower lip. “I don’t want to ruin it. What if it’s too soon? What if we’re chasing a version of us that only worked because of nostalgia?”

Grace snorted. “First of all, nostalgia doesn’t survive toddler tantrums or early morning school runs. This isn’t a fantasy. You’re living it. You’re showing up for each other. And honestly? You’re already living between his place and yours.”

You blinked. “That obvious?”

“Babe, You left your stethoscope in his bathroom just two weeks ago. That man is basically one romantic dinner away from holding your toothbrush hostage.”

You laughed, unable to deny it. Your heart felt a little lighter, the edges of your anxiety softening under her words.

“And let’s not forget,” Grace added, pointing her fork at you, “you’re not just doing this for you. Han’s happiness matters too. And if moving in makes him feel secure, feel like his little world finally has all the puzzle pieces in place… then don’t let fear stop you from giving him that.”

You nodded slowly, her words settling deep into your bones.

“Okay,” you said, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll think about it. Seriously.”

Grace beamed, victorious. “Good. Because I better be invited to the housewarming. And if you two make another baby, I get to pick the name.”

You choked on your salad. “Grace!”

“What?! I’m great with names. And this time I’ll keep it under four syllables.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the last of the tension bleeding out of you as the room filled with warm, easy banter.

Maybe this wasn’t rushing.

Maybe this was just… finding your way back home.

As you’d predicted—though hoped desperately against—your shift spiraled straight into the dreaded 12-hour marathon. Your feet throbbed in your shoes, your back ached from hours hunched over trauma charts and triage forms, and your brain felt like it was running on static and adrenaline fumes. The ER never let up tonight.

By the time you arrived at Yoongi’s front door, you were barely holding yourself together. Even lifting your hand to knock felt like too much. Instead, you leaned your weight against the cool hallway wall, eyes fluttering shut as you waited for the door to open, silently praying for comfort in any form—a warm bed, a soft word, his arms.

The sound of the deadbolt turning snapped you out of your daze.

The door creaked open, and Yoongi’s familiar voice, warm and laced with concern, greeted you.

“Damn… Wanna talk about it?”

You looked up. He stood there in sweats and a worn gray t-shirt, hair pushed back messily, eyes scanning you with gentle worry. There was something in his expression—equal parts softness and mischief—that nearly undid you. Without a word, you stepped into the apartment, dragging your aching body toward the couch like a survivor returning from battle.

You collapsed with a sigh so deep it shook the room, letting your head fall against the cushion. Yoongi followed you in, a quiet presence as he padded to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water and a folded blanket he draped across your lap. He sat beside you, one knee bent on the cushion, elbow on the backrest as he turned to face you fully.

“Gonna sound like an asshole,” he said, handing you the water with a half-grin, “but you look like you’ve been through hell.”

You took a sip, then let out a tired laugh, the sound raspier than usual. “Oh, you have no idea.”

“Wanna give me the highlight reel?”

You nodded, your body starting to relax into the cushions now that he was close, now that the chaos of the ER had been replaced with the scent of clean linen and the soft rhythm of Yoongi’s voice.

“Okay,” you said, rolling your neck out. “Let’s see. We started the night with a kid who shoved a magnet up his nose—easy fix. Then a guy with a couple of broken bones, pretty straightforward. The usual parade of non-emergency emergencies. One guy came in because he had hiccups. For three hours.”

Yoongi blinked. “…He came to the emergency room for hiccups?”

“Oh yeah,” you said, wryly. “I gave him a glass of water and told him to hold his breath. Then billed him $600.”

That made Yoongi snort, but you weren’t done.

You leaned in a little, dropping your voice conspiratorially. “But the real gem of the night? A couple walks in—early thirties, super flustered. The guy looks like he’s about to pass out. Turns out…” You paused for effect. “He tried to spice things up in the bedroom. Used one of his girlfriend’s toys on himself. And it got stuck.”

Yoongi blinked again. “Stuck?”

You nodded solemnly. “Stuck. And still on.”

There was a beat of silence before the full horror (and hilarity) of it hit him. His mouth dropped open, then shut, then he burst into laughter. That full-body kind—the deep, chesty kind that Yoongi didn’t give away easily. He clutched his stomach, his head dropping back as he gasped, “Nooo—”

“Oh, yes,” you said, holding your hands up. “The vibrating noise echoed through the trauma room. I had to stay composed while this poor guy was practically in tears. He kept saying, ‘Please, make it stop, I can’t feel my legs.’”

Yoongi wheezed with laughter. “Oh my god—”

“I had to give him a sedative just to remove it,” you said, already giggling at the memory yourself. “He thanked me afterwards like I’d just saved his life. The girlfriend couldn’t even make eye contact.”

Yoongi was red in the face, nearly in tears. “I will never complain about a long shift again. That’s… Jesus.”

You nodded. “ER nurses deserve hazard pay and a therapist.”

The laughter faded slowly, replaced with a familiar warmth as Yoongi looked at you—really looked. The exhaustion in your eyes, the tension still lingering in your shoulders. He reached out, brushing a stray hair behind your ear before standing with a stretch and offering his hand.

“Come on,” he murmured. “You’re done for today. Shower. Pajamas. Then I want you horizontal—no arguments.”

You groaned as he helped you up. “I’m getting you a best boyfriend award like right now.”

He smirked, guiding you toward the bathroom. “I already laid your stuff out. Towels, lotion, some fluffy socks. I even found that hair clip you left last time.”

You paused at the door, touched. “You’re dangerously good at this.”

“I know,” he said with a wink. “Now go wash the vibrating trauma off of you.”

You laughed again, then disappeared into the bathroom. The hot water was heaven—steam rolling over your sore muscles, washing away the ER grime and emotional weight of the day. You stayed under until your fingers pruned and the ache in your back melted into manageable warmth.

When you emerged, clean and wrapped in your softest pajamas, the apartment was quiet and dim, the only light coming from Yoongi’s bedroom. You padded in slowly, hair still damp, and found him already under the covers, one arm stretched across the mattress in silent invitation.

You didn’t hesitate.

You slipped into bed, curling into his warmth as he pulled you into his chest without a word. His hand rubbed slow, lazy circles across your back, and the comfort of it nearly undid you. You buried your face in his shirt, breathing in the familiar scent of laundry, skin, and something warm and safe that only belonged to Yoongi.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of your head, voice barely a whisper.

“You’re amazing, you know that?”

You hummed, too tired to respond with words, but your hand slid beneath his shirt to rest over his heart, your thumb tracing the steady beat that grounded you.

As your eyes fluttered shut, the hum of the ER faded from your mind. The only thing left was Yoongi’s breath in your hair, the way his hand held you close, and the subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the air—like something was settling into place.

Then it hit you, you were home.

The next morning, the soft hush of the apartment wrapped around you like a promise. You stirred awake to the sensation of something gently pressing against your ribs. Blinking against the early light seeping in through the curtains, you looked down—and smiled.

There he was.

Han, curled up between you and Yoongi, his little body sprawled out diagonally like a starfish. One sock-clad foot was wedged into your side while the other rested lightly against Yoongi’s stomach. His head rose and fell with the steady rhythm of his father’s breathing, nestled against Yoongi’s chest like it was the safest place in the world. His tiny hand was pressed sleepily to Yoongi’s cheek, fingers twitching in dreams.

Your chest tightened with a fierce, quiet love.

You slid carefully from the bed, tucking the blanket back over the boys. Yoongi stirred slightly but didn’t wake—his arm automatically tightened around Han in sleep, protective and instinctual. The sight etched itself deep into your heart.

Padding quietly into the kitchen, the coolness of the tiles grounded your aching feet. You started the coffee machine, the low hum and rich aroma instantly soothing. The comforting scent of roasted beans filled the space, mingling with the soft light of morning just beginning to filter through the windows. The city outside was still stretching itself awake.

You were halfway through your first sip when the thunder of tiny footsteps echoed from the hallway.

“Eomma!” Han squealed, launching himself into the room like a pint-sized missile.

You winced and chuckled, crouching just in time to catch him. “Bubba,” you whispered, rubbing his back, “inside voice.”

His eyes grew comically wide as he slapped a hand over his mouth. “Oops,” he stage-whispered, and your heart swelled at the sincerity in his face.

You straightened, moving toward the fruit bowl, starting to slice up a banana for breakfast when Han’s attention shifted. His gaze wandered to the partially open door across the room—Yoongi’s studio.

You hadn’t even realized it had been left ajar.

His brows furrowed as he pointed. “Eomma… what’s that room?”

You turned to follow his gaze, realizing the glass display case was in full view—the awards, the gleaming plaques, the golden trophies all standing proud on the back wall. Han’s jaw dropped slightly as he took in the sight.

“Those are Appa’s,” you explained gently, walking over to close the studio door with care. “Trophies from his music. From him and your uncles.”

Han blinked up at you, eyes shimmering with awe. “Appa’s music?” he whispered. “Can I hear it?”

You felt your breath catch for a moment at how reverent his little voice sounded—like he was asking to hear magic. You smiled and nodded.

“Of course, baby.”

You pulled out your phone and tapped into Yoongi’s Spotify. His solo work was already favorited—your little secret indulgence whenever you missed him more than usual. You hooked it up to the speakers, and as the opening beat of “Daechwita” roared softly to life, Han froze.

The percussion vibrated gently through the apartment, and Han’s eyes widened like he was witnessing a superhero transformation. He looked at you, utterly floored.

“That’s Appa?”

You nodded with a soft chuckle. “Yep. That’s Appa.”

Han’s little body twitched with excitement before he started moving—tiny shoulders bobbing, feet bouncing, mimicking the beat. You joined him, unable to resist, rapping along the parts you could, both of you dancing freely in the middle of the kitchen. It was chaotic and hilarious and utterly joyful.

By the time “Who’s the king? Who’s the boss?” hit, Han was spinning in circles, and you were breathless from laughter, clapping along and feeding off his energy.

You were mid-spin when a soft voice drifted in from the hallway.

“Well, damn. Am I interrupting dance rehearsal?”

You turned, cheeks flushed, to find Yoongi leaning sleepily against the doorframe, hair tousled and sticking up adorably in every direction. His hoodie hung lopsided off one shoulder, and his face was still puffy from sleep—but the smile on his face?

It was full-on sunshine.

“You’re up, did we wake you?” you said, brushing hair from your face, flashing him an apologetic look

“No you didn’t wake me,” he replied, voice rough with sleep but warm with affection. “I just didn’t want to miss the show.”

Han gasped when he saw Yoongi and ran full-speed across the room. “Appa! That’s your song!”

Yoongi crouched just in time to catch him, letting Han knock into his chest like a cannonball. He chuckled. “It is, did you like it?”

“Yes!, can I hear more?” Han begged, bouncing in his arms.

Yoongi chuckled again and nodded. “Sure bubs, why not.”

You switched the playlist, letting BTS’s “Mic Drop” take over the room. Han lost it—jumping, spinning, throwing his arms around like he was on stage himself. Yoongi plopped down on the floor next to him, sipping the coffee you handed him while watching his son with unmistakable pride.

You stood beside them, your hand brushing against Yoongi’s arm.

“Hey, Yoon,” you said softly.

He glanced up at you, his smile fading into something more open, more vulnerable. “Yeah?”

You hesitated for just a moment, your heart beating a little faster. But you were done dancing around it. You were ready.

“I’ve made up my mind.”

His brows lifted slightly. He set his coffee down, full attention on you now.

“Han and I…” You inhaled slowly, then smiled. “We’ll move in with you.”

Yoongi froze.

His breath caught, his eyes searched yours like he was trying to make sure he’d heard you right. And then—

His smile broke across his face like sunrise.

“Really?” he breathed.

You nodded, and barely had the chance to say yes again before Yoongi surged to his feet, cupped your face in both hands, and kissed you—deep and full and bursting with happiness.

It wasn’t rushed. It was slow and sure and full of promise, like the closing of a chapter and the beginning of something new all at once.

Han, oblivious to the emotional milestone, was still dancing, spinning in dizzy little circles.

When Yoongi finally pulled back, he pressed his forehead to yours, his voice low and thick.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You brushed your thumb across his cheek. “Don’t thank me yoon, It’s what we should have been all along.”

And right there, with music still thumping low in the background, your son dancing in a blur of joy, and your heart beating steady against the man you never stopped loving—you felt like you were home.

The packing up of your life over the next few weeks had felt… surreal.

This apartment had witnessed so much. It had been your sanctuary during heartbreak, your war zone during toddler tantrums, your safe haven when the world outside was too loud. Every chipped mug in the cabinet, every crayon mark on the wall, every squeaky floorboard under your bed carried pieces of the life you built—just you and Han. A life you’d fought for, protected, and nurtured with everything you had.

And now, it was all being folded into cardboard boxes and labeled in permanent marker. Bedroom—Han’s toys. Kitchen—everyday plates. Hall closet—donate.

It was all so tangible, so final. A chapter closing, not with a slam, but with the quiet reverence of turning the last page.

You stood in the middle of the empty living room, staring at the spot where Han had taken his first steps, where you’d cried after one of your hardest night shifts, where you’d once slow-danced with a glass of wine in hand and music playing through your phone speaker. You let the silence settle around you, breathing it in, letting it echo. Letting it go.

Yoongi had offered to help move, of course. He even suggested hiring a moving service. But you’d wanted to do this part yourself. Not out of pride, but because… this mattered. Closing the door yourself mattered.

With the last box secured in the trunk, you took one last look at the apartment—at your first home as a mother—and shut the door behind you.

You climbed into the driver’s seat, hands pausing on the steering wheel for just a beat longer before you looked into the rearview mirror. Han was already buckled in, his little legs swinging with uncontainable excitement. He was clutching his current favorite stuffed toy—a blue dinosaur with a wonky stitched eye—and humming to himself, a tune made up on the spot, off-key and perfect.

The sight made something twist in your chest—a soft ache of joy and nostalgia. His happiness was radiant. It filled the car like sunlight.

You turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the driveway for the last time. As the apartment disappeared in your rearview mirror, you cleared your throat lightly.

“Alright, Han bubba,” you said, keeping your tone upbeat but firm. “You remember the one room in Appa’s house you’re not allowed to go in unless Appa or I say it’s okay?”

Han immediately let out a loud long groan and flopped his head against the side of his car seat. “Eommaaa… I know! Appa’s music room!”

You raised your eyebrows at him through the mirror in warning. “Wanna try that again without the attitude, mister?”

He sat up straight and nodded quickly, lips pressed together in seriousness. “Sorry,” he said, and then his mouth split into a wide, wiggly-toothed grin. “I’m just… happy!”

That time, you couldn’t help but laugh. You reached your arm back between the seats and he eagerly grabbed your hand with his smaller one, squeezing tightly.

“I know you are, baby,” you said softly. “I am too.”

He beamed at you, his joy bubbling over like a bottle of shaken soda.

“But,” you added, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, “just remember… even though Appa will be home, that doesn’t mean he’s always free. He still has to work.”

Han nodded along enthusiastically. “Because he makes music!”

“That’s right,” you said. “Appa’s music room is really important. That’s where he records his songs and helps other people with their songs too. So we have to respect his space when he’s working, okay?”

“I promise, eomma,” he said, solemn as a judge. And then, his voice dipped shyly. “But… do you think Appa will ever let me hear him make music? Like, really hear it?”

Your heart squeezed.

There was something sacred in the way Han said it. Not just curious. Admiring. Like he already knew his father made something powerful, something special, even if he didn’t fully understand it yet.

You turned back to the road, but your smile lingered. “I think… if you ask nicely, and promise not to touch anything, Appa might let you sit in with him one day.”

Han gasped, practically vibrating in his booster seat. “Really? Like… watch him play? And wear the big headphones?”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “We’ll see, bubba. You know how Appa feels about his buttons.”

“I won’t press any!” he promised, voice high with excitement.

You reached to turn down the music playing quietly in the background, letting the moment settle in as you merged onto the main road, leaving your old neighborhood behind.

As the skyline of Yoongi’s neighborhood began to appear in the distance, something shifted in your chest. A quiet knowing. A peace.

You weren’t running toward a fantasy.

You were moving toward something real.

A home that Han could grow up in. A space where your little family could build—not just exist.

And in the seat beside you? A promise of a second chance. A man who’d never stopped loving you, even in the moments when he couldn’t say it. A man who’d stayed up late assembling a bed with Han’s help, who put up glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling because “Eomma says you sleep better with the stars watching.”

You reached up to adjust the rearview mirror and caught Han watching out the window, his breath fogging the glass as he whispered to himself, “We’re going home.”

And you couldn’t have agreed more.

Walking into Yoongi’s apartment, you barely had a chance to take in the sleek lines and minimalist decor before you were met with absolute chaos.

“Jimin, just stop moving the boxes—I had a system!” Yoongi shouted from somewhere down the hall, his voice echoing off the high ceilings in pure exasperation.

“I’m literally helping,” Jimin fired back indignantly, arms thrown in the air as he stepped around a stack of labeled containers. “You should be thanking me! I’m putting them where they go!”

“Where they go? According to who?” Yoongi barked from another room. “You’re just putting shit wherever it fits!”

A loud thud echoed through the apartment, followed by the sound of a picture frame teetering dangerously.

“Jungkook!” Yoongi’s voice rose another octave, more desperate now. “Stay out of the kitchen!”

You turned just in time to catch the youngest member of the group sheepishly poking his head out from behind the refrigerator door, a guilty grin smeared with something suspiciously like the leftover kimchi you were planning to use at dinner. “I was checking for… perishables,” Jungkook mumbled, cheeks puffed out mid-bite.

Namjoon, the only semblance of calm in the whirlwind, stood by the open front door holding it wide for you. He looked almost serene, though the slight twitch of his eye gave away his internal suffering.

“Thanks, Joon,” you murmured, shifting the box on your hip as you stepped inside.

“No problem,” he replied smoothly, lips twitching in amusement. “Welcome to your new madhouse.”

The second Han’s shoes hit the floor, he bolted forward like a rocket. “Uncle Kookie! Uncle Minnie!” he squealed, his tiny voice slicing straight through the noise like a bell.

Jungkook lit up immediately. “Han!” he called, dropping the snack and scooping the boy up into his arms with a dramatic twirl. “My favorite nephew!”

From the hallway, Yoongi’s voice rang out, deadpan. “He’s your only nephew, genius.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Deep and warm and surprised by how much this noise, this mess, this family had crept into your heart. You had missed them. All of them. Not just Yoongi, but these men who had stood beside him through everything—who were now standing beside you and Han without hesitation, without question, without condition.

Yoongi emerged a moment later, arms full of more stuff, hair a little sweaty, eyes narrowed at Jimin, who was busy pushing a pile labeled “Bedroom – Fragile” suspiciously close to the bathroom.

“I’m warning you,” Yoongi muttered through clenched teeth, “if I open that box and find y/n’s books or something under a damn weighted blanket—”

“You’re welcome for protecting it!” Jimin shot back. “You know the saying saying moisture ruins the sleeves!”

“That’s not what it meant!”

You shook your head, laughter bubbling out of you. Yoongi was trying so hard to maintain order, but it was like trying to herd caffeinated cats.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Namjoon lingering by the entrance, arms crossed as he watched the scene unfold like a man observing art—beautiful in its chaos. He looked like he wanted to intervene… but also like he was enjoying this way too much.

You carefully set your box down on a side table and turned toward him. “Hey, Joon,” you said, your voice quieting just slightly.

He tilted his head, his sharp, perceptive eyes immediately honing in on you. “Hey,” he answered warmly, though there was a subtle question hidden beneath the greeting.

You hesitated only for a moment before exhaling. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you,” you said softly, sincerity threading every word.

Namjoon’s brows lifted in surprise. “For?”

You gave him a knowing look. “You know what for.”

He didn’t answer, just stood there with that typical calm, waiting patiently—offering you space.

“For helping me and Yoongi get to this point,” you said, your voice a little raw, a little vulnerable. “For being his anchor when he needed one. And for being mine… even before I deserved it.”

Namjoon’s face softened, but he stayed quiet.

You chuckled lightly, more at yourself than anything else. “The day you saw me and Han at that café? You could’ve torn me to shreds. You should’ve. I half-expected it. Honestly? And I would’ve accepted it.”

His jaw twitched, his silence turning contemplative.

“But you didn’t,” you continued. “You let me come to him on my own terms. You didn’t pressure. You didn’t guilt me. You supported me through it all, Joon. Without ever making me feel small.”

You looked down, fiddling with a piece of tape still stuck to your hand. “That meant everything. Still does.”

Namjoon let out a long, quiet breath. Then he nodded once, his smile slow and gentle, like sunlight peeking through morning fog. “Yeah, well… it’s what family does.”

The word hit you like a stone dropped in still water. Family.

Not a pitying word. Not a throwaway one. A declaration.

Your breath hitched quietly. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him, solid and sure. No hesitation. No awkwardness. Just… gratitude.

Namjoon hugged you back just as tightly, warm and grounding. “You don’t owe me anything,” he murmured. “Just be happy. Both of you.”

Your eyes burned with unshed tears, but you smiled against his shoulder. “We’re trying.”

Across the room, Han shrieked with glee as Jungkook flipped him upside down, and Yoongi—finally defeated—sat cross-legged in the hallway with a beer Seokjin had handed him, mumbling, “Fine. Let the boxes live where they fall.”

Han scrambled over to him and immediately climbed into his lap, arms around his father’s neck. Yoongi melted, his lips pressing to the top of his son’s head as he murmured something you couldn’t hear. But you didn’t need to. The sight alone sent warmth spilling through your chest.

You turned back to Namjoon, who gave you one final nod and a squeeze on the shoulder.

And as you crossed the room toward Yoongi and Han, your chest felt so full it was almost hard to breathe. This—this glorious, chaotic, imperfect thing—was yours. A life you’d almost convinced yourself you’d never have again. A love you were no longer running from.

You sank down beside them, Yoongi’s hand reaching to find yours instinctively. Fingers intertwined like it was second nature. Han curled against both of you, babbling about where his toys would go and asking if his dino could live next to the window.

You smiled and nodded, pressing a kiss to the back of Han’s head. Yoongi caught your eye and mouthed one word.

Home.

And it was.

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[minyoongisnewthing]

Hello!! I hope you are well. I hope you don’t mind me asking if there will be an update to Han River Lullaby?

Hi anon! It’s more than okay to ask!! I apologise for the space between updates life kicked my ass a bit but I have been writing and I believe I will be doing a final edit of the next chapter to be released this weekend

[minyoongisnewthing]

No longer you | myg (one shot)

Pairing: king!yoongi and seer/prophet! reader

Genre: mad king! Yoongi AU, angst, dark fantasy, hurt/no comfort.

content warning: blood/gore, violence, character death, mentions of poisoning, murder/execution, war themes, mental health decline, betrayal, angst/heavy angst, grief.

Word count: 2.4K roughly

Authors notes: I have had this idea in my head once I heard the song no longer you from Epic the musical, and it wouldn’t leave me alone a look at what made the mad king, mad. Full credit for the spark of inspiration goes to the writer of it Jorge Rivera-Herrans. I also wanted an excuse to look into the character of mad king yoongi and practice my fantasy and angst writing. This is also a thank you piece for everyone that helped me reach a milestone I never thought I would 1000 likes on my work so thank all once again from the bottom of my heart. You helped reignite a love of writing in me. As always comments are always welcome!

The day you had both feared and expected had finally arrived.

After a year ravaged by war, the king—Min Yoongi himself—had sent for you. His royal seer, his trusted prophet. No doubt, he sought guidance to turn the tide of this merciless battle. Yet deep within your heart, a cold certainty settled—this was a lost cause. Your gut whispered the same cruel truth.

You were led through the camp, the distant clangs of war fading behind you as you approached the king’s tent. A dread nestled in your chest, twisting tighter with every step. You had seen this moment play out countless times in your mind, in your dreams—each ending bleaker than the last.

Beyond the heavy blue canvas, there he was.

King Min Yoongi.

His long blonde hair was tied back neatly, strands catching the flicker of lantern light. He wore delicate black robes that contrasted sharply against the dust and grime of war, his lean frame calm but burdened. Despite the exhaustion etched beneath his eyes, his face was beautiful, friendly even unmarked by battle—a cruel irony with what you knew. Around him stood his inner circle, the few he trusted most in this world.

“There she is,” his voice was reverent, almost light, as he gestured to the seat before him. “Sit, please.”

You bowed your head once, lips dry. “Your Highness.”

“Let us skip the formalities, Y/N. You know why I’ve summoned you.”

Your gaze dropped to the ground before meeting his again. “My king,” you began cautiously, “I must remind you the Gods are fickle. They smile on you one day and curse your name the next.”

“Sounds just like some women,” one of his younger generals joked from the corner, prompting a ripple of laughter that was quickly hushed by stern looks.

Tentatively, you reached out and took the king’s hand. Your fingers brushed the coarse skin, tracing the lines of his palm. The air shifted—your vision blurred at the edges, a familiar white cloud creeping over your sight.

You allowed it to consume you, closing your eyes as a voice rose from deep within you—no longer entirely your own but mingled with something ancient, otherworldly.

“My king, there is indeed a world where I help you return home… but it is not one I know.”

“What?” came the startled voice of the king, stepping away as he tried to shake your hand free. But your grip tightened, unwavering.

A swirling image appeared behind your closed lids.

Two figures danced beneath a twinkling night sky — lovers entwined in a timeless embrace. You recognized them immediately.

A younger Yoongi, barely in his twenties, his hair shorter, lighter. And the woman with him, the palace whispered of his favour towards her, a beautiful woman whose life had been cruelly cut short by poison, and jealous hands.

“I see a song… a past romance,” you croaked, voice trembling.

The clouds shifted, darkening, morphing into the faces of his council murmuring behind his back. Words of incompetence, questions of his strategy. Voices demanding blood, plotting his downfall. Calling him soft hearted, too fast and ready with words, not a sword.

A plan set in motion—a deadly betrayal.

The figure of General Seokjin emerged from the haze, stepping forward with a shadowed intent, offering to deal the blow “a mercy, a quick end” the disjointed voice whispered in your ear. 

“I see portrayals of betrayal and a brother’s final stand,” you lamented, your eyes flickering toward the general, who remained still but watchful, jaw clenched.

Your vision twisted, showing a bloodied and battered Yoongi on the battlefield—exhausted and alone. His final breath trembling from his lips, meant to look like an accident, but you knew better.

“I see you on the brink of death,” you whispered. “I see you draw your final breath.”

The vision shifted again, revealing what might come if he chose to heed your warning.

A man arriving home alone. A deep scar running down his face, a slight limp marking his gait. The joy in his heart, once bright and fierce, now frozen into an unyielding and deep ice. A survivor—but no longer the king you knew.

Tears blurred your eyes as you spoke, voice breaking.

“I see a man who makes it home alive… but it’s no longer you.”

“No. This can’t be,” Yoongi’s voice cracked with desperation. His gaze darted around the tent, then landed hard on you.

“We have suffered and fought on this cursed field for a year,” he spat, fury rising. “And you tell me our efforts amount to nothing?”

He tried once again to pull his hand from yours, but you held firm, unwilling to let go.

The visions pressed on.

“I see your palace covered in red—blood and faces of those who long believed you dead.”

You saw her then—his queen.

Once a bright, flourishing flower of the court, now a wilted shadow, consumed by sorrow and fear.

A woman haunted not by ghosts but the past, by the man she once knew. The man she once loved.

A man who returned from war battle-mad and cruel heated.

Your voice trembled as you spoke the truth.

“I see your wife… with a man who is haunting… a man with a trail… of bodies...”

Yoongi’s fist slammed down upon the wooden table, breaking your vision’s grip with a harsh demand.

“WHO?” he thundered.

You flinched but said nothing more, tongue frozen.

But your eyes begged him to understand—It was him. The man he would become that would haunt her, haunt the palace halls, haunt his court, his subjects.

The visions spun once more, relentless.

And then, just as suddenly as it came, the cloud lifted.

You were yourself again.

The weight of your visions settled between you like a suffocating fog—thick, inescapable, choking. You could still see them, flickering just behind your eyes. The blood. The betrayal. The final breath of a king.

And then, his voice cut through it like a blade.

“You speak of treason—of my death!” Yoongi thundered, rising to his feet. “I should have your head on a spike.”

The words struck you like a blow, but it wasn’t the threat that rattled you. It was the fire in his eyes—cold, furious, and decisive. A king staring down fate and choosing defiance. Survival.

“My lord—” one of his generals began cautiously, stepping forward.

“Enough.” Yoongi’s voice cracked like a whip. “Everyone. Leave. Now.”

The tent emptied swiftly, boots scuffing the ground, murmurs silenced by fear. None dared question him. Only you remained, frozen to the spot, the echo of his rage reverberating in your bones.

As the final flap of the tent fell shut, he turned to you—slowly, deliberately. The man who had once spoken to you with fondness now looked at you as if you were the blade pressed to his throat.

“Names,” he said, his voice low, trembling with urgency. “I need names.”

“My king,” you whispered, pleading. “Please—”

“Do not take me for a fool, Y/N!” he barked. “We both know how detailed the gift the Gods granted you is. Every cursed vision, every whispered secret—you saw them. All of them.”

Your shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his demand. You had hoped to spare him this. But there was no shielding him now. His gaze was too sharp, his resolve already carved into stone.

“I did not want to say it,” you said quietly. “I prayed it would change. That something might shift.”

He stared at you, waiting.

“It was Seokjin,” you confessed. The name left your mouth like ash. “He stands at the heart of it.”

The look that passed over Yoongi’s face hollowed you out. Not rage. Not disbelief. But something quieter, crueler in its heartbreak.

Betrayal.

His lips parted slightly, as if struggling to take in air. His eyes, always sharp and calculating, went distant for a moment—as though he had been stabbed and hadn’t yet realized he was bleeding.

He didn’t speak again.

He didn’t need to.

With a short wave of his hand, you were dismissed. No words. No threats. Just the sharp flick of fingers and a pointed look toward the entrance to his personal tent.

You bowed and left, your footsteps quiet in the gathering dark. Every nerve in your body buzzed with dread. The storm had been seeded—and it would break before the night was done.

Later that evening, the air turned electric. You could feel it in your bones. Taste it on your tongue. The sky churned overhead, clouds swollen with thunder they never released. The camp sat in brittle silence.

Then came the screams.

First a single voice—shattered and raw.

Then another.

And another.

The fires rose next, golden and ravenous, devouring tents and shadows alike. Panic crackled through the air. You did not run. You sat, back straight, knees tucked beneath you, eyes brimming not with fear… but sorrow.

You wept—not for yourself.

But for him.

For the man who had once sat before you in moonlight coloured robes, asking you gently what the stars had to say. For the king who had once loved poetry more than politics. For the soul who now drowned in blood to stay alive.

The tent flaps ripped open with a violent gust of wind.

And there he stood.

But not the man you’d known.

His blonde hair was loose and wild, no longer tied with the courtly care of before. His face was streaked with blood, a gash carved into his face, still fresh and bleeding. His black robes were torn at the shoulder, scorched and stained with ash. But it was his eyes that broke you.

Cold.

Steel.

Unforgiving.

They were the eyes of a man who had made a choice. And paid the price.

He stepped into the tent without a word, his presence suffocating, his silence worse than any scream. You rose slowly, the firelight casting flickering shadows across the space between you.

“My king—” you began.

He raised a hand. It wasn’t a threat. Just an end.

“Don’t,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse. “Not tonight.”

You nodded, tears spilling silently down your cheeks.

Because tonight, a king had lived.

But the man you had known… had died.

He gathered his belongings with haste, eyes wide and unblinking, hands shaking though he tried to steady them. Blood stained his knuckles—some of it his own, most of it not. You stood motionless as he threw open the heavy chest at the foot of his cot, rifling through documents, rings of office, and war plans as if they mattered now.

When he finally looked up at you, his gaze was sharp—burning.

“You know the deal struck,” he said. Not a question. A demand.

You nodded slowly. You had known the moment he’d ordered his generals’ heads taken in the dead of night. A secret pact, made between warring kings under cover of darkness. A trade of land and coin for quiet mercenaries, blood bought in bulk. The size of Yoongi’s kingdom no longer mattered to him the moment that name—Seokjin—had left your lips.

The only thing he wanted now was purity in his court. Loyalty forged not through love, but fear.

“You will help me rid my court of them,” he said, voice cracked, eyes glassy. “All of them. Every last one who dares think they can cross me.”

“Your Majesty…” you tried gently, stepping toward him. “Yoongi, please—”

But your voice fell flat, drowned in the roar of fire and the screams still echoing in the night. He grabbed your arm, the force of it bruising, and yanked you out of the tent. Heat and ash slapped your face, the scent of burning wood and flesh curling in your nostrils.

You stumbled over bodies and blackened cloth, the remnants of his camp. He pushed you forward, toward the waiting horse, its flanks damp with sweat and nostrils flaring. You tried to resist, but there was no point. He threw you onto the saddle before climbing up behind you, his arms a cage around your body.

You weren’t at his side.

You were in his grasp.

And you knew—Fate had dictated this. You were the seer. The voice of the Gods. You had spoken of the death of the king, and now you were bound to witness every consequence.

In the days that followed, blood ran like rainwater in the gutters of the capital.

You returned not in triumph, but under the cloak of silence. Yoongi kept you close—closer than his advisors, closer than his queen. He would not eat unless you sat beside him. He would not sleep unless you were in the adjoining chamber, within reach should another whisper come in the night.

Every dusk, he gathered names.

Every dawn, you watched heads roll.

In the grand courtyard, he passed sentence after sentence, his voice echoing off the stone like a death bell. His blade never wavered. Not once. Noblemen, knights, servants, scribes—anyone who had laughed too loudly behind his back, or spoken too slowly in counsel. He looked to you before each execution, seeking not your approval, but your confirmation, but it mattered little when paranoia gripped him.

“Was it them?” he would ask. “Were they in the vision?”

And you, helpless and hollow, could only answer with silence. Sometimes, he took it as assent. Other times, he took it as guilt.

You bore witness.

You held the queen—once a radiant figure of elegance—now reduced to a ghost. Her hands trembled with each morning bell, her eyes sunken, her voice barely a whisper. She wept into your shoulder as her husband, the man who had once danced with her beneath starlit balconies, turned their garden into a graveyard.

Even light itself seemed to abandon the kingdom. The sun grew pale behind thick clouds. The halls of the palace chilled with each passing day, tapestries torn down and banners scorched, as if joy were something to be scrubbed out completely.

Yoongi sat on his throne like a man carved of obsidian—unmoving, unfeeling.

But still, he kept you close.

As if your presence could keep the last shred of humanity in him alive, keep him alive a little longer.

You weren’t just his seer anymore.

You were his tether.

And that chain grew heavier with each passing breath, and as history would come to remember him as the mad king it was here deep in sorrow and tragedy you stayed, with silent hope his poets soul would one day return home too.