i can fill the world with you

Ella I 27 I enfp | masterlist

[mochii0park]

🌙 = my personal favourite

disclaimer: anything marked with M is for Mature has sexual and explicit content. Do not read if you are under 18.

@mochii0park. DO NOT COPY, REPOST OR TRANSLATE

TBD

→ Series:

Next summer 

Genre: Strangers to Lovers I Arranged Marriage

Pairing: idol!Taehyung x Min!Reader x CEO! Hosek

Synopsis: In the Min family, a member’s worth is judged by how well they please the elders. To escape your constraints, you agree to an arranged marriage with chaebol heir Jung Hoseok. After striking a deal with the CEO of Hope Entertainment, you try to reshape your life. However, your life becomes an entanglement web of interactions with one of the idols, Kim Taehyung. Your alliance with your husband and your freedom hang in the balance as you break the crucial rule of your contract: never get involved with anyone from your significant other’s social circle, especially coworkers.

Status: on-going

Metanoia

part of: Waterlilies and Japanese Bridge

could be read as standalone (might contain spoilers from other stories)

pairing: Artist!Taehyung x AssistantProfessor!Reader

synopsis: Vante, a household name among photographers became known for his minimalistic photography style that came along with his secret persona. Never showing his face on his own exhibitions fuelled the public’s desire to learn more about him which skyrocketed his fame. While preparing for his next exhibition Vante went missing. Disappeared into thin air and even now a year later was never found.

status: on hold

🌙   Sinners make Reapers

pairing: Heir!Taehyung x GrimReaper!Reader

synopsis: With memories taken away from you by the deities as a punishment for your past sins, you spend the next 500 years paying for them by collecting souls of the dead and guiding them to their final judgment; heaven or hell. When a black envelope containing the name of your last soul, the most painful one, lands in your hand you feel conflicted. Your life on Earth is coming to an end and so is the life of Kim Taehyung, the heir of one of the most powerful families in world.

→ Series:

🌙   Saudade

part of: Waterlilies and Japanese Bridge

could be read as standalone (might contain spoilers from other stories)

pairing: ArtCurator!Reader x Dancer!Jimin x Lawyer!Kyungsoo

synopsis: When engaging into a marriage with your chosen partner, one assumes that the obstacles you have to face come in forms of communication issues, coming to terms with your spouse’s bad habits or money problems. What your parents perhaps never told you is that sometimes they come in a form of a woman coated safely behind the words of your spouse’s lies about yet another quick trip abroad.

status: on hold 

🌙  Sinners birth Reapers

pairing: Heir!Taehyung x GrimReaper!Reader

synopsis: With memories taken away from you by the deities as a punishment for your past sins, you spend the next 500 years paying for them by collecting souls of the dead and guiding them to their final judgment; heaven or hell. When a black envelope containing the name of your last soul, the most painful one, lands in your hand you feel conflicted. Your life on Earth is coming to an end and so is the life of Kim Taehyung, the heir of one of the most powerful families in world.

status: on hold

          Don’t speak

pairing: doctor!reader x businessman!jimin

synopsis: Love, trust, mutual respect and intimacy are often the keys to a successful marriage. Something your marriage with Jimin has been lacking for the better part of it. Three years of dating and five years of marriage were thrown down the drain after a gruesome fight. In an attempt to salvage your reputation and respect for each other, you agree to settle the matter with a divorce. However, faith had other plans which included erasing the last 5 years of Jimin's life and turning the clock back to 2020.

status: January 20th 2025

→ One shots:

TBD

→ One shots:

TBD

→ Series:

Next summer 

Genre: Strangers to Lovers I Arranged Marriage

Pairing: idol Taehyung x Min Reader x Jung Hosek

Synopsis: The worth of a Min family member was counted through acts that pleased the elderlies. In a desperate attempt to loosen the ties stapling your freedom, you foolishly agree to an arranged marriage with another chaebol heir, Jung Hoseok. Forming an agreement with the CEO of Hope Entertainment, you began rewriting your story, but it seems that life has its own ideas embodying them through Hoseok’s golden idol Kim Taehyung. The alliance between you and your husband and your freedom is on thin ice as you break one major rule of the contract; never hook up with people from significant other’s social circle, especially co-workers.

Status: on-going

Meraki

part of: Waterlilies and Japanese Bridge

could be read as standalone (might contain spoilers from other stories)

pairing: LiteraryScout!Hoseok x Writer!Reader

synopsis: Throughout your whole life you lived in your sister’s shadow, watching from side-lines as she formed herself into a successful businesswoman with an envying life. Never being able to fill her shoes you gradually understood the meaning of an estranged family and the burden it carried. The twenties began slowly slipping from your grasp which had been embedded with insecurities and longing for fulfilment. Pouring your heart out to strangers with a pseudonym Meraki, you began second guessing the decision when an email lands in your inbox.

status: on hold

→ Series:

🌙  Ikigai

part of: Waterlilies and Japanese Bridge

could be read as standalone (might contain spoilers from other stories)

pairing: Producer!Yoongi x Florist!Reader

synopsis: Yoongi faces a rough rift in his music production when all he can do is watch the last ounce of passion leave his already dull music. Bearing his soul into his last album, he came to a tough realization when it turned into a flop leading to a path of questioning and self-consciousness. When the opportunity to produce a track for the famous Jungkook arises, he takes it not knowing about the idol’s obsession with flowers. Trying to spike his inspiration, he becomes a regular at Ikigai flower shop, corner away from his studio.

status: on hold

TBD

[mochii0park]

when is the next part of jimin ff

I will be out 🔜 , I hope 🤞 the wait will be worth it ✨

[mochii0park]

will the waterlilies stories each be a series or?

that was the initial plan yes, however I changed my mind. The stories will be intertwined. You can read them separately but they might contains spoilers from others so my advice is to read them in this order: Jimin, Taehyung, Jungkook, Hoseok or Yoongi, Namjoon and Seokjin.

I've decided to include all the members, but each story will be a one-shot because a whole series would eat up my free time and probably drain me.

[mochii0park]

more jimin stories pleasee

I'll write more, I promise. His story Saudade is on the top of my lit ^^

[mochii0park]

Noonaissance; jjk

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x older!reader

Part of series: Waterlilies and Japanese Bridge

Genre: comedy - fluff - age gap (five years, jjk is 28, reader 33)

Summary: You weren’t looking for love. Love had been an art piece you’d studied too many times, only to realize the brushstrokes were all mistakes. So you swore off men, swore off romance, swore off the idea that someone could look at you and stay. And then Jeon Jungkook walked into Saebom Art House; your co-worker's brother, five years younger, impossibly persistent, and staring at you like you were the kind of masterpiece he’d spend a lifetime memorizing. You told yourself it was nothing but nothing doesn’t linger at closing time. Nothing doesn’t send you songs that feel like confessions. Nothing doesn’t look at you like that.

Date: End of June- Beginning of July

Masterlist

[mochii0park]

will you continue the waterlilies and japanese bridge series?

I will after I finish Don't speak and Next summer. I'll go for either Taehyung's or Jimin's story. Hoseok's and Yoongi's need editing, and I might change one of theirs for Jungkook and Seokjin or perhaps both I'll see. I feel bad that most of my stories are either Jimin or Taehyung.

[mochii0park]

Don't speak; pjm - Memories; 02

Title: Don't speak

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Genre: angst I fluff

Pairing: doctor!reader x businessman!jimin

Word count: 15.7k

Author's note: Initially it was supposed to be written in 2 parts but I decided to make it a 3 part story because I feel like the built up would make more sense. I hope you like it ^^

Taglist: @haru-jimiin, @maruuchann, @graydolan12, @fancypeacepersona, @jiminismine4ever, @talgiminmin, @ukndtwme, @purplebeebs, @wobblewobble822, @jjkluver7, @polnaraffsrack, @santhimariyanbu, @bangtan4lifetypeshit, @lanyia @granataepfelchen @sassy-snassy @thelilbutifulthings @mochi-mochhh @strawberryujamm @ownthesunshine @mar-lo-pap @nbjch05 @chimmy-licious @kajsksnsjsnns @beotkkotlover @ennvfv

Chapter list: ONE - TWO - THREE

You unlock the door and push it open, stepping aside so Jimin can enter first. He hesitates, eyes immediately looking around, searching for familiarity. With a small exhale, he steps inside drinking in the differences, confusion present in his irises, his eyes ever the mirror to his soul.

You take your time watching him carefully. His movements are slow, not just because of his healing ribs, but because he’s taking in every detail of the apartment. His gaze moves like someone expecting everything to be the same, like a man returning home after a long absence. You instinctively reach for his arm as he shifts forward, steadying him without a word. 

He glances at you, his lips curving just slightly. “Y/N, I can walk.”

“I know.” You don’t let go immediately.

He exhales, but he doesn’t pull away either. His brows knit together as he stares at the window. His gaze settles on the curtains. Thick, heavy material now, drawn shut, swallowing the room in a muted shade of dusk. He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly as if something doesn’t quite sit right.

“What happened to the see-through ones?”

You stand still, the emotions turning inside of you.  It’s such a simple question, but it knocks the air from your lungs. He remembers that those curtains were his choice, ones he picked specifically because you loved sunsets. Because he knew how much you liked the way the colors bled into the sky at the end of the day. 

He turns to look at you then, waiting for an answer, but all you can do is stare at him.  Of all the things time could have erased, all the memories that could have faded into nothing he remembers that. Your fingers tighten slightly around the fabric of his sleeve. You wet your lips, trying to compose your features into something neutral but you can’t stop the way your throat constricts, the way sorrow swells inside your chest like an ache you can’t soothe.

“We changed them a while ago,” you say quietly, voice steadier than you feel. The lie pierces through your heart but you felt like the truth would be open too many questions you weren’t sure how to answer.

“But you love sunsets.”

You did, but he decided to change that. He hated the light, the sunsets. Or perhaps he hated the curtains that reminded him of you. Of the warm love which had been replaced by bitterness that awoke emotions of resentment, grief. All the reminders of you irked him. The way he harshly yanked at them still rests in the back of your mind, a memory embedded with your own grief. The first piece you put together and the last you saw being destroyed as you left this apartment.

Jimin studies them for a moment longer before his lips press together. “Do you like them?”

 “The curtains?”

He nods.

You hesitate. “In a weird way I do.”

His head tilts slightly at that, like something about your answer doesn’t sit right with him but instead of pushing, he lets his fingers drop from the fabric and turns away.

“This place feels different,” he murmurs.

You step away from him as you lean against the wall. “Different how?”

“Some things are the same. Some aren’t. It’s like stepping into a memory that doesn’t fit right.”

You nod slightly, even if you wanted to you couldn’t replicate the apartment from five years ago. “Maybe that’s what happens when years go missing.”

Jimin’s lips twitch, but the smile doesn’t fully form. Instead, his gaze shifts to the bookshelves. His fingers trail along the spines, pausing on familiar titles. “We kept all my books?”

You hum in conformation, following his hand movements as he debates which one to pull out.  Jimin decides on one of his old collage micro economy textbook, flipping through the pages. “I thought you might’ve gotten rid of them.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I’m not that cruel.”

His lips curve. “Debatable.”

You narrow your eyes. “I literally carried you to the elevator then towards the front door so you wouldn’t strain your ribs, and you’re calling me cruel?”

Jimin laughs, warm and light. “I said debatable.”

You shake your head, muttering under your breath as you move toward the kitchen. You don’t need to see his face to know he’s still smiling but just as easily as the teasing settles in, the weight of the past creeps back in. Jimin places the textbook back on the shelf.

“When we got this apartment,” he says, “I made sure it had everything you loved. So that when you were gone for long shifts, I’d be surrounded by things that reminded me of you.”

Your hands begin to tremble, so you tighten your grip around the edge of the counter to mask it. Namjoon prepared you for the emotional rollercoaster that this task might carry, and you truly thought you were prepared for any obstacle that might be thrown at you but the second Jimin began to reminisce, causing him to unconsciously peel all the emotions you securely cocooned, you felt like you bit off more than you can chew.

“Did you get better at chopping onions?”

You blink, lost in manging your emotions that you hardly register his question. “What?”

His grin returns. “Because last time I saw you in this kitchen, you were butchering them.”

The shift in the atmosphere was another proof of how perceptive he could be, sensing your change and proceeding to lighten the mood. Your mouth falls open in mock offense. “I was not!”

“You were! I had to take the knife from you before you lost a finger.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “You’re misremembering.”

Jimin raises a brow. “Am I?”

“Maybe.”

He takes a small step, fingers brushing over the shelf once more, then the couch, then the photo frames. Jimin speaks again, his tone subdued. ‘I think I expected everything to be exactly the same.’” 

Your lips part, but you don’t know what to say and Jimin glances at you, his gaze gentle but steady. “Nothing stays the same forever, huh?”

You swallow. “No. It doesn’t.”

Another silence. “So… what’s for dinner?”

You bite your lips as Jimin throws his head back laughing at your embarrassed expression. “I might have forgotten about that?”

He swats his hands, gesturing that it’s fine. “We can cook, right? Unless you want to order. I can, you know cook for us. It’s one of the many impressive skills you’ve forgotten about me.”

You scoff. “If I let you cook, you’ll hurt yourself and somehow make it my fault.”

Jimin gasps. “Y/N, how dare you?”

You roll your eyes but turn toward the fridge as his laughter follows you. The clinking of the knife against the cutting board echoes softly in the kitchen as you start chopping the onions.  Jimin leans against the counter, watching you with an expression that’s far too amused for your liking.

“So, you lied to me.”

You pause, glaring at him. “Lied about what?”

He gestures lazily toward the uneven slices of onion scattered across the board. “You still don’t know how to chop onions, yobo.” His voice is warm, teasing, laced with the kind of intimacy that makes your chest tighten. “And here I thought five years would have been enough for you to improve.”

You try to ignore the way your heart skipped at the nickname as you roll your eyes, nudging a piece of onion aside with the blade. “I didn’t lie. I just never promised I got better.”

Jimin laughs, stepping closer. “It’s quite a shame, really.” His voice drops, playful but feigning deep disappointment. “A cardiothoracic surgeon who can handle a human heart but can’t handle an onion? That’s embarrassing.”

You repeat his words in a mocking manner, sending him a sharp look. “I don’t see how they’re even remotely related.”

Jimin hums, closing the distance between you. “Both require precision. Technique. Control.” He dips his head slightly, his breath warm against your ear. “But I see you still lack all three when it comes to this.”

Before you can retort, he glides his hands around your wrists, his touch featherlight, but firm enough to still your movements. Your fingers twitch, your breath catching as his palms mold against yours.

“Here.” His voice is softer now, guiding. “Relax your grip.”

You hesitate, but your body betrays you and your fingers instinctively loosen under the warmth of his hands. He adjusts your grip on the knife, his chest just barely brushing against your back.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his chin almost resting against the curve of your shoulder. “Now, let the blade do the work. No unnecessary force.”

You swallow, nodding. He guides your wrist smoothly, showing you how to make precise, even slices. “Better,” he praises. And then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he tilts his head and presses a soft kiss to your temple.

You freeze.

His lips linger for just a second, a whisper of warmth against your skin, before he pulls back with a smirk. “You’re still lacking a lot, though,” he teases, his voice dripping with amusement. “But at least you’re slightly better than last time.”

You try to steady yourself, though the sudden tightness in your chest refuses to ease. This isn’t new. This isn’t foreign. Jimin has always been like this. Always lingering close, always touching without thinking, always kissing your temple as if he has the right to. For him, it’s just another evening. Another moment with his wife. For you, it’s a relic of something lost.

You clear your throat. “If you’re so good at this, why am I the one cooking?”

“Because you wanted to prove you could do it.”

“I never said that.”

He hums. “No, but I know you.” His fingers drift along your wrist before finally letting go, the warmth of his touch lingering long after he steps back. “You’re too stubborn to let me take over.”

Refusing to meet his gaze as you focus on the onions again. “Then maybe you should leave me to it.”

Jimin chuckles, but he doesn’t move away completely. Instead, he once again leans against the counter beside you, his presence unwavering.

“Alright, alright. I’ll just watch,” he says, though the mischief in his voice suggests otherwise. “But don’t blame me when you start crying.”

You frown. “Why would I—”

Then it hits. The sting. The unmistakable burn creeping into your eyes.

Jimin bursts out laughing. “Oh no. Oh no. The mighty surgeon is about to be taken down by onions.”

You glare at him through watery eyes. “Shut up, Jimin.”

He gasps dramatically. “Yobo. Such harsh words.”

You groan, wiping at your eyes. “This is your fault. You distracted me.”

“I barely did anything.”

You shoot him a sharp look. “Exactly.”

Jimin laughs again, reaching for your wrist and pulling you toward him slightly. “Come here,” he murmurs, thumb brushing under your eye. His touch is so unthinkingly gentle, so painfully familiar, that your breath stutters. For a moment, his amusement fades. His eyes trace your face, the laughter softening into something quieter.

You don’t move and neither doesn’t he. Just as quickly as the shift happened, he pulls back with a teasing smirk. “You’re such a mess, Y/N.”

You blink, the moment slipping through your fingers before you can grasp it. “You’re the mess.”

Jimin raises his eyebrows. “I am a very refined man.”

Focusing back on the cutting board you mutter. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Jimin watches you for a second longer, then reaches out removing a lash that rested on your cheek. In his ever-silly habit he looks at the lash before he blows at it. Something like a good luck omen, he used to say.

Dinner pass by quickly. Jimin again teases you over how you cut the onions (despite his expert guidance), complains dramatically about the lack of meat in the dish, and makes a show of sighing in exaggerated bliss after each bite, telling you he always knew you’d make a good housewife one day.

You again roll your eyes, swatting at him with a dish towel, and he just laughs in that way that makes your stomach clench. By the time you clear the plates and remind him about his medication, Jimin was in such a joking mode you were sure you’d kill him.

“Come on,” you murmur. “Let’s take care of your wounds before bed.”

Jimin groans while standing up, forgetting for a minute that he indeed had surgery but that didn't flatten the teasing mood he was in. “Ah, nurse Y/N is back on duty.”

As you walk toward the bedroom, Jimin hums thoughtfully behind you. “Didn’t realize surgeons did minor injuries too. Should I be worried you’re overqualified for this?”

You push the door open without looking back. “Don’t worry. If I get bored, I’ll find something to operate on.”

He chuckles, following you inside. The room is dimly lit, the bedside lamp casting a soft glow against the walls. You kneel on the edge of the bed, the first-aid kit open beside you, its contents neatly arranged.

With a casual ease, Jimin pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside. He moves like it’s nothing, because to him, it is nothing. His bare skin, the familiar curve of his back, the old scar near his ribs that you once traced absentmindedly in bed these are things he doesn’t think twice about. You’re his wife. There’s no hesitation in the way he reveals himself to you.

He sits in front of you, legs slightly spread, his arms resting lazily on his thighs. He watches as you peel away the old gauze from the wound just below his ribs, the dried edges sticking to his skin. A sharp intake of breath leaves him as you work, but he doesn’t complain.

The stitch has pulled open slightly not deep enough to be serious, but enough to need redressing. You’re about to reach for the antiseptic when you notice the bruising around it. A deep, ugly shade of purple spreads across his side, blooming outward like ink in water. It wasn’t just a minor fall. This was a hard, blunt impact, something that rattled through his body. Your fingers press lightly against the skin around the bruising. Jimin hisses softly, his stomach tensing under your touch.

“This wasn’t just from the stitches pulling,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

Jimin exhales through his nose. “Guess I took more of a hit than I thought.”

Your jaw tightens, but you say nothing, focusing instead on cleaning the wound. Your hands move with practiced ease, pressing fresh gauze into place, taping it down securely. You glance up, adjusting the bandage on his forehead next, making sure it sits properly.

As you do, your eyes trace the tattoos along his arms and collarbone.

The script curling over his ribs, half-covered by bruising. The delicate crescent moon near his wrist. The constellation mapped over his forearm, faint scars peeking through the ink. The phrase Nevermind etched onto his ribs, stark against the bruises, as if the words are mocking his current state. You don’t realize you’re staring until Jimin muses. “Didn’t take you for the staring type.”

You ignore him as you finish securing the last bandage. “I was checking for more injuries.”

Jimin hums, unconvinced. “Sure you were.”

You start to pull away, but your fingers graze against something unexpected. A shift in his posture, a glimpse of ink just beneath his ribcage. You still, nudging the fabric of his pants slightly downward to see it fully.

A lily.

The sight of the lily tattoo carves into you like a blade. Your birth flower. A symbol of hope. Something Jimin once considered you to be. Your breath falters. He never had this before. If he had, you would have noticed you would have known.

The weight of that realization slams into you all at once. Jimin got this after the divorce. Somewhere in the life he can’t remember, he marked his body with a piece of you..

Jimin, oblivious to the storm raging inside you, notices you stopped. His grip around your waist tightens and his warmth seeps through your clothes, anchoring you when you feel like you might collapse under the weight of it all.

He's watching you carefully. “What is it?”

You force yourself to swallow, to breathe, to keep your expression neutral but you fail spectacularly. Jimin’s gaze flickers downward, following yours. He frowns, as if trying to figure out what’s holding your attention. He looks at the tattoo, his own tattoo, as if he’s seeing it for the first time.

A deep crease forms between his brows. “Did I… always have this?”

His voice is soft, uncertain. Your throat is too tight to speak. Jimin studies it like it’s foreign, something detached from him. His fingers twitch slightly against your back before smoothing over your waist again, his hold instinctive. “It’s a lily,” he murmurs.

You nod, barely.

His gaze moves back to yours, searching. “That means something to you.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember why he has it. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the emotion from rising too fast, too visibly. But Jimin isn’t stupid. Even without the memories, he knows you.

His voice dips. “Did I get this… for you?”

You can’t answer. You should but you can’t.

The truth sits heavy on your tongue, an unbearable weight pressing against your ribs. Jimin watches you, his confusion growing, his hands unmoving around your waist as if anchoring himself through you.

Seconds stretch between you. You feel his breathing slow, controlled measured, like he’s trying to make sense of all of this. The way your fingers hesitate. The way your gaze lingers on the ink like it holds something devastating.

Then, finally, softly and tentatively he speaks up.

“I got this for you, didn’t I?” It’s not really a question.

His voice carries no certainty, only quiet realization. You nod. Just once. Hi fingers flexing slightly before slipping away from your waist. He leans back a little, studying the tattoo again, trailing his fingers over the inked petals as if the touch alone might unlock something. But his expression remains blank. Empty.

“I don’t remember,” he murmurs, his brows drawing together.

You knew he wouldn’t. But hearing it out loud still feels like a sharp crack down your chest. He’s quiet for a moment, turning his hand to get a better look at the other tattoos marking his skin the ones he does remember, the ones tied to memories he still owns.

“Did I get it because you liked lilies?” he asks. “Or was it something else?”

Something else.

You force a breath past your lips, trying to keep your voice steady. “You always said lilies were a sign of hope.”

Jimin blinks. “I did?”

“You said they survive through seasons, no matter what.” A pause, “That’s what you thought I was.”

“I don’t remember that either,” he says quietly.

It’s too much. The weight of it, the ache in your ribs, the way his fingers keep brushing over the ink like he’s trying to will the memory back into existence. So, you do the only thing you know how to do, you ease the moment.

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat, reaching for the antiseptic again, “it would’ve been nice if you got it somewhere that didn’t make dressing your wounds a nightmare.”

Jimin's caught off guard but manages to show a ghost of a smile. “Seriously?”

You shrug, pressing a clean bandage over his ribs, careful with your touch. “I’m just saying. Of all the places.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

You know he won’t push, won’t ask the questions that might make your hands shake again. But something about the way he looks at you tells you this isn’t over. Eventually, he’ll remember. Or maybe, he’ll ask again but for now, you tape down the bandage, press your hands against your lap.

Jimin moves to the side, his gaze landing on the closet behind you. The door is slightly open, revealing his neatly arranged clothes the same ones he left behind. Everything of his is still here, untouched, exactly as it always was but something is missing.

“Where are your clothes?”

“Clothes? “ You freeze for half a second before glancing around, only now realizing that you never moved them back from the guest room. 

“Your clothes. Your books. Your skincare stuff that usually clutters up the counter.” He frowns. “Did you move them?”

“I’ve been… rearranging stuff.” It’s a weak excuse, and Jimin sees right through it.

 “You always do that. Used to drive me crazy.” A flicker of amusement dances across his face before his gaze softens in memory. “Remember when you moved in?” , he says, “You were so organized. Didn’t even let me touch a single box. I think I gave up after the first hour.”

The memory filters in like warm light through old curtains. The first night in your shared apartment-boxes stacked high, exhaustion weighing on you both, a failed attempt at getting the bed set up.

“You were so insistent that everything had to be in its place,” he continues, grinning. “And then we ended up sleeping on the mattress in the living room because you couldn’t finish unpacking.”

A small laugh escapes before you can stop it. You remember. Jimin catches the sound. “See? Not all my memories are gone.”

You force a small smile back, but it feels thin, fragile.  As you move through the room, still shaken from the moment before, his voice breaks the silence. “Turn off the lights before you go to bed.”

You reach for the switch, but as you take a step toward the door, Jimin’s voice stops you. “Did you forget something?”

“What do you mean?”

Whenever someone would describe you the first adjective they'd use was precise-aware, however the more you time you spent with Jimin the more you felt like you're everything but that. You would stumble over words, repeat questions in hopes that the outcome would be different.

Jimin points to you then to the doors as if the answer was obvious. “Well… you’re leaving.”

You begin to feel small, unsure how to respond so you go with the option you thought was solid. “Yeah. To sleep in the guest room.”

Boy were you wrong.

 “Come on,” he murmurs, eyes already half-lidded. “You’re going to lecture me about getting proper rest, right? So just sleep here What? You need an official invitation?” he sighs dramatically, patting the empty space beside him, “Y/N, just get in bed already.”

You shift awkwardly on your feet. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Jimin lifts his head slightly, his eyes telling you how much you're bullshiting. “Why not?”

You scramble for an excuse. “Your injuries. I don’t want to accidentally hit you while you’re sleeping.”

Jimin snorts, already having an arsenal of situations where you obviously didn't care about his comfort. “Y/N, don’t be ridiculous.” He props himself up on one elbow, looking entirely unconvinced. “Even on your worst nights when you tossed and turned like a possessed human tornado, you never hurt me.”

“Still, I don’t want to risk it. Your ribs are healing, and I—”

“Even when I broke my hand, you still slept beside me,” Jimin interrupts, tilting his head. “And when I got that horrible flu and was burning up? You didn’t leave my side for three nights straight.” He shakes his head, feigning offense. “Now suddenly, you’re acting like I’m made of glass?”

You try to deflect, the situation feeling like a boxing match where one waits for the knock-out . “I guess I just became more considerate over the years.”

Jimin narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

You try again. “Besides, I’ve been sleeping in the guest room. The bed is already set up for me, and I don’t want to—”

“If you don’t get in bed right now,” Jimin warns, “I’m going to pick you up and toss you in myself.”

Your eyes widen in alarm. “Jimin—your ribs—”

“Then hurry up,” he sing-songs, smirking as he shifts slightly, patting the mattress once more.

You linger in the doorway for a moment before exhaling. Maybe it is better to just join him. You sigh, realizing there’s no way out of this. “Fine.”

Moving slowly, you sit on the edge of the bed before cautiously laying down. Every muscle in your body is tense, keeping a careful distance from him.

Jimin stares at you, unimpressed. “Seriously?”

You blink. “What?”

He reaches over and tugs you toward him, his arm slipping comfortably around your waist. Your body stiffens. “Jimin—”

“Shh.” His breath brushes against your temple, warm and familiar. “Relax.”

You don’t. Not immediately. Softly, Jimin speaks up. “Did we have an argument before my accident?”

Your fingers curl into the blanket. “Why do you think that?”

He hums. “You moved your stuff, you’re tense around me, and you were obviously sleeping in the guest room.”

Your throat tightens, but you force a small sigh. “I told you. I’ve just been rearranging things.”

Jimin hums again, but this time, his hand finds yours in the dark, fingers intertwining. His lips press gently to the back of your hand, the warmth lingering even after he pulls away.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Good night.”

You turn onto your side, curling in on yourself as the weight of everything crashes down all at once. Jimin’s breathing is steady beside you, deep and even completely unaware. The sedatives you gave him are working, keeping him locked in a dreamless sleep while you lie awake, drowning in the silence.

Your fingers press against your lips, desperate to muffle the sound as the first sob escapes. It’s quiet, nearly swallowed by the stillness of the room, but it shakes through you nonetheless.

Your shoulders tremble as you bury your face into the pillow, breath stuttering against the fabric. You don’t mean to fall apart not here, not now, not beside him. But the ache in your chest is relentless, clawing its way to the surface no matter how tightly you try to hold it down.

He doesn’t remember losing you and yet, he still holds pieces of you. In his body, in his skin, in the lily inked beneath his ribs a mark of something he can’t recall but must have meant everything once.

Your breath breaks again, a silent, gasping sob that you try to swallow.

Jimin stirs slightly beside you, shifting in his sleep, but he doesn’t wake. He doesn’t notice the way you clutch at your own arms, the way you tremble beneath the weight of a grief that doesn’t belong in the present but lives here anyway.

You press your face deeper into the pillow, squeezing your eyes shut.

Tomorrow, you’ll pull yourself together. You’ll find the right words, the careful lies, the quiet deflections that keep the truth buried but tonight, you let yourself break in silence.

And Jimin oblivious, untouched sleeps on.

_________

The next day is lighter or at least compared to yesterday.

The scent of fresh coffee is warm and inviting, mixing with the morning air seeping through the window cracks. Jimin follows it, adjusting to the unfamiliarity of movement, his feet pressing against the hardwood floor with quiet steps, careful but curious.

When he reaches the doorway, he stops. You’re sitting at the dining table, one hand curled around a mug, the other scrolling through your phone.

The steam from the coffee rises in lazy swirls, dissipating into the soft morning glow. He stays there, watching you, feeling at home in a way that doesn’t feel earned. 

You sense him before you see him, but you don’t look up immediately, taking another slow sip of your drink.

."Did Scarlett Johansson do anything new?"

You exhale a soft sound of amusement. Not startled. Not surprised. Just… expecting. “She’s still acting.” Your voice is even as turn your screen toward him. “A few indie films, some bigger projects. Emma Watson took a break but focused on activism.”

Jimin hums, stepping further inside. “Good for them.”

He moves to pour himself coffee, his fingers wrapping around the familiar handle of the mug. His hand moves automatically toward the sugar jar, fingers resting against the lid. Without thinking, he looks at you. “You still take two spoons, right?”

“Not anymore,”

Jimin’s frown deepens slightly, and his grip on the sugar jar loosens. That doesn’t make sense. His eyes dart to you, searching for something in your expression, but you remain impassive. Before he could question the answer, you turn back toward the sink, rinsing out your mug as if the conversation never happened.

When he reaches opens a drawer, he swore was where you place the utensils only for it to be filled with spatulas does he realize how much the apartment changed. The bones of the space are familiar the layout, but then there are the differences.

The arrangement of the kitchen utensils is different. The couch isn’t the same one he remembers it’s darker, newer, missing the faint tear in the cushion he swore he’d fix. The picture frames on the bookshelf are different, some missing entirely.

He pushes off the counter continuing yesterday’s exploration of the living room He hesitates in front of the framed photographs. Some of them are the same your wedding photo, a candid from your honeymoon, a snapshot of a festival you once attended together.

However, there are gaps. Spaces where photos used to be, now replaced with generic prints of landscapes or nothing at all. He lifts a hand, touching the frame of a photo he doesn’t recognize, you with a few people he doesn’t immediately recall.

It's a photo from your first day of fellowship, standing beside Hannah and Yoongi. The three of you are smiling, arms slung around each other, a moment captured in the midst of new beginnings. 

It’s a frozen piece of time Jimin was never a part of, one of many gaps he has yet to fill. He doesn’t know their faces, doesn’t recognize the context, but something about the image unsettles him, a subtle reminder of the years that exist beyond his reach.

You debated whether to include it, but you thought it would feel natural for you to have a memory of the beginning fellowship and friends you hang out with. 

He calls out for you, and once he grabs your attention he points at the photo. "I don’t know them."

"You never really got the chance to," you say walking towards him. "That’s Hannah, my best friend and Yoongi, co-worker. We started our fellowship together."

Jimin absorbs the information. "You should introduce me to them when we go to the hospital. I still need to see who’s new on the staff."

"They work at another hospital." 

Jimin, as extroverted as he might seem, he liked to have an inner circle of friends who he rarely expanded. Therefore, you never thought he’d ask to meet them. Sure, inquire who your new friends were, but to meet them? Not really.  

Perhaps you should’ve lied or never included the photography, but it eased your heart to have portions of your life after the divorce displayed for him to see. After the memories come back maybe he’ll resent you less if he knows not everything was a lie.

"Oh? Then how’d you meet them?"

"A conference," you smile as you remember the time your hospital provided a hall which was filled with future fellows who were finding seats.

They explained it as sort of a meeting conference where you could network with people. Unbeknownst to you, Yoongi or Hannah your paths intertwined way before you started working together.

Hannah ever the clumsy one slipped as she tried to maneuverer herself onto the seat next to, the sudden commotion making Yoongi spill his coffee all over you. "One of those long, drawn-out events where everyone fights to stay awake."

Jimin chuckles. "Sounds about right. Let me guess, you were the type to take actual notes?"

"And you would’ve been the one doodling on the pamphlet."

He laughs. "Hey, don’t underestimate the art of conference doodling. It kept me awake."

As if a thought had just sprung to his mind, his eyes widen as he claps his hands together. "What about Kaya? You guys still tight?"

"No," you say, snorting at the mention of her name. "We lost touch."

Jimin frowns. "Wait. What? You two were attached at the hip. What happened?"

You exhale briefly as pictures of her teareyed face flash in front of you. "She hurt someone we both care about."

Jimin watches you for a beat before realization flickers across his face. "Wait. No. Don’t tell me—Jungkook?"

You nod. "They broke up. Three years ago."

Jimin’s lips part slightly, eyebrows raising in genuine surprise. “Kaya and Jungkook broke up? I thought they were basically glued together. When did that happen?"

"Three years ago," you say, watching his reaction. You brace for his response, knowing that disbelief is about to hit.

Jimin waves his hands for a second, gesturing for you to reverse. "Okay, hold on. Kaya and Jungkook, the couple that made us all nauseous with their cutesy texts and matching outfits, broke up? I need details."

You press your lips together, debating how to soften the blow before deciding there's no point sugarcoating it. "She cheated on him."

Jimin stares at you for a long moment before he whistles. "Damn. And here I thought she was ride-or-die for him. Turns out she was just ride-for-someone-else."

He rubs his temples as if he has a headache. "I mean, I know relationships aren’t perfect, but they were basically the blueprint of a long-term couple. What, did she wake up one day and decide to self-destruct?"

You offer a small shrug. "Yeah. We all thought they were solid. Guess not."

You loved Kaya, after all she was someone with whom you grew up with. From high school to university and a small portion of your adult life but by the end of her relationship with Jungkook she changed. Never responded to any texts, always making excuses when you invite her for drinks and after a while you just let it be. 

Jimin runs a hand through his hair, still trying to process. "Man, I wish I could’ve been there when Jungkook found out. Did he flip a table? Punch a wall? Write a whole album about it?"

You shake your head with a light chuckle. "No table flipping, but I’d say his gym membership got put to very good use. And as for the album? Well, you should check his discography when you get the chance."

He moves towards the couch, finding a comfortable spot in the middle of it. He touches the soft fabric as if he’s contemplating something. You half expecting him to fish out his phone and blast Jungkook’s I hate you as a form of belated support for the chaotic breakup however, he glances at you, lips curving into something more mischievous. 

"You know this couch has seen a lot. Heard a lot, too."

You curse under your breath forgetting how Jimin tends to drop bombshell sentences here and there just to gloat at your reaction. Your cheeks warm instantly, and you shake your head, already regretting giving him any reaction. "Jimin—"

He winks, stretching out lazily as he settles into the cushions. "No need to get shy now. We practically lived here half the time. Spent majority of it watching k-drama."

Your lips part in protest, but no real words come out. He’s not wrong. The couch had been your shared sanctuary; movie nights turning into tangled limbs, lazy Sundays melting into laughter and stolen kisses. 

"While you pretended to hate them, but actually got really into the plot?"

Jimin drops his head onto the cushions. "I stand by my criticism. But yeah, maybe I got a little invested."

Before you counter back stating how it was more then little invested, he made charts of different characters to keep up with the plot, his stomach growls.

"Hungry?" you ask, needing something to do with your hands.

Jimin nods, placing a hand over his stomach. "You still make breakfast, or did you become one of those coffee-only morning people?"

You roll your eyes. "I still eat, Jimin."

He grins, standing up. "Good. Then let me help."

You stop him with a light push against his chest. "You should rest."

"I’m not an invalid," he counters, passing by you and moving toward the fridge. "Come on, I can still crack an egg."

You watch him, debating whether to argue before sighing. "Fine. But no lifting anything heavy."

Jimin smirks. "Relax, I’m just here for moral support."

The kitchen fills with the soft sound of movement, the clinking of plates, the sizzle of butter in a pan. Jimin listens to you hum a melody he can't pinpoint but it feels nice. "You still hum when you cook," he notes.

You pause, becoming increasingly aware of the melody dropping from your lips. "Maybe."

"No maybe," he teases. "You used to do it all the time. Even when you didn’t realize."

You focus on the food, flipping an egg carefully. "Muscle memory, I guess."

Jimin hums. "Seems to be a theme this morning."

You pull the food onto the plate pushing it towards him. "Eat. Before you start analysing me like one of your case studies."

Jimin picks up his fork. "Too late."

A small smile tugs at your lips as you both settle into the moment.

Jimin takes a bite, humming in appreciation. "Still good at this. I was half-expecting you to have turned into a takeout-only kind of person."

You stab at your food with a fork. "Just because you lived off convenience stores and ramen doesn’t mean I do."

Jimin nudges your foot under the table. "Hey, those were dark times. And I survived."

He takes his final bite pushing the plate away as he wipes his mouth. "So, what’s the plan for today? Or am I just supposed to lounge around and bask in your hospitality?"

You snort. "That depends. Think you can handle a short walk without me calling Namjoon for backup?"

"I’ll have you know, I am fully capable of walking without medical supervision."

"We’ll see about that. Get dressed, then."

Jimin stands up with exaggerated effort. "Fine, fine. But only because I’m curious where you’re planning to drag me."

You don’t answer as you clear the plates. He watches you for a moment before heading toward the bedroom, leaving you standing in the quiet hum of the kitchen, collecting yourself before what comes next.

___________

The days pass by in a blink of an eye.

One of the days Jimin spends most of it resting in the room, exhaustion pressing heavy against his bones. Sleep comes in short bursts, light, restless. The remnants of a headache cling to him, dull but persistent, and though his body craves rest, his mind refuses to settle.

When he finally wakes up, the apartment is cast in the soft glow of the evening. He checks his phone before stepping out of the bedroom, his feet moving without thought. As he comes closer to the living room, he hears it. 

Your voice.

Soft, delicate, threading through the apartment like silk. The melody is unfamiliar, but the moment he steps into the living room, the words settle into his chest.

“Be my only love”

You’re sitting near the window, the gentle city lights casting a warm glow on your skin. Your eyes focused on charts, lost in the music as you sing Only by Lee Hi, your voice wrapping around each note with quiet ease. The sound is hauntingly beautiful and pure woven into it.

He stills. His vision impairs with black and blue dots, a pain pierces through him as he slowly lowers himself to sit on the stair.

A memory flashes in bits and pieces. He sees you, but not here. Not now.

You at the Han River. The night sky stretched endlessly above, the lights reflecting on the rippling water like scattered stars. The laughter of a small crowd fills the air, a speaker crackling as music hums from it.

He watches as Jungkook pulls you forward by the wrist, a grin playing on his lips.

“Come on, you have to sing at least one song,” Jungkook teases, pushing you toward the makeshift stage where a small audience has gathered. “You can’t just sit there and enjoy everyone else—you’re the best singer here.”

You resist slightly, but Jungkook is relentless, playful yet firm as he pushes you closer. Hoseok and Namjoon clap from the sidelines, their cheers blending with the laughter of strangers encouraging you.

Jimin sees himself there too, standing just behind them, watching.

You turn, shooting Jungkook a mock glare before agreeing, not like you could ever refuse the younger friend. You take the microphone, adjusting it slightly, your fingers brushing against the metal and you sing. Body do you sing.

“The words I sincerely wanted to say”

Jimin’s breath catches as the memory sharpens, the lyrics spilling effortlessly from your lips. Your voice carries over the gentle hush of the river, weaving through the night like a whispered secret. Your eyes find him in the crowd, as you smile from ear to ear. All goes still, for a moment. 

His heartbeat. The murmur of the crowd. The distant cityscape blinking like fireflies against the dark. The only thing that exists in that moment is you.

“I say, ‘I love you'”

You close your eyes, letting the song carry you, and Jimin swears he can feel the love he has for you grow deeper and deeper, to a point where it hurt. The way your voice reaches him even through time. The way the lyrics guide him back to you.

Each word makes the memory clearer, each note threading through the haze of his mind, pulling him deeper, deeper—

Until he can almost feel it.

“Be my only love”

Jimin exhales sharply, the present rushing back in, slamming into him with quiet force. He manages to get up, his fingers curled around the handrail, his chest tight.

Two days later, he helps you rearrange the bedroom - more like annoys to oblivion - watching as you fold clothes and straighten up the space, your movements fluid, practiced. A part of him wants to ask if you could postpone this and just lazily spread on the couch as you watch a movie, but he knew you. Knew you well enough to already see you rolling your eyes and dismissing him.

As you smooth down the last bedsheet, something catches his eye. A door. It’s one he barely noticed before, but now it stands out, pulling at something in the back of his mind. A faint recollection.

“When we moved in, you didn’t know what to do with this room.” The memory comes in fragments, your voice, thoughtful and uncertain, as you had stood in the empty space, debating its purpose. He remembers suggesting a study. You had considered a reading nook. But beyond that, nothing. The rest of the memory remains blank.

His curiosity gets the better of him and he reaches for the handle and pushes the door open. The room is bathed in soft afternoon light. And in the middle of it a piano. A grand, glossy black piano.

Music sheets are scattered over the floor, some stacked haphazardly on a nearby shelf. The sight is so out of place, so unexpected, that Jimin feels the air leave his lungs because this isn’t just any piano. This is his. However, that doesn’t make sense.

The last time he touched it, he was eighteen. Still finishing musical academy, still pretending that playing could be more than just a fleeting dream before stepping into the real world. He had walked away from it, from the late-night compositions, from the melodies that once poured so naturally from his fingers. His parents made sure of that.

Jimin swallows, stepping further inside, his hand brushing the cool surface of the instrument.

“Why is this here?” he murmurs, almost to himself.

His gaze drifts to the doorway and you’re still standing there, frozen. Your fingers grip the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, eyes locked onto the piano as if you’re staring at something impossible. It takes a moment, but he sees it the raw emotion flickering across your face, the dazed look in your eyes, the way your lips part but no words come out.

“You—” His voice is hesitant. “You look just as surprised as I am.”

You blink, snapping out of your trance. “I… I thought you got rid of it.”

Jimin’s chest tightens at that because that means he didn’t just forget this piano, he also forgot a choice he made about it and that realization unsettles him in ways he can’t quite explain.

“When did I buy this?”

 “You didn’t.”

Jimin steps closer, his fingers brushing the smooth surface. “Then who—”

“It was my wedding gift to you,” you say quietly.

Jimin stills, waiting for an explanation he’s not sure he’s ready for. “You loved playing. More than anything.” 

Because before he was anything else, Jimin was music.

Before his name meant something, before he was pulled into the rigid path his parents set for him, he was a boy who livedthrough sound. He didn’t just play the piano; he became it. The keys were an extension of his hands, his soul translated into notes that hung in the air like poetry. He could hear the emotions in a song before reading the sheet, could compose melodies before he could properly explain them.

But talent meant nothing to the people who raised him.

“Music is not a career,” his father had told him, dismissive and firm. “It’s a hobby. And hobbies don’t pay the bills.”

So, he studied economics instead. Sat in lecture halls with textbooks too heavy in his hands, numbers running together in front of his tired eyes. He went to meetings and luncheons with men who saw creativity as nothing more than a child’s whim. All while his piano sat untouched in his childhood home, the lid gathering dust.

When you bought him this one, when you placed the key in his palm on your anniversary day and told him, “If no one else lets you play, at least let yourself”, he had just stared at you, silent, breathless. That night he played for you, no sheet music, no rehearsed melody, jut him and the piano, filling the quiet of your new home with something raw and unspoken. That night, you sat beside him, your head resting on his shoulder as he played. That night, you had closed your eyes, listening to the way his soul bled through the music.

A gift.

A love letter in the form of sound.

And now he stands in front of the same piano, staring at it like it’s a stranger in his own home. You see the way his breathing hitches, how his hands shake, fingers itching to reach out for something, but he doesn’t know what. His frustration isn’t just from the missing years it’s from knowing that he left music behind, made amends with never touching the piano, then coming back years later only to not remember it.

And he wishes he could.

He wishes he could step into that old symphony, into the late nights spent at the keys, into the silent love confessions stuck in every note. He wants to remember the weight of them, the way music once felt like home. Before he can break apart in front of you, you take a step forward. “Make a new memory.” 

His eyes snap to yours.

“Not to replace the old one,” you say softly, “but you can make another.”

Jimin doesn’t speak, but you can see the battle, the hesitation in his stance.  “Play the first thing that comes to your mind.”

For a moment, nothing happens then, slowly, hesitantly, his fingers settle over the keys. A pause. A sound followed soon after. The first few notes are tentative, uncertain, but as the melody takes shape, something shifts in him.

Chopin’s Spring Waltz.

Your favourite.

Your eyes sting because you know what this means. Even if his memories are fragmented, even if the past is slipping through his fingers like sand somewhere deep inside, his love for you still lingers.

As the notes spill into the quiet apartment, something inside Jimin unravels. His movements grow more fluid, more certain, like he’s slipping into something familiar and safe. And for the first time since he walked through your door, he doesn’t feel lost.

You’re unaware of holding your breath until a gentle exhale escapes you. As Jimin diligently searches for something in the music, you’re gradually losing something precious because while Jimin is finding something in the music, you are losing something.

You remember watching him like this before his eyes half-lidded, his expression unreadable yet open in a way only music could make him. He used to play for you late into the night, the piano’s voice an extension of his own, speaking in ways he never could.

Back then, you thought you understood every unspoken thing between you. Now, you wonder if understanding ever mattered when fate was so cruel. The melody shifts, swelling into something delicate yet achingly powerful. You’re curious if he notices that his fingers press a little harder during certain passages, as if there’s something lingering in his chest that he can’t voice.

Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t but you notice.

Jimin’s hands remain on the keys, unmoving. His shoulders rise and fall with measured breaths, but he doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at you. You don’t realize your own eyes are glassy until you blink, and a tear that you weren’t even aware of slips down your cheek.

You wipe it away quickly, swallowing the lump in your throat. “That was beautiful.” 

Jimin's expression is unreadable, but there’s something fragile in his gaze. “I don’t remember playing this for you before,” he murmurs

“You did,” you whisper, forcing a small smile. “Many times.”

“I want to remember.”

It’s not a demand. It’s not spoken in frustration or anger. It’s quiet. Almost pleading. You open your mouth, then close it as you step closer, hesitating for only a moment before gently placing a hand over his on the keys.

“Then let’s keep playing,” you say, voice steady despite the ache in your chest.

Jimin doesn’t move for a moment. “Okay.”

So, you sit beside him and just like that night, years ago, he plays for you. 

A week later, you needed new books specifically, ones on medical advancements and cardiovascular research. Jimin hadn’t planned on coming along, but when you grabbed your coat, he instinctively reached for his own. Now, you’re wandering through the aisles of a quiet bookstore.

He trails behind you, watching as your fingers glide over the spines of books, pausing now and then to pull one free. There’s something peaceful about it, the way you move with familiarity, completely at ease in this space.

Jimin looks around. His interest lands on a display of fiction novels near the window, and for a moment, his eyes blur again like last time, the edges of his vision softening—

A different bookstore. A different time.

He sees himself walking down a narrow aisle, fingers intertwined with someone’s. The warmth of a hand in his own. A voice, light, teasing. “You always go for the same kind of books.”

He turns his head, catching a glimpse of blonde hair, tucked behind a delicate ear. The memory shifts, a quiet laugh, the press of a shoulder against his. He watches as she reaches for a book, flipping through the pages lazily before passing it to him.

“You should read this one.”

His chest tightens. It’s you. It has to be. The warmth, the familiarity—it’s you.

Except…

Except something is wrong.

The memory begins to fray at the edges. His grip on the past wavers as he tries to focus on the details. The blonde hair. The voice—so familiar yet… not quite right.

He blinks, the memory slipping away, and suddenly, he’s back in the present, standing in the middle of the bookstore. His pulse feels uneven, his palms slightly clammy. His eyes land on you again, standing a few feet away, flipping through a textbook.

“Did you ever dye your hair blonde?” The question leaves his lips before he even realizes he’s asked it.

You stand few feet away startled. “What?”

“Your hair.” Confusion is threading into his tone. “Was it ever blonde?”

“No. Why?”

Jimin doesn’t answer immediately. His mind reels, replaying the memory again, trying to make sense of it. He could have sworn it was you. The way she held his hand, the way she smiled up at him, the way she felt so…

Familiar.

But it wasn’t you. A strange sensation creeps into his chest an unsettling mix of doubt and unease. If the memory wasn’t of you, then who?

His breath catches. Did he cheat on you?

The thought is a punch to the gut. His stomach twists, nausea creeping up his throat. Why was he holding another woman’s hand? Why did the memory feel so natural, so intimate? His heart pounds in his chest, the walls of the bookstore suddenly feeling too close, too suffocating.

“No reason,” he finally says. “I just thought I remembered something.”

You sense something is wrong but you don’t ask. Instead, you turn back to the book in your hands, flipping a page absently.

For the rest of the afternoon, he’s distant. He barely speaks as you walk back home, his responses clipped, his thoughts elsewhere. His mind replays the memory over and over, searching for an answer that won’t come.

That night, he lies awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. The warmth of a hand in his. The soft murmur of a voice. A memory that doesn’t belong to you. Jimin turns onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut.

And for the first time since waking up, he’s afraid to remember.

The day you go back to work finally arrives. More than a week has passed since you two came home, and Jimin’s wounds are healed enough for him to move around without you having to micromanage every move of his. You walk through the apartment with quiet efficiency, pulling on your coat and gathering your things, preparing for your first day back at work.

Jimin watches from the couch, one arm resting on the back of the cushions, his gaze following your every movement. There’s something comforting about the routine the way you check your bag twice, the way you tie your hair up only to take it down again, second-guessing the style.

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until you glance at him.

“What?” you ask, adjusting your watch.

“Nothing,” he says then after a beat, he sits up. “I’ll come with you.”

You pause, your fingers stilling on the buttons of your coat. “What?”

“I need to see Namjoon.” His voice is calm, but there’s something in his expression something unreadable. “The headaches… they aren’t going away, and it’s time for my check-up anyway.”

You study him for a moment, then nod. “That’s a good idea.”

Jimin stands, walking to the hallway and about to reach for his coat when he notices a dark bomber jacket that is hanging next it. His fingers automatically move to graze over the material before tugging at the sleeve.

"This is mine, right?" he asks, holding it up.

"Yeah. Namjoon was with you when you bought it," you say, "You saw it in a shop window and tried it on immediately."

Jimin’s fingers pause slightly before resuming their slow glide over the material. "Did I say something dramatic about it?"

"You went on about how it was 'the perfect balance between street style and functionality.'"

Jimin cringes. "Did I really say that?"

"According to Namjoon, you did. You even threw in the phrase timeless design. Namjoon was waiting for the sales rep to give you a sponsorship deal."

You weren’t there to notice this scene firsthand, but when Namjoon dropped by with Jimin’s clothes he saw the jacket and started laughing. You didn’t think too much of it, perhaps the absurdity of the situation got to him.

Or having to ask Jimin’s mother to collect his friend’s clothes at the current girlfriend’s apartment and then have him drop it, at his friend’s shared apartment with the ex-wife’s who is currently again playing the role of his wife, was top notch comedy material.

However, he pulled the jacket out of the box and told you this fond memory and the way he spoke about it left an impression that besides funny interaction at the store there was something else that made him so happy, something he wanted to keep to himself.

Jimin makes a grimace, second hand embarrassment settling in. "God, I sound pretentious. Poor guy probably had to listen to me overanalyse it the whole way home. “

"You sound like a man who owns way too much Marvel merch."

He pinches your shoulder, offended by your words. "Excuse you. My collection is a work of art. And it’s well-rounded, okay? I didn’t just collect one hero; I was fair to all of them."

You clutch your bag, one leg out of the door. "Right. Because you totally didn’t have one shelf dedicated to Spider-Man alone."

Jimin leaves the jacket, switching it with his coat as he grabs the keys. "That was for aesthetic purposes."

"Sure, it was."

“To resume the paused conversation,” he adds, locking the apartment, “it’s not fair if you get to go back to saving lives while I just sit around doing nothing.”

You're already near the lift pressing the button for downstairs. “You’ve been resting, not doing nothing.”

“Feels the same to me.”

The city moves past in a blur, a mixture of the familiar and the unfamiliar. The skyline stands like an old friend, unchanged, but everything beneath it has shifted in ways that make Jimin feel like a visitor in his own life. The streets are alive with the same energy, people weaving between each other, the distant wail of a siren swallowed by the hum of traffic, but the specifics betray time’s quiet betrayal. 

The ramen shop that once sat on the corner is gone, replaced by something sleeker, newer, detached. A boutique has taken over where a bookstore used to stand, its window displays full of things he wouldn’t know how to describe. He narrows his eyes slightly, as if looking hard enough might bring the past into sharper focus.

"That used to be a bookstore," he muses, nodding toward a sleek boutique with minimalist signage. His voice is casual, but there’s a slight tilt to his head, like his brain is struggling to process the change. "What happened to it?"

"Closed a while ago. Rent prices went up," you say, keeping your tone light.

"That ramen place is gone too and what's that? A boba shop?"

You don't need to follow his finger to know that he's talking about the colourful new signage that replaced the old family-run restaurant. "Boba became a trend nowadays, teenagers usually sit there after school. “

He exhales through his nose, lips pressing into a thin line. "I feel old.”

“You are.”

Jimin lets out an offended huff. “Thirty-three is not old Y/N. If I am old so, are you.”

You take a turn to the left, eyes focused on the road. “I never said I wasn’t.”

He doesn’t say it out loud, but you can tell it unsettles him. The city he thought he knew has shifted without him, leaving him slightly out of step with reality. 

The radio interrupts the silences that nested itself between you before Jimin turns to you, brows slightly furrowed. "I wanted to ask you yesterday, but I forgot," he says, his voice casual but laced with curiosity. His gaze flickers across the dashboard before he nods toward it. "This is a jeep."

“Was it the sheer height of it, or did the universe whisper it to you?"

Jimin rolls his eyes as he repeats your question, voice an octave higher to tease you before he answers. "You never liked big cars. You always said smaller ones were more practical."

You click your tongue. "You were very persistent about it, actually."

There's a flicker of intrigue in his dark eyes and you feel like he's waiting for you to fill in the blanks of a story he can’t quite remember. "I did?"

"Yeah. You didn’t want me to get the BMW. Said the Mercedes was better. And then you convinced me to get a jeep."

He blinks, his frown deepening as if testing the words, turning them over in his head. "Why would I push for a jeep?"

You hesitate before answering with a small shrug opting for a half-truth. "You always complained that my old car could never fit our suitcases when we went on trips. And you knew I never wanted to drive your car."

But the truth is heavier than that. The truth is, one evening over dinner, Jimin had dropped the kind of bomb that reshapes futures. 'If we ever have kids, your car wouldn’t be ideal,' he had said, so casually, so certain. His words had lingered in the air between you, not a suggestion, but a decision already made. 

And you, wanting to meet him in that imagined future, had adhered to his wishes without question. Your car had been replaced, the jeep had arrived, and in some small way, it had felt like preparing for something that never came. But now, looking at Jimin’s confused expression, that future feels further away than ever, like a dream you had once but forgot upon waking.

"Well, I can’t say the decision was bad, the car is spacious."

Beyond the windshield, the hospital comes into view, its reflective glass catching the morning sun. Jimin shifts in his seat, rolling his shoulders slightly as if bracing himself.

"This one I remember," he mutters, voice quieter now, almost to himself.

The car slows as you pull into the parking lot. The hospital looms ahead, all reflective glass and sterile walls, a place that should feel clinical and detached but instead carries the weight of something more personal.

When you step out of the car, Jimin follows suit, and you both barely have time to exchange a word before a familiar voice calls out.

"You made it," Namjoon says, standing near the entrance, his gaze flickers between you and Jimin, assessing without making it obvious.

"Of course," you say, locking your car. "Thanks for meeting us."

Namjoon's face holds one too many question to answer with a raise of your brow you gesture for him to move on. "How are you feeling?"

Jimin thinks for a second as if it was a million dollar question. "Like I should be remembering more than I do. But physically, I think I'm alright."

Namjoon offers him a smile with laced with pity. "That’s a start. Let’s get you checked in."

Before you can respond, a voice calls your name from behind. One of the residents, dressed in scrubs, approaches quickly. "Dr. Y/L, sorry to interrupt, but could you consult on a case? It’s a post-op patient with some complications."

You shift between Jimin and Namjoon which catches the latter's attenion and steps in easily. "Go ahead," he says. "I’ll stay with him."

Jimin lifts a brow. "You’re babysitting me now?"

Namjoon smirks. "Something like that."

You press a light touch to Jimin’s forearm before following the intern. "I’ll find you after." 

Jimin watches you disappear down the hall with the resident before Namjoon motions for him to follow inside. "Come on," Namjoon says. "Let’s get this over with."

Jimin's point of view

Inside an exam room, Namjoon moves methodically, checking Jimin’s reflexes, eye movement, and responses to simple neurological tests. Jimin ever the one to be awkward with a longer pause or silence, decides to break it by asking more questions to fill in the gaps. 

"So, how’s everyone been? Jungkook, Hoseok, the guys?"

Namjoon steps away, writing something on a pad before he continues the exam. "Hoseok’s doing well. Your company is still thriving, no surprises there. Jungkook’s finally gone global, and Seokjin opened a restaurant last year."

Jimin's leg bounces against the floor. "Seokjin in a kitchen for real? Feels illegal."

Namjoon presses two fingers against Jimin’s wrist, checking his pulse. "It was a shock to everyone, but he’s been killing it. Opened this fancy restaurant last year. Exclusive but not pretentious. Classic Seokjin. He’s hands-on with everything, too, always yelling at his chefs but somehow still their favourite person."

Jimin recalls the memory of Seokjin insisting he had 'natural chef instincts' flickering somewhere in the back of his mind. "He always did say he could outcook half the restaurants in Seoul. Guess he wasn’t bluffing."

Namjoon makes Jimin track his finger with his eyes. "It’s weird, isn’t it? Catching up on years you lived but don’t remember."

Jimin’s jaw tightens slightly. "Yeah. Feels like I’ve been given a highlight reel instead of the full thing."

Namjoon hums in response before switching gears. "Jungkook’s still traveling, by the way. Spends more time overseas than in Korea these days."

"Yeah? What’s he been up to?"

By the way Namjoon's feature soften, Jimin can conclude that whatever Jungkook is doing, Namjoon supports it. "What hasn’t he been up to? World tour, a couple of magazine covers, some random adventure sports phase where he started skydiving because of course, he did."

"Let me guess. He tried to get you to go with him."

"Tried and failed. You, on the other hand, would’ve been on that plane in a heartbeat." Namjoon, pinches his nose.

Jimin smiles at that, but it’s brief. "I can’t tell if I miss it or if I just miss remembering it."

Namjoon watches him carefully, giving a slow nod. "Reflexes are good. You’re healing well. No sign of complications."

Jimin's hand comes up absently, touching his ribs, and he stills for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. Then, a memory flickers to life.

"Wait… the guys’ trip. We went away for a few weeks, right? Somewhere in the winter?"

Namjoon pauses mid-motion. "Yeah. A cabin trip. Jungkook dragged us all snowboarding. You nearly broke your ankle."

Jimin glances sideways, image sharp and fresh. "Hoseok kept yelling at me to stop being reckless. He was freaking out."

"Yeah, because you were trying to do a backflip off a jump that Jungkook barely landed."

The memory makes Jimin laugh, eyes crinkling into half-moons. "Taehyung was there too. He kept trying to record us, saying he wanted ‘cinematic footage’. He always acted like he was shooting a film, making us redo things just to get a better shot."

Namjoon's posture remains neutral, but there's a subtle flicker in his eyes brief but telling. It’s slight just a second of hesitation, the tiniest pause in his movements. Jimin catches it.  However, Namjoon recovers quickly, too quickly. "Yeah, he was. He always got the best shots."

The warmth in Jimin's smile fades as he studies him with newfound scrutiny. "How is he? I feel like I should've talked to him more recently than that trip, but I can't remember anything after that."

Namjoon schools his expression, but the hesitation is there, enough for Jimin’s stomach to begin flipping as he feels that there is more than meets the eye.

"He’s… in Switzerland. Getting treatment." He says it carefully, as if weighing how much to reveal.

Jimin straightens slightly, a crease forming between his brows. "Treatment? For what? He was fine before, wasn’t he?"

Namjoon presses his lips together before speaking. "He needed time away, so he went to Switzerland to recover. It was the best option. “

Jimin’s gaze sharpens, tension creeping into his voice. "Why didn’t I go see him? Did I even know?"

Namjoon meets his eyes. "You knew. You had a lot going on, work, your personal life. It wasn’t intentional, just how things unfolded."

Jimin absorbs the information, but something about the way Namjoon is answering feels too structured. Like he’s picking his words carefully, making sure they fit together in a way that keeps Jimin from looking too closely. Not lying, but definitely not telling the whole truth either.

Jimin leans back. "So, he’s still in Switzerland? Is he okay now?"

Namjoon licks his lips, feeling like he’s losing the secure grip he had over the situation. "Yes, he’s still in Switzerland. He stayed longer than expected, focusing on treatment. “

Jimin nods slowly, the way his friend slowly begins to close up, divert the conversation leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "It feels weird, like I should remember more. Like I was supposed to check in on him. Was I?"

Namjoon’s arms folding over his chest. "It’ll come back in pieces. Sometimes memories just need the right trigger."

Before Jimin can press further, Namjoon moves on, gesturing toward Jimin’s bandages. "Take your shirt off. Let’s see how you’re healing."

Jimin obliges, pulling the shirt over his head and throwing it onto the bed. The bandages covering his bruises stand out starkly against his skin, and for the first time, he truly looks at them.

Namjoon’s voice cuts through his thoughts. "She did these, didn’t she?" His tone is knowing, more of a statement than a question. He gestures at the neatly secured bandages, tilting his head slightly. "It’s stupid, but you can always tell when she’s the one who patched someone up. It’s a little too careful. Too precise. Like she’s making sure it holds even when it doesn’t have to."

Jimin feels like he should be serious, but he lived by the proverb asking stupid questions get stupid answer. " No I did them myself. With my impeccable one-handed skills and a tutorial video on how to make my injuries worse."

Namjoon rolling his eyes, steps away allowing Jimin to get dressed. "Right. Because that’s exactly what you’d do."

"Namjoon." His voice is quieter now. "When exactly did I get this?"

Namjoon turns around, following where Jimin’s finger was pointing. "Japan. About a year and a half ago.”

"Why, though? Why would I get this? Did I ever tell you?"

Namjoon shrugs, shoulders relaxing, for the first time he felt like he didn’t have to adjust the truth. "You never gave a straight answer. At first, you avoided talking about it completely. Then, one night after a few drinks you said it pained you. I thought you meant the tattoo itself, but you just shook your head and said, ‘Not the ink. The thought.’" He says rubbing a hand over his jaw. "You kept giving these cryptic answers, like it was something only you were supposed to understand. Hoseok and I were with you that night, but we couldn’t piece it together. It didn’t seem like something you wanted to explain."

"I call Y/N lily, you know. So, when I first saw this, I thought it had to be for her. But then…" He trails off. "Then I saw her reaction. She wasn’t just surprised, she looked hurt. Sad. It didn’t make sense. If this was for her, shouldn’t she have been - I don’t know, happy?"

Namjoon feels the guilt seep in, biting at his consciousness for he knew why her reaction was like that. "Jimin, sometimes things don’t fit into neat little boxes. Maybe you got the tattoo with one meaning in mind, but by the time you did, maybe things had already changed. Maybe it wasn’t about her the way you thought it was.“

Jimin stays quiet but his consciences doesn't let him rest. "It’s strange, though. How didn’t she know about it? If I got it for her, wouldn’t she have seen it before? Wouldn’t I have told her?"

Russian roulette, that’s how Namjoon feels like this conversation is going. One wrong move and he could be opening a pandora’s box with a bullet. "Maybe it just never came up or maybe you never showed her."

Jimin’s hands hit the table, irritation clear on his face. "Come on, hyung. You really think that makes sense? We lived together. There’s no way she wouldn’t have noticed."

Namjoon hesitates, already on the brink of slipping up. "You weren’t in the best place back then. Maybe you meant to tell her, but you never got around to it. Or maybe… you didn’t want to."

At this point Jimin was desperate, he felt like there was much to unbox but no matter how hard he tries it doesn’t budge. "That still doesn’t explain her reaction. She wasn’t just surprised, she looked..." he searches for the right word. "Like it hurt. Like it was something she never wanted to see."

Namjoon’s already sitting behind the desk, writing away his assessment, the conversation long finished in his mind and now he’s giving crumbles that could satisfy Jimin. "Then maybe it meant something different to her than it did to you."

"Hoseok was there too?"

Namjoon nods, silently apologizes to Hoseok hoping that he will find a better way to deal with Jimin. "Yeah. He might remember more, if you ask him. Maybe he caught something I missed."

Namjoon clears his throat. "Physically, you’re healing well. Reflexes are good, no sign of complications. Just keep taking it easy."

"You busy?" Jimin asks casually, though his tone is anything but.

"Depends. Why?"

Jimin shrugs, slipping his shirt back on. "Coffee. Or lunch. Something."

Namjoon understandes the underlying request. A moment to breathe. A moment to process outside of sterile walls and medical evaluations. "Alright. There’s a café a couple of blocks away. Let’s go."

Soon, Jimin finds himself sitting across from Namjoon at a quiet café near the hospital. Namjoon stirs sugar into his drink, his spoon tracing slow circles along the rim of the cup before he finally sets it down with a quiet clink.

“I’m glad you finally came in for your check-up,” Namjoon says, breaking the quiet first. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

Jimin shifts his grip on the warm ceramic of his mug. “I’d never hear the end of it if I did.”

Namjoon exhales something between a chuckle and a sigh, taking a sip of his coffee before tilting his head slightly, studying Jimin. “How are you feeling? Any improvement?”

Jimin rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, considering. “The headaches come and go. Not as bad as before, but they still hit randomly.”

Namjoon runs his thumb over the edge of his cup. “That’s expected. Your brain is still trying to reconnect everything. The smallest things can act as triggers, scents, places, even a passing phrase.” He pauses. “Have you remembered anything new?”

Jimin drums his fingers once against the side of his cup before stopping himself. “Some things.” He keeps his tone light, casual, as if it isn’t keeping him awake at night. “Some are sharp, others feel… disjointed.”

“I remembered being in a bookstore,” Jimin draws circles on the table as he tries to remember more. “Walking through the aisles, holding Y/N’s hand.” He keeps his eyes on his coffee as he speaks. “She was laughing at something, me, maybe? She picked up a book and handed it to me like she already knew I’d like it.”

Namjoon is listening intently, trying to make something of what he is being told. “That sounds about right. Your memories might be resurfacing in pieces—details before context.”

Jimin leans back slightly, stretching his legs out beneath the table. “When did Y/N dye her hair blonde?”

Namjoon doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It was about a year ago, I think? She went lighter for a while but changed it back not long after.”

Jimin doesn’t react. He just lifts his coffee and takes a slow sip, letting the heat settle in his chest as his mind works through the information.

A year ago.

That’s not what you said. A strange sensation unravels inside him, curling its way into his ribs, squeezing just enough to make his breath feel shorter than before. Namjoon doesn’t seem to notice, continuing on, something about how the brain prioritizes emotional memories, but Jimin barely hears it. He keeps his expression neutral, nodding as though Namjoon’s words don’t shift the very foundation beneath him.

It could be nothing. A miscommunication, a lapse in memory. But it doesn’t feel like nothing.

It feels like proof.

One of you is lying.

And he needs to find out why.

By the time Jimin steps back into the apartment, the evening light has softened into gold, stretching long shadows across the floor. He toes off his shoes without thought, his mind elsewhere, tangled in the weight of the conversation he just had.

A year ago.

Namjoon’s words sit heavy in his chest, pressing against the space already thick with doubt. His body moves before his mind fully catches up, carrying him toward the bedroom with a quiet urgency.

He doesn’t know what he’s looking for only that he needs to find something. He pulls open the first drawer of the nightstand, fingers sifting through neatly stacked belongings. A watch he hasn’t worn in months, a stray receipt, a set of wireless earphones. Nothing. He shuts it with a quiet thud and moves to the next.

Papers. Old notebooks with hastily scribbled lyrics, corners folded from use. He flips through them on instinct, his own handwriting staring back at him, filled with half-finished verses, melodies he no longer remembers composing. Nothing.

The tension in his chest tightens, winding itself around his ribs like a slow, deliberate vice. His movements become more hurried, dresser drawers pulled open with less care, hands pushing past neatly folded clothes, rifling through stacks of old letters, envelopes, anything that might—

His fingers still.

A small box, tucked toward the back of the drawer. Plain, unmarked. Something about it feels familiar.

He pulls it free, heart hammering against his ribs as he lifts the lid. Inside, photographs. Some of them stacked haphazardly, others in envelopes, edges slightly worn. He reaches for the first one and it’s you.

A candid shot standing near a window, sunlight spilling over your shoulder as you laugh at something outside of the frame. His fingers tighten around the photo. He flips through the others, a silent reel of moments captured on film. The two of you at a café, leaning close. You mid-sentence, gesturing animatedly. A blurry shot of you in his hoodie, sock-clad feet curled beneath you on the couch. And then a photo that makes his stomach drop.

Blonde hair.

The same bookstore aisle from his memory. His own hand in hers. A book between them, her smile barely visible at the edge of the frame. The air in the room feels suddenly too thick.

Jimin swallows hard, his fingers pressing into the photo as his pulse pounds against his temple. The memory had felt so sure like it belonged to you. But here, in his hands, is proof that it doesn’t. That it never did.

The photograph burns in Jimin’s hands.

Blonde hair. A memory that doesn’t belong to you.

The truth slams into him with unrelenting force he’s been remembering the wrong person. Or worse, he’s been remembering someone else entirely.

A sharp breath leaves his lungs, his fingers shaking as he tosses the photograph onto the bed like it’s something toxic. His head feels light, spinning, thoughts colliding too fast for him to make sense of. Who is she? Why does he remember her? Why? Why did it feel so real?

His vision blurs at the edges, his breathing uneven as he starts tearing through the room, like a man possessed. Drawers fly open, clothes shoved aside.

His hands push past shirts, socks, old receipts, searching for anything, anything that will make this make sense. Bills, takeout menus, hospital documents with his name on them, your old notes, faded receipts from restaurants he doesn’t remember visiting.

His elbow knocks against the vanity. Glass shatters.

The sharp, unmistakable sound of something breaking against the floor rips through the air. He stills, staring down at the mess your serum, the one you always used, the one that sat in the same place on your dresser for as long as he can remember. A drop of liquid slides across the tile. The scent light, floral, unmistakably you, fills the room curling in the air around him.

And then a memory slams into him.

His voice is sharp, unrelenting. “Is this what you wanted?”

You flinch, standing in the center of the room, your arms wrapped around yourself, shaking. You won’t meet his eyes. Your breath comes uneven, raw, as if you’re barely holding yourself together.

“Jimin, stop—”

Glass shatters.

He’s thrown something. A frame. A photograph. It hits the floor with a sickening crack, the splintered glass scattering across the wood, reflecting fractured pieces of the two of you.

Jimin watches himself, watches the way his shoulders rise and fall, his breath ragged, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Watches the way you sink onto the edge of the bed, shoulders trembling, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes like you can push back the tears.

“You don’t get to cry,” he snaps. “Not when you did this.”

The memory fractures.

Jimin jerks back to the present, gasping, his fingers pressing against the edge of the vanity like it might ground him. His head throbs, his pulse hammering in his ears, but something clicks—

The blonde woman in the photo. The blonde woman who was sitting beside his parents when he woke up in the hospital. The one who was there when you walked in. The one who looked at you with something too familiar, too knowing.

Rosé.

His stomach drops. That was her. That was the woman in his memories. The pieces snap together with brutal clarity, forcing him to face what he’s been too disoriented to see. She wasn’t just there when he woke up. She was part of his life before he lost his memories.

But how? What was she to him? Why does he remember her hand in his at the bookstore, the softness in her voice, the way it felt like something that belonged to him?

And why, why did it feel more certain than anything else?

His knees feel weak. His hands tremble as he slowly crouches, picking up the broken shards of glass, setting them aside like it will somehow undo the destruction, like he can put back what’s already been broken.

By the time the floor is clear, and the vanity looks untouched again, Jimin walks to the living room. He sits on the couch, fingers pressed against his temples, his mind still racing.

Jimin doesn’t sleep. Not really.

When morning comes, he steps out of the apartment before you wake, his mind moving faster than his feet. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, only that he has to keep searching.

The hospital feels like the logical place to start, but walking through those halls won’t give him anything new. Not yet. Instead, he pulls out his phone and scrolls through his contacts, his finger hovering over a name he hasn’t thought about in years—

Hoseok.

He doesn’t second-guess himself before pressing the call button. It rings twice before a familiar voice filters through the speaker.

“Jimin?” Hoseok sounds surprised, but not unpleasantly so. “How are you? I wanted to reach out sooner but man these kids are killing me”

“Are you busy?” Jimin asks, “I need to talk.”

A pause. Hoseok sighs. “No, meet me at Office.”

Jimin arrives at their office building, the glass doors reflecting the city skyline behind him. If anyone will give him a real answer, it’s Hoseok. His old friend is waiting inside, leaning back in his chair, flipping through reports. His desk is cluttered, stock reports, investment portfolios, documents requiring signatures. Things Jimin should be familiar with. Things he isn’t.

“You look like hell,” Hoseok says, setting a pen down and meeting Jimin’s gaze.

Jimin smirks faintly, lowering himself into the chair opposite. “You’re not the first to say that.”

Hoseok lets out a quiet snort, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt. “Guess I’ll hold back the lecture then.”

Jimin studies him, keeping his posture relaxed. Casual. Familiar. That’s the key. He can’t be too direct. Not yet. 

“So,” he skims through the papers spread across the desk. “How’s everything been? Business still holding up?”

Hoseok crossing his arms. “Yeah. You left a mess, though. Some accounts need approval, and a few big investors are waiting for your confirmation on projects.”

Jimin rests his hands on his lap, fiddling his fingers a habit he picked up whenever he felt nervous. “Guess I really made my absence known.”

“You did.” Hoseok answer before throwing one of the papers in to a shredder bin “People were nervous. Stocks dipped a little after the accident. Some of our investors thought you might not come back.”

Jimin angles his chin slightly. “Did you think that?”

Hoseok clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Nah. Figured you’d drag yourself back eventually.”

Hoseok’s always been good at playing the game. Always two steps ahead. “Have you remembered anything new?”

Jimin presses nails into the palm of his hand to easen the anxiety that he felt was seeping out of him. “Here and there.”

Hoseok waits for a second, thinking Jimin might explain further. “Anything important?”

Jimin diverts his attention to the window. Push. Just a little. And that he does, eyes looking directly into Hoseok's. “Must’ve been nice having people around,” he muses, voice light. My parents, familiar faces.”

Hoseok’s expression doesn’t waver. “Of course. They had a lot of support.”

Jimin shifts in his seat. Nothing. Hoseok won’t budge. He’s too careful. He lets it go for now, letting the conversation drift. “What about you?”

“Me?”

Jimin gestures toward the framed photo on Hoseok’s desk. His wife and two kids smile back at him, their faces bright and full of life. A family Jimin should know well.

“Still dealing with two gremlins at home?” Jimin asks, resting his elbow on the chair’s armrest.

Hoseok although grateful for his family, the undeniable exhaustion eats him alive. “They’ve gotten worse. I swear, the younger twin is an evil mastermind.”

“Takes after you, then.”

“You’re damn right.” Hoseok’s eyes soften. “Somin’s growing too fast. Wants to start dance classes. Can’t believe she’s already six.”

Somin. The name rings in his ears, familiar yet distant, like something just out of reach. “I used to babysit, didn’t I?”

Hoseok nods. “Yeah. You and —” He stops, just briefly, before clearing his throat. “You helped out a lot.”

Jimin stills. Whose name was he going to say?  Hoseok catches himself fast, covering the slip smoothly. But it’s too late. Jimin heard it.

He has to restrain himself from digging up more, it would raising suspicion. Instead, he pretends he didn’t notice. “Guess I need to catch up on everything, huh?”

“Yeah. But take your time. Don’t push yourself too hard.”

“You sound like Namjoon.” Jimin says as he reaches out for Hoseok's visit card, slowly playing with it.

Hoseok fixes a strand of hair that fell out of its place before answering. “Namjoon’s the smart one.”

Jimin quickly disagrees before rising to his feet. Enough for today.

“Good seeing you, hyung.” He pats Hoseok’s shoulder as he walks past.

Hoseok stands up as if jolted awake. “Jimin—”

“I’ll be fine,” Jimin cuts in, flashing an easy smile. Lying effortlessly. “I always am.”

And then, without another word, he walks out, the weight of everything he still doesn’t know pressing against his chest like a vice. Now, he knows exactly where to look next. Jimin doesn’t hesitate.

He calls Jungkook the moment he steps outside.

“HYUNG?!” Jungkook practically shrieks. “OH MY GOD. ARE YOU OKAY? DO YOU REMEMBER ME? WHAT YEAR IS IT? IS THIS A PRANK? WAIT, ARE YOU AN AI CLONE—”

“Jungkook,” Jimin interrupts, already wheezing from laughter. “Calm down.”

“I CANNOT BE CALM!” Jungkook yells. “I—OH MY GOD—OKAY—DO YOU REMEMBER ME?”

Jimin exhales dramatically. “Yes, Jungkook, I remember you.”

“WHO WAS MY FIRST CELEBRITY CRUSH?”

Jimin bites his tongue, even at the age of thirty Jungkook is behaving like a child. “IU.”

A half cry is heard from the other side followed by a minut elong silence. Jimin moves the phone away from his ear to check if the call is still on.

Just as he was about to call out his friend's name, Jungkook gasps as if he was fighting to catch air. “OKAY GOOD. YOU’RE REAL.”

Jimin rubs his temple, at least one person is the same as they were five years ago. Dramatic. “Can we meet?”

Jungkook pauses. “Serious talk?”

“Yeah.”

“Spain hyung,” Jungkook groans. “I’m in Spain, but I’ll be back in four days.”

Jimin looks around before he speaks, for some reason paranoia getting the best of him. “Keep this between us.”

“Hyung, do I look like a snitch?” something in the background breaks and Jungkook curses.

Jimin debates whether to ask what happened, but decides against it knowing that whatever happened Jungkook wouldn't explain it in three sentences. He would have to give a full report, all or nothing.

“Yes.”

Jungkook hisses, another thud sound. “Rude. Four days then.”

“Four days.”

[mochii0park]

Next summer; 03 - Griffin bar and three dollar burgers

Genre: Strangers to Lovers I Arranged Marriage

Pairing: Kim Taehyung x Min Reader x Jung Hoseok 

Word count: 14K

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The ride from Sokcho to Seoul tastes like exhaustion, like the quiet hum of car tires against asphalt and the weight of three days pressing down on your bones. You lean your head against Hoseok’s shoulder, not because you need to, but because you want to, because there is something grounding about his presence.

He pats your head absentmindedly, like you’re some tired stray cat that followed him home.

“So,” he says, voice light, teasing, “how was the trip?”

You sigh, stretching your legs out just to feel something solid. “Interesting,” you murmur. “Overall really nice, I’d do it again.”

“You’d do it again because of someone,” he says, dragging out the word, “or because you liked the experience?”

And just like that, your heart is in your throat. Because what kind of question is that? And why did he say it like he already knows the answer? You open your mouth, then close it, then open it again, struggling to find the right balance between nonchalance and outright panic.

“I—I mean, the whole thing was—”

Hoseok laughs, cutting through your mess of a response like a knife through butter. “Relax,” he says, “I was joking.”

You exhale, sinking further into the seat. “Too tired for jokes, Hobi.”

“Then sleep,” he says, softer now. “I’ll wake you when we get home.”

Home, in this case, is Hoseok’s villa. Which means that the second you step inside, you are no longer a person but a project. Three women descend on you with military precision, each assigned to a different task: one for the dress, one for the makeup, one for the hair.

The gown is red. Not just red—Red. The kind that looks like melted rubies and old Hollywood and all the things you are too exhausted to appreciate. It slides over your skin effortlessly, fits like it was made for you, like someone sat down with a tape measure and thought, let’s make her look untouchable.

Your makeup is barely there, just enough to enhance, to illuminate. Your hair is curled loosely, waves cascading down your back like something out of a romance novel, and by the time they’re done, you barely recognize yourself. Then you walk downstairs.

Hoseok is already there, waiting at the bottom, looking unfairly good in a black tux, the kind of good that makes you question if he is real or if maybe you are still asleep in the car, dreaming.

When he turns and sees you, he whistles, low and appreciative.

“Damn,” he grins. “You look incredible.”

You let your eyes rake over him, the way the suit fits, the way he stands, the way he exists in the world so effortlessly.

“So do you.”

The ballroom is a cathedral of wealth, all golden chandeliers and hushed laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses. You walk in beside Hoseok, his arm looped through yours like an anchor, though you’re not sure whether it’s keeping you steady or just weighing you down.

It’s not that you don’t belong here. You do. By blood, by name, by some arbitrary rules of inheritance. But belonging and wanting are very different things, and if you could vanish into the deep red folds of your dress and reappear somewhere far, far away, somewhere with less caviar and fewer men who call themselves investors, you would.

A man you don’t recognize approaches, all smooth smile and watch-too-big-for-his-wrist energy. He shakes Hoseok’s hand, turns to you with a nod of approval like you’re a well-plated dish at a five-star restaurant.

“You look stunning,” he says, eyes flickering down the length of your gown before he adds, “And the wedding was lovely. Truly, exquisite taste.”

The conversation shifts quickly into the kind of financial talk that makes you want to dissolve into thin air; hedge funds, market trends, words that mean nothing but seem to mean everything to the people saying them. Your attention drifts, your gaze wandering over the sea of designer suits and glittering dresses, and then—

Yoongi.

He’s standing a few feet away, talking with Seokjin and one of your father’s friends, looking like he belongs here in a way you never have. You don’t know if he’s seen you. You don’t know if he would see you, even if you stood right in front of him. Some people have a way of making you feel invisible without even trying.

The man finally excuses himself, and Hoseok turns to you, smirking like he’s caught you mid-crime. “You might as well be wearing a giant sign that says I am bored.”

You huff out a laugh. “Might as well.”

You glance around again. “These balls are just a facade. Nothing screams charity about them, just a bunch of rich people justifying their indulgence by throwing some money at a cause they’ll forget about by morning.”

Hoseok lifts a brow. “That’s a bit cynical.”

“It’s a bit true.” You sigh. “And besides, they’re all just drinking expensive wine and eating fish eggs.”

“Caviar,” Hoseok corrects.

“Same thing.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Come on,” he says, nudging you lightly. “Let’s at least pretend to enjoy ourselves.”

You exhale, smoothing your hands over your dress. “Fine. But if one more person starts talking about stocks, I’m jumping into the centerpiece fountain.”

Hoseok grins. “Deal.”

The thing about these events is that they all feel the same after a while. The same symphony of clinking glasses and half-hearted laughter, the same air of artificial generosity hanging thick over the room like perfume. The same rich men with their rich wives draped over them like prized possessions. You try to stay engaged, really, you do, but when one conversation stretches into the eternity of stock prices and international markets, Hoseok leans in, voice low with amusement.

“You can go.”

You glance at him, eyebrow raised.

“I mean it,” he smirks. “This conversation is boring even for me.”

That’s all the permission you need. You slip away, glass of champagne in hand, and find yourself outside on the balcony, where the night air is cool against your skin. The scent of roses and jasmine drifts up from the gardens below, and for a moment, you let yourself get lost in it. Just you, the quiet, and the stars.

Until the doors open behind you.

You don’t turn at first, but then your name is spoken; no, not spoken. Thrown. Like it was never meant to be gentle. You know that voice.

Yoongi steps onto the balcony like he owns the place, like he has every right to be here, to disrupt your night with his sharp words and sharper disappointments. Seokjin is next to him, exhaling smoke into the cool night air, saying nothing. Maybe he doesn’t need to, this fight has happened before, in different forms, in different places, and he knows exactly where it’ll go.

Yoongi says your name like a reprimand, like you’re a problem he has to fix. "I told you to quit that job."

You lean against the railing, staring out at the carefully curated flower garden below, at the perfectly trimmed hedges and the marble statues your father had flown in from Europe just to make the place look more expensive. "And I told you to mind your own business," you reply, voice even, uninterested.

He scoffs, stepping closer. "This is my business."

You finally turn to look at him, and you wish you hadn't. He looks furious in that quiet, controlled way of his, the anger that doesn’t explode, but simmers, burns slow, dangerous. "Oh, right. Because everything I do somehow reflects on you, right?"

He doesn’t answer immediately. He just watches you, jaw clenched, like he’s debating how much to say. "You think you’re free?" he finally says. "You think working for Hoseok and playing errand girl to idols makes you independent?"

There it is.

You exhale, forcing yourself to stay calm. "I think it makes me my own person, which is more than I can say for you."

His eyes darken, but he doesn’t let the words get to him, not fully. "You were born a Min," he says. "You don’t get to run away from that."

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. "That’s the difference between us, isn’t it? You stay, you play the perfect son, and you think that makes you superior. But you don’t get it, Yoongi. You never had to fight for your place here. You were given everything: respect, responsibility, a seat at the table. Me? I was just another asset to be married off, to make the company stronger, to secure alliances. You want to act like we were raised the same, but we weren’t."

“Your job,” he scoffs. “A Min doesn’t need to do a job like that. Do you have any idea how people talk? How they look at you? Like some… desperate girl waiting for an entertainer to throw her a scrap of attention.”

Your jaw clenches. “I’m not desperate for anyone.”

Yoongi’s eyes darken. “A married woman dancing with a man in front of everyone? What the hell were you thinking?”

You stare at him, realization dawning. “You’re stalking me now?”

He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “I don’t need to. Seokjin’s men recognized you. Sent photos. You and that fucking idol, everywhere. Do you have any idea what that looks like?”

Your breath hitches. “There’s nothing going on.”

Yoongi steps closer, voice low. “Are you sure about that?”

You don’t answer right away, and that silence, however small, is enough. His eyes flicker with something triumphant, something almost bitter.

“I see,” he mutters.

Your stomach turns at the sheer disgust in his voice. You’ve known for a long time that Yoongi and your father view idols as disposable, as entertainment for the masses, but hearing it out loud like this, like your work means nothing, like Taehyung means nothing, it makes you want to scream.

"You know what’s funny?" you say instead, tilting your head. "You act like my job is embarrassing, but at least I chose it. You? You’re just another puppet in father’s empire, following his orders, building the Min legacy while he sits back and watches. And you pretend you’re okay with it, but you hate it just as much as I do, don’t you?"

His nostrils flare, and for a second, he actually looks like he might punch you. But he doesn’t. He just shakes his head, like you’re a disappointment, like you’re a lost cause.

"You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about," he mutters. "And I don’t have time for your delusions."

You cross your arms. "Then leave."

He opens his mouth, but before he can say whatever cruel thing he has lined up, another voice cuts in.

“Enough.”

Hoseok.

You don’t know when he arrived, how much he heard, but he steps between you and Yoongi, his presence a solid wall.

“You don’t talk to her like that,” Hoseok says, his voice eerily calm. “You don’t belittle her. You don’t act like you have any right to control her life.”

Yoongi lets out a sharp laugh. “Even if she’s dancing with other men?”

Hoseok doesn’t even blink. “That’s a problem for her husband to deal with, not her brother. And certainly not her brother’s best friend.”

Yoongi’s eyes flicker with something like anger, or maybe something closer to defeat. Seokjin only smirks, exhaling another slow drag of smoke before clapping Yoongi on the shoulder.

“Come on,” Seokjin drawls. “Let’s not cause a scene.”

Yoongi lingers a second longer before stepping back. But before he leaves, he shoots you one last look, something caught between warning and something else.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Hoseok turns to you. “We’re going home,” he says, final. And this time, you don’t argue.

The night air is cool against your skin, a quiet contrast to the warmth still burning inside you. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses fades behind you as you step into the car, Hoseok’s grip on the steering wheel a little too tight, his jaw a little too tense.

“What the fuck was he trying to do?” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You sigh, leaning your head against the window. “Maybe he was drunk.”

Hoseok scoffs. “He wasn’t.”

Neither of you says much after that. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, but not exactly peaceful either. When you get home, Hoseok lets out a long sigh, rolling his shoulders as he undoes the first few buttons of his dress shirt. He tosses his suit jacket onto the couch without a second thought, moving straight for the fridge.

"Beer or soju?" he asks, glancing at you over his shoulder.

"Strawberry soju," you answer without hesitation, reaching back to undo the clasp of your earrings, the weight of them suddenly noticeable now that the night is over.

He hums in approval, grabbing a bottle for you and a beer for himself before settling onto the couch. You join him, exhaling as you sink into the cushions.

"That was exhausting," he mutters after taking a sip, leaning his head against the back of the couch.

You nod. "I think I lost track of how many people we had to smile at."

"You were good at it, though. Looked like you were enjoying yourself," he teases, nudging your knee with his own.

You snort. "I deserve an Oscar for that performance."

He laughs, tilting his head to the side to look at you. "Yeah? What was the worst part?"

You take a moment to think, running your thumb over the condensation on your soju bottle. "Probably the endless conversations about stocks and investments. I swear, if I hear one more man talk about ‘diversifying portfolios,’ I’m throwing my drink at them."

Hoseok chuckles, shaking his head. "That would've been entertaining, at least. The whole thing felt like an overpriced networking event."

"That’s exactly what it was." You take a sip, then glance at him. "What about you? Any highlights?"

He considers for a second. "The food was decent," he says. "And seeing you suffer through those conversations was kind of fun."

You flick his arm, making him laugh. The sound is light, unburdened, and it feels good to have a moment like this just the two of you unwinding. For a while, the two of you sit in comfortable silence, the night slowly settling into your bones. Hoseok yawns, stretching his arms before standing.

"You should get some sleep," he says. "Long day."

"You too," you murmur, watching as he disappears into his room.

You exhale, finishing the last sip of your soju before standing up and heading to bed. Tonight, was a lot, but at least it ended on a light note.

______________

You're backstage at the MAMA Awards, tucked into a corner of Jungkook’s dressing room, watching as he bounces on the balls of his feet, testing his vocals between jumps.

The hairstylist hovers behind him, can of hairspray in hand, trying to time the bursts between his erratic movements. It’s almost comedic, the way she glares at him, the way he grins at her like he’s completely innocent.

Yoongi has been silent. And it’s not the good kind of silence, not the kind that means things have settled, that things are okay. It’s the kind that builds, the kind that waits.

You know him well enough to know this is only the beginning. Whatever comes next will be bigger. More calculated. More dangerous. The thought lingers, curling around your ribs, squeezing just enough to make it hard to breathe.

The dressing room door swings open, and Hoseok steps in like he owns the place. He claps Jungkook on the back, grinning. “You’ve got this. The award basically got your name engraved already.”

Jungkook smirks, rolling his shoulders. “Manifest it, hyung.”

The energy in the room shifts, climbing higher, bouncing off the walls. Jungkook feeds off it, fists clenched, body vibrating with anticipation. It’s infectious, and for a moment, the tension in your chest loosens, replaced by the electric buzz of pre-show adrenaline.

A staff member pokes his head in, headset pressed to his ear. “Jungkook, you’re up in three.”

Jungkook exhales sharply, nods. He turns to the mirror one last time, ruffling his hair before following the man out.

You, Hoseok, and the rest of the staff turn toward the TV in the room. The host appears on-screen, microphone in hand, stretching out the anticipation as he announces the next performance. The words land heavily, Jungkook’s new song, “Closer to You,” featuring Major Lazer.

The stage lights flare to life, and the first notes of the song pulse through the speakers. Jungkook steps onto the stage, and suddenly, he isn’t just Jungkook. He’s a performer, an artist, a force.

Next to you, Hoseok is too restless to sit. He leans forward, fingers gripping the edge of the couch, his body moving with every beat, every step. He’s not just watching, he’s feeling it. He was there for rehearsals, for late-night run-throughs, for every note that had to be perfected. This isn’t just business for him. It’s his life, woven into every stage light, every choreographed move, every breath that Jungkook takes into the microphone.

Jungkook finishes the song with a final, powerful note, it leaves the entire arena breathless for a split second before the world erupts. The audience explodes into cheers, an ocean of light sticks swaying wildly, voices rising in a chorus of admiration. Even some idols in the front rows are on their feet, dancing along, unable to resist the infectious energy of the performance.

Beside you, Hoseok lets out a sharp breath, as if he’d been holding it the entire time. “No matter how many times I see Jungkook or Taehyung perform, I still get jittery,” he admits, rubbing a hand over his face before grinning. “When Taehyung first performed, and he got a black ocean, I thought it was the end of the world.”

You turn to him, eyebrows furrowed. “A black ocean?”

Hoseok nods, jaw tightening slightly. “No support. Silence. Every single light stick turned off. It’s brutal.” His voice is calm, but there’s something heavy in it, something unspoken. “Taehyung took a huge risk signing with me, you know. He was a young singer, and three of the biggest entertainment companies were fighting over him. They could’ve guaranteed him fame, success, security. But he chose me.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

“To this day, I have no idea.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “But I’m grateful. With Taehyung’s honey voice, the company finally started gaining traction. Then Jungkook followed, and when he came, we weren’t struggling anymore. Taehyung had already put us on the map.” His eyes soften, reminiscing. “Before that, it was just the two of us in a tiny practice room, working on choreographies until our bodies ached, eating ramyeon and wondering if we’d even make it to the next month.”

You glance at him, watching the way his expression shifts between nostalgia and quiet pride. He’s built something real. Something massive.

“And now?” you ask.

Hoseok exhales, looking out at the glowing stage. “Now, we’re one of the biggest labels in the industry.” He shakes his head, a small, incredulous smile pulling at his lips. “It still doesn’t feel real sometimes.”

The dressing room door bursts open, snapping you out of the conversation. Jungkook stumbles in, breathless, still buzzing from the performance. But there’s no time to celebrate just yet, the staff immediately swarms him, makeup artists fixing any smudges, stylists adjusting his clothes, a hairdryer blasting to get rid of the sweat clinging to his forehead.

The energy in the room is electric, a rush of movement and precision, and all you can do is watch as Hoseok stands at the center of it all, eyes sharp, making sure every last detail is perfect before Jungkook has to return to his seat.

Through the chaos, Jungkook catches your eye and grins, flashing a quick thumbs-up before he’s ushered out the door again.

The host’s voice booms from the television, announcing the next category. “And now, for the MAMA Award for Best Male Solo Artist…”

Your breath stills as the names are read out, Jungkook’s among them. Hoseok, normally composed, is visibly tense, his fingers fidgeting at his side before, without thinking, he reaches for your hand. His grip is firm, grounding, like he needs something to hold on to while waiting for the inevitable.

“And the winner is…” The pause stretches, unbearably long, before the name finally rings out.

“Jungkook!”

The room erupts again, the cheers deafening. The camera cuts to Jungkook, eyes wide for a split second before he’s grinning, standing up as fellow idols pat his back in congratulations.

Beside you, Hoseok exhales sharply, squeezing your hand once before letting go, clapping with a proud, relieved smile as Jungkook makes his way to the stage.

Jungkook steps onto the stage, his hands gripping the trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world. The cheers don’t die down immediately, the arena is still buzzing, the energy alive with excitement. He stands before the mic, swallowing thickly, a tremble in his breath as he gathers himself.

Then, with a bow, he begins.

“First of all, to my fans,” he says, his voice steady but thick with emotion, “thank you for always believing in me, for making sure I could stand here today, holding this trophy. This belongs to you just as much as it belongs to me.” His eyes scan the crowd, as if he’s memorizing this moment, letting it etch itself into his soul.

He takes a breath, glancing directly at the camera. His fingers tighten around the trophy, his lips pressing together for a moment before he bows again, deeper this time. When he rises, there’s a smile on his face—small with gratitude nested in it.

“To Hoseok-hyung,” Jungkook continues, voice hitching slightly, “thank you for taking a chance on a reckless kid with a dream. You believed in me when no one else would. You built this place where I could grow, where I could be who I wanted to be. None of this would be possible without you.” His eyes shimmer under the stage lights, and he blinks rapidly, laughing wetly as he tries to hold back tears.

And then, his gaze flickers to the camera again, a brief pause before he adds, “And to Y/N-noona… thank you for lending me an ear.”

You blink.

A ripple of confusion washes over you, not because you haven’t spoken to Jungkook, but because out of everyone he could have thanked, out of everyone who played a hand in his success, he chose to mention you.

Sure, you had listened to him vent about frustrations in the studio. You had sat through two of his recording sessions, watching quietly from the corner as he worked through melodies, offering nothing but your presence. But compared to Hoseok, compared to his fans, compared to the years of sweat and perseverance that got him here, your help had been nothing.

Hoseok doesn’t seem to think so. The second Jungkook finishes his speech and steps off the stage, Hoseok pulls you into a tight hug, arms wrapped securely around you as he presses a warm kiss to your temple. “This is his first win in this category,” he murmurs, pride thick in his voice. “It’s a big deal.”

Before you can respond, he’s already pulling away, his phone in hand, fingers flying over the screen as he starts sending out messages. His entire being radiates excitement, the euphoria of the moment making him lighter, brighter. “Get ready for a night of fun,” he grins, barely containing his energy. “We’re celebrating.”

You arch a brow. “You already made a reservation, didn’t you?”

He flashes you a smug look. “Of course. Win or lose, I wasn’t gonna let Jungkook end the night without a drink.” He lets out a breathless laugh, glancing back at his phone. “I just texted Hyun, Jinwoo, Namjoon, and Taehyung. Told them to get their asses to Griffin Bar.”

Your heart swells slightly at the way Hoseok moves, the way he cares for Jungkook like a younger brother, making sure he never stands alone in moments like these.

As you step out of the arena, the night air crisp against your skin, Jungkook trails behind you, his award clutched tightly in his hands. He’s giddy, practically floating, the adrenaline of the win still coursing through his veins. Hoseok is beside you, still buzzing, his fingers scrolling through his phone as if he can’t sit still.

He glances up suddenly. “Oh, invite Lisa too.”

The drive to Griffin Bar is smooth, the city lights flickering past like tiny stars scattered across the streets. As you sit in the backseat, you pull out your phone, shooting Lisa a text.

You: Come celebrate Jungkook’s win. Griffin Bar. You in?

It barely takes a minute before your screen lights up with a response.

Lisa: You’re telling me I get to drink with international superstars? I’d be dumb to say no. Be there soon!

Griffin Bar sits on the rooftop of a sleek, high-rise building in the heart of Seoul. It’s an intimate yet stylish spot, boasting an open terrace that overlooks the Han River, its reflection shimmering in the distance.

Warm ambient lighting casts a golden hue over the bar, illuminating the polished wooden tables and plush leather booths. The scent of aged whiskey and citrus lingers in the air, mingling with faint traces of cologne and the crisp autumn night. As you step inside with Hoseok and Jungkook, the moment your feet hit the floor, the lights suddenly flick on in full brightness.

“JUNGKOOK!” a chorus of voices erupts in sync.

Jungkook barely has time to react before Hyun, grinning wildly, shakes a champagne bottle and pops it open, golden liquid sprays into the air, drenching the younger with an eruption of fizz.

Laughter bursts from the crowd as Jungkook flinches but quickly joins in, throwing his head back in pure amusement. His signature bunny smile takes over his face as he lifts his trophy high in the air like a champion, revelling in the moment.

And then, Taehyung emerges from the side, holding a cake.

The sight of it makes Jungkook laugh even harder, warmth wrapping around his heart like a soft embrace. He tosses his head to the side in a sharp motion, trying to shake off the wetness in his eyes, but the way everyone chuckles tells you they all saw it. No one calls him out on it, though. They just clap harder, cheer louder.

You all take your places at a long table, an array of appetizers already laid out. Hoseok settles beside you, immediately striking up a conversation with Hyun and Jinwoo.

Lisa arrives in the middle of it all, her energy infectious as she slides in next to Hyun. The atmosphere shifts, lifting to something even more electric as drinks are passed around, laughter blending into the music humming through the speakers.

Hoseok gets up from his seat, excusing himself with a quick pat to Jinwoo’s shoulder before disappearing toward the restrooms. Lisa is deep in conversation with Hyun, the two of them exchanging dramatic gasps over something on her phone, while Namjoon and Jungkook argue over which street burger stall is actually the best in Seoul.

It leaves you momentarily alone until Taehyung slides into Hoseok’s vacant seat, nudging your arm with his elbow.

“Bored?”

You shake your head, gesturing vaguely to the chaos around you. “Hardly. You?”

He hums, reaching for his glass. “Just making sure you’re not secretly planning an escape.”

You smirk. “From what?”

Taehyung’s eyes flicker toward Jungkook, who is using his hands to aggressively illustrate his burger point. “From this mess. I won’t blame you if you are.”

You laugh, watching as Namjoon physically grabs Jungkook’s wrist mid-demonstration to stop him from knocking over the drinks. “Honestly, it’s kind of impressive.”

Taehyung grins, then takes a sip of his drink. “True. Jungkook’s passionate about exactly three things: music, gaming, and food. And in that order.”

You lean in slightly. “And you?”

His eyes flick to yours, lingering just for a second before he tilts his head in consideration. “What about me?”

“What’s your order?”

He huffs a small laugh before lifting a finger. “Music.” Then a second. “Sleep.” Then a third, pausing just a second longer before admitting, “And…”

You raise an eyebrow, waiting.

“…Fashion.”

You smile. “Solid list.”

Taehyung lifts his glass. “You?”

You pretend to think. “Hmmm. Work.”

He makes a face. “Boring.”

You laugh. “Fine. Helping people.”

“Better.”

“Uh…French fries.”

Taehyung snorts. “Respectable.”

“And…” You take a sip of your drink, mirroring him. “Late-night conversations.”

His gaze flickers. “Really?”

You nod. “They’re different. There’s something about the way people talk when they’re half-drunk, half-tired. It’s like…” You search for the words. “Like the world shrinks a little, just enough for things to feel simpler.”

Taehyung studies you for a second. “That’s kind of poetic.”

“Or the alcohol talking,” you say, nudging your nearly empty glass.

He huffs a quiet laugh, then lifts his hand to call the server over. “Another round?”

You glance at his half-finished drink. “You sure?”

Taehyung just grins. “It’s called loosening up.”

You raise an eyebrow as the server places another cocktail in front of him. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

Taehyung smirks, swirling the liquid in his glass. “What, therapist mode kicking in?”

“I’m off the clock,” you say, taking a sip of your own drink. “But if you start trauma-dumping, I might have to charge you.”

He chuckles, tipping his head back slightly as he takes a slow sip. “Tempting. But I’ll hold off, for now.”

“For now?”

He shrugs. “You did say you like late-night conversations.”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you trying to get me to analyze you?”

“Maybe.”

You huff a laugh, leaning back into your seat. “I don’t need to. You’re an open book.”

Taehyung scoffs, raising his glass. “That’s what people say when they think they’ve figured me out.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Oh? Are you a mystery, Taehyung?”

He grins. “Aren’t we all?”

You roll your eyes but can’t help but smile as you take another sip of your drink.

Taehyung watches you for a second before setting his glass down. “Okay. If I’m an open book, what’s written on the first page?”

You consider him for a moment, tracing your finger along the rim of your glass. “Something artistic, but vague. A line that sounds deep until you try to make sense of it.”

Taehyung laughs, delighted. “That’s actually perfect.”

“I am good at my job.”

He nods in acknowledgment. “Alright. Then what’s the second page?”

“Depends,” you say. “Are we talking about the real second page, or the one you want people to see?”

His laughter fades slightly, though the smile stays. “See, now you’re digging.”

You grin. “You asked.”

“I did.” He pauses, swirling his drink. “Maybe I should make you answer your own question.”

“Which one?”

“What’s on your first page?”

You purse your lips, thinking. “Hmm. Probably something polite and easygoing. Enough to make you comfortable, but not too much to give away anything real.”

Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “So you’re the one with a fake second page?”

You laugh, nudging your glass toward him. “Are you going to psychoanalyze me now?”

He clinks his glass against yours. “It’s only fair.”

You both drink, the conversation drifting as the alcohol settles in.

By the time he’s on his third cocktail, Taehyung’s movements are a little slower, his voice a touch lazier. He leans into the conversation like the rest of the world doesn’t exist, like it’s just you and him and the hazy warmth of the bar lights.

“You know,” he muses, propping his chin in his hand. “You’re different from what I expected.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Expected how?”

He hums, eyes flicking over you. “I don’t know. Just different.”

You snort. “That tells me nothing.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

Before you can complain Namjoon, loud and increasingly unstable, slaps a hand on the table, nearly knocking over an abandoned cocktail.

“I need a burger,” he announces.

Lisa gives him a look. “We literally have food right here.”

“No, no, no.” Namjoon shakes his head, suddenly very serious. “This is fancy food. I want a three-dollar, greasy, life-changing, potentially stomach-destroying burger.”

Jungkook, who had been dangerously close to falling asleep on the table, lifts his head. “Wait. That actually sounds really good.”

Hyun hums, already pulling his coat off the back of his chair. “Shit. Now I want one, too.”

Jinwoo, who had been curled up against Hoseok’s shoulder, suddenly perks up. “You know I haven’t had a street burger in years. I’m coming.”

Lisa groans, but there’s amusement in her eyes. “Fine. I guess I could go for one.”

Namjoon grins, victorious. Then he turns to Hoseok. “Hyung. You in?”

Hoseok, who had been sipping the last of his drink, scoffs. “Do I look like I want a burger?”

Namjoon throws an arm around him. “You look like you need one.”

Hoseok groans, rubbing his temples. “I run a successful company. I should be eating filet mignon, not some suspicious beef patty wrapped in soggy paper at—” He checks his watch. “—two in the morning.”

“Oh, come on, Hoseok.” Lisa bats her lashes dramatically. “Live a little.”

“You say that like I didn’t already foot the bill for half the drinks here.”

Hyun grins. “And you’re gonna top it off with the best burger of your life.”

Hoseok sighs, defeated, then turns to you. “Are you going?”

You hesitate for a split second, your thoughts a little too tangled in the way Taehyung is watching you, like he already knows the answer.

“Sure,” you say, clearing your throat.

Hoseok sighs, pushing himself up from his seat. “Fine. I’ll go, too,” he mutters. “God forbid I miss out on this life-altering burger experience.”

Namjoon cheers, throwing a fist in the air. “That’s the spirit.”

You stand up, following the rest of the group into the neon-lit streets of Seoul, ready to chase the promise of a three-dollar burger. Taehyung follows, still close.

The streets are alive, distant hum of music spilling from bars, but nothing is louder than your group, stumbling down the pavement like a parade of misfits on a mission. Namjoon is leading the charge, dramatically reciting a heartfelt speech about the importance of street food while Hyun records him, zooming in on his glassy eyes.

“There it is!” he exclaims, pointing like an explorer who’s just discovered a lost city.

The tiny burger stand is nothing special, just a metal cart with a steaming grill and a tired-looking man flipping patties. But to Namjoon, it might as well be Michelin-starred.

“Two for me,” he announces, already pulling out his wallet.

“Two?” Lisa gapes. “Where do you put it all?”

“Into my genius,” Namjoon replies.

Hyun snorts. “More like into your biceps.”

Jungkook, still giddy from his win, bounces on his heels. “I’ll take one!”

Hoseok sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. Just one for me.”

“Same,” you add, stuffing your hands into your pockets.

“Taehyung?” Hyun asks, nudging him.

Taehyung hums, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah. One’s good.”

The man behind the cart moves fast, tossing patties onto soft buns, slathering on sauce, wrapping them up in crinkled paper. One by one, the group grabs their burgers, standing in a loose circle on the sidewalk.

Namjoon takes a dramatic bite, eyes fluttering shut. “Oh my god.”

Lisa laughs. “Don’t overdo it.”

“No, no, no.” Namjoon waves a hand. “This is it. This is life.”

Jungkook takes a bite of his own, humming in agreement. “It’s actually good.”

Hoseok sighs through a mouthful. “I hate that it’s good.”

Lisa disappears for a second and returns, grinning mischievously as she raises a fresh bottle of soju in the air.

“No,” Hoseok deadpans.

“Absolutely not,” Hyun groans.

“Oh, come on,” Lisa whines. “One more drink. For Jungkook’s win!”

“You said that about the last one,” you point out, eyeing her warily.

She rolls her eyes. “And? It’s still his win.”

There’s a collective groan, but no one actually refuses when she starts pouring. Namjoon sighs as he takes his shot. “This is why my life expectancy is decreasing.”

“You’ll live,” Lisa chirps, downing hers without hesitation.

Jungkook, already too happy to care, grins as he takes his. “I swear, food tastes better when you’re tipsy.”

“You’re not wrong,” Taehyung muses, tilting his head as he chews. “But also, I think we might just be easily impressed.”

Hyun waves a fry at him. “Says the guy who once called a cup of instant ramen the peak of culinary excellence.”

“I stand by that,” Taehyung says seriously.

Hoseok laughs, shaking his head. “I can’t believe this is my life.”

“Shut up,” Lisa says, nudging him. “You love us.”

He huffs. “Unfortunately.”

The group falls into easy conversation, laughter bouncing off the walls of the quiet street.  The burgers disappear fast, everyone devouring them like they hadn’t eaten in days. Namjoon, licking sauce off his fingers, sighs dramatically.

“I think I just transcended.”

Lisa snorts. “Into what? A burger?”

“Into a higher plane of existence,” Namjoon corrects, wiping his hands on his jeans. “This was the best decision I’ve made in years.”

Jungkook, eyes slightly unfocused from the drinks, suddenly gasps. “A swing.”

You blink. “What?”

“A swing! Look!” He points dramatically, eyes wide with childlike wonder at the tiny park across the street. Before anyone can process what’s happening, he takes off at full speed.

“Jungkook, no—” Hoseok barely gets the words out before Namjoon, fuelled by nothing but adrenaline and chaos, sprints after him.

“Get back here!”

“YOU CAN’T STOP ME!” Jungkook yells, running as if his life depends on it.

Hyun and Lisa double over in laughter as Hoseok, eyes filled with pure panic, bolts after them. “Jeon Jungkook, if you trip and ruin your perfect idol face, I swear to—”

“Let him live his dreams!” Lisa cackles.

“He can live them safely,” Hoseok shouts back.

Meanwhile, Jungkook has already reached the swing set and throws himself onto one with all the grace of a baby giraffe, legs flailing wildly. Namjoon, out of breath, stops next to him, hands on his knees. “God. I am not as young as I used to be.”

Hoseok arrives seconds later, looking one existential crisis away from quitting his job. “You are young,” Jungkook slurs. “Just not as young as me.”

Namjoon shoves him lightly. “Eat your swing.”

Jungkook, in his drunken wisdom, actually leans forward to bite the metal chain. Hoseok screams.

Lisa, ever the instigator, pulls Hyun with her, phone already recording. “C’mon, let’s document their stupidity.”

You watch them go, amused, only to hear a low hum behind you.

“Hmm.”

The sound is so close to your ear that you jump.

When you turn, Taehyung is there, closer than you expected eyes fixed on something in the distance. “What?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.

He tilts his head. “I’m just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

Taehyung snorts, but he doesn’t reply. Instead, his lips twitch, a mischievous twitch that never leads to anything good. Before you can react, his hand finds the small of your back. It’s casual, barely there, but it stays.

“You should get on that,” he says, nodding toward something.

You follow his gaze and— oh.

“…The merry-go-round?”

He grins. “Yup.”

“Taehyung, I am a full-grown adult.”

“Yeah?” His hand presses just a little at your back, not enough to push just enough to guide. “Then you should be old enough to face your fears.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Then get on.”

You narrow your eyes. “You just want to make me dizzy.”

He gasps, like actually gasps. “I would never.”

“Lies.”

“Get on.”

You sigh but step on anyway. Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned about Taehyung, it’s that he’s impossible to say no to when he’s got that particular glint in his eye.

The ride creaks under your weight as you grab the metal bars. Taehyung follows, gripping the bars beside yours, way too close. And then he spins it.

You yelp as the world tilts, your laughter cutting through the air. “Tae!”

He just laughs, too, loud and carefree, his hands gripping the bars as he pushes it faster. The wind whips past you, strands of hair flying into your face. You try to swipe them away, but then ...

His hand is there first.

Not dramatic, not intense, just quick and natural, tucking the stray strands behind your ear like it’s the easiest thing in the world. But here’s the thing:

His fingers linger.

Just for a second.

And when you glance at him, his expression is unreadable, like he doesn’t quite know why he did that, either. For the first time all night, he’s quiet.

And then, as if realizing something, he clears his throat. A little too loudly. “That.....that was just bothering me,” he says, waving vaguely at your face.

You raise an eyebrow, biting back a smile. “Oh? And you’re suddenly in charge of my personal grooming?”

“Yes,” he says, without missing a beat.

You laugh. He laughs too, but it sounds a little different this time. A little forced. A little off. You don’t think much of it. Not yet.

Lisa and Hyun are in a heated discussion about something ridiculous probably whether a hotdog counts as a sandwich while Jungkook and Namjoon attempt yet another gymnastic trick off the swings.  You barely register any of it because Taehyung is still beside you. And for some reason, he hasn’t moved away.

You’re still sitting on the merry-go-round, one leg tucked underneath you, the other dangling lazily over the side. He's close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, close enough that the soft fabric of his sleeve brushes against your arm when he shifts slightly.

And yet neither of you pulls away. It’s not uncomfortable. If anything, it feels… easy. “Wanna spin again?” His voice is casual, but there’s something quietly amused in his tone, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You scoff. “Only if you want me to throw up on your shoes.”

“Tempting.” He hums, tilting his head. “But those are expensive shoes.”

You nudge his thigh with the tip of your sneaker. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have made me spin so much earlier, genius.”

He grins, slow and mischievous. “You were laughing.”

“You mean screaming?”

“Same thing.”

Before you can protest, he suddenly grips the bar and gives the merry-go-round a slight push. It’s not enough to send you flying, but enough to make you lurch forward with a small yelp.

“Taehyung!” You clutch onto the metal, eyes wide.

He just chuckles, slow and deep, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “You looked like you needed a little adrenaline.”

You glare at him, lips parting to fire back a retort but something makes you pause.

He’s still looking at you. The amusement is there, but there’s something else too. It lasts a second too long. Long enough that you feel the shift, feel the moment stretching between you like a wire pulled too tight.

However —

“Oh my God, look at them.” Lisa’s voice cuts through the moment.

Your head whips toward her. “What?”

Lisa waves a dismissive hand. “Not you guys, those two.”

She’s pointing at Namjoon and Jungkook, who are now competing to see who can jump off the swings the furthest. Jungkook goes first, launching himself mid-air with questionable technique. He lands with an impressive roll but also with a very loud thud.

The entire group collectively winces. Namjoon, standing behind him, nods solemnly. “Not bad.”

Jungkook looks up, hopeful. “Really?”

“No.”

Laughter erupts, yours included, the awkward tension from before melting into the cool night air. Taehyung laughs, too but it’s quieter this time.

“I’m back.”

Hoseok’s voice cuts through the air, casual and oblivious as he walks up, scrolling through his phone. “Alright, I’ve had my fun playing babysitter, but I have an early morning. Who’s ready to head back?”

Taehyung immediately steps back. His hand drops from the merry-go-round, the warmth of his presence vanishing all at once. You try not to react. Neither does he.

Lisa groans, stretching her arms. “Ugh, I was hoping for at least one more round of Jungkook trying to break his spine.”

Jungkook, still brushing dirt off his clothes, pouts. “I stuck the landing this time.”

Namjoon claps a hand on his back. “Like a true action hero.”

“More like a true idiot,” Lisa corrects.

The group bursts into laughter, the energy light again, and you let yourself relax into it. But something in you feels off-balance. You glance at Taehyung. He’s already looking at you.

Not startled. Not in a rush to look away. Just… watching.

Before you can say anything, Hyun claps her hands. “Alright, grandpas and grandmas, let’s go before Jinwoo dies from hypothermia. He barely moved since we placed him on the bench.“

Taehyung turns away. As you all stumble toward the parked cars, Lisa lets out a dramatic sigh, hands on her hips. “Alright, who here is sober enough to drive?”

Silence.

Jinwoo, who is leaning heavily on Namjoon, lifts a single finger. “I got this.”

“You can barely stand,” Lisa deadpans.

“Standing and driving use different muscles,” Jinwoo argues, wobbling slightly.

Namjoon snorts. “Yeah, the last time you drove drunk, you tried to parallel park in a space meant for motorcycles.”

Jinwoo gasps. “That was one time.”

“And you still hit something,” Hyun points out.

“Guys, it was just a trash can.”

“A government trash can,” Namjoon reminds him. “You ran from the scene.”

Jinwoo waves a dismissive hand. “And yet, here I stand. A free man.”

Lisa groans. “We are not doing this. Hobi, call a cab.”

Hoseok, who had been scrolling through his phone like this conversation was beneath him, suddenly looks up blinking at her like he misheard.

“…What did you just call me?”

Lisa frowns. “Hobi?”

His lips twitch. He covers it well, but you know Hoseok, he loves it. The others immediately catch on.

“Ohhh,” Namjoon grins, pointing. “He likes it.”

“I do not,” Hoseok protests, too quickly.

Jinwoo smirks. “Oh, you love it, Hobi.”

Lisa shrugs. “Then Hobi, hurry up and get us home before I start calling you ‘Seokie’ instead.”

“Absolutely not,” Hoseok mutters, already dialing for a cab.

At that moment, Jungkook who has been suspiciously quiet suddenly pulls out his phone. “I’m calling my mom.”

The group collectively pauses.

“Wait,” Namjoon blinks, “you’re what?”

“My mom,” Jungkook repeats, hitting dial. “She’s probably awake.”

Lisa chokes on a laugh. “You’re literally a global superstar, and you’re calling your mom to pick you up from a bar?”

Jungkook shrugs. “She lives close by.”

Namjoon gapes. “You could literally afford to buy the taxi company, but you’re calling your mother like a middle schooler after a sleepover?”

Jungkook gives him a look. “And? You all got into one cab like you’re splitting an Uber on a college budget.”

You snort. “He’s got a point.”

Hoseok ignores all of you and checks his phone. “Taxi’s here.”

As soon as the cab pulls up, Hyun turns to Jungkook. “Can I come with you?”

The betrayal is immediate.

“What?!” you exclaim. “You’re abandoning us?”

Hyun shrugs unapologetically. “I’m choosing a comfortable ride home over whatever hell is about to happen in that cramped taxi.”

“You traitor,” Lisa says, shaking her head.

“Survival instincts,” Hyun corrects.

Jungkook gives you all a smug look as he steps away. “Enjoy your suffering.”

The rest of you grumble as Hyun and Jungkook disappear into the night, Jungkook probably getting a warm cup of tea from his mother while you all prepare to be suffocated in a cab.

When you pile into the taxi, it’s exactly as bad as you expected. You’re squished in the back with Lisa and Taehyung, while Hoseok takes the front seat, stretching his legs like a king.

Namjoon, Jinwoo's empty seat in the middle row means chaos. Immediately, Jinwoo groans dramatically. “I hate this. This is worse than economy class on a budget airline.”

“Bro, why are you acting like you don’t fly first class?” Namjoon laughs.

“I have standards, okay?” Jinwoo grumbles. “This is an insult to my lifestyle.”

Lisa kicks the back of his seat. “Shut up, your lifestyle includes passing out at street food stalls.”

“That is called culture, Lisa.”

Meanwhile, Namjoon keeps shifting uncomfortably, glaring at the ceiling. “I swear to God, if someone’s elbow jabs me in the ribs one more time, I’m charging you all for emotional damages.”

“That’s capitalism,” Jinwoo says.

“That’s justice,” Namjoon shoots back.

Lisa rolls her eyes. “You two have been in this taxi for five minutes and already sound like a divorced couple.”

Namjoon scoffs. “I could do so much better than Jinwoo.”

Jinwoo places a hand over his heart. “I’m literally devastated.”

While the group continues their ridiculous bickering, you suddenly become aware of how close Taehyung is beside you. His leg is pressed against yours, and he doesn’t seem to notice or if he does, he isn’t moving away.

You shift slightly, but that only makes his arm brush against yours. And then, a few minutes later, his fingers graze the side of your wrist as he adjusts in his seat. It’s nothing. It should be nothing.

Yet somehow, your body is too aware of every tiny point of contact, every small movement. You keep reminding yourself it’s the alcohol. That’s all.

Lisa’s voice pulls you back. “Driver, change of plans, drop me off first. I refuse to be trapped with these idiots any longer.”

“Oh, we’re the idiots?” Namjoon scoffs.

“Yes.”

Jinwoo leans forward. “If we’re all drunk, but the driver is sober, are we technically his intrusive thoughts?”

“Stop talking,” Lisa groans.

The driver sighs, clearly questioning all his life choices. As Lisa is dropped off, Taehyung shifts again, his knee bumping into yours. This time, he glances at you but it’s fleeting, gone before you can decipher the look in his eyes.

After Lisa gets dropped off, the backseat somehow feels even smaller. Jinwoo groans, stretching his arms dramatically. “Finally. More space.”

“You literally gained, like, an inch,” Namjoon deadpans.

“That’s what she said,” Jinwoo mutters.

Taehyung smacks him on the shoulder. “Jinwoo, no.”

Jinwoo grins but doesn’t push it further, too exhausted from the night’s antics. The cab pulls away from Lisa’s building, and Hoseok, still comfortably seated in the front, turns to give the driver the next stop. “Taehyung’s place is next.”

Namjoon, squeezed between Jinwoo and the door, grunts. “Why do I feel like we’ve been in this car for years?”

“Because we’re packed in like a can of suffering,” Jinwoo mutters.

You, on the other hand, are painfully aware of Taehyung beside you. His leg is still pressed against yours, and at this point, you’re certain it’s intentional. You shift slightly, and just as you do, Taehyung turns to look at you.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks, voice soft.

You nod, though you’re not sure it’s true. “Yeah, you?”

His gaze lingers, but then he smirks. “Could be worse. Could be Jinwoo.”

Jinwoo gasps. “Excuse me? I am a luxury seatmate.”

Namjoon snorts. “You drooled on me once on a plane.”

Jinwoo shrugs. “That’s just my way of showing affection.”

Taehyung turns back to you, smiling, before resting his head against the window. After a few more minutes, the taxi finally slows in front of Taehyung’s apartment building.

“Home sweet home,” Hoseok says. “Get out.”

Taehyung hums lazily but doesn’t move right away. Instead, he shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours. It’s nothing. But also… it’s something.

Finally, with a small sigh, he opens the door. “Goodnight, everyone.”

“Wait,” you call out before you even realize it. “Do you have your keys?”

He stops, glances at you, then pats his pockets. He finds them and lifts them in the air as proof. “I’d forget my name before my keys.”

“That’s debatable,” Namjoon mutters.

Taehyung just chuckles and steps out. As soon as the door closes, Jinwoo dramatically sprawls across the newly available space. “Oh my God. I can breathe.”

The driver doesn’t waste a second before pulling back into traffic. Next stop: Jinwoo and Namjoon’s building.

“Alright, finally,” Namjoon groans. “Hoseok, next time, let’s take separate cabs like civilized people.”

“Agreed,” Hoseok says. “This was a mistake.”

Jinwoo, half-asleep, raises a finger. “Speak for yourself. I had a great time.”

You roll your eyes. “Jinwoo, you barely made it here alive.”

“And yet,” he sighs, “I survived. That’s called resilience.”

As the taxi pulls up in front of their building, Namjoon and Jinwoo both start to get out. Jinwoo pauses and points at you. “You still love me, though, right?”

You shake your head. “Absolutely not.”

“Lies.”

Namjoon sighs, dragging him out. “Ignore him, he’s in his delusional era.”

After Namjoon and Jinwoo are dropped off, the taxi pulls away, leaving you and Hoseok alone in the quiet. For the first time all night, there’s space.

You exhale, letting your head fall back against the seat. “I forgot what breathing room felt like.”

Hoseok chuckles, stretching his legs out. “Honestly, same.”

The driver takes off again, and a comfortable silence settles between you. “Oh—almost forgot.” Hoseok turns to look at you, his voice suspiciously casual.

You peek one eye open. “That sounds like something I don’t want to hear right now.”

He smirks. “We’re visiting my mom tomorrow.”

Silence.

Then, very slowly, you sit up. “We’re what?”

“Lunch,” Hoseok says simply. “You, me, eomoni, appa and Jiwoo.”

You blink at him. Then blink again.

“…Do you realize how hungover we’re going to be?”

Hoseok hums, unbothered. “Yeah, that’s a future us problem.”

You groan, slumping against the seat again. “No, that’s a tomorrow us problem.”

Hoseok just laughs. “I mean, worst case? We’ll just sit there, nod a lot, and pray she doesn’t notice how dead we are inside.”

You sigh dramatically. “You better order me a whole pot of hangover soup the moment we get there.”

“Done.”

You shut your eyes again, but your head is already spinning at the thought of surviving a meal while feeling like death.

Not your worst idea.

Not your best either.

But hey, at least you wouldn’t be suffering alone.

_________

The morning after the wild night by the Han River, you wake up feeling like you've been hit by a truck. Your head pounds, your mouth is dry, and the faint scent of soju still clings to your clothes. 

As you step into the car, you glance at him, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the overcast sky.

"You think they'll notice?" you mumble, rubbing your temples.

"My mom? She can smell a hangover from a mile away," Hoseok groans.

You snort, stepping out into the cool air, hoping it will help clear the fog in your brain. “She’s going to take one look at us and know exactly what we did last night.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” he whines, but there’s a small smile on his face as he pulls himself together and leads the way inside.

True to his words, the moment you step into his family home, his mother narrows her eyes at the two of you. "Rough night?"

You attempt to feign innocence, but Hoseok's sluggish nod gives it away. She sighs, shaking her head with an amused smile. "Sit. I'll make you something to help."

Jiwoo, who had been setting the table, looks between the two of you and grins. "Oh wow, you guys look rough. What did you do?"

"Nothing much," you say quickly, but Hoseok's father chuckles as he walks in. "Nothing much, huh? Your mother and I used to say that too back in the day. It usually meant trouble."

Hoseok groans as his mom returns with a steaming bowl of soup, placing it in front of both of you. "Eat. You'll feel better."

Jiwoo leans her elbow on the table, smirking. "So, what was the occasion? Or do you two just get drunk together for fun now?"

You glance at Hoseok, silently daring him to answer. He sighs, defeated. "Jungkook won at MAMA. We all went out."

"Oh! That's great!" Jiwoo claps her hands before raising a brow. "So, how bad was it? Did you end up singing? Dancing on tables? Confessing your undying love to strangers?"

You snort at the dramatics, while Hoseok shakes his head. "Just the usual. Drinks, food, lots of teasing."

Jiwoo hums knowingly, eyes twinkling. "Sure, sure. Sounds like you two had fun. Maybe a little too much fun."

Hoseok’s mom simply pats your shoulder, smiling kindly. "At least you’re both safe. Next time, drink some water before you sleep."

As you and Hoseok eat, the conversation shifts to lighter topics, Jiwoo talking about a new project at work, their father bringing up an old family vacation memory that makes Hoseok groan in embarrassment.

“Oh! Remember that one time you tried to impress the neighbor’s kid by breakdancing and fell straight into the pond?” Jiwoo teases.

Hoseok points his spoon at her, half-heartedly glaring. “That story died years ago, Jiwoo. Let it rest.”

Their father laughs, clearly enjoying the trip down memory lane. “You were so dramatic about it too. Stormed into the house, dripping wet, and declared you were never dancing again.”

You stifle a laugh, looking at Hoseok with amusement. “What changed?”

He sighs dramatically. “Turns out I’m really good at it.”

His mother shakes her head with a fond smile before looking at you. “You must have stories about him too. Anything embarrassing?”

You hum, pretending to think. “Not yet. But I’ll make sure to collect some.”

Jiwoo grins. “Oh, I like you.”

After lunch, Hoseok stretches his arms behind his head, sighing in satisfaction. “Okay, I’ll admit, this soup might actually be magic.”

His mother smirks, crossing her arms. “You sound surprised. Who do you think kept you alive through all your childhood colds?”

“Jiwoo,” Hoseok says with a blank expression.

Jiwoo gasps. “I have literally never done anything for you in my life.”

The whole table erupts into laughter, and you shake your head, enjoying the easy banter. Hoseok’s mom wipes her hands on a napkin before turning to you. “Come, let’s take a walk. It’ll help you digest.”

Hoseok raises a brow. “Should I be worried?”

Jiwoo grins. “Absolutely.”

You pretend to hesitate before standing up. “Well, if I don’t make it back, it was nice knowing you all.”

Hoseok pats your shoulder solemnly. “Be strong.”

As you step outside, Hoseok’s mom links her arm through yours, guiding you toward the small park near their home. The cool afternoon air is refreshing, and the sound of distant laughter from children playing makes the moment feel light.

She sighs, content. “I love this time of day. It always reminds me of when Hoseok and Jiwoo were little. They’d run around this park until they could barely stand.”

You smile, picturing a tiny, hyper Hoseok. “I bet he was the kind of kid who refused to go home even when it got dark.”

“Oh, absolutely. I had to bribe him with snacks. Jiwoo, on the other hand, would’ve left him in a heartbeat.”

You chuckle. “Sounds about right.”

She glances at you, a playful glint in her eye. “So, did you two have fun last night? Besides, you know, nearly dying from alcohol poisoning?”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “I’m still paying the price.”

She laughs. “I could tell the moment you walked in. Hoseok had that ‘I regret all my life choices’ face. You, on the other hand, look like you’re trying very hard to pretend you have no hangover at all.”

“Is it working?”

“Not even a little.”

You both laugh, strolling leisurely through the park. After a moment, she nudges you gently. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

You blink in surprise. “Oh, I—”

She smiles knowingly. “He works too much. Always has. He needs people around him who remind him to have fun.”

You smirk. “I think he does a decent job of that himself.”

She rolls her eyes fondly. “Oh, please. If it weren’t for people dragging him out, he’d probably spend all his time glued to his phone, sending emails in his sleep.”

You laugh. “Okay, that’s fair.”

She pats your hand. “Just keep making him laugh, alright?”

You nod, warmed by the affection in her voice. “I’ll do my best.”

She grins. “Good. Now, let’s get back before Jiwoo decides to start an interrogation.”

“Oh, great. I’m sure she has a full list of questions prepared.”

“Oh, definitely. And I’m going to let her ask every single one of them.”

You groan, making her laugh as you both turn back toward the house. By the time you and Hoseok’s mother return to the house, laughter spills from the living room, warm and easy.

Jiwoo is sprawled on the couch with a knowing smirk, while Hoseok slouches into an armchair, looking like a man preparing for his sentencing. His father sits comfortably, sipping tea, clearly enjoying the moment.

“Oh, you’re back just in time,” Jiwoo announces, tapping the cushion beside her like she’s about to unveil something scandalous. “We were just about to start a very important conversation.”

Hoseok groans, pressing his fingers against his temples. “No, we weren’t.”

His dad nods seriously. “Oh, but we were.”

Hoseok turns his head slowly, staring at him with quiet betrayal. “Appa.”

His dad simply shrugs. “You know how this family works.”

Jiwoo grins, eyes twinkling. “Sooo… how’s married life?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden question, and before you can even think of an answer, Hoseok responds smoothly, “Not bad.”

Jiwoo gasps dramatically. “Not bad? That’s all?”

Hoseok sighs, already regretting everything. “What do you want me to say?”

Jiwoo leans forward, waggling her brows. “I don’t know. Something heartfelt? A confession? Maybe some juicy detail that will make mom cry happy tears and appa nod approvingly?”

You snort, shaking your head. “She just wants dirt.”

Jiwoo nods, shameless. “Absolutely.”

Hoseok rolls his eyes. “Well, sorry to disappoint, but we’re boring.”

Jiwoo makes a disappointed noise before turning to you. “Okay, let’s rephrase. Is he at least tolerable as a husband?”

You glance at Hoseok, who watches you expectantly. Deciding to have a little fun, you exhale dramatically. “He’s manageable.”

Jiwoo gasps. “Manageable? Oh, this is getting good.”

Hoseok groans, leaning his head back against the chair. “I knew bringing you here was a mistake.”

His dad chuckles. “Too late now.”

The conversation carries on through lunch, the warm atmosphere making you forget all about the lingering effects of your hangover. After another round of playful teasing, Hoseok finally checks the time and nudges you. “Come on, let’s head home before they decide to start a full investigation.”

Jiwoo grins. “I’ll email you my questionnaire later.”

“You don’t even have my email.”

She smirks. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll find it.”

Laughing, you wave goodbye to his family as you and Hoseok step outside and get into the car. Once you’re on the road, he lets out a deep breath, shaking his head. “I love them, but they’re insane.”

You chuckle. “You act like you’re not exactly the same.”

He glances at you before smirking. “Touché”

The drive is peaceful, the quiet hum of the engine making you drowsy. But in the moment Hoseok casually drops a bomb. “I’m taking the next two days off.”

Your head snaps toward him. “You? Taking time off?”

He nods as you narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Okay, who are you and what have you done with Jung Hoseok?”

He laughs. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Well, excuse me for being surprised! You don’t just take days off for no reason.” You pause, eyes widening slightly. “Oh. Ohhh.”

Hoseok side-eyes you. “What?”

You smirk, crossing your arms. “You totally have someone, don’t you?”

He scoffs, but the way his fingers tighten slightly on the wheel makes you grin.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

“I’m serious.”

“You are so bad at lying.”

Hoseok groans. “Can’t I just take a break without it being suspicious?”

You shake your head. “Not when it’s you. You work yourself to the bone, and suddenly you’re taking two whole days off? There’s absolutely someone.”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re avoiding the question.”

Hoseok grins but says nothing.

You poke his arm. “I’m gonna figure it out, you know.”

“Good luck with that.”

You narrow your eyes. “Challenge accepted.”

By the time you and Hoseok pull up to the apartment, the rain is coming down in thick sheets, drumming against the windshield with a relentless rhythm. The streetlights shimmer against the slick pavement, casting soft golden reflections on the wet ground.

You make a dash for the building, laughing breathlessly as you fumble for the keys with cold fingers. Hoseok is right behind you, shaking water from his hair like a soaked puppy.

"God, I hate the rain when I’m not prepared for it," he mutters, peeling off his damp jacket as you step inside.

"It’s kind of nice, though," you say absentmindedly, toeing off your shoes. The sound of the rain against the windows is strangely calming, a steady backdrop as you both move through the apartment.

You change into dry clothes, the fabric warm and soft against your skin, and slip into bed, barely paying the storm much mind. It’s only when the first rumble of thunder cracks through the sky that you pause, listening as the storm intensifies. The rain lashes against the windows, wind howling through the city streets.

It doesn’t bother you much, you’ve always found storms a little mesmerizing but just as your eyes start to droop, a soft knock echoes from the door.

You blink, sitting up. "Come in."

The door creaks open, revealing Hoseok in his pajama pants and a loose sweater. He hesitates in the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck. "Are you still awake?"

"Yeah," you answer, blinking at him in the dim light. "Why?"

He hesitates for half a second. "Can you sleep?"

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. There’s something in his voice something unsure, a little vulnerable.

"Not really," you admit. "Why?"

He shifts his weight between his feet before finally asking, "Can I stay here?"

You don’t hesitate. "Of course."

Relief flashes across his face as he closes the door behind him, padding over to your bed. He slips under the covers, careful to keep some space between you, and exhales deeply.

For a while, neither of you speak. The room is quiet save for the storm outside, the occasional boom of thunder reverberating through the walls. Then, in a voice softer than you’ve ever heard from him, he murmurs, "I don’t like thunder."

You turn your head to look at him. "Really?"

He nods, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "I never have. When I was a kid, I used to sneak into Jiwoo’s room whenever there was a storm. She’d let me sleep on the floor with a bunch of blankets, like a little fort. It helped." He lets out a small chuckle. "But I guess I’m too old to do that now."

You smile at the thought. "Well, you’re not sleeping on the floor here, so I guess this is an upgrade."

He turns his head to face you, his eyes warm. "Yeah. I guess it is."

Another boom of thunder shakes the sky, and out of instinct, Hoseok tenses slightly. Without thinking, you shift closer, your hands brushing against each other beneath the blankets. He doesn’t move away, and neither do you.

"Thanks for letting me stay," he murmurs.

"Anytime."

The storm rages on outside, but in the quiet of the room, there’s nothing but the soft sound of breathing, the warmth of another presence close by.

Silence stretched comfortably between you both, interrupted only by the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance.  Eventually, Hoseok’s breaths even out, his body relaxing as sleep takes him. And for the first time in a long while, with the sound of rain tapping gently against the glass, you feel completely at ease.

Sleep comes easily after that.

_________

A week passed in a blur of meetings, schedules, and long nights spent at the company, and now, at nearly midnight, you found yourself sitting across from Hoseok in a dimly lit conference room, surrounded by stacks of documents, half-empty coffee cups, and an untouched box of takeout.

“This isn’t what I signed up for,” you sighed, rubbing your temples as you scrolled through yet another logistics email regarding Taehyung’s upcoming world tour. “At this point, I’m not a psychologist. I’m an assistant.”

Hoseok, lounging comfortably in his chair with his sleeves rolled up, smirked. “It was all part of my wild plan.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Oh, so your master plan was to make me abandon my profession and drown me in spreadsheets and time zone calculations?”

“Obviously,” he said, leaning back with a satisfied nod. “I mean, how else was I supposed to get the best multitasker in the company working directly under me?”

You scoffed, flipping a page in front of you without actually reading it. “Flattery will not get you out of reviewing these tour venue contracts.”

Hoseok groaned dramatically, letting his head fall back. “Why did I agree to let Taehyung do a tour? What happened to just one city?”

You smirked. “You let Jungkook hype him up, that’s what happened.”

“Damn maknae,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Next thing I know, he’ll be convincing me to send him to space for a concert.”

You chuckled, then yawned, exhaustion finally seeping in after hours of staring at travel schedules and venue capacities. Hoseok sighed and stretched his arms above his head. “Okay, okay. Let’s finish reviewing this last set of documents, and then we’re calling it a night.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” he said, holding up his pinky, grinning when you rolled your eyes but still hooked yours around his.

The two of you worked in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds being the occasional scribble of a pen and the clicking of your keyboard. The company building was eerily quiet at this hour, most employees having left long ago, but the soft hum of the vending machine and the dim glow of the city outside made it feel strangely peaceful.

“Do you think Taehyung’s ready for this?” you asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.

Hoseok glanced up, considering. “I think so. He’s been waiting for this moment. And Jungkook being there will help. Those two feed off each other’s energy.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I just hope he doesn’t burn out.”

Hoseok smiled, leaning his chin on his hand. “That’s why we have you, assistant-slash-psychologist.”

You let out a groan, tossing a balled-up napkin at him. “I quit.”

“Too late,” he shot back, laughing. “You’re already in too deep.”

Hoseok glanced at the clock on the wall and groaned. “Shit, it’s already past one? No wonder my brain shut down an hour ago.”

You leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms. “Took you this long to realize?”

He rubbed his face, exhaling. “Ugh, I swear, my entire day has been meetings, planning, and somehow keeping everyone from losing their minds. And now, this.”

“This?” You feigned offense, placing a hand over your chest. “I’m deeply hurt, Jung Hoseok. Are you implying that working with me is exhausting?”

“Oh, definitely,” he teased, grinning. “I feel like I age at least a year every time we go through these files.”

You rolled your eyes. “And yet, here you are, thriving.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. Then, as if remembering something, he glanced at you. “By the way, I won’t be home until the day after tomorrow.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Again? Is it business or?”

“Nope,” he said, dragging out the word, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’m seeing Nayeon.”

You blinked, then grinned. “Oh? Just casually dropping her name now?”

He scoffed. “Would you rather I keep it a secret?”

You gasped dramatically. “No, no, I love this new era of you being honest with your dear wife. Warms my heart.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Just don’t throw a party while I’m gone.”

“No promises.”

Hoseok groaned. “Why do I even bother?”

You grinned at his suffering, then tilted your head. “So, Nayeon, huh? Things must be going well.”

He shrugged, but there was a certain ease in his expression. “I told you, we’ll see where it goes.”

A comfortable silence settled between you for a moment before Hoseok suddenly perked up. “Oh, by the way, Namjoon’s coming on tour too.”

You furrowed your brows. “Why?”

Hoseok snorted. “Because I pay for his trips.”

You stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “So, what? He just decides he wants a vacation, and you fund it?”

Hoseok sighed. “Basically. He’s just gonna say it’s for ‘artistic inspiration’ or some shit, and I can never say no to him.”

“Wow,” you said, amused. “The power he holds.”

“I know,” Hoseok muttered. “It’s ridiculous.”

You grinned. “You really are too soft.”

Hoseok scoffs. "Yeah, yeah."

He gets up from the chair, closing his laptop. He steps closer to you pressing a kiss against your temple. “I’m out,” he murmured. “And you should be too.”

You sighed. “I just have one more paper to go through, and then I’ll leave.”

Hoseok frowned. “Ask the driver to take you home. It’s late.”

You waved him off. “I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t seem convinced but didn’t push further. “Don’t overwork yourself,” he said instead before turning toward the door.

You hummed in acknowledgment, already glancing back at your documents. You sat there for another thirty minutes, staring at the last document in front of you, but the words had long since blurred into an incoherent mess. With a sigh, you finally relented, stacking the papers neatly before standing and stretching your stiff limbs.

It was time to go home.

As you walked through the quiet hallways of the company, the emptiness felt almost serene. Most of the staff had gone home hours ago, leaving only dimmed lights and the occasional hum of vending machines.

But as you neared the practice rooms, a familiar rhythm thrummed softly through the walls. You paused. The music was low, but steady, someone was still here.

Curious, you followed the sound, already having a good guess as to who was stubborn enough to keep practicing this late.

You weren’t surprised when you pushed the door open and saw Taehyung moving fluidly across the floor.

He didn’t notice you at first, too focused on the choreography. His movements were precise, every step sharp yet smooth, his body swaying in perfect rhythm with the beat. His oversized shirt clung to his skin, damp with sweat, his dark hair sticking to his forehead.

For a moment, you simply watched, caught in the quiet intimacy of it, the way he lost himself completely in the dance.

Then he turned, catching your reflection in the mirror. He halted mid-step, blinking at you before breaking into a slow, lopsided smile. “What are you doing here?”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He let out a breathy chuckle, grabbing a towel from the floor. “Couldn’t sleep. Needed to practice.”

You hummed, stepping further inside. “You work too hard.”

“Says the person who’s also here past midnight,” he shot back, raising a brow.

You grinned. “Fair.”

Taehyung took a sip from his water bottle, watching you curiously. “Hoseok left already?”

“Yeah. Told me to leave too, but I needed to finish something.” You glanced at the mirror, where your reflections stood side by side. “Then I heard the music and figured I’d come see who was crazy enough to still be here.”

He smirked. “Turns out, we both are.”

You chuckled, eyes drifting to the phone in his hand. “What are you practicing?”

He brightened at the question. “One of the choreos for the tour. Want to see?”

You tilted your head. “Why do I feel like this is a trap?”

He grinned mischievously. “Because it is.”

Before you could react, he was already closing the space between you, taking your wrist in his hand and tugging you toward the center of the room. His grip was warm, firm yet playful, and you barely had time to protest before he positioned you beside him.

“You’re going to learn this part with me.”

You scoffed. “I never agreed to this.”

“You just did.”

“Taehyung—”

“Shh. Just follow my lead.”

With a flick of his wrist, he restarted the song, the soft beat filling the studio once more. At first, you stumbled, your limbs stiff and unfamiliar with the movements. But Taehyung was patient, his voice low as he guided you through each step. His hands lingered on your waist, your arms, your wrists—correcting, adjusting, encouraging.

And somehow, between your laughter and his teasing, you found yourself melting into the rhythm. Minutes bled into an hour.

Neither of you noticed.

The studio became your own little world, your breath syncing with his as you moved together. Every now and then, he’d spin you unexpectedly, laughing when you yelped. Other times, he’d exaggerate a move just to make you laugh, grinning like a child when you finally caught on. At one point, you fumbled a step, and Taehyung caught you, his arms steady around your waist.

Your laughter faded as you realized how close you were, his breath warm against your skin. Then, as if the moment had never happened, Taehyung huffed, a smirk pulling at his lips. “I think I’m a great teacher.”

You scoffed, playfully shoving his shoulder. “Debatable.”

His laughter was soft, eyes crinkling in amusement. “Again,” he murmured.

And so, you danced.

Again and again, until exhaustion finally weighed on your limbs and reality caught up with you. It wasn’t until you glanced at the clock that you realized just how much time had passed.

“Taehyung,” you breathed, staring at the glowing numbers. “It’s almost three in the morning.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

He exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair. “Huh.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “We should go home.”

Taehyung pouted dramatically. “You’re right. But that was fun, wasn’t it?”

You gave him a pointed look. “A bit against my will but yeah it was.”

He grinned, eyes twinkling with mischief. “See? You love suffering with me.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. As you reached for your bag, Taehyung called out. “Hey.”

You turned, raising a brow.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second before his lips curved into softer smile. “Get home safe.”

You nodded, warmth settling in your chest. And as you finally left the studio, you swore you could still feel the lingering heat of his hands on your skin.

[mochii0park]

hello when is the next part of jimin ff coming

hii, soon. I am tweaking some details because I didn't like it. I had a narrative that I followed but it seemed unrealistic so I discarded it and rewrote a major part of it. The next part should be out by the end of next week ^^

[mochii0park]

Next summer; 02 - Sokcho

Genre: Strangers to Lovers I Arranged Marriage

Pairing: Kim Taehyung x Min Reader x Jung Hoseok 

Word count: 14.5K

Masterlist of the series

General masterlist

< Previous chapter •  Next chapter >

There are moments in life when the universe seems to enjoy a good joke at your expense, and this, apparently, is one of them. On your third week at the company, you decide to do an enroute from home to work and buy yourself a hot chocolate from a cafe not far from the building.

The morning is soft and golden, it makes the world feel a little more possible. The sky is a lazy watercolor of blue and white, cicadas humming like a distant, forgotten song. The air is warm but not heavy, carrying the scent of sun-heated grass. Somewhere, the day is just beginning. You walk the street, the promise of ice chocolate roaming your thoughts as you push open the door to a tiny coffee shop.

The scent of espresso and freshly baked pastries envelops you immediately. It’s comforting, even though coffee has never been your thing. You’re reaching for your wallet when a hand taps your shoulder.

“Hey,” says Namjoon, standing there like he’s been placed into the scene for dramatic effect. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You turn, slightly surprised but mostly amused. “Hey yourself.”

He tilts his head. “How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been well,” you answer easily, then smirk. “Still haven’t changed my mind about Taehyung’s superiority, though.”

Namjoon lets out a laugh, rich and warm. “Of course you haven’t.”

You take your ice chocolate, the cup feeling cold against your fingers, and Namjoon falls into step beside you as you both exit the shop. The air outside is sharper now, the city stirring awake.

“Where are you headed?” he asks.

“Work,” you say.

His eyebrows lift. “Same here.”

“Small world,” you comment, though you don’t think much of it. Coincidences happen. People move in similar circles. It’s nothing extraordinary. But then, as you walk, something odd happens, neither of you change direction. The first block, it’s just funny. The second, you both glance at each other with curiosity. By the third, Namjoon chuckles, shaking his head.

“The universe is sending you signs,” he teases.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Or maybe you’re secretly stalking me.”

Namjoon gasps, mock offended. “Me? You’re the one walking in my direction.”

“I have better things to do in life,” you deadpan.

It’s playful, easy, but as the minutes pass and the Hope Entertainment building looms in front of you, realization dawns simultaneously. Namjoon slows. So do you.

He opens his mouth, probably to ask the same question forming in your head, but before he gets the chance—

“Noona!”

A familiar voice calls out, and Jungkook materializes in front of you with a bright grin. He greets Namjoon with a casual “Hyung,” then looks at you with the same level of comfort, like this is normal, like you aren’t currently stuck in a comedy skit.

You stand there, frozen in front of the building, your ice chocolate melting in your hands as the words leave your mouth at the exact same time as Namjoon’s.

“You work here?!”

Jungkook looks between the two of you, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t know you guys know each other.”

Namjoon recovers first, shaking his head with a chuckle. “Yeah, mutual friends.”

You squint at him. “What do you do here?”

“Music production,” he says easily. “Lyric consultations, composition basically, I exist in the background of a lot of songs you probably don’t give enough credit to.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’ll have you know I respect the art of songwriting.”

Namjoon smirks. “Yeah? Name three songs I’ve worked on.”

You stare at him. He stares back. Jungkook looks like he’s about to explode trying not to laugh.

You clear your throat. “So anyway, what do you do here, Jungkook?”

The youngest grins, deciding to let you off the hook. “I exist in the foreground of a lot of songs you probably do give credit to.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes. “Unbelievable.”

You shake your head, still slightly bewildered. “This is so weird.”

“Fate,” Namjoon corrects.

“Coincidence,” you counter.

“Cosmic alignment,” Jungkook adds helpfully.

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “I don’t have the brain capacity for this conversation before 10 AM.”

Jungkook grins. “It’s 9:45.”

“Exactly.”

Namjoon laughs before nodding toward the entrance. “Come on, let’s head inside before Hoseok hyung starts wondering why we are loitering outside his company like lost souls.”

You groan. “Don’t remind me.”

Inside the building, the air hums with the quiet energy of a workday in full swing, muffled conversations behind glass doors, hurried footsteps against polished floors, the occasional chime of an elevator. Jungkook walks ahead, and then suddenly turns on his heel, walking backward like it's the most natural thing in the world.

“You wanna see how I record?” he asks, eyes alight with excitement. “I’ve got a session now.”

He says it like he’s inviting you to grab a coffee, as if sitting in on the creation of whatever song he’s been obsessing over is just a casual midday activity. You’re about to agree - because, honestly, why not?-- when another voice cuts in.

“She’s coming with me.”

You turn to see Taehyung standing there, looking entirely unbothered, which is almost impressive given the fact that he just hijacked a conversation mid-sentence.

“Noona,” he greets, voice warm with amusement.

You make a face. “I might be younger than you.”

He tilts his head, considering this. “Maybe, but you have the aura of a noona.”

Namjoon snorts, and you glare at him. “What does that even mean?”

Taehyung just smiles. “Wisdom. Maturity.” A pause. “Also, you scold me like one.”

Jungkook frowns. “What do you need Y/N for?”

Taehyung blinks at him like it should be obvious. “I have a music video to shoot.”

You blink, mirroring his expression. “Wait, what?”

“I have a music video to shoot,” he repeats, slower this time, like maybe you didn’t hear him the first time.

Namjoon frowns clearly confused. “Wait. Why would you go with him for that?”

Before you can answer, Taehyung remembers something. “Where are my clothes?”

“The driver took them to the company,” you say.

And that’s when Namjoon laughs. Not just any laugh—a full, rich, I-have-solved-the-mystery-of-the-century laugh.

“Ohhh,” he says, grinning wildly. “Now it makes sense.”

You groan. “It’s literally my third week here. Whatever you’re thinking is not true.”

Namjoon gives you a look like he knows things, like he’s already read the last page of the book you’re still trying to write. “Mmm,” he hums, unconvinced.

Taehyung, to his credit, just watches the interaction like it’s a particularly fascinating drama.

Jungkook crosses his arms. “Did you run this by Hoseok hyung?”

“I didn’t think that far ahead,” Taehyung admits, not even remotely guilty. Then, turning to you, he gestures vaguely. “Better if you ask him.”

You stare at him. “Isn’t the whole point of my job to go with you guys if you need me?”

“Yes,” he agrees. “But ask him anyway.”

You sigh, already reaching for your phone. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m a visionary,” he corrects.

Jungkook groans. “You’re a pain in the ass, is what you are.”

Taehyung only grins as type out a message to Hoseok.

You: When is Taehyung’s MV shoot today?

His reply comes immediately, because Hoseok is the kind of person who always answers right away, the kind of person who exists in perpetual motion.

Hoseok: Sokcho, shooting starts tomorrow and lasts three days. He leaves at 5. Why?

You stare at your phone screen. Sokcho. Three days.

You weren’t sure what you had expected, something more local, something that didn’t require you to pack a bag or rearrange your entire week. But three days? That was a commitment. That was time, you obviously didn't have. It meant that you'll be back around Saturday evening only to follow Hoseok to the party later that day. You'll die from exhaustion.

You narrow your eyes at Taehyung, arms crossed over your chest. “It’s a three-day job, Taehyung. That means I’ll barely be home by Saturday, and I have an event to attend.”

Taehyung waves a hand dismissively. “So? Just go with the flow.”

You scoff. “Go with the flow?”

“Yes,” he nods, very seriously. “Like water.”

Jungkook snorts. “Like bullshit.”

Taehyung glares at him before turning back to you, expression suddenly shifting into something tragically sincere. “But what if I get stressed?” he says, placing a dramatic hand over his chest. “What if the pressure is too much, and I mess up? What if I crumble under the weight of it all, and the entire music video is ruined?”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “Oh my god.”

“Jungkook,” Taehyung snaps, barely glancing his way before refocusing on you. He leans in, his gaze big and imploring, his mouth forming into a perfect, practiced pout.

Oh no.

You shake your head immediately. “Nope. Don’t even try it.”

His eyes somehow get rounder. Shinier. He tilts his head just slightly, his lower lip jutting out.

Jungkook sighs dramatically beside you. “He’s doing the puppy eyes. We’re doomed.”

“Shush,” Taehyung hisses at him before looking at you again. “Come with me.”

You exhale, pressing your fingers to your temples. “I hate you.”

“I know you don't,” he counters instantly.

Jungkook mutters under his breath. “This is so stupid.”

You tap out a message to Hoseok. 

You: Taehyung asked me to go.

Hoseok, ever the enigma, replies almost immediately. 

Hoseok: Then you should go.

You frown. 

You: Just like that?

Hoseok: He probably need moral support?

You squint at your screen, feeling vaguely like a pawn in some elaborate chess game you never signed up for. Then you sigh, lock your phone, and look back at Taehyung, who’s watching you with the kind of quiet anticipation usually reserved for exam results and marriage proposals.

“Guess I’m going to Sokcho,” you say.

Taehyung grins, clearly victorious. “You should probably start packing.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “I should probably start rethinking my life choices.”

“Too late for that,” he singsongs, already backing away. “See you soon!”

And then, just like that, he disappears down the hallway, leaving you with the consequences of your inability to say no to Kim Taehyung.

Before you can even sigh, Jungkook turns to you, his expression somewhere between a pout and a full-blown sulk. “You have to come to my MV next week,” he declares, arms crossed like a child who just got his toy stolen.

You’re too tired to argue. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there.”

Jungkook grins, suddenly appeased, and without another word, he spins on his heel and heads for the recording room, humming under his breath.

You’re about to leave when Namjoon calls out your name. There’s something in his voice, something careful, deliberate. You turn around, raising an eyebrow.

He choosing his words like he’s afraid of laying them down wrong. “I mean, I’ve only worked on one project with Taehyung, so I can’t say for sure,” he starts, “but I spend more time with Jungkook than his own mother does, and he told me that after the last MV Taehyung shot, he came back pretty out of it. Like, really not himself. Jungkook was worried.” Namjoon shrugs, but there’s weight behind it. “So maybe there’s a reason why he asked you to go with him.”

That stops you in your tracks.

You replay the moment, Taehyung’s stubborn insistence, the way he shushed Jungkook like he was hiding something, the way his voice took on that overly casual lilt like he was trying too hard to make it seem unimportant.

Maybe it wasn’t just Taehyung being Taehyung.

Maybe this was something else entirely. Before you have the chance to ask Namjoon more, your phone buzzes in your hand.

You glance down. A message from Hoseok.

Hoseok: Don't forget the charity ball on Saturday.

You: Even if I wanted to I can't.

The typing bubble pops up almost immediately.

He sends you a GIF of Leonardo DiCaprio raising a glass in a toast, followed by: Cheers my darling.

You shake your head, typing back. You’re weird.

And you’re stuck with me – message comes back with Hoseok's face smiling as he points at the ring on his finger like a reminder of your oh so important commitment.

Packing is one of those things that always feels like a metaphor for something bigger. You’re never just putting clothes into a suitcase, you’re preparing for a journey, making choices about what parts of your life to take with you and what parts to leave behind. But right now, it’s just you, a half-zipped suitcase, and the sinking realization that you don’t know if three days in Sokcho requires more than one pair of shoes.

The door swings open, and in walks Hoseok, looking obnoxiously well-rested for someone who runs on four hours of sleep and sheer force of will. “Packing already?” he asks, like you’re the weird one for being prepared.

“You could’ve waited until the last minute,” he continues. “That’s what normal people do.”

“I’d rather not have a breakdown at 5:55 PM because I forgot my charger,” you say, shoving a sweater into the suitcase.

He shrugs, accepting your over-preparedness, and then, with the casualness of someone announcing the weather, says, “Um I mayhap forgot to tell you that Yoongi will be there at the event on Saturday.”

That stops you. “My Yoongi?”

Hoseok smirks. “I’m pretty sure he’s his own Yoongi.”

You roll your eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“I saw him last night,” Hoseok says, crossing his arms. “He walked past me like I was a piece of furniture he never really liked but couldn’t be bothered to throw out.”

“That’s just his personality,” you say, returning to your suitcase. “He’s PMS-ing. Ignore him.”

Hoseok doesn’t look convinced. “Are you sure? He seemed, like, committed to the bit.”

“He’s fine.” And then, because that feels too much like a lie, you add, “Mostly.”

There’s a brief pause, it lingers just long enough to be noticeable, and then Hoseok shifts, suddenly looking less like a person who breezes through life and more like someone who knows something they’re not saying.

“You should probably know—” He stops. A beat. Then: “Never mind.”

You stare at him. “Never mind, what?”

Hoseok shakes his head, feigning nonchalance. “It’s about Taehyung.”

That gets your attention. “What about him?”

He hesitates, and you recognize the expression. It’s the same one people get when they’re holding a fragile secret in their hands and aren’t sure whether to pass it to you or keep it to themselves. You decide to make it easier for him.

“Speaking purely from a psychological standpoint,” you say, “should I be concerned?”

Something in his shoulders relaxes. He smiles, but it’s a placeholder for a real expression. “No, nothing like that. He’ll open up eventually. But whatever happened to him, it won’t mess with his performance or compromise your work.” A pause. “No fear.”

And because you can’t make him tell you more, you nod. You accept it. For now.

Hoseok picks up one of your suitcases, and you grab the other. Together, you haul them to the waiting cab. As he shuts the trunk, you wonder, not for the first time, how many things in this world are left unsaid, floating between people like messages in bottles, waiting for the right shore to wash up on.

The backyard of the company hums with quietness that isn’t really quiet at all—the shuffling of feet, the soft buzz of last-minute conversations, the occasional cough of a bodyguard who looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. It’s the moment that exists in the in-between, like the pause before a song starts or the second before the plane lifts off the ground.

Taehyung stands in the middle of it all, a little apart from the others.  His manager is beside him, along with a few people you recognize, hair and makeup, security, the driver from the fashion show. You greet them all, trying to seem like you belong here, like you are part of the orbit of people who make Taehyung into Taehyung.

Then you step next to him, and he turns to you with a smile that is equal parts casual and calculated. And then he just stares.

Not the kind of stare where someone is lost in thought. Not even the kind where they’re debating whether or not to say something. This is the kind of stare that feels like it should come with a soundtrack, like something impossibly significant is about to happen.

He leans in, close enough that you can count his eyelashes.

“Do you like it?”

Your brain goes blank for a second. Like what? Like the existential dread that comes with being perceived? Like the feeling of being this close to someone who radiates presence the way he does?

But then he runs a hand through his hair, and you see it.

Blonde.

It should be a small thing, an aesthetic choice, but for some reason, it feels bigger than that. Before you can stop yourself, you reach out, fingers brushing through the strands, letting the silkiness of it slip between them.

Taehyung doesn’t move. He just watches you.

You don’t realize what you’re doing until the driver clears his throat. “Should I put the suitcase in my car or the other one?”

You snatch your hand back so quickly it’s like you touched fire. “Uh—”

“In this van,” Taehyung answers before you can. “She’s coming with me and my manager.”

His manager, who looks like he has exactly zero patience for whatever this is, exhales and gestures to the open van door. “I’ll brief you about the shoot once we’re inside.”

You nod, stepping toward the van. Taehyung waits for you to go in first, and even though you know this moment has already passed, already unravelled into nothing, you swear you can still feel the weight of his stare.

Jae has the air of a man who has witnessed unspeakable things—missed flights, last-minute script changes, Taehyung’s general disregard for schedules—and has somehow made peace with it. He leans against the seat, flipping through a clipboard that looks as exhausted as he does.

“There are four locations,” he says, like a man delivering bad news gently. “The beach, a moving van, a house, and a ship.”

You nod because that seems reasonable. Filming a music video at a beach? Makes sense. A moving van? Sure, very cinematic. A house? Completely normal. A ship at dawn? That one seems ambitious, but okay.

“The villa in Sokcho is for you, Taehyung, and me,” Jae continues. “The bodyguards will be in the house next door. Everyone else is in a hotel.”

You sit with that for a moment, staring out the window at the city moving past, before turning back to Jae. “Is there anything I can actually help with? I don’t want to just stand around.”

Jae looks at you the way a veteran detective looks at a rookie who still believes in justice. “Just bring Taehyung to set on time.”

“That’s it?”

“That will be the hardest part.”

Next to you, Taehyung lets out an incredulous noise, offended in the way only a person who has never been on time to anything in his life can be. “My perception of time is excellent.”

Jae doesn’t even look at him. “You missed your flight from Rome to Lisbon because you stopped to watch street performers.”

“That was different,” Taehyung says, indignant. “It was art.”

“It was a guy juggling oranges,” Jae deadpans.

“He was really good.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “So just to be clear, I don’t have to, like, help with set design or adjust lighting. I have to make sure he gets places?”

Jae nods. Taehyung grins at you.

You stare out the window again, realizing that this might actually be an adventure. For Taehyung, of course.

For you?

It will be an exercise in patience. A true test of character. Possibly a migraine.

Soon enough, Jae is out cold, snoring in the seat beside you, the kind of exhausted sleep that only people with a million responsibilities and no time to breathe can manage. You watch him for a second, envious of how easy it looks, then shift your gaze to Taehyung who is unbuckling his seatbelt with the kind of reckless abandon that suggests he has never once been personally victimized by physics.

“Put it back on,” you say, because you are, at heart, a responsible citizen of the world.

He groans. “Don’t noona me for that too.”

“I’m not noona-ing you, I’m saving you.”

He tilts his head, considering this. “Same thing.”

You roll your eyes, and he smiles like he’s just won something.

“Let’s play a game,” he says, as if that’s the natural progression of this conversation.

You narrow your eyes. “What kind of game?”

“Twenty-one questions.”

You groan. “Oh my god, you’ve read too many Wattpad fanfictions.”

“I have not.”

“You absolutely have.”

He ignores you. “You go first.”

Fine. If this is how the universe wants to test your patience, so be it. “What’s your favourite colour?”

Taehyung makes a face like you’ve just asked him to recite the periodic table in reverse. “That’s the most boring question in existence.”

“It’s a perfectly normal question.”

“It’s as plain as Namjoon’s ramen.”

You don’t know what that means, but it sounds insulting.

“If you’re so profound, you go first,” you challenge.

He grins, like he was hoping you’d say that. “If you could meet any parallel-universe version of yourself, which one would it be and why?”

You blink. Because—what? That’s not the kind of question you expected at 6 in the evening in the back of a van with a sleep-deprived idol.

You think for a second, and then you say, “I’d want to meet the version of me who is completely free. Who wakes up in a different city every week and has no obligations, no guilt, no one asking her where she’s been or where she’s going. Just… existing. Just living.”

Taehyung watches you, with an unblinking attention that makes people nervous. He hums, like he’s tucking your answer away in a pocket for later.

“My turn,” you say. “What’s the hardest decision you’ve ever made to chase your dreams?”

His lips curve up, small and knowing. “Ah,” he says, nodding. “You’re finally getting the hang of this.”

And then, just like that, the humour fades. His voice drops lower, quieter. He looks out the window, as if the answer is out there somewhere, floating just above the road.

“Leaving behind my friends and family,” he says. “That was the hardest part.”

And for the first time in this ridiculous game, you don’t have a comeback.

Taehyung must sense the weight of his own words, or maybe just the way they settle into the air between you. So, he does what people like him do, people who wear their emotions like an oversized coat, shrugging it off before anyone can notice the way it drowns them, he pivots.

“What’s the worst excuse you’ve ever used to get out of a bad date?” he asks, tilting his head like he already knows the answer is going to be a disaster.

You groan. “Oh god. Hyun, my cousin, set me up on this blind date once. I don’t even remember his name, which probably tells you everything you need to know, but I do remember two things: One, he chewed like he was personally trying to destroy the concept of table manners. And two, he was obsessed with his ex-girlfriend.”

Taehyung winces. “Oh, one of those.”

“Yeah, he just… kept going. Like, I was sitting there, trying to be a decent person, while he narrated the entire history of their relationship. Every fight, every miscommunication, every ‘crazy’ thing she did—which, spoiler alert, was just having boundaries.”

“What did you do?”

You sigh, rubbing a hand over your face. “I panicked. And I told him that my dog, who by the way, does not exist, was single. And that I couldn’t in good conscience continue dating while his love life remained non-existent.”

Taehyung stares at you. “You told him you couldn’t date because your imaginary dog was single?”

“…Yes.”

A beat of silence. And then he’s laughing, head thrown back, a laugh that makes you feel like maybe you did something right in this world, even if it was born out of absolute chaos.

“That is so deeply unhinged,” he manages between gasps for air. “Like, genuinely, that might be the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”

You shrug. “Desperate times.”

His laughter lingers as he stretches out in his seat, tapping his fingers against his knee. “Alright, your turn.”

You hum, considering. “Who’s your favourite character from literature?”

He tilts his head, thinking. And then, with zero hesitation, he says, “Holden Caulfield.”

You make a face. “Catcher in the Rye Holden Caulfield?”

He nods.

“Bold choice,” you say, drawing out the words. “Explain.”

He exhales through his nose, amused. “Why do I feel like I’m about to be judged?”

“Because you absolutely are.”

He shakes his head, but the teasing fades as he leans back. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “I just… I get him. The way he sees the world. The way he’s kind of lost but trying so hard not to be lost. How he cares about things but doesn’t know how to show it the right way.” He pauses, fingers stilling against the fabric of his jeans. “I guess I just think he deserved someone who understood him.”

You study him for a second, the way his voice softened just slightly when he said it. Maybe you’re overthinking it. Or maybe you’re not.

The game stretches on, question after question, some absurd, some serious, some lingering. Taehyung asks if you believe in parallel universes since your first answer was so intriguing, and you tell him you have to, because the alternative means this is the only life you get, and that’s too much pressure for one person to handle. You ask him if he’d rather be able to talk to animals or understand every language in the world, and he says, “Animals. People already lie too much.” And maybe it’s the way he says it, like it’s something he learned the hard way, but you don’t push.

At some point, the driver speaks up and announces, “We’re almost there.”

Taehyung glances over at you. “That went by fast.”

You hum in agreement. “Time passes quicker in good company, I guess.”

The van pulls up to the villa, and from the backseat, you hear Jae groan himself into consciousness. He checks his watch, squinting at the numbers. “Alright,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes to case away the lingering sleepiness. “Beach. 5 a.m. I’m going to bed.”

Taehyung grins, watching as Jae stumbles out of the van, looking about five seconds away from collapsing into the gravel. “If Jae could pick one thing to do for the rest of his life, it’d be sleep.”

You huff a laugh. “Isn’t that just being… dead?”

“Nah,” Taehyung muses. “Jae doesn’t fully sleep. He lingers. You know, in that space between awake and dreaming. Half-conscious. Limbo.”

You nod, pretending you understand whatever philosophical thread he’s following.

The villa is massive, unnecessarily so. As you step inside, your first thought is that maybe they could’ve picked a smaller house, because there are three of you, not ten, and yet ten is exactly how many guest rooms there are.

Taehyung doesn’t seem to mind. He grabs your suitcase before you can protest. “I’ll put your stuff in the room next to mine.”

You don’t think much of it. You’re too tired to overanalyse, too drained to pick apart the meaning of proximity. Instead, you drift towards the balcony, the cool night air wrapping around you as you sink into a chair.

The ocean stretches endlessly before you, waves kissing the shore in quiet devotion. The sky is an inky blue, painted with faint constellations that hum their silent melodies. And for a moment, there’s nothing but this—the crash of the tide, the weight of the night.      

Taehyung doesn’t say anything when he steps onto the balcony, just quietly drapes a blanket over your shoulders, the kind of small, effortless kindness. It smells like fresh detergent and something softer, something inherently him. You clutch it tighter around yourself, murmuring a “thanks” as the wind brushes through your hair.

“Excited for tomorrow?” you ask.

He leans against the railing, eyes fixed on the water, like it’s whispering a secret meant only for him. “Filming MVs stopped being exciting a long time ago,” he admits, voice low, almost lost beneath the sound of the waves. “But I like the concept of this one.”

“You usually do darker ones,” you say. “More artsy. More tragic.”

“Exactly,” he nods, then grins as he turns to you. “But you already knew that. Seeing as you’re my biggest fan and all.”

You grunt. “You really have to drop that.”

“But I don’t want to.” He shrugs, easy, unbothered. “I think it’s cute.”

You roll your eyes so hard they nearly fall out of your head, choosing instead to stare at the horizon, where the sky and sea blur into a single shade of infinite blue.

Taehyung exhales, long and slow. “I love the ocean,” he says, mostly to himself. “That’s why I go to Busan with Jungkook when I can. Something about it just—” he waves a hand vaguely, searching for the word. “Makes everything quieter.”

“I like it, too,” you admit. “But only from a distance.”

His gaze flicks to you. “Why?”

You hesitate, then shrug. “I never learned how to swim.”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” you say. “And I think that’s where the fear comes from. Not knowing how to move in it. Not knowing if it’ll pull me under and never let me go.”

There’s a beat of silence. Taehyung studies you like he’s trying to peel back all your layers and see what’s underneath. Then, he smiles. “Then I’ll teach you,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

You snort. “We’ll see.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans back against the railing, watching the waves stretch themselves toward the shore, over and over, like they don’t know how to do anything else.

You wake up to the sound of your alarm, which you are convinced was designed by a sadist. The clock blinks 3:00 a.m., and you seriously contemplate the possibility that you have made a series of irreversibly bad decisions in life, the most recent being staying up with Taehyung until midnight, watching the waves pretend they had all the time in the world.

You move like a ghost through the routine - shower, bag, something vaguely responsible about extra clothes. You knock on Taehyung’s door, because that is what normal, reasonable people do before barging into someone’s room at an ungodly hour. But Taehyung, ever himself, does not answer.

A moment of hesitation. Then you push the door open.

And there he is.

Sprawled across the bed like he was sculptured by God himself, the blanket he had so graciously draped over you last night now barely covering him. He is shirtless, because of course he is, and his chest moves with the kind of slow, steady breathing that belongs to people who don’t wake up at three in the morning. His hair is a mess, a few strands stuck to his forehead, his lips slightly parted like he’s about to murmur something in his sleep.

For a moment, you just stand there, watching, because it is impossible not to. There’s something almost unfair about him like this, like he exists just a little outside of time, like he is not bound to the same laws of exhaustion and pre-dawn misery as the rest of humanity.

But you—tragically, reluctantly—are.

You step closer, placing a hesitant hand on his arm, your fingers cold against his skin. "Taehyung," you whisper, shaking him gently. Nothing.

You try again.

This time, his eyelids flutter open, and he looks at you, really looks at you. However, there’s no recognition yet, only the hazy blur of sleep. It takes him a second to catch up with reality, and when he does, it is slow and reluctant, as if waking up is a favour he isn’t entirely sure you deserve.

"You need to get up," you say softly. "I’ll make breakfast."

He stares for a beat longer, then mumbles, "Pancakes." And just like that, his eyes close again.

There is a brief, fleeting moment in which you consider letting him sleep and just claiming you tried. But then you remember that you actually need to get to the set, and Taehyung, beautiful as he may be, is also notoriously bad at being punctual.

You shake him again, and this time, he reaches out, fingers curling lazily around your wrist. His grip is loose but warm, and something in the air shifts—just slightly, just enough for you to notice.

"I’m just resting," he murmurs.

"You’re procrastinating," you correct.

He hums, and for a second, you think he’s fallen back asleep while holding your wrist, which is both impressive and infuriating. So, you do what any rational person in this situation would do.

You flick his forehead.

He jolts, eyes snapping open as he immediately reaches up to rub the spot. "That was violent," he says, voice still thick with sleep, but now laced with betrayal. "If the makeup team can’t cover this, I’m blaming you."

"You’ll live," you say straight-faced, stepping away ignoring the way your skin still tingles where his fingers had been, ignoring the way his hair is a mess, ignoring all of it. Because it’s too early for this.

Breakfast feels like something out of a quiet indie film where the protagonist stares out the window, contemplating life over a cup of coffee that’s gone cold. Except, instead of contemplating life, you’re contemplating the absurdity of Taehyung’s entire existence.

Because he walks into the kitchen looking like that, casual shirt, jeans, hair still slightly messy but in a way that seems intentional, as if he personally made a deal with the universe to always look effortlessly perfect. You, on the other hand, are pretty sure you still have sleep lines creased into your cheek.

He thanks you for the pancakes, sits down, and eats in that quiet, thoughtful way he does everything, like even the act of breakfast deserves his full attention.

Jae, who has been observing all of this like some kind of scientist conducting a social experiment, smirks. “I’m impressed you managed to wake him up,” he says between bites of toast. “It usually takes me half an hour. Maybe Hoseok knew what he was doing sending you here.”

You glance at Taehyung, waiting for him to deny it, to call Jae out for being ridiculous, to at least make a sarcastic comment about how you practically assaulted him awake, but he just keeps eating. Quiet. Unbothered.

By the time breakfast is over, the driver is outside, waiting. The ride to the beach feels suspended in time, a journey where you’re neither fully awake nor fully dreaming. The sky is still a soft, hesitant blue, as if the sun is debating whether or not it actually wants to rise today.

When you arrive, the world is already moving at full speed. The film crew is everywhere setting up, shouting instructions, adjusting props. Everything is happening at once, and yet, somehow, it all makes sense.

Taehyung is instantly stolen by the hair and makeup team, disappearing into their grasp with a resigned sort of acceptance. You stand at the edge of it all, watching. Just watching.

The wind smells like salt. The waves crash against the shore, rhythmic, patient. There’s something oddly cinematic about it, like you’re standing in the middle of a metaphor you don’t fully understand yet.

And then, just as your eyes start to flutter shut, just as you allow yourself one small moment of rest, someone calls your name. Jae asks if you can pick up a prop, and you nod before he even finishes explaining. 

A crown, handcrafted by a local artisan, meant for a fleeting moment in the music video. You doubt it’ll get more than three seconds of screen time, but you’re not here to question things at least the ones that got to do with the MV. He hands you an address, tells you they won’t need it until after the break, and waves you off.

The town unfolds before you like something out of a novel, cobbled streets, sun-warmed storefronts, the air thick with salt and the unhurried rhythm of people who refuse to be rushed. Unlike Seoul, where the city moves with the urgency of someone running late, this place seems content to exist at its own pace. You take your time, admiring the architecture, the tiny cafes tucked into corners like secrets, the locals who smile.

By the time you find the store, an hour has passed. The shopkeeper is friendly, almost too eager, launching into an impassioned speech about the craftsmanship of the crown, how the material reacts to humidity, how to hold it so it doesn’t warp, how it must be treated with care. You nod along, trying to commit at least 10% of the information to memory, but mostly you’re just thinking about how this thing will probably be on Taehyung’s head for all of five seconds before getting tossed into a props bin.

Leaving the store feels like breaking free from a side quest, except instead of returning victorious, you promptly get lost. The streets that once felt charming now feel like a maze, and every turn somehow leads you further from where you’re supposed to be. 

You check your phone, but the Google Maps seems to think you’re in the middle of the ocean - just your luck with. By the time you finally make it back to the beach, another hour has passed, and you’re slightly sunburnt, slightly frustrated, and very much aware of the fact that you have been gone for too long.

You approach Jae, showing him the crown like you just returned from a perilous journey. “Mission accomplished,” you say, but he barely looks up from his clipboard.

“You took your time,” he notes, flipping through some papers.

“I got lost,” you admit, and Jae snorts like this is the most predictable thing in the world.

“You and Taehyung both,” he mutters before nodding toward the set. “They’re wrapping up this shot. You should go check on him.”

As you step onto the sand, the scene in front of you looks like something out of a coming-of-age movie, golden-hour lighting, wind tousling hair just right, and Taehyung, barefoot and sun-drenched, tossing a volleyball with ease.

But then cut. The camera stops rolling, and the shift in him is immediate. His shoulders tense, his expression turns unreadable. He doesn’t join in on the lingering laughter. Instead, he stands there, quiet. The makeup artist moves toward him, dusting powder over his face, touching him up for whatever comes next.

You grip the crown a little tighter. Something about the scene feels off.

When she steps away, you walk up to him, holding out the crown. “For you, my liege,” you say, attempting to break whatever weird mood he’s in.

Taehyung blinks at the crown, then at you, before finally cracking a small, tired smile. “You were gone forever,” he says, taking it from your hands.

“I was on a grand adventure. There were trials. Tribulations. A very talkative shopkeeper.”

He hums in amusement but doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he just turns the crown in his hands, studying it.

“You good?” you ask after a moment.

Taehyung hesitates, then shrugs. “Yeah,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction. Then, in an attempt to redirect, he tilts his head at you. “Are you good? You look a little sunburnt.”

“Lost for an hour. The sun did its damage.”

He reaches up, grazing a cool fingertip over the warm skin of your cheek. “You should put something on that,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to touch you so casually.

You step back. “Yeah, well, maybe focus on your own face first, Prince.” You gesture vaguely to the crown in his hands. “They’re waiting for you.”

Taehyung glances toward the crew, sighs, and places the crown on his head. It’s slightly crooked, but he doesn’t fix it. Instead, he looks at you one last time before walking back to set, his expression unreadable once again.

You didn’t notice the reasoning for such change, not at first. Whenever they were done filming a scene Taehyung would become a shell of his former self again and he’d rarely interact with anyone.  You try, at first, to reach him but every time you inch closer, Taehyung finds a way to slip through your fingers like sand.

“You are really, okay?” you ask, when he takes a seat near the monitor, eyes fixed on the waves instead of the replay on the screen.

“Hm?” He blinks up at you, feigning confusion, then stretches his arms dramatically. “Just tired.”

It’s an easy answer. Too easy. So, you push a little. “You sure? You seem—”

“If you had to switch lives with a historical figure for a day, who would it be?” he interrupts, turning to you fully now, eyes suddenly alight with something unreadable.

You frown. “That’s… not an answer.”

“But it’s a good question,” he counters, smiling, like that was the point all along.

And that’s how it goes. Every attempt you make to figure out what’s going on is met with a carefully placed roadblock; deflections, nonsensical questions, diversions so smooth you almost don’t catch them in time. It’s only when the break is called, and Taehyung wordlessly slips away into the van that you realize, this isn’t just about exhaustion. Something is wrong. And he doesn’t want you to see it until you do by pure accident. 

You were searching for Jae, wanting to ask him when do you need to be at the second location only to find him with the director. From a distance it, at first it looked like a normal conversation perhaps a start of bickering. It wasn’t until you approached that the scene was playing in front of you that you figured it was vastly different.

The director’s voice slices through the air, jagged and merciless. He’s pacing, one hand clutching his script, the other flailing like it’s searching for something to strangle. His words come fast, sharp, surgically precise in their cruelty.

“This is a mess. A catastrophe. Do you even understand how a schedule works? The sun doesn’t wait for your little mistakes, Jae. The crew is unfocused, the actors are dragging, and you—” he jabs a finger toward Jae’s chest like a knife, “you are letting it all fall apart because you can’t keep an idol in check.”

Jae doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t defend himself. He just stands there nodding like a man who has built a quiet, private home inside the eye of a hurricane. The director scoffs, mutters something about "art being wasted on the unworthy," and storms off.

You watch Jae exhale slowly, like he’s trying to release something bigger than just breath, and you decide to step in.

“What was that about?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

Jae forces a smile that looks more like a grimace. “Nothing new.”

“He just screamed batshit crazy at you. That’s not nothing.”

Jae sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, his usual easy-going energy worn thin. “The director is… a perfectionist.” He says it like it’s a disease. “He wants things a certain way.”

You glance toward the van, where Taehyung had disappeared. “And Taehyung? He just… puts up with this?”

Jae hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to notice. “He knows how this works,” he says finally. “He knows what’s expected. This isn’t his first MV with this director.”

Something about that makes your stomach twist. Because knowing how things work isn’t the same as being okay with them. And knowing what’s expected feels a lot like being told to smile through something that might be quietly eating you alive. You follow him towards the van and as you step inside Taehyung doesn’t look at your way.

The silence in the van feels like one which settles between people who know something you don’t. It’s thick, humming with unsaid things. Jae scrolls through his phone like the answers to all life’s problems are buried somewhere between an Instagram reel and an unread email. 

Taehyung stares out the window, arms crossed, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He looks like he’s chewing on something bitter, something he won’t spit out no matter how much you prod. You don’t ask. You’ve learned by now that asking only gets you a deflection or, worse, one of his impossibly obscure questions that leave you more lost than when you started.

The second location is a long, winding road. The director is already shouting by the time you step out of the van, throwing his arms around like a man who believes the world would cease to exist if things don’t go exactly the way he imagined. The scene is simple: Taehyung, window down, head tilted up to the sky with free-spirited, effortless joy that only looks real when captured in slow motion.

But it doesn’t work.

First take car passes too close, and Taehyung flinches. Second take someone honks, and he pulls back instinctively. Third take he hesitates before the camera even starts rolling, and by the fourth, the director has had enough.

The van lurches to a stop. The driver mutters something under his breath, but you don’t catch it because all you can hear is the director’s voice.

“For fuck’s sake, Taehyung! Are you five years old? It’s just a goddamn car!”

You hear the words before you see two of them, before you even register what’s happening. But when you do, Taehyung is standing there, shoulders drawn tight, hands gripping the edge of the car door like it’s the only thing tethering him to the ground. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t push back, doesn’t make excuses. Just takes it.

And the worst part?

He looks like he’s used to it. Like this is just part of the job. Like somewhere along the way, he decided this is what he deserves.

“Hey.”

The word leaves your mouth before you even think about it, before you can calculate consequences or determine whether this is a bad idea - which it probably is. But Taehyung is standing there like a statue, like a boy drowning in a flood who has decided not to swim, and you can’t, won’t, watch this happen.

The director turns. His eyes rake over you, sharp, appraising, dismissive. “Excuse me?”

“I think you should take it down a notch.” You say it as evenly as possible, like this is a reasonable request, like you’re not already halfway to throwing his stupid headset into the ocean.

He exhales, a sharp, condescending laugh. “Oh, fantastic. Another amateur who thinks they know how this industry works.”

You don’t blink. “I know that screaming at someone isn’t how you get a good performance.”

His smirk falters, just a little. “This is how it’s done. He’s an idol. He’s not a child.”

“No,” you agree, shifting your gaze to Taehyung, who still hasn’t moved. “He’s not a child but he is human.”

Something cracks in the air between you. The director scoffs, mutters something under his breath, and waves a dismissive hand. “If you’re done playing hero, we have a scene to finish.”

The moment doesn’t feel like a victory. You glance at Taehyung again, and he finally moves, just barely, just a twitch of his fingers as he looks away.

The shoot resumes.

They redo the scene. Once. Twice. Five times. The sky shifts from gold to navy, and the director, who hasn’t spoken to you since, finally sighs like he’s been holding his breath all day.

“Alright,” he says, rubbing his temples. “That’s enough for today.”

The crew moves like a machine, packing up, winding cables, dimming lights. You turn to Taehyung, who’s still staring at the ground, his hair falling into his eyes.

“Are you okay?” you ask, voice softer now.

He looks at you, and it takes you a second to realize why the expression in his eyes unsettles you. It’s because you’ve never seen him look small before. Not on stage, not in rehearsals, not even in the quiet moments in between. But now, in this emptying set, under flickering lights, he looks like a boy who’s been carrying something heavy for far too long.

“I don’t know,” he admits. Then, after a pause: “Thank you.”

It’s quiet. Uncertain. Like he’s not sure if he should be grateful or if he should be embarrassed that you saw any of this. But you just nod, because you understand.

And when you walk off set together, the world feels just a little lighter.

The villa is quiet when you arrive. You only notice now how it sits at the farthest edge of the island, kissed by the ocean on one side and framed by thick, swaying palms on the other. You step out of the car, stretching your limbs, trying to shake off the tension still coiled inside of you from earlier. Taehyung lingers beside you, gaze flickering between the sand and the horizon.

“Wanna take a walk?” he asks, voice softer now, stripped of the exhaustion and frustration that had laced it before.

You glance toward the empty beach, the waves rolling in slow and rhythmic, the golden glow of the sun sinking into the water. “No one's around anyway,” he adds, as if reading your hesitation.

So, you nod. And the two of you walk.

It starts off in silence, just the sound of the waves brushing against the shore and the occasional crunch of sand beneath your feet. Then, finally, you ask, “What happened today?”

Taehyung exhales, long and shaky. “It wasn’t my first time working with him.” His voice is measured, carefully composed, but there’s an edge to it. “He never liked me much. I don’t know why. I think....I think I always knew, but today was the first time I really felt it. That blunt, open hate.”

You glance at him, watching the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. “Why didn’t you tell Hoseok?”

Taehyung stops walking. The waves pull at the sand near his feet, the water lapping at his ankles. “Because he has influence. A lot of it. And if I say something, if Hoseok says something it could ruin the company’s reputation.” He looks at you then, really looks at you, his eyes dark and honest and tired. “I don’t want to be the reason that happens.”

Taehyung exhales, staring out at the water. The wind tangles in his hair, carrying away words he hasn’t said yet, words he isn’t sure he wants to. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, like he’s confessing something to the ocean rather than to you.

"Jae tries," he continues, the ghost of a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth before disappearing entirely. "He always tries. But there’s only so much he can do before he gets too close to the line. Before it stops being about me and starts being about him."

The pause stretches between you, and then Taehyung shifts.

"There was this photoshoot once," he starts, and you know immediately that it’s one of those stories that left a scar, the kind that never quite fades, no matter how many years go by. "It was for a magazine. Big one. The photographer, he wasn’t just ‘well-known’. He was a person people treated like a God. A person who could snap his fingers and end careers, and everyone knew it."

Taehyung lets out a dry laugh. "He took one look at me, literally just one and decided I was a problem. Said I wasn’t ‘giving’ enough. That I wasn’t trying. I hadn’t even posed yet. I was just… standing there, waiting for instructions. And then he just started talking like I wasn’t in the room."

His jaw clenches.

"‘Maybe if he actually had a personality, we’d be able to get something out of him.’ ‘God, idols these days, so fucking boring.’ ‘You sure he can even read the teleprompter?’" He shakes his head, a bitter smile on his lips. "They were right there. The crew. The stylists. Nobody said a word. Just stared at their feet, pretended they didn’t hear anything."

Your stomach twists, anger curling its way into your ribs, settling there. "And you?"

"I smiled," he says, voice flat. "I apologized. I posed the way he wanted me to. I let him tear me apart, and I acted like it didn’t hurt," he glances at you then, and his eyes are sharp, "Because if I had spoken up, I would’ve been the problem. If I had walked out, I would’ve been the unprofessional one. That’s how it works. The people with power get to be cruel, and the people without it get to take it."

You don’t realize your hands have curled into fists until you feel your nails pressing into your palm.

"That’s—"

"That’s just how it is," Taehyung finishes for you. He exhales slowly, like he’s letting something go, like maybe saying it out loud makes it easier to carry. "At least, that’s what I told myself." He pauses, then glances at you again, eyes unreadable. "But today… I don’t know. When you stepped in, when you didn’t back down, it made me wonder if maybe I should have spoken up sooner. If maybe I should have told Hoseok. If maybe—"

"You should have," you say, voice firm. "And you still should."

He watches you for a long moment, like he’s trying to figure out how you can say it with so much certainty, like he’s never even considered the possibility that someone might be on his side. Then, finally, he nods.

"Maybe," he murmurs. "Maybe it’s time."

You huff, deciding that enough of this heavy conversation has been had for one night. Wanting to lighten the mood you do the only thing that makes sense in the moment—splash Taehyung with a handful of water from the ocean.

It hits him square in the chest, darkening the fabric of his white shirt, and he freezes, blinking down at the wet splotch like he can’t quite believe what just happened. Slowly, his eyes lift to meet yours, and you catch the exact second that his expression changes from disbelief to pure, unfiltered mischief.

"Oh," he says, shaking his head. "You shouldn’t have done that."

"Taehyung," you warn, but it’s too late.

He’s already kicking off his slippers, already sprinting toward you, already reaching for you before you can register what’s happening. You shriek, attempting to dart away, but his hands are quick, firm as they wrap around your wrist. And then—

Then you’re airborne, weightless for all half a second before you come crashing into the water with a loud splash, completely submerged. The shock of it knocks the air from your lungs, and you flail, scrambling to find your footing in the sand.

When you break the surface, gasping, Taehyung is already laughing. His hair is dripping, strands of it plastered against his forehead, and his shirt clings to his frame, but he looks nothing short of triumphant.

"You’re an absolute menace," you gasp, wiping furiously at your face. "You’re lucky you didn’t throw me in deep water, or I swear—"

"You’re fine," he grins, unconcerned. "See? You’re still standing."

Barely above a whisper, he says, "You should know better than to start something you can’t win."

Your chest heave as you stare at him, loss for words.

“Round two?” he teases.

You don’t even think. You run.

“This is not what I wanted. “ you scream, feet kicking up water and sand as Taehyung chases after you, his chuckles rolling over the sound of the waves.

The next morning, everyone arrives on set expecting a simple shoot. But the moment the director claps his hands together, looking far too energized for someone who almost gave up yesterda, a collective groan spreads through the crew.

“Change of plans!” he announces. “We’re moving through multiple locations today. I want variety, I want magic, I want… cinema!”

Jae, clutching his coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, blinks. “I haven’t even digested my breakfast, and now we’re going on a pilgrimage?”

Tiffany, one of the actors in the video, an epitome of elegance even when complaining, sighs dramatically. “Great. Another day of suffering for the sake of art. This is why I should have married rich.”

You glance at Taehyung, who’s already grinning. “She still has time,” you murmur.

“Yeah, any volunteers?” Taehyung adds, scanning the group. “Namjoon?”

The mental image of Tiffany attempting to boss Namjoon around as a husband makes you burst into laughter.

“Ugh, forget it. I’d rather suffer,” Tiffany declares, taking a sip of her green juice like she’s above all of you.

And with that, the long, chaotic day of filming begins.

The director, in his ambitious vision, takes the crew through beaches, alleyways, a quiet dock, and even an abandoned amusement park to capture different moods for the film.

The dock scene is the first disaster. The crew sets up, adjusting lighting and framing, when Jae, who has the balance of a newborn deer, stumbles dangerously close to the water.

“Careful!” someone shouts, but it’s Taehyung who grabs the back of Jae’s jacket just before he falls in.

“If you’re trying to reenact Titanic, at least make it look intentional,” Taehyung teases, patting Jae’s back like he did something heroic.

Jae, still in shock, mutters, “I swear this job is shaving years off my life.”

Next, in the alleyway scene, an old man walking past mistakes the film crew for street performers and tosses a handful of coins into a prop hat sitting on the ground.

Jae, never one to waste an opportunity, bows deeply as if he planned it. “For our struggles,” he says, pocketing the coins.

By the time the abandoned amusement park shoot rolls around, everyone is overtired, underfed, and teetering on delirium. Tiffany sits on a rusted carousel horse, scrolling through her phone.

“This better turn out amazing,” she says, sighing. “I refuse to suffer in a haunted playground for mediocre cinematography.”

“Imagine if Jungkook were here,” you muse. “He’d either cry or insist on filming a horror vlog.”

Taehyung snickers. “Namjoon would get lost, Hoseok would pretend not to be scared, and Jungkook would jump out of nowhere to test their reactions.”

Jae hums in agreement. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

The conversation is interrupted by the director shouting for another take.

By the end of the day, exhaustion hits everyone like a truck, but the sense of accomplishment makes it worth it. Jae suggested you all grab a bite or two before you go home. Tiffanny and Eun, another actor in the MV, decided to join you. 

The four of you had only planned for a quick meal, but as the sizzling bulgogi hit the grill and the soju bottles started emptying, the conversation turned lively.

Tiffany was the first to challenge Taehyung to a shot-taking contest, which he easily won, much to her dismay. Jae, in his usual dramatic flair, declared that the food was so good it must have been his fate to eat here today, which led to a heated debate about whether or not destiny actually existed.

Stepping out of the restaurant Jae let out a long sigh as he stared down the street. “My mom said I’d find luck in another city,” he muttered, his tone both hopeful and dubious.

You snorted. “What, like career luck? Or…?”

“Or romance?” Taehyung grinned, nudging him. “Is this your destiny arc?”

Jae rolled his eyes. “Laugh all you want, but I say we test it. There’s a fortune teller nearby. Let’s see if fate is on my side.”

Tiffany groaned but didn’t protest, while Eun, always up for something out of the ordinary, perked up. “I’m in. Could be fun.”

You and Taehyung exchanged an amused look before shrugging. “Why not?” you said.

The moment you stepped into the fortune teller’s shop, you knew this was going to be an experience. The scent of incense was so strong it nearly knocked you back, and a cat—an actual black cat—stared judgmentally from the corner like it had seen too many fools walk through these doors.

Beaded curtains swayed as a hunched old woman emerged, dressed in layers of mismatched fabrics, a crystal pendant swinging ominously from her neck.

“Who seeks the wisdom of the spirits?” she asked, voice raspy with theatric flair.

Jae stepped forward, ever the believer. “Me. I need to know if luck is on my side.”

The fortune teller gave him a long, slow once-over before sighing dramatically. “Sit.”

Jae obeyed, while the rest of you crammed onto a rickety bench nearby, trying and failing, not to burst out laughing at how serious he looked. Tiffany elbowed you. “He looks like he’s about to be told he’s the next king of Korea.”

You nudged Taehyung, whispering, “Five bucks says she tells him something incredibly vague.”

The woman placed her hands on the crystal ball in front of her, eyes fluttering shut. The room fell into an exaggerated silence before she finally hummed. “Ah… I see… a great opportunity… but also… a great misfortune…”

Jae frowned. “What kind of misfortune?”

She dramatically opened her eyes. “One that could change your life… forever.”

Eun coughed to cover a laugh, while you and Taehyung exchanged looks, your shoulders already shaking.

Jae leaned in. “Can you be more specific?”

The woman squinted, waving her hands over the crystal ball. “A journey awaits you… but beware, for not all who smile at you have kind intentions.”

That was it. Taehyung lost it, burying his face in your shoulder as he shook with silent laughter. You clutched your stomach, barely holding in your wheezing. “Jae, she just told you to be careful of fake friends. This is literally a horoscope from a newspaper.”

Jae groaned. “Fine, laugh. But you’re all getting readings now too.”

Tiffany went next, and the woman told her she had “two souls fighting within her”—which sent the entire group into a fit because Tiffany had spent the last week debating between two hair colors. Eun’s reading wasn’t much better—“Your past life holds the key to your future”—which led to immediate accusations that he had once been an old fisherman.

But it was Taehyung’s turn that truly finished you off.

The fortune teller studied him, eyes narrowing before she let out a heavy sigh. “Oh… oh, you poor thing.”

Taehyung blinked. “What? What poor thing?”

She shook her head gravely. “Your heart… it is burdened. Confused. A storm brews inside you.”

You clapped a hand over your mouth, trying not to make it obvious how hard you were shaking with laughter. Tiffany’s eyes were wide with fake concern. “Taehyung… are you okay?”

Jae gasped. “Do you have unresolved feelings for someone?”

Taehyung pointed at him. “Don’t start.”

The woman continued, her voice dropping lower. “You are at a crossroads. One path leads to safety… the other…” She trailed off ominously.

Taehyung leaned forward. “The other leads to what?”

“A great mystery.”

That was it. You collapsed against Taehyung, laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe, while he clutched your arm, doubled over in his own fit.

Jae sighed, rubbing his temples. “You guys are the worst people to bring here.”

As you finally calmed down, wiping at your eyes, the fortune teller turned to you. “And you… would you like to see your fate?”

You hesitated, but with Taehyung still chuckling beside you and Jae giving you an expectant look—his arms crossed like he had personally invested in the outcome—you sighed and took your place in front of the crystal ball.

The woman reached out, taking your hands in hers. Unlike the rest of the group, she didn’t immediately start with theatrics. Instead, she pressed her fingers to your palm, tilting her head as if listening to something only she could hear.

Then she let out a low hum. “Oh, my dear… your path is not an easy one.”

The way she said it made the laughter still lingering in your chest falter. Her grip on your hands was firm, her expression unreadable. Even the incense around you seemed thicker, making it harder to breathe.

“Challenges lie ahead for you,” she murmured, tracing a line down your palm. “Your love life… ah, it is not simple.”

From the side, Tiffany let out a small gasp. “Oh my God, what does that mean?”

You tried to laugh it off. “I think it means dating is hard for everyone.”

The fortune teller ignored you, still staring at your hand. Then, out of nowhere, she suddenly flicked her gaze toward Taehyung.

The woman clicked her tongue. “Ah, the threads of fate… they twist in unexpected ways.”

You frowned. “Threads of fate?”

She didn’t answer directly. Instead, she tapped her fingers on your palm, her tone dropping lower. “There is someone… standing close, yet far. One whose presence lingers, even when they are gone.”

The group fell silent, and for the first time since stepping into this place, you felt a shiver run down your spine.

Then, suddenly, she smiled. “But do not fear. What is meant to be will find its way.”

Taehyung, seemingly snapping out of his daze, coughed and nudged you with his elbow. “Okay, that’s enough mystery for one night.”

Jae exhaled, shaking his head. “Honestly, she could’ve been talking about anyone. Maybe it’s someone from your past. Or a future person. Or maybe—” He gasped dramatically. “It’s Namjoon. He’s always gone but somehow always in our lives.”

The entire group burst into laughter, the eerie weight of the moment shattering in an instant. Tiffany wiped a fake tear. “Or Jungkook! His presence lingers in every conversation.”

Eun nodded sagely. “Perhaps even Hoseok. He is standing close yet far… in the sense that he is always busy.”

Taehyung, grinning now, leaned toward you. “Damn, you have so many men lingering in your life. What a dilemma.”

You rolled your eyes, finally shaking off the odd feeling from before. “Guess I’m just lucky.”

As you all stood to leave, the fortune teller watched you with an expression that was almost… knowing. But before you could question it, Jae clapped a hand on your shoulder.

“Well, that was sufficiently cryptic. Who’s ready for more drinks?”

Laughing, you followed the group out into the cool night air, shaking your head at the absurdity of it all. Whatever fate had in store, you’d worry about it later. Right now, all that mattered was the lingering laughter and the warmth of the people around you.

_______

The next morning, you arrived on set with the crew, the air buzzing with the familiar energy of wrapping up a long shoot. The director had planned for one more location change today, so everyone was bracing for an easy schedule. 

Tiffany groaned as she stretched, rubbing her shoulders. “I swear, by the time I finish this project, my bones will be held together by pure willpower.”

Eun, sipping his iced coffee, smirked. “Sounds like a fun future. Just you, struggling to walk, while your grandkids ask why you move like an old doll.”

Tiffany rolled her eyes. “Don’t act like you’re not just as exhausted. I saw you nearly faceplant into your script yesterday.”

Eun grinned, unbothered. “That was method acting. I was channeling a man on the verge of collapse.”

Taehyung, who had been quietly stretching his neck, chuckled. “You should’ve told the director. He might’ve given you an award for dedication.”

Eun shot him a finger heart. “My talents are underappreciated.”

The day moved quickly after that, with scene after scene flying by. One particular moment had the entire set laughing when Tiffany, meant to do a dramatic turn, accidentally tripped over her own feet and nearly took Jae down with her.

Jae, lying sprawled on the ground, lifted a hand weakly. “Tell my mother I fought bravely.”

Tiffany, wheezing with laughter, held up two fingers. “Noted.”

Even Taehyung, usually composed on set, had to take a moment to compose himself before his next scene. As the sun started dipping lower, signaling the end of the day, the atmosphere shifted into something more relaxed. Everyone knew they were close to finishing, and that brought a certain lightness to the air.

You were sitting on one of the set chairs when Taehyung wandered over. He looked a little tired but pleased. "Eun found some jazz bar," he said, tilting his head toward where the other actor was chatting with Jae. "He wants us all to go check it out."

You raised a brow. "Are you sure this isn’t a trap to get us all to watch him sing?"

Taehyung laughed, leaning in slightly. "Would that be such a bad thing?"

You pretended to think. "Depends. Is he good?"

His grin widened. "Guess we’ll find out tonight."

You nod. The night air is too good to waste, and besides, you’d rather ride this high than be left alone with your thoughts.

“Perfect,” he says. “I just need to change first.”

The streets of Sokcho hum with a quiet kind of energy, something that belongs to seaside towns where everything feels a little more alive at night. The neon signs flicker, casting their glow on rain-damp pavement, and the air carries a mix of salt, grilled fish, and something sweet—honey hotteok, maybe.

You walk beside Taehyung, a few paces behind the others. Jae is up ahead, laughing at something one of the actors said, his voice light in a way that tells you he’s finally letting himself relax.

“You did well today,” you tell Taehyung, nudging his shoulder slightly.

“I had a good team,” he says, but the smile that tugs at his lips is soft, real.

The Moonlight Lounge sits at the end of a narrow street, tucked between a bookstore and a pojangmacha with steam curling into the air. The sign is in delicate gold lettering, glowing just enough to catch your eye but not demand attention. Inside, the air is filled with warmth and music—a saxophone crooning softly over the chatter of people nursing drinks in dimly lit corners.

It’s a jazz club, but it’s still undeniably Korean. The walls are lined with old vinyl records and faded posters of Shin Joong Hyun and Kim Jung Mi, legends of another time. A woman in a hanbok greets you at the door, her voice smooth as she guides you to your table near the stage. The tables are dark wood, worn down by years of cigarette smoke and quiet conversations. Someone brings over soju and makgeolli without asking, and you settle into your seat, the night pressing in like the first note of a song.

The crew had sprawled out in a corner booth, drinks in hand, finally able to relax without cameras, scripts, or shouting directors. Tiffany, ever the dramatic soul, took a deep breath and stared wistfully into her cocktail.

"What now?" she mused, swirling the ice in her glass. "The project is over. Will we ever see each other again? Or will life tear us apart?"

Jae, chewing lazily on a straw, snorted. "Tiffany, we have a wrap-up dinner next week. Calm down."

Taehyung smirked over the rim of his glass. "To never seeing each other again, then?" He raised his drink in mock solemnity.

"To our tragic separation," you added dramatically, clinking your glass against his.

The table erupted into laughter, Jae shaking his head while Eun wiped a fake tear from the corner of his eye.

"I'm going to miss this nonsense," Eun said, sighing.

"Then take a picture," Jae quipped. "It’ll last longer."

You took a sip of your drink, only for Jae to suddenly straighten up, eyes widening as if he had just made a shocking discovery. "Wait a second," he said, pointing at you. "Have we all just ignored the fact that she spent this entire trip acting less like a therapist and more like Taehyung’s unpaid intern?"

You blinked. "What?"

Tiffany gasped, dramatically clutching her chest. "Oh my god, he’s right! Weren’t you supposed to be here for moral support? Instead, you’ve been adjusting his mic, fixing his hair, reminding him of his cues—"

"And don’t forget the ‘lyric revisions,’" Eun added, raising an eyebrow. "Did you secretly take up a second job as his songwriter?"

Taehyung, lounging comfortably beside you, simply shrugged. "She’s just a natural helper."

"Helper?" Jae scoffed. "She’s one clipboard away from being promoted to manager. I swear, Hoseok should start paying her."

You smirked, turning to Jae. "Actually, seeing how much you sleep on the job, I should take your spot."

Jae gasped, hand flying to his chest like you’d just mortally wounded him. "Excuse me?! I work hard!"

Taehyung snorted. "When? In your dreams?"

Eun patted Jae’s shoulder, shaking his head. "I mean… she did do most of your job this trip."

Jae groaned. "Okay, so I take one nap—"

"Multiple naps," you corrected.

Jae sighed heavily. "And suddenly I’m getting replaced. This industry is ruthless. One minute you're at the top, the next, your job is being stolen by someone who isn’t even on payroll!"

Tiffany giggled. "Oh, don’t worry, Jae. Maybe she’ll let you be her assistant once she takes over."

Jae pointed at you. "I expect weekends off, full dental, and a daily nap allowance."

You grinned. "No promises."

Before anyone could tease further, Jae groaned. "Okay, this music is putting me to sleep. Can we request something upbeat?"

And then—

You notice her.

A waitress, hovering near your table, her hands nervously smoothing over the fabric of her apron. Her eyes flicker to Taehyung, then back down, uncertainty keeping her frozen in place. You nudge him with your knee under the table.

He looks at you, confused. You tilt your head toward the girl.

Realization dawns on him, and he offers her a small, encouraging smile. It works. The girl hesitates for just a second longer before taking a step forward, clearing her throat.

“Excuse me,” she says, voice soft, uncertain.

Taehyung leans in slightly, giving her his full attention. “Yes?”

Her fingers twist into the hem of her apron. “I—um.” She glances to the corner of the room, where an older woman sits, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea. “My mother… She’s a big fan.”

Taehyung follows her gaze. The woman is watching quietly, eyes kind, waiting but not expecting.

The girl takes a breath. “Would you… would you sing for her?”

There’s no hesitation, no flicker of doubt. Taehyung’s smile softens, something tender unfolding behind his eyes. He nods.

“Of course.”

The waitress exhales in visible relief, her smile breaking wide and unguarded.

Taehyung moves toward the microphone like he’s done it a thousand times before. Maybe because he has. He doesn’t look at the crowd as much as he listens to them—feeling their breath, their anticipation, their weight pressing in on him, waiting for something brilliant to happen.

He talks to the musicians in hushed tones, his fingers drumming lightly against the side of the mic stand, and when he turns back, there’s something effortless about the way he smiles, the way he breathes into the microphone like it’s a part of him.

He doesn’t introduce himself as V. Doesn’t roll out the title, the name the world chants at stadiums, the one printed on billboards and whispered between strangers in train stations. Instead, he simply says, “I’m Taehyung. Or Tae, if you prefer.”

Your table chuckles.

And then the music starts. The soft melody of "Sway" filled the dimly lit space, his voice weaving through the air like silk, smooth and intoxicating.

"When marimba rhythms start to play, dance with me, make me sway..."

Taehyung’s voice is a drug. Maybe it’s the soju, or the salt-tinged air of Sokcho, but every word he sings wraps around you like silk, light and intoxicating. His deep timbre, the way he sings as if the lyrics were written for him and him alone, has you forgetting to breathe.

Taehyung’s gaze caught yours as he sang, his lips curling slightly as if daring you to step closer. And you did. The moment his hand extended, fingers grazing yours, the song pulled you in like a tide, and suddenly, you were dancing.

The makeshift dance floor—just an open space between scattered tables—felt like its own little world, a pocket in time where only the two of you existed.

Taehyung was patient as he guided you through the movements, his voice low, soothing. His hands lingered, light touches against your wrist, the small of your back, the curve of your waist—fleeting but there. It made your pulse quicken, an awareness of him settling under your skin, even as you tried to focus on the steps.

He twirled you suddenly, his voice rich as he continued, "Like a flower bending in the breeze, bend with me, sway with ease..."

You yelped, but the sound melted into laughter as you spun, your body moving effortlessly under his guidance. When you landed back in front of him, closer than before, his hand rested at your hip, steadying you.

His touch was light but grounding, and for a moment, you forgot about the people watching, the crew, the bar, it was just him, his voice, and the way his fingers traced patterns against the fabric of your dress.

“Loosen up,” he teased when you stiffened after a misstep, his hand squeezing your shoulder before drifting down to your arm in reassurance. “Dancing isn’t about counting steps, it’s about feeling the music.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Easy for you to say, dance prodigy.”

He scoffed. “Hardly. You should’ve seen me when I first started training.”

You turned to look at him, playful suspicion in your eyes. “You? Struggling to dance?”

“I’m serious,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “I looked like a baby deer trying to ice skate.”

A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it. It made Taehyung pause, his own grin softening as he watched you. His hand slid down your arm, fingers brushing against yours before he intertwined them and gave a gentle squeeze.

"Other dancers may be on the floor, dear, but my eyes will see only you..."

The words carried a different weight when directed at you, and something flickered in his gaze. The music played on, but you barely heard it over the sound of your own heartbeat.

Then, as if shaking off the moment, Taehyung smirked. “See? You’re a natural.”

You scoffed, stepping back just enough to nudge his side. “Liar.”

He chuckled, letting his hand fall away as he took a small bow. “Thank you for trusting me with your two left feet.”

You swatted at him, but the teasing lilt in his voice made it impossible to be annoyed. The tension between you, stayed, but you both ignored it, choosing laughter instead.

As you stepped out of the jazz bar, the crisp air wrapped around you, a sharp contrast to the lingering warmth of the dimly lit space you’d just left. The laughter of the crew trailed behind you, mixing with the distant crash of waves against the shore.

Taehyung walked beside you, his breath visible in the night air. The streets were quieter now, the hum of the city settling as the hour grew late.

As you passed by the filming location from earlier, the remnants of the day's work were still scattered across the lot—cables coiled near the sidewalk, light stands waiting to be stowed away, crew members moving with practiced efficiency despite their exhaustion. Jae, Tiffany and Eun went to help some of workers, so the packing would be faster.

“That was the worst dance lesson I’ve ever had,” you joked, hands tucked into your pockets.

“Excuse me,” Taehyung feigned offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “I’ll have you know people pay to learn from me.”

“Poor souls,” you murmured, making him laugh. The sound of it, warm and unguarded, sent a flicker of something through you.

As you walked, you passed by a few of the crew members, laughing at some inside joke. One of them tripped over a camera bag, and without missing a beat, Taehyung leaned in and whispered, “That’s how I looked when I started dancing.”

You burst into laughter, covering your mouth as you leaned into him. “I knew it!”

He grinned, nudging you with his shoulder. “Should we tell them, or let them keep their dignity?”

You pretended to think. “Let them suffer.”

As you continued walking, the conversation drifted into playful challenges. Pranks, dares, ways to pass the time. You nudged Taehyung’s arm. “Okay, but what if we swapped Namjoon’s phone wallpaper with something ridiculous?”

Taehyung’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Like a cursed meme?”

You grinned. “Or Jungkook’s baby pictures.”

He gasped. “You have access to those?”

You wiggled your eyebrows. “I have my ways.”

Taehyung looked genuinely impressed, then thoughtful. “I’d like to formally opt out of pranking Jungkook. He has too much energy. He’ll chase us for revenge.”

“Agreed,” you said quickly.

You decided to join Jae, who was directing a few people on where to load the remaining equipment into the vans. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he glanced up, eyes narrowing in amusement. “You two finally done dancing?”

You rolled your eyes. “Very funny.”

“Tifanny recorded it and sent it to Jungkook, you know.” Jae smirked. “I’m sure it’ll make for excellent blackmail material.”

Taehyung groaned, throwing his head back. “Of course she did.”

You laughed. “At least let me see it before he weaponizes it.”

The night stretched on with more laughter, playful pranks, and easy conversation. When the packing was done and the group go together again Jae suggested playing charades, you barely had a chance to protest before Taehyung grabbed your wrist and pulled you to his side.

“You’re on my team,” he declared with a smug grin.

“Oh, because I’m so good at this?” you deadpanned.

“No, because I need someone to take the blame if we lose,” he said with a straight face, then smirked when you lightly smacked his arm.

The first few rounds were chaotic, filled with exaggerated gestures and absurd guesses. But the moment it was your turn, something shifted. Taehyung was guessing, and somehow, he read your movements instantly.

“The Matrix.”

You had barely mimed dodging bullets before he got it right.

Next round, Taehyung was up, and with one small wave of his hand, you blurted, “The Lion King.”

Eun groaned. “How—how did you even get that?”

You shrugged, grinning. “Have you seen his dramatic hand movements? He is Simba.”

It became an ongoing joke as the game continued, you and Taehyung so in sync that it was almost unfair. He barely needed to act things out, and you barely needed to see them before guessing.

Jae threw his arms up in frustration. “They’re cheating!”

Taehyung leaned in, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, “Should we tell them, or let them keep suffering?”

You grinned, pretending to think about it. “Let them suffer.”

It only got worse from there. You both breezed through every round, finishing in record time while the other teams struggled, and soon, it wasn’t even about winning, it was about watching everyone else slowly lose their minds over how effortlessly you worked together.

“You guys are insufferable,” Tifanny muttered as he failed his round.

“It’s not our fault we’re naturally good at this,” Taehyung said smugly, slinging an arm around your shoulders.

“Yeah, it’s actually kind of scary,” Eun added, eyeing the two of you.

As the night breeze rolled in the group slowly began to wind down. Eun stretched with a dramatic groan. "Alright, I'm calling it. My bed is calling me," he declared, rubbing his eyes.

"You sure it’s your bed and not the hotel’s mini-fridge?" Tiffany teased, smirking. "I saw you stash like five ice creams in there."

"Listen," Eun huffed, placing a hand over his chest. "A man needs his emergency rations. You never know when hunger might strike!"

Jae scoffed. "Right, because the five-course meals we’ve been getting clearly aren’t enough."

Tiffany glanced at you and Taehyung. "What about you guys?"

You shrugged. "Jae, Tae, and I are heading back to the villa."

Jae yawned, stretching his arms above his head. "I swear, I’m running on fumes. I don’t even remember how we got here."

"You walked," Taehyung deadpanned.

Jae blinked. "Oh. That explains why my legs hurt."

You snorted. "Wow. That’s some next-level detective work, Jae."

Eun smirked. "Yeah, Jae. You must be exhausted from all that critical thinking."

Jae sighed dramatically. "You all mock me now, but when I disappear into the mountains and live a peaceful life away from this abuse, don’t come looking for me."

Taehyung nodded solemnly. "I give it three days before he starts talking to a rock and names it Steve."

"Two days," you corrected.

Tiffany cackled. "One day. He’d probably befriend a seagull before sunset."

Jae threw his hands up. "Unbelievable. I hope Steve and the seagulls treat me better than you guys."

The headlights of a black car appeared in the distance, and Eun clapped his hands. "That’s our ride. Guess this is where we part ways."

"Don’t let Steve replace us," you teased.

"No promises," Jae shot back.

Eun and Tiffany got into the car, waving as they drove off.

Taehyung let out a content sigh. "I like nights like this."

Jae stretched. "Yeah, until you wake up tomorrow realizing you got sand everywhere."

You groaned. "Why would you say that? Now I can feel it in my shoes already."

"Better than in your bed," Taehyung added, nudging you playfully.

"Great. Looking forward to that."

With one last glance at the dark waves, you turned and started the walk back to the villa, laughter still lingering in the air.

[mochii0park]

Next summer; 01 - From Min to Jung

Genre: Strangers to Lovers I Arranged Marriage

Pairing: Kim Taehyung x Min Reader x Jung Hoseok 

Synopsis: In the Min family, worth is based on pleasing the elders. To gain freedom, you agree to an arranged marriage with Jung Hoseok. Despite your efforts to reshape your life, complications arise with Hoseok’s idol, Kim Taehyung. Your alliance and freedom are at risk as you break the rule of never engaging with people from your partner’s social circle.

Word count: 11.6K

Next chapter >

Masterlist of series

General masterlist

Songs to listen to while reading: Move (Taemin), Honey (Solar), Dark Clouds (Heize), I like you (Post Malone), Falling slowly (Daesung)

A strained smile here, a respective bow there. Another of your father’s influential friends taps your hand with their old, wrinkled one. Your brother stands in front of the door, ever the better portion of the Min siblings, taming the tension with unnecessary small talk. It seems that your psychology degree was of little help when it came to catering to the higher society. It's not like you cared but it would’ve been nice if you were gifted with the masking of emotions like Yoongi. 

Seokjin peeks into the room, the vessels in your head almost popping at the sight of him. You think of his presence as an intrusion like your father was mocking you by showing him as a trophy he won in this war. If only you played your cards better perhaps, he’d be in the other room as the groom but alas you were stubborn. 

Kim Seokjin, the heir of the Kim empire and Yoongi’s childhood friend. The same one that used to tease you about your tantrums, the one who scolded you when you got your heart broken and the one who went broke it all over again. Trice the harder than your last boyfriend. Before that occasion, you might’ve listened to your father and proceeded with the marriage, but you woke from the slumber you’ve been in so long. Marrying him would mean the shackles on your hands would be tighter than ever.

Yoongi glances at his watch before coming to your side. Without much communication, guess it went sideways at the sight of you. He takes your hand. “It’s time.”

Three words were the best you’ll get out of him. It doesn’t come as a surprise, that the two of you had opposite views on this whole charade. While you looked at it as an out from the Min family and embracing freedom, he looked at is a betrayal of sacred family vows. You tried for years to tell him that no matter the love and the respect he had for you, you two never started on the same footing. Something you resented him for.

He had everything handed to him on a silver platter, the heir to the throne of the Min empire. Meanwhile, you, a daughter that in your opinion was a mistake, a slip of a night, had to claw for scraps of your parents’ affection. To your father, you were a pawn in his plan to rise higher than he already has, to him you were his entrance to the Kim empire. 

Except you shattered that dream by taking the hand of Jung Hoseok, a chaebol who came from nothing. New money, your father spat at the mention of Hoseok's name.

“Alright.” Your indifference irked Yoongi to oblivion. 

Much like your father Yoongi wasn’t the happiest about your marriage partner more so as he shared one too many drinks, and you'd assume women, with Hoseok. You’ll get your heart broken, Seokjin is a better choice, he told you.

Oh, the irony

For starters Seokjin has already broken your heart, secondly, Hoseok could stick it into your best friend for all you care. You weren’t marrying him for love. In the society you grew up, love was a foreign noun. You were marrying Hoseok for the freedom his surname held.

And Hoseok?

He’s marrying you for the freedom your presence held in his life.  

So, one might think how did it come to this marriage?

Hyun, ever the dotting closeted cousin of yours, let it slip past you that his close friend Jung Hoseok was looking for a wife.  Imagine if you were to marry him, God, I’d pay to see that, he blabbered stumbling over his words. Both stupid enough, both with too many drinks under the belt, you made a bet. You, ever the competitive person he knows you to becould never accept defeat, so you head to the Jung mansion. Long story short, your first impression wasn’t a good one.

Dancing on Hoseok’s last nerve, you barely managed to form a fitting sentence without the mention of a lavender marriage. In your defence, Hyun never had one single straight male friend. How could you know Hoseok was straighter than a pole?

It didn’t help that Hyun was far worse than you, laughing his ass off at every word that left your mouth. Let’s rule the world, you still cringe at your choice of words but deep down you truly meant it. You wanted to put Hoseok on the throne and make your father eat his words out. 

Much to your surprise, Hoseok was contemplating your offer alas only when you sober up. The confidence wasn’t there the next day he took notice of that but, the fire in your eyes as you lay out the plan was too tempting for him to turn you down. 

As much as you wanted to prove yourself to your father, so did he to society and you were his one-way ticket. With a firm handshake and Hyun’s hangover-self throwing up in the corner of Hoseok’s house, you sealed the deal.

That’s how you found yourself standing in front of him at the altar. You had to pat yourself on the back, despite the marriage being a farce Hoseok was a handsome man. A good catch, you remember Lisa's comment as she helped you fit into the damn tight dress.  In a world filled with ordinary faces, Jung Hoseok stood with high cheekbones that gave him a sculpted look, framing his face perfectly and adding an air of sophistication. 

His eyes are perhaps the most captivating; large and expressive, adorned by long, delicate lashes that would make any woman jealous. The deep brown hue holds a spark of mischief and kindness. When he smiles, they transform into cheerful crescents, radiating joy and in conclusion from the visual aspect, your marriage surely won't lack.

“Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends, we gather here today in this beautiful setting to witness the union of Y/N and Hoseok in the sacred bond of marriage. It is a celebration of love,”

You snort, luckily the priest doesn’t budge and continues with his speech full of pretentious bullshit. To your side Hoseok contains his laugh, a contrast to his best man – Jinwoo, was it? - who stares at you in shock. 

“Y/N, do you take Hoseok to be your lawfully wedded spouse, to love and cherish, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live? “

“I do. “ 

“Hoseok, do you take Y/N to be your lawfully wedded spouse, to love and cherish, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live? “

“I do.”  You had to give it to him, for a split second you almost believed that the man standing in front of you was deeply in love. 

“Now, by the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may seal your vows with a kiss. “ 

The cheers, coming only from Hoseok's side of the family—now technically yours—cut through the small venue. His hand wraps around your waist, while the other gently pulls away the veil that is doing a poor job of concealing your face.He whispers that you are pretty as he brings his face closer to yours, nose to nose. Panic slowly rises within you, but with better judgment, you close your eyes and allow Hoseok to lead the dance.

The softness of his lips takes you by surprise; they meld perfectly with yours, and your body instinctively follows his rhythm. When he finally pulls away, Hoseok is just as out of breath as you are. The two of you lock eyes, momentarily stunned by the simplicity of the kiss that ignited a fire within you.

He is the first to recover, intertwining your fingers as he pulls you to his side while you walk down the aisle. Both of your mothers are in tears; his out of happiness, yours from the pain. Pushing that aside you follow Hoseok towards the car.  Hyun steps out of the driver’s seat and opens the door for you.

He gives you his hand as you curse Lisa for talking you into a dress that had too many layers. “I should’ve just gone with the simple slip dress.”

"That’s for the first night as a married couple," Hoseok says as he sits beside you, while his best man takes the front seat. 

"I don’t see the point of that. It’s not like you wear it long enough for your husband to marvel at it. Don’t you guys like, I don’t know lace underwear or something more revealing?"

At your question, Jinwoo chokes on the bottle of water he was innocently trying to drink. Hyun doesn’t give him much time to recover before commenting on how he likes his man naked on the bed. The poor guy blushes fifty shades of red.

Hoseok chuckles at the exchange happening in the car and adds his thoughts on the topic. "I’d say I like whatever my missus likes. Confidence is the sexiest."

You roll your eyes but find his answer somewhat endearing. Unlike Hyun, who calls Hoseok vanilla, which makes Jinwoo groan and you all laugh. 

"My misery shouldn’t be your source of entertainment," he retorts, tossing the bottle aside.

Hyun hums, and for a moment, Jinwoo’s eyes flicker with something that you interpret as a soft warning, almost daring him to say what he wants. Hoseok stifles a bubbly laugh, wiggling his brows at you. 

"Woo, come on, we all know you’ve had sex. There’s no need to be a prude."

Jinwoo bites his lips in irritation. "I’m far from a prude. I just prefer to keep my sexual preferences to myself. Hoseok." 

“Uu full name usage. Right, we just need to buy you whatever new Louis Vuitton bag there is, and you’ll be on all fours." Hoseok jabs Jinwoo’s shoulder with his finger, which Jinwoo playfully slaps away.

“A material king, I like that.” Hyun adds and the three laugh.

This further confirms that you made the right decision. Hoseok is warm to everyone; strangers, friends, or family, it doesn’t matter. In contrast, he is a striking difference from Seokjin, who always looks at everyone as if they were below him. You included.

Hoseok swung open the grand door to his mansion with a playful grin lighting up his face. "Mi casa es su casa!" he declared, beckoning you inside like a host ready for a fiesta.

Just as you were about to step through the threshold, he cheekily blocked your way with one of his legs and nudged you back, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

You stared at him, confusion mixing with amusement, and he quipped, "Come on, we just got married! I can’t let you wander in without proper supervision!"

Before you could retort, he scooped you up in a dramatic bridal lift, declaring, "This is the only way you’re getting in!" With a mock-seriousness, he marched you through the entrance as if you were a prized possession. 

When he finally set you down in the grand foyer, you glanced around in awe, taking in the opulent décor. The mansion radiated an air of sophisticated modernity, drawing you in with its clean lines and well-considered design.

A sleek, minimalistic modern sofa, upholstered in soft grey fabric, took up the spacious living room. The centrepiece of the room, a striking chimney made of white stone, reached up towards the ceiling, its contemporary aesthetic balancing the warmth of potential crackling fires. 

Above, a magnificent chandelier reminiscent of the one in your father's upscale office hung gracefully. The walls were adorned with a select few paintings that whispered tales of artistry and vision, each frame showcasing pieces from renowned artists.

You could immediately identify the bold strokes of Picasso, the impressionistic flair of Renoir, and the golden allure of Gustav Klimt—all carefully chosen to convey a sense of cultured refinement. 

Yet, amidst the sophisticated decor, your gaze was inevitably drawn to a striking display of trophies that dominated one wall. Gleaming under the soft chandelier light, they stood as a testament to extraordinary accomplishment.

Trophies for best artist of the year, best choreography, best song of the year, and best duet, among others. Each award hinted at a world of creativity and triumph—yet their presence also stirred a sense of tension within you. A wave of realization washed over you, reminding you of the many reasons your father held Hoseok in contempt.

It wasn’t just a matter of approval; it was a clash of worlds. Hoseok, the charismatic CEO of an entertainment company, managed talents like Jeon Jungkook and Kim Taehyung, something your father detested. He thought art and any creative branch is for the lower class to create and the upper class to buy as reminder of their everlasting power.

Hoseok was long gone, the sounds of glass clinging directing you to the kitchen which was spacious as his living room. Every single piece in it screamed luxury and although you lived in a similar setting somehow here you felt out of place. As if you were in a visitor in a museum only allowed to watch and not touch for you might break something. 

The sound of popping cuts through your daze and you notice Hoseok pouring champagne in two glasses. He strolls towards you with a grin on his face as he offers you a glass. “A toast to our freedom.” 

Your glass cling. “A toast.”

Once Hoseok downs the champagne, he loosens the tie and runs a hand through his hair. The messy look gives him a certain allure which he must’ve known because he smirks and with a wink, he walks out nesting himself on the sofa. You follow his lead, finding more comfort in an armchair opposite of him.

He exhales loudly, turning to his side as he plops his head with his palm and looks at you. “We don’t need to go over the rules again, right?”

“There isn’t much to go over, we agreed not to butt into each other’s lives.” You add as you take of the first layer of the wedding dress. 

Hoseok nods, eyes staring into space before he fixes them on you again. “True, but I wish to just add some ground rules.”

“Shoot” you say, now fully out of the wedding dress leaving you in a satin slip.

“No hooking up in the mansion”, your face scrunches and Hoseok clicks his tongue signalling you to let him finish, “You can have fun with whomever you want however, co-workers are off the limit.”

You roll your eyes, surely you weren’t dumb to jeopardize your marriage by tainting the image you both are trying so hard to keep pristine. “You know businessmen are not my cup of tea.”

“Well, neither were the daughters of chaebols for me but look at us now.” he teases as you throw a pillow at him full force.

He dodges. “No need to get feisty. Anyway, those are the only rules I have. The reason I agreed to this marriage was to keep my image serious and clean. Do you have anything to add?”

You think for a second. There wasn’t anything specific you wanted to add to the equation, much of it was already agreed upon. You didn’t care about his sex life as long as it didn’t enter the house because you are not sure you’d be able to sit idly as half-naked woman parades around the house. You had some self-respect, fake marriage or not. Additionally, you wanted to keep your face private. The less people knew how you looked, the more freedom you both get.

“No, not really but I am curious what my job at the company will be.” 

Hoseok brought the idea on your last meet up. He thought that working at his company would give you the opportunity to put your degree to some use. You didn’t dwell on it, thinking that his opinion might change but it remained the same.

“You’ll be working,” his phone buzzes, eyes skimming through the text, “with idols. Assessing their mental health for debuts and tours, accompanying them for some occasions. I need them to be on top of their game and that means that their health is my top priority.”

You nod, happy to know that your husbands company cared about things that are usually dismissed as a trivial thing. “Sounds good.”

Hoseok grins, excitement laced with anticipation before he gets up. “I am going out. You don’t need to wait up for me.”

Not like you were planning to. Lisa already asked you to come with her to the opening of a new pub in Gangnam. One of her friends decided to try her luck in this area of Seoul, seeing how previous neighbourhood didn’t bring much revenue. You send a text to her asking her about the exact time you need to be there before you go upstairs towards the guest room. 

As you pass Hoseok’s room you see him switch out of the elegant suit into a more casual attire that consisted of a flare shirt and comfortable jeans. He was on the phone talking to someone, the smile on his face never flattening for a second. It doesn’t take a genius to know where he’s headed but you couldn’t help but think if the other person on the line was happy with the arrangement.   

As you push through the heavy wooden doors of the pub in Gangnam, it feels as if you’ve tumbled into some kind of vibrant alternate universe where laughter doesn’t just echo off the walls, it bounces around the room like a pinball.

The crowd, many consisting of younger people, pulses with energy.  Each person a constellation of stories waiting to collide. Conversations swirl around you, a tangled web of half-finished sentences and drunken confessions that make me feel both exhilarated and slightly lost like being caught in a stream of consciousness that threatens to sweep you away. 

You navigate through the mass, eyes scanning for Lisa at your reserved table.  You catch sight of her in the upper section that, sipping on a vibrant cocktail that matches the spark in her eyes. 

She’s wearing the same outfit from the wedding, and you can’t help but ask. “Did you ever go home?” 

Her laughter bubbles up, light and carefree. “Home is where the cocktails are, Y/N. I came straight here to help my friend with the grand opening. You know, the universe has plans for us tonight.” 

You cringe at her loud voice, the tipsiness in it coming to the surface. “Maybe you should slow down with the alcohol, Lisa. I might need a map just to find you later.” 

She tips her glass at you, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Jeongsu will take care of me afterward, I promise!”

At the mention of his name, you groan, the sound escaping me like a balloon losing air. “Jeongsu again?”

Lisa rolls her eyes, a teasing glare in your direction. “Oh, come on. You know it’s better than being all alone with my thoughts. Plus, he’s got that whole priest’s mysterious son vibe going on, which is basically my kryptonite.”

 “Right, priest’s mysterious son, because we all know how well that usually ends,” you quip.

Lisa had her fair share of vibey guys she would go through each month. This month’s flavour was the priest’s son she met at the church. You didn’t want to burst her bubble that it was the pastors who get married and, frankly, he fucked her far too many times for God to ship them to heaven anyway. At the end of the day she was just a girl, standing in front of a fuckboy asking him, well… to fuck her.

One of the things you loved about Lisa was that she knew how to read the room. She never questioned why you weren’t with Hoseok on your first night as husband and wife. The main reason probably being that she was built from the same cloth as you and knew most marriages were deals made between the families.

Sensing your irritation she takes your hand and begins swaying you to the beat of the music. You savour the moment, finally freeing yourself from Yoongi’s hard gaze and judgment of his friends, especially Seokjin’s. 

“Work it!” Lisa shouts, takes a sip of her drink and waves at someone behind you, “Jeongsu and his friends came.”

Friends? More Jeongsu-s to deal with.

He doesn’t waste time twirling Lisa before he goes in for a very slobbery kiss. It reminded you of the species of birds that often cleaned the crocodile’s teeth. In this instance poor Lisa was the crocodile but judging by her expression she was into it as much as he was. Tearing your gaze in order not to gage, you sip your drink.

The bitterness bites at your throat as you skim through the three friends that were dragged by Jeongsu. The one sitting next to you seemed like the most cultured one, you didn’t catch his name but he nevertheless he caught your eye.

His face, a stunning blend of sharp angles and softness, made it hard to look away. The black hair, slightly tousled, gave him a laid-back yet striking appearance. It enhanced the intensity of his dark eyes. His lips were slightly open, as if he was about to say something important, holding a gentle smile that felt inviting. 

You only notices that you’re staring when he turns to you, smirk tugging the corner of his mouth upwards. “Would it be corny if I say take a picture, it lasts longer?”

When he spoke, there was a smoothness to his tone, a musicality, ebbing and flowing like a melody holding you captive.

You didn’t know if the alcohol was working or his stupid joke but suddenly you became aware of the warmth on your cheeks. “Uh,huh, both?”

He laughed, it was deep and resonant, filling the air with a warmth that made you smile. “I am a terrible model, but I’ll do my best to give you a flattering photo.”

“Oho Joonie, be careful she’s a feisty one.” Jeongsu jumps into the conversation albeit uninvited. 

You think your eyes will fall out from the rolling they were doing. Joonie, hums at Jeongsu not paying much attention to his words as he leans in whispering in your ear. “If you try any harder, you might actually throw a knife at him.”

“Oh, bite me Joonie.” You spat turning towards him. 

The proximity of your faces was far too small for your liking. You could almost count the number of freckles on his nose and the two dimples that appeared as his smile widened. “Where though?”

It hangs between you for a second, the weight of it sinks in at exactly the same moment for both. His eyes widen, his lips part—whether in horror or regret, you can’t quite tell—and suddenly, all that carefully curated confidence crumbles like a sandcastle at high tide. “Oh my God, I didn’t— I mean, I wasn’t— That’s not—” He runs a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at you. “That was weird, right? That was weird. I’m so sorry.”

And you lose it. Not in a cruel way, but in the way you do when someone is so sincerely mortified that it becomes impossible not to find it endearing. He’s still floundering, still tripping over every syllable in his desperate attempt to undo whatever just happened, and the sheer panic on his face is funnier than it should be. “Relax, Joonie” you say, nudging his arm with yours, “I promise I won’t hold it against you forever. Just, you know, for the rest of the night.”

“It’s Namjoon, by the way. Kim Namjoon” 

“Such a James Bond introduction.” Jeongsu again butts in, and this time your hand begins reaching for the empty bottle of soda that someone finished earlier. 

Luckily for Jeonsgu, and sadly for you and your nerves Namjoon catches on what you were about to do so he beats you to it pushing the bottle of your reach. 

You throw him a glare and he put his hands up in a surrender. “As much as I’d love for the bottle to silence him, we have a project due tomorrow. My ass is on the line too.”

You sigh, finding comfort in the straw of your drink. “Min Y/N”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m never speaking again.”

“Shame,” you say, smirking into your drink. “You were just starting to entertain me.”

He sighs dramatically but smiles, shaking his head. “This is why I stick to books. They don’t judge me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say, leaning in. “I think if books could talk, they’d have a lot to say about you.”

He scoffs. “Yeah? And what exactly do you think they’d say?”

“That you dog-ear pages even though you claim to love them.”

His mouth falls open. “I do not!”

You raise an eyebrow. “So, if I were to look through your books right now, I wouldn’t find a single folded corner?”

He hesitates for half a second too long.

“Uh-huh,” you say, victorious.

Namjoon groans again, slumping against the bar. “This is character assassination.”

“Maybe,” you tease, “but it’s accurate character assassination.”

And for a while, you just sit there, the silence between you no longer uncomfortable but easy, something warm and unspoken settling into the space he’d just filled with his clumsy attempt at flirtation. He exhales after a moment, gaze flickering from the condensation on his glass to you. “You ever think about how Plato believed love was just the longing for our other half?”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s an interesting way to pivot from whatever just happened.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I don’t know, I just...there’s something kind of tragic about it, right? The idea that we were all once whole, only to be split apart and left searching for the piece we lost.” He pauses, as if considering his own words, then shrugs. “Or maybe it’s just another way of explaining why people spend their whole lives looking for something they can’t name.”

You study him for a second, the way he absentmindedly taps his fingers against the side of his glass. You tilt your head, considering. “See, but that’s the problem with Plato’s whole theory. It assumes love is about finding someone to complete you when, really, psychology tells us that a lot of what we seek in others is actually a reflection of what we lack or desire within ourselves. Ever heard of attachment theory?”

Namjoon leans in slightly, eyes sparking with interest. “Anxious, avoidant, secure—the whole ‘tell me how much your parents hugged you as a child and I’ll tell you how you handle relationships’ thing?”

You laugh. “Pretty much. Plato’s idea of love is almost… nostalgic? Like he’s romanticizing the search for another half, but psychology would argue that love isn’t about halves. It’s about two whole people learning to exist alongside each other, dysfunctions and all. We project onto people. We fall in love with the versions of them that exist in our heads. Sometimes, we don’t even love the person. We love what they represent, the way they make us feel, the potential of what could be.”

Namjoon exhales, resting his chin on his hand. “That’s interesting. So, what’s your go,to book about love, then? What story do you think gets it right?”

You think for a second. “I’d say The Great Gatsby, because love is obsessive, delusional, and often tragic. Gatsby loved Daisy, sure, but he loved the idea of Daisy even more. He built her up into something impossible, something that could never match reality. That’s how love works sometimes, it’s all projection and nostalgia and chasing ghosts.”

His brow quirks up. “Dark.”

You grin. “Accurate.”

He shakes his head, laughing. “See, I was going to say The Little Prince.”

You blink. “The children’s book?”

He nods. “Think about it. The prince loves his rose, even though she’s difficult and vain. But he learns that love isn’t about possession, it’s about care, about understanding. ‘You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.’” He pauses. “Love is choosing something, even when it’s imperfect. Maybe especially then.”

You stare at him, and for a moment, the bar fades away, the hum of voices, the clatter of glasses, the low thrum of music all softening into the background. It’s just Namjoon, looking at you with quiet amusement, like he’s waiting for you to poke a hole in his theory. And maybe you could. Maybe you should. But instead, you just shake your head.

“You’re annoyingly insightful, you know that?”

He grins, raising his glass in a small toast. “Likewise.”

You clink your drink against his, the warmth of cocktail settling in your chest. The night draws on and you lose track of time as you stare at Lisa who was on her sixth - or was it seventh? - cocktail. Lisa was a hedonist, using every opportunity to feed her hunger and usually you were next to her cheering her on. However, when that same said hedonism slowly started to look like alcoholism, you thought you should interfere. Because Lisa was gone. Like, absolutely, no-holds-barred, "let's text our exes and cry about capitalism" level of drunk.

Jeongsu wasn’t much better—both of them moving like malfunctioning robots, giggling at nothing, slurring words into syllables that never quite made it into full sentences. And there you were, sober even after two cocktails, trying to shove them into your jeep with Namjoon, who was being an MVP about the whole thing unlike the other two who made themselves scarce. 

“I swear to God, Lisa, if you don’t—” you started, as she dramatically draped herself across the backseat, one arm in, one leg still out, like she was auditioning for a role as roadkill.

“Shhh,” she slurred, pressing a finger to my lips. “You’re being... so loud.”

“Because you’re not in the car!” you whisper-shouted.

Namjoon sighed beside you, grabbing Jeongsu by the collar and hoisting him in with an ease that made you question his gym routine. “You take Lisa, I got this one.”

Somehow, you managed to cram them in. Namjoon climbed into the passenger seat, shutting the door with a finality that felt like a victory, and you let out a breath before starting the car. And that’s when your phone connected to Bluetooth. The second Taehyung’s Singularity came through the speakers, Namjoon groaned. “Oh, come on.”

“What?” you said, pulling into the street.

“This? This is your choice?” He gestured toward the speakers like they’d personally offended him.

I blinked at him. “Yes? This song is incredible?”

Namjoon made a face like you’d just told him water wasn’t wet. “It’s fine,” he said, dragging out the word like it physically pained him. “But, like… doesn’t it get exhausting? Listening to that song on repeat? It’s all—catchy choruses and formulas and—”

You gasped dramatically. “I will not sit here and let you slander Taehyung in my car. Have you heard his range? His live vocals? His GRAMMY-NOMINATED COLLABORATIONS?”

Namjoon shook his head. “See, this is why I stick to Jungkook. He gets it. Standing next to you, Still with you? That’s real music. It’s art.”

“Taehyung’s music is art,” you shot back. “He literally writes, produces, and choreographs, and you wanna tell me it’s just some mass, produced—”

Namjoon groaned. “I didn’t say that I just mean—there’s more soul in Jungkook’s music.”

“Taehyung’s music is what moves people,” you interrupted. “It’s what you scream in your car at 2 AM when you’re questioning all your life choices. It’s what stadiums full of people sing in unison. It’s emotion. It’s universal.”

Namjoon let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you have bad taste.”

And that’s how the next twenty minutes went—you defending Taehyung like your life depended on it, Namjoon waxing poetic about the depth of Jungkook’s music, while Lisa and her boyfriend snored in the back, completely unaware that a war was being fought in the front seat.

You were in it. Like, fully invested, hands gesturing, voice climbing in intensity, throwing out arguments like you were in the final round of a debate tournament where the fate of humanity depended on me proving that Taehyung was, in fact, a musical genius.

“And another thing,” I said, gripping the wheel, “Taehyung experiments. He doesn’t just stick to one sound. He does R&B, pop, rock, EDM—”

“Which is exactly my point,” Namjoon cut in. “Jungkook doesn’t need to jump genres because it already contains everything. It’s free, expressive—”

“Are you seriously trying to tell me that Taehyung isn’t expressive? That him pouring his entire soul into a song like Love me again isn’t—”

“TURN!”

“What?”

“TURN, NOW—”

At the last second, you realized you were about to blow right past our turn, and with reflexes you didn’t even know you had, you yanked the wheel. The car jerked into a sharp right, tires screeching slightly as we made it onto the street, and from the backseat came a thump—followed by a pair of miserable groans.

Glancing in the rearview mirror you see Lisa sprawled across Jeongsu, her face buried in his jacket, while Jeongsu blinked dazedly, looking like he’d just been yanked out of another dimension.

“Ughhh,” Lisa whined, slowly sitting up. “I think I died.”

Jeongsu just let out an unintelligible noise, rubbing his face.

You were contemplating whether to apologize—maybe even check if they were concussed—but Namjoon just shrugged, looking entirely unbothered. “Honestly,” he said, leaning back into his seat, “you did me a favor. Now I don’t have to wake Jeongsu up myself.”

You snorted. “Glad to be of service.”

A minute later, the car pulls up in front of an apartment building. Without hesitation, Namjoon popped open the door and hopped out with the ease of someone who wasn’t just involved in a vehicular near disaster. He turned back before shutting the door, resting an arm against the frame.

“It was nice meeting you,” he said, flashing an easy smile. “Hope I see you again.”

You raised a brow. “Oh? So, you can lose another argument? Carefully pick the topic, so far, it’s Y/N 3, Namjoon 0”

He laughed, shaking his head. “No, so I can give you Jungkook’s album.” He took a step back, grin widening. “Y’know. So, you can listen to good music.”

Before you could respond, he shut the door and walked off, hands supporting Jeongsu who mid walk decided he wanted to throw up before they disappeared into the building like that motherfucker hadn’t just dropped the most outrageous claim of the night.

You huffed, shaking my head, Taehyung’s voice still playing softly through the speakers.

“Good music,” you muttered. “Unbelievable.”

By the time you pull up to Lisa’s house, she is deep in her own world. Her head lolls against the window, her fingers tracing invisible shapes on the glass. She hums a song that only exists in her mind, and for a second, you wonder what it would be like to live in that universe—the one where melodies are only for you.

You don’t even bother trying to wake her up. That is a battle you have lost too many times before. Instead, you grab your phone and send a text to her brother.

You: Come get your sister. She’s out of it. Him: Ffs. Be there in a sec.

There is something strangely comforting about his immediate response. The universe is unpredictable, people are unpredictable, but the way Lisa’s brother always responds with exasperation and reluctant responsibility is as constant as gravity.

A minute later, the front door swings open, and there he is, looking every bit like a man who did not ask for the burden of siblinghood. He barely acknowledges your existence before yanking the car door open and extracting Lisa like she is luggage that has overstayed its welcome.

“She’s your problem now,” you say, rolling down the window.

“She’s always my problem. See you around Y/N.” he mutters before dragging her inside.

And then it is just you and the night, the clock blinking 3:00 AM, the streets too empty, too still, like the world has paused for a breath. You are tired, a little drunk, and full of thoughts that don’t quite fit inside your head. You drive home with Taehyung’s voice still pouring through the speakers, and the memory of a debate that should not have mattered still lingering like the aftertaste of something bittersweet.

When you pull into the driveway, you half-expect the house to be dark. Hoseok should be out, or asleep, or lost in one of his weird 3 AM routines. But when you step inside—not as quietly as you intended—there he is.

He sits in the living room, book in hand, legs crossed, looking so unbothered that it is almost offensive. His gaze flicks to you, and the corners of his mouth twitch with amusement.

“You look like a disaster,” he observes.

“Feel like one too,” you admit, kicking off your shoes with more force than necessary. One of them lands near the couch, the other... somewhere. “But I made it home, so I’d call that a win.”

Hoseok closes his book with a soft thump and tilts his head. “Was the night worth it?”

You hum, collapsing onto the couch. “Met an idiot.”

“That’s promising.”

“Some guy who thinks Jungkook’s songs are better than Taehyung’s.”

His lips twitch. “I mean… he’s not wrong.”

You sit up. “Excuse me?”

He bites his lip, clearly fighting back a laugh at your reaction. “I’m just saying—Jungkook’s recent songs? Way more emotional. Seven, Standing Next to You, —”

You gasp. “You’re siding with him? That motherfucker?”

Hoseok finally cracks, laughter spilling out of him like he’s been waiting for this moment all night. “Relax, I’m screwing with you,” he says, shaking his head. “They’re different. Taehyungs got that deep, jazzy, soul, stirring thing going on, but Jungkook’s been hitting emotions hard lately. So, for now… I gotta say, I agree with that motherfucker.”

You groan, flopping back onto the couch. “You’re all traitors.”

He just grins, reopening his book like this conversation was nothing but a minor detour in his night. Like he hasn’t just ruined yours all over again.

Just as your body begins to melt into the couch, Hoseok casually flips a page in his book and says, “Oh, and don’t forget. 8 AM sharp.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Can I sleep a little longer?”

He shakes his head, no hesitation, no mercy.

You sigh. “Got it, boss.”

Somehow, you make it to your room, kicking off your dress but not bothering with your skincare routine because sometimes survival takes priority over self-care. You collapse onto the bed, the ceiling swimming slightly above you, and just as sleep starts pulling you under, you remember him.

“Stupid Namjoon,” you mumble into the pillow.

And then, because the universe is cruel and irony is its favorite language, you catch yourself softly singing, oh I wish you could, love me again…

And that is the last thing you know before sleep wins.

___________

You sit in your chair, legs crossed, fingers idly tapping against your notepad, listening—or at least trying to listen—as Hoseok talks about the future. The meeting room is expensive in the way that all the entertainment industry rooms are; sleek, modern, designed to make you feel like something important is happening even if it isn’t. The air is still, heavy with focus, six other people seated around the table, nodding at the right moments, making notes like they already know what’s coming.

Hoseok is talking about projects. A world tour. Two full-length albums. Some kind of documentary. The words flow from him in that effortlessly composed way of his, like he has already seen the next six months play out and is simply relaying the highlights to the rest of you. You are half-listening, half-tracing patterns into the margin of your notes when he says world tour, and something in you straightens. There’s a kind of electricity in the phrase, a promise of movement, of change. You lean in slightly, waiting for him to elaborate—

And then, there’s a knock at the door.

Everything stops.

Six heads turn, the meeting collectively holding its breath as the door swings open, and they walk in.

Kim Taehyung moves like the kind of person who has never once questioned his place in a room. He steps in with the ease of someone who has always been watched, always been listened to, and never had reason to doubt it. His expression is unreadable but polite, his posture casual but controlled. His presence is a statement: I am here, and you are looking at me because that is what people do.

Behind him, Jungkook lingers in the doorway, half-hidden, a contrast in every possible way. Where Taehyung is effortless, Jungkook is hesitant. Where Taehyung moves with quiet confidence, Jungkook hesitates, raising a hand in a small, awkward wave at the staff like he’s both acknowledging and apologizing for his entrance. His sweater sleeves are too long, his stance uncertain, and yet, he is Jungkook, and so the room watches him anyway.

They take the seats directly across from you. You are not someone who gets nervous easily, but suddenly, you are hyperaware of yourself in the way that only happens when you are being seen.

Hoseok clears his throat, gestures toward you, and says, “This is our new addition to the team.”

And just like that, Jungkook and Taehyung’s gazes land on you with full force, the weight of them pressing into your skin like an unspoken question.

“Y/N is going to be working closely with the artists as our in, house psychologist,” Hoseok continues, his voice smooth, steady. “Her job is to evaluate your mental health and be available if you ever need someone to talk to. She’ll be present during some of your photoshoot, music video filming etc.”

A pause.

Then, Taehyung speaks first, his voice low and slow, measured like he’s tasting the words before saying them. “Interesting.” His gaze flickers over you, thoughtful, assessing. “I don’t think we’ve had something like this before.”

Jungkook, still fidgeting with the sleeve of his sweater, sneaks a glance at you before looking back down. “Do we—uh—have to do evaluations?”

You meet his gaze, offering what you hope is a reassuring smile. “Not if you don’t want to,” you say. “I’m just here if you ever need someone to talk to. No pressure.”

Jungkook nods slowly, considering this. Taehyung, however, is still watching you, his head tilted slightly like he’s trying to figure something out. “And what about you?” he asks.

You blink. “What about me?”

Taehyung leans forward just a little, just enough to make it feel deliberate. “You’re evaluating us. Who evaluates you?”

The question hangs in the air for half a second too long. Across from you, Jungkook looks mildly alarmed, like he wasn’t expecting that to be the follow-up. Hoseok lets out a quiet huff of laughter but doesn’t step in to rescue you.

Taehyung lets the question linger for a second before breaking into a slow grin, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I mean, if you ever need someone to evaluate you, I’m happy to volunteer. I have a lot of experience in pretending to be a therapist.”

There’s a brief pause before he flashes a boxy smile. “Just kidding.”

The room chuckles, and you exhale, relieved, but also dangerously close to losing your composure because Taehyung just joked with you. And then—like it’s nothing, like he isn’t one of the biggest artists in the world—he leans back, folds his arms, and says, “Welcome aboard.”

You nod, hoping you look professional and not like a fan who has just been personally acknowledged by their favorite artist. You manage a composed, “Thank you,” when all you really want to do is scream internally.

But then, Taehyung’s gaze shifts, and his attention slides toward Hoseok, brows raising. “Why do you look like you’re enjoying this way too much?”

You blink and follow his gaze.

And sure enough, Hoseok is sitting there, looking entirely too entertained, a telltale sparkle in his eyes that immediately sets off warning bells in your head. You know that look. You have seen that look. And then, all at once, it hits you.

Oh no.

Oh no no no no no.

Before you can stop it, warmth creeps up your neck, heat rushing to your face as last night’s conversation floods back into your memory. You resist the urge to slap a hand over your face.

Of course, Hoseok remembers.

Jungkook, having picked up on something, nudges Hoseok. “What?” he asks, eyes flicking between you two. “What discussion?”

Taehyung, perceptive as always, catches the shift in the atmosphere. His gaze sharpens, amusement dancing at the edges of his expression as he turns to you. “Yeah,” he drawls. “What discussion?”

You immediately shake your head, shrugging like this is the most uninteresting thing in the world. “Nothing important,” you say, waving a dismissive hand. “Just work stuff.”

But Taehyung is no fool. He narrows his eyes, leaning in ever so slightly. “Mm, I don’t believe you.”

“I second that,” Jungkook chimes in, nudging Hoseok again. “Just tell us.”

You shoot a desperate look at Hoseok, silently begging him to not say whatever he is clearly dying to say.

But Hoseok has never once been on your side.

He grins, leans forward, and with all the casual ease in the world, says, “Our dear psychologist here is actually a big fan of yours, Taehyung.”

Silence.

You swear the world stops spinning.

And then—then—Taehyung turns back to you, his eyes glinting with delight, and before you can prepare yourself, he smiles. A full, wide, boxy smile. “Oh?”

You are going to die.

“What’s your favorite song of mine?” he asks, resting his chin on his hand, like he’s actually enjoying this.

You contemplate lying. You contemplate running out of the room. You contemplate evaporating into the atmosphere and becoming one with the universe.

But in the end, you sigh and say, “Singularity.”

Taehyung claps.

“That’s it,” he announces, standing up only to plop himself in the empty seat next to you. “You are officially my new best friend. Hoseok is demoted.”

Hoseok lets out an exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest. “Betrayal.”

Jungkook and the others burst into laughter, and you—still red, still mortified—bury your face in your hands. Your job was supposed to be evaluating their mental health. Not losing yours.

Hoseok sighs like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, which, in some ways, he is. He rubs his temples, glances at the clock, and exhales with all the dramatic exhaustion of a man who just wants everyone to get their shit together. “Alright,” he says, clapping his hands once. “That’s it. Meeting adjourned. Everyone out.”

The room stirs, chairs scraping against the floor, people murmuring quick goodbyes, already half in their next task, their next obligation, their next responsibility. You sit still, watching as the world shifts around you, as the people dissolve into the hallway, until it’s just four of you left in the emptying space—Hoseok, Jungkook, Taehyung, and you.

And then, like a switch being flipped, the atmosphere changes.

The easy-going, quick-witted Hoseok you’ve spent the past 24 hours bickering with disappears, replaced by someone much sharper, much heavier. He leans forward, forearms resting on the table, fingers laced together like he’s about to say something that neither of them will like, but both of them need to hear.

Jungkook picks up on it immediately. His shoulders tense, his gaze flickering to Taehyung, whose lips curl into the ghost of a smirk. “You’re making this sound ominous,” Taehyung comments, voice light, like he’s trying to crack the tension before it has the chance to settle.

Hoseok doesn’t bite. “It is ominous,” he replies, voice even. “I need both of you to understand that this, this isn’t just for show.” He nods toward you. “This isn’t just for some PR stunt to make the company look good. It’s serious.”

Jungkook stays quiet. Taehyung, on the other hand, tilts his head. “You’re acting like we’ve never had therapy before.”

Hoseok’s expression darkens slightly, his fingers tightening against each other. “There have been too many tragedies in this industry,” he says, softer now, but heavier. “Too many avoidable tragedies. I’m not taking chances with either of you.”

Silence stretches for a beat too long. Jungkook shifts in his seat, but there’s something else in his eyes now, something grateful. “I get it,” he says finally. “And... thank you. For caring.”

Taehyung, still watching Hoseok, finally leans back. The teasing edge to his voice has softened. “Yeah,” he murmurs, before flicking his gaze to you with something dangerously close to amusement. “And, y’know, in advance—thank you for whatever trouble I end up causing you.”

You snort. “I’ll start emotionally preparing now.”

Hoseok shakes his head but doesn’t stop the small smirk that appears on his face. And then, as if physically unable to linger in sentimentality for too long, he claps his hands together and stands. “Alright, back to work. Jungkook, go check on the lyrics team. I want an update on the album.”

Jungkook nods, already halfway to the door.

“And Taehyung,” Hoseok continues, stretching his arms overhead, “makeup team. There are paparazzi waiting outside, and we need to make sure you look flawless when they inevitably get pictures of you walking into rehearsal.”

Taehyung sighs, stretching dramatically. “Ah, yes. The burden of being internationally beautiful.”

Jungkook scoffs on his way out. Hoseok rolls his eyes. You just stare at the ceiling, wondering how exactly you ended up in this specific moment of your life.

And then—

“Oh,” Hoseok adds, almost as an afterthought. “You’re going with Taehyung to the Gucci show tonight.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

Taehyung gasps, clutching his chest. “You think I’d cause a scandal?”

Hoseok just gives him a long, unimpressed stare.

Taehyung grins. “Okay, fair.”

And as Jungkook laughs on his way out, and Taehyung winks at you before striding after him, and Hoseok smirks like he’s enjoying your suffering way too much.

After the meeting you went down to the accounting office to settle the additional paperwork, they needed in order for you to officially call yourself their employer. The amount paperwork between you and them was by far larger than you had initially anticipated. Before you know it, thirty minutes passed quickly and you began to make your way down to the makeup team to check on Taehyung, only to find an empty chair and the makeup artist also gone. 

You run through the company halls like you’re being chased, which, in some poetic way, you are except instead of a masked murderer or your crippling existential dread, it’s the very real possibility of being fired by Hoseok before you even make it a full week. 

You skid around a corner, narrowly avoiding a poor intern carrying a tower of papers. “Sorry!” you yell over your shoulder, but you don’t slow down. You can’t. Because Taehyung, who was supposed to be in hair and makeup thirty minutes ago, is nowhere to be found, and you’re about three seconds away from losing your mind.

In the middle of your search for Taehyung, you bumped into Hoseok who was going on and about with his work.  Amidst ragged breaths, you manage to shoot Hoseok a look that, in a perfect world, would set him on fire. “Why,” you wheeze, “why did you think this should be part of my job?”

He, who has the audacity to look entirely unbothered, doesn’t even glance up from his phone.

“Because” he says simply, “as much as Taehyung is sunshine and laughter and poetic Instagram captions, he’s also someone who gets anxious in group settings. He hides it well, but it’s there.” Finally, he does look at you, and the teasing in his voice fades into something softer, more serious. “I want you to keep an eye on him. Make sure he gets used to the spotlight without it swallowing him whole.”

And you-well. What are you supposed to say to that?

So, with renewed determination (or at least the fear of failure fueling you), you spend the next fifteen minutes asking every living, breathing soul in the building if they’ve seen Kim Taehyung. Most of them haven’t. One guy claims he saw him heading toward the parking lot, and, considering your other options are “continue running in circles” or “give up and accept your fate,” you bolt in that direction.

And that’s where you find him.

Taehyung is leaning against the van, cigarette pinched between two fingers, the other hand typing something on his phone. His posture is relaxed, his expression unreadable, and when he looks up and sees you, he doesn’t seem to register your near mental breakdown. Instead, he waves, casual, oblivious to the fact that you’ve searched high and low for him like some tragic protagonist in a Greek myth.

You march toward him, stopping just short of actually shaking him by the shoulders. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”

Taehyung hums, completely unfazed. Then, as if just remembering, he flicks the cigarette away and steps on it. “Oh?”

“Oh? Oh?” You throw your hands up. “You were supposed to be waiting for me after you’re done with makeup. Which was thirty minutes ago.”

Taehyung shrugs. “I forgot plus I was busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

But instead of answering, he reaches out, plucks your phone straight from your pocket with the smoothness of a seasoned thief, and—unlocks it.

You blink. “Did you just—”

“Kudos to you for not having a password,” he says, and before you can respond, he’s already typing. Then, with one final tap, he hands your phone back. “There. Now you have my number. And I have yours.”

You glance at the screen. He’s called himself from your phone, meaning his contact info is now saved in yours. You don’t know whether to be impressed or horrified.

Before you can decide, the driver leans out of the van, expression tight. “We’re on a schedule.”

Right. The Gucci event.

You sigh, opening the van door. “Come on, troublemaker,” you mutter.

Taehyung grins, like he’s already decided that’s his new favorite nickname, and follows you inside. The drive to the venue is brief, the kind of brief that makes you wonder if time has conspired against you, speeding up when you least want it to. You barely have a moment to steel yourself before the van pulls up to the entrance, and suddenly, the outside world is a hurricane of flashing lights and deafening screams.

It’s a sensory overload—like stepping into the eye of a storm only to realize the storm doesn’t have an eye at all, just chaos stretching infinitely in every direction. Taehyung doesn’t flinch. Instead, he flips open his front camera, checking himself with the kind of practiced ease that suggests this is just another Tuesday to him. 

He tilts his head, smirks at his reflection, and then, as if sensing your nerves, winks at you. "Don’t worry,” he says, tucking his phone away. “This time, I’ll actually go to makeup.”

And then he’s stepping out, and the moment he does, the flashes ignite like fireworks, the screams surge to new heights, and security moves like a well, rehearsed dance, closing around him before the crowd can swallow him whole. You watch, stunned, as he walks through it like it’s nothing, like he’s built for this, like the weight of thousands of eyes and camera lenses isn’t crushing at all.

The driver clears his throat, breaking you from your daze. "Personnel takes the back entrance," he informs you, already pulling away from the chaos.

You exhale, nodding. Right. The back entrance. The place for people who don’t belong in the spotlight.

Inside, the venue is its own brand of madness—less frenzied, more controlled, but madness all the same. Models flit between stations, stylists tug at garments, makeup artists wield brushes with the precision of master painters. The air buzzes with tension, last, minute adjustments, whispered commands into headsets. Everything is in motion, a world spinning on an axis of beauty and precision.

You clutch the paper Hoseok gave you, scanning for 7—Taehyung’s station. You weave through clusters of people, dodging models draped in expensive fabrics, until you spot him in front of a mirror, a makeup artist dusting powder across his already flawless skin.

You call his name, and he glances up, meeting your gaze in the reflection. There’s something unreadable in his expression—half amusement, half something quieter, something almost grateful. He doesn’t say anything, just offers you a small, knowing smile.

You take a seat with the rest of Hoseok’s crew, watching as the final touches are applied to him. And you think, for all his effortless confidence, for all his ease under the crushing weight of the world’s attention, maybe even Taehyung isn’t immune to needing someone to see him—not as an idol or a model or a public figure, but just as himself.

The show unravels like a dream, or maybe a fever, or maybe both. The kind where you’re half-aware that reality is slipping, but you let it anyway because it’s beautiful, because it’s loud, because the air is thick with the scent of expensive cologne and camera flashes and anticipation.

Your phone buzzes. Hoseok.

Hoseok: Front row. Where are you?

You: Backstage. Trying not to lose my mind.

Hoseok: Try harder.

You don’t have time to roll your eyes before Taehyung materializes in front of you, dressed in a suit that looks like it was forged in the heart of some celestial fire. Gold drapes across his body like it belongs there, like it isn’t real fabric but something molten, something permanent. The jacket is undone, just enough to suggest he knows exactly what he’s doing, exactly how many headlines this will make.

You gesture vaguely at his exposed chest. “A little breezy, don’t you think?”

Taehyung presses a hand to his sternum, mock scandalized. “Are you starting your evaluation already?”

You shake your head. “Just wondering if you ever feel like... you have no control over your own body.”

And it happens so fast you almost miss it—the half-second where his smile falters, where his eyes dim just slightly, where something flickers across his face that is neither playful nor performative. But then it’s gone, like it was never there to begin with, swallowed by the mask he’s worn so well for so long.

“It’s part of the job,” he says, and it should sound reassuring, but it doesn’t.

Then, his name is called, and the moment evaporates. He turns to leave, but you call after him, holding up a thumbs up. He grins, boyish and bright, and returns the gesture before disappearing into the flood of models and designers and people who exist in worlds far shinier than yours.

And then the show moves forward, like a machine, like a well-oiled and impossibly beautiful thing. Music swells. Lights shift. Models emerge and disappear, their bodies telling stories stitched into fabric worth more than most people’s apartments. From backstage, you watch Taehyung walk as if he was created for this moment alone.

Before you know it, it’s over. Applause fills the space like an ocean crashing against rocks, and backstage morphs into a whirlwind of congratulations and quick costume changes and people exhaling for the first time in hours.

Somewhere in the chaos, Hoseok appears. He leans against a table, casual, amused. “Looked like you were enjoying yourself back here.”

You grab Taehyung’s shirt from the rack, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, well. Someone has to make sure your golden boy doesn’t spontaneously combust.”

The two of you work in silence, packing up Taehyung’s things with the efficiency of people who have done this kind of thing a hundred times before, even though you haven’t. Hoseok moves with practiced ease, folding designer clothes like they’re casual t-shirts, slipping shoes into their dust bags, checking for anything left behind. 

You mimic him as best as you can, though your version is noticeably sloppier. Hoseok is shoving the last of Taehyung’s things into the trunk with the kind of efficiency that makes you wonder if, in some alternate timeline, he was a personal assistant instead of a CEO.

The van sits idling in the cold night air, and the driver—who has probably seen enough chaos to last him a lifetime—mutters something about needing to get the front desk guy to open the gate before disappearing into the night. Which leaves you and Hoseok alone.

You cross your arms. “Where’s Taehyung?”

Hoseok doesn’t look up as he zips a bag shut. “Left with his friends. Grabbing a drink or two.”

You groan. Because, of course, he did. Because it is entirely within Taehyung’s brand of chaos to disappear right when you think you have him figured out. But before you can say anything, Hoseok straightens, dusts off his hands, and says, too casually, “By the way, there’s an investor dinner this Saturday.”

You blink. “And?”

“And” he continues, “it would be weird if my wife didn’t attend.”

You let out a noise that is somewhere between a sigh and a death rattle. “Hose—”

“Look, I know you hate these things—”

“Hate is an understatement,” you grumble.

“—but it’s important. And, you know, appearances.”

You groan again, but this time, the sound is cut off by a voice behind you, smooth and curious.

“Wife?”

You and Hoseok jump like you’ve been caught committing a federal crime.

Taehyung stands there, watching you both with that unreadable expression of his, hands tucked into the pockets of his ridiculously expensive coat. He tilts his head slightly, and in the dim glow of the parking lot, he looks like a Renaissance painting, all soft shadows and sharp features. “Did I hear that right?” he muses. “You’re married?”

Hoseok exhales, pressing his fingers to his temple like he’s already developing a headache. “Shouldn’t you be out with your friends?”

Taehyung lifts a hand, dangling his phone between two fingers. “Left it in the car.” Then he looks straight at Hoseok. “And you never said you got married.”

You do the only reasonable thing in this situation, which is: say absolutely nothing and let Hoseok deal with it.

Hoseok, to his credit, doesn’t fumble. “I am married,” he admits, voice even. “But it’s for… a lot of reasons.”

There’s a flicker of something in Taehyung’s expression. It’s gone in a second, but you see it, that brief moment where something unspoken, something heavier than curiosity crosses his face. “And” he says, slow and deliberate, “none of them were because of love, right?”

Hoseok shifts. “It’s complicated.”

Taehyung hums, rolling the words around his tongue as if tasting them. He looks at you for the first time since this conversation started, and you feel like he’s seeing something you don’t even understand about yourself yet. The weight of it makes your stomach twist. But then he just nods, something close to acceptance in his gaze. “I suppose it’s none of my business.”

Hoseok exhales, relief creeping into his posture. “I’d prefer if you kept it that way.”

Taehyung gives a small, lopsided smile, one that feels just a little too sad to be real. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul.”

He pockets his phone, murmurs a quiet goodnight, and walks off. And you stand there, watching his silhouette disappear into the night, feeling a shift in the air that you can’t quite explain.

If only you knew—if only you had felt it—this was the moment everything started unraveling.

You and Hoseok stand there in the quiet, the kind of quiet that feels like it has something to say. The van is still idling, its open trunk like an unfinished sentence. Neither of you rush to fill the silence. It just lingers, stretching between you like an unanswered question.

Finally, Hoseok sighs, rubs the back of his neck, and nods toward the van. “I’ll drop you home.” And then, to the driver, “Take Taehyung’s stuff to the company.”

The drive is slow, the kind of slow that makes you notice things you wouldn’t normally—how the streetlights flicker, how the neon signs smear against the rain-slick pavement, how the world feels both impossibly large and suffocatingly small all at once. You stare out the window, trying not to think about the way Taehyung had looked at you back there, like he had figured something out before you had even begun to understand it yourself.

And maybe it’s that thought, or maybe it’s just the exhaustion settling into your bones, but you find yourself asking, “Why did you tell him?”

Hoseok doesn’t look at you, but there’s something thoughtful about the way his fingers tap against the steering wheel. “Lying would’ve made it messier,” he says eventually. “And I trust him.”

You glance at him. “You sure about that?”

He smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not even a little bit.”

That, somehow, makes you feel slightly better.

When he pulls up in front of your building, he doesn’t kill the engine. Just turns to you with an expression that’s dangerously close to fondness. “I’ve got work to do. Won’t be home tonight.”

You unbuckle your seatbelt and raise an eyebrow. “Should I assume that’s code for ‘I’m sleeping with someone else tonight’?”

Hoseok grins. “Correct.”

You sigh, dramatically. “And here I thought our fake marriage was built on trust.”

“Oh, it is. It’s just also built on me occasionally ditching you for real dates.”

You roll your eyes, pushing the door open, but before you can step out, he adds, “You should date too.”

You pause. “What?”

He shrugs. “You know. Find someone. Maybe that motherfucker you got into a whole music debate with.”

It takes you a second. “From the bar last night?”

“Yeah. Go out with him.”

“I don’t even have his number.”

Hoseok shakes his head in mock disappointment. “Tragic.” Then, just before you shut the door, he adds, “By the way—you did good today.”

You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s driving off, disappearing into the night like a plot twist you didn’t see coming. And for a moment, you just stand there, the city buzzing around you, the weight of the day finally catching up. Then, your phone rings.

A message from Yoongi.

"We need to talk."

The thing about those words is that they’re never the beginning of something good.

You stare at the words on your screen like they have the power to rearrange your life. It’s not that you don’t love your brother—you do, in the way that people love things that have always been there, like gravity or existential dread—but you also know that whatever he has to say is going to make your night significantly worse. Still, obligation wins over self-preservation, so you call.

It rings once. Twice. Then he picks up, and instead of Yoongi’s voice, you’re greeted by the deep bass of a club, the kind that makes your ribcage vibrate even through the phone. There’s a clinking of glasses, some distant shouting, and then finally—

“If you’re at a club,” you say, “was this really that important?”

Yoongi exhales like you are the source of every headache he’s ever had. “I was out when I got the news.”

You sigh, leaning back against the couch. “What news?”

He doesn’t answer right away, which is already a bad sign. Somewhere behind him, the song changes, something fast and electric. Then he says, “One of my friends saw you backstage at the Gucci show. With Hoseok’s staff.”

You blink. “And?”

There’s a pause long enough to be damning. “And?” he repeats, incredulous. “Do you have any idea how that looks?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Like I was working?”

“No,” he snaps. “Like you were doing someone else’s dirty work. That’s a job for the lower class, and you—”

Ah. There it is.

“—are a Min. You don’t do things like that.”

The laugh that bubbles up in your throat is less humour and more disbelief. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not,” he says, voice sharper now. “Is Hoseok making you do this?”

Your patience is unravelling like a loose thread. “That’s none of your business, but for the record no. I volunteered.”

For once, Yoongi doesn’t argue. “No, it’s not. But it is father’s business.”

And there it is, the real reason for this call. The real weight pressing against your chest.

Yoongi sighs, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, like he knows you already understand. “You know he barely let you marry Hoseok. You know he’s going to be furious.”

Yeah. You do.

But right now, you don’t have the energy to care.

So, you take a breath, slow and deep, and then you hang up, ignoring the way Yoongi says your name like he’s trying to stop something from slipping through his fingers. You silence your phone, toss it somewhere across the couch, and let yourself sink into the quiet of your house, the weight of the night settling over you like a promise you’re not ready to keep.

[mochii0park]

Next summer kth I jhs

Genre: Strangers to Lovers I Arranged Marriage

Pairing: Kim Taehyung x Min Reader x Jung Hosek 

Synopsis: In the Min family, a member’s worth is judged by how well they please the elders. To escape your constraints, you agree to an arranged marriage with chaebol heir Jung Hoseok. After striking a deal with the CEO of Hope Entertainment, you try to reshape your life. However, your life becomes an entanglement web of interactions with one of the idols, Kim Taehyung. Your alliance with your husband and your freedom hang in the balance as you break the crucial rule of your contract: never get involved with anyone from your significant other’s social circle, especially coworkers.

Author's note: This is rewritten Maybe I Probably

Release date:  3rd of March 2025

Taglist: if anyone wants to be tagged when the one shot goes out pls send me an ask, a message or a comment on this post

Masterlist:

Chapter one - From Min to Jung

Chapter two - Sokcho

Chapter three - Griffin bar and three dollar burgers (10th of March)

Chapter four - From Busan to Osaka ( 15th of March)

More chapters to come ...

[mochii0park]

Don't speak; pjm - Amnesia; 01

Title: Don't speak

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Genre: angst I fluff

Pairing: doctor!reader x businessman!jimin

Warning: So far none but second part will contain smut

Word count: 13.8k

Taglist: @haru-jimiin @maruuchann @graydolan12 @fancypeacepersona @jiminismine4ever @talgiminmin @ukndtwme @purplebeebs @wobblewobble822 @jjkluver7 @polnaraffsrack @santhimariyanbu @bangtan4lifetypeshit @lanyia

(for some reason some tag work some seem to not work?)

Songs to listen to: Wildflower (Billie Eilish), Number one girl (Rose), No sad song for my broken heart (K. Will), Love wins all (IU), My all (Mariah Carey), Hate you (Jungkook), Cindy lou who (Sabrina Carpenter)

Chapter list: ONE - TWO - THREE

Masterlist

The hospital at night transforms into a realm all its own; hushed yet vibrantly alive. The rhythmic beeping of monitors punctuates the air while the soft murmurs of nurses fill the dimly lit corridors. In the on-call room, you lie on the narrow bed, your body spread out but unable to find a comfortable position. Staring at the stained ceiling, sleep feels like a distant luxury, fleeting and just beyond your grasp. 

The ghost of the surgery you performed just hours earlier looms heavy in your mind—the intricate dance of sutures held taut, the charged atmosphere as you clamped a vessel, narrowly averting disaster at the last moment. You can still recall the fleeting panic when the patient’s heartbeat faltered, an alarming silence before the reassuring thrum of stabilization coursed back through the monitors. Even now, the phantom weight of the scalpel rests in your hand, the memory of urgent voices from the operating room echoing in your ears like a haunting lullaby.

You turn onto your side, then back again, as the stiff pillow offers little relief from the weight pressing against your chest. The air is a mix of antiseptic and dirty socks, while exhaustion clings to your bones with an intensity that feels overwhelming.  Despite your body's weariness, your mind races in relentless circles. In the operating room, there was a moment—a flicker of hesitation—when you thought of him, an unwelcome intrusion into your focus. 

Just as you begin to sink into sleep, your phone vibrates against the bedside table, shattering the silence of the night. Heart racing, you reach for it instinctively, glancing at the unknown number that flashes on the screen. “Dr. Y/L speaking,” you manage to say, your voice thick with fatigue yet clinging to a thread of professionalism. A pause stretches on the line, heavy with unspoken words.

 Then, a voice cuts through—deep, familiar. “It’s me, Y/N. Namjoon.”

Your fingers tighten around the phone, a lifeline in a sea of memories. Namjoon. The golden boy of The Seoul Main Hospital, renowned neurosurgeon with hands so steady they could perform miracles. You remember those late-night coffees in the residents' lounge, the way you both argued playfully over patient charts as fatigue gnawed at your resolve. You would swap tired smiles at dawn after long, demanding surgeries, a bond forged in the fires of shared exhaustion. Once, he was a friend, a confidant. But that was two years ago— a different hospital, a different time, and a version of you that feels as distant as a fading photograph.

“Namjoon?” you echo, tasting his name, trying to ground yourself. “Why are you calling me?”

"I—" His voice falters, hesitant, each word seemingly laced with nervousness. He exhales sharply; the sound weighted with the kind of gravity that instantly raises the hairs on your arms. "I didn’t know if I should call you, but I figured you needed to hear it from me." a cold dread settled in your stomach. 

"Hear what?"

There’s a pause, heavy and deliberate

Namjoon's sigh feels like it carries the weight of the world with it. You can almost visualize him, pinching the bridge of his nose in that familiar gesture, a sign that something terrible is about to be revealed. "It’s Jimin. He was in an accident tonight."

Your heart stumbles, a lead weight dropping into the pit of your chest. Jimin's name lands like a devastating blow, stirring emotions you thought were long buried. It’s been a long time since you allowed his name to pass your lips, longer since you permitted yourself to dwell on it. The world outside blurs and tips sideways. You force yourself upright, fingers digging into the fabric of your scrubs as if that might anchor you.

“A bad one,” he continues, his voice taking on a softer tone, laden with what feels too much like sympathy. “Blunt force trauma to the head. He woke up... but he doesn’t remember the last five years.”

Five years.

Your mind races, scrambling to connect the dots, counting back through the years. Five years ago, you were still at Seoul Main Hospital, lost in the chaos of residency. Five years ago, you were still signing your name as Park Y/N—still tethered to him, still his wife. Five years ago, he still loved you with a fierceness that colored every moment you shared.

Your grip on the phone intensifies to the point where your knuckles whitening from the pressure. “What do you mean he doesn’t remember?”

It takes all in you not to cringe from the simplicity of the question, after all you are a doctor yourself, a surgeon nevertheless so you knew what memory loss meant but in such situation, you let the mundane side of you speak.

“He thinks it’s 2021.” Namjoon’s voice is careful, each word measured. “In his mind, you two just got married. He doesn’t remember the divorce. Doesn’t remember you leaving. The hospital, his friends— even himself, to some extent— are all fragments he’s struggling to piece together. But there’s one thing he’s certain about.”

You already know the answer before he says it, and still your chest tightens painfully when he does.

“You.”

A sharp breath escapes you, shaky and uneven. Your free hand rises, pressing against your forehead as if that might stop the flood of memories rushing in. The late-night drives with music too loud, the stolen kisses during shifts, the whispered promises that turned brittle and broke. The fights. The silence. The emptiness. You had buried it all— stitched yourself back together with time and distance.

But now?

Now, Jimin is waiting for you. Calling your name in a hospital room you swore you’d never set foot in again, a place that feels like a ghost haunting from the past.

Namjoon speaks again, his voice softer this time, as if to cushion the weight of his words. “I know this is a lot. I wouldn’t bring it up if it wasn’t necessary. But he’s struggling, Y/N. And right now, the only person who can make sense of this for him is you.”

You shake your head, even though he can’t see you. “I don’t—” Your voice catches on the rawness in your throat. “I don’t know if I can do this, Namjoon.”

There’s a moment of silence and when he finally speaks, his tone is imbued with a gentleness that makes your chest ache all the more. “I get it. But I also know you. You’d never turn your back on someone who needs you, no matter how hard it is to face the past. And like it or not, Jimin needs you.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut, but it does nothing to stop the burning behind them.

The call ends, but the silence left behind is deafening. The weight of Namjoon’s words settles into your bones, unraveling years of carefully built distance. Pulling you back to a time and place you swore you’d never return to.

Jimin doesn’t remember.

To him, you are still his wife.

You press the heels of your palms against your forehead, willing yourself to breathe, to think. But how can you, when the past has just clawed its way back into your life without warning? You should say no. You should stay here, in this hospital where no one calls you Miss Park. Where no one looks at you and sees only the action that led to your downfall. 

But Jimin needs you. And despite everything, despite the years and the pain and the reasons you left, you don’t know how to turn your back on him.

It takes a long time to come to terms with it, long enough that dawn begins to creep into the night, washing the world in pale blue light. You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall, the decision forming in the spaces between your breath.  Before you can change your mind, you grab your coat and keys, pushing the sane part of your brain as you make your way to the parking lot.

The drive to hospital is painfully familiar. Each turn, each street, each stoplight carries the ghosts of a life you abandoned. The café where you used to meet Jimin between shifts. The intersection where you once argued about something so trivial you can’t even remember it now, but you remember the way he pulled you close afterward, murmuring an apology against your temple.

With every mile, the ache grows heavier. By the time the hospital comes into view, it feels like it’s sitting in your throat, impossible to swallow. Seoul Main Hospital looms just as it always has—tall, pristine, a monument to both miracles and tragedies. You sit in the car for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, trying to steady yourself. But there’s no preparing for this, no way to brace against the flood of memories pressing in from all sides. Then, before you can convince yourself to turn around, you step out and walk through the entrance.

The scent of lavender hits you first—so achingly familiar it almost knocks the breath out of you. The same nurses at the front desk, the same hum of machines, the same too-bright fluorescent lights. Time has moved forward, but Seoul Main hasn’t changed. And neither have the people.

You don’t make it far before you nearly collide with someone rounding the corner. Strong hands catch your arms, steadying you before you can stumble, and then—

“Y/N?”

Your heart drops.

Taemin.

Of all the people to run into, it had to be him.

His dark eyes widen, surprise flickering across his face before something softer takes its place. His mouth parts as he takes you in, two years apart condensed into a single-breathless moment. He looks almost the same. Sharp lines, composed stance, but there’s weariness there now, a carefulness in the way he regards you. 

You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat. Because Taemin isn’t just an old friend. He isn’t just your former coworker.

He was there.

He was with you that night, standing there as the world came undone. He saw it all. The moment you hesitated, the precise second the weight of it all crashed down on you. The moment you lost not only the battle, but your husband. Your career. The life you had built from the ground up.

And now, standing in front of him again, it feels like no time has passed at all.

“Y/N,” Taemin says again, softer this time. “You came.”

You swallow hard, barely nodding. “I… I heard about Jimin.”

His expression shifts to sympathy. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It’s… complicated.”

You huff out a bitter laugh. “It always is, isn’t it?”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The hospital buzzes around you, doctors and nurses moving past, conversations blending into background noise. But between you and Taemin, the past stretches, heavy and unspoken.

Then, finally, he sighs. “Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the elevators. “He’s been asking for you.”

And just like that, there’s no turning back.

The elevator ride to the third floor is silent, but the weight of it is deafening. Taemin stands beside you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his white coat, his gaze forward, unreadable. You don’t ask questions, not yet. You’re still trying to steady yourself, still trying to make sense of the fact that you’re here at all.

The doors slide open with a soft chime, revealing a hallway much quieter than the rest of the hospital. You immediately notice the difference, no nurses rushing between rooms, no patients wheeling IV stands across the linoleum floors. It’s eerily still. Private. Of course it is. Jimin’s parents wouldn’t allow anything less.

As Taemin leads you forward, your eyes land on the small group gathered just outside a room. Namjoon stands among them, his voice low and tense, a worry etched deeply across his brow. Beside him, Mr. and Mrs. Park cling to each other, their faces drawn and weary, shadows of concern weighing heavily on their features. Yet it’s the woman slightly apart from them that causes your breath to catch in your throat.

She’s around your age, long blond hair, dressed in a simple blouse and skirt, her hands wrung tightly in front of her. There’s an unmistakable sadness in her posture, the way her shoulders shake just slightly as Namjoon speaks. Taemin slows his steps, as if sensing the exact moment, you realize who she is.

 He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, before saying, carefully, “That’s Rose. Jimin’s girlfriend.”

The name hits harder than it should.

Rose.

Your fingers tighten around the straps of your bang, a thousand emotions colliding all at once. It’s not jealousy—no, it’s something messier, something you can’t quite name. You’re trying to understand her, this woman who loves the same man you do, the woman who is grieving him in a similar manner you had two years ago. She has every right to be here. More than you do, even. And yet, the moment your eyes settle on the way she wipes at her tears, the way Namjoon’s expression remains firm but gentle, something uneasy knots in your chest.

“He doesn’t remember her,” Taemin says quietly, as if reading your mind. “He only remembers you.”

You don’t know what to do with that.

Before you can even process it, Namjoon looks up and sees you. His lips part slightly, relief flickering across his face. Mr. and Mrs. Park turn next, their expressions unreadable, a mix of emotions so tangled you can’t decipher them. Then Rose looks up and everything stills.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you, staring at each other across the distance, across the years neither of you shared but are now inexplicably tied to. Her eyes, still glistening with unshed tears, widen ever so slightly at the sight of you. Yet, there is no animosity in her gaze. No fury lies beneath the surface. Instead, you find an unexpected understanding, aa quiet sorrow.

She knows who you are. 

Of course she does.

And yet, none of them say anything at first. The air between you all is thick with grief, resentment, and lastly relief. His parents stand rigid and unreadable, their gazes flickering between you and the closed door. His mother’s lips are pressed together, her hands clutched in front of her as if she doesn’t know whether to reach for you or recoil. His father, ever the composed figure, only nods stiffly in acknowledgment.

It has been years since you last laid eyes on them since that fateful night when you signed the divorce papers, convinced that walking away was the antidote for both you and Jimin. You had hoped, perhaps naively, that he would find his path to happiness without you. Yet, here you stand, summoned back into a life you both loved and hated.

Finally, Namjoon sighs and glances toward the door. “We had to sedate him. When we tried to explain what happened these past five years, the divorce and all. He just wouldn’t accept it and completely lost it. We had no choice.”

You understood but you couldn’t help but feel sadness and pity for how it all went down. You prayed, as you drove to the hospital, that in a far lighter scenario he would just accept the current situation.  You steal a glance at his parents, searching for something—blame, sorrow, anger. But all you find is exhaustion, their shoulders drooping under the weight of the current events. Jimin’s mother finally speaks, her voice quiet but raw. “He keeps asking for you.”

There’s no accusation in her tone only an invitation, laced with the heartache of a mother witnessing her child suffer. Your love fell apart. Harsh words were spoken, one that tore the matrimony you once swore by. However, in the fractured corners of his mind, you are still the person he reaches for.

A sharp ache stabs at your chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. The hallway feels smaller, the walls pressing in. The past and present fold into each other, tangled and inescapable. A long time ago you had so much to tell them, beg for their forgiveness but now it all felt empty. Stretched and overdue. 

Finally, you exhale, forcing down the turmoil clawing at your ribs. “Take me to him.”

Just as Namjoon reaches for the door handle, a soft voice cuts through the tension. “Y/N.”

You freeze.

Jimin’s mother steps forward, her face carrying years of quiet strength, but now, it’s lined sorrw. A sorrow that is not just for her son, but for you too. Her lips tremble slightly as she looks at you, and when she reaches out, her fingers barely graze your arm, hesitant, unsure if she still has the right.

“Thank you for coming,” she says, “I know this isn’t easy for you. And I know… I know how things ended between you and Jimin. But you were my daughter once. And I never stopped—” She cuts herself off, pressing her lips together, shaking her head as if willing herself not to say more.

You stand there, awash in her words, unsure how to respond. Each syllable settles in your chest like stones, weighing you down into a part of yourself that had once ached to hear such affirmation. You had lost so much more than a husband; you had lost a family, a sense of belonging. You try to speak, but nothing comes out.

And then there’s Jimin’s father.

He hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t even properly looked at you except when you arrived. But you can feel it in the way his gaze remains fixed somewhere beyond you, as if acknowledging this whole charade would be too much. But he doesn’t leave. He doesn’t dismiss you. And that, in itself, is enough to tell you that despite everything, despite the past, despite the divorce, he is grateful. Even if he will never say it.

You swallow against the lump in your throat and give Jimin’s mother a small nod before turning back to Namjoon. “Let’s go in.”

The door opens with a quiet creak, and the moment you step inside, the air shifts.

The room is dim, the soft glow of the heart monitor casting faint shadows against the white walls. It’s quiet, save for the steady rhythm of beeping machines and the slow, measured breaths of the man lying in the hospital bed.

Jimin.

For a moment, all you can do is stare.

He’s changed.

The last time you saw him, he had been drowning in anger, exhaustion present on his face, coldness in his eyes cutting you in half. Certain bitterness laced in every word he threw your way just to break you apart. He had been a man hardened by betrayal, by the weight of something that neither of you had been able to fix. His once short black hair has grown out, falling just past his ears, dyed a striking silver. The very color you had once told him would suit him. You don’t know if it’s a cruel coincidence or some distant echo of your past influence, but the sight of it makes something in your chest tighten.

He’s thinner, but not in the way that suggests neglect. His features are more refined, more mature, as if the years have shaped him into someone softer, calmer. He looks—

Healthy.

Happier.

Or at least, he had been. The thought makes your stomach twist. As you step closer, the slight movement stirs him. His brows knit together for a moment, and then, slowly, his eyelids flutter open. You barely have time to brace yourself before his gaze lands on you. And just like that, time stops. For a single breath, neither one of you move. You expect confusion. Uncertainty. Maybe even the remnants of sedation dulling his awareness but instead, what you see makes the air leave your lungs.

Love.

It’s clear, as bright as day, as if the last five years never happened. As if the last time he looked at you wasn’t with coldness and hate, but with the warmth of a man still deeply, undeniably in love with his wife. And it’s that, more than anything, makes your chest ache for the contrast is too much. The last picture of Jimin that nested itself in your mind, was of him turning his back and walking away with a lawyer hot at his tail, not even sparing you a second glance.

But now?

Now, he’s looking at you like you’re his world. Like he still belongs to you, and you to him.

Your hands tremble at your sides.

And all you can think is—

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

The moment Jimin’s gaze fully registers you, his entire face lights up, and a breathless, disbelieving laugh escapes him. His eyes sparkle as he laughs again, wet and shaky, before turning to Namjoon with something akin to relief, as if he had been drowning and was finally coming up for air.

“You see? You see, Namjoon?” His voice is hoarse, thick with tears that haven’t yet fallen. “I told you; you were crazy. You were all crazy! How could you even suggest that Y/N and I divorced? Look at her—” He turns back to you, drinking you in like a man who had been lost in the dark for years and had finally found his light. “She’s here. Standing right in front of me. Like an angel.”

The way he says it, with so much conviction, so much certainty, grows buds of sadness in your chest.  Jimin doesn’t know. 

Jimin doesn’t remember. 

You try to remind yourself when he blinks suddenly, as if something just occurred to him, his brows furrowing slightly. “But… why aren’t you wearing scrubs?” His fingers brush against the fabric of your coat, as if checking to see if his eyes are deceiving him. 

“Did you come from home? No, wait, that doesn’t make sense. You work late night shifts. Why would you? Wouldn’t you visit me soo—”

And before you can stop him, before you can pull away, he takes your hands in his, pressing them firmly between his palms as if to ground himself. The warmth of his skin sears through you, and then—

A kiss.

Soft. Reverent. Planted right on the top of your embraced hands.

You nearly recoil, but you can’t. You can’t.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” Jimin murmurs, his voice thick with emotion, his lips still lingering against your skin. “I missed you.”

The storm inside you rages, but you force yourself to smile, to swallow down the nausea creeping up your throat. Because this isn’t about you. This is about him.

He rambles, his words tumbling out one after another, unstoppable, like a dam breaking. His love is overwhelming, suffocating, because it doesn’t belong here, not now, not anymore.

And then—

“How’s your residency going?”

The question slams into you like a freight train.

Residency.

Your mind reels, trying to piece together the timeline, trying to remember who you were five years ago, who you were when Jimin still loved you, when he still saw you as his wife. Because the truth is, you’re not a resident anymore. You’re a fellow now. But if you tell him that, if you let him realize how much time has passed, how much has changed, how much more will he break? So, you lie.

Or at least, you shape the truth. “The job is… going well,” you say carefully, forcing a small smile. 

Jimin hums in agreement, nodding sleepily, his grip on your hand loosening. “Yeah… I know. You’ll get through it, though. You’re brilliant. You always were.” His eyes flutter shut for a moment before he forces them open again, his body betraying his exhaustion. “I feel a little… out of it.”

You exhale, instinctively reaching up to brush his hair back from his forehead. “That’s normal. You just had surgery. Sleep it off. You’ll feel better after some rest.”

Jimin sighs, content, as his eyes finally slip closed. And then, just as he’s teetering on the edge of unconsciousness—

“I love you.”

You stop breathing.

It takes everything in you not to yank your hand away, not to rip yourself from the room and run. You feel sick. You feel trapped. You feel wrong because Jimin isn’t saying those words to you, not really. He’s saying them to the ghost of who you were, the woman he still thinks you are.

You don’t say it back.

Instead, you wait until his breathing evens out, until the slow, steady beeping of the monitor tells you that he’s truly asleep, and then without a word you step away and leave the room.

The moment the door closes behind you, the weight of everything crashes into you all at once. The air is too thick, your chest too tight, and suddenly, you can’t breathe.

“What the hell am I doing?” The words spill out in a choked whisper before you even realize you’re speaking. You stagger back against the wall with your hands trembling and your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. “This… this was a mistake.”

Namjoon steps forward cautiously, his eyes laced with concern. “Y/N—”

“No.” You shake your head frantically, the panic rising and the nausea clawing its way up your throat. “What’s the point of this? What do you want from me? Am I supposed to just—just lie to him until he recovers? And then what? Watch as his entire world crumbles all over again?”

“Y/N—”

“And—and how the hell are we supposed to tell him about that night?” The memory is a gut punch, slicing through the panic with something even worse grief. “He doesn’t even know that, Namjoon. He thinks we’re still married. If he knew the truth—” Your voice catches, and you shake your head, pressing your knuckles hard against your lips to keep yourself from sobbing.

Namjoon looks like he wants to say something, but for once, he doesn’t have an answer. Because there is no answer. There is no right way to fix this.

Taemin, silent until now, finally steps in, placing a firm hand on your shoulder. “Come with us,” he says, his voice calm but unyielding. “You need to sit down.”

You let them guide you away. Your legs are unsteady beneath you while your mind still spinning, still screaming at you to leave before you get sucked in too deep. Behind you, in the hallway, Jimin’s parents remain rooted in place. Mrs. Park clutches at her husband’s sleeve, her heavy breaths of worry, while Mr. Park stares at the floor, unmoving. Rose stands just beside them, her eyes red and puffy, but fixed firmly on you.

Because they all know. They all know that the only thing holding Jimin together right now, his only anchor in this storm is you.

And if you break…

He will too.

The walk to Namjoon’s office is silent, the weight of everything pressing down on you like a boulder strapped to your chest. Each step feels heavier than the last, your mind occupied with everything that just happened. Tlook in Jimin’s eyes, the way he said I love you, the way you couldn’t even breathe in that moment. You feel sick, hollow, like a stranger in your own body, but you keep walking, following Namjoon and Taemin as if on autopilot.

Once inside, Namjoon moves with practiced ease, filling the electric kettle on his desk and preparing tea. The office smells faintly of man’s cologne and old books, the same as it always did back when you worked here. It’s strange how nothing about this place has changed, yet everything about you has.

“Here,” Namjoon says softly, pressing a warm mug into your hands. He sits on the chair opposite of you, hands rummaging through a stack of papers on the desk between you. He fishes out a smaller bundle of papers, pushing the rest aside. Your eyes catch Jimin’s name, and it doesn’t take long for you to connect the dots. He was looking for his chart. You divert your stare to the tea as he begins to explain. 

“Jimin was out drinking,” he starts, running a tired hand through his hair. “It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, but he was… out of it that night. More than usual. He got behind the wheel and crashed into a pole. Luckily no one else was hurt, but he hit the steering wheel hard enough to blank out on the spot.” He exhales, shaking his head. “He needed surgery, his lungs bruised; his pelvis broken but we thought his head was fine. The CT scans didn’t show any major trauma. So, when he woke up with amnesia… it was a shock. A huge one. What puzzles me is the way the amnesia presents itself.”

Namjoon rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture of his growing confusion as he tried to sort through the complexities of Jimin's amnesia. 

“It’s strange,” he said, glancing between you and Taemin, his brow furrowed in deep thought. “In most cases I’ve dealt with amnesia presents itself in similar pattern—patients either lose all their memories or they can’t recall the details surrounding the accident, or sometimes they struggle to store new memories entirely. But Jimin... it’s like he’s stuck in this limbo where just these five years are just... faded, while others remain.”

You skim the chart from afar. “You’re saying you don’t know if he’ll ever recover his memories?”

He shook his head, frustration bubbling under the surface. “It’s not typical retrograde amnesia. It’s…” He sighs. “I was going to explain, but I forgot—cardio surgeon or not, you’ve been under my supervision before. You probably already know.”

You nod slowly. You remember those long, exhausting nights during your residency, when you rotated under Namjoon’s department, learning about neurological cases even though your heart was always set on cardiothoracic surgery. You remember studying memory loss, trauma-induced dissociation, the way the mind protects itself in moments of deep distress.

“I know,” you murmur.

For a moment, Namjoon smiles, almost nostalgic. “Right. Back then, you used to be stuck to my side like glue. And then Kwon stole you.”

You let out a soft, breathless chuckle, the memory of your old mentor pulling you away from neurosurgery flashing in your mind. But it’s fleeting, disappearing the second Taemin shifts beside you.

“We should focus on Jimin,” he reminds.

Namjoon’s expression sobers as he nods. “Right. The best path to recovery—for now—is to let him live in the past. Physically, he needs time to heal, and mentally… we must be careful. If we overwhelm him, it could do more harm than good.”

Your stomach churns. “So, we just…. lie?”

Namjoon exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know it sounds awful, but think about it, Y/N. Jimin values stability. If we tell him everything now about the divorce, about the past five years. I fear he’s going to spiral. He’s already been sedated once today because he couldn’t handle the truth. Do you really want to put him through that again?”

You don’t have an answer.

Because of course you don’t want to see Jimin suffer but this doesn’t feel right either.

Jimin has always valued honesty, even in the worst possible moments. He never liked sugarcoated words or half-truths. He would rather face the brutal reality than be protected by a lie. If he knew what the three of you were deciding right now… would he ever forgive you?

“I don’t think this is the right choice,” you say finally, voice quiet but firm. “Lying won’t get us anywhere. It’ll only hurt him more in the end.”

Taemin, who has been mostly silent, suddenly shakes his head. “I disagree.”

You turn to him, surprised. “Why?”

But he doesn’t answer. Not fully. He just looks at you, something unreadable flickering across his face, before glancing away. Namjoon watches the exchange, then sighs. “For now, let’s just focus on what we can do. We need to make sure Jimin’s body recovers first. His memories… that’s something we’ll deal with later.”

You nod, even though unease lingers in your chest. This felt like a slippery slope, one mistake could create a domino effect that might of a greater scale than you three anticipated. You thought two years could easily be filled but now you struggle with one simple question that slips out. 

“Where is he staying?”

Namjoon hesitates, and it’s Taemin who answers.

“His apartment.”

Your throat tightens. “Our apartment?”

Taemin looks away. “No. He moved out. Last year.”

You stare at him, pulse pounding. “Then—”

“He moved in with Rose.”

The words hit you like a slap. For a moment, you can’t breathe. He really moved on. You saw it a few minutes ago, or rather you saw her.  You knew that, had accepted it immediately or at least, you thought you had. But hearing it now, in this context, after the way he had looked at you just minutes ago, makes something inside of break.

Taemin shifts uncomfortably, as if realizing how much his words hurt you. “He… he was planning to sell the apartment. He told me he would. But I don’t know if he actually did.”

You barely know what to do with this information. It seems like it was Taemin’s mission for tonight to leave you speechless. 

Namjoon watches you carefully. “Y/N… can you do this?”

You don’t know but the worst part is, you don’t think you have a choice. You were a goner the moment he his lips laid a kiss on your touch starved body. You never even knew how much you’ve missed his gentle touch until you felt it, and now you were eager to prologue it. Like an addict. 

You take a deep breath and forces herself to come to terms with the situation. There is no other way. You already came, he saw you, the decision was already made, and you must see it through. As much as it twists your insides, lying to Jimin is the only way to ensure his recovery. Namjoon and Taemin stand beside you, unwavering in their support, and for a moment you feel a sliver of comfort in knowing you are not alone in this.

Together, the three of you return to Jimin’s parents. The tension still lingering in the air like an unspoken burden. Taemin brings up the apartment, cautiously testing the waters, and before anyone else can speak, Jimin’s father interjects.

“His old apartment?” Jimin's father frowned, his brow furrowed.

“Are you sure this is the right choice?” Jimin's mother asked, concern etched on her face. “What if it brings up things he isn’t ready to face?” Taemin locked eyes with her, resolute. “I promise we’ll take it slowly. We won’t push him past what he can handle. But I believe he needs this familiarity to help guide him back.”

Namjoon butts in adding a blanket of security to the sudden decision. “The familiarity of the old place could trigger something in him, jolt his memories.”

You notice Rose take a deep breath before she interjects. “About the apartment…” she said, her voice steady but soft, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “I know Jimin hasn't sold it.” 

Jimin's mother looked at her, surprise flickering in her eyes. “He didn’t sell it? Why would he hold onto it after everything?”

Rose shrugged before continuing, her voice laced with mutual confusion. “Jimin had a change of heart at the last minute. He was supposed to tell me why that night… before the accident.”

Her words settle heavily between you all. It’s clear that even she is struggling to comprehend everything unfolding before her. She recognizes the silence as an offer to continue so she does giving more information. “He told me he gave the keys to Hoseok. I’ll ask him.”

The mention of Hoseok jolts something inside of you. The last time she saw him was at the funeral. He had stood beside you, quiet but present, offering you words of comfort that you never truly understood. You did the right thing, he had said. Your friendship had always been a strange one—good, but distant. 

“I’ll reach out to him,” you say, surprising even yourself.

Rose blinks clearly caught off guard. For a moment, there is nothing but silence between you before Rose simply nods. Namjoon feeling the tension growing with each question, suggests that Jimin’s parents and Rose head home for the night. They have been here all day, exhausted and overwhelmed. Reluctantly, they agree and begin making their way out, though you can sense their hesitation.

Once they leave, you turn to Namjoon. “I’ll talk to Hoseok in the morning. Right now, I need to go home and pack. If we’re going to do this, I need my things there.”

Taemin offers to help, but you decline, needing space to process everything alone. Namjoon, understanding, gently takes you hand, his touch warm and steady. “Thank you,” he murmurs, echoing the gratitude of Jimin’s parents.

As you step outside, ready to leave, you are startled to find Jimin’s father waiting by your car. You hesitate, expecting coldness or arrogance, but instead, he awkwardly thanks you. The words are strained but sincere. “I’ll call Chief Leeteuk tomorrow and arrange for your transfer back to Seoul Main Hospital,” he adds. “Until Jimin recovers.”

The weight of his words crashes over you. Only now do you fully grasp the scale of this situation, the immense disruption not just to your life but to the lives of so many others.

You shake your head. “I’ll figure something out. Maybe take time off work—”

“That won’t be necessary,” he cuts in. “You know this hospital inside and out. You can continue your work here.”

You want to argue, but you see the resolution in his eyes. Eventually, you sigh, nodding. “I’ll think about it.”

He hands you his business card. “Call this number when you decide.”

With that, they part ways, and you drive home with a mind drowned in thoughts.

When you reach the apartment, you pull out three large suitcases and begin to pack. There was no point in postponing the inevitable. The simple act of folding clothes and placing them into bags feels mechanical, almost numbing. At some point, you open a bottle of red wine, pouring yourself a glass to steady your nerves. Then, it dawns on you that you never informed her hospital of the sudden departure.

Grabbing your phone, you dial your best friend’s number.

“Y/N! What the hell happened? You just disappeared!”

“Something came up. A family matter. I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow.” It’s not a lie, not entirely, and explaining further requires energy you don’t have.

Wendy hums, suspicious but doesn’t press. “Well, good thing Yoongi covered for you. Took in your cases without a second thought.”

That catches you off guard. “He… did?”

It wasn’t surprising that Yoongi stepped in occasionally but for him to do on his own accord without refusal at first was strange. He seemed stand offish at times, opting to keep to himself for dealing with others was too much for him so he rarely took on other’s shifts or cases.

“Yeah. Honestly, I don’t know why you two never explored the waters.”, Wendy teases. “He’s totally your knight in shining armor.”

You sputter, face heating up. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, please.”

You and he shared an undeniable chemistry that others noticed right from the start of your fellowship. While you both excelled in different fields, you worked exceptionally well together when cases required collaboration, often finishing each other's sentences and actions. The two of you were described as a "twisted duo," a description you felt fit Yoongi far better than it fit you. However, Wendy insisted that you were unaware of how spookily well the telepathy between you and him worked. Hence the twisted duo name.

As Wendy continues to tease, you suddenly feel overwhelmed, thoughts spiraling back to Jimin. The contrast between past and present is suffocating. You offer her a poor excuse and hurriedly end the call, gulping down the rest of the wine.

You continue packing until your hands brush against a familiar box. You catch your breath, knowing exactly what’s inside before you even open it. Old photographs stare back at you. There’s Jimin smiling on your first date, pulling you close during your trip to Rome. There’s a picture of him at Hoseok’s wedding, so drunk that you barely managed to get him into the car afterward. That memory is one of your favorites; despite his intoxicated state, he was utterly smitten with you and the way you looked in that dress. He couldn’t keep his hands to himself all night, making you feel embarrassed when an elderly couple shot you a disapproving look. But all of that faded in comparison to his love confession when you helped him into the seat and buckled him up. At first, you ignored it, thinking it was just the alcohol talking, but he repeated it over and over, even going so far as to open the window and shout to the car next to you just how much in love he was.

Memories flood you all at once, raw and unbearable. You trace the images, fingers trembling. And then—you break.

Tears spill freely, chest heaving with sobs. Now when you are face with all of mess, with the cruel irony of Jimin’s memory loss, you realize just how deep the wounds still run.

As you cry and cry until you have no tears left to shed.

-

When morning comes, you wake up and immediately spring into action. Searching through your phone, you scan for Hoseok’s number. One of many you rarely dialed after the split. When your fingers land on his name, you press the call button, heart pounding as you wait. A few seconds later, a familiar voice answers, your name spoken in disbelief.

You greet him, albeit awkwardly. Two years have passed since you last spoke but there’s no point in skirting around the issue. “Have you heard about Jimin?” you ask.

Hoseok sighs. “I heard about the accident. Last time I checked with his parents, he was still in surgery. I wanted to call again, but…” he trails off before explaining that his twins have been sick, keeping him and his wife occupied. “I was planning to check in this morning.”

You pause at the mention of his children. Memories of Hoseok and his wife’s struggle to become parents resurface, and for a moment you forget why you even called. Regaining your focus, you congratulate him before quickly summarizing the situation.

Hoseok listens in silence before finally speaking. “And what’s the plan?”

You hesitate but tell him the truth about making Jimin live in the past until he fully recovers. To your surprise, Hoseok much like Taemin, agrees with the idea of you taking care of Jimin.

“You’re the only one who can do this,” he says simply. “I’ll leave the key at the front desk at hospital after I visit Jimin.”

You thank him, and the call ends. With a deep breath, you load your suitcases into the trunk of your car and then dial the number Jimin’s father gave you. He picks up in mere seconds.

“I’ll take the transfer,” you tell him, knowing there’s no point in resisting. Working at another hospital wouldn’t make sense under these circumstances.

His father sounds relieved. “I’ll handle all the paperwork and reach out to your chief.”

After thanking him, you drive to your hospital, needing to wrap up loose ends. As you pull up to the entrance, you spot Yoongi outside, cigarette in hand. He smirks at you and wordlessly offers a cigarette despite knowing you don’t smoke. It was a going on joke between you two. A mockery of your statement that “The fault in our stars” wasn’t as corny as Yoongi describes it. After that he never lets you live down the quote about the cigarette. 

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile. Yoongi still doesn’t ask why you weren’t there last night, instead giving you space to explain on your own terms. And so, taking a deep breath, you do. You tell him about Jimin’s accident, the amnesia, and the transfer. You half expect him to be upset, but he only nods in understanding.

Your relationship with Yoongi has been… complicated. It started a year ago, the result of one too many drinks after celebrating a successful surgery. Since then, you’ve kept things casual, just two people filling each other’s lonely nights. There were no expectations, no strings. However, when he agrees with Taemin and Namjoon, supporting this decision, you feel an unexpected pang of something you can’t quite place.

As you both step inside, Yoongi teases, “Maybe this is exactly what you need.”

You frown, trying to decipher his words but there’s no time to dwell. Almost immediately, nurse Layla rush toward you, handing you charts. Your mentee, San trails behind, listing off patients and conditions until you stop him.

“There’s been a change of plans,” you say, glancing at him. “I’m being transferred to Seoul Main for a while.”

San’s face falls. “But…. but I want to keep learning under you.”

You sigh, touched but resolute. “I’ll be back.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, but there’s nothing more you can do. Handing him the charts, you instruct him to wait for Dr. Schuber’s call before heading toward the chief’s office. When you step into his office, Leeteuk’s on the phone, his usual stern features softened with amusement. His laughter echoes lightly before his tone shifts into something more serious. "I understand," he says into the receiver. "I’ll help as much as I can." His eyes lift to yours as he gestures for you to take a seat. You settle in waiting for him to finish.

When he finally hangs up, he leans back in his chair, eyes filled with something akin to sympathy. "I spoke with Mr. Park," he begins, "I heard what happened. I’m truly sorry about Jimin." He doesn’t linger on the subject, respecting the weight of it, and instead moves on, pulling out a piece of paper and scribbling something down. "The official reason for your transfer is the lack of fellows at Seoul Main. They’re understaffed, while here we have three people under each mentor. It makes sense."

You exhale, nodding. "Thank you, Chief. I won’t let you down. I’ll do my best at Seoul Main."

Leeteuk’s lips curl into a proud smile. "I expect nothing less."

A warm sensation spreads in your chest as you leave his office. The bittersweet feeling of leaving, of change, settles over you.

You make your way to the surgeons’ rest lounge, where you spot Wendy sprawled on one of the beds, her scrubs wrinkled from exhaustion as she focuses on a post-op chart. "General surgery is a pain in the ass," she groans the moment she spots you. "Should’ve been a dermatologist."

You chuckle, taking a seat beside her. "Rough night?"

"Try night from hell. Some teenager came in with severe abdominal pain. His parents were a nightmare, demanding every test possible. Turns out, the kid had something shoved up his ass but was too ashamed to admit it. Can you believe that?" She rubs her temple in frustration. "Yoongi tried to warn him that after surgery his parents would know – I mean who wouldn’t notice their child can’t sit on their ass – but the kid begged us to come up with a cover story."

You wince in secondhand embarrassment. "And this is exactly why I chose cardio."

Wendy snorts. "Please, like you don’t have weird cases. Didn’t you start in neuro before switching?"

You shrug. "At least no one’s shoving things into their brain or heart."

Wendy grins. "Tell that to the kid who inhaled a whole ass ball and had to have it surgically removed from his nasal cavity."

You shake your head with a laugh. "Still better than a sex toy in their ass." You pause, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“Not gonna lie, trauma surgeons are saints. I could never stand there, get a CT done and see an object, clearly intended for pleasure, inserted where it shouldn’t be. And keep a straight face.”

You wanted to explain to Wendy that unlike other surgeons, any topic related to sex only made her laugh her ass off – pun fully intended. If you had to list any flaw of hers on the resume, that would be the top one, laughing during awkward moments. You could start listing of all the times that go her in trouble but then you’d be staying here until the next year.

Then, shifting gears, you exhale and tell her about your transfer, detailing everything that happened last night. Much like with Yoongi, you recount how Namjoon called, the accident, and then the part that makes you hesitate, Jimin has a girlfriend. 

“Y/N,” Wendy said, leaning in closer. “It’s understandable but you know it’s been two years, right? Life keeps going, even when we’re not ready for it. It’s only natural that he would have moved on.”

 “Yeah, I get that,” you replied, voice thick with frustration. 

Wendy studies you, a thoughtful expression on her face. “And what about you, Y/N? You’ve been hanging out with Yoongi a lot. I know you I turn a blind eye often, but you’re sleeping together. ” 

You roll your eyes knowing well enough how the situation between you two was vastly different. For starters no labels were used and heck you didn’t even know where Yoongi lived, most of the time you hung out at your apartment. “It’s not like that with Yoongi. We’ve just found comfort in each other’s company, nothing more.”  

 “Come on, don’t tell me knowing his dick size and meeting his brother is just keeping each other company” Wendy teased, attempting to lighten the mood. 

Okay so you knew the ins and outs of Doctor Yoongi, and perhaps you had the chance to meet his brother but, in your defense, it was a total coincidence. His brother had a mild heart attack and Yoongi ever so praising of your skills directed him to you so in conclusion you knew his brother as Mr. Min, your patient not as Yoongi’s older brother Yeon. 

“It’s just messy. Here I am, dealing with Jimin’s memories and feelings, and I can’t just ignore that. It feels wrong.”

 “Life is messy, sweetie,” Wendy said, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “But you’re strong enough to figure it out. You just need time.”

 “I know I need time,” you sigh, staring down at the bed. “I’m just sorry for leaving my shift. I didn’t mean to abandon you.”

Wendy shrugged, a playful twinkle in her eye. “Please, don’t worry about it. Yoongi and I have your back. Trust me, we covered for you. Just take things easy, okay? You have enough on your plate without stressing about work.” 

“Thanks, Wendy,” you said, a small smile breaking through your worry. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

Just as you were about to yap a bit more about the situation your phone buzzes. Namjoon’s name flashes on the screen. Jimin is waking up. You should be here. A wave of nerves rolls through you. You quickly type out a response, telling him you’re on your way.

Wendy watches you carefully. "So, are we postponing girls’ night?"

You nod. "Until this whole mess settles."

She smirks. "Figures. Just promise me you won’t take any shit from anyone at Seoul Main. You know how male-dominated the field surgery is."

You chuckle. "I was expecting a speech about Jimin."

Wendy shrugs. "Honestly I feel like my emotional capacity is reaching its limits. That little sucker used most of it and you got like 20%. Anyway, don’t forget about us while you’re there."

A lump forms in your throat at the thought of leaving again, of facing Jimin again. Wendy nudges you toward the door. "Go. I need sleep before I start hallucinating."

As you were about to leave the room you heart Wendy half-whisper. “If you see any hot dudes, be sure to send me their pictures.”

You chuckle, steeling yourself before heading out. 

When you arrive, Namjoon is waiting at the front desk standing beside a man you don’t recognize. As you approach, Namjoon greets you with a small smile. "Y/N, this is Dr. Kyungsoo, neurosurgeon. I asked him to consult on Jimin’s case."

Kyungsoo stands by your side, noticeably a head shorter than Namjoon. His short black hair frames his face neatly, and his plump lips give him a slightly prominent and inviting look. His big doe-like brown eyes seem to take in everything with a serious intensity, giving him a contemplative aura. However, as he greets you, a big smile breaks across his face, instantly softening his demeanor and making him appear much younger than the serious expression that lingered just moments before. 

You shake hands with him before Namjoon hands you a pager and a key card. "This will give you access to the third floor, where Jimin is, as well as the surgeons’ lounges. Only a handful of nurses know about Jimin’s condition." He hesitates for a second. "You’ll be happy to know that Jisoo is one of them."

A strange feeling twists in your gut. It reminds you too much of seeing Taemin again, Jisoo had been there that night. You school your features and nod, absorbing the information. Namjoon starts explaining the layout of the hospital, but you cut him off with a teasing grin. "I left two years ago, not twelve."

He chuckles. "Feels like twelve."

The three of you step into the elevator. As it ascends, Kyungsoo and Namjoon discuss the possible causes of Jimin’s amnesia. You listen but focus on steadying your nerves. When the doors open, a rush of déjà vu washes over you. Jimin’s parents are there, his father on the phone, his mother sitting beside Rose, their hands clasped tightly.

You greet them, but your gaze barely lingers on Rose. There’s an unspoken tension between you, a mutual uncertainty on how to act around each other. Namjoon introduces Kyungsoo to Jimin’s parents, giving you the perfect excuse to slip past them and into the room.

Jimin is standing by the window, watching the sky shift outside, the colors melding like the emotions swirling in his heart. There’s no television, no phone. Namjoon thought too much information at once might overwhelm him, but Jimin has one focus: you. When he turns and sees you, his face illuminates with an almost otherworldly smile, as if your presence alone brings warmth to a cold room. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, are now filled with deep adoration, crinkling at the edges as he stretches his arms out, eager to embrace you. 

Your heart clenches, a mix of longing and fear tightening within your chest. You step forward, surrendering to his pull into a hug that feels like home. He buries his face in your neck, inhaling deeply, a low sigh escaping his lips. "I could never get tired of your scent," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. 

You freeze for just a second.  If he notices your stillness, he doesn’t say anything; instead, he tightens his hold on you, as if afraid you might slip away. 

His breath mingles with yours, creating an intimate rhythm that seems to soothe the chaos within. "I was scared when I woke up and you weren’t here," he confesses, his voice trembling, vulnerable. 

You silently wish you could promise him everything would be okay. "It felt like my world was falling apart when Namjoon told me it’s 2026, not 2021. That we’re—" his voice breaks, fragile as his eyes shimmer, "divorced. That you left Seoul Main Hospital."

The words pierce through the vulnerability of the moment, leaving you breathless. Warm tears soak into your skin as Jimin pulls back slightly, his puffy red eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes you feel as if he is looking straight into your soul. 

"Y/N, I—I don’t know how to do this without you," he says, each word laced with desperation and love that binds your heart in a vice. His weakness shatters something deep within you, the weight of it heavy and consuming. Logic tells you that the truth would be kinder in the long run, but looking into his tear-streaked face, filled with fear and longing, you realize in that moment you can’t tell him. Not yet. The love reflected in his gaze is a tether that keeps you from breaking apart entirely, and for now, you choose to hold onto the fragile warmth of this bittersweet reunion.

You and Jimin don't notice between your emotional exchange that the doors have opened and that Jimin's parents and Rose have entered the room, accompanied by Namjoon. The soft click of the door closing barely registers in your mind, too caught up in the warmth of Jimin’s embrace; in the way his body fits against yours like a puzzle piece that was never meant to be separated. It isn't until Namjoon clears his throat, a deliberate interruption, that your awareness sharpens. 

Your gaze flickers to Rose, who stands frozen near the door. Her expression is an unreadable mix of hurt and anger. You see the way she blinks rapidly, as if trying to hold back tears that threaten to spill. Guilt twists like a knife in your stomach. You shift, instinctively trying to create space between yourself and Jimin, but his fingers tighten around yours. The weight of his touch is grounding, but in this moment, it feels suffocating.

Jimin frowns at your movement. "Where are you going?" he asks, his voice laced with confusion. You hesitate, casting a glance at Namjoon before answering, "I just thought I’d stand with Namjoon and the others." The words sound weak even to your own ears.

Jimin’s frown deepens. "Why? You're my wife. You're supposed to be here, with me." His words land heavily in the room, unchallenged yet piercing. Rose stiffens before she abruptly turns on her heel and rushes out. The sound of her hurried steps echoes down the hallway. Jimin’s mother exhales softly, her gaze darting between her son and the door Rose just exited through. For a moment, she seems to contemplate following her, but then she looks at Jimin, at the desperation in his eyes as he holds onto you and stays.

Namjoon, sensing the growing tension in the room speaks up shifting the focus on him. "Jimin, we’re keeping you here for three more days before discharging you. After that, Y/N will take care of you at home." His words are measured, calm as if carefully weaving a delicate bridge between reality and the illusion Jimin still holds onto. Then he subtly nods at you, a silent prompt for you to begin adjusting Jimin to the truth of your present.

Jimin’s grip on your hand is unrelenting, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that should be comforting, but all you can focus on is the fire creeping up your spine, the overwhelming pressure of his expectations.

You gently take Jimin’s hand, placing a small mirror in his hands. As he gazes into it, a look of confusion flickers across his face, then deepens into disbelief as he sees his reflection. The familiar shape of his face remains, but the long, silver hair cascading down his shoulders is a stark reminder of the years that have slipped by. “Since… since when did I dye my hair?” he murmurs, running his fingers through the silken strands, as if trying to grasp the time that has passed.

You can see the wheels turning in his mind, the realization dawning on him. “Five years did pass by, Jimin. Namjoon was right, it’s 2026 now,” you explain, your voice tender. The mirror reflects more than just physical changes; it mirrors the essence of the man he was and the man he has become.  Jimin stirs his gaze to you staring at you intently, his dark eyes searching yours as if trying to latch onto something solid amidst the whirlwind of news. 

"The president now is Yuk Seongu. I completed my residency a year ago," you continue, carefully choosing details that might make the reality easier to digest after the sudden shock.

For the short amount of time you were under Namjoon’s mentorship he highlighted the importance of stating the current president when assessing a patient for amnesia. Back then, and even now, you felt as if that question was misplaced. In midst of an emotional breakdown and coming to terms with years being stolen from you why would anyone care about politics?

Jimin processes your words, his brow furrowing. He hurriedly places the mirror onto the nightstand as if it burned him. "Is that why you weren’t wearing scrubs yesterday?" 

His question catches you off guard, but you recover quickly, nodding. "Yes, I’m currently a fellow under..." You trail off, glancing at Namjoon for help, and he promptly supplies, "Doctor Junseo."

You repeat the name, your gaze returning to Jimin, who seems lost in thought, his lips parted slightly as he tries to absorb everything. Everyone in the room expects him to ask something logical, something about the time gap, about his medical condition or about what happened. But when he finally speaks, his question catches you totally off guard.

"Where’s your ring?" His eyes drop to your bare fingers, the absence of the silver band suddenly feeling like an accusation. "Even when you were busy in your residency, you always wore it. You only ever took it off during surgery."

Silence falls over the room. Your breath catches in your throat, your heart pounding so loudly you wonder if everyone else can hear it. How do you even begin to answer that?

You try to recover from the question, but the words stick to the back of your throat. It had never occurred to you that Jimin would notice the absence of the ring and honestly it had never even occurred to you to put it on.

Jimin proposed to you on your fourth anniversary. At the time, you were only twenty-four, young and ambitious. Initially, you felt hesitant about marriage because your career required many sacrifices, and you worried that you would only hold him back. However, Jimin believed that everything was perfectly aligned, especially since you were doing your residency at his parents' hospital, where he worked in the finance department. 

You remember the excitement and joy you felt at the thought of calling him your fiancé, and eventually husband. Despite the challenges you faced and the uncertainties ahead, you accepted his proposal. You can still picture the moment he lifted you into the air, twirling you with pure happiness as you held his face in your hands. In that instant, time seemed to stop, marking one of your many victories.

The ring had been a family heirloom, passed down through generations of Park men. It was always given to the eldest son to propose to his prospective wife. Jimin hadn’t needed to plead for it; his grandmother had a soft spot for you. She admired your unwavering commitment to two things: your career and Jimin.

When your marriage fell apart and you both reached the heartbreaking conclusion that divorce was your only option, the ring became a painful reminder of everything you had lost. You had wanted to return it and give it back to him, but Jimin refused. His voice was filled with bitterness as he declared that the ring was tainted with misery, and he couldn’t bear to return it to his grandmother after failing her. You understood his anger, you had always understood Jimin. Deep down, however, you wished he could have set aside his pride just once to understand you in return.

Unfortunately, the weight of hatred and hurt was too great to overcome. So, you took the ring and locked it away at your family home, putting as much distance between you and it as possible. 

Standing before Jimin as he awaits an answer, you wonder how to explain all of that in just a few words. After a moment of silence, you explain, "I lost it once during a complicated surgery. I had to change into fresh scrubs after getting soaked with a patient’s blood, and I was rushed into another procedure immediately afterward. By the time the cleaning crew came through, it was misplaced. When we finally found it, I decided to leave it at home as a precaution." 

Jimin studies you carefully for a long moment before finally nodding. Then, in a gesture that feels achingly familiar, he lifts your hand and presses a lingering kiss to your palm. The warmth of his lips sends a wave of comfort through you.. He then asks, "Can we have some time alone?" 

Jimin’s father shifts uncomfortably, his posture rigid afraid that you might slip. Before he can voice any objections, Jimin’s mother intercedes, her voice soft yet firm. "Of course." With that, she gently ushers her husband out the door, with Namjoon trailing behind them. Once alone, Jimin watches you intently for a long moment before reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. "What more did I miss?" he asks.

You hesitate. "What do you mean?" 

"Your hair is longer and darker. You used to wear glasses during residency, but now you don’t. Did you switch to contacts or? Did you finally learn to parallel park?” His voice is light and teasing, but there's genuine curiosity beneath it. 

You exhale, adjusting to the way his touch still feels like second nature. "Mochi passed away four years ago. She lived with us towards the end of her life, and her favorite pastime was knocking glasses off the counter. You had to clean up way more than you liked." 

Jimin chuckles, a sad yet fond sound. "And your career?" 

"I tried neurosurgery, but..." You sigh. 

He smirks knowingly. "You never had the patience for it." 

You swat his arm playfully. "I could have if I had Namjoon’s mind of steel,” you smirk before softening, "I went into cardiothoracic instead." 

Jimin grins. "Good choice. You stole my heart; you better learn on how to take care of it." 

You groan, hiding your face behind your hands, laughter bubbling up despite yourself. With him, it was always easy. Then, Jimin’s faces becomes letting you know that whatever he’s about to say has been bothering him for a while. "Namjoon told me I lost control of the car and hit a pole. He didn’t want to tell me, but Taemin let it slip that I was intoxicated. What happened that night?” 

You feel at loss for words. You don’t know the reasoning yourself and the only person who could cast some light on the situation probably would rather punch you in the face than help you. “I wish I could help you, but I am unsure myself.”

Jimin frowns looking to the side, silently playing with your fingers. Something he started doing absentmindedly whenever he was stressed. He stops for a second, still not looking at you as he speaks. “I was relieved that nobody was hurt but I can’t help but feel confused by my own actions. I know I would never drink and drive. It just doesn’t seem real. It doesn’t seem like me.”

He looks at you, his eyes a mirror to his emotions. He was fighting an internal battle which he kept to himself more so to not overwhelm you, sensing that you were already on the edge. 

Instead of further grilling for information he smiles and quickly changes the topic. "At least get me a TV. I’ll die of boredom." 

You felt like you can breathe again so you chuckle trying to mask the fear that lingered. "I’ll talk to Namjoon." 

A nurse knocks on the door. "Time for some tests." 

The nurse walked to Jimin's side, offering him a reassuring smile as she gently lifted his arm. You positioned yourself on the opposite side, carefully sliding your hands beneath him to provide additional support. Together, you lifted him into the wheelchair, ensuring he was comfortable before she starts wheeling him out.

As they were about to exit, he asks "Will I see you later?" 

You nod. "Of course."

You watch Jimin disappear down the hallway, a strange hollowness settles in your chest. This is going to be harder than you anticipated. Jimin has lost two years of which you know nothing about. As much as you want to help, you feel just as much an outsider to that time as he does. 

You wanted to dwell more on it but, the sharp beep of your pager shatters the silence. Front desk. You don’t waste a second, opting for the stairs over the elevator, your heart pounding from more than just exertion. The hospital is a world of cold, sterile air, and yet, as you rush through it, you feel like you’re suffocating.

At the front desk, a familiar figure stands. Jung Hoseok is dressed in a neatly pressed suit, though his tired eyes and slightly disheveled hair tell a different story. He looks older and worn out, as if the weight of sleepless nights has carved itself into his face. You notice how his hair is shorter than you remember, and how tiredness clings to him like a shadow, no doubt a result of his children’s relentless energy. 

He waves at you, offering a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Y/N," he greets, his voice tinged with fatigue as he hands you a set of keys. "How's the situation?" 

"The same," you reply, catching your breath, "We’ll see if he’ll remember more once we get to the apartment and visit some places." 

Hoseok nods, but then his expression turns serious. "Do you plan on telling him about you know?" His voice is quiet and cautious, as if saying the name might shatter something fragile in the air. 

A shiver runs down your spine as you shake your head. "No, there was no right moment. Honestly, I don’t know if there ever will be. It would just reopen old wounds. And right now… isn’t the time." 

Hoseok studies you for a moment before exhaling slowly. "Yeah, I get that. Is there anything I can do?"

You bite your lip, contemplating. "If you have time, could you help me fill in the gaps? I don’t know much about Jimin’s job after the divorce. It’s hard to navigate conversations when I have no idea what changed."

He agrees immediately. "Of course. I’ll drop by again tomorrow or the day after. I just need to check my schedule. I only saw him for a minute or two, the clients are ruthless. They keep pestering me as if I was the well of all information about the stock market."

His words offer some relief, but then he says something that throws you off balance. "I haven’t seen the apartment since Jimin gave me the keys. That was two months after the divorce." 

Your brows knit together in confusion. "I thought he moved in with Rose?"

Hoseok’s expression shifts when he realizes what you’re thinking. "Yes and no, he and Rose only started dating last year. He left the apartment because there was too much sadness there. He said he needed a change, so he rented a place near the company instead. He gave me the keys because Dae and I wanted to expand our family, but… I couldn’t live there. It was too tragic. Therefore, I never used it."

Rose’s words echo in your mind and before you can stop yourself you say it out loud, wanting to be certain. "He was planning on selling it, right?" 

Hoseok nods. "Yeah. He even found a buyer, but… they backed out." 

"Did he say why?" you ask, but he shakes his head. "No. He just said to keep the keys. No new owner, no reason to bring them back to the company." 

"Do you know what happened the night of the accident?" 

"No, no one does. His family doesn’t even know." Before you can explain further, movement catches your attention. 

You turn and freeze. 

Seonghwa.

The young resident stands a few feet away, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief. The papers he was carrying slip from his grasp, fluttering to the floor in a scattered mess. You watch as realization dawns on him as he continues staring at you as though he is seeing a ghost.

Hoseok turns at the commotion, narrowing his gaze as he studies the younger man. There is something familiar in Seonghwa’s features, and you see the moment recognition flickers in Hoseok’s tired eyes. But before he can say anything, you are already moving, kneeling beside Seonghwa to gather the fallen papers with quiet urgency.

Although he stutters, he manages to greet you and Hoseok. Once the papers are collected, he looks at you and attempts to start a conversation, awkwardly asking how you have been. Like Seonghwa, you find yourself at a loss for how to navigate the moment, so you settle for small talk, giving him a polite smile. "I’m well. I hope you are too."

Hoseok, who has been observing quietly, suddenly pieces it together, the young resident from the that night. Recognition flashes in his eyes, but he says nothing, only checking his watch before turning to you. "We’ll talk later, Y/N. I’m already late for work.

You nod, clutching the keys in her hand. "Thanks again."

As he walks away, Seonghwa exhales slowly and shifts on his feet. "Namjoon told me I would be working under someone new," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just… didn’t think it would be you." 

You blink at him, slightly taken aback. "Namjoon never mentioned this to me." 

Seonghwa nods, as if that makes perfect sense. You take a deep breath, adjusting to the reality of your new professional dynamic. "Well," you say, straightening up, "there are a few patients we need to check on. Let’s get to work." 

Sensing the awkward atmosphere lingering between you, you quickly assign him a task. "Check on each patient and inform me when you're done. I still need to change into my uniform and greet the chief." 

Seonghwa furrows his brows. "Greet the chief? Why?" 

You tilt your head. "It’s common courtesy to greet your boss." 

His lips twitch slightly. "You’ve already seen Namjoon." 

You stare at him, processing his words. "Wait… what?" 

"Namjoon became the chief just a little over a month ago."

Although perplexed at information that Namjoon decided to keep from you, you can’t help but feel a bit proud. “Then I guess we immediately go to work.”

Seonghwa smiles as he begins to scan through the list of patients. He explains their conditions, the procedures that were performed, and the potential checkups. As the two of you walk, you’re reminded of the old times when he used to trail behind you. However, instead of the nervous first-year resident who once cowered under your stern gaze, you now see a confident future cardiothoracic surgeon completing his final year of residency.

After a long day in the operating room, you find yourself transitioning from the upbeat environment of the hospital to the familiar weight of anticipation as you make your way to the car. The drive through the bustling streets of Seoul reflects your mixed emotions. 

As you step into the apartment you once shared with Jimin, the soft glow of the overhead lights illuminates the elegant surroundings. Located in an upscale neighborhood, the entrance welcomes you with its polished wooden floors and high ceilings that make the space feel both expansive and intimate.  

In the air lingers a faint floral scent, suggesting that someone has taken great care to maintain the place. You glance around, noticing the carefully arranged furniture that echoes memories of laughter and shared moments. The black sofa, draped with a soft throw blanket, still stands at its familiar angle, as if waiting for you to sink into it once more. 

You can’t help but smile. The same sofa has once sparked a playful disagreement between you and Jimin, who thought its color was too dark for a room designed to catch the morning sun. The large windows allow ample light to flood the space, creating a striking contrast with the sofa.

Setting down the three suitcases, you stroll through the living space, taking in the memories. It’s as if time has stood still; nothing has changed. A wave of nostalgia washes over you, mingling with an unsettling sense of estrangement, as the apartment feels like a memory frozen in time. What truly catches your eye are the photos of you and Jimin, still proudly hanging on the walls of the living room.

Taking an en route to the photos, you catch the lingering feeling of confusion wash over you slowly then all at once as you come near. The photos are in pristine condition, a contrast to what you last remember seeing them. The vision of Jimin lingers as he yells smashing each frame against floor. Shards of glass spread all over the floor. He stomps over it, further crumpling the photos. You trace the wooden frame, fingers stopping at your carved initials. 

Why did he put them back? The question floats in the air, and suddenly you feel like you’ll choke if continue searching for the answer. Instead, you proceed into the bedroom and the sight that greets you is a comforting one.

The bed is neatly made, and not much has changed. But as you stand there, you feel an overwhelming urge to explore further, to delve into the past. Yet, given the emotional roller coaster of the past two days, you pause feeling that venturing too deep might stir up memories best left undisturbed. Instead, you make your way downstairs to the kitchen hoping to find some semblance of normalcy in a cup of coffee. 

You recall that Jimin always kept basics stocked, and you hope he didn’t throw all out. As you reach for the cabinet above the sink where you used to keep the coffee, your movements feel almost instinctual, as if you haven’t lived in another apartment for two years. To your surprise, nestled beside the bag of coffee is a package of white tea, one of your favorites.

But it’s not just the tea that catches your eye. The cabinet seems to be a curated collection of your favorites. It is stocked up on all the items you once adored, from the German chocolate Riesen—Jimin would always tease you about your peculiar liking for them—to your beloved brand of coffee, and even the soy sauce you preferred for your ramen noodles. It’s as if the cabinet had become a small shrine to your favorite things.

As you stand there, staring at the familiar items placed in the cabinet, you feel a new wave of confusion washes over you.  You’re left wondering why he hadn’t removed them entirely. Was he holding onto these memories, or had he simply pushed them aside to avoid the hurt they might bring? The realization that living in this once-shared space might be too much for him sinks in, leaving you conflicted. Part of you wants to cherish these tokens of your past, while another part grapples with the understanding that he likely sought to create distance from reminders of you, leaving you uncertain about what to do with the unraveling emotions swirling inside.

Pushing the emotions aside, you decide to take a quick shower, hoping the warm water will wash away some of the tension that has built up throughout the day. Afterward, you sit down to make a list of things you need to buy for the apartment in order to transform it into a space in which you and Jimin had been supposedly living for the past five years. 

You jot down groceries, hygiene such as shampoos, razors and all the trivial essentials that make a home feel complete. But then you pause, a wave of realization washing over you. All Jimin’s clothes are at his apartment with Rose. You feel your emotional limit approaching as you wrestle with the idea of having to call her and ask for his things. It feels like too much, especially considering your last encounter. Though Jimin may currently see you as his wife due to his amnesia, you are painfully aware that you are, in reality, his ex-wife. 

You started to feel lost and uncertain about what to do next. It was ironic that as a surgeon, you often must make decisions so quickly that you rarely have time to think them through. Yet now, you were struggling to make even the simplest choice. In a moment of clarity, you decided it might be better to ask Hoseok or Namjoon to handle the situation, letting them do the heavy lifting while you figure out the rest.

You decide that tomorrow is a fresh start, hoping things might feel a little better. As you turn off the lights in the living room, the quiet envelops you, and it dawns on you just how tired you are. Climbing upstairs, you hesitate in front of the doors of the bedroom. It feels too soon to sleep there, so you opt for the guest room instead. 

As you settle onto the unfamiliar sheets, just as you feel yourself drifting off, your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen to see a message from an unfamiliar number. 

Sweet dreams—don't let the bugs eat you and think of me. 

P.S. Namjoon finally gave my phone back. 

You stare at the ceiling for a while, the words piercing through the cozy haze of sleepiness. You know it's Jimin, yet confusion washes over you. Why would Namjoon hand Jimin his phone back? Did he go through it? Did he erase the photos of Jimin and Rose? The thought leaves you feeling unsettled, and frustration bubbles beneath the surface.

 It seems like everything is a tangled web of emotions, and you can't seem to catch a break. With a sigh, you grip your phone and type back, "Sweet dreams too," tacking on a heart emoji before switching off the screen entirely. Resting your head against the pillow, you let the silence absorb your thoughts, hoping for clarity in whatever tomorrow might bring.

[mochii0park]

Don't speak; pjm

Title: Don't speak

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Genre: angst I fluff

Pairing: doctor!reader x businessman!jimin

Release date: February 10th 2025 (due to illness, last delay I promise)

Summary: Love, trust, mutual respect and intimacy are often the keys to a successful marriage. Something your marriage with Jimin has been lacking for the better part of it. Five years of dating and three years of marriage were thrown down the drain after a gruesome fight. In an attempt to salvage your reputation and respect for each other, you agree to settle the matter with a divorce. However, faith had other plans which included erasing the last 4 years of Jimin's life and turning the clock back to 2021.

Oneshot: ONE I TWO

Masterlist

Taglist: If you want to be tagged when the oneshot is posted do write on this post or sent me a message :)

[mochii0park]

why are all the series on hold except for jimin's? 😔

University took a lot of my free time. When I started writing the series I didn't think I would be applying for master's because I missed the due date. However I managed to apply and got accepted. I didn't think it would be sooo exhausting 🥲 All the projects, the research, the studying and the amount of books I have to read. I couldn't juggle both uni and stories, and I wanted to write them so I am satisfied. Therefore, I put them all on hold except for the one I feel most inspired to write. Hopefully, from next month on I will have more time to write ☺️

[mochii0park]

waterlilies and japanese bridge

PARK JIMIN

SAUDADE /saʊˈdɑːdə/ noun a feeling of longing, melancholy, or nostalgia that is supposedly characteristic of the Portuguese or Brazilian temperament.

→ summary: When engaging into a marriage with your chosen partner, one assumes that the obstacles you have to face come in forms of communication issues, coming to terms with your spouse’s bad habits or money problems. What your parents perhaps never told you is that sometimes they come in a form of a woman coated safely behind the words of your spouse’s lies about yet another quick trip abroad.

Y/N, an art curator who married her high school sweetheart lives a blissful life, oblivious to other people’s marriage struggles as her husband is the pitch perfect image of a spouse one could wish. Jinyoung, an economist tackles the new found issue his spouse dumped on him during one of her rare visits home, divorce. Sunmi, an ambitious art gallery owner finds herself in a slump when her eight years younger husband wishes to expand their family during the peak of her career.

KIM TAEHYUNG

METANOIA /ˌmɛtəˈnɔɪə/ noun change in one’s way of life resulting from penitence or spiritual conversion.

→ summary: Vante, a household name among photographers became known for his minimalistic photography style that came along with his secret persona. Never showing his face on his own exhibitions fueled the public’s desire to learn more about him which skyrocketed his fame. While preparing for his next exhibition Vante went missing. Disappeared into thin air and even now a year later was never found.

Kim Taehyung is someone that lives and breaths photography. Known for his studious workshops, he travels around the world furthering his knowledge to his pupils. Although young, he is vastly familiar with the material and equipped with enough knowledge to bring the elderly photographers to shame. Following a tragic event, he decided to halt everything and return to his hometown. After a year his brother Seojoon offers him a slight push, photography workshop at Seoul National University. Little did Taehyung know that he will open a Pandora box by accepting the offer

JUNG HOSEOK

MERAKI /may-rah-kee/ adjective a word that modern Greeks often use to describe doing something with soul, creativity, or love – when you put “something of yourself” into what you’re doing, whatever it may be

→ summary: Throughout your whole life you lived in your sister’s shadow, watching from side-lines as she formed herself into a successful businesswoman with an envying life. Never being able to fill her shoes you gradually understood the meaning of an estranged family and the burden it carried. The twenties began slowly slipping from your grasp which had been embedded with insecurities and longing for fulfilment. Pouring your heart out to strangers with a pseudonym Meraki, you began second guessing the decision when an email lands in your inbox.

Jung Hoseok’s existence can be downsized to two words, coffee and books. Spending his days drinking questionable amounts of caffeine in his friend’s small café, Hoseok scouts for the perfect piece to publish. Stumbling upon a literature piece he deems worthy of his time; he goes to great lengths to find the author never knowing the trouble he got himself into.

MIN YOONGI

IKIGAI /ik-ee-guy/ noun a reason for being; the thing that gets you up in the morning.

→ summary: Yoongi faces a rough rift in his production when all he can do is watch the last ounce of passion leave his faceless music. Bearing his soul into his last album, he came to a tough realization when it became a flop leading to a path of questioning and self-consciousness. When the opportunity to produce a track for Jungkook arises, he takes it not knowing about the idol’s obsession with flowers. Trying to spike his inspiration, he becomes a regular at Ikigai flower shop, corner away from his studio.

Y/N’s love laid in flowers and botany. Myriad days spent combining flowers of different shades and hues to create lush and effortlessly elegant creations worthy of awe. Her days at work began to be coloured with excitement and laughter when a shy, out of the place man steps foot into the flower shop requesting for help in flower theory specifically their meaning. Not knowing the red tints of her cheek would quickly turn to blue ones, made of heartbreak.

[mochii0park]

Hiii~ mew follower here. Was wondering if I couldn't be added to Meraki's taglist?? Thank youuuu

hii ^^ I'll add you right now.