Untitled

Twenty-something Namjoon enthusiast

[jooniesmxxn]

Big daddy joon fr fr

[place-of-power]

[rjshope]

oh those dimples are definitely illegal! (x)

[likeawildflower]

July 2, 2026 - BTS Arirang World Tour - Brussels Day 2 - For Youth: Namjoon’s verse (with Jungkook)

[deaddumblbumble]

So I Won't Forget | KNJ pt 2

SUMMARY:  A quiet British art curator and a world-renowned songwriter discover they’re soulmates when a bond begins echoing the emotions they refuse to say aloud. As Charlotte and Namjoon navigate long distance, growing love, and the quiet belief that some people are worth preserving more than themselves, they learn that the greatest works of art aren’t always hung in museums—they’re the lives we choose to remember.

WARNINGS:  Soulmate AU, slow burn, emotional angst, long-distance relationship, social anxiety, orphan themes, language barriers, suspense,  threats of violence, injury , insomnia, swearing, eventual smut (18+).

masterlist

------------------------------

The conservation studio settled back into its familiar rhythm almost as soon as the door closed behind the last of the visitors.

Charlotte stood for a moment, listening to the quiet hum of the environmental controls and the soft clink of glass jars somewhere farther down the room. The museum always felt different once it belonged to its staff again. Upstairs, preparations for the Louis Vuitton gala were undoubtedly gathering pace—florists arranging centerpieces, caterers moving through service corridors, security making their final checks—but down here, nothing had changed. A painting still waited to be cleaned. Conservation reports still needed updating. History, as always, was in no particular hurry.

She slipped off her blazer and hung it neatly over the back of her chair before tying her museum apron around her waist. The familiar cotton felt far more comfortable than tailored wool ever had. She’d spent the better part of the afternoon dressed as a curator. Now she could go back to being herself.

The portrait she’d left earlier sat exactly where she’d expected, illuminated beneath the conservation lamp. Charlotte lowered herself onto the stool, adjusted the magnifying visor, and reached for the fine sable brush resting beside her palette.

Her fingers stopped just short of it. Without warning, the same feeling from earlier settled over her again. Not fear. Not nervousness. Something heavier.

For one impossible moment, it felt as though the weight of an entire room had been placed across her shoulders. The instinct to choose every word carefully. The awareness that people were depending on her to say the right thing. The quiet pressure of carrying expectations she couldn’t quite explain.

Charlotte frowned. The sensation was gone almost as quickly as it had arrived. She sat back in her chair, pressing the heel of her hand lightly against her sternum as if she could physically locate whatever had just happened. 

It didn’t feel like her anxiety. She knew her own anxiety well enough to recognize it. Crowded rooms. Small talk. The uncomfortable awareness of being observed. This had been something entirely different. It hadn’t felt like panic at all.

It had felt… borrowed—The thought was absurd.

She let out a quiet breath and shook her head at herself. It had been an unusually busy afternoon. Giving a private tour to internationally famous guests while a camera followed her through the galleries would leave anyone feeling a little off afterwards. Adrenaline had a habit of lingering long after there was anything left to be nervous about. That had to be all it was.

Satisfied, if not entirely convinced, she turned her attention back to the portrait. The familiar routine gradually steadied her breathing. Brush. Solvent. Magnification. Documentation. The careful repetition had always been one of the things she loved most about conservation. Every painting demanded patience, and patience had a remarkable way of quieting the rest of the world.

She had almost forgotten the afternoon entirely when a gentle knock sounded against the open studio door. One of her colleagues leaned inside, already dressed for the evening in a black cocktail dress instead of her usual conservation clothes, “I thought I’d find you here.”

Charlotte looked up with a sheepish smile, “I was only going to finish this section.”

Her colleague glanced at the untouched painting and then back at Charlotte, “You’ve got forty-five minutes before the trustees start arriving.”

Charlotte’s smile faded, “Oh…”

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t forget.”

Her colleague raised an eyebrow.

Charlotte sighed, “I temporarily convinced myself I had another hour.”

“You’ve been doing that all week.”

“I know.”

“And no, you can’t attend the Louis Vuitton gala in your apron.”

Charlotte looked down at herself before smiling despite herself, “It was worth asking.”

“It wasn’t.”

With one last reluctant look at the painting, Charlotte carefully covered it with its protective dust sheet. It would still be there in the morning. Fortunately, history had never minded waiting.

———————————

By the time BTS returned to the hotel, the pace of the day had shifted completely. Museum silence gave way to organized chaos. Garment bags lined the hallway outside the members’ suites. Stylists moved from room to room balancing makeup cases and steaming racks of Louis Vuitton tailoring while managers compared schedules, confirmed arrivals, and answered phones that never seemed to stop ringing. Somewhere farther down the corridor, someone was asking where a pair of shoes had disappeared to. It felt familiar. Comfortably familiar.

Namjoon stepped into his room, loosening the collar of his shirt as he set his phone on the desk. The afternoon had run longer than expected, but no one seemed particularly bothered by it. If anything, the members were in unusually good spirits. The museum had surprised them.

A knock sounded almost immediately, “Come in.”

The door opened just enough for Hoseok to lean inside, “You’ve got five minutes before hair.”

Namjoon nodded, “I’ll survive.”

Hoseok grinned before disappearing back into the hallway. Namjoon laughed quietly to himself.

He walked toward the window overlooking Hyde Park, rolling his shoulders as he watched the rain continue to drift across the glass. London always seemed to exist beneath a grey sky, but he’d never minded it.  His thoughts wandered back to the museum. Not to the exhibition—To Charlotte.

He frowned slightly. Not because he’d been thinking about her. Because he hadn’t expected to.

He could still picture the conservation studio with startling clarity. The worn workbench. The microscope pushed to one side. The stack of reference books with loose notes tucked between the pages. The unfinished portrait resting beneath the conservation lamp.

It hadn’t looked like a place designed for visitors. It had looked like somewhere people spent years becoming good at something. He understood places like that.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. This time it was one of the stylists, “We’re ready for you.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Twenty minutes later, he sat in front of a mirror while a stylist adjusted the fall of his jacket. Another fixed the cuff of his shirt. Someone else asked whether he’d prefer the silver watch or the black one. He answered automatically.

Years of experience had made moments like these almost instinctive. Yet something felt… Different. Not wrong. Just quieter. 

Usually his mind would already be moving three conversations ahead. Who needed translating? Which interviews were confirmed? Who looked tired? Had everyone eaten? Were there any last-minute changes to the schedule? The thoughts never truly stopped.

Today… There was space between them. Enough space that he noticed the silence. He caught his own reflection in the mirror.

“You alright?” The stylist looked up.

Namjoon smiled, “Yeah.”

“You just seem…” She searched for the word, “…relaxed.”

He glanced at his reflection again, “I suppose I do.”

She smiled, “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

He laughed, “I’ll try.”

A few minutes later, he stepped into the hallway where the others were already gathering. Jungkook was adjusting the sleeves of his jacket while Jin complained—good-naturedly—that someone had hidden his favorite shoes. Taehyung was studying one of the floral arrangements outside the elevator as though trying to decide whether it had been changed since that morning. Hoseok was talking with one of the Louis Vuitton representatives, and Jimin was quietly helping straighten the back of Jungkook’s collar.

Yoongi looked up as Namjoon joined them. For a moment, he simply studied him. Then he asked, “You’re quiet today.”

Namjoon smiled, “Am I?”

“A little.”

Namjoon considered it, “…The museum was nice.”

Yoongi nodded once, “It was.” Nothing more needed saying.

The elevator doors opened. As they stepped inside, Namjoon found himself thinking—not about the gala waiting downstairs—but about an unfinished painting sitting beneath a conservation lamp. He couldn’t quite understand why.

—————————

Charlotte stood in front of the full-length mirror with an expression usually reserved for difficult conservation reports, “I look ridiculous.”

Her colleague, Amelia, looked up from fastening an earring, “You look expensive.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is tonight.”

Charlotte sighed.

The navy gown had been chosen weeks ago by the museum’s events team after several emails reminding senior staff that the Louis Vuitton gala was a black-tie event. It fit perfectly. The tailoring was elegant without being ostentatious, and paired with understated jewellery and soft makeup, she looked every bit the senior curator expected to represent one of Britain’s most prestigious exhibitions.

That was precisely the problem. She didn’t feel like herself. She reached instinctively to smooth the front of the dress before catching herself, “I miss my apron.”

Amelia laughed, “I know you do.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

Charlotte looked down at the unfamiliar heels on her feet, “I can’t feel the floor properly.”

“You’ve said that every time you’ve worn heels.”

“Because it’s true.”

Amelia walked over, gently turning Charlotte toward the mirror again, “What do you see?”

Charlotte studied her reflection. Someone polished. Professional. Entirely out of place, “A woman pretending she belongs at a gala.”

Amelia’s expression softened, “A woman who spent three years building the exhibition everyone’s coming to see.”

Charlotte smiled politely, “They’re not coming to see me.”

“No.”

“They’re coming because Louis Vuitton is hosting it.”

“And because your exhibition gave them something worth celebrating.”

Charlotte looked away first. Praise had always made her vaguely uncomfortable. She preferred discussing paintings. Paintings couldn’t compliment you back.

A knock interrupted the conversation. One of the museum’s event coordinators appeared in the doorway, “The first guests have started arriving.”

Charlotte nodded, “We’ll be right there.”

The coordinator disappeared as quietly as she’d arrived.

Amelia reached for Charlotte’s clutch and handed it to her, “You’ll be brilliant.”

Charlotte accepted it with a grateful smile, “I’ll survive.”

“That’s a very British answer.”

“It usually works.”

Together they stepped into the corridor, now transformed from a working museum into an evening venue. Staff in black suits and evening gowns moved with practiced efficiency between galleries, making final adjustments to floral arrangements and lighting while the first conversations drifted in from the reception hall.

Charlotte slowed for just a moment outside the doors leading into the gala. She could already hear it. The gentle hum of dozens of conversations blending together. Laughter. Glasses clinking. A photographer calling for someone’s attention.

Her chest tightened almost imperceptibly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough that she instinctively searched the room beyond the doorway before stepping inside. Old habit. Locate the exits. Find a quiet corner. Work out where to stand if the room became too much. She’d done it without thinking for years.

Amelia glanced sideways, “You alright?”

Charlotte offered the same reassuring smile she’d perfected long ago, “Just preparing myself.”

Amelia linked her arm through Charlotte’s for a brief moment before letting go, “You don’t have to stay all night.”

Charlotte smiled, grateful for the reminder. “No.” She looked through the open doors toward the sea of unfamiliar faces, “Just long enough.”

—————————

The gala bore little resemblance to the museum Charlotte had left less than an hour earlier. The galleries were still there, of course, but they had become the backdrop rather than the destination. Tall arrangements of white roses softened the stone corridors, candlelight reflected across polished display cases, and the quiet hush she’d always associated with museums had been replaced by the low, steady murmur of conversation.

Museum trustees. Patrons. Collectors. Fashion executives. Journalists. Diplomats. Designers—Charlotte recognized most of them by name, if not by face.

She made her way through the reception with practiced professionalism, thanking lenders for their generosity, answering questions about the exhibition, and introducing museum trustees to Louis Vuitton representatives who had helped sponsor the evening. It was, she reminded herself, simply another part of the job. She happened to prefer the paintings.

A ripple of movement near the entrance drew her attention. The conversations around her shifted almost imperceptibly. Not louder. More aware—BTS had arrived.

Charlotte watched from across the gallery as the seven members were welcomed by museum leadership and representatives from Louis Vuitton. Cameras flashed in measured bursts while photographers documented handshakes, greetings, and the opening moments of the evening.

It was a world she understood only from a distance. Everyone seemed to know exactly where to stand. Exactly where to look. Exactly when to smile. She wondered how anyone ever became accustomed to it.

“…Charlotte?” She turned. One of the museum trustees had approached with a couple she’d met only briefly during the exhibition’s planning stages.

“They were hoping you might tell them about the portrait in the East Gallery.”

Charlotte smiled warmly, “Of course.”

By the time she’d finished, BTS had disappeared farther into the reception.

———————

Across the room, Namjoon accepted another handshake. Another introduction. Another photograph. He’d done this hundreds of times before.

He thanked a designer in English before introducing him to Hoseok in Korean. Moments later he found himself answering a question from a journalist before translating another for one of the museum trustees.

The rhythm was familiar. Automatic. He barely had to think about it anymore. Yet every now and then, without warning, his attention drifted. Not to the cameras. Not to the guests…To Charlotte.

She moved through the room differently from everyone else. She never stayed in one conversation longer than necessary, yet no one appeared rushed. She listened more than she spoke. When someone asked about the exhibition, her expression softened in exactly the same way it had during the private tour.

She wasn’t networking. She was still talking about history. He caught himself smiling.

“Everything alright?” Yoongi had appeared beside him without warning.

Namjoon looked away from the crowd, “Hm?”

“You’ve been looking in the same direction for the last minute.”

Namjoon followed Yoongi’s gaze. Charlotte was speaking with an elderly donor, listening intently as he gestured toward one of the portraits they’d discussed earlier that afternoon.

“I was just wondering…”

Yoongi waited.

“…how someone ends up loving one thing that much.”

Yoongi looked across the gallery himself. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, “I think that’s probably the easy part.”

Namjoon glanced at him.

“The difficult part is getting other people to love it too.”

Before Namjoon could answer, one of the Louis Vuitton representatives approached, “They’re ready for the group photographs.”

He nodded, “We’ll be right there.”

As the members followed the representative toward the grand staircase, Namjoon looked back one last time. Charlotte had disappeared again. Not because she’d left. Because the room had simply swallowed her back into the crowd. She seemed perfectly content there. Just outside the spotlight.

————————

Charlotte had discovered early in her career that evenings like this followed a remarkably predictable pattern.

The first conversations were always the easiest. Guests arrived genuinely excited to be there, introductions were still fresh, and everyone was eager to talk about the exhibition itself. As the evening wore on, however, the conversations gradually began to overlap. The same questions returned in slightly different forms. How long had the exhibition taken? Which object was the hardest to acquire? Which gallery was her favorite? She answered each one with the same enthusiasm she had the first time she heard it, because the people asking deserved that much. None of them knew they were the fifteenth person to ask.

That, Charlotte had always thought, was the tiring part. Not speaking. Paying attention.

She wanted every person standing in front of her to leave feeling as though they’d had a genuine conversation, not a rehearsed one. It was a small thing, but she cared about it. Museums were built on curiosity, and she never wanted someone to feel as though theirs had been an inconvenience.

By the time she excused herself from a conversation with two museum patrons discussing eighteenth-century portraiture, she realized she’d been standing in the reception hall for nearly an hour without noticing.

A passing server offered her another glass of sparkling water. She accepted it with a grateful smile before slipping quietly through the doorway leading back into the exhibition galleries.

The change was immediate. The murmur of the gala faded into the background, softened by thick stone walls and centuries-old canvases. Here, the rooms felt almost exactly as they had that afternoon. Visitors moved more slowly. Conversations became whispers. People instinctively lowered their voices without anyone asking them to.

Charlotte smiled to herself. She had always thought museums taught people how to breathe a little more quietly.

She wandered toward one of the portraits she’d helped oversee during conservation and stopped several feet away. There was no reason to check on it; the environmental readings had been confirmed hours earlier, and nothing about the display had changed since the doors opened. Still, she found herself returning to the painting almost instinctively, the way people sometimes revisited an old friend during a crowded party. She stood there for a long moment, letting the silence settle around her. 

The reception hall had been full of perfectly pleasant people. She knew that. No one had been demanding or difficult. Yet she could already feel the familiar heaviness that arrived after too much conversation, the quiet exhaustion of introducing herself over and over again while trying to remember everyone else’s names, careers, and connections to the museum. She often wondered whether everyone found that kind of evening draining or whether it came more naturally to other people. Perhaps it did. She’d never really known.

She was just beginning to think she ought to return before someone started looking for her when an unfamiliar feeling settled over her with such quiet certainty that she stopped where she was…It wasn’t her anxiety.

Charlotte knew her own anxiety well enough to recognize it. It usually appeared before she entered a crowded room, making her aware of herself—where she was standing, who might be looking at her, how long she ought to stay before slipping away unnoticed…This felt different.

Her attention drifted away from herself almost without realizing it. Instead of noticing the conversations she wasn’t part of, she found herself quietly observing the room as a whole. Guests laughed over champagne, museum staff moved discreetly between tables, and servers wove effortlessly through the crowd. She caught herself hoping everything was running smoothly, that no one had been overlooked, that the evening was unfolding exactly as it should.

She blinked. It was an odd thing to be thinking about.

Charlotte cared deeply about her work, but she’d never been someone who instinctively carried the weight of an entire room. If anything, she was usually trying to disappear into it. The feeling lingered for another moment before fading as quietly as it had arrived, leaving behind nothing more than a faint sense of confusion.

She looked around the gallery, half expecting to find someone calling her name. No one was there. The portraits remained exactly where they had always been, silent witnesses to a feeling she couldn’t begin to explain.

Charlotte let out a slow breath and gave a small shake of her head. It had been an unusually long day. Surely that was all.

————————

The grand staircase had become an unofficial receiving line. Every few minutes another guest approached to introduce themselves, congratulate the members on the exhibition, or thank Louis Vuitton for the invitation. Conversations flowed easily between Korean and English, with Namjoon slipping between the two languages so naturally that he rarely noticed he was doing it anymore. It had become second nature years ago.

A designer from Paris was asking about the museum when a museum trustee joined the conversation, followed moments later by one of the exhibition’s lenders. Namjoon translated where he was needed, smiled for another photograph, and politely accepted a champagne flute he had no intention of drinking. It was, in every sense, another evening at work.

He wasn’t paying much attention to how long he’d been standing there until, without warning, a strange weariness settled over him. Not physical fatigue. Something quieter. He suddenly became aware of how many introductions he’d made in the last hour. How many times he’d smiled. How many versions of the same conversation he’d had with different people. 

The realization caught him off guard. He enjoyed meeting people. Always had. Even when events became busy, he usually found something interesting in every conversation.

Tonight, though, the thought of introducing himself to one more stranger sounded unexpectedly exhausting. He frowned almost imperceptibly. That wasn’t like him.

Someone was saying something about the exhibition. Namjoon listened politely, responded with a smile, and translated the question for the others, but part of his attention had drifted elsewhere.

He found himself looking toward the galleries. Not because anyone had gone there. Because they were quiet.

The thought surprised him. Museums had always been calming places, but he’d never once excused himself from an event simply because he wanted silence.

Another guest approached. Another introduction. Another handshake. He greeted them as warmly as the last. No one would have guessed anything had changed.

From across the room, Yoongi watched him for a moment before stepping closer, “You alright?”

Namjoon glanced over, “Yeah.”

“You look tired.”

Namjoon considered the observation, “I don’t think I am.”

Yoongi studied him for another second, then gave a small nod, “If you need five minutes, go.”

Namjoon smiled, “I might.”

Yoongi’s mouth twitched into the faintest hint of a smile, “We will survive without you.”

Namjoon laughed quietly, “I know.”

But as another conversation began, he caught himself glancing toward the gallery entrance once more, unable to shake the unexpected feeling that, just for a few minutes, he’d rather be somewhere the world wasn’t asking anything of him.

————————

Charlotte waited until the applause began. It wasn’t intentional. Years of attending museum events had taught her that the safest time to slip away was when everyone’s attention was fixed somewhere else. A speech was beginning in the reception hall, glasses were being set aside, conversations were drawing to a close, and for the first time all evening, no one was looking for the curator.

She quietly stepped through a pair of French doors leading onto the museum’s balcony. The evening air was cool against her skin. London stretched out beyond the stone balustrade, the rooftops washed in amber light while traffic drifted steadily through the streets below. Somewhere in the distance, the chimes of a church bell carried faintly across the city before disappearing beneath the hum of evening.

Charlotte closed her eyes for just a moment. Much better.

“You found it too.”

She opened her eyes. Namjoon stood several feet away at the opposite end of the balcony, one hand resting lightly on the stone railing. He smiled apologetically, as though he’d been caught somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be.

Charlotte immediately shook her head, “I’m sorry—I didn’t realize anyone was out here.” She took a small step backwards toward the doors, “I can leave.”

“You don’t have to.” The words were quiet, offered without expectation.

She hesitated before letting the door swing closed behind her again, “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“You aren’t.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence settled comfortably between them, filled instead by the sounds of London drifting up from the streets below. Charlotte joined him at the railing, leaving enough space that neither of them felt crowded.

“I always forget how loud these evenings are.”

Namjoon looked out across the city, “I think I forget while I’m in them.”

She nodded knowingly, “I usually last about an hour.”

“Only an hour?”

“If I’m lucky.”

He glanced over, surprised, “I thought people in museums enjoyed events like this.”

Charlotte let out a quiet laugh, “I enjoy the exhibitions.” She looked back through the glass doors toward the reception hall, where elegantly dressed guests moved beneath crystal chandeliers, “The parties are simply what happens around them.”

That made him smile, “I know the feeling.”

She tilted her head, “I imagine you spend rather a lot of time at events like this.”

“I do.”

“And?”

He considered the question, “I still prefer the places before everyone arrives.”

Charlotte looked at him, “The museum at eight in the morning is my favourite place in London.”

“No visitors?”

“No visitors. No speeches. No cameras.” She smiled to herself. “Just conservators arguing over tea and someone inevitably playing the wrong radio station.”

Namjoon laughed, “That sounds nice.”

“It is.” She looked back out across the city, “Everything feels… honest.”

He understood immediately. Not because of the museum. Because he knew exactly what she meant. There was something about empty spaces before they fulfilled their purpose. Concert venues before the lights came up. Recording studios before the microphones were switched on. Museums before the first footsteps echoed through the galleries. They belonged to the people who loved them most.

“I’ve never seen the museum before opening,” he admitted.

“You’d like it.”

“You seem very certain.”

Charlotte smiled, “I’ve spent all afternoon watching what everyone noticed.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t think you’d mind the quiet.”

He laughed softly, “I probably wouldn’t.”

The balcony fell silent again. Neither of them seemed in any hurry to interrupt it. Charlotte found herself watching the traffic below, oddly aware that the restlessness she’d carried out of the reception hall had faded somewhere during their conversation. She hadn’t been trying to relax. Somehow, she simply had.

Beside her, Namjoon rested his forearms on the cool stone railing. The pressure that usually accompanied evenings like this had eased in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Nothing about the gala had changed. The speeches were still waiting. The photographs still needed taking. There would still be introductions and interviews before the night was over. Yet, standing there beneath the London sky, the weight of it all felt unexpectedly lighter. Neither of them questioned it.

Behind them, the balcony doors opened, “There you are.” One of the Louis Vuitton coordinators smiled with visible relief, “We’re about to begin the presentations.”

Charlotte straightened first, “I suppose we should go back.”

Namjoon nodded, “I guess we should.”

She smiled politely before reaching for the door, “It was nice talking to you, Mr. Kim.”

He opened the door for her, “You too… Charlotte.” 

For reasons neither of them could explain, using her name felt strangely natural. Together, they stepped back into the light, the cameras, and the conversations—neither of them realizing that the hardest part of the evening was no longer pretending to enjoy the crowd. It was walking away from the only person who had made it disappear.

-----------------------

love them already!

like, share, comment, reblog!!!

xoxo, bumble

Taglist: @bbl32 @bb3armira @bjoriis @lumora-the-white @itsluvie @traumaanatomy @joonmonjagi @thedelulusafespace @blue-and-grey-swan @dayquilforthewin @jajabro @ineed-myspace @airwolf92 @alittlelostalittlefound @gemini5991 @jhens-world @sugalarity @bebesnyia7 @lcvesugaa @kerstin-p 

[secretcheesecakecowboy]

Let's take a moment to appreciate this fine ass man. He's just 😍💋💋

[ohmymistakee]

mmmmm let me write smth

[likeawildflower]

July 2, 2026 - BTS Arirang World Tour - Brussels Day 2 - Namjoon sees the fan sign 🫶

[stormblessed95]

LESBIANS LOVE BTS

Jungkook "yeahhhhh"

Namjoon "that's good that's great!"

What a way to end pride month. The acknowledgement of their queer fans and the love they always give back 🥹🥹🥹🌈🎊

[likeawildflower]

July 2, 2026 - BTS Arirang World Tour - Brussels Day 2 - Namjoon! Fake Love! Fake Love!

[freakybts]

the dragon’s shadow | chapter 1;

pairing: crown prince!namjoon x servant!reader

synopsis: in the east palace, you are the princess’s court lady by day, and crown prince namjoon’s secret indulgence by night. a dangerous game of pleasure and jealousy — where the future emperor takes what he wants, and you can’t bring yourself to stop him.

word count: 2.4k

warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, historical/royal!au, power imbalance, public sex, oral sex (fem), unprotected penetrative sex, mild breeding/cream pie kink, praise, mild dubcon elements

a/n: this was an anon’s request/idea! i really want to make this a series but we’ll see how the feedback is. it’s my first time writing this kind of au so please be nice to me and excuse any inaccuracy

────── ✧ ──────

glossary:

jeonha (전하) — your majesty / your highness. a formal honorific used when addressing the king or crown prince.

gongjunim (공주님) — princess. an affectionate term namjoon uses for you, elevating you playfully.

gisaeng (기생) — professional female entertainers trained in music, dance, poetry, and conversation. often invited to private banquets.

gonryongpo (곤룡포) — the blue dragon robe worn by the crown prince, embroidered with dragons symbolizing royal power.

hanbok (한복) — traditional korean clothing worn by all social classes, with multiple layered garments.

jeogori (저고리) — the short jacket-like top of a hanbok, usually worn over the skirt.

yangban (양반) — the scholarly noble class; high-ranking officials and aristocrats.

geomungo (거문고) — a traditional korean zither-like string instrument.

east palace (동궁) — the residence area of the crown prince within the larger palace complex.

────── ✧ ──────

the lanterns swayed gently in the warm night breeze, casting flickering golden light across the secluded pavilion tucked deep within the east palace grounds. music drifted through the air—soft strings of the geomungo mixed with the lilting notes of a flute—accompanied by the laughter of a small, carefully chosen group. this was not one of the stiff royal banquets overseen by ministers and watchful eyes. this was namjoon’s world, the one he carved out for himself when the weight of expectation grew too heavy.

kim namjoon, crown prince of joseon, lounged at the center of it all like he belonged nowhere else. his blue gonryongpo was loosened at the collar, the embroidered dragons peeking out as if even they were taking a break from propriety. a cup of rice wine dangled loosely from his long fingers, half-empty again. his dark eyes sparkled with that easy mischief that made servants whisper and women lean closer.

“another round,” he called, voice warm and low, carrying over the music. hoseok, one of his close companions—a young yangban son who had grown up trailing after the prince—raised his cup with a cheer. beside namjoon, a gisaeng in flowing silk leaned in, her painted lips curving into a smile as his free hand settled boldly on her waist. his thumb traced lazy circles against the fabric, slipping just beneath the edge where skin met cloth. she giggled, pressing a fresh cup to his lips, and he drank deeply, eyes half-lidded in pleasure.

“you’re too generous tonight, jeonha,” she murmured, using the honorific playfully. namjoon chuckled, the sound rich and effortless, pulling her closer until she was nearly in his lap. his other hand came up to brush a strand of hair from her face, fingers lingering at her jaw.

“generous? i’m simply enjoying what the night offers,” he replied, voice dropping. “and you, my dear, offer quite a lot.” his hand slid lower, possessive and unhurried, drawing another soft laugh from her as the music swelled. around them, other women—palace servants who had been invited for the evening and a few more gisaeng—mingled with his friends. cups clinked. bodies drew near. the air grew thick with the scent of wine, incense, and warm skin.

from the shadowed edge of the pavilion, you watched.

you had seen this scene before. too many times. as one of the personal court ladies assigned to the crown prince’s younger sister, princess kyung-min, you moved like a ghost through these walls—silent, efficient, invisible to most. but never to him. not entirely. your closeness to his sister had given you access to the east palace for years, a friendship that had quietly bloomed between you and the princess since childhood, even as strict palace rules tried to keep such bonds in check.

namjoon’s gaze flicked toward you for the briefest moment as he took another drink. something unreadable crossed his face, a flicker beneath the haze of wine and laughter, before the gisaeng whispered something in his ear and reclaimed his full attention. his hand squeezed her hip, and she arched into him willingly.

he was always like this in these stolen hours: carefree, magnetic, utterly alive. the brilliant mind that memorized entire confucian texts after a single reading, the prince who could debate policy with gray-haired ministers and leave them stunned, chose instead to lose himself here. drinking, touching, laughing as if the throne were a distant dream rather than his inescapable future. he succeeded in his duties without visible effort—tutors marveled, his father, the emperor, could find no true fault in his performance—yet he poured his real passion into nights like this.

you knew the other side of him too well. the quiet mornings when he would summon you under the pretense of needing something from his sister or a message, pulling you behind screens or into forgotten alcoves. the way his clever fingers and softer words could unravel you completely. the childhood glances that had bloomed into something secret and dangerous once you both reached that trembling age of discovery. he had always been the one to lure, to initiate, using his status like a silken rope. and you had let him, again and again, even as your heart tangled itself deeper.

the music shifted to something slower, more intimate. namjoon’s laughter rang out as he leaned in to kiss the curve of the gisaeng’s neck, his hand now boldly exploring beneath layers of silk. one of his friends called out a teasing remark, and the group erupted in cheers and more poured wine. the night was young, the pavilion warm, and the crown prince was in his element—brilliant, reckless, and blissfully unburdened.

but you felt the familiar twist in your chest. jealousy, sharp and unwelcome, mixed with the ache of wanting what you could never truly have. he would find you later, you knew. he always did. a soft touch, a few sweet words murmured against your skin, and you would end up in his bed again, lost in the heat of him while pretending it didn’t break you a little more each time.

for now, you simply refilled a cup when summoned, keeping your eyes lowered like a proper servant, while the future emperor of joseon partied on as if tomorrow’s duties did not exist.

the banquet stretched late into the night, the music growing softer and the laughter more drunken as lanterns burned lower. you moved through the edges of it all with practiced grace, refilling cups, clearing empty dishes, and keeping your expression carefully neutral. princess kyung-min had retired hours earlier with a knowing smile and a quiet request for you to handle any late duties near her brother’s quarters. she suspected something, perhaps, but never pressed. your friendship with her was one of the few gentle truths in this palace of secrets.

when the last of his companions finally stumbled away and the gisaengs were escorted out with flushed cheeks and disheveled garments, silence settled over the space like a heavy curtain. you lingered to extinguish a few lanterns, heart already racing, because you knew what came next.

footsteps. deliberate. unhurried.

“you stayed,” namjoon’s voice came low behind you, warm like the rice wine still on his breath. his presence filled the space before he even touched you—tall, broad-shouldered, the scent of alcohol and incense clinging to his loosened robes. you turned slowly, eyes lowered out of habit, but his fingers caught your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

“jeonha,” you whispered, the title feeling both formal and far too intimate on your tongue. his eyes were darker now, heavy-lidded from drink but still sharp, that brilliant mind never fully dulled. a slow smile curved his lips.

“always so proper when others might hear,” he murmured, thumb brushing your lower lip. “but there is no need to restrain yourself with me.” he stepped closer, backing you gently against one of the carved wooden pillars. the night air cooled your skin where your own hanbok shifted, but his body radiated heat. “you watched me tonight. i felt your eyes the whole time.”

heat rose in your cheeks. jealousy still twisted low in your belly—the memory of his hands on that gisaeng, his laugh against her neck—but his touch was already softening the edges of it. he always knew how. “you seemed… well entertained, your highness.”

namjoon chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest as he leaned in, lips ghosting along your jaw. “jealous?” he asked, almost teasing, but there was something gentler beneath it. his free hand settled at your waist, fingers splaying possessively. “you know none of them matter the way you do. they’re just… distractions. fleeting pleasures.” his mouth found the sensitive spot beneath your ear, sucking lightly, and you shivered despite yourself. “you’ve been in my thoughts since we were children sneaking glances in these same halls. that hasn’t changed.”

you wanted to believe him. you always did in these moments. his words were sweet, his hands clever, and your body remembered every secret encounter—the way he had first pulled you close years ago, clumsy with youthful desire, then more confident as time passed.

his fingers worked at the ties of your jeogori, loosening the fabric with practiced ease. cool air met warm skin as he pushed the layers aside, mouth trailing lower to kiss along your collarbone. “let me remind you,” he whispered against your skin, voice husky. “let me show you how much i want this. how much i want you. here. now.”

the cool night breeze brushed against your exposed skin as his mouth trailed lower, but the heat of him pressed close kept you burning. namjoon’s hands were already working at the ties of your skirt, loosening layers of silk with a kind of impatient grace that spoke of how little he cared for the risk. the pavilion was open on three sides, lanterns casting long shadows across the wooden floor. anyone could walk past. a servant. a guard. his sister’s attendants. the thought sent a sharp thrill through your belly even as your hands found his shoulders, half pushing, half pulling.

“jeonha—someone might see—” you whispered, voice thin.

he only hummed against your collarbone, the sound low and distracted. “then they will see their prince taking what he wants.” his fingers slipped beneath the last layer of cloth, finding you already slick and aching. a quiet, satisfied sound left him. “you’re wet for me already. you always are.”

before you could answer, he sank to his knees in front of you, right there against the carved pillar. the sight of him—crown prince in half-open sapphire robes, kneeling in the open pavilion like a man possessed—made your breath catch. he pushed your skirts higher, bunching the fabric around your waist with careless hands, and leaned in. the first slow drag of his tongue made your knees buckle. you bit down hard on your lip to keep from crying out.

namjoon didn’t bother with teasing tonight. he licked into you like he was starving, broad strokes and then focused circles that had your hips jerking against his mouth. one of his hands gripped your thigh, holding you open, and you clutched at the pillar behind you, nails scraping wood, every sense screaming that you were exposed—the faint breeze cooling the wetness he was spreading with his tongue, the distant possibility of footsteps on the path.

he groaned softly against you, the vibration traveling straight through your core. “taste so good, gongjunim” he muttered, voice rough, almost to himself. he wasn’t thinking of the risk. he never did in these moments. his own pleasure, his own hunger, came first. he licked deeper, sucking at your clit with wet, obscene sounds that felt far too loud in the quiet pavilion, and kept going until your thighs started to shake.

“namjoon—please—” the name slipped out, desperate. he answered by sucking harder as pleasure crashed over you fast and sharp, your body clenching around him as you came with a broken, muffled sound, head pressed to the cool wood of the pillar.

he didn’t give you time to recover.

namjoon rose in one fluid motion, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’d just finished a meal. his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. he spun you around before you could speak, pressing your front to the pillar. the wood was rough against your cheek. he kicked your feet apart with his own, bunching your skirts higher at your back. you heard the rustle of his own robes, the soft metallic clink of his belt being shoved aside, and then the hot, blunt head of his cock nudged between your thighs.

“hold on,” he said, voice low and a little breathless. not a suggestion—an order born of his own need. he pushed inside in one long, relentless thrust that forced a choked gasp from your throat. the stretch was deep, almost too much after his mouth, but your body welcomed him anyway. he didn’t start slow. he fucked into you with hard, steady strokes that rocked you against the pillar, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

every thrust made the risk sharper. the pavilion creaked faintly. your soft, wet sounds and the slap of skin were loud in the night air. anyone walking the outer path could hear. could see the silhouette of the crown prince taking his sister’s court lady like a common lover against a pillar. namjoon didn’t slow down. if anything, the possibility seemed to spur him on. his breathing grew heavier, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he drove deeper, chasing his own release without a single thought for discretion.

“god—always so tight for me,” he groaned against your neck, hips snapping harder. one hand slid around to rub quick circles over your swollen clit, rough and insistent. “cum again. want to feel you.”

you did—shaking, biting your own forearm to muffle the cry as another orgasm tore through you. your walls fluttered around him and he cursed low, thrusts growing erratic. he buried himself to the hilt and came with a stifled groan, spilling deep inside you in hot pulses. for a long moment he stayed pressed against your back, breathing hard, cock still twitching inside you.

the secluded hall felt suddenly very quiet. your legs trembled, his seed already beginning to drip down your thigh. namjoon finally pulled out with a soft, wet sound, tucking himself away with lazy fingers. he didn’t move to clean you or fix your clothes right away. instead he turned you gently, pressing a slow, almost sweet kiss to your mouth that tasted like you and him and rice wine.

“you’re shaking,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek. there was a flicker of something softer in his eyes, but it was already fading back into that easy, careless smile. “go clean up before someone comes looking. i’ll see you again soon.”

he stepped back, already adjusting his robes like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just fucked you senseless in the open pavilion where anyone could have walked by. the crown prince who thought first of his own pleasure, taking what he wanted without ever weighing the danger.

you stayed against the pillar a moment longer, heart still racing, the ache between your legs a reminder of how little he cared for the risk—so long as he got what he needed.

and you knew you would let him do it again.

[n9mgi]

street thing kim namjoon x reader

producer! namjoon x fem non-celeb! fem reader

summary: on the side of a sunburnt los angeles road, you with a broken down car meet a man you can't stop thinking about. he's older, composed, impossibly charming, and far too experienced to be looking at you the way he does. you're used to immature love that never knew how to hold you properly. but with him, everything is different.

themes: age gap (reader is 24, namjoon is 33), los angeles in the 2000s, smut, fluff, famous producer x non!celebrity reader, reader doesn't know who he is, confident joon yum, mainly readers pov w/ brief joon's pov, he's whipped, brief texting, tension, established relationship, strangers to lovers, teasing, they go on dates, joon is a gentleman, relationship building, joon is so dom and a lil possessive, nicknames, porn with lots of plot, eventual love confession

warnings: sexual themes, explicit & descriptive smut MINORS DNI 18+ (hard dom! joon, slight age kink & size kink, slightly semi-public sex(?? in his studio :3), unprotected sex, praise/dirty talk, missionary, cowgirl, edging/teasing, fingering, oral f, slight choking if u squint, creampie)

word count: 18k.. whoops

inspired by arirang joon because he's just too fine

♬ ₊˚. street thing - aaliyah

read part 2 here ✧ domestic au, boyfriend namjoon.

it was a late, blazing july afternoon with the kind of california heat that sticks to everything.

your beater car had just given up on you in the worst possible place it could—pulled over on the stretch of a busy road with no shade, just heat shimmering off the black asphalt and distant palm trees that don't feel helpful at all.

you already tried the obvious things. ignition, gas, trying it all again like it might change something.

it never did.

you leaned back against the passenger door of your car letting out a frustrated breath, hair sticking to your neck as you watched cars pass by with the soft sound of your hazards blinking in the background.

of course it's today. of course it's here.

that was when you suddenly heard the low hum of an engine slow down beside you. a sleek, black bmw—expensive, but not loud about it. it pulled in front of your car, and for a second you think the car is just stopping briefly.

that was before the driver door opened.

he steps out like he’s not in a rush to be anywhere else.

tall—noticeably so, he moves towards you easily, like he’s used to taking up space without ever forcing it.

sunglasses sit low on his nose, shielding his eyes, but not enough to hide the way his attention lands exactly on you. his shirt is simple—lightweight, slightly open at the collar, sleeves pushed up just enough to show his forearms. nothing flashy.

but it fits him too well. everything about him does.

dark jeans, clean shoes, watch on his wrist that you can't recognize but can tell is expensive. you notice all of him in the mere seconds he takes to walk over to you, the feeling hitting you all at once.

dear god, he was fine. the kind that made you straighten up a little bit without realizing; running a quick hand through your hair and fixing your jewelry.

he walks toward the front of your car, unhurried, one hand sliding briefly into his pocket before resting against the hood of your car.

up close, it’s worse.

sharper features than you expected. clean, but not overly polished. there’s something slightly worn in about him—like experience and maturity that sits on him well.

“everything alright?” he asks, voice is low and steady.

you blink for a second longer than necessary before responding. why does he look like that... helping me with my car?

"uh-" you stammer before clearing your throat. "it's- it's dead."

"yeah..." he says, eyes examining your car closer. "i can see that."

you nod and suddenly there's a pause, small but noticeable.

he comes around the side of your car, closing the distance between you to look inside of the window. you fumble while taking a few steps back as he looks at your dashboard then back at you, suddenly flustered by his presence.

"you got jumper cables?" he asks.

you simply shook your head.

"didn't think so," he says simply.

he walks back to his car, and you stand there feeling so helpless in the hot sun as he turns his car around to face yours in a swift manner, opening the door casually before coming around to his trunk like he's done this plenty of times.

when he comes back with the cables, he quickly slides his sunglasses in a way you almost miss a glimpse of his whole face.

you assumed it was because of the sun. but little did you know, it wasn't.

because before he walked back to his car, he had looked at you a little too closely. it wasn't some polite, quick glance. it was one that lasted a second too long.

he noticed everything about you.

the way your top fits—not overly revealing, but just enough to catch his attention without trying. the fabric light, slightly clinging from the heat. your skirt—shorter than it probably needed to be, riding just a little higher from the way you shifted against your car door.

his gaze dropped, brief, controlled—then came back up. your legs, your hands, the thin bracelet at your wrist. rings that don’t match perfectly but somehow work. jewelry that feels personal to you.

he takes note of that. of course he does.

then, your face. slightly flush from the heat, skin warm toned and sun-kissed. there's something effortless about you, like you spent more time living in the sun than hiding from it.

your expression—somewhere between annoyed and trying not to be. and your eyes, focused on him, but not softened. not entirely impressed by him, but more appreciative.

and when he closed his trunk, he forgets to look away. so he pulls his sunglasses back over, quick and casual. like it's nothing.

and not because of the sunlight, but because he was looking at you a little too openly. and he knew it.

he arrives at your car and connects everything smoothly, no hesitation and big hands steady. it was unfairly attractive.

“so,” he says, glancing up while he works, “you live out here or just enjoying the scenic breakdown experience?”

a smile pulls at your mouth despite yourself. “neither. i was just trying to get home.”

“mm.” he clicks something into place. “dangerous thing to try in LA.”

that gets a small laugh out of you, softer now and less defensive.

when the car finally sputters back to life, you visibly relax. he steps back, wiping his hands lightly. “there you go."

you should've just said thank you and left. but something in you doesn't act immediately. because now that the problem was gone, the silence between you two felt different now.

“so how do i… repay you?” you ask, half-joking, half-serious.

he tilts his head slightly. "you don’t.” a beat passes. "just don't break down in the worst place possible next time."

you rolled your eyes a little, a smirk tugging at your lips. "no promises."

that earns a small smile from him. he steps back toward his car, then pauses like he’s deciding something.

“i’m—” he starts, then stops himself, like he’s choosing not to introduce himself the usual way. "i’ll see you around.”

"yeah... thank you."

and you watch him get back into his car, driving away and getting lost in the sea of los angeles traffic as you realized two things;

you didn't get his name, and you would likely never see him again.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

one week later

he's just getting off the phone when it happens.

“yeah, send it over tonight,” he says, already half-distracted. “i"ll listen then.”

a pause. “mm. yeah. i got it.” he ends the call before the other person finishes their last sentence.

he slips his phone into his pocket, stepping onto the sidewalk, the afternoon sun hitting just right—warm, a little blinding, the kind of los angeles light that makes everything look softer than it is.

but he's not really paying attention at first.

he's thinking about work. about a track that still isn’t sitting right. about whether he even wants to go to the next session he has lined up.

and then—he sees you.

just down the block, wired headphones plugged into your ears as you walk towards a small coffee shop.

it takes him half a second too long for him to register it. he slows before stopping in his place on the scorching sidewalk just to be sure.

same walk. same unintentional confidence—like you're not trying to be noticed, which somehow makes you stand out more. your outfit catches his attention again without effort. something light, slightly different from the first time he saw you, but still you.

skirt again—of course. not the same one, but same idea.

he notices that. he notices everything.

you push the door open to the shop before disappearing inside. and for a second—he considers just letting you go, letting the roadside interaction stay that way, a one time street kind of thing that didn't need to turn into anything else.

he exhaled quietly before shaking his head, "yeah, no." he changed his direction subtly like he was always going that way.

by the time he reaches the door, he's already composed again. no rush or urgency in him, just the same steady stride he always carried around.

inside the cafe, it’s quieter than the street. low music, soft conversations, and the smell of coffee swirled in the air.

he scans the space once and it doesn't take long for him to find you, standing near the counter, slightly turned away, looking up at the menu like you're stuck deciding between the same two things.

he watches you for a second. not long, but enough. and suddenly, there's that feeling again rising up in his chest.

he steps into line behind you—close enough to matter, not close enough to be obvious. he lets the moment build naturally. of course he does. he lets you stay unaware just a second longer.

then, as you shift your weight and turn slightly back—he steps forward at the exact right time. light contact, your shoulder to his chest. just enough to capture your attention.

"oh, sorry—" you say automatically before looking up. it took a moment for you to process that the same, gorgeous man who jumped your car last week was the one currently blocking your vision.

he tilts his head slightly, like he’s just as surprised. “well,” he says, calm, almost amused, “this is becoming a pattern.”

you blinked. "you... helped me with my car."

"i did," he agrees. "and now apparently i'm following you around LA."

you narrow your eyes slightly. "are you?"

he puts a hand over his chest, mock offended but calm. “i prefer ‘running into you repeatedly by tragic coincidence.’”

that earns a laugh from you, the first real one between you. the barista calls you next in line, and he trails behind you like you're a couple ordering together. his presence alone makes your heart thump against your chest.

the barista takes your order and before you can even unzip your purse to pay, you already see a large hand coming from behind you, inserting a card in the machine.

the barista hands the man behind you the receipt and you turn around abruptly, tilting your head up to fully face him as you both drift away from the register. "i can pay for myself," you said.

"i know," he says simply.

"i was supposed to pay," you corrected as you picked up your freshly made coffee order.

"why?" he asked genuinely, tilting his head to match the angle of yours. it sent a light pink blush up your cheeks.

you look at him like the answer is obvious. "because you jumped my car."

his eyebrows pulled together. "that was like five minutes of my time." you all but blinked, suddenly at a loss of words under the intense gaze of this mysterious, confident man.

he begins to walk towards a table and you follow him, still protesting under your breath. "that doesn't mean you get to—"

“get to what?” he glances back at you, sunglasses now off, and it’s worse without them in a way—more direct, more readable. more of his perfectly chiseled face exposed to you. “buy you coffee?”

you open your mouth, then close it. because the way he said it made it sound ridiculous to argue.

you both end up choosing a table by the window. endless blue, moving slowly under the late afternoon sun. a few people pass by on bikes, others walking along the sidewalk with iced coffees in hand, like time moves differently here.

not sat too close to him, not too far—just enough space that it could still be casual if either of you decided to pretend it was.

“so, what do you do?” you ask finally, wrapping your hands around the cup.

he leans back slightly in his chair. “music.”

“that’s vague.”

“it's intentional.”

you give him a look. “oh, so you’re mysterious.”

“i’m tired,” he corrects lightly, a smirk of amusement tugging at his lips. “there’s a difference.”

that makes you smile. “what, like a band?” you press.

“no,” he says. “behind the scenes.”

“oh.” you tilt your head. “like a manager?”

he pauses for a moment. "something like that."

it wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the truth either. you nod like you accept that answer, but the curiosity doesn't go away.

“and you?” he asks.

you almost laugh. “i don’t do music.”

“didn’t say you did.”

“i mean…” you gesture vaguely. “nothing like that. i work. i live on the edge of LA where nothing interesting happens.”

his gaze holds on you a second longer than necessary. "that’s not true,” he says.

you frown slightly. “you don’t even know me.”

“i know you broke down on the side of a road in peak heat and didn’t immediately panic,” he says. “that tells me something.”

"like what?" "that you're stubborn," he replies calmly.

you lean forward a little, eyes analyzing his expression. "that's not a compliment."

“it can be,” he says. “depends who it’s about.”

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you and him slip into easy conversation—half started stories, simple questions, the kind of conversation that doesn't feel like you're trying too hard.

you're mid-sentence, explaining something about where you live—how everything feels slower out there—when he interrupts you, but gently. “how old are you?”

you pause, caught off guard. “that’s random.”

“it’s relevant,” he says, like that should be obvious.

“to what?”

he lifts his cup slightly, studying you over the rim for a second before answering. “to how seriously i should be taking you.”

your eyebrows lift immediately. “excuse me?”

there’s a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “i’m kidding,” he says, calm, unbothered. “mostly.”

you shake your head, trying not to smile. “twenty four.”

he nods once, like he expected that. “yeah,” he murmurs.

“yeah what?” you press.

“nothing,” he says, setting his cup down. “it makes sense.”

“that’s so annoying,” you say. “you don’t get to say that and not explain.”

“i just did.”

“no, you didn’t.”

he leans back slightly, relaxed, completely comfortable letting you be a little frustrated. “you carry yourself younger at times,” he says. “but not in a bad way.”

you narrow your eyes. “that still feels like an insult.”

“it’s not,” he says, softer now. “it’s honest.”

you look at him for a second longer than you mean to. “okay,” you say quietly. “then how old are you?”

he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he tilts his head slightly, watching you like he’s deciding how much to give. “what do you think?” he asks.

you study him now, more deliberately. he doesn’t look older, not really. no obvious lines, no tiredness. and of course, he looks put together in a way most guys your age aren’t.

“twenty-seven,” you say finally. “maybe twenty-eight.”

he lets out a soft laugh—low, almost under his breath.

you frown immediately. “what?”

“nothing,” he says, shaking his head slightly with amusement.

“no, what?”

“you’re off,” he says.

“by how much?”

he pauses, then shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “enough.”

“that’s not an answer,” you says leaning forward closer now.

“it is,” he replies calmly. “just not one you like.”

you stare at him, half-annoyed, half-curious. “you’re not going to tell me?”

“not yet.”

your eyes narrow. “why?”

he meets your gaze fully this time. “because i want to see if it changes anything for you.”

you lean back slightly, thrown off in a way you don't show completely. “why would it?” you ask.

he shrugs after a small pause. he glances down at your cup. “you drink your coffee too slow, by the way.”

your mouth falls open a little as the moment quickly softens again. “oh my god.”

“just saying.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“and you’re still here,” he points out lightly.

the conversation drifts again after that, easier now. you talk more without meaning to—little things, fragments of your life. he listens in a way that feels attentive, but not invasive. like he’s not collecting information, just understanding your pace.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you both drift toward the door without really deciding to. the conversation doesn’t end—it just slows, like both of you are aware it has to, eventually.

outside, the afternoon has softened. the heat isn’t as sharp anymore, but it’s still there, hanging in the air between you.

you shift your weight slightly, glancing down the street, then back at him. “this was…” you start, then stop, like you don't want to overdefine it. he watches you, gazed fixed on you patiently.

“unexpected,” you continue on.

he nods once. “yeah.”

“i still owe you,” you say.

he glances down at you. “you don’t.”

“i do.”

“you don’t,” he repeats, softer but final. but after a small beat, “if it makes you feel better, you can get the next one.”

you narrows your eyes. “there’s going to be a next one?”

he paused again, but only for a fraction of a second too long before he shrugged slightly like it was nothing. "if you break down again, i might start thinking it's planned."

you rolled your eyes, but a smile pulled helplessly at your lips. as you stepped out into the light of the sun, you realized two things at once. this man still hadn't told you who he is or his name, and that you somehow already agreed to see him again.

"let me see your phone," he said lowly, pulling his sunglasses over his eyes once again. it wasn't really a question.

and so you reached into your pocket, pulling out your phone, and without asking—he takes your hand gently, turning your palm slightly towards his. the faintest brush of his fingers sent an unexpected warmth up your arm in a way you couldn't ignore.

he picked up your phone that now seemed so small in his hands, typing something quickly before handing your phone back. you looked down at your screen, squinty slightly from the sun.

his name. a number.

joon 213-555-0010

when you look back up at him, he's already watching you—unreadable in a way that sent a pink flush throughout your cheeks.

"joon," you said, like you needed to say his name out loud. like you knew it was just a nickname.

he simply nodded, something small like a smile tugging at his lips from the sound of you hearing his name. "yeah."

he paused, low eyes peering above his sunglasses as he looked at you closely. "you gonna tell me yours?" he asked lowly, the baritone of his voice hitting a little too close.

so you told him, and he repeated it a few times under his breath like he had to let it sink on his tongue. "y/n," he said finally, voice quieter than usual. "pretty name for a pretty girl."

your eyes couldn't help but widely slightly at his bold words, the pink on your face turning into a deep red.

a small pause filled the air before you swallowed, trying your best to lock in your confidence in front of this man. "you didn't ask for my number," you said.

"i know."

"that's a little backwards."

"not really."

you titled your head. "why?"

he took a step back, giving you just a little more space. "because now it's your choice."

you study him for a second, like you're trying to figure out if this is some kind of game. some kind of reality tv show where they prank you with some hot mysterious man. but it didn't feel like one.

"and if i don't text you?" you ask.

a small pause before he shrugged easily. "then i'll assume you didn't want to." but his tone didn't have any pressure or persuasion in it.

"confident," you mutter.

"selective," he corrected.

you almost rolled your eyes—but you don't quite let it happen. he glances past you for a second, like he's remembering that he actually has somewhere to be. then, they quickly averted back to you.

"if you do," he continues, quieter now. "don't over think it."

you let a small laugh. "too late."

that earns a small smile from him, dimples tugging at his cheeks in a way you noticed immediately. "i figured."

another pause before he steps back swiftly, like he's deciding that he couldn't stay any longer than necessary—even if he wanted to. "i'll see you around," he says, for the second time.

before you can respond, he's already turning and stepping away, suddenly gone in the same effortless and casual way he arrived.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

that night, you tell yourself you're not going to think about him.

and you failed immediately.

you failed when you went to dinner with your friends, when you did chores around your house; in the shower and when you laid in your own bed that night—the bed that was supposed to make your thoughts go away. it was the small things at first.

the way he didn’t rush anything. the way he answered questions without really answering them. the way he looked at you like he already understood something you hadn’t said out loud yet.

and as the night continued on, the bigger things settled in your brain, making heat shamefully pool between your legs.

he didn't ask for your number. he didn't try to lock you in. instead, he just left his number with you.

who is he?

your phone sat next to you with the screen dark and off, but it felt louder than anything else in the room. you fell into a cycle of picking it up and putting it back down.

finally, you picked it up again, finding his contact. you flipped it shut, sucking in a sharp breath at the thought of messaging him. you found your thumbs typing, deleting, then typing something again.

you exhale softly, leaning back against your pillow trying your hardest not to overthink it, his voice replaying in the back of your head.

he wasn't some typical guy—you could tell in the way he carried himself. he walked casually, but with assurance. he dressed with stride, but still managed to blend in. he talked with confidence, and every line was coated with experience.

so now, it wasn't just about texting him. it's about what it would mean if you did. because somehow, after one roadside encounter and a cup of coffee—you already wanted more than you should have.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

namjoon's drive back was quiet. not because he wanted it to be—but because nothing else fit how he felt at the moment.

not even any of his music.

he had driven these streets thousands of times. the same turns, the same streets, the same palm trees. usually his mind is somewhere else entirely—work, mixes, deadlines, people who expect things from him.

but not tonight. because tonight, it kept circling back to you.

it all kept replaying in his head—the way you looked at him like you were trying to figure him out. he noticed the way you didn't try too hard. you didn't perform like everyone else in LA.

you didn't know what he is, who he is, or what kind of world he's involved in.

that was the part that was stuck in namjoon's head so deeply. because most people that meet him are already adjusted to him—already well aware, careful with their words and their tones, their intentions.

but you certainly weren't.

because you argued with him. you rolled your eyes and called him annoying. and you meant all of it.

a faint smile pulled at his mouth as he came to a stop at a red light. "twenty-seven," he muttered to himself, shaking his head and laughing slightly.

but still, you didn't hesitate.

he pulls into his place, kills the engine, but doesn’t get out right away. he glances at his phone, sitting in the center console of his car, dark and quiet.

but he doesn't reach for it. because namjoon was a patient man—he always had been. in work, in life, in everything that mattered.

once he gets inside his spacious, sleek home, he dropped his keys on the counter, running a hand through his hair, exhaling.

namjoon had been with plenty of women before. older, younger—in his world and outside of it. he always knows how it goes. he knows how to keep it light and uncomplicated.

but this didn't feel like that. because it felt like something that could get complicated. but instead of pushing it away like he normally would, he leaned into it. just a little.

an hour passes. then two.

namjoon tells himself he's not checking his phone. but it turns out to be a lie, because throughout night—he checks it without picking it up. glancing every time he walks past, like it might light up if he looks long enough. but it doesn't.

he tells himself to relax, that you have a life or that you might not be interested at all. but still—he wonders what you're up to. if you're thinking about him the way he's thinking about you. if you're overanalyzing that moment outside of the coffee shop.

suddenly, his phone buzzed. he doesn't look right away. he just looked at it before reading the unsaved number, no name attached. he picks it up and opens it almost immediately.

unknown: do you always leave girls with this much pressure or am i just special?

he lets out a quiet breath—half a laugh of amusement, half something else. there you finally were, exactly the way he had anticipated. he begins to type before he stops and quickly deletes it.

he leans back against the counter, thinking—not about what to say, but about how much he should give. because namjoon didn't want to rush this. he didn't want to come on too strong.

but he couldn't pretend that he was unaffected either, because he most certainly couldn't even if he wanted to. not with you.

he types again, this time sending it.

him: i was starting to think you wouldn't.

he watches the screen for a second longer than necessary, saving your contact before setting his phone down. it wasn't far, but it was just enough. because now, you know that he was waiting too.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you exhale softy, rolling onto your back with a smile that couldn't help but tug at your lips.

you: oh so you were waiting

a pause settled on the screen before the typing bubble popped up again.

joon: i was curious

you: that sounds like a more mysterious way of saying waiting

joon: you can call it whatever makes you feel better

and now, you definitely smiled at that. because he was already doing that thing again—side stepping without hesitation.

you: you're too difficult to read

joon: you're trying too hard then

you: i think you're just confusing

joon: only for you sweetheart

you actually laugh out loud at that, shaking your head and ignoring the way the nickname made pink tint your cheeks.

you: wow so is this how you talk to every girl you buy coffee for?

his reply comes faster this time.

joon: i don't buy anyone coffee

you: good answer

joon: an honest one what are you doing right now?

you glanced around your room like he could somehow see.

you: nothing important

joon: doesn’t sound convincing

you: i could say the same about you

joon: i’m working

you: doing your very mysterious job?

joon: still stuck on that?

you: a little

joon: you'll figure it out eventually

you bit your lip slightly, thinking of an answer.

you: you're very sure i'm going to stick around long enough to figure it out

joon: aren't you?

your heart does that annoying little jump again, and you don't answer right away. and he doesn't send anything else. instead, he waits. three minutes later;

you: maybe

joon: that's a start

another painfully long beat passes before your cellphone vibrates again.

joon: you busy tomorrow night?

you stare at the message, blinking twice to make sure you read it right. but somehow, half of you wasn't surprised. you were practically waiting in a way you couldn't admit. but the other half was incredibly in shock.

you started to type.. deleted it.. then typed again.

you: depends what are you planning?

joon: something better than coffee

you smiled immediately, even though you tried not to.

you: that's a little confident

joon: doesn't seem like you hate it

you: i don't

joon: good

a pause settled on the screen again.

joon: 8?

you exhaled slowly, the reality creeping in as you stared at the screen. you were really going to go on a date with this man. the same, confident and attractive man that had jumped your car and saved your day. the same man who's age and job you couldn't quite detect.

you: okay

joon: i'll pick you up don't overthink it

you rolled your eyes, smiling.

you: too late

joon: i know

and just like that, with one text conversation, it definitely was more than just a street thing.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you almost regret saying yes the moment you hear a car pull up outside, engine rumbling lowly outside your apartment window.

not because you didn't want to go, of course. but because now, it's real.

you check yourself in the mirror one last time, smoothing the bumps in your hair and coating your lips with gloss one last time. simple, but intentional. something that said you tried... but didn't try too hard.

your phone buzzed.

joon: i'm outside

when you step out, you see the car first. the same sleek and clean car that had pulled over in front of you on that busy highway engulfed in heat.

then him.

leaning slightly agains the driver's side door, towering over the car with his sleeves pushed up, looking like he's only been there for a minute—but completely settled anyway. he wore a costly-looking dress shirt, glimmering chain around his neck and a sparkling watch wrapped around his built arm. you swallowed hard.

his eyes flick up from the ground immediately when he notices you. and for a second, he just looks at you. completely, unashamedly taking you in with his eyes slowly.

"yeah..." he says lowly, dragging his lips ever so quickly along his lips as you approached him, heels clicking beneath you. "you're going to be a problem tonight."

you couldn't ignore the heat that sent down your spine, but you simply peered up at him, batting your eyelashes innocently. "aren't i always?"

"i haven't seen you always," he replied.

you rolled your eyes, but a small smile pulled at your lips anyway. then, he stepped back, opening the door for you. you don't the miss the way he does it without hesitation. and when you sit inside, you don't miss the way his gaze burns into you before closing your door.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

the drive was easy, music low in the background, city lights coming to life as the sun started to dip below the horizon.

namjoon doesn't fill every silence—and somehow it makes it easier for you to talk.

"so where are you taking me?" you ask eventually.

"you'll see," he says casually, one hand on the steering wheel while the other rested between you.

"that's not helpful."

"it's not supposed to be."

you shook your head, smiling out the window. he pulls up to a restaurant that sits right by everything—the beach, the water, and the city. it was definitely upscale, but nothing intimidating.

inside, the lighting is warm yet dim, swift music playing and low conversations humming.

you were seated quickly. no waiting or confusion. you didn't quite realize the line of people who were standing for a table, and how you and him were able to breeze right past it.

when you arrive to your seat, it's right in front of the window, city lights and palm trees stretching on the glass in front of you. he pulls your seat out for you, helping you take off your coat and placing it along your chair.

after you place your orders, the conversation flows faster this time. less guarded, and more natural.

"so," he says, leaning back in his chair slightly. "what do you actually do?"

you sigh softly, like you already know the answer isn't impressive, even compared to his incredibly vague one. "i’m a waitress," you say. "nothing exciting."

he watches you for a second. "you keep saying that."

"because it's true."

"or because you think it's supposed to be."

that made you pause. "it's not exactly... impressive," you admitted.

he shrugs lightly. "most things that are don't matter."

you let out a small breath, like you didn’t expect that answer. “you always talk like that?” you ask.

“like what?”

“like you know something i don’t.”

a small smirk pulls at his mouth. “sometimes i do.”

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you and namjoon are laughing a few minutes later—about something small and stupid—and it feels easy. too easy.

the song currently playing comes to an end and the music shifts. a different song comes on—smooth, familiar, something that's even playing everywhere recently.

you perked up immediately. "oh my god, i love this song."

he stills ever so slightly. it's quick and barely noticeable, but there's a flicker of something across his face. he glances down at the table, then back up at you. "yeah?" he asks, casual.

"yeah," you nod, smiling. "it's so good."

he hums in response, leaning back in his seat like it's just background noise. "not bad."

you narrow your eyes slightly. "not bad?" he shrugs. "it's alright."

you laugh. "you're impossible."

and he doesn't argue. but there's a faint smirk but he doesn't fully hide this time.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

the dinner stretches longer than you expected. because neither of you seem to be in a rush to end it.

by the time the check comes, you reach for it instinctively. because at the cafe, he said he would let you get it this time.

but he's faster. of course he is.

"you don't have to—" you start.

"i know."

"that's not fair," you protest.

"it doesn't have to be," he said.

you sigh, but you're already smiling again.

as he hands the card over, the server pauses. "sorry," the server says, almost hesitant. "are you... are you—namjoon—"

namjoon already knows what's coming. he exhales softly, not annoyed at all, just used to it. "yeah," he says with a polite smile. you blinked.

"sorry- i thought so. i didn't want to assume."

he gives a small, reassuring nod.

"do you think i could-" the server gestures awkwardly. "just like, a quick autograph? my brother and i are huge fans."

you completely froze.

fan?

huge?

he doesn't make it a big deal. "yeah, no problem," he says, like it was normal. like this happens all the time. because it does.

he signs something quickly, hands it back with a polite smile.

"thank you—i appreciate it. you two have a great night," the server said before walking off.

silence settled between you for the brief a second. you were completely staring at him now, trying to control your facial expressions as you processed what just happened.

"you didn't tell me that happens to you," you said.

"i didn't think it mattered," he replied casually.

"well," you said slowly. "what exactly do you do?"

there it was. the question he definitely couldn't avoid this time. he leans back slightly, studying your expression. it was curious, but not intimidated or totally impressed. just curious.

"i told you," he said. "music."

you shook your head. "no, you said behind the scenes."

he huffed a small breath, close to a laugh before he paused. "i produce," he said finally. it was simple and direct—no bragging or boasting.

you blink again. "like... that song?"

a beat passes for a small moment before he nods once. "yeah."

and now, the air between you shifted. because now you knew; he wasn't just some guy who stopped to help you on the side of the road.

and somehow, it almost made things worse. because now, you had to figure out why he's here... with you.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

the air outside feels cooler than before. or maybe it’s just because of the way everything shifted inside.

namjoon pushes the door open for you, stepping slightly to the side to let you walk out first—but as you pass, his hand settles lightly at the small of your back.

guiding. not grabbing or lingering too long. just there, resting on your back. it's subtle, but you can feel the intention seeping through you, especially in the way it instantly sends a shiver up your back.

your steps slow for half a second—not enough for him to comment on, but enough for you to notice yourself.

but he notices too.

you both walk a few steps in the parking lot in silence. it wasn't awkward, it was just both of you recollecting the entire night—including who he really was.

“so,” you say finally, glancing over at him, tone light like nothing’s changed, “you’re kind of a big deal, namjoon.”

he exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “no.”

“that guy literally asked you for an autograph.”

“that happens sometimes.”

you narrow your eyes. “that’s not normal.”

“it is for me,” he says simply. it wasn't cocky or defensive, just the honest truth. it should've been intimidating. but you didn't let it land that way.

you shrugged slightly. "okay. but that still doesn't mean i'm impressed."

there's a pause before he looks at you—really looks this time. and something shifts in his eyes, subtle but sharper. more interested and intrigued by the young woman standing before him.

"good," he said lowly.

you blinked. "good?"

“i’d be a little concerned if you were.”

your lips press together slightly, trying not to smile. “you’re unbelievable.”

“i’ve been told.”

you both reach his car, but neither of you move to get in right away. he leans back against it slightly, arms relaxed and eyes fixed on you.

you cross your arms again. not closed off, just grounding yourself under his gaze. "so you just... make songs people know?"

"sometimes," he said with a shrug.

"ugh, that's such a non-answer."

his lips fought a smile at your remark. "it's an accurate one."

you shook your head, a small laugh escaping you. "you're so annoying."

"but you keep talking to me," he points out.

you finally glance up at him fully, and for a second, the eye contact lingers for a moment too long. it causes you to look away first, pink tinting your cheeks.

and namjoon notices everything.

the way you're holding eye contact a little less now. the way you're slightly more aware of yourself. the way you're trying not to let it change anything. but it doesn’t turn him off—it only pulls him in more.

“you got quiet,” he says.

“i didn’t.”

“you did.”

you look away for a second, then back at him. “i’m just thinking.”

“about?”

you hesitate. “nothing,” you say.

he tilts his head slightly, unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. instead, he steps a little closer. not enough to crowd you, but enough to spark the energy in the space between you even more.

“you’re doing that thing,” he comments quietly, eyes trailing up and down your figure.

your brows knit. “what thing?”

“trying to act like nothing changed.”

your stomach flips—annoyingly and immediate. “because nothing did,” you said.

a pause fills the air. he studies your face, like he’s deciding whether to call it out further. “alright,” he says finally.

you exhale softly. “you’re not going to say anything else?”

“i don’t need to.”

“that’s so—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head.

he watches you, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth now. “say it,” he murmurs.

you look at him, trying not to react to the way his voice dropped slightly. “it’s just… a lot,” you admit.

your answer was too honest for your liking, yet he didn't laugh or dismiss it. "yeah," he said quietly. "it can be."

a beat passed. "but i'm still the same guy you had coffee with," he said softly. and those words land, harder than anything else he's said.

you study him for a second, searching for something—ego, arrogance, anything that would make this easier to categorize.

but you don’t find it. instead, you're only able to find that same calm, steady version of him. the one who stopped his car for you. the one who let you decide whether to text him. the one who didn’t even bother to impress you.

“…okay,” you say finally. and you mean it.

there was a small shift in the air between you, the tension softening— but not totally disappearing.

“so,” he says, pushing off the car slightly, “you still letting me drive you home?”

you raise an eyebrow. “do i have a choice?”

“you always have a choice,” he said. a beat passes. "but i’d prefer if you said yes," he confessed playfully.

you huffs out a quiet laugh. “you’re very subtle.”

“i try.”

and for the second time that night, namjoon opens the passenger door for you. and this time, when you got in, it felt different; reality swirling around you and settling into your head.

the drive back was quieter than the one there. it wasn't awkward or empty—just filled with unspoken words and incredibly thick tension.

his gaze was fixed on the road, but you couldn't ignore the way you caught him glancing over at you multiple times in the corner of your eye. the music is low, humming softly through the speakers before another song comes on.

you glance over at the console, then over at him. "did you make this one too?" you ask, half teasing.

he doesn't look at you right away, a smirk pulling at his lips, leaving a sharp shadow along his jaw. "maybe."

you roll your eyes, fully smiling now. "you're never going to give me a straight answer, are you?"

"not all at once, pretty girl."

there it is again. not just the nickname that sent heat through your spine and in between your legs—but that confident, indirect promise of you sticking around long enough to unlock every thing about him.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you're looking out the window, surrounded by the kind of silence that makes everything feel more noticeable. but you're not really seeing or looking at anything, because you're too aware.

too aware of namjoon. the way he drives—one veiny hand on the wheel, relaxed but precise. the way the scent of his expensive cologne and shampoo made your knees weaken. the way he continues to glance over every now and then, quick, like he’s checking something without making it obvious.

you shift slightly in your seat every time he does.

suddenly, his hand moves from the wheel for just a second—resting briefly against the center console as he adjusts his grip. but through that movement, his large fingers brush lightly against your thigh.

he dragged them ever so softly on your thigh for what felt like forever—but only lasted two seconds—before moving his hand back to the center console. his fingers were barely there, not lingering or deliberate enough to call out. but it wasn't exactly accidental enough to ignore either.

your breath catches for just a second, but he doesn't react or apologize. he doesn't even look at you, and somehow that makes it worse.

you swallow hard, turning your head slightly towards the window again. but now you're even more hyper-aware of the space between you. your heart was doing something very annoying again, and you knew it.

he knew it.

he slows the car as you reach your place, parking smoothly before killing the engine. and just like that, everything went still.

neither of you moved right away. you looked down at your hands, then back up like you were about to say something. but you didn't.

he simply watches you for a second, less teasing in his eyes and more focus. he took in every inch of you, sitting so still and pretty in his car. looking at him like he was still the same guy who jumped your car, not like he was a guy who made every hit song. "you got quiet again," he says softly.

you let out a small breath. "you keep saying that."

"because you keep doing it."

you glance at him. this time, you don't look away immediately. "i'm just thinking."

"dangerous," he murmurs, pulling a small smile from you.

you reach for the door handle. "thanks for dinner," you say, like you're trying to keep it normal.

"yeah," he replies with a soft smile.

you open the door, stepping out thinking that the night is wrapped up. that he'll pull away and let you go. but then, you hear his door open too.

he rounds the front of the car, meeting you halfway up the short path to your door. he took his time not rushing—because he never did.

when you stop in front of your door, you turn to face him. and suddenly, it's close. closer than it's been all night. there wasn't a table, a center console, or any distractions now. just him, towering over you and filling your entire vision with nothing but him. his musky cologne quickly filled your nostrils, throwing your mind off balance.

"you don't have to walk me up," you say quietly, close to a whisper.

"i know," he says. but he doesn't step back.

a long pause fills the air, stretching long enough for the tension to feel intentional. his gaze drops briefly, to your lips—then back up to your eyes.

your breath catches again, softer now. but you were too close for namjoon to not notice it. "are you always this—" you start, then stop.

"this what?" he asks lowly, clenching his jaw ever so slightly at the mere sight of you fumbling with your words in front of him.

you shake your head slightly. "i don't even know."

a faint smile pulls at his mouth. "good." he took another step closer, not enough to trap you, but enough for the warmth of his body to wrap around you.

then, his hand lifts, hesitating for half a second before gently tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. he does it carefully, like he was giving you all the time in the world to pull away. but you didn't.

"you're overthinking again," he murmurs, low eyes scanning every inch of your face.

your voice comes out quieter than you expect. "you keep saying that like it helps."

"it does," he suggests casually.

"how?"

he leans in barely. he doesn't completely close the distance between you, but it was enough to send a bolt of warmth down your body. "because you're still here."

you tilt your head up just a little, before he leans in just a sliver more. and for a second, the moment is right there, sitting heavy in the little distance there was between you.

and then, he stops. just barely, coming to a small still when you could practically feel his breath on you. just enough that it didn't happen.

your eyes flicker across his face, confused, a little breathless. he watches your reaction carefully, low eyes trained onto your every movement.

and suddenly, there's that faint smirk again—but it's softer; barely there and more restrained than usual in a way you almost didn't catch.

"goodnight, doll," he said lowly. "sleep well."

like nothing had almost just happened.

he steps back, ripping the thick air that had just sat between you like a third person. breaking it and leaving you there standing with it.

“you’re—” you start, but you don't even know what to call him.

he tilts his head slightly, licking his lips and averting his gaze down you one last time. “what?”

you exhale half-laugh and half-frustration. “annoying.”

he smiles, dimples pulling at his cheeks. “i know," he says, before turning around and walking back to his car.

from the doorstep, you watch him get in, turn on the engine, and leave. leaving you there with more thoughts than your racing heart could keep up with and a miserable dampness in your panties.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

namjoon's place is quiet again. too quiet.

he tosses his keys down, walks a few steps in, then stops—like his body forgot what he was about to do.

because his mind was entirely somewhere else.

it was still at your door. still immersed into that moment.

he leans back against his kitchen counter, exhaling. he's replaying everything now, like dinner—the way you didn't switch up when you found out what he did. you weren't suddenly impressed or started asking the wrong questions.

you stayed the same. maybe you were a little quieter, a tad bit more aware. but you didn't completely fold.

that absolutely sat under namjoon's skin now. he was completely enamored by you, and didn't want to pull a girl like you into his chaotic world. didn't want you to adjust to him because of who he was, like most people did.

but you didn't. you just took it in, and kept going. you stayed exactly the same—you still called him annoying and told him he wasn't impressive.

he looks at his phone sitting a few feet away. he already gave you control once. he let you decide whether or not to text him, to decide if it was going to go anywhere or not.

but he wasn't going to do that tonight.

him: you always look at people like that or was that just for me?

he sets the phone down, but not far. because you've consumed every inch of his mind again without even trying to. he thinks about the your eyes dropped to his lips, the way you didn't pull away.

his jaw tightened slightly. he knew he was in trouble.

his phone lit up again.

her: like what?

he lets out a quiet breath, a smile pulling at his lips. the way you played it off, like you always did, made him only want more. made him think that maybe he should've kissed you right then and there—should've forgot about being a man and taking his time with you and—

he slowly took in a deep breath through his nose, dragging a hand across his face.

him: like you were about to do something you'd regret

her: don't know if i'd call it regret

namjoon liked that a little too much, licking his lips and leaning back. because now, he knows you felt it too.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

a few days and several text conversations later, namjoon sends you a text on a night he knows you're not working. no question or explanation, just;

joon: be ready at 7

when he picks you up, the air already shifts when you walk outside. it was in the way he looked at you, slow and deliberate, like he wasn't hiding it at all anymore. he takes his time, eyes trailing from your shoes, to the way your skirt falls, the jewelry at your wrist, to your face.

"you always dress like this, doll?" he asks lowly, stepping closer to you.

you raise an eyebrow, ignoring the way the name made your brain feel like mush. "like what?"

"like you knew exactly what you were doing when you picked that."

your lips pressed together slightly, trying not to smile. "maybe i did."

a faint smirk pulled at his lips. "yeah," he agreed. "i think you did."

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

the driver is longer, along the coast again. his tinted windows are cracked, music low with the sky fading into the darkest blue that only happens by the water.

you and namjoon talk, but it's far from that careful, first date way. the conversation flowed between you easily. you interrupted each other, went off on tangents. doubled back to things you both said earlier. like you both have done this together longer than you actually had.

when you arrive, the place is even more secluded than last time. a quiet overlook with soft lights and the ocean extending endlessly in front of you. the sound of waves clashed below in a way that was steady and grounding.

it felt private, like the rest of the world didn't exist here.

you and namjoon sit closer this time without question. dinner stretches and the conversation flows. you don't even discuss all the big things, but it's the way you talk about the small ones that makes it feel different.

you tell him about what hobbies you have, about your job—how it's routine, how people underestimate it, and how sometimes you feel stuck. and he doesn't brush it off or give you empty encouragement like most people did.

"you're not stuck," he corrected you firmly.

you scoff every is slightly. "that's easy for you to say."

"it's not about me," he replies softly. "you just need to find what you want."

you pout slightly in a way that makes his heart falter. "and you have?"

he pauses for half a second. "yeah." that same confidence remained in his tone, and for a second it felt like he might have been talking about something else.

at some point, his hand settles at the back of your chair. but this time, it stays. it wasn't touching you directly, but it was close enough to make you aware of it. aware of him.

you shift slightly and his slender fingers brush at your shoulders. they rest there for a second longer than necessary before pulling back. his warmth and his actions sent an unbearable heat between your legs.

after dinner, you both step away from the table, walking along the edge of the overlook. the night air is cooler now, ocean breeze slipping through you. you and him walk a little closer than before, shoulders lightly brushing with every few steps.

you wrapped your arms around you slightly, and his jacket is already around your shoulders before you can say anything.

you glance back at him, stopping in your steps to look at him properly. "you know... you're very sure of yourself."

"that bothers you?"

"no," you admit honestly. "it's just—different."

he pauses for a small moment. "from what you're used to?" he asks.

you nod slightly. he studies you for a second. "you're trying to figure out how old i am again."

your eyes widen slightly. "i'm not—"

"you are."

you exhale. "okay, maybe a little."

he lets your confession sit in the air before he nods slightly toward a couple walking past you two—a generation older than you, quieter, and settled. "you think i'm closer to them, or closer to you?" he asks.

you look back at the couple, then back at him. you really look at him, thinking about the way he carries himself. the way he speaks. the way he doesn't rush anything.

your expression shifts. "...okay," you say slowly. "how old are you?"

he pauses for longer than just a few seconds. "thirty-three," he answers finally.

you can't help but blink. once. twice. "...really?"

"yeah."

you study him again, like the answer didn't quite align with what you were seeing. "you don't look thirty-three."

"i know," he answered casually.

"that's kind of unfair," you said playfully.

he smiled softly. "i've heard that."

a quiet beat passes as namjoon watches you carefully, curiously watching your expression.

you shrug slightly. "okay."

he tilts his head. "that's all?"

"what?" you ask. "were you expecting something else?"

"most people... adjust," he stated.

you look at him deeply, peering up at him through your eyelashes. "well i'm not most people."

he steps closer, lightly closing the space between you. his scent filled your head once again, making your breath catch.

"yeah," he said lowly. "i noticed."

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

later, when you leave the restaurant together, you don't rush out. you never do.

namjoon walks slightly behind you first as you both headed towards the entrance, one hand finding its way onto the small of your back. it became natural now, something you didn't react to—externally, at least.

his hand was there, guiding you carefully down the steps.

two hostesses near the front glance up. then they glance at namjoon. then to you, then back at him.

a quick look exchanged between them followed by a few whispers and positive smiles. he catches it immediately. of course he does.

namjoon doesn’t look directly at them—he doesn’t acknowledge it—but there’s the faintest change in his expression. then his hand presses just slightly firmer at your back.

a quiet, almost instinctive gesture. not to show off. just to keep you close—and slightly focus the attention on you.

you don't notice the whispers, but you do notice the presence of his hand grow warmer. "what?" you ask, glancing back at him.

"nothing," he says easily.

the lights from the restaurant glowed behind you, the cool night air and a soft breeze coming off the water hitting you all at once.

there's a small set of marble steps leading down towards the parking area. you start down them without thinking—mind entirely captured by namjoon—and suddenly your heel catches slightly.

it's quick—barely a stumble, but it's enough to throw you off balance slightly. his large hands instantly find their way to your waist firmly, tightening his grip and steadying you before you could even process anything.

"careful, baby," he murmurs, low and close. the name slipping out like it had always belonged there.

you freeze for half a second, breath catching slightly before you steady yourself, hand instinctively brushing against his arm.

"I'm fine," you say, a little too quickly, beginning to continue a careful ascend down the steps and ignoring the heat on your cheeks.

namjoon however, doesn't move his hands right away. they linger on your waist a second longer than necessary, making sure you're fully balanced. "i know," he says calmly.

you look up at him, trying to play it off. "you don't have to—"

"i know," he cuts in softly.

and when you reach the bottom of the steps, his hand doesn't leave your back. it stays there, steady, guiding you towards his car like you're already part of his space.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

the drive back is quiet, the low vibration of the music and the city lights and palm trees flickering past practically lulling you to sleep.

and namjoon's presence, of course.

his large hand rested on the wheel, the other on the center console. close enough. by the minute, you swear it continues to get closer.

"tell me about him," namjoon says suddenly, the deep baritone of his voice making your thighs press together slightly.

you frown slightly from confusion. "about who?"

"your ex."

it catches you off guard. "...why?"

he shrugs lightly, sharp eyes still on the road. "i'm curious."

you hesitate before sighing. "he was..." you trailed off, trying to find the right word. "lazy."

half a second passed. "immature," you added. "didn't really pay attention to me unless it was convenient."

and as you talk, namjoon's jaw tightens slightly. it's subtle and controlled in a way you don't notice, but it's there.

"he just-" you shook your head slightly, looking out the window. "i don't know. it felt like I was always asking for the bare minimum."

for a long second, silence fills the car. namjoon's fingers tap once against the console. then, they shift. his hand moves unhurriedly, eventually finding its way to rest against your thigh, making a sharp bolt of warmth shoot down your body.

"yeah," he says finally, voice low and rough. "that sounds about right."

you glance at him. "what does that mean?"

he paused for a second. "guys your age," he continues, calm but edged with something sharper now. "they don't know what to do with a woman like you."

your stomach flips in a way that is impossible to ignore. "and you do?" you ask teasingly, trying to keep your tone steady.

his thumb shifts slightly against your thigh slightly. butterflies erupted in your stomach and your thighs shifted in a way you couldn't help, trying to disregard the heat between your legs.

"i wouldn't ignore you," he says simply.

the air in car seems to shift as you swallow hard, glancing out the window before looking back at him. "you barely know me."

"i know enough," he answers.

your breath catches slightly. namjoon's hand stays sat on your thigh steadily, like he knows exactly what it's doing to you.

"and i definitely wouldn't have you asking for anything," he adds. his words land deeper than they should, etching themselves into the back of your mind without asking.

you let out a quiet, almost nervous laugh. "you're very confident."

"i'm honest," he says. he pauses for a moment. then, his voice drops just a little—"big difference."

you look at him again, thoroughly scanning his face this time. "you always talk like that?" you ask.

"only when i mean it."

another silence settles between you, this time sitting thick; heavy with everything both of you haven't said. his hand finally shifts, but not away from you. it only slides higher along your thigh before settling again.

"relax, doll," he murmurs softly, voice low and deep.

you exhale slowly, trying to steady yourself. "you're doing that on purpose."

"doing what?"

you shake your head slightly. "you know exactly what."

a faint smirk pulls at his lips. "yeah," he answers. "i do."

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

suddenly, the rest of the drive feels too short.

namjoon pulls to your curb, parking swiftly with one hand before cutting the engine. silence fills the space, neither of you reaching for the door immediately.

you look down at your hands, then back up, like you're about to say something—but the words don't come as easily now. because everything, from the restaurant, the drive is still sitting in between you. his hand, his voice. doll.

"you got quiet again," he says softly.

you let out a small breath. "you make it hard not to."

he stills ever so slightly, like your words had pulled something out of him. "do i?" he asks.

you look at him, holding his intense gaze this time. "yeah."

he pauses for longer than normal, eventually moving his hand before his mouth. he starts slow—not to your thigh this time—but higher. his fingers lift, brushing lightly along your jaw. just the tips, tracing the line like he needed to memorize it.

your breath catches immediately, peering up at him through your eyelashes as you seemingly couldn't look away from his face. he tilts his head slightly, watching your reaction closely.

"you always look like this when you're thinking?" he murmurs.

your voice comes out quieter than you expect. "like what?"

his thumb lingers beneath just beneath your chin for just a second. then it shifts slightly, guiding your face just enough so that you're looking directly at him and nothing else.

"like you're trying to figure out if this is a good idea," he says.

your heart practically stumbles. because he absolutely was right. "and?" you ask quietly.

a small smirk pulls at his mouth. but this one was softer, like it was more certainty than teasing. "i think you already decided," he murmurs. his gaze drops briefly, down to your lips, then back up again. this time, he doesn't even try to hide it.

"you're dangerous, you know that?" you say, barely above a whisper.

he leans in slightly, his scent taking over your lungs. "yeah?"

your breath is uneven now. "yeah."

his gaze drifts again, over your face, slower this time. fully taking you in. "you still thinking about the age thing?" he asks.

"no," you respond, holding the burning eye contact.

he studies you for half a second, like he's deciding if you're telling the truth. then, he exhales quietly, almost amusedly. "yeah," he says. "didn't think you would."

his hand lifts from your chin before resting lightly at your waist, thumb pressing just slightly before easing.

"probably better for you," he adds, voicer lower now, teasing but grounded in something real and deep, "if you didn't get used to someone like me."

your stomach flips instantly. "who says i'm getting used to you?" you shoot back, trying to play it off.

a smile tugs at his lips. "doll," he murmurs, softer and closer, the warmth of his breath hitting your neck. "you're already here."

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

a few days later, namjoon sends you an address located in the corner of a private street in LA telling you to meet him there. telling you that he wanted to show you something.

a building tucked slightly off the main road, close enough to the water that the air already feels different when you step out of the car.

you hesitate for a half a second before going in. not nervous, but just a little too aware of what you were walking into. with a few instructed taps on the door buzzer, you were let in.

inside, the hallway light is dim, soft lights lining the walls that were decorated with award cases, album posters, and framed vinyls. the floors were sleek and bass echoed through the walls.

you followed the sound the sound down the hallway, until you find a studio door that's slightly open. the gold plate on it reading, "kim namjoon" then below it, "head executive producer."

you exhale softly, heart slightly stopping at that and swallowing a little too hard before you push it gently, and that's when you see him.

sitting at the main console, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting near the soundboard. one hand adjusting a dial, the other resting against his chin like he's listening too closely.

he was so immersed that he hadn't noticed you yet.

the room was lowly lit—colored LEDS instead of overhead lights, the glow from the equipment reflecting softly against his face.

and there's something about him like this—focused, quiet, and completely in his element—that hits differently, making your stomach twist into a knot.

his sleeves are pushed up again, glistening watch catching the light as he moves his hand. a chain rests below his collar, barely visible, but sparkling in the light.

everything about him is so simple, but it fits him all too well. you don't mean to stare, but you definitely do.

and then, like he felt it—namjoon finally glances up. your eyes immediately meet, and you swear you felt a spark flash through your body.

for a split second, he doesn't say anything. he just looks at you, gaze taking you in deliberately.

then, he licks his lips so lightly you almost don't catch it. "you just going to stand there," he says, voice low and soft. "or are you coming in?"

you blink, snapping out of your trance slightly. "i-i didn't want to interrupt."

"you didn't," he replies easily. but his eyes linger on you for a second longer, almost like he knew you were watching him.

you step inside, softly closing the door behind you. the white lighting from the hallway had disappeared now, fully engulfing you into his world—his studio, his creative space—the place where he made every hit even possible. the big room suddenly felt smaller now, more private.

you look around, taking it all in. the walls are boarded with soundproof panels, and large speakers are placed around the sleek equipment. there's two chairs, a beanbag, and couch with folders of music sheets and lyrics scattered on the floor and on counter tops. "this is... really nice."

"mm," he hums, leaning back in his chair and spreading his legs slightly. "it works."

you glance at him. "you say everything like that."

"like what?"

"like it's not a big deal."

a faint smirk. "it's not."

you roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at your lips. he gestures towards the seat next to him. "come here." it wasn't a question.

you walk over, sitting beside him—closer than expected, immediately greeted by his warmth and the musk of his cologne.

he turns towards the console, grabbing a pair of high-end headphones. "listen to this," he says. he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear before carefully placing them over your head.

music plays—smooth and layered. it had no lyrics, but it was already catchy. you hummed in delight. "it's really good," you said softly, gently taking the headphones off.

"i know," he replies casually.

you laugh. "you're insufferable."

he glances at you, a smirk forming. "you're still here though."

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

after a few minutes of namjoon showing you some buttons, he glances at you. "you want to try something?" you look at him, a bit hesitant. "like what?"

he shifts slightly, turning your chair just enough so that your angled more towards the board. "come on," he says, nodding towards the controls. "i'll show you."

"...i feel like i'm going to mess something up," you say.

"you won't."

"how do you know?" he leans in slightly, his breath hitting your neck ever so slightly. "because i'm right here."

your stomach flips again. he reaches around you slightly, one hand bracing lightly against the edge of the console near you, the other guiding your hand toward a dial.

“turn this,” he says, voice lower now, near your ear.

you try to focus. you really do. but namjoon is close. too close. his warmth spilling all over you, hitting you in all the places that made your thighs pull closer together.

you turn the dial slowly—and immediately the sound distorts in a ridiculous way. you both pause.

"...was that supposed to happen?" you ask.

he stares at the board for a second before a short laugh escapes him, dimples tugging at his cheeks. "no," he says.

you burst out laughing. "i told you!"

he shakes his head with another laugh, reaching forward to fix it, his arm brushing yours again. "you didn't break it," he says. "relax."

"i definitely did something."

"you did," he replies with a smile. "just not what i said."

you laugh again, softer this time.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you're standing now, not sitting anymore.

because namjoon told you to.

“stand here,” he said, guiding you lightly by the waist until you were in front of the soundboard. no asking, just placing you there. you stiffened under his touch that sent a light shock through you.

"relax, doll," he murmurs behind you. the deep baritone of his voice hitting a little too close.

you exhale slowly, trying to focus on the board in front of you—but it's hard when you can feel him right behind you. he steps in closer, practically pressing you together.

one hand reaches around you, bracing against the console. the other finds yours, fingers sliding over yours, adjusting your grip on one of the controls. "not like that," he says, low. "too quick."

"i'm not doing anything fast," you defend weakly, trying your best to sound steady.

you hear a quiet, almost amused exhale behind you. "yeah?" he murmurs deeply.

his chest brushes lightly against your back as he leans in closer, guiding your hand again—slower this time. "you rush when you're nervous."

"i'm not nervous."

"mm," he hums, unconvinced. his hand tightens slightly over yours, turning the dial with you. the sound shifts, smoother this time. "like that," he says.

but he doesn't move away, not even a little bit. you swallow, your body hyper-aware of every point of contact. his hand over yours, his chest behind you, his voice vibrating your ear. and you definitely tried to ignore something hard resting against your ass.

"you do this with everyone?" you ask.

"no," he answered simply.

at to that, your heart stumbled. his hand left yours, but only came to settle at your waist, firm and steady. in his grip he turned you slightly—not fully, but enough to turn your attention away from the board and onto him. "you're distracted again," he murmured.

you let out a soft breath. "you keep saying that like it's my fault."

a smirk pulls at his lips, one that you can practically hear in his voice. "doll," he says lowly, "you haven't been focused since you walked in."

your stomach flips as you turn your head slightly, giving just enough space to look back at him—but it's a mistake. because he's already looking at you, his face much closer than expected and barely any space left between you now.

"you always get like this?" he asks softly.

"like what?"

his gaze drops slowly, then back up again. "quiet." he pauses. "...when you feel something."

your breath catches. "you act like you know me," you say.

"i do," he replies casually. those words shouldn't hit you as hard as they do, but they do anyway—causing your heart to leap.

he shifts you fully this time, making you fully face him as his large hands still rested at your waist, thumbs pressing in ever so slightly.

"or maybe," he adds, voice quieter now. "you're just not used to someone who pays attention."

your chest rises slowly. "and you do?"

"to you?" he asks quietly, something flickering across his eyes. "of course i do."

a small pause. "i wouldn't ignore you," he mutters in your ear, breath hot down your neck in a way that makes your hairs stand up. his hand tightens slightly against you. "not like they did."

his words land, striking the base of your heart deeply. "and i definitely wouldn't have you guessing where you stand."

your breath is uneven now, but you can't seem to look away. "confident," you murmur.

"experienced," he corrects simply. his voice and his head dips lower just slightly—"difference is...i know how to treat a woman like you properly."

and suddenly the last thread holding you steady is already gone. you exhale softy, almost a laugh, but not quite. "you always talk like this?"

"only when i mean it."

silence fills the space around you, heavy and close. one of his hands lifts from your waist slowly before coming to your jaw and tracing along it deliberately, just like he did before.

his thumb sits at your chin, tilting your face up just slightly. it takes everything in you for your knees to not buckle right then and there, taking in his low, piercing gaze.

"you keep looking at me like that," you whisper.

"like what, hm?" he asks, voice low as he tilts his head lower, leaving little space between your noses. you felt like your whole world was spinning, trying to ground yourself properly without clinging onto him.

"like you're about to do something."

he pauses for a split second, licking his lips while his eyes practically swirled with darkness. then—low and certain—"i am."

and this time, namjoon doesn't stop himself. he leans in, fully closing the last bit of distance between you, crashing his lips onto yours. it's immediate—but not rushed. he kisses you slow, deep, like he's been holding it back for too long and finally had decided he was done.

you respond quickly, completely melting under the contact and moving your lips into his. your breath catches against his, one hand instinctively finding one of his big arms, while the other gripped on his shirt to steady yourself— because it hits you all at once.

the way he pulls you closer against him, one of his hands firmly settled at your waist while the other holds your head possessively, gently tilting your head at an angle that allowed him to kiss you deeper.

you lean into him without thinking—and he feels it, of course. he hooks his fingers around the belt loop of your denim skirt, pulling you even closer. the kiss deepens—but it isn't overwhelming. it's certain, like he wanted to take his time with his lips against yours.

your fingers tightened against him, causing him to exhale quietly against your lips, like he had been waiting for that exact response from you.

when you both pull back, you barely move an inch. foreheads close, breath uneven, and neither of you pulling away. his hands remain at your waist, yours still on him.

and after a second of catching your breath—namjoon leans in again. not because he's testing it anymore, but because he wants it—no, he needs it again. and you seem to meet him there just as fast.

his lips capture yours for the second time that night, practically taking your breath with him. your thighs press together slightly as you kiss him back, your hand sliding higher along his arm, gripping his bicep and pulling him closer without even realizing it.

his grip tightens slightly. "don't start something you can't finish, doll..." he murmurs quietly against your lips, voice rough.

the kiss suddenly shifts, not messy or rushed—but hungry. namjoon's hand slid shamelessly down your waist and onto your ass, sliding up and down its curve like it was already his.

that pulled a gasp out of you, and he saw it as the perfect opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. you allow him, opening your mouth more to let him further explore it with his tongue. your lips practically molded together, saliva mixing as he swirled his tongue around yours.

"look at you..." he mutters, barely pulling back, his thumb brushing your jaw again. "so responsive."

your stomach flips more times than you can count. "don't—" you start, breath uneven, but you can't even finish the sentence before you feel dampness between your legs.

"don't what, baby?" he asks lowly, smirking faintly against your lips. "don't notice you?" he kisses you again before you can answer. his hand slides up from your ass, up your waist to your side—slower and more deliberate, before settling it there again, like he's grounding you there with him.

your grip on him tightens, deepening the kiss without intending to. "doll..." he murmurs, quietly now like it's a warning.

but he doesn't stop, and you most certainly don't want him to. all of a sudden namjoon is moving, guiding you back without breaking the kiss, step by step, until the back of your legs hit the couch.

you exhale softly in surprise—before you're sitting and he is too, pulling you with him. now, you find yourself on his lap—straddled on top of him with his hands firmly gripping your thighs and with everything much closer.

your hands find his broad shoulders, this time holding onto him like you desperately need to steady yourself, leaning into him once more. and namjoon notices, like he always does.

a low exhale leaves him, almost like a quiet laugh. "not pulling away anymore, are you, baby?" he murmurs, brushing his lips along your jaw slowly while his big palms drag up and down your thighs.

his plush lips trace the line of your jaw, littering soft kisses and your head tilts slightly to give him space without even thinking about it. "good," he praises quietly against your skin, lips trailing their way down your neck.

as he presses soft kisses along your neck, one of his hands presses a little firmer into your thigh, keeping you against him as the other rested gently at your neck—not enough to put pressure—but enough for your mind to go blank and make your thighs noticeably shift.

your breath hitches just above him, and his other hand soothes slowly against your thigh to steady you. "you have no idea..." he murmurs, lightly digging his teeth into your skin, making you shudder. "how hard i was trying to take my time with you."

your fingers tighten against him, struggling to ignore the unbearable ache in your core. "then why aren't you?" you manage softly, voice weaker than usual, knowing you didn't want that.

he paused for a moment, the warmth of his breath tingling down your neck and through your spine. his voice comes lower this time, but steadier. "because you stopped me from wanting to."

he pulls back just enough to look at you again, dark and low eyes trailing every inch of your face. his hand comes up, brushing your hair behind your ear slowly, slower than before.

"you're trouble, princess," he says lowly, another nickname rolling off his tongue with ease. "but i like it."

your breath is still uneven, your heart racing faster than your mind—but you don't look away. "good," you murmur.

namjoon's jaw tightens slightly at that—not in frustration, but in complete restraint. what's left of it, at least.

his hand that rested along your neck slid up, tilting your chin upwards with his thumb once again, making sure that you were really looking at him. "you sure about this, doll?" he asks lowly.

you nod without hesitation. "yes."

a small pause fills the thick, small space between you, but his smoldering gaze doesn't leave yours. his gentle hold on your jaw tightens ever so slightly—not to harm you, but to ground you into the moment. "you understand...i'm not the kind of man you forget after this."

your breath catches, but you don't pull back. "i know," you say softly, holding his gaze.

his hands return to your waist, firmer this time, pulling you just slightly closer to him—close enough that space barely existed anymore. "yeah..." he murmured, his thumb tracing lightly along your skin. "then stay with me."

you nearly shuddered from his words, the warmth of his body on yours surrounding you and making your skin tingle. "i will," you nearly whispered, praying that he couldn't feel the dampness between your legs at the thought of never leaving his side.

"good," he grunted in your ear, hot breath spilling down your neck. he pulled back just slightly before closing the space between you once again, tilting your head with his thumb and pulling your lips in with his unhurriedly.

you immediately softened into him as you moved your lips together, your chest immediately becoming flush against his and practically folding underneath his touch. his hands left your waist, finding their grip lower and onto your ass, holding you steadily against him while his tongue explored you once more.

his lips left yours to litter your neck with kisses—sloppy and open-mouthed this time, sucking harder and marking a trail of red marks down to your collarbone. you whimpered with every suck, thighs noticeably shifting against his legs.

namjoon's slender fingers found their way underneath your top, sliding it up slowly—like he was waiting for you to stop him—but you never did. you only complied, lifting your arms up. and in one swift motion, your top was off, and his lips already found themselves on your cleavage.

"so beautiful, baby," he murmured into your skin, tongue lightly lapping against the mark he had just made on top of your breast.

suddenly you felt his big palms on your waist once again before he manhandled you—lifting you up and lying you gently across the couch before his large figure quickly filled your vision and filling up your entire view.

all you could see in the ambient light of his studio was his broad shoulders, his low, piercing eyes, and glimmering chain now hanging in front of your face before he captured your lips again. you practically moaned into it, fingers gripping tightly into his shirt like you needed more.

"fuck," he murmured against you between kisses, intertwining his long fingers with yours, dragging your palm deliberately up his chest. your hands moved before your mind, tugging him closer by his shirt and immediately fumbling with the buttons.

he smirked, large hands moving to help you take it off. once he tossed it somewhere in the room, your hands danced around his body greedily, trailing over his abs, from his chiseled chest and to his swell back.

"should be taking you to my house like a fuckin' man. should fuck you in my bed slow 'n proper. but i've lost my patience with you, doll," he breathed lowly, licking his lips with hunger.

you could only bring yourself to whimper, as namjoon's big palm creeped around your thigh, trailing every so slowly inwards before stopping. your legs couldn't help but twitch helplessly underneath his touch, causing him to let out an amused breath of air.

"but you don't want that, do you?" he asked lowly in your ear, the desire in his voice making your core ache with unbearable need. his hands trailed closer to your heat, dragging his fingers leisurely against your inner thigh.

you shook your head desperately, but that wasn't enough for him. his fingers hooked around your skirt. "wanna hear you use that pretty mouth of yours, baby."

"i—yes—" you blurted breathlessly, struggling to find the words. "i want it—want you. here, joonie. right now."

his cock strained even harder against his pants. "good girl," he muttered before pulling your skirt down. when it was disregarded, namjoon's hands found your thighs again and you suddenly felt his long fingers trace against slowly against your sopping heat barely shielded by your lacy thong, sending a shiver down your entire body.

"wet for me already and i haven't even started with you," he smirked, finally hooking your panties to the side and letting your soaking core be hit by the cold air. your thighs instinctively went to clamp shut, but he quickly stopped them with his big hands.

"so sensitive, doll," he murmured, placing one big thumb just above your clit while the other fingers outlined your inner thigh. "guys your age don't take their time like this, do they?"

you shook your head immediately, whining out before his fingers glided up slowly against your wetness, his index finger swiping in between your folds. his thumb rubbed your clit in a long circle, pulling out a desperate whine out of your mouth.

finally, he pushed one long finger in between your folds, sliding into your hole that sucked him in, your wetness gushing his fingers. you whined loudly as he dragged it along your walls before plunging back in.

namjoon closed the distance between your faces, capturing your lips in with his and sucking on your bottom lip as he inserted another finger, thrusting into you at a steady pace while his thumb remained on your clit.

when he pulled away, it was only to align his face at your entrance. his hand firmly gripped onto your thighs, holding you in place. his fingers slowed inside of you as his nose came close to your core, the warmth of his breath directly hitting your pussy and making you twitch underneath him.

a small smirk pulled at his lips before he poked his tongue out, licking a light, gentle stripe against your folds. "mm, taste so sweet, baby." you reacted immediately, thighs clenching around his head in a way he enjoyed a bit too much, his free hand wrapping around your leg firmly as he lapped delicately at your entrance.

you moaned his name, legs finally relaxing under his grip as he took his time with soaking your taste on his tongue. namjoon couldn't help but smirk against your folds, his plump lips completely enveloping your pussy into his mouth and sucking your wetness in hungrily.

it wasn't long before you felt his tongue greedily prying through your entrance, crying out in breathless moans. his two fingers stretched open your walls to allow more room for him to explore you with his tongue.

namjoon was absolutely driving you over the edge—his tongue plunged through your tight walls like no other, slender fingers stroking your insides while his thumb massaged your clit vigorously. he ate at you like he had starved for this—your back immediately curving off of the couch as you felt unbearable pressure twine into your stomach.

"that's it, doll," he cooed against your folds, his nose sitting on top of your clit. then, his voice dropped lower—"cum for me."

and so you did—completely letting go as your first orgasm tore through you like lightning. your legs shook around namjoon's head, his free hand rubbing against your thigh gently while his two fingers slowed inside of you. his tongue moved against your folds slowly, taking in every last drop of your release between his lips.

when your body was finally at ease from the state of euphoria he took you to, namjoon trailed kisses from your stomach and up, his hands gently caressing your sides.

"look at you taking me so good," he murmured between kisses, lips on yours now. "think you're ready for my cock, hm, baby?"

you nodded quickly, practically squirming beneath him. "yes joon—need it so bad." your fingers found his belt loop—his large hands finding yours immediately, helping you take off his pants entirely.

it was then when you saw the largest imprint strained tightly against his boxers, making you swallow hard without even realizing. his fingers looped around the hem, taking them off in a swift motion as he stood up.

his cock sprung out in front of you—thick, long, and angry with pre-cum glistening at the end. you sat up straight, jaw slightly slack without even realizing. namjoon's lips fought a smirk as he hovered over you, large shoulders swell and thick member curving up.

his low eyes looked down at you, clouded with darkness. he wrapped his large hand around the thick base of his cock, stroking slightly while taking in the sight of you in front of him.

"fuck," he grunted, "don't got any condoms, baby." "it's okay, joon," you replied softly.

"you sure, doll?" he asked, tracing his fingers lightly against your jaw, tilting your head to look up at him fully.

you nodded. "wanna feel all of you," you said almost shyly.

"have no clue what you're doing to me," he responded lowly, almost to himself. then namjoon leaned down, grabbing your hips and lifting you up swiftly. you yelped in surprise as he sat down, bringing you back on top of his lap. only this time, you were skin to skin, your arousal miserably smearing onto his legs.

but he didn't seem to care. his large hands rubbed softly down your sides as he licked his lips. "you're so small, baby," he muttered in your ear, his thumb pressing into the side of your hip. "might break you."

"that's okay," you whispered, peering up at him with big, needy eyes.

"yeah?" he asked darkly, like your response had just snapped the last bit of restraint left in him. he held onto your hips firmly as he pulled you up, aligning your entrance with his cock. "gonna ruin you then, baby."

your hands gripped onto his broad shoulders immediately to steady yourself, his fat tip pushing through your folds and breaking into your tight entrance. you moaned out in a mix of pleasure and pain, feeling every inch of his width pushing slowly into your walls as you sunk down fully on his lap.

his grasp on you became tighter as he guided you further down, hissing in pleasure as he split you open widely with his cock. your eyes shut tight as your inner thighs kissed his. slowly, the tip of his member found the back of your walls, your head throwing back from the overwhelming stretch.

namjoon held you against him firmly, allow you to fully adjust to his length before he captured your lips into a kiss. "it's okay, doll," he murmured against you. "you're taking me so well."

after a minute of soft, warm coos in your ear—namjoon began to slide you up and down his vast length slowly with his large hands, emitting a loud whine from your lips. soon, he picked his pace, his cock repeatedly kissing the deepest part of your hole. "good baby... that's it," he praised lowly.

your head was filled with nothing but the thought of you, him, and his fat cock curving up inside of you and exploring your walls. he took you to a pure state of euphoria as he thrusted up in you. his hold was firm on you as he bounced you up and down his cock.

your eyes fluttered at your view, melting under his piercing gaze— his jaw tightened in pleasure and concentration, low eyes scanning your fucked-out expression hungrily. you nearly screamed in pleasure.

"such a good girl for me," he grunted in your ear, one large palm trailing up your sides before resting along your neck. his fingers wrapped around it slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to apply pressure that made your mind dizzy and your pussy clench his member tightly.

his other hand came firmer around your waist before suddenly you were moving—your head being guided back down on the couch while your body was being manhandled by namjoon while he kept his cock buried deep inside of you. one hand settled beside your head while the other remained grazing your throat lightly.

once you both fully adjusted to the new position, namjoon continued to thrust in you, roaming your pussy at an entirely new angle. your wetness gushed around his cock sloppily, filling the room with lewd slapping noises. "you fit around me so well, doll," he muttered breathlessly, breath shooting down your spine as he littered messy kisses along your neck.

his hand traveled from your throat down to your thighs, finding your clit and rubbing it softly. you were a moaning mess beneath him as he fucked you relentlessly now, tip slapping messily against the spongiest part of your walls, making your mind go blank.

his palm found its way around your thigh, lifting it above his shoulder. he closed the distance between you two, cock greedily marking a place inside your hole in a way no one had ever done before as his chest pressed against yours.

he rutted his length inside of you, making your eyes roll back and the couch move back and forth with every movement. "gonna fill you up tonight, doll. gonna make you mine," he murmured. "what do you think, baby?"

you could only moan in response, lost in the feeling of his cock buried so deeply inside of you. "nuh uh," namjoon ticked lowly, his thrusts becoming brutal. "wanna hear that pretty voice of yours, baby."

"mmph—yes~ make me yours, joon," you whined breathlessly.

you cried out—heat coiling unbearably in your stomach, pure bliss clouding your mind as namjoon picked up his pace, feeling your walls hugging him in tightly. "yeah... right where you belong baby," he muttered. "taking me so good like this."

your second orgasm of the night hit you even harder this time—ripping through you like a monstrous ocean wave. he fucked you through your high, your legs shaking violently against him; release spilling all over his cock as you moaned out his name breathlessly.

"that's it, baby," he grunted lowly as he made his final, slower thrusts, burying himself inside you as deep as possible before releasing his hot seed into your walls. "come on my dick, pretty girl."

your vision was practically filled with stars as your body became limp under his grasp. he milked his cock deep in your walls before he pulled out with a sharp hiss, laying down beside you—lengthy body half on the couch and half off of it.

you both laid there next to each other breathless, chests moving up and down in sync as you processed what had just happened.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

suddenly, the studio is quiet again.

it wasn't completely silent—just the low hum of equipment filling the room with one of his tracks still looping quietly in the background.

clothes half-on, curled against him on the couch with his large arm around your waist, holding you close against his chest like he had no intention of letting you drift away.

for awhile, neither of you say anything. namjoon's fingers moved slowly against your side, absentmindedly tracing soft patterns into your skin. the movement only grounded you into him more.

then finally, a low exhale left namjoon's lips. "c'mere," he murmurs softly, even though you were already pressed against him. his big hands slid higher along your back, pulling you in even closer anyway until your head was resting properly against his chest.

it only made your cheeks flush a bright red—the moment feeling possessive in a way that was ever so gentle. like he just needed to make sure you were still there. now, you can hear his heartbeat. it thumps steadily now against his large chest.

"you okay?" he asks quietly.

you nod against him. "yeah," you reply softly.

then his lips brush lightly against the top of your head, placing a soft kiss that lingers. "good," he murmurs.

something about the way he said it made warmth spread through your chest again. his hand settles at your waist once more, thumb brushing lightly beneath the fabric of your top. "you still overthinking?" he asks after a minute.

you let out a small laugh against his chest. "maybe a little."

a quiet hum leaves him. "don't."

you tilt your head slightly to look at him. his expression is softer now. his gaze still intense—because he always looks intense when looking at you—but softer. "you regret it?" he asks gently.

you shook your head immediately. "no," you replied, meaning it with everything in your chest.

at your words, something in namjoon's expressions shifts. it wasn't surprise, it was only something deeper. his hand moves to your jaw, thumb brushing slowly along your cheek.

"good," he says again, quieter this time. then, like his confidence had just made a return—"would've been a problem if you did."

you laugh softly, cheeks warming again. "you're crazy, joon."

"for you?" he murmurs. "starting to think maybe."

your stomach flips all over again. namjoon studies you for a second, gaze moving slowly across your face like he's memorizing it. like he still can't believe that you're here. with him, and in his arms.

his hand slides along your thigh gently. this time, it isn't teasing. instead, it feels familiar and warm. "come back to my place," he says quietly.

you hesitate for maybe half a second, but only because your heart is racing faster than your mind. his thumb brushes lightly against your leg. "you don't have to leave, doll," he murmurs.

"you sure?" you ask quietly. because in your past, once guys were done, they were done with your presence for the night—or even forever.

"of course," he says. then, a faint smile touches his mouth, voice dropping a little. "i'm not doing being around you."

and it only seemed that you weren't exactly done being around him either.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

two months later, being with namjoon feels easy. and it wasn't because he was simple. it was the exact opposite.

he's still intense, but still composed. he still walks through every room like he owns it without needing attention from anyone in it. but with you? he's soft in all the places it matters.

namjoon becomes part of your life so naturally it almost scares you sometimes.

mornings tangled up in his expensive sheets while sunlight pours through the massive windows of his house that overlooks the city. his large hand resting on your waist while he scrolls through emails lazily with the other. his bright smile on display every time he made you laugh or blush.

in his free time, he'd show up to your work with your favorite dinner meal. sometimes, he'd sit at a table in your section and order food just to be able to talk to you any chance you'd get.

afternoons where he pulls you into his lap while he's working on music. he'd barely let you sit more than a foot away from him before he was already touching you again somehow.

his fingers through your hair, your legs draped over his. his mouth against your temple when he quietly tells someone important over the phone that he'll "call back later."

and of course, he spoils you constantly. it wasn't in a loud way either. it was more like taking care of you and putting a smile on your face had just become his instinct.

he buys you things you casually mention liking once. he leaves designer bags on the bed like it's nothing. he'd get annoyed when you'd check price tags. he would sneakily place things in your basket at sephora as he trailed behind you, filling it up with everything you simply picked up and looked at.

you even tried to avoid going shopping with him sometimes because you never happened to pay for anything again.

"doll," he murmured one night, pulling your back against his chest, wrapping his large arms around you while you stared at a pair of brand new, christian louboutin red bottoms that he bought you. "if you like them, they're yours. stop thinking so hard."

and god, he hated it when you worked too much. he hated it even more when work stressed you out.

"you should call out," he tells you one morning, voice rough from sleep while you're leaving his bed for work.

you laugh softly. "some of us have to work, joonie."

his buff arms loop around your waist, pulling you back into the mattress effortlessly. "i know," he murmurs against your neck, nuzzling his nose into your warmth. "that's the problem."

eventually, namjoon starts saying it more seriously.

"quit," he says.

you look at him like he's insane every time. "be serious, joon."

"i am serious."

his hands slide along your thighs as you stand between his knees while he sits at the edge of the bed, looking up at you with that same, calm certainty he’s always had.

“i’ll give you whatever you need,” he says simply. “why are you stressing yourself out when you don’t have to?”

and the craziest part of it all to you, was that he meant it entirely. it wasn't because he wanted control—it was because taking care of you pulled at his dimples and his heart more than anything else ever had.

somewhere along the way, you became each other's favorite part of life. people notice too and eventually, the internet catches on.

a photo of you two start surfacing of you leaving restaurant in west hollywood, his hand firm at the small of your back. then, photos of him opening the door for you. and photos of him looking at you instead of the camera.

one set of paparazzi pictures blow up incredibly fast—you climbing into his car while he stands beside you in sunglasses and all black. one hand casually resting against the roof above your head, the other firm on your thigh as you settled into the seat.

neither of you comment on it, not publicly at least. but namjoon doesn't hide you either. because if anything—he loved being seen with you.

you noticed it in the small moments. the way his hand settled on your thigh more confidently when people recognized him on a date. the way he pulled you closer when cameras appeared. the way he looks almost amused by attention instead of irritated.

it was like he was always thinking, yeah, she's with me.

namjoon flexed you more than the music plaques on his wall or the collection of sleek cars in his driveway.

because throughout his entire career, no success, no hit record, or no amount of money—had ever made him look at proud as you do sitting beside him.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

4 months later~

the city outside namjoon's windows is glowing gold and white beneath the dark sky, soft music playing quietly somewhere in his giant house.

you're curled against him on the couch in one of his hoodies. legs across his lap while he scrolls lazily through something on his phone with one hand resting absentmindedly along your thighs.

you both had been like this all evening. quiet and comfortable; surrounded by the kind of silence that only exists when two people know everything about each other completely.

honestly, it could scare you a little. because somewhere along these four months, you and namjoon had stopped feeling temporary. it stopped feeling like some kind of whirlwind or fling.

instead, it just started feeling right. it just felt like you and him and nothing else completely belonged.

you looked over at him. observed the sharp line of his jaw that was softened by the warm lighting. the expensive watch sitting around his wrist. the reading glasses he only wore at home that sat low on his nose while he checked emails.

the realization hit you about a month ago so hard and your chest had felt tight ever since. you were completely, undeniably, and utterly in love with him. but now, you couldn't seem to hold it in anymore.

"you're staring again."

your heart jumps slightly. namjoon doesn't even look up from his phone when he says it. you roll your eyes. "you're obsessed with yourself."

a smirk touches his lips. "no," he murmurs calmly, finally looking over at you. "just obsessed with you."

you look away before he can see your flushed face, but of course he already noticed it. because there simply wasn't a thing he didn't notice about you. his phone turned off immediately. "hey," he said gently.

your eyes lift back to his. immediately his expression changes into something softer, but more serious. his hands slide up from your thigh to your waist, pulling you a little closer across the couch until you're practically in his lap. "what's going on in that head, hm?" he asks.

"nothing."

"liar."

the words are gentle, affectionate in a way. you laugh softly, but it comes out nervous. he catches that too. one hand comes up, brushing lightly along your jaw. "talk to me, doll."

you swallow. your voice comes out quietly—"what if... i love you more than you love me?"

the room goes completely still. namjoon stares at you for seconds that stretch far too long, like you had just said something completely. unbelievable.

his brows pulled together. "baby," he says softly, confused, "what?"

your heart pounds instantly at the name. you try to laugh it off, suddenly embarrassed now. "i don't know, i just—"

"no," he cuts in, hands tightening gently at your waist. they weren't harsh, but it was enough to stop you from spiraling away. "no, don't do that."

you looked back at him. and the way he was looking at you now—god. like this mattered. like you mattered.

"you really think you're ahead of me here?" he asks quietly, eyes boring into yours.

your breath catches as namjoon shifts closer, forehead resting lighting against yours. "i've been in love with you for a while now," he admitted softly.

for a second, you felt like you actually stopped breathing. his thumb brushed slowly against your cheek. "you just took longer to realize it."

a shaky laugh leaves you instantly, eyes burning now. namjoon smiles softly at that, an expression you only ever get to see.

"i love you," he says again, quieter this time. but it was certain, as if it were the most obvious thing it the world.

and suddenly every fear you had—about the age gap, about his fame, about his feelings for you—had totally disappeared. because this man—this calm, confident, impossible man—loves you so deeply that he didn't even hesitate to say it.

your eyes fluttered in disbelief, laughing away the butterflies in your stomach. "i love you too."

the smile that breaks across is face is small, but almost disbelieving. but it was unquestionably proud, like he had just won something prized. after that, he kissed you slowly. he enveloped your lips with his tenderly, soaking in all of your warmth beneath him.

"there you are," he murmurs softly. like you were always meant to end up here with him.

and somewhere between the side of the road and his arms, your little street thing had become everything.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

a/n : hope u guys loved this as much as i do eee! sorry there was so much relationship building... this is the longest bts fic i've made (on this app at least) omg..but joon is actually so sexy i could die.

read part two here

love u guys sm <3 read more of my joon fics here !!

[mikrokookiex]

Do you have any good recommendations for a idol Kim Namjoon x reader story?

𝐈𝐝𝐨𝐥!𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐣𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐔

★ To Make A Power Couple (Series) by @joheunsaram

★ Discord Discourse (Series) by @joheunsaram

★ In Plain Sight by @joheunsaram

★ Everythingoes by @vantaenims

★ On Tilt (Series) by @shina913

★ At Ease by @mrsvante

★ Begin Again by @inthelow

★ How was your day by @kooksbunnnn

★ Don't feed it, it will come back by @wildestdreamsblog

★ Smoking Area by @toastynamgi

★ Long Distance Cravings by @kittenan

★ You're Losing Me by @inthelow

★ Nuts by @jiminsafairy

★ The Red Thread by @knamjooned

Happy reading love :)

‧₊˚🖇️back to namu's library 𐚁

‧₊˚🖇️back to the library 𐚁

[joon4eva]

just the tip? — kim namjoon.

genre: established relationship au.

summary: you and namjoon are left alone together for a little too long. or: in your childhood home, you learn just how much is really "just the tip" with namjoon.

word count. 3,994 words.

warnings. semi-public sex, namjoon doesn't need much convincing, oral sex (m. receiving) unprotected sex but reader is on birth control, creampie, namjoon takes oc's underwear.

note: happy early bday to our leader who keeps me sane and motivates me to keep living everyday. here is some horny fluff word vomit inspired by all the content we've been getting of namjoon looking delicious in his buzzcut lately. i couldn't resist. pics above are from @rkivsfe ♡

Namjoon seemed plucked straight from the pages of a classic romance, a perfect gentleman in every sense.

Throughout the day, your parents had been gracious hosts at their house, and Namjoon had gracefully navigated each conversation, his charismatic charm and impeccable manners in full display. 

Yet, it wasn't the refined qualities occupying your mind; rather, it was his freshly buzzed hair and the allure of his domesticated moments – like when he insisted on helping your mother – that made your heart race, feverish heat flooding your core at the thought of creating a home with him someday.

The both of you had never really properly broached the topic of children, especially since you were on birth control.

While you had only been dating for two years, discussions of having children had stayed respectfully on the back burner; the decision to wait until marriage, or at least until life was less hectic, appeared sensible to both of you. 

For now, life as it was felt fulfilling.

But lately, as you watched Namjoon tenderly cradle a friend's baby or playfully chase nieces and nephews at family gatherings, you began to see the appeal of having a family with Namjoon.

It was hard not to want it sometimes. 

It took every ounce of restraint not to lunge at him right there, an insatiable hunger bubbling within, barely contained. 

And when the rest of your family continued to mingle in the backyard, that was the moment you decided it was time to make your move. 

Namjoon's eyes narrowed perceptively, instantly detecting the undercurrent of mischief in your stride. 

Your smile, wide and radiant, was Oscar-worthy enough to mask your ulterior motives from everyone else; however, Namjoon could see right through your seemingly innocent offer of showing him a 'tour' of your childhood bedroom.

Determinedly, you grasped his arm firmly and practically dragged him up the staircase of your parents’ house and up to your old room located at the far end of the second-floor hallway.

—

To his credit, Namjoon nearly fell for your act. 

He attentively followed along while you animatedly led him around the room; pointing out the remnants of your teenage years evident in the faded posters of pop bands adorning the walls, a meticulously arranged collection of Studio Ghibli figurines that adorned shelves, and a colorful assortment of plush toys scattered about.

Golden sunlight pours through the window, playing on the sparkle in your eyes as your sundress embraces every curve. Beneath Namjoon’s clothes, a nagging ache intensifies, matched by the growing warmth and strain in his pants as he admires your radiance.

Slowly, time seemed to suspend itself, while the walls in your room appeared to close in on you both.

Soon enough, you found yourselves standing face-to-face, completely absorbed by each other's presence.

“You okay?” you ask in a hushed tone.

Namjoon's eyes sparkle with mischief, his eyes shamelessly lingering on your figure. The corners of his mouth turn up in a cheeky grin.

"I know what you’re thinking." 

Brows knitting together, you blink in feigned innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about," you murmur, eyes evading his as your arms cross protectively.

“Oh, of course. You were just so eager to show me your room,” he states matter-of-factly. 

Namjoon’s grin grows wider as he confidently strides closer, hands casually tucked in his pockets. “Nothing more to it, right baby?” 

What a fucking tease.

Warmth creeps up your cheeks as nervous laughter bubbles up, eyes avoiding his penetrating stare – Namjoon always had an uncanny ability to read you like an open book.

It was something that instantly made heat bloom between your thighs.  And when he was looking at you like that, it was impossible to hide anything from him. 

He tilts his head and studies you with an arched brow. “You have that look.”

“What look?”

“The bedroom eyes. I’ve seen it before.”

“I do not!” you manage to choke out, the words nearly vanishing from your throat.

Namjoon just chuckles, disarmingly smug. “Hm. If you say so.”

Within moments, you uncross your arms and navigate the remaining distance, your hands coming up to explore the contours of his body – fingertips slipping under his shirt, feeling the muscles tensing in his back before coming around and daintily migrating northward across his chest.

Namjoon leans down, claiming your lips with a fleeting kiss. "We probably shouldn't," he breathes out softly against your parted lips.

"Hmmm," you pout. "And why not?"

Not waiting for an answer, your lips continue their exploration – slowly moving from his lips, tracing the angles of his jaw, and dancing between gentle nibbles and fervent suction.

Beneath his shirt, your fingers tease his chest, leaving light scratches before brushing against his sensitive nipples.

It only took seconds before you could feel how hard and ready Namjoon was, as his skin burned hotter beneath your touch and his breaths grew shallow.

Trying to suppress a groan and maintain some level of composure, Namjoon bites down on his lip and whispers your name with an unsteady voice. 

"Your family is literally downstairs."

“They’re actually outside.”

Smiling mischievously, you return your attention to him by licking a slow stripe from his neck to the sensitive spot just below his ear – a place you’ve discovered he particularly enjoys being teased.

“I can’t promise I’ll want to stop at just kissing,” he warns with equal parts desperation and plea – a last attempt at cracking your resolve as his hands reflexively grip your waist in a manner both possessive and protective.

“And what?” you breathe out, each word soft and slow, a challenge in disguise. “Where would you want to stop?”

“I won’t.” 

Softening your gaze, you allow your lips to ghost over his. “Then don't hold back,” you whisper, pressing a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth.

His heated gaze flickers across every inch of you – taking in your expression, the way your body presses against his. You couldn't resist further taunting him. 

Your hands slide down his chest and towards the belt loops of his jeans, giving them a playful tug before swiftly moving to unbutton them.

It’s at this moment that Namjoon seems to snap out of his haze.

His lust-addled stupor evaporates like lifting fog, replaced by a rush of clarity where the lines between right and wrong become difficult to blur.

Suddenly decisive, he intercepts your wandering hands with a firm but gentle hold. 

“____. No.”

“I’ll be quiet,” you promise him, a sultry smirk playing on your lips, both tempting and dangerous.

“Baby. We are not fucking in your parents’ house—especially in broad daylight.”

"Oh, Joonie…" you sigh lovingly, pressing a tender and lingering kiss to the small mole just below his lip.

"Always such a gentleman. Holding my hand, praising me in front of my parents, even charming my mom... You don’t wanna fool around with me here?" 

Namjoon's mouth opens as if to protest further, but any words that threaten to come out are swallowed up by a groan that he struggles to stifle at the sensation of you swiftly tugging down his jeans and boxers, just enough for you to wrap your warm, tight hand around his thick length.  

"You’re…s-seriously out of your mind. We…we really shouldn't," he manages to utter, each word strained by the effort he puts into maintaining control – his dark eyes burning with barely restrained desire.

You pause your movements and look into his eyes. "We can make it quick. I promise I'll be quiet."

But you knew Namjoon had always preferred taking things slow, savoring every moment, especially during sex with you.

He was never really a fan of rushing, and you learned along the way he was big on foreplay. 

Yet seeing you present yourself before him like a priceless treasure, accompanied by batting those alluring, pleading eyes at him, Namjoon can't help but consider going against his instincts for once – if only for five fleeting minutes.

“I knew you didn’t want to bring me up here just to—Fuck, hold on. Wait,” he stammers, suddenly remembering, “I– I don’t have any condoms. Well, I didn’t bring any, for obvious reasons.”

An awkward silence settles between you two as the unspoken question lingers, and you gaze into his eyes, searching for an answer.

His eyes widen just a fraction when he realizes what you’re silently asking. 

“God, are you…—? No," he says firmly. "Absolutely not."

"But I've been on birth control for years!" you whine.

Namjoon closes his eyes briefly and exhales sharply, tension radiating from his clenched jaw.

“Babe,” he utters with a heavy sigh.

"Namjoon," your voice is barely audible as you breathe the plea into the curve of his neck, the warm air causing a shiver of desire to course through him. 

Your thumb glides across the tip of his cock, smearing the glistening pearl of pre-cum that gathers from the tip.

Your lips begin to trail gentle kisses along the length of his throat, all while teasingly drawing the tip of your fingers up and down his shaft.

Namjoon's breath catches in response to your touch, gasping as he involuntarily thrusts upwards to meet your hand.

“What about ‘just the tip’?” you whisper. “Isn’t that something that guys like to do?”

“Well… I-I’m paranoid and we should be careful,” he stammers out. “It only takes one time, you know. Can’t this wait until we get home?” 

Noticing his faltering resolve, your lip catches between your teeth to suppress a sly grin. Wordlessly, you slowly sink to your knees in front of him. 

He watches transfixed as your tongue traces a slow path up the engorged vein of his cock, pausing to swirl around the head before taking him fully into your warm mouth.

Namjoon emits a soft groan - hands delicately cradling your jaw - while your cheeks hollow and your head begins to bob rhythmically, dewy eyes peeking out from beneath your lashes to watch him.

His head falls back and his eyes squeeze shut, fighting to restrain a moan as desire shoots through him like wildfire, fuelling your own craving for him even more fervently. 

You could sense him teetering on the edge, his self-restraint waning with each moment until, in one deft motion, he withdraws from your mouth just enough to stagger back, hoisting you up by your arms and steering you backwards until the mattress edge halts against your knees and topples you onto it. 

“You’re fucking shameless, you know that?” he pants, scrambling to shove his pants further down and stepping between your legs, holding his hard cock and leaning over you.

Below him, you giggle and hurriedly push your dress up, sliding your panties down and kicking them aside.

Grabbing your wrists, he pulls them over your head and pins them there.

And as his body aligns with yours – his strong chest firm against your breasts, his crotch deliciously nestled between your thighs – every last drop of doubt vanishes from both of your minds. 

Under the sultry gaze of his darkened eyes, he grips your face, his large hands cupping your delicate cheeks, thumbs tenderly caressing the soft skin. 

Your mouths meet urgently; his lips hungrily pressing against yours to lick and tug at your bottom lip, expertly swallowing every stifled sound that begs release.

"Joon," you murmur tenderly against his parted lips, pausing between kisses. "Touch me, please."

Your honeyed pleas don't go unanswered; Namjoon's hands swiftly comply with your demand, gently pulling down the elastic neckline of your dress far enough to let your breasts spring free. 

"Such a tease, wearing this," Namjoon grunts, grabbing a fistful of your dress, "fuck."

His eyes darken at the sight before him: your dress invitingly pooled at your waist, thighs parted and slightly glistening from your arousal visible even to him.

It was nearly impossible for him to deny you anything at all when you pleaded with that breathy, needy tone.

His lips move with purpose, trailing a series of warm, sweet kisses across your collarbone, down to the valley between your breasts – lingering just long enough to elicit a breathy gasp before grazing your stiff nipples with feather-light nips. 

You struggle to bite back any gasping moans – honoring the promise you hastily made earlier – with only the softest sighs escaping your pursed lips.

“Feels good?" Namjoon murmurs softly, his hand navigating the space between your bodies to trace delicate circles around your throbbing clit.

"God, you're soaking wet already and I've hardly touched you."

Desperately trying to maintain silence, you find your hips moving instinctually in rhythm with the sinfully slow motions of his long fingers. They gather your slickness, teasingly near your dripping entrance with one finger before returning upward to trace unhurried, deliberate circles on your clit again with two fingers. 

“Wanna come first?”

Your bottom lip captured between your teeth, you shake your head.

"Can we… Can you pull out?" breathlessly escapes from your lips.

He groans your name gently, punctuating his words with a delicate nip on your jawline. "What happened to 'just the tip'?"

"I changed my mind," you whine weakly, stifling a frustrated groan when his fingers stop their movements.

Namjoon's chuckle against your skin is light and teasing. "My greedy girl,” he coos affectionately against your lips before pressing a lingering kiss on the corner of your mouth. 

“Wonder what your parents would think if they knew that right now, their precious daughter was up here with me, legs spread wide and begging for me like this? Hmmm?" 

His dirty words make you choke on a barely suppressed moan, but you do nothing to discourage him.

He doesn't pull his fingers away from your aching core – instead, he bends down to lick them clean before gently pressing them back inside of you.

“Please, just please, can we…” your voice falters as it dissolves into unintelligible murmurs, desperate for relief, desperate for him to fill you up the way you want. 

"So needy," Namjoon chuckles softly at your struggle for coherence; swiftly replacing his fingers with the head of his cock. 

"You’re sure about this?" he whispers hoarsely, the feel of him nudging at your entrance sending already rioting butterflies into overdrive.

Your hands instinctively slide over the firm contours of his backside, urging him closer as your hips rock against his. “Wanna feel you. All of you,” you softly mewl in his ear.

A primal growl emerges from Namjoon’s throat before he nips lightly at the tender flesh of your neck. “So filthy.”

Namjoon finally pushes inside of you, inch by torturous inch, until he’s buried to the hilt inside of you, slowly filling and stretching you in a way that makes your legs shudder and lock around his waist. 

His hips still, giving you time to get adjusted, or perhaps in an attempt to try to steady himself. 

He nuzzles into your neck, spreading his warm breath all over the soft skin there, nudging aside the fabric of your dress to press a kiss to your bare shoulder.

Your arms come up to wrap around his neck, fingers dancing across his freshly trimmed head, massaging and scratching softly at his scalp.

Your hips slightly roll to guide him deeper, enticing him to start moving. 

It's sheer, unadulterated bliss as he pumps into you, filling you up in perfect harmony with your own unsteady breaths.  

It feels even better than you thought – so warm and wet and snug around him, nothing has ever felt as good in your life. 

Out of all the things you and Namjoon have tried, this was something that you just haven’t done. 

And now you know you were ruined.

Ruined for using a condom ever again with this man. Your pulse is pounding so hard against your ears that it seems impossible to focus on anything else at this moment but him and how good it feels to have him bare inside of you. 

"You feel so fucking good, baby," Namjoon breathes hotly against the column of your throat. "So tight around me."

He’s fucking into you agonizingly slow and deep; his movements are deliberate and unhurried, each deep, slow stroke filling the air with your muffled moans and the wet sounds of your slick bodies every time his hips snap up against yours.

His hand entwines with yours, palm-to-palm above your head, while his other arm holds you closer by the thigh curled around his waist.

Enveloped in a sensuous fog where your senses blur and bend, you feel him gradually quicken his pace, each thrust growing more intense.

Namjoon nuzzles his face into your neck, soft moans vibrating against your skin. 

Teasingly, his pulsating shaft glides out completely – slow, torturously slow – pausing just before thrusting back in; filling you completely, his tip applying pressure to a hidden sweet cluster of nerves within you that ignites an uncontrollable tightening around him.

An unfamiliar sound escapes from your throat – a strange mixture of a whimper and his name – and he gasps before laughter takes over.

His hand comes up to quickly muffle your sounds.

"Babe," he warns between giggles and gasps for air. "You promised you'd be quiet." 

“But—” your weak rebuttal trails off as warmth spreads across your face and tears gather at the corners of your eyes. “B-but it’s just so… F-feels… so…”

"Shhh, I know," he whispers tenderly against your mouth.

Namjoon’s hand trails from the curve of your thigh to weave through your hair, tightening at the back of your head and pulling you into another heated, sloppy kiss. 

“Doing so well for me,” Namjoon whispers between kisses. “Taking it all.” More kisses. Rougher and wetter. “S-so pretty… so fucking pretty wrapped around me like this.” 

With each impassioned stroke, you cling to him; muffled moans of his name escaping between breathless kisses as waves of warmth wash over you. 

"Want you to come... come inside, Joon, please," you softly plead.

Ardor begins to strain at every seam, your sweet plea threatening to shatter Namjoon's restraint, nearly sending him over the edge.

“Yeah? You close, baby?”

Your eyelids grow heavy, closing tightly as your head fervently bobs in agreement, words failing you.

To this, Namjoon plunges into you with a growl. His cock kisses your g-spot, again and again – and his face is a canvas of pure ecstasy as he thrusts forcefully, his hips colliding with yours while he drives himself even deeper, almost as if he was working to etch himself into your very being. 

Your teeth press into his shoulder to muffle your sobs, while your hands frantically wander— sliding under his shirt to rake at the damp skin of his back or bunching at the wrinkled sheets, desperately searching for something to ground you as he pounds into you, each powerful motion stealing more breath from your lungs. It’s a drawn-out, slow rolling orgasm that he drags out of you.

He fucks you through your climax; deep, steady thrusts that makes your legs quiver and your eyes lose focus as they roll back. 

A low, guttural moan suddenly escapes him as warmth begins to flood every nook and cranny within you, occupying and filling every gap.

The pulsating of the thick vein lining the underside of his cock throbs with each burst of his release, while your own walls tenderly constrict around him.

Your vision is consumed by whiteness as your eyes clench shut from the sheer force of shared euphoria, your mind wonderfully blank.

And then, stillness. 

He stays buried inside you, his large frame forming a protective shield around your body, like a giant blanket swaddling you both.

His nose gently nestles against the side of your neck, as the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest comes to match yours, slowly and peacefully. Your legs are still wrapped snugly around his waist, your hand tracing slow, lethargic circles on his back beneath his shirt.

“Holy shit,” you breathe in elation, “we should do that more often.”

Namjoon huffs out a laugh. Carefully shifting his weight, he hovers above you, hands on either side of your shoulders. “That good?”

“Yeah,” you exhale with a grin. “Really good.” “Really good,” he echoes with a laughter that dances at the edges of his eyes and alights the depths of his dimples.

And you laugh, too, delightfully dizzy and slightly sticky with perspiration as the sun spills through the window's gaps, rays of golden syrup bathing you in warmth.

Namjoon presses a fleeting but tender kiss to your mouth and gently pulls out of you, leaving a lingering emptiness and a sweet ache in your core that lingers.

His eyes curiously wander down to the apex of your thighs and you watch as his hand wanders down to pry your legs apart, his fingertips holding them open as he watches the warm, viscous fluid of his cum slowly form a trail from your entrance. He traces a gentle finger through the slick aftermath, a satisfied hum resonating as your body shudders with blissful oversensitivity. 

In this proximity, he bends down to place a tender kiss on the side of your jaw, with words that now flow like honey. “Think we could make that a priority,” he murmurs.

He follows up with another feathery kiss directly upon your lips - an almost chastely innocent smile dancing across his features, almost sinfully ironic.

You find yourself grinning in response to his obvious overture before letting your hand wander lower on his back.

Slowly, deliberately, almost flirtatiously, it reaches and gropes his rear end. "So would you be open to round two then?" you tease playfully as your fingers pinch just enough for him to know you're serious.

Namjoon’s immediate reaction is priceless – a jolt forward accompanied by an adorably indignant yelp as he tries (and fails) to hide his surprise at your boldness.

All he can do is shake his head at you in disbelief before giving in once more to laughter. 

Eventually regaining some composure, he chides you gently by flicking your forehead with one finger, mimicking chastisement but betraying nothing but affection. You feign complete agony with a comically exaggerated moan and grip to your forehead, earning another round of laughter from Namjoon.

“Jesus, baby,” he says, exhaling a heavy breath, forcing a laugh. “You’re going to kill me.”

He shifts to a seated position on the mattress next to you before standing up, his back straight and his movements curiously graceful for someone so tall.

Your gaze follows him, transfixed as he grasps the edges of his boxers and jeans, lifting them back over his lean hips. 

You have to internally curse at how his shirt clings to him like a second skin, accentuating his broad form as he calmly fastens each button, the muscles in his biceps rippling subtly in the process.

This simple act (an undoubtedly mundane and ordinary action) transforms into a hypnotizing display just by virtue of it being Namjoon. 

Shifting your position slightly, you slide the straps of your dress back into place, readjusting the elastic neckline to cover your chest.

Propped up on your elbows, your eyes dart around for your missing panties.

Namjoon seems to be almost telepathic in this moment, glancing over and catching your eye.

Realizing what you're searching for, a playful smirk forms on his lips.

He bends down to retrieve your underwear from its hiding spot on the floor and rather cheekily shoves it into his pocket instead of handing it to you.

Feigning irritation, you huff as he saunters victoriously across the room towards the bedroom door with his stolen trophy secured in his pocket. 

“Namjoon,” you protest, now sitting up completely. “I need those!”

"You can have them back later," he calls over his shoulder as he begins opening the door. 

The curve of his lips breaking into a gentle smile as he adds, "Let's go home. And don't worry, love - I'll keep these safe for you."

As if to emphasize his point, he gives the pocket safeguarding your panties a delicate pat - one last playful jest before disappearing beyond the doorway.

[rpwprpwprpwprw]

this one is so good! yummy

i miss reading fanfic with my husband…

[deaddumblbumble]

So I Won't Forget | KNJ pt 1

SUMMARY:  A quiet British art curator and a world-renowned songwriter discover they’re soulmates when a bond begins echoing the emotions they refuse to say aloud. As Charlotte and Namjoon navigate long distance, growing love, and the quiet belief that some people are worth preserving more than themselves, they learn that the greatest works of art aren’t always hung in museums—they’re the lives we choose to remember.

WARNINGS:  Soulmate AU, slow burn, emotional angst, long-distance relationship, social anxiety, orphan themes, language barriers, suspense,  threats of violence, injury , insomnia, swearing, eventual smut (18+).

Masterlist

--------------------------

London always felt older in the rain. The city didn’t seem bothered by the weather. It simply carried on beneath gray skies as though drizzle were another layer of its history, settling over weathered stone buildings, wrought-iron railings, and centuries-old churches with quiet familiarity.

From the windows of the hotel overlooking Hyde Park, umbrellas drifted slowly along the footpaths below. Red buses disappeared into the mist. Black cabs rolled through streets still slick from the morning shower, their reflections stretching across the pavement before being broken apart by passing traffic.

Inside the suite, however, history had been replaced by controlled chaos. Louis Vuitton garment bags hung from nearly every wardrobe door. Steam escaped from the bedroom where stylists hurried through final touch-ups before the afternoon’s appearance. Coffee cups—some empty, some forgotten halfway through—claimed every available table beside passports, room keys, charging cables, and schedules printed so meticulously that every fifteen-minute block of the day already belonged to someone else.

It looked chaotic. It sounded chaotic. Yet after more than a decade together, it functioned with surprising ease. Nobody asked where Jungkook’s jacket had gone. It was somewhere within five feet of Jungkook.

Namjoon stood near the window, fastening the cuff of his jacket while his attention wandered back toward the city. He’d always loved London. Not because it was quiet…it rarely was…but because it never tried to hide its age.

Glass towers rose beside Victorian brick. Modern cafés occupied buildings older than entire countries. History wasn’t confined to museums. It lived alongside everyone.

“You’ve been staring out there for ten minutes.”

Namjoon looked over his shoulder. Jin was adjusting the sleeve of his own jacket in the mirror, his expression carrying the familiar patience of someone who had long accepted that getting seven people anywhere on time required constant vigilance.

“I’m looking at London.”

“You can admire London after we’re not about to leave.”

“We have twenty minutes.”

“We have twenty minutes because I started getting ready an hour ago.”

A smile tugged at Namjoon’s mouth. Across the room, Jungkook remained exactly where everyone expected him to be. Curled into the corner of the sofa in tailored trousers and socks, scrolling absently through his phone. His Louis Vuitton jacket rested neatly over the arm beside him. Close enough to count as wearing it. Far enough away to irritate every stylist in the room.

One finally stopped walking, “Jungkook.”

He hummed without looking up.

“…Jacket.”

“In a minute.”

“You said that ten minutes ago.”

“This one’s a different minute.”

From the opposite sofa, Yoongi didn’t bother lifting his eyes from his own phone, “It isn’t.”

Jungkook laughed, “You weren’t even listening.”

“I didn’t have to be.”

The room filled with quiet amusement.

Years ago, the members had learned that Yoongi preferred to spend the hour before major public appearances conserving his social battery instead of spending it. He still did. The only difference these days was that his phone wasn’t simply an escape from the room. More often than not, it was a conversation waiting for him. A few quiet messages with Ellie before another evening of cameras, conversations, and introductions had quietly become part of his routine. Nothing lengthy. Nothing demanding. Just enough to carry a little piece of home with him before stepping back into the version of himself the world expected.

Across the suite, Hoseok was doing exactly what everyone expected of him too, “…Look at this stitching.” He turned one sleeve toward the light, “The craftsmanship is incredible.”

No one answered. Not because they disagreed. Because this was the third time he’d complimented the jacket.

Taehyung wandered over anyway, studying the embroidery for himself, “I’ll give you this.” He ran a finger lightly along the seam, “They’re beautiful.”

“I told you.”

“You’ve told all of us.”

“It’s worth repeating.”

Jimin laughed softly from where he adjusted the clasp of his watch, “I don’t think anyone appreciates clothing the way you do, hyung.”

“It’s wearable art.” 

“It literally is.” Jimin agreed. 

“And today,” Hoseok continued, “we’re going to an exhibition about preserving craftsmanship.”

That caught Namjoon’s attention—The museum.

Until now, it had simply been another event on an already crowded schedule. A Louis Vuitton partnership. A private viewing. A reception afterward.

But somewhere between reviewing the itinerary and standing in front of London’s rain-soaked skyline… He realized he was actually looking forward to it. Not because of the cameras. Or the networking. Or the photographs that would inevitably follow.

Because for a few hours…He’d get to walk through history.

————————

Charlotte Ashford was late. Not catastrophically. Just enough that she skipped the tea she’d promised herself that morning and walked a little faster through the staff corridors beneath the museum. Her trainers echoed softly against worn stone floors as she balanced a leather portfolio beneath one arm and a takeaway coffee in the other.

Someone called her name, “Morning, Charlotte.”

She looked up with an apologetic smile, “Morning.”

“You’ve been in since six, haven’t you?”

“…Half six.”

“You know that’s not better.”

Charlotte only smiled, pushing a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear before continuing down the corridor.

The museum wasn’t open to the public yet. She preferred it that way. Before the visitors. Before the school groups. Before the guided tours and gala guests and donors and photographers.

This was her favorite version of the building. The quiet one. Climate-controlled galleries hummed softly around priceless objects that had outlived kingdoms, governments, wars, and generations of caretakers.

People often imagined museums as places where history slept. Charlotte had always thought the opposite. History was awake. It simply whispered instead of shouting.

She emerged into the conservation wing and immediately noticed someone had moved a trolley.

“…Who…” Her eyes followed its new position. It now sat directly beneath an air vent.

Charlotte sighed, “No…”

Setting her coffee on the nearest workbench, she crossed the room and carefully pushed the trolley several feet away.

“Cold airflow.” She murmured more to herself than anyone else, “The humidity readings will drift.”

One of the conservators looked up from a microscope, “I knew there was a reason we weren’t supposed to move it.”

Charlotte smiled, “It’ll be alright.”

She checked the environmental monitor mounted to the wall almost automatically. Temperature. Humidity. Light exposure. Exactly where she wanted them. Only then did she finally take a sip of her coffee. It had already gone lukewarm. She didn’t seem to notice.

The conservation studio overlooked one of the exhibition galleries through a pane of glass, allowing visitors later that evening to watch conservators at work without compromising the collection itself.

Most people assumed restoring paintings was glamorous. Charlotte knew better. It was patience. Tiny cotton swabs. Magnification. Documentation. Sometimes hours of work resulted in changes no visitor would ever notice. That was rather the point.

If someone noticed the restoration… You’d done it wrong.

She slipped on a pair of nitrile gloves before stepping toward the portrait resting on the easel. An eighteenth-century oil painting. One final condition check before it returned to the gallery.

She leaned closer, studying the surface beneath the conservation light. The craquelure looked stable. The retouching from six months earlier had blended beautifully.

Satisfied, she smiled to herself, “There you are.” Not to the painting. To the artist. As though two hundred years later they’d finally agreed on how the light was supposed to fall.

A voice behind her broke the silence, “Talking to your paintings again?”

Charlotte looked over her shoulder, “I’m talking to the conservator who’ll have to undo my work if I rush.”

Her colleague laughed, “I’ve got good news.”

“And bad news?”

“The good news is the exhibition is ready.”

Charlotte nodded, “And the bad?”

“The Louis Vuitton guests arrived early.”

She blinked once, “…Already?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“They’re finishing security now.”

Charlotte glanced instinctively toward the gallery doors, “They’ll be shown through the exhibition shortly.”

Her colleague smiled knowingly, “Nervous?”

Charlotte frowned, “About the exhibition?”

“About giving a private tour to one of the biggest music groups in the world.”

Charlotte considered the question for a moment, “Not really.”

“Really?”

“I’m talking about British history.” She shrugged lightly, “That part doesn’t make me nervous.”

Her colleague laughed, “People do.”

Charlotte’s smile turned sheepish, “…People do.” Her fingers found the cuff of her sleeve automatically, absentmindedly twisting the fabric between her thumb and forefinger.

Her colleague noticed immediately, “There it is.”

Charlotte looked up, “What?”

“That look.”

“I don’t have a look.”

“You absolutely do. Whenever you’re overwhelmed, you start playing with your sleeves and suddenly remember you have something very important to do in the conservation studio.”

Charlotte looked toward the adjoining lab for half a second.

Her colleague raised an eyebrow, “…You were thinking about it.”

Charlotte sighed, caught, “…Maybe a little.”

“Charlotte.”

“I know.”

“You can’t hide with the paintings today.”

“…I know.” Charlotte’s lips twitched. She looked once more at the portrait, “…I’d rather be with the paintings.”

She meant it sincerely. Not because she disliked people. But because paintings were wonderfully uncomplicated. They didn’t care whether you said the right thing. They didn’t expect conversation. They simply waited. Patiently. For someone willing to look long enough.

————————————

Charlotte removed her gloves one finger at a time, turning them inside out before dropping them into the disposal bin beside the conservation table. The portrait could wait now. Everything that could be done had been done. She stepped back, studying it one last time beneath the conservation lights. The softened varnish no longer dulled the artist’s original colors. Fine cracks that had once drawn her attention disappeared into the composition where they belonged—Good. If visitors noticed the restoration before they noticed the painting, she’d failed.

She slipped the pencil from behind her ear and tucked it into the pocket of her museum apron before gathering the folder waiting beside her coffee. Years of research had been condensed into the slim binder she carried now—object notes, exhibition timelines, provenance references she knew by heart but felt better having with her anyway. Not because she expected to forget. Because preparation had always been comforting.

She glanced at the clock mounted above the conservation studio doors—Ten minutes. Enough time.

Outside the studio, the museum still belonged to its staff. The galleries were quiet, interrupted only by the distant hum of environmental systems and the soft footsteps of conservators crossing polished floors. Somewhere overhead, a lift descended carrying the catering team toward the reception rooms that would transform completely before nightfall.

By sunset, these corridors would look different. The Louis Vuitton gala would bring donors, journalists, diplomats, artists, fashion designers, and guests from across the world. Champagne glasses would replace conservation carts. String quartets would replace the quiet rhythm of people simply doing their jobs.

Charlotte preferred this version. The one before. The museum in its natural state.

She walked through the first gallery, slowing almost instinctively beneath the enormous portrait that anchored the room.

When she’d first joined the exhibition team nearly three years ago, this gallery had been empty. Just white walls covered in measurements, lighting plans, and blue tape marking future display cases.

Now it told nearly a century of British history without saying a word. She found herself smiling—Years. It had taken years. Research requests that stretched across continents. Conservation meetings that seemed to last entire afternoons. Insurance negotiations. Transport schedules. Environmental testing. The careful choreography required to convince institutions to loan objects that, in some cases, hadn’t left their permanent homes in decades.

Visitors would spend perhaps ninety minutes wandering through the exhibition. She wondered how many would realize they were looking at years of invisible work. Probably very few. That was alright. Museums had never been about the people who built them. They were about the stories that remained after everyone else had gone.

Her footsteps carried her into the next gallery. Queen Elizabeth II’s pale blue evening gown stood beneath carefully calibrated lighting, every fold supported almost invisibly beneath the fabric. Beside it rested original sketches, handwritten notes from the designer, and photographs documenting both its creation and the painstaking conservation process that allowed it to be displayed decades later.

Charlotte didn’t stop. She’d stood in front of the gown often enough that she could picture every stitch with her eyes closed.

Instead, her attention drifted to the windows overlooking the courtyard. Rain continued to fall in that persistent London way—steady enough to leave the stone glistening, gentle enough that no one seemed particularly inconvenienced by it. 

She’d always liked rainy mornings. The city felt older somehow. As if the modern world softened just enough for history to peek through.

Sometimes, walking to work, she’d deliberately take the longer route simply because it passed a stretch of Roman wall hidden behind newer buildings. Not many people noticed it. Most hurried by without a second glance. Charlotte always looked. 

She wondered how many thousands of people had walked that same path before her. How many stories had disappeared entirely. How many survived because someone, centuries ago, had decided they were worth preserving.

A quiet knock against the open gallery door drew her attention, “Charlotte?”

She turned. One of the museum coordinators offered an apologetic smile, “They’re here.”

Charlotte nodded once, “Already?”

“They arrived a few minutes early.” Of course they had. Security always preferred arriving early, “The group’s waiting in the introductory gallery whenever you’re ready.”

Charlotte glanced down at herself. Jeans. White fitted T-shirt. Museum apron. She looked more like someone about to unpack a shipping crate than lead one of the most prestigious private tours the museum had hosted all year.

 “Oh.” She laughed softly to herself, “I should probably look presentable.”

Five minutes later, the apron had been exchanged for a tailored navy blazer. Her hair, still loosely clipped back from the conservation studio, remained exactly as it was. There wasn’t time to fuss over it. Not that she would have anyway. She slipped her thick black glasses into their case and replaced them with her contact lenses, blinking a few times as the world sharpened into familiar focus…Better. Professional.

The sleeves of her blazer felt unfamiliar after spending most mornings in cotton aprons. She tugged lightly at one cuff before realizing what she was doing and let her hands fall back to her sides...It’s a tour, Charlotte. Not a performance.

The reminder settled her more than she expected. She wasn’t walking into a room to impress anyone. She was walking into a room full of guests. Her job wasn’t to entertain them. It was simply to share something she loved.

Taking one quiet breath, she stepped through the gallery doors toward the private entrance. Beyond them waited seven of the most recognizable people in the world. Charlotte’s first thought wasn’t about their fame. It was the faint hope that, for the next hour or so…They might enjoy history as much as she did.

—————————

The museum liaison greeted them just inside the private entrance, “Good afternoon.”

She offered each member a small wireless receiver no larger than a matchbox along with a single in-ear earpiece, “Our lead curator will be conducting today’s tour in English. Simultaneous Korean interpretation will be provided throughout the exhibition.”

Jungkook turned the receiver over in his hand, “…Fancy.”

“It should begin automatically once the tour starts,” the liaison explained with a smile.

One by one, the members slipped the earpieces into place. Namjoon accepted his with a quiet thank you. He looked down at the receiver for a moment. Then, almost absentmindedly, slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket instead. He wouldn’t be needing it.

A set of oak doors opened quietly at the far end of the gallery. A woman stepped through. She wore a navy blazer over a simple white top and dark trousers, sensible trainers replacing the heels many people expected museum professionals to wear. Her dark hair was loosely pinned back, as though she’d only just left the conservation studio, and she carried a slim leather portfolio tucked comfortably beneath one arm.

There was nothing rehearsed about her. Nothing performative. She looked like someone who had interrupted her work to welcome guests before happily returning to it later.

“Good afternoon.” Her smile was warm, though noticeably reserved. “I’m Charlotte Ashford.” Her accent carried the unmistakable softness of London, “I’m the Senior Curator of British Royal Collections, and on behalf of everyone who’s spent the last several years bringing this exhibition together…”

She glanced around the gallery, “…welcome.”

Her eyes lingered briefly on the title suspended above the entrance. CROWN: Preserving a Nation

“I’m very grateful you’ve had the opportunity to see it before tonight’s opening.”

The interpreter’s voice followed a heartbeat later through the members’ earpieces. Charlotte waited naturally until she saw their attention return to her before continuing, “I imagine most people expect an exhibition like this to be about kings and queens.”

A small smile touched her lips, “It isn’t.”

Several of the members exchanged curious looks, 

“It’s about memory.” She stepped slowly into the first gallery, inviting them to follow, “The monarchy simply happens to be one of the ways Britain has chosen to preserve its history.”

Portraits rose around them in elaborate gilded frames, their oil-painted subjects watching over the room with expressions unchanged for centuries. Charlotte stopped beneath one of them, “When most people look at a portrait…”

She glanced up., “…they see a face.”

“I always wonder what the artist wanted future generations to remember.” Her gaze lingered on the painting. “And perhaps more interestingly…what they chose to leave out.”

Namjoon felt himself smile. It wasn’t a line she’d memorized. He could hear that much. She genuinely thought that way.

Charlotte continued at an easy pace, never sounding as though she were reciting information, “The exhibition isn’t chronological. It’s arranged by ideas—Portraiture. Identity. Duty. Craftsmanship. Conservation.”

She gestured toward the adjoining gallery where one of Queen Elizabeth II’s gowns stood beneath soft lighting, “History isn’t preserved by accident, It survives because thousands of people—artists, tailors, conservators, historians, archivists—decide that something deserves to outlive them.”

She looked toward the gown, “The dress tells one story. The original sketches tell another. The conservator who spent eight months stabilizing the silk tells another entirely.”

A quiet pause settled over the gallery. 

“I suppose…” She smiled almost to herself. “…I’ve always found the people behind history just as fascinating as history itself.”

For the first time that afternoon…Namjoon wasn’t thinking about schedules. Or cameras. Or speeches. He was simply listening.

————————

Charlotte slowed naturally as the group dispersed through the gallery. It happened during nearly every private tour she’d ever led. Some visitors stayed close, wanting every detail exactly as it had been planned. Others wandered instinctively toward whatever caught their eye first, allowing curiosity to dictate the route instead of the floor plan. She’d long since stopped trying to fight it. History was best discovered, not scheduled.

She watched the members drift in seven different directions, smiling quietly to herself…Interesting.

The interpreter remained a respectful distance behind her, translating as she spoke, while one of BTS’s videographers documented the afternoon with an unobtrusive camera slung over his shoulder.

The museum felt comfortably alive. Not crowded. Not silent. Simply… occupied.

Jin was the first to speak, stopping beneath a towering state portrait of George V. He said something in Korean, gesturing toward the king’s posture.

The interpreter smiled before translating, “He asked if they really stood like that.”

A laugh escaped Charlotte before she could stop it, “Not usually.” She stepped beside the portrait, “This wasn’t intended to capture an ordinary afternoon.”

She looked up at the painting, “It was meant to communicate authority. The artist wanted every visitor who entered the room to understand exactly who held power before a single word was spoken.”

The interpreter relayed her explanation. Jin nodded thoughtfully before looking back at the portrait. He said something else.

The interpreter chuckled, “He said… ‘So it’s basically the historical version of a very intimidating profile picture.’”

Charlotte blinked. Then laughed. “I’ve never heard anyone describe it that way.” She considered the painting again, “…But yes. I suppose it is.”

The members laughed together, and the formality of the afternoon loosened another degree.

Across the room, Taehyung hadn’t moved. Charlotte noticed because she’d learned to pay attention to the people who lingered. Most museum visitors looked at a painting for less than thirty seconds. He’d been standing in front of the same portrait for nearly four minutes. His head tilted ever so slightly, studying the subject’s face. Eventually he spoke, quietly.

The interpreter listened before translating, “He thinks she looks lonely.”

Charlotte looked from Taehyung to the portrait. Then back again, “So do I.”

Taehyung’s eyes widened slightly.

Charlotte smiled, “Most people notice the jewels, or the dress. I’ve always found her expression much more interesting.”

For a brief moment, neither of them looked away from the painting. No further explanation felt necessary.

Meanwhile, Hoseok had wandered toward the entrance of the next gallery almost without realizing it. Queen Elizabeth II’s evening gowns stood beneath soft lighting, accompanied by original sketches, embroidery samples, and conservation records documenting the work that kept them stable enough to display. He leaned closer to one of the sketches. Said something quietly.

The interpreter translated, “He wants to know if the embroidery changed during construction.”

Charlotte’s face brightened, “It did.” She walked over. “The original design placed much heavier embellishment across the bodice.” She pointed toward one of the early sketches. “But once the dressmaker tested how the fabric moved…”

She smiled. “They redistributed the beadwork to preserve the silhouette.”

Hoseok nodded immediately. He understood. Not because he knew royal fashion. Because he understood construction.

He asked another question. Then another. Charlotte found herself answering without thinking.

For several minutes, they weren’t discussing royalty. They were discussing craftsmanship. Artists. Technique. The invisible decisions that separated something beautiful from something timeless.

Namjoon watched the conversation unfold from across the room. The hesitation Charlotte had carried when she’d first greeted them had vanished. She wasn’t performing anymore. She’d forgotten herself. She was simply sharing something she loved.

A few feet away, Jungkook had discovered the conservation display. He crouched slightly in front of a monitor showing the gradual removal of aged varnish from an eighteenth-century portrait. He frowned. Asked something in Korean.

The interpreter laughed before translating, “He wants to know if it really took eight months.”

Charlotte nodded, “For just that section.”

Jungkook’s eyebrows shot upward. He said something quickly.

The interpreter smiled, “He said he doesn’t have that kind of patience.”

Charlotte laughed softly, “You’d be surprised.” She looked back at the painting. “After a while, you stop seeing the whole painting. You only see the next brushstroke.”

Even Yoongi smiled at that. He’d remained mostly quiet, reading each object label with the same care Charlotte imagined he gave song lyrics. He finally asked his first question.

The interpreter translated, “He’s wondering how long you’ve been working on the exhibition.”

Charlotte glanced around the gallery. The question caught her off guard, “Just over three years.” She looked toward the nearest portrait, “It becomes rather difficult to remember life before it.”

The interpreter spoke. Yoongi nodded once. Nothing more. But something in his expression suggested he understood exactly what she meant. Three years spent building something most people would experience in a single afternoon. Artists recognized that kind of work.

Charlotte continued leading them toward the next gallery, answering questions as they came, never once rushing anyone forward. She’d almost forgotten about the camera. Until she turned to explain one of the conservation photographs and found the lens pointed directly at her. Not the exhibition…Her.

The sentence faltered. Barely. A single heartbeat. Heat crept into her cheeks.

Instinctively, she shifted half a step, allowing one of the display cases to sit between herself and the camera. Her smile never disappeared. Neither did her professionalism. But the movement was unmistakable.

The videographer lowered the camera immediately, understanding without needing to be asked. Charlotte offered him a grateful smile before continuing as though nothing had happened.

Only one person seemed to notice—Namjoon. It wasn’t embarrassment. It wasn’t stage fright. It was instinct.

The kind that said—Please… don’t make me the interesting thing in the room.

He found himself watching her differently after that. Not because she’d stepped away from the camera. Because she’d done it so automatically she probably hadn’t realized she’d moved at all.

A voice broke the quiet—Jin.

The interpreter listened before smiling, “He wants to ask you something.”

Charlotte looked over, “Of course.”

Jin spoke again, the members watching with amused expressions. The interpreter hesitated, then laughed softly, “He asked…whether you were nervous because you’re giving a tour to BTS.”

Charlotte blinked. For a moment, she seemed genuinely puzzled by the question. Then she smiled, “I was nervous because I was giving a tour.”

The interpreter translated. She continued before anyone could respond, “I know who you are. You’re some of the most influential artists in the world.” A brief pause. Charlotte smiled, almost apologetically. “I knew your names before today.” A small pause, “Now I’ll remember you for something else.”

She nodded toward Hoseok, “You notice craftsmanship.”

Toward Taehyung, “You notice expression.”

Toward Jungkook, “You notice process.”

Toward Jimin, “You notice movement.”

Toward Yoongi, “You read everything.”

Toward Jin, “You ask the questions everyone else is thinking.”

Finally, her eyes rested briefly on Namjoon, “And you…” A thoughtful smile. “…keep looking at the things no one else is looking at.”

The gallery fell quiet. Charlotte seemed unaware of the effect her words had. She shrugged lightly, “I suppose that’s just how I remember people.”

No albums. No awards. No records. No headlines. Just… Who they were when no one expected anything from them. For perhaps the first time in years—They felt like guests. Not celebrities.

——————————

The final gallery gave way to a quieter corridor leading back toward the conservation wing. Charlotte had just finished answering one of Jin’s questions when Jungkook slowed beside a display showing infrared images of a restored portrait. He frowned thoughtfully before saying something in Korean.

The interpreter smiled, “He was wondering…is this where the paintings are actually restored?”

Charlotte nodded, “Some of them. The larger studio is just beyond this corridor.”

Jungkook’s eyes lit up. He said something quickly, glancing toward the others.

The interpreter laughed, “He’d really like to see it.”

Charlotte hesitated. Visitors weren’t normally permitted inside the conservation studio. The room wasn’t secretive—it simply wasn’t designed for tours. It was a working space, filled with unfinished projects, specialized equipment and conservators trying very hard not to be interrupted.

She looked toward the museum director, “If everyone’s comfortable…I don’t mind.”

The director considered it for only a moment before smiling, “I think we can make an exception.”

Charlotte returned the smile, “Wonderful.” She pushed open the heavy studio door.

The atmosphere changed immediately. The galleries had been carefully curated. The conservation studio wasn’t. Large worktables occupied the center of the room, each supporting paintings in various stages of treatment. Adjustable lamps arched over microscopes, pigment samples sat neatly labeled in shallow trays, and walls lined with environmental monitors quietly tracked temperature and humidity. There was no grandeur here. Only work.

Charlotte smiled almost instinctively. “This…” She looked around the room. “…is my favorite part of the museum.”

Charlotte led them farther into the studio, weaving easily between worktables and conservation equipment. “This is the main conservation studio.”

She smiled. “There are a few of us who specialize in different materials—paintings, textiles, paper, furniture.”

She gestured toward a quieter corner separated by tall storage cabinets. “And…” A hint of pride crept into her voice, “…this is my workspace.”

It wasn’t an office. It looked lived in. An adjustable conservation easel occupied the center of the space beneath a large daylight lamp. A stereo microscope sat pushed neatly to one side beside rows of labeled pigments, cotton swabs, tiny sable brushes, scalpels, and glass jars no bigger than thimbles. Shelves held conservation journals filled with handwritten notes, while reference books on British portraiture, royal collections, and historical painting techniques had been stacked in careful, familiar piles.

Pinned to one corkboard were colour studies, infrared scans, and photographs documenting paintings before treatment. Another held postcards from museums she’d visited over the years. A chipped blue mug sat forgotten beside an open notebook, a pencil tucked neatly through its spiral binding.

Nothing about the space felt curated. It felt used. Comfortable. Like someone who spent more hours here than anywhere else.

Charlotte laughed quietly, “I’m afraid it’s a bit untidy.”

Namjoon looked around. It wasn’t untidy. It was loved.

The interpreter’s voice followed a moment later. Jungkook turned slowly in a full circle. His eyes were everywhere. Hoseok drifted toward a table covered with tiny embroidery samples. Yoongi immediately found a conservation report lying open beside a microscope. Taehyung was studying an unfinished portrait where one half had been cleaned while the other remained hidden beneath centuries of yellowed varnish. Jimin walked toward an easel supporting a partially restored ceremonial uniform, fascinated less by the garment itself than the structure supporting it.

Charlotte watched them spread out with quiet satisfaction. It was exactly what she’d hoped. She walked toward one of the worktables and picked up a pair of nitrile gloves. The movement was automatic. She slipped them on one finger at a time before resting her hands lightly beside an eighteenth-century portrait still undergoing treatment.

“The exhibition shows the finished object.” She glanced around the room. “This is everything visitors never see.”

The interpreter translated as the members gathered around. Charlotte gestured toward the portrait. “This one’s been in treatment for nearly nine months. It’ll probably be another three before it’s ready to go back on display.”

Jungkook’s eyebrows lifted. He said something quietly.

The interpreter smiled, “He asked… how you don’t get impatient.”

Charlotte looked back at the painting, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “History’s been waiting a few hundred years.” She shrugged lightly, “It can wait another afternoon.”

The room fell comfortably quiet. Hoseok crouched beside another table where conservators had laid out sections of embroidered silk beneath magnification. He asked something through the interpreter.

Charlotte joined him, “The original thread had become too fragile to support its own weight.” She pointed toward the almost invisible repairs. “So each damaged strand was reinforced individually.”

Hoseok leaned closer, “You can barely see it.”

Charlotte smiled, “That’s the goal. If people notice the restoration before they notice the object…we haven’t done our job.”

Yoongi looked up from the conservation report. He said something quietly. The interpreter translated, “Have you always wanted to do this?”

Charlotte paused. She’d been asked that question countless times. The answer had never changed, “No.”

Several of the members looked up.

“I wanted to study history.” A small smile touched her lips, “I just happened to fall in love with preserving it.”

Namjoon watched her as she spoke. There it was again. That quiet certainty. She never sounded rehearsed. She simply… Knew exactly why she was here.

For a moment, the cameras, the Louis Vuitton partnership, the evening gala waiting upstairs— None of it seemed to exist.

There was only Charlotte. A painting. And a room dedicated to making sure someone else’s story survived.

—————————

The studio settled into a comfortable rhythm. Hoseok remained beside the textile bench, listening intently as one of the conservators explained how damaged silk could be reinforced thread by thread. Jungkook had somehow acquired a magnifying loupe and was examining pigment samples with childlike fascination. Jimin wandered toward a collection of conservation mounts, quietly asking how garments were supported without placing stress on the fabric. 

Taehyung lingered in front of an unfinished portrait, studying the stark contrast between cleaned and uncleaned paint. Jin had found another conservator entirely and was asking questions rapid enough that even the interpreter laughed. Yoongi stood near a worktable, reading through a conservation report with the same quiet concentration he gave album credits.

Charlotte watched them for a moment. Exactly as she’d hoped. No one was rushing.

A voice beside her broke the silence, “You’ve built something remarkable.”

She turned. Namjoon had stopped beside the painting she’d been working on earlier. The interpreter, sensing neither of them needed assistance, remained across the room with the other members.

Charlotte smiled politely, “It wasn’t just me.”

“No,” he agreed, “But it has your fingerprints all over it.”

She laughed softly, “I certainly hope not.”

He blinked before smiling, “I suppose that would’ve been a conservation nightmare.”

“It would have been.”

A comfortable silence settled between them. Charlotte rested a gloved hand lightly against the edge of the worktable, “I’ve always thought exhibitions are a little misleading.”

He looked at her, “How so?”

“They’re designed to feel effortless.” She glanced around the studio, “Visitors see the finished story. They don’t see the years of research… the debates… the restoration… the people who quietly kept everything alive behind the scenes.”

Namjoon’s gaze drifted across the room. To the microscopes. The journals. The unfinished paintings, “The process disappears.”

Charlotte nodded, “As it should.”

He looked back at her, “I’m not sure I agree.”

She tilted her head, inviting him to continue.

“I think people connect with the process.” He smiled faintly, “They just rarely get to see it.”

Charlotte considered that. She’d never thought about it quite that way. “I suppose…” she admitted, “…that’s why I wanted to show you this room.”

His eyes wandered over her workspace. The worn conservation easel. The neatly organized brushes. The microscope. The stack of reference books with handwritten notes tucked between the pages.

“It feels very…” He searched for the word, “…honest.”

Charlotte followed his gaze, “I spend more time here than I do in my office.”

“I can tell.”

She looked back at him, “Is that a compliment?”

“I think it is.”

For reasons she couldn’t quite explain… That answer pleased her more than she’d expected.

——————————

A discreet knock sounded against the conservation studio door. The museum director stepped inside with an apologetic smile, “I’m afraid we’re going to steal them back, Charlotte.”

She glanced at her watch. She hadn’t realized how much time had passed, “Oh.” A small, embarrassed laugh escaped her, “I’m sorry. You’ve all been very patient.”

The interpreter relayed her words as the members gradually gathered from around the studio.

“No need to apologize,” the director assured her. “Louis Vuitton would like to begin the photography before the guests arrive.”

Charlotte nodded, “Of course.”

The conservators quietly returned to their work as she slipped off her gloves and set them beside the painting. She reached for the slim leather portfolio she’d brought from the gallery, checking almost absentmindedly that the object lists, condition reports, and exhibition notes were still tucked neatly inside.

She closed it with a soft snap, “Thank you again for indulging me.”

Her smile lingered on the group, “I know the conservation studio isn’t usually the most exciting part of a museum.”

Jungkook answered immediately in Korean. The interpreter laughed, “He says it was his favorite part.”

Charlotte looked genuinely surprised. “It was?”

Jungkook nodded enthusiastically.

She smiled, warmth softening her features, “I’m glad.”

One by one, the members thanked her as they made their way toward the corridor. Jin offered an exaggerated bow that earned laughter from everyone. Hoseok thanked her for explaining the embroidery. Taehyung paused for one last look at the unfinished portrait before quietly following the others.

Yoongi gave a small nod, “It was beautiful.” The interpreter translated.

Charlotte inclined her head, “Thank you.” It meant more coming from someone who understood what it meant to spend years making something.

Only Namjoon remained. He had wandered back toward the workbench, studying the painting she’d been restoring earlier that morning. Not the finished galleries—This one. Half-cleaned. Still becoming.

Charlotte walked over, “It’ll be back upstairs in a few months.”

His eyes remained on the canvas, “I think I like it like this.”

She looked at him, curious, “The finished version is beautiful.”

He smiled faintly, “But this one tells two stories.”

Charlotte followed his gaze to the sharp line separating cleaned paint from centuries of yellowed varnish. She’d looked at that painting almost every day for months. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen it that way.

A voice called gently from the hallway, “Namjoon.”

He looked up, “Coming.”

Charlotte gathered her portfolio beneath one arm. As she turned, one of the loose conservation photographs slipped free, drifting silently toward the floor.

Namjoon reacted, so did Charlotte. Both reached instinctively. Their fingers met around the edge of the photograph, It lasted less than a second.

Charlotte froze. The world didn’t disappear. There was no flash of light. No dizziness. No sudden certainty.

Instead— Something settled inside her chest. Heavy. Ancient. The impossible weight of carrying expectations that weren’t entirely her own. Thousands of voices. Thousands of opinions. The quiet, relentless responsibility of choosing the right words because they would never belong only to you…It wasn’t fear. It was burden. It stole her breath for a single heartbeat.

Across from her, Namjoon forgot the photograph entirely. The pressure he’d carried since waking that morning simply… Quieted. Not vanished. Softened. Like the stillness of an empty museum before opening. Rain against old windows. Dust floating through afternoon light. The certainty that nothing was being demanded of him for just one moment—Peace. A feeling so unfamiliar it almost hurt.

Their hands separated at the same instant. Charlotte stared at him. Confused.

Namjoon looked equally unsettled, “I’m…”

She frowned slightly, “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head immediately, “No.” A pause, “I think…” He stopped. Neither of them knew how to finish that sentence. 

The interpreter called from the doorway, “They’re ready.”

Charlotte blinked, the strange feeling already slipping away like a dream forgotten upon waking. She looked down at the photograph still resting in her hand, “…Right.” She tucked it safely back into the portfolio, “Enjoy the gala.”

Namjoon nodded, “Thank you.”

She watched them disappear down the corridor before turning back toward the quiet conservation studio. For a long moment, she simply stood there. One hand unconsciously resting against the place on her chest where that impossible weight had settled. Then, with a small shake of her head, she convinced herself she’d imagined it.

There was, after all…Still work to do.

----------------------

ahhhhh, okay here it is!! ch 1 of RM! hope yall enjoy!

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xoxo, bumble

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June 27, 2026 - BTS Arirang World Tour - Madrid Day 2 - Namjoon’s ment (1)

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i love aRMs🥵 (x)